Scattered light

Oil And Water

Cause I'm just one of those ghosts
Travelin' endlessly
Don't need no roads
In fact, they follow me
And we just go in circles

And now I'm told that this is life
That pain is just a simple compromise
So we can get what we want out of it

- Paramore

Chapter Text

The collar against my neck is stiff and smells of mothballs, chafing against my skin with the roughness of both age and metaphorical burden. Hinata's fingers work at the wide knot just below my Adam's apple, meticulous and calculated as always. I think I fell in love with those fingers before anything else, imagining them against my skin and so far from disappointed when I finally felt it. He finishes tying my tie, looking up to meet my eyes with that familiar warm glint to his irises.

His hands are still gripping the tie, feeling like a noose around my neck, and while usually I'd feel suffocated by the sensation I figure if he wanted to strangle me I'd let him. I'd let him stab me straight through the heart and I'd thank him afterwards. But he doesn't; he just lets go and trails his hand down my chest, subtly yet not so subtly lifting himself to his tiptoes, pretending that he doesn't need to lean on me to keep himself upright.

My hands snake around his hips, resting on the small of his back, fingers slightly under the hem of his shirt as I duck my head to meet his lips. His taste is like liquid fire down my throat, the only whiskey I'll ever need because he's just so damn intoxicating.

"You look good," he smiles, pulling away and settling back flat on the ground. He's lying, of course, but I appreciate the sentiment. I turn to the mirror on the closet door of my old bedroom, eyeing the way the old suit sags against my shoulders and waist, hanging like a cheap costume on my lanky limbs.

Mom had insisted I dig something out of dad's old clothes in the attic since the black sweater I happened to throw in my suitcase apparently wasn't "proper funeral attire". Hinata and I had climbed up to dig through boxes but I ended up just grabbing the first thing I found and bolting, the attic stifling and dark and much too far out of my comfort zone. Dad and I were similar in height but he was much thicker, much more wide shouldered and bulky, and I look like a child trying on his clothes.

The three of us had somehow ended up back home in the early morning hours after mom finished all of the paperwork nurses were shoving at her, the drive home such a blur that I'm not sure it actually happened. Surprisingly mom refrained from asking questions about Hinata, which just left the ominous feeling that an interrogation was looming over our heads, threatening to drop at any second. The three of us collapsed on the living room sofa, mom pulling up a quilt on one side of me and Hinata laying his head against my shoulder on the other. We slept like that, a pile of exhausted hearts and weary eyes all resting for a few precious hours as we shared warmth on borrowed time. It was the best I've ever slept, my thoughts retreating to a place where I believed I could control them.

"Here, try this on," I say, rummaging through my closet after stepping away from Hinata's lips. It was mom's idea to see if he fit any of my old clothes from middle school, and I tried not to think of how apparent my emo phase was as I pull out a black dress shirt and skinny jeans, offering them to him sheepishly. I even find some dark suspenders in the back.

He tosses them on the comforter of my bed, starting to pull off his shirt without a thought, and you could probably cook pancakes on my cheeks. Should I turn away? No that's stupid, isn't it? I mean, we haven't talked about if we're dating or not but we're definitely something. Besides, I don't actually want to turn away. My eyes trail over the skin of his back, soft and pale, freckles on the tops of his small shoulders.