Sensory Overload
By QG
Quiet.
The wind absently rustled through the trees, branches swaying with a sloth- like manner, the outlines of the leaves blurred by the pale moonlight in the pitch black of the night.
He had left the window open again. There were several reasons. Thinking practically, the air was refreshing, circulated so it warded away the suffocating stuffiness that tended to gather in a closed-in room. He loved the smell of the night air, cool, dewy, more muted, yet fresher than the sun-dried breezes of the daylight hours. The serenity of night calmed his senses.
This particular night, there had been a request to keep the window open. He had an idea why, but refrained from satiating his true curiosity on the matter and simply complied. The answer would come to him soon enough, and it did no ounce of good to grow impatient until it did. He would always get a response, sooner or later, and becoming agitated was primarily not helpful, nor was it part of his character to do so.
He contented himself with waiting, drawing. Assignments had been completed hours before - the time was growing late - a careful stack of books in a corner of his desk, arranged according to size. He had always been meticulous about such things. A school-issued, brown leather satchel rested on the chair, prepared for the following day's activities. He lay on his bed, removed from the monotony of assignments, a sketchpad propped against his knees. It was filled with white paper - designed especially to accommodate a pencil's lead - pure, clean, awaiting creation.
Absently he sketched, many smaller lines weaving together to form thicker ones, juxtaposed to others to form a shape, an imitation of the object he drew. Emerald eyes flicked up once, referring to his reference, and back down again, his brow furrowing in deep concentration.
The wind blew again, the tree outside rustled once more, there was a light sound on the window ledge and a darkened shape crawled through the square frame. He glanced at the shape - another boy, small form hidden by layers of black cloth, bandages wound round his forehead and right hand, red eyes narrowed in a perpetual scowl, a shock of black hair spiking up - and back to his drawing. It was coming out well.
"Good evening." His tone was quiet, good-natured, carrying no irritation or amusement at his evening visitor. Experience had taught him that his friend's temper was easily lost, and as such, to work to sour it was only an annoyance and didn't endear him to the other.
That was why he had, instead of questioning it or refusing, he had simply opened the window.
His friend remained quiet for a while, but that was no surprise. He simply continued to draw. They remained in silence for a time, the dark one standing almost uncertainly by the window, the green-eyed one nonchalantly sketching the delicate object lying on the bed next to him. He knew his smaller friend would talk when he deemed it necessary, and it was useless to try to engage him in forced, shallow small-talk.
His eyes fixated on the paper, he didn't see his friend move - though it was quite possible the dark-clothed one could have accomplished that even if the sketching boy had been watching him - and didn't notice that the other had come close until he felt a weight behind him, the mattress sagging slightly. The smaller one's breath was close to his neck when he spoke, low, husky voice curious as he peered over the emerald-eyed one's shoulder to look at his drawing.
"A rose?"
The sketching boy laughed lightly.
"Is that too typical?"
"Hn." It was noncommittal, as usual. Another silence passed between the two boys, the one merely continuing to draw.
"Kurama." The black-clad one spoke again, not questioning, merely drawing the other's attention.
"Hm?"
"I want to talk to you."
Kurama put down his sketchpad and pencil, and turned to face his friend.
"What did you want to talk about, Hiei?"
Hiei was silent, staring at the other boy for a moment. He ran his fingers through his hair - rarely ever touched, even by him - and kissed him.
It was rough, not only because Hiei's lips were dry and cracked, but the manner was rough. Unrefined. Stumbling. Unused to affection in itself, but attempting to convey a sense of rarely experienced love for something. Words weren't sufficient, a kiss was the only way to express a longing, a hope, a desire for something new, something previously unfelt, unknown, but coveted, cherished so deeply and so fiercely.
Kurama kissed him back.
By QG
Quiet.
The wind absently rustled through the trees, branches swaying with a sloth- like manner, the outlines of the leaves blurred by the pale moonlight in the pitch black of the night.
He had left the window open again. There were several reasons. Thinking practically, the air was refreshing, circulated so it warded away the suffocating stuffiness that tended to gather in a closed-in room. He loved the smell of the night air, cool, dewy, more muted, yet fresher than the sun-dried breezes of the daylight hours. The serenity of night calmed his senses.
This particular night, there had been a request to keep the window open. He had an idea why, but refrained from satiating his true curiosity on the matter and simply complied. The answer would come to him soon enough, and it did no ounce of good to grow impatient until it did. He would always get a response, sooner or later, and becoming agitated was primarily not helpful, nor was it part of his character to do so.
He contented himself with waiting, drawing. Assignments had been completed hours before - the time was growing late - a careful stack of books in a corner of his desk, arranged according to size. He had always been meticulous about such things. A school-issued, brown leather satchel rested on the chair, prepared for the following day's activities. He lay on his bed, removed from the monotony of assignments, a sketchpad propped against his knees. It was filled with white paper - designed especially to accommodate a pencil's lead - pure, clean, awaiting creation.
Absently he sketched, many smaller lines weaving together to form thicker ones, juxtaposed to others to form a shape, an imitation of the object he drew. Emerald eyes flicked up once, referring to his reference, and back down again, his brow furrowing in deep concentration.
The wind blew again, the tree outside rustled once more, there was a light sound on the window ledge and a darkened shape crawled through the square frame. He glanced at the shape - another boy, small form hidden by layers of black cloth, bandages wound round his forehead and right hand, red eyes narrowed in a perpetual scowl, a shock of black hair spiking up - and back to his drawing. It was coming out well.
"Good evening." His tone was quiet, good-natured, carrying no irritation or amusement at his evening visitor. Experience had taught him that his friend's temper was easily lost, and as such, to work to sour it was only an annoyance and didn't endear him to the other.
That was why he had, instead of questioning it or refusing, he had simply opened the window.
His friend remained quiet for a while, but that was no surprise. He simply continued to draw. They remained in silence for a time, the dark one standing almost uncertainly by the window, the green-eyed one nonchalantly sketching the delicate object lying on the bed next to him. He knew his smaller friend would talk when he deemed it necessary, and it was useless to try to engage him in forced, shallow small-talk.
His eyes fixated on the paper, he didn't see his friend move - though it was quite possible the dark-clothed one could have accomplished that even if the sketching boy had been watching him - and didn't notice that the other had come close until he felt a weight behind him, the mattress sagging slightly. The smaller one's breath was close to his neck when he spoke, low, husky voice curious as he peered over the emerald-eyed one's shoulder to look at his drawing.
"A rose?"
The sketching boy laughed lightly.
"Is that too typical?"
"Hn." It was noncommittal, as usual. Another silence passed between the two boys, the one merely continuing to draw.
"Kurama." The black-clad one spoke again, not questioning, merely drawing the other's attention.
"Hm?"
"I want to talk to you."
Kurama put down his sketchpad and pencil, and turned to face his friend.
"What did you want to talk about, Hiei?"
Hiei was silent, staring at the other boy for a moment. He ran his fingers through his hair - rarely ever touched, even by him - and kissed him.
It was rough, not only because Hiei's lips were dry and cracked, but the manner was rough. Unrefined. Stumbling. Unused to affection in itself, but attempting to convey a sense of rarely experienced love for something. Words weren't sufficient, a kiss was the only way to express a longing, a hope, a desire for something new, something previously unfelt, unknown, but coveted, cherished so deeply and so fiercely.
Kurama kissed him back.