A/N: This is supposed to be for kage_kagami's [ prompt ], um ...... >_____<

T______T; sorry!
hmmmm. anyone up for the prompt? It's becoming like a baton race ... *laughs* the next time I attempt it again though, it should be from Keita's POV or something *dies*

W-inds.
__________



your eyes of panic.


.


He awoke to the scent of rain, drifting in through his bedroom window. Chill and sweet, blurring the boundaries between without and within, the smell of smoke and early mornings following in its wake, only there was no warm sleeping body pressed to his.

Sleep clutched at him, like the sea closing over his head, an insistent pull, and Ryohei forced his eyes open, still sticky with sleep, but it felt as if he had simply awoken into another dream, the light filmy, surroundings indistinct. Gauzy white.

In the distance beyond his window, the storm clouds pressed low upon the horizon, trapping the unnatural light between earth and oncoming storm -- the light spilling, queer and sharp, backlighting the buildings in the Tokyo morning. A sense of nightmare overtook him, he felt himself sway a little on his feet, heart suddenly pounding uncontrollably, choking him, as if he had just had a bad dream that was now lost in the recesses of his subconscious.

If only -- no, that was -- a lie.

Lightheaded, Ryohei clutched at the windowsill, fisting the curtains in his grasp, rough fabric, the wind running low over the parched field, shivering through the grass.



.



"I'm going to do a Solo debut," Keita said, oh so casually, and Ryuichi had laughed, out loud, then waved it off with his hands, grabbing Keita by the shoulders and demanding details.

And Ryohei had just sat there as Ryuichi interrogated Keita, who was babbling things like, ah, it's been in the works for awhile now, and, you guys don't mind do you -- and he'd just sat there, pretending to be stretching a particularly difficult muscle in his thigh and finally Keita had craned his neck towards Ryohei, the look on his face imploring.

"I," Ryohei said, then paused, and took another half-breath, "please work hard at it." Then he smiled, blinking hard to keep away the wetness threatening at the corners of his eyes, and the tightness at his throat, and Keita was oblivious as always, and smiled back, relief transparent on his face.

So it was just like that, and the afternoon's rehearsal passed, but he couldn't concentrate, the chill and subtle fracture of something inside of him becoming too much to ignore, to push away.

When they'd packed up and gone home, he stepped into his front door and shut in behind himself, sagging against it, feeling vaguely ridiculous, and then he'd slid down against the door, not even bothering to get out of the genkan, and buried his head in his hands, clenching his fists in his hair and yanking at it till it hurt.



.



It was an enormous ballroom, the ceiling several stories high, supporting the weight of magnificent, glittering chandeliers, each seemingly a frozen waterfall of tears. The lights glittered brightly in the room, and Ryohei touched the mask on his face, feeling oddly protected. He couldn't remember what mask he was wearing, but that wasn't important.

The ballroom was crowded with masked guests, mingling, laughing, and talking, gathering amongst the gay decorations that festooned the room. Colour assaulted his senses, rich and coming together in his field of vision to form innumerable tints and shades, translucent gauzy fabrics trailing from the ceiling, the people about him all costumed, velvets and satins.

Was it night? He couldn't tell, there wasn't a window by which he could look out, and he'd forgotten how he came to be in here in the first place. Reaching a hand up to set his mask more securely in place, he stepped around a group of laughing strangers, straining his ears above the buzz of conversation, to hear what, he did not know.

He didn't know how he recognized Keita, either, from his posture and the way he was slouched against the table, entertaining a group of women -- perhaps Keita's voice, from behind the ornate half-mask that covered his eyes, Keita's smile, and he grabbed Keita by the arm from behind.

"Wha-- what?" Keita said, then flashed another smile at the group he was being dragged from, "I'll be right back." They tittered and waved him off, giggling behind the flutter of their fans, and Ryohei felt oddly annoyed.

He found a stairwell to the side of the ballroom, the landing above it was dark, light flickering just beyond its reach. He pushed on Keita's shoulders to make him sit on the steps, took hold of Keita's mask and tore it off -- and Keita looked up at him, strangely disoriented, trembling fingers coming to his face, lifting his ornate mask off, and he didn't have the time to see what it was, before it crumbled into ash in Keita's hands.



.



"I'm happy he's doing that if that's what he wants to do," Ryuichi said thoughtfully, tapping on his lower lip with his index finger as he lay sprawled out on Ryohei's bed. The youngest member of W-inds. simply took up far too much space, much like a cat. Ryohei nudged him over, climbing up by his side and pulling over a pillow to hug.

"And if he goes off and does his thing," Ryuichi continued thoughtfully, pouting briefly at the very thought of it, "I can always go play my guitar!" He cocked his head to the side, grinning at Ryohei, and then Ryohei saw his grin fall off his lips, and with no warning whatsoever Ryuichi crawled into his lap and wrapped arms about him, knocking him flat on his back.

They lay tangled up, Ryuichi's head rising and falling slightly with each breath Ryohei took, and Ryohei stroked Ryuichi's head briefly. "We're too old to be doing this, you know," he said, and Ryuichi nodded against his chest, making no move to pull away.

"You know W-inds. won't last forever," Ryuichi said, softly, clement as the eye of the storm, and Ryohei allowed himself a small sigh, feeling Ryuichi's fingers stroking absently at his side.

"I know," he whispered, feeling Ryuichi hum against him, "I just never thought I'd get so attached to -- "

"I know," Ryuichi said, "and he does too, but you don't see it."



.



"I really do -- ," he said, sliding a hand up Ryuichi's forearm as they panted, chests heaving, catching their breaths.

"Don't," Ryuichi said harshly, wrenching his arm from Ryohei's grasp.

"But you let me -- you --"

"I didn't let you, I wanted it."

Ryuichi's cheeks were flushed with anger, and his eyes fever-bright, and Ryohei kissed him then, tongues raw and slick and fighting for dominance, and Ryohei shoved the back of Ryuichi's knee up, exploiting his flexibility, and pushed into him with one rough thrust, making Ryuichi cry out sharply and then bite down on his lower lip.



.



Letting his eyes slide open, he blinked, trying to rid his vision of the fog sleep had brought. Stiffly, he slid his arm out from under Ryuichi, and sat up.

Ryuichi mumbled a little in his sleep, pulling the blankets up further over himself, and Ryohei looked around, casting about for the jacket he'd thrown off the night before. He'd need a change of clothes, he'd fallen asleep in the set he was wearing and gotten them all wrinkled. Ryuichi would need a change too, maybe he'd go look in his closet.

"Hmmm?" Ryuichi asked, having woken up at the sudden movement of Ryohei getting off the bed, and he blinked at Ryohei muzzily, then smiled with heart-stopping sweetness. "S'rry ... "

"For what?"

"I dunno," Ryuichi said, edging over to the side of the bed, head bowed and letting his feet contact the cold floor, sole by sole, concentrating as hard as a child taking his first steps.



.



His feet were taking him through the rooms, softly, the floor cool and bare against them. Smooth and wooden, not quite cold, almost summer, warm in patches as if a patch of sunlight had lingered too long there before the sun begun to move overhead in its journey across the sky.

He could glimpse the bright flash of morning sun glinting off glass, and a sense of urgency pushed him through the doorway, but beyond the window, plastic blinds hanging skeletal and half-unrolled from the frame, it was night. The four blank walls of the room stark and suspended in time. He moved to the window, peering out, an unnatural hush straining even the streetlight's waver.

Sound of laughter, high, strung out in the air, sound of chatter, sweet and clear, Keita's voice beginning to evince signs of breaking, but still hanging on to its childish air. He wouldn't be fooled, but he was turning away from the window, hastening towards it nonetheless.

"I don't want to play," he called out, frustrated, "let's stop, okay?"

"You're a sore loser, Ryohei ... " the childish voices of the other two, breathy with exhaustion, as they ran for another hiding place. There was a pause, and then a giggle, and he could see Keita tickling Ryuichi, before shoving him into the cupboard and climbing in after him, as they waited there with bated breath, for Ryohei's footsteps to approach.



.



Keita came in late to work that day, looking exhausted, and he didn't even spare a glance for Ryuichi wearing Ryohei's clothes.

"You look worn out," Ryohei murmured, shadow falling over the lyrics Keita was memorising, and Keita gave him a wan smile, looking up from where he was seated.

"It's just work. You know."

"I do," Ryohei said, and knelt, reaching out to trace a stray lock of Keita's fringe before tucking it back behind his ear, and Keita paused, startlement warring with the weariness in his eyes, "It's okay."

"It's not," Keita caught Ryohei's gaze with his eyes. "Is it?"

"I think you should take care of yourself more," Ryohei bit out, and Keita's stare didn't waver, turning probing instead.

"Really." Keita's tone was hard.

He was going to look like a stupid, selfish fool if he said what he really --

"I know you don't mean it," Keita said, fixing him with a look, and Ryohei paused, angry, the words seeming to stick in his throat and jumble up on his tongue. "Then tell me what I mean?"

"Why can't you say it? Can't you?" They were arguing in raised whispers now, careful not to wake Ryuichi, who was curled up in a ball nearby on the dance studio's floor.

"You can't seem to," Ryohei retorted, then bit his tongue, and Keita's anger seemed to diffuse then, and he reached out to catch Ryohei's hand, pressing the back of it to his bowed forehead. "Please, Ryohei."

"I ... Keita, c'mon," Ryohei said, dully, and his heartbeat seemed to make its presence known then, tripping in speed, and Ryohei drew both arms about Keita, stroking his back. "Don't make me, Ryohei," Keita mumbled against his shoulder, Keita's pulse fluttering like a caged bird.

Vulnerable, tension stripped bare, empty of all fear.

.