Warnings: Hiei. Kurama. YAOI.
Nuances
Hiei's Kinks, One
Blinking in perplexity on his swivel chair, Kurama picked up the book and noted that the marker was halfway through the pages. He didn't understand; the novel was one of his favorite fiction for the romance was subtle yet empowering, the writing was poetic and lucid, the characters were interesting, and the plot, a whodunit, was riveting and craftily fabricated. Yet to Hiei it was merely 'tripe'? "You haven't even finished reading it," he argued.
Unexpectedly, Hiei brought into view another book: Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. "I like this better. People here have sex like how it's really done. They have no disillusionment about it, nor do they confuse it with discombobulating, sugary pseudo-truths."
Kurama struggled to keep his facade erect even if it wanted to crumble from both awe and disbelief at Hiei's literary analysis. "Yes, but the sex isn't the only reason why Garcia Marquez-san's novel is an esteemed classic. The same goes for this--"
"Kurama. The guy who wrote that sap makes money out of it. They don't write things like that to preach about true love; they do it to publish their bad ego."
Kurama thought Hiei had a point.
"Besides," Hiei continued, eliminating distance between them. Calloused fingers gently brushed over Kurama's mouth before small, shy, supple lips were pressed onto his. Kurama felt wildfire spread across his face and chest, and Hiei smirked, satisfied. He touched their foreheads together. "The most beautiful sigh is yours, Kurama," he said, quoting from the detested novel, "and not some bimbo's in some fancy, stuck-up, impossible and pretentious book."
Kurama swallowed. Gingerly, but with much certainty, he reached for Hiei and kissing him - the softness of his lips, the firmness of his tongue, his exquisite warmth and his hard teeth - felt like an oasis bursting from his parched throat. When they parted, Kurama sighed, "Fair enough."
end
Hiei is straightforward and Kurama is more roundabout. Hiei doesn't like reading about 'true love' in books; he thinks it's impossible and therefore pretentious. Just an interpretation.
I mentioned One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez without permission, and the other book doesn't actually exist.