Summary: He needs his laptop like an alcoholic needs his bottle. Writing is as indispensable to him as breathing. It's not a drug, it's more than that. And yet, Yuki Eiri's got another addiction, so strong he would not even try to fight against it...

Disclaimer: Do I really have to say this again? I do not own Gravitation, although I'd love to scream "Yuki is miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!!"

Note: Please bear in mind I'm French, hence the English mistakes!


Yuki Eiri's fingers nervously tap on the counter while the brown curly haired baker gives him his change, a sweet smile on her face and a faint flush on her cheeks. He doesn't even notice she's trying her best to catch his attention. He hasn't seen her whisper things about him in her workmate's ear neither. His mind is too busy. Words are jostling in his head. Words, sentences, entire paragraphs. They obsess him. They oppress him. They possess him.

Once there isn't room enough for them anymore in his head, they escape and float around him like a million bubbles. What if they are blown away and he can't catch them back?

He takes the coins and makes his way out of the bakery.

"Sir, please! Your bread! You've forgotten your bread!"

He doesn't hear. He's deaf. He's blind. He doesn't feel anything anymore. He just wants to be home and let his fingers run on his laptop. He wants to free himself from these words. He wants them to appear on the white page of his screen and become a text. A chapter. A novel.

He speeds up his pace. His fingers are itching. His heart is pounding in his chest. He needs his laptop like an alcoholic needs his bottle. Writing is as indispensable to him as breathing. It's not a drug, it's more than that.

He stops in his tracks and surrenders. Again. He just can't wait any longer, he's too afraid the words may go away. He rummages through the inside pocket of his long black coat and takes out a folded sheet of paper and a pen. He never leaves home without them.

He sits on a green public bench and lights a cigarette. Another one of his addictions. He takes a drag and exhales a long line of smoke which disperses in the cold morning breeze. He crosses his legs and leans the sheet of paper on his thigh. His cigarette dangling from his lips, he takes out the pen's cap and starts to jolt down his ideas as they come, crossing out words now and then.

Within minutes, the two sides of the sheet are covered with his handwriting. Words are now captured on paper and he holds out a sigh of relief, stubbing out on the bench what is left of his cigarette. He places the pen and the sheet of paper back into his pocket and stands up.

And then his senses reawaken and he starts to feel again. His hands are so frozen he can hardly move his fingers. He has pins and needles in his legs. The loud and busy noises of the town which slowly awakes make his headache worse and his stomach pains with hunger. That's when he realizes he's forgotten the bread. He sighs and makes his way back to the bakery. The young baker's face lights up when he steps into the shop, and this time, he notices the sparkles in her eyes and the flush on her cheeks when she holds out the loaf of bread to him. Flattered, he gives her his sexiest look. Even though he stopped womanizing a long time ago, his heart now belonging to one and only one person, he still likes to charm people, just to be assured his power of seduction hasn't left him completely.

On his way back home, his thoughts wander again and new words and sentences form in his head.

His mind never rests. Sometimes, he wishes he could barricade it and stop thinking just for a while. He wishes he could close his eyes in the evening and not open them up again until the following morning. But it never happens. So many times he tried to escape, and so many times he failed. The words always catch up with him and never leave him alone. Everything inspires him.

It can be the laughter of a child playing in the sandbox.

It can be the sweetness of milk chocolate melting in his mouth.

It can be the delicate perfume of a woman asking him for an autograph.

It can be the softness of a carpet under his bare feet.

It can be the warm colours of an autumn leaf blown by the wind.

But his one inexhaustible source of inspiration has got a name.


Whenever he faces a writer's block, he just has to think of his beloved pink haired singer and his fingers would type again. Shuichi is an incredible mix of emotions, from anger to love, from sadness to jubilation. His relationship with the young man, full of passion and twists and turns, has actually inspired him his best novels.

He speeds up his pace once again, but this time, his rush is not motivated by his feverish desire of writing. He left home less than an hour ago, but it feels like an eternity. He needs to see Shuichi right now. He needs his hit of Shuichi. Addiction again.

He swears at the "Out of order" sign on the elevator's door and rushes upstairs, taking two steps at a time. Panting, he pushes the door open and steps into the flat. Silence. He is almost disappointed.

He makes his way to the bedroom and the scene softens his heart. Shuichi is still sleeping, his fits clenched and his mouth wide open. The morning sun plays on his face, and once again, Eiri is stunned by his young lover's beauty. His features are so perfect he looks almost unearthly. The novelist sits on the edge of the bed and smiles fondly as he watches the singer's chest moving slowly to his breath rhythm. He hesitates but finally can't help brushing his fingers against the warm and soft cheeks and carefully caressing the long black eyelashes. Shuichi frowns and moans and before Eiri can retrieve his hand, impossibly large violet eyes are staring at him and if he closes his own eyes, he can smell the sweet scent of a field of lavender in the South of France.

"Yuki…" Shuichi whispers with a beautiful sleepy smile on his face.

Eiri smiles back at him. Flows of words are twirling in his mind again like dancers to an endless waltz, but for once, they will wait…

Thanks for reading!