Disclaimer: Gravitation-related rights go to Murakami Maki, The Right Stuf, etc. The Origin of Species belongs to Charles Darwin, etc. I own nothing here and am making no money from this.

Author Notes: Hiro x Suguru. First person POV (Hiro's).

Warnings: yaoi, underage drinking, the occasional fleeting OC. Don't like? Don't read.

Slow Sensation

I have to admit that sometimes I admire K. There's something remarkable about a man who can spend ten minutes explaining to a total stranger that the boy he is hitting on is a baby, the baby in fact, our baby, K's baby, and the next time he even thinks about touching a hair on the baby's head there's going to be a rifle making a rapid appearance somewhere rifles don't usually fit, and still have the fan (albeit nervously) swear he'll be at our next show here, and then, then,, to make it a million times more ironic, take said baby back to the hotel we're staying in and get him so drunk that Suguru is now picking his way very, very carefully across the room, holding yet another vodka sunrise, to admire the curtains for the fourth time, talking about something called the Origin of Species which, through the logic of drunks, has become the Origin of Feet. (You don't even really need the first part for me to admire you. Anyone who can get Suguru to drink gets a gold star for effort and achievement.) He's going to be very angry with us in the morning for not putting a stop to this silliness, but Shuichi and I, who hold our alcohol rather better (both having lower long-term time to liquor ratios), have agreed it's worth it. A drunken Fujisaki is an adorable Fujisaki, plus it has the extra added bonus of keeping us entertained for the evening. Well, it's early morning now. But you get the picture.

Suguru is examining his feet, drink forgotten on the floor behind him. I go to move it before the carpet looks like a sunrise too. He grabs my ankle, then complains I'm wearing shoes, and insists I sit down with him at once. Shuichi and K are laughing at this, highly entertained; Sakano has long since gone to bed, unable to watch. Suguru looks up at me once more with those pleading big brown eyes, and I can't help but indulge him, receiving the odd reward of him unlacing my boots, inspecting them, setting them oh-so-carefully to one side and then forgetting entirely what he was doing. Shuichi's in hysterics.

Confusion is soon replaced by yet another distraction: my hair. It's trailing over my shoulders, hanging loose, and Suguru plucks up a strand between his delicate fingers, holding it up to the light. "What colour is it really?"

"Brown," I reply.

"Hmm," says Suguru musingly but he seems happy with this result. Then he holds it up to his own hair; mine's so long he doesn't have to lean forward for it to reach. "We look like Christmas!"

He drops the strand, gathers up more, carding through it gently, then begins to braid it. He's surprisingly quick at it, and as with all his other endeavours, the result is neat, precise. He then tries to create a matching plait in his own hair. Short and thick, it repels his efforts, springing loose the moment he lets it go, winding free. He looks so terribly disappointed I lean in and give it a go. I'm not as adept at it as he is, but it's passable – until I release it. Again, it unwinds, the clump returning eagerly to its kindred. Suguru frowns harder. "Thanks anyway, Hiroshi," he sighs, mangling my name a little.

I think that's the first time he's ever said it – or tried, anyway.

It's Christmas for real, and we're at N-G, at some party Seguchi's thrown for his American associates, working a deal through their festive season. Suguru's drinking something that looks like milk and I strongly suspect is a cocktail, standing alone in the middle of the room, trying to avoid notice. He's getting away with it too. I point this out to Shuichi; he assesses the situation with a long look. The next thing I know, Shuichi's bouncing over to Suguru. As he lands on the final skip, he cups his hands on either side of Suguru's face and plants a chaste kiss on his lips. Suguru looks like he might faint, saying something in protest of this unprecedented treatment. As I hurry over to mitigate the situation, noting K sliding his way through the thick crowd on the opposite side of the room, I hear Shuichi's bright laugh and him saying, "Well, don't stand under the mistletoe, then! That's what they do over there, you know!"

I reach them first. Suguru is taking a moment to assimilate this new information. Hoping to elicit a confession by catching him off-guard, I demand, "Is that a cocktail?" and point at the drink in his hand.

He glances at it as though surprised to find it there. "Oh, this." He sips at it, then offers it forward. "Want a taste?" he asks lightly.

"No, not really –"

"Then you shouldn't join people under the mistletoe."

Before I comprehend this cryptic warning, Suguru kisses me. It's not brief like Shuichi's to him; it's warm and soft and, yes, I can taste alcohol on his parted lips. With a smirk, he slips away, leaving me dumbfounded.

"What just happened?" I ask Shuichi in disbelief, whose eyes are as startled as my own. He only shakes his head, pink locks flying, and raises his fingers to stifle a giggle. The cocking of a gun cuts through our surprise; K has arrived. He grins sadistically and raises the weapon as though offering a treat.

"You two remember what I told that guy about messing with the underage?" We nod, the confession damning us, but it had been highly memorable. K's teeth are revealed further, ever the more menacing. "So," he invites, "who wants to get shot first?"

Suguru fails to turn up to work twice in a row. K gives us no explanation, despite my brief questioning and Shuichi's incessant peppering. This is as equally worrying as the absence itself. After work Shuichi climbs on behind me and we zip over to make our enquiries in person, wind rushing past as we ride to the rescue.

He needs no rescuing, however; Suguru answers the door, talking over his shoulder at someone. A frown forms slowly as he takes in his visitors. "Hello," he says formally, glancing between us. Shuichi's openly troubled face clearly concerns him. "Is there something wrong?"

"That's what we want to know," I say. Confusion dips his brows; then it clears.

"Oh, why I've been away. K didn't tell you?" We shake our heads. A hand drifts up to rub the nape of his neck, his discomfiture evident. "I was sitting my entrance exams."

"For university?" I ask dumbly, hoping my expression isn't as shocked as Shuichi's. I feel it, however. I have no idea how to handle this, and he's no better – Shuichi barely passed high school, and I had no interest in further study. We were utterly focussed on our music. "What are you hoping to get into?" What else do I say? I feel detached. He's leaving us.

"Are you quitting Bad Luck?" Shuichi says in a hurt voice, needing the confirmation.

"Oh!" It doesn't seem to have occurred to him that we might be upset about this. "No, I'll study part-time, I guess."

Or maybe it never occurred to him that he won't be able to do everything. Shuichi thinks it too; he shoots a fearful look at me. What does he expect me to do about it? Suguru makes his own decisions – he's never looked to us for guidance. He'll hardly listen about something so major. Shuichi is still gazing up at me, growing tearful. Fine, I'll try. "Are you going to be able to handle that?"

Suguru levels an offended look at me, of course. How could I possibly suggest such a doubt? It is completely outside the concepts he lives by. His self-confidence has occasionally been staggering; now I am floored by it. "University's a big thing," I say, attempting to explain my position, gesturing expansively. "Working that and a full-time job –"

"Do you think I can't do it?"

The words slash towards me like a whip. There's hurt there, hidden behind that familiar wall fencing in his emotions. Suguru's gaze is overflowing with contempt. "I'll just have to prove you wrong." He steps back and closes the door, one more barrier between us.

Madness possesses me. So much faster than my common sense when I am riled, it propels me forward; I raise my fist and hammer on the wood. "Hey!" I shout. "Don't walk away from me! Fujisaki! Come back here!"

Shuichi is tugging my arm, distressed. I'm causing a scene. An older man opens the door. He's shorter than me, much shorter, but his presence is oppressive; I stumble back under his glare. Shuichi's fear bleeds into terror. "Come on, Hiro, let's go," he urges.

The man harrumphs at us. "You're in that band of his, aren't you?" he spits out. "Bad influences, the pair of you."

This is the first time we've met a member of Suguru's family, and we're not making the right impression. I straighten and try to compose myself. "Yes, sir," I say politely. "My name is Nakano Hiroshi, and this is Shindou Shuichi –" He harrumphs again, cutting me off – then steps back and shuts the door. We stare at it, mesmerised by the déjà vu.

"Guess we better go," says Shuichi, finding his voice at last.

"Yeah," I say, glancing up at the house. A curtain on the second floor moves, drawing my eye to the small hand resting there for just a moment; Suguru is watching us. The fabric brushes aside, and a piece of paper appears, dark kanji staining the page, one simple message and a smiley face:

DON'T WORRY I'M NOT GOING

It disappears, and after a moment a second page appears, Suguru smiling behind it.

STUPID PARENTS

Shuichi hesitates, then gives him the 'V' sign. I just laugh, shaking my head wryly. Maybe we are bad influences. Or maybe it's more like what Shuichi says as we climb back on the motorcycle: "You know, I kind of forget he's a teenager, but then he does something like that."

"Shu," I say, revving the engine, "you'd do exactly the same thing now."

But I can't forget that flash of anger when I'd suggested he might be taking on too much.

We gape.

His hair is black.

He notices our looks and raises a hand, hesitantly twisting a thick strand falling loose over his eyes for once. There's clearly been a haircut involved as well – his hair's definitely shorter, and someone's tried to take the layering out, with little success. It is slightly subdued but still defiantly present. "What do you think?" He tilts his head, trying to keep the smile up.

"Why?" Shuichi cries, sounding a little broken in his disappointed whine.

Suguru keeps fiddling with his fringe. "It looks bad, doesn't it." He drops into a seat at the conference table, directly across from me. I have trouble looking anywhere else. Shuichi suffers more than that from its draw: as though in a dream he reaches over and runs a hand through it. Suguru's hair is so thick his head inclines with the gentle pressure. Shuichi giggles, amused by this involuntary response, then feels it again, digging his fingers into the mass. Again, Suguru's head follows his touch, and Shuichi rubs his fingers against his scalp, massaging gently.

Suguru melts.

His eyes close nearly all the way as he leans into Shuichi's hand, pressing against the motions, begging wordlessly for more. Shuichi kneads harder. The expression on Suguru's face is blissful. I have no hope of not watching him; I'm a slave to this show, unable to tear my eyes away. Heat is rising in my cheeks and deep in my groin but I'm oblivious to everything but Suguru's reactions. Mind far, far detached from common sense, I set one hand on the table and half rise from my chair to let my own fingers work the other side from Shuichi. Suguru doesn't seem to know which hand he desires more, and the smallest moan escapes him, barely audible. I'm gritting my teeth; the pain in my clenched jaw brings me back to myself. With one final caress I reluctantly withdraw to my side of the table, my breath uneven. Shuichi pulls back too, grinning in delight at this new discovery. I guess he's got a new tool to stop their arguments.

Suguru's eyes open by degrees. They fix on my face in dazed concentration as he tries to re-orientate himself, unable to dissolve the euphoric smile on his lips. His eyes flutter briefly closed; it widens. "Mmm," he murmurs, a little dreamy, "thanks, guys." He stretches lethargically in an attempt to achieve wakefulness once more, pushing his arms out and arching his back like a cat, tilting his head to one side. That kind of neck exposure ought to be illegal. He's very tempting right now.

Very, very tempting.

Suguru's temper is occasionally as dramatic, interruptive and audible as Shuichi's angst. There's a sudden crack as a pencil snaps in the quiet room. I stop strumming my acoustic, waiting in trepidation for the subsequent explosion. He doesn't leave me much time to anticipate it; he rips his headphones off, flings them onto the keyboard – then his folder is sailing, spinning, to scratch the wall and slap against the floor, loose pages drifting like so much lazy snow. Suguru grips his head, bracing both sets of fingers there like tense, pale spiders, and his eyelids squeeze together tightly, forcing the world back. His breathing is loud, shaky.

There is a moment where I should say something, comfort him, and it slips by without a sound as his eyes open once more, the spiders of frustration smoothing away, no more real than a nightmare. "My apologies," Suguru says every time. He walks calmly to the folder, pushing the pages back into neat order, then finds another pencil. The old one clatters into the trash. He returns to the source of provocation, but before he can drop the heavy headphones back over his ears I am compelled to speak.

"What's the problem?"

"No problem," he says lightly. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

I lift the shoulder strap over my head and set aside the acoustic. "It's getting late," I say. "Why don't we give it up for the day?" We're the last two left, all alone in the studio, the corridors outside lit only by security lights. Truthfully I remain only because Fujisaki does; I dislike him being here by himself, working too far into the night. His expression turns stubborn. "Or go get something to eat," I amend hastily. "Have a little break."

"You can go home, Hiroshi." He restores the headphones, shutting me out. "I don't need you to stay."

I see him slide the volume up as he begins to play. It irritates me. I march over there and lift the earpieces from his head from behind, intending the gesture to be angry – but as Suguru turns to me and I take in our proximity, it turns gentle, my annoyance draining impotently away.

"Come on," I urge quietly, removing the pencil for his hand. His soft eyes widen in confusion as I lean past him to place it inside the folder. "Let's go get dinner."

I catch a flash of a title as I release the pencil. He's playing 'Blind Game Again' – why? Suguru knows this song by heart. He doesn't need to practice it. He catches my frown as I pull back. "Nakano?" he queries.

"Why are you practicing this?"

Suguru tilts his head and offers that irritating half-smile. "Why are you still here playing chords when you could do that at home?"

"Because..." I'm at a loss, caught out. Does he mean the reason is the same? His lips turn up a little more, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Come on, Nakano," he says mockingly, slipping away, "let's go get dinner."

Someone's trying to get backstage at our Osaka concert, pleading with the security guards as we go past, heading for the van after the show. "Suguru!" the boy yells, catching sight of him. Suguru jerks around, startled – most people claim to know Shuichi or me, not him – and before K can caution him he's running through the security guards, actually running, and he collides with the other boy. They almost go down, laughing as they cling to one another, and Suguru's eyes are shining as he turns back to us.

"This is my friend Kyo," he says. "We went to middle school together."

I guess he really does know Suguru, then. My stomach tightens as Suguru slides his arm through this stranger's, gripping his elbow as he guides Kyo through the guards. "It's okay if he visits with me for a little while, isn't it, K?" he asks, and K, like me, cannot resist the pleasure radiating from him and capitulates. Kyo accompanies us to our hotel suite. He and Suguru chatter nonstop. Shuichi is oddly silent, daunted by this unknown side of our band-mate. I think with irony that it is as though they have switched personalities.

It soon becomes apparent from their conversation that Suguru hasn't seen Kyo since he left for Tokyo, as the news they exchange is both recent and outdated. K, Sakano, Shuichi and I let them share their own private bubble, retreating towards the kitchen area of the room K and Sakano are sharing. "Freaky, isn't it?" I throw the obvious observation into the group; we're all thinking it. Shuichi keeps glancing over with wide eyes and then down, attempting to hide his bewilderment. K 'hmm's in displeasure, openly watching the pair on the sofa. Sakano covers his own fretting by harassing the coffee machine until it gurgles in disgruntlement. I help him out. K huffs again as the water is trickling into the pot; I glance over my shoulder, then say quietly to him, "Where's the rifle?"

Kyo has his hand on Suguru's knee, leaning forward to say something into his ear. Their heads are unpleasantly close together, but Suguru is still smiling. There's a change in it now, one I can't decipher. K's frown is deepening as Suguru does nothing to put him off. "Have to let him handle it," he replies under his breath. I'm confused at this double-standard, and very unhappy. K had taken the last guy to task, and I say as much.

"He was underage."

I understand. Quietly, sneakily, Suguru has turned eighteen. His boy problems are his own, no matter how much of a user we think this Kyo is. I wonder how he hasn't seen it. Suguru can be a little roughshod with people's feelings, but he spots manipulation easily and can deftly turn it to his advantage. He's ignoring it now, I'm sure of it.

That hand slips to the inside, drifting slightly higher. The amount is almost insignificant but I have to turn away, pouring the coffees for Sakano, a distraction I sorely need. It isn't enough, and before I know it, I've looked back.

Suguru's eyes meet Kyo's. His smile is gone. Kyo's is fading fast. We can't catch what Suguru is saying, but his meaning is evident to all: Get out, Kyo. I stifle a smirk; Kyo's going to get what he deserves.

Kyo doesn't leave immediately, protesting his innocent intentions. Suguru rises, cold burning off his every line as he frowns down at the other boy. Kyo is firmly planted on the couch, his pleas falling on uncaring ears. "You will leave," Suguru says in a quiet voice. It carries, and he sounds so similar to Mr Seguchi that a shiver tingles through my flesh, contrasting against the strange thrill of triumph I feel. K pulls out his magnum and considers it, then Kyo. I wonder if he can get a clean shot. Kyo doesn't want to test his marksmanship – he's out the door in a heartbeat. Suguru looks smug until he spots the gun; his shoulders slump, and a faint sigh escapes before he recomposes himself. This was not his victory.

"I think I'll retire," he says stiffly, averting his eyes from us.

"You're sleeping in here with me," K informs him, heedless of his embarrassment. "I don't trust that jerk." Suguru reddens further.

"We have coffee," I try to tempt him. There's a flicker of interest, dark lashes lifting. I pour him a cup and dare to approach, offering it just out of reach. Suguru takes that final step to accept it.

"Thanks, Hiroshi," he says in gratitude. He lifts it to his nose and inhales reverently.

"You okay?" I ask protectively, voice low so the others can't hear, keeping my back between them and us, shielding him until he recovers.

"Mm-hmm." He sips at the coffee, then glances up at me, amusement in the grateful look he gives me. "Better now."

He comes in with a letter in a stiff envelope, which he offers to K. Our manager's expression is reserved as he reads. "What do you want to do?" he enquires levelly. There's no hint of the contents. Suguru lowers himself into a seat as though his bones are fragile and the merest impact will shatter them like glass, leaving only fragments behind, glittering across the studio.

"I don't know." His voice provides the crack that breaks him. The room is silent except for Suguru's quiet sobbing, his eyes hidden behind those little hands. No one knows what to do. I think of wrapping my arms around him, and no sooner than the thought has begun I'm over there, doing it. Suguru's fingers clutch at my shirt desperately as he buries his face in my shoulder. His breath is hot and uneven but nothing compared to the searing paths created by his tears, dripping so painfully onto the skin of my neck. "What do I do?" he begs through his anguish. I rub his back wordlessly, glancing over his head at K, who holds up the envelope so I can see the return address: University of Tokyo.

He's gotten a place.

"What is it?" I ask K, holding tighter to Suguru. He can't leave us. He can't.

"Medicine," K answers. "Neuroscience."

But we need him. I need him. Those tiny hands are made for flying over a synthesiser, not wielding a scalpel delicately through someone's brain. Shuichi is saying in the background that he hadn't known Suguru wanted to be a doctor, and Suguru shakes his head against me in response: it wasn't his choices on the application forms. Suguru, unlike me, is incapable of deliberate failure; even knowing he was damning himself, he'd done his best on those exams, and now his parents were pushing him to accept the prestigious placing. Don't they understand he's a rock star? But I know the answer – like mine, they hated it, wanted more for their son, wanted him to have a real career. The black hair suddenly makes sense. Slowly, slowly, unlike my parents, Suguru's are winning.

"Can you study part-time?" I ask, feeling lost. Suguru shakes his head again; it isn't an option. "Defer for a year?"

"What difference will a year make?" he chokes out. I rock him, attempting to soothe, but Suguru is suddenly pushing me away. "A year makes no difference," he says, searching my face intently. "Does it?"

"It buys us time," I explain hopelessly. Suguru's mouth turns down. My mind screams at me to do something, anything. I'm not getting through; I'm going to lose him.

"Time for what?" asks Suguru, still attempting to find some thought in my eyes, the one that will give him the strength to defy his parents. "Hiroshi?"

I have to shake my head. I don't know. Another album? Another tour? Those aren't the answer he seeks. I feel they will drive him away. I lower my head, unable to hold his intense gaze anymore. I am surprised to see his own small hand resting in mine, fingers brushing my palm. It was so natural I hadn't even registered it; now I stare, lifting it from his knee where I crouch by his chair. A simple touch, a remarkable one, has shed the light I needed.

My fingers tighten, gripping his. I look up in determination. "For us," I say boldly, knowing the others will think I mean Bad Luck. They haven't seen our hands; I've kept them below the table line. "Aren't we worth a little more time?"

He's still sad, but the despair begins to rise. "Maybe," he returns in a whisper.

"I can work with 'maybe'," I tell him.

It's raining; I accompany it with my guitar, playing softly as the night grows long. I'll stop soon, considerate of my neighbours, but for now the rain speaks to me, bringing a storm that leaves a clean city in its wake.

I'm setting my guitar in its stand when a quiet knock sounds. It's still raining. Suguru stands in the hallway, water shedding off his body onto the cheap linoleum. His thick hair is curling slightly in the damp humidity of the building. I let him inside. He waits in the kitchen while I search out towels and dry clothes, sniffing every now and then. I hope he hasn't caught sick.

"How did you get here?" I ask as I bundle him into the bathroom for a hot shower.

"Walked," he says, and before I can express my outrage at this foolish execution, the door has closed between us, the running water drowning out my words. I fume while he's in there, left to my own devices until my unexpected guest emerges once more. The clothes I've loaned him are ridiculously large and very different from what he arrived in: instead of trousers and a jacket, he's in track-pants, the drawstring sorely required, and an old, thick jumper of mine, both rolled up at the cuffs. My ire fades at the sight. He still has a towel around his neck, catching drips from his thick locks, holding water like a sponge. "Come here," I say. He sits on the floor. I sit on the sofa above him and gently dry his hair. He silently but evidently enjoys the attention, leaning a shoulder against my shin as he relaxes.

"So," I have to say eventually, setting the towel aside, "what brings you here so late at night?"

His black head tips slowly sideways, hesitantly resting on my knee. I hold still, worried I might scare this shy creature away. "I told my parents I won't go to university," he offers softly. "They kicked me out."

It has taken him three tormented weeks to decide, three weeks of Sakano's spinning tizzies, Shuichi's miserable looks, K's finger resting on triggers and my breath being held. It's good to let it out at last. "Do you have anywhere to stay?" I ask.

Suguru rubs his cheek on my knee. The movement is scant, barely noticeable, but it's there, and it's deliberate. He lets out his own breath in a muted sigh. "I'm hoping I do."

"You do," I confirm.

"...Hiroshi..."

I smile and let my fingers play with his hair once more as they are longing to do. "I don't know why you've picked that up. Even my mother only calls me 'Hiroshi' when I'm in trouble," I say.

Suguru leans into the touch. "I think you might be," he sighs; this time it's tinted with pleasure.

"Why?" I ask lightly. "Because of how you feel?"

"Uh-huh." I step up the massage. His next words are slower; it takes a great effort for him to stay focussed and not simply give in to my attentions. "And because of how you do."

"So you know, huh," I say in a serious tone, pretending this is a grave dilemma. Suguru doesn't notice; he's thoroughly distracted by my nimble fingers. I've derailed this conversation, prevented him from airing his doubts. I know what they are, they're the same as mine: if we break up, so could Bad Luck.

I'll just have to show him it won't be a problem.

I work my fingers deeper into his scalp, letting him move his head against my hands until I'm kneading the exact right places. But unlike when Shuichi does this, he's not melting; his back is arching to increase the contact, he's leaning back between my knees, against the sofa's base. I tease him for a moment, keeping it light, then give him what he wants. His head tilts back, nearly in my lap, and I can see his face now: skin flushed, a smile on his parted lips, eyelashes resting sweetly against his cheeks. His expression is the only relaxed element to him, filled with hedonistic pleasure. His feet are braced apart on the floor; his hands are clutching at the carpet. I wonder, suddenly, what would happen if I did this while we made love, and have to bite my lip at the thought. Exactly how blissful is this expression?

"Hiro..." I make a vague noise in response, as intent on delivering this as he is on receiving it. His eyes open languorously, our gazes meeting upside-down. His is feverish. Mine is no better. I note now he's panting faintly through those parted pink lips; I want to taste them, to devour him. "If you don't stop doing that, I'm going to..."

"Funny," I say, not pausing for a moment, "I was just wondering that."

Thoughts tumble, twisting my mind with sharp points as I study his limbs through the darkness, streetlight providing such fractional illumination as I need. He is beautiful in slumber, as breathtaking in this way as in the exquisite pleasures he bestowed upon me earlier. That dance, ended, forms a new path for us to traverse, and it will be fraught with dangers and pitfalls; thoughts of these have stolen my sleep.

There will be opposition from those we know, the same as lies within each of us. We are not Romeo and Juliet; we have each broken free of our Montagues and Capulets, left them behind in our lives, Suguru mere hours before he came to my bed. I pray however that this night will not be the damning of my friendship with Shuichi. If this sours, if Bad Luck is a casualty, a consequence, Shuichi is unlikely to absolve me of such sin.

Seguchi might doom us too. Word will travel to him; I cannot see a way to prevent it, apart from hiding this from K and Shuichi, to stop the spread of rumour however difficult it might be. Keeping myself from Suguru even now is a struggle – if he weren't so peaceful, I would wake him, taste again his sweet desires. It would be a secret ill-kept at best but it might buy him the time he needs to grieve. Faint worries chase him as I watch, tainting his lips into a frown, smoothing away with his next breath. Another arrives seconds later; he murmurs his inaudible response, shifting slightly next to me. His arm brushes my hip below the pillow, then stills as he settles. His flesh sears against my own, heady temptation half a touch away. I close my eyes against the illumination as I remind myself he needs to sleep. He is lovely. It has taken too long for him to arrive in my arms.

As I slide down to recapture him, easing under the covers as I attempt not to disturb him, eyelashes flutter over his smooth cheeks; I hold my breath as my silent wish is granted. "Hiroshi?" he enquires sleepily, pushing himself up on an elbow. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"Why have dreams when I have the reality?" I touch his face, tracing his neat lines.

"I'm not a dream," Suguru reassures me, edging up to brush against me, as close as he could be without my arm around him. I oblige; he slides into place, one hand already escaping to secure his position, snaking over my waist. "I won't disappear if you close your eyes."

"Ah, but you have for so many months now." He tastes faintly of sleep, but I do not care; I no doubt match it, and neither does he. It is clumsy with his lingering fatigue but gains heat rapidly – I am ravenous for him. I devour him there in the dark as he becomes my willing victim, weakening against my chest, allowing me to guide him down into our indulgence.

Suguru sighs sleepily when I at last leave him to rest. "No more worrying?" he pleads to me, snug under my arm once more. I murmur my confirmation and press a kiss to his head. "Good. Go to sleep."

"Good night," I whisper. He hums against me, content, making me smile. This will be all right, whatever protests are flung our way, whatever doubts come from within. Sleep recaptures him easily, and now it is my turn to descend with him, reassured. Dreams dissipate with morning. I have reality in my embrace.

Author Notes: Thoughts? Comments? This is my first Gravitation fic - I would adore some reviews!