( having the wherewithal to at least swipe for fuuta's hoodie, rather than leave it there on the beach, he pulls it in against his chest with his free hand--his knees bend, feet finding his weight in the sand, and he follows after him, sinking footsteps in that will be washed away, surely, by the morning. tide or not, he imagines that the falsity of the beach will be well-hidden--not to convince anyone that it's real, but more to help keep the illusion rather than shattering it for anyone's pleasure. there's some stupid saying about how 'you can't lead a horse to water' or something similar: that a person can't force another person to do something, but they can only provide the opportunity. even so, fuuta pulls, taking his hand and his arm and dragging him up the beach towards the line of bungalows out in the distance: and he's not being forced, not being pushed in through a doorway or latched into a bed. fuuta can't make him feel something he doesn't feel, can't make him take advantage of this quiet moment, with nothing else interrupting them.
but opportunities? he knows how to grab for them. he knows how to hold onto them with everything he has, to latch on with determination. it's all that his life hinges on, now--that almost fragile hold he has over the deterioration of his body, of his head, of his insides.
there's no part of him that wants to leave. no part of him that wants to go away, as fuuta puts it, even if he's talking more broadly, even if he means it in a different sense. as they approach one of the bungalows, his gaze is focused over the messy shape of fuuta's hair, looking, listening, trying to decide which one to go for: in the end, he's gently pulling fuuta in against his side as though to shield him as he reaches with his other hand, hoodie in tow, for the door to creak it open. it's empty--he'd been braced for a fight, but it's empty.
rather than turn on a light, he tosses fuuta's hoodie out into the dark--it lands on an armchair, and the moonlight from the beach pours in through open windows, the distant sound of waves crashing, music playing from one of the bar stands down the way. )
Is that right? ( soft, warm, a little mischeivous--he turns, pulling fuuta into the room so that he can shut the door behind him; then he's getting both hands free to plant them around fuuta's hips, looping around to his back so that he can abruptly, bodily, lift him off his feet. ) Same goes for you, then. Make me want to stay.
( with fuuta's body pressed up against his chest, he takes a few steps back--stumbles, even, a few steps back, knocking into someone's discarded suitcase, or a bag, or something that complains as it's nudged across the floor. )
Make me not wanna leave. ( as he plants fuuta down on the first surface he finds--which seems to be some kind of writing desk, spread out with some seashells and other memorabilia that someone clearly brought back from the beach. he cages fuuta in there, forcing himself between his knees. ) I don't wanna leave, but make it harder for me anyway.
no subject
but opportunities? he knows how to grab for them. he knows how to hold onto them with everything he has, to latch on with determination. it's all that his life hinges on, now--that almost fragile hold he has over the deterioration of his body, of his head, of his insides.
there's no part of him that wants to leave. no part of him that wants to go away, as fuuta puts it, even if he's talking more broadly, even if he means it in a different sense. as they approach one of the bungalows, his gaze is focused over the messy shape of fuuta's hair, looking, listening, trying to decide which one to go for: in the end, he's gently pulling fuuta in against his side as though to shield him as he reaches with his other hand, hoodie in tow, for the door to creak it open. it's empty--he'd been braced for a fight, but it's empty.
rather than turn on a light, he tosses fuuta's hoodie out into the dark--it lands on an armchair, and the moonlight from the beach pours in through open windows, the distant sound of waves crashing, music playing from one of the bar stands down the way. )
Is that right? ( soft, warm, a little mischeivous--he turns, pulling fuuta into the room so that he can shut the door behind him; then he's getting both hands free to plant them around fuuta's hips, looping around to his back so that he can abruptly, bodily, lift him off his feet. ) Same goes for you, then. Make me want to stay.
( with fuuta's body pressed up against his chest, he takes a few steps back--stumbles, even, a few steps back, knocking into someone's discarded suitcase, or a bag, or something that complains as it's nudged across the floor. )
Make me not wanna leave. ( as he plants fuuta down on the first surface he finds--which seems to be some kind of writing desk, spread out with some seashells and other memorabilia that someone clearly brought back from the beach. he cages fuuta in there, forcing himself between his knees. ) I don't wanna leave, but make it harder for me anyway.