Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.

Dying Words of Fading Voices

It's dark outside and you're walking anyway.

The locked door between secrets and questions.

Your body hurts. Your legs move forward in lyrical throb to the pulse of the cries of your bruises.

You did something wrong again, to make him angry.

That was a surprise, once.

Now it's a mistake you can't stop repeating.

Naturally, your mind is singing along to the injured music; words aren't silenced from poison.

Only soiled.

You're so caught in your head, in the rhythm of your pain and the tune of littered rage, that you don't see him until you're on him.

It's not a crash - it's not falling. Merely he is a brick wall that softens your collision and doesn't bow away.

His eyes are amber, and smoke streams from his mouth in wisps like the searching tongue of a starving viper.

You should apologize.

You suck in a breath instead, filled with shock and nicotine.

Your lungs protest the effort; you groan under the pressure.

You should really apologize for the contact.

His stance is disinterested, but he's staring at you.

You're making a mistake. Again. You should probably go home.

But you're pinned by something that isn't hands or pain.

His head drops, you can't see his eyes - his cigarette droops and snuffs out. The smoke disappears in a satisfied trail.

When he offers you his hand, you reach out.

Because you're good at making mistakes. Your body says so.


His name is Eiri. He tells you to call him Yuki and so you do.

You're naked in his bed and the lock's broken.

But he kisses your bruises in worship, trailing from your neck to your shoulders to your ribs.

You're twisted in white sheets you clench in your fingers.

He's still clothed, black against gold, the night with secrets of its own.

Silence. Caress. Sweat.

You ask him to stop.

He does.

And it makes you tremble and crumble and he doesn't demand that you leave his bed.

You don't know that he saw you before you ran into him.


His name is Tachi.

To Yuki you call him, "him".


Morning cracks like a whip against shelter's door.

You slink from your night's bed like the ghost of shame; it's already empty.

Your body doesn't hurt as it should. Something's off and you worry that it feels good.

You're smiling as you leave, because if you don't leave smiling, you won't smile at all.

Mistakes come with lessons and at least you can say you're a master of both.

You're smiling as you walk down the street; twelve blocks to the studio and it doesn't fade.

You're smiling as you're greeted, ushered, sent to a recording both with instructions for genius and perfection.

And that's a little different, but if the mask is a little better than normal, you're not going to complain.

You're smiling until lunch, when Tachi joins you at the table with anger twisted on his mouth.

Promise in his eyes.

This, maybe, was a new mistake.


The floor beside the bed is your rightful nightly resting place.

Your back is numb. Your arms are numb. There is maybe a prickle of something when you breathe.

The floor beside the bed is where you're told to stay at night.

But you're so very good at making mistakes.

And this time you see him before you collide.

Somehow, you're leaning against him anyway.


Naked, again.

This time, his hands have replaced his lips.

Calm traces against bitterness.

You think about crying, if you could. You're not sure you remember how.

Yuki is talking, low words in confidence you're straining to hear every note of.

He speaks of nighttime and locks and secrets and snow.

You've never considered snow before. How elegant.

He soothes your injuries with touches and balm as he whispers about pain that your own has echoed.

He's a stranger to you that you've known forever.

Your ribs are wrapped with educated movements.

You're holding a key in your hand and he is silently asking you.

Make a mistake.


You ask him to call you Shindou.


Tachi whispers whore freak slut worthless as he lashes his disappointment of you as a lover.

Yuki scoffs shining beautiful idiot as he leaves you to the safety of the cradle of blankets.


Sometimes mistakes don't have lessons.


You're smiling and everyone else is quiet.

The studio has no activity and Tachi isn't there.

You're asked to visit the President's office as if your answer is truly yours and you agree because you know it's not.

Seguchi is all pleasant smiles and soft words - he treats you like a skittish animal and you feel like one.

The world tilts when he offers you a manager and a bandmate whose name sounds piercingly familiar.

A few weeks off to rest from all of the hard work and time you've been pulling.

You cannot manage a thank you before you stumble out his door.

He watches you go.


You're staggering down the sidewalk, head swimming, body sobbing.

You don't even realize you're not heading for your rightful place on the floor.

You don't hear the wails of sirens as emergency vehicles race by towards a pedestrian struck down in the street.


The pink hair.

The name.

Yuki almost seems amused at your astonishment in his deduction of who you are.

You're seeing him in the daylight for the first time; the sun beaming on his face, his golden hair glinting, eyes notched to the rim.


You falter and he catches.


Tachi Aizawa, lead singer of ASK, is proclaimed dead on the evening news.

Night has fallen and you're on a couch instead of the floor.

Your back is numb. Your arms are numb.

There is maybe a prickle of something when you breathe.

A brush of a whispered kiss against your temple.


You don't ask him to stop.