DRABBLE / WISHSHIPPING / INSPIRATION
An introspective, directionless drabble. SFW.
Joey knows every element of Yugi’s body. The ingredients that make up Yugi are subtle but essential. His skin is the colour of warm sand and feels just as soft: a calloused hand pressed against it becomes enveloped by the comfort it brings. He knows every inch, from the way it darkens across his cheeks to the colour of mocha, to the dainty marks that blemish his arms: reminders of difficult and fast-paced adventures, overcome.
Yugi is soft edges and tapered lines. A heart-shaped face that is dominated by the large, deep-set eyes, hooded by indigo lashes. They squeeze shut when he laughs. Creases flank them and the smile appears. It dimples his cheeks, pulls his lips thin. He laughs heartily and with all his being: the sound is infectious, deadly. It can fill any room, dissipate any tension, soothe any worried soul. It can draw a giggle out of the most sombre.
He floats when he walks, as easily as a gliding bird. His feet barely touch the ground, and Joey watches as the gait hitches - the odd bounce in his step, the roll of his heels. He dances. Delicate, but deceptively formidable. He cuts a line through a crowd, albeit politely, but his course is set and his mind is determined. The path from A to B is his alone. Joey follows - as he always will. His loyal shadow. When they hold hands, his skin burns.
Sometimes, he recognises the glimmer of something foreboding behind the violet confidence. These are the rare occasions where Yugi falters. Joey can practically see the cogs whirring in his mind - the doubt, the loneliness, the fear. The dancing stops, he staggers, he teeters on the edge.
Joey is there to catch him.
Yugi knows every element of Joey’s body. His composition is irregular: a jigsaw that doesn’t quite fit together. His chest is like an acrylic painting: utterly imperfect in texture. Fingers dancing across it snag on scars and scabs. Each has a story, he says, but the story changes every time. In the summer, the skin becomes littered with freckles, a galaxy splattered across his shoulders that reminds Yugi of the Jackson Pollock paintings he’s seen in the gallery. His nose is blemished all-year-round. Yugi draws lines between the marks.
Joey is built like a poorly-made ragdoll. His legs are too long for his body, his shoulders are too narrow, his feet are too big. Everything about him is angular and bony, with lean muscle that is unrefined and uneven. The muscle of a street fighter, not a body builder. Yugi has seen his hands stained red with blood - he has seen them break jaws, tear skin, pin adversaries. But he has also seen them gently holding an injured stray cat, hurrying it to the nearest vet. He has seen them pluck idly at a battered old guitar. He has felt them, warm and gentle, on his face. When they hold hands, his skin burns.
Yugi is drawn like a moth to a flame by Joey’s eyes. They light up when he smiles, and his smile is crooked, deepens cracks in his dry lips, and highlights the slight gap between two of his upper incisors. The grin lifts Joey’s cheeks, causing the hazel eyes to narrow into an endearing squint. They glow brilliantly with fire.
But when the fire extinguishes, Yugi is close. The eyes turn steely and cold. The blotchy, crooked face is distant during the fight, and left empty when the fight is over. Yugi has never been able to fathom the silence that comes after the fray.
He is there to reignite the embers.