Fics like the streets beautifully writhe, it is for you; do not frighten them

It gets easier, too, every time he looks at Yut Lung. Yut Lung, who’s now got some color in his cheeks, as he drains his mimosa glass and the bubbles, it seems, swim up to his head; Yut Lung, who’s turning his body toward Eiji, saying “well, not quite verbatim, in those words, but some bullshit like that anyway. I felt so angry, I just saw red. Like my whole head was swimming with wine.” Eiji feels anthropologically curious about Yut Lung, like he’s a subject of a particularly complex and tangled article he must make sense of; like he’s a model for his photos, viewed through a 50mm lens. Maybe he’s staring, because Yut Lung recoils. Eiji can physically see him withdrawing, turning away from him. And at this moment, Eiji, drunker than he’s ever been but with a certainty he’s never had before, needs to keep him close. He chooses self-disclosure. “I felt the same when Ash said that. Who does he think he is?”

Fics like the streets beautifully writhe, it is for you; do not frighten them

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