[ Stricken, Sen stares at them, his lips faintly parted and faintly smiling, rampant disbelief clear in his eyes. (His heart is gone. His soul expired, passing from his body. He died a moment ago, he thinks, and this is eternity. This is what heavens are meant to be, when people speak of them. Revelation, enlightenment, a comprehension of life's meaning and one's purpose within its weave.)
Rin echoed his words back. Rin spoke the words forever marked in his skin (for them) (always, for them) and meant them for him. All their days, all their heart, his own now.
He would speak, but they're speaking, and he never has liked to interrupt them. He would let his expression contort with agonized bliss, shed tears, swear profusely at the momentousness, the blessed shower of mercy the universe has afforded him with the resounding return of his own vow. But Rin is not a hopeless romantic, and they don't linger in the same moments as Sen.
He thinks.
He's wrong.
Because what follows is more. Oh, it's so much more. It's his own words, preceded by love, and preceding love, and there are kisses garnering stunned movements from Sen, his hand trembling at their cheek, the lights in his vision flaring and blurring around Rin (also blurring) (a fate-on-view so transcendent, it hazes wet and stings with salt.)
They said.
They said.
He closes his eyes and whispers their name, devastated. He opens his eyes and Rin is still there, and Rin still loves him.
And.
And suddenly sharp in motion, he jerks his shoulder back and slaps his hand on the sofa, searching without tearing his eyes from them. His expression slowly lapses between bemused smiles and that same shattered disbelief.
This is what it is to be undone, they've fucking undone him, and because he's loquacious, because he speaks at length about nothing and everything, and speaking is like breathing, as his hand goes about its scrabbling business, he says softly -]
Fucking undone, me.
[ His hand meets solidity and he grasps his phone.
He needs to know. It's the only sensical thing his mind can produce in this moment: what time is it.
He needs to know the time. The date. The day.
His brows have knit helpless, and he has to drag his gaze from their face to look. (And laughs. He laughs, a choked sob of a sound, a noise issued at the end of the world when its curtain falls and all is revealed to be a joke of the highest order.) (A noise which, from Sen, is appreciative. Of course. Of course. Of course.)
Tilting the phone so they can see the backlit screen, Sen - wet-eyed and gleaming with joy, dazed and a little daft with it, with faint purple along his mouth (and cheeks, and anywhere else their lips met his skin) - murmurs a broken, baffled (happy): ]
Seven thirty-four.
[ And his smile returns, adoring and transfixed. ]
no subject
Rin echoed his words back. Rin spoke the words forever marked in his skin (for them) (always, for them) and meant them for him. All their days, all their heart, his own now.
He would speak, but they're speaking, and he never has liked to interrupt them. He would let his expression contort with agonized bliss, shed tears, swear profusely at the momentousness, the blessed shower of mercy the universe has afforded him with the resounding return of his own vow. But Rin is not a hopeless romantic, and they don't linger in the same moments as Sen.
He thinks.
He's wrong.
Because what follows is more. Oh, it's so much more. It's his own words, preceded by love, and preceding love, and there are kisses garnering stunned movements from Sen, his hand trembling at their cheek, the lights in his vision flaring and blurring around Rin (also blurring) (a fate-on-view so transcendent, it hazes wet and stings with salt.)
They said.
They said.
He closes his eyes and whispers their name, devastated. He opens his eyes and Rin is still there, and Rin still loves him.
And.
And suddenly sharp in motion, he jerks his shoulder back and slaps his hand on the sofa, searching without tearing his eyes from them. His expression slowly lapses between bemused smiles and that same shattered disbelief.
This is what it is to be undone, they've fucking undone him, and because he's loquacious, because he speaks at length about nothing and everything, and speaking is like breathing, as his hand goes about its scrabbling business, he says softly -]
Fucking undone, me.
[ His hand meets solidity and he grasps his phone.
He needs to know. It's the only sensical thing his mind can produce in this moment: what time is it.
He needs to know the time. The date. The day.
His brows have knit helpless, and he has to drag his gaze from their face to look. (And laughs. He laughs, a choked sob of a sound, a noise issued at the end of the world when its curtain falls and all is revealed to be a joke of the highest order.) (A noise which, from Sen, is appreciative. Of course. Of course. Of course.)
Tilting the phone so they can see the backlit screen, Sen - wet-eyed and gleaming with joy, dazed and a little daft with it, with faint purple along his mouth (and cheeks, and anywhere else their lips met his skin) - murmurs a broken, baffled (happy): ]
Seven thirty-four.
[ And his smile returns, adoring and transfixed. ]
The best moment of my life.