Merry Xmas A~
First time writing this pairing, thought I'd try something new.
Also it was so hard to decide what rating to give this, so if you're disappointed, I'm sorry, but I didn't want to risk not warning off, even if the sex is just like. Alluded too.
I shall stop rambling now.
He is five, and you are fifteen, scared out of your wits at the change of environment. You've never been able to control it, never been able to explain it, but knowledge of knowing nothing isn't a comforting notion at the best of times. He looks up at you with violet eyes, and it is all so familiar. You try to remember where you have seen those eyes before, snapping out of your thought process to realise that a small hand is reaching for you. As you reach out yourself, you find yourself hurled through time once more, landing on your current bed with a pant of breath and a squeak of springs.
It takes a moment to gather your thoughts, try to think past those damned eyes and where have you seen them before?
The next flight doesn't happen for three weeks; you are on your way back from school, freshly graded tests in your bag, and music blasting into your ears. You give a heavy sigh, and a familiar twist of your stomach and a stumbling of your feet lands you in the middle of a field. A twitch comes to your eye as you take the damned hint, and walk through the lush green grass, climbing up to the top of the hill that should be familiar, but you've never been one for nature.
By the time you reach the top, your shoes are muddy and your breath is coming out in short pants, and you are utterly unprepared for what you see next. Fire is scorching the heavens, and your hometown is on fire, burning down, yet utterly silent, bar the crackle of flames and the collapsing of buildings. Through the heat warped air, you can see a flash of white, of feathers, of wings; it's hard to tell. You try not to think about your mother, about your sister, your father, but it's hard not to, when you can see your childhood home break apart before your eyes. A wail comes from your lips, a hand finds a pale face, and you desperately try to fight the urge to faint.
As you fail to accomplish this, black-clad feet land before your dimming vision, and gentle arms lift you up as a whisper of You'restillalive meets your ears. You wake up at home, concerned sister sitting beside you, and find it hard to explain the disappointment welling in the pit of your stomach.
The next day, you stay at home, shaking, stomach emptying itself regularly, curled up into a ball on your bed, eyes afraid to close. Everything is burning around you, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. Shivering, you stumble to your desk, try to draw out the apocalypse, but all you can do is sketch out violet eyes, and you feel like crying.
Your mother is more and more concerned as the days pass, and sheets upon sheets of paper are filled with fire and eyes and black and red and that damned shade of purple. She asks, hesitant, if you'd like to see someone about these dreams, and you don't have the energy to fight, don't have the energy to explain just what is happening. You don't want to explain to her that everything crumbled to dust before your eyes.
The therapist puts it all down to exam stress, as they tend to do; it will all pass over, he says, and you do your best to smile at him, thank him, gush over his help with the knowledge that your dreams will now consist of fluttering papers full of logarithms and equations hitting you in the face as the burning rages ever forward.
Your mother is happier, though, and so are you; there are no more jumps for what seems like an eternity, but in reality, is more like a year. You are sixteen, and you find yourself in a bathtub, fully clothed, violet eyes oh-so-close to your face. You're aware of your own green eyes widening, in shock and fear and oh god, is he really naked? White hair is dampened around a handsome face, and you would really love to remember who this man is, why he's important, why your jumps seem to be revolving around his life.
He reaches for you, and this time, your bodies connect, glasses digging into his pale chest and your hands resting, unsure, on his shoulders as he guides your head up, and kisses you. You're trembling beneath his touch, and can do nothing but allow him what he wants, leaning into his body as a hand threads itself through your hair. It's all so intimate, and the way he brushed his tongue against your lips in a way that makes you melt makes you wonder if he's done this before.
If he's done you before.
There is a muttered moan as you brush against his thigh accidently, something that sounds suspiciously like Shou-Chan, and you're flustered all over again, leaping through time and having to explain to your mother why you're soaking wet in the middle of the day.
You are eighteen, and have decided to study abroad. Your mother is crying as the family sees you off at the airport, but these are happy tears; she's proud, so proud of you, and as you smile warmly at her, as you embrace her for what will be the last time in years, you find yourself thankful. Your big sister is there, rounded, face flushed with the delicate palette of pregnant emotions, and as you kiss her cheek, you find yourself solemn. Your father is greying at the temples, young for his age, and as you shake hands, finally equals as men, you find yourself lonely beyond words.
You have a roommate at the prestigious Italian University, but you have yet to meet him, have yet to explain that sometimes, you just disappear. He does not show himself for the three days you have to settle, the three days before your lectures start, and somehow, you find yourself worrying for him, anxious for his return.
You are in Robotics, and the teacher calls upon you to speak, to say something. As you answer perfectly, he smiles at you, muttered admiration from your classmates reaching your ears, but nothing sinks in. A laugh reaches your ear, and slowly, you turn, a shock of white hair and violet eyes staring at you from the back of the hall. You turn back, quickly, and cannot quite explain why your heart is racing so.
Your roommate shows himself that night; he is British, he explains, and has just arrived. There were strikes in his home country, and flights were delayed. He holds out his hands, swirls the lollipop in his mouth to the opposite corner, and introduces himself as Spanner. You find yourself with a kindred spirit, discussing robotics and discretely experimenting with him into the early hours of the morning, but it's not quite the same. You do not see the laughing man again.
You wake up with nightmares every so often, after particularly long days, and you find solace in the quiet of the night. As you sigh, as you watch the stars from a balcony among the arching city architecture, you are nineteen, you are a little bit homesick, and you're still full of longing for someone you do not know. As arms wrap around your waist, as he finds you at last, you are both nineteen, and words are not needed.
He brushes his hands along your body like a professional, like he has done this hundreds, thousands of times before, and you release yourself for him. He fills you completely, he fits just right, and you cannot let go of him. You are sleeping side by side, and he finally speaks his name.
His name is Byakuran, and he is yours.
Your name is Shoichi, and you have found the man who turns your world upside down, who rips it to shreds with his bare hands and who burns everything you've ever loved.
But it is not the future; you are still alive, you have the power to change the future, and you are in love.
Reviews are always appreciated~