Grey, or silver fog.
It's 7 AM on a Sunday, and it's raining outside.
Shiki sits up in the still, grey space, blankets warm and heavy about her, head full of cotton. Her mouth is dry so she reaches behind her, stretches and stretches, for the bottle of water that sits on a shelf. She drinks; the rain patters down softly. Drowsy, calm, her eyelids sink and she could easily fall asleep again, but Mikiya stirs and groans beside her.
"Are you going to get up now?" he mumbles, voice raspy and gaze misted with sleep. The grey light shimmering through the curtains reflects in his eye as he blinks. One of his arms extends outside of the blankets; it rests graceful, sleeved in black, shadows molding the bones of his knuckles.
"No, it's too early," she replies. She looks down at his face, his gentle presence, and feels many lovely, monstrous urges: she wants to talk with him, touch him, embrace him, be scolded by him, sting him, kiss him, please him, make him smile, make him gasp and writhe. And yes, there is the smallest desire to kill him - but that's just how it is, and it does not disturb her. This is all the shape of her tenderness.
She stares at his hand, fancies reaching out for it and holding it, but simply lays herself back down and turns to face him. He's still half asleep, and she probably is, too, but then he searches for her hand - the one that wielded in the past - and caresses it, lifting himself up on his elbows.
He shifts himself closer under the blankets, rests his forehead against hers, says "Shiki, is this okay?" and nudges his warm hips against hers.
Soft sparks flare through her fingers and the base of her stomach. She nods, makes a sound of approval and wraps her legs around him so that they are aligned. They remain fully clothed. The rain still falls quietly and the sounds of the outside world tiptoe through the room: a car in the distance, driving through puddles, and the wet rustle of leaves and falling droplets. Muddled with sleep, they kiss clumsily, bumping teeth and noses and sharing slow breaths. All they see are the grey walls, the grey blankets and clothes, the grey-rose hues of skin and the dark shimmer of hair, all imbued in the softness that comes with clouds and drizzle. They rock back and forth, dropping in and out of shallow almost-sleep and dream-like waking, lost in their shared warmth and pleasure. Mikiya's lashes brush against her cheeks. His shifting weight is comforting, and he is pressing at her just right.
"Mikiya, it feels good," breathes Shiki, before she can catch herself, and blushes.
"Mm…" Heat flows down his spine with her words. "It does."
The rain brings with it memories and a tranquil air dappled with uneasiness and devotion. Tears had once fallen among raindrops under dark bamboo. Rain had often streaked the hospital windows when she had woken with piercing loneliness. She strokes his cheek and his scar, waits for their eyes to meet. When they do - dark blue to brown - they are a little more awake, and feeling a little more needy. But their bodies are still so pliant and dazed; they try to kiss again, and miss, Mikiya's lips sliding against her nose.
"Oh," he says. He chuckles, and she does too, just a little. Her dark eyes stare shamelessly at him, observing the embarrassing expressions he must be wearing when she grinds against him with more force, and he doesn't mind; her curiosity is like an honour. Shiki is still fascinated by the sight of him like this, contact with him like this, and what it makes her feel. In a warm, grey sea of quiet, their heartbeats are anchors - the shuddering proof of life. And in her chest, it thunders as if to tell her, this is real.
They search for a little more pressure, a little more means to bring them to a glowing pinnacle - and she plays that clever hand of mouthing at his neck, enjoying the quiet sounds he makes in response. Under her hands and under fabric move the muscles of his back and shoulders and chest. She closes her eyes, lets all these sensations wash over her, and turns her head to the side with a sigh - and catching the moment through the grey haze, Mikiya admires her profile and its blade-like beauty and strength. When she turns her head back, the sight hurts for some reason. Maybe it's the way she lies relaxed with eyes closed and dark hair fanned about her face - hair she has chosen to lengthen a little more, recently. It makes a lump rise in his throat. He thinks briefly of weeks after weeks of painful stillness in her hospital room; the baseless hopes he clung to, paired with smothered despair. The shell of her on the bed and the contrast of her hair against white fabric. Something far in the past, yet still too close. He swallows and focuses on her warmth and continued breath, stroking her cheek and the nape of her neck, avoiding the faint scars on her throat where a beast had once bit her.
Usually, Shiki would think this is horribly awkward; a degree of intimacy and vulnerability that should be disgusting to her. Strange how it isn't. She blames the rain and its sheltering gloom. There had been another time like that, hadn't there? When the rain's cast had let her speak her heart, let her smile and be safe in her vulnerability in front of him. Another memory.
"It's raining, so…" she manages to say, as if she needs to explain.
Mikiya looks down at her; she is smiling with a rare softness. He squeezes her hand, says, "Yeah, it's the same kind of rain. Like then."
And his gaze is so gentle, she knows that he is reminded of it, too - that time by the broken bridge. Her delicate confessions; his silly, eternal promise. A time when they were both so alone. Her heart flutters and they hold each other close. Ah, she's being silly; of course she is safe in front of him.
Languidly, barely changing their pace, they move together with slow, long breaths. Sleep is still near under the surface, but for now they rock back and forth above it with building force. When he finally gasps her name and whines, pulsing quietly against her, she lets herself go in turn, and it is nothing remarkable; simply another moment shared between them. As they catch their breaths chest-to-chest, Mikiya showers her face with gentle, chaste kisses, and the boyish innocence of it hurts for some reason. They clean themselves up, and sink back under the blankets weak-limbed, sleep overtaking them again quickly for another good two hours. Perhaps he whispers some phrase of love to her, but only the pattering rain knows of it. And when they wake, the rain has let up, its soft greyness replaced by sunlight that turns all droplets to shimmering jewels.