Note: Well, yeah, I like to give my fics songs titles... Hope you like this one shot, Mello POV. Reviews appreciated, as always, so I can improve my writing!
He walks in, soaked, his shoulders hunched like if the sky had fallen on him. Apparently, part of the clouds did.
He leaves his boots next to the door as he closes it, always so softly. Everything is softness in him, never a harsh move, never a shout, never a snap. Only shuffles, caresses and whispers.
He puts his keys on the small table at the entrance, and they almost don't knock against the wood.
I don't hear his steps on the carpet, I don't hear any noise as he let his soaked jacket on a chair. Barely a shuffle as he sits beside me on the couch.
And yet his silence is loud, loud by the increased thuds of my heart, the heavier sound of my quickening breath, the sudden creak of my leather as I turn to face him, my mind screaming to myself how beautiful he is, and the unheard sound of the kiss I never dare to give him...
He snuggles in the couch, smiling at me before lighting a cigarette and simply lying here, his eyes closed, relaxing as the smoke fills his lungs. This smoke, privileged polluted air swirling in his lungs, close to his heart. Charging the blood running in his veins with deadly substances mixed with necessary air. Death and life altogether. And he takes my breath away.
I suspect he knows I'm always watching, at that precise moment. Because he never opens an eye before I look away. He never utters a word while I'm staring, just like if he didn't want to ruin the moment. His silence is generous, allowing me to drink his features, every evening, and each time with the same want, the same need. Never altered by routine or habits.
When I finally leave the couch to grab us something to eat, his eyes open, and focus on whatever game he's on at the moment. And for an instant, the soft rub of thumbs on plastic is the only sound. The music of the game is off, and I don't know if it's because he thinks I don't like it, or because he wants to maintain the beautiful silence, but I am grateful, and I smile at him from where I'm standing, next to the counter, and like a scenario we are playing, he always smiles back, without lifting his head from the game, and I wonder how he knows there is a smile on my lips.
We eat once he's joined me at the counter, facing each other on our stools, and tonight, we're not making small talk. But the absence of our voice doesn't seem awkward, actually, it seems right. Like important things are the only things we have to say, but they're better left unspoken. Silence is golden right now. It's not that I have nothing to say, but what I want to say to him would not break the silence, it would make it permanent.
Because he would probably be speechless, and then silence would be unbearable, until he leaves for real, drowning me in despair as the melody of his presence by my side would fade and stop, before jumping to the next track, a sad heartbroken song I'd put on repeat just to kill me a little more each time.
He falls asleep on the couch, after smoking his after dinner cigarette, sat, his head resting on the back of the velvety furniture. He had a long day, leaving the apartment at 5am for whoever needed to fix an important server urgently, and coming more than fourteen hours later. I mentally wish him sweet dreams as I slide a cushion under his neck, my fingers lingering in his soft red hair for a few seconds, stealing a bit of him, careful not to wake him. Not that I could anyway, he's a heavy sleeper, added to the tiredness.
He wakes up a couple hours later, as I'm watching a mute tv. His body doesn't move, but his head turns, and he looks at me, his eyes thankful for the cushion. I can't take my own eyes from his sleepy ones, as his long eyelashes half cover the deep pools.
He stirs, and as his arms fall back at his sides, I realize we are so close he's touching me. I hope he doesn't realize. Or that, if he does, he won't mind.
But his arm leaves the space between his thigh and my own arm. I frown internally.
Or maybe did I really frown. I don't remember, but he smirks at me as he pulls on each finger of his glove, and throws it on the table nearby. His arm is back where it was.
I feel the back of his warm hand against my bare arm. I shiver, still, unable to move as I take more of him while I can.
And we stay like this, the clock ticking in the background, the actors on the screen of the mute tv giving an uninteresting display of family comedy.
He grabs his cigarettes and lighter on the table, imperceptibly leaning closer as he sits back in place.
I pick a chocolate bar on the same table, and when I lean backward, my addiction in my hand, we are thigh against thigh. He smokes, I snap chunks of chocolate. Our eyes focused on the tv, far from looking at it.
His cigarette ends in the closest ashtray, my crumpled wrapping paper ends on the floor.
He stirs again, his arms above his head. I know he's tired, but he doesn't go to bed. I wish for his arm to fall on my shoulder. But I feel it fall on the back of the couch, behind me. The proximity is troubling, but it's not enough.
I look at him. And he knows. He may not utter a word, but his eyes speak. They speak with a wide smile in their irises, with a wink of understanding, with a soft movement of his eyelashes as he closes his eyes and leans to deposit a kiss on my scarred cheek, as his hands cup my face.
I snake my arms around his waist in a soft shuffle, and trail my lips until they meet his. And I'm getting deaf from the explosion of my brain, from the sweet sound of his breath against my mouth, from my heart racing and pumping in my ears.
Everything is softness in him, never a harsh move, never a shout, never a snap. Only shuffles, caresses and whispers.
But now they are shuffles of sheets, caresses on naked skin, whispers of more, deeper, faster, barely audible moans and pants. Even now, he won't break the golden silence, not even when his body arches in climax, leaving him cuddled against me, our arms embracing each other tightly.
And finally, silver has a higher value than gold, when he softly asks me, his deep blue orbs looking straight in my eyes, with this longing, this tenderness, this happiness of a long hidden secret finally spoken: "Mihael, why have you never told me?"