Chapter Text
vi. synchrony
As soon as Eiji’s key is in the lock, the door flies open, surprising him enough that he trips over the luggage at his feet. He catches himself on the hall railing, just in time to push back against the onslaught that is Aslan Jade Calanreese.
There is no time. There is no question. There are only Ash’s lips meeting his, hard, insistent, desperate, and Eiji, gripping the handrail with all his strength. “Ash,” he mutters against Ash’s lips, but the blond man just groans against him. The vibrations against his mouth are intoxicating.
There is a loud creaking sound from the apartment next door.
“Ash,” Eiji mutters more insistently, and puts a hand against Ash’s chest, pressing ever so gently.
Ash finally takes the hint, and retreats just far enough that Eiji can see his eyes now, just close enough that their knees still touch—electric. “We should…” Eiji gulps a breath in, trying to sound more confident then he feels. “We should move inside.”
“I missed you,” Ash says. It’s a stark proclamation. Fact, never fiction. His eyes are strong gemstones, sparkling, but with edges sharp enough to cut.
Eiji grins, his face heating. He nods his head towards the next-door apartment, and Ash turns to look at the old woman, peering out at them from crack of the open door.
“Were you in need of something?” Ash asks in perfect Japanese, voice flinty with irritation.
She scowls at him from a safe distance. Then she opens the door slightly wider and nods towards Eiji, face barely softening. “Welcome back, Eiji-chan.”
Eiji doesn’t miss the bitterness of the appendage. He bows his head politely, squirming to get around Ash’s body. “Yamada-san,” he says, eyes lowering. “Apologies.”
“Hmmph.” Mrs. Yamada spares one last glower for Ash, then slams the door as loud as her eighty-year-old body is able.
Ash finally cracks a grin at that, then turns back to Eiji. “Come back here,” he says.
“Inside,” Eiji retorts, primly. He brushes off his suit coat as though he’s been absolutely and terribly inconvenienced by the assault, and he struts to the open door. “Coming?” He calls, not looking back.
“Damn Japanese brat,” Ash mutters.
Eiji smiles.
***
They lie on the bed after, Eiji’s bare leg strewn across Ash’s midsection, Ash tangling his fingers perfectly, deftly, through Eiji’s thick, black hair. There is a warmth in Eiji’s stomach that’s growing with every breath that they spend here together. There is an insistent press of something more, something heavy, something almost whole against his chest.
They’d kissed, and they’d stroked, and Ash’s fingers had pressed along Eiji’s straight lines and Eiji’s mouth had sought out all of Ash’s angles. They explored each other’s bodies as though this was something new—something clean. Ash had moaned against Eiji’s throat and Eiji gasped as warm fingers wrapped around his heavy cock. There was nothing but the sound of breathing, and skin sliding, and murmurs of pleasure, and when Eiji came in Ash’s hand, Ash closed his eyes and whispered, “please…touch me.”
This was pure. It was unfettered joy. It was years of sacrifice but it was also forgiveness.
Now Ash lies, eyelashes fluttering against Eiji’s cheek and Eiji is loathe to break the moment with something so harsh as spoken word.
So, instead, he breathes. He feels the way his heart thrums against the cavity of his chest. He imagines he can feel the blood push through his veins, return from his arteries. He closes his eyes and in the places that his flesh meets Ash’s he can almost sense the sparkling fingers of enchantment cloaking them with safety. Ash’s heart beats near him and for a moment, just a moment, the two are coursing together, the sound of the thump thump, thump thump rhythmic and monotonous and one.
The New York Collection is seven thousand miles away, parts being stored for the next gallery show, parts being shipped to buyers from around the world. No longer present. No longer everything.
Now it is only a memory.
***Two years later***
“Ash, just slow down for one seconds!” Eiji shouts, exasperated, but the joy in his voice refusing to be stifled.
“Good lord, big brother,”Ash yells from across the room. “Second. It’s second. Not seconds. No plural. We’ve been over this!”
He pokes his head around the door frame that leads into the kitchen and Eiji sticks out his tongue.
“Mature,” Ash says. “Very becoming of a famous artist.”
“Just like idiocy is so becoming of a journalist,” Eiji retorts. His hands tremble though, as he tapes up the last box, then stands. He surveys the living room—empty and barren. The furniture was sold, the wood floor and walls empty. Eiji toes a sneaker against a scuff in the floor, a remnant from when he moved in and Ibe dropped the end of the couch, moments before it would have been in the right position.
He chases the memory back to Ibe, standing in the large apartment, hugging him and whispering in his ear. “We’ll all be here for you. No matter what you decide.”
He’d been very much alone then. Very much a frail, scared child. Empty, out of place, out of time.
“How much more do you have left in there?” Eiji calls.
Ash strolls into the living room. His hands are in his pockets, his bright red hoody is zipped to his chin. His blond hair is pulled back into a casual ponytail, but wisps of down still frame his face and move in the soft breeze that pushes through the open window.
It’s springtime in Izumo and the scent of rain is in the air.
Ash pushes his wire frames up on his nose again and sniffs. “Doesn’t look like much when it’s all empty,” he says.
Eiji just shrugs. “It wasn’t much.” He thinks for a moment, then amends. “It was everything.”
Ash looks up at him and nods. “Everything,” he repeats, voice quiet. He squints his eyes closed for a second, then pulls out his cell phone. “Shit,” he says. “We’ve gotta move.”
Eiji steps closer, refusing to let this part of their life come to a close without a moment of simple meditation. He rises up on his toes and wraps his hands around Ash’s neck. Kisses him softly, slowly, tasting the boy, tasting New York, tasting growth, tasting the man, tasting new, tasting new, tasting new. He lets go with a smile. “You sure you’re ready to go back to the States?”
Ash grins at him. “You know the job for me is better out there. And you know how much the gallery wants you.”
Eiji nods. “Ok.”
“Are you alright?” Ash says then, suddenly unsteady. “Leaving your home again?”
“Izumo is not home,” Eiji states. “And I hear Seattle smells strongly of fish as well. I probably won’t notice a difference. Being a Japanese idiot and all!”
Ash laughs, and bends down, pulling up one of the suitcases and hauling towards the front door. He twists the knob and the door swings open. Ash steps through.
Eiji follows, sparing one last glance back at the empty apartment. Ibe will be by later to pick up the few last boxes of things they don’t have room for. Things they cherish, but don’t want to travel with. Ash’s collection of Hemingway. Eiji’s collection of…well…oddities. More books. The second computer. The extra blankets and clothes and knick knacks gathered from two years of staying in the same place.
Eiji follows Ash and his left hand finds Ash’s right, looping together. “Home is wherever you are,” he says.
Ash squeezes his hand once, and the door swings shut behind them.