The Little Things

A soft moonlight glow danced across two pale forms, slatted shadows from the blinds striping them with grey. The dusky hue washed over them like sheer garments – clothes that had bled their bright colours into too hot water. In the darkness of nightfall, they were reduced to a faded black-and-white Polaroid; that one single, almost perfect moment captured on the lens of a camera.

One of the white figures breathed, slow and deep, chest rising and falling with every draw of air into tireless lungs. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

The other figure was awake, propped up in the bed they shared, the cotton blanket twisted snugly around a lean waist. Eyes riveted onto the sleeping form, fascinated by the sleek slopes of the warm body next to him.

They were a point study in differences, he noted wryly.

The young man gazed at his hands, accustomed to the rough surface of a basketball, callused from the bumpy rubber. He had a large palm with short, stubby stumps sprouting from the metacarpals of his hand. It was with this very hand that he used to hesitantly touch the smooth, lily-white skin of his lover, fairer than even his own light complexion.

He traced his way down a toned arm, pausing at the turned wrist, taking hold of the other person's hand. It was a fair size, nearly similar to his, but where he had fleshy, stocky fingers, his beloved had slim digits that were graceful and fluid, like the fingers of a piano maestro. He snickered a little at that, the image of his lover seated on a piano bench at a recital. Still, his lover's hands slid easily into his, their fingers entwined in perfect synchrony. He could even feel the friction of his lover's own rough texture, a consequence similar to his – the fierce game that had thrown them together. He squeezed lightly, affectionately, before letting it go with some reluctance.

Traveling upwards, his fingers drifted against his lover's side, sketching the curl of the lithe body, supple and flexible. A tiny grin sneaked across his features as his paramour shifted, muttering something unintelligible before settling down again, snuggling closer to him for warmth. He slept on his back, always, and snored like a hellhound, while his beloved slept on the side, defined yet slender limbs clutching him close. He wondered briefly if his snoring ever disturbed his lover, whether he snored because he slept on his back, and then he wondered if his beloved held him near out of fear that he would up and leave in the middle of the night.

A rush of warmth flooded his chest, like the sticky golden syrup he poured over fresh pancakes on days his lover bothered to rise. He tended to oversleep himself, and was always pleasantly surprised when he awoke to the smell of breakfast, his normally drowsy paramour working up a delicious sweat in the tiny kitchen. He would have his maple syrup, while his beloved would have mild, sweet curry. It was an oddity, one of his beloved's many eccentricities, but it was the only way he could persuade his finicky lover to eat his favourite pancakes, foreign foods to their Japanese tongues.

His hand moved higher to stroke the dark head that lay on his broad chest, fingering the silken locks, feeling the ebony strands slip through the narrow gaps. It was strange, how they would have such similar heads of hair and yet so different. His hair was long as well and was nearly the exact colour – black as midnight. But where his beloved's hair fell in an unruly mop, dark fringe skimming high cheekbones, he had found that somehow, his own mane simply would not stay down. Instead, it chose to defy the basic laws of gravity, proudly standing erect as a crown atop his head. Sometimes, it even reminded him of the cockerels he had seen sparring at the village down by the river, their red combs bobbing as they feigned then attacked each other.

His lover had swept an appraising gaze over his spikes and coolly informed him that it resembled more of a porcupine with sharp quills. The face remained a blank canvas, but in those eyes, he had caught the mirth bubbling below the blue surface.

Those eyes … He watched as his beloved slept, face peaceful and serene in dreams, dusky eyelashes fluttering delicately. They were not open now, but he knew what lay beneath – the piercing cerulean orbs rivaling his own cobalt irises. They both represented blue, the blue of the stormy clouds, jagged lightning streaking throughout. Blue as the tempestuous sea, unbridled and unpredictable.

"Or the blue of cold lips, the blue of death's embrace," his lover would deadpan and he would sigh at the pessimistic reference to what he considered his lover's best feature. They had a slight upward tilt that he adored, tracing the outlines before running his fingers down the dainty jaw, the pointed chin. So unlike his broad, almost squarish jowl, with etched dimples lending him a boyish look.

He had the full lips, the sensual pout. His lover on the other hand, had a tiny Cupid's bow. Yet, he did not mind his beloved's smaller lips, finding that their kisses melted into each other, a fitting jigsaw piece falling into perfect place. That little quirk at the side that made him realise his lover's amusement, a rarity if he ever saw one. And it was for him, and him alone.

He was awed now, struck not so much by their subtle disparities, but rather, how well their differences complemented each other.

He rested a light finger on those lips, gazing at the untroubled countenance, the slant of sooty eyebrows. Raising his fingers to his mouth to imagine his lover's kiss; the caresses of soul meeting kindred soul.

Beautiful. That was what his lover was. Completely, utterly beautiful in a way that made his heart ache at such beauty.

I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.

The phrase gained consciousness in his mind, and he became aware that his lover had stirred, sleep-lidded eyes blinking with drowsy confusion.

"Akira?"

Sendoh Akira smiled gently at the bemused face; that beautiful, bemused face.

"I was just thinking about you, koibito. Did you know how lovely you look asleep?"

A faint snort, almost derisive, was quickly smothered by a handy pillow and when the shock of black hair emerged again, ice blue eyes glittered in the darkness of the room.

"Pervert. You only want to get into my pants again."

"Briefs," Sendoh corrected. "I wear boxers, and you wear the briefs."

"Whatever. A'hou. I'm too tired to go another round." A wide yawn stretched across his lover's face, hair falling messily into blue, blue eyes. Blue as the clear summer sky without clouds. Blue as the gentle lapping of the ocean waves on the shore.

Sendoh stroked the soft strands, brushed away the tousled fringe with his fingertips, placed a tender kiss on the unlined forehead.

"Go back to sleep, Kae-chan."

Rukawa Kaede was already halfway complying with the order, eyelids drooping heavily as he coiled himself into Sendoh's waiting arms. A quiet sound of satisfaction lingered in the air and then–

"Aishiteru." A soft mumble, almost imperceptible except to ears trained to catch and treasure the infrequent words of affection, of caring, of love.

Sendoh's muscular arms tightened around his boyfriend, his lover, his beloved as they both drifted into sleep; him on his back, Rukawa on his side, curled into yin and yang, a single ball of differences – dissimilarities that astonished him of how the parts that were missing were filled with seemingly mismatched pieces. It worked. They worked.

"I love you, too."

It was a whisper in the dark shadows that wove the invisible bond between them tighter, stronger; reminded them that despite their differences, they needed one another to function – without, they would fall apart like a broken clockwork toy with a lost spring.

Their love held them in place. For all the exasperating habits and heated arguments, their ferocious competition on the basketball court, society's stares and harsh words, they still had each other to come home to at the end of the day. And in the end, that took precedence; it was the only thing that really mattered.

Despite their differences, maybe they were more alike within than they had believed after all.

Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed my last piece of work, which also happened to be the first Slam Dunk fiction I've written. I know this is just sorta mindless fluff, but I couldn't help myself. So it's almost plotless. Bring on some constructive criticism! On the other hand, great reviews make me smilee:)