"Happy anniversary, Eiri!"
The blond-haired man let out a non-committal grunt the moment the words left his lover's mouth, but he did not bother to look up from his reading. If he knew Shuichi -- which, Eiri was fairly certain he did, especially when it came down to the novelist himself -- the vocalist had probably lit several candles around the living and dining rooms as well as order their favourite foods from a local restaurant. Which restaurant, Eiri could not be certain, but he did not doubt for a second the food was on its way. Shuichi loved to shower Eiri with affection as often as he could, and the singer would use any opportunity he could to do so, including the day the two of them had met.
The day they had met . . . It had been a passing moment, really, one Eiri thought would have disappeared by the next morning. He simply had picked up the scrap of paper, read it, and glanced up as the paper's owner came barreling towards him. Eiri had been scathing and intentionally so. After all, the words written on the scrap were meaningless, filled with ideals that really could not exist. His response should have forewarned the dark-haired teen of the type of man Eiri was.
Instead, Shuichi had latched onto Eiri as if he were drowning. The singer had obviously had some kind of feelings towards Eiri, and the novelist had believed it to be nothing more than a phase. Shuichi's feelings would pass, and the whole idea of "love" would be forgotten. They would go on with their lives as if nothing had ever happened, as if Shuichi had never told Eiri he loved him. Love was not an emotion Eiri believed to exist when he and Shuichi had met. Those who had said "I love you" to him had usually wanted something from Eiri, either sex or for him to be something he was not. Shuichi had not wanted anything, other than to be near him, and no one had ever offered him what the vocalist had.
Eiri paused in his reading, a light frown touching his features. He could not help but wonder how long his lover's affections would last. Shuichi's feelings could still be nothing more than a passing fancy. Love was not something that was eternal, despite the drivel that he wrote . . . was it?
