Note: This particular piece was written for a February 1st prompt on the LJ community “springkink.” The request was:reassurance; you’re worth this. I am aware my style is very experimental and may raise eyebrows. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, somehow, managed to work its way in here in the form of about five quotations. They're distinguished by: ('...'). That being said: On with the fic.

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And If We Come Back (You're Worth This)

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i. (to me) to you, alone

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It isn't as though you're nonexistent.

Pause. His fingers uncurling and curling so close to his skin in the dark. Whispers and inches. If he were to shift, his hair would blend with his. His knees would touch his thighs. And he would no longer wonder what the boy's body smelled like. He imagined the ocean.

And he imagined the tides, because Kaworu wasn't nervous. Never was. And for some reason, Shinji reasoned, he didn't deserve this. Why can't I be brave, for once?

And as though across a sea of sheets and warmth and the pressing, inky fingers of another (strange, slow) night, Shinji opened his eyes.

Kaworu's lips were quirked. And he watched as it grew into an earnest smile. (And he felt his amusement. Saw it in the lines of his body as he looked everywhere, but Kaworu's eyes.)

And murmured:
No one's proved it.

Kaworu and the soft, gray shadows that paint his white, white skin. Kaworu and his strange warmth. The way, and though he tried to ignore it, Kaworu's fingers found his side. Swept up to his ribs. Tapping gently, as if in contemplation. And Shinji wanted nothing more to pull away. Wanted nothing more than to move closer. And when Kaworu did, the sheets rustling and his cold feet brushing the naked skin of his ankle, Shinji was motionless. (Like the Dead Sea.)

Kaworu's shirt was worn and wrinkled against his fingertips. Permeated with the scent of the seashore and lows of sleeplessness. And somehow, despite his fear, he had met his eyes. (The color of ink. The color of blood. And there was a fondness at the corners. His eyelashes as silvery as his hair.)

Through others, you can. His fingers, still stationed along his side, inched down. And Shinji still didn't move, not quite yet. He could feel the faint hum of his breath. The ghosts of words that didn't make it past his lips. Hidden in the stillness. Creeping under their skin. Quiet: To me, you exist.

And he felt Kaworu's fingers curve around his hip. And finally, Shinji pulled away from him. Recoiled. Staring, for moment, startled. (He couldn't block out the look in Kaworu's eyes. Strange, sharp. Comprehending. His smile gone. His hand drawn back. The phantom sensation of fingertips.) And Shinji turned away from him. No words. And shuddered. Uneven breaths.

(I was stupid to share a bed with him.)

He forced himself to close his eyes. Ignoring the low, disgruntled sound that Kaworu did not try to hide. His gaze, for a moment, on the back of Shinji's neck before he settled. Just far enough away. On his back. (Unfamiliar ceiling. Kaworu knew it well, he was sure.)

And something in him twisted when he heard Kaworu sigh. Heard him murmur something quiet under his even breaths. A contrast.

And as he tried to lull himself in the silence, he thought again:

I was an idiot. A complete idiot.

But, Kaworu was warm. And Kaworu's weight was by his side.

(And Shinji wasn't quite sure if what he believed, was a lie.)

---

ii. irony

---

Two days and two hours left him outside of Kaworu's door.

Shinji's lips were tingling. Every nerve screaming to run. And Kaworu's clumsy (the only thing so graceless about him) sneakers a harsh white in his vision against the dark wooden floor. He heard him shift his weight, from one foot to the other. Calm.

He had kissed him twenty-six hours ago. He had his knees in between his legs. And he had kissed him. And Kaworu's weight against him was comforting and somehow familiar and sinfully warm. And he had kissed him. And the way his palm had fit the sharpening lines of his face was almost eerily perfect. And he had---And he had wanted him to kiss him again. Feel his warm breath. Take in the scent of his skin. But he hadn't. Shinji had shoved him away. Had pushed him back. Withdrew. Feeling light-headed. Shaking. Shivering. Disgusted.

However, irony led him back to Kaworu's door. Standing just before the threshold with his eyes on his sneakers, as if seeking some sort of answer, there. Embedded in the scuffed material. The laces. The way their tongues caught the faint flare of his slacks.

Irony had taken him by the throat. Had forced him here. A moral chokehold. Precise words. His conscience, sneering: You mustn't run away, you mustn't run away. You don't want to be home still, do you? You like it here, don't you? He doesn't question you like Misato does. He doesn't leave you like Rei. He doesn't refuse to wake up like Asuka. He's always available to talk to. You know that, don't you? You know---

And Kaworu's voice, among the stillness. Catching his thoughts with his bluntness. The gentle rise and fall. Over rain:
"Why are you here, Ikari-kun?"

Drum beats. His pulse fluttering. His heart a nervous bird, beating its wings against the cage of his ribs. Kaworu's presence. And he wanted nothing more than ---

Irony was a bitch.

And Shinji found he didn't have an answer, not yet. He felt heat creep down his spine. Linger over his cheekbones. And he didn't lift his eyes. He didn't want to see his face, not now. He didn't want to hear his childish honesty. Didn't want to see the way his lips curved when he was thinking. The way his movements looked so easy, especially when ---

The weight of Kaworu's fingers was resting on his shoulder. And Shinji didn't move. Wouldn't move. Couldn't, he added sullenly, because Kaworu's fingers had flexed softly. Reassuring. As if he had answered the question himself. A satisfied hum in response to whatever he discovered, dormant in the tense curve of his small shoulders.

A pause.

Soft. Rain on windowpanes. Odd weather. And Shinji noted absently the shadows that the droplets cast along the floor. On Kaworu's sneakers. On the backs of his hands as he clenched them by his side. And Kaworu murmured, his voice just heard above the lulling storm: "You keep saying you hate me, but you keep coming back."

And for a long moment, Shinji refused to raise his eyes, sickened. Refused to raise his eyes, even as Kaworu's grip tightened. His thumb absently stroking his shoulder. Refused to raise his eyes. Uttering:

"Let go."

Reluctance. Kaworu's fingers trailing off his shoulder. Kaworu's sneakers moving out of his line of sight. Kaworu's words, lost among the sympathetic pounding of his heart.

"You can stay, if you like."

Pulling forward and pushing back, it was all the same. It was all the same. It was all the same.

He lifted his eyes. Kaworu's skin painted gold in the pale light. His back turned to him. Waiting.

(And Shinji stepped over the threshold. And perversely, he realized, it felt like home.)

---

iii. we once believed in it

---

('Do you believe in that stuff? Reincarnation?')

Rain pattering away on the glass. Shinji trying to keep awake. Listening.

(His shoulders stiff against the wall. His legs warm, but his feet cold. The blanket pulled and stretched sideways. Blue. The dim cast of dusty, orange light.)

And Kaworu's mismatched laugh, a calculated distance away.

(He hadn't known why Kaworu decided it was a good idea to put on a movie, but it broke through the silence. Chipping away at the corners of his discomfort, the flickering room on the old television set an odd echo. Two people, two people. One room, one room. Two drinks, two drinks. Teas, in opposition to Blue Ruins.)

('I don't know.')

Kaworu's lips quirked. And the small movement caught Shinji's eye. His palepale skin dusted with blue. Faint, reddish hues. Warm fingers. His nails pressed against the styrofoam cup. Indentations.

Unspoken questions. Kaworu's cold foot suddenly brushing against his. And Shinji almost lost the sound of his own protestations in the dark, as Kaworu's gaze met his. As he smiled. Even when he felt the same, lazy touch repeated.

Whispers.

"You're going to miss important points."

Shinji turned his head. His fingers twisting in the blanket.

"I don't understand it, anyway."

(A woman with limp, blue hair. A man with dark eyes. Crows. Poems. Frost.)

And Shinji swore, if he could see it, Kaworu's lips curved. Just a bit more.

(He needn't look to know. He had always seen it.)

---

iv. ceilings

---

It was unusual to see his expression so vacant.

He made no movement when he slept. No movement, at all. Not even the twitch of fingers. Not even the shadow of his irritating, waking smile.

Not even a syllable in sleepy languages. Just the slight part of his lips. His exhalations smooth and lulled. Like the sound of a heartbeat. Pressed near the shell of his ear.

Blank.

(The ceiling was becoming fast familiar. And the weight of Kaworu's body felt normal beside him. As normal as it could, for so he told himself.)

And for a moment, he wondered the strange color of his hair. The silvery nature of his eyelashes. The way, even now, he felt like he was imbued with the knowledge of something he did not possess. Would not possess. (Could not possess.)

Past conversation had proven that. Just before he resolved to go to bed, Kaworu had spoken so quietly that Shinji had to strain to hear him:

"Eleven years can change human opinion very quickly, can't it? To think, they had time to make films like this..." Pause. His eyes the color of ink. Red, blotted out. A wry smile. "It seems almost prophetic."

Credits scrolling. The black on white hurt his eyes. And Shinji didn't answer him, even though he knew. Knew the answer. Knew the question. Knew---

And for a long time after, Shinji couldn't will himself to close his eyes. Couldn't will himself to sleep.

So, he watched. Waited.

And for a moment, his fingers shifted. (Debating. Withdrawing. Debating.) Hesitantly touched Kaworu's shoulder. His pulse thrumming as he felt the weary heat of his skin. Seeping through his. And Kaworu had finally shifted. Shinji recoiling in muffled alarm.

(But he hadn't awoken. Hadn't spoken. Hadn't pulled back or moved away.)

Kaworu remained still. The only difference, the pattern of his breathing. And each exhale, each nervous fidget Shinji made, each tiny sigh that escaped sounded much louder. (Conscious.) And Kaworu was still a familiar weight by his side as he curled his fingers, as if to capture the warmth that he stole. It wasn't right.

But, Kaworu wouldn't know. And he would forget. And there was comfort in the way the rain fell. Saturating their stillness. Muting color. Muting wakefulness.

But, despite it all --- Despite the presence of someone beside him, the cloak of night, and his own, mirrored yawns --- He had always felt so small in the dark.

(He always would.)

---

v. are you afraid of me?

---

"Why are you afraid?"

Every voice he has ever known. Whispering in his ear. Shinji is vulnerable. Shinji's skin is too, too pale. And under his bare feet is sand that looks more and more like snow. His ankles in the thick of it.

But, he doesn't feel scared. His eyes are unfocused, but he doesn't feel anything, at all. Not even when his sight fails to sharpen. Seabirds becoming blurs. Gray-white movement. Trailing.

"I'm not."
He sounds different. Words a blend of vowels and syllables that are not his own. That somehow belong to the ocean he can barely discern. A mass of steel blue. Washing up. Turning the sand gray. Waves.

"Why are you afraid?"

Pale fingers around his wrist. Rei's voice. And her eyes are dark and close.
And he can't pull away. He can't come nearer. Sand around his knees.

He shuts his eyes. Pushes down the anxiousness and the relief in his voice.
"I'm OK, Ayanami." (Still lingering on the stale air between his words.)

A change.

Sand at his waist. And it feels entirely too much like LCL as he tries to free his legs.

Strong fingers around his wrist. Asuka's voice. And her eyes are too blue, and too close. (And she's not speaking. And Shinji has no answer for her. Unable to swallow his fear.)

"Why are you afraid?"

To his chest. And he doesn't bother to struggle. He knows how this will end. He's always known.

Misato's hands are around his wrists, as if in contemplation as to whether or not to leave him, there. And Shinji admits that he feels panic when her grip loosens, for just a second:

"Shinji," Her dark hair. The same color of the storm. His eyes aren't taking her in. Softly: "Why are you afraid?"

Sand to the neck. And something feels vastly too familiar, though he has never experienced it, before. His bones feel melded together. Crushing inwards. Too much weight. And ---

- - -

It hurts to awaken, his lungs are burning and his mouth is dry. His whole body shaking and Kaworu is to his right, peering at him through the gloom. Narrowed eyes. Silently comprehending. Waiting and calm.

He's high off lack of oxygen, he's running on adrenaline, and his chest is shallowly rising and falling, again and again and again. (Again and again as Shinji, desperate, grabs for him. Again and again as he finds his shoulder. Not thinking. Pulls him forward. His lungs straining and the babbled half-words. He's aware this time. And Kaworu hesitates.)

He's afraid, and it shows. He's afraid, and Kaworu's cold fingers are resting gently on shoulder. He's afraid. He's afraid, and Kaworu's pinching the bridge of his nose. Soft intonations. He's afraid, he's afraid, he's afraid. Hyperventilating worse than ever, now.

He's afraid. And Kaworu's weight is solid and warm as he positions himself. As he places a knee on either side of him. All white limbs and empty expression. He's afraid --- (The shift of sheets, and Kaworu's mouth is against his own. Breathing into him.)

Shinji can't think. He's not thinking. His hand is fisting somewhere in Kaworu's shirt. His body is tense. And as he breathes into him again, his other hand is poised to push him back.
(But, Kaworu tastes of the ocean. And Shinji can't move his hand.)

He breathes into him, again.

(Kaworu's fingers are becoming warm. And Shinji's breath is steadying. And he can feel the heat along his cheekbones. He can feel Kaworu, after a moment, pull back. His pulse racing. And soft, strange words. And something like Kaworu's name on the tip of his tongue.)

His fingers are still knotted in his shirt. His warm exhales are mingling with his own. He can see the faint curve to his lips. He can hear the hum of his own heart in his head. And Kaworu almost laughs. Almost. (But, in the end, he keeps silent.)

Neither move, for a moment.

(Kaworu's knees are still on either side of him. Kaworu's hands are still on him.)

And Shinji, eventually, flexes his fingers. And Kaworu moves closer instead of moving away.

(The dry rustle of sheets. His feet shifting. Kaworu's weight settling on his hips. And his low, hoarse voice:

"Still doesn't need to be a bag, after all.")

And Shinji doesn't push him away as Kaworu leans down, and kisses him.

---

vi. muddled

---

It doesn't make sense. It couldn't make sense.

The scent of his skin muddled with his. And everywhere he touched, Kaworu would mirror. Leaning into it. Open and susceptible. Eyes the color ink. A slim ring of red. And skin painted with ash.

It never would.

And his surname, hummed. The soft sound of their bodies. A haze of half-thoughts. Caught with a smile pressed against his throat. Knees on either side of his legs. The shadows flickering. The rain dying off. The echoing tap on rooftops. The heat of his words filling his lungs. Nonsense patterns trailed down his chest. Across his stomach.

Nothing with Nagisa ever did.

A warm, wet mouth. At the junction of his throat and jaw. Careful. And Shinji fisted his fingers in Kaworu's shirt. Feeling him inhale. Sharp. Almost surprised. Lips synching words. Hot, hot palms. And Shinji tilted his head back. Unknowing and uncertain and unaware. The ceiling past Kaworu's shoulder blessedly memorized, as Kaworu shifted his hips. (No where to run to, now. His veins singing. The arrhythmic breaths. And Kaworu's heart pounding so quickly he could feel under his fist. Tremors rolling through his body. Shinji twisting toward his touch.)

He knew intimately the lines of Kaworu's throat. And he could hear him swallow roughly. Pulling back. A pause. (Harsh exhales. Shinji making a low sound before he could muffle it. Kaworu's skin warmwarmwarm. Their feet twisted up in sheets. Kaworu's eyes searching, for a moment. Shinji could feel them on him. He could---)

His mouth touching the soft, sensitive skin beneath his chin. His fingers sweeping up. Too many touches at once. His shoulder, his sides, the lean, boyish muscles of his stomach tensing under Kaworu's explorative hands. Pale sighs, and paler eyelashes brushing against jaw.

Shinji's contrast. His fingernails digging uncomfortably into Kaworu's back. The desperation for something welling up in his chest. The awkward shift of his legs. Heat and a white, sharp, swooping feeling coiling tightly in the pit of his stomach. (Along with disgust. Along with---)

Their hips didn't met correctly the first time. Shinji squirmed. And Kaworu laughed against the shadows that pooled beneath his jaw. His wild hair brushing against his cheek. And Kaworu's hand (which one, he couldn't have cared) slipping beneath his shirt. Bare skin to hot palm. And Shinji squirmed, again. (And this time, his hips met his just right.)

And the next time. And the next. (And any coherent thought he might have had, was disrupted like his exhale. Hitched. Shinji's eyes finding his, wide and dark and strange. And---)

The walls were thin. And he bit his lip in effort to keep quiet. Kaworu's hips pressing down. (Friction. Almost painful. And Shinji tried to have second thoughts, but it proved to be exceptionally difficult when he was focusing on attempting not to gasp. Not to choke on wordless sentences. Not to drown on sensation. Not to claw and arch and---)

The clumsy movements. Quicker.

(Fingers resting by his side. Fingers gripping his shoulder. Lips and teeth on his neck. Shinji's hands loosening, tightening. Grabbing. Kaworu's hair at the nape of his neck soft and damp. The smell of salt and sea and sweat. Harsh exhales. His or his own? The slide of too warm sheets. Words he couldn't quite decipher. The rush-roar of his blood pounding in his head. Kaworu. And a sharp intake of thin, thin air---)

Static. He tilted his head back. Shivering and shuddering and unwinding. Arching. Kaworu still moving, just for a moment longer. Before his fingers tensed. Squeezed his shoulder painfully. A muffled groan. And his body tensing. Relaxing. Trembling.

Panted breaths. Shinji's fingers still tangled in Kaworu's hair. Caught under his nails. Kaworu almost lacking the energy to budge. Shinji almost lacking the energy to let go. To let him move off of him. Boneless, and drunk on the oncoming sedation. And he couldn't have willed himself up if he tried. Couldn't have willed himself to shift. Couldn't have willed himself to escape Kaworu's hand as it sought his. Pressed his fingers against his knuckles across the small distance. Bangs obscuring his vision. And a small, tired smile that he granted when Shinji let the need for sleep overcome him.

---

vii. i did(n't) think it was honest

---

('I didn't want to do this. But I had to or they would've called me a girl.')

His limbs feel heavy. An odd blanket that hadn't been there before. And his fingers barely brushing the back of Kaworu's neck as he opens his eyes. (And everything seems washed in white. Blurry angles and warm skin. He doesn't want to move, yet.)

Watching Kaworu watching the movie from last night. His shoulders relaxed. A low hum in his throat. Pale fingers on a splayed leg. Socks half off. (Or perhaps half-on.) Breathing. Slow, slow, slow.

Flickers of sensation. He can recall Kaworu's careful control, even then. He remembers the line of his shoulders. Fingers flexing against the faint rise of his spine. And taste of his skin---And something in him twists. A sharp edge between his ribs. Had he---Had---

('I can't believe I did that. I'm so ashamed.')

But, somehow, Kaworu's voice calms him. Lulls him. (And though he doesn't turn to face him, he can feel the softness there. He knows the faint curve of his mouth.)

"You slept well."

(And for a moment, he almost wishes he could see his face. Almost. And Shinji doesn't answer just yet, his fingers twitching forward on their own accord. Touching the whitewhite skin just before him. And Kaworu makes a low sound of content.)

And for a long time, he doesn't say a word. Doesn't speak. But, when he does, his vision is clearer. When he does, Kaworu is turning to face him. When he does, Kaworu meets his gaze. Hesitant. (Sleep rounded words. Mumbled and thick.)

"I guess."

(Shinji does not fail to notice that in the bright light of morning, as Kaworu's eyes crinkle up at the corners (a smile - amusement), that they are the color of blood.)

---

viii. did you lie?

---

Familiar ceiling. Familiar colors. Familiar scents. Kaworu's pale body, in the noon light. Skin he had seen once before. Not speaking. And speaking. His chest rising and falling. Absent notes of "Ode to Joy." Shinji picking up where he left off. Counting tiles. Tracing water marks that taint the ceiling like ancient paper. Tea on his tongue. Honey at the corner of his lips.

He feels almost notable, here. Like a person. Like a boy. Like a fourteen year old. Words tumbling and twisting and dying. Words falling and flickering. Rising. He wants to tell Kaworu about oceans and the odd thump of his heart when he hears the first German intonations in Beethoven's ninth symphony. He wants to tell Kaworu of snow and the crushing silence of when he was young. He wants to tell him this, all.

But, he already knows.
(He might have, always.)

And as Shinji shifts his arms to fold over his chest, Kaworu pauses him. Places his cold fingertips on the skin of wrist. As if to tell him that he will listen.

Shinji tests this. His question, clumsy and awkward. A weight on his tongue.
"...What do you think?"

Soft. He turns his head to look at him. Study his profile. His skin so white it seems to glow. Sharp features. His eyes are closed. But his lips are moving, still too red. (And Shinji touches his neck, self-consciously.)

"Of what?"

Pause. And part of Shinji feels foolish, but it seems more appropriate than ever before. It seems---

"Of---" His mouth works the word. Tripping over syllables, but Kaworu understands. Kaworu knows.

('Do you believe in that stuff? Reincarnation?')

And Kaworu's fingers are trailing up his arm. Pausing. Trailing back down. A faint note of thought. Exhale. And Shinji cannot summon the strength to budge. Cannot will himself to move, at all.

Kaworu's voice, quiet:
"Man is only limited by what others tell him." And Shinji is silent. And Kaworu opens his eyes. Glances toward him. And for a moment, Shinji wonders if --- How, Kaworu is curling his fingers around his wrist. His thumb to his pulse. And he can see the absent smile as Shinji feels it quicken.

And reassuring. Bridging some distance. Shinji finally lowering his eyes.

"And if it meant seeing you again in another life, it would be nice."

(it would be worth it.)

- - -

And Shinji can't help, but hope what he told him wasn't a lie.
(because between the conflict of his mind, between the eva and himself and kaworu and the wish to die, he forces himself to curve hands that are not his own around his fragile body---and break it.)

In his mind, each snap of bone is irony.

---
Weak, now:
('I don't know.')
---

A/N: Admittedly, this is the longest time I have ever spent on a singular piece of fan fiction. I wish I was joking.