This is not a box.

[Tackey & Tsubasa] Date

2008-01-15T01:40:56Z

Title: Date
Pairing: Tackey & Tsubasa
Rating: PG
Words: 1,629
Comment: Second part of another two-part keyword fic exchange with iwanaide

Takizawa stared into the beads of condensation on the side of the glass determinedly, as though across their reflective surface would be written how he should think, how he should feel. He picked out the drops with a fingertip, trailing them together and watching them run into a little pool on the tabletop, something for Tsubasa to fuss about later, remind him how careless he was. It would leave a mark, stain the table, he should use a coaster. Takizawa found he almost wished it was enough to detain Tsubasa for another half an hour, make him change his mind about going in order to clean up.

That wasn't fair, though, he knew. No matter how he felt about the date, he did his best not to let his feelings get in the way of his partner's. So he stared at the liquid in the glass without drinking it, listening to the muffled sounds of Tsubasa pottering around in his bedroom. He imagined the other man picking out clothes, being indecisive, trying something else on. Would he wear cologne? Takizawa imagined he probably would - not too much. Nothing overpowering.

He refused to allow himself to look up as Tsubasa swept into the room, collecting his keys from their usual neat, ordered place on the coffee table. He didn't want to be able to paint a picture of Tsubasa on his date. He wanted to be left in the dark, wished he was in the dark about the whole thing.

It had been a strange conversation. Tsubasa hadn't looked him in the eye when he'd brought it up over dinner. He was going on a date, he'd said. He hadn't decided where, yet. Takizawa had sat in silence, watching the man across from him pushing the food around on his plate nervously, the pasta a fascinating puzzle that, if solved, would clear the air between the two men.

He hadn't asked who she was.

The dinner had ended in silence, Takizawa not wanting to press for details that he didn't want to know, Tsubasa unwilling to volunteer them. The date had been a silent point of contention between them, hanging in the air over their silence, muting their conversation. Now Tsubasa hovered in front of the counter at which Takizawa sat, the glass in his hand demanding his full attention. He could imagine more than see the torn expression on his partner's face, the way he'd be willing their eyes to meet so some form of apology could pass between them. An apology they shouldn't need, but they both felt should be forthcoming, somehow.

"I'm going now."

Takizawa nodded, fingertip tracing a swirl of liquid onto the shiny countertop.

"... I'll see you later?" Somehow it came out more as a question than a statement, or at least Takizawa thought that was how it sounded. He didn't look up at Tsubasa's expression, pursing his lips as though he was thinking about the answer. Nodding, finally, he risked a glance up, but Tsubasa was already turning to leave, wrapping a scarf around his neck with a glance at the mirror as he pulled the front door open.

+++

The rest of the day passed in a blur. He watched television for what felt like hours, but was perhaps only minutes. He poured glasses of juice he subsequently forgot to drink, lining them up on the counter like markers of the time he'd spent in the house on his own. It was lonely without the noise of someone else imprinting their life on it, and he tried hard not to think too much about how it might be going. He didn't want to wish failure on his partner, but black moods can bloom from even the warmest, most well-intentioned feelings, and as the day wore on it was harder to avoid thinking about it.

When the empty glasses on the counter held no more entertainment for him, Takizawa retreated to the living room. He considered going to bed, despite the early hour; it would be too much to listen to the story when Tsubasa came home, practically glowing with pride. A half-crumpled piece of paper lay on the coffee table, the sole occupant of the otherwise orderly arrangement. Takizawa snatched it up, eager for anything to distract his wayward thoughts.

A place and a time were printed in Tsubasa's neat handwriting across the paper. With an audible sigh, Takizawa let the paper drop, crumpled, to the floor. In his haste to leave, or perhaps his anxiety about Takizawa's feelings, he'd forgotten the note underneath his keys. His partner clearly hadn't needed the note to remember where his date was, however - a glance out of the window showed that the sky was darkening, taking Takizawa's mood with it.

When Tsubasa arrived home, not much later, Takizawa was already in bed. He shifted under the covers slightly, taking care to lie as still as possible as he heard the door to his room creak open. He imagined Tsubasa standing there, peering in on his sleeping form. Perhaps disappointed. Perhaps relieved. It wasn't long before he heard the sharp snap of lights being turned off, the soft click of Tsubasa's bedroom door closing, and after that the sounds ceased altogether.

+++

Things looked little different in the light of morning. Brief greetings were exchanged, the atmosphere subdued, the house bathed in a colourless grey light. There was a long moment of silence as each of them considered who was going to talk first, who was going to break the silence and draw out the wire-thin thread of tension.

"You went to bed." Tsubasa said, finally, eyes on the television as he balanced a mug on one knee. Takizawa could tell from his tone alone that he was clearly upset. No matter how level his voice was, how casual the assertion, Tsubasa's gaze remained firmly on the news, the sound turned down so low neither of them could hear it over the ring of tension in the small room.

"I didn't want to think about it." Takizawa admitted. There didn't seem to be anything to gain from lying about how he felt. Choosing to go to bed before Tsubasa came home was proof enough that he was opting out of involvement in the affair. He wondered if they would argue about this, if this would mark the beginning of the end of their so far relatively short spell at a shared domestic life.

"It wasn't easy for me, you know." Tsubasa continued, only now making to glance in Takizawa's direction, mug halfway to his lips as though he'd forgotten about it halfway there. "I tried."

"I know." Takizawa sighed. He knew he was the one in the wrong, the one acting out of turn. Tsubasa had tried to make it easy on him, tried to explain. Would it have been any better had he been kept in the dark? Probably not. "I'm sorry." He added, almost like an afterthought.

"Sorry for what?" Tsubasa inquired, holding the other man's gaze this time. "For not coming?"

Takizawa frowned, uncomprehending. Being angry with him for going to bed was one thing, but being inexplicably angry for wanting him to do something he hadn't even known about was another. Wanting him there to see the whole thing would have been even worse than sitting at home imagining it. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean this." A hand came up, the crumpled paper from last night held delicately between two fingers, something unsavoury found where it shouldn't have been. Even as his mind raced through the possibilities of what the scrap of paper meant (he couldn't possibly be this upset that I left it on the floor, could he?), the twist in his abdomen knew otherwise, without having to ask. He'd been so wrapped up in himself he just hadn't realised.

There didn't seem to be anything to say. They exchanged words, haltingly, neither wanting to give away too much of how they felt. The words didn't really matter. Minutes later Tsubasa was vacating the house again, leaving each of them to their own thoughts. Night fell and he still wasn't home. Takizawa repeated his routine of the day before, too lost in his thoughts to even notice the television playing its words into the room. He grabbed a scrap of paper and scrawled on it hastily, writing untidy and slipping off the paper as though trying to escape.

He left the note stuck to the closed door of Tsubasa's room before he went to bed ("I'm sorry. - Hideaki", signed with his first name, somehow hard to write, painfully personal), standing vigil for his partner's return where he couldn't. That night he didn't hear Tsubasa return, heard no noise of his presence in the house they shared.

+++

The next day as he woke, Takizawa was filled with apprehension. Tsubasa usually woke up before him, he would pad into the kitchen in bare feet to find him already up and halfway through making breakfast, the television on low so as not to disturb his partner. Today the house was cold, the kitchen empty of Tsubasa and any sign of his presence.

Dejected, Takizawa sloped into the living room. His note lay on the coffee table, face up, scribbled apology staring up at the ceiling. He sighed, mentally kicking himself for the memo. It was stupid, and clearly Tsubasa had thought so, too. He stared at it for a long moment, wondering what he could have done better. Reaching for it, he twirled the note between his fingers idly, frowning at the reverse.

There, on the back of his apology note, was Tsubasa's neat handwriting again. A time. A place.

"Let's try this again."

[Arashi] Second Chance

2007-12-05T02:34:38Z

Title: Second Chance
Pairing: MatsuBa
Rating: R? Swearing! :O
Words: 1,697
Comment: First part of another two-part keyword fic exchange with iwanaide. Uh... Lots of swearing, because when I write from Jun's POV I get potty-mouthed? XD

Everyone has one - someone you go to whenever you fuck up.

Sometimes it's because you want help, advice, a sympathetic ear to the problems you might have got yourself into. Occasionally, you just want to talk about what a fuckup it is you've been. It was one of those times for Jun.

He didn't want help, or advice. He just wanted to get it off his chest, how fucking stupid it was he'd been. How much he hated himself for it. He didn't want anyone to tell him what it was he'd been doing wrong, or how to fix it. He knew it was wrong when he did it in the first place, and if he was going to fix it he wouldn't be in the bar right now, talking about his fucking mistakes.

He sipped his drink carelessly, more for the gesture than because he needed it, felt comforted somehow holding the small tumbler between thumb and forefinger, his rings clinking against the curved surface. He was irritated.

It wasn't the first time he'd fucked someone and left them wondering where he was hours later, out the back door before the sheets on his side of the bed had even cooled - and on occasion, in the case of more persistent partners, out the front door accompanied by explosive arguments.

Unfortunately, this time it wasn't a matter of making sure he'd never swapped numbers, not frequenting the same nightspots for a while.

He recounted the events of that evening in cold detail, cataloguing the memories as he recalled them, wishing that by talking about it they would be erased from his mind, erase any responsibility placed on him to make it right. It was late. He hadn't wanted to see anyone. Hadn't been expecting Aiba on his doorstep, hadn't bargained on it being so cold and on feeling guilty turning him away.

He mentally kicked himself, seeing it all unfold again in his mind's eye. The way he'd let Aiba stay just that bit too long, had just that one glass of wine too many, got just that tiny bit too close for comfort. But at the time things looked different, and the only thing that seemed to matter was that he was enjoying himself, against all odds, laughing more than he had in weeks, enjoying being with someone else. Not alone.

Somewhere, between the amicability and what happened later, there was a fuzzy period in his recollection. A space in time when he wasn't quite sure what happened, or what changed, and when he tried to remember all he could think of was how close they'd been, the way Aiba grabbed his wrist when he was saying something he felt particularly exciting or important, the way he'd look to Jun when he wanted a reaction, with that slight quirk to his lips like he was just moments away from laughing again..

Jun rubbed at one temple with two fingers, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to remember something tangible, something important about this crucial period in time. These were trivial details, insignificant in light of actual things that happened, not important, not worth remembering. But he couldn't erase the images from his mind, and the more he went over them the more he hated himself for sitting where he was, not really drinking an overly-expensive glass of.. Whatever it was, telling the entire sorry tale to an almost-friend who nearly always was the willing but reluctant recipient of his confessions.

He remembered the scene before he'd left the house, clearer and sharper in detail than any other hazily-recollected time before, countless times before when he'd done the same thing. The dark apartment, the only light streaming in from the streetlights outside and bathing his bedroom - his bedroom, not a featureless bedroom in a stranger's house, a familiar place he returned to night after night. Not somewhere he brought anyone else back to. Private, safe. His.

Then, the piece out of place. The other person in his bed, familiar and at the same time frighteningly unfamiliar in these surroundings. He remembered how Aiba's smell had clung to the room, a low tone that disrupted the homely feel, made Jun uneasy as he surveyed the scene. He wanted that smell gone, the reminder erased. He had a maddening moment, standing as he did in the doorway just before his retreat here, imagining that the sheets on the other side of his bed would forever look crumpled to him, slept-on, marred. It wouldn't feel like his bed any more. Not since it had been shared.

He'd taken his opportunity. He'd run away. Like always, he'd come here, this no-name bar just far enough away that on-one would recognise yet another late-night drifter. It was familiar in a way his own room was no longer. Familiar, too, was the almost-friend, his sometime drinking companion. Jun realised that if he'd ever known the other man's first name, he'd forgotten it over the course of the years. It didn't seem to matter. It was always the same; Jun would talk, he'd listen, he'd nod. They'd drink. They'd go home. It was cathartic for Jun, who had no idea what the other man got out of the situation. On some level it seemed to work.

Not tonight. Tonight he was infuriating, full of questions. Who was this new conquest, this person who'd actually been brought to Jun's apartment? Why was this one different? What was he going to do? There were too many questions, and Jun had no answer for them. He just wanted to get it off his chest and leave, go home, go.. But he couldn't go home. Not tonight. Not while there were more questions to be answered there. So he sat in the bar and pretended to drink, making a passable show of picking up the tumbler when he was asked something he didn't want to address.

"Why don't you give it a second chance?"

It was completely out of the blue. The other man had never before suggested anything like this. Give it a second chance? What for?

"You might see things differently. Try it."

Jun didn't know whether it was time to find a new 'friend' to tell these things to, or whether this was simply a morbid fascination with the one conquest that took place at Jun's own apartment. Some twisted attempt at matchmaking for someone who couldn't even string together one-night stands into something that passed for a relationship.

He paid for his drink, half-finished as it was. Thanked the other man for coming out on such short notice, on a week night. It was cold outside, and the walk home was dreary. There was nowhere else to go, and he just hoped that Aiba wouldn't still be there when he got back. He'd have to deal with it eventually, but for every minute he could avoid it he would.

Despite his hope, he unlocked the front door silently, slipping his shoes and coat off with as little noise as possible as he crept through the kitchen. Give it a second chance..., he thought. See things differently.

Things were already different, he thought bitterly. There was someone else in his bedroom, wasn't that different enough? But as he stepped into the doorway, things did look different. On his way out the room had looked cold, the streetlights throwing everything into stark, scary contrast with deep shadows and sickly highlights.

Now everything looked softer, somehow. The light from outside filtered through the half-drawn blinds, casting a warming glow over the top of his bedside table, the rumpled, imperfect sheets. There was still someone else in his bed, that wasn't going to change. But instead of feeling like an outsider coming home to find someone else using his room, it felt more like coming home to someone he'd left behind.

Aiba had moved, and the light from outside fell across his bare arm, painting the edges and lines of his body in gold. Leaning against the door-frame for a minute, Jun watched the other man's steady breathing. His room didn't hold the same alien feel it had when he'd left; time had transformed it into something welcoming and warm. He wondered if this was something that happened with time on every occasion, something he'd never given the time to consider before. He'd always left at the first hint of coldness, not wanted to feel that intrusive atmosphere. He'd never given it a second chance.

Undressing quietly, he lay his clothes over the chair at his desk and got back into bed. He felt awkward and inexperienced, suddenly, unsure for a painful moment how to conduct himself. Aiba shifted with the extra weight on the bed, not quite awake. Hesitantly at first, Jun let his fingertips brush across the bare skin of Aiba's arm, wondering if he would stir again. He did, slightly, murmuring what might have passed for Jun's name in the soft quietness of the bedroom.

Startled, Jun wasn't prepared when Aiba's hand came up to grasp his, pulling his arm forcibly around the other man. He lay there stiffly for a long moment, but Aiba didn't seem to notice. Aiba was warm, and his steady breathing comforting, and before long Jun was starting to feel as though the night had caught up on him, too. It was nice to come home to a warm bed, and someone waiting for him. Nicer, on reflection, than running home to a dark apartment and a cold bed, with no-one to share his anger or hurt.

It was only as he fell asleep that Jun realised he was neither angry nor hurt. Not about this. He may have been, had he anywhere else to go for the evening. Had it not been so cold and he'd sent Aiba home, or stayed out all night with someone else, someone new and faceless and pointless. But he hadn't, and in giving up that option he'd found something warmer. Something worth giving a second chance.

[Arashi] Cigarettes

2007-11-29T01:13:25Z

Title: Cigarettes
Pairing: OhMiya
Rating: PG
Words: 1,081
Comment: One-shot keyword fic exchange with imimonaku 8D "Cigarettes" from the earlier drabbles finally got properly written! Yay!

Cigarette smoke hung in the air, wreathing a still, grey world around him. It dulled the sunshine, only allowing it to penetrate as a vague, washed-out light, treacherous even to be shining on a day when his thoughts were darker.

Nino would often retreat outside for a cigarette (or two, or three) when he had things to think about. He didn't particularly like thinking - too much of it made you ridiculous, like Aiba, full of ideas and thoughts and concoctions and never-sleeping, never-ceasing thoughts. But then again, too little of it and you'd end up as easily distracted as Ohno. So he tolerated it, when he had the chance, and did it from the private little grey world ringed in smoke.

Mostly, he'd do it alone. He liked it like that; there was a safety to his quiet, muted personal space and a small satisfaction in the cigarettes. Thoughts were so loud when they were serious, when they surfaced in the midst of the silence, that it was better to be alone. If there was someone else nearby he'd be worried that his thoughts were perfectly readable, trailing from the end of his cigarette as it balanced between two fingers, his chin resting heavily on his hand.

On occasion, Ohno would join him. It would be just moments after Nino thought he was alone, about to shut the fire escape door to stop the smoke drifting into the building - then he'd be there, standing just inside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a child caught witnessing something he shouldn't. Nino would let him out of the door with mostly-concealed irritation, offer him a cigarette. They'd smoke in silence, their thoughts not touching in the close space, private.

Today was one such day. Usually they would smoke in contented silence, and no matter the tangle of thoughts that brought either of them out here they would untangle it alone. It was therapeutic in some way to them both, a quietly private thing they just happened to do together.

But today there was a charge in the air. Ohno had refused Nino's offer of a cigarette from the packet at first, leaning against the railing awkwardly while Nino had opted to sit on the metal steps, back turned towards him. He wondered with no small irritation why Ohno had followed him if he didn't want to smoke, in full knowledge this was private time he was intruding on.

He was just finding his comfort again when Ohno joined him on the step. It was cold, a day when the sun seemed as distant as it really was, and he could feel the warmth of Ohno's leg against his on the narrow step, the one thing around him providing heat rather than sucking it away. Ohno smiled, just a little, but didn't say anything, hands wrapped around his arms to stave off the chill air. Nino tried to go back to what he was thinking about, ignoring the too-persistant warmth of another person so far into his personal space.

They sat in silence for a while, and try as he might Nino's thoughts drifted back to Ohno beside him. His irritation, so typically momentary, had died down now and he was left with just a pervasive feeling of curiosity as to why Ohno was here, braving the cold without a cigarette, without reason. Lighting up another cigarette without comment, he crumpled the empty packet and sent it skipping down the metal stairs, watching it bounce off the edge and into nothingness on the other side.

Abruptly, he felt guilty for not offering again. It was odd that he could feel guilty about smoking his own cigarettes, when Ohno never bought his own and always "borrowed" from Nino on their trips outside. But in the end there was something nicer, less desperate about smoking together that was worth giving some away. He'd come to quite enjoy their breaks, not feeling as though he had to fill in for the missing conversation, not having to play up to being an idol or being Arashi or even being Nino.

He held out his cigarette between finger and thumb, gesturing wordlessly for Ohno to take it. Just when it looked like he might refuse again, he reached over and took it, their fingers brushing as it changed hands. For a moment it looked as though he might say something, say something and shatter the peace of their seclusion, break the rules of the game. But he didn't, and the moment passed, and silence ruled again.

For all his careful observation, his quiet curiosity, Nino was still surprised when it came. He was aware of the vivid warmth of proximity even before the kiss, the curious sudden movement in their mostly still world. It wasn't a passionate kiss, something borne out of surprising, momentary desire or mistaken emotion. Despite his words, Nino had experienced enough of them to recognise the churning feeling, the notion that right now, right now it's alright, but by tomorrow it wouldn't be. No, it was slow and unhurried, checking all the boxes in a determined, methodical manner.

He didn't -- couldn't -- respond, as though kissing was something that happened to other people, and kissing Ohno was something entirely different altogether, something that had never entered his mind and wouldn't until later, after the moment had passed. It didn't seem to matter; the kiss wasn't forcing anything, wasn't an overture to something more. It was a statement, and Ohno's hand at the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the short hairs at the nape, that was the question mark.

As suddenly as it had come, it rushed to a finish. Nino saw defense and justification warring in his body language as Ohno stood up, cheeks flushed. He watched as Ohno pulled the fire escape door open and fled through it, the warmth leaving with him.

In the thinning haze, Nino was left to wonder just how long that had been in coming, how many times Ohno had come out with him and taken away only cigarettes. Suddenly it seemed a burden to be alone, dismal to sit out here day after day hoarding his thoughts. It was words he'd never liked, he reflected, words. The taste of cigarette smoke on his lips spoke volumes, and not all thoughts had to be put into words.

[Arashi] Nino's Theme

2007-11-27T00:20:48Z

Title: Nino's Theme
Pairing: Nino, one-sided (?) XD
Rating: PG
Words: 621
Comment: Short one-shot fic requested by inuhariko, because there's not enough of this around. XD About the title... I think someone should make a game about Nino just so we can have an original soundtrack with titles like "Nino's Theme", which would probably in turn have some kind of pretentious subtitle like "~without navigation~", or something equally as nonsensical. Am I the only one who thinks that would be great? Ohno would be the Navi-like advisor that rides around in Nino's hood throughout the game shouting "HEY! LISTEN!" every time Nino looks at something. Jun would be a secret playable character. Just imagine Nino's Theme playing while you read :)

She'd be the first thing on Nino's mind when he got home in the evenings, no matter how tired he was. Shrugging off whatever he'd worn to work, he'd change into something clean and - hopefully - comfortable. It didn't matter, she didn't mind what he wore at all, really. If only all girls were as easy-going as she is, he thought to himself ruefully.

Tonight was much like any other. He kicked off his shoes, already pulling at his sweater before he'd cleared the door-frame, stumbling into the bedroom with the lights off. On his way back through the apartment he stopped to grab a beer out of the fridge. It was casual, and that was what he liked about seeing her. Some nights he didn't have to do anything at all if he didn't feel like it. There was no obligation, no restriction on his activities, no nagging.

The only trouble, he reasoned, was that he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. He talked to her, on occasion he even gave her things (something she should be twice as grateful for, if she really knew anything about him), he took her out. But still she just didn't seem to be warming to him the way he thought she should.

It's never gone like this before, he thought, flopping onto the floor in front of the television. It wasn't like it was the first time he'd tried to charm a girl, and his previous attempts had all gone rather swimmingly, even if he did think so himself. Neither was it something he could question his friends about; he wasn't about to look it up online, either. His pride ached just thinking about it.

Decision time. Tonight was the night. He'd tried everything else, now it was all or nothing. He sipped his beer mildly for a minute or two, plotting his course of action, legs neatly folded beneath him. Gazing at the television screen with barely-focused eyes, he ran through every eventuality. Would asking her out be too much, too soon? Or, in the worst case scenario, could she say she liked someone else?

Half an hour later it wasn't going exactly as Nino had planned it. He'd picked the wrong flowers, said the wrong thing about the (frankly hideous) dress she was wearing, probably taken her to a slightly too down-market restaurant. How was he supposed to know she preferred Spanish cuisine to French cuisine? It was all the same anyway! He tried to say the right things while wondering, privately, if this wasn't becoming more trouble than it was worth in the long run. All the time spent building up to this moment, hours and hours of precious spare time wasted that he could have spent sitting in bed with his DS.

It was increasingly difficult not to answer a slew of questions in rude and sarcastic ways, just out of morbid curiosity to see how she'd react.

By the end of their so-called "date" he decided he'd had just about enough. He jabbed the television off, angrily, throwing the controller to the floor in a fit of pique (just hard enough to satisfy, tempered enough that there was no danger of it not working the next time he picked it up) before shooting the Playstation a withering look. Stumbling out of the room, he tripped on a pile of magazines that became the sole recipient of his ill humour (in addition to receiving the business end of his other foot as punishment for being in the way) and fell into bed, vowing to stick to Dragon Quest in the future.

At least that was a game he knew how to beat.

[Arashi] Drabbles

2007-11-25T17:43:47Z

I think I'll put all of my drabbles in one place, and just update this entry regularly. I only have Arashi drabbles at the moment, but should I start writing for another fandom (T&T sounds likely) I'll either put them here or in an entry on their own. These are all keyword drabbles I've had hanging around on my computer for about six months, so nothing here was written that recently. :)

On my list I still have "Dinner, Concert, Linked, Cigarettes" to write about. I wonder if I will actually ever get around to doing them, though!

Rain

They all worried about Masaki when the weather was bad. Developing a cold for him was more than a hindrance - it could put him out of commission for days. But when the skies opened without warning and the descending cold shower soaked them both to the point where they were laughing, clothing wrinkled and sticking to their skin, Jun couldn't bring himself to reprimand Aiba for not taking immediate cover. Though it was already unnecessary, he put up his small umbrella - a hand on the other man's waist - pulling Aiba closer with an easiness that he didn't feel on the inside. Fingertips pressed their warmth through the wet fabric as the two of them huddled together, nondescript under the umbrella's arc of protection from the cold.

Teddy Bear

There are things everyone has trouble letting go. Though he wouldn't like to admit it, Sho was one of those people who would cling with a fierce determination to relics of the past, ordinary objects that nonetheless held a wealth of feelings invested in them at some point in time. A watch; given to him by a friend whose name was long since forgotten, never worn with its batteries dead inside but nevertheless secretly treasured. Postcards from family and acquaintances, congratulating him on things he couldn't remember doing.

The most important of these items, a threadbare and sorry-looking stuffed animal, sat on his bed watching mutely from its one remaining glass eye. The stuffed toy - its species unrecognisable, perhaps a dog, or from this angle perhaps it was a bear? - had shared moments of pain and joy alike, been there through trials and triumph, listened when Sho needed to talk, remained comfortingly silent at times when nothing needed to be said. He was quietly unashamed of its sorry form taking pride of place on his bed, the one frivolous addition to an otherwise rather business-like bedroom. Even now, at age 25, he carefully placed it on the bedside table before he switched the light out, smiling at his silent companion before sleep presumably took them both.

Glasses

There was something decidedly special about the days when Jun chose to wear glasses. The warm frames softened his striking, at times cruelly angular features and made him seem delicate, vulnerable. The Jun who wore glasses was pliant in every way that before would seem rigid, as though looking out from behind the glass truly did allow him to see the world differently in a warmer, freer focus.

The effect does not pass unnoticed. On these rare, fragile days words are selected with care, softer, looks are lingering. The power of these inoffensive objects of plastic and glass is ethereal and pervasive, it colours all of their moods to the point where each of them want to be the one to remove the red frames from his face, carefully, the very act itself so intimate it almost seems sexual. For like all beauty, it inspires the desire in others to destroy it; removing the glasses would break the curious spell it held over them all, and so the frames remain delicately balanced on the bridge of his nose, and no-one says a word.

Comics

Aiba was insistently annoying when Nino was reading his comics, pressing in close over his shoulder as he turned the pages. The only one left with nothing to occupy himself, he tried to keep up with Nino's reading until eventually he gave up and flopped into a chair of his own, frustrated that he never quite finished the last panel before the page was turned.

[Arashi] Lemon

2007-11-25T05:02:06Z

Title: Lemon
Pairing: JunToshi
Rating: PG
Words: 966
Comment: Part 2 of my fic exchange with iwanaide

Sometimes - only sometimes, when he was sure he was alone, he would dance. Eyes shut, brow furrowed as he poured all of his concentration into feeling the dance, sensing the space around him only as he moved through it. He didn't need the mirrors in front of him in order to make out the movements; they were already patterned out for him in the music, gestures moving into and out from one another with deceptive simplicity.

He didn't always need the music on to see the steps. Sometimes they just came to him when his eyes were closed, as though noted on the blank canvas of his thoughts, brightly numbered to a beat only he felt. It was a fiercely personal act, a total absorption that would feel violated, should someone else witness it. No-one asked where he went.

But recently, more often than not there was a spectator. He only came on days when Ohno danced to no music, slipping in long after the doors had been carefully shut against the prying eyes of the few who might stray here after hours. Ohno never looked to see who it was. The spectator sat just out of range, where the mirrors didn't pick up his image - the one time Ohno had let himself wonder, peeking from under lowered lashes, he'd missed a step in the mental choreography. He'd stumbled, tripped up the movements, broken his concentration.

That day, he'd gone home without even looking behind him. The dance was ruined.

From then on, he'd tolerated the spectator without allowing them to compromise the dance. He'd even grown used to the familiar presence, the curious blank area in his sense of the room's layout, the one area he couldn't enter with when dancing.

He'd started going more and more often. The dance cleared his mind, emptied it of everything but the bright dots mapping out where he next moved to, how he moved, taking up his being so completely that there was no room for troubles, no room for sadness or loneliness or conflict. He'd know when the spectator was there, watching. It was subtle, and it had only come to him when weeks built upon weeks, the faint tang in the air on those days he had an audience.

He liked the scent of lemons. It smelled fresh, clean. The taste had an edge of decadence to it, a suggestion of intoxication mingled with the sharpness. On those days he'd dance like he had an audience, like he had no audience, with as much abandon as if no-one would see and with as much control as if the dance determined his very fate itself.

But it was getting harder, harder all the time to find that same sense of clarity as he used to. The pressure of performing - even to his one silent, forgiving spectator - muddled the mental outline, confused it. He found it harder to make himself the blank page onto which the dance was written, his heart thudding in his chest at that first cloying scent of lemon. Would today be the day he grew tired, the day he didn't want to watch any more?

They'd all begun to notice it - a level of distraction above and beyond the one he normally displayed, eyes focused somewhere in the middle-distance during conversation, leaving food to grow cold as he mindlessly sketched pointless, endless interweaving lines on a napkin, some indecipherable dance-step no-one could make sense of. The pressure to make the dance perfect was creeping out of his private room and into the rest of his life, consuming his thoughts where before it had been a means of erasing them for half an hour.

So he went, day after day, to that little room. And he danced, day after day, thinking next time I'll get it perfect, next time I won't miss that beat, next time I'll make better use of the space, next time... And every time it failed to live up to his expectations he'd dance until the point of exhaustion, stumbling home unsatisfied.

Today he knew it would be different. Today would be the perfect run-through, today there would be no hitches. He knew it. So he danced steps that had by now become second nature, the dance a language he was fluent in, a language he spoke with eloquence and flair. And before he realised, a tear was halfway down his cheek, a pinprick point of moisture on his flushed skin. More joined it, unbidden, and from somewhere distant he imagined them glistening from his reflection in the mirror.

It wasn't finished - his perfect run-through wasn't finished, but still there was the hand resting heavily on his shoulder, stilling his movements. He felt the arms come up around him from behind as though he were a thousand miles away, not really part of what was going on in their quiet, private room.

"Shh. Stop." He hadn't realised the tears were still falling until he opened his eyes, vision blurred. "Just stop."

When he opened his eyes the room seemed smaller than it ever had with them shut - and there was the reflection of his spectator, together with his in the mirror, head bowed into the crook of Ohno's neck, arms encircling him. Shutting his eyes again, he let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, trying to find that place where his mind was blank, where he could feel the space around him. But the music was gone, and all he could feel was Jun's lips at his neck, and all he could smell was the pervasive, heady lemon scent.

"Just stop."

The dance didn't belong to him, any more.

[Tackey & Tsubasa] Sunlight

2007-11-23T00:12:26Z

Title: Sunlight
Pairing: Tackey & Tsubasa
Rating: PG
Words: 1,909
Comment: For iwanaide as part 1 of a two-part fic exchange 8D Hers is here.

The sunlight was like syrup, the morning after.

It seems trivial to say 'the morning after' when all that was exchanged was words. Not even big words of consequence; red, angry words of arguments. Neither were they the smaller, gilded words of a confession that had been months, perhaps years in coming. They were plain, and simple. Everyday words. It was the gaps between them that were interesting.

Tsubasa liked this time of day, if he was up to see it. It wasn't cold; not with the sunlight creeping in leisurely through the blinds, painting everything in a rich gold that made it somehow more vivid than it was in life. It was like walking past what you thought was a window and realising it's a painting - close to life, close enough to touch, but not quite part of the same world.

The wood was warm under his bare feet as he padded to the kitchen, the air so still and flat that it felt like moving through deep waters, so far down that the currents ceased. He'd woken up naturally this morning as the sun had trickled in through curtains he'd forgotten to draw the night before; it was that touch that had roused him, perplexed as to why he then found himself quite alone in bed, sprawled across the covers on his side, the other perfect and unmarred. There had been a vague, amorphous sense of disappointment then, like there had been a convincing dream of someone next to him that he couldn't quite remember.

The feeling had dissipated the moment he'd stepped out of his room, however, shivering a little in loose slacks and a shirt that didn't do much to conceal his slim frame. There was a measure of controlled chaos to his apartment that he would never normally allow, just little things giving away that he wasn't alone. A cup was visible on the sideboard (and probably gathering dust already, he thought offhandedly), the cushion that normally sat on that one particular chair was missing. A hundred score other insignificant things were slightly out of place, bearing the mark of someone else's hands on them. Far from being a nuisance, something he'd tut about while mentally recording the order he'd put them all right again in, this morning it was a reassuring kind of chaos.

It brought it all back.

It had been growing dark by the time the phone rang, and Tsubasa was in no mood to answer it. He'd sat - on the same chair that was now missing a cushion - and listened as the answering machine picked up, listened to the message left afterwards. There was a get-together, wouldn't he come out and see everyone? People were asking after him, it would be fun.

It wouldn't have been fun. As he listened to the familiar voice, so deceptively casual, he felt a surge of irritation at the happy voices in the background. They weren't clamouring for him to come, he'd thought to himself angrily, they were eager for Takizawa to get off the phone so he could go back to drinking with them. If Takizawa wanted to see him so much, why didn't he just do it? Why did he insist on appeasing everyone else all the time, playing at being everyone's friend until he was stretched so thin that their working days were short, their exchanges business-like and succinct.

He'd felt guilty as soon as the thoughts took substance, but hadn't called back.

Everything he remembered about the night before seemed dark in contrast to this bright morning. He carefully avoided the living room, fingertips brushing the sun-warmed surface of the tabletop as he came into the kitchen. Sliding a tall glass out of a cupboard and placing it delicately on the table, soundless, Tsubasa rummaged in the fridge until he found a half-finished carton of orange juice, automatic as he poured it, his thoughts elsewhere.

With only a table lamp to see by, the blinds drawn against what seemed to be a particularly cruel moon in the sky, distant and cold, he'd been reading a book when his cellphone shrilled. Startled, he reached to turn it off. The message icon flashed; a number he didn't recognise.

[I'm outside]

Tsubasa had known who it was before he'd even opened the door, before he'd gone through the apartment turning the lights back on, seen the familiar profile beyond. He never remembered to tell people when he'd bought yet another new cellphone, and he was the only one not fooled when Tsubasa didn't answer the phone in the evenings. The only person likely to know that he wasn't out elsewhere.

Takizawa had just wanted to see him, it was nothing, he was in the area on the way home. Privately, Tsubasa smiled at the contradiction. Which was it? They'd retreated to the living room, where Takizawa had sprawled inelegantly on the sofa. It was inelegant, but in some way masterful, as though he'd spent countless time learning how to look so perfectly dispossessed. They'd talked, a bit; the kind of pointless words that blend into one another, filling a space in time but utterly unmemorable afterwards. It didn't matter. The words weren't important, as words often aren't.

When asked again why he'd come, Takizawa had said it was alright, the party hadn't been that interesting, (and he, Tsubasa, sitting alone in his dark apartment, was?) not to worry about it. He'd gone, he'd shown face, and if Tsubasa wasn't going to be there he wasn't going to stick around if he didn't have to. Inside, Tsubasa smiled. His apartment already felt brighter for having Takizawa in there, like from out of the dead of night the two of them were sitting in the sunshine, and he indulged in a brief vision of the party-goers feeling their way about in the sudden dark that had descended.

He was like barely-controlled mess, Tsubasa thought, as he rounded the sofa in the rich morning light, glass in hand. He was careful not to disturb the sunlight where it fell across Takizawa, knowing the delicate balance between sleep and wakefulness. How could he sleep the way he was, Tsubasa wondered, with the light making a bright halo out of his hair, limbs disorganised on the slightly-too-small sofa, face turned into the sun with lips curling into a barely-perceptible smile even in sleep. But for the steady breathing, he could almost not be real - a beautiful imitation at life, a portrait from the painting that was this sunny morning after.

They had not discussed whether he was leaving or not. It didn't seem necessary; somehow, on a wordless level, the conclusion had already been reached. So the time came and went when Takizawa would usually make his way home, when they'd run out of trivial, everyday things to say to one another and were only left with silence. Or the alternative, which were bigger, difficultly-shaped words that stuck in the throat and were hard to get out, usually left unsaid until an extreme of emotion forced them out in the air, from whence they could never be taken back again no matter how much one might wish to.

They'd mutually opted for silence.

Tsubasa had returned to his book, both of them sharing the sofa in comfortable silence, wrapped up in the safe lack of consequential words. When Takizawa had finally fallen asleep, the socialising and the alcohol and the busy schedule having caught up with him, it had been Tsubasa that had removed himself from the room. It would be easy for him to have fallen asleep there, too, the page in his book lost as it lay open in one hand, Takizawa's head in his lap where it had been since he fell asleep, childlike.

It would have been easy, but that wasn't how it worked. There would be plenty of time later for that, he'd reasoned, carefully extracting himself, grabbing for the cushion he'd so casually marked as missing earlier to slip under Takizawa's head in place of his lap. He'd stood over the sofa for a full five minutes afterward, worrying. Would he be too cold, the way he was? Would it be too uncomfortable, and he'd wake up aching and stiff and refuse to stay the night again? He'd fetched a blanket, artfully draping it across the sleeping figure before forcing any further ministrations from his mind (would he wake up and not know where the bathroom was? Should he leave a glass of water?), and retreated to his bedroom. He left the door slightly ajar, a gesture supposedly comforting to the sleeping Takizawa, but in reality more of a comfort to Tsubasa himself.

There had been a small satisfaction in the protection of that moment. Should there again be any better time for those difficult words than that, Tsubasa wasn't sure he knew what it was. But it was okay. They'd reached that moment and found the words didn't really need to come out; they both knew they were there, just below the surface, so close as to be almost visible, written in every gesture and omission. And so he'd gone to sleep, with the formless reassurance of not being alone, expecting the peace to have been shattered at some point during the night or the next day.

But morning had rolled around silently, and now he was the first up, placing the glass of orange juice on a table where Takizawa would see it when he woke, just far enough out of reach that it wouldn't be knocked over by early-morning clumsiness. He crouched for a few long moments at the head of the sofa, letting his fingertips brush back some of the sunlit hair from Takizawa's face. He'd needn't have worried about the relative comfort of the sofa, or indeed the blanket, which now lay sprawled half on the floor in a twisted puddle.

He wondered for a moment, as a cloud scudded past in the sky outside, casting a shadow over the sofa and its occupant, if their night of no-words would change anything. Things looked so different in the morning, when the light was like clear, still water, magnifying everything beneath it. But as he straightened to leave, Takizawa caught his wrist, that barely-perceptible smile widening even though he didn't open his eyes against the morning sunlight.

"I knew you were up." He said, his voice rough from sleep. Tsubasa credited him with a questioning noise, wondering if the sudden pounding of his heart could be felt through the tight grip on his wrist, imagining it louder than life in the still room. "I was listening to you looking at me." Privately mortified at having been caught in the act, Tsubasa snatched his wrist back with an exasperated chuckle, moving away to pick up the misplaced glass from the sideboard, finding comfort again in putting things right. Takizawa stretched behind him, a happy movement that was almost more noise than gesture. "Come back. It was nice."

With his back turned, Tsubasa could feel the smile on his face even as he tried to suppress it, welling to the surface unbidden. They hadn't needed the big words to change things, and if things looked or felt any different in the morning, it was because they were different. Slightly, barely different, as noticeable to anyone else as the things out of place in Tsubasa's meticulous apartment. But from the inside, from the sunlight where they both were, it looked new.