Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.
Prompt: "I don't know why it bothers me," he whispered softly. A brief touch into Eiri's confusion following the days of the attack. Canon-centered.
Rating: T
Bruise
There was a bruise on his face.
There was a bruise on his face, and the very sight of it made Eiri cringe in bitter memory that had no attachment to the source of the deadened flaw. It was the only mark that could be seen on the otherwise golden skin, so long as that skin was covered in clothes. A mark of maliciousness that could not be hidden; a darkened blotch of brown and purple blood that would not flow, cradling it its claws of locking despair one of the two vibrant amethysts that had been to become his best-kept secret. His favorite jewel.
There was a bruise on his face.
On his, but not on the face of the one who had blemished Eiri's jewel. Oh, he had been certain justice would carry out, whether in the hands of God or power or blood-lusted beast, and that man would be long dead. But no matter the punishment paid, Eiri knew there would be no bruise upon that man's face. His eyes would remain unflawed, and there would be no reason to hide his marks from the world.
There was a bruise on his face.
On Shuichi's face, and as he stood beside the bed, a cloth of lukewarm water in his hand, Eiri found himself mesmerized by the sight of it yet again. Without the violet orbs staring at him, so broken by its presence, he only saw it as something deceased; something twisted and shriveled with poison he shared familiarity with. As always, in the past few days, he placed the cloth across the bruise as one would cover a corpse. And he wished it would fade away as such. Buried and suffocated and long, long gone.
There was a bruise on his face.
"I don't know why it bothers me," he whispered softly to the sleeping form of his lover, golden eyes narrowed even as he gently arranged the cloth to every curve and corner. "There are so many other marks on you, scratches turned to scars, other bruises. I can't even count. And you meant nothing to me. Just a brat." His forefinger, long and bred for creative labor, dragged lightly across the cloth regardless. "So small. I thought … I don't understand."
There was a bruise on his face.
And though it was now covered, he could still feel the tense heat it radiated, knew its existence from the brief frown that fluttered across Shuichi's face at his touch on it.
There was a bruise on his face.
There had been no bruise on Eiri's, no physical mark that lasted longer than a day. His demons, though taunting, were invisible. At times, many times, he could force himself to pretend they didn't exist. His demons, though immortal, were dead.
There was a bruise on his face.
On Shuichi's face. And because of it, Eiri could not leave.
I just wanted to take a few brief punches at my keyboard to thank everyone who has stuck with these stories thus far, those who randomly show up, and especially those who review. I'm going through a rough patch in life right now, and your reviews and messages mean a lot to me. Remind me why I do what I do and why I enjoy doing it. So thank you. :)
Let me know what you thought, please? (: