'cause I don't know what I want (until I fuck it up)

There were dynasties, entire lives and dimensions to be found in the brush of their pinkies, in the way Yuki would say his name sometimes, enunciated with utter care, uttered with nuance in every syllable, a promise in every crack and pop. The way he’d write the kanji of Hiiragi’s name, doodle it on the edge of his notebook while he wrote lyrics and Hiiragi solved equations, with intent in every stroke, art in every flick of his wrist. Yuki was carved out of marble, dipped in gold, dripping rain, catching fire. Or maybe on fire.It burns, burns, burns him from the inside out, spreads through his entire body, and he bites back a gasp until his lip is bloody, because now this is familiar. This, he remembers. And in his mind’s eye, everything is bathed in golden light even though the movie of his life was always in muted hues, because it is one of those days, one of those times, and he is here, and he'd be content to stay.(Or, Yuki was always the sun, and Hiiragi was his personal moth, and when Hiiragi's very own Polaris suddenly goes out, the world turns out to be a frightful place.)