It is raining outside.
Yamamoto watches droplets hit the windowpane, scattering golden in the streetlight. He can see the rise of his chest, washed pale in the semi-darkness, and the long fall, ribs trailing out of sight like silent waves. He sighs and rolls over. Long fingers stretch into the air, ghosting along the spine of the body beside him. Squalo grunts in his sleep and shivers, drawing away from Yamamoto's questing touch.
He pulls his hand away and holds it up, watching the twist of knuckles beneath his own pearly skin. Something dark like blood is still crusted around his nails. He feels sick, dirty. A heady scent lingers in the air, clinging to the sheets. Yamamoto inhales the sharpness and rises, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to cradle his head in his hands.
Behind him Squalo stirs, and he glances back with a faltering smile. Squinting through rivers of quicksilver hair, Squalo murmurs something, breathlessly, brows knotting as he drifts back towards oblivion. Even in rest, his muscles twitch and stretch with every passing dream, and Yamamoto can't help but wonder what lurks behind those fluttering eyelids. Wonders, but doesn't want to know.
Instead he grips his arms, digging into the skin until it burns and flushes red in the cuts as he soon as he relaxes. He slides his fingers and clenches again, and again, until his forearms are a mosaic of purple welts and beads of blood and his breath comes a little ragged in his throat. He feels Squalo squirm and tug the sheets, but there is no one there to stop him.
Yamamoto chokes suddenly, and he almost doesn't realize it is a sob and stuffs a fist in his mouth to fight back the onslaught wracking his body. He can feel the draft from the crooked window on his back and can feel the biting pain in his skin. He remembers the feeling of Squalo inside him, remembers the rough hands on his hips and the itch of bedsheets on his thighs and the smell of sweat, can hear moans and the ringing of swords. But he can no longer remember how to feel. All he has left is a shell full of nerves and reactions, and Yamamoto is very cold and falling fast, when a hand snakes around his waist from behind and dry lips caress the small of his back.
Squalo remembers feeling the numbness, and he remembers waking up, but now he is on the outside looking in. He can only whisper little promises against Yamamoto's spine and wait out the storm.
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idk why i wrote this, i ship 5980 normally, but wth. what a wonderful, angsty way for me to reenter the fanfic-writing world. lol.