Prompt: Too many things that go without saying aren’t left unsaid.
Warnings: Sexual content (including oral), some angst, fluff, sap.
Characters/Pairings: Uruha (the GazettE)/Maggie (model, actress), brief Uruha (the GazettE)/Reita (the GazettE)
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
Summary: The story of ‘them’ revolves around all the things that she does not say.
Comments: For kurosawabride. Birthday present (or a late one, I guess, since I’m posting late). XD RP-based. Not posting elsewhere~. I HOPE YOU ENJOY, PAPAYA-CHAN! <3333333333333 *LOVES ON*
She seems to be the straightforward type, Uruha thinks. One who says what she wants and gets what she wants, and has no problems doing either. She’s not shy and she’s not exactly subtle either, but she doesn’t have to be. She’s beautiful and she’s alluring, and the sway of her hips and the way her eyes rake over his body say everything that her lips don’t say.
She slides her arms around his neck without preamble, presses her body against his and she fits, and Uruha likes the way his fingers curve around her hips, like they were made to, and they dance together like a pair of professionals—like a couple who’ve known each other for years instead of strangers who don’t know each other at all.
She doesn’t say Hello or What’s your name? Instead, she tells him that he’s the most beautiful man that she’s ever seen and she wants to know how he got his eyeliner to look like that—to make it bring out the little flecks of amber in his dark eyes.
He feels enamored by her already, but imagines that this is exactly how she is: all smoothness and sweet-talk and flirty smiles and hungry glances and fluttering lashes.
It’s all right, though, because he can match her move for move, and if she wants to tease, he can tease right back.
Her blood-red lips press against his neck and his fingers slide teasingly along her thigh, skin-to-skin because she’s wearing a pair of incredibly short-shorts. He feels her shiver and he smiles.
She says, “I’m Maggie, by the way.”
She doesn’t say, Come home with me.
But Uruha finds himself standing in her bedroom less than half an hour later, anyway.
She tastes like strawberries and sinful promises and desire, which are things Uruha is familiar with. He’s tasted these things before, on others’ lips and tongues. These tastes are not new.
However, there is another taste, slightly bittersweet, which is all her, and it’s new and unfamiliar and thrilling—it stands out above all of the other tastes she’s offering him and it’s this one he responds to the most, this one that makes his heart race and makes his nerve endings sing.
She tells him what she wants with her hands and her mouth; she tilts her head back and moans when he removes her shirt and cups her breasts through the silky fabric of her bra, brushes his thumbs over the upper swell of both of them.
He likes the way she tilts her head back when he kisses her neck. He likes the way she tangles her fingers in his hair when he removes her bra and teases her nipples with his mouth until they’re hard nubs and she’s squirming beneath him. He likes the way her back arches when he kisses her navel. He likes the way she lifts her hips and wriggles so she can help him get her shorts off. He likes the way she gasps when he dips down to taste her through her panties. He likes the way she hurriedly pushes that flimsy barrier (red and silky, like her bra) down her legs and pulls him back to her, like she already can’t get enough.
He breathes against heated skin, inhales the dizzying scent of her and then he tastes her without her panties in the way, letting his tongue trail from her opening to her clit and back again, and her hands are in his hair again, pulling tight. He likes this, too.
“You have too many clothes on,” she tells him eventually, and then whimpers when he wraps his lips around her clit and suckles softly.
She’s as stubborn as he is, however, and won’t let herself stay distracted for too terribly long. She pushes him back and he lets her—helps her when she starts removing his clothing.
He likes the way she trails her lips down his neck and bites down at the juncture of neck and shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. He likes the way she lightly rakes her nails down his chest. He likes the way she lets her breath ghost against the head of his cock before she deepthroats him in one smooth motion, her fingers teasing at his perineum.
He likes the fact that she takes some control and isn’t just passive. He likes the way she straddles him, likes the way she rubs against him before sinking down onto him slowly, carefully, until he’s fully inside of her. He likes the way she clenches deliberately around him. He likes the way she presses her hands to his chest and rides him, likes the way she leans down to kiss him in the middle, and even though it kinda skews the angle, he doesn’t mind and she doesn’t seem to mind, either.
He also likes the fact that when he grabs her hips and pushes her onto her back, she lets him.
She doesn’t say harder or faster or deeper, but he does all of that anyway, and she meets each of his thrusts with one of her own; her nails dig into his back—quick sparks of pain that only add to the pleasure, and she moans into his ear, legs eventually moving to wrap around his waist.
He reaches a hand between them so that he can rub her clit. He can tell when she’s close. She doesn’t say please.
She does say his name when she comes, however.
She watches him as he gets dressed—he can feel her eyes on him, can feel that she still wants him, wants him again, already.
He’d be lying if he were to say that he didn’t want her again, too.
But this is all part of the game: this is some unspoken rule that both of them recognize. He has to leave now—too early in the game to talk about sticking around.
She doesn’t ask him to stay. She doesn’t ask him to come back.
She gives him her number, winks, and says, “Talk to you soon.”
And that’s definitely something.
Their second, third, and fourth encounters are very much like the first: he winds up at her place, or she winds up at his, and they have sex—pure and simple as that, no strings attached, no cuddling and not much talking afterwards. They’ve made it clear to one another that neither of them is really into that sort of thing.
The fifth time they’re together, everything is different. She asks him to take her slowly, to be gentle, and even though he is curious about her request, he complies without asking questions.
Leaning over her, he can see a hint of sadness in her eyes, and he doesn’t understand that, either. It’s only when her eyes are closed that he can no longer see it, but he’s certain that it’s still there, lurking behind her closed eyelids.
Later, when both of them are still trembling and breathing heavily, she curls close to his body. She does not ask him to hold her.
But Uruha does.
Having her in his arms feels right.
The next morning, he wakes up to the sight of her, eyes closed, breathing even and unlabored. Her face is relaxed in sleep, sunlight playing over and through the strands of her dark hair.
He touches her back, runs his fingers down along each vertebrae; she opens her eyes, blinks, and smiles at him.
Uruha tells her that she’s beautiful.
She doesn’t say thank you, but she leans in to kiss him, soft and sweet and lingering, and Uruha thinks that’s even better.
Falling asleep with her and waking up with her becomes a familiar pattern, and he knows that’s dangerous—knows it’s not part of the game, but sometimes one is compelled to take risks, right?
He thinks, as silly as it may sound, that he’d be willing to risk everything for her.
“I’m not the type to get involved in serious relationships, you know,” she tells him one day, completely out of the blue. They’re sitting on her couch, eating popcorn and watching a movie. Her words sound like a warning.
Uruha shrugs. “Neither am I,” he admits, “but things change, sometimes.”
She leans back against him; she voices neither agreement nor disagreement.
But she doesn’t tell him that he should leave before they get in over their heads.
And so he stays.
Days later, they’re on her yacht, staring out at the sea when Uruha asks, “Have you ever been in love?”
She doesn’t give him a real answer. Instead, she replies, “Don’t you think the ocean is beautiful?”
Not wanting to push her, he quietly agrees.
She doesn’t say I’m afraid of letting myself trust again, but the words are there in the curves of her body, in the softness of her skin, and she’s so tense.
Uruha holds her all the closer because of it.
“I was married once,” she tells him one night when they’re at his place, lying in his bed. They are naked and she is watching him carefully, cautiously, looking more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her look before.
Her answer is weeks late, but the old saying rings true: Better late than never.
He presses closer to her, offering the comfort of touch, and waits for her to continue.
“He left me.” Her voice is quieter, filled with sorrow—an old wound that hasn’t quite healed yet.
She doesn’t say, He broke my heart, but Uruha knows that he did, and he silently vows that he himself will be the one to put it back together again.
They’re sitting on the swings in the park one sunny Saturday afternoon when Uruha thinks of another question for her: “Do you think you’ll ever be able to fall in love again?”
She doesn’t say no, which was the answer he feared hearing from her. Instead, she stops swinging and she turns to look at him. She is smiling.
“Every time I look at you, I know that I want to try.”
To Uruha, it’s a pretty damn good start.
The months continue to pass, and one rainy Friday evening (one rainy ordinarily-unordinary Friday), he makes her dinner, and they sit at the table and they talk about everything and nothing in particular.
“I love you,” Uruha blurts after taking a bite of salmon, and he hopes and prays that she doesn’t say she can’t return his feelings.
She doesn’t say, I love you.
She says, “You make me happier than I’ve ever been.”
In his opinion, love and happiness are one and the same.
They’ve been seeing each other for eight months when Maggie tells him, “You know, my place is pretty big, and I get lonely when you aren’t around.”
His heart leaps into his throat, and he softly asks, “What are you getting at?”
She laughs against his chest and curls impossibly closer to him. “What do you think I’m getting at?”
He’s afraid to answer—it’s such a loaded question but he takes the risk anyway: “You’re saying I should move in with you?”
“No,” she replies bluntly, and his heart sinks. He waits for her to say that he’s being ridiculous, waits for her to say that it’s far too early in their relationship for something like that.
But she doesn’t.
She says, “I was actually thinking that I could move in with you.”
And Uruha can’t – doesn’t want to – say anything but yes.
She washes the dishes and washes the clothes, and she decorates the house, and Uruha helps her when she lets him, but she almost always insists that she likes to do these things herself. He admittedly enjoys watching her—it’s very… domestic, and it makes his heart ache in a good way.
She makes him breakfast in the mornings, too—brings it up the stairs and into their bedroom, wearing only one of his shirts and a pair of her panties. She always looks incredibly sexy in his shirts, and he never fails to tell her so.
He also never fails to tell her, “You don’t have to make breakfast for me, you know.”
She never says I know that, or stop repeating yourself, dummy.
She always says, “I do it because I want to.”
And later, after they’ve finished eating, she always gives him a sultry, suggestive smile, and says, “You can make it up to me, you know.”
He always does.
It’s their one-year anniversary, and Uruha’s planned something special. He refuses to let her cook or do any cleaning, and he refuses to let her in on the big surprise until the time is just right.
He takes her to the finest restaurant in town (he had to request a reservation three months in advance), and they order things they can’t pronounce properly and then laugh about it over dessert.
Her eyes are as big as saucers when he drops to one knee and slips the ring (silver, with a single, beautiful diamond right in the middle) onto the third finger of her left hand and asks, “Will you marry me?”
She doesn’t say—
She doesn’t say yes. She doesn’t say no, either. She doesn’t give him a straight answer the whole night, and in the morning, he wakes not to the smell of breakfast or the warmth of her body against his, but to the empty spot where she should be and isn’t.
He doesn’t want to read her letter. She’s gone and the ring is right there, on top of that seemingly-innocuous piece of paper.
He reads it anyway.
Please don’t think I left because I don’t love you. I love you more than you can imagine, but I can’t do this again. I can’t. I wish I could have, for you. For me.
He wishes she could have, too.
Afterwards, he spends most of his nights at Reita’s place, drowning himself in booze and in sex.
He knows it’s wrong—knows he shouldn’t cling to Reita like he does. He knows he shouldn’t press his lips to Reita’s, or skate his hands along Reita’s skin. He knows he shouldn’t spread his legs for Reita or welcome the burn of the other man sliding into him.
Reita is his best friend, after all—his best friend, who loves him, and Uruha shouldn’t be playing with his heart like this, because he knows how Reita feels.
But he does it anyway, because even though it doesn’t kill the pain of her absence, it dulls it for a short while.
In the darkness of Reita’s bedroom, Reita buries his face against Uruha’s neck and whispers, “I’m sorry—you know, about her.”
He doesn’t say, I told you so, but the words are there anyway, unspoken, bitter and scalding.
He can feel himself coming unglued again, falling apart, because of her. This time, he doesn’t try to stop it.
Reita holds him close and strokes his hair; Reita tells him that it’s going to be okay, and that he’s much better off without her.
His best friend has always been a terrible liar.
He calls her cell phone, and the number is out of service. He visits her house to find that she is no longer there. He writes her letters that he doesn’t send, because he doesn’t know where she is now. He buys gifts that he can’t give her, because she isn’t there to receive them.
“I miss you,” he says to the empty seat across from him.
He doesn’t hear I miss you, too.
She isn’t here to say it, after all.
Six months later, he hears a knock on his door and he answers. She is standing there, as beautiful as she was before she left. Her hair is a little shorter, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears.
She doesn’t say I’m sorry or I missed you. She says, “I love you”, and “I couldn’t—not without you, but I tried.” And, “My answer is yes, if you’ll still have me.”
He warns her that it’s not going to be easy, and she tells him that she’s up to the challenge.
He’s more than willing to let her try.
The ring still looks perfect on her finger.
“So maybe I was wrong,” Reita says another six months later, when Uruha is standing at the altar with butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
“I don’t know,” he nervously jokes, “she might pull a ‘runaway bride’ thing.”
“She’d be an idiot to do that,” Reita replies softly. He doesn’t say, You know I’m here if she does, but Uruha hears the words loud and clear anyway, and feels a pang of guilt, quick and sharp.
It’s gone when he sees her in her wedding dress. She is breathtakingly beautiful.
When they say their vows, she doesn’t count the ways in which she loves him. She doesn’t say that she loves him more than the sun and the moon and the sky. She doesn’t say she loves him more than life itself. She doesn’t say she needs him more than oxygen. She doesn’t say he is her soulmate—her other half.
She does say, “I do.”
And that says it all, in Uruha’s opinion.
Well there you have it, Papaya-chan. AND I BET YOU THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO BE ALL SAD AT THE END, TOO. But it wasn’t. :P I couldn’t end it with her still gone, so I had to do something different. I wanted you to feel happy by the end, so… I made it happy and sweet. I hope you like it. <333333333