A/N: my love for this pairing never dies, even if my motivation for writing dims and dims
paper thin
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There will never be enough words to describe how it feels to have Byakuran's cold hand holding his - long fingers draped with Shouichi's shorter, chubbier ones - and the arm on his waist guiding him through this dance he knows to be their last — if not for anything else's sake, it's for the world's.
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He is graduating early from university.
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They call him a genius, but—
—is he?
—is he really?
—when all he has done has only doomed countless worlds into immeasurable chaos and death?
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Genius in mistakes and fateful encounters, he supposes when he leans closer to Byakuran's chest, listening to the silent music they are dancing to — the sound of their feet is the only thing that breaks the silence of the dark auditorium that smells like sweat and hope from the graduation ceremony earlier today.
His graduation ceremony.
He can't see Byakuran well in the darkness, but the can feel the heartbeat when he presses his cheek against Byakuran's neck — thud, thud, thud — and the acceleration of Byakuran's human heart almost fools him into thinking that maybe, maybe Byakuran-san is just as foolishly in love with him, too.
That hope dies quickly — he's an idealist, but he's not stupid, and he has to face reality, no matter how rock-sharp and bone-breaking it is.
But still, for all his realism and heart that is not yet made of stone but of liquid, he dives into this feeling of cold hands and lips that meet his forehead when he moves his head a bit to the left.
(They always say people with cold hands have the warmest hearts.)
t's a stupid, stupid thing — you never hear of a boy falling in love with another boy so hard that the moon looks dull in comparison; you never hear tales of a boy's heart beating wildly when the other just looks at him with eyes that don't belong to this world; you never hear the softly whispered words Byakuran-san has for Shouichi, and you never hear the words Shouichi has for Byakuran-san either.
—The words neither of them will hear after this moment, this night, because after this, they will be so much less than friends, so much less than what they could have been; perhaps, Shouichi thinks when Byakuran's hand slides up from his waist as their steps halt and the sounds die, perhaps they will be more than lovers because being an enemy to someone like Byakuran-san was a mighty thing.
Still, he thinks bitterly, when Byakuran's fingers trace at his lips — fleeting touches like butterflies on a summer's day — and moonlight reveals the soft lavender in the surprisingly wide eyes, still I want to stay in love with you.
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If a wish could be a bomb—
—then this one was his Hiroshima.