contributing fail - wips, part one.
So, this is what happens when I am having bad weeks and never do what I should be doing, but everything is so messed up that I don't have inspiration to actually finish anything I do.
WIP TIME. Feel free to skip. Or read. Or give me more inspiration, idk. :l some of these have the same passages in them because I was trying out an idea to see how it would fit in different kinds of fics. So, sorry if it gets repetitive ):
01. SHINee
By the time they arrive home, it is already late at night. The streets are still as busy as ever, lights blinking harshly at them from above as they stumble into the familiar surroundings of the lobby, a huge mess of aching limbs and weary eye bags, luggage hiccupping over the miniscule cracks of the smooth, polished floor.
“3 AM,” Onew says quietly before anyone can muster up the energy to ask. There’s a yawn from somebody, a soft clapping on the back as their manager pushes them gently into the elevator.
“Get some rest,” he orders as the doors close behind them, metal sliding against metal. Taemin winces a bit at the sound, inching closer to droop his head slightly on Minho’s shoulder. “You have off tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” Jonghyun breathes out, rubbing eyelids with the heel of his hand to try and blink away the sleepiness. “I thought we’d never get back.”
The rest answer with a murmur of laughter, piling out into the corridor just as the elevator dings open. Kibum is the last one to exit, hand crossing across his face to brush at his hair as he does so. He avoids Jonghyun’s eyes as he steps through the doors. “You shouldn’t be talking. You slept the whole way back.”
Surprise registers on the older boy’s face, and he blinks. “What?”
Kibum seems surprised as well, eyes widening at the sound of Jonghyun’s voice when he realizes he’s voiced his thoughts out loud. “Nothing,” he replies quickly (too quickly)
02. Yamajima
He remembers meeting Yamada for the first time. He remembers the soft, edged sunlight, the curve of the sidewalk beneath his feet, the sunlight blinding in his eyes. He remembers a voice beside his, fingers and laughter entangled with his, the slap of feet against pavement as they ran to the end of the block and back, fits of giggles in between gasps for air. He remembers the way Yamada smiled too hugely, too crookedly, the way they tripped over each other’s feet before finally making it to the apartment building, the way Yamada touched his elbow with a palm and whispered in his ear.
03. Akame; stripper!Jin & model!Kame.
The lights dim considerably, music shifting into something slower, hazier, as a spotlight slides across the dance floor, landing on a makeshift stage propped above the ground at one end of the bar. Raising an eyebrow, Kame pushes his foot restlessly back and forth on the rim of his stool, taking a deep sip of the cold drink in his hands.
“Pole dancers,” the bartender answers his questioning gaze before pouring him another glass. Kame watches intently as the liquid swirls inside, a slightly foamy, translucent color. He swishes it with his right hand cupped around the handle before downing it all in one breath, placing down the glass back on the bar top and turning his stool towards the direction of the dancing spotlight amidst the rising cat calls and shouts for the show to begin.
“Are they good?”
The bartender laughs a little. “Dunno, Kamenashi-san. They’re male. Never really swung that way. Guess you can see for yourself.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Kame twirls the empty glass with his pinky finger, smearing temporary condensation across the surface as he silently anticipates the show. Finally, the lights darken all the way, leaving only shreds of hidden lamplight from behind the counter where the bartender is standing and the spotlight, now bright onstage. Kame crosses his arms and leans back against the edge of the bar top, relaxing.
The music plays up to a climax, and the spotlight suddenly swings towards the right. Out of the darkness, a man appears, clad in simple dark denim jeans and T-shirt, jacket flung halfway across his shoulder, black hat tipped down over his forehead. He reaches up a finger as the crowd roars in approval, tilting the hat down even further until only the lower half of his face is visible, and then licks his lips deliberately with a smirk.
Immediately entranced, Kame watches as the man tugs off the rest of his jacket easily, flinging it aside onto the far corner of the stage and hooking a leg around the pole in the middle, grinding against it in sync with the music. There’s a collective gasp from the audience when he throws his head back, letting the loose T-shirt slip down his shoulders to reveal the upper bare part of his chest. Hat still balanced precariously on his head, he runs his hands along the length of the pole seductively, almost as if he is doing it to another person.
As the music softens a little, he draws away, placing a finger down onto the brim of his hat before finally pulling it away to let wavy brown hair cascade in a perfect frame around his face, eyes darkening - and in that moment, they meet Kame’s, hypnotizing cinnamon brown eyes that draw the other in, like a magnetic tug. Giving a small smirk, the dancer edges back towards the pole, pressing his back against it and thrusting his hips. With a tiny hitch of breath, Kame bites down on his lower lip harshly, his grip against the bar top tightening until his knuckles are a pale, deathly white.
Slowly, carefully, the man onstage unbuttons his jeans, inching the zipper down nearly all the way, and the crowd lets out sounds of praise. He smiles again, a quirk of lips, his eyes flicking to Kame’s for a mere second as he continues his provocative moves against the pole. Closing his eyes, he leans back into the metal, stretching his arms up high to grasp the pole above his head and heaving himself against it. The music stops, the spotlight turning off right after he collapses in a wanton heap onto the ground, and only turns on again to reveal that he has gone off the stage, the pole itself standing alone on the platform.
---
Inside the tiny room backstage, Jin is slumped onto the couch, hair falling into his eyes, breathing heavy. Beads of sweat drip from his chin onto his bare chest, and he sinks back into the cushions, his hair splayed across the hard edge of the armrest as he sighs in exhaustion.
“Akanishi,” a voice startles him, and he sits up tiredly, glancing from underneath his bangs at the man standing in front of him.
“What do you want, Yamapi?”
The other dancer just shrugs. “Not me. There’s somebody here for you.”
Gaping, Jin stares at his roommate. “For…me?”
“Well, you’re the one who just performed, right? I don’t see anybody else around here. Come on, idiot, go, he looks nice.”
Rolling his eyes, Jin reluctantly stands at the prodding, muttering a “They always look nice to you,” before walking into the adjoining room, hands tucked into his pockets.
He halts abruptly, his eyes widening when he recognizes the face - the face of the man he locked eyes with just a few moments ago, that dark, dark hair falling down just above the shoulders, defined cheekbones and pale skin, with perfectly arched eyebrows above deep, drowning eyes. Biting the inside of his cheek, Jin inhales sharply. “Hello.”
The other looks him up and down, and he fidgets uncomfortably beneath the intense stares. “Hello,” the man replies finally, voice a bit husky, low. It sends involuntary shivers down his spine, and he clenches his hand into a fist inside his pocket, pushing down the sudden increase of his heartbeat. He shuts his eyes tightly.
“I…I don’t give out services,” he says, and winces to himself at how lame it sounds. He flutters his eyes open, but doesn’t dare look at the other. “Sorry.”
“Ah,” he can sense the man eyeing him curiously, and turns away. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”
Jin frowns - “I’m a pole dancer, not a whore, thank you very much.”
“It seems they’re related somehow, at least from what I’ve encountered.”
“I’m sorry, am I the one here doing the job or you?” Something about the way this man speaks angers Jin, and he can feel the hatred boiling down inside of him, hatred for filthy rich people who don’t give a damn about the world and take everything for granted, hatred for his own stupid dreams of a happily ever after. “I think you should leave now, thank you.”
The man stares at him for a long moment, until he finally raises his eyes, their gazes locking for a brief second. The other is the first to turn away, and Jin lets out a silent breath. “Okay, suit yourself,” comes the murmur, and Jin closes his eyes again as he listens to the shuffle of feet - a pause, and then the door slams closed, the sound resonating in the silence.
He opens his eyes to see an unfamiliar white rectangle lying on the table beside the door, and steps forward hesitantly, his hand shaking as he reaches out for it. It’s a card - a business card, and he flips it over, squinting his eyes at the small, bumpy print. He finds two phone numbers - the agency phone number and a cell phone number, the occupation - model - and a name.
Kamenashi Kazuya.
---
The next day, Jin finds himself glancing at the white card he has placed on his desk every once in a while. He attempts to bury his head in a random textbook - self-continuation of the studies he never managed to finish - but is kept distracted by the printed name staring back at him, hovering at the corner of his eyes and nagging at him unreasonably.
Finally relenting, he scoots his chair over with a creak, taking the card between his index and middle finger as he stares at it. In that instant, the door bangs open, and he scrambles to throw it aside, looking up nervously to see Yamapi untying his shoes and giving him a weird look.
He tries out an awkward smile. “What?”
Frowning slightly, Yamapi shakes his head. “Don’t act innocent. It doesn’t suit you.” He ignores his roommate’s attempt of a pout, instead moving to peek at the card he saw Jin throw to the other side of the desk just as he walked in. “What’s that?”
“My glasses?” Jin swiftly slides his glasses over the card, looking up at Yamapi with fake-curious eyes.
“No, Akanishi, I’m not an idiot. This,” and without letting Jin respond, he yanks out the card from beneath the spectacles, peering at the characters. “Model? Is that what he was?”
Jin gulps. “What who was?”
“Oh, come on,” Yamapi lets out an exasperated groan before glancing back down at the card. “Was he that good? Were you that good? Hell, he left his card.”
“I…what…we…” Spluttering, Jin opens his mouth to try and regain control of the conversation. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Smirking, Yamapi plays with the corner of the card. “Hey, you know, it’s not fair that you get him twice. Can I try?” He moves to try and pocket the card, surprised when Jin leans forward and grabs it from his hands, tucking it away into his own back pocket with a glare.
“No,” Jin narrows his eyes. “We didn’t do anything last night. You shouldn’t be whoring around anyway.”
The other man chuckles at him, an amused expression crossing his face. “Look who’s jealous?”
“Am not,” Jin retorts too quickly, but then sits down, picking up his textbook to cover the faintest blush on his cheeks. “Go away,” he mutters when Yamapi laughs again, and adorns his glasses, perching them on the bridge of his nose.
“Very sophisticated, Akanishi,” Yamapi manages between spurts of laughter. “I’m sure the model will be attracted.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, he left you his card.”
“He just wanted service. He’s like any other model in the industry. Shallow, spoiled rich guy,” lips curving downwards, Jin refuses to break his gaze from the textbook, focusing his eyes on the tiny black print, but his mind doesn’t want to comply. Instead, he zones out, listening to the creak of Yamapi’s bed as the other man sits down on it, to the quiet drone of voices outside their doorway in the bar area. He sighs, and stretches back against the chair, feeling the hard edge of the card in his back pocket pressing against his skin through the light denim.
When Yamapi walks out the door again, with an excuse of searching for something to drink, Jin tiptoes to the other side of the small room, clasping his hand around the phone receiver and holding it against his ear. Hands trembling slightly, he extracts the card, fingers pressing the numbers on the phone with a bit of carefulness.
Taking a deep breath, he brings the receiver closer to his ear as the phone on the other end rings. He is almost about to hang up after five, long rings, but jumps when there’s a click that sounds, followed by a soft breath - and a familiar voice. “Hello, Kamenashi Kazuya speaking.”
“I…uh,” Jin struggles for the right words. “At the bar, yesterday,” he says finally.
There’s a moment of hesitance on the other end - and then, “Oh, I remember! Changed your mind?”
Biting his lip, Jin’s hold on the phone tightens involuntarily. “I’m not quite sure yet, but I was just wondering if you’d…like to…come over?” He curses himself for sounding so insecure. “You know, tonight.”
“Hold on a moment, let me check,” there’s a rustle on the line, blurred voices and the distinct sound of pages flipping. Jin can barely make out Kamenashi’s voice speaking to another, higher-pitched one. Moments later, the familiar low voice returns to his ear - “I’m free tonight, sure. What time?”
“Around ten?” Curling the phone cord around his finger, Jin closes his eyes.
“That late?” There’s a chuckle, a warm sound that makes Jin’s heart leap in his chest - and he curses himself inwardly.
“Do you want to come earlier?”
“How about now?”
Jaw dropping open, Jin fights to regain his composure, his finger untangling from the phone cord. “Oh, well, I mean, sure, if you want.”
“Awesome. Be there in five,” and with that, there’s a click on the other end, leaving Jin hanging onto the dial tone. Slowly, he places the receiver back into its cradle, lowering himself down onto his own bed gently. He shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply and letting it out - slow, slow, slowly. It’s okay; he thinks to himself, it’s okay.
---
Precisely five minutes later, there’s a resounding knock on the door, layered beneath the pounding music from the bar area. Jin wrenches the doorknob, letting the door swing open to reveal Kame, dressed in a tight-fitting shirt that outlines his figure, the lightest hint of makeup still lingering on his face. Gulping, Jin steps aside to let him in, trying to ignore the waft of cologne that trails behind him, mesmerizing.
“So,” Kame says, breaking the silence as he leans against the table. “So.”
“So you’re a model,” Jin tilts his head.
With a laugh, Kame looks down, shifting to cross his arms over his chest. “Yeah.” He looks back up at Jin, eyes dark.
Uncomfortable, the taller man stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me - okay, I do know, but I already told you that-”
“That you’re not a whore, I know,” interrupting his speech, Kame continues to stare at him. “But can I buy you a drink?”
“Can you…” Jin narrows eyes at him sharply. “What if I have to do another show tonight?”
“You’re off duty. I just asked your friend.”
“My…Yamapi,” gritting his teeth, Jin sighs, defeated.
“Should he not have told me?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I mean - well, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then you’ll let me buy you a drink.”
Pursing his lips at how surprisingly persistent Kame is, he relents. “Fine. But there’s no need for you to buy. The bar uses our closet as the storage room.”
“But-”
“No buts. Or else I refuse to drink with you,” satisfied that the statement causes Kame’s mouth to snap closed immediately, Jin stalks over to the closed closet door, pulling it open to be met with complete darkness.
04. Akame; gen.
It’s one of those days - one of those days where you wish you never knew, you never cared, you never met. You can hear his steady breaths just behind you; you can imagine the sweat dripping down from the tips of his hair, the glimmer in his eye from the exhaustion of spotlight. “Five minutes,” comes the call, and you nod along wearily, hopelessly.
It is then that he pushes his chair back, his jewelry sweeping against the back of the plastic. “Be right back,” he murmurs - you’re not sure if it’s at you or the staff member beside you - and departs through the back door without so much as a backwards glance.
You find yourself watching that very door for the next four minutes, averting your glance every which way to see if he’s returned yet. When they tell you the five minutes are up, he is still nowhere to be found. You curse mentally - you refuse to go through the rest of this interview, this photo shoot, with only the five of you.
“I’ll get him,” you say immediately, and you sound more sure of yourself than you really are. “Give me a moment.” Disregarding your manager’s glare, you push up from the chair, downing another half of your water bottle before sprinting across the studio at the back door. You barely manage to not slam into it as you push it open - the wind greets you like a slap in the face, as well as the sight of him leaning against the wall of the alleyway, cigarette dangling precariously between his fingertips.
“Akanishi,” somebody says, and it takes you more than a second to realize it’s your own voice. “Time’s up.”
With a shrug, he takes a long drag at the cigarette, toeing the pavement with his shoe as he gives you a long, hard stare. “I’ll be right there,” he answers finally, and turns his head back towards the other side of the alley, away from you.
“No, you have to come right now,” you emphasize wearily, and it hits you that you sound like his mother - when did it come to this again? He gives you a look, and something resembling a scoff.
“So annoying, Kamenashi,” he throws the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel and pocketing his hands. “Never get a moment of peace when you’re around.”
You grit your teeth against the expected pang in your heart - it happens more than often nowadays, you’re used to it - heart-breaking, heart making, laughing when it’s not funny, crying when it’s not sad. So you laugh, bitterly, because it isn’t funny. “It’s all my pleasure,” you answer sarcastically, and wrench open the door, stepping back inside with a whoosh of warm air. You let it close halfway behind you, so that he has to stick his foot in the doorway in order to keep it open.
“I enjoy knowing you too,” he whispers in his ear as he passes you, bowing and plastering a smile on his face for the greetings of the staff members. You resist the urge to roll your eyes (and the urge to punch him in the face) as you trail behind him - far away enough to make it seem like you don’t care - and walk to stand in order, his sleeve brushing against the bare skin of your wrist when you shift slightly. “Dazzling smile, Kamenashi,” he mutters beneath his breath when you force your lips upward against the bright flash of cameras, so harshly you’re almost gritting your teeth instead of smiling.
“Fuck you, Akanishi,” you reply moments later, when the lights lower and the staff fiddle to get the filming camera right in front of their faces. “I hate you.”
“Great, then we’ll get along fine,” he bites back, and doesn’t allow you a chance to answer as the camera spins towards you, questions thrust in front of your face - the usual - how’s your drama, how’s your work, how’s your life, how are the little split ends at the end of your hair doing? You fight back a laugh when the interviewer messes up a quarter of the way through, her blush reaching to the roots of her dark, dyed brown hair as he smiles - or tries to - comfortingly. The perfect lover, in your opinion, she finally manages to ask, and you can feel his stare boring into you from the darkness behind the cameras.
WIP TIME. Feel free to skip. Or read. Or give me more inspiration, idk. :l some of these have the same passages in them because I was trying out an idea to see how it would fit in different kinds of fics. So, sorry if it gets repetitive ):
01. SHINee
By the time they arrive home, it is already late at night. The streets are still as busy as ever, lights blinking harshly at them from above as they stumble into the familiar surroundings of the lobby, a huge mess of aching limbs and weary eye bags, luggage hiccupping over the miniscule cracks of the smooth, polished floor.
“3 AM,” Onew says quietly before anyone can muster up the energy to ask. There’s a yawn from somebody, a soft clapping on the back as their manager pushes them gently into the elevator.
“Get some rest,” he orders as the doors close behind them, metal sliding against metal. Taemin winces a bit at the sound, inching closer to droop his head slightly on Minho’s shoulder. “You have off tomorrow.”
“Thank God,” Jonghyun breathes out, rubbing eyelids with the heel of his hand to try and blink away the sleepiness. “I thought we’d never get back.”
The rest answer with a murmur of laughter, piling out into the corridor just as the elevator dings open. Kibum is the last one to exit, hand crossing across his face to brush at his hair as he does so. He avoids Jonghyun’s eyes as he steps through the doors. “You shouldn’t be talking. You slept the whole way back.”
Surprise registers on the older boy’s face, and he blinks. “What?”
Kibum seems surprised as well, eyes widening at the sound of Jonghyun’s voice when he realizes he’s voiced his thoughts out loud. “Nothing,” he replies quickly (too quickly)
02. Yamajima
He remembers meeting Yamada for the first time. He remembers the soft, edged sunlight, the curve of the sidewalk beneath his feet, the sunlight blinding in his eyes. He remembers a voice beside his, fingers and laughter entangled with his, the slap of feet against pavement as they ran to the end of the block and back, fits of giggles in between gasps for air. He remembers the way Yamada smiled too hugely, too crookedly, the way they tripped over each other’s feet before finally making it to the apartment building, the way Yamada touched his elbow with a palm and whispered in his ear.
03. Akame; stripper!Jin & model!Kame.
The lights dim considerably, music shifting into something slower, hazier, as a spotlight slides across the dance floor, landing on a makeshift stage propped above the ground at one end of the bar. Raising an eyebrow, Kame pushes his foot restlessly back and forth on the rim of his stool, taking a deep sip of the cold drink in his hands.
“Pole dancers,” the bartender answers his questioning gaze before pouring him another glass. Kame watches intently as the liquid swirls inside, a slightly foamy, translucent color. He swishes it with his right hand cupped around the handle before downing it all in one breath, placing down the glass back on the bar top and turning his stool towards the direction of the dancing spotlight amidst the rising cat calls and shouts for the show to begin.
“Are they good?”
The bartender laughs a little. “Dunno, Kamenashi-san. They’re male. Never really swung that way. Guess you can see for yourself.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Kame twirls the empty glass with his pinky finger, smearing temporary condensation across the surface as he silently anticipates the show. Finally, the lights darken all the way, leaving only shreds of hidden lamplight from behind the counter where the bartender is standing and the spotlight, now bright onstage. Kame crosses his arms and leans back against the edge of the bar top, relaxing.
The music plays up to a climax, and the spotlight suddenly swings towards the right. Out of the darkness, a man appears, clad in simple dark denim jeans and T-shirt, jacket flung halfway across his shoulder, black hat tipped down over his forehead. He reaches up a finger as the crowd roars in approval, tilting the hat down even further until only the lower half of his face is visible, and then licks his lips deliberately with a smirk.
Immediately entranced, Kame watches as the man tugs off the rest of his jacket easily, flinging it aside onto the far corner of the stage and hooking a leg around the pole in the middle, grinding against it in sync with the music. There’s a collective gasp from the audience when he throws his head back, letting the loose T-shirt slip down his shoulders to reveal the upper bare part of his chest. Hat still balanced precariously on his head, he runs his hands along the length of the pole seductively, almost as if he is doing it to another person.
As the music softens a little, he draws away, placing a finger down onto the brim of his hat before finally pulling it away to let wavy brown hair cascade in a perfect frame around his face, eyes darkening - and in that moment, they meet Kame’s, hypnotizing cinnamon brown eyes that draw the other in, like a magnetic tug. Giving a small smirk, the dancer edges back towards the pole, pressing his back against it and thrusting his hips. With a tiny hitch of breath, Kame bites down on his lower lip harshly, his grip against the bar top tightening until his knuckles are a pale, deathly white.
Slowly, carefully, the man onstage unbuttons his jeans, inching the zipper down nearly all the way, and the crowd lets out sounds of praise. He smiles again, a quirk of lips, his eyes flicking to Kame’s for a mere second as he continues his provocative moves against the pole. Closing his eyes, he leans back into the metal, stretching his arms up high to grasp the pole above his head and heaving himself against it. The music stops, the spotlight turning off right after he collapses in a wanton heap onto the ground, and only turns on again to reveal that he has gone off the stage, the pole itself standing alone on the platform.
---
Inside the tiny room backstage, Jin is slumped onto the couch, hair falling into his eyes, breathing heavy. Beads of sweat drip from his chin onto his bare chest, and he sinks back into the cushions, his hair splayed across the hard edge of the armrest as he sighs in exhaustion.
“Akanishi,” a voice startles him, and he sits up tiredly, glancing from underneath his bangs at the man standing in front of him.
“What do you want, Yamapi?”
The other dancer just shrugs. “Not me. There’s somebody here for you.”
Gaping, Jin stares at his roommate. “For…me?”
“Well, you’re the one who just performed, right? I don’t see anybody else around here. Come on, idiot, go, he looks nice.”
Rolling his eyes, Jin reluctantly stands at the prodding, muttering a “They always look nice to you,” before walking into the adjoining room, hands tucked into his pockets.
He halts abruptly, his eyes widening when he recognizes the face - the face of the man he locked eyes with just a few moments ago, that dark, dark hair falling down just above the shoulders, defined cheekbones and pale skin, with perfectly arched eyebrows above deep, drowning eyes. Biting the inside of his cheek, Jin inhales sharply. “Hello.”
The other looks him up and down, and he fidgets uncomfortably beneath the intense stares. “Hello,” the man replies finally, voice a bit husky, low. It sends involuntary shivers down his spine, and he clenches his hand into a fist inside his pocket, pushing down the sudden increase of his heartbeat. He shuts his eyes tightly.
“I…I don’t give out services,” he says, and winces to himself at how lame it sounds. He flutters his eyes open, but doesn’t dare look at the other. “Sorry.”
“Ah,” he can sense the man eyeing him curiously, and turns away. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”
Jin frowns - “I’m a pole dancer, not a whore, thank you very much.”
“It seems they’re related somehow, at least from what I’ve encountered.”
“I’m sorry, am I the one here doing the job or you?” Something about the way this man speaks angers Jin, and he can feel the hatred boiling down inside of him, hatred for filthy rich people who don’t give a damn about the world and take everything for granted, hatred for his own stupid dreams of a happily ever after. “I think you should leave now, thank you.”
The man stares at him for a long moment, until he finally raises his eyes, their gazes locking for a brief second. The other is the first to turn away, and Jin lets out a silent breath. “Okay, suit yourself,” comes the murmur, and Jin closes his eyes again as he listens to the shuffle of feet - a pause, and then the door slams closed, the sound resonating in the silence.
He opens his eyes to see an unfamiliar white rectangle lying on the table beside the door, and steps forward hesitantly, his hand shaking as he reaches out for it. It’s a card - a business card, and he flips it over, squinting his eyes at the small, bumpy print. He finds two phone numbers - the agency phone number and a cell phone number, the occupation - model - and a name.
Kamenashi Kazuya.
---
The next day, Jin finds himself glancing at the white card he has placed on his desk every once in a while. He attempts to bury his head in a random textbook - self-continuation of the studies he never managed to finish - but is kept distracted by the printed name staring back at him, hovering at the corner of his eyes and nagging at him unreasonably.
Finally relenting, he scoots his chair over with a creak, taking the card between his index and middle finger as he stares at it. In that instant, the door bangs open, and he scrambles to throw it aside, looking up nervously to see Yamapi untying his shoes and giving him a weird look.
He tries out an awkward smile. “What?”
Frowning slightly, Yamapi shakes his head. “Don’t act innocent. It doesn’t suit you.” He ignores his roommate’s attempt of a pout, instead moving to peek at the card he saw Jin throw to the other side of the desk just as he walked in. “What’s that?”
“My glasses?” Jin swiftly slides his glasses over the card, looking up at Yamapi with fake-curious eyes.
“No, Akanishi, I’m not an idiot. This,” and without letting Jin respond, he yanks out the card from beneath the spectacles, peering at the characters. “Model? Is that what he was?”
Jin gulps. “What who was?”
“Oh, come on,” Yamapi lets out an exasperated groan before glancing back down at the card. “Was he that good? Were you that good? Hell, he left his card.”
“I…what…we…” Spluttering, Jin opens his mouth to try and regain control of the conversation. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Smirking, Yamapi plays with the corner of the card. “Hey, you know, it’s not fair that you get him twice. Can I try?” He moves to try and pocket the card, surprised when Jin leans forward and grabs it from his hands, tucking it away into his own back pocket with a glare.
“No,” Jin narrows his eyes. “We didn’t do anything last night. You shouldn’t be whoring around anyway.”
The other man chuckles at him, an amused expression crossing his face. “Look who’s jealous?”
“Am not,” Jin retorts too quickly, but then sits down, picking up his textbook to cover the faintest blush on his cheeks. “Go away,” he mutters when Yamapi laughs again, and adorns his glasses, perching them on the bridge of his nose.
“Very sophisticated, Akanishi,” Yamapi manages between spurts of laughter. “I’m sure the model will be attracted.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, he left you his card.”
“He just wanted service. He’s like any other model in the industry. Shallow, spoiled rich guy,” lips curving downwards, Jin refuses to break his gaze from the textbook, focusing his eyes on the tiny black print, but his mind doesn’t want to comply. Instead, he zones out, listening to the creak of Yamapi’s bed as the other man sits down on it, to the quiet drone of voices outside their doorway in the bar area. He sighs, and stretches back against the chair, feeling the hard edge of the card in his back pocket pressing against his skin through the light denim.
When Yamapi walks out the door again, with an excuse of searching for something to drink, Jin tiptoes to the other side of the small room, clasping his hand around the phone receiver and holding it against his ear. Hands trembling slightly, he extracts the card, fingers pressing the numbers on the phone with a bit of carefulness.
Taking a deep breath, he brings the receiver closer to his ear as the phone on the other end rings. He is almost about to hang up after five, long rings, but jumps when there’s a click that sounds, followed by a soft breath - and a familiar voice. “Hello, Kamenashi Kazuya speaking.”
“I…uh,” Jin struggles for the right words. “At the bar, yesterday,” he says finally.
There’s a moment of hesitance on the other end - and then, “Oh, I remember! Changed your mind?”
Biting his lip, Jin’s hold on the phone tightens involuntarily. “I’m not quite sure yet, but I was just wondering if you’d…like to…come over?” He curses himself for sounding so insecure. “You know, tonight.”
“Hold on a moment, let me check,” there’s a rustle on the line, blurred voices and the distinct sound of pages flipping. Jin can barely make out Kamenashi’s voice speaking to another, higher-pitched one. Moments later, the familiar low voice returns to his ear - “I’m free tonight, sure. What time?”
“Around ten?” Curling the phone cord around his finger, Jin closes his eyes.
“That late?” There’s a chuckle, a warm sound that makes Jin’s heart leap in his chest - and he curses himself inwardly.
“Do you want to come earlier?”
“How about now?”
Jaw dropping open, Jin fights to regain his composure, his finger untangling from the phone cord. “Oh, well, I mean, sure, if you want.”
“Awesome. Be there in five,” and with that, there’s a click on the other end, leaving Jin hanging onto the dial tone. Slowly, he places the receiver back into its cradle, lowering himself down onto his own bed gently. He shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply and letting it out - slow, slow, slowly. It’s okay; he thinks to himself, it’s okay.
---
Precisely five minutes later, there’s a resounding knock on the door, layered beneath the pounding music from the bar area. Jin wrenches the doorknob, letting the door swing open to reveal Kame, dressed in a tight-fitting shirt that outlines his figure, the lightest hint of makeup still lingering on his face. Gulping, Jin steps aside to let him in, trying to ignore the waft of cologne that trails behind him, mesmerizing.
“So,” Kame says, breaking the silence as he leans against the table. “So.”
“So you’re a model,” Jin tilts his head.
With a laugh, Kame looks down, shifting to cross his arms over his chest. “Yeah.” He looks back up at Jin, eyes dark.
Uncomfortable, the taller man stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me - okay, I do know, but I already told you that-”
“That you’re not a whore, I know,” interrupting his speech, Kame continues to stare at him. “But can I buy you a drink?”
“Can you…” Jin narrows eyes at him sharply. “What if I have to do another show tonight?”
“You’re off duty. I just asked your friend.”
“My…Yamapi,” gritting his teeth, Jin sighs, defeated.
“Should he not have told me?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I mean - well, no, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then you’ll let me buy you a drink.”
Pursing his lips at how surprisingly persistent Kame is, he relents. “Fine. But there’s no need for you to buy. The bar uses our closet as the storage room.”
“But-”
“No buts. Or else I refuse to drink with you,” satisfied that the statement causes Kame’s mouth to snap closed immediately, Jin stalks over to the closed closet door, pulling it open to be met with complete darkness.
04. Akame; gen.
It’s one of those days - one of those days where you wish you never knew, you never cared, you never met. You can hear his steady breaths just behind you; you can imagine the sweat dripping down from the tips of his hair, the glimmer in his eye from the exhaustion of spotlight. “Five minutes,” comes the call, and you nod along wearily, hopelessly.
It is then that he pushes his chair back, his jewelry sweeping against the back of the plastic. “Be right back,” he murmurs - you’re not sure if it’s at you or the staff member beside you - and departs through the back door without so much as a backwards glance.
You find yourself watching that very door for the next four minutes, averting your glance every which way to see if he’s returned yet. When they tell you the five minutes are up, he is still nowhere to be found. You curse mentally - you refuse to go through the rest of this interview, this photo shoot, with only the five of you.
“I’ll get him,” you say immediately, and you sound more sure of yourself than you really are. “Give me a moment.” Disregarding your manager’s glare, you push up from the chair, downing another half of your water bottle before sprinting across the studio at the back door. You barely manage to not slam into it as you push it open - the wind greets you like a slap in the face, as well as the sight of him leaning against the wall of the alleyway, cigarette dangling precariously between his fingertips.
“Akanishi,” somebody says, and it takes you more than a second to realize it’s your own voice. “Time’s up.”
With a shrug, he takes a long drag at the cigarette, toeing the pavement with his shoe as he gives you a long, hard stare. “I’ll be right there,” he answers finally, and turns his head back towards the other side of the alley, away from you.
“No, you have to come right now,” you emphasize wearily, and it hits you that you sound like his mother - when did it come to this again? He gives you a look, and something resembling a scoff.
“So annoying, Kamenashi,” he throws the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel and pocketing his hands. “Never get a moment of peace when you’re around.”
You grit your teeth against the expected pang in your heart - it happens more than often nowadays, you’re used to it - heart-breaking, heart making, laughing when it’s not funny, crying when it’s not sad. So you laugh, bitterly, because it isn’t funny. “It’s all my pleasure,” you answer sarcastically, and wrench open the door, stepping back inside with a whoosh of warm air. You let it close halfway behind you, so that he has to stick his foot in the doorway in order to keep it open.
“I enjoy knowing you too,” he whispers in his ear as he passes you, bowing and plastering a smile on his face for the greetings of the staff members. You resist the urge to roll your eyes (and the urge to punch him in the face) as you trail behind him - far away enough to make it seem like you don’t care - and walk to stand in order, his sleeve brushing against the bare skin of your wrist when you shift slightly. “Dazzling smile, Kamenashi,” he mutters beneath his breath when you force your lips upward against the bright flash of cameras, so harshly you’re almost gritting your teeth instead of smiling.
“Fuck you, Akanishi,” you reply moments later, when the lights lower and the staff fiddle to get the filming camera right in front of their faces. “I hate you.”
“Great, then we’ll get along fine,” he bites back, and doesn’t allow you a chance to answer as the camera spins towards you, questions thrust in front of your face - the usual - how’s your drama, how’s your work, how’s your life, how are the little split ends at the end of your hair doing? You fight back a laugh when the interviewer messes up a quarter of the way through, her blush reaching to the roots of her dark, dyed brown hair as he smiles - or tries to - comfortingly. The perfect lover, in your opinion, she finally manages to ask, and you can feel his stare boring into you from the darkness behind the cameras.