before one of us has accidental babies, for we are in love.

obstacle

2012-10-04T17:28:09Z

Title: Obstacle
Pairing(s): Aiba/Jun, Aiba/Ryo, Aiba/Jun/Kame
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2100
Summary: AU. Aiba has always been with Jun, and he has never had to deal with anyone else trying to get into the picture—until now.
Notes: Written for yukitsubute during the inaugural kitto_slutparty exchange! This was my first time pinch hitting and it wasn't actually that bad. Well! Everything is always easier when it's AU, I guess. :3 10-minute beta done by lysanderpuck after we had a brief conversation where I told her I was all porned out.

i.

It is twenty steps from the doorway of the hotel room to the foot of the bed, and as soon as Aiba turns the lock, he knows he’s too far away to join in now. There is a faint scuffling behind him, the slight sounds of hands on fabric, and to Aiba it sounds almost like the beginning of a war. He is on one side of the battle, forehead pressed to the cold metal of the door, counting backwards from ten as he tries to take it all in.

On the same side of Aiba’s war is Jun. in every season, there is Jun. He is there under the blankets in the winter, sliding icicle hands down the heated length of Aiba’s torso like he wants to take over the desert with snow. He is there in the kitchen during the fall, making rice with pike and mushrooms. He is there in the spring with an endless amount of cardigans and smiles when they walk through the cherry blossoms. He is there when the rain settles in for the summer, when the humidity sinks into your bones and you can’t shake it out no matter how hard you try.

It has always been the two of them, and Aiba has never had to deal with anyone else—until now.

ii.

Jun asks the worst questions when he has sex. Usually Aiba is the one who talks, but Jun says he likes that, he likes the way Aiba’s topic of conversation goes from his day at work to how fucking much he loves Jun’s fingers in his ass, yes, more, Jun, there.

“I like the way you just stop talking at the end,” Jun says. “When you lose all your words.”

But Jun is terrible. He likes to interrogate when they fuck, likes to speak around the head of Aiba’s cock when he sucks like that’s okay or something. It drives Aiba insane. He can’t say that he hates it, but sometimes Jun will run a lazy hand from the base to the tip and twist so fucking slowly while he thinks of what he’s going to say next.

“How do you feel about other people in our bed?”

This is what Jun asks tonight as he pushes into Aiba, concentrating so hard the words barely come out of his mouth. Aiba has his face in the bedsheets, panting heavily; they have been touching for hours and he doesn’t know how he’s gone on this long without bursting at the seams. He is sensitive all over, his skin on fire, and his hands are shaking.

Aiba whines and pushes back against Jun. “You’re asking now?” he says, except it takes him a full minute to say each word properly.

“Answer me.” Jun stills, hands on Aiba’s back.

Aiba shakes his head.

“Answer me.”

“You’re fucking unfair,” Aiba says harshly, and when he tries to push back again Jun holds him there, not letting him move. “You are unfair, Matsujun.”

A beat passes. Aiba honestly feels like he might die if Jun doesn’t move or touch his cock. He wonders, for the eighteenth time in their relationship, why he’s so in love with Jun, but again he comes away with the same answer: he just is.

“Okay,” Aiba finally chokes out, and Jun moves, one slow thrust to the hilt.

“Thank you,” Jun whispers in Aiba’s ear on the down take. Aiba can’t help but laugh, even now—only Jun would say thank you at a time like this.

iii.

The very first one was Kame. What Aiba remembers most about Kame is that he liked to be tied.

“Masaki,” Jun had said one night as he scrubbed down the stove, “A friend of mine will be coming over. I think you might know him from somewhere.”

Aiba hadn’t even looked up from the television. “Hm?”

“Kamenashi,” Jun had said, and Aiba finally looked up.

He did know Kame. They went to school together, the performing arts school in the city, when Aiba went for acting and Kame was there to dance. There wasn’t much you could say about Kame’s dancing except that he was okay and could use a lot more practice, but that isn’t how Aiba remembers him.

Aiba remembers Kame because of his wrists. Kame had wrists that look like they’d been spun from glass, and sometimes Aiba stared at them in class and wondered what it would be like if you tied Kame to a bed. Aiba imagined that Kame would struggle for a bit, tugging against the rope or the ties or the ribbons, and his wrists would chafe the prettiest red. Aiba imagined that Kame would whimper and mewl and ask nicely to be let go, but in the end he would just give in, and you would be able to see the flush on his chest as you held his cock in your hand—just held it there, not moving. Aiba imagined that Kame would like all of that, and at the end he would be so wound up he would scream in your ear the way he sang for their professor: out of pitch but genuine, the kind of voice that could move you but not impress you.

“How do you know him?” Aiba is hard in his pants, and he hopes Jun notices.

“Work,” Jun says. “I guess he quit dancing and started studying marketing.”

“Oh,” Aiba says. His voice is tight in his throat. “Really? Marketing? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

“He’s not very good at it,” Jun says, and his eyes flicker to the bulge in Aiba’s pants.

iv.

Here is what Kame is good at: fucking. When he comes over, Jun wastes no time in getting him to their bedroom and stripping him of every single item of clothing, even his watch. Aiba picks it up when Kame puts it down: it’s a genuine Rolex, and Aiba can see tiny diamonds in the face glinting back at him when the light catches just right.

“You’ve done nice since school, huh, Kame,” Aiba says, looking Kame’s naked body up and down. He means the watch, but then again it’s not like he used to fantasize about Kame for nothing. “I didn’t know you liked marketing.”

“I don’t,” Kame says, and his voice is the same as ever. It reminds Aiba of a doe, gentle and unassuming, with a bright laugh to even it all out.

The truth is that Kame doesn’t like his job, but he really likes Jun. Aiba can see this in the way Kame obeys. All Jun has to do is move him to the room, and Kame will take his clothes off. All Jun has to do is nod at the bed, and Kame will lie there, arms and legs outstretched, noticeably turned on and blushing in all the right places. All Jun has to do is tell Kame that he’s been a good boy, and Kame will moan on command.

It is Aiba who gets to tie Kame to the bed, and he does so straddling Kame’s chest, the tip of his cock pushing against Kame’s lips before he finally gives in and takes the whole head in his mouth. By the time Aiba has one of Jun’s cheap ties secured around Kame’s wrist, Aiba’s thighs are shaking; Kame sucks like a pro. He has his tongue flat against the slit, pressing firm before curling, and Aiba can’t even reach the other side of the bed before he’s slumped on the headboard, moaning obscenities into the pattern on the wood.

He comes all over Kame’s face, legs quivering on either side of Kame’s shoulders, gasping Jun’s name like he always does. Immediately Aiba is apologetic—poor Kame, he came here for Jun—but when he turns he sees that Jun already has his finger in Kame up to the knuckle. One, then two.

“Come here,” Jun says to Aiba, voice predatory as he jerks his chin over his shoulder. “Behind me.”

Aiba wipes a hand across his mouth. “What?”

“You’re in charge of me,” Jun says, and Kame cries out when Jun’s fingers have found their goal spot.

In the end, they never got the other tie around Kame’s left wrist.

v.

“You get to choose the next one,” Jun says a week later, when he and Aiba are sprawled on the couch, watching a magic show on television.

Aiba perks up. “Him?” He points at the MC of the show, who is a slim man with the face of a fox, all curvy lips and dark eyes.

Jun snorts. “Sorry, not him.”

But Aiba has someone in mind.

vi.

Once upon a time Jun was in love with Ryo, and Aiba knows this because sometimes when he watches Jun jerk off by himself he says it—Ryo—the name like poison on his lips, a breathy sin.

Aiba knows Jun is in love with him now. They’ve been together for years, and Jun is a ridiculously faithful person where it counts. Aiba has nothing to worry about. But there is something about having Ryo right here, buck naked on his and Jun’s bed, which makes him so very excited.

Now he is face down on the sheets, ass where Aiba wants it exactly to be, wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts with perfect ribbons. The window above the bed is shut and the curtains are drawn, but the moon is a strong nightlight and there is a streak of white across Ryo’s back, highlighting the line of his spine like a lit compass pointing north in the dark.

“Do you think,” Aiba says, “if Jun were here, he’d be jealous?”

Ryo laughs, but the sound is muffled. “He’d be so jealous,” he says.

When Aiba fucks Ryo he doesn’t do it nicely. Usually he likes to be considerate, especially with Jun—he knows it hurts a lot for Jun and he has to take his time, kiss Jun’s neck, wait a few seconds between each push and pull until Jun gets used to it. But he has a feeling that Ryo doesn’t play that way, and when he palms Ryo’s cock he can tell that he was right from the beginning. Aiba takes that as encouragement. He likes the cat-like sounds Ryo makes, and he likes the arch of his compass-spine in the moonlight, the way he rocks to meet Aiba, the slapping sound Aiba’s balls make when they hit the back of Ryo’s thighs.

It is all over before Jun gets home from work. Aiba unties Ryo and rubs his wrists until the redness goes away.

“Thanks for this,” he says, and points to the bathroom. “You can shower.”

Ryo stands.

“Oh,” Aiba says, almost forgetting. “And turn off the video camera, please!”

vii.

When Jun finally gets to watch the video, Aiba narrates every scene to him from beginning to end, describing in perfect detail every little whine Ryo made when Aiba pressed against him, all the dirty things they said to each other.

“And when I came,” Aiba says, each word out of his mouth like a quiet gunshot, “I screamed your name.”

He has his hand in Jun’s pants in a second, and Jun is so hard Aiba imagines it must hurt. One, two, three quick strokes later and Jun is gone, gone, gone.

viii.

It’s the end of the line for Ryo, but Kame keeps calling.

“I told him it was a one-time thing,” Jun complains when his cell phone rings again. He tosses it on another couch cushion and lets the melody of his ringtone play out. “I can’t block his number, either, it’s a work phone.”

Aiba is quiet. It is fall now, and he is washing the plates from dinner. It still smells like chestnuts in the kitchen. “Matsujun,” he says.

Jun sits up and smiles. “Yeah?”

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, Aiba wants to say. Maybe Kame is serious.

But he just waves a plate in the air. “Come dry these,” he says.

ix.

A week later, Jun tells Aiba that they’re to meet Kame one last time.

“It’s nothing,” Jun says quickly. “It’ll be at a hotel. I don’t know, he just—look, Masaki, it’ll be the last time.”

Aiba pulls the covers up to his chin. “The first time was supposed to be the last time.”

For a while, the room is silent. Aiba watches Jun think, watches how his eyebrows meet together and jump back again and how his mouth gradually curves downwards, a sinking pink line.

He reaches out and touches the crease in Jun’s forehead. Immediately, he relaxes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Aiba says, and leans forward to kiss Jun’s bottom lip. “It’ll take care of itself.”

x.

Aiba figures it’s just that Kame doesn’t know who’s in charge here. Contrary to what he thinks, it’s not Jun. And if he thinks he can just push past through Aiba to get to the other side, he has the wrong idea entirely.

“Matsujun,” Aiba says once he reaches the bed, and Jun moves.

A long time ago, Aiba imagined what it would be like for him to have his way with Kame. Now he’s about to find out.

“This time we’ll tie you up the right way,” Aiba says, and settles himself on Kame’s stomach, legs firmly locking him in. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

And you’ll never want to come back for more.

for the love of the brotherhood, 2/2

2012-10-04T01:42:23Z

Title: For the Love of the Brotherhood
Pairing(s): Jun/Shun, Jun/Sho, Jun/Ohno/Ryo, slight onesided Jun/Aiba, Nino/Riisa, Shun/Yamada Yuu, slight Aiba/Yamada Yuu
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~17,000
Summary: College AU. When people ask Jun why he decided to join a fraternity in the first place, his answer is always the same: Shun. Now he's the president-elect of Pi Alpha Phi, and senior year is about to get way out of hand.
Notes: Part 2 of 2.

Four days later, when the house is quiet after midnight, Jun finds himself in Sho’s room stripped down to his boxers.

“I finished my thesis,” Sho says, and bites Jun’s earlobe. It feels gentler than usual, but Jun might just be imagining things. “I’ll be on leave until graduation in December.”

Jun swallows. He’s not sure what to focus on—Sho’s hands wandering up and down his torso, the lips settling on the slope of his neck, or the words coming out of Sho’s mouth. The last is probably the most important, but then again that doesn’t mean much when compared to the other two. “On leave?” he repeats, and lets his eyes close. “What’s that mean?”

“I’ll be gone after next week,” Sho says.

Jun opens his eyes. Something, suddenly, feels very out of place.

“Wait,” he says, and steps out of Sho’s arms. “I thought you were graduating in December.”

“I had until December to finish my thesis, but I only needed a month.” The words feel spidery, like Jun can almost imagine them crawling over his shoulders, sitting heavy. “The committee granted me early leave, so I’m going home after my oral defense next week.”

Home. Jun lets the word float in his mind for a bit as it registers—Sho is leaving. Sho will no longer be the president of PA Phi and Jun will no longer have the word ‘elect’ in his title. He’ll move out of his big room at the end of the second floor hallway, and the business office will never be the same again. Despite the fact that they weren’t really going out, the thought of Sho leaving makes Jun wilt a little inside. Or perhaps even a lot.

“Congratulations on finishing your thesis,” Jun says, and tries to mean it. There is a sudden twisting in his gut that is growing by the second.

“Jun,” Sho says, maybe sadly, or maybe Jun is just imagining it. “You knew this was coming.”

Yeah, Jun tries to say, but the word sticks on his throat. It has always been difficult for Jun to tell people how he feels outright, but now it seems harder than ever. He exhales and looks up at the ceiling, counting the cracks right above his head one by one before turning to face Sho.

“It’s been fun,” he says, and this time he doesn’t have to try to fake the sincerity.

It has been fun. Jun will miss the silly grin on Sho’s face, and he will especially miss kissing the corners of that smile every free moment of the day, but the truth is that no matter how sad Jun is now, this Sho-thing—no matter how wonderful—was a temporary thing from the start.

“Miss me,” Sho says on Jun’s lips, and Jun figures he just didn’t hear the will you, but this is one misheard command he will obey without being told. He lets Sho take over where it has always been the other way around, and doesn’t say anything when Sho lowers him to the bed, hand cradling the dip in his lower back, holding him in place. It’s as if Sho is afraid Jun might run away from this moment now that they’ve essentially broken up.

But he wouldn’t do that. Even now, even if Sho’s kisses hurt for a different reason, Jun would stay if Sho changed his mind before morning.

“I hope you’re okay,” Sho says the next morning. He smells like Jun. “We should have done this last year. It would’ve been great.”

“Yeah,” Jun says, and slips out of bed. He has to start getting used to waking up alone again—or at least waking up to someone he barely knows again. “But I had Shun.”

Sho smiles. “You did,” he says, and walks Jun to the door for the last time.

--

After the break-up, Jun throws himself into planning the party, which means that he forgets about the rest of his life. Aiba has to send him text messages every hour reminding him to do his homework (not that that’s much different than usual; Aiba usually sends him a text every hour about nothing in particular) and Toma has to drag him to frat meetings. Eventually even Nino has to come out of his basement to try and cheer Jun up by offering him donuts and energy drinks.

“Jun, come on,” Nino says when Jun tells him very bluntly where to shove his energy drinks. “You look like shit. You’ll never get laid again if you keep on looking and acting like those ugly monsters that attack you on the beaches in Dragon Quest.”

“That’s okay,” Jun says, even though he is twenty-one and horny all the time by nature, and so that’s actually not fucking okay at all. “Are you here to help me plan this party, or are you just going to stand there with donuts?”

“They’re good,” Nino says. “I like them.” He puts the small box on the edge of Jun’s desk, and when Jun glances at it he sees that the only ones left are mini chocolate donuts, four in a row and untouched.

Nino knows Jun loves chocolate. He also knows that Jun won’t eat chocolate unless he’s completely miserable, like now.

“Thanks,” Jun mumbles, not looking at Nino, and takes one. The sugar melts on his tongue, and he hasn’t eaten chocolate in so long that the flavor rushes him all at once, warm and tingly. Before he knows it, all four of the donuts are gone.

“Now that you’ve eaten for the first time in a year,” Nino says, “I am being forced to go bar hopping tonight, and I’m forcing you to come with me. ‘No’ is not an acceptable answer.”

“I would rather dig a hole in the ground and die there,” Jun says, trying to sound as grumpy as possible, but he has chocolate crumbs on his chin and so Nino just laughs. “No. I have to plan this party.”

“You have been planning this party for five days,” Nino says. “We actually have an event chair that can do that, you know. You’re the president now. You can go out and have fun and people will do your work for you.”

Nino isn’t wrong, but Jun likes to put together the frat’s events himself. It’s just easier that way. If he knows exactly what’s going on in his house, he won’t be surprised by anything, and he doesn’t have to worry about things going awry. (His frat brothers going crazy is a different story, but Jun can’t be held responsible for what they do. Alcohol is a drug, after all.)

“Speaking of the event chair,” Nino continues, “Ryo-tan is the one who wants to go out.”

Jun looks up. “Since when did you go to bars with Nishikido?”

“Since tonight,” Nino says, and wrinkles his nose. “I owe him.”

Jun can’t even begin to imagine what Nishikido did to have Nino owe him. Knowing Nino, it has to be something that he couldn’t achieve himself even with the help of his huge network. Maybe he couldn’t get his hands on a rare computer part—but Nishikido wouldn’t be able to help him out with that. He probably wouldn’t have been able to do much for a video game, either.

It had to do with a girl, then.

“You owe him,” Jun repeats. “What are you going to do, buy him double shots and then give him a piggyback ride home when he’s too drunk to stand?”

“I don’t give anyone piggyback rides,” Nino says, and Jun stops himself before he says because you’ll be crushed by their weight. “And no. I owe him one drink and a game of foosball and then he’ll give me what he owes me.”

“You guys are dirty,” Jun says, but he’s cheered up a little bit, mostly from the chocolate but also because thinking about Nino going through such lengths just for a girl is making Jun extra delighted. He loves seeing Nino step out of his comfort zone. “Will you be my wingman if I go out tonight?”

“I’ll be busy,” Nino says. “Get Ryo-tan to do it.”

“Busy with what?”

“Someone.”

That seals the deal. “Fine,” Jun says, “I’ll come with. But only if you promise me you’ll take her home.”

“Shut up,” Nino says, face slightly pink. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What?”

“I have another friend coming,” Nino says, and smiles so devilishly Jun swears he sees fangs. “And I think you’ll like him.”

--

Going to bars with Nishikido is like sitting in the backseat of a car with a reckless driver at the wheel. In fact, that might actually be the way he drives, and Jun wouldn’t be surprised. He just hopes he never has to actually have Nishikido drive him somewhere, because if the kid steers like he bar hops, everyone on the street would be dead.

Jun is the exact opposite. When he goes out, he likes to savor each place he goes to—order a drink, sit at the bar in the exact same place he sits every time, and stick around for a while. Of course it depends on his mood, because if Jun wants to dance the night away he will sure as hell dance the night away (and probably the morning too), but if he’s bar hopping he likes to take it slow. In fact, he’d rather call it bar visiting. Jun has friends behind the counter of each place downtown, and they all know exactly what drink to make him before he even needs to ask.

But tonight is a little different, since he’s following Nishikido and Nino around. Jun finds himself dragged to places he never knew existed (mainly because they’re underground and smell like bombs of cigarette smoke went off in a small space), and he feels very out of place. Unfortunately he didn’t get the leather jacket memo: Nino and Nishikido look like brothers in black, hair all tousled in just the right way, and the moles on their faces seem to stand out more than usual tonight. Jun has always told himself that if he had no choice to be with Nino, he wouldn’t mind all that much, because those moles are something else.

The third place of the night is called Johnny’s, and it looks like no one has cleaned the place in three years but it’s still packed. Jun has never been able to figure out why college students like dirty places—he might like doing dirty things, but only in clean places.

He doesn’t even want to sit in a booth, but he feels silly just standing, so he slides in across from Nino and tries not to think about why the leather is so sticky.

“Shots,” is the only thing Nishikido says before fishing out his cell phone and burying himself in a text.

Jun sighs. “We’ve been to three places,” he says to Nino, angling himself so that Nishikido can’t hear him, “and he’s had a shot at each one. Is he going to be dead by the end of the night?”

“One can only hope,” Nino says, and squints at the girls behind the bar. “Go order. Three vodka, that shit is cheap.”

“What? No,” Jun says, and scratches at the collar of his pastel button-down. It’s the mint one today, because no other color screams I am on the rebound than a fresh green one (at least to Jun). “Why don’t you?”

“She’s not here yet,” Nino snaps, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks like a miserable six-year-old at a party with an empty piñata.

“Your friend’s not here yet either,” Jun says. “I’m even wearing mint.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” Nino says.

Jun is about to explain when suddenly Nino shoots out of his seat and to the bar. He has never moved that fast before, except maybe to be the first one in line to get the newest Dragon Quest or at a time sale for external hard drives—but even then it’s not the same as what Jun just saw. It’s like someone lit his jacket on fire.

“There she is,” Nishikido says, without looking up, and when Jun does he can’t help but laugh.

Riisa. So it’s Riisa, then. A year younger than him, treasurer of ZTDPi and apparently a bartender at Johnny’s, she is possibly the cutest thing Jun has ever seen, all mousey nose and a smile full of teeth. It might be because she looks a lot like Nino, but Jun would rather think of her as the girl that Nino stole his looks from, because at least she doesn’t live in a basement and build computers as a hobby. Well—according to Becky she doesn’t leave the house all that often, and she likes to DJ alone in her room with bedazzled earphones the size of her face. But Jun can deal with that.

“Why does he owe you for this?” Jun wonders aloud, watching Nishikido’s nose twitch in the glow of his cell phone screen. “Couldn’t he have just come here on his own?”

“Yeah, but I run this place,” Nishikido says, and when he looks up his smirk is so pronounced it could probably become its own person.

“You run this place.” Jun raises his eyebrows. “No you don’t, Nishikido.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Jun is tired now. “I’m going to order shots,” he says, and un-sticks himself from the booth.

“Get three vodka—shit is cheap, man,” Nishikido calls. Jun just waves a hand behind him.

When he reaches the bar, it’s like entering a whole other dimension where Nino knows how to flirt without coming off as an asshole—or at least Riisa likes him just as much and so he doesn’t need to try that hard. Nino is practically sitting on the counter and he doesn’t have a drink, and Riisa is looking at him like she wants to quit her shift in the next five minutes and score herself a boy in a leather jacket.

Jun considers squishing himself next to Nino and ordering vodka shots from Riisa just to get back at Nino for—well, for four years of friendship with Nino. But Jun isn’t that kind of guy, and he would rather embarrass Nino tomorrow morning than now in front of Riisa, who Jun can’t help but like. He’s heard that she’s a little crazy, but something about her smile makes Jun think otherwise.

Except for that time he saw her walking around campus wearing a hot pink leopard-print suit, but that’s a different story altogether.

“Three vodka shots,” he says to someone else behind the bar.

“You sure you want to make that three?” she glances over at Nino and Riisa, who are—well, they’re no longer there.

Trust Nino to force you out of the house when you’re miserable, promise to introduce you to a friend and then leave with a girl right in the middle of it all. Jun shrugs. “Two’s fine,” he says, and then remembers he has to spend the rest of the night with Nishikido and he’s not even remotely tipsy. “Actually—I’ll stick with three.”

Jun brings the shot glasses back to the booth and sits one right by Nishikido’s hand.

“Nino left,” Jun says, and knocks back a shot. “With Riisa.”

“Good,” Nishikido says, and when he grins he reminds Jun of devilish Nino, except with a ton more teeth.

Jun takes his second shot with Nishikido. It’s the cheapest vodka he’s ever tasted, and it makes the inside of his throat feel like it’s going to peel, but it’s working: he already feels a little dizzy. That might be due to the fact that he skipped dinner to do his hair, but it doesn’t matter now anyway. Here is Jun, wearing mint and decidedly on the rebound, and if Nishikido can get Nino the girl he wants, then maybe he can work his magic on Jun too.

“More shots?” Jun asks, at the same time Nishikido nods and says they need more shots.

And the vodka appears without either of them asking for it. Or maybe Nishikido did ask for it, Jun can’t tell. All he knows is that suddenly he’s got another glass in his hand, and then one more, and since there isn’t really anything he can talk to Nishikido about that isn’t “when you don’t smile with all those damn teeth you are really damn hot” or “I hope you don’t have a license because I think you’d kill everyone on the road,” he just keeps drinking and drinking. It’s not the best idea Jun has had, but right now it feels like the only one he has.

“Hey,” Jun says, after more shots than he can count on one hand. Nishikido has had way more, but he doesn’t even look tipsy. Who knew he was a tank? “Neeshkido.”

“That’s not my name,” Nishikido says, laughing a little, and reaches out across the table to steady Jun. “Just call me Ryo.”

“Ryo,” Jun says, and shuts his eyes tight, trying to squeeze the drunk out or the sober back in—he’s not sure. His tongue feels heavy and Nishikido’s first name is strange in his mouth, an odd combination of sounds, but he says it again just to test. And again, and again.

“Stop,” Nishikido says, and swallows hard. He has a sharp Adam’s apple, and Jun wants to touch it. “You don’t need to say it a billion times, okay.”

Jun cocks his head. “How about later?”

“Later,” Nishikido repeats, and narrows his eyes. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, Matsumoto.”

“I’m a sincere person,” Jun says, and attempts to sound as sober as possible. Nishikido just shakes his head and snorts. It’s cute, Jun thinks, and it makes him want another vodka shot, but when he tries to order Nishikido tells the bartender not to listen to him.

It occurs to Jun suddenly that the guy who’s been giving them shots looks like the sleepy grad student TA who taught his sculpture class two years ago. It’s like he woke up for a second and realized that the hand reaching out to take his empty shot glasses is the same hand that reached out to a lump of clay on the table two years ago. It is his fingers that Jun remembers: they remind Jun of icicles, the way they hang off the rooftops in the wintertime, thin and beautiful.

Or maybe he’s just drunk and imagining things. Why would a grad student still be here after two years?

But he’s still standing there. “Ah,” he says, and Jun has no choice but to look up. “I remember you.”

“Good,” Jun says, because his eyes are crossing and he can’t think of what else to say.

“Who is this?” Nishikido looks from Jun to the grad student and then back again.

“Ohno,” Jun says, because he’s just remembered and he is proud of himself for that, since he can vaguely tell that he’s pretty damn drunk. “His name is Ohno.”

He drags out the last syllable, just to fill the empty space in the booth, and giggles.

“You’re fucking wasted,” Nishikido says, but he doesn’t sound too upset about it.

Ohno laughs. “Just let him be,” he says, and takes away the empty shot glasses. When he walks away he clinks.

If Jun remembers correctly, he got an A in that sculpture class, but it wasn’t very hard. Nino took it with him and they made mugs for their final project: Nino’s was narrow, like a champagne glass with a handle, but it was smooth in all the right places and he glazed it blue. Jun’s was fatter, more like a real mug, but you could see finger marks and it wasn’t exactly rounded like he meant it to be.

Ohno liked it. Jun remembers the way he looked at the misshapen thing, like it was worth a good grade and a few words of praise even though it couldn’t really hold more than an ounce of coffee.

“This is nice,” he had said, and Jun watched him pick it up and turn it over.

He didn’t expect anything else, but then Ohno smiled at Jun. “You worked hard,” he’d said. “Good job.”

Ohno wasn’t much of a teacher, but Jun wasn’t much of a student, and so he figured they matched. Or mismatched, like how Ohno thought Jun’s mug had been pretty despite the mistakes in the design.

And right now, Jun is drunk. Jun is really, really drunk and he’s already undone his shirt (or maybe Nishikido did it, he can’t remember; someone’s fingers were on his collarbone) down to the third button and his hair is all messed up. If he were anyone else, he wouldn’t want to do what is brain is proposing, but this is his brain on drugs and he’s willing to go with wherever the night takes him, just like Nino decided to get off his lazy ass and pursue a girl for once in his life.

“Ryo,” Jun says, and Nishikido looks up. Sometime in the past hour he shed his leather jacket, and the scoop of his shirt is low enough for Jun to rest his entire hand on the middle of Nishikido’s chest. “Let’s bring Ohno home.”

Nishikido chokes. “What?”

“Come on,” Jun insists. “He’s a nice guy.”

“Is that what you do, Matsumoto? You sleep with all the guys you think are nice?”

Jun pauses. If he really thinks about it, then yes, that is probably the truth. But then again, nobody ever stopped him. Nobody has ever pulled Jun aside and said, “Look, you can’t assume that every nice guy you meet wants to have sex with you.”

But the pattern shows otherwise. Jun can’t argue with history.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Which is why I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Fuck you,” Nishikido says. He pushes the hair out of his eyes and frowns. “That’s not what you were saying earlier.”

The sulky look suits him. Whether Jun will think this in the morning, when all the alcohol has left his body and his head is positively pounding, he can’t say for sure, but right now he loves it. When Nishikido is happy, Nishikido looks smug, and Jun much prefers this: the slow downward curve of his mouth, eyes lowered, cheeks sucked in.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t mind, then,” Jun says, dropping his voice.

Nishikido raises an eyebrow. When he leans forward, the neckline of his shirt falls forward and Jun can see into a narrow tunnel of shadowed skin.

“Well,” he says, very slowly, “I’ve never had a threesome.”

--

Jun hopes nobody will remember this in the morning. He has his fingers crossed on it, and it’s looking good, because he can’t really remember how he got from the bar to the house. In fact, if anyone asked Jun how he managed to convince his sculpture TA from two years ago to come home with one of his former students and a complete stranger after his bartending shift, Jun wouldn’t be able to say anything. He just doesn’t know.

Usually Jun would be worried about things like that. On another day he might take a minute to try and understand the moment, to write up a cast of characters—himself, Nishikido, Ohno—and how they got to the second floor of the PA Phi house without managing to trip and fall down the stairs. He might wonder why this is happening and then nod solemnly as he remembers the six—or seven, or eight—vodka shots. The cheap-ass vodka shots.

But tonight there’s no time for any of that right now. He is wasted, and Nishikido has a cold hand flush against his back under the mint button-down. Ohno is somewhere behind, his breaths short and even as if he’s in no rush.

“Hurry up before I change my mind,” Nishikido hisses, but Jun knows he wouldn’t.

“This is a nice house,” Ohno says.

“Fuck,” Jun mumbles, jiggling the doorknob so hard it threatens to fall off. Finally the door gives with one last push and he practically falls into the room headfirst; Nishikido follows, still standing straight (it is a mystery how one small person can be so unaffected by all that alcohol) and Ohno walks in slowly, looking closely at each of the things in Jun’s room.

“Well,” Jun says, and nods to his empty room. “Welcome, I guess.”

“This is a nice room,” Nishikido says, and kicks off his boots.

“Too bad this is your first and last time.”

Nishikido laughs, but he doesn’t sound amused. “You’re pleasant,” he says.

“Ryo—,” Jun begins, but before he can finish Ohno takes his wrist and walks him to the bed like they have all the time in the world. “Oh—,” he tries again, and then realizes that he has no idea what to call Ohno.

“Just sssh,” Ohno says, and pushes Jun back on the covers. “What’s your name?” He points at Nishikido.

“Nishikido,” he says says, obliging for once. Maybe the alcohol is finally kicking in. “Are you going to have your way with him, or do I get to be a part of this?”

“First of all,” Jun says, lifting his chin up to see the other two, “this is already a horrible threesome, because we are all still clothed.”

It’s true, and Ohno laughs through his nose, looking from Jun to Nishikido and back again. It only takes a minute—Jun has been hot for hours and the feeling of cool air on his skin is so great he doesn’t even bother with the sheets, just pulls them off the bed entirely and throws them to the floor.

“You’ll regret that,” Nishikido says, looking at the tangle of cotton. He drops his own boxers on top of the pile and looks at Jun expectantly.

“Nishikido,” Jun says, and manages to say it without slurring. He’s also trying not to focus on the serious boner right in front of his face, but that’s not too hard—the entire room is spinning around him. “You talk too much and you don’t use your mouth for the right things.”

When Nishikido lunges—“I’ll show you how to use your damn mouth”—Jun grabs his wrists and holds him there, keeping firm when he struggles. They keep at it for a second, a constant push-and-pull before Ohno slides up behind Nishikido and wraps one arm around his body, resting a hand flat on a stretch of abdomen.

Jun stares past Nishikido. “You’re naked,” he says to Ohno. He’s not sure what he imagined Ohno to look like naked, but somehow the round slope of his shoulders and the dip of his stomach where his muscles tense is unexpected. He looks sharp in strange places, places Jun would like to explore.

“Sex requires that,” Ohno replies. “And I was hot.”

“Me too,” Nishikido says, and takes advantage of Jun’s momentary lapse to shove him on the bed and kiss him hard—a little like Sho, but different. The way Nishikido kisses reminds Jun of bittersweet chocolate and of the taut lines of his mouth when he sulks, dark and childish at the same time. He brings a hand up to Nishikido’s head and tangles his fingers in sweat-dampened hair—yes, Jun thinks, yes. Somewhere beyond Nishikido’s shoulder Ohno is hovering, one hand snaking down Nishikido’s back, saying things in an octave so deep it sounds like he’s growling in another language, quiet murmurings about the way the dip in Nishikido’s back fits Ohno’s fingers perfectly. Jun can imagine that. Nishikido looks like he would have a body that your hands would look good on.

He also has hands that won’t stop moving, and Jun has to put his own above his head to accommodate Nishikido, who can’t seem to decide where he should touch. He has his lips on Jun’s, still, and every time Ohno does—whatever he’s doing back there, Jun can’t see—he moans against Jun, lips sliding, breath heavy and wet. And honestly, Jun doesn’t mind. Somewhere below where their legs have tangled, his cock is sliding right up against Nishikido’s, and the friction is fucking delicious. Jun knows that alcohol is supposed to make you feel less, but his senses all feel heightened at once, and each slight move Nishikido makes is lightning through Jun in one swift movement.

When Jun feels Ohno’s fingers brush against his cock he moans, arching forward—not that he gets very far, since Nishikido has shifted all his weight to his hips and is pinning Jun to the bed. But he tries as hard as he can, searching for that hand. “Come on,” he full-on whines, and for lack of anything better to do sucks hard on Nishikido’s bottom lip before biting the red skin, intent on getting a reaction.

The noise Nishikido makes is almost like a squeal, high-pitched and urgent, and Jun can feel Nishikido’s thighs twitch against his own. Not even a second passes before Nishikido goes in for another kiss, but instead of Jun’s lips settles on his neck and drags his teeth against the thin skin there before biting, canines like knives against Jun’s pulse.

“Shit,” Nishikido says, ragged, and Jun feels movement near their legs at the same time he hears Ohno mumble something absolutely filthy in Nishikido’s hair.

That’s when Jun realizes two things—that Nishikido likes biting, and that Ohno’s hand is working Nishikido’s cock. If he moves a little to the right—just a bit, yes, right there—he can feel Ohno jerking Nishikido. His knuckles scrape against the underside of Jun’s thigh, and Nishikido is keening in his ear now, not even trying to hold back. Ohno’s hand is fast, like he does this often, like he’s done this to Nishikido before and knows exactly how he likes it.

“Ohno,” Jun says, but it comes out more like a gasp. “Do you—?” He doesn’t know what the rest of the question is, but it’s something along the lines of no one is touching you and I really want to be the one to do that. Ohno grunts something in reply and he looks down at Nishikido, who is lying on Jun’s chest, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto and eventually settling on Jun’s right arm.

“Nishikido,” Jun says, “I can’t feel my fucking legs.”

“Shut—ah,” Nishikido manages to say, and turns his head into Jun’s chest. He’s too out of breath to say anything else. Each one of his quick breaths quake through Jun, and he swears he is about to go into overdrive—he has never seen anyone come before that hasn’t been the person he was doing something to. Right now, Jun is essentially a voyeur. It’s like he crept into the room to watch Ohno get Nishikido off and somehow managed to literally get underneath it all.

“Sit up,” Jun demands, and Nishikido shakes his head. “Then look at me.”

Nishikido turns his head. He looks like there is a wildfire in his eyes. Jun has never seen him so vulnerable, so completely open, and it makes him wish there could be another time like this, another time to tie Nishikido to the bed with his frat ties, blue and gold threads digging into the supple skin of his wrists as Jun teased him, bit a trail of teeth marks all the way down from his neck to his ankles. The noises that come out of Nishikido’s mouth are nothing like his voice—they are desperate, keening, needy; Jun wants a soundtrack of them to play over and over again when he is alone.

“Look at me,” Jun says again, and Nishikido struggles to keep his head up.

“Think about this,” Jun goes on, voice low enough so that only the two of them can hear. Above them, Ohno is concentrating so hard he has a bead of sweat trailing down his neck, and it slides until it reaches the hollow of his collarbone. “Think about it, Nishikido—you don’t even know Ohno. He’s jerking you off. He’s got a hand around your fucking cock, and he wants you to come all over his hand, and when you do that you’re gonna come all over me, too.” Nishikido makes a jumbled sound in his throat. “You’re about to come all over a complete stranger and my cock, Nishikido. What do you think about that? You want me to jerk off with your come when you’re done? Or do you want to suck it off me instead?”

Nishikido comes a second later, his whole body stiffening and his breath catching in his throat before he groans a long string of profanities into Jun’s neck, loud and sincere. Jun finds it ridiculously hot. He can feel Nishikido coming slick all over his thigh, and Ohno’s fingers going all sticky in between their bodies. For a moment he loses himself in Nishikido’s heat, forgetting that Ohno is there too, forgetting, somehow, that no one has really touched him yet.

But the realization comes back when Ohno moves and helps Nishikido roll over, and Jun suddenly feels cold—until he feels hands on his hips and a mouth closing over the head of his cock. Had Jun been any more turned on, he might have come just from that, but he just slides a hand into Ohno’s hair and tugs, probably harder than he should but he doesn't care. He’s so close already that he feels removed from reality, as if he’s tumbling so fast down a mountain that everything is one big blur of movement and feeling and nothing else matters.

Blowjobs, Jun decides at that moment, are the best fucking things in the world.

Ohno sucks like he’s done this before, just like he jerks like he does it a lot. And maybe he does—maybe Jun has been missing out for the past two years. He moans loudly as he thinks of Ohno on his knees, fucking him, taking him completely, and he would look as focused as he did a minute ago. He would be murmuring things in a growl into Jun’s ear, talking about how he’d like to take Jun in public, on the asphalt so hard that his knees and palms get tattooed with gravel. Jun thinks about the way Ohno might take his time just to make Jun suffer.

Ohno takes a long lick of the underside of Jun’s cock, licking off everything Nishikido left. He is good with his tongue, so slow and so deliberate, and it feels like forever from the base to the top before Ohno pauses for the longest second before kissing the head. Jun’s hips are way off the bed—normally he tries not to do that, but to hell with everything right now—and he knows he’s close, it wouldn’t have taken long in the first place, not after seeing Ohno get Nishikido off the way he did, not being underneath the whole affair. He just needs something to push him over. Something, anything.

This is when Jun notices Nishikido isn’t at his side anymore. He’s—shit. Jun looks past Ohno long enough to register that Nishikido is leaning over him, whispering in his ear, hand flying up and down Ohno’s cock like it’s not just a handjob but something much more than that. Ohno nods—Jun would love to know what Nishikido is saying; he can only imagine the extent of how ridiculously sexual it must be—and says something back to Nishikido so quietly it’s not even a whisper. Nishikido snorts and rests his face on Ohno’s shoulder.

“He’ll love it,” he says, voice hoarse.

What? Jun tries to speak, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is a shocked gasp.

Ohno looks up at Jun for a second. And then gently, so very gently, he scrapes his teeth against Jun’s cock.

Jun unravels. He doesn’t even try to hide it, and the sound in this house travels, but he doesn’t care. Ohno’s name tumbles out of his mouth, over and over again; he doesn’t even know what’s going on around him but he thinks Ohno might be finishing in Nishikido’s hand right now. He just can’t tell. It takes him a few seconds to catch his breath and come down from the high, and when he does he’s still shaking.

Ten minutes pass. Or fifteen, or twenty. Nobody moves.

“I’m cold,” Nishikido says first.

“The sheets are on the floor,” Jun mumbles.

“I’ll get them.” Ohno offers, and Jun feels him lean over the edge of the bed. “They’re all tangled.”

“So are we,” Jun says, and can’t help but laugh.

--

That night Jun dreams about real life, or something like it. In his mind he sees Nishikido wake up with his hair flattened to one side and offer Ohno his shower. He sees Ohno smile in return, not so wide but thankful and warm, and he even feels the mattress shifting when the two of them slide off and walk out of Jun’s room. He hears the door shut behind them with a soft click.

After that, there is darkness punctuated by streaks of color and moments of sound—something like voices, or music, or both.

And then out of nowhere Shun walks into the picture. Jun can’t see his face, but he steps into the frame of the dream from somewhere offstage and walks around slowly. He takes a breath, and holds it. He lets it go.

I miss him, Jun thinks, and then he wakes himself up.

--

In the morning, everything hurts.

“Hey,” someone says. They’re whispering very close to Jun’s ear. “Wake up.”

Jun opens his eyes.

Shun is sitting next to the bed like their house has suddenly become a hospital. He’s still wearing his pajamas, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in about two weeks, but he is there. Jun can’t remember the last time he woke up next to Shun. He misses it.

“Hi,” Jun says, but his voice is too hoarse, and the word cracks in his throat.

“Try again,” Shun says. He plays with the edge of the sheet by Jun’s shoulder.

Jun coughs a couple of times. “It’s cold,” he finally says, and the words are still thin, but Shun hears him anyway.

“Then move over,” he says.

A beat passes. Jun is trying to think through what Shun just said, but his mind is just as hazy as the light filtering in through his window.

“Move,” Shun says again.

He looks so sleep-deprived Jun wouldn’t be surprised if Shun told him he hasn’t really slept in the past two weekends, just laid awake in bed analyzing the pattern in the wallpaper. Shun might even be hallucinating, he looks that far gone.

But if he hallucinated his way into Jun’s room, into Jun’s bed, that’s perfectly okay.

So Jun moves over.

“Guess what,” Shun says once he’s stolen most of the covers from Jun.

“My knees are exposed,” Jun says in return, and tries to tug the blanket toward him.

Shun just grins. When he smiles he looks like a five-year-old, goofy and sweet, the kind of kid you’d feel bad for scolding. “She’s not pregnant.”

Jun stops trying for the blanket.

“That’s great,” he says after a moment, and sounds more relieved than he thought he would. In fact, he feels almost elated, and his bones feel a little less heavy. “That’s really great, Shun.”

And he laughs. He doesn’t know why, but there’s a bubble in him that seems like it’s wanted to burst forever. He laughs so hard he shakes, shoulders quivering, and he knows Shun is really confused right now but he can’t stop to explain himself.

“What the hell was that?” But Shun looks amused. “Do you think my problems are funny?”

“No,” Jun says, and settles back into bed. “They’re hilarious.”

“Shut up,” Shun says. He tries to kick Jun under the blanket but just ends up getting his foot caught in another sheet. After a second of struggling, he gives up and rests his leg on Jun’s.

“I was going to come out with you guys last night,” he goes on. “But Yuu called me over, and that’s when she told me.”

Oh. “Nino invited you?”

“Yeah,” Shun says, and Jun shakes his head. Of course, of course Nino would do that, the sneaky little bastard—but Jun is grateful that he tried anyway.

After a few minutes, Jun can’t feel his leg anymore, but it’s not that uncomfortable. It’s not like last night. In fact, this feels right, like Jun should have stayed here all along. Not that he regrets anything that happened before this moment, but he thinks that this is where he was meant to be from the very beginning.

He tells this to Shun, who wriggles his toes in response.

“Remember when we did this when we were freshmen?” he finally says.

“Remind me,” Jun says, even though he doesn’t need it.

Shun kisses exactly like Jun remembers: like the summer of his sophomore year, the year he thought maybe he’d be a little wiser than his freshman self, but in the end he just got caught up in Shun all over again.

Back then, at eighteen, Jun would have done anything for Shun. And he still would.

--

On the day of the party, Jun makes a checklist of at least twenty items and hands it out to everyone in the frat (and makes an extra copy for Nino after he sees him make a paper plane out of it and fly it into the back of Toma’s head).

“How are we paying for all this alcohol?” Hina wants to know. He’s holding the checklist like it might explode at any second.

“We had enough leftover in our expense account to get some,” Jun says. “After Sakurai-kun balanced our checkbook we found out we had a lot to spare.”

“May he rest in peace,” Nino says.

“I’m not dead,” Sho says from somewhere in the crowd. “I haven’t even left yet.”

“Anyway,” Jun continues, raising his voice, “just go through the checklist and make sure everything is in order. Keep the non-Greeks in line and make sure nothing gets too crazy. That’s it.”

Sho finds Jun after everyone has scattered. “Everything looks great,” he says, and squeezes Jun’s shoulder.

“I know,” Jun says. “This is your going-away party, after all.”

Unlike Nino, Sho blushes gracefully, and Jun can’t help but admire the blossoming red on his cheeks. “I thought it was a Shun event?”

“It was,” Jun says. That’s the only explanation he gives, and Sho doesn’t ask for anything more. He just nods like he understands—and maybe he does.

But Jun will probably never know, and he’s okay with that.

“Here,” he says, and pushes a bottle of Jack into Sho’s hands. “For you.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Get frisky. You’re graduating,” Jun says, and leaves him with that.

By the time eleven rolls around, Jun has circled the house at least fifty-six times checking everything up and down and Shun is practically sparkling.

“I love parties,” he says.

“I know,” Jun replies. It makes him happy to see Shun like this, just as he’s sure Shun is happy to see the bar. Truthfully it’s just a fold-out table sagging under the weight of too many bottles and stacks upon stacks of red Solo cups, but they’re college students, and resourcefulness is everything. It makes Jun cringe a little, but he knows that a broken table won’t hurt as much as a wrecked bar.

PA Phi doesn’t have a lot of mixers during the year, mostly because the house is way off-campus and they would have to drive people back and forth. Jun has to admit it’s a little annoying, and he knows the guys would rather get wasted on a Saturday night than stay sober to cart freshmen and sophomores around, but he also secretly loves putting parties together. He loves the planning—deciding on the theme, picking out the music, seeing the furniture get pushed aside, buying the drinks—just as much as Shun loves the pounding music, slippery bodies and drunken opportunities.

Though of course Jun won’t lie. He loves the fuzzy, questionable faces and warm nights just as much as anyone else, which is partly why he became president of the frat. After all, everyone wants to get in bed with the president.

“J,” Nino says, sliding up next to him. “I just passed a girl who asked me where she could find Mr. X.”

“I’m going to reveal your secret to everyone,” Jun says while doing a quick scan of the room. So far, everything looks fine—people are mingling, the drinks are flowing and the lights aren’t too bright or too dim.

But one thing is still missing.

“Where’s the music guy?”

“Oh.” Nino turns to Jun with an unreadable expression. “Nobody told you? He canceled.”

Jun frowns. “Why didn’t I hear about this?” His stomach has already twisted itself sore and the conversation hasn’t even lasted an entire minute.

“Because we found someone else,” Nino says, and then waves at someone past Jun’s shoulder. “You remember Tegoshi, right, J?”

If someone suddenly appeared and punched Jun in the face so hard he knocked out, he would love that person forever. Unfortunately he knows no one in the frat would punch him, so he just turns around and tries to set his expression into something pleasant.

“Tegoshi,” Jun says, very slowly so that he doesn’t accidentally explode, “do you even know how to DJ?”

Tegoshi looks a little bit like an overeager puppy with wispy hair and unnaturally white teeth. Jun supposes he’s cute enough, but being around him too much is like eating too much sugar at once and then feeling sick. But everyone seems to love him, and Jun has unfortunately walked into too many incidents involving someone in his frat and a naked Tegoshi.

“Of course I do,” Tegoshi says, and gestures behind him to a chunk of equipment Jun is sure he has no idea how to use. “I even brought Shige to help me!”

“I think he ran away.” Not that Jun is accusing Shige of anything. The poor kid has enough problems as is: being Tegoshi’s roommate because his best friend Koyama is studying abroad, trying to maintain a higher GPA than Sho, and writing his first novel about the hardships of college life. He doesn’t have the time or the presence to be hanging out at a frat party.

“No,” says a squeaky voice from behind the equipment. “No, I’m here.”

“You know what will make you feel better?” Nino says. Jun is willing to bet that whatever Nino is about to say will actually make Shige feel a thousand times worse. “Everclear.”

He was right. “Everclear was banned three years ago,” Jun says, but Nino has already slipped into the crowd toward the makeshift bar.

Jun is about to run after him when Shige pops his head out from behind the equipment. “Matsumoto-kun,” Shige whispers, “I don’t want to be here.”

“Look, Kato,” Jun says. “I can’t save you.”

Shige’s throat quivers as he swallows. He looks as if he’s about two seconds from throwing up all over the entranceway and he hasn’t even had a shot yet. The party hasn’t even started. Jun prides himself on being able to deal with a lot of things gracefully, but if Shige is going to hurl all over the entranceway Jun will lose his mind.

“You look sick,” he continues, and puts a hand on Shige’s shoulder. “Go lie down.”

Shige looks up. If he had a tail, it would probably be wagging. “Really?”

“Not in my room,” Jun warns. “Nino has a spare in the basement—.”

“I will do all your calc homework for two weeks,” Shige cuts in, and scampers off.

Well, Jun thinks as he stands next to a stack of DJ equipment, he didn’t expect that the night would turn out to be so great that someone would offer to do his calc homework for an entire fourteen days, but there you have it.

Everything else goes just as well. When the house is packed and people start spilling onto the back porch, Jun decides he can take a break from patrol and have a drink. Instead of indulging in eight cheap-ass vodka shots, Jun finds the Kahlua and a bottle of chocolate syrup and makes himself an Orgasmo. After two of those, he finds a freshman to make him another one. “You’ll thank me for this when you’re older,” he says, and lets the kid have a sip before he walks off with his third drink of the night.

He stands in the corner of the living room for a bit just to see who showed. There’s Kame in the corner, the quiet boy with the wavy hair whom Nino likes to call The Unsuspecting Gay. A bunch of guys from the comedy club are here, and even if Jun doesn’t really think their gags are all that funny, he guesses that the shrieks of laughter coming from the group mean Yoko and Yasu are actually doing well. And then there are the hordes of underclassmen Nino warned Jun about, but he doesn’t know any of them.

Across the room he sees Becky standing alone, her nose buried in her drink. She probably showed up with Riisa and the rest of her sorority, but Jun can’t see any of them near her, and so he starts in her direction.

This is when he bumps into Yamada Yuu.

“Oh!” she says. She jumps back, and Jun can tell right away that she is pretty, very pretty—it’s not just the make-up. But he still wants to pour his chocolate alcohol all over her head. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Jun says. He tries to look her in the eye, but she’s squinting past him and standing on her toes. “Are you looking for Shun?”

“Um,” Yuu says, and scratches her nose. “No. For someone else. Do you know—?”

“Matsujun! Yuu-chan!”

Jun can feel Aiba’s bounding-puppy steps on the floor before he even sees him. Not that it matters much—he’s too busy trying to process that Aiba is here and that Yuu seems to have a crush on him, or something like that.

“Hi Matsujun,” Aiba says, and smiles beautifully over the rim of his beer bottle. “I thought I’d come out and see what your frat is all about. It’s been fun! You guys are great!”

“Thanks,” Jun says absently. He follows Aiba’s gaze and lands on Yuu, who looks like she wants to say everything and has nothing to say all at once. Despite wanting to punch her in the face, Jun feels for her—he understands what it’s like to look at Aiba and lose your words. “Aiba, you know…?”

“Hm?” Aiba glances up. “Oh, Yuu-chan? Yeah, she’s pre-med, we took some classes together.”

“I see,” Jun says. “Well, I’ll just—,” he begins, and starts to move away.

“Oh,” Aiba says. He grabs Jun by the elbow. “Hold on. Did you fulfill our pinky promise?”

Jun tries very hard not to look at Yuu. “Not yet,” he confesses, and then immediately regrets telling the truth when he sees Aiba’s face. “I’ll do it now,” he says quickly. “Right now.”

“The late bird catches no worms, Matsujun,” Aiba says solemnly, but brightens when Yuu laughs.

“I’ve caught a bunch of worms,” Jun mutters indignantly under his breath as he weaves in and out of the crowd. Trust Aiba to call Shun a worm and expect Jun to know exactly who he’s talking about.

Jun finally finds Shun standing too close to the keg, and he realizes too soon that this is exactly how they first met. He feels a little stupid, coming back to this moment after so many things have happened in their lives. But then again, he thinks, that’s probably the point to college.

“Hi,” Jun says, and then can’t remember how to form words. “Um—I have to tell you something.”

“Drink this first,” Shun replies, handing his red cup to Jun. He takes a sip: it’s just water. “You’re still kind of hoarse.”

“Oh.” Jun rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

“So what did you want to tell me?”

“Sho,” Jun blurts out, and Shun raises his eyebrows. He’s probably never heard Jun address Sho by his first name, much less without an honorific. “I’ve been seeing him. For the past month. And then we had a clean break-up but I got sad so I drank too much, and….” Jun squeezes his eyes shut. What happened? He just remembers a lot of limbs. And Nishikido. “Shit.”

Sometimes Jun is more emotional than he likes to let on. Sometimes he gets like this and feels cold in a room with too many people just because he’s put too much of himself out there. It has taken Jun a long time to get used to himself.

But Shun doesn’t seem to be bothered. “So,” he says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Jun says. It might not be the correct answer, but it’s the truth. “But I wish I did.”

Shun seems to find that acceptable. “Okay,” he says. “Just promise me one thing.”

Jun nods.

“When people ask how we got together,” Shun continues, very seriously, “you have to tell them I seduced you.”

“But you didn’t.” Jun is genuinely confused. “I would never fall for the crooked-finger trick.”

“Well now you do,” Shun says, and crooks one of his fingers in Jun’s belt loop.

--

The next day, Jun wakes up to his slippers in their correct place and a clean bathroom mirror.

“You’re a dirty blanket stealer,” Shun mumbles grumpily, and pulls a pillow over his head.

It’s going to be a good day.

for the love of the brotherhood, 1/2

2012-10-04T01:39:44Z

I'M BAAAACK ♥

It isn’t the penises drawn on his mirror in shaving cream that concern Jun. It isn’t even the fact that there are a pair of boxers on the floor he knows aren’t his own. And the gaping, wide-open bedroom window doesn’t even make him blink.

“Where,” Jun mumbles, “the hell are my slippers?”

These slippers are the most wonderful things to have ever graced Jun’s delicate feet. (True, he runs track with the junior varsity team, but that’s nothing a personal footbath and European salves won’t help. Also, runners: hot.) He’s had them for years and the fluff lining hasn’t matted down, even after long nights of pacing back and forth trying to figure out whether or not drama was still the right major for him. The majestic violet color hadn’t faded, either, and his embroidered initials still stood out in all their glory.

Jun considers them his best and most fabulous friends. And someone had taken them right under his nose.

Pants be damned, Jun swings open the door to his single room and scans the hallway—nothing but a few red cups rolling lazily on their sides, beer still trickling from the rims. A peek over the staircase into the main lobby doesn’t give him any clues, either.

Shun walks by then, wearing a bathrobe that was once white but is now an odd color of green-gray.

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse. “You might want to check the roof.”

Fuck.

Jun is halfway up the stairs in a second before he stops and turns around. Shun is still standing on the second floor balcony, half-asleep and probably still drunk.

“Also,” Jun yells, loud enough so that Shun wakes up and also so that the entire frat hears, “the penises on my mirror and the underwear on my floor better be gone by the time I come back downstairs.”

He pauses just to hear doors bang open frantically and more pantsless guys scamper into the hallway toward Jun’s room. Sometimes, he thinks, this brotherhood thing isn’t so bad.

--

When people ask Jun why he decided to join the frat in the first place, his answer is always the same: Shun.

They had met freshman year at a mixer organized by Pi Alpha Phi. Shun was rushing and wanted to look good, but he ended up standing too close to the keg and instead ended up looking good and drunk. From here, the story gets a little fuzzy, and Shun has his own version: he seduced Matsumoto Jun with a crooked fingertip and a red cup of warm beer.

But Jun knows better, even if he doesn’t really remember that night. One, he would never drink warm beer. And two, Jun would never fall for the crooked-finger trick. Not even if he was wasted out of his mind would he ever give in to something as stupid as a finger tilting ninety degrees.

So he doesn’t know how it happened, but he does remember making out with Shun in a corner of that mixer, everything dark and sweaty and questionable, the room a blurry pulsing mess, the music too loud and pounding in his ears. His contacts were sticking to his eyes and his hair probably looked like a dead, wet sheep but at least he was making out with someone who looked halfway decent.

Nothing happened after that, because Jun still didn’t know how to take people back to his room without being awkward or having them turn around and leave right away anyway because his roommate Nino always left his gaming stuff out in a messy pile that nobody could get through without tripping. And Jun really didn’t mind that so much in the daytime because he liked playing Mario Kart in between classes with his roommate, but it sucked otherwise.

But then during the summer Jun and Shun took beginning economics together and learned that the opportunity cost of skipping class was getting to make out on the quad when there was no one around. Shun was a member of the frat by then, full-fledged, all his dues paid and all his ridiculous PA Phi-themed merchandise bought.

By the time sophomore year started, Shun kept ending up in Jun’s bed and Jun kept finding himself at frat events because he finally had a friend with tons of benefits and he didn’t want to let that go.

And then in January, a week before spring rush started, Shun was taking off his jeans in Jun’s bed and Jun was about ready to go down when Shun suddenly sat up.

Jun was not happy. He did not appreciate being stopped in the middle of such an important activity, and he was already pissed that Shun was wearing boat shoes with no socks. “What?”

“Do me a favor,” Shun said.

Jun took a moment to think about what kind of kinky things Shun might ask him to do, and then decided he wouldn’t mind a lot of them, so he shrugged. “Okay.”

“Rush next week,” he’d said, and Jun was about to put all his clothes on and go, but Shun was still talking. “I’m going to be on the frat committee so you’ll be seeing a lot less of me if you don’t join.”

“Well,” Jun said, and thought about it. “Do I get anything else?”

He hadn’t needed any more prodding—he really, really liked Shun—but he might as well try for more incentives.

“Attractive guys,” Shun said quickly. It was like he’d already made the list. “Looks good on your resume. Your own room in a proper house for senior year. Fancy formals where you can wear a suit and you get as much punch as you want—.”

“—Done,” Jun said. Shun knew him too well. “Done.”

Before this, he’d never really thought about Greek life—joining it or otherwise. He’d gone to a few Greek-sponsored mixers and found himself in the beer-stained basement of Sigma Nu one morning with a killer crick in his neck, but that was as far as his experiences went and he just wasn’t interested in wearing pastel everything and buying bowties and that whole hazing business. It wasn’t his scene.

But Jun takes his friends seriously, and Shun asked him to do this just so they could keep seeing each other. How was Jun supposed to say no? Blame it on the haze of the moment and the liquid fire pulsing under his skin, blame it on all that inevitable freshman naiveté—but Jun knows that he did the right thing. Back then, at eighteen, he would have done anything for Shun. He still would.

--

Three years later, Jun is president-elect of his university’s PA Phi chapter. He has to wait another semester to be properly sworn in as president, but he’s in no hurry. For now he just wants his slippers, and maybe a stable boyfriend.

Things have changed a bit since freshman year. It’s not that he’s fallen in love with Greek life or anything—everyone is still a douche, the party juice no longer has any taste, and the sorority girls aren’t even that cute—but he’s made a lot of friends this way, and he was able to move into the house a year early. He kept his drama major but added an ethnomusicology minor, and if he finds any class difficult, there is always someone in the frat to help him out.

Like when he had to take a required computer science class. His freshman roommate and computer science major Ninomiya had joined sophomore year after Jun convinced him the frat needed a digital archivist and that he could have the entire basement to himself.

“J,” Nino says, poking his head out of the trapdoor that leads to the roof. He has the worst bedhead Jun has ever seen and he’s as pale as a sheet of paper. “Toma told me I would be able to find you on the roof.”

“You look like shit,” Jun says, balancing on the tiles. He can see his slippers perched on the other end of the roof, as if seated there to watch the sunrise. “Where have you been?”

“CompSci exam.” Nino yawns and squints hard against the bright lights of the outdoors. “I’ve been awake for like thirty hours.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“I’ve been studying for thirty hours,” Nino says, and it comes out in a half-hiss, half-growl. “I took a ten-minute nap and dreamt about Fibonacci numbers and initialization files.”

Jun loses his footing for a second and watches a pile of leaves flutter to the ground. “Speak a language I understand.”

“I don’t want to hook up with you, sorry.” Nino snorts loudly as Jun turns around to glare at him, but not before losing his grip again. More leaves scatter. “Also, can you tell me about that guy you took into your room last night?”

There isn’t a thing Jun can tell Nino about the guy from last night because he doesn’t remember a minute of it. He pretends to think as he crawls slowly across the rooftop, trying not to upset anymore debris or even knock his slippers off the edge. “Tell me who put my slippers out here first.”

Nino’s head bobs out of the sunlight for a second. “Christ, it’s hot.”

That isn’t an answer, but Jun has slunk halfway across the roof now. He’s almost there. Just an outstretched hand and a little lunge, and—

“Matsumoto.”

Fuck. Again. Startled, Jun’s foot bangs against a loose tile, and the shock sends one of his slippers plummeting to the world below. He scrambles forward and snatches the other one, but not before bruising his ribcage in the process.

Had the voice been Nino’s, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Jun wouldn’t have even turned around. But it belongs to the current president of the frat, and Jun has to keep up appearances, even if he isn’t wearing pants.

“Sakurai-kun,” Jun says as calmly as possible. “Good morning.”

“It is a good morning.” Sho smiles widely. “Listen—I have to practice my thesis defense later. Care to join me? I need an audience, and Nino says he would much rather enjoy gouging his ear tunnels out and listening to Hello Project girlbands all day.”

“The old Morning Musume stuff isn’t so bad,” Jun says, very serious, and then clears his throat. “What’s your thesis on?”

Except Jun doesn’t need to ask: he knows. Everyone in the frat knows. Hell, Jun wouldn’t be surprised if the entire campus knew, including the faculty and staff. Sakurai Sho is the type of guy who doesn’t necessarily broadcast what he’s doing to the rest of the world, and yet the rest of the world still manages to find out. He is just that loved—or wanted.

“It’s an exploration of the sociocultural changes that American rappers have created throughout East Asia,” Sho says, and Jun pretends that makes sense to him. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Tupac,” Jun says right before blushing a furious shade of pink. Sho just smiles, and behind him Nino pretends to vomit all over himself and the roof.

“By the way, nice slipper,” Sho says then, nodding to Jun’s lap. Jun hopes he actually means nice lack of pants. “I’ll get the other one for you.”

And he does. Sho is a gentleman at heart, and Jun has always liked nice boys.

--

Luckily the underwear on Jun’s floor is gone when he gets back to his room, but whoever rinsed the shaving cream dicks off the mirror didn’t do a very good job. For a split second Jun thinks about recruiting the next pledger he sees to wipe the rest of it off, but decides against it. He’s already exhausted and he hasn’t even been awake for an hour. Finding a whiny freshman would just be more work that he doesn’t want to deal with.

As he runs the water over a washcloth, someone knocks on the door. “Need help?”

Jun turns around. “Not from you,” he says, but without much conviction. “What’s up?”

Shun shrugs. He’s still wearing the bathrobe, and Jun really wants to tell him to wash it, but the poor kid looks like he can barely hold himself up. “I came to ask if you knew what the hell I did last night, because I sure don’t know.”

“And I would?” Jun swipes the mirror down the middle in one long stroke. “I don’t even think we were together last night.”

He doesn’t mention how the two of them haven’t gone out together in months. Jun’s not sure when things changed, but he remembers a time when he wasn’t even able to leave his dorm on a Friday night without texting Shun first and asking where he was going. But lately Shun has been going out with the other guys in the frat to parties that Jun just isn’t interested in.

“Yeah,” Shun says, voice distant for a second, but then he reaches forward and grabs the washcloth out of Jun’s hand. “You’re too slow. Move over.”

Jun doesn’t fight. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and watches Shun clear the mirror in two easy movements. “Why are you asking, though? What’d you do?”

“Um.” Shun pretends to focus wiping away a difficult spot that isn’t really there. “I told you, I don’t know, but.”

Jun has known Shun for far too long to put up with this. Also, he can guarantee that whatever the story is, he’s heard worse. This is inevitable in Greek life, especially if the president of the Inter-Fraternity Council is a certain Akanishi Jin. “But what? Don’t tell me you knocked someone up.”

It’s supposed to be a joke. But Shun isn’t laughing.

“Shun,” Jun says.

“That girl with the really nice hair,” Shun says, still focusing on the spot that doesn’t exist. “In ADPi.”

“Kuroki Meisa?” Jun tries not to laugh. “She actually hooked up with you?”

“No,” Shun says, voice low. He looks behind him, but there isn’t anyone else in this house besides Nino who would dare show up in Jun’s room without permission. “I mean—she does have really nice hair. But no, someone else.”

Jun has to think about it. He’s extremely picky about hair, whereas Shun will grow his out to a weird mullet and think it looks good.

But he does have someone in mind.

“Yuu?” Jun guesses. “Yamada Yuu?”

Shun ducks his head. When he looks up, his smile is a little desperate, and mostly pleading.

“Jun,” he says, “do you know how to count periods?”

--

Jun does not know how to count periods, nor does he ever want to know, and he can make sure of this by never sleeping with a girl. So far, he’s doing a good job of it (though he has to admit that if Kuroki Meisa ever got off her damn high horse and yanked her head out of the clouds, he would probably do her in a heartbeat).

He leaves Shun in the bathroom, promising that he’ll be back in a second with someone they trust who might actually know a thing or two about what happens when condoms break during sex with girls. Just the thought of that—in fact, the thought of a vagina—makes Jun a little sick, but he tries not to show it as he tugs on a pair of jeans and steps into the hallway.

“Ah,” Sho says, stepping a little clumsily out of the way so as not to collide with Jun. “You shouldn’t open your door into the hall, you know.”

Jun’s throat immediately constricts. Sho has put on his glasses and is carrying a thick binder stuffed with papers. He looks exactly like he just stepped out of one of Jun’s biggest fantasies, except he’s wearing clothes. “Sorry,” he says, attempting to sound as normal as possible. “You’re not hurt, right?”

Sho shakes his head. “I’m fine, but next time, watch out.”

“For what?”

“For me.”

Jun feels like he has been hit by lightning and confusion all at the same time: watch out for Sho? Well, he always has. But wait. What did that mean? Why did he say it? Was he being literal? Of course Jun should watch out for Sho in the hallway when he blindly opens his door; he should watch out for everyone, especially Toma who tends to sleepwalk. But Jun has a feeling Sho isn’t talking about safety.

At least, not hallway safety.

“I will,” Jun says carefully, like he’s practicing for a presentation. “Were you on your way to practice for your thesis defense?”

“I was,” Sho says, and shifts his binder to the front of his pants. “I was on my way here, actually.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Jun now has to remember how to successfully get someone from the very tricky outside-his-bedroom-zone into the extremely easy onto-his-bed-area in broad daylight. This is difficult for two reasons: one, he hasn’t done this in a long time because usually his partners just walk into the room on their own, and two, he is so turned on he can’t even think properly. He feels like a big ball of thunder and heat, heat all the way from the tips of his toes to his hairline, and he swears that if it weren’t eleven o’clock in the morning and his brothers weren’t up and about doing non-sexy things at this non-sexy hour he would just tear Sho’s clothes off in the hallway and take him on the slatted wood floor.

But it’s eleven and Jun is sweating and hard and confused, and Shun—shit! Shun is still in the bathroom. God, Jun thinks, I am an awful friend. “Sakurai-kun, um…”

Sho raises his eyebrows. “Do you have plans?”

“No,” Jun says quickly, even though the answer is yes, I have plans and a friend in my bathroom who needs to know how to count periods. Thinking about that calms him down a little. “It’s just—.”

The door bangs behind him suddenly, like someone has run into it.

“Sho-kun! Christ. Jun, you’re the best, of course Sho-kun would know.”

Jun has never felt more horrified in his life. “Shun,” he starts, but the rest of the sentence gets stuck in his throat.

But Shun isn’t listening. Of course not, Jun thinks, he has bigger things on his mind. But here is Jun, also with big things on his mind (Sho’s binder is one of them, followed by what’s behind it), and he can’t get over the sheer shock that he was just cockblocked by his best friend.

On the other hand, Sho has switched gears without even batting an eyelash. “Oguri,” he says, voice back to its normal volume. “You needed help with something?”

“It could possibly be something,” Shun says, and joins Sho in the hallway, leaving Jun with a crushed spirit and an extremely disappointed boner. “Or not. I hope not, anyway.”

“Seems serious,” Sho says, glancing once at Jun before putting an arm around Shun. “Come to my room and we’ll talk about it.”

Shun looks back at Jun, wide-eyed and almost apologetic. Did I interrupt something?

The urge to smack Shun to the floor and beat him with a slipper (a normal one, not one of his nice ones) is fierce, but Jun reminds himself: broken condom. Broken condom. Broken condom, pregnancy scare, Shun needs him.

Jun shrugs. Nope, he mouths back, and watches Sho’s ass disappear behind a corner.

--

But really though: Shun interrupted everything, and Jun could kill him. He could also kill him for being in the midst of a pregnancy scare and making Jun worry about things like possible babies and what Shun will do if he has to take out another student loan to pay for child support, but mostly he just wants revenge for the most obvious and brutal cockblock known to man. It was as if Shun had appeared behind Jun with a grin and a blinking neon sign that said I AM HERE TO STOP YOU FROM GETTING IT ON in huge letters.

He has always had bad luck, but this is just a kick in the gut. No—the balls. That would be more appropriate.

The way he sees it now, Jun has two choices: he could jerk off in the bathroom like a horny fifteen-year-old (and from the way he’s been acting, maybe he is and maybe he doesn’t care) or he could find someone to take care of his problem. If he were a rational thinker, Jun would possibly consider starting work on his geology paper or reading the screenplays he has due for next class to distract himself.

But the thought of Sho is persistent, and there is no way he could even sit down for five minutes with his schoolwork without snapping completely. So Jun stalks into his bathroom—

—And hears the door to his room squeak open.

“Shun,” Jun begins, ready to give his best friend the lashing of his life, “I can’t believe—.”

“I can’t believe you think I’m Shun,” Sho says, and Jun hasn’t even made it out of the bathroom before he finds himself against the wall, elbows bruising against cheap plaster as Sho presses up against him. “He’s pretty upset, you know.”

OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD, Jun thinks, but quickly suppresses the urge to tear off all his clothes at once. “I’m pretty upset with him,” he says instead, fighting to keep his voice at a reasonable level. “I buy all his condoms. You’d think he’d want to use one, they’re free.”

“I did see that box,” Sho says, words dropping low to a growl. “I took the liberty of helping myself to a few.”

“Oh?” Jun’s mouth feels like a desert.

“I thought I’d need some in the near future,” Sho says, and kisses Jun, fire and ice all at once, so hard Jun has to grab a fistful of Sho’s shirt to keep from sliding down the wall. He wonders for a split second if the door to his bedroom is open, and then reconsiders it: of course it isn’t open. It’s Sho. It’s Sakurai-sempai, and he is always one step ahead of the game.

Before this, Jun imagined Sho to kiss the way he acts in class—deliberate and intelligent (but not a show-off), someone who would make a mistake just to remind the world that he’s human. But the real Sho kisses like he just can’t get enough, and Jun feels himself bruising in the lips and the elbows. The real Sho kisses like he’s two steps behind the game and needs to catch up before the timer runs out. It hurts, but Jun likes it. He wouldn’t stop this for the world.

“You’re good with this, right?” Sho says, and Jun feels the words rather than hears them. “This is okay?”

Trust Sho to ask. Jun works a knee in between Sho’s legs and pulls him closer. They don’t align properly, and Jun has angles where Sho’s body decided to stretch, but he loves a challenge. “Perfect,” he says, and drags Sho by the shirt to the bathroom counter.

Tomorrow morning, Jun thinks, Sho will wake up and count all his minor injuries from this moment. He will have a horizon-line bruise on his hip where the edge of the counter dug into his skin, and a butterfly-shaped tattoo of purple on his other hip where Jun hung on to him, rocking, so desperate he felt almost silly. Maybe he’ll have welts on his shoulders, still, track marks created by Jun’s nails.

“I’ve never gotten off in a bathroom,” Sho says, and there is laughter in his voice. He’s watching Jun fumble with their belt buckles—suddenly the most complex contraptions in the universe. “Do you do this a lot, Jun?”

“Yes—no,” Jun growls, and looks up to glare at Sho. “Are you going to help me or what?”

“I’d rather watch you struggle,” Sho says, but reaches down anyway and tugs Jun’s belt off easily, then his own. The buttons on jeans go next, two quick finger movements, and the boxers are simple pulls of cotton down cold knees. Within a minute they’re both naked from the waist down, clothes kicked to all sides of the bathroom, and Jun wastes no time in sliding his cock against Sho’s.

Sho’s surprised groan is one of the happiest sounds Jun has ever heard in his life, and he can’t stop to think about anything except the hysterical, hazy pleasure shooting through his skin. He takes a hold of Sho’s hip, thumb digging into bone, and rocks forward carefully. Sho groans again, and this time lets his head fall back against the bathroom mirror. “Fuck,” he says, teeth gritted, and scrambles for Jun, finally finding the hem of his shirt and sliding a hand up to his side, then to his back. “Matsumoto, what the hell are you waiting for, keep—.”

The rest of the sentence dissolves in a shocked inhale as Jun rocks forward again, and again, and this time doesn’t pause, not even when he feels Sho’s nails dig into his shoulders or when he can feel Sho’s own hips moving along to his own, missing the rhythm at first and then finding it, then falling out of it again as he scratches harder at Jun’s back (a reversal of scars, Jun thinks; he’ll have to get up tomorrow and examine at his own back in the mirror).

“Can’t keep up?” Jun breathes in Sho’s mouth as their lips slide over each other—not quite a kiss, but they’re a little otherwise preoccupied.

“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” Sho says, and the effort it takes for him to get all those words out in a coherent sentence drives Jun absolutely crazy. It also shows him that he’s not doing quite enough, so he reaches down and takes both their cocks in one hand as best he can, sliding up and down a few times, trying to keep himself in check long enough to see Sho’s mouth fall open into a wonderfully misshapen O.

But Jun can’t hold it in for long, and the next thing he knows he’s panting into Sho’s t-shirt, hand still jerking the both of them, except instead of the perfect rhythm from earlier he’s simply tugging now for the sake of moving one step closer to coming all over the bathroom counter and their shirts and his hand. He imagines what that might look like—Sho’s loud groan filling every nook of Jun’s small bathroom as he bucks into Jun’s hand and comes all over his fingers, warm and sticky and wet, his other hand using Jun as a support to keep from falling to the linoleum in a heap of breaths and sweat. So much for a thesis defense, Jun thinks, grinning slightly as Sho whimpers to the still air around them.

When Sho finally does come there’s hardly any sound, just a hasty grunt of a warning to Jun’s ear and then Jun feels it in Sho’s quivering hips and the hot, wet stickiness suddenly filling his palm and covering his fingers. It’s a heavy silence that seems to wrap around Jun, covering him and bringing him closer to Sho—as if they could even be closer at this point; Jun is practically climbing him—and then Jun feels it, Sho’s hand quickly pushing between them to wrap around Jun’s cock and he can’t even register how Sho’s fingers got there before he’s buckling forward, muffling his cries into Sho’s t-shirt and the quiet stillness around them. He only manages not to hit the floor thanks to Sho’s hands, which are also sticky and shaky, but still very much there.

“We didn’t use the condoms,” is the first thing Sho says after a long time. He sounds like he’s just run a marathon. “And my hip hurts.”

“Name your bruises after me,” Jun says, and kisses Sho before he can say anything about that.

--

After Sho and Jun have had sex five times in a month (and during the last couple of times finally doing it properly by making it to the bed and using a condom), Jun decides that he and Sho are now officially a thing. This means, of course, that they aren’t really dating, and they’re certainly not a couple. But they are a thing.

So he tells two people: Nino and Aiba.

Aiba and Jun met just last year, not at a party or a fraternity function but on the top floor of the library. Jun had been trying to cram a semester’s worth of notes about gender roles in Shakespearean plays—something he would never do again, as he can now recite select lines of Twelfth Night after about five shots of whiskey—and he’d needed a break.

All Jun remembers from that night is getting up from his study table to get a cup of coffee, and then colliding with a long boy with limbs that seemed to go everywhere at once. Jun was too tired to look where he was going and Aiba, well, Aiba was just there. Jun quickly learned that Aiba normally ran into things simply by being.

“That’s my reproductive system!” Aiba had yelped, too loud for the library. “Sorry—sorry—I meant that’s the book that landed on your foot, not my actual reproductive system—hey, are you okay?”

The librarian found Aiba and scolded him like she was his grandmother, as if it was her sole duty in life to tell Aiba off for being too loud. Jun was about to tiptoe away and pretend like he wasn’t a part of the guilty party, but then he heard Aiba laugh and turned around just in time to see him smile and bow at the librarian.

It was the laugh, and then the smile, that made Jun stay. He couldn’t lie about it then, and he can’t lie about it now: Aiba is beautiful. Not just pretty, but beautiful in the way where you just couldn’t help but stop and stare at him, or make him laugh just to hear the sound ringing in your ears forever. So Jun stuck around after the collision and helped Aiba with his books, and then Aiba went and bought the biggest cup of coffee he could find on campus with as many shots as espresso as he was allowed to ask for.

“I bet strangers buy you coffee all the time,” Aiba had said when he gave the cup to Jun. “You’re in that frat, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jun had said, and offered a sip to Aiba. “Are you in one?”

“I was.” And Aiba had laughed. “That didn’t work out.”

Jun failed his test the next day because he stayed up for too long listening to Aiba tell his story about how he’d accidentally rushed the Christian frat freshman year and only realized it when the brothers kept telling him to “have a blessed day.” (“I just thought they were being nice! Oh, and they had these fish magnets on their car bumpers,” he’d said, and drew one on a piece of paper. “God fish or something.”) He’d decided that hearing Aiba talk about his biology classes and being pre-med was more interesting than reading about Desdemona in Othello. And even if Aiba did ask Jun if he thought it was possible to ride an ice floe all the way from Hokkaido to Tokyo Bay, Jun still doesn’t regret anything that happened that night.

In fact, if Jun had the choice, he would marry Aiba and have babies with Sho.

“You can’t have babies with Sho-chan, Matsujun,” Aiba says now, chin perched atop a stack of medical textbooks he just got from the health sciences library. “That’s physiologically impossible.”

Jun rolls his eyes. “You can be the godfather,” he says, and watches Aiba go from skeptical to positively beaming in no time. “Now what were you saying about physiologically impossible?”

“Men can’t have babies now,” Aiba says, and then purses his lips. “But science does great things, you know! One day that might be different.”

Jun is about to comment on how excruciatingly painful that sounds and maybe he should just adopt babies with Sho instead, but Aiba isn’t finished.

“Have you told Oguri-kun about this?”

“Not yet,” Jun lies. He wasn’t planning on telling Shun at all, mainly because he doesn’t feel that Shun should be rewarded with juicy secrets until the whole pregnancy scare thing is figured out (also, it hurts Jun to say it, but he’s been dreading the day he has to help Shun shop for baby booties and diapers).

But Jun just feels like he can’t tell Shun. It’s not so much that he doesn’t want to—something inside Jun just finds his fling with Sho something that should be kept a secret from Shun for as long as possible. Shun is busy with his classes, and has acting gigs on the side, and now he has to worry about potential Yamada Yuu babies running around. Plus, they haven’t spoken to each other about things like this in ages—Jun didn’t even know Shun liked Yuu—and just coming out of the blue with “Hey Shun, so Sho and I are a thing, isn’t that awesome” seems strange nowadays. And now that they’re seniors, Jun feels like he shouldn’t have to trouble Shun with things that don’t concern him.

“Matsujun?” When Jun looks up, Aiba is frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I miss Shun,” Jun says. It’s not an answer, but he knows Aiba will go with it. “Is that weird?”

“Not really,” Aiba says, and moves his stack of books to the side so he can see Jun better. “You guys haven’t been hanging out that much lately. It makes sense.”

Jun stares hard at the title of the first book in Aiba’s stack, A Comprehensive History of Blood Diseases and their Origins, before answering. “He thinks he got somebody pregnant.”

“Oooooooh,” Aiba says, eyes as wide as the blown-up blood cells on his book cover. “Is he going to have to take out another loan to help with child support?”

“I hope not,” Jun says, and sighs heavily, dropping his chin to his chest. “He’s really nervous, though.”

“You know how to cheer him up? Throw him a maybe-baby shower!” Aiba suggests. “Or not,” he adds after seeing Jun’s face.

He would never throw Shun a maybe-baby shower, mainly because Jun never wants to plan anyone’s baby shower in his life, and he would rather eat his own slippers than participate in those godawful games. But he does love planning parties, especially if they get to be held at PA Phi. That’s his territory, and Jun knows it well.

And Shun does love parties. If Jun threw a party for Shun at the frat and invited all their friends, it would make him forget about this pregnancy scare business and cheer him up like nothing else could.

“If I threw a party at the frat, would you come?”

Aiba tilts his head, wondering. “Hm,” he hums. “Only if you promise me that you’ll tell Oguri-kun about Sho.”

He holds out his pinky.

Jun stares at it. “Seriously?”

“Matsujun,” Aiba warns. “The pinky promise is binding. And there’s no chance of bacterial transfusions that you might get with a blood pact! It’s strong and safe.”

Jun can’t argue with that. He touches his pinky finger to the tip of Aiba’s. “Fine. Done.”

“No,” Aiba says firmly, and grabs Jun’s pinky with his own, tangling them together in a tight grip. “Now it’s done.”

Jun likes to live up to his promises, especially if he makes them with Aiba. But this one may be a little harder to keep.

--

Barely a block away from the house, Jun gets mugged.

Well—not mugged, per se. But Jun is pretty sure having someone tiny and quick jump on him from behind isn’t a friendly gesture, even if they back off right away and don’t go anywhere near his wallet.

“Sorry,” the small person says. “I couldn’t help it.”

Jun glares. “Really? Did you really have to jump on me?”

“You’re cute and jumpable,” Becky says, and plows right on before Jun can say anything about that. “Are you on the way back to the house? Can I come? I have some business.”

“Can’t you do that at your own house?”

Becky points to the pink Greek letters—Zeta Tau Delta Pi—on her lime green tank top and then makes two thumbs down. “You know the rules,” she says. “No booze, no boys.”

ZTDPi is PA Phi’s sister sorority, and probably not half as fun a place to be if you can’t drink or fool around inside the house. At least, that’s how Jun thinks of it. He’s known Becky for a couple of years now ever since she joined ZTDPi during the spring rush of her freshman year, and now that she’s the president and Jun is soon to be president of his frat, they’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other pretty soon.

Not that Jun particularly minds. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who could keep his brothers as much in check as Becky does, except maybe Sho.

“Who do you need to talk to? It’s not official business, or I would know about it.”

“You don’t know everything, Matsujun,” Becky says, and pokes Jun in the chest with her index finger. “I just wanted to check our calendar with yours and see if we could do a mixer.”

“We could,” Jun says, and rubs the spot on his chest where Becky poked him. “I was just thinking of having a party or something.”

“Perfect!” Becky claps her hands, and Jun watches her long, brown ponytail swing behind her like a tail. “We can tell the rush girls it’s mandatory. They can take some boys off your hands.”

Rush. Jun knew he was forgetting something. So far, he hasn’t done anything to help out the fall recruitment chair, but he hasn’t asked for any help so far—Toma is independent enough, despite the sleepwalking. But he has no idea of the size of the group, or if there’s anyone shady that he might need to weed out. On the other hand, there could be some spunky underclassmen who could take on leadership for next year.

Jun takes rush seriously. After all, that’s how he met Shun.

“Come on,” Jun says, and turns on his heel. “Let’s talk about this at the house.”

Where Jun walks, Becky skips. She knows exactly where the house is, and bounds ahead of Jun humming a song that she probably just made up on the spot. By the time he catches up to her she’s sitting on the wooden bleachers in front of the house, swinging her legs back and forth to the tune in her head.

“Hey,” Becky says when Jun passes her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What are you talking about?” Jun is starting to wonder if he’s just got a giant zit in the middle of his face that tells everyone about all the problems in his life.

“You seem weird,” she says, suddenly standing and leaning in close to his face. Jun can feel her breath tickling his neck, and he feels like she’s going to swoon into him at any second.

“I am no such thing,” Jun says, and pulls back from Becky’s stare. “Also, you’re in my bubble.”

“Becky-san, you can come into my bubble,” says a tiny voice from the porch, and when Jun turns he sees wide eyes and a mess of wiry bedhead—at three in the afternoon. “It’s open.”

The noise Becky makes is somewhere between a snort and an offended huff. Jun doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with an extremely sexually repressed Maru right now, but just then the door opens and Nino appears with a can of Red Bull in one hand and a donut in the other.

“I heard that,” he says to Maru. “Man, we can’t take you anywhere.”

“That’s what Ryo-chan said too,” Maru says, and Jun can feel his voice slipping into a whine.

“Then don’t invite people into your bubble.” Jun pushes past Nino and Maru and leads Becky into the hallway entrance of the house with an outstretched hand, even though she knows exactly where to go. He’s just concerned that she might get eaten by Maru.

The business office of the frat is right off the main entranceway, sandwiched between a wall of obnoxious PA Phi tapestries and a large frame of the current brothers of the frat. Sho’s face is at the very top, next to Jun’s as the president-elect and Shun’s as vice president. (But Jun is wearing the best tie. There has never been any competition for that.)

“That’s a nice tie,” Becky says, pointing to Jun’s picture on the frame. “Can I borrow it?”

“No,” Jun says, and pushes open the door to the office without even knocking.

Sho is sitting on the desk—not on the chair, but on the desk—with his glasses on and his shirt undone to the second button. He has his legs crossed, and when he sees Jun he smiles.

Jun grins back. Then Becky walks into the room, and Sho drops a manila envelope on his lap.

“Wow,” she says, and looks from Jun to Sho and back again. “You guys are really obvious, you know that?”

“Good afternoon,” Sho says, clearing his throat. “Welcome to the business office.”

“You mean welcome to the brothel,” Becky says, and sits down in Sho’s plush swivel chair behind the desk. “So can we have this mixer I was talking about? Matsujun says he loves the idea.”

Sho raises his eyebrows at Jun. “Will this be a rush event?”

“Yes,” Jun lies, and then shrugs. “Or a Shun event.”

Surprisingly this makes sense to Sho, but Jun wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who’s been the president of a fraternity for the past two years. “Okay,” he says.

Becky has since crossed her legs in the chair and is swiveling around. “That’s it?” she says, voice fading in and out as she circles around.

“It’s for rush, so it’s fine.” Sho hands the manila envelope to Jun and stands up. “If you break my chair, Becky, you’re going to have to pay for it.”

“Put it on ZTDPi’s tab,” she says, and swivels around one more time before sliding off, albeit a little unsteadily. “Next weekend, then?”

“Done,” Jun says, without even thinking about it. Not that he needs to—he’s thrown together events in hours. They weren’t spectacular, but they got done. And a week is more than enough time for him to create a party that will make Shun so excited he’ll forget all about pregnancies and periods.

“Lovely,” Becky chirps. She salutes both Jun and Sho before stepping out of the doorway.

“Let me walk you to the door,” Sho calls, but Becky waves him off.

“I think you have more important things to take care off,” she says.

Jun loves Becky. He also loves Sho, but that’s a little easier for him to show right now.

--

“And then he had a manila envelope on his crotch,” Nino repeats. “And then you guys did it on the desk.”

“Yes.” Jun is positively beaming. He’s showing more teeth right now than he ever has. “My back hurts. I think I was on a stapler.”

“Wow,” Nino says, “you’re stupid.”

Maybe he is, but all Jun definitely knows right now is that Sho is wonderful and the sun is shining every day, even though they’re in the basement and the only lights down here are the single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and the faint blue auras coming from the computers. But he’s still sure it’s shining.

“Your face right now is too much for me,” Nino continues. “Please leave.”

“No, wait,” Jun says, and he’s still grinning like an idiot but he really does have a serious question for Nino. “Can you start handling social media for the party?”

“I thought it was a rush event.” Nino opens his laptop and Jun watches the light flood his face. “Do you really want the rest of the world to show up at this party?”

“No. That’s why we’re going to have bouncers. Matsuken for the front door and Hina for the back—you know, the usual.”

“Fine,” Nino says. “I hope you’re happy when there are hordes of anonymous, unconscious freshmen on our porch, because I’m not cleaning them up.”

“No one will be unconscious,” Jun says, and he means it. He’s seen Sho deal with the police too many times, and he definitely doesn’t have enough patience to deal with them anymore. But most importantly he’s not about to let a bunch of eighteen-year-olds pass out within fifty yards of his frat house. If that happens, they will pay.

Nino sends a message to the closed PA Phi Facebook group:

there will be a mixer the last weekend in oct. if you are rushing either paphi or ztdpi this is MANDATORY. usual house rules apply: if you don’t find yourself in a bed by the time the party winds down, get the hell out. we have a lot of bushes in the yard and people have told us they’re pretty comfy. NO PUKING ON THE LAWN. if you don’t like our PJ, we don’t like you. if you are underage we are not taking care of your ass so come with someone who will. also prez-elect jun is now claimed so if you planned on showing up just to get in his panties it’s not gonna work. see you there. – x

“Who is ‘x’?” Jun says, squinting at the screen. “And I think you typed ‘pants’ wrong.”

“I know exactly what I typed,” Nino says. He hits the send button before Jun can say anything else. “And there’s no way in hell I would put my name out there for the entire world to know I’m the one writing the messages.” Jun knows that this is Nino’s way of saying that he likes to see girls wildly running past him at parties, wondering where the mysterious X could be hiding.

“Now go away,” he continues, and turns away from Jun. “I have to write a program that will illegally transfer tons of data from the tower in the CompSci lab to my new hard drive. And you should go make up with Shun or something.”

Jun pretends to be affronted, but he knows there was no way he could hide from Nino in the first place. He’s just like that—he knows everything, even though he hardly talks to anyone and doesn’t get out of the house all that much.. “We don’t need to make up,” Jun says. “We just haven’t talked in two weeks.”

“Yeah, well,” Nino says, and Jun watches him boot up a computer that is bigger than his entire dresser. “That’s pretty much the same thing with you two.”

He’s right, and Jun knows this well, but he’s not about to give in so easily. “I’ll wait until the party,” he says.

“So then wait until the party.” In the blue glow of the computer screen, Nino looks positively evil. “Wait until then, and then watch Shun freak out about how you’re ignoring him on top of his freaking out that Yamada might be pregnant. So he’s going to get totally wasted, and he’s going to find someone else to comfort him, and depending on how that turns out he might have to start counting two sets of periods. All because you waited a week.”

Jun stares. He can’t think of anything to say.

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Nino says, and hands Jun a can of Red Bull. “Now close your mouth and get out of here.”

Part Two

and in the ocean we'll hold hands

2011-05-20T01:44:20Z

Title: and in the ocean we'll hold hands
Pairing(s): Ohno/a mermaid
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1350
Summary: What happens when things become too real, or: Ohno brings a mermaid home.
Notes: Because really, I just needed to write about the sea. This fic, which revolves around That Music Meme I have actually wanted to do for YEARS, comes as an in-between to fundraiser fics and is definitely just one of those things I needed to get out of my system. If you already knew, good for you, but if not--the title comes from The Killers' Bones (LOVETHATSONG). And Lena-the-mermaid is loosely, loosely, very loosely based on one of my favorite Japanese fashion models, but that's just self-indulgence and not important.

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it’s over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

No Stopping Us Jason Mraz

Ohno fishes her onto the deck one day, pulling her up not with the rod but with his hand, outstretched if a little shaky. He's not so sure what to make of all of this, but she is beautiful, that much he knows.

"You can toss me back," she says, first in some odd gibberish language that sounds like rippling water, like the swish of schools of fish moving this way and that. But she repeats it, this time in Japanese.

He touches her. She is real; skin cool, nails like pearls, hair the color of octopus ink.

And she has a tail. Well—had. When he rests a hand on her knee it's all skin and rounded bone with no trace of scale whatsoever.

"We've adapted, you know," she says, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "If I wanted to I could just walk out of the sea and into a supermarket."

"Have you ever?" Ohno is fascinated, partly by the fact that she's saying all of this and partly because his hand is still on her knee and she hasn't told him to move along. "What would you even buy?"

She thinks about it.

"Cigarettes," she tries, and Ohno decides to reel in and call it a day.

I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You Madonna, Jonathon Pryce

The truth is, Ohno can't bring himself to let her smoke. He takes her to his apartment instead, helping her walk on soles of feet too smooth for the earth, for the rough wood of the dock. He almost wants to carry her, to just sweep her little body into his arms, but it doesn't seem right. He holds her hand instead.

"A car!" Her voice swells. "Is it real?"

"I thought you were used to this place?" Ohno accuses.

She tosses her hair again and doesn't answer.

Say Hello Rosie Thomas

In the foyer, she leaves no shoes behind. Even her toes are strangely enthralling, and Ohno takes her hand again as she steps into his home.

"Wait," she says suddenly, and snatches back her hand. "What are you going to do with me?"

Ohno stares. "I'm not that great of a cook but I thought I'd try," he says.

She laughs. "I'm not even human, but shouldn't we do names first?"

Ohno doesn't really care about names, but he'll go with it. "Satoshi."

"What do you do?" She seems more excited about this question than any regular person would be. "For a living, I mean."

"It doesn't matter," Ohno says, because it doesn't. "And can I just ask--?"

"Lena. I'm Lena."

"Lena," Ohno echoes. "What are you?"

He watches her test the cushions of the couch before lying back on it and stretching.

"Oh, I promise you I'm real," she says, and smiles at him, all sun on sand.

Reason Why Rachael Yamagata

Lena won't give any explanations, and Ohno doesn't press. Each time he has closed his eyes and opened them expecting to see nothing but empty space, she's still been there, flipping through his magazines or leaving fingerprints on the glass coffee table. She even eats his food, though she won't touch the fish.

The sun goes down in one orange sweep and Ohno wonders if she'll disappear at midnight. But they watch television until the late-night shows start running, and when he turns to the other side of the couch she is still there, eyes half-closed but very much thrumming and breathing and alive.

"Maybe I should take you back," Ohno says, as if the ocean has a one o'clock curfew.

"Sure," she says, almost whispering.

But they stay there unmoving, and eventually she falls asleep.

Ohno wonders if mermaids dream.

You Belong to Me Jason Wade

He wants to be with her all the time. This is bad for publicity, he knows, and part of him really does not give a damn, but he has others to think about and so he stays inside. He tells people he has pneumonia; coughs to his manager that he is highly contagious. He buys himself a week at the very least, and then spends it indoors with her.

Lena has a Japanese last name, but Ohno is pretty sure she just stole it from a sign she saw while swimming near the surface. She takes showers, but emerges wide-eyed and scared because the fresh water burns her. She kisses like a storm picking up on the water, fast and intense, and she tastes like salt and kelp. And Ohno still won't let her smoke, but he still holds her hand around the house if only because he feels like she needs the guidance.

He's not really sure what all of this means, but he's learned not to doubt the world.

The Perfect Crime 2 The Decemberists

"You know that stealing a mermaid from the sea is kind of like homicide?"

She poses it like a question, but Ohno doesn't have an answer.

"Because of my tail." Lena points to her wiggling toes. "I won't get it back, you know. You stole it from me. Where I come from, that's murder."

"I didn't steal anything," Ohno says, frowning. "You caught onto my line and I just pulled you out of the ocean. That's what happens when you fish."

"Oh, honey," Lena says, and shakes her head. "Not in mermaid waters."

You and I Both Jason Mraz

When the week is up, Ohno goes back to work just like usual, comes home just like usual, kicks his shoes off just like usual. He realizes that his apartment now reeks of sea salt and brine, and that there is sand everywhere: in his bathtub, on his carpet, in the kitchen sink, underneath his nails.

This is what they call sealust.

But he knows this is not okay. One day he's going to wake up and she'll be gone—down his drain, literally. Or back to the sea—she knows how to walk there, it's in her blood. Or evaporated, just like the tail she once had.

And Ohno will remain a criminal for fishing in mermaid waters, and he will go back again and again and again. Some lessons can never be learned.

How to Save a Life The Fray

She tells him it won't work because she no longer has a tail for an anchor.

"I'll just float." Her voice is apologetic. "If you throw me back I'll just do the crawl back to shore. I'll follow your boat."

"Does this mean you're human now?" Ohno won't let himself sound hopeful, but he can't help it: a fisherman longs only for the sea.

"I'll never be that," she says, and grins weakly. "You'll just have to watch me sink, that's all. I can't swim down there. It wouldn't be the same."

Ohno props his feet up on the balcony railing, then takes one cigarette from a newly opened packet and hands it to her.

"So you'll grow a new tail," he says, and watches her tiny fist close around the stick of tobacco.

"It's a slow process, but yeah. I will." In the dark, her cheeks glow white like moonlight on the surface of a seashell. "They say if you grow a new tail, it's kind of like being reborn."

Ohno laughs. "So you're a snake."

She slaps him on the shoulder. "Rude," she hisses, but laughs right along with him.

Does He Love You? Rilo Kiley

It happens quickly, like dousing a flame: he helps her over the edge of the boat at the place where he found her, and he holds her hand as far as he can over the railing. Then he lets go, and she's gone in a single splash and a half-smile.

For hours he hears only the water rippling round the sides of the boat. Funny, he thinks before he falls asleep, how mermaids can trick you into thinking their land is special, but their water sounds just like the rest of the ocean does.

The Only Exception Paramore

"Why do you like fishing so much, Leader?"

If it had been anyone else but Aiba, Ohno would have glossed over the answer. But it's Aiba, and there is a bottle of wine split between them, and he's high on leftover concert adrenaline.

"I'm in love with the ocean," he says, and it is simple to everyone else but himself.

a place to bloom

2011-05-04T08:13:14Z

Title: a place to bloom
Pairing(s): Jun/Ohno, Jun/Sho
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~4800
Summary: AU. Jun's new apartment feels just right to him, but Ohno thinks there might be room for one more.
Notes: This was written for r_1_ss_a for the arashi_on fandom fundraiser! The prompt was, in a nutshell, 'Jun'--any pairing, any genre, anything goes. Despite the fact that I may have run too far with this (I mean, nothing is new), I hope you enjoy, Rissa, and thank you for your donation! And of course big big thank yous to lysanderpuck and aeslis for looking through this and being woooonderful.

Jun inherits some money from a grandmother he didn't know was still alive and decides that he wants to buy a house. After a couple of hours and some drinks, he's convinced that he wants to move out of Japan and buy land in Australia, but he isn't magic. When he wakes up in the morning the money is still just enough to get an apartment, not even a real house, and he stumbles to the bathroom upset and hungover.

He wakes up hungover for the next three days and finds his apartment on the fourth. Some would say he made the decision on a whim, that it was all impulse and no logic, that he could have found a better deal in a better part of the city where it is less crowded and more green, more accessible, eco-friendly, brighter, cleaner, whatever.

But the building is beautiful. Jun is in love.

He hands over his grandmother's money to the realtor on one of the brightest days in April. By the beginning of May, just a couple of weeks later, he is all moved in with his books and chinaware and shoes and furniture. He takes a day to screw in new light bulbs, to clean the shower and the tub, to mop the kitchen floor. He takes another day to simply sit on his balcony and watch the world go by in compact cars and kids with yellow hats and red backpacks.

Two weeks later, he is still sitting on his balcony in the morning, having a coffee, watching the light in the sky turn orange before he gets on the subway. Four weeks later, he is getting the hang of his electric stove and remembering the names of his neighbors. Six weeks later, he is contemplating throwing a dinner party for his friends, though he quickly puts the idea aside as he remembers who his friends are and what they would do to his unsuspecting apartment.

Moving away has put him farther from his family, but this is fine with Jun, who prefers people when he can handle it and isolation at any other time. Here, he gets to be his own island. He can grow his own palm trees, tend to his own sand, move the clouds in his own sky. And the building is old in the way where there are roses carved into the staircase by an artist from the 70's and the tiles in the floors are mismatched and cracked. They tell stories, the tiles: girls and boys getting married, a little lamb losing his way in the forest, witches holding shiny apples in their palms as princesses look on.

Normally Jun would never pick a place like this, but there was something about it that made him want to stay for a long time--for years--forever.

--

Somewhere in a magazine he reads about christening new apartments with fresh flowers. He knows nothing about flowers and he's pretty sure his friends don't either, but he's willing to risk it.

He throws the dinner party.

"Irises," Ohno says, slightly slurring, his fingers wound around the neck of a sweating wine bottle. "Hydrangeas, maybe."

Aiba, on his fifth helping of the night, chews slowly. "Oh-chan! When did you get so knowledgeable about flowers? I thought you painted soup cans and stuff like that."

"The Warhol phase is over," Ohno says, smiling. "I'm back to fish."

"God," Nino mumbles, eyes rolling like he was born to do just that. "Spare me. Look, Jun-kun, just go out and buy a bouquet--there, instant flowers. The florist will even pick them for you."

Jun frowns. "Don't you think that defeats the point?"

Nino's eyebrow twitches. "There is no point to buying flowers."

"You've never bought flowers for a girl?"

Aiba laughs so hard Ohno has to pound him on the back.

"That's a good one, Jun-chan," Aiba says after he's done wheezing. "Nino, buying someone flowers."

"Living in the suburbs has made you funnier," Nino says.

"Oops," Ohno says. He's spilled his glass of wine on the new carpet. "Um--."

"My new carpet," Jun says, voice strained.

"What, did you install it or something?" Nino drops a napkin on the blossoming stain. "There. It's gone."

Jun mumbles something about carpet cleaner through his hands.

"Sorry, Jun-kun," Aiba says as he attempts to wrestle the wine bottle from Ohno, who is still holding onto it like it's a wad of money. "We're all a little drunk."

"Speak for yourself," Nino says, but he's slurring, too.

"I'll be outside," Jun announces loudly. "For fresh air."

Ohno looks up.

"I'll come," he says, sounding more sober than Jun thinks he is.

"And leave these two alone in my new apartment?"

"You should have expected this."

"I did, actually."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Ohno holds onto Jun's arm as they take the stairs step by careful step. He's humming something low and soft, something about raindrops on roses. When Jun turns Ohno has his fingers on the wall, touching the carvings like the flowers are real, like he can smell them through the lines in his fingertips.

And maybe he can. By the time they're down the five flights of stairs and standing in the dark lobby, Ohno is walking his fingertips over the curve of Jun's neck, then up around the sharp jut of his chin and higher still, higher still. It's as if he can hear Jun's thoughts clearer this way, like listening to music in an empty room.

"Ohno," Jun says. He can't see Ohno swallow; can only feel it against his own neck. "About the irises."

"It's summer," Ohno says. "They only bloom in the spring."

Jun can taste wine in every corner of Ohno's mouth.

"But I just really want flowers," he whispers in the interim.

"Relax," Ohno says, fingers tensing. "I know a guy."

--

Jun pulls his blankets down at four AM. Ohno crawls in, now completely sober, now shirtless for sleep. Nino and Aiba are on the floor of the living room with throw pillows and a single blanket. The wine bottle has rolled to the kitchen floor, to be forgotten until tomorrow morning when someone will kick it on their way to make a pot of coffee.

This is why Jun thought twice about the dinner party. Not because of the stain on the carpet or the fact that he's now completely out of pasta, but that he didn't know who he was going to end up tip-toeing downstairs with to kiss in the lobby of his building. That it was going to happen was inevitable; that it ended up being Ohno was mostly (mostly) chance.

--

"Hello?"

"Jun-kun? Guess what, Oh-chan showed me his hickey."

"Aiba!" Jun almost drops the phone.

"Okay, okay, sorry. –It's a really big hickey, Jun-kun. Can't you at least try and be a little more discreet?"

"Are you jealous it wasn't you?"

"Are you at work? Jun-kun, that's really naughty."

"I'm not." That's a lie: he is, but on break. "It's your fault that you let the two of us just go."

"Well," Aiba says, "we all know you're not entirely over him."

"That doesn't mean you just let me go without saying anything!"

"It doesn't?" Aiba laughs at Jun's silence. "Look, Jun-kun, maybe if you two get back together it'll be a good thing."

A hundred protests complete with reasons and examples immediately rush through Jun's head, but for some reason he can't actually bring himself to say any of them. It just doesn't seem right. "I don't think so," he finally says.

"Why don't you just try it?" It would be that easy to Aiba, Jun thinks. What he would give to one day just wake up and want to try everything because he simply could.

"No thanks," Jun says. "I'd rather sleep with Nino."

Aiba laughs. He thinks it's a joke, though Jun is only half-kidding. "Somehow, I don't think he would mind that."

"Fine. Then I'll sleep with Nino."

"Jun-kun! That's--," Aiba begins, and then just stops. Jun can almost see him grinning into his hand. "Nevermind."

"What does it matter to you anyway?" This time, Jun is serious.

"It doesn't matter to me personally," Aiba says. "It's just....well."

The good thing about Aiba, Jun decided long ago, is that you can always expect an answer out of him.

Even if you don't want to hear it.

"He told me that your new place is too big for just you," Aiba finishes. "He says he wants to live there with you."

Jun twirls a pencil between his fingers.

"You don't mean that, do you?"

"Could I make that up?"

Of course not, Jun thinks--Aiba couldn't make that up. More importantly, he wouldn't.

"What exactly did he say?" Jun tries to keep his voice level.

"That he wants to fill in the empty spaces," Aiba says slowly, remembering the moment.

"The ones in my apartment?"

"What other empty spaces are there?" Aiba giggles, slightly confused.

Jun twirls the pencil again. And again, and again.

"Hey," he says. "I'll call you later."

--

The building is beautiful because once, long ago, Ohno had drawn it. He had drawn the roses winding like wild vines on the staircase, each one with a distinct face, he had drawn the story-pictures on the tiles and he had drawn each of the five floors like he had suddenly become an architect trained in city dwellings. He had sketched the curtains on the walls, the sunlight filtering in through the lace; he had put the double doors of the building's entrance and every detail in the wallpaper of the lobby on paper.

"Why are the rooms empty?" was all Jun had wanted to know.

"No one lives there," Ohno had said. "When someone moves in they'll put all their things there."

"Maybe," Jun had said, only half-joking, "you should find a real job."

And Ohno had laughed. "I just needed a break from illustrating stuff for other people," he'd explained, and shut the sketchbook.

Ohno had brought up the building a few days later, this time in bed as he lay there catching his breath. Jun's eyes were already shut.

"About the empty space in that apartment," Ohno had whispered as he rolled into Jun's side of the bed. "In the one I drew."

Jun had sighed and opened his eyes. "What about it?"

"It's meant for two people."

"Well, good. I'll let the realtor know."

"Since it's too empty just for one."

"Satoshi."

"Hm?"

"Go to sleep."

Two months later, newly single, Jun found the building and bought it within the first five minutes. Everything about it was the same as the sketches, and just as empty, and so it was perfect.

--

One morning before work Jun is on his balcony with his coffee when he sees someone at the building entrance that he's never seen before. At this time of the day the only people milling about the apartments is the newspaper man or one of Jun's neighbors coming back from a night shift, but this guy is new--and hauling a giant bouquet of flowers.

"Hello," Jun calls. He might be five floors up, but he's still close enough to ground level. "Are you looking for someone?"

It takes a second for Flower Man to figure out that Jun is talking from above him, and when he finally looks up he jumps backward a little. Jun's never seen anyone actually do that.

"Yeah, um," Flower Man says, "do you know if someone named Matsumoto Jun lives in this building?"

"I'm going to work in a few minutes," Jun says, trying his best to keep a straight face. "Or else I'd show you which room he's in. Do you need to deliver those to him?"

"In that case, I'll come back," Flower Man says. He tosses his head; the flowers from the bouquet are spilling out and brushing against his cheeks. "I was told I have to give these to him personally."

"Told?"

Flower Man grins nervously. "I have instructions."

Jun tells him to come back in the evening.

"Should I tell him to prepare a vase?" he asks as Flower Man turns to walk away.

"Maybe two," is the answer, "or three."

Flower Man waves before he goes, and before he's completely out of sight Jun notices the lilac heads of hydrangeas resting on his shoulder, peeking out from between the folds of the bouquet.

--

"His name is Sho," Ohno says, and smiles into his cup. "I had to illustrate the brochure for his flower shop."

"I hope that's not innuendo," Jun says stiffly. "But why send him to my house?"

"You wanted flowers, and I think your apartment would do well with them," is the only explanation Ohno gives before taking a long, almost exaggerated sip of tea. When he puts the cup down, though, it's empty. "Are you done with yours? I want another."

Shrugging, Jun looks down at his mug. It's still nearly overflowing with rosehip tea, the ripe color staring up at him almost defiantly. "Go ahead," he says.

This is the twentieth lunch they've had since their breakup. It's not that Jun wants to keep track, but he only ever leaves work to eat lunch when he feels like being with Ohno and his workplace keeps a log of when he's eaten out. When he left today, the secretary told him it was the twentieth time in two months, and Jun nearly turned around to have lunch on his own.

But he told the secretary thank you, and kept walking, and met Ohno at one of the cafes that line the main street of the business district.

"I asked him to bring you something seasonal," Ohno goes on as the waitress brings over another cup of tea and two more heaping sandwiches.

"I don't need personal deliveries." Jun drops a sugar cube in his tea and watches it dissolve in a whirlpool of fluffy white. "I can get flowers myself."

"Just let him," Ohno says, already halfway through the first sandwich. "He's very good at what he does."

This time, Jun pays. It used to be that they took turns, but lately Jun has been reaching for his card before Ohno is even finished eating. He just feels like he should, that this is his responsibility, that if there's something, anything, he can take care of between the two of them it's the check.

--

It is close to ten when Sho arrives at Jun's building, still in his florist's smock and carrying a bucket of hydrangeas, not the bouquet from earlier. "Keeps them fresh," he'd said when he caught Jun staring at the dewy bunches. "Also, I had to use the bouquet arrangement for a customer earlier and I didn't have time to make a new one, so…"

"Should I expect buckets from now on?" Jun opens his door wide and motions for Sho to come in. "Ohno didn't specify."

Sho turns in the foyer. "Ohno, he--?"

"Told me? Yeah, he's not so great at keeping secrets."

"I should have known." Sho laughs, deep, like someone has plucked the string on a bass and left it going. "Can I bring these to the kitchen?"

"Wait," Jun says, and steps ahead into the kitchen to clear the counter (really, there is nothing on the counter but a scented candle and a couple of notebooks, but Jun feels like flowers should be given as much space as possible). "Okay, here. Do you need anything else?"

"A vase? Or three." Sho grins. "You got me this morning, by the way. I thought Matsumoto Jun was going to be someone else."

"What can I say," Jun says, rummaging around in his cupboards for vases or vase-like things, "I don't like throwing my name out there."

He manages to find two vases and a narrow bucket and watches Sho produce a pair of scissors from a secret pocket on his smock. Jun can't see anything past the bucket's rim, but he hears the quick snipping of stems and in the next minute there are hydrangeas arranged in perfect form.

Just like that, Jun has flowers. If he'd left the kitchen for even a second he would have missed the whole thing, but even now it feels like Sho put on some kind of magic show and the hydrangeas appeared out of nowhere in a splash of water and sparkly smoke.

"Impressive," Jun says, because he is tongue-tied, awed, for no reason.

Sho makes a sound that is somewhere between a splutter and a snort. "It's not," he says. "I just cut you some flowers."

"Still," Jun insists. "That's more than I could ever do."

If it weren't nighttime, and if Jun wasn't concerned about keeping his energy bill low and having all the lights in the house dimmed, he would say that Sho blushes a very nice pink.

"Put these somewhere cool," he says, and hands one of the nicer vases to Jun. "And don't overwater them."

"Overwater?"

"I mean don't put too much water in the vases," Sho says matter-of-factly as he collects his bucket. "Just leave them be and don't drown them, and they'll be just fine."

"Okay," Jun says warily. "But if plants are anything like animals, they won't like me."

Sho chokes back a laugh. "Really? That--Ohno didn't tell me that."

"Then everything else he told you about me must be a lie."

"He didn't say much," Sho says, and waits for Jun to open the door. "Just--."

Jun leans against the doorframe. "Just?"

"Hm." Sho looks to the ceiling as if looking for help, but there are only constellation-cracks and spots where water has leaked over the years. "Well--he told me that you're not very good at living alone."

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," Sho says. "It's not my place to say, is it?"

"I won't tell him."

Sho cocks an eyebrow. "I don't have an opinion."

"Make one." Jun pauses. "I'd really like to know."

He shuts the door.

--

Ohno calls close to midnight.

"I hear you're very good at making memorable first impressions," he says, his voice like caramel over the phone even through the static.

"I don't appreciate you doing--whatever it is you're doing." Jun can't find it in himself to be eloquent. He spent the hour after Sho left moving the hydrangeas from room to room, eventually settling them next to the balcony windows at the threshold of sunny and cool. "And I would like it if you wouldn't tell people that I'm not good at living alone. Especially people I've never met."

"Even if it's Sho-kun?"

"Well I don't know him, do I?"

"But I do."

Jun doesn't know where this is going, and it makes him want to hang up. "Ohno, that doesn't make any sense--."

"It does to me," Ohno says, voice taut. "I wouldn't tell him anything he doesn't need to know."

Jun's jaw is tight. He should get off the phone, he should go take a walk or a hot shower--he should do something to calm himself down, because he's not angry at anyone but himself right now and taking it out on Ohno is a bad idea. It was always easy to convince himself of this before, but not so much now.

"I have to go," Jun says. "Thank you for the flowers."

He hangs up.

--

The hydrangeas keep coming, and Sho with them. Surely other flowers grow in Japan during the summertime, but Jun doesn't know of them and Sho doesn't bring them. All Jun knows during the rainy season are the purple-white firework bunches of hydrangeas that show up at his home in buckets.

And Jun begins to know Sho, too, puzzle bits of information that piece together slowly--Sho is working his way through university, Sho reads far too many newspapers for his own sake, Sho works with flowers because he feels he's not good with his hands and he wants to change that. Everything about him becomes familiar: the slope of his face, the angle of his fingers on the scissors, his bass-vibrato laughter and his misplaced jabs and bad jokes. It's not long before Jun feels starts to look forward to the evening just so he can open his door to a florist's smock, a secret pair of scissors and a smile so fine-tuned to Jun's needs that it's uncanny.

When Jun gets home, tired and spent from the constant rain and humidity, all he wants to do is climb off the face of the earth. But the building is still beautiful, all wooden roses twining their way to Jun's front door and fairy tale-tiles lining the edges of the floor, and once inside Jun is dry and warm and surrounded on all sides by a family of flowers.

Then the door opens to Sho and his grin, and it's all Jun needs to feel like summer has blossomed in his veins, like the rainy season has passed and he is holding hydrangeas in the beds of his palms.

--

One day Jun asks Sho to teach him about flowers.

"Just names," he says. "I'm not really interested in growing them."

If Jun had been making dinner a minute before, he's completely forgotten about it now in favor of trying to balance on the edge of the kitchen counter where Sho has pinned him, pressing thumbs into hipbones sharp like unpolished glass.

"A-za-le-a," Sho whispers on Jun's lips, and every syllable is a shivering pulse.

--

The doorbell rings one night, long after Sho has left and hours before Jun will feel calm enough again to go to sleep. For a split second he panics--what if it's Ohno, what will he do, how will he explain things?--but it's not.

It's Nino, hugging a grease-stained paper bag of Chinese takeout to his chest. He waves with his free hand.

Jun blinks. "Why are you here?"

"Yes, hello to you, too," Nino says. "I just wanted to let you know that I've started dating the girl with the chipmunk teeth who lives on the third floor. You know, whatsherface--Riisa-chan?"

"Oh." Jun is too confused to say anything else. "Congratulations?"

"And also," Nino goes on, "I need someone to help me eat this order, because Riisa-chan doesn't like shrimp, and so I conveniently have two shrimp eggrolls and a bucket of seafood fried rice that needs to be eaten."

And this is how Jun ends up sitting on his kitchen counter at one in the morning next to Nino, sharing cold Chinese food and a half-drunk bottle of plum wine that they found in the back of the fridge. It feels good to do this again, to just sit around and talk with a friend--especially when that friend is Nino, who drinks too fast and doesn't eat enough. Soon, his eyes are red-rimmed and he's about to fall asleep on the stove.

"Oh wait," Nino says as Jun slips off the counter, "before you go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Jun says, trying not to laugh. He has a loose grip on Nino's wrist in case one of them falls over. "What is it?"

"You know how Aiba's in Malaysia, right? So he can't ask you this himself, but he wants to know--." Nino pauses to squeeze his eyes shut. "Hold on."

"You okay?"

"Fine. Um. Spinning."

Jun grabs a glass from the cupboard and goes to fill it up water. As the sink runs from lukewarm to cold, Nino finishes his sentence--

"He wants to know who your new boyfriend is."

The glass in Jun's hand wavers when he hands it to Nino. "Nonexistent."

"What? No, really."

"He's a florist. He's not my boyfriend."

Nino nods, eyes closed. He drinks from his glass in swigs, like he's pretending it's still the sweet plum wine and not just tap water. "And Oh-chan?"

"What about him?" The panicked feeling surges in Jun again, the same one he felt when the doorbell rang hours earlier.

"Does he know?"

"Probably."

"And that's okay with you?" Nino squints.

"Nino," Jun says. Suddenly he regrets only being tipsy. "It doesn't matter."

Nino smiles. "But it does," he says.

"Why's that?"

"Because he wants to live here." Nino makes a vague motion behind him to the rest of the apartment. "With you. He always has, you know."

Jun crosses his arms tight, tight. "How do you know that?"

"Come on, Jun-kun," Nino says through a yawn. "You're not dumb."

--

At the end of June, when Japan is nothing but a vacuum of downpour and humidity, Sho has made his opinion.

"I think you're fine in this place by yourself," he says. "But--."

Jun is chopping onions at the kitchen counter, but he puts the knife down once Sho starts talking.

"But?" he says, and turns around.

Sho is sitting at the kitchen table. One of his hands is curled around a new batch of hydrangeas, the other around the body of a vase, and when he speaks he doesn't look up.

"But I don't think you want to be by yourself," he finishes.

"Your opinion," Jun says with fading confidence, "is wrong."

"It's an opinion." Sho laughs in his throat. "It can't be wrong."

"Well, I don't accept it." Jun goes back to the onions. "I like being alone."

"Okay," Sho says, like a mother would to an insolent child.

That night, the only name that Jun wants to say is Ohno's, in the same pitch and tempo that he used to, though in a different apartment in another area of the city. He has no idea why, but he can't help but pretend someone else is on him, behind him, beside him.

--

Ohno calls twice in one day. Jun ignores the first call, hates himself for it, and so picks up on the first ring the second time.

"Hello?"

"Jun-kun?"

Jun exhales. "Hi, Ohno."

"Is Sho-chan still bringing you the flowers?" Ohno has never been one for small talk.

"Yeah, he is."

"What kind?"

"Hydrangeas." Jun feels as if he's suddenly lost the ability to hold a real conversation. "They're--pretty."

"Can I come see them?"

This building is beautiful because once, long ago, Ohno drew it: the rose-vines, the princesses, the witches, the floors and the wide empty rooms and the perfect balcony. Perhaps even now Ohno still draws this place. Perhaps he has sketchbooks full of hydrangeas, not just the flower itself but intricate arrangements placed in vases by Sho; maybe there are pages where Ohno has filled the rooms with flowers. Jun imagines the inside of Ohno's head to be a greenhouse.

"Of course."

--

Sho comes over for the last time with extra hydrangeas, enough to fill three buckets. He appears at Jun's door pulling a red children's wagon behind him and a pair of heavy-duty scissors to replace the usual ones.

"My boss told me to get rid of them," he says, blushing, and in the light Jun can finally say that the pink on Sho's cheeks is a wonderful shade of embarrassed.

While Sho works he tells Jun that he will be going to graduate school for a year somewhere in England, though he is studying German ("It's for the culture," he insists, "and it'll be good for my English!"). He has known about it, he says, for quite some time; the acceptance letter came months ago even before summer vacation started.

Jun nods. "When do you leave?"

All of the puzzle pieces begin to move together, crudely and suddenly. Even so, he doesn't want to know that Ohno hired Sho to be a distraction, because the chance is there but it's not set in gold. Most of all he doesn't want to give in to the notion that Sho treated this entire thing, from flower-start to July-finish, as a simple job. Maybe he did, and Jun is fine with that, he understands--he just doesn't want to acknowledge it.

"In three weeks," Sho says. He has his hands buried in flowers. "Sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Sho-kun," Jun says. "It's fine."

"I'll bring you back something from England."

"Like what?"

"Not flowers," Sho says, and laughs.

--

One day Jun comes home to a drawing shoved under his door. It is a simple ink-and-pencil layout of Jun's apartment exactly how Ohno drew it before, only this time there are extra pieces in each room: new lamps, piles of clothes thrown about, an extra dresser in the master bedroom.

And in the corner of the living room there are two potted hydrangeas: one for each tenant.

When all of those flowers die, reads the note at the bottom, scribbled in the handwriting of an artist, you'll need someone to fill in the empty spaces again.

for no reason

2011-02-13T16:28:09Z

Title: For No Reason
Pairing(s): Nino/MatsuKen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1600
Summary: Nino doesn't know how MatsuKen got in his bed, but he's not about to complain.
Notes: I blame this entirely on aeslis, who basically thrust me into the world of GANTZ by bringing me to see the movie and then having me watch the Nino/MatsuKen thing in LA and then tickling me (literally) into writing a NinoMatsu. I love her, but this is her fault and she knows it (and is gleeful about it). ;) It will help if you've watched the LA promo, but other than that, dive right in!

Nino blinks once, and slowly.

This feels like a day where he wouldn't mind staying in bed. He can smell rain creeping in from the doorway, a damp scent that treks all the way across the hall and into his sheets, and it's dark but midday. He might as well just crack an egg over some rice and bring it back to bed to eat under the covers.

He slithers his legs out underneath his blanket. One foot hits the floor.

The other is a little trapped.

"This bed's going to be really cold if you leave, you know."

"That's not my problem." Nino stalls. "It's too expensive to turn the heat on."

"It is, isn't it?"

He's not getting any clues, and so Nino turns.

"Macchan?" he says, and drops a sigh into his hands. "Macchan. Really?"

"Don't worry," MatsuKen says, and his eyebrows rise, hiding beneath a sleep-flattened toss of bangs. "I'm not naked."

"Good."

Nino brings back two bowls of rice with an egg split between them and kicks MatsuKen's feet off his side of the bed before sliding back in.

"Want to tell me why you're here?" he says, watching MatsuKen chew. He eats like he has nothing else to do, ever, but his bites are big and he's done with his rice in a matter of seconds. "Or is that a secret?”

It takes MatsuKen a second before he answers. "You picked me up," he says.

Nino chokes on yolk. "I did not."

"I'll show you," MatsuKen says, and reaches across Nino's lap for his phone on the bedside table.

--

03:21 AM: pick me up?
03:32 AM: ok. where

--

And then an address, number and street and even zip code. It's like a formula to something forbidden. Nino stares.

"I don't remember this at all," he confesses, and shuts his eyes. Three AM--what was he doing? Sleeping, surely. He'd had an off day yesterday too.

"You weren't drunk. Or out of it." MatsuKen is playing with the rice grains left in his bowl, trying to stack them on top of each other with the tips of his chopsticks. Nino feels like taking them away and replacing them with himself instead, if only for something to do on a useless day like this. "Neither was I. I just needed a ride.”

"Taxi," Nino says, watching the rice grains topple.

"I'm broke.”

"You're lying.”

MatsuKen looks up. "I didn't have any cash.”

"So--?”

"Stop," Matsuken says. "It doesn't matter anyway.”

Nino rests his bowl on the bedcovers carefully. Part of him wants to know the reason, but mostly he agrees with MatsuKen: it doesn't matter. Whatever it is, it's probably a stupid reason anyway, and Nino doesn't have time for stupid reasons. Or rain, for that matter.

But he likes people in his bed, and that is that.

"I'll leave when you want me too," MatsuKen says, and Nino watches him attempt to re-shape the hairs on his head that stick out at funny angles. Eventually he gives up and drops his arms onto the bedspread. "I'll leave now if you want me to.”

Nino pretends to think about it.

"Stay," he says.

--

Two hours of television later and Nino is hungry. The rice wasn't enough--it was only leftovers from yesterday--but he doesn't feel like getting out of bed.

Sometime between the first morning drama and the talk show that just ended, MatsuKen's feet have twisted with Nino's, collecting warmth between their sockless toes and ankles. Nino can tell he's not doing it for any reason, it's just to do something. Just like Nino feels like sliding a hand around MatsuKen's neck to pull him closer.

"You hungry?" Nino asks. Maybe MatsuKen will run to the convenience store with him.

"Kind of," MatsuKen says, and his knee drags up Nino's leg as he turns over onto his stomach. "What's for lunch?”

"Not anything made by me," Nino says before tucking one of his legs under MatsuKen's. It's like they're having two conversations (and Nino would be fine if they stopped one and picked up the other at a much faster pace). "But there's a conbini down the street.”

"I saw." A pause, and wiggling toes. "You want to go?"

"You want to go?”

"Let's go."

Neither of them makes a move.

In the end, they decide not to for a number of reasons that don't really have any backing. Nino says it's too early out and MatsuKen goes on for a minute about how they'll be recognized because he doesn't feel like putting a mask or a cap on.

"Your hair is a mess," Nino points out. "No one will recognize you.”

MatsuKen's eyes travel from Nino's forehead to the curve of his chin.

"Everyone will recognize you," he says finally, and Nino can't help but laugh.

"Too bad this isn't Los Angeles," he says, and now they're both laughing. Suddenly food is no longer a priority--this is good enough for now.

--

Around two in the afternoon, MatsuKen wants to nap.

"We haven't left this bed," Nino says.

"It's just," MatsuKen begins, and then trails off, eyes moving to the foggy window. "You know, when you haven't slept much, you want to sleep more…”

"I know, but--really, Macchan? A nap?”

MatsuKen buries his face in the pillow.

"Fine," Nino says, and props himself up on his elbows. "I'll go put in more rice for riceballs." His hunger is back and it's definitely not leaving this time. "How many do you want?”

"Four. Make them later.”

"Fo--why?”

"Like I said," MatsuKen says, "it'll be cold if you leave.”

His feet are like locks on Nino's--warm, heavy locks that are actually working. If he was just a little less hungry…

"I'll be back in five minutes," Nino says, and throws the blankets back. The cold hits him harder than he expected, especially on his feet, but jumping around in the kitchen brings the feeling back somewhat. He feels like an idiot prancing from rice cooker to sink and back again, and he wishes the bed would just go with him.

Two minutes later he has what he asked for.

"Your nose is cold," Nino says, and he sounds more annoyed than he actually is.

MatsuKen doesn't pull back. "Deal with it," he says, and his lips move over the bumps of Nino's spine like he's been moving his feet all over Nino's for the past three hours.

"The rice,"Nino says.

"What about it?”

Nino doesn't really know. "It'll take about thirty minutes," he finally says, though in reality it'll take about fifteen. He's not so sure about this super-fast rice cooker now, even though it is only a hand-me-down from his sister (she found one that did the job in twelve minutes).

"Come back," MatsuKen says. "To bed.”

Nino was never very easy to persuade before this.

"Okay," he says, voice caught somewhere between his sped-up heartbeats and cold fingertips.

--

They haven't even hit the bed before MatsuKen has his lips on Nino's jaw, light and seeking before they crash against his lips in a kiss that's far too demanding for their first.

"What happened to naptime?" Nino mumbles, too shocked for a second to do anything but wonder. "I thought you wanted to sleep?”

"Too cold for sleep," MatsuKen says, and tilts his chin forward. In the next second he has Nino's bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently. Nino's moan is a breath skittered across MatsuKen's tongue, and soon they're rolling on the sheets like puppies fighting for space.

When Nino envisioned doing nothing in bed for the day this wasn't exactly his idea, but he's going to go with it.

"Maybe, secretly," MatsuKen says in between kisses, voice low and almost like a growl, "this is why you picked me up.”

"Maybe this is why you asked me to," Nino shoots back, and settles his knee between MatsuKen's legs before snaking a hand round his neck to grab a fistful of hair at the nape. "You ever think about that?”

MatsuKen shuts his eyes, left eyebrow twitching as Nino rocks his knee toward his stomach. "I don't think about much," he admits, and leans down so that they're nose to nose. "I don't….I didn't have anything else to do today, so I decided to come over, and…and then this happened.”

Nino no longer smells rain in his room, just the faint, sour smell of sweat and MatsuKen's breath sweeping along his burning cheeks. "Why?”

"No reason." Nino is sure there really isn't one, but the thought falls away as he feels lips on his throat tracking downwards to collarbones and a suddenly-exposed chest.

"The rice," Nino says, because he feels like intervening with MatsuKen's train of thought, which probably isn't going anywhere important except to Nino's pants, but still. "It should be done by now.”

MatsuKen says nothing, just hooks his index fingers round the waistband of Nino's sweatpants.

"Macchan?”

MatsuKen tugs.

"Macchan, there's a--.”

A tie, of course. Nino watches him undo the loop with a simple pull.

"Macchan...”

"Forget about the riceballs,"MatsuKen says.

"But I'm hungry!"

"You won't be in a little bit."

Two kisses to the points of his hipbones and Nino shuts up. Two minutes later he's not so quiet, but that's not something he can help.

--

It's not until a little later that the riceballs are actually made.

"I drove you to my house for tv, sex and rice," Nino mumbles.

MatsuKen hums. He's peeling the seaweed off his riceball with unnecessary concentration. "Is that a problem?”

Of course it isn't--it's the exact opposite of one. But Nino isn't going to admit that with a straight face.

"Next time I'm not picking you up," he says, and watches MatsuKen stuff the seaweed into his mouth. "You can walk."

MatsuKen shrugs.

"We'll see," he says, and feeds Nino half of a riceball by poking it into his mouth.

--

02:24 AM: your house is too far to walk to
02:27 AM: deal with it
02:34 AM: pick me up?
02:40 AM: i hate you. where

fin de saison (the end of summer)

2011-01-16T06:08:03Z

Title: fin de saison (the end of summer)
Pairing(s): Sho/Aiba, Ohno/Nino
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~23,000
Summary: High school AU. Summer vacation means school projects, and through all the snails, paint splatters, basketballs and English essays, the five of them have to learn how to deal with things you could never learn in the classroom.
Notes: IT IS HERE: MY FIC. Actually this is one of the first fics I started writing in fandom, and it was lying dusty and forgotten in my documents folder until I decided to show a little bit of it to aeslis. She then persuaded me to take it up again, three years after its conception, and here it is, ta-da! Naturally, aeslis is the first person I have to thank, because without her this would still be a fragment of a fic and also very unpolished, since she is the Best Beta Ever (BBE) and deserves love, sparkles and heaps of her favorite things. Secondly, thank you kyjr for creating a beautiful piece of artwork for this fic (you can see it here--it is so lovely and matches the fic so well) and making it come alive. And thirdly, thank you to my f-list, who gave me lots of helpful advice for this fic when I asked for it. ♥

Two more things: 1) 'fin de saison' means 'end of season.' It 'marks the end of an extended (annual) period during which business increases significantly, most commonly used for the end of summer tourism' (thanks, Wikipedia!); 2) this fic is hosted on a separate site because it's large and in charge.

And finally, in order to understand the background of this story better, please read the calm before the snails. It will be a huge help if you read that first. :)

THE FIC:

fin de saison (the end of summer) - on ao3

the calm before the snails

2011-01-15T02:07:27Z

Title: the calm before the snails
Pairing(s): hints at Ohno/Nino, Aiba/Sho
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: High school AU, summer assignments, Jun is an honor student. And the most important question of all: does measuring the amount of paint that will build up on Captain during the course of the summer vs. the total measure of rain received during the rainy season count as a legitimate experiment?
Notes: This was written more than two years ago and has been locked away in my personal journal ever since. (Now it's all grown up and in my fic journal, baw.) It's the prologue/precursor-type-thing to my jent_bigbang fic, which will be posted on January 16th--so only a couple of days from now, yay! I strongly recommend that you read this little ficlet before you read the big (bang) one, though. You'll understand things better. I promise. :)

The first page of the summer assignment packet reads: Pick a fun science project from the available list and conduct the experiment! Don't forget to keep a log of what you're doing and remember to record your project's results!

"How much," Nino says, stretching out across two desks (and Ohno), "how much do you wanna bet that one of those science projects is going to be about a lemon and electricity? Or putting salt on slugs, or something?"

Sho looks up, a little hurt. "I was going to pick the lemon experiment," he mumbles, pencil hovering over the box next to the experiment title ("The Electric Lemon!"). "It sounds cool, doesn't it?"

Silence greets him, but only for the tiniest of seconds until Aiba springs out of his chair, upsetting a couple of notebooks and stray markers. "I got one, I got one!" he says, scrambling for a pencil case on the table--not his own, but Jun's. "I got one and it's not on the list so I get extra points!"

"That's great, but could you not use my stuff?" Jun huffs, watching as Aiba pulls out a fancy-looking pen from the neat interior of Jun's case. "And especially not that one?"

If Aiba hears him, there's no response--he's already scribbling away on the assignment sheet. "…How…fast…do…snails…run…in…different--"

Ohno laughs, suddenly. "That's a good one, Aiba-chan."

"--Temperatures!" Aiba finishes, holding up his finished product for all to see. Jun winces noticeably at the huge ink splatters adorning the margins of the paper (and Aiba's fingers). "It'll be great! I'll need snails, though," he says musingly, hand coming up to his face. "Nino, you live by a pond, don't you? Can I--"

"Not in a million years," Nino replies flatly. "My mom will freak out if she looks out the window and sees some random kid splashing around in the pond. With snails in his hands. And ink on his chin."

"There's another one!" Aiba nearly screams, and across the room a couple of girls jump. "Are people more afraid of strangers by their house at night, or in the daytime? And what if the person was wearing ink at night?"

"Ink?" Sho says, looking like he's trying hard not to be involved. "But even if you can't see the person, it's still weird, right? So I think it would be night. Obviously."

"Ah, but," Ohno speaks up, "do cats count as strangers?"

Jun sighs loudly and turns to the next page. "Moving on…"

Ohno reads the next page aloud, only nobody hears him but Nino, who is practically lying in his lap.

"'Conduct a series of daily paintings or drawings about your summer vacation,'" he mutters, fingers barely touching the ends of Nino's hair. "'They can be black and white or fully colored, and should come with an accompanying caption. Minimum number required is thirty.'"

Nobody speaks, mostly because they had, after realizing Ohno's voice was only going in one direction, taken it upon themselves to read silently.

"I like this one," Ohno says quietly, looking down at Nino. "Do you?"

"Yes, for you," Nino says, smiling, teeth catching in his lip. "It would be good. Can I come over and watch?"

Ohno nods. "I'll do one every day," he says, looking up. "How many is that?" He starts to count on his fingers, ticking each one off as he names the days, but gets lost after a week and leaves it to Sho, who is nodding along to the math in his head.

"Twen--," Aiba starts, pressing buttons frantically on a calculator (that is not his). "Twenty--um--."

"Oh," Sho says, finally, "it's only twenty-eight. You'll have to do two extra."

"Captain can do it," Jun says confidently, as if addressing his own achievements. "It's only two, after all."

"Yeah," Ohno nods again, absently touching Nino's hand, as if he's making a promise: make sure I do them all. "It won't be that hard."

Two pages later, Sho and Jun have still not decided what to do for their summer assignments. Nino, however, is completely unfazed.

"Why?" Jun says, a little irritated. Even the ends of his hair seem frazzled. "What are you doing?"

"I'm conducting a psychological experiment," Nino says, as if it's the most normal thing for a high schooler to do during the summer. "I'm measuring the amount of paint that will build up on Captain during the course of the summer as he completes his project vs. the total measure of rain we got during the rainy season."

Ohno blinks. After a long while, he finally says, "I take showers."

Jun says, a little grumbly, "Nino, that is not an experiment that will get you credit."

"You're just jealous because you don't have anything to do yet," Nino says, and everyone can see him sticking out his tongue even if his mouth is closed.

Sensing that someone--either the prim one sitting on the desk, or the one attached to Ohno's side--might explode, Sho flips his assignment packet around to the back and says, "Look, Jun, why don't we do this one?"

The title of the back page is An English Challenge! What Did You Do This Summer?--The Essay! Jun, who once translated a sentence exercise in class as 'please have me for lunch' (an accidental offer that Nino kept trying to follow through with for the following two weeks) looks at Sho hard.

"English?"

"But it's," Sho tries, rapidly scanning the details, "it only has to be a page. And I'll help you! We can use dictionaries, see, it says right here…?"

Jun is about to explode, Sho can see, even though he personally thinks free access to the treasures of the Sakurai brain is a pretty solid deal. Just as he's about to start, though, the classroom door opens and a teacher pops her head round the side.

"Matsumoto-kun?" she chirps, scanning the room. "Matsumoto-kun?"

Jun immediately jumps up. "Yes?"

The other four watch him leave.

"Dammit," Nino mumbles.

Jun comes back with a special summer assignment given to him directly from the principal.

"I get to help at the summer program once a week," he says, grinning, "and I'll get full credit."

Nino automatically falls into full sulk mode. "Why?" he whines into Ohno's chest (he keeps on sliding and Sho keeps telling him to sit up, and he does, but when Sho turns he falls back into place). "What did you do? No, actually, who did you d--"

"I," Jun says loudly, "had the third highest grade point average of the year, Ninomiya. Unlike you, so you have to settle for--ew, you know what, nevermind," he says, seeing the devilish look on Nino's face and the completely blank one on Ohno's. "I'm not even going to go there."

Aiba giggles.

"Why is that gross?" Ohno asks. "Isn't Nino just inspecting my fingernails for paint?"

Sho doesn't like the way Nino's eyes are sparkling--he can almost hear them saying, oh, and elsewhere, Oh-chan--so he just says, "In a manner of speaking, yes."

Satisfied, Ohno continues to play with Nino's ears.

"Wait," Aiba says, now interested in Jun's new project, "Jun-chan, what do you get to do at the program?"

"I don't know," Jun shrugs. "Help kids play basketball? Give out lunches? Whatever it is, it's a couple of hours every weekday. That's, like, nothing," he says smugly.

Aiba perks up. "Oh!" he says, smiling, "that means you'll have lots of time to help me with my snail project, Jun!"

Jun splutters. Sho is prepared to jump in the conversation, just in case, but Aiba plows on--"I'll pick them out of the water and you can hold the bucket we'll keep them in. Then you can be the official thermometer-holder and wave the flag to start the races!"

Nino is laughing so hard he really is in Ohno's lap now, but neither of them is making any move to fix that, and Sho has just decided not to look their way anymore. Looking at Aiba, though, makes him think of puppies and kind of makes him dizzy, so he just covers his face with his hands.

All Ohno says is, "I think Nino's dying."

Sho says, "I think I'm crying," and Jun says, "Good."

of tomorrows, 2/2

2010-08-27T18:43:21Z

Title: Of Tomorrows
Pairing(s): Sho/Nino, Ohno/Jun, implied Aiba/Jun
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~19,900
Summary: Sho's assignment for the month of August is simple enough: find Ninomiya Kazunari.
A/N: Part two of two.

And that, Sho decides much later, is where his new assignment really started.

He stayed for nearly an hour. For longer than he should have, certainly, but the weather was disgusting and once Sho sat down on one of Ninomiya's couches he couldn't be bothered to get up again. The feeling of leaving nagged at him for awhile--go, you shouldn't be here, leave, this is your professional job and he's not your friend--but he didn't listen to any of that. There had to be a point in life, Sho thought as he watched Nino move around in the kitchen, silently but efficiently, where you just gave in to your desires and decided to fuck the rest.

It was an unnerving feeling. Sho suspected it had to do a lot with his upbringing, why he felt so odd about all of this, but he forced himself to stay anyway and he forced himself to get comfortable and he forced himself to answer Ninomiya's questions honestly.

Ninomiya had a lot of questions.

"So did you know about me before you took this job?" he asked first. He was unloading his groceries, and part of Sho desperately wanted to peek into the refrigerator to see exactly how much butter and milk such a thin young man could possibly have. But he stayed in his seat.

"You could say that," Sho responded. It was a better answer than the truth--that Sho had basically no idea who Ninomiya Kazunari was until Aiba introduced them, however crudely, through magazine articles.

"You had no idea I existed, did you," Ninomiya shot back. He stepped out of the kitchen, and Sho saw he had a piece of toast and a glass of milk in his hands. "Most people would have gotten flustered, even if they didn't like my work. Whenever you're with someone of--what did you say earlier?--a different 'caliber,' you can't help but give yourself away."

He took a bite of toast and chewed slowly. Sho watched him swallow.

"Did I come in to discuss philosophy? I would have dressed better, in that case." It was the only thing Sho could think of, but Ninomiya laughed again into his glass of milk.

"You're interesting for a grocery deliveryman," he said, and Sho smiled dryly.

"You're interesting for a supposed recluse."

"Ah." Ninomiya took the seat across from Sho and grinned smugly. "So you did know about me."

This time, they both laughed.

Where, Sho thinks later as he drives home--it is still raining, and he is still driving as slowly as he can--where was the logic in that whole situation? Ninomiya should have kicked him out as soon as Sho handed over the bag of groceries. He should have issued Sho a curt "hello" and an even icier "goodbye," and all that should have happened within the span of thirty seconds. He should have told Sho to go home, there's nothing to see here, no apartment to be let into, no conversations to be had.

But none of that happened. Sho stayed and Nino ate his breakfast and talked to Sho about how his family didn't even know he lived here, but he went back sometimes just to let them know he was still okay, that he hadn't disappeared into thin air without leaving a goodbye note.

"My sister said that my movies were like notes to our family," Ninomiya said, and propped his chin in his hand. It made him look even younger, with the bed head and the slouchy pajamas and the moles--Sho noticed the moles as Nino talked. There were three on his face, dotting the left side with some kind of pinpoint accuracy as if he were a target of some sort, a lithe bulls-eye that moved and talked and laughed. And Sho, Sho was the gun.

"Why don't you see them more often?" Sho asked. "It's not like you have to hide yourself away."

"It's not like you have to deliver my groceries," Ninomiya said. "But why do you do it? Because you get paid and it's what you know how to do, right? So I live here and I don't go out because I'm comfortable." He stopped on the edge of another sentence--Sho could see his eyes still in the conversation, still focused on his thoughts--but nothing else came out of his mouth.

Sho couldn't think of anything to say, either. And that was okay, he supposed, because Ninomiya got up soon after and told him he could come back tomorrow.

"Could you bring me some bread?" he asked before Sho left. "I'm running out."

"Technically, you have to call the store and have them add it to your list," Sho said. He could never resist pulling out all the professional stops.

Ninomiya stared.

"Technically," he said flatly, "you're working right now and should not have come into my house."

"Technically you're a recluse," Sho said, "and should not be speaking to me."

Ninomiya made a face and shut the door, but not before saying, "I'll see your technical ass tomorrow."

Soon enough tomorrow becomes like a prayer, and Sho can't shake it off even when he tries--he cleans the entire apartment (Aiba makes exaggerated gagging noises when he goes near cleaning supplies), plays with the kittens for almost an hour, and makes dinner for himself. He even wishes he could go out again to do his normal paparazzo shoots, but since he signed the contract with Weekend he doesn't have to do that anymore. His job now is all Ninomiya, all the time.

He's eating by himself, sitting in the almost-dark at the kitchen table, when the phone rings.

Sho thinks Aiba is calling from Chiba, because under his parents' roof he doesn't have to pay the phone bill and can use the thing whenever, however he wants to. He's done it before under the pretense that he forgot to unplug the iron and wanted Sho to check if he had, but that was when they didn't even have an iron. They ended up talking for a long time that night--it was the first night Aiba stayed away from the apartment for more than two days--and Sho tries not to think about it much, because it makes him feel like they're married. Oh, if only Aiba could give him grandchildren. Then his mother might be happy with something in his life.

But it's not Aiba on the other line this time.

"We just want to see how you're doing, Sakurai-san." The woman's voice filtering in through the phone is one Sho hears often at Weekend; she's not the receptionist, but she works in the office. "You know, how you're progressing with things."

"Just fine, thank you," Sho says curtly, and drags his fork through the sauce on his plate. Just like they do in Zen gardens, he thinks. Be calm. "To be honest there's not much to report. He's not a very open person."

"Of course we know that," the office lady quips. "We wouldn't have you on this job if he was easy to find, you know."

"Yes, of course," Sho responds. The Zen-like lines on his plate get a little more tangled. "Pardon me."

"Anyway, we're just calling to remind you that we need a report of everything you've discovered by the end of next week," she goes on. It sounds like she's immersed in something else--a game of Solitaire, maybe, or she could be filing her nails. There's only so much to do if you work in the office of a tabloid magazine, after all. "So you have a lot of time to gather information."

If Weekend is giving Sho two weeks to compile a report of everything he's found out about Ninomiya Kazunari, then they must be expecting a lot. They would want details of any conversations that took place, the contents of Ninomiya's groceries from day one to fourteen, and the exact color and texture of his window curtains, carpet, and pieces of furniture. They'd want Sho to explain what Ninomiya looks like when he's not working, when he's not making movies--they would want a description of Ninomiya in his loose clothes and messy hair and scattered moles. They would want to know what his feet looked like (this is the only detail Sho can't give; Ninomiya's pants covered the tops of his feet completely).

Sho lets go of the fork and winces at the clattering sound it makes when it hits the plate.

"I won't disappoint," Sho says resolutely, because he can't let himself say anything else. "You'll have your report, don't worry."

But a part of Sho stings. When he closes his eyes he sees Ninomiya yawning, arms stretching toward the ceiling childishly like he hadn't a care in the world, and the image--so vivid, still--makes him miserable. How could anyone give that picture away, even in words, just like that, without even a second thought?

"And you'll have your check," the office lady says cheerfully.

"How much?" It wasn't a polite question, but Sho couldn't help but ask.

"More than you're used to."

Sho puts his forehead on the tabletop and wishes very hard on stars he can't see, because the rain outside is like an ocean being dumped on Tokyo, relentless and unforgiving. He wishes that he could just quit, but that he could still see Ninomiya every morning. He wishes on tomorrow and those twenty-eight stars he can still remember from college. Maybe one fades each year, supernovas blasting far off in space because time passes and you can't keep stars in a jar forever (even fireflies have to die). In that case he's only got twenty-two left, but that's enough for him, and hopefully enough for his wishes.

"You'll have your report," Sho says again, and hangs up.

-

The loaf of bread is whole-wheat, wrapped tightly in plastic and a little damp thanks to the rain (it hadn't stopped from yesterday. Sho worries about Aiba driving in this weather, but he can't do anything about it and so tries to stay positive). It has a sticker on the front--Maruyama Brand Products, it says, in big red letters--and Sho had to smuggle it into Ninomiya's groceries without anyone looking.

"Technically," Sho says as he hands over the loaf, "what I did is illegal, because everything you pay for has to be recorded in the ledger, and you didn't actually pay for this."

Ninomiya accepts the bread gingerly.

"I like white," he says after he's examined the bread with the caution of one examining a strange-looking mold.

"White bread is bad for your health," Sho says matter-of-factly. "Whole-wheat is better for you. It's what I have for breakfast every morning."

"I'm not entirely sure when you became my mother," Ninomiya says, and scratches at the tip of his nose. Their eyes meet briefly and Sho notices the bags under Ninomiya's eyes--not heavy or too dark, but they're there. "Or why you want everyone to have the same breakfast that you have every morning."

"I'm not--that's not what I meant," Sho splutters.

"Sakurai-san," Ninomiya says then, tilting his head slightly. Some of his hair falls across his forehead, and Sho watches him brush it away impatiently. "When's the last time you had pancakes for breakfast?"

"Not for awhile," Sho confesses. "It's always been toast."

"You're deprived," Ninomiya sighs, and pads into his kitchen. "Sit down. You're eating here."

"I'm eating here?"

Ninomiya just looks at Sho with his eyebrows raised. That's what I said, isn't it?

So Sho has plain pancakes, courtesy of Ninomiya Kazunari, on a weekday morning. It's been years since Sho had anything other than bread for breakfast and he's not even sure if he remembers what pancakes taste like, but his first bite is nothing less than a little shock of bliss and he finishes an entire short stack in less than ten minutes. The pancakes may be plain, but they're buttery and fluffy--in any case, they're more flavorful than any crumbly piece of toast could ever be.

Ninomiya watches him silently from across the table. He's wearing different pajamas today, Sho notices: instead of the too-big pants he has shorts on, ones with a red checker pattern that barely cover his knees. Over his torso hangs a tank top, unremarkably white, the kind you'd buy in a pack at the convenience store.

And he hasn't shaved yet. There's a patch of stubble on his chin, and he rubs at it every so often.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to accept food from strangers?" Ninomiya asks softly when Sho is done and has laid his fork down, only a little embarrassed to have eaten so much in such a short time.

Sho grins. "Did you drug me?"

"You'll find out."

And maybe Sho is drugged, because he keeps coming back when Ninomiya asks him to, and he stays long after he's passed on the groceries. He stays for pancakes and conversation and to see what Ninomiya looks like on that particular day (always sleepy, always with bed head, and always showing more skin every time Sho comes over). But mostly he stays for the conversation.

They talk about everything. They've had conversations about the weather, about Ninomiya's family, about Sho's economics degree and how Ninomiya never went to college. He was scouted, he says one morning as he slices strawberries for their pancakes (even the pancakes had become a quick tradition), when he was twenty. He'd been in a bookstore and some agent had followed him around for hours before Ninomiya tried to run away and the agent had stopped him and explained everything ("But not," Ninomiya says smugly, "before I tried to punch him in the face").

On the fourth day Ninomiya talks about how no one ever calls him that--no one that knows him, anyway. He asks Sho to call him Nino.

"Does this mean that I know you now?" Sho jokes.

Nino doesn't respond. He only hums, a long and wondering note, and Sho doesn't bring it up again.

What they don't ever discuss is why Nino invited Sho into his apartment on that first day--why Nino decided that this was okay, that Sho was okay. Sho expects that one day it will come up in between their normal conversations, in between talk of hobbies (Nino likes video games; Sho says he's sort of into photography but isn't sure he likes it as much as he thought he did) and friends (Sho talks about Aiba more than he should, but Nino listens intently and laughs at all of Aiba's stupid antics) and food ("Can I bring some of these home?" Sho sometimes asks. He means the pancakes, but Ninomiya just tells him, "You can have some more tomorrow, you don't need to take them home"). But it never does.

Still, Sho can't seem to start his days off right anymore unless he sees Nino in the morning--tired, small Nino with his sharp tongue and strange ways and telling eyes. With every tomorrow that Nino promises and Sho dreams about, the two of them come closer to Weekend's deadline, but Sho won't allow himself to think about it too much.

If he does, he'll have to tell Nino about it. And that--well. Sho won't think about that, either. He's pushing away more thoughts than he ever has in his life, but he figures that what he gets to go through every morning is worth the ignorance.

Sho brings Nino a loaf of white bread on the fifth day.

On the seventh day Sho gets a tour of Nino's apartment. It's a proper tour, and Sho is introduced to the bathroom, the guest room, a walk-in hallway closet that contains nothing more than a vacuum cleaner and a broom, and Nino's bedroom.

Sho peeks in. There's a single bed covered with white sheets, a television, and a dresser. The walls are bare and there are no other decorations unless you count the bedside table, which doesn't have anything on it besides a lamp without a shade and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. A pair of slippers--blue and fuzzy--sits next to the bed, but Sho's never seen Nino wear them. Sho wouldn't be surprised if Nino said he puts them there just for show.

What catches Sho's attention the most is that Nino has a guest room.

"Do you ever have guests?" Sho says as they stand in front of the room. It's just as plain as Nino's, only there isn't a television and the comforter actually has a violet floral pattern on it, as if that's supposed to make the room more inviting. "I don't see why you'd need a guest room if you don't have anyone visiting."

"I have one visitor, occasionally. A friend I've made in this business," Nino says, and stifles a yawn behind his hand. Sho guesses it must be anywhere from eight to eight-thirty--very early, he supposes, to most people. "He says he comes here to check on me since I don't really go out. But besides him, there's no one."

He turns to Sho. "In fact, I'm surprised you come back every day."

"It's my job," Sho says, but Nino shakes his head.

"If this was just your job," Nino points out, "you'd just leave my groceries at the door and go home. But you don't. You stay here, and probably longer than you should."

Sho swallows thickly. Of course he does all that, and he's only been trying not to think about any of it. But here is Nino, now, bringing everything up like Sho never took the time to throw all those thoughts away in favor of simply acting without thinking. As they stand together in the small hallway Nino has his arms crossed over his chest and his voice is even, calm; he talks like he's been studying Sho for the past week and has come to many conclusions.

And maybe he's right about all of them.

"Tell me, do you care about anything?"

Nino asks the question point-blank. When Sho looks up and into Nino's eyes he suddenly feels trapped there, locked in some sort of force-field that Nino's gaze has created. He won't be let go until he answers.

"Yes," Sho says slowly. He doesn't know any other way around this than to simply answer the question. "I care about my family, and my roommate, and my kittens."

Nino smiles. "That's all?"

Sho nods.

"See," Nino says, and uncrosses his arms. Something in him has relaxed, but Sho doesn't know what. "You didn't say you cared about your job. If you did, we wouldn't be standing here right now. You've told me about your family and your cats and this Aiba-san of yours, but you don't ever talk about what you do for a living. Either you don't enjoy it or you're not allowed to talk about it."

"That doesn't matter, though," Nino continues before Sho can say anything, before he can even register the bubbling feeling of panic in his gut. "I don't really care as long as you keep coming back."

Sho stares, absolutely dumbstruck. Part of him feels frozen and the other half of him doesn't understand what's happening--is Nino trying to say something? Does he know that Sho is the secret connection between Nino's private life and a tabloid with nationwide circulation? And what does he mean when he says none of that matters as long as Sho keeps coming back? Surely Sho can't be hearing this right. He must be missing something.

"Do you want to know," Nino says finally, "why I asked you to come in that first day?"

Sho nods. His body isn't in the right state of mind to do much else.

Of course Nino doesn't tell him right away. For the first time in seven days Sho hopes that he won't hear the word that's become his mantra, his little prayer in the rain and through the night when he can't sleep--but Nino says it. "Tomorrow, I'll tell you," he promises, and sends Sho away, again without any pancakes to take home.

-

Sho drives straight home after he leaves Nino's apartment. When he unlocks the door and sees Aiba sprawled out on the couch, not exactly dressed properly and with a bowl of popcorn balanced in his lap, he swears he's never felt so relieved in his life.

After returning home from Chiba, Aiba received a slew of assignments from Weekend that not only included the regular nighttime haunts but also special daytime ventures. Usually Aiba shot at night, but sometimes if there was a lot going on that day he would have to show up at hotels and airports in broad daylight to shoot at gangbangs, or events where large numbers of paparazzi would be present. He had night-and-day assignments for four days straight, and since Sho left in the morning before Aiba woke they didn't get to see each other until very late at night. By that time, Sho was already in bed and Aiba already asleep while standing.

But here he is now, and somehow Sho feels like everything is going to be okay.

"Another tomorrow?" Aiba asks gently when Sho sits down next to him on the couch. Aiba made room as soon as he saw Sho walk through the door. "I feel like he's playing you."

"I feel like I'm okay with that," Sho says. "I just--I don't get him. He goes out, did you know that? To see his family. He does leave the house. And he does have a life. He has friends, and he cooks."

"So basically you're saying that he's a pro at hide-and-go-seek," Aiba says, and hands the bowl of popcorn over to Sho. Sho takes a handful without even thinking about calories or snack food conservation. "Is that what you're going to tell Weekend? They'll have a fun time with that one."

Sho falls silent. "I don't know what I'm going to tell Weekend," he mumbles.

There are too many things Sho could tell Weekend that it's hard for him to imagine simply lying and saying he didn't find anything out about Nino. In that case, he would lose this special assignment and the extra money and be demoted to the lower ranks of paparazzi--or be fired altogether.

Sho won't let himself get fired from a tabloid magazine. If anything, he would have to be the one to quit.

"Sho-chan," Aiba says soothingly, because Aiba somehow absorbs all of Sho's feelings and manages to make them into something better within seconds, something more manageable and tame than the quiet rages in Sho's chest, "listen. Why don't you just lie to them? Make up some random story? You know they'll believe you. It's not like they have any way of proving whether you're right or not."

Sho rubs his face with both hands. "I'll get fired."

There's a hand on his back within seconds, warm and right like it should have been there all along, and Sho shifts when Aiba presses. He hasn't had a mini-massage like this in a long, long time, and he could use one very badly right now, especially from Aiba. It's a well-established fact that Aiba gives the best massages within miles--the grandmas all say so--and Sho suspects it has something to do with the way Aiba sees people and the world: beautifully. Even if he slips sometimes, he still believes in everything good.

"So you get fired," Aiba whispers. He's moved directly behind Sho, and even the kittens have jumped up onto the couch. Talk about a family life, Sho thinks, and picks up Sammi in one hand and Yujitaka in the other. "It's not like you're going to feel bad about it."

"If I don't get fired," Sho murmurs, "they'll just demote me back to rookie paparazzo status."

Aiba laughs and digs his thumbs into Sho's muscle, right where the tender spot is.

"You like his pancakes?" Aiba asks.

Sho nods sleepily.

"Weekend won't make you pancakes," Aiba says. He's running the heel of his palm around Sho's shoulder blades, now. "The worst thing they could do is make sure no tabloid magazine hires you ever again."

"Good," Sho sighs, and leans back into Aiba's hands.

Something good will happen, and things will change. Maybe this isn't entirely what Sho hoped for when Aiba had said those words to him--what he'd truly wanted was a life-changing event, the kind that would fall out of the sky like lightning and deposit happiness right into his open, waiting palms. But of course he should have known better. Good things come gradually, like the way the first drops of rain only cover so much surface before the storm hits.

What's good about Nino is that he keeps Sho sane. Every morning he has someplace to go that makes him laugh, makes him smile and talk about his life. Every morning he has pancakes and sits on the same couch, and it's different from climbing into the same truck and delivering groceries to the same families. That was Sho's job, before this whole thing with Nino started. And now it's just the precursor to that time after six when he presses the buzzer to Nino's apartment and gets to see a sleepy boy in interesting pajamas, with strange things to say, every single morning for the entire week. For every tomorrow, for every promise made by Nino, there's something in Sho's gut that says, oh, this isn't a job. This is better. You could get used to this.

And from the way Nino reciprocates, Sho is willing to bet he feels the same way. He doesn't give off the actor vibe that Sho has gotten used to from all his years at Weekend--no matter how standoffish and grumpy he may have seemed during his and Sho's first meeting, it's the not-so-secret smiles and tiny jolts of laughter that get to Sho, that make him believe Nino is different than the rest of his breed. It's in the way he makes pancakes for the two of them, just enough so that they can finish them all (though truly most of them are for Sho; Nino doesn't eat much) and the way he gives Sho impromptu tours of his house.

When they look at each other, they know: they're friends. Sho doesn't know how this came to be, but he's not going to trace their short history to find the exact moment.

"I want to meet him," Aiba says then, so quietly Sho almost didn't hear him. He didn't realize that the massage had ended, either, and that Aiba was now rubbing the necks of their kittens with his index fingers. "Can I, sometime?"

"Well," Sho says. "I'll try to get him to say yes."

"He will, for you," Aiba says, and smiles widely. "If you just ask."

Sho promises to do just that--tomorrow, he says. Tomorrow he'll do it.

"Always tomorrow," Aiba teases. "And what are you doing tonight, Sho-chan?"

"Nothing," Sho admits. "Feeding our cats?"

Aiba makes an x with his pinky fingers. "Buu-buu," he mimics, like they're on a variety game show and Sho has just lost his chance to win the prize.

"The correct answer is that tonight, you're coming out with me," he says. "For you-know-what."

"For you-know-who," Sho insists, and Aiba makes Sammi claw at Sho's hand.

-

Tonight, Aiba says as the night wind closes in on them, fresh and sharp, Ohno Satoshi will be at Club Morning Flash for a friend's birthday party. He won't stay for long unless there's good alcohol or unless Jun really likes the party.

"You sure Jun'll be with him?" Sho asks, and surprises himself at how familiar he's suddenly become with a man he's never met, only seen and heard of. "Maybe they like to do their own thing once in awhile."

Aiba shakes his head. "Ohno wouldn't go unless Jun really wanted to."

It's odd, Sho thinks, the way a single person can make you crazy. Matsumoto Jun makes Aiba tenser than Sho has ever seen him--he can't relax, he looks over his shoulder compulsively, and whenever Sho reaches out to touch him Aiba jumps a little before apologizing to the nines and insisting that he's perfectly all right, he's just tired.

But Sho knows what a tired Aiba looks like: pale, with lips a bright, heavy pink that rivals the color of the blush on his cheeks. A tired Aiba is hard to talk to, but easy to smile at, and a tired Aiba will gladly rest his head on your shoulder to catch a few minutes of sleep as the taxi glides through the streets of Tokyo, lit up by traffic signals and the omnipresent glow of neon signs.

It's one in the morning and Aiba is a little anxious, a little wired, but he's trying to hide it behind endless chatter about how Weekend is undergoing an investigation ("Someone called human resources and said the administrative department won't hire men! I believe it; have you ever been called by a guy? No, only women, right? See") and how Club Morning Flash is supposed to be very high-class.

The taxi is pulling around the corner when Sho notices it: Aiba doesn't have his camera.

"If you told me you forgot it, I won't believe you," he whispers so the taxi driver won't hear. Aiba bites his lip. "Is this even your assignment?"

Aiba's eyes rise to meet Sho's. "Maybe not," he says, and reaches out to grab Sho's hand. "But Sho-chan--you don't know what it's like. I got to see him, I ran after him but that's it, he got away just like that. I can't leave that alone, you know?" His grip on Sho tightens, pleading.

Sho doesn't know what to say. He wants to know how Aiba found out about this in the first place, and yet doesn't want to think about how Aiba might have come across this information--through illegal means or because he took a liking to one of the office ladies and decided to sweet-talk her into opening a certain file. Aiba isn't an evil person, but he would do a lot of things for the people he loves, even if he hasn't seen them in over ten years.

"Okay," Sho says finally. He figures that's enough, and that Aiba will understand. "Just be careful."

"Oh, you don't need to tell me that, Sho-chan," Aiba says, and he's back to regular Aiba for just a second with that beautiful smile of his spread wide across his face. "What's a male model going to do to me anyway?"

"I don't mean Jun," Sho says. "I mean Ohno. He has a lot of knives, you know."

Aiba's eyes go wide, and then he laughs. "Sho-chan, really? You've been watching too many horror movies. Ohno-san wouldn't…"

He stops.

It takes Sho a moment to realize that Aiba is looking somewhere past him, over his shoulder and through the tinted window of the taxicab. In the darkness that's settled over Tokyo it's difficult to see anything, especially when you've been blinded by all the lights, but Sho turns anyway. The look on Aiba's face wasn't just a curious one--it was the way you'd look if someone slammed the door in your face and then locked it without even telling you so.

When Sho turns, he sees them: Ohno and Jun, slipping out of Club Morning Flash and into a side walkway.

Aiba scrambles out of the car before it even comes to a complete stop.

Sho isn't sure whether he remembers to pay the taxi driver or not (he must have, because once he steps onto the sidewalk no one is yelling at him) but that's completely secondary to his main goal: follow Aiba. There's no telling what might happen if he manages to catch up with Ohno and Jun--Ohno has knives and Jun has money and neither Sho nor Aiba know them, even if Aiba insists wholeheartedly that Jun is still the same person he was when they lived next to each other as children, when they didn't know any better and only knew each other and that they would be best friends forever.

When Sho squints into the alleyway he catches sight of a figure in dull-white turning a corner. Aiba was wearing--what was Aiba wearing? Shit, Sho thinks, and decides that now is not the time to stand on the sidewalk and make a flowchart in his head of what to do next. He just has to go.

The figure in white is gone by the time Sho walks briskly into the alleyway, and he doesn't see anyone else so he starts running without destination. He passes garbage cans and propped-open doorways that lead into legal and illegal establishments; he even runs past a hooker taking a smoke on her break. But he doesn't see Aiba, or Ohno, or Jun.

"Aiba?" he tries, even though it's not the greatest idea to randomly call out a name in a dark alleyway, especially after midnight. "Aiba, are you around here?"

The hooker looks up and their eyes meet. Sho is the first one to look away.

"Dunno who you're looking for," she rasps. "But there're two guys around the corner there." She waves to the left with her cigarette; the smoke clouds the air between them but Sho manages to thank her, however distractedly. He's already walking in the direction she pointed out.

Sho slips into a skinny alleyway off the walkway and finds Ohno standing there, smoking casually.

"You," Sho says, and bites down the rage that suddenly fills the pit of his stomach. "Why are you alone?"

Ohno looks up. He looks surprised, but just takes another drag off his cigarette and smiles slightly. "Aiba-san is a runner, isn't he?" he chuckles. "He should try out for the Olympics. Japan could use some good long-distance athletes."

Sho just stares. Ohno offers him a cigarette, pack extracted smoothly from his front left pocket, but Sho declines. He's not in the mood.

"Where'd he go?" Sho asks calmly. "And where is Matsumoto?"

"They're both running," Ohno responds, and exhales smoke into the already-grimy city air. "Aiba-san found us and Jun-kun just went. But I don't think they'll be running for long."

A small silence overcomes them, and then Ohno clears his throat. "Jun-kun isn't very good at hiding, you know," he says quietly. "And neither am I, I guess."

"He's not really looking for you," Sho says, even though he knows Ohno understands that. "You've just become part of the situation through circumstance."

"Circumstance," Ohno repeats, and blows the last of the smoke in his mouth away before stubbing out the cigarette beneath his heel. "Not fate?"

The question takes Sho by surprise.

"I don't know," he confesses. "I don't think about fate."

"You should. It's easier than thinking about circumstance."

In the dim light of the alleyway, Sho thinks Ohno's face looks like a moon, waxing and waning when he moves and talks.

"Sakurai-san," Ohno says then, and pushes off from the wall he was leaning against. "If you want, I'll drive you home."

Sho thinks about refusing. It would be easy, to hold up a hand and say thanks, but no thanks, I can take my own taxicab back to my apartment and I won't need to be indebted to you. But Sho can tell Ohno isn't doing this to make Sho owe him--he's doing it because Sho just lost a housemate for the night, and Ohno might have lost his boyfriend for longer than that. He's doing it because he knows the two of them have to let Aiba and Jun chase each other for as long as they want to and not intervene.

The way Sho sees it, this kind of thing might actually be fate and not circumstance. And that makes him uneasy, because how do you deal with fate?

"I'll take the ride," Sho consents. "But not back to my house."

Ohno nods cooperatively. "Wherever you want," he says, and lets Sho lead them out of the alleyway.

-

'Wherever you want' is an obvious place in Sho's mind. These days, when he's not at home, he's either driving or at Nino's apartment. Even though the current time is nowhere near Nino's preferred 'after-six' timeslot and Sho knows he's taking a giant leap of faith rather than his usual, planned steps, he finds it very hard to care.

Ohno drives him there without question or even conversation. He starts the car, thinks over Sho's directions for a second, and then switches on the air conditioning.

"Comfortable?" Ohno says halfway into the ride.

They're on the highway now, far from the burning city lights that Sho sometimes hates with a passion, and the car is driving smoothly without even the roar of the engine to distract Sho from his impending fatigue. The leather seats are cool and the air feels just right, and Ohno is humming along to the song on the radio--something old that Sho can't recognize, but it's bluesy and he likes it.

"Very," he says, and closes his eyes. "Thank you."

Ohno drives on.

When Nino's apartment comes into view Sho snaps out of his half-dream and points the building out to Ohno. It can't be any more than three minutes later when Sho bids Ohno good-bye and thank you again, so much, for the ride; Ohno waves with a smile that Sho hopes to God is genuine but he can't see how it could be anything otherwise.

"If you can," Sho says before Ohno starts the engine again, "if it's not too much trouble--."

"Aiba-san will be fine," Ohno reassures Sho. "You worry too much, I think."

Maybe Ohno is right, but Sho can't help it just like he can't help what he's doing now. The buzzer jumps under his finger just like it does in the mornings, but it's even earlier in the morning right now and he's not holding a bag of groceries in his arms. Sho has no butter, no milk, and no bread. He doesn't have his Maruyama Grocery uniform on. And there is no truck in the parking lot to take him home. He is on his own.

It takes too long before Nino's voice crackles out of the speaker, irritated and thick with sleep.

"Seriously," he says. "I might just call the cops on you."

"Can I come up?" Sho whispers, mouth very close to the holes in the speaker.

"Why are you even here?"

Sho decides to be honest. "I couldn't wait until tomorrow."

Nino doesn't say anything, just grunts. Sho begins to panic--what if Nino doesn't open the door?--but the click of the lock is loud, louder than in the daytime, and Sho exhales (though it does nothing to quell the drumming of his heartbeat).

No one is on the top of the fourth floor staircase waiting for him, but Sho expected that. He also anticipated that the hallway would be an eerie thing to walk through at three in the morning, and he has his arms wrapped around himself and his mouth in a thin line when he finally shows up at Nino's door.

"Cold?" Nino asks flatly. His voice is hoarse and he's squinting, and Sho immediately feels like telling him to just go back to bed, pretend this never happened, it was all a dream and I never woke you up at two-thirty in the morning trying to believe in fate instead of circumstance. "Because I am. Because I'm out of bed."

"Nino," Sho begins, but Nino just shuffles away, mumbling and limping like an old man.

"Nino," Sho tries again. "It's tomorrow."

"And I want to go to sleep," Nino grumbles, though they both know he can't anymore. He's too awake now, too alert at Sho's presence, to just slip back into bed and get carried off to dreamland that easily. "One day I'll kill you when you're least expecting it, Sakurai. Just to get back at you for this moment."

"You like sleeping?" Sho asks, more to distract Nino from noticing that Sho is following him into the bedroom than because he actually wants to know.

Nino makes a garbled humming sound before he realizes that he's in his bedroom again--with Sho.

"You sneaky bastard," he snaps, though in this state it's like a kitten asking for attention than anything with actual bite. "I'm telling you--." Nino drags his finger across his throat and then pokes Sho's chest right where his heart is.

His hand lingers, slipping gently against the fabric of Sho's shirt, and Sho's breath catches a little.

"You can kick me out," Sho says. "I won't hold it against you."

"If you let me kick you out I'd hold that against you," Nino mumbles, and throws the covers back on his bed. "Get in, stupid."

It's almost three in the morning and somewhere on the outskirts of metropolitan Tokyo, there they are: two boys on a bed. Sho's been in this situation before but now it's very different--he can't see the stars this time, but he's still wishing on them even though they're hidden behind drawn curtains in an unfamiliar room. Two boys on a bed, Sho thinks, and they're a funny pair--an actor and a paparazzo; a prey and his predator, though in a softer sense.

Nino yawns hugely. "Story time," he says, and throws one arm over Sho's lap. Sho lets him.

"I'm sorry," Sho says, "it's three in the morning, maybe we should save this until tomorrow--."

"Maybe," Nino says. "But I might not feel like saying everything tomorrow. Did you plan this? People are more vulnerable when they're not fully awake, you know."

"That you're telling me this suggests you're not so vulnerable," Sho says, a little amused. He feels like tugging Nino's shirt down; it's ridden up almost to the bottom of his ribcage.

Nino turns over on his stomach. "Someone," he says, voice muffled in his pillow, "told me I needed to stop acting like a recluse."

Sho blinks--he wasn't aware that story time had already started. "Wait," he says. "Acting like a recluse?"

"My manager told me that I had to act like a role model in my private time," Nino says, and flips over so that he's on his back now. Sho finally decides to tug down Nino's shirt and pulls it gently over the slope of his stomach, all the way to the top of his loose pajama pants. "I told her that I didn't want people to watch me when I wasn't on-screen, so I was just going to act like I didn't like going out in public. She was pretty upset." He laughs a little and yawns in quick succession.

"My family told me to do what I had to do, but that someone I told you about--the one that uses my guest room sometimes--he didn't like it. He used to tell me all the time that people can't hide forever."

"So what?" Sho wonders. "He forced you to start going out more to fix your image? He dragged you outside and called the paparazzo to take your photo in the sunlight as proof?"

Sho hears Nino's snort before he even realizes that the smirk is back. "No," he says. "He asked Weekend to deal with it, and they gave you the job."

There is silence for a long, long while. It is early, Sho thinks, much too early for this kind of realization--the kind that hits you over the head and then in the heart and keeps on plowing through you. He forgets to breathe, for a second, and thinks back to the beginning: the contract that came in the mail, the first few days of August that were overbearingly hot and full of cicada-noise, Sho signing his name on the dotted line.

To Sakurai Sho: We, the editors at Weekend magazine, are writing to inform you of an assignment opportunity. Should you choose to accept this job in lieu of the one you have now, sign the dotted line at the end of this document.

"You rang the buzzer and I expected you to come upstairs with a camera and a notepad and ten thousand questions," Nino continues, voice low. "I was told that you were going to gather information about me and feed it to Weekend, who'd out me to the public."

"And you were okay with that?"

Nino looks at Sho and raises his eyebrows. What do you think?

"I used to get my groceries dropped off by my agency, so I thought I'd see who you were just for the hell of it," Nino says. "I'd figure out your plans and make you leave and then Weekend would have written a story about how I'm a cynical bastard who yells at grocery deliverymen."

"What happened instead?" Sho breathes, and lets himself slide down so that he's lying on his back, eyes turned toward the ceiling. Now they're two boys on a bed lying side-by-side, questioning and thinking and on the edge of sleep.

Nino drags a single finger down Sho's arm, starting from the tip of his shoulder to the rounded crescent moon of his middle fingernail. When he pulls back Sho clenches his fist; his entire arm is tingling lightly.

"Well," Nino whispers, "I haven't called the police on you yet, have I?"

"But that's not news-worthy at all," Sho says, and shuts his eyes. "What am I going to tell Weekend? They'll want something juicy."

"Tell them that I'm suffering from a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome," Nino says, and curls into Sho's side. Someone pulls up the blanket from the foot of the bed. "That I'm addicted to white bread and can't leave the house because everyone else likes that whole-wheat shit. I'm not into health food."

"I'll quote you on that," Sho mumbles, and lets his fingertips rest on the warm nape of Nino's neck. "I'll say that you can't leave the house because you have a phobia of organic food products."

"That's stupid," Nino says through another, final yawn. "Just say that I…that I like…"

"Pancakes," Sho finishes.

Before he falls asleep he sees, through the part in the curtains, a fraction of the stars that dot the sky. One cup of the Milky Way grants a wish, he remembers, and decides that that's not true. You only need twenty-eight, a little luck, and the will to keep going--because if you do, something good might happen, and things might change for the better.

-

Nino drives Sho home in the next morning in a light drizzle, the kind Sho's mother used to call 'baby sprinkles' when he was little. As the car rolls along in the early-morning grey Nino makes snide remarks about how it's August and therefore way past the rainy season, so it shouldn't be raining as much as it has been. Sho agrees, but only because he feels like humoring Nino is his best choice.

They had woken up that morning tangled in sheets; Sho was on one side of the bed still in his clothes from last night and Nino was already sitting up, scrunching a hand through his hair (oh, Sho thought, so that's where the bed head comes from).

"Well," Sho mumbled, choosing his first words of the day as carefully as he would a proposal, "this is new."

Nino rolled out of bed in reply, but Sho caught the sly grin on his face anyway.

In an hour, there were pancakes (blueberry this time because Nino said he was getting tired of plain ones), and Sho tried to help with the flour and the mixing. That only resulted in most of the kitchen getting covered in a thin layer of white, and Nino, after realizing what had happened, kicked Sho out of the kitchen with a warning that if he ever tried to cook again there would be dire consequences. (Sho didn't believe him, but Nino picked up a wooden spoon then and Sho decided that okay, maybe he should just wait in the living room.)

They ate at the table like usual, but this time Sho's knee kept knocking into Nino's--at first accidentally because their chairs were closer than usual, but then Sho started doing it just because and Nino wasn't threatening him.

Now they're in the car, parked in front of Sho's apartment, and Nino reaches over to flick Sho's knee with his index finger.

"Ow!" Sho claps a hand over his knee. "Hey, what was that for?"

"For the abuse I suffered at my own kitchen table," Nino snaps. "If I wake up with a bruise on my knee tomorrow, I'm suing you."

"That's not fair," Sho replies, and unlocks the door. "You'd win."

Nino doesn't say anything to that, only watches Sho open the passenger door.

"Hey," Nino says when Sho is halfway out the car, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"After six in the morning," Sho says, "just like always," even though both of them know that after last night, 'always' isn't the same as it used to be.

-

Hours later, the buzzer to Sho's apartment rings and Sho jumps up from the couch, his heart already racing and winning against the blood that's rushing through his head. Even though he knows it's probably not Nino--even if he won't let himself think it's Nino--he's still stupidly excited for whoever is asking to come up.

"Hello?" Sho says. "Who's there?"

There's a pause. Then: "It's Ohno."

Well, Sho thinks. Well.

"Come on up," he says, pressing the button to unlock the front door.

"So what is this?" he asks, though good-naturedly, when Ohno appears at Sho's door wearing a ratty old t-shirt, sweatpants, and such an exhausted look on his face that it makes Sho want to offer him the couch for a thirty-minute nap. "Fate or circumstance?"

Sho watches Ohno's eyes crinkle at the sides. "Circumstance for us," he says, and rests a hand against the doorframe. "Fate for Aiba-san and Jun-kun."

"Don't tell me you got kicked out," Sho says, and doesn't know whether to feel relieved or worried. As it is, his stomach is churning with a mixture of both, and it doesn't feel all that pleasant. "Or did you leave on your own volition?"

"I couldn't sleep," Ohno says simply.

And even though he's already had breakfast Sho decides that making some would be the most appropriate thing to do in this situation. He invites Ohno in and lets him sit at the table while he makes tea and instant oatmeal (Sho is an expert at preparing instant foods). He doesn't talk to Ohno and Ohno doesn't say much, either, but Sho figures that there is nothing to be said that they don't already know.

But one thing confuses Sho.

"Why did you let him stay?" Sho asks as he brings over bowls of oatmeal and the teapot to the table, where Ohno has his hands curled around a mug. His eyes are closed and for a second Sho wonders if he's fallen asleep sitting up--but no, Ohno answers. He thinks about it first and takes a sip of tea, but he answers.

"I don't think it would be fair if I intervened," Ohno says quietly. He takes the spoon Sho offers him and dips it into the oatmeal, which is blowing curls of steam into his moonlike face. "I don't feel bitter about Aiba-san. I just want Jun-kun to be happy."

Sho looks up. "That's all?"

"That's all." Ohno smiles. "Besides, Jun-kun talks so much about Aiba-san that I wonder if it even makes sense to be jealous. Maybe he's my second boyfriend and I don't even know it."

He stirs his oatmeal around, making a whirlpool of oats and brown sugar, before scooping a spoonful into his mouth. It's hot--Sho hasn't eaten any of his yet for that reason, and he opens his mouth to warn Ohno--but Ohno looks wonderfully pleased and not as if he's burned his tongue at all.

He makes a sound full of feeling, the kind of noise you'd make if you found food in an obscure cupboard after being hungry for hours on end.

"Delicious," Ohno says, and tucks in.

-

Aiba doesn't come back for two days, but Sho knows there's nothing he can do about it and so he frets in silence and worries with his mouth closed. Even so Nino informs him that the aura around him is like being in a room full of mothers who don't know where their children are.

"If he texts you that he's fine, then why don't you just believe him?"

Nino is seeing Sho out of his apartment. After his day off (that wasn't planned, but Sho has many friends in the management department) he went back to his usual delivery routine.

"I don't know," Sho says irritably, because he honestly doesn't and it's frustrating him. "I just--I don't know him, you know?"

"Okay, well," Nino says as he leans against the wall of the foyer, "I don't see Aiba getting all flustered that you've been spending a lot of time with me. He doesn't know me. You just worry too much, you know that?"

Sho rubs his temples. "That's the second time I've been told that," he mutters.

"So there, Mother Sakurai. Just let it go. Babies grow up into young men with raging hormones, it's perfectly normal," Nino says.

Before he shuts the door he reaches out to fix one of Sho's undone uniform buttons. Blushing mercilessly, Sho thanks him with a smile.

As soon as he unlocks the door into his own apartment, Sho immediately knows that Aiba is back--his shoes are lying against the wall on their sides, the way they usually fall when Aiba kicks them off without a second thought and pushes them out of the way. Sho breathes a heavy sigh of relief and feels a little lighter as he walks into the kitchen.

There, he finds a shirtless male model.

Sho is about to faint.

"I," he begins. He has to lean against the counter for support. "May I help you?"

Jun jumps and looks up. His eyes almost outgrow the size of his head, and he puts down the mug he's holding. (Sho glances at it: yep, it's his personal mug. Oh, he will kill Aiba.) "Oh," Jun says, and clears his throat probably more violently than he intended to. "You must be Sakurai-san, right? Aiba's housemate."

"Ye-e-s," Sho drags out the syllables. "Yes."

The silence between them feels like a giant boulder. Finally Jun speaks up. "Sorry that I'm just hanging out in your kitchen--Aiba's a late sleeper, so…"

"I know," Sho says.

"And I thought I'd make some tea." He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "You can have some if you'd like."

"I will," Sho responds. "It is my kitchen."

He feels, as he moves around the kitchen awkwardly, that he knows too much about Jun through hearsay and secondhand memory. All of it--Aiba's five thousand Jun stories, the Weekend rumors, and all of Ohno's little remarks--flood his mind now as he watches Jun slip into a chair at the table.

Compared to all of the other celebrities Sho has come across, Jun looks the most tired. Perhaps it's because Sho is looking at the Matsumoto Jun that no one else gets to see--the morning-after, just-woke-up, doesn't-do-well-with-mornings Matsumoto Jun. The circles under his eyes are deep and dark and his complexion isn't really as rosy as all the photos make it seem, and the stray half-curls escaping from his hair band make it look like his face is a too-pale canvas sparsely painted with black swirls. It's not the most enchanting image in the world, but Sho finds himself staring anyway, unable to look away.

He's still looking when Jun's eyes meet his.

"This is good tea," Sho says for lack of anything else to comment on. "It's usually really watery when I make it."

"I do cook a lot," Jun replies, and swirls what's left of the liquid in his mug. "That might not extend to tea, but I do."

Jun's eyes are intense, but softly so. Normally Sho wouldn't dare make eye contact with someone he's never met for this long, but he's still looking at Jun and Jun is looking back at him with some sort of curious concentration.

"I hope you don't expect me to apologize," Jun says suddenly. His tone isn't angry or standoffish--Sho can tell he's only speaking the truth. It's a truth full of feeling, of a feeling that only comes from seeing someone in snapshots and fleeting moments when all you want to do is reach out to their back and turn them around to say, hey there, I've missed you.

Sho could never ask anyone to apologize for that.

He thinks about asking the twenty-eight stars so long ago to just make everything work out in the end. He'd deliberated over the wording of that wish for a long time--should he ask for happiness, for Aiba to find Jun, for good fortune and a nice life? Somehow Sho decided that 'everything will work out in the end' was the most neutral thing he could ask for. It wasn't like he was begging by asking for something too specific, but he got his point across.

And honestly, Sho never thought it would come this far. But here he is, sitting across from Matsumoto Jun at the kitchen table on a weekday morning, and he feels calm. He feels like everything has worked out.

After all of the trying and hoping and running, after all of those prayers that started and ended with tomorrow, after all of the breakfasts and the worried pangs in Sho's stomach--after all of it, Sho feels like things have come a long way from where they started.

He shakes his head.

"There's nothing you need to apologize for," he says, and gets up to open the curtains that lead into the balcony. Today, it's sunny outside.

of tomorrows, 1/2

2010-08-27T18:38:21Z

Title: Of Tomorrows
Pairing(s): Sho/Nino, Ohno/Jun, implied Aiba/Jun
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~19,900
Summary: Sho's assignment for the month of August is simple enough: find Ninomiya Kazunari.
A/N: This was written for the 2010 je_ficgames challenge. I was on Team AU (and we won! yay us!) and wrote for the prompt 'tell me the news, baby.' This fic basically sapped me dry, and I wrote part of it on a plane and finished it in an airport, but all that aside I couldn't have done this without the help of my betas aeslis and toinkydoink. ♥

Sho's assignment for the month of August is simple enough: find Ninomiya Kazunari.

At least, it had sounded easy until Aiba explained that Ninomiya Kazunari was an expert at staying hidden and therefore no paparazzo had ever gotten close enough to find out any juicy details about the guy. He was an actor and had a laundry list of awards pinned next to his name, but everyone knew that already. The tabloid magazines wanted something else to latch their dirty little hands on. They wanted something, anything that would set the entire entertainment industry aflame with pointed fingers and random girls crying in shame and disbelief.

Most importantly they wanted something that would bring in the money.

It was always about the money. This is why Sho became a paparazzo in the first place. Aiba had shown him the checks with scribbled values of seventy, eighty, ninety thousand yen just for a single picture of some B-grade actress throwing up into the river or a famous model trying to hitchhike with the heel of her silver stiletto, and Sho had been so disgusted and intrigued at the same time that he couldn't help but say yes when Aiba invited him out one night, just to get a feel for the game. He'd leant Sho a camera, one of the heavy, professional ones that Aiba had lots of, and he'd given Sho a VIP pass direct from the tabloid Weekend.

And they went out. To sleazy, seedy bars with funky names like Sunday Monday and Leaky Monaco, to five-star restaurants that had reservations made for months into the future, to back alleys where drunken celebrities made out without a care in the world and also without a care for where their hands were wandering. Within a few hours Aiba had snapped hundreds of photos; Sho, about twenty.

Aiba had just smiled widely. "Don't you worry, Sho-chan," he'd said. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

From that day on, Sho's name appeared in Weekend's paparazzi list. He started getting calls, too, and checks with small monetary values for his blurry, pixilated photos of celebrities doing the walk of shame at five AM. It was all convenience, really; Sho delivered groceries to residents all over Tokyo as a day job and started his runs around that time.

So August came and a letter showed up on Sho's desk with all the details of his new assignment. It required him to put down his camera and to change his grocery delivery route to include Ninomiya's apartment, which Weekend had struggled to find. But they'd figured out which one it was, finally, and they decided to send someone they could afford to lose to risk his life and dignity for a couple of random tidbits of information.

Sho wasn't the best photographer in the business. That was Aiba. But Sho was intelligent and could worm his way into things even if he had to beat back his morals and conscience to do them. He could take his camera and make it sound like he was a preppy photojournalist just wanting to take pictures of the restaurant; he could make it seem like he was actually invited to black-tie affairs when in reality Weekend had to pull fifty thousand strings to just get him into the building.

Even if the business made Sho want to vomit, he got used to it. He had to, because he and Aiba still lived in a crappy apartment with ridiculously high rent, and they were forced to pay bills and feed themselves and the kittens (they had two, a tabby and a black one).

If Sho decided to take on the Ninomiya assignment, he would get paid a lovely bonus, as would Aiba. They would get regular checks instead of getting paid whenever Weekend remembered that their legions of paparazzi had actual lives and weren't simply bats leaving their caves at night. They could buy new cameras, healthier cat food, new curtains to replace the fraying ones.

Sho signed on the dotted line.

-

Sometimes Sho wonders when this whole paparazzo thing started. It all began with Aiba, certainly, but it can't be as long as they've known each other because Sho didn't even know that there was anything beyond Aiba's photography major until they had passed the one-year mark as best friends. And even after that it had taken some time for Aiba to convince him that being a paparazzo wasn't all that bad--you just had to look beyond the fact that you were invading other people's lives, Aiba had explained offhandedly. You had to do it for a reason, money or recognition or something, anything that's more than just wanting to stalk celebrities for the hell of it.

Aiba has a reason. Aiba has a reason that walks runways and does his hair every morning with careful, practiced precision, a reason known as one of the best male models in the business, who used to be an actor when he was a kid but grew up and found that he could get paid for simply looking good.

Aiba has a reason named Matsumoto Jun.

If anyone asks Aiba how exactly he became a paparazzo, he'll just laugh for a moment and then shrug nonchalantly. There isn't really a story behind it, he'll say, the smile on his face one rich with nostalgia and a tinge of sadness. My dad had cameras and I lived next door to Matsumoto Jun.

We grew up together, he'll continue, and wistfully so. Before he got famous, you know? Jun-kun was my best friend. We did lots of things together.

Aiba's excitement will grow. And now Sho-chan and I do a lot of things together, he'll continue, and the feelings in him will bubble over as if he's reached some sort of boiling point. We met only a year ago, you know! But it's like we're best friends. No, we are best friends--we have an apartment together, and we're going to be living in it still when we finish college. It's so much fun, being with Sho-chan all the time.

But what, the other person will press on, about Matsumoto Jun?

If Aiba was at a boiling point one second before, something else in him will immediately freeze over. But the only way to know that change has happened is to find the new quiver in his voice, barely noticeable but there. It will be like someone has taken a pen and written in an accidental note on a once-perfect score of music, and even the most experienced musicians will have to squint.

It was kind of my dad's fault, Aiba will say, and that will be the end of the conversation--unless the other person is a certain Sakurai Sho, and the two of them are sitting in the dark of Sho's dorm room at two in the morning one lonely night, counting the stars as they sit together on the futon.

By the time Aiba reaches this point in the story, they have both counted twenty-seven stars each; enough to fill up one-third of a cup of the Milky Way (at least, according to Aiba's recipe).

At star twenty-eight Aiba continues his tale, but his voice will have thinned out. Sho has to lean in to listen.

Jun-kun was a child actor, right, Aiba says, and Sho nods. So my dad took lots of pictures of Jun's family through the window of our kitchen because you could see into Jun's house--he took pictures of them eating dinner and watching television. Just normal stuff, like the things you and I do together. But Jun's family, they…

Aiba trails off. Of course Sho can piece together the rest: the Matsumotos finding out about their prying neighbors and moving away, worlds away; forbidding their son from talking to Aiba ever again.

I don't think he remembers me, Aiba says after Sho has laid a hand on his shoulder. So maybe if I keep doing this I'll find him. Do you think so, Sho-chan? Maybe one day I'll get an assignment to photograph Matsumoto Jun, and we'll run into each other, and he'll remember everything we used to have!

Sho-chan, Aiba says after a long moment filled only with simple, even breaths. Do you think that's stupid?

No, Sho responds, and he means it very much. How could it be?

I don't know, Aiba breathes, and flops backwards on the bed. His outstretched legs dangle over the edge and Sho watches his toes wiggle in the semi-darkness. I just never thought I'd be doing this. When I was little I was supposed to take over the family restaurant, you know? And then my dad gave me a Polaroid camera and I liked taking pictures, so my brother started getting training instead of me.

And now we're here, he finishes, and laughs slightly. Two boys on a bed.

Um, Sho says, and Aiba laughs even more.

All I can say, Sho continues, is that I never thought I'd end up here, either.

Two boys on a bed? Aiba suggests.

You could say that, Sho says, and lies down next to Aiba, who has his eyes closed. Whether he's thinking or about to fall asleep Sho doesn't know, but he keeps on talking anyway.

What are we going to do with all these stars? he asks.

If you fill up one cup with the Milky Way your wish will come true, Aiba mumbles in response. His head finds Sho's shoulder. But that's a lot of stars.

And only one wish, says Sho. That's not the best deal.

Trust the economics major to point out things like that, Aiba yawns, and also to have really bad shoulders for people to sleep on. Do you know that your shoulders slope an awful lot, Sho-chan?

Sho would move away, but he figures that would be too cruel. Instead he lets Aiba fall asleep there on his bed, snuggled close and murmuring sleep-laced thoughts about Matsumoto Jun and stars and the galaxy. For the next hour until he falls asleep himself, Sho wishes on all twenty-eight stars that he has, and it's the same wish over and over again: please let everything just work out in the end.

-

The truth is that Sho never thought he would still be living in a hole-in-the-wall flat years after he graduated from college. Somewhere down the line he expected a call from his father offering him a job in the company or at least the number of some high-up friend who could give Sho a decent job opportunity. But soon after Sho's graduation his father was transferred to Bahrain, and there were no calls from him for a very, very long time--only brief one-liners sent through his mother that said things like, hope all is well son and make your mother and I proud.

"Tell him I'm doing well," was the only thing Sho could ever say back to his mother over the phone.

"Still working at the grocery, dear?" she would respond sweetly. "Why don't you try and work your way up to corporate management and go from there?"

"I'll be fine, mother." Sho got very good at lying from those phone calls. "The rent here is manageable, and Masaki works too. We don't starve."

"It's not your rent or your food intake I'm worried about, dear," Sho's mother would sigh, and Sho would hurriedly change the subject. There was no need for her to bring up the fact that Sho wasn't doing as well as the entire Sakurai family had hoped. He was comfortable, of course, and had a good amount of money in his savings account thanks to Weekend, but in the eyes of his parents he was still holed up in a teeny-tiny apartment with an odd roommate and a job that had little to do with his economics degree.

All of that is fine for Aiba, of course--he has someone to look for on the job, a face to dream about when he's running around the city with his camera. But there is nothing about being a paparazzo that Sho finds particularly satisfying. There is nothing that he's running after, except perhaps his next check to help pay the rent and buy groceries and feed the cats.

He's worried that this is all going to burn out for him too soon.

"It's not too late," Aiba says one night as Sho is preparing dinner for the cats. "You'll figure it out, Sho-chan."

"I just thought I'd have it all figured out by now," Sho says miserably as he pours dry cat food into two bowls. Near his ankles Sammi and Yujitaka are mewling piteously for their food. "I didn't start this job for a reason and I still don't have one, even after all this time."

Aiba hums and proceeds to stuff a handful of chips into his mouth (even though the bag is clearly marked with a note that says, 'please conserve our snack food; do not eat more than 10 at a time'). "Well, you can always become a housewife. You're good at that, aren't you?"

Sho chooses to ignore that comment. "How long will I have to keep doing this?" he wonders aloud before bending down to set two small bowls on the linoleum. The kittens crowd round Sho's hand and lick his fingers before stuffing their heads into piles of cat food. "Pretty soon I'll be old and…and inadequate."

"And wrinkly," Aiba laughs. "But I'm sure everything will fall into place by the time we need to buy you a wheelchair."

For a second the only sounds in the kitchen are the bowls scraping against the floor.

"What are you going to do if you don't find Matsumoto Jun?" Sho asks suddenly.

Aiba reaches into the bag of chips, but doesn't come out with anything in his hand but crumbs and smudges of oil. The look on his face is calculating and a bit confused--Sho doesn't blame him. Nobody would ever want to wonder what would happen if they never found the person they were looking for the most.

"Keep trying," Aiba says, and smiles. "Just like you are."

"Who says I'm trying?"

"You get up in the morning, don't you?"

Aiba is still smiling, and Sho realizes: maybe this is the reason why Sho hasn't simply packed his bags and left this crummy little apartment and these less-than-desirable jobs behind--because in this life, failure isn't ever considered. It's not allowed. You get up in the morning and you breathe and you deliver groceries and carry around a camera, and you're trying. And that matters.

"I don't think you need to worry," Aiba continues. "Something good will happen, and things will change."

-

A few days after that conversation, Sho gets a call from Weekend telling him that he can start delivering to Ninomiya's house whenever he's ready.

Sho decides that he's not ready, mainly because he doesn't really know who Ninomiya Kazunari is.

"This is why I told you to watch Telegrams from Nagasaki with me!" Aiba exclaims once Sho admits that he's clueless. "If you'd just turned off your computer and stopped working on your thesis paper that one night, you would know who Ninomiya is."

Sho grunts. "Hey, I got an A on that term paper. And how do you remember all the way back to sophomore year anyway?"

Aiba gives Sho a withering look. "How do you not remember all the way back to sophomore year? College was pretty great, Sho-chan, despite the whole tests thing." Sho opens his mouth, but Aiba plows on. "Anyway, the point is that you should know who Ninomiya is because he's a famous actor. And I don't just mean like regular famous, like he's only been in a few movies. He's ridiculously famous."

"And?" Sho isn't really getting it. Everyone they photograph is 'ridiculously famous.' Even Matsumoto Jun is 'ridiculously famous,' even though Sho doesn't really see how a simple male model can garner the amount of attention that Jun does. Lately he's been doing an ad campaign for a cell phone company, and Sho feels like he's being followed by signs of lithe figures dressed in purple leather with sleek, wavy haircuts. "I'm not sure I understand why Weekend is making such a big deal out of this. Can't we just follow him around when he goes out like we do everyone else?"

"Because," Aiba says. "He doesn't go out."

"Oh come on," Sho scoffs, "that's what you told all our other friends every year during finals time, but I left my room sometimes, didn't I? That's just an exaggeration."

"No, no, no!" Suddenly Aiba bolts off the couch and runs into the kitchen to grab something. "I'm serious, Sho-chan. Look, here, here's proof."

He comes back with an armful of Weekend magazines. Usually it's Sho that brings them home from the grocery store, but it's Aiba who takes them into the bathroom to read and lets him pile up on the windowsill, organized neatly by month.

Sho tries not to touch them for sanitary reasons and also because he doesn't like to look at his pictures after he's sent them into the offices at Weekend to be developed and reviewed. It's his own little golden rule of being a paparazzo and he hasn't broken it since the very first issue his photographs appeared in (issue 46, volume 10--a series of mostly clear shots detailing an hour in veteran tycoon and notorious sleaze Johnny Kitagawa's daily routine; Sho doesn't really think there's anything valuable to see in the photographs but then again there are some people who consider Johnny drinking coffee a larger-than-life event).

But here is Aiba, breaking that rule so hard it's like Sho never made it in the first place. He's opening certain issues to specific pages and laying them out on the table until the entire surface is covered with newspaper in varying degrees of distress. The older issues especially have torn corners and entire paragraphs smudged out.

"So do you see?" Aiba says proudly as he motions to his monstrous creation.

"I see that you've made a mess." Sho is mostly focused on the fact that Aiba has just spread an entire country of bacteria into the living room. "And I also see my photographs, none of which are of this mysterious Ninomiya person--."

"Ah, Sho-chan, don't look at your pictures," Aiba snaps, and waves his hands in the air as if he's trying to rid Sho of all incorrect thoughts. "That's just a coincidence that they're on the same page. Focus on the text, the text!"

Oh. This explains why Sho isn't getting it: he never reads the articles in Weekend. Even if he technically works for the magazine, celebrity gossip isn't really the type of news Sho looks for in the morning with his morning coffee. Come to think of it, he's not sure if he's ever seen Aiba read any of the articles.

Then again, all of the Weekends in the house always seem to gravitate toward the bathroom.

Suppressing a gag, Sho leans forward to skim the articles in front of him. Most of them are short and made entirely of quotes from supposed, probably unreliable sources rather than actual reporting (then again, Sho doesn't expect proper journalism from a tabloid magazine).

But they're all about Ninomiya Kazunari and how he's practically a shut-in.

The articles gloss over Ninomiya's achievements and go straight to the dirty rumors about how he never, ever seems to leave his apartment. Sho reads that Weekend has been trying to tail Ninomiya since the beginning of his acting career six years ago, but no paparazzi have ever managed to snap his picture, let alone see him in public. And while Weekend prides itself on having nosy readers who send in texts whenever they see a famous person out on the street at any time of the day, no one has ever claimed to have seen Ninomiya.

"Good for him," Sho says when he's finished. He turns to his left to see Aiba with a kitten on each shoulder, meowing for their tiny, dear lives as they try to stay on by clinging to his sweater. "He must be pretty smart if no one's managed to see him in six years. And you'll have holes in your sweater if you don't let them go."

Aiba yelps as Yujitaka's claws dig past his clothes and into his skin. "Ow, ow, Yuji! Fine, fine," he says, and shakes the kittens off. They fall with little thuds onto the couch and amble over to Sho's lap, where they begin burrowing with fluffy determination. "And yeah, isn't that crazy? I heard he gets all of his groceries delivered to him. And I don't think he has a car, either, so he can't be followed all that easily. I think he gets picked up by a different van each time he needs to get to the studio."

"So he wouldn't do interviews or anything, right?" Sho wonders aloud. "That's fascinating, don't you think?"

"Weekend thinks so too," Aiba says, and tilts his head. Sho looks at him strangely. "I mean, that's exactly why they asked you to do this."

Sho frowns. He knows this, of course--he knew it from the moment he picked the envelope out of the rest of their usual mail, the envelope addressed to Sakurai Sho from Weekend. But there's still that nagging emotion in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach that can't help but wonder what the hell he's supposed to get out of all of this. What could he tell his bosses, after all, besides what kind of peppers Ninomiya preferred and whether he liked skim milk instead of whole, or even if he liked milk at all? Maybe he was lactose-intolerant. Now that would cause a ruckus in the gossip industry.

"But I have a degree in economics," Sho mumbles, suddenly downtrodden. "Not psychiatry."

"I know, Sho-chan," Aiba says wearily, and Sho knows exactly where the rest of this sentence is going. He's heard it before, from Aiba and the demons in his own head and heart. "But you're not an economist."

This is the truth. Sho is not an economist--he's a college graduate, a grocery deliveryman and a paparazzo for one of the fastest-selling tabloid magazines on the market.

He might as well make the best of it. After all, something good might come from this, and everything might change.

-

It begins on a Tuesday. Sho gets up at five in the morning just as he usually does, only this time Aiba wakes up in the next room at the same time (and with a lot of noise. Sho always wonders how Aiba manages to be so loud and energetic in the morning; it's like his batteries suddenly jumpstart with the sound of the alarm and while other people take their time to get back into the swing of things, Aiba's swinging never stopped).

Sho had asked Aiba to come with him, and of course he'd agreed. He had nothing to do anyway, but Sho suspected that even if he had a full workday at some odd-end job he'd taken up--construction site worker or one of those people that handed out flyers on the street--he'd go anyway. They had been together long enough, breathing the same air and sharing the same towels for too many years to not understand when one of them needed the other without having to say so.

The kittens want to come too, but Sho pats both of their heads and tells them that he'll return home with half a heart and more money in his pocket.

"Daddy is being dramatic," Aiba whispers to the confused cats after Sho opens the door and has one foot in the hallway.

"Daddy will be late," Sho shoots back miserably. "Come on."

When they reach the warehouse in the company truck, Aiba helps him load packages into the back. They're both wearing uniforms that say Maruyama on the front in big orange letters, and it makes Sho believe harder in his little fantasy that they have normal jobs and live normal lives. Here they are, roommates who load delivery trucks with groceries, and in a bit they'll be driving the empty early-morning streets to drop off their wares. It's not much of a life, Sho thinks, but it'll do in place of the one they have now.

"Maybe we should just do this instead," Sho says as he drives. At five in the morning Tokyo is a strange color of blue and everything, everything is awash in that certain light. "We can sell our cameras and just deliver groceries all the time."

Aiba hums. Sho knows exactly what that means, and he stays silent for the rest of the route.

Finally comes the last turn, a swerve Sho has never made before but will today and from all days now on until his contract with Weekend expires. After saying hello to all the of the sleepy families and old pensioners that dot Sho's journey, after passing all of their pretty, well-painted homes with flowerpots in the front, Sho finds himself parked in front of a decaying, greenish-colored apartment building that doesn't look any better than his own complex.

There are even potholes in the parking lot.

"The stray cats don't even look friendly!" Aiba exclaims, as if this is the most upsetting thing about the place. "Look, they're all hissy! They're probably scared of people, you know, Sho-chan. We should take them home and give Yuji and Sammi new friends--."

"No," Sho says firmly, and unlocks the door of his car. "Unless you want to scavenge for their food."

It's a damp, overcast day for August, and the clouds carry a chill leftover from the night before. As he steps to the back of the truck to unload the last package of groceries Sho only half-listens to Aiba's argument about how all the cats can share their food and learn to live harmoniously (though he trips over the word, mainly because he's trying to say it in English).

The carton is light. Sho peeks inside to find only a meager assortment of groceries: two eggplants, a carton of whole milk and a stick of unsalted butter. Either Ninomiya doesn't do a lot of cooking, or he doesn't need much to sustain himself.

Sho has a sudden mental image of a thin, frail young man opening the door to his apartment.

But no, that wouldn't happen. Sho has seen Ninomiya's promotional photographs; the guy is skinny, but not malnourished. Just slim--the body of a seventeen-year-old boy forever stuck to an aging brain, a brain that is now in his late twenties and is gifted with the charm of a good actor, but obsessed with keeping the shades drawn on his private life.

Nothing wrong with that, Sho thinks, and has to force himself to shut the gate of the truck, to get moving.

"I'll stay here," Aiba says. He has his head stuck out of the passenger window. "I'll watch the truck for you."

Sho stares. "Aiba-chan," he starts, but doesn't really know what to say. "Are you sure?"

"It's not like you're marching to your death or anything," Aiba says, and laughs brightly. Out of the corner of Sho's eye he sees a couple of unfriendly cats scatter, probably startled by the sudden noise.

"Anyway," Aiba continues. "We can get breakfast when you're done."

It's a small promise and an even bigger comfort, and somehow it--along with the first rays of sunlight beginning to highlight the tops of the buildings surrounding them--makes Sho feel a little better about this. He walks to the entranceway of the apartment, bundle of groceries balanced neatly in his arms, and presses the buzzer.

Time passes, and nothing happens. Sho is about to press the buzzer again, even if he knows how annoying that is--maybe Ninomiya is just in the bathroom. Or what if he wasn't even awake yet? What if his old grocers had come at night, or at other times, certain coded times that would signify to Ninomiya that there was a safe person there who only wanted to give him food? In fact, what if there was a code word or something that Sho needed to know? It had taken Weekend this long to find out where Ninomiya lived, after all. There could be other things they didn't know about.

"You're really early," something says, and Sho squints at the speaker next to the buzzer. "Didn't my people tell you that I only accept groceries after six AM?"

"Um," Sho says. "I'm sorry, should I come again later?"

"No thanks. I don't want to be bothered again," says the voice. "No one else is with you?"

"No one," Sho says, and wonders if the word of a deliveryman is really all that trustworthy, especially to someone who never leaves his house. Sho could be lying right now, straight through his teeth, and have an entire camera crew with him. Or his own camera, for that matter.

But it's just him and some veggies and dairy products. Nothing all that threatening.

"Okay. Come up, then. Fourth floor. I'll meet you on the stairs."

The door clicks open, and somehow the sound is uninviting, almost annoyed. But Sho pushes the door open with the tip of his foot and slips inside.

He tries not to look around too much--the more information he retains, the more he'll feel obligated to tell Weekend, after all--and finds his way to the stairwell while looking straight ahead at all times. All he sees in his forced view is concrete, concrete, and more concrete; this is obviously not a luxurious apartment building, and neither is it a welcoming one. It's no wonder why the cats are as hissy as Aiba described.

Sho stops at the bottom of the fourth floor stairwell.

Someone is standing at the top of it.

"You're--?" Sho begins, just to make sure. "Ninomiya-san?"

Ninomiya shrugs. "So they say," he replies, and Sho doesn't really know what to make of that, but he climbs the stairs anyway and follows Ninomiya down another concrete hallway. Again Sho looks straight ahead of him, but he can't help but notice the way the apartment complex is closed to the outside. There aren't even windows lining the corridor, so Sho has no idea whether or not the sun has fully come out yet. And there are no lights, either.

"It's not very well-lit in here, is it?" Sho mumbles, more to himself than to Ninomiya.

"You forget that's a good thing for some of us."

Sho clamps his mouth shut.

Soon enough they reach a door, though Sho can't really tell the number on it, or even if there's a doorbell or not. It is that dark where they are, and it unnerves Sho to the point where he's absolutely itching to suggest that Ninomiya have a light installed. But no, but no--he's a celebrity. He wouldn't want that, Sho has to remind himself over and over again.

He hands the package over instead.

"Please check to make sure you have everything," he says. "If you don't, I can go back to the truck and see if anything fell--."

"Not necessary," Ninomiya cuts Sho off. "I have everything. Thank you."

Neither of them makes a move.

"That means you can leave now," Ninomiya continues, but his voice carries a hint of hidden laughter. "I'm not going to invite you in, if you're hoping for that."

"No!" Sho waves his hands frantically. He can feel his face growing warmer, even in the dampness of the hallway. "That wasn't--I mean, I'll go now."

"But you'll be back tomorrow," Ninomiya says. He still sounds like he wants to throw his head back and laugh at any second, and it just makes Sho feel even more embarrassed. Clearly he's done something humiliating, but he can't even tell what that might have been. "With more groceries, right?"

"If that's what you want," Sho says.

Ninomiya shrugs. "Why not?"

The words stick with Sho long after he's climbed back into the truck. Why not? Why not come back and bring me more groceries? It's a long shot from what Sho expected of Ninomiya--he'd been prepared to face some sort of mole person-like recluse, not to meet a complete stranger on the stairwell and have a conversation with him.

He had seemed very normal, like the sort of man you would meet on the crosswalk on a rainy night with a look on his face that would clearly tell you to get out of his way. But he'd still have a smile on, a smile that would almost be a smirk, and you'd feel compelled to obey with no questions asked.

Usually Sho keeps a clear head about things. He never thinks too much about the celebrities he photographs and he never tries to talk to them either; if they say more than two words to him Sho won't remember what they are a minute later. There's no reason for him to recall what Celebrity A said, after all, since he gets paid to take photographs and not to make small talk with people who wear too many expensive things and hate his profession.

But for some reason, Ninomiya is hard to shake off.

"You're coming back tomorrow already?" Aiba is shocked after Sho tells him what happened. "And he asked you to? As in, he wanted you to come back?"

"It wasn't exactly like that," Sho says as he carefully maneuvers the truck out of the parking lot. Instead of taking a left turn back in the direction of their apartment, he goes right toward the nearest breakfast place. "Maybe he was joking. I couldn't see his face, after all."

"Yeah," Aiba agrees, and then grins to himself. "Hey, maybe he's part of some cult that doesn't allow sunlight and that's why he never goes outdoors!"

Sho chokes. "Maybe not."

"But just maybe," Aiba insists, and Sho mumbles something about how maybe they won't be getting any breakfast if Aiba continues to say things that don't make sense. After that, Aiba is quiet, and the only sounds to fill the cramped inside of the company truck are radio static and the low, uneven thrum of the tires against asphalt.

As he drives Sho notices that the sun has finally risen fully over Tokyo, and he thinks back to the dark apartment he was just in and how it's all such a shame that Ninomiya is hidden from the world in his cold, closed-in space. Would you even be able to tell if it was raining? Sho remembers walls thick with concrete and decides that no, you wouldn't be able to hear the rain falling on the roof, no matter how hard it came down.

"I can't come with you tomorrow morning," Aiba says over breakfast. They place they chose is one right on the edge of downtown, but in the early morning like this even the city is hush-hush with yawns and shots of caffeine that have yet to kick in. As it is, Sho is waiting for his huge mug of coffee so he doesn't fall asleep at the wheel on the drive back. "I'll be going home."

Aiba goes back to Chiba every so often to visit his parents, usually at the urging of his mother, an ex-delinquent who is the sweetest person Sho has ever met. She comes over a couple of times a month to bring take-out boxes of frozen spring rolls and gyoza from their family restaurant, and sometimes she stays for a little bit to clean up.

"Oh yeah?" Sho says, and leans back heavily in his seat. "Are you staying overnight?"

Aiba has a huge forkful of eggs in his mouth. "I gueth," he says, and when he swallows it looks almost painful. "I told Weekend I wouldn't be able to shoot for a day and they told me it was okay. I'll just need to get a few good pictures tonight."

Weekend sends their paparazzi photo assignments during the day and expects digital copies of all photos taken by the next morning. This is why 'tonight' always feels like a whole other world to Sho--while everyone else is asleep, he pulls on bags of equipment worth almost a third of his college tuition and runs out the door.

"What do they want this time?"

"This guy," Aiba mumbles around more eggs. "Ohno Satoshi?"

"That sounds familiar."

"It's a very familiar name in our household," Aiba replies, and his smile is bitter. "Try and remember, Sho-chan."

-

It hits Sho on the way home: Ohno Satoshi only dates models. Male or female, it doesn't matter--he's been sighted with both in varying stages of intimacy, from simple hand-holding to drunken, full-on making out with his dates in supposedly empty alleyways.

Currently, he's rumored to be in a steady relationship with one very popular male model that every tabloid suspects is Matsumoto Jun.

The only reason Sho remembers this is because Ohno seemed the least likely celebrity to be wanted by the prying eyes of the media, and yet Weekend ran an entire special issue on him once. It wasn't as thick as their usual specials were, but it was practically overflowing with information--that Ohno is a professional fisherman willing to spend days on a boat but still manages to find time to date the most sought-after female and male models in the fashion industry.

Lately, there had been talk of him and Matsumoto Jun being seen together. Aiba hadn't said much about it, but Sho had noticed that the Weekend Ohno special had disappeared from the bathroom windowsill. He suspects it's in Aiba's bedside drawer, gathering dust but safe and there right beside him just as Sho knows Aiba wants Jun to be.

Sho won't ask Aiba about it. He knows that if he tries he won't get a straight answer, and it's best for him to just go along with the whole thing lest he get left behind. And when you're somebody's roommate and also a large part of their life, it's never good to be left behind.

Aiba must feel the same way. As he and Sho walk to the stretch of stores next to the station that night, he's bringing Sho up to date on everything he knows about this sushi place--including why he intends to work while they're eating.

"Ohno Satoshi owns the place," Aiba says distractedly. He's taken his phone out of his pocket and is fiddling with the buttons, trying to set the camera to maximum megapixels without draining his battery. "And he's going to be there tonight to take over the head chef job for a few hours before he heads back to his boat."

In the beginning Sho was surprised just how much information Weekend managed to squeeze out of Tokyo's back alleys and bored residents, but he's since gotten used to how scarily detailed his assignments are.

"What are you going to do? Sneak in the back?" Sho says.

Aiba throws him a thumbs-up.

When they reach the restaurant Sho isn't surprised to see that the dining room is almost over capacity. The place is tiny as it is and before they've even reached the entrance he can already see a line of people grouped outside the door, waiting and talking and surrounded by smoke and blue light.

But they're ushered in right away and shown to a table right by the kitchens. Sho slinks past groups of people clucking their tongues at being placed so low on the waiting list and walks into a cooler space filled with even more noise--the clinking of glasses, of plates, of long fake nails against ceramic surfaces.

"How--?" Sho begins.

"Weekend," Aiba says. "You should know that by now, Sho-chan!"

He should, but it still gets him every time they show up someplace and already have seats or drinks on the table or tickets to shows that most people have to wait months for. Even now there's already a plate of sashimi on the table, so thinly sliced that when Sho holds a piece of tuna up to the light he can see Aiba's face through the fish.

And there's already someone in the kitchen Aiba knows well enough to let him in the back. But this is all Aiba's doing, and not Weekend's fault that Aiba loves people, loves to make friends.

"Becky!" He calls her over with a wave of his hand, and even if Sho was raised to be a polite boy in every situation he can't help but stare. Aiba's talked about this Becky girl before, how he met her at the fish market one early morning as he was on the job and she was buying ingredients for the day, but Sho has never seen her.

She's cute--very cute. But she looks a little annoyed when she realizes it's Aiba who's calling her name.

"Aiba," she snaps. "Next time you want to be a nuisance, how about you give me a call instead of showing up with VIP treatment like you think I'm going to let you whisk me off my feet?"

Sho likes her already.

"Aw, Becky," Aiba says, and Sho watches his fingers reach out to rest on the bone of her wrist. She doesn't move away. "I try to call you sometimes, but you're always working."

Becky's eyes roll with a force that Sho has never seen before; the sarcasm in her expression nearly chides him into cowering in the corner. "Leave a message," she says, not so viciously this time. "Anyway, do you guys need anything?"

She's looking at Sho.

"I'm Aiba's roommate," he says.

"It's Sho-chan!" Aiba exclaims just as Becky gasps in delight. "Oh, you're that Sakurai!" she says, and claps her hands giddily. "Sorry, I should have known!"

Sho shakes his head and tells her no, it's okay, he doesn't usually live up to the stories that others tell about him.

Becky smiles. "But you're just as cute as Aiba said you were."

In the next moment as Sho splutters, Aiba motions Becky downward and whispers in her ear that he needs to go in the back.

She grins--a witty, sidelong curve. "So you heard?"

Aiba nods. He pats his pocket, checking for his cell phone.

"It was supposed to be a secret," Becky sighs, but she opens the kitchen curtains anyway. "Come on, then, get in here."

"If you're not back soon, all of this will be gone," Sho warns as his chopsticks dive into the bowl for another two pieces of sashimi. "And then we'll have to actually spend money."

"We'll have more money soon," Aiba says, and winks. "Right, Sho-chan?"

He promises he'll be back in ten minutes.

-

Instead of getting Aiba back, Sho gets a text after ten minutes have passed.

RUNNING. U can go home w/out me. SRYSRYSRY! Also pls leave door unlocked. 4got keys.

"I don't know what happened to him," Becky says when Sho asks about it. She has another plate of sashimi for him--salmon, his favorite--and insists that it's on the house bill when he tries to pay. "I let him in the back and he found Ohno-san straightaway. They liked each other, I think. Then after that…I don't know."

"They liked each other?" Sho says incredulously."You mean, they talked?"

"Yeah," Becky says. "Funny, right? Ohno-san isn't even the type to talk to many people. But he and Aiba, they hit it off really well."

Becky's words hang between them for a moment, gathering dust in the light from the lamps hanging above the tables as Sho stares blankly at her. Sometimes he finds that he has too many thoughts in his head to keep track of and he brushes each of them away too quickly to really keep them together in an organized fashion. When they pile up, he has to go through each of them one by one.

Right now, he's thinking about Aiba running (but why he is, and where to, is the question) and Becky's eyes (which look like sunflowers) and this Ohno person and why he's slicing fish and not stowing himself away in an expensive penthouse in Roppongi Hills.

"Can I talk to Ohno?" Sho finally asks.

Becky raises her eyebrows. "I gave you free sushi. Don't push it," she says, but just as Sho is about to completely balk and apologize for his rude behavior, she grins slyly and holds the curtains open for him with one hand.

"He won't mind," is her whispered explanation. "Nobody knows he's here but you two, anyway." And she winks.

"Won't you get fired for this?" Sho asks her as he stands and steps into the kitchen. Becky just purses her lips and shakes her head no; clearly this is not the kind of Tokyo establishment that Sho and Aiba often invade for photos at two in the morning--the sort of places that expect, but don't take kindly to, paparazzi and their meddling ways. You wouldn't expect any famous people in those places to have a friendly conversation with someone who only wanted to take their picture for a couple ten thousand yen.

Then again, Sho realizes later, none of those people are Ohno Satoshi.

"Hello?" Sho calls. Once he let the curtain fall behind him, the kitchen opened up in full view--a fairly small-sized space with large sinks and counters piled high with fish that are almost as wide as the shuttered windows that cover one wall. There are only a few fluorescent lights attached to the ceiling, and it takes Sho a moment to figure out that there's only one other person in the room. "Excuse me, are you--?"

Politeness fails Sho when Ohno looks up and smiles slightly. In fact, all words suddenly escape into the musky kitchen air; there is something about Ohno that suggests Sho doesn't have to say anything to explain himself. "Are you Aiba-san's friend? He mentioned you might come looking for him."

Sho clears his throat. "Well, I'm not sure where he went."

"He took off running down the alleyway behind the restaurant," Ohno says, and points vaguely behind him. Sho finds that he's too busy staring at Ohno's fish gut-splattered apron and sandaled feet to notice, but he tries hard not to be so distracted by this unorthodox brand of famous and listens hard to Ohno's voice (which is a cross between a mumble and a yawn). "I think he saw someone?"

Ohno hums through the same smile he's been harboring on his face for their entire conversation.

"Ah," he says. "Jun likes to smoke outside."

"Jun," Sho echoes, voice barely there. "Matsumoto Jun."

"Aiba-san saw him, I'm sure," Ohno says calmly, and for the first time Sho spots several knives in the pockets of Ohno's apron, all shining brilliantly against the naked lights. Some are spotted with drops of blood and others glisten with fish oil. Even though Sho knows they're only there because Ohno is a chef and a fisherman and would inevitably have to know how to gut and slice fish, he still can't help but shiver. "We were talking about how nice his camera phone was. Then he just ran out the back door."

"You don't mind?" This is the only thing Sho can think of to say, even though of course his mind is a wreck of realizations. "It doesn't matter to you that you've got a paparazzo in your restaurant, and now he's off chasing someone else?"

Ohno's eyebrows knot in the middle of his forehead.

"I don't mind if Jun doesn't," he says.

"How do you know he's okay with it?"

"They know each other, don't they?" Ohno points out. "Jun-kun mentions Aiba-san sometimes. He says they used to be best friends."

-

Two more texts from Aiba arrive as Sho finds his way out of the restaurant with a couple of paparazzi photos taken on his own camera phone (Ohno hadn't minded. "Stand in the doorway of the back alley so it looks like you were sneaking around," he'd said).

The first one reads, ULL NVR GUESS WHO IS AW . MAT JUN! CANT TYPE SRY, STILL RUNIN, TRYN TO CAVHTC HIM.

Sho already knows what the second one says before he opens it. It's a little more subdued, and if Aiba were talking to Sho he'd be saying the words softly, as if saying them that way made the whole thing a little more bearable.

He got away. But I watched his back for 5 min. 5 whole min!

"Like when we'd play chase when we were kids," Aiba says later, continuing where his text left off. Sho found Aiba sitting on a bench in the park by their home, out of breath and sweaty but full of words and hope and amazement. "He runs the same, Sho-chan. His feet still sound the same when they hit the ground."

Sho hums one long monotonous note in reply. He's busy thinking of Ohno Satoshi and how odd that entire thing had been, from the knives to Ohno being so willing to speak to someone he knew was a paparazzo to letting him take pictures. Then of course there was the Jun thing, and how Aiba had found him again after all this time the way you'd find a new penny heads-up on the sidewalk--so unexpectedly and with the thought, oh how lucky. Only Aiba had tried to pick it up and the penny had slipped and rolled down streets and turned corners until it disappeared into a gutter.

"Where'd he go?" Sho asks.

"In there." Aiba points to a small apartment building to their left. "Someone opened the door for him and closed it before I could get close enough to slip through."

"An accomplice," Sho says, like he knows.

"In what crime?" Aiba laughs. "I just want to see him again. That's not illegal or anything."

Sho grins sheepishly. "An assault of the heart."

Aiba's laugh booms throughout every neighborhood in their vicinity, and they have to stop and wait until he's caught his breath and the giggles have subsided into the nighttime air to join the fireflies.

"You're so silly," Aiba breathes when he is finally finished. "You know that, right, Sho-chan? Even though no one expects you to be."

"I try," Sho says. He's not so keen on expectations nowadays.

The next morning Aiba is already gone by the time Sho has managed to find his way to the bathroom. It's barely four in the morning, but Aiba has always left for home at ungodly hours like this. It's calming, was his reply when Sho asked him about it. He likes to drive to Chiba, to take the only car he and Sho have (that doesn't get used often, thanks to the rising cost of gas) and speed out onto the highway before anything is lit and the stars are fading quickly. By the time he gets to his home and the restaurant, the sun is up and his mom is in the kitchen getting started with breakfast.

But today it's pouring. As Sho brushes his teeth he stares out of the bathroom window, taking in the water-muddled view of the city, which lies miles out beyond this apartment complex. From here the buildings are like fat grey toothpicks; in the thick rain they look blurred out and Sho can imagine in his half-asleep state that the city of Tokyo doesn't exist. The skyscrapers and subway stations have been erased by a downpour and a wish.

Still, Sho gets dressed and eats three pieces of bread, all toasted. It's his usual breakfast and he has it at the kitchen table while he watches the still fast-asleep kittens in their tiny shared bed.

Then he's out the door, moving slowly, yawning fast.

In the truck the windshield wipers don't move fast enough to clear all the rain away and so Sho drives more carefully than usual. It's a good thing there's no one else on the road so early in the morning, otherwise he would probably have horns going off every second and a long, long line of cars behind him, waiting for him to take an exit or simply get off the road and let everyone else pass. Right now, though, he can drive however he wants to.

And the slower he drives, the later he'll make it to Ninomiya's apartment after dawn.

Sho isn't sure what difference that will make exactly, but he's willing to try it out. So he's extra-careful with the cartons of eggs he brings into the other families, and he unpacks packages from the back of the truck with more care than he normally would. Nobody says anything about it, mainly because they're all too tired and depressed at the weather to mention that Sho is moving at a snail's pace. When he arrives at the door, he apologizes for taking his time, blaming it all on the heavy umbrella he has to carry and because he doesn't want to drop anything.

"Make sure you have everything," Sho says--has to yell. The rain isn't giving up on its steady tirade. "I can go back and look if something's missing from your package."

"Don't worry about it, Sakurai-san," the mothers say. The old pensioners usually call him dear, or kid. "If we're missing anything we're not going to blame it on you. Stay safe. Drive slowly."

They go back into their warm houses, safe from the humidity and torrential downpour. Sho drives on.

It's six-ten when he reaches Ninomiya's apartment, and today there is no sun. It must be even colder, then, inside the building, inside that jail-like hallway where Ninomiya lives. In there it can't be August--it must be October. Ninomiya might be wearing a sweater.

And Weekend will want you to tell them that, Sho's mind suddenly says. Weekend will want to know everything.

Sho pushes those thoughts out of his head. He might technically be working right now, but the muted excitement running through his veins is something he's never felt before while on the job--usually when he goes out with his huge camera and tons of equipment he just feels sick.

The only reason he feels slightly sick now is because he's nervous. When he presses the buzzer he expects another long silence, only this time the speakers snap into static action almost immediately.

"It's after six," Ninomiya says. "You're a good listener. I'll see you in five minutes."

"Okay," Sho yells back, otherwise Ninomiya wouldn't be able to hear him. "On the stairs?"

"Sure."

Sho slips into the entranceway and proceeds to sneeze three times in the empty corridor. He almost loses a grip on Ninomiya's groceries but manages to catch them at the last second; he hopes he hasn't squished the butter or anything like that. Then again, it would just give Sho another excuse to come back tomorrow.

He steps onto the staircase and takes a few deep breaths before ascending into darkness and another kind of chill that's separate--and decidedly more ominous--from the one the rain is creating.

And there he is again, at the top of the fourth floor stairwell.

"It's raining, huh?" Ninomiya says, and this time jumps down a couple of steps to take the package from Sho's arms. "Where's your umbrella?"

"I left it in the car," Sho says, and resists the urge to sneeze again. "I didn't think I would need it."

"The roof leaks here," Ninomiya responds. "Maybe you should have brought it."

Sho doesn't understand. "I'm just dropping off your groceries," he says. "Do you have everything?"

"No," Ninomiya says, and Sho is about to run back to the truck in the horrible weather and search the entire vehicle for a lost eggplant or a carton of milk. But he doesn't, because Ninomiya hasn't stopped talking. "I have everything. I mean you're not just here to drop off my groceries."

Sho blinks. "I--," he begins. "That's my job."

Ninomiya smirks. "You can come in," he says lightly, and begins to walk back up the stairs and down the unlit hallway that Sho had followed him down the day before. "I don't bite."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Sho says under his breath. The single thought running through his mind right now is whatisthiswhatisthiswhatisthis, and he can't seem to get a hold of his usual calm demeanor. On a good day he'd be able to refuse Ninomiya, would be able to say no thank you, but I have to be getting home, I have cats to feed and I may have left my engine running. I don't have the time to follow you into your home, because I'll only learn things about you and the tabloid magazine I work for will want to know those things. And that's not something I want to do.

Then something else pops up in Sho's mind. This isn't going to hurt you. You can always lie to Weekend. And what is he to you, anyway? An actor. You deal with them all the time.

"The door is open," Ninomiya calls from down the hallway.

This isn't going to hurt you, Sho's mind says again. Just go.

He takes a hesitant step forward, and then stops. The frantic heartbeat thrumming through his body like an army of drums certainly isn't helping matters.

"What's taking you so long?" Ninomiya snaps. He pokes his head round the corner of the wall and frowns. "It's not so hard to climb stairs, you know. One at a time and it'll be easy. You must be one of those people that take the elevator up to their apartment every day."

"I can climb stairs perfectly fine, thank you," Sho retorts, and makes use of the adrenaline from their conversation to run up the rest of the stairs. "And my apartment complex doesn't have an elevator."

He's next to Ninomiya within seconds.

"But it has windows," Sho says. The adrenaline has made him a little braver. "Very nice ones."

"Well aren't you special." Ninomiya sighs. "And didn't I tell you? Windows are a bad idea for some of us who don't like to be exposed to the public."

"The public would like to expose themselves to you, I'm sure."

Ninomiya throws his head back and laughs--the first laugh of Sho's day and one that startles him. The sound is high-pitched and clear, even over the sound of the rain. Then Sho realizes: he's in the enclosed hallway and can still hear the sheets of rain hitting the hard rooftop. The concrete must not be so thick after all.

"Ninomiya-san," Sho starts. "Why do you live here?"

"I like being alone," Ninomiya says. "In the city you're always with people."

He lets Sho into the apartment first, and the first blasts of air conditioning are a beautiful relief from the blanket of humidity that Sho has been walking in all day.

"But the hallway," Sho wonders. "It's like you're in a jail, here."

When Ninomiya turns Sho takes him in, all of him, from head to toe: so this is the famous actor everyone loves. He looks like a teenager on the brink of his twenties, or even younger--he is slim everywhere, even in the face, and his arms are boyish and thin. Even his pajama pants look too big for him, cotton fabric hanging loose on the notches of his hipbones, and Sho catches a glimpse of pale skin between the hem of Ninomiya's shirt and the top of his pants.

From the looks of Ninomiya's sleepy eyes and fierce bed head, it hasn't been long since he's gotten up. When he stretches Sho has to look away--it's a little too much, all that skin suddenly peeking out when Ninomiya's arms reach for the ceiling, like he's six years old and his mother woke up him up too early on a Saturday.

"What were you saying about a jail?" Ninomiya asks as soon as his arms fall back to his sides again. "Do you think I live in one?"

"It's just unusual for someone of your caliber, I think," Sho says calmly.

"Caliber," Ninomiya echoes. "I don't like that word. I'm just another person, you know."

"But you--," Sho begins. What will he say next? But you act? But you're being hunted by all of the tabloid magazines in the city? But your fanbase is the size of a small country?

"But I?" Ninomiya says, and his smirk is back in full force. "Listen, can you stay?"

"For what?"

"For nothing." Ninomiya shrugs. "Just stay."

Part 2

on this night in a million nights

2010-06-17T01:18:35Z

Title: on this night in a million nights
Pairing(s): Ohno/Nino
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1100
Summary: "To seven days," Ohno says then, and raises his bottle to Nino's. "To a week."
A/N: Happy birthday, Neenface! :D As I said in my personal journal, I somehow manage to post a fic every year on Nino's birthday. This year's (sappy and unbeta'd--hey I wanted it to be a surprise!) ficlet takes place in the Encaustic universe. Timeline-wise, let's just stick it a week before Ohno's departure back to Tokyo--so, if you're going by the original sections in Encaustic, this snippet would be wedged between parts 29 and 30. Sort of. Just pretend, ok? Ok. :D (Also--here's where the title comes from! Aka my favorite musical.)

Nino comes over on a night full of stars.

It's almost like the calm skies of Okinawa have been invaded by missionaries of city light from Tokyo. In Ohno's head his two worlds have collided in a sprinkle of twinkling light; neon signs have traveled far from Tokyo to fade out into the constellations Ohno is looking at now. When he stares hard enough into the distance he imagines that the stars are winking, communicating secrets across the galaxy and into this lush space.

And Ohno, who is a little tipsy, listens to each one.

"Listen," he whispers as Nino plops down next to him on the porch. "The stars are talking."

Nino groans. "You're drunk already, aren't you, Oh-chan?"

Ohno thinks about it.

"I don't think so," he finally says, and lifts up the bottle in his hand. Against the naked bulb of the porch light it looks eerie, a caramel-colored glass tube filled with intoxicating foamy liquid. "I haven't had enough."

Or maybe he's had more than he thinks he has. Ohno had wandered out to the porch with a bottle of beer after dinner in order to escape his mother and sister's incessant, chirpy talk of men and marriage. The only thing Ohno wanted to think about was Nino coming over in a couple of hours, clad in nearly nothing, carrying an evening newspaper and that wonderfully familiar smirk.

"I don't understand why you asked me to come over in the middle of your little drinking session," Nino mumbles, and wrestles the drink out of Ohno's grasp before raising it to his lips and taking a long swig. When he swallows, Ohno watches. "Most people invite others to drink with them, you know, for companionship."

He hands the bottle back empty.

"It was okay, being alone for a bit," is all Ohno says, but his fingers say otherwise. They reach out and walk along Nino's elbow, his shoulder, the shell of his left ear before resting for a second against Nino's lips. Ohno can feel them—thin and a little chapped, but damp with alcohol and sweat. Ohno wouldn't mind kissing them, kissing away the taste of beer and salt. "Do you want one?"

Nino grins lazily and Ohno's fingers retreat. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"To pick fruit," says Ohno, and leans in to press a chaste kiss against Nino's bare shoulder. "Or for that, maybe."

"Beer," Nino says, but he's a little breathless. "I came for the beer."

Less than a minute later Ohno's sister notices that there is a guest in the house (or just that Nino is there—he stopped being a guest long ago and started receiving special Nino treatment, which was guest-like but better) and steps out onto the porch with a tray of two more beer bottles, flush with refrigerator chill. Nino thanks her with the politest of smiles and the coyest of looks.

"Are you hitting on my sister?" Ohno asks once her footsteps have faded into the house.

"She probably doesn't drink alone," Nino shoots back, and tilts his head back when he drinks.

For awhile there is only silence. Ohno turns once to catch droplets sliding from the mouth of Nino's bottle to his chin and farther, into the hollow of his neck. Watermelons, beer—clearly there is a reason why Ohno only offers Nino foods with high water content.

"Also," Nino says, this time softer, and when Ohno looks up Nino's face is right there, so close in front of his own. "She'd probably pay attention to the other person she invited over."

Ohno begins to protest, to open his mouth and say that he pays lots of attention to Nino, even when they're apart—sometimes he has dreams that would make a crowd of virgins blush, that would probably leave even Nino speechless for a few seconds—but the words never come. Nino's lips are against his in a matter of seconds, first just a careful brush and then a real kiss that's sweeter than anything that Ohno can think of right now—acerola juice, his toes sunk into wet sand, his mother's strawberry shortcake that she only makes for extra-special occasions.

"I don't want her to pay attention to you like that," Ohno says once the kiss has broken, and Nino throws his head back as he laughs.

"Anyway," Ohno continues, slightly indignant, "I do pay attention to you."

Here Nino's jaw tightens. "Not enough," he says offhandedly, and Ohno can't tell whether he's being serious or not. "Not enough to last me a whole week."

He takes a drink, longer this time, and Ohno realizes that he is being serious—that Nino is scared of seeing Ohno leave. It's strange to see Nino like this, if only because everything he says is usually shrouded by something else, a thin veil of sarcasm and feigned strength that Ohno usually sees peeled away once the sun has gone down and the door has shut behind them.

"Stay tonight?" is all Ohno asks.

It's a quiet plea, one filled with tiny promises that Ohno intends to fulfill—promises of bed-sharing and kisses that last for hours, for days, for weeks if Nino wanted them to. Ohno might be leaving in a week, stepping onto a plane and soaring back to the digitalized, automatic land of Tokyo, but that's seven days from now and this is the first night before the other six. They might as well start this off right.

Nino simply nods.

"To seven days," Ohno says then, and raises his new bottle to Nino's. "To a week."

"You're stupid," Nino says, but he clinks his bottle to Ohno's anyway, and with heart. "To a week, then, Oh-chan."

Three hours and four beers later Nino and Ohno are curled up in bed, sheets tossed off in favor of the night breeze from the window covering them both with sticky island humidity. Nino is mumbling incoherently, something about how a week is too long, or not long enough—Ohno can't really understand him above the jumble of thoughts in his own head. He's concentrating too hard on making this moment last as long as it can, even if they are both close to falling asleep.

Nino gives in first. "'Night, Oh-chan," he mutters all of a sudden, close to Ohno's ear. His voice is nearly gone, already lost to fatigue and a comfortable bed and the soft warmth thrumming between them. "You'll be here in the morning, yeah?"

Ohno finds Nino's hand and tangles it with his own. "Yeah," he breathes, and shuts his eyes. "We'll both be here."

bits. bobs. BOO.

2010-06-12T10:05:58Z

TWO POSTS IN ONE DAY! And a new layout. Holy crap, you're probably thinking. What in the world is this girl doing?

Well, that is the point of this post! It's a very casual 'oh hey look what I've been working on besides challenges'/'look at some of the things lying around in my documents folder' entry. Under the cuts you'll find various ficbits--some I plan to finish one day, some that I'll probably never look at again.

I also want to assure everyone that I am working on my help_haiti fic for primroseshows! (Others might know this in passing as 'the massive Sho/Jun fic.') It is horrendously overdue and I am so, so sorry, Prim, that it is taking fifty thousand years to finish. You won't find a snippet of it in this post, unfortunately, because I want to keep it A Big Secret, but rest assured that it is my top priority right now (along with je_ficgames--and of course you won't find a portion of that here, either). I've given myself the deadline of having it finished by early July at the latest, and I'm working on it every day, pushing myself along. And that's all I'm saying about it! ZIP ZIP. MOUTH CLOSED.

Okay. Now onto the bits and bobs.

Title: bits and bobs, etc.
Pairing(s): VARIOUS VARIOUS VARIOUS! Sho/Jun, Aiba/Sho, Ohno/Nino, Aiba/Becky, to name a few.
Rating: G - PG
Summary: Shreds! Pieces! Removal bits of fic with velcro attached! God it's late and I need to go to bed.
Notes: Some of these bits are ancient (i.e. started in 2007/2008) and are therefore...dormant.

arashi gen - school au
Note: This is a rejected section of a school AU that I'm still working on (there's a snippet of the part that I'm actually using in this post).

"Isn't there something you can do?" Aiba says urgently, grabbing frantically for Sho's hands and squeezing them together in his lap. His eyes are sparkling and his mouth is hanging open—it's a fairly normal look for Aiba, but Sho still finds himself panicking on the inside.

"You can fix him, right?” Aiba goes on, looking more and more like a lost puppy on the coldest day of the year. “You can do it! You're smart, Sho-chan, I know you are, remember when you played that doctor during health science, it was amazing—Jun agrees, I'm sure he does—."

Across the room, Jun groans. He flings a leg over the couch and buries his head into the pile of pillows. "Sho, do something," he says, and Sho feels the threat run through his body. "I've tried to tell him the thing is dead but he won't—"

"Matsuzaka-chan is not dead!" Aiba wails, clenching Sho's hands even tighter. "I know it! I saw him move!"

Jun's teeth gnashing is practically ear splitting. Swallowing hard, Sho steadies himself on the table and looks straight into Aiba's eyes, which are—which are welling up. Suddenly Sho wishes he wasn't here, and that he'd never picked up the phone when Jun called. He had only mentioned that they were having some trouble with their science project, the snail wasn't responding—but Sho didn't mean to show up for sad Aiba faces, pissy Jun, and a dead snail. He'd just thought it needed a little prodding along, that's all.

Aiba's pupils are wobbling, and Sho's heart unwillingly plays along. Sighing, he pets Aiba's hands soothingly and says, "Aiba, I'm sorry, but I don't think there's anything I can do to save it—I mean, Matsuzaka-chan."

He takes a look at the snail on the table. It must have moved once—it doesn't look that dead—but Sho is not the expert on snails. Knowing Aiba, however, it could have been anything on contact.

"Was it alive, um, at first?" Sho asks as gently as he can.

The wobbling moves onto Aiba's lips. "I think so," he says. "Jun said it was."

Sho looks at Jun, who peeks out of the pillows long enough to say, "I am not Nino, Sho. It was alive at one point. Long enough for Aiba to name it after beef."

Aiba's face droops a little more. "You didn't like the name, Jun?"

Jun sits up slowly. "It reminds me of food, that's all," he says quietly. "Maybe we could have named him Spot instead?"

"Oh," Aiba says sadly. "Okay.”

*

aiba/becky

"So," Becky replies. Aiba can see her eyes crossing, and when she blinks to focus it's like the windows opening and closing in on a field in autumn. "Guess I have no choice."

"No, you don't," Aiba says, and finds her hand under the table.

There's a phone call from the taxi company then, and the hostess signals to Aiba that his ride is almost there. When he stands, so does Becky. She makes a big show of gathering her things and arranging her hair so that the wind won't blow it around and taking all the right steps so that she won't fall over, but Aiba is just thrilled to see that she's still got a hold of his hand. It's like junior high all over again, with all the excitable girls sticking close to him even if he was kind of mean and didn't know that deodorant sprays were not appropriate gifts. But then again, you didn't get into taxis with girls in junior high school.

When the doors open Aiba pulls his cap down to his eyebrows but there's no reason for him to be so careful, especially right now. It's too early in the morning for any real paparazzi to be out and about and the restaurant the staff had chosen is tucked away in some obscure corner of the city where the lights barely shine. No one is out on the street but the two of them and Aiba swings their hands back and forth—he doesn't get to feel this free very often and it's refreshing. It's like being normal, like being twenty-six in an alternate universe where Becky's some girl he met in college and now they work together. And maybe he likes her, maybe there's some chemistry mixed into their nine-to-five relationship. Who knows?

There are steps leading down from the entranceway and Becky almost stumbles. She squeals, and when Aiba looks back she's batting at the freezing snowdrops with her bare hand and mumbling something about how snow melts too quickly for her liking. She's staring hard at the tips of her boots and the wet flakes sliding off them to the cold sidewalk, and Aiba has to dig his nails into her palm to get her to look up.

"Ow," she says, and pouts at him, beer-berry lips turning down. "'S not nice, Aiba. I'm a lady—deserve more respect."

"Oh oh oh," Aiba says, excited to show off. "I know, my mom says that all the time to my dad!"

Becky purses her lips and then laughs, too drunk and merry to be anything else, and the falling powder sprinkles her open mouth. Aiba wants to know what that would taste like—syrupy like shaved ice or medicinal like those blistering-red cough drops his mother used to give him?

"Are you staring?" she asks, and pokes him in the chest.

Before long, before the taxi even turns the corner, Aiba's kissing her. He has the edges of her fluffy green scarf in his hands and he imagines that she's on tiptoes right now, her boots crunching against the packed snow to rise up to his height. Her tongue and teeth and the insides of her cheeks are flushed with the chill and she tastes like the outside air mixed with cherry menthol.

There’s no real pretense and no hey Becky can I kiss ya, but Aiba doesn’t think she minds.

*

arashi gen (with a little bit of ohmiya and sakuraiba) - more school au

The five of them cut through parks—four, which is two more than they should go through, even with the shortcut, to get from Ohno's house to Jun's. But Aiba wants to examine potential ponds for his snail-finding project, and must expedition, he says, any chance he can.

So far they have passed only one pond, full of rotting junk and so small the five of them could lie across it and surpass its length entirely. It is, Aiba tells the rest of them, a good place for snails to congregate, because of the decay.

Jun slumps even farther downwards. "I am decaying," he growls. "And I don't like snails. Can we go?"

"Oh, but that's not all," Aiba says after they have walked away, "there's tons of ponds by the elementary school, near the playgrounds. But I figured that the kids would want those snails for themselves, so I won't go near them. I should look for more, though." He perks up, suddenly, and turns to Nino. "Hey, how about—?"

"I told you, don't come anywhere near my house," Nino threatens. "I will shoot you with my sister's fake nail dispenser."

Aiba pouts. "But we don't have that much time left before school starts again," he says, and Sho can hear the whine in his voice, finally. "Come on, Nino…"

"Then you should have started at the beginning of summer vacation."

Aiba pouts even more, which only intensifies the brightness around him. (Sho has often considered studying this paradox, before realizing that Aiba is a specimen best left to instinct, not reason.) "But I had to wait until prime snail season!" he objects. "Halfway into the summer! When things rot!"

Halfway? Halfway already, Sho thinks, and his heart sinks a little. On his fingers he counts the days left they have for summer vacation—one finger for three, so three, six, nine, twelve…he counts until he reaches twenty-one. Strange, how half of the summer has already passed, and yet he has written none of his essay. In fact he just bought an English dictionary today. Procrastination is unlike him, and he knows that there are other things on his mind, like friends and—friends (he will not blush over thoughts of Aiba, it is too girly, he will not)—but English is not his best subject. He only knows, after all, how to say 'perfect body.'

And really, when he thinks about it, the only person who has done any kind of real summer homework is Jun, who faithfully shows up to his summer job every morning and probably shines with perfect neighborhood boy sparkle as he helps children with basketballs and bento boxes. No, not probably—Sho knows it all: Jun gets A's every day with practiced ease and a pretty smile, and all the girls give him bonus points from the bottoms of their hearts.

Even Nino does something, though Sho hesitates to call it a real summer project. True, a graph with properly labeled axes will get them all full credit, but Sho knows Nino, has known him since they smacked each other with volleyballs in middle school, and he understands what Nino wants. It's not an A—he gets those easily, when he tries. It's something else, from a different person entirely.

Sho watches Ohno watch Nino and wonders what Ohno has accomplished over the summer, what exactly his artist hands have painted. The assignment is simple enough—conduct a series of daily paintings or drawings about your summer vacation. That is easy enough for Ohno as it is for Nino to get an A, but again, there might be something—something more.

He watches Ohno's gaze, all steady eyes and ready, tiny smiles; he watches the two of them talk, though truly it is Nino who uses his voice (the two of them converse like they live in a world where words are bland and unnecessary). But Sho thinks that Ohno speaks with his hands sometimes, and from the things his fingers touch and the way they move, it might just be a little more than obvious what exactly he wants from this summer.

*

sho/jun

Jun lets himself into Sho's house around one in the morning. The arrangement had been a little funny—after almost five missed phone calls to Jun's phone Sho finally left a flustered message that went something like, "Aiba's telling me I'm clingy. He's telling me while drunk and I think that's kind of the pot calling the kettle black, right? I—come over! Key's under the mat! Aiba, please stop, that hurts."

Jun had still been working but his manager kept sneaking irritated glances at his phone during filming.

"It's Sakurai-san," said his manager when Jun asked. "He's been calling and won't stop."

So when the day wrapped up Jun wrapped his muffler snugly around his neck (almost to the point of not being able to breathe, but it's warm and that's the point so he offers hearty, internal fuck yous to anyone who tells him to loosen it) and made his way over to Sho's. The key, as promised, was hidden under the Welcome mat.

The lock slides easily, a quiet shlip that almost feels a little illegal. Under Jun's semi-numb hands the knob feels like he's gripping icicles and it takes a few tries before the door unsticks, but when he's in, he's in. That's all that matters.

"Sho-kun," Jun says now, but his voice is muffled. There's nobody in the entranceway to greet him. "It's late, sorry."

He can feel his wind-whipped cheeks thawing in the heat of the house and even the tips of his ears are burning, but it feels nice and he knows that's what he's here for anyway. There's something like the smell of chocolate coming from the faraway kitchen and Jun can hear Sho banging around pots and pans and random body parts against sharp corners.

"Coming! Coming, coming," Sho pants, and Jun begins to unravel his long, long scarf. "Can't even find my way out of my own kitchen, that's bad…"

Jun feels fingers wrapping around his own, tugging at the scarf and mumbling, here, just let me. There's a blurry face behind the thin red material and of course it's Sho, but Jun doesn't let him help. He unwinds the rest of the mile-long thing and when it's all finished, simply drops it round Sho's shoulders.

"Red is your color, after all," Jun says briskly, and then kicks his shoes off. "Your family's on vacation, right?"

"In the mountains," Sho says, a little dumbstruck. He's looking at Jun's shoes, which are messily unlaced and lying on their sides. "You can put your shoes in the closet, MatsuJun."

"You can give me some of that hot chocolate," Jun replies, stepping in close to Sho. "I've been working all day."

He really hasn't, but he says it like he means it because Sho will feel sorry for him and give him the big mug (his dad's) filled to the very top. Well, he'll do that anyway, but in due time. Jun's way is just quicker and requires less of Sho's fidgety, unromantic and completely unnecessary questions—do you want more, is it too hot, how is the chocolate (too sweet, too bitter, too anything)?

Sho should know by now that Jun doesn't come over for gourmet hot chocolate.

*

ohmiya - tennis au
This is probably not a fic that I will return to anytime soon--or that I'll return to at all. But it was a fun thing while it lasted--I mean, come on! Ohno and Nino as rivals on opposite tennis teams? YES PLS. Or maybe I just like tennis too much.

"Ah," says Ohno, in a way that suggests annoyance. (Nothing, Nino has learned that day, is ever very certain with Ohno.) "I don’t have a wristband."

Finally given some sort of task, Nino jumps up and frantically searches in his bag for an extra band. "I have one—you can borrow it," he says, moving aside old, moldy balls and long strands of used grip tape, "if I can find it, that is."

Nino can feel Ohno watching his back. He wonders what it looks like, if there are ‘ripples,’ or if it’s ‘sinewy’—those are the words used in Chiyo’s romance manga whenever the main character describes her boyfriend's 'beautiful bod,' and every time Nino reads over her shoulder he’s struck (and disgusted) by the way it’s so detailed.

Then he reprimands himself: as if Ohno, a boy, would ever choose to describe Nino’s back with words other than ‘a body part.’ And even then, it’s kind of—weird.

"Okay," Nino says, finally grabbing onto a stretchy piece of terrycloth under a pile of string. "Here."

It fits Ohno perfectly. His fingers (long, long, Nino thinks, that’s all he can think when he sees them) stretch the fabric over his hand and onto his wrist. Again, he hums.

"’S good," he says, "thanks."

Nino shrugs; looks away. He’s been embarrassed a lot lately, as if for some reason his vulnerability increases with his body temperature.

They head out onto the court; this time Nino leads. He stops at one baseline and turns to see that Ohno is standing next to him, looking confused (judges Nino from the way Ohno’s eyebrows have knotted in the center of his nose.)

"Are we--?" he says, dubiously.

"Playing?" Nino laughs. "Yes."

Hiding behind his racket, Ohno retreats to the opposite side of the court, walking slowly first, then picking up a jog as he passes the net. Nino stares down at his racket; feels the spare balls he picked up lying heavily in his pocket, ready just in case Ohno needs one, or if Nino has to serve.

"We don’t have to play," Nino says, suddenly, calling cross-court. "We can just hit back and forth if you want."

Ohno looks up, blinking sweat furiously out of his eyelashes and trying to keep the glare of the sun out of his eyes. "What do you want to do?" he asks.

Clearly, Nino thinks, Ohno is not really concerned about practicing himself. It angers Nino a little, in the way one strikes a match against the box and it only hisses, but doesn’t flame. "I don't care. Let's just hit," he says, reaching into his pocket for a ball.

But Ohno already has one in his hands--Ohno is already hitting a forehand, quick as lightning, towards Nino's end of the court, and Nino has to let go of his shorts and get into a ready position. He's late, of course, and sends the ball flying spectacularly high into the air.

"It's out," Ohno calls, pulling another ball out of his pocket with fluid ease. "Try again."

Now the match is finally aflame. Nino is angry, but he knows he can't afford to be this way when he plays against Ohno for real. "I'll serve," he says, ball finally easing into his fingers. "You hit it back."

He says this like he knows Ohno will mess up, but Nino doesn't really know what will happen. He doesn’t know Ohno, only very little, and not in the way a tennis player would.

*

intentions

2010-06-12T09:21:54Z

Title: Intentions
Pairing: Sho/Jun
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~2700
Summary: Sho swears that he didn't mean it the way Jun thought he did.
A/N: This was written for the most recent summer kink meme to the prompt "accidental stimulation- crotch, nipples, ear, WTFEVER, some sensitive area- that leads to awkward sexytimes." So really, to sum it up....this is the epitome of porn-without-plot. (It has been edited somewhat, though that doesn't really change its genre.) My mindset when I wrote this was sexsexsexyaysex! Which is good and all, right? --Maybe. Anyway, to give you a better visual: this is the sort of shirt I envision Jun wearing, except clearly with nothing underneath it like the girl has on in the picture.

Sho swears that he didn't mean it the way Jun thought he did.

It happened in the dressing room less than ten minutes before their manager was going to come busting down the door demanding where the hell Sakurai and Matsumoto were. Jun had been a little late coming back from his drama shooting and was slipping into his costume as fast as he could--or rather, trying to shimmy into it as best he could without ripping the sheer material.

"It's not like our new song is about bondage in dark places," Jun muttered to himself as Sho handed him the next parts of his outfit with a look on his face that said we are going to be LATE, get the hell into your clothes before I make you go out there naked. (Anyway, Sho has to admit that showing Jun nude on Music Station would certainly up the ratings.) "Why do I have to wear this thing? It looks like someone dropped it into a shredder."

"Jun," Sho pleaded, one step away from gritting his teeth. "I know you're getting into a dominatrix uniform and it's weird, but we have to show to do in, oh, I don't know...six minutes."

"I know, I know--can you--," Jun began, and motioned to his chest, "help me a little?"

"If it'll help us get out there faster," Sho relented, and started to pull gently at the fabric, helping to get the shirt over Jun's shoulders. The shirt--if you could even call it that--was an all-black piece that honestly did look like some animal had clawed it up. Parts of it were slashed through over the chest so that you could see Jun's skin underneath, and the hem hung like a tattered curtain, barely covering the tips of Jun's hipbones. His jeans were hanging low, and the staff hadn't left a belt behind. They seemed to be a little out of it today--even Sho had to tug at his shirt-dress ensemble every five minutes to get it to hang right.

Finally, after a mini tug-of-war session between the shirt and Sho's fingers, Jun was clothed.

Sort of.

"You're not covered," Sho pointed out, forgetting their hurry for a few seconds.

"You'd think a shirt would be designed to cover everything," Jun had mumbled, and tried to arrange the strangely-cut folds of his shirt to cover his very exposed nipples. (Perhaps that was the reason Sho's brain skipped a few wavelengths.) "They wouldn't have gotten my size wrong, right? We've only been coming to MSute for the past ten years."

"Maybe there was an outfit mix-up," Sho suggested, and began to chew on his lip. "Aiba-kun is probably wearing your shirt right now. Can't you just--?"

Sho put his hands on Jun's chest for a second.

His palms lay on the fabric, and the tips of his fingers, splayed as they were, framed Jun's nipples like they were paintings and Sho was appraising them (though only in his dreams has Sho ever looked Jun up and down with a microscope, looking for diamonds in secret places, judging value from the softness of skin and the flatness of certain planes that go on forever). He hadn't thought about the implications of his action--it just sort of happened. Sho's mind was ticking along with the clock, after all. And Jun was right there in front of him. He just needed a place to put his hands, to steady himself, to think.

"What were you saying?" Jun asked after some time.

His voice was different: low, smoky.

Sho swallowed hard. "Why don't you just...cover up a bit and try not to move too much?" he tried, and looked beyond Jun to the clothing rack. Thank God thank God thank God. "Here, here's a scarf, I think the stylist removed it from Nino's outfit. It's kind of long, don't mind it--just leave it on until filming's over."

"Sho-kun," Jun began as he reached out for the scarf—and beyond that, farther, to Sho's arm.

If there had only been two more minutes, maybe just one, something would have happened. But behind the door of the dressing room there was a sudden rush of footsteps and Aiba's voice going, "SHO-CHAN, JUN-KUN, WE CAN'T PERFORM WITHOUT YOU!" There were hard knocks on the door and random curses and someone counting down from fifteen.

"If you don't come out in the next second," someone--Nino--shouted, "I'm going to walk in there, and if you're both naked I want five thousand yen from each of you to pay for my inevitable hospital bill. It costs a lot of money to fix gouged-out eyes, you know."

Jun's hand withdrew and his whole body snapped round as if the knocks and Nino's threat had spurred him into action. It was like nothing had ever happened between them.

Hurriedly, Jun wound the scarf around his neck and strode across the room to the door. "We're coming! Hold on a sec!" he shouted, and then flicked his eyes toward Sho.

"Later," he said--promised.

"Later," Sho echoed, more just to say something than because he understood. "Here?"

"Wherever you want," Jun replied. "I'll find you."

Sho nodded. He wasn't entirely sure what Jun meant--what Jun wanted--but he had an idea, and he wasn't going to run away from it.

-

"And now let's welcome Arashi, whose new single is already topping the charts!"

Above the noise of the audience's clapping, Sho is counting to five thousand in his head. He's not actually sure he can get that far, but it's helping him concentrate on not getting a raging hard-on in front of no less than twenty cameras and two audiences: the one in the studio and the entire nation of Japan.

They're sitting in the front row of seats for the talk portion of Music Station, and Sho has already sped through the introduction of their new single and whatever else he's supposed to say. His mind isn't here--it's far away, somewhere in the recesses of Jun's palm, being held captive between dark eyes and a single promise: later. Later, later, later.

It didn't help that Jun had decided to stand close to him whenever they were waiting for something--in the wings to go onstage, as they stood around with the other groups before filming began. And it wasn't the usual kind of standing close. This was...well, Sho can't think about it now. It makes him red in the face and sweaty all over and hard as anything, to think of Jun's breath down the back of his neck, tickling and teasing, or to remember the way Jun's hand strayed to his waist to guide him forward--.

Sho dares to look to his left.

Aiba is staring back at him. Not Jun, but Aiba, whose eyes are wide above his smile.

And his eyes are saying something. In fact, they're shouting, SHO-CHAN YOU HAVE A BONER ON NATIONAL TELEVISION. CROSS YOUR DAMN LEGS.

Sho quickly crosses his legs, pastes a pleasant smile on his face, and tries to listen to Nino's story about their camping trip.

"--And I was like, woah! A real bear! But Sho-chan was next to me in the seat and kept saying, 'it's okay, it's okay, it'll go away.' He was so calm about it."

The audience laughs. "A bear right by your van! That must have been scary. How did you feel about that, Sakurai-san?"

Sometime between Aiba's expression and Sho's panic, Nino had finished his story and Tamori had moved onto interrogating Sho, whose legs are squeezed together almost painfully. He hopes it's not noticeable that he's trying to hide something, but it probably is.

"I actually felt more panicked than I looked," Sho says, and tries to laugh.

"He's like that a lot, you see," Jun chimes in. "You think he's calm about something, but really he's a panicky guy."

"Is that so," Tamori chuckles. "How interesting!"

Sho squirms in his seat.

-

Later, back in the dressing room, Jun removes his scarf.

Nino and Aiba have already left, the two of them both busy with summer stage plays. Ohno is in the parking lot having a discussion with his manager, but when Sho looks around the only things in the room are his and Jun's belongings.

No one is coming back. It's just the two of them, and Jun is sitting on the edge of the couch, folding up Nino's discarded scarf with unnecessary attention and delicacy.

Neither of them says a word. There's a quiet clicking as the light in the room flickers once, twice; Sho looks up to squint at it but Jun pays no notice to the disturbance. It's like he's concentrating on something else--something imminent that will take up a lot of his stamina.

"Aiba told me," Jun finally says, and very casually, "that he was supposed to wear this shirt, but he got mixed up and put on the other one. And the stylists didn't notice until it was too late."

Sho smiles nervously. He is clear across the room, unzipping the leather jacket that he'll have to return to the clothing rack. "At least you found a scarf," he says.

"At least."

Jun has finished folding. He tosses the scarf on the table in the middle of the room and stands, then stretches. When he does that--when his arms, long and lean, reach up for the ceiling--Jun's shirt rises up to the middle of his stomach, exposing a deep navel and a piano of ribs. And skin--so, so much skin.

Sho stares.

"Sho. Come here," Jun says.

Sho doesn't move.

"Help me take this off," Jun says again, and his voice is back to how it was before--soft, heady, but with certain intent.

Sho can't move. "Jun," he says nervously, "I didn't mean to do that--before. With--you know."

It's as if something in the room has broken, snapped in two--the light flickers again and Jun crosses the room in five long, easy strides. "I don't care if you planned it or if your hands conveniently slipped or your brain stopped working altogether," Jun growls as he reaches Sho. "I'm horny and you touched me and I liked it. And I said later, didn't I? Well, it's later and I'm still wearing clothes."

Without any warning Jun slips both of his hands under Sho's plain white t-shirt and digs his uncut fingernails into Sho's sides, where his skin is the most sensitive. Sho gasps--what is going on--and Jun leans forward, catching Sho's bottom lip in his own and sucking gently, leaving a slight bruise that Sho will admire in his car mirror when this is all over.

But for now all Sho can do is respond. All of his nerves jump into motion at once, as if understanding that this is an opportunity worth taking, and he lets himself get pushed up against the wall. There, he wraps one leg round Jun's body, trapping him closer. And his devious fingers, his hands--they go right for Jun's nipples, still showing clear through the cutouts in his shirt.

Jun's cry is like an arrow piercing swift through the dark and Sho realizes--Jun likes nipple-play. Jun likes to have his nipples touched.

He probably does it alone in his house, sprawled out over his bed on all-white sheets. The scenario plays out in Sho's head, a naughty movie theater of sorts: Jun naked, legs slightly bent, as his fingers brush over his nipples and his cock grows, grows, grows. Sho thinks about Jun stuffing the edge of his pillowcase in his mouth to keep from groaning too loud, to hide his weekly habits from the prying neighbors. Sho thinks about the way Jun's nipples will start to throb after five minutes of play and how Jun will just have to lay a fingertip on the top of his cock for him to come everywhere, all over his hand and sheets.

Somehow this makes everything better, everything from Sho's spontaneous touches to his public, monstrous hard-on to this, to sex in the dressing room with the door unlocked and everyone still milling around outside. Anyone could come in at any second to ask for paperwork or a ride home or dinner.

Sho thinks, as his heartbeat speeds up and fills his ears and lungs with a heavy rhythm, fuck them and their questions. They can go find other people to harass.

Besides, they're busy. Very busy. Sho takes Jun's left nipple between his fingers and pinches, not too hard but enough to make a point, to coax an animalistic sound from Jun that burns straight through Sho's body. Jun's lips slide over Sho's in a forgotten kiss; now he's too preoccupied with moaning and writhing. Sho can feel Jun's cock pulsing through the fabric of too-tight jeans, which are just as slutty-looking as the shirt he has on.

An idea occurs to Sho, suddenly, and as he feels Jun's hands fist in his t-shirt Sho bends forward to press the tip of his tongue to Jun's other nipple. The touch is a shock of fire and Jun's hips buck; Sho stills him with a hissed ssh. Still, Sho decides that's not enough, even with Jun's breathing growing ragged right above him (and Jun's hand has let go of Sho's shirt and is snaking down into Sho's jeans, into Sho's boxers, and further--fuck, is all Sho can think as the electricity in his body soars to new levels, to the stars in the sky and beyond. Fuck).

Sho's lips close around the nipple and suck just like Jun did Sho's lips; Jun presses forward, mumbling words that make absolutely no sense but rush through Sho like lightning through a cloud. He can't hear anything anymore, can't distinguish between sounds, but he can feel every single one of them in little jolts all over his body, along his spine and the soft skin of his inner thighs and over the length of his cock, still buried in his pants.

"Jun," Sho rasps, and his tongue slides all over Jun's nipple. Forget finger-painting in kindergarten; Sho could do this all day instead and pass with flying colors, he's sure. "Jun, touch me."

Jun's breath has long since been lost in the atmosphere of the room, but he manages to nod. His eyes are shut tight and Sho can see the sweat standing out on his forehead, which is scrunched in concentration. And he's whining. Jun is whining, whimpering pathetically through his bitten, ruby lips.

"I hope you look like this when you're at home alone, Jun," Sho whispers, teeth gritted. He lets his head fall back against the wall with a thud as Jun's fingers finally wrap around his cock, squeezing gently along the length as Sho's knees begin to give out. But he keeps talking, and he brings his palms up again to lie right against Jun's sore nipples. Just yesterday he went golfing with Aiba, and there are sure to be calluses in all the right places. "I hope you look at yourself in the mirror when you play with yourself at home. I know you do, Jun. I know you like to touch yourself on your bed, your nipples, too, like this--like what we're doing. Don't you?"

"Sho," Jun manages to gasp. "Shut the fuck up and touch me, would you?"

Sho obliges happily. When he finds Jun's cock and strokes methodically, but messily--onetwothreefour--it's a matter of seconds before Jun is gone, gone all over Sho and the floor and his pristine black jeans. His moan is a long, wordless sound, voiced right into the shell of Sho's ear. It reminds Sho of the wind during a typhoon before it dies down—one last howl before the eye of the storm.

But there are still matters left unfinished, and Jun's hand continues to work Sho's cock, jerking away, and Sho is close--so close. All he needs is one last thing to push him over, just a simple hitched breath from Jun or something else--something like--

"Oh, and by the way," Jun says, still panting for breath in Sho's ear, "when I'm jerking off, I think of you there with me. Next to me, coming all over me. Really, really fucking hard."

The image is a split-second flash in Sho's head, a subliminal message cut into the frames of a movie: he and Jun on Jun's bed, tangled together as naked as the day they were born. Or maybe Jun's wearing this shirt. The shirt he still has on, with his pink, raw nipples still peeking out from between windows made from fabric.

"Come on, Sho," Jun mumbles. "All over me. Go."

Somewhere in the distance the rumble of a janitor's cart goes by, its rusty wheels screeching against the lineoleum of the floor. Even so, Sho doesn't think that twenty of those carts would have been enough to cover the intensity of his orgasm. In his head it's all a blur--a flash of white-hot pleasure exploding behind his eyes--and Jun will tell him later that he had to tell Kuroki Meisa next door, who inquired about "someone in pain," that the clothing rack had fallen on Sho's foot.

-

Sho swears that even if he did mean to turn Jun on and make him the horniest he's possibly ever been in his life, he certainly didn't intend to ruin two pieces of very expensive clothing.

"Can't use those black jeans anymore," Jun says as he wiggles out of them. He and Sho are both still ridiculously sweaty and out of breath. "Or this shirt."

He pulls it over his head and it tears a little--in fact, it tears a lot. Jun takes one look at the damage, then shrugs and tosses it on top of the jeans pile.

"Oh my God," Sho squeaks from where he's sitting against the wall. He couldn't move if he tried. "That was designer, wasn't it?"

"It was a piece of cloth that someone put through the shredder," Jun says. "I said that already."

Sho wants to tell Jun that he'll have to pay for that, but he is much too tired. All he can do is breathe, and bring one limp hand up to his face to brush the wet, matted hair away from his forehead.

"I really need a shower," Jun mumbles.

"Me too," Sho agrees.

Then he thinks for a second. Mainly, he thinks while looking at Jun's naked body standing right in front of him.

"So, my house," Sho finally says. "It's not too far from here."

Jun grins.

images of broken light

2010-06-01T06:33:27Z

a kiss, and all was said.
AN ARASHI FICTION QUEST.
Title: images of broken light
Pairing(s): Ohno/Jun
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3800
Summary: Ohno spends the night at Jun's.
A/N: This fic, besides being written for the a kiss and all was said challenge, is not usually like the ones I post here. The style is very different, for one (though this is how I used to write my Harry/Draco fics way back in the day). It might also leave you with some questions at the end. But I won't say anything else (except that I hope you all enjoy it, though I always hope that). :) Thank you to aeslis for the beta (♥).

The title of this fic comes from Across the Universe by The Beatles. Also mentioned in this fic, for the sake of--er--detail: Hey Jude, Eleanor Rigby, and Yellow Submarine.

I mean, I'm not going to ask you why, Jun says, lighting up. His reflection is visible in the window of a random car, the split-second flare of orange by his fingers as he drags the last flame out of his lighter. You can tell me anytime you want to. Or you don't have to.

Ohno decides that the second option is probably the best choice. He reaches out, takes the nearly-empty lighter from Jun's fingers, and holds it in the palm of his hand. He's not sure why. Maybe there's something in holding Jun's belongings in his hand that makes this all okay, but Ohno's decided he's not going to think about it too much. Do and don't think. Feel and don't dwell.

Okay, Ohno says.

Jun reaches inside his pocket for his keys and clicks the car door open. The smoke from his mouth billows out, a thin tornado, and Ohno can't see his face for a second.

Your place first? Jun asks.

And Ohno nods. He knows Jun sees.

-

Ohno's house is empty. His family left him just yesterday to embark on a vacation to Karuizawa, and Ohno waved them off with a smile and a promise to not fill the house with raw fish in their absence.

Normally Ohno would enjoy the house to himself, all its hidden curves that open up when his sister, mother, and father are gone. He gets to make weird food concoctions and eat them at the kitchen counter in his boxers and not clean up the leftovers for days. He gets to smoke on the balcony at three in the morning if he wants to, and he gets to sleep in without anyone making noise to wake him up.

But this time he's not staying here. He'll be in the city until his family returns.

Jun is pulling into Ohno's driveway and saying, five minutes, okay? I'd like to make dinner before it gets too late.

Ohno likes homemade dinners, and the lazy look of delight on his face makes Jun laugh. Five minutes, Jun says again, and pushes Ohno out of the car.

Once inside the house Ohno gets a call from Jun, who says not to bring a towel, he has those, and also lots of pillows, and extra sheets.

Just pack clothes, Jun says. Clothes and your toothbrush.

It's so dark in here, Ohno replies, feeling his way through, grabbing onto random edges that are familiar and smooth underneath his hands. I don't think I've ever been back when the lights aren't on for me.

Jun is quiet.

Happens a lot at my place, he finally says.

-

Not that it matters much to Jun that he lives alone. If he lived with someone else he would have to adjust completely; it would probably mean not being able to take his socks off in front of the television, and Jun wouldn't like that.

He just imagines what it would be like to come home to somebody that matters, to come home to the lights on and the television going. And when he thinks about all of that, if the timing is just right, he starts feeling a little lonely, a little empty--the kind of empty where all you want is a nice warmth by your side and a smile or two just for one night.

Jun could get that from anyone he wanted, and he has. But sometimes it's better to be picky.

-

Maybe Ohno is staying at Jun's for the weekend because he feels like it will be just like being by himself, only with another person to smoke with and watch television with. Maybe Ohno is staying at Jun's because he simply wants to and there's not really a concrete reason behind it. Or maybe Ohno is staying at Jun's because Jun joked about it, a passing remark, and a part of Ohno decided that, well. You certainly don't know until you've tried it, so why not?

Ohno brings a duffel bag back to Jun's car. When the door opens Jun is grinning; in the dark his teeth gleam.

Ready? Jun asks. He takes Ohno's duffel and puts it carefully in the backseat.

Yes, Ohno says, and settles down.

Jun's car drives like a billiard ball rolling smoothly across a pool table, no noise or feeling, and so quietly. It's like a cat purring, Ohno thinks. Or like when he talks to Jun and doesn't actually have to say anything. Yeah, it's exactly like that.

And now--Jun reaches over at a stoplight and puts his hand on Ohno's thigh, where his fingers curl, maybe just to do something, maybe to make a point. Ohno looks down.

My bed's probably too small, Jun says, and he's actually thinking about it, lips turned down. So I'll sleep on the couch if you want.

No, that's, Ohno begins, then stops.

The light is still red. Ohno picks up Jun's hand in his own, plays with a finger or two--

I've turned into Nino, Ohno mumbles, and puts Jun's hand down as they laugh together, two lines of caustic sounds entwining in the interior of a fancy car. Eventually they settle, and Jun says, well maybe the bed is big enough. Ohno makes an agreeable sound.

-

Who was in Jun's bed last?

It takes him a couple of minutes to remember, and that unnerves him. For someone who likes living alone, there's something about waking up with another person next to you that Jun finds thrilling. He enjoys the extra weight on his mattress and the thoughts that flood him as soon as he opens his eyes: hello there, you--who are you, again?

He likes lying there and remembering the abridged version of Last Night, the taxi and the lights and the grabby hands. Jun is an avid collector of Last Nights, and they're all starting to blend into the other. This is probably why he can't remember whether he last woke up with that one girl that Nishikido introduced to him, or if it was his hairstylist's sister, the one with the mole on her collarbone. Or maybe it was the twenty-year-old boy with the terrycloth underwear, the kind just like Nino has.

It doesn't matter, anyway. Jun has decided that he needs a break. He's putting his Last Nights into a jar and putting it on a top shelf, like how Sho put his wisdom teeth in a bottle. They're keepsakes and he'll look back at them from time to time just to remember those moments, but for now he doesn't need them. There are too many of them, enough to have chilled him more on the inside than he would like.

So he had been glad to be pulled aside by Ohno, to be asked: can I stay at your place this weekend?

Two and a half days of the two of them in his apartment, Jun had thought. Just the two of them. This wouldn't be another Last Night and it's nowhere near a roommate request. It's just a weekend.

So Jun said, sure.

Ohno hesitated.

I mean, I'm not going to ask you why, Jun continued.

He was nervous. He needed a cigarette.

You can tell me anytime you want to. Or you don't have to.

Jun flicked the last out of his lighter and let Ohno take it from him. He didn't mind, and probably wouldn't have even if it was brand-new and a gift from the hostess of his favorite restaurant.

Okay, Ohno said finally, and Jun relaxed.

-

It's midnight when they pull into the parking garage, 12:03 when the engine cuts off.

12:05, and only silence to speak of.

Ohno is fine with silence. He gets out of the car slowly, rolling his shoulders and carefully shutting the door behind him. Jun already has the duffel bag slung around his left shoulder.

Ohno wonders, not for long, if this is really all okay with Jun. Jun is a private person after all. Jun keeps to himself most of the time, even after all of the things they've been through. Jun has his own house and his own space. And here is Ohno, intruding on it all.

Jun holds the door open for Ohno, but walks on ahead, two steps at the most. He's talking about dinner, what he'll make, and Ohno is thinking about pans and sizzling noises and tangy pasta sauces when Jun takes a hold of his elbow and navigates him into the elevator.

Then after dinner I guess we can watch a movie or something, Jun continues, eyebrows knitting together, intent on finding the right schedule for the next two and a half days as if Ohno is a faraway friend, a visitor from out-of-town.

Jun, Ohno interjects. He turns so that they're facing each other. You don't have to treat me like your guest or anything.

Jun stares.

But you are, he says.

No, Ohno insists. I'm not.

He smiles. The words hang stiffly in the air for a few seconds, like the still iron bars of an old-time elevator, and Ohno watches Jun think. It reminds him of his dark, empty house and the way it all lights up, switch by switch, cheekbone by cheekbone.

But Ohno doesn't live in the delicate contours of Jun's face. Maybe he has dreamed of it, but it will certainly never happen, and he records every little moment like this in the film of his mind to be reviewed at a later date. A later, more private date.

-

Because it's a Friday night, Jun puts on The Beatles while he makes dinner. It's been awhile since he's let himself do this but he knows Ohno won't mind. In fact, Ohno hums along as he sits on the couch, flipping through Jun's cable and wiggling his toes on top of the coffee table.

Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better.

Get comfortable, Jun says over the seven millionth chorus of Hey Jude. That's where you're sleeping tonight.

Ohno pauses. Then:

The bed is big enough, you said.

Jun cooks for a minute or so--mushrooms in the pan, a tad more olive oil. It's like pasta is all Jun ever cooks and he could probably do it with his eyes closed and his fingers tied together, but he pretends for a second that he has to pay extra-special attention to this particular dish.

Maybe it is, he finally says after a dash of coarse-grained black pepper (a bigger dash than he intended, but his fingers slipped). We'll see.

We'll see, Ohno echoes, and hums some more.

-

Ohno likes Hey Jude. He likes The Beatles, actually, even though he doesn't listen to them much (his favorite album is Yellow Submarine). And he likes that Jun is the type of person to play good music while cooking good food. His mother, as much as Ohno loves her, forbids music in the kitchen unless it's classical and played at a nearly-muted volume.

You're the first person to have dinner here in about two months, is the first thing Jun says when they sit at the kitchen table. The last was--

--Aiba-chan, Ohno finishes, already twirling noodles round his fork. He told me. I think you made carbonara?

Yeah, Jun says. He was only here for a couple of hours, though. He had to go home.

Silence again, but the comfortable sort.

I'm not going until Sunday afternoon, Ohno says.

He's not sure why he feels like he has to reassure Jun that he's not just going to leave in the morning, but Ohno is okay with saying so. Something in Jun seems to loosen up when Ohno reminds him that yes, he'll be there for two more days and no, this is not some random hook-up. Even if it was a hook-up it wouldn't be random, and perhaps most importantly, Ohno wouldn't mind.

How's the food? Jun asks, even though he doesn't have to. Ohno is already on his third helping.

It's great, Ohno manages to say after he has inhaled everything edible on his plate. It's really great, actually.

Ohno puts down his fork.

I'll help you with the dishes, he says.

I thought you weren't my guest, Jun teases, and his smile is a little spark of brightness in the dim kitchen. Only a guest would say something like that.

Fine, then I'll just take up space on your couch and watch the pay-per-view fishing channel, Ohno says. He hopes he looks indignant enough.

The silence returns and now is something slyer, like steam creeping round unnoticed. Ohno is looking to see if Jun has noticed--but of course he has. Jun is used to the air changing, to dropping hints. He is a veteran of those sorts of things. He would know what to say here, the exact words to drop on the table.

I need to change the sheets on my bed, Jun says as if it's an afterthought. He stands and his chair squeaks against the tiles.

Too fast, Ohno thinks. He's nervous.

So Ohno says:

Let me help you with that, at least.

His chair squeaks too.

-

Jun puts The Beatles back on after dinner.

The next song begins with violins, but Jun doesn't know the words to Eleanor Rigby. Just this one line: Ah, look at all the lonely people; where do they all belong?

Now Jun is putting dishes into the sink and planning to forget about them for the next day. It's unlike him, extremely so, but he's got the jitters in a funny place--his chest. Usually he is calm about these things, calm about asking Last Night Girls and Boys to accompany him to his room, then even calmer, smoother, and very much confident about what comes next. He has a blueprint in his head of these sorts of things.

But this is Ohno in his house, this is Leader, and Jun has decided that this is not the same as any other night or any other person. He has no choice but to crumple his blueprint and toss it in the trash and hope for a smile in the morning and something to last the next forty-eight hours. And if not a smile, then just warmth. And if not a smile or warmth, then just--.

--No. Jun will hope for everything he can. He has to. Once Jun has started something, he has to go through with it until the end.

-

Do and don't think. Feel and don't dwell.

So Ohno chooses to observe, which is sort of like thinking except not really, because he is using his eyes and so it's automatic processing--he can't help it.

Ohno notices that Jun isn't in control, for once. Not that this is a bad thing, because it's Friday night and everyone should be allowed to lose themselves once the weekend has started. That's why Ohno is here, he has decided. He wants to lose himself for a little bit. He'd like to lose himself with Jun.

Which is why he's following Jun into his bedroom and helping Jun find matching sheets and pillowcases (which takes all of three seconds; it is Jun's closet, after all). He's hovering close, but keeping a distance that he expects Jun to close when he's ready.

Pull the other side, Jun says, casually, but his voice is a bit tighter than usual.

Ohno pulls. There is a flutter of fabric and some wonderful scent; above the swish of cotton Across the Universe plays.

Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup, Ohno thinks to himself, and the lyrics slither onto his tongue and escape in a whisper, a near-hiss.

I wouldn't expect you to know the words to this song, Jun points out. They're tucking in the corners of the fitted sheet now. But you've been singing along to the whole album, haven't you? In your head. You've been humming.

I can't help it, Ohno says, and smiles.

-

Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box, they stumble blindly as they make their way across the universe…

Surely no one that Jun could ever coax home would hum along to every song on his Beatles albums, or help with the dishes, or eat three helpings of his homemade pasta.

Well, maybe they would have, but Jun wouldn't have felt the way about them as he does Leader, who is a smile standing in his bedroom, and one that will still be there in the morning, tangled in sheets and still clothed and willing to stay for another night. Leader will wake up in the morning and want leftovers, and he won't be polite about it, either.

Even if Jun finds it a tiny thrill to try and remember who's lying in bed next to him, he doesn't mind the comfort of knowing who fell asleep with him and hoping that they'll still be there the next morning. In fact, he craves it. He wants to open his eyes and have the lights on for him and the water already running, just for once.

-

Jun tucks in one corner of the top sheet and then tosses a pillowcase across the bed.

That's for the big one, he says, and nods to one of the naked pillows.

Ohno grabs a handful of down pillow and stuffs it into the case, which is soft--not with wear but with the kind of satin feel that he likens to ladies' pajamas and five star-hotel sheets. This is an expensive bed, fit for a boy who finds his life just as rich.

Jun, Ohno begins.

Jun looks up.

I'll sleep on the couch if you want me to, Ohno finishes. Really, I will.

He sets the clothed pillow at the head of the bed, next to the smaller one that Jun has just put down. There, they look like partners in crime, disguised in bona fide silk suits, even if the one that Ohno dressed is somewhat wrinkled.

Jun's is impeccable. As expected, Ohno thinks. He does this a lot. He probably does it with other people, too, just like this.

No, Jun replies, after some time.

Ohno looks up.

No, you can sleep here, Jun says, and rests a hand on the bedspread. His fingers curl, maybe to make a point, maybe just to do something.

-

Jun gives Ohno a new tube of toothpaste, a towel, and a tour of the bathroom.

Hot water's on the right, he says, pointing to the shower tap. The letters rubbed out and you'd think it would be on the left, so be careful.

Ohno nods seriously. Got it, he says.

This is turning out to be just another concert tour; just another night of settling into yet another hotel room. Ohno is fiddling with the sink taps and making himself at home already: toothbrush down, towel on the rack next to Jun's, glass already nestled comfortably in a nook by the sink. He has even pulled off his shirt.

I'll go turn on the air conditioning, Jun says.

His mouth his dry. He takes a step to leave.

Wait, Ohno says.

Jun turns.

Yeah?

Can I just--

Ohno takes one step forward, one step to move in, and brushes his lips against Jun's.

Good, Ohno mutters afterward in a puff of breath. It's as if he has just dipped his hand into a lake and determined the water cool enough to swim in.

Jun inhales sharply. He has no idea what to do, what the right thing to do is. There is no blueprint available for this situation, no instructions to follow.

This is not another random hook-up with the coolest-looking guy at the club in the leather trousers and studs. It's just seven minutes past one o'clock in the morning. It's just Leader.

Except it is not just Leader, and this is not just something to dismiss.

So Jun takes Ohno's elbows in his hands and eases him up against the wall, gently, slowly, before shoving hard. It's like Jun wants to wake up tomorrow morning to see holes dug into the plaster from Ohno's shoulder blades. It's like he's trying to gauge whether this is real or not.

Sorry, Jun says, after they have stared at each other long enough. Did that hurt?

Ohno shakes his head.

Jun, he says quietly.

Jun's instant remedy to any tension in his body: Ohno beginning a sentence with his name.

Jun, Ohno says again. It's okay. I'm staying.

He raises one hand and presses the tips of his fingers against Jun's lips.

Two days, Jun mumbles.

Just two, Ohno agrees. But two more than you're used to.

Jun closes his eyes.

In the morning, he hopes there will be a shower running for him, and a hand on his arm, and his name rolling through the morning air like birdsong. He hopes because he has to.

Or maybe he hopes because he wants to.

Thank you, Jun says. I need this.

I know, Ohno begins, in the same tone of voice like he is embarking on another journey into the water, this time deeper. So will you--?

Jun lets himself go. When his head dips, Ohno's lips are already there to meet him.

And it's a kiss, Jun thinks, worthy of a well-lit home and sleeping in with someone else to be your blanket.

-

Ohno rolls into bed like he has been standing for hours, like his knees have finally buckled, given out.

My lips are bruised, Ohno says after a beat. He is pouting.

Jun throws a pillow at him.

Shut up, he says, and leans over, elbows digging into the mattress.

Ohno presses the tips of his fingers against Jun's lips, again.

Gentle, he reminds.

Right, Jun breathes, I know.

The kiss is like the softest summer breeze, playing round curtains at dusk--balmy and lazy and sweet. Even Jun's tongue is playful, and Ohno lets him in without a second thought.

Good night, Jun whispers.

You would be that type, Jun-kun, Ohno says, laughing slightly. Do you give all of them good-night kisses?

Five past midnight, and a pocket of silence falls over Jun's room.

No, Jun finally says. He is sure of it.

There are good-night other things, he continues, and they're not really so good night as they are drunken and horny early morning (but Jun doesn't say any of that last part).

Ohno stretches, the tips of his toes reaching the edge of the bed and fingers wiggling at the wall. Then he sits up to pull the covers over both of them.

Good night, Jun-kun, Ohno says quietly.

-

Jun realizes quickly that the bed is not actually big enough for both them. Ohno's hand is somewhere near the small of his back, brushing against the end of Jun's spine.

If he is asking for something, Jun is fine with it, but not tonight. Tonight, right now, is just perfect.

Two more days, he thinks.

He falls asleep. He is warm, warm all over.

island dreaming

2010-04-26T18:48:33Z

Title: Island Dreaming
Pairing(s): Sho/Aiba
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~10,300
Summary: When Sho goes to Hawaii for two months, he writes the rest of Arashi letters to keep in touch. But the ones for Aiba are a little different than the rest...
Notes: Five hundred years ago (aka September 2009) kotobayori's theme challenge for the month was 'travel.' I set out to write a short Sho-and-Aiba-themed genfic on the subject. Instead, that fic exploded into what you see now, which just proves that I have no self-control whatsoever, and I can't decide whether that's good or bad. Anyway, thank you to my SuperBeta aeslis for all of her magical tricks and beautiful incentives.

Hawaii shows up at Aiba's door in tiny packages filled with glossy pamphlets. They are all wrapped in the same thin, brown paper that reminds Aiba of the word caramelized; even the string used to tie the packages are like the leftover bits of onion that his mother calls wasteful. It's odd that Hawaii and letters from Sho and travel packets make Aiba think of cooking, but then again, he grew up around a kitchen, not in it. Maybe it's that vague familiarity that sparks his mind to those connections.

"Mom, mom," Aiba says to his mother during her visit, balancing a pile of mail in his arms. The frames surrounding his apartment walls are weak but he leans against the doorway anyway, socked feet crossing to hold his balance. "Look, I got lots more of these!"

Grinning, Aiba holds up the stack of tropical correspondence--come visit Hawaii, come swim in the ocean, come eat pineapples, come get beat up by giant waves. He hands each pamphlet to her one by one and she oohs and aahs over the pretty ocean photographs and swaying, clichéd palm trees.

"Where are the letters from Sakurai-kun?" Aiba's mother asks once she has looked through all of the brochures. "He does send you those too, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Aiba says, and straightens up quickly. "All he talks about is his work."

Sho's been sending all of them letters. He doesn't need to, because before he left they all got international phone cards for really cheap, but it's Sho. Not that that means anything really, Aiba thinks--you can't bottle Sho; you'd need a cup the size of Jupiter with a lid to close everything in--but snail mail fits him. The others try to joke about Sho's uncharacteristic negligence of technology and love for licking the backs of stamps, but in reality his being in Hawaii of all places makes the rest of them want to be there too. Aiba calls it a severe case of 'you are my soul soul' syndrome, and he knows the others agree even if none of them will admit it (except Ohno, with a tiny smile and a nod of his head).

In the dressing room they compare Sho-mail: Jun's are the longest, filled with the tiniest details about where Sho went that day and how he liked it (there are even stars used as ratings; Nino makes a snide comment about how Sho has entirely too much time on his hands to be penning tiny, semi-perfect shapes, but Aiba doesn't think it's really a joke). Ohno's and Nino's letters are almost the same length down to the line but they get different things with them--clippings of diagrams from English-language fishing magazines and DVDs of American magic shows that run hours long.

Aiba's letters are the shortest. He gets paragraphs that are barely the minimum number of sentences and they are written in the style of potpourri, trivial topics scattered about on a single sheet of paper.

Masaki, the very first one reads. It came in late September, a few weeks after Sho had first left and just when a rainy spell took over Tokyo. There's A TON of pineapples here. You'd think that would just be a Hawaiian stereotype, but it's actually true…and delicious. The Zero crew bought me an entire box, but they probably won’t last by the time I come back so I’ll have to buy more. Wish you were here, Sho.

The second flew in just days later and long before Aiba had even decided he wanted to write Sho back. By that time the rain was an everyday thing and the humidity was digging into Aiba's bones; he read the note in bed with the covers bunched at his feet. Masaki--I did my 'perfect body' imitation at a party last night and I think some people laughed, which is better than none, right? They also have this thing here where you can stand in a cage and get lowered into the ocean to see sharks. And I don't mean just see them, I mean practically swim with them. Pretty dangerous but I think some of the other newscasters want to try it. I didn't come here to be shark bait. Wish you were here, Sho.

Nobody else got this story, and maybe for the right reasons: who else would be excited by the thought of slipping quietly into a shark-infested ocean but Aiba? He read the letter over and over, lingering on the perfectly styled kanji and how each stroke flowed into the next. They almost looked like minuscule flowers (hibiscuses, Aiba thought, stretching; Sho was turning tropical, after all).

The letters kept coming--a third, a fourth, a fifth, and sometimes wet because of the frequent downpours and the carelessness of the mailman. And even though Aiba hadn't been lying when he told his mother that all Sho talked about in the letters was work, there's the wish you were here at the end of every one that makes Aiba's fingers tingle. He didn't think much about the closing line for the first few letters but after noticing that Jun's ended with hope things are well and Nino and Ohno's just dashes followed by Sho's signature, he figured that wish you were here meant something only intended for his eyes.

*

Jun insists that it's nothing.

"He's just homesick," he says to Aiba. "It's been a long time now and you know it takes a toll on someone, being away that long."

"But it's weird that my letters are so short," Aiba says, evading the actual subject completely. He opens his mouth to say other things, but quickly falters. It feels that lately he's been talking through letters and that all of his words are reserved for the paper only; when he tries to talk it's difficult and his sentences stick in his mouth. The unfairness of it frustrates him and his gestures have become more pronounced and dangerous to be around. "Yours are super long, Jun-kun. They've got stars on them and everything!"

"Yeah, but I'm going to Hawaii in a few months. I'll need to know those things."

Of course Jun doesn't mean anything by it, only that he is lined up for a movie that has plans to film in Oahu come winter. But Aiba still backs off. He doesn't have anything else to say, anyhow, that would make sense outside of the careful privacy of his mind. Instead he says, "That's true, Matsujun--hey, you should bring me back a turtle!" And Jun just frowns at this, because obviously (as they all know, they were taught so in 1999) you are not allowed to touch the sacred Hawaiian turtles.

Aiba waits a long time to reply to Sho's letters, which is not exactly a good thing--when he actually sits down to write back, he has five in all to get through and of course each one of them needs its own reply. Even so, the return letters are all very commonplace; there is nothing sprinkled through the sentences to suggest that Aiba has excitement--no, electricity flowing through his bones (because it's true, he found this out on television, and at the time it sounded like the most fantastic, even romantic, thing in the world).

Dear Sho-chan, Aiba scribbles on cheap stationary. Did you know that when you put pressure on bones, they produce electricity? Isn't that the best thing you've heard all day? It was when I heard it.

He continues on like this, so many sentences filled with did-you-knows and hey-this-happened-the-other-days--all generic things, the stuff of small talk. Every letter that Sho sends gets a reply, but Aiba addresses everything except for the wish you were here. He signs his letters with his signature instead, and a tiny drawing of something Hawaii-esque (palm trees, girls in bikinis, swirling waves, shaved ice).

He wants to say it, though: I wish I were there too. In Aiba's daydreams there are images of him sprinting across the beach, tripping over thick piles of sand and falling into oceans full of volcanic activity and kingdoms of coral.

Dear Sho-chan, how many times do you swim a day? It's getting cold here. The other day we went on location to the seafront and the water was gray and sad. I know in Hawaii it's not like that, though. The pictures you sent with Jun's letter the other day were really great. Everything is so green! Don't forget to bring some for us…I want to give one to my mom. She'll like the landscape ones.

And of course, that sly P.S., three little words packed with unsaid feelings: Come back soon!

Aiba hopes that his letters make Sho jittery; that when the mail arrives and the postman says for Sakurai, for Sakurai in a very blatant American accent Sho will perk up and hope there's something from Japan, from Arashi, from Aiba. It's almost like they're playing some twisted game of hide-and-seek where the paragraphs and pens are the counters and Aiba and Sho are the ones missing.

But how it all began is the question. Nino and Ohno don't write Sho back and Jun has only responded once or twice to a whole packet of starred letters, which means that Aiba is the only one who feels compelled enough to sit down and think about what Sho would like to hear. Except Aiba doesn't think about it that way--it's more of his wondering what he'd say to Sho if they were together in the break room, reading magazines and talking about absolutely nothing.

Anyway, Aiba doesn't exactly care about what Sho would like to hear. He just cares that Sho will listen to whatever he has to say, no matter how unexpected or out-of-the-blue it is, because he always does.

*

Nino and Aiba go drinking one night, on the eve of the seventh letter and when Aiba has given up trying to tell Sho all about his day. Nino insists that Sho doesn't have the time or even the patience to read about what goes on in Aiba's head.

"Which isn't much," he says in the taxi to the bar, sunglasses pushed right up to his eyes. If Aiba looks close enough he can see Nino's eyelashes brushing against the lenses. "What do you say to him? 'Hi Sho-chan, today I ate miso ramen! It was good!'"

Aiba frowns. He actually did tell Sho that he had miso ramen today, except he'd woven that topic into a question ("How is the ramen in Hawaii? Not as good as the original, I bet. Nothing is ever as good as the original. Except our remakes of A-RA-SHI, but that doesn't exactly count"). Still, Nino is missing the point entirely. It's not about what Sho reads, it's that he understands that Aiba is taking the time to write back, to hold Sho's letters close to his face until he squints just to think what would I say to this if Sho-chan were here talking to me? And that has to mean something, anything, of worth, because Aiba's P.S.s won't do a thing if they just stay on the page, festering in a pool of maybes and unknowns.

"What do you think he's doing right now?" Aiba thinks aloud.

"Gross, do you ask him that?" Nino makes a face. "Because it's only slightly bordering on creepy."

"I do," Aiba says, and it's the truth. "But really, what do you think?"

The taxi jumps violently over a pothole and Nino falls against Aiba; his shoulders smack into the window and Nino's glasses come off askew. While the taxi driver grumbles under his breath, Nino breathes into Aiba's ear, and the breeze is hot and wet against his neck.

"Doing this," he says, and then moves away with a smirk. "To some Hawaiian girl in a taxicab, heading downtown for drinks."

And maybe something more, Aiba thinks, finishing Nino's sentence. He can't help but wonder if, were he in Hawaii just as Sho's letters wished, he would be the one keeping Sho company after hours instead of some girl that probably worked at a local TV station and just wanted to climb the corporate ladder. If Aiba were there right now, they'd be playing Monopoly. They'd be riding along boulevards on little silver cars and shedding paper money all over the board. Afterward they would sit together, pieces strewn about, and scour the guide books, looking for places circa 1999 and going into them, marveling at how they (in a sense) and those stores had the same birthday. They'd be swimming in the ocean at midnight, then two AM, then four, and their towels would get lost in the dark sand. Aiba would dig for them; Sho would roll around, laughing until he cried.

Nino comments viciously about grains of sand in places Aiba doesn't even know about, and for the next five minutes they discuss Nino's trip to the beach with his sunshine-loving girlfriend (Aiba remembers this; Nino came back sunburned and with an intense hatred for crabs).

When the night is over and they've had their fill, Nino is fumbling around for his jacket, which is hanging somewhere on the back of his chair. "Do you want to?" Nino asks, moving his hands clumsily behind him. "See Sho-kun, I mean."

"Arashi is four," Aiba says in what he imagines to be a tone full of wisdom, only it comes out more slurred than he intends it to. "It's lonely without the last leg of the body."

Nino goes cross-eyed. "Without the final stretch of the storm," he adds. He is always more eloquent when intoxicated. "But that's not what I mean."

Of course Aiba knows what Nino means. He has been thinking the same thing all night: do you want to see Sho-kun just to see Sho-kun? And maybe Nino expects answers, or at least nods and noises of agreement, but he must understand that they are too drunk to comprehend anything more than each other's presence and the patterns of shadows on the leather seats in the taxi as it cruises home.

"Hey," Aiba whispers, tracing the outlines of the shadow-drawings with his fingertips, "what do you think this looks like?"

Nino squints downward. "Banana bunches," he says. "You?"

"Baby sharks," Aiba mouths, and his eyes go wide like the full moon.

*

The seventh letter is so crumpled that the sentences almost run together, but Aiba gets the basic gist of it anyway: Sho saw dolphins. He saw lots of them, actually, and they were cute and maybe Nino would have liked them (cue a round of Sho-drawn smiley faces that look more like tiny worms than anything else). Also, he misses real Japanese food. And home.

Aiba tries to write back something of substance but he ends up going on and on about how the shadows around him are looking more and more like sea creatures and coral reefs every day. He tries to play it off as some kind of new homesickness and then realizes that he can't be homesick for Hawaii because the only thing he loved about that place is still with him today. He's homesick for Sho, for his bandmate, for his friend. He's homesick for Sho-laughter and dumb Sho-jokes and that steady Sho presence, the one that somehow keeps all of their feet on the ground despite Sho's constant worrying. He's homesick for after-dinner drinks and taxi rides home, because he loves Nino, really he does, but there's something about those rides back with Sho (pulsing heartbeats, heads slowly dropping to chests, Aiba sliding all over the leather and Sho having to grip his wrist, gently: "You're not that drunk") that make Aiba feel safe, that make him wish they lasted for hours.

He signs his reply the usual way: Come back soon.

Then he draws a tiny picture of a plane.

*

Ohno is the first one to bring up Sho's homecoming. It's almost like an afterthought the way he says it, but Aiba's ears catch everything nowadays if there's any mention of Sho's name and Hawaii in the same breath. He kind of hates it but there's nothing he can do; he's like that long-ago dog that was trained to salivate whenever a bell rang. And then Aiba's brain moves to thoughts of salivating and Sho, and he has to force himself to move on from that point.

But it's quick, like a punch to the shoulder: "Sho-kun comes back in a couple of days, huh?"

Aiba forgets to be excited. In fact, Sho's letters have become something comforting and commonplace and wish you were here is like a steady mantra, echoing quietly throughout his mind whenever the mailman shows up or when Nino comes in with his cards, brow furrowed and mouthing English words with horrible pronunciation. After seven and a half letters (the most recent doesn't count--it was two sentences: If you get this when I think you will then I'll be back in three days. Too many souvenirs; airport customs will kill me), the only thing that Aiba can bring himself to do during a moment like this is smile. His insides might tell a different story entirely, but that is a secret left only to twist Aiba's guts.

"Yeah," he says, grinning hugely. "He comes back in two days!"

"Good," Ohno says, breathing out, and closes his eyes. "Finally."

Two simple words and yet it's how they all feel, even if they show it differently. Aiba pens letters so fast the ink smudges on every word, making his already bad handwriting even more illegible; Nino switches between card tricks and his DS until his eyes get so red they make everyone else's burn with pity. Ohno is quiet about it, but Aiba sees him when they sit at the five-person table and his look is a little forlorn. And Jun, poor Jun: he just works, five million times harder than he usually does, and Aiba is scared that when Sho comes back Jun will just collapse.

Even so they keep counting, and finally there are only two more days. They counted like this when Nino left too, and then it was worse--there were splashes of red ink on desk calendars and cell phone notifications and mothers calling, reminding them that 'Ninomiya-kun will be home soon.' And it was expected, since he was the first to leave and stayed away for more than a month. Still, Aiba thinks, they would have learned something from that experience, anything to keep them from going crazy, from eating too little and looking too tired.

The night before Sho's arrival the four of them do a half-joking rock, paper, scissors game to figure out which one of them will show up with the staff to bring their newscaster boy back. Of course it all boils down to schedules and work times, so in the end the contest is rigged. It has, according to Nino, been that way since the very first slim package popped up in Aiba's mailbox, a single letter and Polynesian brochures tied together with faux-onion strings, cheesy travel slogans and subtle pleas for togetherness.

"The van," Jun says, pressing his knuckles into his eyelids, "leaves early, Aiba."

"Early," Aiba echoes, because it's all he can do not to protest and say but we should all be there. He knows it's a futile request and one that will only be welcomed by heavy sighs and lots of rolling eyes accompanied by acidic remarks from Nino.

"Ten o'clock," Ohno says. From the look on he's face it's a guess, and not even an educated one. "Eleven?"

"Six," Nino says, smacking Ohno on the elbow. "Though we all know fishermen only tell time by the number of fish in their nets."

If Sho were here he would laugh in his booming, contagious way of finding something funny. That sound has been absent for awhile and Aiba's heard it in his head every time he knows it should be played; he wishes that the sound would broadcast from the depths of his eardrums into the space surrounding him so that they could all be reminded of that silly, familiar noise.

But it's always better live. Aiba knows this from ten years of experience, and not just with concerts. "I'll be there," he says firmly. "I'll pick him up on the runway."

"Aiba," Jun breathes, but his voice is full of amusement even when clouded over by exhaustion. Aiba can tell Jun is giving up, but in a good way--with each hour that goes by it's an hour closer to Sho coming home, and Jun is loosening up, slowly but surely. Come six o'clock in the morning he'll be exhaling into a cup of coffee with all the relief in his heart. "You can't do that. They'll make you wait in the van."

Aiba thinks about the help Sho might need with all the souvenirs he's supposed to bring back, but that might just be an excuse. He knows Jun is right, and no matter how much Aiba protests the managers will make him stay in the van to avoid anything risky that might happen in the airport (because somehow fans know weird things like airplane arrival times). He'll stay strapped into his seat for a good twenty minutes before Sho stumbles out of the automatic doors, wearing sunglasses and a hat and carrying more luggage than he left with.

"Watch," Nino whispers to Ohno, but Aiba knows this is intended for him. "He's so excited he won't be able to sleep and then he'll miss the van."

Ohno chuckles, but Aiba shakes his head. "The Arashi taxi service is always on time," he says, and means it.

*

Aiba isn't out the door until 6:10.

He'd been stuck in a dream about the News Zero documentary on Hawaii. It was exactly how Sho described it to them as soon as he'd gotten the assignment: a history of the islands with a special focus on volcanic activity, narrated by the Zero crew. In Aiba's dream he watched minute-long scenes of ash tumbling noiselessly down volcanoes, close-up shots of sea foam leaving behind salt on fresh sand and bird's-eye views of Oahu, Maui, Lanai. Even through his fake television Aiba found himself blinded by rays of sunlight thrown across Pacific waters.

But all of the scenes that Sho narrated were, for some reason, in black and white. It was strange to see such a colorful landscape in grayscale and it unnerved Dream Aiba so much that he had to ask his (still annoying) little brother about it.

"It's because they lost him after they finished filming," Dream Brother said after the documentary finished and the credits rolled onscreen. "They never found him again. So it's kind of like a memorial."

"But," Dream Aiba mused, "he's still alive, isn't he, somewhere out there. It's not like he's gone."

"You were supposed to get him that one day," Dream Brother sneered. "But you forgot and the plane took him all the way to Venezuela."

"Oh my God Venezuela," Aiba had squeaked, and his own voice woke up him up in a panicked rush. He hadn't even needed to look at the time to know that he was already late--Aiba only dreams that lucidly in his sleep when he has somewhere to go the next morning, which is why he's never on time for anything, but it's not like this is an excuse most employers accept--and all he could do to make it downstairs in time was to pull on the first items of clothing he saw and brush his teeth (at the same time).

When Aiba finally slides into the backseat of the van, hair totally mussed and shoelaces not exactly tied, he's already apologizing in hurried breaths to Sho's manager about how late he is and that there's no excuse, really, unless strange dreams count. But she doesn't seem as bothered as Aiba expected.

"You're fine," she insists as the van takes off. "He'll be there even if we're a little late, Aiba-kun, and anyway I'm sure Sho-kun will be glad to see that nothing's changed with you."

She's right, of course, and even though Aiba should feel stung he can only agree. Nothing has changed, at least among Arashi. They're still the same, all five of them, down to the way they talk to each other like nobody else is paying attention. But they've been hibernating in a harsh Japanese winter while Sho has been touring Hawaii.

Aiba wonders if Sho has undergone some sort of metamorphosis in the course of his absence: is he now tanner than Ohno on a bad day? Will Aiba be able to see the outlines of where Sho has worn his watch, his t-shirt, his sandals? And will he have gotten a little plumper, a little squishier round the edges, from all of the food he's been getting for free?

None of that really matters, though. As long as he gets off the plane safely and Aiba gets to bring him back home to Arashi, everything will be fine.

Dear Sho-kun, Aiba writes in his head as the van cruises over miles of highway, I'm coming to get you. It's not as heroic as it sounds, though, because your manager is here too, and the driver of the van. I won't be allowed to come help you because even though it's pretty early they don't want anything to happen, especially to the both of us, so I'll be waiting for you when you come out of the airport. I can't wait to see all the pineapples you have.

Sho-chan, begins the second unwritten letter. The exit for the airport is coming up very soon, and Aiba's nothing less than a ball of jitters. So we're right about to take the exit for the airport. Are you about to land? Or have you already landed? Don't forget any of your things on the plane! And I'm crossing my fingers that the airline hasn't lost your luggage. You know if you'd have flown Arashi Airlines, we'd have kept you safe and sound. Except we're all really busy, so I don't think that there's any way one of us could have flown you to Hawaii…we don't even have pilot's licenses. But anyway! I'll be waiting for you when you come out of the airport. I can't wait to see all of your pictures!

Finally, finally, the van pulls up to a nearly deserted international terminal and lets Sho's manager out at the curb. She's wearing impossibly high stiletto heels and can't move away fast enough; it is hours in Aiba's world before she disappears into the airport and the automatic doors swish closed behind her. Aiba stays behind to count the seconds in his head, each minute blurring into the next, but he keeps getting distracted by the endless pounding in his ears. So much, he thinks, for being calm about this whole thing.

Hey Sho, so I'm in a van outside the international terminal and I'm freaking out. WHERE ARE YOU? I'll be right there in front of you when you come out of the airport. Well, I'll be in the backseat of the company van, but you know what I mean. What should I say when I see you? 'Hi, Sho-kun! Welcome back to Japan!' Except I'm really nervous, which is stupid, so I'll probably just talk about anything that pops into my head. Like what I had for breakfast. Oh, Leader says I should've worn a kimono to remind you of what you've been missing (I think he had a little too much to drink last night), but it's only been a couple of months, not years.

It sure feels that way, though. Maybe I'm crazy, but it really does.

There's a sudden tapping beside him and Aiba turns, squinting past the heavy tint and fingerprint smudges on the window. He can't make out much except for a dark figure standing close to the van and a lot of luggage-shaped objects standing on the sidewalk.

"Masaki," Sho says, laughing, "you won't believe how much pineapple I bought. Come look!"

Aiba can't scramble out of his seat fast enough. "Sho, Sho-chan," he's saying before the door has even been opened, "you have--so much luggage! Oh, for all your souvenirs, right? That’s right, you bought a lot--let me, let me help you, hold on!"

Sho is chuckling; he has a hand out for Aiba to grab and when Aiba does there's a squeeze, then a pull, and then the feeling of being surrounded completely by a certain warmth that only Sho could provide. In Aiba’s chest his heart is dancing frantically, fueled by sugar and adrenaline and the scent of faint cologne and laundry detergent.

And then there they are, two-fifths of Arashi standing in the shade of the company van and hugging for one, two seconds before Sho pulls back and apologizes for his grossness, having been on the plane so long, and God he must smell like stale cabin air and maybe that was a little embarrassing, but there are no reporters around or anything so it's okay, right? Right, Masaki?

Aiba is dizzy. When he shuts his eyes he imagines for a second that this is a moment from one of their concerts, a five-second backstage hug and garbled word of encouragement before Aiba’s solo, or their next song. Or this could be rehearsal, when they’re both standing on some stage looking out into the hundreds of thousands of empty seats and Sho slings an arm around Aiba, nonchalant but close. Somehow, this is like all of those times woven together into a single instant of overwhelming emotion, a flash of breathlessness and weightlessness, like swinging too high or flying—Aiba is sure that this is what flying feels like.

But he manages to speak, though most of him is still in the air somewhere, tumbling through clouds.

"You’re back," Aiba says. "No more letters! Now you can actually tell all of us about Hawaii and eat real Japanese food and sleep in your own bed."

"I can’t wait," Sho sighs, and by the look on his face Aiba knows he really can’t. "I’m glad you’re here, though. I really didn’t want to ride back alone."

Behind them Sho’s manager is instructing the driver of the van to start the car, and the roar of the engine fills the early morning with white noise. Soon, Aiba knows, he and Sho will be called back so that they can leave and return to Tokyo. But he’s still flying over the city without wires and standing on his concert stage, so high up off the ground he might as well be in the sky. As far as Aiba is concerned, it’ll be awhile before he returns to ground zero.

*

The stories sound just like Aiba thought they would. Sho talks about making eye contact with dolphins, with stingrays, with sharks; the sand getting lost in his clothes, disappearing into pores and the in-betweens of his wiggling toes; the sunsets lulling him to sleep. He recounts the way the monstrous waves at the North Shore threw his body around without mercy and how he had to crawl out of the ocean afterward, literally dragging his hands across the heavy sand just to get back to solid ground.

Aiba hangs onto every single word. It doesn't matter that he's read about all of this already, even if he's memorized practically every word by heart--it's how the tales are told that make all the difference. The trip back to the company is filled with Sho's sleepy voice, traipsing up and down in pitch as the memories play out in his head, still vivid. But he's tired, overcome with jet lag and the dry coldness of a too-long plane ride, and soon his excited mumbles about coconuts and surfboards fade into quiet, gentle snores.

Aiba's eyes are slowly shutting, too, but before he can let himself doze off his phone buzzes loudly in his pocket.

Did you get him? It's Jun, of course. How is he?

Brown, Aiba texts back. He can just imagine Jun's face when he sees the message: a flash of confusion, but only for a split-second, before the relieved smile. If Aiba could see Jun now he'd sling an arm around his shoulders and they'd laugh for ages about the stupidest things just to release all of the tension that's been shut inside their bodies for the past few months. They'd make fun of themselves for being so uptight over Sho's absence, and wonder why such a trivial thing got them so worked up. It's just Sho, after all. Yet every breath the four of them took for sixty days was careful, let in and out slowly with the deliberation of someone walking on tiptoes, waiting impatiently for things to change, for planes to land and puzzles to be put back in their right order.

Nino came back with all those weird American jokes, Jun replies. And Sho managed to actually get a tan? What's going to happen when I come back from Hawaii?

Aim for bigger things, says Aiba. Gain fifty pounds and shave your head. You'll lose all your fans, but the four of us will still love you!

(Jun doesn't message back.)

*

The van hits a long line of traffic in the middle of a tunnel, and the sudden slowdown, the loss of rhythm, wakes Aiba halfway.

"So how is he?" he hears the driver ask over the fuzz of the radio station.

"Oh, he's fine," Sho's manager says, clucking her tongue. "I don't get why everyone is so worried. He's a perfectly capable adult."

"Really," says the driver, and Aiba's lips twitch. "Do perfectly capable adults sleep all over their co-workers?"

Oh, Aiba thinks, but doesn't move. Anyway, it's not like he can, what with the extra weight. Sho stirs against him, but settles soon enough. He's too exhausted--and comfortable, Aiba hopes--to wake up just from this.

"Come on, they're cute," Sho's manager says. "You'd be clingy too if you were separated from your family for anything longer than two weeks."

The driver only sighs. "Well, my wife, you see…"

Aiba drifts back to sleep.

*

When the others finally get to see Sho, the only thing Aiba can think of is that the whole thing is like out-of-body osmosis. Sho, slightly embarrassed, tries to turn the focus over to all of the pineapple he's trying to drag into the room, but nobody cares about acidic tropical fruit and Aiba is the one left to haul in the box while Jun and Ohno and Nino gather Sho back into the group through a push-and-shove process.

The room is throbbing with the usual smells and voices and touches--Sho trying to get a word in and failing, Ohno practically sparkling with a straight face, Nino talking too fast for regular comprehension and Jun worrying his head off about absolutely nothing--and Aiba leaves the souvenirs by the doorway to join them.

"You're so tan," Jun is saying, comparing his arm to Sho's. "Is this okay for you? I mean, does your manager not care?"

"Seriously, Jun-kun," Nino says from Sho's left. It's like Sho somehow became a father to three baby boys who would like nothing else but to hang onto their daddy. "It's not like he fishes all the time or anything. It'll fade."

Sho looks like he's having a hard time keeping up with all the noise and the movement. He's got huge circles under his eyes and he must want to sleep for the next month straight, but his grin is still bigger than anyone else's.

"Hey," he says, "it's not my fault, you know, it's just really sunny in Hawaii. Remember?"

"Yeah," Ohno joins in, chin sticking out. "And Okinawa's sunny, too."

"Wait, wait," Aiba says, "stand next to each other, maybe we can tell that way whether Hawaii or Okinawa has a warmer climate--!"

Quickly Sho backs away, hands held out, mumbling something about cruel and unusual punishment, and Aiba grabs his hand, his fingers, and pulls him back into the circle. In the background Jun's going on and on about how there are pineapples to be handed out and that Sho should be resting at home right now, and Ohno is mourning his sunburn and Nino is putting bets on who'll turn white again the fastest--but Aiba's not listening.

Sho isn't letting go. Their fingers are locked together somehow, index tangled with ring and middles entwined, thumbs brushing, and when Aiba tugs Sho readily steps into his space.

Aiba tries to tell himself that Sho is tired. He's acting on impulse, his judgment is hazy, he just wants something to hold onto because he doesn't feel like standing--excuses puddle at the base of his brain and leak through his body into the pit of his stomach. This is different than a hug, it means something else, and it makes Aiba tingle all over with uncertainty.

But Sho's hand is warm and comfortable, like Aiba's felt this before, and it doesn't take him long to remember: it's like opening one of Sho's letters lying in bed and watching the colorful brochures fall out onto the white of his blanket, then snuggling into the futon and mouthing every word that Sho wrote with whispers so quiet Aiba couldn't even hear himself over the rain.

"Hey, hey," Nino calls suddenly, and Aiba jolts himself back into the present, "Captain says he wants to pickle the pineapple and eat it with rice."

"Don't you think that would be tasty?" Ohno asks. He has a pineapple in each hand and is holding them up as if appraising them. "I mean, really tasty."

Jun puts a hand over his face and groans.

"Pineapple abuse--," Sho starts, but Aiba cuts him off.

"Leader!" Aiba laughs, and squeezes Sho's hand without noticing. "You should do it! It'll be just like A no Arashi all over again, and then you can bring it in and we can all have some." Someone in the room chokes. "You never know, it could be delicious."

"It will be," Ohno says, and gathers the pineapple in his arms like children.

"Anyway, what the hell were you talking about, Sho-kun?" Nino says. "You can't abuse pineapples."

"You can," Sho says confidently, with a look on his face that suggests he'd rather not talk about it. "And I know it sounds crazy, but I missed all of this." He's beaming from top to bottom. "You'll feel the same way when you leave too, Matsujun."

"I'm not so sure about that," Jun mumbles. Ohno gives him a pineapple.

*

Aiba-chan, this Saturday--after our meeting, begins Sho's text, and Aiba can only stare at it. It's Wednesday morning and he'd planned to relax, what with not having work until noon, but at this rate he'll never eat his breakfast while it's still warm and the tea kettle will have screeched itself to death. But those are all trivial things compared to what lies in Aiba's hands right now.

Do you want to grab some drinks, the message continues, and Aiba's eyes widen, widen, widen. I mean, it's been awhile, hasn't it?

Saturday isn't for another three days. This is an invitation made so far in advance, especially for the two of them, that Aiba can't help but wonder.

He types back a furious yeah that's cool, I can't wait and doesn't include any of his other, more intangible thoughts. This feeling is not something he enjoys--why can't love be easy, he wonders, and why can't you just feel nice things instead of imagining that your guts are being wrung out?--and he throws his phone on the couch with the intention of not finding it for another couple of hours. Right now he needs a cup of tea.

*

A week passes, slow to everyone else but swift, like lightning, in Aiba's mind. He's trying to shove two months' worth of Sho into seven days without anyone else noticing, and maybe Jun's become too accustomed to boys hanging all over each other and Ohno's too busy trying to get through this month's horde of fishing magazines because they don't say anything. But it's not even Thursday before Nino's already staring Aiba down over the top of his new hibiscus-themed deck of cards.

"You're ass over elbows for him," Nino remarks, so amused, as he and Aiba exit the studio together on Saturday evening. The meeting they'd been in finished earlier than planned, and the five of them branched out, a little unsure of what to do with this unexpected free time.

"I am not," Aiba retorts, and sniffles as the winter night crawls all over him and into his lungs. "I just missed him. It's nice having him back."

Nino laughs and Aiba moves in closer, mostly for warmth but also because he doesn't want to feel like he's alone in this right now. "He wasn't even gone for that long. And anyway, you missed me too," Nino says, "but when I came back I don't think you were drooling all over me."

"Leader was," Aiba points out. "And it's not even like you wrote him letters saying 'wish you were here,' right? He was just being--how he always is with you, times two. Oh, and you told me that he gave you five thousand yen before you left and he just wanted to know what you'd done with it. But still, it’s not like…" he trails off. "It’s not exactly like this, I think. This is different."

"Leader is different," Nino says, and laughs a little. "He’s not you and I’m not Sho-kun. What happened when I came back--that wasn’t anything. That was just the way we reunited."

They go their own ways at the same train station that they've been using for the past eleven years. Aiba has too much to say and not enough courage, for once, to say it; he wants to ask Nino if they ever thought something like this would happen when they were lanky teenage boys sitting elbow-to-elbow on the morning train, but he can't. This isn't like asking whether or not Nino wants to debut, if he's ready to put himself out in the open to be the dream lover of thousands of generic female faces. This would be asking if Nino thinks it's okay that Aiba let himself get all messed up over a bunch of letters and a four-word phrase and missing someone so much it made his insides hurt all the time.

"Where are you off to?" Aiba says instead. He's hanging on a little too much for a Saturday night, but his feet won't move just yet.

Nino looks up to the sky. It's a funny gray color, tinged with the promise of snow. "She's kind of pissed that I've been working so much lately," he says, and Aiba watches his breath climb upward. "So I have to do my duty, I guess."

"She's a good girl," Aiba says, and claps Nino on the shoulder. "You've done well."

For a second Nino looks confused, and then he laughs shortly, hand over his mouth. "Shut up--you're not my mother," he says, and he reaches out to poke Aiba in the elbow. "Look--," he begins, then stops mid-sentence. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Stuff, you know," Aiba says lamely.

"Do you want to see him?" Nino asks, except this time they're not drunk and stumbling over chairs in a fancy bar, trying to find their way to the door with at least a little dignity. This is a serious question, even if Nino's tone is light and his eyes are narrowing slightly like they do when he's being coy. "Sho-kun, I mean."

"Of course," Aiba replies, after a beat. "Of course I do." He's sure of it this time.

Nino exhales carefully and Aiba's expecting something profound to leave his mouth, something full of wisdom and advice that he picked up from some older actor one night, words packed with sincerity and hope. But all Nino does is shake his head.

"Ass over elbows," he sighs. "Completely."

"I'm going to get so drunk," Aiba confesses suddenly. He grabs fistfuls of the lining in his pockets and scrunches the material between his frozen fingers. "I'm going to get really, really drunk and then I'm going to tell him that my priority was to bring him back to Arashi and I did, I did do that, and everything's okay again, but maybe--maybe, you know, not everything's okay with me."

Nino flags down a cab with a wave of his hand before Aiba can say anything else. Whether he did it for comfort or silence, Aiba will never know, but they ride together for half a mile until Nino has to get off.

He has one foot out the door and Aiba's about to say goodbye when suddenly Nino turns around and smiles reassuringly. It's a fleeting moment that is gone within a second, but it's a flicker of warmth in Aiba's chest, and he keeps it close to him for the rest of the night.

*

Aiba walks into a bar.

It sounds like the beginning of some bad joke, but when Aiba pushes the door open to an obscure corner place with a single light in the entranceway he can't help but think it. Aiba Masaki walks into a bar and orders a drink, trying not to make it obvious that he's trying to swallow a bundle of nerves--those old friends of his--in a shot of tequila with a pinch of salt. Anyway, that's Leader's thing, not his.

And it turns out that he doesn't even need to order himself a drink. When Aiba shuts the door behind him (and kicks at it, it has a tendency to stick) Sho is already sitting down with two bottles, arm resting lazily on the seat beside him and dressed in some navy-blue jacket thing and jeans that look fancier than anything Sho usually wears in his private time.

"Sho-chan!" Aiba exclaims as he comes up behind Sho. "You bought me a drink already? Do you want me to give you my phone number next, or is this just a one night stand?"

Sho is already laughing before he turns, and it cuts Aiba to the core to hear that sound in such an intimate space. It truly has been awhile. "You know this is where we always go," Sho says, and moves his hand down from the rim of the chair to the seat, where his fingers curl invitingly. "I didn't even ask for yours, but they saw me save this seat and figured you were coming. It's what you usually get, right?"

Aiba pretends to be shocked as he hoists himself into the chair. "How could you forget? I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?"

So they do that. It's almost like going back in time to when Sho was still deciding whether he should do the documentary and kept wheedling Aiba into coming with him to think it over (except Aiba didn't really need a lot of persuading, even then). They'd walk into this place and kick the door shut and slide into a booth, or bar seats, or anywhere they felt like sitting, and the drinks would come out of nowhere, popping out of hands Aiba never saw because he was too busy talking to Sho about how sometimes he'd just like to fall into a bed of beach and make sand angels where nobody could stop him.

Sho says now that he didn't make any sand angels, mainly because there were people there to stop him from doing that, and anyway he was too busy researching. Aiba can just imagine it: Sho's head stuffed in encyclopedias and written histories of the Hawaiian islands, tufts of sun-streaked hair peeking out from over the tops as he sunk into the pages and fell asleep. He did that a lot in his college days and sometimes Aiba didn't have the heart to wake him, even if Sho was going to wake up with ink marks all over his face.

The bottle in Aiba's grip is getting warmer the longer they sit, and soon his palm is wet with condensation and the passage of time. The topic of conversation swings back and forth from work to Sho's pseudo-vacation, and sometimes Aiba brings up one of the others, or Sho will take a moment to laugh breathlessly into his glass at something Aiba's said, or the way his drink keeps getting refilled without his asking, or just nothing at all.

They're thoroughly tipsy soon enough, and Aiba is all fluid limbs spilling onto the table. Sho kicks him underneath the table a couple of times (but it doesn't hurt that much, unless Aiba's just gone numb) and has started to turn new drinks away, leaving Aiba with a colony of empty bottles in front of him.

"He shouldn't have any more," Sho is telling the waitress as she comes over, tray heavy with another round. "But thank you."

"No, no, I could," Aiba insists, trying to lure the girl back, but then the tip of Sho's foot strikes his ankle--hard this time--and Aiba slumps forward, a mess of giggles and curses escaping from his mouth. "Or, ow, not."

"That's right," Sho says, and Aiba feels fingers wrap securely around his elbow, pulling him upright again. "I think it's time to go."

Aiba is sure that Sho is far from sober himself. He wants to tell Sho that no, it's not time to go, because there are more drinks to be had and more waitresses to look at (with double vision) and too many shades of red on Sho's cheeks that Aiba hasn't had the time to name. He's found a spot of scarlet resting on Sho's cheekbone, flushing gently into his left temple, but lower than that the hue turns to something cherry-like, bright like the lights that dance inside Aiba's empty bottles.

His fingers crawl along the cool surface of the table, reaching for Sho's arm, then higher, tips brushing against soft leather and warm skin. Sho is looking intently at the check, calculating figures in his head, and hasn't seen Aiba's traveling hand and the plans that lie beyond it, beyond the sticky door of the bar and the frozen sidewalk and wherever they'll be going back to.

"Hey, Sho-chan," Aiba quips as his fingers falter suddenly. It's the first time alcohol has ever let him down on a night like this. "Are we going to take a taxi? Let's take one, come on. We always do."

"We're not that drunk," Sho mumbles, but he's too flustered by how many bills he has to place on the table. "Okay, maybe we are."

Aiba admires his bottle-forest with all its little lights and dewdrops of stray liquor. When he stands, everything wobbles a bit and Sho presses his fingertips to Aiba's back, steadying him again.

"Why are you so--," Aiba begins, but answers his own unfinished question. "Ah, Sho-chan is such a reliable person!"

"It's kind of my job," Sho sighs, and leads them both outside. "Anyway, I don't want another drunken Johnny's roaming the streets of Tokyo. Especially not if that drunken Johnny's is you."

Aiba hums happily. "Then let's get a taxi! That'll make the roaming impossible. I'll wave for one, here, look--." He steps to the edge of the road, right up against the railing, and Sho starts freaking out ("Masaki, seriously, you'll either get kidnapped or you'll die") as Aiba raises his hand to the speeding traffic.

Eventually a cab slows to let them in. When the driver asks for a destination, Aiba gives his apartment address. Sho doesn't say a word.

*

It ends up raining, a freezing downpour that somehow manages to claw its way to Aiba's center even if he only takes a couple of steps from the taxi to his apartment entrance. Behind him Sho's teeth are chattering violently in between pleas to get the door open already, it's so cold, freezing down to my boxers, really Masaki, please. Aiba's numbing fingers lose the grip on his key a couple of times, and eventually the doorman comes striding over to let them into the lobby.

"Thanks, Jo-kun," Aiba quips oppositely to the doorman's pensive sulk. "Don't worry, I'm sure it'll stop raining soon!"

"You know what this weather does to my hips," the doorman mumbles, and slips away back to his post at the entranceway.

Sho laughs low, secretly, and Aiba feels the electricity tripping along his bones. All at once of his cells are zapped with feeling, and when Sho presses closer as they approach the elevator he can feel sparks behind his eyes, threatening to burst free.

And in that case, Aiba thinks, if he did indeed explode, the first things to go would have to be his ribs--right? Or would the trigger be a deeper organ, like his liver? But no, this isn't the time and place to think of something like that.

Even as they climb into the elevator Aiba is considering the process.

"You're talking out loud," Sho says mournfully, "about being popped open."

"But what do you think?" Aiba asks, and looks down: Sho has him by the wrist, thin fingers pressing lightly into his pulse. "It's a relevant question, Sho-kun."

"Mmm," Sho hums. He's turning Aiba's hand around in his own gently as if this is some kind of examination, fingertips probing knuckles dry from the cold weather and palm lines thick with fortune. Aiba's heartbeat quickens with every floor they pass: twenty-two, bump bump bump, twenty-three, bump bump bump bump, twenty-four, bumbumbumbump. Soon they stop at twenty-six.

Sho has been here before, probably more times than anyone else ever has, and he knows his way around. He can probably name all of the spots in the hallway where the carpet has faded and surely knows where the wallpaper tends to peel.

Aiba ends up leading anyway, stepping out of the elevator and into the hallway before Sho can. He feels a little rebellious doing it, like he's taking over the procession. But this is where he lives, and he was the one who asked the taxi to come here. He's the one with the key, and logic dictates that he should also be the one with all the plans up his sleeve, letting them trickle down as the night goes by, hour by hour.

But Sho has always been the levelheaded one; Aiba has always believed that, even now, with both their heads clouded over and their hearts a jumble of beats and bumps. It takes a second or two for Aiba's key to cooperate, but the lock finally slides open to a promising darkness.

Behind him Sho pushes Aiba forward at the small of his back with fingertips that have written lines in white sand and that have always, always been careful.

"Sho-chan," Aiba says, choking halfway on nothing--or something, the thing that's been lodged in his chest for months. "Are you staying?"

Sho steps into the foyer, kicking aside shoes to the wall, and it's such a normal thing for Sho to do that Aiba almost feels like bounding into the kitchen to grope around for snacks and even more half-empty bottles. If he thinks about it hard enough, he can envision how any other night might go--they'd fall onto the couch and giggle for hours with breaks for conversation, however stilted and nonsensical, in between. And Aiba would wake up with a pounding headache and an armful of Sho-hair thinking, well hello world, are you ready for another night like last night at eleven in the morning with the sun on full blast.

This will end up differently, Aiba can tell. Sho has shut the door already, has slipped off his shoes, has placed careful hands round Aiba's waist, backing him into the wall. They're standing in the foyer still as a sheet of rain, each second of silence punctuated by a breath or digging fingers or the flutter of eyelashes, unsure of whether to shut or stay awake.

"I guess so," Sho says, but the decision was already made hours before this moment. "When's the last time I was here, after all?"

"Before you got a tan," Aiba says, stifling a laugh between his teeth. "And turned Hawaiian, with pineapples and a grass skirt."

"Don't talk about my grass skirt like that," Sho mumbles, and tentatively presses his lips to the corner of Aiba's mouth. "Or else you'll never see me in it."

Aiba turns his head and decides, as his eyes finally shut and Sho's chin tilts forward, that from now on all kisses should be like this. It should become common practice to initiate kisses in dark entranceways while one is pushed up against the wall and slightly drunk, veins thrumming with tucked-away feelings and the tingle of cold fingertips in warm places. This is just, he thinks, the better way to go about it--but then again he's been waiting so long for this, for anything, that if Sho had started kissing him in the backseat of the taxi Aiba would have felt the same. As unconscious as his feelings may have been, they're still real and they're thundering through him now.

Sho eventually has to breathe and Aiba tries to tell him he doesn't have to, but the window on the opposite side of the room is throwing multicolored city light on Sho's face and he forgets words in favor of touching every one of those bright spots instead, like a blind man feeling for laugh lines and signs of wisdom.

"If this were Hawaii," Sho muses, sliding Aiba's shirt up to his ribs, "it'd be so hot I'd have your clothes off by now."

Aiba manages to laugh this time. Half of it rings loudly through his empty apartment and the other gets lost in Sho's mouth, swept up by welcoming lips and a searching tongue.

"But this is Japan," Aiba says, breath almost gone, "and it's super cold outside, like minus thirty, and my feet are really, really cold."

"'Sokay," Sho mumbles into Aiba's ear, "it'll warm up soon." He tucks his hands inside the waistband of Aiba's jeans, skin to skin, and it's like ice hitting the scorched pavement in July, like the sprinkler hitting the burnt sidewalk. And like kids that don't want to go inside when the weather is lovely, Aiba doesn't want anything that's happening now to end, even if he knows that it has to.

Gone is the odd game of hide-and-seek that the two were playing before in their letters. Those days of counting to one hundred and hiding beneath sand piles and under bedcovers have grown into this moment of belt buckles hitting the floor and fingers playing along xylophone-spines, creating musical scores filled with the melody of stuttered breaths and wondering hums and the long, soaring note of finally, finally, finally.

Sho will probably want to talk about this in the morning as he sits awkwardly at the kitchen table, drinking too much bitter coffee with awful bed head. He’ll fumble for answers and the first words out of his mouth will probably be so about last night, and Aiba will provide teaspoons of cream, sugar, and smiles. That's all he can do, because there is no name for what's happening between them, no way to pin down exactly what grows from a heart gone awry with longing.

But that's perfectly fine. As long as they're both here, it'll all work out in the end.

"Ready or not, here I come," Aiba whispers, and Sho's grip on his shirt tightens.

*

Two weeks later Sho is writing a letter to his grandmother in the break room telling her all about his work trip. It ends up being a hefty six pages of retold stories, promises that he will get rid of his tan, and boyish wonderings about when he'll get to see her again. He makes the mistake of drawing a line of pineapples on the back of the last sheet of paper, just to give her an idea of the kinds of things he brought back to Japan. Soon enough everyone has to take a turn with the pen.

"Leader," Aiba says, squeezing in between Nino and Ohno at the table, "that looks more like a pomelo than a pineapple."

"The one Sho-kun gave me was really fat," Ohno explains as he passes the pen to Nino, whose own take ends up having a pair of eyes and a cheery grin. ("And maybe mine actually smiled, too," Nino whispers to Aiba as he slides by.)

In the end the only pineapple that actually looks like one is Jun's, if only because Sho's resembled a skinny volcano more than anything else and Aiba decided to draw a can of pineapple rather than the actual fruit.

"Next time we're there," Sho says offhandedly as he's stuffing the pages of the letter into an envelope, "just remind me to buy her an unripe pineapple so it'll get to her fresh in the mail."

Aiba smiles. It's not like Hawaii is going anywhere, after all; it will wait for the return of a certain group of five young men. It might even wait for just two of them, if that day should ever come.

"Next time," he agrees, heart warm and content. "Next time for sure."

sweetness in black coffee

2010-03-23T18:42:41Z

Title: sweetness in black coffee
Pairing(s): Sakurai Sho/Ishihara Satomi
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~5700
Summary: Satomi's last days before graduation are filled with classes to sleep in, dreams to believe in, and wishes of kisses that taste like coffee and English conversations.
A/N: This was written for the amazing nicefinalbeam in celebration of the 2010 je_whiteday challenge (original post here). Writing this was all kinds of difficult because Ferin, I know how much you love Sho/Satomi (p.s. your pimp posts helped me a lot with this fic!) and I just really wanted to make it the best for your sake. :) And thanks of course to my b, Aesbaby. Girl is a force of nature.

With spring comes the promise of fulfillment. Satomi can feel everything coming full circle right in the palms of her hands, but she's months off from high school graduation and the rest of her life. All she does every day is itch for the next week to come, for this month to be over with, for the end to ring in jet plane noises with stewardesses speaking brokenly in languages that Satomi will know, one day, when she is a worldly enough actress. And she'll get there. In her heart she knows this is the way things will be.

For now, though, her hours are spent trying not to fall asleep in her classes followed by English lessons that Satomi wishes were as long as the day is bright. She learns absolutely nothing in school and everything but English when she treks, every other day, to an American-style cafe at the edge of the road by Keio University. No matter how early she is her tutor is always there first, already working through his first cup of coffee. It will be the first of many; Sakurai Sho is twenty-two and drinks heinous amounts of caffeine like it runs through his veins instead of blood.

They have the same lesson every time: Sho says, let's pick something to talk about in English. There are no vocabulary lists or grammar drills or tests, and Sho corrects her mistakes as if they are classmates and not like he is four years her senior. This has probably given her more practice than any expensive conversation school ever could, and for this reason Satomi thinks Sho is a good teacher.

She also likes him. A lot.

Even when she shows up tired, irritable, and fed up with the world, Sho understands. He listens to her when she has problems and smiles at her when she waltzes in, singing about her life in unfinished sentences and excited gestures. And when she plops down on the seat across from him, letting her schoolbag drop to the floor as she blinks back an inevitable river of tears, Sho buys her a cup of tea and talks to her about how boring economics is and how his friends keep trying to get him to join an agency that will sign him to a boyband.

Satomi feels like she is the only person in the world that matters when Sho talks to her, even if it's in another language that she is still struggling to understand. There is just something about the way he sets his eyes on her, so much unwavering attention focused on a single girl who is barely five feet tall. He even tells her that when she becomes an actress--when, not if--he'll watch as many of her movies and plays as he possibly can.

"You're a very smart girl," Sho says sometimes, wonderingly, as if he's not sure if it's okay to say so.

"And you," Satomi replies in English, behind a giggle and a subtle blush, "are addicted to coffee."

i. Dreams.

Dreams are like little birds, her mother said. Cupped in the right hands and handled with great enough care, their cages will one day open to the world.

Satomi is seven. She is wide-eyed and has wildflower blossoms on her cheeks; where she runs the boys follow, still unsure of their feelings yet certain that there is something magical in her, in the way she moves and talks and plays. Her mother warns everyone that her daughter is a little loud and unlike all the other girls her age, with different thoughts and feelings that don't run with the rest. Satomi observes things, says her mother. Leave her in the field and she could spend an entire day by herself, imagining dragons out of rocks and entire cities out of a patch of forest.

In school the children take a quiz with only one question: what will you be when you grow up? The answers are expectedly elementary--teacher, baseball player, world-famous chef, the prime minister.

Satomi writes the word ‘actress.' Satomi doesn't scribble down ‘a famous celebrity' like some of her friends do. She knows what she wants to be, is going to be, and she tells twenty-five seven-year-olds and her still-young teacher that she's going to be in movies and commercials.

"And I'll be famous," she says, as enthusiastically as her tiny body can muster. "Everyone will be watching me!"

"We'll wait for you," says Satomi's teacher, smiling politely. It's the answer she's been giving out all afternoon to every child with stars in their eyes and chirping dreams in their palms.

Years and years later, at the peak of her career, Satomi will remember that face among all of the ones she's seen. Maybe she'll be tired after a day of filming and photoshoots and interviews, of trekking round in heels for hours and talking up a storm about her new play and upcoming movie. She'll have climbed mountains that day topped off with a dab of lipstick and a spray of the best perfume. But even so she'll find the strength to grin back.

I hope you waited, Satomi will say. My dream came true.

**

"What about you?" Satomi asks when the waitress leaves after giving Sho another mug of coffee and taking away two empty, stained cups. "Tell me about your dreams."

"In English," Sho says, giving her a look that clearly says she needs to practice.

"Just five minutes," Satomi pleads. "Just as long as it takes you to drink everything in that cup. Please?"

Sho gives her a quizzical look, raised eyebrow and all. "Fine, but they're not as interesting as yours," he says, and cradles the mug in his hands, testing its warmth. From here Satomi knows what will come next: two full spoonfuls of sugar and a generous dripping of cream. For a man studying to be an economist, Sho likes things sweeter than most people prefer. "I don't think I've ever thought of acting seriously. Or singing. Anything onstage probably isn't for me," he says, and pulls back the lid on a disposable cup of cream. "If anything, I wanted to be a newscaster when I was younger."

Satomi watches the liquid draw cloudy swirls in Sho's cup as he stirs, absentmindedly, with a spoon that looks tiny between his fingers. "A newscaster?"

"Yeah," Sho says, and his smile is thoughtful. "You know, put on a suit and read the news on late-night television. I'd probably have to read three different papers a day just to keep up with everything going on, but it seems kind of fun. Not really like a job."

He takes a sip out of the mug and swallows hard. Satomi can practically see the hot liquid rolling down his throat by the way his Adam's apple strains, then loosens. She has never been a coffee drinker, but maybe now is the time to try new things, if only so she could somehow become connected to that one flash of movement. There's no way she could ever just reach out and feel it, after all.

"I think you'd be good at it," Satomi says, finally, but her thoughts are elsewhere, far away from this table and English and anything else.

And then Sho says thank you, his smile wide behind the golden rim of his coffee cup, wide and meaningful and just for her, and it takes a lot for Satomi to remember that she is a student and he is a teacher. This is not okay, she thinks, this is not allowed, but her heart (like her dream) is an untamable thing.

**

ii. Rain.

Dreams are like wisps of fog, says her high school homeroom teacher. One moment you think you've caught them, and the next you can't see them. But they'll always be there.

It's a summer of heatstroke and dry rivers and the summer when Satomi is fourteen. Selective hearing is all the rage and the only word Satomi hears nowadays is hormones, whether it's her mother complaining about how they've ruined her daughter or the school nurse lecturing on them to five hundred girls who have just begun high school, five hundred girls who have five hundred goals for the next five minutes and absolutely zero for the next five years of their lives.

Satomi figures that she's becoming one of them, even though part of her refuses to slime along with the rest of the apathetic crowd. But it is so disgustingly hot outside, so hot the sun creeps into every part of Satomi's body, that she doesn't want to do anything or think too much. The heat dances dirty tangos with the cool air in her lungs and squeezes her arms and legs with sticky hands, beckoning her home and to bed in the middle of the day.

This goes on for months. Satomi's mother picks up the phone with important people on the other end offering Satomi jobs in commercials and magazine ads, and she only takes a few. In a years' time she will be ravenous, taking everything she can get, but right now the only thing that matters to her is sleep, sleep, and more sleep.

"I wish you'd just stop growing," sighs her mother, and gives Satomi extra rice at every meal. She devours every single grain, and yet somehow never manages to shoot past five feet and one inch.

Finally, finally, the rainy season hits. Satomi wakes up on the first rainfall of June and feels differently. There are rivulets of water streaming down her window, and as she stares at the grey world outside she imagines them to be wavy strands of the rain goddess' hair flowing onto her house and into her room. She imagines the cool touch of blue against her face, sinking into her eyes and running a waterfall straight through the center of her body.

Satomi comes to love the month of June as she wakes up to windows spotted with drizzle or washed clean with sheets of dark rain. Everything goes back to normal soon enough, and by September she is the girl her family once knew and again the promising actress the local agencies are all after. Time, says her mother, time heals all wounds.

But Satomi likes to say it was the rain that helped to heal her. Even now she ventures out into storms sometimes when she knows no one will see her just to feel the drops against her naked arms and bare feet. To her they are promises from the sky of good times ahead, of cool hands against her feverish face, like mothers to daughters, like lovers to lovers.

**

The walk from the train station to the cafe that Satomi and Sho usually meet at is six minutes long on a regular day. Armed with a heavier-than-usual schoolbag, a raincoat, and a rundown umbrella, it takes Satomi two minutes before her umbrella breaks completely and the wind and rain make a complete mess out of her hair.

When she finally stumbles in, gasping for air and with every article of clothing on her soaked straight through, Sho is already laughing behind his hand. The fact that he's trying to be polite about it, Satomi thinks, is probably the worst thing about this whole situation. He doesn't even look all that fazed by the weather--the tips of his hair are a little frizzed, curling with the humidity, and his jeans are wet up to the knee. But when he laughs it's still as sunny as any other day.

"It's not you," he says, but he's making it a point not to look her in the eye. "It's just--um, so surprising, this weather."

"I hate walking in the rain," Satomi wails, and proceeds to sneeze on the waitress. "Oh no, I'm so sorry, oh my God, just kick me out of this cafe."

Sho quickly asks for tea, immediately please, with lemon and honey, and slides a neatly-folded handkerchief toward Satomi. The triangle of cloth is a blue checkered pattern and kind of worn at the edges, as if he's had it for ages, but when Satomi holds it to her face it smells like warm laundry--like the inside of Sho's pocket. She inhales deeply, and ends up sniffling instead.

"It doesn't look like you get along with this weather," Sho says, and he sounds so amused that Satomi has half a mind to kick him under the table. (She tries, and misses.) "Make sure you drink your tea when it comes. It would be really bad if you missed a lesson, what with your tests coming up and all."

Satomi sighs heavily and shakes the handkerchief out over her wet knees. Within seconds the handkerchief is just as damp, and she hastily folds it up again and slides it under her skirt. Out of sight and out of mind, she thinks, crossing her fingers that Sho won't ask for it, that he'll forget she has it in her care.

She lapses into English to distract him, babbling on about how the weather said nothing about a storm today and it was all thanks to her intuition that she thought to bring an umbrella with her this morning. The story she tells is one that her family and all of her friends know, about how when she was fourteen she discovered that the rain calmed her down when nothing else could.

"The rain calms you down?" Sho says curiously. "I would have never guessed, the way you came running in here like a monster was chasing you."

"It's true," Satomi insists, making a face, and pulls her cup of tea toward her until it stops right at her chest. The steam tickles her chin and nose and warms her right through. "But sometimes I don't notice it, and it's just annoying. Like today."

Sho hums in reply, as if he's contemplating something, and Satomi watches him carefully as she licks stray drops of honey off her fingers (oh, her mother would have a fit if she knew her daughter was doing such a thing in public, and in front of a man, no less).

"I'll walk you to the station," he says after a moment. "Since your umbrella broke."

Satomi's spoon dances a little in her hand. "Okay," she says, managing not to squeak. "Thank you."

"But you have to give me my handkerchief back, because it used to be my dad's, and stealing is not okay."

Satomi figures this is a fair trade.

**

iii. Boyfriends.

That can't be what you want, says Satomi's boyfriend on their three-month anniversary, as they are lying in the tall grass of the field by his house. It's still autumn enough to be chilly but spring is obviously in the air, tickling Satomi's neck and arms and fingertips, lips and legs and knees.

"Why not?" Satomi is fiercely indignant. In her opinion, it's been three months too long with this boy and they just need to break up already. "It's been my goal forever and you're telling me that I'm not allowed to want it?"

"Hey, hey, Satchan," he says, putting a hand on her arm. Satomi just turns her head away and squeezes her eyes shut, letting the soil press against her cheek. It's more calming than anything right now, especially the boy at her side. Why can't he just break up with her already? Surely they both have better things to do right now. "I didn't mean that."

You did, Satomi thinks, and says hello to a ladybug crawling onto her arm. And stop calling me Satchan.

"It's just," he goes on, "being an international actress, that's kind of--I mean--unrealistic, don't you think?"

"I'm already on television," Satomi says. If she really was with someone who cared, she wouldn't have to be talking about any of this. "And I'm going to make my way up from there."

"But can you?" the boy asks, a little exasperatedly, and Satomi can feel his wet breath on her arm as he snakes closer. She rolls away. "We're sixteen, Satchan. Don't you think it's time to start getting rid of your childhood dreams?"

"And what about you?" Satomi snaps. When she turns to look at him she hopes the expression on her face is like the feel of a dagger sliding against his palm, cutting quick and easy. "You're so invested in yourself that you can't even believe in me. I'm going to act," she says, glaring so hard the entire field just might burst into flames. Even the words in her mouth feel hot, like they're full of scarlet venom. "If you don't think I can do it, you can leave."

This is why, Satomi thinks as she watches the boy scramble away, mumbling ugly things through his teeth as he brushes dirt off his jeans, men should only care about their work. They should learn to find a girl and love her dreams, too, and they shouldn't think about anything else lest they end up with grass stains on their knees and a bitter taste in their mouth.

For the rest of her life Satomi will remember this moment, and aims to find men with busy jobs who don't even have time to see her, let alone realize that she has an ultimate goal in life and that nothing will ever change her mind about it. But there will always be someone in the back of her mind that she will think about above everyone else, and his face will come back to her in between sips of coffee and interviews in English that she will be able to navigate through. She won't have time to think too much about him, though, as she will be too busy.

(And then a fan letter will come, though it will be more personal than the others Satomi usually receives, and a little more detailed, with talk of cafes and stained mugs and should-have-beens. But that is another story completely.)

**

Satomi knows that her theories on romance aren't exactly popular. Her friends are all disgusted that she likes guys that don't have hobbies and only concentrate on their work, because you need work but nothing else is necessary except for someone to love and come home to (at least, that's how it works in her head). And they've told her over and over again that making someone busier when they already have a thousand things to do is just bitchy, and no man would ever go for that.

"But is it wrong to just want to be the center of someone's world?" Satomi says, chin in hand.

Sho chokes on coffee, a feat Satomi didn't think possible until she met him. "I'm sorry?" he says.

"You think I'm weird too, don't you," she groans, and slumps down in her seat. "I'll never find someone who agrees with me!"

"Now wait," Sho says. He's getting a little flustered, but Satomi isn't exactly noticing his frantic side glances and reddening cheeks over all her distress. "Let's not go that far."

"Oh no," she gasps, and bolts upright in her seat so suddenly that she upsets the bowl of sugar. Sho panics wildly, almost flailing, as clumps of sweetener tumble onto the table and cover his fingers in tiny crystals. "I'll never get married, that's what's going to happen. And you're--covered in sugar! Oh no, oh I'm so stupid, I'm so sorry…"

By the time the waitress has come over with a couple of wet cloths and Sho has brushed all of the sugar off his hands and lap, the cafe is nearly empty and Satomi is an apologetic mess full of bows and I'msosorrys rolling off her tongue at lightning speed. She's about ready to find the manager and tell him that it's her fault all of the customers left, but Sho stops her.

"Enough, enough," he says, and gently sits her back down in the chair. "It's just sugar. It's not like you set off a bomb in the middle of the floor." He pauses. "Well, it did kind of sound that way..."

Satomi opens her mouth to start apologizing again, but the look on Sho's face makes her shut it right away.

"Reason number twelve thousand why no one will ever fall in love with me," she mumbles. "I'm a spaz."

"Being klutzy can be endearing," Sho soothes.

"And I'm loud," Satomi continues. She has her hand up and is counting off, with her fingers, every undesirable trait she has ever considered. "And I make too much noise, and I don't know when to shut up."

"Well then," Sho says, "you'll make great movies because you won't be afraid to say what you think should happen with your character, and you'll never have to have the loudest microphone when you do a stage play, and there will never be awkward pauses on talk shows when you appear because you'll have so many things to say."

He smiles at her, and it's like everything in the room has just righted itself with the flicker of a single light. "Right?"

Satomi could cry. If she wasn't already embarrassed enough to move out of Tokyo and live the rest of her life in the countryside, she would ask Sho to marry her right then and there. "Right," she agrees, and smiles back with an added thumbs-up.

**

iv. What ifs.

"You'll find boys in Paris," Satomi's best friend says as they examine an atlas in their geography book. They have an important test the next day on European countries, and neither of them knows a thing about the material, but they've got the rest of the night to make up stories about their futures. "You'll be drinking coffee at some trendy cafe by the riverside and he'll come up to you and give you a dozen roses and a croissant. It'll be love at first sight!"

Satomi splutters violently and comes up for air with apple juice dripping off the tip of her nose. "Oh my God," she says, still choking, "are you serious?"

She can't deny that having a man come up to her in some quaint Parisian cafe isn't a fantasy of hers, but at the same time she just wants to raise her hand and interject--why not be in a little cafe by Keio University and run into a guy with five coffee-stained, empty cups at his table? Wouldn't that count as love at first sight, or at least spark some kind of interest?

"The most serious I have ever been in my life, actually." It's not the answer Satomi wanted to hear. "Wouldn't that be so cool though? And you'd be an actress, so he would probably be all scared to come up to you since you'll be world-famous by the time you're twenty-five."

"Excuse me," Satomi says crisply. "I think you mean twenty-two."

They play the what-if game for the next two hours and forget about Russia and Italy and France and the mountains and rivers they're supposed to be memorizing. By the time the last train has stopped running, Satomi and her best friend have figured out sixteen different futures for the both of them. In every single one, they're madly in love with the perfect boy and Satomi is always a classy actress.

"Wait," says her best friend suddenly, and suspiciously. "Isn't Sho the name of your English tutor?"

Satomi just shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says innocently, but she's eighteen years old and still can't tell the blush in her face when to sit and stay. Soon enough she's the color of Cupid's heart, riper and redder than any human's could ever be.

**

Sho leads a busy life. Where Satomi goes to acting classes on the weekends, Sho stuffs his brain with the fine details of macro and micro economics; during the hours Satomi shows up on local television Sho is cramming for life-altering tests. And yet, Satomi finds the time to wonder what life would be like if the two of them were together.

It's a Tuesday afternoon when Sho teaches Satomi the English equivalent to ‘what if.' The phrase doesn't need much explanation, and they dive right into practice. Everything, of course is very innocent--Satomi asks things like what if you were blue and what if the earth was flat; Sho is a little more fluent with questions that go what if you were a ballerina and not an actress and what if you were a boy. ("If I were a boy," Satomi says, "I would always stand behind my girlfriend! Always!" She bangs the table so hard Sho jumps in his seat; his surprised face is the cutest thing Satomi has ever seen but the rest of the customers in the cafe are even more shocked than he is at the pretty girl in the corner yelling in English.)

But in her head the what-if scenarios are far more imaginative. What if they lived in a world where Satomi could ask Sho to walk her home holding hands? Where it would be okay if Satomi opened her doorway still tripping over the way Sho's mouth moves and how his fingers wrap around mugs, and her mother didn't stop to ask her who she was in love with? In Satomi's what-if land, she is asking for to-go cups of coffee for the both of them, and she is getting cream and two sugars for Sho, and he is slipping an arm round her waist and curling the ends of her hair round his fingers as they walk out of the cafe.

"Ishihara-san," Sho says, calling Satomi out of her daydreams, pulling her by the hand with foreign words in a familiar voice. "Are you listening?"

Satomi looks down. On the scratched wooden tabletop their fingertips are touching.

"What if you were older?" he asks again, and his gaze is serious, dark and bittersweet like the insides of the coffee cup before him.

If he means what Satomi thinks he means--but no. He couldn't.

"I'd fall in love," is Satomi's answer. Her fingers curl over Sho's, and neither of them moves away. "For real."

**

v. Coffee.

Green. White. Oolong. Earl Grey. Roobois. Chai.

Satomi has a tea collection, and she won't let anyone drink from it. It's not so much that she loves tea as much as it that the silk-wrapped packets were a gift from her grandmother, years and years ago, before Satomi could even really understand the meaning of age-old herbs in an old lacquered box. All she can remember is that her grandmother always told her that she could do anything she wanted to do, no matter what people said.

"If anyone is ever in your way," she said, voice soft and crinkly like precious tissue paper, "knock them over. You can do it, Satchan."

And she was the only person who ever called her granddaughter Satchan. These days, Satomi considers that nickname retired. She won't let another soul use it. All she knows is that her grandmother took it with her and it's there now in heaven, resting in the recesses of a still-warm lap that smells of the best teas from all over the world.

Satomi has never tried coffee simply because the thought has never crossed her mind. Every day she says good morning to the sweetest of teas on her dresser, fingering each packet in the box with the tenderest touch. She has a quirky affection for tea ceremonies, and goes to as many as she can, if only to inhale a few seconds' worth of the delicate scent of frothed green tea. And coffee--coffee stains. Tea only cleanses, right down to the pore.

She's been accused of being too refined and stuck-up, but Satomi begs to differ. There is no sweetness in black coffee, she always says. There is no mystery to a bunch of ground beans, no time to close one's eyes and think about what exactly is in their mouth. Coffee is nothing but liquid caffeine, the lifeblood of procrastinators and college students alike with no room in their heads for a moment of tranquility.

At least, that's what Satomi thought until she met her own chronic coffee drinker. She never believed that people were so easily swayed, either, until she began taking English lessons in the spring of her last year of high school.

**

"Let's talk," Satomi says, "about coffee."

She is at her last English lesson before a big audition for a drama, and it will probably be the last time she and Sho see each other for months, provided she gets the part. They've both been counting down, Sho on his cell phone calendar and Satomi in her head and on her fingers and toes. This audition will be bigger than anything Satomi has done so far, and landing the role will put her in a primetime television slot. She'll be seen by families and schoolgirls and college students, talent scouts and shut-ins and grandmothers. This isn't just important to Satomi, it's the next step to the rest of her life.

And as for the part of her life that's coming to a close, being with Sho at the end of it is more than she could ask for.

"Coffee?" Sho says, and looks sheepishly down at his second cup. They've only been here for ten minutes. "Is there really that much to say about it?"

"Well," Satomi says, folding her fingers together under her chin, "why do you drink so much of it?"

Sho doesn't seem to know the answer. He stares into his cup, turning it over, swishing around the cream-and-sugar dregs at the bottom until they've become a maple syrup of sorts. Satomi wants to take his frown and hold it in her hand, mold it back into the smile she's used to. This must be, she thinks, what Sho looks like when he's taking tests, when he's concentrating hard. The crease between his eyebrows just begs to be smoothed over.

He finally opens his mouth, but it's another second before sound comes out. "You'll laugh," he says.

Satomi bites back a horde of giggles. "I promise I won't," she says, biting the inside of her lip to keep from letting the butterflies loose. "Tell me!"

"I think it's kind of romantic," he confesses, and his voice is a tangled rush of embarrassed laughter and manly cover-up. "It used to be just so I could stay up and finish projects, but when you're in a cafe and you're sitting at a two-person table and there's--there's a girl across from you, it just feels like you have to."

And there the butterflies go, peals and peals of laughter escaping from the very bottom of Satomi's stomach. At the table their roles have completely reversed; Sho is trying to hide behind his romantic cup of coffee and Satomi is clapping her hands out of sheer delight. She can't believe that those words really came out of Sho's mouth, but she is relieved, so relieved to hear them.

"Does it taste romantic?" Satomi asks, words still tinged with a touch of giggle.

"No," Sho says, shaking his head. "It just tastes like regular coffee."

Satomi reaches out. "Can I try it? I've never had any before. Please," she adds, this time in English. She manages to wrap her tongue around the L without too much difficulty--Sho has warned her about that, and she's taken care to practice words like apple and please and wonderful.

When he hands the cup over, he doesn't quite let go yet and her hands slide over his for a few seconds until he pulls away, slowly, slowly. Satomi can clearly see the print that his lips have made on the rim of the cup, faint caramel-colored patterns where the coffee has spilled over.

She puts her lips right over them, fitting his lines to hers, and tips the cup. But she barely tastes the coffee.

"How's that for romantic?" she says afterward, licking away a creamy bitterness from her upper lip. "They do that in the movies, you know."

"I think they do more than that in the movies," Sho says, but he looks a little dazed. "But you'll be good at it."

"The indirect kisses?" Satomi teases. "Or all that other stuff?"

(the end.)

Sho walks Satomi to the station on that last day even though it is not raining and she is not carrying the sad remains of a broken umbrella in her hands. She insists that he see her off just this once, when it is light enough outside for him to wave at her through the train doors, the classic story of a boy and girl separated by a set of automatic doors and the electrical currents that power trains and Satomi's dream of being an actress. The leftover sparks are what rev her heart into bold thoughts of kisses, and Satomi asks, minutes before the arrival of her train--what will you do when you have no one to drink coffee for? Will it still be romantic?

Of course, Sho says briskly. I'll be drinking coffee in the front row of your first stage play.

I don't think that would be al--, Satomi begins. She never manages to finish her sentence. Sho does it for her, just like she has always imagined, just like how they would do it in the movies. They are no longer student and teacher, after all.

They'll have to allow it, Sho breathes in her ear afterward, his fingers threading loosely through the ends of her hair. Or else how will you know who I am?

Satomi boards the train tasting inside and out of a vaguely romantic, toffee-like richness that is inherently Sho.

The flavor stays hidden in her tongue and teeth for ages, but all things fade with time. Nothing that she ever drinks again will even come close to being as sweet, and she will spend the next five years of her life trying to find something that comes close.

And she will. He'll be sitting in the front row of Satomi's very first stage play, a Keio University graduate and coffee addict, and he'll be waiting for her backstage just like he waited for her in old cafes and on train station platforms. Looks like your dream came true, he'll say, and Satomi will answer back in all the ways she never before could.

forget the monkeys

2010-02-09T23:15:56Z

Title: forget the monkeys
Pairing(s): Aiba/Becky
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1200
Summary: "Such wisdom," Aiba whispers, and runs the sharp edge of his thumbnail across her inner thigh. “Guess you’re not drunk enough for this, Becky-chan..."
Notes: Oh hey, new year anonmeme ficlet that I should have posted a long time ago! (And now with extra scrubbing power, aka one more paragraph.) This is a snippet of a snippet from an Aibecky fic of mine that took a different turn. So basically, this is recycled smut, and worthy of the label 'PWP.' This is the kind of thing I need a pseudonym for. Anyway.

He drags the very tip of his index finger up her thigh and is surprised to find that there’s already moisture gathering on the edges of her panties. She’s wet for him and when he closes his eyes for a second he imagines her squirming ever so slightly, trying to inch away from his hand and toward it at the same time, and her panties—light blue, he’s betting on it, with a cute frilly border—are quickly changing color, growing darker each time Aiba’s finger presses against her skin, firm taps that increase in speed.

Again he thinks about the transformation: barely baby blue to cerulean to cobalt to navy. Oh, oh, yeah. That’d be a pretty sight to see.

Aiba breathes out. “Either you’d already started,” he mouths against her cheek, “or you really, really like me.”

“Shut up,” she hisses, but her legs open freely when he finally cups her fully (right now she’s about soaked through, but Aiba knows that’s not a color). “Liking you and liking this aren’t the same thing.”

He chuckles. “Such wisdom,” he whispers, and runs the sharp edge of his thumbnail across her inner thigh. “Guess you’re not drunk enough for this, Becky-chan...”

She grabs his wrist and yanks.

“You stop,” she threatens, almost growling, “and I eat you alive, Aiba.”

“Mm, no,” he says, pulling out of her grasp easily and sliding his lips past her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “Other way around, beautiful."

He only calls girls that when he’s totally plastered, and that doesn’t happen often with Becky but tonight is just one of those lucky times—‘lucky’ meaning, of course, that neither of them should be where they are right now but since it’s quite the opposite, why not deal with it? Aiba slips his hand round Becky’s side to press the tips of his fingers into her back dimples. She arches, automatically, into his body, and all her soft parts match his hard ones. It’s the best puzzle game Aiba has ever played.

“Hey, hey, Becky,” Aiba says lightly as he begins to tug down Becky’s underwear with unromantic, hasty fingers, “we’ve done this before, right? Because I can’t remember.”

She clicks her teeth at him—I’ll bite you, I really will!—and Aiba just giggles. This is fun, sex with Becky, and she doesn’t seem to mind that Aiba wants her without any of that heavy pre-sex stuff that some of his previous girlfriends really liked. They wanted hours of cuddles and reassurances and a game of twenty questions (are you sure, can I do this, do you want this, will you like it) and by the time the actual skin-to-skin contact came around, Aiba had gotten kind of bored. The kind of bored, he thinks, where you’d want to play a game of poker while on top of a girl. He’s seen it done in movies, anyway.

But this is better than poker, and a lot more interesting, too, when Becky finally does an impatient leg-wiggle and her panties fall to her ankles in a dirty drop. She kicks them aside and Aiba is thinking of a shade that’s darker than navy, something close to soaked-through, but he never gets around to it because Becky’s pulling on his hair, suddenly, and he’s faced with a blurry palette of hazel and shiny scarlet.

He quickly kisses all of that away, the tiny dancing lines of green in her eyes and her lips that should have lost their luster long ago. She tastes like medicinal berry and he likes that, it’s weird and it’s funny and he laughs through their kiss. Behind her, the refrigerator suddenly kicks into some kind of mode that makes it hum like twenty million bumblebees and Becky jumps.

“Fuck,” she mumbles, and Aiba feels the chill go through them both. “The fridge, it’s—.”

“We're drunk,” Aiba insists. “Who cares?” And he kisses her again, this time smack in the middle of her neck.

After that it’s back to Aiba’s favorite puzzle game, the inlets poking into maybe-spaces and partners trying to find the best parts of each other. Becky is a small girl (except when she screams) and Aiba can’t find a way to match their hips together so he just goes down like he promised and hikes her cloudy-sky skirt up to her stomach.

“Hold that there,” he slurs, but Becky’s hands curl into his hair and he’d rather have that. So there’s Aiba, squatting on Becky’s kitchen floor, face at her puzzle-piece triangle, his hands fisted in a skirt and arms held high above his head. Oh, if only his fans knew about this. He writes the fake article in his head: Super idol Aiba Masaki caught in compromising position with celebrity Becky in the latter’s kitchen against her refrigerator; when asked for comment, Aiba could only wave off the reporters (perhaps because his mouth was about to be full).

Becky’s small socked foot rises from the cold linoleum and—Aiba can’t believe this, how awesome can she get—nudges him in one particular place. He almost loses it, if only for the fact that he’s been hard and ready since his first drink back at the restaurant with the staff completely surrounding him, but Becky retreats just as quickly as Aiba’s tongue pays her back in snakelike flicks and languid drags. Still, it’s enough to hold Aiba over for some time.

Aiba stops thinking in real time and starts counting the minutes that pass through gasps-per-second and tongue-flicks. He wonders if there’s any way he can box up Becky’s little moans to stow away in his mind forever, to re-use only when necessary (like in the middle of the night during a concert tour when Ohno’s snores are thick and Aiba has needs). He’s let Becky’s skirt go in favor of running his fingernails up and down the backs of her thighs, teasingly and not too hard, leaving tracks for Aiba to refer to later in bed: this way up.

When she’s close (and Aiba knows, he has the seventh sense) he lets one of his hands fall to his crotch and the other to hold up that skirt of hers, which is now draped over his head like an unwelcome umbrella. But Aiba gets it: he’s good at this. If he were a girl and this was happening to him, he wouldn’t want to do anything but give in completely to tongue and fingers and tongue. (And, perhaps, he’d try to focus on standing upright, which Becky failed at doing long ago.)

Becky’s thighs clamp together and Aiba almost pulls back before he realizes that would be some pretty bad karma, so he keeps on going even though he can’t exactly breathe. But God, if this isn’t exciting Aiba doesn’t know what is, and every time Becky gasps for air her knees shake and all of it, every tingle that goes to her toes and every little jerk that she makes, goes straight to Aiba’s cock. Maybe he thought he could hold back once, but he thinks about the magenta smeared across Becky’s cheeks and the way her mascara is probably smudged and how she’s surely got sweat on her nose and. Fuck. Aiba’s hand is down his pants before his brain even registers the concept of self-control.

There’s a rhythm to Becky’s orgasm that Aiba feels, though faintly, through his mouth—it’s a staccato pulsing that echoes her chaotic heartbeat and the rush fills Aiba (more of it than he expected) before he can even think to pull away. It’s messy and kind of disgusting but Aiba likes it. He also wants to laugh because this is Becky and even if they’ve done this before, he knows he’ll never be able to look at her during work again and not think of this moment. Forget about fearing for his life and having monkeys stick their fingers up his nose: he just had Becky against a refrigerator.

If he could, he would give himself a thumbs-up.

still you don't regret a single day, 2/2

2010-01-06T22:46:08Z

Title: still you don't regret a single day
Pairing(s): Aiba/Nino
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~16,600
Summary: AU. Aiba gets thrown out of his apartment and learns that keeping people happy isn't the same as living the life you want to.
Notes: Part two of two.

"Wait," Jun says. "Hold on. Did you just tell me that you slept all through this morning?"

Aiba pretends to count the hours on his fingers, but he knows perfectly well that he managed to fall back asleep after seven and didn't wake up until noon, still in Nino's bed. "Ah, yep," Aiba says, wriggling the five fingers on his hand in front of Jun's face. "Five hours, actually. Until Nino had to go to the afternoon shift at work."

"Aiba-chan," Jun mumbles, and buries his face in his large mug of hot chocolate, "Nino gave you a time limit, you know." His tone is exasperated, and Aiba knows that Operation New Beginnings (he christened it himself, and even though no one else wants to use it Aiba's sticking to his brilliant idea) isn't exactly moving at lightning speed. But he is working on it, and that he can promise.

"Yeah, well, he wasn't exactly reminding me about that," Aiba huffs. He thinks back to this morning at around ten when Aiba felt Nino's faint getting-up movements, and the small, annoyed noises Nino made when he turned to find Aiba asleep in his bed. Dumb, he'd said breathily, and pulled the thin sheet up to cover Aiba before he slipped out of bed. "He didn't even wake me up!"

"You should have set an alarm," Jun points out, and raises an eyebrow when Aiba just frowns. "At this rate, you'll never move out."

It's just a joke, Aiba knows, but what with Nino not kicking him out of bed this morning, never moving out of his current situation isn't exactly the worst thing that could happen to him. He has to, of course, because there's no way that Aiba could let anything else happen between them--Nino has a life, after all, and most likely a girl, and who is Aiba to mess that up? It's worth dreaming about, that's all. It's worth hoping for while he traces the shadow-lines on Nino's neck in the early morning sunshine.

"Aiba," Jun says loudly. "You there?"

Aiba almost chokes on his coffee. "Uh-huh," he says, as Jun eyes him suspiciously. "I was just thinking about--about, you know, the list."

Hurriedly he produces the thin folder of clippings and notes, all slathered in green marker, that detail apartments that Aiba likes and could afford. He starts going on about location and size and prices, pointing to different layouts and living rates, and eventually he gets Jun so interested in their day ahead that he forgets all about scolding Aiba for taking up too much of Nino's space. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore lest something slip out. Aiba's notorious among them for slip-ups, try as he might to keep secrets in.

He wants today to be a good day, so he and Jun are going to look at flats around the city. Aiba is going to act like he's excited to live on his own again--and if he finds an apartment close enough to Jun and Nino's complex, then he will be. Otherwise, he knows things will turn out all right, just like he predicted in the first place: he'll have an address again, and he'll learn not to throw his money around, and he'll try not to disconnect himself from his best friends in the entire world.

He just has to put a few minor details behind him, like the fact that he'll still be missing Nino's boyish fumbling for more blankets to cover his body and the tiny whimpering sounds he makes when he's trying to find a new comfortable spot on the bed.

"You should be excited," Jun says, poking Aiba's hand on the table. "You'll be in a brand new place soon."

"Yeah," Aiba agrees, for Jun's sake. He has only ever wanted to keep the people he cares about happy. "It'll be great."

--

It's late when Aiba finally gets back to Nino's apartment. Jun had been tougher with the real estate agents than Aiba was; it wasn't even his house they were looking for and yet it was as if Jun had a list of questions planned in his head to bombard the poor agents with. Aiba has to admit it was a little scary to see Jun so adamant about costs of living.

"But then again, this is Jun-kun we're talking about," Nino says as Aiba tells him all of this. They're sitting on the couch and Nino has the remote perched on his knee, but neither of them is actually watching the comedy show on the screen right now. Aiba's too busy trying to balance a bowl of soup on his lap while making elaborate hand gestures at the same time. "I mean, I know you haven't seen him in awhile, but he's still as anal as ever."

"I know," Aiba says, giggling, and just then the audience on the television starts laughing which makes it even funnier. He's not sure what it is--the fact that he and Jun actually went through the entire apartment list and found more than a few bargains in good locations, or that the leftover soup he's eating is homemade with Jun's recipe and that it tastes good, or possibly just that he's sitting on Nino's couch talking to Nino and everything is sort of wonderful right now.

"So what does this mean?" Nino says, and when Aiba looks up there's a smirk close to his face. "You're leaving me before the three weeks are up? Are you--," and here he pauses dramatically, "--breaking up with me?"

"No," Aiba says, aghast, before he realizes that that's not the correct feeling he should be showing right now. But Nino's laughing so hard his head is leaning back against the couch, and Aiba feels like he's just been tricked. "I mean--Nino! I'm going to use up all the time I have here, okay?"

The last of Nino's laughter comes out in a snort, and the two of them grin at each other before Nino smacks Aiba in the shoulder. "Okay," he agrees, and lets his fingers linger on Aiba's shoulder. "Just remember, you have two weeks left before I write you a personal eviction notice."

"I'll just burn that one," Aiba says.

"Like your scrambled eggs?"

It starts with Aiba wiping his used spoon on Nino's arm, but that inevitably escalates into a full-scale scuffle that eventually ends in all the throw pillows being moved to the opposite side of the room and Aiba's soup bowl upset on the floor, leaving Nino to immediately complain about stain remover and how expensive it is to use. But they make a team effort out of it, which means that Nino scrubs his own carpet vigorously with the smallest amount of remover possible and Aiba sits on the couch, holding the rest of the bottle and making comments about how Nino's missed the same spot three times. ("You're blind," Aiba whines, and pokes at the 'missed spot' with his toe. "Look! Right there!" "I will stick your head in the rest of that pot of soup," Nino threatens, still scrubbing.)

They spend the rest of the night lying on both ends of the couch and taking turns on who gets to pick the channel. It's not long before Aiba's eyelids start to droop: he's tired from a long day of craning his neck into empty, stark-white rooms and blue-tiled bathrooms that all look the same, and even though he can feel Nino's feet nudging his legs, telling him to get up and sleep on the futon, he doesn't plan on moving. His body is too heavy and comfortable in the nook of the couch he's settled into.

When he feels Nino move off the couch, though, he wakes up.

"Hey," Nino mumbles, and rubs his face with the palm of his hand. "'M moving to bed."

"Okay," Aiba whispers, and watches Nino go.

One hour later he's snuggling into Nino's wrinkled sheets and sticking their bodies together, cold back to warm front and his nose to the nape of Nino's neck. They fit like a perfect puzzle, so close that Aiba's breaths coast the shell of Nino's ear.

Nino shivers and presses back against Aiba. He must know what's going on, but neither of them moves until morning.

--

The second week of Aiba's in-residence to Nino's home brings a constant schedule of house-hunting. When he's not out with Jun or Ohno (he wonders sometimes if the two ever work, what with the amount of time they've been spending together) looking at houses, he's sitting on the couch in Nino's apartment with sheets and sheets of information and a four-function calculator. On top of that he's not sure what to do with all of these agents calling him and asking for follow-ups and begging for him to take surveys about the places he went to see--he's tried telling a few of them that he's not so sure if their homes are right for him, but that just made their voices louder and their pleas more irritating. So Aiba has just resorted to having Nino answer the phone to say, "Oh sorry, wrong number."

But even Nino is drowning under waves and waves of work. The big-shot company that Sho had been hoping to affiliate with had recently issued a long list of ultimatums, and for some reason Nino was put in charge of creating the presentation that the executives would use to hopefully compromise their alliance. All Aiba sees of Nino nowadays is his face swallowed in bright computer light in the wee, wee hours of the morning or his wide yawns at the breakfast counter, tie barely hanging round his neck.

They've become like a double-income family, Aiba realizes: Nino is the perpetually busy husband and Aiba is the whirlwind of a wife, trying to do six million things at once. Every morning there's breakfast on the table and while Nino is at work, throwing years of his life into a single presentation, Aiba is back at the apartment dusting and reading housing ads and going out to shop for groceries. And, of course, he spends a good chunk of the day traveling around the city, looking at flats for rent.

Aiba comes home just hours before Nino with pamphlets stuffed into his bag and arms full of plastic grocery bags. He's tired and hungry and sometimes he tries to wait for Nino, but for the past few days he's come home at two or three in the morning and Aiba can't make himself stay awake past one-thirty.

But he always hears Nino come in, and in the morning they always wake up together.

This is what worries Aiba. Not that they're sleeping together, because he doesn't find that weird at all--it's that Aiba's climbing into bed and sliding his hands up Nino's back has become so natural that both of them expect it to happen every night. The first time was meant to be the only time, but Aiba's self-control stopped working altogether and he let it happen again (and again, and again). The fact that Nino isn't forcing him out of bed while calling him names and accusing him of being a sexual offender doesn't help, either. Aiba comes back because Nino wants him to, even if they don't ever talk about it.

Sometimes Aiba feels like he should bring it up, but there's no way for him to say, "So Nino, let's talk about why we sleep together!" with a big, cheerful smile. He knows that Nino doesn't want Aiba to mention it, so Aiba pretends that he sleeps on the spare futon all night. He doesn't talk about how Nino should stop hitting the snooze button on his alarm clock so many times, or about how he wants to kiss Nino good-bye when he's moving at snail-speed around the room, getting ready for work.

Their short conversations center a lot on Aiba's housing progress and Nino's goal to kill Sho one day in his sleep. Everything is the same, save the amount of time they both spend away from home, and yet there's a big heavy anchor sitting in the pit of Aiba's stomach that he keeps trying to ignore.

He knows that it's not going to just disappear, though. Every time Aiba finds a house with a good price, every time he looks at the girl in the picture, and every single time he even imagines his lips brushing Nino's shoulders in the dark, the weight just grows and grows. Aiba imagines it blooming into fuzzy colors and multiplying rapidly by the second, just like a disease that he brought onto himself, and one that he doesn't exactly want to find the cure for.

--

Through everything, Aiba remembers that there's an actual reason behind his living in Nino's house: to find his own apartment to live in.

After his first day out with Jun, Aiba had enlisted Ohno's help for a number of reasons, the main one being that Ohno would not scare the real estate agents away with intense questions about architecture and pest control. And he was right--Ohno tagged along for moral support and honest, simple opinions like, "Well, the layout on this one is kind of awkward" and "This one's near me. Consider it!" And even though Jun always takes Aiba out to eat for lunch at really nice restaurants, Ohno and Aiba have an equally satisfying lunch by buying cheap bento boxes at the convenience store and eating them sitting on the steps by the bay.

After an entire week and a half straight of looking at flats, some more than once, Aiba has compiled a list of houses he could buy on the spot. He's given them all a one- or two-sentence review in choppy Aiba shorthand ("Good view, downtown, near station so yay" or "Utilities cheap but bathroom not so cool/location wow; but can my neighbor see me?") and has starred them all with glittery stickers.

He's also taken to carrying around a significant amount of cash, just in case.

"You never know," he tells Jun. "I might find someplace that I just fall in love with."

"But even if you do fall in love," Jun says seriously, "you still have to think about it before you dive right in it."

It made Aiba laugh at the time, because Jun had said it so solemnly. But even with the prime locations, Western-style bathrooms and excellent rates that all of the apartments have, Aiba knows that finding a house isn't exactly his top priority right now. The only thing he can think of when each new door opens in front of him is I'm not living here with Nino.

That never used to bother him before--and before was only twelve or so days ago. Before, Aiba was content with his jobs and his life and even with his not-so-amazing apartment. Calling his friends was enough to keep him going, and even though he didn't see any of them as much as he used to, he didn't think that anything was wrong.

Until now. Being thrust back into Nino's life is strange and overwhelming and yet Aiba wishes he could set up camp in Nino's home, in Nino's room, in Nino's bed. He didn't realize just how much he missed seeing Jun every day and hearing Ohno's laughter and talking to Sho when he wasn't in work mode, and he completely forgot that a good dose of Nino could keep him exhilarated for hours on end.

But Aiba knows that exhilaration can only last so long. He needs his own place again to restore the balance they all had before, when Aiba and Nino were separated by train tracks and zip codes and different beds.

After all, nobody is supposed to like getting evicted.

--

At the end of two weeks, Aiba writes down a tiny fourteen in his day planner (a gift from Sho). He has seven days left as Nino's almost-roommate, and he plans to celebrate today by not going out.

It's been hours since Nino left for work but Aiba is still lying in bed, stretched out over Nino's space and soaking up the slivers of sunshine that the blinds are letting through. Judging by Nino's frustrated sighs after he pressed his hand to the window this morning, it's freezing cold outside despite the sun, but Aiba is perfectly cozy with his legs buried underneath blankets and his face in Nino's pillow.

Every morning should feel like this, Aiba thinks as he rolls around on the cool sheets, stretching out his arms and legs to all four corners of the bed. Every morning should be spent just wiggling your fingers in the air and yawning slowly because you have all the time in the world. When Aiba throws his arm over his face he breathes in Nino-smell from where their skin had been stuck together and it makes him want to stay under the covers forever.

But even if he's not going out there are things to do, like picking a house to live in. Or cooking, because Aiba's beginning to find out that cooking is really fun, despite the constant messes that seem to spring up out of nowhere. Or he could do some laundry--or get the door.

No one has ever rung the doorbell without Aiba inviting them over first, and he's so excited about who this visitor could be that he shoots out of bed and runs to the door without even stopping to make sure that he's wearing enough clothes. But he is (and if his thin t-shirt and shorts offend whoever's at the door, Aiba may lose all his faith in humanity), and he has his hand on the doorknob before his eyes are even looking through the peephole.

He looks anyway, though, and immediately wishes he'd been a little slower.

The door opens to a girl about Aiba's age. She's wearing a simple coat over a plain pink dress, with regular brown boots and a hairstyle that is nondescript at its finest. Aiba feels a little bad and wishes that he could find some way to compliment her in his head, but he knows exactly who she is and if he were a different kind of person, he'd have slammed the door in her face, or wouldn't even have bothered to open the door at all.

But the girl in the photograph is smiling now, and Aiba can't help but smile back.

"Hi," she says, and her voice is neither too loud nor too soft. She has the perfect tone, Aiba thinks, for newscasting--it's just a pity she's not prettier. "Is, um, Ninomiya-kun here?"

"Uh," Aiba says, and looks behind him. He knows perfectly well that the apartment is empty, and he's not sure why he's buying time, but he feels like he should keep this girl here for a little while longer. "No, he's not, actually. I think he's working overtime."

The girl's eyes widen for a moment before she nods, and Aiba watches her styled hair bounce. "Oh! Well, okay then. Do you, um, do you know when he'll be back?"

No, Aiba says in his head.

"Probably not until late," he replies instead, even a little apologetically. "It's been that way for the past few days, anyway."

And there it is: Aiba's confession, even if she doesn't even realize it. But she does get that something's going on with her Ninomiya-kun and the boy she's talking to, and Aiba feels almost like he's won something even though he doesn't even know what. In fact, he shouldn't even have anything to win--if this girl wants Nino, and Nino likes her enough to put her picture in a frame, then isn't this the life Nino should be leading? Isn't the normal life that Aiba wants Nino to have staring him in the face right now, fiddling with her coat buttons and rocking back and forth on her cheap, department-store bought boots?

The answer, no matter how he feels, is yes.

Aiba can't bring himself to even say a proper good-bye. He just clears his throat, nods, and begins to shut the door in the girl's face. But before the door closes all the way she holds out a hand, stopping him.

"Wait," she says. "Can you--I mean--can I leave a message?"

I'm not an answering machine, Aiba thinks bitterly, but then reminds himself that Nino likes her, no matter how boring she looks and sounds. And there's nothing that Aiba can do about that but pat his best friend on the back and tell him that he's done a good job.

"What is it?" Aiba asks, poking his head through the opening of the door.

She takes a deep breath, and Aiba hopes that doesn't mean she's going to start crying. He's not sure if he could take that--Aiba hates it when people cry, no matter who it is. He thinks that tears are the saddest things in the world, and not even this girl should feel so overburdened that she'd feel the need to cry in front of a complete stranger.

"Tell him I said good-bye," she says, and smiles.

Aiba just stares. Good-bye?

The girl bows politely and then leaves without even looking back once. Dumbfounded, Aiba watches her figure all the way down the hall and doesn't shut the door until the clicking of her boots has faded into the sounds of the city.

--

Aiba has Ohno on the phone within seconds of closing the door.

"Oh-chan, Oh-chan," Aiba whispers, even though nobody else can hear him. "We have a problem."

On the other end of the line Aiba hears a lot of shuffling and chewing--Ohno's probably having lunch. Or he's having lunch and working from home at the same time, which happens often and also with mixed results, as Ohno has mistaken sauce for paint more than once. It's a matter of color, is all he says in his defense, though the others tease him mercilessly about it.

"A problem?" Ohno repeats, and swallows. "That's not good."

"No, it's not," Aiba says, and sits down on the floor in the middle of the living room. "Listen, listen--tell me, do you know if Nino's been with a girl lately?"

Been with, Aiba thinks, and smacks himself in the forehead, that is not the right term to use.

But Ohno gets it, and Aiba can almost hear him thinking. "Hm," he hums, and starts mumbling to himself. "Lately? I don't think so."

"Okay, this year then," Aiba says. He's aware that he sounds almost desperate, but he has to know how to handle this situation and how to let Nino know that, just maybe, he's been dumped. "Sometime, anytime--she looked kind of pretty, but not really, just normal. Does that remind you of anybody?"

"Oh!" Ohno says, and Aiba bites his lip. He says a girl's name that Aiba doesn't really hear, because her name doesn't mean anything to him. "She had brown hair, right? But she looked really, I don't know, plain."

Aiba exhales loudly. "Yeah," he says, "that's her," and goes on to explain what just happened.

When he's finished there are seconds of nothing but long breaths over the line, and Aiba has the phone cord twisted into intricate knots around his fist. All he can think of is what's going to happen in a few hours when Nino walks through that door absolutely exhausted and Aiba will have to tell him that what's-her-name stopped by today to leave a message. And if that girl meant anything to Nino, anything at all, Aiba will have to pass on her farewell note, and whatever happens from there is all up in the air--but Aiba can guess. Aiba can guess, but he's scared to.

Finally, after what seems like a year, Ohno says, "You're just going to have to tell him, Aiba-chan."

"But--," Aiba begins, even though he really has nothing to say.

"It's for his own good," Ohno continues. "He'll be happier to know."

Aiba is silent.

"I promise it'll be fine," Ohno says, and Aiba can almost feel Ohno's sincerity reaching through telephone wires and digital wavelengths. "We just want to see Nino happy, right?"

If only you knew, Aiba thinks, even though he suspects that Ohno does know just how much Aiba wants Nino's happiness.

"Of course," Aiba agrees. "We just want a Nino-smile."

"I'm sure you get a lot of those, Aiba-chan," Ohno says, and there's laughter in his voice. "So many you could box them up and sell them."

"Except that I wouldn't give them away for the world," Aiba replies simply.

--

In high school, Nino was on the baseball team.

Aiba wasn't. He liked running and science better, and he chose to devote all of his time to the track and field and physics clubs of the school, even going so far as to become president of the latter. Sometimes when the baseball team was practicing and Aiba was doing an experiment on the third floor of the building he'd look out to the diamond to see Nino on the pitcher's mound, winding up while being yelled at. It seemed like Nino was always getting yelled at by the coach, and even though Nino said he was fine with it because it would just make him better, Aiba could tell otherwise in the way that Nino held himself when they went home together--he slouched more, like a sad puppy. It made Aiba want to beat up the baseball coach.

But Nino did want to be a better pitcher, and he wanted to do it quickly, so he made Aiba help him out. Every day after regular practice, Nino and Aiba would have their own pitching sessions, and Nino would be so upset with his performance that he'd throw the ball into Aiba's glove so hard it felt like a circle had been burned into his palm. But Aiba let him do it, because Nino always felt better afterward and it did help his game. They did this for a year straight and by the end of their sophomore year, Nino was the star of the team.

That didn't stop the private practices, though. But after he reached his goal Nino only wanted to play catch with Aiba when there was something on his mind that he needed to get rid of. Pitching, he told Aiba, calmed him down. It made him focus on a single spot in the center of his field of vision, in the center of the universe. The rest of the world was a blank canvas filled with wind and faint sound; nothing else mattered except for two hands, a glove, and a ball.

"You forget everything," Aiba remembers Nino saying. "It solves all of your problems for awhile."

"Too bad I don't have that," Aiba replied, as Nino tossed the ball to him. "I think too much!"

And Nino had laughed. "Sucks to be you," he'd said, as the ball soared back in his direction. He caught it gracefully, directly in the palm of his hand.

When Nino walks through the door, Aiba holds up a baseball glove and ball, both found in the recesses of one of the cardboard boxes he'd brought with him from the old house.

"Hey," he says, grinning. He's nervous as hell, but he doesn't let it show. "Let's play catch."

--

"You're lucky," Nino is saying as he follows Aiba down to the field, "that I turned in my presentation today."

"Oh!" Aiba is so ridiculously full of energy that it's hard for him to concentrate it all into one mindset; all of his limbs are shaking with anxiety and fear and he feels like he's either going to explode or throw up. He's generally an excitable person, but this is just too much. "Great! How did it go?"

Nino grunts. "As good as expected," he says, and slips his glove on. It took him less than five minutes to find it, but eventually he rescued it from being eaten alive by moths underneath the bed. "This feels weird. It's been a long time, I probably suck at this."

"Practice makes perfect," Aiba quips. "I just--I wanted to celebrate, kind of." He doesn't know what he's going on about, but his mind is saying just talk, don't think. "I might've found an apartment."

This is a total lie, and Nino has been away enough not to know. Aiba feels like a horrible, horrible person.

"Impressive," Nino says, whistling low, "and before your time's up, too!" He stops for a second as they're standing on the stairs leading down to the grass and says, "You just want to get away from me, don't you?"

He looks so serious that for a second Aiba considers giving up and just blurting everything out in one long monologue without stopping to breathe. But he knows all too well that Nino is just playing around, and so Aiba laughs nervously and squeezes the baseball in his fist as hard as he can. This has to be, he thinks, worse than getting evicted. That can lead to good things, like bed-sharing and seeing your friends again and realizing that you've missed too much. It's nothing like having to tell your best friend that he's just been dumped.

"Of course," Aiba says, and jumps off the last three stairs. "I mean, the spare futon isn't the most comfortable thing on earth, Nino."

Nino steps off the last stair and then stops. Aiba turns around, expectant.

"Yeah, except," Nino says casually, "you haven't exactly been using the spare futon, have you."

Oh, shit.

The weight in Aiba's stomach triples in one strong instant and he clears his throat. It's all he can do right now--what do you say to that, after all? How do you save yourself? He knows he can't. There's no lifeguard here to throw him a rope to safety and even his people skills can't rescue him from this mess. Nino knows him too well, knows the shape of his face and the curves of his shoulder blades and the certain hitches of his voice so perfectly that there is no way Aiba can run away right now and still be fine.

"No," Aiba says carefully. "I haven't been."

Nino nods.

"Okay," he says, and squints into the sky above him, which is a sunset-collage of blushing pinks and gentle orange colors. It's a startling contrast to what Aiba imagines the inside of his head must look like. "Let's play."

This is far from over, but Aiba obeys. His hand moves mechanically, stiffly; somehow he manages to get the ball moving in a smooth arc over to Nino's side of the field. Aiba watches Nino's gloved hand move just as gracefully as it did years ago to cushion the fall of the baseball, and the thudding sound the ball makes in his palm is almost delicate.

"Nino," Aiba tries to say. His breaths are like gunshots in the dark, and he doesn't know what to say or how to say it, but he knows he needs to talk. "Nino, I need to--move out."

Nino frowns. "Well, yeah," he says, and pitches the ball back to Aiba. "You've got a week left."

Aiba tries to swallow, but his throat is unbearably dry, and when he fumbles to catch the toss it hits the ground before he can get to it. "No, Nino, I mean. I need to move out now."

"What?" Nino asks. He's just standing there, and from Aiba's point of view he looks smaller than he usually is. "Why?"

Aiba stalls for a second before he shrugs. "Because," he says lamely. "You should know."

But the thing is, Nino probably doesn't, and Aiba is just being unfair. "Aiba, look, I don't--," he begins, and bites his lip for a second before going on, "--I don't care that you sleep in my bed." He takes a deep breath and his eyebrows twist--there's more he wants to say, but he's holding himself back. In his heart Aiba finishes the thought: stay, stay with me, I want you here.

"That's not it," Aiba says, even though a lot of it is. He looks down at the ball sitting by his feet and nudges it a little, watching it roll in Nino's direction; a slow crawl to where his entire body wants to go. "We're doing too much."

Nino's inhale is sharp. "What are you talking about?" he says, voice rising, and Aiba instinctively takes a step back. He knows Nino is coming toward him, taking long strides, but he refuses to look up. "Who exactly is it too much for?"

"You," Aiba breathes, and Nino is so close to him now, so close that he can almost hear the sound of their wild heartbeats in the dead silence that thrives between them. "Look, Nino, this girl stopped by today, and she asked for you but you were at work," Aiba says, and he's babbling now but he just doesn't want to have to endure the emptiness, "so--so she told me to tell you good-bye for her."

"And?" Nino says, and one of his hands reaches out to grasp Aiba's elbow. Aiba flinches; he can't help it, and Nino grips harder in response. "So what?"

"I saw that picture, Nino," Aiba says, still breathless. He feels like a balloon slowly running out of air, drifting through deadwood in a forest, just waiting to be popped. "The one on your coffee table--you're in it, and she is, too. Both of you look so excited," Aiba goes on, and now he doesn't care what comes out of his mouth. "You need to be with her, with some girl that you can get married to and have cute kids with, and--and we can't do that." He pauses to suck in a mouthful of dry, crisp air that stings his lungs, but it doesn't hurt as much as Nino's fingers on his arm do. "You should take her back."

Take her back so I can go, Aiba pleads, just do it so I can leave you with her.

For a moment Nino's hand loosens on Aiba's elbow and it almost feels gentle, like he's being held in place and Nino is afraid that Aiba will just float away if he doesn't do anything. Aiba watches Nino look down to the baseball in between their feet, and he jumps, startled, when Nino suddenly looks up again.

"You can't make me," is all Nino says, quieter than Aiba has ever heard him speak before. "You don't know what I want."

He bends down to pick up the ball and then walks away, crunching the browning grass underneath his feet. When Aiba looks up the sky is darkening; the sunset has passed into dusk.

--

The cutest real estate agent in the city sells Aiba his dream home on the Monday of his third week.

It's a charming little thing just blocks down the road from where Nino and Jun live, and even though he has to walk to the station it's not too far and besides, the weather will get warmer soon enough. He has one bedroom all to himself and a living room that he can't wait to fill with all of the things he's collected over the years. The place isn't big, but it's his and the bare walls and empty rooms are calling his name, telling him to hurry up and move already.

In his head Aiba sees his new house filled with paintings by Ohno of strange animals in spacesuits and buff men with cigarettes dangling off the edges of their fingers. He envisions flower vases that his mother will make him put up by the balcony and shelves and shelves of cookbooks that he will sneak from his father's library. He'll stick a table somewhere in the center of his dining-and-living area, and he'll have to make sure to get enough chairs to hold all of his friends. Sho will have a seat facing the door, Ohno will sit next to Aiba, Jun will need lots of space because he likes to stretch out and Nino--well, Nino will...

Aiba's mind stops there.

In reality, he hasn't bought a house. He's sitting on the last stair that leads into the field, still holding his baseball glove between his knees, which are pulled up all the way to his chin. It hasn't been long since Nino left, but the real cold has settled in and Aiba lost feeling in the tips of his fingers long ago.

But he can't make himself get up. All his life he has only ever wanted to make his friends and family excited about life, about their relationships and living situations and jobs, and he's sacrificed so much but he's never been through anything like this. He's never seen Nino so outwardly frustrated about a single thing, and for him to ignore Aiba's mention of the girl--well, either she meant nothing to him or Aiba's leaving means something much more.

And that scares him, to think that Nino might want what he does; it scares him to think that it took them only two weeks to reach this conclusion. Fourteen days ago Aiba only knew that he needed to find a new place to live and get back on his feet again, and that his friends were going to help him through it. Fourteen days later and he couldn't care less about finding an apartment and starting over. He just wants everything to go back to normal, and even if it means doing all of those things there's still Nino to take care of.

Aiba's movements are all forceful, but he's finally up and moving, however stiffly. His bones feel frozen solid and when he finally enters the apartment building the heat hits him in a dizzy rush; each step he takes up to the third floor is another that thaws him out, but inside Aiba is calculating the number of seconds he has left until he walks through Nino's front door.

When he does, the apartment is eerily dark, and the spare futon--which hasn't been laid out in ages--is staring Aiba in the face.

"So," Aiba says to nobody in particular, and throws his baseball glove into the open cardboard box on the floor. "This is it, huh."

He lowers himself gingerly onto the futon, kicks off his shoes and pulls the dusty-smelling sheet all the way up to his face. His body is a little warmer, but there's a chilliness inside of him that no amount of blankets or sleep will ever fix. For now he just shuts his eyes as tightly as he can and tries to relax his strung-out self by imagining that none of this ever, ever happened.

--

Aiba's sleep is restless, punctuated by random rushes of adrenaline that soar throughout his body for no reason at all. He suspects that his dreams have something to do with it, but by the time he's blinking awake, panting and wiping the sweat off his palms, he can't remember anything but a disturbed feeling in his gut and a near-paralyzing fear taking hold of his body and not letting go.

He runs his hands through his hair and curls up in a ball, breathing out heavily. There's no way he's ever going to get any rest if the night is just going to continue on like this, and he knows that it is--sleep isn't an escape for him, it's just a tease of nothingness until his thoughts manage to creep up on him again from behind.

"Stop," Aiba whispers into his cupped hands, breathing in and out slowly to the tempo of the clock hanging on the wall. "Please, just for right now."

His whole body relaxes on command, and he settles back into the futon, hoping that he won't wake up again until morning.

And then he hears the footsteps.

They fall softly on the carpet by Aiba's head and before he can say anything, before the signals in his nerves start to work, he feels the electric touch of Nino's hand on his shoulder and his breaths already hot and quick on the back of his neck. There's no time for Aiba's mind to respond before their arms are working to find each other, moving sheets and pillows out of the way, throwing everything unnecessary to the side.

"You're here," Aiba says dumbly. Nino knows he's not blind, but he figures it's worth mentioning that Aiba isn't the one getting up and moving into Nino's bed, taking care not to make too much noise and disturb the usually already-sleeping Nino. "Why?"

Nino makes a sound that's a cross between a whimper and a grunt and he doesn't say anything until they're stuck together as usual, legs tangled together and hands reaching for each other, though not quite touching. His face is pressed against Aiba's back, and Aiba can feel him breathing a little too quickly.

"Because you think you know what I need," he says, voice muffled, and the slight vibrations send a shiver down Aiba's spine. "But you don't."

"Why not?" It's like an argument between two stubborn five-year-olds, but Aiba doesn't expect anything else, even at their ages. He curls his hand into Nino's and tickles the inside of his palm with his fingertips, trying to coax an answer out of Nino when in reality they should both be putting a few things out in the open. "I just want you to be happy, that's all."

Nino sighs and pulls his hand away from Aiba's.

"It's not with her," he says. "You don't know anything, Aiba."

Aiba is silent for a long while. He doesn't know how to tell Nino that he cares too much to go and yet that's exactly why he needs to leave, and no matter how much he insists Nino isn't suddenly going to give into the idea of getting a girlfriend and then moving onto marriage and a barrage of children. Nino just isn't that kind of guy, and Aiba knows that, as much as he hopes every day that Nino will find somebody special to hold hands in bed with.

Aiba just wasn't prepared for it to be him, even if he feels the exact same way.

"I'm going to move in down the street," Aiba says resolutely. "You can see me anytime."

"Aiba," Nino says, lifting his head up. "I would probably kill myself if I had to see you all the time."

Aiba snorts; he can't help it. As far as emotional conversations go, this is probably the worst one he's ever had, but Nino's lips are ghosting the edge of his shoulder and even if his words aren't saying much, his actions are. It's always been that way between them.

"Listen," Nino starts, and presses his lips to Aiba's neck in a chaste kiss before going on, "I don't want her. She can't take your place."

"Oh," Aiba says. He can feel his heartbeat begin to quicken, and he tries to stay as quiet as possible, but he's too full of awkward emotions and feelings he can't find names to. "Nino, what are you saying?"

"I've missed you," Nino says, exhaling shakily, and he doesn't need to say anything else.

They lie like that for awhile, simply breathing. Aiba's hand moves back to Nino's, holding him in place. There are too many things for them to say and Aiba knows that neither of them is going to talk, but it's four in the morning and the darkness around them is too familiar and, now that they're in this position, almost comforting. They're falling asleep again to the melody of their heartbeats, an erratic rhythm that reminds Aiba of storm clouds running races through the sky.

"Don't tell me this will never happen again," Nino barely whispers.

When Aiba twists round to kiss Nino there's no pretense, just a surprised little sound that comes from one of them, or both of them--it doesn't really matter. All Aiba cares about are Nino's hands curling into his own and the promises of all the tomorrows to come.

--

On day twenty-one, Aiba skips out on making breakfast and rents an apartment instead.

It's not as perfect as the one in his dream, but it's better than his old apartment in many ways. He won't have to kick the stove and the walls are thick and well-insulated, and even though it's a bit cramped he doesn't mind that much. He has his own bedroom and while it's bigger than his living room, the space is still wide enough for a sofa and some other big items. Aiba knows he'll manage--he knows how to now, at any rate, and if he ever runs out of eggs he can just swing by Jun's apartment to ask for some (or, alternatively, swipe a few from Nino's refrigerator).

It's just like Aiba wanted: he's down the road from that apartment complex, so close that he's not even sure if 'walking distance' is an appropriate description. There's a grocery store not too far away and by train Aiba's commute to the kindergarten is shorter by five minutes, which always counts in the end. Overall, it's a good buy, and even if the real estate agent isn't that nice of a person she takes Aiba's signature and money with a giant smile and a grateful bow.

"If you have any questions," she says, head still lowered, "please don't hesitate to call me!"

"Thanks," Aiba says, and means it. He watches her go and when he's sure she's out of the building, he shuts the door, locks it, and sits in the middle of his completely empty living room.

He can already see where everything's going to go--the television and speakers to his immediate left, the sofa directly behind him, and maybe a nice rug to balance it all out. The plants from his mom will go by the window for sunlight, and he has a single bookcase that can be set up somewhere near the couch, just for convenience. Somewhere along the way he'll need curtains and throw pillows and things like that, but they can wait for now. Everything is one step at a time, and he's determined to have enough money to keep himself in this place.

Farther down the room he can already see the kitchen table and the five chairs he'll have to arrange around it in some certain order. But he'll leave that up to everyone. They'll be over later to help him move stuff around and unpack, just like they were there to condense his life into cardboard squares covered with masking tape. And even though he has less junk thanks to Jun's watchful eyes and Sho's informed instructions ("You don't need this, or this, or this--Aiba, what the hell is this?"), he still needs them here.

In his hands Aiba holds a book titled A Guide to Your New Home. Sho bought it for him--of course--and Aiba's been flipping through it for the past couple of days, skimming through all the boring parts and reading only the interesting-looking bits. Unfortunately there aren't many, but he's still hoping something will pop out at him to make this whole moving-in process a lot easier on his mind. It's been stressful, that's for sure, and there's one thing that still seems a little off.

So he calls Nino.

"How do you christen a new house?" Aiba asks. "I mean, how do you make it yours?"

"I don't know," Nino says nonchalantly. "Pay for it?"

"No," Aiba says, and opens his guidebook to the only sound piece of advice it has. "You sleep in it."

It takes a minute or so for the recognition to set in and then a lot of coaxing on Aiba's part, but Nino finally, finally agrees to come over that night.

Aiba doesn't tell him that the only thing to sleep on in the new house is an ancient futon that his mother lent him. It smells of attic and moths and even though he's covered it with new sheets it doesn't help the smell much or make it any more comfortable. He's not sure how he's going to be able to sleep on it until he finds himself a proper bed.

But when Nino shows up, still in a suit and already yawning, Aiba's sure they'll be able to make the most of it.

still you don't regret a single day, 1/2

2010-01-06T22:44:24Z

Title: still you don't regret a single day
Pairing(s): Aiba/Nino
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~16,600
Summary: AU. Aiba gets thrown out of his apartment and learns that keeping people happy isn't the same as living the life you want to.
Notes: Whooo je_holiday reveals are up, so here's mine! (Original post is here.) This fic exists a) to remind myself that I should not make 'Barely Making Deadlines' an official sport, b) to serve as a kick in the ass for next year's je_hols, and c) for xplodey_di's enjoyment. Di, I hope you liked this! It was definitely a crazy, crazy experience, and one which I will be doing again next year. Immense amounts of love to my beta aeslis, as usual, and especially this time for encouraging me to think outside the box.

Finally, the title of this fic comes from Girl by The Beatles.

Aiba gets it in the morning, right in the middle of cooking breakfast.

It's not exactly the best timing. The landlord could have waited until after ten o'clock to deliver the letters, but when Aiba hears the familiar rattle of the mail slot and looks up only to see two chubby fingers retreating, it almost makes him wince: oh, no, he thinks. The eggs (two--he got lucky and found a couple behind the empty butter dish) are going to burn if he doesn't flip them over in the next few seconds, but Aiba is too busy panicking about the flimsy piece of paper that was just delivered to his apartment.

Maybe if he focuses enough, the thing would just burst into flames.

So he tries it, squinting hard, but the only thing burning in the room are his eggs. What good, then, were those funny magic shows with the telepathy if they didn't even work in real life? Deception, all of it! He'd have to have a talk with Nino about that.

And this--Aiba shuffles over to the door and pokes cautiously at the letter with his toes--will also probably be mentioned. He thinks for a moment about whether or not it's worth the energy to bend over, but then he realizes this might be the last time he ever gets to squat in front of his door to pick up the mail. This might be the last time he'll ever get to smell food burning in this tiny space, and the last time he'll get to turn on the stove, the one you have to kick a few times before it actually starts up.

But all of those things are secondary right now to Aiba's hope that this is the very last time he'll ever have to see the words eviction notice next to his name.

--

Aiba's had run-ins with evictions before, but never like this. The first time he had ever heard the word he was barely seven and the phone had rung at midnight; Aiba was sneaking a glass of milk from the fridge and it had been the scariest thing in the world, hearing the shrill ring of the telephone and then his mother right after asking what in the world he was doing. Behind her, rubbing his face and looking like an old, old man, was Aiba's father. He did not look happy.

"I couldn't sleep," Aiba had sniffled to his mother, who looked more like a demon in a pink nightgown and slippers than she did in those old pictures with the cherry lipstick and the shiny motorcycle.

Had another minute passed before Aiba's dad said, "Evicted? You must be joking," she probably wouldn't have let him stay at the kitchen table with all the milk he could ever want. Aiba would have been sent back to bed with a pinch to his side and a punishment in the morning. But his parents had other things on their minds that night.

Which was a good thing, Aiba thought, as he swung his tiny legs back and forth and licked away late-night milk mustaches that tasted better than any dreamland ever could. It was always nice when his mother looked the other way.

When Aiba's uncle and his pretty girlfriend began to work for the restaurant and started showing up in their house, acting like they lived there, Aiba didn't think much of it. It was a little more crowded, but his uncle's girlfriend smelled like blueberry pie that had just come out of the oven and always said hi to him when he came home from school.

They left in less than three weeks and at the going-away party, Aiba helped his mother write a letter that said may no more evictions come your way.

"What's that?" Aiba asked, trying his hardest not to smear the ink. The last time he did that his mother had not been the nicest person on earth. "That word? E-vic-tion."

"It's when you can't live in your house anymore," his mom had replied, and gently pushed his hand away from the paper. "Because you don't have enough money. Ah-ah, Ma-chan--the ink."

At six, eviction was the biggest word (excluding dinosaur names) that Aiba knew. His mother told him not to throw it around; it was something sensitive and not many people liked getting evicted. In fact, she said after thinking about it, nobody liked getting evicted.

"It's not fun?" Aiba asked. He could only think of sweet scents and extra warmth at the dinner table from everyone so squished together, passing food around and talking. It didn't seem bad to him, this eviction thing. It seemed like it just brought people together.

But his mother insisted. "No," she said, and tucked her son's fingers underneath his thighs. "And if you don't stop touching the ink, you will be evicted from this house."

--

It takes a couple of minutes of Aiba sitting at the kitchen table, brow furrowed over the note and the pungent smell of his burnt eggs, to realize that this is the end. He's being kicked out.

Twelve million things run through his mind at once--what does all of this mean? Will he have to go back to his parents' house in Chiba and help out at the restaurant? He skipped out on that occupation by going to college and choosing to live his own life doing three odd jobs in the wondrous hell of Tokyo. Will he even be able to keep said jobs if the money he received from them wasn't enough to cover his rent? The bakery will probably care the most, unless the principal at the kindergarten finds out before Aiba fixes things. And the construction site won't even bat an eyelash. He can count on that at the very least.

But still, that doesn't solve a thing. He thinks about what he could do--well, Sho would help him out. He works in that really important company downtown, after all, but then again Aiba doesn't want to take any money from Sho even if it showed up on his doorstep and tried to force its way in kicking and screaming. Aiba is perfectly capable of making his own money and getting back on his own two feet without too much of a hassle.

He just doesn't know how. Especially right now.

So he does what he's always done when he needed help of any sort, from not being able to make proper curry to getting lost on the train while trying out a new route. Aiba picks up his phone (the only bill in his house that is always paid on time; Aiba can't afford to lose such a connection) and dials Nino's number.

--

"Funny," Nino says over the phone. "I don't remember your mom being psychic." He pauses for a minute and then says, as if he's reached an epiphany, "But you never could sneak in without getting caught."

"Only because you made me drop things," Aiba retorts. He's sitting on his couch, eyeing the things he'll need to sort into boxes and the things he'll need to sell (or give away). It makes him uneasy to think that soon he'll be sitting on a cardboard box instead of his couch, looking out into an empty living room (and then it'll no longer be one to live in, will it? Aiba will have to start calling it the nothing room), but he squishes down the feeling and tries to bring the bright side in: soon he'll be somewhere else, somewhere better. He'll have a new apartment full of boxes to be unpacked, and a stove that works, and a carton of eggs that will never run out.

"Stop thinking about it," Nino snaps. Aiba is sort of grateful that he doesn't need to tell Nino how he's feeling, but at the same time he dislikes being so transparent even over the phone. But it is Nino, and Nino could spot Aiba blindfolded. "Things will be fine."

Aiba figures that for Nino to say things will be fine really means nothing's looking all too great right now. But he could have guessed that himself.

"When is your lunch break?" Aiba asks, because getting out of his--or, well, the--apartment is his main priority right now. And it's not that he wants to intrude on someone, but he wants comfort outside of digital form and a mug of warm milk that couldn't even be filled in the first place.

Nino snorts. "It was at noon," he says. Aiba knows it's way past that now.

"But Sho-kun is here, so come whenever."

--

Sho is Nino's boss. They seem to have the typical co-worker relationship from what Aiba has seen: Sho saunters into Nino's office with orders and Nino finishes them within the workday with time to spare.

The only thing is, Sho doesn't saunter as much as he walks slowly in, exhausted from too much work the night before and barely two hours of sleep, while Nino takes extremely long lunches and does everything at his own convenience. Not that he's a bad worker--he gets things done the right way, which is why he still has his job--but from what Sho has told Aiba (or said drunkenly in bars at four in the morning) Nino hasn't turned a thing in on time since the day he was hired.

"He's never punctual, but I can't argue with the quality of his work," Sho says into his drink, letting his worries mix with the alcohol. Somehow the two of them always lapse into a round of slurred woes and dreary confessions, and Aiba never fails to order another set or two of drinks when he sees it coming. "He's too valuable to just let go. Definitely a little shit sometimes, but..."

"But it's Nino," Aiba says, and hands another bottle to Sho as if a name and a drink will fix everything.

Surprisingly it does: they clink their glasses to Nino most nights, and then do a round of rock-paper-scissors to decide who's footing the bill. More often than not it's been Aiba, and as he thinks about it now, riding the train into downtown Tokyo, that might be a small part of why the landlord sent him the eviction notice: he simply couldn't pay the rent. With three part-time jobs and a good sense of spending, he might have been able to scrape by, or even have enough money left over for groceries every two weeks instead of every three like it is--or used to be. But Aiba, for all the times he's seen his parents fighting over money, can't seem to remember that the only source of income he has right now is the money that comes along with his own humble sweat.

But it's not much. It never has been, and even though Sho has offered Aiba a position in the company more than once, Aiba knows he would never be able to put on a suit and sit at a computer all day. The world holds too much to do, after all; looking out from inside for eight hours a day has never been his dream. Instead, he chooses to watch kindergartners run around and helps the nurse heal scrapes and cool headaches with hands that the little ones call "magical Nurse Aiba hands." He puts on a reflective suit in the middle of the night to help make new roads or dig up old ones. And sometimes, when he gets called, he helps sell pretty, tiny cakes to girls who are just as petite and cute as the confections themselves.

Before, when his random shifts would end, he would head back to a home that always looked bigger in his head than it really was. If he ever talked about his apartment to people, it was always described as being a better living space than its run-down atmosphere suggested. The ceiling leaked in constellations and practically transformed into Little Dipper-waterfalls during the rainy season; the stove only worked when Aiba turned on the sink--but that wasted water; the floors had more cracks than an old woman did wrinkles. And because of its location right next to the station, it wasn't even cheap.

But it was home nonetheless, so Aiba tried. The money rolled in and out and occasionally he didn't have enough to justify his scissors over Sho's paper at the bar, but he never really considered it a problem. What had happened, then?

Through the opposite window Aiba catches a glimpse of the business district with all its giant silver buildings poking like noses into the sky. He's two stops away from walking into one of those skyscrapers in jeans and a sweatshirt among thousands of black-suited businessmen, and even though he knows his friends are part of that mob it's hard for him to imagine Nino or Sho in suits. To him, Nino is a small boy in an oversized t-shirt and dirty boxer shorts sitting on his couch with a video game cartridge in hand. He has an uncanny knack to ignore work when he doesn't want to see it, even if a report is being waved in front of his face by Sho, whose off-duty uniform is an unbuttoned oxford shirt and, if he remembers, pants (that are probably stained with coffee).

Aiba is like that all the time. He's not suited for a nine-to-five job, no matter how much money it brings him: if he doesn't like it, he's not going to do it. And even if right now he has no idea what the hell he's going to do, Aiba trusts himself. He trusts his friends.

He'll be okay.

--

At least, Aiba thinks as he sits under the fluorescent lights in Sho's office, he'll be okay in some sense of the word.

"Aiba-chan," Sho says. He doesn't sound too thrilled, and it's the last thing Aiba needs right now. He just wants people to smile at him, to tell him that things will be all right. "What are you going to do?"

But leave it to Sho to look on the practical side of things. Aiba has always wondered where Sho learned how to be so ridiculous one minute and straighten up into his serious side the next, like it's some kind of trick. It's been like this since college, when too-late nights would make them all a little loopy, and Sho would be the gracious butt of all the jokes for thirty minutes until a switch somewhere inside of him turned on to say, work time. And he'd be the only one with his fifteen-page paper finished before class.

"Find a new place to live," Aiba says lamely. The atmosphere of the workplace is getting to him, in the next room he can hear Nino on the phone, speaking in the flattest voice ever. "Work on, um, getting paid."

Sho's face shows genuine worry and it makes Aiba's insides hurt. What was he thinking, coming here with all of his problems laid out on a plate like they could be immediately fixed? Aiba's smart, he could have figured something out for himself. He knows numbers and he knows accounting things. He took classes in college that would prepare him for a life alone with his own salary to manage. And there's always been a place he could stay for awhile if he ever needed to--his parents would never turn him away and his brother owns an apartment somewhere south of the city.

"Okay, but," Sho says, and his sigh is a weight on Aiba's chest, "you're getting kicked out, you know."

He is, and what a drastic change from just twelve hours ago, when Aiba was lying in bed wishing hard for another pillow to hug or someone to tangle with for warmth and a four-in-the-morning conversation about absolutely nothing. Last night that had been the extent of his thoughts, and now his brain is filled with a jumble of whys and wheres and hows.

"The paper said I have twenty-four hours," he says, trying to keep his voice even, "before I have to be gone. And I have to bring all of my stuff to--to wherever I'm going."

"And where is that?" Sho asks, even though Aiba knows neither of them has a clue.

Aiba smiles, though a little sadly. It's the least he can do right now.

"Somewhere," he says, laughing softly, "over the rainbow."

--

'Somewhere over the rainbow' happens to be an apartment complex. It's a ten-story building surrounded by worn-looking houses and cliques of stray cats, and Nino has a place there. Sho lives a couple of minutes down the road in a slightly nicer-looking flat, but the difference isn't large enough to notice: the kittens still roam around the front door looking for a couple of scraps, and sometimes Aiba wonders if the building is meant to be a shade that is not smog-pink.

When Nino gets off work and Aiba is around, they go home together. It's been like this since Aiba can remember, and even though it's been so long since it's happened it still feels the same, with the rush hour crowd pushing against them and Nino folding, somehow perfectly, into some slim space between Aiba and another person.

"Don't lose me," Nino scowls as they watch the train attendants rush to shut the doors. It's been awhile since Aiba has been on during rush hour and the excitement is bubbling within him already, but Nino's voice makes him quiet. "I will be killed."

"By who?" Aiba whispers loudly. The woman next to him glares, and he bows in apology as much as he can in such limited space.

"By everyone," Nino says, and stumbles when the train lurches forward. "Sho-chan, Jun-kun, even Ohno. You know they'll have my head if I come home and go, 'Oh hey guys, I lost Aiba on the train! Where do you want to have dinner tonight?'"

Aiba's laughter is too loud and he ducks his head when several people turn in their direction. Nino's close enough for Aiba to feel his little quakes of laughter travel from the tips of his toes (Aiba knows exactly where; they've been friends long enough for him to notice) to his stomach and finally to his mouth. When Nino bites his lips to stop from giggling, Aiba goes cross-eyed at him.

"Stop," Nino mouths, nudging Aiba in the knee with his briefcase. "People are going to kill us."

"No, I'll be killed," Aiba whispers back, this time controlling his tone a little. "You're in a suit; you're necessary to the economy. I'm the bum in a dirty sweatshirt and old jeans."

Nino leans in, sniffs, and then makes a face. "Yeah, and you smell like it, too."

The train empties out in quick bursts of people at every stop, and eventually the two of them, who both look too young to be offered a seat, end up getting shuffled near the back of the car. It's a little tight but not as bad as before, and Aiba can still hear Nino counting the number of stops left to go under his breath.

"When's the last time you were over?" Nino asks all of a sudden.

Aiba blinks as if coming out of a dream. He'd been thinking hard about there being two stops left and how he didn't remember that, which, he thought, wasn't a good thing. "It's been awhile," he says quietly, hand shifting on the handle above him to keep his balance. "A month."

"More than that," Nino says, and Aiba wants to ask if he's been counting. He waits for it--Nino will say something like that, even if he's joking--but nothing comes.

So Aiba tries his luck. "Have you been counting?" he says, grinning.

Nino looks at him sideways. There's a second-long flash in his eyes and Aiba wonders if that means yes, Nino has been counting; Nino misses the way they used to be, when they were together all the time and only had to run down the hallway to see each other and took the train home together every single day of the week, even on the weekend. His heart does a little skip.

But all Aiba gets is a smirk.

"You wish," Nino says, and shoves his briefcase into Aiba's arms just as the train begins to slow down. "Get off, this is our stop."

--

Nino makes Aiba carry his briefcase all the way to the door. It's not a long walk, but the bag is stuffed with papers and, Aiba suspects, office supplies that Nino did not ask permission to take with him.

The elevator announces that it's out of order through a poorly written sign taped to its doors ("Day six," Nino says, and eyes the stairwell ominously). The apartment is on the third floor and not too much of a stretch, but Aiba lags behind anyway. It's been at least a month since he's seen anybody besides Sho and Nino and he's torn between babbling away at a rate of sixteen-hundred words per minute or hanging in the doorway and waving shyly.

But when Nino kicks in the door of his flat and Aiba smells hot food and fresh laundry and the scent of cheap candles, Aiba feels like he's just slipped back in time.

"Oh, God," Nino groans as Aiba pushes his way into the room. "Can somebody please explain to me why the hell my house smells like a bed of roses?"

"Stop complaining," a faraway voice replies. "Your sister gave you these candles two months ago and you haven't even used one yet."

The voice hits Aiba quickly and he's suddenly out of breath for no reason as he tries hard to remember where Nino's kitchen is. Somewhere along the way he drops the briefcase on the floor, not caring that someone might step on it or that whatever's in it might break. "Jun?" he says, turning his head every which way. "MatsuJun, where are you? It's me!"

"Me who?" Jun calls, and Aiba busts through a door to find Jun standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a spoon in one hand and a magazine in the other.

They look at each other for a couple of seconds. Aiba's mouth opens and closes a few times; he's not sure what to say or if he should say anything--the last time he saw Jun was in the fall, when they had gone grocery shopping and walked under the trees in the park because Aiba had begged to see the changing leaves. It's winter outside now, but warm inside where there's dinner and blankets and beds, lights and carpet and friends. If time has passed between then and now, Aiba has already forgotten.

"Hi, MatsuJun," he finally says, and Jun puts everything he's holding down without looking where. "How--how have you been?"

"The same," Jun says, and then they're hugging so tightly that Aiba didn't even see it coming. His hands scramble for some sweater to hold onto and of course, of course Jun would be wearing a cashmere one. "Where did you come from? No, don't answer that." Jun exhales hard into Aiba's hair, and he can tell that Jun is stressed and overworked, but none of this is new. "Where have you been?"

Aiba shrugs. "Getting evicted," he says, voice muffled. He can smell Jun's shampoo and it's the expensive kind, full of exotic flowers and sweet things. Aiba hasn't forgotten that scent--it's tucked somewhere in his memories of meeting Jun through Nino years and years ago in a cheap cafe by their college. He had been Nino's sister's boyfriend, then, and while that relationship had ended soon after it didn't change much, only that Jun stopped going to Nino's house and started showing up more in his and Aiba's dormitory, cold from the journey but bright with excitement.

When Jun pulls back his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wider than Aiba has ever remembered seeing them, wider than the full moons, even, that they howled at on nights where they were all too drunk to know their own names. He wants to tell Jun that it's okay, he'll manage, but Jun's mouth is already set in the same thin line that has always made Aiba a little ashamed of himself, even when he didn't know why.

"I heard," Jun says a tad stiffly. "Nino told me."

"Tattletale!" Nino calls from the other side of the apartment. "We had an agreement."

"Shut up, Nino," Jun yells back, and Aiba smiles before he forgets he's not supposed to right now. Instead, he scratches his head and looks at the ceiling.

"Uh-huh," he says, looking elsewhere. "I'm supposed to be out with all of my stuff by tomorrow."

Jun's mouth opens and Aiba just knows that there's a string of concerns on the other side, complete with the question he's been asked too many times to count: so what now?

"Well," Jun begins, "you can always--."

Before he can continue, though, the door behind them opens creakily. Aiba hears laughter and the sound of paper bags rustling against each other.

Then--

"Aiba-chan!"

Leave it to Ohno, Aiba thinks, to be the last one to show up. He's shuffling in behind Sho and not even completely in the room yet before Aiba is crushing him in a hug, crinkling the paper bag between them and stealing all of the cold away from Ohno's small body.

"Aiba-chan," Ohno says again, this time into Aiba's shoulder. "Long time no see."

His arms come around Aiba like they know exactly where they're going, like Aiba's shoulders aren't sagging with the weight of an eviction and too many worries. Ohno's laughing like this is easy, like they're still riding on the euphoria of landing jobs and getting paychecks and living in apartments, and all Aiba can do is squeeze him harder.

Out of them all Ohno is the one Aiba sees the least, even though he wishes it was the other way around sometimes. Ohno, Aiba is convinced, is good for the heart. Oftentimes Aiba finds himself wondering how they met and when it was--not too long ago, and it might have been through some odd job he had back then--but the details don't matter. There's a certain aura Ohno has that makes Aiba want to sit down anywhere and talk for hours without the fear that someone will make him stop.

They'll do that tonight, Aiba knows. Being here makes him think he has all the time in the universe--he has no plans, no concerns, no stigmas attached to his name. The five of them used to have dinner together often, before Sho became the big boss and Ohno quit the company to work at a studio on the other side of the city. Back then Aiba only had two jobs, and he was here almost every night to help Jun cook (as much as he could, anyway; Jun only let him do so much) and talk to Ohno, who said nothing back but the right things, and then after dinner he and Sho would pore through Nino's bare alcohol cabinet and whine about how there was never anything in there, save for a half-empty bottle of rum.

"Even the dust mites are looking for a drink," Aiba would always say, and Sho would swipe his finger across the bottom of the cupboard for proof.

Now Nino is standing next to Jun at the kitchen counter, poking through a mound of pasta and vegetables and mourning about how he'll have to clean up after everyone. This never would have happened, Nino is saying, if Aiba had never been evicted.

"Hey!" Aiba says, loosening himself from Ohno. "You're excited, Nino. Don't lie."

"Yeah, excited to take care of your drunk asses," Nino shoots back, but Aiba sees him smile. "Just like the old days, right?"

The old days would end in nights that spiraled into a familiar darkness lit only by the dim lamps in Nino's living room. They'd all be a little tipsy, and Aiba would be eating the leftovers from just hours before while Jun giggled over something vaguely profound Ohno had said. Sho would be blinking heavily, bottle in hand, and Nino would have his head in someone's lap, murmuring about how this was his house and they were all making it a mess.

He's doing the same thing now while pulling dishes out of the cabinet and examining which ones are clean enough for this dinner party occasion. "The last time we did this I had plastic utensils," he says, passing along ceramic plates and glasses to Ohno. "Now I'll have to wash them all by hand, and scrub the carpet, and rearrange my living room to hide stains--."

"Nino," Sho shouts from the couch. "As your boss, I'm telling you to stop being such a housewife."

"Easy for you to say," Nino snaps, placing a bunch of forks on top of Ohno's stack of china, "but who's going to be here tomorrow morning to help me?"

In the short silence that follows, Aiba thinks about it. He's the only one without a stable job and a house, and right now he needs the latter to ever think about getting the former. In his heart he knows that he has always wanted to live with Nino, if only to keep his old memories alive by seeing his best friend every single morning, weak with sleep and still dreaming about being Mario saving the princess from doom and gloom. College was like that--even high school was like that, when they would meet in the early hours to catch the train together.

Growing up may have separated them, but that isn't stopping Aiba from wanting to coming back.

"I will," Aiba says, and Nino turns around sharply, mouth halfway open. "Let me stay, I'll help you out."

--

That night after dinner the five of them (all sober for the task ahead, though Ohno had tried to sneak a swig straight from the bottle) pile into Sho's car to help Aiba pack and move into Nino's apartment. Aiba's not sure how he woke up this morning with an eviction notice sitting on his welcome mat to finding a temporary place to stay barely twelve hours later, but he refuses to think about his good luck or how Nino is now grumbling in the backseat.

"Why me?" he says exasperatedly. "Can't you move in with somebody else?"

But they are all perfectly aware of their respective living situations: Jun lives three doors down from Nino, but he has a girlfriend that moved into his apartment two months ago; her name is Mina and Aiba likes her a lot but he doesn't want to intrude on their personal space if he can help it. Ohno lives too far away, in the tiniest studio flat Aiba has never seen--it's hard to fit three people in there without Ohno having to put half of his belongings in the miniscule closet. And the only thing with Sho is that his sister often goes to his apartment when she doesn't feel like going home. It's been so frequent lately, Sho says, that she's moved half of her stuff into his house.

That leaves Nino and his nearly empty, sizeable apartment. The process of elimination, Aiba thinks, has never been more in his favor, even if Nino seems to feel differently.

"It'll only be for a little bit," Ohno says, and Nino groans, kicking the seat in front of him. Sho almost has a heart attack and attempts to go into a lecture about safety on the road before Aiba cuts him off.

"But it will be just a little bit!" Aiba promises. He turns around in the front seat and grins wide at Nino. "I'll help out, I promise. I'll cook and clean and make your bed and..."

"And find a new place to live," Nino adds. Aiba can feel his fingers curling over the edge of the headrest, and his nails are cold and sharp against the back of Aiba's neck like a tiny bite. "Soon."

As the car cruises over the highway Jun begins listing off a number of things in Aiba's apartment that he'll need while simultaneously keeping another list of objects he should throw out and forget about completely. As it turns out--but Aiba would expect nothing less of Jun, whose apartment is wide and spacious and yet is still full with everything he needs--the first list is much shorter than the second, and also sounds more like what Aiba would need to pack for camp rather than his moving into a new house. According to Jun, all Aiba needs to survive until he can find his own apartment are some clothes, a toothbrush, and two pairs of shoes.

"And Nino has a spare futon, don't you, Nino?" Jun prods.

"Yeah," Nino says after a long pause. Aiba can just imagine him slouched down in the backseat with his arms crossed. "Well, it's not spare anymore, I guess."

But I'll put it to good use, Aiba wants to say. He knows Nino is just being bitter about having to share his coveted space and in a couple of days it won't be so bad, but Aiba is starting to feel more like a leech than someone who just wants to move in with a good friend of his until his life gets sorted out again. He doesn't know how to tell Nino this, though, without getting smacked upside the head with a retort from Nino that would go something along the lines of, "Seriously, how corny can you be? Don't you care about my mental health?"

He's still thinking about it by the time they've all piled into Aiba's ex-home armed with cardboard boxes and masking tape ("Don't ask," Ohno says as he hands out a few flattened boxes to each of them. "I got lucky at the studio, is all"). Jun immediately tackles the kitchen because, he says, he doesn't trust any of them with knives, and Sho and Ohno move somewhere into the bathroom to shove a bunch of half-used shampoos and soaps into a giant trash bag. Aiba is sad to see all of his free samples go, but half of them made his skin itch and the other half smelled too much like perfume for his taste.

That leaves Aiba and Nino to sort the living room out. Even before they start, Aiba tells Nino that soon this will be a nothing room.

"Because it'll be empty," Aiba says sadly. In reply, Nino just biffs him over the head with a throw pillow.

"It doesn't matter what it'll be when we're finished," Nino says, and begins to assemble one of the cardboard boxes. "It's not even your house anymore."

Aiba nods, but he doesn't exactly feel that way. Even if he's no longer a resident of this building and even if this place wasn't the best one on earth, Aiba will still miss coming back to it at weird hours of the day, sweaty and tired. The next place he'll move into won't have the same fridge that Aiba could stick his head into during the hot rush of August, nor will it have the windows that shook during typhoons. Even if there are better things ahead, seeing all of his stuff getting thrown out or packed away just makes Aiba feel like a part of his life is ending.

"Hey," Nino says, nudging Aiba in the shoulder. "It's okay. You're coming home with me."

When Aiba looks up all he can think of are bar nights with Sho, when they'd clink their glasses to Nino and down a drink or two in his name. Sarcastic little brat or not, since they were fourteen Aiba has always counted on Nino to be there for him to make things that much better.

"Yeah," Aiba says, nodding. There's a thank you on the tip of his tongue, but he knows that Nino's heard it already.

--

When they were in college, Aiba and Nino lived on opposite ends of a hallway.

It was nice, then, for Aiba to see Nino all the time even though they weren't constantly in each other's faces. They'd both agreed that being roommates would have been too much, so Aiba found himself staying with a fellow science major, which was good for his schoolwork, and Nino had the good fortune of getting a roommate who came back a total of three times per semester, so there was always extra space. Still, all they had to do if they wanted to see each other was take a quick walk down the hall. There was a comfortable distance between them at school and on breaks they went home and came back together.

But living with Nino, Aiba has quickly discovered, is a whole different experience.

After he moved in with a couple of cardboard boxes and one duffel bag full of clothes, Nino pulled out the spare futon, laid it on the living room floor and told Aiba to restrain his sleep-kicking enough so that Nino wouldn't have to wake up to find all of his things on the floor in disarray (and by 'things' Nino meant his carefully put-together game consoles that occupied more space in the living room than they were supposed to).

He then said, in his most matter-of-fact voice, that Aiba had three weeks to find a new place.

"Just three?" Aiba had said. He didn't even try to hide his disappointment.

And maybe Nino had noticed, but that didn't change anything. "Three," Nino repeated. "That's enough time, since you took leave off work and everything."

Then he took a large envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Aiba.

"This is from Sho-chan and Jun-kun," was all the explanation he gave before he went off in search of sheets and a pillow.

The envelope turned out to be a huge stack of housing magazines with a couple of ads for part-time jobs thrown into the mix. Several pages in the magazines were bookmarked with bright-red tape from when Sho was looking for his apartment, and some of the ads had Jun's handwriting in the margins that said things like good times available and quick commute.

And, on the cover: YOU CAN DO IT, AIBA-CHAN. The letters looked suspiciously Ohno-like, but the 'Aiba-chan' was written in Nino's signature style--a quick yet decipherable scribble.

Since then Aiba has been determined to make himself useful. Every morning he's gotten up to make breakfast for himself and Nino (usually something easy like toast and coffee, but he's still trying to make scrambled eggs that are not burnt to a crisp) and, after Nino is out the door cursing about his lateness around a piece of toast, he sits at the table with the envelope and a thick green marker.

He's made a bit of progress--certainly nothing to brag about, but it's only been four days. In between the early morning hours and lunchtime Aiba circles promising-looking apartments in green and, when that gets boring, tours Nino's house with the television on in the background. It's exactly how it was when Nino first bought the apartment: one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room and a tiny, tiny kitchen. But there are details that Aiba hasn't seen before, like the generic, mass-produced paintings hanging on the walls and photographs in thick, black frames sitting on the coffee table (both trinkets that Ninomiya-mama probably forced her son to put up for the sake of his aesthetically boring apartment).

By the sixth day Aiba's come to memorize all of the faces that look up at him from inside the frames. As he sits on the couch, circling away (and sometimes doodling green flowers or stick figures in the margins of the magazines), he glances up sometimes to find all of the still-life figures smiling at him expectantly, as if they're waiting for an explanation of why he's there and Nino is not. But Aiba doesn't feel like he should have to explain this to the frozen pictures of Sho and Jun and Ohno that sit on the table in various degrees of dress: graduation suits, New Year's Day kimonos, swim trousers. Their real-life counterparts know the story, after all.

But there's a girl in the last picture that Aiba doesn't know.

Aiba knows that by staying here he's sort of intruding in on Nino's new life and that maybe there are certain things he shouldn't know or care about, but even so he's not sure how to feel about this. The girl in the photo seems familiar to Aiba in that she looks like every other girl he sees on the street: fairly pretty, but nothing special to set her apart from the rest. She's got one hand resting on Nino's arm and the other is raised in a peace sign to whoever is taking the picture.

And Nino, Nino looks happy. This is what strikes Aiba the most--not that he's looking at a photograph with Nino and a girl, because girls like Nino and he's used to acquaintances and classmates asking for pictures to show off to their other friends--but that still-Nino looks genuinely pleased. His expression is frozen in mid-laughter and his arm is casually slung around the girl's shoulders. They look comfortable, like they've known each other for years.

The fact that he doesn't know who the girl is annoys Aiba just a little bit. He's tried not to stare at her too much and has attempted, over the past six days of being Nino's pseudo-roommate, to focus on finding a new, affordable home and not breaking anything in the house. So far, he's done a good job of not bringing her up in conversation, but lately when Nino comes home he's so tired that all Aiba can say to him are quiet words about dinner and nothing more. According to Sho, the company is trying to form an alliance with a big-shot company that's taking up all of their energy and resources, and Nino is being forced to buckle down and do things on time.

"I even cut down his lunch to one hour," Sho says, shaking his head, and Aiba understands completely.

So he tries to be helpful. He does the laundry a couple of times, and it only turned out really bad once ("The last time I checked," Nino had said, holding a horribly shrunken sweater away at arm's length, "I couldn't fit into children's sizes"). He's called Jun to ask for really easy recipes to cook for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and even though Jun had been kind of wary at first, he'd finally relented. Now instead of boring old coffee and toast in the morning, Aiba rolls off his futon excited about stuffing a fried egg into a frame of bread and tossing a piece to Nino as he walks out of his room, bleary-eyed and hair uncombed.

Aiba is starting to realize that domesticity might be calling his name. Then he thinks of all the laundry he'd have to fold and all the potential children he'd have to cook three meals a day for, and after coming to the conclusion that being a house-husband would start to become a chore, he scraps the idea.

But right now, doing all of this for Nino is enough to keep Aiba satisfied.

"Why do you do this for me?" Nino asks sleepily at the end of the first week. He'd walked into the kitchen five minutes earlier than usual, which gave him time for breakfast on an actual plate and a couple of words before he was out the door. "You don't cook, and I don't do anything for you."

Aiba just laughs. He pours more coffee for the both of them and stares at the steam that spirals from the mug to envelop Nino's pale, small face in dainty fog. They never used to drink coffee; bucketfuls of green tea were all they needed in college to stay awake for term papers and last-minute conversations. But Aiba thinks he likes this better, for a number of reasons.

"I just want to," Aiba says cheerfully, and his eyes flick for a second to the photographs on the table. Who is she, Aiba imagines saying, and has she ever made you breakfast, coffee; does she ever do your laundry?

Do I do it better?

Nino shrugs and pokes the last bit of egg and toast into his mouth with the tip of his index finger. "Don't break my stuff," he says, and picks up his briefcase with the air of someone who would rather sleep in for the next five days than go to work.

If he could, Aiba would let him stay. He'd peel the coat off Nino's arms and undo his tie and lead him back to a still-rumpled bed.

But all he does is smile and nod, smile and nod.

"And," Nino says before he steps out the door, "thanks."

--

On the first Saturday that Aiba and Nino have together, Aiba gets up at seven o'clock on the dot. Lying next to him is a sheet that he made the night before of apartments for rent, and he'd hoped that today would be full of adventuring round the city, looking for the perfect place for Aiba to call home for the second--or, he supposes, third or fourth--time.

For several minutes he stares at the ceiling, blinking himself into consciousness and thinking, it's Saturday--Saturday! The weekend! There might be businessmen walking the streets right now and getting paid for overtime, but not even Nino would do that. Right now he's probably curled up in a ball on his bed, blanket twisted somewhere near his feet and fingers unknowingly reaching for the sunlight creeping slowly into his room.

So Aiba gets off the spare futon and tiptoes, as quietly as possible, down the hallway.

Nino's door opens with the softest click and Aiba exhales, making sure not to make any loud noises. The bedroom is already glowing with the sunrise, and Nino's white sheets are awash in dandelion-color. It takes Aiba minute of standing still and silent by the door to find Nino, but his eyes finally catch the faint wriggling of toes by the end of the bed. Aiba follows the lines under the blankets up to Nino's lifted t-shirt and parted mouth, and Aiba feels, inexplicably and suddenly, that this is an image he could get used to waking up to.

Or next to, Aiba thinks, and makes his way over to the bed. If he got in--if he rolled into bed with Nino, closed his eyes, and dreamed the next four hours away--what would happen? Experience has taught him nothing. The last time the two of them were ever together in the same bed they both had some sickness that needed to be quarantined, and the nurse at school ordered them to stay together, far away from human civilization, until they got better.

In that room the two of them played an endless amount of video games and talked an endless amount about girls and their mysterious ways. They were nineteen, but it didn't matter--nobody could hear them. They sneezed a lot and coughed up a storm and took too many prescribed pills so that in the end Nino swears that they both went a little loopy, but Aiba prefers to think that's just because they had been locked up in isolation for a week.

The beds they were meant to occupy were soon pushed together to create one bed ("We're sick," Nino had grumbled, "so it doesn't really matter how close we are. I probably got this from you, anyway"). At night they tumbled around, tossing pillows and throwing around sheets, trying to get comfortable until Aiba realized that whoever invented spooning was a genius. And Nino didn't seem to mind it, either.

The fact that it's been too long since that moment isn't stopping Aiba from crawling into bed with Nino now. They're both reasonably healthy and no longer nineteen years old, but Aiba has never stopped missing Nino's body heat in the middle of the winter. In Nino's apartment the heating blasts all day long, but Aiba's felt colder nights in his life than he ever wanted to and all he did to get through them was rub his feet together and think, if only, if only.

Nino stirs when Aiba shifts onto the bed, but Aiba only finds himself whispering sssh. He's gone this far and there's no going back.

Of course something in Aiba should have seen this coming, but these days he hardly ever sees the signs: having three part-time jobs instead of one that paid well didn't signal any warnings to him, and so the eviction was like a slap in the face. And moving in with Nino, well, that should have triggered something in Aiba's head that told him to stop, to not go through with this, to just hold it in and look the other way.

But Aiba loves Nino. Aiba loves Sho and Jun and Ohno, too, but there's an extra-special part of his heart reserved for the boy he's trekked through the rain with underneath a single, half-broken umbrella. They took their college entrance exams at the same time and have memorized most of the train routes going in and out of Tokyo together simply because of the amount of times they've ridden past the same buildings and fields and skies sitting side-by-side. They've survived two graduations, Jun's random fits of anger, moving house and an eviction.

Now all Aiba has to do is survive these three weeks in Nino's house without letting anything happen. He doesn't know what his living under this roof will entail, and his future plans only include circling more ads in green marker, doing more laundry the right way, and trying not to think about who that girl in the picture is. It might not be a big deal, anyway--she could be just a friend--and it doesn't matter if Aiba's the one lying next to Nino in bed right now. This is all it could ever be, though. Nothing more.

He rests the edge of his chin carefully on Nino's shoulder and closes his eyes. Nino smells like work, like printing ink and snapped ballpoint pens and starched shirts.

Aiba breathes in and out. He forgets, gradually, about lists and independent living, paychecks and loneliness.

This is all he needs for now.

Part two

auld lang syne. kind of.

2009-12-31T07:50:07Z

2009 End of Year Fic Meme

Rather than this be a post with fic, it's a post about fic! Mwaha. Anyway, I shamelessly stole this meme from floweranza and memorizebyheart (who are both ♥) as a sort of year-in-review thing. And since it's a fic meme, why not post it in my fic comm, right? I think that in the end this just might be a testament to the fact that I actually haven't written a lot of fic this year, but...well, that will be something to work on, then. :P

If you would like to contribute to this meme and give me your thoughts on my fic, please do! There are certainly no obligations, but I will love on you forever and it will possibly spur me into finishing all of my work-in-progresses (God knows there are a lot of those). Tell me what your favorite fic was, what wasn't, what should have been different about something, and what you think of het--because I may have (read: did) sign up for this year's je_whiteday. And that's not all the girlboy lovin' I have in mind to write...

So, thank you!

My favorite story this year (of my own): Encaustic. That universe is my baby.
Runner-up: slow passion to that deliberate progress. It's short, I know, but I love it and I re-read it a lot, actually. Ssssh.

My best story this year: Encaustic, probably. I put a lot of effort into it not to be! Story time: I was going through my documents yesterday and found a file called 'acerola timeline.' And it was a literal timeline, guys, of the events in Encaustic, with notes like 'nino goes home, ohno mopes around, nino comes back (night - approx 9 pm).' Why am I so crazy?
Runner-up: time to run. This is when I discovered how fun it is to write Sho/Jun and now I just keep DOING IT even though there's not much to show (as of yet, ho ho ho).

Story most tragically underappreciated by the universe, in my opinion: the untitled jun birthday fic. It will rot your teeth out with sap, probably, but....I think it's cute...
Runner-up: I don't really have a runner-up; the birthday fic is the only one that I think deserves more love. :)

Most sexy story: just one thing. I mean, it was written for the summer smut meme, and it's pretty smutty. Well, to me, anyway. 8D
Runner-up: time to run. I would say Clockwork but that's from 2008. Does this mean I need to write more sexytimes?

Most unintentionally *telling* story: My not-yet-posted je_holiday fic. It was kind of trying to write not only because I totally waited the week before deadline to write it, but there were chunks of it that....mirrored certain things I was going through/feeling at the time. Ahhhh. Okay, moving on!

"Holy crap, that's *wrong*, even for you" story: just one thing! The fact that Jun is bent over the railing of a boat, okay, and the water's all in his face while Ohno is behind him...talking dirty and leaving marks. Whaaaat.

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: Encaustic. Writing that fic from Ohno's POV made me realize a lot of things about his character in my mind that I hadn't before.
Runner-up: Can't tell you yet! But something I'm writing is definitely not like anything I have ever written before.

Hardest story to write: time to run actually took FOREVER AND A HALF and I kept getting stuck wih it. This might be because I kept writing it underneath my AP Statistics notes, but whatever.
Runner-up: just a little prince and his rose. I have two different versions of the story in my documents and deliberated over which one to focus on. I ended up meshing a lot of the two together, which is never fun for me.

Worst story: I am actually not that fond of at the end of the hook. I started it at least 3 different times and ended up slashing it in half and it didn't do a lot of the things I wanted it to. :/
Runner-up: je_holiday fic, mostly because I procrastinated....a lot.

Easiest story to write: could be an organ donor, the way I give up my heart. These drabbles were written over a period of a couple of months, but they were all easy to pack into 100 words!
Runner-up: four ohmiya drabbles.

Story I'd like to revise: I never want to touch my je_hols fic again. I am emotionally done with it, even if it's not all that great. So this would probably be just a little prince and his rose. It feels off to me, in some way.

Story I didn't write but will at some point, I swear: Maybe this should say 'stories I have started to write and aren't exactly progressing but will get finished at some point, I swear' instead. I have begun 99% of all the stories I've ever wanted to write, whether it be a line or a paragraph. It's just no telling when my lazy ass will sit down to finish them! There is massive Sakumoto, there is fic about Hawaii, there is het fic, there is massive Sakumoto and more Sakuraiba and a piece for Jun's birthday I didn't finish in time...some of those may go together. But the point is, WATCH OUT 2010.

First story you wrote this year: time to run. I actually wrote a fic in time for another member's birthday! Nino, you are too much motivation. You need to share.

Last story you wrote this year: fic for je_holiday.

As I finished this I also realized that the untitled jun birthday fic was actually written in 2008. S-so I cheated for one, but don't tell.

Finally, HAPPY NEW YEAR to everyone! Here's to more fic in 2010 and less bashing my head against the computer screen. ♥

could be an organ donor, the way i give up my heart

2009-10-25T23:34:19Z

Title: could be an organ donor, the way I give up my heart / 10 drabbles
Pairing(s): Various. Sho/Nino, Sho/Jun, Aiba/Jun, Ohno/Nino, Aiba/Nino, Nino/Jun, and gen.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Ten one hundred-word drabbles.
Notes: EXCUSE MY ABSENCE. It's been ages and ages and I have things in the works, I promise you all, but the fic-gears have been turning lately for "perfect drabbles." I used to hate them--now I sort of love them. Stockholm syndrome? Anyway, the title is totally random, unless you can somehow find some sort of connection, in which case--good for you. Some of these were also written for aeslis, because we are crazy kids and send each other drabbles in e-mails. For fun.

It's a cold, lazy night. Nino has a book held up to his face at cross-eyed length and Sho is watching the television, but he's really just hoping Nino will share the blanket sometime soon.

"You know what that's called, right," Sho says, tapping the cover of the book. "Sleight of hand."

"Magic," Nino says flatly. "It's just magic. Why does everything have to be fancy with you?"

"S'not it," Sho says, and tugs at the blanket's edge. "I just have cold feet."

Nino snatches the entire quilt away and tucks it tightly underneath himself.

"Sleight of hand," he smirks.

April comes. Jun seems sadder every day and Sho doesn't know what to do. It's about another relationship, time, and place and Aiba's only told him bits—the guy left without a word or a backwards glance.

They all try to cheer him up, but when Jun walks through the door at home he looks like a flower that someone forgot to water.

"Tea?" Sho offers. "Pillow?"

Jun sighs. "The will to forgive," is all he mumbles.

"Forget about him," Sho says. "Try hard."

"If you'll help me," Jun mouths, lips close, and Sho could never say no to that.

Fall comes on fast, and when a red-nosed Sho pushes through the doorway Nino forgoes all plans of going outside. Not that he had plans: he's hibernating.

"Let me tell you how cold it is out there," Sho breathes.

"Really cold?" Nino guesses.

He's on the counter in minutes. Nino's not one to be taken advantage of, but Sho's chilly hands tickle and his snowdrop lips are searching out fires in warm palms and slick lips. It's like the heat came on all of a sudden without warning.

"Maybe I should just make you coffee," Nino says, and Sho laughs.

Aiba's been over a lot, and Jun is starting to wonder. The first day it was rainy and Aiba was soaked, whimpering like a puppy; the fifth day he had just been to the bakery and the tenth, he showed up "just because."

There was something about the reason "just because" that made Jun a little suspicious. And now it's the fifteenth day and Aiba hasn't said a word.

"Well?" Jun says, touching Aiba's arm. "What is it today?"

Aiba turns, eyes sparkling, and Jun's fingers curl slowly.

"I like it here," he says.

Jun figures he's okay with that.

It was going to be a Bad Day from the moment Ohno said the words fishing trip.

"You're green," Ohno says, and Nino wants to punch him. "I mean, actually green."

"Vomiting does that to you," Nino croaks.

When Ohno shuts the door and climbs into bed Nino thinks about kicking him out. But he's warm and Ohno's nose is cold and when they're like this, tangled and together, Nino feels like a small part of the world is just wonderful.

That is, until Ohno starts mumbling about all the fish he wants to catch. But no one is perfect.

This girl, Aiba thinks, has it all. She's gone to college and studied science. She's fashionable, modest, loves cooking and reads romance novels. She adores puppies. And Nino loves her.

He and Sho have drinks and talk about it: Nino getting married. It sounds like bad reality TV.

"What do you think of her?" Sho asks.

Aiba thinks: I hate her. He and I have history, and doesn't that count for something? When he looks at her, does he think of me—of forever-ago train rides and nostalgic best friend hugs?

"She's really cute," Aiba says, and takes a shot.

Sho's sister would make him teach her daughter kanji. Sho tries to protest and say that they'll teach her in school anyway, but in the end he doesn't really mind. Sora is adorable and they like making up words together (Sho has already taught her ‘maximum').

They do numbers in a day and days of the week in an hour. Then, in the back of the book, there's arashi.

"Storm!' Sora squeals. "Like ‘for dream,' right?"

Like the five of us, Sho thinks, and helps his niece trace the lines.

"Maximum Arashi," Sora says, clapping her hands when they've finished.

"You don't say 'I do' to be unhappy," Sho sighs over the phone. He sounds strangled, almost defeated. "He knew that. It should be over now."

Sho groans and Nino hears the sound of a baby in the background, then a soothing female voice.

"Look, he," Nino tries to say, and ends up shutting his bedroom door and locking it. The girl he's with doesn't need to know about this. "He trusted her. You don't doubt people you trust."

At least, Nino thinks, Jun doesn't.

"Why didn't anyone tell him?" Sho demands.

"Believe me," Nino says, very tired. "I tried."

It's a masterpiece in the works: A Complete Guide to Matsumoto Jun's Body, written by Aiba Masaki (diagrams included.)

His field research requires attention, so he's stopped being lazy and has started mapping Jun out, fingers pinching points A to Z in succession with gentle bites. But twenty-six landmarks aren't enough, and Aiba wishes a longer English alphabet existed.

Still he finds trees, deserts, and readily erupting volcanoes. He climbs mountains and jumps excitedly from peak to peak.

Open-mouthed and struggling, Jun tries to ask what the hell are you doing, idiot, but it comes out more like what—oh.

"This is the part where you kiss me," Nino says, arms crossed.

He's serious, Sho realizes. But they're standing in the middle of the hallway and the show starts in fifteen minutes—what is this, a quickie?

"Nino," Sho says desperately. "Now? Really?"

Nino frowns. "Well, yeah," he says.

Sho looks left, right, and then forward. Well, the hallway is empty...maybe just this once wouldn't hurt.

Then: laughing. Suspiciously high-pitched, Ohno-toned laughter.

"Um," Jun says.

"Ohhhh!" And that would be Aiba. "Nino! You did make Sho-chan an exhibitionist!"

"Told you so," Nino says, and slaps Sho's butt. "Now pay up."

just one thing

2009-07-19T19:16:24Z

Title: just one thing
Pairing(s): Ohno/Jun
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: Ohno gives Jun some hands-on education.
Notes: Originally written for the summer smut meme here. The prompt was 'Fishing much to Jun's displeasure,' with requests for nasty things (including that well-known kink "anything really"). I only included one of those nasty things though, because I wrote this in fifteen minutes. >>

It wasn't supposed to turn out this way.

Somehow, this whole hanging-out-with-Ohno thing (that Jun had admittedly been a little wary of in the first place--he loves Leader, cross his heart, but their hobbies don't exactly line up and they both know that) had turned into a game of Leader Says. Not that Ohno had to say much--he'd met up with Jun that morning decked out in his fishing uniform, carrying a large assortment of rods and even a tacklebox (with his name engraved on it).

But his smile was too wide and his excitement too big and bold for Jun to turn him down. He was a little hungover and hadn't had any energy to protest much, so when he opened the door and saw Ohno all ready to go, he just sighed.

"We're going fishing, aren't we," Jun said flatly.

And Ohno had nodded. The sun was practically beaming out of his ass. "It's going to be fun, Matsujun," he'd promised.

"We can only hope," Jun mumbled. He pulled on a shirt and jeans and let himself be dragged away by Ohno, who had started to hum a fisherman's song. The only reason Jun knew it was because he'd heard Nino complain about it five bajillion times before, and also because it was Ohno's ringtone for everybody and anybody.

In the back of Jun’s mind he hoped that maybe the fishing gear was just a setup, and that they’d actually be going into the city for some marine convention and Jun could distract himself with other things, or maybe to an art museum (though that didn’t explain why Ohno would be wearing all of that). But by the time they’d reached the wharf and Jun was being helped into a boat, he’d resigned himself to the fact that yes: he was fishing. Matsumoto Jun, cool kid extraordinaire and man of great sex appeal, was playing with lines and bait and scaly, slimy ocean creatures.

He looks over the side of the boat now, so miserably that he hopes his face will scare all the fish away. But then Leader would be sad—-or he would probably just want to stay out longer until he actually caught something. So Jun tries to smile.

"Matsujun," Ohno says, sliding over so that they’re shoulder-to-shoulder. "Are you okay? You look seasick. Like Nino." He laughs and begins to assemble his fishing poles in some kind of complex order.

Jun looks away, back to the sea.

"Don’t worry," Ohno says quietly, and when Jun turns to him he’s smiling gently. "I know you’ll love fishing too."

--

It’s been several hours and Jun hasn’t caught a thing, even with the boat captain’s meticulous instructions and Ohno’s caring fingers correcting Jun’s posture.

"Not exactly feeling the love, here," he says blandly to Ohno’s profile.

"You will," Ohno replies, not turning around. "Trust me."

--

Thirty minutes later and Ohno catches his first fish. There’s an almost exaggerated struggle with the huge thing, but when it’s calm (and dead, Jun supposes), Ohno couldn’t be any more pleased.

"Let’s take a picture," he says, and gives his cell phone to the captain. Jun is forced to stand on one side of the tuna while Ohno occupies the other half, and they both grin against the sheen of the fish’s scales. The smell makes Jun want to claw someone’s eyes out.

The picture gets sent to the rest of Arashi and Ohno reads out loud Sho’s reply, which comes not even five minutes later.

"I hope," Ohno reads, squinting at the tiny screen, "that you’ve taught Jun-kun all the ropes. Smiley face, smiley face...times six."

"Have you taught me everything?" Jun says, trying to sound like he’s really interested in knowing more, even though he knows Leader understands him well enough to know that he would rather swim home than stay any longer. "Did we miss anything important that I should know?"

Ohno hums.

"One thing," he says. "Just one."

--

Two hours later Jun is bent over the side of the boat, held in place by Ohno’s hands on his hips, gripping tightly. There’s a slight storm coming over and the rhythmic up-and-down, side-to-side motion from the waves bangs Jun’s hipbones into the cold metal of the railing, but he can’t really feel it. He can’t really feel much besides Ohno’s lips nipping hard at his earlobe, whispering nonsense words that Jun just knows are tangy-sweet and oh so dirty.

Behind him he can feel Ohno in him all at once even though Leader promised with doe eyes to take it slow and be careful. But he’s not being any of those things and Jun doesn’t care, he loves this—-the wind is kicking up the ocean dangerously close to his face and he can feel the sea salt misting over his face, cooling the searing flush spreading over his cheekbones. He can’t keep his eyes open all the way but when he does he gets snatches of green, blue, grey; behind him he can feel the hot red of Ohno, growing brighter and nastier with each angry-ocean jerk of Ohno’s hips to Jun’s backside.

"Fuck, yes, fuck," Ohno breathes, and his last note ends high-pitched. Jun keens, biting down on his knuckles to muffle the sound, but his cries just get louder and he hates himself for it. He hates Ohno for this. He hates the fucking captain of the boat for taking a fucking nap, and he hates fishing, he fucking hates fishing.

Jun can hear the slapping of Ohno’s balls against the back of his thighs and it’s almost too much. He thinks of the ways his skin isn’t white anymore because Ohno is rough and hard and keeps talking about how Jun is so pretty naked and bent over and whining for more. He thinks of what Ohno’s cock would taste like if he just pulled away and dropped to his knees (and they’d scrape against such hard floor, but whatever, let them scar) and finished Ohno off with a few quick sucks. Salty like the sea, like the fish that Ohno so loves to catch? Or more earthy, like the city dirt buried under sidewalks?

Or maybe a little sweet, like Aiba’s, sweet and a little sour and filling his whole mouth in no time at all. Jun moans again, remembering that time—-Nino had been there too, hadn’t he, hidden in the shadows and emerging only at the last second-—and his hands scrabble to grip the side of the boat, but there’s nothing there for him to hold onto.

"Matsujun," Ohno says, low and gruff, and Jun just pushes back in response, "Matsujun, you can touch yourself. Come on, Jun-kun, you know you want to—just jerk off, make yourself come all over this fucking boat."

Jun comes before he even has all five fingers wrapped around him and when he opens his eyes there’s the sea again, thrashing in his face, so loud that he almost doesn’t hear the smacking sounds or Ohno’s moans anymore. When he looks below him at his hand and his legs there’s come all over the wooden flooring of the boat.

The next wave that comes up washes it all away and Jun arches suddenly as Ohno digs his nails far into skin, leaving, Jun is sure, the pinkest, brightest half-moons all over his thighs: Leader was here, here, and here.

--

Jun still has half-moon scars and the taste of sea salt in his mouth two days later. He thinks about telling Ohno, but that might just make him seem like a slut.

That is, until he gets invited out on the boat again.

"You seemed to get the hang of it," is all Ohno says when Jun asks him why.

So he says yes.

"I’m sure there are lots of things I haven’t learned," Jun says politely. "You know, that hands-on stuff."

Ohno just laughs.

a lady with guns

2009-06-23T06:18:53Z

Title: A Lady with Guns
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1975
Summary: Ma always said stick to your guns and you'll get yours.
Notes: This is a little old, but I polished it up some. Written in 2007.

Ma always said stick to your guns and you'll get yours. You repeat this in your head, swiftly and methodically like a mantra, while you're in line with the girls for the evening pick. Stick stick stick to those guns, you breathe quietly to yourself, and you'll get 'em all in the kisser.

When he picked you out of the lineup he looked so small even though he was the tallest out of the men that night—he looked like he had been missing something for a long while, a thrown-away piece that he wanted back. You could have said no when he leaned in your direction, when he stepped a foot out of the queue. You could have told him about a reserved client or a scheduled affair.

He'd said, "You…I like your hair."

It was down that night. You left with him, because he crooked his finger and slipped one of his hands into his pockets, which were probably lined with striped silk. Stick to your guns and you'll get yours. Stick to your guns and you'll get yours.

While you undressed he held a packet of letters to the light, all bound in a thick black ribbon, one that looked more suited to hang someone than to tie back hair. He was emptying out his jacket, and the letters were in the inside pocket, right where, when he stood, they would settle nicely against his muscled thigh. It's your policy to leave the customer alone until he diverts his attention to you, but something about this dark-skinned man made you forget about your guns.

The letters were fondled like a lover, like, you hoped, he would you in a few minutes. You watched as he placed the packet elegantly onto the bedside table next to the pillow, arranging it so that the addresses on the envelope looked at him, all the sleepy ys and fragile os and fingerprints aligned to his fingertips. Obviously whatever was on his mind was also lying in the letters, and you wanted in on the secret.

"A prostitute always has a second job: spying," said Natella the first night you came to the seedy alleyway, the magenta-splattered back doorway. "I mean, sex is sex, but if you want something else, then go for it."

"But won't they--?" you began, still unsure whether or not slapping was routine here.

"Ah, who cares? It's not like they'll ever see you again. Madame'll kick people out if you ask her to. Things are good, here."

Natella's fishnets got too small for her, and you inherited them. You wore them for him, rubbing them suggestively against each other, your white-white teeth working in tandem on your bottom lip. But he was still pulling things out of his suit: a leather wallet that was too thin to be a rich man's plaything, a thin black wide-tooth comb with some of the teeth missing, a couple of flyers. Your eyes darted to the blinded window; there were planes flying above this building and all over the city. But poli-talk and bed-speak don't mix.

"Sir," you crooned, when you noticed he was not looking at your legs or your teeth or your chest, your screaming neon signs. "Our time…we must keep the time."

He signed up for an hour, which surprised you the most out of anyone. You're front-and-center on the adverts that line the fluorescent hallway, and your propaganda is fierce and pungent. Even the young ones who come on their first times pick you for at least two hours, because they know that if they can't do anything you'll do it for them. Yet you've never seen this guy around before, even in the neighborhood, and here he is, looking at your coiffure in the pictures, examining your stomach, and asking for an hour. You wanted to refuse.

"The rule is, you can't refuse," Amber whispered the second night. "I mean. Never."

"But what if he's--?" Yesterday, Natella slapped you when you uttered a complete sentence.

"Just don't. Madame doesn't like it. And they don't, either. You're not a woman, you're a prostitute. You're not supposed to have an opinion. So shut up."

As things were tossed and churned on the cheap sidetable, you stretched out on the scratchy linens, the rose-sprayed lace that fringed out from the pillowcases. A nap was what you were aiming for, if this man did not want to satisfy your needs (all of them). If he went on like that, you decided, you would just drift off for a bit.

But after he let go of a fistful of coins onto the stack of letters (still staring upwards at his face), you were suddenly taken into his grip with more force than you imagined this fellow ever had in him. On his face lay a look of remorse, as if he was at a funeral, not a whorehouse, and mourning for the loss of a friend, not undoing robes and pinching skin.

"Sir!" you cried, as he struggled out of his own garments. You were almost frightened: before he was human, with feelings and lovers hidden in letters, but when he shucked off his tie and belt with violence you didn't know what he was. "Sir! We have time. You don't have to rush."

He said nothing. He only fumbled vaguely with his shirt buttons, breathing sharply all the while.

It was risky but you found your hand on his shoulder, suddenly, while he ripped off his humidity-ruined socks. "Sir. Listen. I know it's none of my business…"

You waited for a reaction, but there was none so you trudged on, fishnets digging into your calves.

"…But, you're rather scaring me, and if we could just do what you paid Madame to do, that would be wonderful."

"Scaring you?" he said. It was the first time he'd spoken in over forty minutes. You jumped, of course. Put your hand to your heart like a lady does, a lady with guns in a tattered silk robe. "Why am I scaring you?"

Oh no please don't slap me, you prayed, even though you didn't pray, and don't pray. You just don't like to be slapped. "You're being violent."

"Isn't this the place for violence? Aren't you girls supposed to be trained to like whatever fetish a man has got?"

He wasn't saying it angrily, or even gently, you noticed, which made you chilly and your fishnets ten times more uncomfortable than they already were. His monotonous voice was edgy without the sting and you think now, maybe, it was because of all the letters on the table and the way they were facing him, but that was none of your business. Natella said it could be, but you never trusted her.

You opened your mouth to answer, only you found out your voice was close to silence and that his eyes were very blue.

"Well…sir…" you whispered carefully, and he leaned in only the slightest. His tie was askew at the oddest angle, like glasses can be, and normally that would have been funny. "Madame likes to have a variety…not all of us like what our clients like."

"I don't like violence," he said, his voice suddenly booming and round and it filled the whole room and your eardrums in one gunshot. "I'm sorry if I frightened you."

The air raid sirens went off outside, and you both turned casually towards the window.

"The war doesn't frighten you though, I see," he said, quieter now. You noticed his coat was half-off, but you were too focused on his face to be a proper courtesan.

"No. I'm used to it. I live in town," you replied, forcing your voice back to normal. The chill had crept in by then and you refastened your robe; your offerings were probably not on this man's mind anymore. "Right in the center…"

"The heart," your man provided (when exactly he became 'your man' you will never exactly know).

The heart. You think about it now and it's corny, but you remember hurting when he said that and looked back at the bound letters. You'd known it all along.

"Yes. And the bombs fall, all the time. I'm safe, though, I like to think. I have a nice cellar."

"You must spend most of your time there."

"Nearly all."

He went up and walked to the window, where he began to pull the blackout shade down even though it wasn't quite night yet, and the starlight was waiting to fall and the mountains were outlined in pinks and oranges. This is your room, you wanted to say, and the blackout shades don't go down 'til dark, but he stopped midway.

"Someone you know," you said, making it seem like a casual remark, "lived in the heart of the city too, didn't they?"

He turned then, and he was smiling. Sadly, of course, because a man like him wouldn't smile happily for anybody but his dead lover that looked like you.

"You could tell, couldn't you," he said, his voice normal now. Your saying it must have relieved him, in some bizarre way. "Yes. She had hair like yours. And she lived in the middle of the city, although she preferred to call it the 'heart'. Everything would be the heart to her. We'd be having a fight and she would say, let's get to the heart of the matter. Or she would feed me and say, here is the heart, and she would dip into the middle of the soup bowl…"

He went on and you listened, not daring to close your eyes because his voice would have surely lead you off to sleep. There were stories of apples and worms and extravagant rings on fingers that slid off into oceans, and he can't swim, he mentioned that. And then something about a puppy that was hidden in her handbag for most of the day and then she bent down to pick up a coin and it ran off, right around this area, incidentally, though they rarely came to this district. As he spoke his eyes softened.

"We talked about marriage," he said, and put a hand to his forehead. "We talked about it like it was going to happen."

For a second you were caught off guard. "Did you ever think you wouldn’t work out?"

"There's always faith," he answered, rubbing his temple. "But even when that ran out, I stayed with her anyway because I loved her."

"Stick to your guns," you whispered without thinking, "and you'll get yours…"

He laughed. "Something like that, yes."

You wondered what she looked like, exactly like you or not at all and was he just delusional? Did she own fishnets? Did she hate bosses, Natella, her job, fishnet stockings? You caught a glimpse of yourself in a pocket mirror on the dresser, so conveniently placed, and you jumped. How interested you looked, in some total stranger and his dead girlfriend, when your profession details that you be interested in this stranger's body and how he wants to get away from whatever lies outside the red lacquered doors.

Still, you listened. You responded. You put away your guns in their holsters and re-strapped them to the garters in your head, the frilly ones that you could only dream of affording. Finally, when the man fell asleep, you placed the bundle of letters on his heart and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

While you were tidying up the things on the bedside table, he reached for your dress and mumbled a name--not yours, but hers--and you stayed still. You were due out in five minutes, and wanted dinner in your belly and maybe a ride home. But somehow, this seemed more important.

encaustic, 3/3

2009-06-16T23:41:55Z

Title: Encaustic
Pairing(s): Ohno/Nino
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~23,000
Summary: Come help with the farm. Art school won't miss you for one month, right? Ohno works on an acerola farm and Nino is the paper boy.
Notes: Part three of three.

xxiv.

The next day Ohno takes the smallest of his sketchbooks out to the orchard with him. He's not sure if there will be any time for him to draw, but just knowing that he has a pad of paper and a pencil safely tucked into his pocket makes him feel better.

Nino already has his head in a tree when Ohno comes up behind him, slipping his arm around his side and sticking his nose into Nino's damp hair.

"So sweaty," Ohno complains. Nino squirms away.

"That's because I've been making up for the hours you conveniently slept in for," Nino says, and points to a stack of trays by the house. "Your mom told me that you were up all night acting like you were possessed or something. What were you doing?"

Ohno thinks of the jars he has lined up against his window, all full of brushes that need cleaning, and all of the drawings he has tacked onto the wall and the stack of canvases that now leans against the side of his bed. His room is tidy now, but last night was a completely different scenario.

"I was making art," Ohno says, smiling as he pulls on his gloves.

Nino just rolls his eyes. "Art, he says," he mumbles before he gets back to work.

If life after a first kiss with somebody is supposed to feel different, then Ohno has to say that he's probably an exception to the rule. Having Nino here feels like it always has--they touch the same way and talk the same way, and Nino is still faster at picking berries and shows no mercy. It's just that now they can kiss if nobody's there (and if there are people around, that's okay too, because there are a lot of trees for them to hide behind).

But it feels, at the same time, like a little celebration every time Nino pulls Ohno towards him and whispers things and kisses him just as softly. Ohno feels like a big winner, but Nino is more than a prize, more than anything he could ever hope to win in his life.

On their first break, Nino is in charge of getting the juice and Ohno waits for him on the veranda with his sketchbook open in his lap. He's tapping his pencil against the wooden boards underneath him when Nino comes back.

"Artist's block?" he says, poking at Ohno's side with his foot.

"Just thinking," Ohno mutters, and takes a long sip of juice.

All around him he sees nothing but trees. The neighborhood continues much farther down the road, and Ohno is tired of drawing houses, anyway, thanks to his modern Japanese architecture class that he was forced to take in order to fulfill his university credits.

He tries sketching an acerola tree, all its long upward slopes and skeleton-like branches. It feels alright--he is just happy to be drawing after such a long absence--but it's not enough. So he puts in the dirt road, the little pebbles and the fuzzy patches of grass and the indentation of the walking path.

"Cute," Nino says incredulously.

Ohno has never been unsure about art before, but now he doesn't want to draw what's in front of his face and that makes him nervous. He turns to Nino, to ask for some kind of advice, but Nino is just looking at him like he's stupid.

"I told you to save some paper for me, didn't I?" Nino says.

"I did," Ohno replies. "I have another sketchbook in my room--."

"Not for me to draw on," Nino laughs. "I'm not the artist here, Oh-chan. Think about it."

Ohno doesn't have to. He stares at Nino and everything floods his mind at once--the first day Nino came over with the paper, the first time they had watermelon (and Nino had juice running down his arm), the first time they fell asleep together on the porch, limbs all over each other, and yesterday at the beach. Something hot runs through him and ends up in his stomach, prodding him along.

"Well?" Nino says. He leans in (for the kill, Ohno thinks, not breathing).

Ohno swallows. "Come over tonight," he says, so quietly that he's not even sure he's speaking.

But Nino hears him.

"Something tells me this isn't for dinner," he replies in a low voice.

He is so close that Ohno can feel eyelashes brushing like delicate, miniscule butterflies against his cheeks and he knows that this is Nino's shy way of saying I'll be wherever you are tonight.

xxv.

Nino goes home after the first harvest shift. He has to help his mom set up for her nightly cooking class, he says, and that's why he came early.

"I get paid for this now, you know," he tells Ohno, who is being clingy. "I came early because I had to leave early. I can't set up my schedule around you."

"I go to work for you," Ohno says, and he is pouting royally. It feels like the entire bottom half of his face is sagging just for Nino. "Just to see you."

Laughing, Nino untangles himself from Ohno's arms and then leans in to kiss him. He holds back just enough so that Ohno is left wanting more once Nino has broken away. "Tough," Nino says, and salutes Ohno before he leaves.

Ohno feels like the rest of the day exists just to make him feel miserable. He doesn't really believe in God, or whoever is responsible for ruling the world, but he feels that he should right now just so he can have somebody to blame for all of this damn time. Ohno is not an impatient person by nature, but now it just seems like all the clocks in the world are against him.

He tries to finish his shift as slowly as possible by looking for all the unripe cherries, which are the best ones to package, but it's already getting late in the season and most of the acerolas are close to bursting. The heat catches up with him anyway, and he's ready to faint by the time his mother comes out to bring him a cold drink and excuse him from the orchards for today.

"What time is it?" he asks her, even though he knows it's nowhere close to being Nino-time.

While he takes a shower (and he plans to make it the longest shower ever in the history of personal hygiene routines), Ohno realizes that Nino didn't actually give him a time for when he was going to come over. He didn't name a meeting place, either, nor did he mention anything about how he was going to get into the house. But Ohno isn't really all that concerned about it. He's positive that everything will work out--it just has to, anyway. He won't think about what will happen if it doesn't.

Ohno tries to spend an hour just standing in the spray of water, watching the rivulets of water running down his torso, but he ends up sneezing and shampoo gets in his eyes. When somebody in the kitchen turns on the water full blast and Ohno's shower goes icy cold, he's forced to shut off the tap and jump out.

He's shivering and toweling his hair off in the hallway when his sister passes him and says, "Oh, sorry, Satoshi, were you taking a shower?"

Ohno tries to flick her with his towel but she runs away, screaming about how she doesn't want his gross soap suds all over her.

Hours go by and every five minutes that pass feel like an entire day come and gone. When he goes downstairs he stretches out on the couch and watches television with his father, who has his head buried in the newspaper as usual (but looks up when Ohno changes the channel, so he stops trying). After three consecutive news programs that all talk about the same thing, Ohno goes into the kitchen to try and help his mother with dinner.

"I'm fine here, Satoshi," she says as she vigorously chops vegetables and drops them into a pot of boiling broth. "Why don't you go upstairs and work on your art?"

"But I--," Ohno begins, and then realizes that he can't tell his mother about how he's already bored of the scenery here.

"I'm sure you'll find something to draw," she insists.

So Ohno goes upstairs. He wanders aimlessly around his room for a little bit, looking inside of the water jars to make sure that his brushes are being cleaned and for a little while he sits on his bed, just staring at the view outside of his window. Right now, though, he's not really thinking about what he's looking at--just what's coming later on. What will Nino look like, thrown onto his bed and painted with the shades from the night sky? What will he look like, dyed with the color of plum-beige moonlight?

Ohno shakes his head and the images fade away. Not yet, he thinks as he gets up, don't think about it yet.

He ends up taking a sketchbook with him when he goes to ask his sister if she's doing anything.

"Not really," she says behind her closed door. "Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah," Ohno says, and the door clicks open.

She's in the middle of doing her makeup when he comes into the room, and Ohno remembers then that she has a date with Yamamoto-kun tonight. He sits at the table and watches his sister dab spots of crimson rouge onto her cheeks, small dots that she spreads out with her ring fingers. Next she pats her whole face down with a powder puff, and the clouds of white come swirling up into the air to spin away into nothingness. By the time she's done, she is an innocent face, all blush and lipstick.

When she was in high school, Ohno used to watch his sister put on makeup just because he thought it was fascinating. There was something magical about the way girls had the liberty of being able to put color on their faces to highlight shadows and cast lights that weren't actually there. Of course, when Ohno got older, he learned that too much makeup on a girl wasn't exactly the most flattering thing in the world, but he can't deny that he still finds the process strangely captivating.

He sketches a little bit--his sister's reflection in the mirror, eyes wide and round as she applies mascara; the pile of clothes on the bed; his sister's annoyed face when she realizes that Ohno is drawing her.

Inevitably, he falls asleep face down on his sketchbook, pencil still in hand. He thinks he hears his sister laugh and then the door close, but he doesn't open his eyes. Time is finally going by at a normal pace. He's not about to mess that up.

"Should we wake him up for dinner?" he hears someone whisper.

Nobody touches him or goes near him, but Ohno hears the faint shuffle of footsteps and a faraway clash of dishes. But maybe it's all in his head--he dreams about fine china being put on the table and dinner guests coming over with their arms full of acerola-colored roses. And then there is Nino bringing up the rear, smiling like a kitten. He goes up to Ohno and cradles his face in his hands; he says, in a sing-song voice--

"You suck at keeping spit in your mouth."

Ohno turns his head and comes face-to-face with Nino, who has pulled the sketchbook out from underneath Ohno's head and is looking through the pages. He's sitting cross-legged right next to Ohno and he even has a cup of tea with him, and he's smiling exactly the way he was in Ohno's dream.

"Your sister let me in," Nino says, turning a page. "When she was leaving for her date."

This situation, Ohno thinks, is almost funny. He's been moping around all day, waiting for the hours to melt away just so he could be reunited with Nino again--he even tried to take the longest shower ever and he actually tried to help with dinner. Things like that don't happen on any normal day, but then again, Ohno thinks, life has not been normal since he got off the plane and stepped onto the island of Okinawa.

But Nino is here now, and all of the hours leading up until this point suddenly don't matter anymore. If Ohno was miserable once for having so much time on his hands, the rest of tonight will make up for it.

"Let's go to my room," Ohno suggests, walking his fingers up Nino's arm to dip underneath his sleeve and venture higher.

Nino comes centimeters away from kissing him, and then suddenly pulls away.

"We're not going anywhere until you get that drool off your face," he says, smirking.

xxvi.

Right now, drool is the least of Ohno's worries.

He has taken numerous girls into his room before. They were always the girlish, fragile type, and they all had the same kind of intention: they either wanted to get into his pants or get onto his canvas. They were the flirters of the class, with frilly skirts and thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses, and they always stood around in giggling groups talking about Ohno-kun and how good he was with his brush (and sometimes they really did mean the one that he painted with).

Art school gave Ohno an opportunity to expand his romantic horizons and also taught him the value of awkward goodbyes at five in the morning. Because of that, he has never really had someone in his room that he could really claim he felt something for other than a quick, one-night desire. He'd let them all leave easily enough and he didn't have anything to complain about when they never came back.

This is different, though. Nino is different. He's not a quiet girl trying to seduce Ohno into staying in Okinawa, he's just the paper boy, the hired help, and now somebody that Ohno can't imagine not being with. As they take the walk between Ohno's room and his sister's, something in the air changes. Ohno can't tell what it is exactly, but it fills him with every breath he takes and he hopes Nino can feel it, too.

In the doorway to Ohno's room Nino pushes past him to peek inside.

"Ah," he says, and Ohno gently moves him aside so that he can close the door. "You weren't lying."

Ohno turns to see Nino bending down to look at the jars by the window filled with brushes. There are at least six of them in varying sizes, lined up in no particular order, but they are all nearly overflowing with multicolored, murky water.

"These are dirty already," Nino says, running his finger down the side of one of the jars, which is covered in streaks of paint. When his hand comes away a few drops of water splash onto the floorboards, dangerously close to Nino's toes.

"That's kind of the point," Ohno says, and Nino shoots him a look.

Ohno watches Nino move around the room and lets him touch everything. He makes his rounds at least twice and dwells on different objects the entire time: the jars first, a bookshelf next. When he makes his way to the window he presses his nose up against the glass and stares out, almost cross-eyed, to the now charcoal-colored ocean.

Nino makes it to the sketchbooks before Ohno can stop him. He doesn't want Nino to see the one on the very top, filled with a menagerie of Nino's faces, of his nose and lips and ears and the way his hair sometimes sweeps over his left eye. He tries to stop him, but it's too late and Nino is already untying the string that keeps the first sketchbook shut.

So he confesses right away, before Nino can even look at the first page of drawings. "I tried to draw you," Ohno mumbles. "But none of it ended up right."

And I don't know why, he finishes inside of his head. I thought I had you down, I thought I knew you, but it didn't work out the way it was supposed to.

He feels like the awkward teenager who's just made a love confession that is doomed to fail. But instead of stomping his foot and turning up his nose, Nino laughs. It's not the same kind of laugh that Ohno's heard from Nino before--he's used to those giant, ringing peals of laughter that make Nino's eyes scrunch up. But this is a softer, sweeter sound.

"You can try again," Nino says. "Right now."

He has something in his eyes that says please. It doesn't show up in his carefully structured smile or the tilt of his head, it's only in his dark eyes that Ohno sees that he wants this, too. If he's wanted it for as long as Ohno has, he doesn't know, but it doesn't matter--they're here, now. Everything that doesn't have to do with Ohno wanting to get Nino in his bed and onto a piece of paper is suddenly irrelevant.

xxvii.

When he is away from Nino Ohno feels like he is underwater. He's always being suffocated with thoughts of next time and then the next time after that, of when Nino will show up again and say, "Hi, Oh-chan" with that fitting smile of his. So when he tried to draw Nino from memory, he was unsure of himself and his hands hesitated--they didn't know which direction to go in or how to approach a certain twist.

He gets it now, though. He thinks about the mechanics of drawing when he's sketching Nino; he thinks about the end product and if everything matches together, if the sketch works simply as that: a network of lines on a paper. With him here, though, Ohno is thinking simply about Nino. His pencil and paper are secondary to the way Nino's mouth pulls down when he pouts and the way his fingers curl around the edges of the covers to pull them up and over his knees.

He doesn't exactly know how Nino got from the floor to the bed in a matter of seconds but he did, with some kind of silent fluidity so that he disturbed nothing else in the room. It takes Ohno a couple of minutes to fumble for a pencil--and it shouldn't have been hard, he has oodles of pencils lying around in the room, but right now it's difficult for him to focus--but he finds one. And now Nino is sitting right next to him in bed, caught in a web of twilit shadow and tangled, milky white sheets.

Ohno has to keep reminding himself to breathe. His pencil strokes are languid and ready and he loves the way he doesn't have to remember what Nino looks like because Nino is right there. He also loves way Nino is watching him draw like he's actually interested: his head is dipped slightly and his hair is falling into his face, brushing his cheekbones. It's getting in the way a little, and Ohno absentmindedly tucks a stray stand behind Nino's ear.

He swears Nino shivers.

"Hold on," Ohno says, returning to his sketchbook. "Almost done."

He's creating an encyclopedia of Nino-on-his-bed--there are already a dozen pages of Nino in different degrees of sitting: twelve quick but accurate sketches of the way Nino's neck swoops when he leans a certain way and how the bumps of his spine are clearly visible through his skin.

Ohno didn't even ask Nino to take his shirt off; when he'd turned around after finding a pencil and began to draw the first few lines he slowly realized that Nino wasn't wearing anything besides his pants. He didn't ask, though. If Nino has some sort of preconceived notion that all models pose for sketches with their shirts off, then who is Ohno to deny that?

Besides, he can't say that he doesn't appreciate the way Nino's naked chest is like another white space, like another blank piece of paper that the moonlight can rest on. Across his stomach run tracks of periwinkle that dissolve into a light, warm brown to match the color of Nino's skin, and every other part of him is awash in bluish-gray undertones.

There is something about drawing Nino that makes Ohno want this for the rest of his life. It's a thrill that begins as a tingling in his fingers and ends up as a surge of hot adrenaline throughout his entire body. But Ohno knows that it's more than just a silly need to touch Nino all over, to kiss him, or to draw him once and then paint him another time. It's something bigger than that, and it includes being in this room as it is right now, with Nino next to him and the bed lived-in and comfortable and the window reaching out to the rest of the world.

It's being home--not in Tokyo, but here.

"Are you done yet?" Nino whispers. He has his knees pulled up to his chest and Ohno can only see his eyes; the rest of his face is buried in his arms. In this position he looks so childish and Ohno has a sudden instinct to wrap him in the covers and say, but I'm here, so you'll be okay.

"For now," Ohno says, smiling a little. He reaches over to pull Nino's arms away from his knees, to get him to come a little closer, but the other boy doesn't budge.

"It's the middle of summer in Okinawa and your house is like being in an igloo. Way to totally act like you're not from here," Nino snaps. Ohno thinks it's cute when he complains, so he doesn't say anything. "Real Okinawans can take the heat."

Ohno just laughs. "You were born in Tokyo, too," he says, and finally manages to pull Nino toward him so that they're facing each other nose-to-nose. "But I guess you're used to Okinawa."

It's a useless sentence and Nino doesn't follow it up, he just curls himself into Ohno, craving warmth. When Ohno's arms wrap around Nino he can feel that his skin really is freezing.

"Real Okinawans can't take the cold, I guess," Ohno whispers into Nino's skin, and he winces when he feels a pinch in his side.

"You're just jealous," Nino says fondly, and he nips at Ohno's jaw.

Within seconds, they're kissing. Nino starts it--not that Ohno minds, because being caught off-guard with a kiss is truly a wonderful thing--and his lips are surprisingly warm in contrast to the rest of his body. He's kissing Ohno like the rest of the world is on pause and he's been wanting to for the entire time he's been in this room--Ohno doesn't doubt that last part, and with every tiny kiss that Nino leaves on his lips he's thinking that he's been wanting the same exact thing, too.

But there's something else on his mind that's been nagging him awhile now, and it's on the same level as kissing Nino until his lungs explode or rolling around half-naked on the bed with him. He takes a moment to collect himself, to mentally breathe in and calm himself down, and then he puts his hand on Nino's shoulder to gently push him away.

The flush on Nino's cheeks is vivid and heavy and his mouth is already open, ready to complain, but Ohno shushes him. "Hold on," he whispers, and rolls off the bed.

When he comes back he's holding a kit of already wet watercolors in one hand and a thin brush in the other. As soon as Nino sees them, he makes a disgusted face and flops backward onto the pillows.

"You're the only person I know," he says flatly, "that would stop a make-out session just to paint something."

Ohno can't deny that; he probably is the only person in the world that would push away a needy, affectionate boy in favor of a brush and watercolors. But that's just fine with him. In his head, art and romance are almost the same thing and they collide often, creating fantastic conceptual images of dusky red landscapes and fluffy, innocent white clouds tinged with deep auburn.

What's happening now, though, is far from anything that Ohno has ever imagined. He's painted Nino in his head countless times, but he has never looked the way he does now. There is a certain slant of light streaming in from the window across the bed that lies right on Nino's stomach, highlighting his navel and short, downy hairs with a muted gold tone. But it's not only the color and its intensity that make Ohno's breath catch--it's the way Nino's belly spasms underneath the sheen of the light and how neither of them dare to breathe right now lest they ruin this moment.

"Stay like that for me," Ohno says quietly. He already has his sketchbook wide open in front of him, and his pencil is moving in short, rapid strokes, eyes flicking back and forth from Nino to the paper. The outline isn't the point, though. It's the streak of bold yellow that the brush makes when Ohno presses it firmly against the paper and drags it across in one steady, unwavering line.

He goes on. Following that band of dark hazel is a softer, earthier hue that colors Nino's shadow-covered skin and Ohno fills the lines in with the brownish paint. The water swirls lazily with the drying yellow color and he bites his lip, hoping they won't mix. To his relief, they stay put in their separate sections.

It takes a couple of seconds for that to dry and while Ohno waits he absentmindedly tickles Nino's ribs with the soft, damp end of the brush. Nino laughs breathlessly and shivers again; it's enough to make Ohno want to hurry this up even though he has never hurried through a painting in his life.

The last color that the brush dips into is a rusty, dark red. Before he sets it down on paper, though, Ohno looks up at Nino to see Nino looking back at him, mouth parted and eyes dark with expectancy.

"What's that color for?" Nino asks, and Ohno sees him swallow hard.

"This," Ohno says, and then leans over the sketchbook and the paints to kiss the skin right underneath Nino's collarbone for one second before he sucks hard in the same spot, leaving a blooming mark there that resembles an overripe, too-sweet acerola fruit.

Nino makes a high, pleased sound, close to the one that Ohno heard on the beach, and Ohno stretches over the rest of Nino's body to kiss him again. This time it's a little more urgent and a lot less slow and Ohno feels Nino's hands trailing up his back to rest in his hair. When he pulls, it hurts a little, and Ohno makes a thin sound in the back of his throat that isn't a pained noise so much as a do-that-again noise. He's never heard anything like it before, especially coming from his own throat, and suddenly he forgets about painting the rest of Nino and focuses instead on touching, feeling, knowing the rest of him.

He hears the faraway clatter of the brush hitting the floor and without looking Ohno fumbles to get the paints and the book off the bed before one of them gets hurt. Nino, though, is otherwise preoccupied--he's kissing Ohno like the night is catching up to them quicker than he expected and daylight will come barging in at any minute to slither in between their bodies and tear them apart.

One of Ohno's hands slides over Nino's trembling chest to stroke gently there, saying calm down, calm down. And Nino does, a little. He pulls back for air, and while he's gasping for breath Ohno kisses his cheek, his chin and his jaw with feathery, barely-there touches of his lips and tongue. Ohno's heart is beating furiously in his chest and he can feel Nino's through his palm; it's just as wild and that comforts him a little to know that he's not the only nervous one here.

Ohno moves on with his slight kisses. He presses one to the spot just below Nino's ear (and can't help but do it again when Nino moans at that, a shaky, breathy slight of voice that makes Ohno shiver) and leaves a trail from there down to his collarbone. When he gets there, he runs his tongue over the glaringly red spot and hears Nino suck in a breath.

There's a slippery rhythm in Ohno's chest that keeps screaming, can you believe this, and Ohno can, but at the same time he wants to pinch himself just to make sure that all of this is real. What happened on the beach was a single, believable moment, but this--what's happening now--is more than that. This is Nino's body that Ohno is touching, and since day one he's been wondering about all of Nino's arches and twists and curves, all hidden by clothes before now.

He's set on exploring every uncharted inch, all of those dips and concave spaces and flat planes of skin, not as an artist but as an awed first-timer, an amateur cartographer noting down everything that makes Nino's body different from his own. Everything is new and exciting and he's overwhelmed with a dizzy, complicated feeling of fear and wonder.

Through it all, Ohno wonders when the night will stop--will it really be at dawn, when the pale orange crown of the sun begins to rise from the sea, or will it be much later, when Nino and Ohno have finished? But Ohno doesn't know if the end will ever come, and honestly he's not sure if he wants it to. There's too much of Nino left for him to discover and there is no way that he's quitting halfway through.

"Oh-chan," Nino breathes, eyes shut tightly as Ohno's lips travel, ghost-like, from his neck to his stomach, "Oh-chan..."

My feeble heart, Ohno thinks, but he knows he would give so much just to have Nino keep calling him that for the rest of their lives. He hopes it's at least for the next week--and the week after that, and then the next two, and then the next fifty, or maybe just as long as he keeps on wanting him and Nino locked in this perfect, unbroken connection. Right now, that feels like forever.

xxviii.

It's the birds that wake Ohno up.

He's not sure what that chirping sound is, but it's coming from the window and when he opens his eyes, he's greeted by the sweeping glow of the morning sun shining directly onto his bed. He likes that very much, but the birds just need to go.

Also, his arm is numb. But considering who's on it and why, he doesn't exactly mind.

When Ohno looks down he gets a noseful of Nino's hair, which smells like the detergent his mother uses to wash the sheets. For a second, Ohno's wondering how coincidental it is that Nino's mother uses the same laundry detergent that his does, and then he remembers what happened last night.

He doesn't even have to turn to remember that there is a sketchbook full of drawings of Nino on the bedside table, and it only takes him a minute to realize why his hips are so sore. The images are still in his mind and they come back to him in quick, dim flashes of electricity and skin and too much heat, even in this cold house.

Ohno wonders how it all came to this. He doesn't have to think about it much--one day Nino was the paper boy and a week later he was another worker on the Ohno farm and someone Ohno somehow tripped into. He's not sure how it happened, or if he tripped into a relationship, or into love, or into some complicated maze that he would be better out of. But part of him knows it's not the last one. Whatever this is, he's in love with it.

He might be in love with Nino. Ohno's not entirely sure--he's never been in love with anybody so it's not like he can tell whether he is or not. There are the so-called symptoms, and if Ohno cared enough he would go through the list and check them all off. But he doesn't think knowing is so important right now, when he has a day and a week left in Okinawa, a day and a week left of home, to deal with. Knowing whether or not his heart is set on Nino is not his top priority right now; it's simply being with Nino until he has to go back to Tokyo.

And of course, despite all of this, he's going back to Tokyo. It's among those narrow city streets and overpopulated crosswalks Ohno belongs, not in mind but in body. He has to go back to art school, because even if it's tiring and stresses him out and doesn't let him sleep, the art itself is still a part of him. He didn't work hard enough when he was younger just to throw it all away.

All of this thinking makes Ohno tired again, and he shifts a little, taking care not to disturb Nino, before he drifts off. He knows that when he wakes up again it will take hours to get the feeling back in his arm, but at least he'll be able to blame Nino. He's looking forward to that.

The next time he wakes up it's not because of the birds but because his left arm is tingling like mad. His eyes open to the sight of Nino propped up on his elbows on the other side of the bed, sketching in Ohno's Nino-book.

"Hi, Oh-chan," Nino says. He looks like he's trying not to laugh, and Ohno looks over sleepily to see what the picture is.

It's him as of ten minutes ago, mouth hanging wide open mid-snore. The drawing's lines are rough Ohno looks kind of like a caveman, but he still feels like it's the best thing ever and maybe he'll hang it up in his dorm room.

"Just your dorm room?" Nino says, feigning hurt. "Can't you put this in your portfolio, or something?"

Ohno just pinches his cheek and Nino goes back to sketching, mumbling about how some people are just ungrateful bastards. While his head is bent and he's concentrating on the movement of the pencil and whatever he's trying to draw next, Ohno watches him.

Nino looks up and starts when he meets Ohno's eyes. "What?" he says, frowning.

You're cute. Come back with me, Ohno almost says, but he shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, and smiles. "Don't use up all my paper."

"I took you there," Nino protests.

"Why?" Ohno wonders.

He's not sure why he's asking, but a part of him really wants to know. It's a little obvious that Nino wants to be here--he would have left ages ago if he'd only wanted to stay for last night--but he still wants to hear it.

Nino thinks about it. He has the eraser of the pencil pushed against the corner of his mouth and when he releases the pressure, there's a little round mark near his lips.

"Why do you think?" Nino asks, and adds another detail to his new drawing. It looks like a tail.

"Because you like me," Ohno says casually, "and you wanted to make me happy."

After a moment, Nino laughs. "That's kind of a self-centered answer," he says, "but okay."

He doesn't say yes, Oh-chan, that's right, or good, you've noticed or even I'll take that. Ohno knows what he means, though, just like with the butterfly kisses and all the unspoken words that Nino channels out with his mouth and his hands instead. He's a complicated kid full of one-way streets and dead ends that, if you look hard enough, actually open up to new roads. Ohno likes that about him.

Later, after Nino has gone home to get a change of clothes, Ohno walks into the kitchen for some brunch. His sister is at the table, yawning widely and looking like she hasn't slept at all.

"So," she says hoarsely when her brother joins her with a plate of toast, "guess what."

No, guess what I did last night, Ohno thinks. "What?" he says instead.

"Last night," she says, then coughs and takes a sip of her tea. "Last night, Yama-kun was like, 'Hey, what would you do if I asked you to marry me?'"

Ohno looks at her. Knowing his sister and her level of alcohol tolerance, she could have said anything. "What'd you tell him?" he asks pleasantly.

"I said, 'Hell no!' and walked away," she says, smiling sadly.

A silence passes between them, full of questions on Ohno's side and regrets on his sister's. Finally, after another gulp of tea, she pushes the mug away from her and lets her head drop onto the table.

"But you know, Satoshi?" she says, and he leans forward. "I might marry him. I just might."

She sighs and closes her eyes. Ohno wants to tell her to go to bed, to sleep it off, to think it over in the morning when she has a clear head and a clean face.

But he doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he gets up to pour another mug of steaming tea and puts it in front of his sister along with two painkillers when he goes back to the table.

"I might marry Nino," he says with a completely straight face.

Ohno's sister just looks at him, and then she laughs, hard enough so that Ohno knows she's not just humoring him. "Ah, you!" she says, and takes the painkillers in one swallow. "I can't believe you're leaving me and Ninomiya-kun so soon."

He hadn't been expecting that. "Yeah," he says. "I can't believe it, either."

xxix.

Ohno goes down to the orchard for his afternoon shift and the first person he sees is Nino.

"Hi," he says. It's only been a few hours since they both woke up together in bed, and he's not entirely sure how he's supposed to handle the morning (or afternoon) after.

Nino glances at him, then goes back to work. "Hi yourself," he says.

All in all, it's a normal day. During their breaks, Ohno sketches the funniest-looking trees in their row and laughs at all of Nino's crude comments about Mother Nature. Their workload is the same as usual, and at the end of the day Nino has, of course, picked more berries than Ohno has. But he still complains, as usual.

Ohno tries not to think about how he only has a week left after today, and most of all tries not to think about whether or not Nino remembers this.

To his surprise, it's Nino who brings it up as they're cutting up a watermelon in the kitchen.

There's an afterglow from the sky lighting up the kitchen and as Ohno is watching the wandering orangey rays make their way across the floor, Nino says, "You're leaving in a week, right?"

Startled, Ohno blinks away from the sunlight and turns to Nino, who is still slicing away calmly. "Yeah," he says.

"Okay," Nino replies, and sticks a watermelon rind into Ohno's mouth.

He doesn't say anything after that, and they eat their watermelon in a relaxed silence. Everything is still fine even when Ohno's sister comes down from her nap (looking much better than she did that morning, Ohno notices) and helps herself to some of the watermelon.

As Nino is leaving for the night, though, and Ohno leans in to kiss him goodbye, Nino hesitates a little.

Ohno doesn't even ask if everything is alright. Nino won't look at him, but he mouths I'm sorry and Ohno just kisses him again. This time, Nino kisses him back.

"Let's just not talk about it," Ohno whispers. He knows it's not the best thing to do, but if they don't mention it for the next few days, he'll have had enough time to tell himself that he's doing the right thing.

xxx.

Ohno doesn't have any expectations for his last week in Okinawa. When Monday rolls around he works in the orchard as usual and Nino doesn't mention a thing, only that Ohno should stop looking at his butt and start focusing on picking acerolas a little more. He shoots Ohno a lecherous look and Ohno laughs for minutes on end until his sister comes over and smacks him on the head.

That night, the three of them have dinner on the veranda, and it's tempura udon that Nino actually helped to make. When Ohno's sister leaves and Ohno is slurping up the last dregs of soup from his bowl Nino kisses his neck and says, "Can I have my dessert now?" (For a second Ohno attempts to get up and actually find some ice cream until Nino bites his ear and tells him to sit the fuck down, what does he think he's doing.)

On Tuesday Nino comes over with a sack of fine rice from his mother as a token of thanks for all the times the Ohno family has put up with her lazy son ("Her words, not mine," Nino insists). Ohno's father, who is more of a gourmet than anyone knew, takes the rice away and is not seen for hours.

Nino sleeps over that night, and when they enter Ohno's room there is a sleeping bag on the floor complete with an unused pillow and an extra blanket.

"I guess you're sleeping on the floor, then?" Nino says, turning to Ohno.

They end up sharing the bed. Nino tries to draw a line of separation down the middle with Ohno's clean socks, but in the morning Ohno wakes up to find Nino completely in his space, snuggled into a tiny ball. He's using Ohno's arm as a pillow and Ohno realizes that he has been hugging Nino close to him all night.

Wednesday brings a round of acerola juice-making lessons taught by Ohno's mother. Nino is a professional right from the start but Ohno feels like something's missing, and after thinking about it he spreads a line of juice from the bottom of Nino's ear all the way down to his collarbone.

It's exactly like that first day with the watermelons--Nino in the kitchen with a smear of clearish-red dripping down his neck. Thinking about this makes Ohno ache inside but he laughs instead and takes a picture, which Nino is not so happy about.

"That's so perverted," Nino points out. "You put juice on me and you just took a picture of it!"

When the picture develops Ohno keeps it in one of his books.

On Thursday Ohno wonders what life in Tokyo will be like when he gets back--boring, probably, and definitely colorless. He'll also have to make up so much work and his friends will want to take him out and he will never be able to get any sleep. He tells Nino this while they're sitting on the veranda during a mid-morning break, already tired and sweaty.

Nino has his arm around Ohno's shoulders and he chuckles. "That's too bad," he says. "When you leave, I'll just be here replacing your spot on the farm."

It's the first time all week that Nino mentions Ohno's leaving and he says it casually, like it doesn't matter that much, like it's only a vacation away from home and not another however-many-months until Nino gets to Tokyo or Ohno comes back.

Ohno kisses Nino's shoulder and then buries his face in the other boy's neck, just to reassure himself that Nino is still here at this moment and he hasn't left yet without noticing. His flight leaves on Saturday morning and it's high time he remembers that, but he doesn't want to go, not when he has this.

And then it's Friday. Ohno and Nino are both excused from work and they use this time to pack--at least, Ohno tries to pack but Nino ends up telling him what he should bring. They fold the clothes together and try to fit in all the extra stuff, like souvenirs and toiletries and shoes, around the edges.

The suitcase closes only when Ohno and Nino sit down on it together. When it's finally zippered shut, neither of them make a move to get up.

"Your mom said I can drive you to the airport," Nino says, chin in his hand. He looks like a lost little boy. "Since they're all working tomorrow, too."

"Oh," Ohno says quietly. He has a lump in his throat the size of his humongous suitcase and he can't really say anything unless he whispers it. "Okay."

Nino is supposed to go home that night but he sleeps over anyway; he doesn't think his mother will mind and if she does, then oh well. He holds Ohno's hand tightly all night long and pulls him back when he strays too far on the opposite side of the bed.

For the second time since he arrived in Okinawa, Ohno watches Nino instead of the night sky outside of his window. He can get the same view in paints and memories and photographs, but the feeling of having Nino asleep at his side will be gone after this moment and won't come back for a long, long time.

When morning comes, Ohno drops a kiss on Nino's forehead and watches him wake up. He blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering, and Ohno dips his head just to feel them against cheek one last time.

"Don't be dumb," Nino whispers, and reaches up to poke Ohno's cheeks. "This isn't for forever, you know."

He smiles, and Ohno believes him with all his heart. It's all he can do right now.

xxxi.

Ohno's last day in Okinawa is a whirlwind of goodbyes and hugs and, to his relief, sunshine.

The rest of his family waits until he comes downstairs before they go to work. His father pats him on the back and tells him he's done a good job--this is the twenty-first good job that Ohno has gotten from his father; it happens every year, like a second birthday, and he can't say he doesn't wait for it.

His mother, of course, is all tears and sobs and tips. "Don't forget to eat," she tells him, blubbering away and trying her hardest not to make it look like she really is. "Even if it's just a riceball, okay? And don't forget, it's Tokyo, so watch your things, because there are a lot of criminals just waiting for you to turn the other way..."

Ohno smiles wryly and hugs her. "Mom," he says. "I've been living in Tokyo for twenty years."

But she won't stop until her husband tells her it's time to work. She straightens up, then, and wipes her eyes. "Don't forget to call!" she says as she walks briskly out the back door, but when she waves her hand is shaking. "If nobody picks up, just keep calling! Or leave a message--leave two if you want!"

Ohno's sister is last.

She doesn't say much. The first thing she does is hug him, and she won't let go, even when he tells her that he feels his ribs cracking. "You're such a pansy ass," is all she whispers to him before backing away.

He can tell she's crying even if she doesn't show it. They've lived together long enough for him to figure it out.

"'Nee-chan--," he starts to say, but she cuts him off.

"If it happens," she says, and takes a deep breath before she goes on, "I'll give you a call before you get the invitation, okay? You can bet on it."

She leans in for another hug. This time, when she's squeezing him, she whispers, "And I'll look after your future husband too, okay?"

Ohno tries to smack her, but she's quick and is out the door before he even has a hand up.

When Ohno turns to Nino, he has to laugh. Nino has a look on his face that suggests he's just been through a marathon of watching old-time Japanese dramas where the Technicolor is fuzzy and all of the characters in the show are crazy.

"Your family," Nino says, but he's laughing, too.

The car ride to Naha is the exact same length as it was the last time they went, and it's the same weather out, too. It's enough to fool Ohno into thinking, just for a little bit, that they're just going back to that art store again, and that in less than an hour he'll be walking down that same path and seeing that same cashier girl, the cute one. His fantasy is interrupted, though, when Nino asks him if he's got his ticket.

"Yeah," Ohno says. "I have everything."

Nino just nods. He's wearing his sunglasses--the sun is almost painfully bright today--and Ohno can't see his eyes.

The moments between the exit for Naha Airport and Ohno and Nino walking into the terminal are all mashed together in Ohno's mind, like he's just woken up from a short sort-of blackout and only remembers things in pieces. He comes to when they're in the check-in line and Nino is standing next to Ohno with his hand on the suitcase, looking just like another passenger or a really angry bodyguard.

"Ticket, please," is the next thing that Ohno hears, and he hands it over. He notices that Nino is watching the clerk intently, as if waiting for her to make a mistake so he can call her out on it before she even notices it herself.

When the clerk looks up Ohno expects her to ask about a seat change, or any connecting flights, but instead she's looking at Nino.

"And will you be traveling with Ohno-san, sir?"

Nino just smiles. "No, not today."

After that, the woman behind the counter hands Ohno his boarding pass and sends him off with a gleaming white smile. Ohno is about to grab his suitcase when he sees that Nino is already pulling it along.

"Come on, Oh-chan," Nino says, and walks a few steps backward to grab Ohno's hand. "If you miss your flight, your mom will throw me into the ocean."

Knowing his mother and the things she is capable of, Ohno doesn't doubt it. He lets Nino pull him along all the way to the security checkpoint, where the whirring machines and endless sensor beeps are enough to make Ohno want to turn around and run all the way back to his house.

"Okay," Nino says, and slaps Ohno's hand away when he tries to take his suitcase back. "Any last words?"

Ohno's not sure what he should say, but he tries his best. "If Yamamoto-kun does anything to my sister, please kill him," he says.

Nino nods. "And?"

Ohno bites his lip. He's still not exactly positive about what Nino wants him to say, but he also thinks that if he tries to ask if blowing him a goodbye kiss through security checkpoint is appropriate, he'll get a painful no right to the knee.

"And," Ohno says, concentrating very hard, "please look after the farm."

There is something close to murder in Nino's eyes. "Keep going," he says, and pulls Ohno's suitcase behind him. "You're not getting this back until you get it right."

But I have a flight to catch, Ohno frets. He knows that Nino is serious, though, and so he tries even harder. "Don't kiss girls," he says, and Nino smiles, but he doesn't move. "Deliver the paper on time. Thanks for last night? The night before? Thank you for everything?"

He's nearly out of ideas. "I--," he starts again, trailing off.

"--Will be back," Nino huffs. "Will call you every day. Will text. Will write letters. Will count the days until we are reunited again. Will think, 'I wish Nino were here!' Will stop me before I throw up," he finishes, rolling his eyes.

Ohno just looks at him and then breaks out into a smile. "I'll do all of that," he says, and steps in to hug Nino tightly. "I will, I promise."

Nino just shakes his head. "You're hopeless. It's disgusting, you know, that I am actually the woman in this relationship."

And there it is: before Ohno leaves, a confirmation, and one that fills him with comforting warmth. They're in a relationship, he and Nino. As long as both sides think it, it's the truth, and Ohno lets out a long sigh of relief. They don't even have to talk about it right now--as long as he knows what he and Nino actually are, it's one less thing to worry about.

"What?" Nino asks, as he's giving Ohno his suitcase back.

Ohno smiles. "Nothing," he says, and takes a step backward. "Well--bye, Nino."

Nino waves and grins lazily. "See you later, Oh-chan."

Ohno walks through the metal detectors without any hassle and picks his bag up at the end of the line. When he turns around and stands on tiptoes, he can see Nino still standing in the exact same spot. Ohno knows that he's probably thinking what is that idiot doing, he'll miss his plane, and it's true--he needs to get going.

But Nino's all the way over there, anyway, and the plane won't leave him. The next time Nino turns to stare at Ohno, still puzzled, Ohno presses his lips against his hand and then waves.

As he's walking away he gets a text. He doesn't even have to look at the name to know who it's from.

You'll pay for that, seriously.

PS - Don't forget to look for cheap flights from Okinawa to Tokyo.

encaustic, 2/3

2009-06-16T23:38:18Z

Title: Encaustic
Pairing(s): Ohno/Nino
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~23,000
Summary: Come help with the farm. Art school won't miss you for one month, right? Ohno works on an acerola farm and Nino is the paper boy.
Notes: Part two of three.

xiv.

Ohno's mother (without her son's permission--even though there is no plausible reason to need his permission for doing this) tells Nino the next morning, as he is dropping off the paper, that he can come over anytime to help with the acerolas.

"I don't know," Nino says. Ohno can hear them speaking from his room where he is lying in bed, still half-asleep. "I've never harvested anything in my life that wasn't in a video game."

She just laughs, high and tinkly, like Nino is speaking nonsense. "Don't you worry," she says, and Ohno can just imagine her reaching out to touch Nino on the elbow, to reassure him that she knows best. "It's easy. Satoshi will teach you!"

Their voices fade away and Ohno, relieved, falls right back to sleep. By the time his eyes open again he's convinced that what he heard was a dream and that his mind, still stuck on imaginary nighttime paintings of Nino's face, made it up completely.

But when he shuffles into the kitchen, hair sticking up on one side and still shirtless, there is Nino sitting at the kitchen table with his chin in one hand a glass of juice in the other.

"Tekken 6 is due out," he's saying--to Ohno's sister.

"No way!" she says, leaning forward across the table. "Yamamoto-kun told me that, but I didn't believe him."

Ohno, seeing that they are occupied, tries to escape. He has most of his body out the door and in the hallway when he suddenly hears his name.

"Satoshi," calls his mother. "Aren't you going to join your sister and Ninomiya-kun?"

When Ohno turns back to the kitchen he sees Nino looking at him, almost surprised, and his sister, smiling widely. His mother has a plate of piled croquettes balanced on her hand, and she is looking at her son expectantly, waiting for a response.

"Shirt," is all Ohno says. If he tried to say anything else, anything even remotely coherent, he would fail miserably. "I just--got up."

"We can see that," his sister jeers, and Nino laughs, then quickly clamps his mouth shut (even though Ohno can still see him laughing in the way his shoulders shake underneath his t-shirt).

He comes back with a shirt on and with his mouth still tasting of toothpaste and sidles back into the kitchen. His sister and Nino are still chattering away like noisy little birds, and don't even try to stop when Ohno plops down dejectedly on the seat next to his sister.

While they talk (still, they are still talking about video games), he reads the paper, front to back, and manages to get away with eating three croquettes, which is one more than equal division allows him to take. By the time he has taken his plate back to the sink and put the paper back in its exact order, he is ready to go outside and pick some berries.

Nino stands just as Ohno puts his hand on the door, ready to push.

"Are you going? I'll come," he says. "Your mom said I could. She said you'd teach me how to pick acerolas."

"There's not really anything to teach," Ohno mumbles, not looking at Nino--though truly there is nothing in him that doesn't want Nino to come with him, into the scorching heat, with the sirens back and the intense blue overhead. "You just pick things off a tree."

"Oh," Nino says, and Ohno expects him to go back to the table, to keep on talking about video games with his sister (who has another date with Yamamoto-kun, this time in the afternoon). "Is that so?"

But he only moves closer, so that his hand is on the door as well, right next to Ohno's. "I'm not a farmer's son," he says, speaking more now like he is in on some secret that only Ohno is allowed to know about. His voice is lower, quieter, and it makes Ohno want to listen. "You'll still have to tell me what to do."

He looks at Ohno, who can see the flecks of charcoal in his eye, set against a backdrop of deep brown. It's almost too much for him to not reach out and touch Nino's face, to memorize it, to have the tiny details etch themselves onto his hand like the newspaper ink rubs off on Nino's palms--

"You'll need a towel, the both of you," Ohno's sister says suddenly, from her spot at the table. The tone of her voice is curious, wondering, and Ohno feels as if he has just been caught red-handed in the middle of doing a naughty thing. "It's hot out there."

"I know," Nino says, this time smiling, his voice lighter, eyes no longer looking at Ohno but past them, to the harsh sunlight outside. "We should be alright, though."

xv.

If Nino's definition of 'alright' is drowning in one's own sweat, then Ohno's not sure whether he wants to keep taking Nino back with him to pick acerolas. It's true that he learns fast--Ohno demonstrated the routine just a couple of times, and Nino had an entire tray filled in less than two hours--but Ohno's not sure if he can keep up with the amount of skin it feels like he's shedding from all this damn heat.

Nino, though, seems completely fine, despite the way the droplets are gathering on the nape of his neck, threatening to slide down his back at any given moment.

Ohno says, with a little difficulty, "Do you want a towel?"

Nino wipes his forehead with the crook of his arm, takes one look at Ohno and smirks. "I think you're the one that needs a towel," he says, and whips his own off his neck. "Here, have mine."

He throws it to Ohno, who catches it in one hand. It's damp and overused, but for some reason it's still drier than Ohno's own towel and so he slings it around his neck (and smells Nino--hot and homely and sweaty).

They've been picking acerola for almost four hours, and Ohno can tell that Nino doesn't exactly hate the work. He seems calm here, amongst the trees and the little ripe berries, and it looks like he enjoys resting his chin on the branches, searching lazily with one hand for missed fruit. Even though his hair is practically drenched, Ohno thinks he looks relaxed, like he could stay here for a long time and not be bothered by much. The only thing about him that suggests discomfort is the slight twist of his eyebrows, but that's all.

"We should go to the beach," Ohno says, kicking absently at a tray on the ground. (He has finished two. Nino, on the other hand, has done four.) "Where it's cooler."

Nino looks up then, with a grimace on his face, and it emphasizes the sheen on his nose and forehead. For the sixty-eighth time since this whole thing started, Ohno wishes he could paint that.

"Not the beach," he says, nose now wrinkling. "At least, I won't go in the water."

He sticks his head back into the tree and explains: it's not that he hates the water, he just doesn't care much for going in it, and if you tried to put him on a boat he would kill you. Ohno believes him, and the image of a seasick Nino, green and hanging limply over the railing of a ship, amuses him somehow, and he smiles.

"And--hey, are you laughing at my pain?" Nino says, poking Ohno in the side. "It's not funny."

Ohno just snorts and bats Nino's hand away. "No," he says, shaking his head slowly. "It's not funny."

But in his head the image stays, and as they continue on with their harvest Ohno can't stop himself from sneaking peeks at Nino, who is picking away like the newspaper doesn't exist, like it doesn't have to be delivered. The sun is going to set soon, and everything, everyone, will be glowing in outlines of muted oranges and reds. Ohno can't wait for that to happen.

Before it does, though, Nino says, while his hands are buried in berries and his face is so close to the tree that the leaves are tickling his nose, "How about next time you come with me to deliver the paper?"

Ohno closes his eyes.

"Only if you come back tomorrow."

xvi.

Nino comes back the next day. When the sun is about to set, he proposes the same idea, and Ohno makes the same deal. This goes on for another three days, and in that period of time Nino has claimed his own towel, his own set of gloves, and the tally that still exists in Ohno's head--because no matter how fast Ohno picks, Nino is somehow always better at it without even trying.

They discover a lot of things in those three days, in those long, drawn-out hours, so many of them that they've quit keeping track. Ohno finds out that Nino needs a lot of water, and also that he needs to sit for long periods of time, but that a lifetime in Okinawa has forced him to reconcile with the heat. And Ohno is sure that he has revealed his affinity for colors, already, in the way he has made Nino stand next to the greenest trees and the reddest patches of fruit. He is also positive that Nino knows he is a Tokyoite by heart, because he can't stand the heat for more than an hour before he has to go in and take a break.

But there's more, and Ohno could make a list of these extra finds: Nino likes to touch things. Nino likes to make his fingers travel, and Ohno is sure that if he was allowed to he would traverse the entire orchard with his hands outstretched. Ohno lets Nino touch him, though, with stained or clean fingers, even if it only lasts for a second. It's enough.

He has also figured out that Nino doesn't really read the newspaper (except for the comics and parts of the sports pages); he just delivers it, and not usually on time. ("But everyone here is old," he says, "so I don't even think they notice.") And, more recently, he's learned that Nino likes pickled eggplant.

"Tell your mom," Nino says, as they stretch out on the veranda. It's the fourth day, just as quiet and just as siren-hot, and Ohno's mother has told them that they've done enough. Yamamoto-kun and Ohno's sister have replaced them in the orchard. "Maybe she'll make it next time I come over."

With anyone else's mother the comment might have been offensive, but Ohno knows that his mom probably would make pickled eggplant just for Nino. She likes him, even more so than the first day, and she is absolutely enamored with his "work ethic" (even though all he really does is lean against the tree and pick the berries closest to him).

"'Kay," Ohno mumbles. The sun is shining in his face, but with his eyes closed he doesn't half-mind it. One of Nino's legs is thrown over his own, but he doesn't really mind that either, nor the hand that is currently groping his cheek. "She probably will. If they don't take that long to pickle."

"Ferment," Nino snaps. "I'm pretty sure it's ferment."

"But then that would make them fermented eggplants, which...isn't the same thing."

The next time Ohno looks over at Nino, the smaller boy is napping, head resting on his arm in what looks like an uncomfortable angle. Just watching him like that, with his mouth almost parted, and his eyelashes casting the littlest of shadows, makes Ohno sleepy. He touches Nino's hand--the one still against his cheek--and dozes off.

When he wakes up it's nearly seven, and someone has left a pitcher of acerola juice and two glasses by them.

One of the cups looks used, and Ohno rubs his eyes until Nino, who is still licking the sweetness from around his mouth, comes into focus. "Hi," he says brightly. "You should have some, because we have to walk everywhere."

"Walk?" Ohno says, squinting. Every part of his body feels like an anchor. "Why?"

Nino just smirks, and tweaks Ohno's ear.

xvii.

They end up delivering newspapers like this: Ohno holds them and Nino actually delivers them. Ohno doesn't mind the huge stack; it's still warm, even though it's been more than twenty minutes since they heaved the pile out of the box, and he likes the smell of the paper and the ink.

It takes them, all in all, about two hours to go through all the houses that Nino usually frequents. He also drops off ten or so copies at one of the local inns, and the grandma there pets him like he is a puppy and talks to him in Okinawan dialect. Nino nods and laughs in what Ohno thinks are all the right places, but when Ohno asks him what she was talking about and Nino gives him a look, it turns out that he is just a very convincing actor.

When they're done, they end up at Nino's house, which looks like Ohno's only smaller and without the ever-present shadow of trees on the walls. It only takes them a few minutes to put the leftover rolls of paper back into the cardboard box they came in and fold it back up again.

Once they're finished Ohno stands, doing nothing, expecting something. He's not even sure that he's really breathing. He's not sure that Nino is, either, because he doesn't move when Nino does--closer--and he can see Nino's throat moving more than he can his chest.

"I'd invite you in, but--," Nino says, and he is so close now that he's almost bumping noses with Ohno.

His hands fumble for something to hold onto, and Ohno provides his own hand, just because it seems like that would be the right thing to do.

"I understand," Ohno whispers. They are bumping noses now, and Ohno is finding that this not-breathing thing isn't exactly compatible with the way his heart is behaving.

Nino squeezes his hands and makes a sound that is almost laughter, but comes off more like an embarrassed snort.

"No, my--my mom has a cooking class, so there's, like, twenty middle-aged women in our kitchen..."

Ohno tries not to find that funny, but it's hard and when he sees Nino, eyes all scrunched up and biting his lips to keep from giggling, he finally lets go. He swears that their laughter can be heard all over Okinawa--it's not a huge island, anyway, and he figures that he feels big enough right now to be louder than bullet trains, than thunder, than the sound of the ocean when he's awake at night.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Nino says, still smiling. He pulls away slowly.

"Are we going to pick some more acerolas?" Ohno asks. He feels better about harvest time now, and the sirens don't even bother him as much; their wailing has since subsided into the regular drone of the cicadas.

"Maybe," Nino calls, waving behind him. "Good night, Oh-chan."

xviii.

All Ohno can think about as he walks home is the next morning. He just wants to see Nino smiling; he wants to hear him say, "Hi, Oh-chan!" It's the first time in his life someone has ever called him that, and it makes him feel like there's a crown on his head that isn't too heavy, that feels just right.

But he has to get through the nighttime first, even though it doesn't feel like night, now--he feels wide awake. The colors that live behind his eyelids feel like they're pulsing against his pupils, demanding to get out, to leap from his eyeballs and cover not only the Okinawan island but the entire country of Japan, and maybe the whole world.

He closes his eyes and thinks about Tokyo, about going back. The city is a puddle of neon hues, all the colors shining above crosswalks and in convenience stores--but they get harsh if you look at them too long, and Ohno always loses the battle. He has to look away, squinting hard, until the flashes in his field of vision subside.

In Okinawa, that doesn't happen. Ohno can stare at the flora, at the sea, at the sky here forever and it never feels like a staring contest. It's enough to make him want to stay here for the next year, even with the extra job.

But wasn't it enough once to have gotten into art school, to have proved that there was more to him than doodles in a math textbook and a blank stare on his face? All his life he had only wanted art school. He had ever only wanted to tell people that he was finally learning to love his lifelong partner in the proper way, with the right hand motions and the correct swatches of color.

So for some reason, when he flew down here to Okinawa, he didn't even think to bring a single part of that love affair with him. He'd abandoned his tubes of oil paint, his kits of colored pencils, his jars of clay and his blank, thick sheets of drawing paper. Something in his head just told him that this was the easiest way to go about things, and that he would find something else to keep him occupied.

And that wasn't a lie--he did (the echo keeps on going, Oh-chan, hi, good morning, all complete with that piercing, single-corner smile). But he doesn't know himself as well as he should, and perhaps leaving behind all of his art things was not the best idea, especially not with the kinds of dreams and wants he has right now.

The next morning, as soon as he hears his mother letting Nino into the house, he rolls out of bed and nearly flies downstairs. He's not even fully in the kitchen before he starts to say, "I need to buy--," but then he hears keys.

He looks up, and there's that damn smile, not only on Nino's face but in the mess of his hair, the slide of his neck and the way his hand is stuffed into his jeans (jeans!) pocket. In his other hand, there is a set of car keys dangling off his index finger, and he's swinging them round and round.

All Nino says is, "I thought we could use a trip to the city."

xix.

Naha is like Tokyo, only more Okinawan and thus better. This is the only way Ohno can describe it without going off in his head on long tangents, mostly about how there are a lot of stores with the name A&W ("That's an American restaurant," Nino explains, because Ohno asks. "Hot dogs, root beer--don't hang out the window like that"). They also pass what looks like a house being held up by a monstrously large tree, and Ohno doesn't even want to ask about that. He just wants to keep on staring at it until he's figured out how it was made in the first place.

"Help me look for parking," Nino says. He has one hand on the radio dial, the other barely on the steering wheel, and his face is almost pressed against the window. Ohno doesn't have a license, but he's pretty sure that Nino is not driving the safe way. "I don't park anywhere that has a higher rate than three hundred yen per hour. Three-fifty is pushing it."

For a city boy, Ohno thinks he knows a lot about parking and therefore isn't so sure that Nino's cheapskate tendencies are all that sensible. He's about to point out that they're zooming right past a lot that advertises four hundred yen an hour, and that he would be more than happy to provide the extra in the total, when Nino takes a sudden swerve and practically throws the car into a teeny, teeny lot.

"Two hundred yen per hour and twenty minutes," he says, more than satisfied, and it amuses Ohno how cheap parking can make someone so happy. "You can't go wrong if you just look for the right places."

Ohno unlocks his door and quickly discovers that the only way he can get out of Nino's car is if he transforms into a sheet of paper. Nino just tells him to suck it in, but even that proves to be impossible, so he helps Ohno slide out of the car through the driver's side. It's a little awkward and he almost stabs himself with the gear shift on the way out, but finally he's standing with both feet on the pavement.

"Come on," Nino says, stuffing his keys in his jeans and gesturing toward a random direction. "Let's go, Oh-chan."

Ohno feels like 'Oh-chan' is just becoming a silly nickname for his feeble heart, but he follows Nino anyway as they thread through the afternoon rush of teenage girls and elderly shoppers. He doesn't know where they're going, and the scene reminds him of the crime notes in the paper--overexcited boy follows stranger into crowd; goes missing--but Nino is not a stranger. Between them, there are stories of fruit and "accidental" touches and finishing each other's thoughts.

He has to admit that this is strange, though. He is staring at Nino's back like getting lost right now would be the worst thing in the world, and when Nino reaches back to grab his wrist as the crowd gets thicker he suddenly feels like running, jumping, yelling at the top of his lungs. It's not like anything he's ever felt before, and he can't say it's a pleasant feeling, but he cherishes it. Something in him, something in the way Nino's grip on his arm is tight and secure, makes him want to.

"Come on," Nino says, speeding up, "walk faster, we're almost there."

Ohno breaks into a half-skip, half-power walk and scurries to keep up with Nino, who is tiny and threads through the crowd like there is nobody around him. Everyone on the street manages to bump into Ohno, though, even though he swears he's moving as fast as he can--as fast as he feels like he should be moving, anyway.

"You are the slowest person ever," Nino scowls as he takes a couple of quick steps back to save Ohno from getting swept away. "Am I going to have to hold your hand?"

He does anyway, and Ohno keeps up without difficulty.

Gradually the streets get thinner and thinner and the amount of people dies down considerably until they have reached an alleyway fit for three people at the most. But this is okay with Ohno, who lets Nino press up against him in the tiny space, so close that he can smell the faint mixture of sunshine and shampoo in his hair and hear every puff of breath he takes. In, out--Ohno blocks out all the sound around him just to listen to each of Nino's rippling breaths.

At the end of the alley, when Ohno is on the brink of not being able to take it anymore (he likes to touch girls, he likes their angles, their curves; having Nino against him is something else entirely, something that Ohno can't keep at bay for much longer), Nino stops him. He says, "We're here."

Ohno blinks. "Here?"

Nino sighs and yanks Ohno into a wide open, barely noticeable side door. Inside, Ohno has to bend down--the ceiling hangs low and even in his stooping position he can feel his hair brushing the wall above--and depends on Nino to guide him to wherever he is meant to go.

Even before they're out of the cramped corridor he smells the paint and the plaster and the wax and it all comes back to him: supply stores in Tokyo, five in a row, so big that he could spend an entire day in one. Suddenly he is thrilled and so awake and he wonders--what is this? Am I dreaming, is this all in my head?

It's not. Nino bumps his head on a low-hanging canvas when the tunnel opens up and he erupts into a string of curses, and Ohno feels it when Nino grabs onto him for support and consolation. His hand is warm and Nino is still yelping and the aisle signs are all throwing familiar words at him--crayons, pencils, fabrics. Ohno breathes in and shuts his eyes. He doesn't know where to start.

"Oh, by the way," Nino says, fingers still massaging his bruise, "your mom wants you back by dinnertime."

So Ohno starts everywhere at once. He grabs two baskets and shoves one in Nino's arms ("Hey!" he says, disgruntled, "I am not your personal shopper!" But he takes it anyway) and makes his way down each aisle at least three times. This art store is nothing compared to the ones by his school, but it doesn't matter: paint is paint, pencils are pencils, paper is paper.

And Nino is Nino. "So expensive," he mumbles, turning over a box of colored pencils to frown at the price. "Why would anyone buy this?"

Ohno plucks the box right out of Nino's hand and drops it into the basket.

He makes his way through the store like he works through a sketch--he doesn't think and just moves. When the object, the model, is placed in front of him, he takes a moment to look at it, to note its shape and style and the way it takes up space, and then his sketch simply begins. He thinks to himself, you're going to draw now. And he does every time, without stopping until the piece is finished.

This is no different. Ohno looks into an aisle, sees what he wants, and thinks, you'll need that. Then his body simply moves towards the object and moves to put it in the basket along with the rest of his purchases.

Nino, who has gotten bored quickly and is standing leisurely by the counter, glances at Ohno's pile of things to buy and immediately cringes.

"I don't know why I brought you here," he mumbles, but he takes the basket from Ohno and places another one in his hands. "Just hurry up, okay?"

xx.

Ohno hurries up, and in his rush ends up buying nearly half the store. The woman at the cashier looks vaguely amused as he lays out what seems to be a deck of thousand-yen notes.

"Are you an art student?" she asks, tilting her head cutely. Out of the corner of his eye Ohno swears that he sees Nino glare at her.

"He is," he answers, instead of Ohno. "He's got a big project coming up. Total recluse, this one. Won't bathe for weeks until you tell him that paint isn't soap. Isn't that right, Oh-chan?"

Ohno smiles pleasantly. "It's my hobby," he says to the girl. She just hands him the receipt, her mouth in a straight line.

Outside the shop, the sun is dimming now and it occurs to Ohno that he has just spent hours shopping for art supplies with Nino. Weeks ago, this would have sounded impossible in his head, but now the thought just makes him giddy.

"That girl was nice, wasn't she?" Ohno muses as they head back. "I think you scared her, though."

"Yeah, well, good! I bet you she just took that job to hit on poor, unsuspecting art students," Nino scoffs, and snatches one of the many bags away from Ohno's hands. "Stop swinging them like that, you'll stab somebody with one of those damn brushes."

Ohno decides that he likes this new, jealous Nino. He bumps shoulders with him on the way back to the car and they have a mini-race a few feet away from the lot, with the loser having to pay for parking. Of course, Ohno loses, but he has no qualms about handing over a couple hundred yen.

"Parking with Ninomiya is safe, easy and cheap," Nino says smugly, dropping coins into the machine as they back out of the parking lot. "But shopping with Oh-chan is expensive."

Ohno just laughs. "I don't even shop for clothes," he says while Nino proceeds to zip down the now-empty roads. "My mom and sister do that for me."

"I can see that," Nino says, but he's smiling.

The drive home takes a little over an hour and Ohno falls asleep within the first thirty minutes. He can feel himself drifting off and only kind of tries to stay awake, but he figures that Nino knows the way home well enough and doesn't need his company. So he lets his eyelids droop closed and his mind fade away and doesn't think to shut his mouth when he barely feels it fall open.

In his half-dreams Ohno sees a mixture of the outside world and the images in his head, all blurred together to form some kind of fuzzy wonderland. He can't really tell what's going on, but he hears the top ten pop songs of the day from the radio bouncing through the thoughts in his mind, and there are nearly transparent outlines of him and Nino, riding together in the car, walking and laughing through art store aisles, picking acerolas.

That thing in his chest rattles again, just like it did the night Nino was in his room, looking through his sketchbooks, only now it is somewhat more tangible, harder, and fiercer. Whatever it is plunges through his stomach and he jerks awake, hitting his head on the window at the same time.

"Good, you're awake," Nino says. "I was about to pull the window down and see what you'd do. Oh, and please don't drool on my car seat."

Ohno wipes a hand across his mouth and yawns widely. "Are we there yet?" he asks groggily. "Home?"

"In about twenty minutes or so," Nino says, looking at the clock and then quickly back to the road. "You can go back to sleep, if you want."

He tries, but Ohno ends up watching the signs instead. There are signs for the military bases, all seven hundred of them (that's what it feels like to Ohno), and even twice as many for the beach.

The beach--

All roads in Okinawa lead to the ocean. At least, this is the notion that Ohno came to the island with, since everyone in Tokyo would not stop telling him about all of the beaches they had been to, and all the hours they had spent swimming their lives away. He has heard so much about the diamond-blue waves and the silky sand and the swaying palm trees--at least, that is what all the of the travel shows have told him.

But he hasn't been to any of those legendary beaches yet, even though he has been on the island of Okinawa for no less than three weeks. He's had enough time, but he's been spending most of it with Nino. Not that he minds at all--he just wishes Nino liked the water, too.

So he asks Nino to take the exit to the beach. He figures that he has nothing left to lose if he says no and anyway, he has never been late to dinner before. Just once in his life he might as well eat a cold meal.

At Ohno's request, Nino makes a face and mouths, the beach? He is so close to not giving in and Ohno can tell, so he tries to look as eager as possible.

"Oh God," Nino groans. "Please stop making that face."

Ohno doesn't, but Nino takes the exit anyway.

xxi.

When they finally reach the beach Ohno is just as ridiculously excited as he was when he got the postcard in the mail from his mother almost a month ago. He has no time to go to the ocean in Tokyo, and anyway the water there is gray and bleak and too cold. It can't be like that in Okinawa, though, Ohno is sure. Here, the cool water will tickle his feet and the sun will welcome him with open arms. He just knows it.

He tries to get Nino to go in the water, but the other boy refuses.

"I'll stay here," he says, and digs the soles of his feet firmly into the sand a few feet away from the water's edge. "Where it's dry."

"Okay," Ohno says, shrugging, and runs into the ocean. "Ah, it's cold!"

He can't help laughing as he splashes through the sea, which is chillier than he expected but just as beautiful, just as clear as he wanted it to be. When he stands still he can see his toes wiggling in the muddy sand and the tiniest of fish swarming around his ankles.

"Hey, these little guys are cute," he says, bending down into the water to run his fingers through the school of fish. "Come see, Nino!"

"No, thanks," Nino groans. He has a hand near his eyes to shade the blinding hues of the setting sun. Ohno has half a mind to drag him into the water, but he decides in the end that pushing Nino into an ocean would be, while fascinating, not the best idea.

Standing at the edge of the sea in Okinawa is different than lying on his bed watching the colors drip from the sky into the ocean. Here, Ohno is right in front of the horizon and can feel every single tint that the sunlight washes onto the sand--there is warm amber on his fingers and darkening violets just dyeing the tips of his eyelashes. Maybe his art teachers were right to love Okinawa so much, if they felt the same thing that Ohno is experiencing now.

When he stands facing the sun he tries to blink as slowly as possible, to preserve this all in his mind, to not forget this so that when he goes home he'll still have this image with him.

"Are you done yet?"

Ohno turns to find Nino staring curiously at him. It's not something he's ever seen before, and he's not sure what Nino wants, but he leaves the water anyway (his shorts are soaking wet and his feet are itchy) and jogs to where Nino is standing.

"I'm done now," Ohno says. He is still smiling like nothing else in the world has made him as happy. "You should really go in!"

"Not if I'm going to come out looking like that," Nino sneers, looking pointedly at Ohno's legs and feet. "Gross, you're going to make my car all sandy!"

This time, when Ohno goes back to the sea to rinse his feet off as well as he can, Nino accompanies him only as far as to where the wet sand begins. The small waves that come up on shore barely lick his feet and he stands there, nose wrinkling and toes curling, hand still shading the sun from his face.

But when he puts his hand down he still has that questioning expression. Ohno stares; he can't help it--he has spent most of his time in Okinawa picking berries and trying to decipher the unknowns on Nino's face. Just when he thinks he has gotten them all, Nino pulls this one out. It's not irritated or happy, or even surprised or content--it's just unreadable.

Ohno rises from the water and walks back to Nino in silence. He's not sure why, but he doesn't feel like he should talk right now. Nino keeps silent too. When they're standing side-by-side, watching the sea foam pull away from the sand, they don't say anything.

There is a heavy silence between them, even with the rushing sounds of the ocean and the laughter of the crowd. On the part of the beach where they are now, though, there is no one around but the two of them and a community of hermit crabs scurrying around their feet. The isolation and the leftover euphoria that Ohno has carried from his walk in the sea makes him feel charged and ready, like he can do anything and get away with it.

So he's not all that surprised when he feels Nino's hand sneaking into his own; he was expecting it, and his heart and hand are the only parts of his body that respond. Nino squeezes Ohno's hand tightly and suddenly they're standing so near to each other that their shoulders knock together. It's like the scientific process of friction to flame, because Ohno feels as if he might burst.

"I--," Nino says quietly, and Ohno feels his hand trembling. He waits for Nino to finish, but he never does.

It's okay, though. Ohno finishes the sentence for him. "This is nice," he says, smiling slightly. "Like this?"

He hears Nino inhale shakily. "Yeah," he says, just as unsteadily. "Yeah, I like this."

Ohno loves this. He feels like he's been waiting years for this to happen and it's risen secondary only to his wanting to draw for the rest of his life. The thing in his chest is practically screeching for joy and he finally thinks that it might be his heart, which he has never really paid attention to before, even when he was with girls. Right now, everything in the world feels like it has clicked into place. As long as Ohno keeps breathing, nothing in the world can go wrong.

When Nino turns Ohno does, too, slowly and carefully so that they don't bump noses. He wonders if it would be weird if he asked are you going to kiss me now and then thinks that yes, it would be, and it is also weird that he wants this, wants Nino to kiss him now, so much. Or maybe it's not. He doesn't really know.

Or does he--Nino leans in, then, and his other hand reaches up to hold Ohno's elbow and their lips somehow find each other and, yes, they're kissing. It's hesitant at first, but only for a second before Ohno's entire mindset changes to finally, finally, finally. He doesn't even think when his free hand suddenly finds itself in Nino's hair, tugging gently.

Nino makes a sound that resembles a whining puppy and Ohno finds it so endearing that he almost laughs. He moves his arm to wrap around Nino's back and pulls him in, and it occurs to him that they're still holding hands just as tightly as when they started. He figures that this means something.

When they break apart, Nino's eyes are unfocused and he's got goose bumps; Ohno can feel them when he strokes Nino's forearm.

"It's a hundred degrees out," he whispers, and Nino laughs breathlessly.

"Shut up," he says, and kisses Ohno again, this time a little more forcefully. Ohno hopes his lips taste like the sea, but he likes the way that Nino's taste almost like cherries. He's never paid attention to anyone's lips before, and he's certainly never kissed like this.

This is probably what they mean by unknown territory, Ohno thinks as Nino's hands grow bolder and start to edge up underneath the hem of his t-shirt. This is probably how people feel when they're climbing to the tops of mountains.

Nino is kissing Ohno desperately and holding onto his shirt tight, like they'll suddenly quit when nighttime falls and this will never happen again. Knowing that Nino doesn't want to stop--that he would keep going until they fell into the sand on top of each other, and even that wouldn't stop them--pleases Ohno.

But even so, a part of him still can't believe that this is happening. Is he really kissing Nino, here, on this beach? Is Nino actually kissing him back, touching him, are his shoulders quaking underneath Ohno's hands--

"We should go," Ohno mumbles softly against Nino's lips. "It's late."

It's also too much for this one moment. There is always next time, even if Nino doesn't know it yet. Ohno is good at pacing, at moving these kinds of things along. He has to go back to Tokyo soon, but not yet, and Nino will come over if Ohno asks him to.

On the drive back home, Ohno can't stop touching his lips.

"Stop that," Nino whines, reaching over to push Ohno's hand away.

Nino's hair is all over the place and his cheeks are flushed and the sight of him makes Ohno want to reach over and kiss him again, but he's already had problems with the gear shift stabbing him in the stomach and doesn't want to risk it a second time. He just leans over and kisses Nino's cheek.

xxii.

At the Ohno home, Nino bows his way in, apologizes profusely for their lateness (even though they arrived only five minutes past dinnertime) and then bows out just as quickly. He's promised his family dinner and by the way his phone is vibrating every two seconds, he's a little more than overdue.

Ohno's mother insists on seeing him out, and Ohno sticks to her side as she and Nino have a pleasant and long conversation right outside the front door. Finally--and it seems like years, or maybe Ohno is just impatient--she leaves, skirts rustling as she shuts the sliding door behind them.

Nino has Ohno pushed up against the side of the house before Ohno can even say good night, but he's not complaining. Nino kisses both corners of Ohno's mouth before sliding his hand down Ohno's arm to gently grasp his fingers.

"Too bad I'm going," he sighs, leaning his forehead on Ohno's shoulder.

"But you'll be back tomorrow," Ohno says matter-of-factly. "We'll pick acerolas and have lunch and I'll draw. You can watch me."

"Save some paper for me," Nino says, and straightens up. "I mean it."

Ohno watches him drive away. He can't see any of the dirt clouds from the road through the darkness, but Nino's truck is an off-white color and he can still see its murky paint job and dim lights when it reaches the end of the road. After that it gets too hard to see, but he listens, eyes closed, until the thrum of the tires dies away and all he can hear are cicadas.

When he goes back inside he eats dinner (it's not that cold, but it's not all that warm, either). He eats slowly, washes all of his dishes by hand and then lounges around the living room watching the endless nightly lineup of variety show programs on television.

His sister comes in around ten and the first thing she does is scold her brother for letting all the couch pillows fall onto the floor. Ohno just looks at her--his mind is still somewhere else, somewhere down the road with Nino, and he couldn't care less about pillows. He picks them up though, just as she tells him to, but stops once her back is turned.

"How was your day, Satoshi?" she asks him once she's joined him on the couch with two cups of tea. "Tell me it was better than my night."

She goes on without even waiting for her brother to answer and moans about how Yamamoto-kun kept trying to feel her up at the club. Of course, she says, this makes him a sleaze, but at the same time he can be so irresistibly wonderful and does all the right things at the right times. Apparently, from what Ohno can gather in between her huffs and exasperated sighs, she's so in love with him that she can't help herself but it makes no sense to her why.

"You know what I mean?" she finishes, and pats Ohno's knee. "I'm just so confused. Sorry to dump all of this on you."

Ohno just shakes his head. "S'okay," he says, and he means it.

"So how was your day?" she asks again, trying to smile. "Better, right? No romance troubles for you, I bet."

Ohno smiles into his tea. "No," he agrees. "Today was good."

xxiii.

In those early morning hours between dusk and dawn Ohno makes his room a warzone of colors.

From midnight until one he lays out all of the new paper that he has bought on the floor and pushes the messy stack of sketchbooks and canvases to the side of the room. At one-thirty, he opens all of his new colored pencil kits and pastel boxes and stretches out on the floor, drawing and coloring and sketching like he is fifteen again and so full of something that he needs to express through scribbles and lines. He draws like he feels, like everything inside of him that has screamed DRAW ME over the past three weeks is suddenly leaping out of his fingers and onto paper. He moves on from sheet to sheet like he's in a race, but he has never felt freer, not even at art school.

When the clock chimes three, he moves onto the paints. He doesn't want to waste them, though, so he makes use of the biggest canvas (it's almost half the size of his bed) and marks off four different sections of white surface. Then he squeezes blobs of paint out on an actual wooden palette (he wouldn't have bought it, not if Nino hadn't been so persistent) and uses every one of his new brushes to swirl thick, dancing lines across each of the four panels. He doesn't exactly know what it is when he's finished, but there are human-like figures on one panel and what looks like an explosion of fireworks on another.

Most importantly, there isn't a trace of white space left and his fingers are covered in every color combination imaginable. He'll probably need to take six showers to get all the paint out from under his fingernails, but he doesn't mind.

At four-thirty in the morning, he is exhausted but content. He lies on his bed with a sketchbook and a single pencil and takes up five pages trying to draw Nino from memory. But something in every picture is off--that's not a Nino-like expression he's drawn onto the face, or his fingers are not that stubby, or his body curves more over here and is straighter in that position.

He's spent so many days trying to memorize the contours of Nino's face that he's forgotten what the whole of him looks like. When he thinks of Nino, Ohno can see him clearly in his head, but it's not the same as actually having him there. He loses something during those moments when they're not together, when Nino is only an image in his mind and not a boy on his floor, smiling like he's full of secrets and unknowns.

When the hour hand hits the five, Ohno cleans up. By the time he finally goes to bed at six, the floor is cleared of canvases and sketchbooks and drawing papers but the hardwood is still covered in rainbow paint drippings and there are dust-puddles of chalk and broken-off pencil nubs stuck in between the floorboards.

But it's okay. This means he is finally at home.

Part three

Also, the "house being held up by a monstrously large tree" is actually a restaurant. You can see a picture of it here.