(one-shot) never the same
Title: Never the Same
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: Yamajima
Genre: Romance, angst, friendship
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: You wonder who came up with this, this screwed up idea of pairings, of classics, of breaking friendships and it’s all a mess, a big fat mess of lies and tears and gossip and love and hate.
A/N: For silverxrainx, requested here. I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you wanted, but I tried :) and my muses have been acting weird for the past month or so, idk. I guess it's been a while since I wrote this pairing D: enjoy! Comments are, as always, very very much appreciated!
The snow looks soft - white, fluttering pieces of ice that drift down, somehow bright against the gray of the sky. You reach up a finger to the glass, pressing your fingertip against the cool surface, as if you are touching the snow. You can imagine the feel of the ice beneath your fingers, melting into your skin, cold, freezing, and soaking into the unraveling threads at the edge of your sleeve. Unraveled, undone, like your friendship with him, mixed up and matched up at all the wrong angles, the wrong places.
People say you are like them - Akanishi and Kamenashi, Nishikido and Uchi, or what-have-you. You wonder who came up with this, this screwed up idea of pairings, of classics, of breaking friendships and it’s all a mess, a big fat mess of lies and tears and gossip and love and hate. You don’t want to be a part of it - not voluntarily, but perhaps you have already joined them involuntarily.
It’s stupid. Akanishi and Kamenashi are stupid, Nishikido and Uchi are stupid, you and him are just plain stupid. The shine of fame, the glow of being a celebrity, after it wears off, down to the raw, ordinary, flawed people you all are, you are nothing without the other. It is impossible to convince yourself of that, to try and imagine stripping yourself of everything you have built up - lies and all - towards this career, this life. You are nothing without him, and you feel pathetic for being so.
You want to change. You take your finger away from the glass, and heave a sigh that condenses against the glass, and you whisper to yourself that you will change, over and over again until it feels like an old lie, just like all the others. The wind picks up on the other side of the glass, whistling against the cracks in the windowpane. A jacket is draped over a chair nearby - his or yours, you can’t tell - and you grab it, slipping your arms into the long sleeves and pushing out the door. You realize too late it is his, your hands disappearing into the length of his sleeves, but you shrug, pulling the zipper up to the top of your collar and burying the lower half of your face into the warmth of his lingering scent.
Down in the lobby, the heater is turned on full, a blast of warm air greeting you as you step out of the elevator. The receptionist casts you a nonchalant glance, and you almost want to laugh to yourself - since when did receptionists have to be hospitable, right - as you walk briskly to the double doors, one hand reaching out of the warmth to push them open.
Outside, it is obviously cold, so obvious that it stings your cheeks and sends shivers down your spine, buried underneath the layer of him. You crouch down beside the doors, rubbing your hands together, the fleeting thought of why you didn’t wear gloves crossing your mind as you cup your palms against each other, digging them into the iciness of the packed snow on the ground. You grit your teeth against the freezing temperature, squeezing the snow inside the circle of your bare hands until it forms a somewhat-ball. It is not fluffy, or soft, like how it looked when you were inside - rather, it is hard, rigid pieces of ice sticking to each other randomly, like they shouldn’t be, aren’t meant to be here, together. It’s like you and him, you think. Not meant to be.
Crossing your legs, you find a sheltered piece of pavement to sit on, the denim of your jeans scraping against the crack as you settle on your knees, still cupping the snowball. It is beginning to melt in your hands, cold liquid dripping through the cracks between your fingers and sliding down the edge of your palm. You stretch your hands out, widening the spaces in between to let the snow melt and spread slowly, the cold redness numbing your skin.
“You could have thrown that, you know,” a voice says above you, and you look up, squinting against the un-bright-ness of the sky to make out the figure towering above you. You watch, wordlessly, as he crouches down to eye-level with you, smearing his fingertip through the melted snow on your palm, and then rubbing it dry with the back of his sleeve. You watch, and feel the coarse fabric of his jacket against your skin, and it stings, just like the snow.
“I didn’t have anybody to throw it at,” you reply, solemnly. He glances up at you through strands of falling hair, and you almost expect him to crack a joke, except he doesn’t. What he does do is bend back down towards your hand, clap it between his two own hands, and blow warm breath onto it.
It comes as a complete surprise, and you start at the feel of his breath against your skin, a tingling feeling working its way throughout your entire body. “You’re wearing my jacket,” he whispers after a long moment, and reaches out to finger the collar, his fingernail involuntarily brushing against the skin of your neck.
“There was nothing else nearby.” An excuse - that’s all you can come up with, of course. Excuses. You are becoming just like them, the others - lies, excuses, broken friendships, fame. “And it’s warm,” you add on, just for good measure.
“Mm,” he doesn’t really answer, instead tracing circular patterns across your palm, the pad of his thumb gentle, a bit tickling on your skin. He smiles as he looks down, a quiet, quirked-up smile that is sort of to himself, and lets go of your hand. “I’ll see you back in the rehearsal room.”
When you don’t reply, he stands up, his lanky figure assembling into something more graceful, almost elegant. You watch him scuff his shoes against the pavement, tuck his hands into his pockets, the wind blowing back his hair slightly. He turns around, slow movements towards the lobby doors, his back hunched over a bit to brace against the cold.
You don’t know what overcomes you, but in an instant, you have a huge pile of snow heaped in the palm of your hands, and you are squishing it together, packing it into a ball-shaped form. You get up, and call his name - “Hey, Yuuto” - and as soon as he glances back, you fling your arm out, the snowball flying through the air to hit him square on the shoulder, immediately dissolving into bits of melted ice that cling to the fabric.
He blinks down at his sleeve, and then back up at you, and you see the curve, the smile wanting to form at the corners of his lips. Trying to hold back your own, you bend down casually, provokingly, as if you are about to pack another snowball, and then there is one flying through the air again, only this time, it is towards you. It hits you right at the base of your neck, the freezing cold sliding down your skin - some of it sneaks downward, soaking into your T-shirt, and you wince slightly, shaking it off.
There are sudden footsteps, but before you can straighten up and react, you are being crushed into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into your ear, his body pressed against yours, and the warmth fills you, pulls you in and brims over inside you. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t loosen his hold, and you find yourself returning the hug, arms encircling his still skinny figure, head moving towards the crook of his shoulder, burying into his scent. It envelops you, him, his jacket, him, him, him, and you feel the threat of tears in your eyes, a rising, helpless feeling that you attempt to push down.
But then he moves back a bit - only a bit, and tilts his head down to fit his mouth onto yours, and nothing matters anymore. You can feel the snow fluttering down onto the both of you, freezing ice against your skin, your hands that are gripping his jacket, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same, because he’s here, and you’re here, and you are not the same as they are - past the lies, past the rumors, past the broken hearts and clichés and celebrity life.
You are not the same, and you can feel it, that you are nothing without him, that he knows he is nothing without you. That the snow melts in your palm, because with him, you will always be warm - that you are, and always will be, Yamajima, your very own classic pairing.
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: Yamajima
Genre: Romance, angst, friendship
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): I own nothing.
Summary: You wonder who came up with this, this screwed up idea of pairings, of classics, of breaking friendships and it’s all a mess, a big fat mess of lies and tears and gossip and love and hate.
A/N: For silverxrainx, requested here. I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you wanted, but I tried :) and my muses have been acting weird for the past month or so, idk. I guess it's been a while since I wrote this pairing D: enjoy! Comments are, as always, very very much appreciated!
The snow looks soft - white, fluttering pieces of ice that drift down, somehow bright against the gray of the sky. You reach up a finger to the glass, pressing your fingertip against the cool surface, as if you are touching the snow. You can imagine the feel of the ice beneath your fingers, melting into your skin, cold, freezing, and soaking into the unraveling threads at the edge of your sleeve. Unraveled, undone, like your friendship with him, mixed up and matched up at all the wrong angles, the wrong places.
People say you are like them - Akanishi and Kamenashi, Nishikido and Uchi, or what-have-you. You wonder who came up with this, this screwed up idea of pairings, of classics, of breaking friendships and it’s all a mess, a big fat mess of lies and tears and gossip and love and hate. You don’t want to be a part of it - not voluntarily, but perhaps you have already joined them involuntarily.
It’s stupid. Akanishi and Kamenashi are stupid, Nishikido and Uchi are stupid, you and him are just plain stupid. The shine of fame, the glow of being a celebrity, after it wears off, down to the raw, ordinary, flawed people you all are, you are nothing without the other. It is impossible to convince yourself of that, to try and imagine stripping yourself of everything you have built up - lies and all - towards this career, this life. You are nothing without him, and you feel pathetic for being so.
You want to change. You take your finger away from the glass, and heave a sigh that condenses against the glass, and you whisper to yourself that you will change, over and over again until it feels like an old lie, just like all the others. The wind picks up on the other side of the glass, whistling against the cracks in the windowpane. A jacket is draped over a chair nearby - his or yours, you can’t tell - and you grab it, slipping your arms into the long sleeves and pushing out the door. You realize too late it is his, your hands disappearing into the length of his sleeves, but you shrug, pulling the zipper up to the top of your collar and burying the lower half of your face into the warmth of his lingering scent.
Down in the lobby, the heater is turned on full, a blast of warm air greeting you as you step out of the elevator. The receptionist casts you a nonchalant glance, and you almost want to laugh to yourself - since when did receptionists have to be hospitable, right - as you walk briskly to the double doors, one hand reaching out of the warmth to push them open.
Outside, it is obviously cold, so obvious that it stings your cheeks and sends shivers down your spine, buried underneath the layer of him. You crouch down beside the doors, rubbing your hands together, the fleeting thought of why you didn’t wear gloves crossing your mind as you cup your palms against each other, digging them into the iciness of the packed snow on the ground. You grit your teeth against the freezing temperature, squeezing the snow inside the circle of your bare hands until it forms a somewhat-ball. It is not fluffy, or soft, like how it looked when you were inside - rather, it is hard, rigid pieces of ice sticking to each other randomly, like they shouldn’t be, aren’t meant to be here, together. It’s like you and him, you think. Not meant to be.
Crossing your legs, you find a sheltered piece of pavement to sit on, the denim of your jeans scraping against the crack as you settle on your knees, still cupping the snowball. It is beginning to melt in your hands, cold liquid dripping through the cracks between your fingers and sliding down the edge of your palm. You stretch your hands out, widening the spaces in between to let the snow melt and spread slowly, the cold redness numbing your skin.
“You could have thrown that, you know,” a voice says above you, and you look up, squinting against the un-bright-ness of the sky to make out the figure towering above you. You watch, wordlessly, as he crouches down to eye-level with you, smearing his fingertip through the melted snow on your palm, and then rubbing it dry with the back of his sleeve. You watch, and feel the coarse fabric of his jacket against your skin, and it stings, just like the snow.
“I didn’t have anybody to throw it at,” you reply, solemnly. He glances up at you through strands of falling hair, and you almost expect him to crack a joke, except he doesn’t. What he does do is bend back down towards your hand, clap it between his two own hands, and blow warm breath onto it.
It comes as a complete surprise, and you start at the feel of his breath against your skin, a tingling feeling working its way throughout your entire body. “You’re wearing my jacket,” he whispers after a long moment, and reaches out to finger the collar, his fingernail involuntarily brushing against the skin of your neck.
“There was nothing else nearby.” An excuse - that’s all you can come up with, of course. Excuses. You are becoming just like them, the others - lies, excuses, broken friendships, fame. “And it’s warm,” you add on, just for good measure.
“Mm,” he doesn’t really answer, instead tracing circular patterns across your palm, the pad of his thumb gentle, a bit tickling on your skin. He smiles as he looks down, a quiet, quirked-up smile that is sort of to himself, and lets go of your hand. “I’ll see you back in the rehearsal room.”
When you don’t reply, he stands up, his lanky figure assembling into something more graceful, almost elegant. You watch him scuff his shoes against the pavement, tuck his hands into his pockets, the wind blowing back his hair slightly. He turns around, slow movements towards the lobby doors, his back hunched over a bit to brace against the cold.
You don’t know what overcomes you, but in an instant, you have a huge pile of snow heaped in the palm of your hands, and you are squishing it together, packing it into a ball-shaped form. You get up, and call his name - “Hey, Yuuto” - and as soon as he glances back, you fling your arm out, the snowball flying through the air to hit him square on the shoulder, immediately dissolving into bits of melted ice that cling to the fabric.
He blinks down at his sleeve, and then back up at you, and you see the curve, the smile wanting to form at the corners of his lips. Trying to hold back your own, you bend down casually, provokingly, as if you are about to pack another snowball, and then there is one flying through the air again, only this time, it is towards you. It hits you right at the base of your neck, the freezing cold sliding down your skin - some of it sneaks downward, soaking into your T-shirt, and you wince slightly, shaking it off.
There are sudden footsteps, but before you can straighten up and react, you are being crushed into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into your ear, his body pressed against yours, and the warmth fills you, pulls you in and brims over inside you. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t loosen his hold, and you find yourself returning the hug, arms encircling his still skinny figure, head moving towards the crook of his shoulder, burying into his scent. It envelops you, him, his jacket, him, him, him, and you feel the threat of tears in your eyes, a rising, helpless feeling that you attempt to push down.
But then he moves back a bit - only a bit, and tilts his head down to fit his mouth onto yours, and nothing matters anymore. You can feel the snow fluttering down onto the both of you, freezing ice against your skin, your hands that are gripping his jacket, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same, because he’s here, and you’re here, and you are not the same as they are - past the lies, past the rumors, past the broken hearts and clichés and celebrity life.
You are not the same, and you can feel it, that you are nothing without him, that he knows he is nothing without you. That the snow melts in your palm, because with him, you will always be warm - that you are, and always will be, Yamajima, your very own classic pairing.