J/Inoran;
PG; 
Gen, slight romance(?); 
Inspired and named after a Luna Sea song of the same name.
Yes I haven't been on dreamwidth for months and this is my first Luna Sea fic like ever
Yes I have no idea where I'm going with this and yes this is unfinished. Again.
I think I've forgotten how to write because writing this was like shitting bricks and three babies all at once.

 

He was in front of a familiar doorstep, fist half raised to knock, and it was only then Inoran realized that he shouldn’t be here. He didn’t know what time it was or if anyone was even there; all he knew was that it was late and he should've called first and he probably smelled like smoke and really, he shouldn’t be bothering anyone at this hour. He shouldn’t even be up.

But he was here. He was right here and he had no idea why he came here, of all places.

The door opened before Inoran could knock, and Inoran could only drop his raised hand awkwardly when he caught sight of J’s bed-mussed hair, a tired look on the other man’s face as he tried to stifle a yawn (like he’d known he was coming and he’d been waiting for him all night). “Well, are you coming in or not? I don’t have all night.”

“Sorry.” J stepped aside to let him in, and Inoran shuffled in, hearing the door close shut behind him as he made his way to the couch, barely remembering to take his shoes off before plopping down.

J’s apartment was just how he remembered it to be all these years; a familiar mess of uncapped pens and crumpled sheet music strewn across the room, random trinkets scattered every here and there (like that photo of the five of them on the coffee table, or the few CDs J borrowed from him but never remembered to return, or that half finished can of Asahi right by what was probably tonight’s dinner because J couldn’t be assed to clean up after himself). Still, Inoran found J’s favorite Zippo in the midst of all that, with a pack of Marlboros and a half-filled ashtray lying just at arm’s reach on the table, and he decided to help himself; fingers flicked the lighter and lit the stolen cig up with practiced ease, and Inoran gave a content hum when he breathed into the nicotine.

“Those things are going to be the death of you someday.”

Inoran felt the other side of the couch dip as J moved to sit down beside him on his right (like always, because Inoran was left-handed and J hated bumping elbows with him and old habits really do die hard, but Inoran knew better), and he gave a wry chuckle. “We’re all gonna die anyway.”

“Lung cancer is a lame way to go.” J declared, reaching out for his can of beer while his other hand makes its way on top of Inoran’s shoulders to pull him close while Inoran laid his head on his shoulder and made himself comfortable (just like old times; when they were still nameless naive teenagers who skipped class and sneaked to the rooftop so they could talk about making music and dreams of being on stage or just to stare at the sky even when it rained). “If we’re gonna die, we’re gonna do it with style.”

“Then how else? By liver failure?” Inoran snorted, a puff of smoke leaving his lips. J shrugged and took another chug of beer, and they didn’t say anything more after that. J didn’t ask and he didn’t tell; there was no need for all that because J could still read him like an open book and nothing else mattered when J was there (warm like Inoran had always remembered, smelling like mint and cologne and something distinctively J), and everything was going to be alright.