aesthetically, they're a disaster.
Red looks good on Aoi. Not just red, though, like bricks or candy apples – red like blood, like liquid silk, that type of red that looks like good, rich wine spilling across his skin. This is what Kai thinks when he sits against Aoi’s headboard and watches him standing at the window, smoke spilling from between parted lips and the red silk sheets held loose around his waist. Red is a good color for him. He’s dark, and the romance suits him.
Aoi probably knows it, too. That’s why his bedroom is decorated in the color, why his sheets are like liquid crimson. There’s a reason that they rarely sleep in Kai’s bed – it’s because Kai loves the way that the color looks, with Aoi’s skin spread out across it. The contrast. Deep blue might look just nice, too, or violet, but it’s the red that brings out the debauchery in Aoi’s lips and cheeks.
Kai would kill himself if anyone knew he thought like that.
“You’re staring again,” Aoi teases, dropping his cigarette into an ashtray and leaning over to kiss him. It tastes like cigarettes and sex.
“Just watching,” Kai says. The banter is easy, born out of years of practice, and this is the kind of thing that Kai wishes would never change.
As a contrast to Aoi’s penchant for scarlet, Kai looks good in black and white. It reminds him of newspaper, in the way that old joke goes (“What’s black and white and red all over?” “A newspaper, or maybe Aoi and Kai together.”). He doesn’t decorate his room to suit that theme, mostly because black and white can be harsh when there’s too much of it, but he likes himself best in the photoshoots in suits and monochrome.
Monochrome. That’s a good word to describe Kai’s life, isn’t it? Not that he thinks his life is boring, exactly – it’s just simple. Monochromatic. Very black-and-white, clean, straight lines and edges. He likes things like that. He loses things all the time, so everyone thinks he’s disorganized, but truth be told if he can’t keep track of his own possessions, he at least likes his life to be tidy. And maybe that explains why he likes the way Aoi is in his life.
Kai and Aoi aren’t really all that much alike, when it comes down to it. They share certain interests in common – music and food are the two that come to mind – but aside from that, they are as comets in separate orbits. When their paths cross, it’s in a splash of brilliance – like someone took a paintbrush of red and splashed it across the tidy newsprint order of Kai’s everyday existence.
He sees like an artist and thinks like a musician, and the way he is in bed is somewhere between the two. Aoi, on the other hand, is like wildfire – constant passion, constant heat.
Later, Aoi lies face-down in his bed, the sheets slipping dangerously low at the base of his spine, and Kai props his head up on one hand and traces the lines of Aoi’s ribs. “Sometimes we don’t make sense,” Aoi murmurs, his eyelashes fluttering, eyes almost-closed at the touches. “This whole – us.”
Kai should be offended, but he’s not. He knows just what Aoi means, after all – none of it does make sense. Aesthetically, they’re a disaster. Aoi is dark and shadowy and mysterious, decorated in crimson, and Kai is calm in his straight-lined black-and-white outlines. That’s not all there is to it, though, is it?
“I know,” Kai says, his fingertips tracing the arch of Aoi’s spine, fingernails scraping lightly against the skin. “But that’s not really the point.”
Aoi cracks an eye open and gives Kai that smile that he wears sometimes, the sly, loose one that always sends Kai’s heart racing. “No,” he agrees, and when they kiss it tastes like cigarettes and sex and the good wine, the old, rich, red wine that goes like liquid silk down the throat. And Kai thinks maybe, aesthetics aside, he could learn to live like this.
author's notes: That icon is wrong for this fic, but hey, who's counting. Maybe no one will be able to get over the what-the-fuckery of it all enough to notice.