Title: The Unnamed Card

Summary: The end is just a new beginning.

Rating: M to be safe, I suppose.

Notes: This was something written a long time ago. It was meant to be longer, but I got lost. All I remember is that I wanted to write something where every sentence was beautiful. I hope this lives up to that, at least.

For the first time in a long time, they spend a night together, one fuelled by alcohol and unspoken longing and the need to feel each other again. There is nothing dressed up in the way they tug at each other's clothes and reacquaint themselves with each other's lips.

They do not speak when they are finished, limbs moulded together with a sheen of sweat, breaths mingling in satisfied gasps, his fingers aching through the strands of Yao's hair, parting as reluctantly as a man and his shadow. Although Kiku knows that in the morning, he will put it down to the alcohol, and that Yao will say the same thing, the fact that neither of them makes any movement to leave the shared bed makes it obvious that something deeper underlies the drink; that there was nothing about this that was just sex. Nonetheless, something called shame overcomes them; they roll away from each other to face opposite walls, both vulnerable from having discarded their dishonesty.

A nameless time later, the consonance of Yao's breathing suggesting a deep, restful sleep; in the cover of the night and the familiar privacy of solitude, Kiku allows himself to dream, something he does not need to sleep to do. Yao sleeps and breathes while he dreams of that very breath against his skin, of legs pressed against his own, of bygone instances of reticent smiles. Maybe, he reflects, these are not dreams but rather memories; the sensations of which are long gone, and of which only the sentiments remain. He tries to give name to them, but they too slip away, as countless and as quietly unremarkable as the raindrops beating lullabies against the window.

In that saturated reflection, Kiku slips, like those memories, into dilution. He finds that, ironically, they are more tangible in that watered-down state, and all the more raw for it. He knows that if he were to sleep he would lose them, and more than anything, he is tired of dreams.

Following logical progression, it is Yao who wakes first, to see the morning sun rising over Kiku's head in a reference to his name. Shafts of gold whisper across the black of his hair and Yao is reminded of the beginning of the world; of the first sunrise known to his people and its birthplace somewhere across the tender sea. Kiku lies still, as calm as that ocean, the rise and fall of his shoulders like placid waves, and it is in him that Yao sees many more sunrises; a future where Kiku is his home. He chooses to watch for a while, comforted, some of the heaviness of his heart healed by something familiarly esoteric; by something infinitely and simply fathomless; by Kiku's presence there in his bed. Like Kiku himself, it is one thing and yet many, with most of them being contradictions in themselves. The sight of Kiku's naked back, small and unguarded, is something of an honour, a privilege, something shown only to a select few who had been accepted into intimacy; and, for the same reason, it is something humbling as well.

Unnecessarily, he notes the curve of Kiku's spine and remembers what it was like to hold close to it; its feel against his cheek. Hard against soft, stiff against supple, back to front.

But Yao is old enough and experienced enough to know that Kiku's being there is no indication of his trust, for like the flower his other name stems from, Kiku is shy of the light of attention and slow to open up. Instead, it is an unsure offering, and most likely a timid reminder: that trust is possible, sleeping there between them – all he has to do is reach out and embrace it. Somehow, Yao fails to see the simplicity in either of these daunting requirements; again, they mean so little and yet so much, and he is not sure he is ready to discover such a significant insignificance yet.

Consumed and confused by thought, he seeks out something solid in the familiar sight of Kiku's hands, and the way they curl as though clinging to everything that is and ever will be precious. They were his to hold, once, and soft in his own. Meeting, entwining, and parting – the rhythm of their lives has been eternally echoed by the dance of their hands.

And what is more, he is reminded, by something he cannot name, that the infant trust they have come to recognise must be nurtured further; for in some unkind irony, it is in itself treacherous, and would rush them into embracing it, only to crumble under the weight of their joint desperation to do so. But as he watches Kiku lying there, his chest rising and falling in soothing breaths and his hands holding fast to memories, some small and astute part of his self – the same part that frequently and unabashedly reminds him that he loves Kiku, irrevocably – whispers to him its uncaring truths. It tells him two things: that he is hurting and that Kiku is lost; and that eventually, everything must pass. And therefore, it murmurs, almost comfortingly, half mockingly, that even their adamant self-denials will be forgotten; that the tender world with all its raw aches and yearnings will come to pass.

There is a fearful sickness in his throat, and he recalls again how extremely old he is, and how nice it would be not to think any more. He cannot bear to look at Kiku. The pain is too great.

It takes a long time for him to return to that fragile calm, and even then, he avoids the terrible sight of Kiku and their unborn companionship. Slowly, when he feels almost whole again, he takes his refuge in doing ordinary things: he showers, dresses, cleans his teeth, and when he looks in the mirror he sees a man he recognises, but no longer knows. It hurts, for a second, but he hangs in the balance, and chooses.

He is Yao. He is China. Change is part of the great flow.

As he stares into the strength of his reflection, something in him feels healed, minimally. But the solidarity in his eyes flickers like a dying star and crumbles into contemplation, and he is sure of only two things: that he is hurting and that Kiku is lost; and that, unmistakeably, something has begun.

And Kiku is lying there still, a dream amongst the bedsheets, facing his sunrise. Yao takes the sight of him and treasures it, as though witnessing him for the first time.

And as he turns away, he thinks about Kiku's shoulder blades, about how they would feel under his lips, but part of him knows that Kiku isn't really sleeping, so he thinks instead about what he wants it to mean.

How odd it is that he doesn't really know.

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