(one-shot) you're such a beautiful you
Title: You're such a beautiful you
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Yamajima
Genre: Angst, romance, AU
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): If I owned JE, there would be a new HSJ single out by now.
Summary: (I understand, you want to keep on telling him, until you both believe it. But you can’t bring yourself to dislodge the words from the choke forming in your throat.)
A/N: Since Yamajima fandom seems pretty dead lately, I thought I'd throw out a little contribution. This is angsty, okay. I really wanted to leave it at my angsty ending and be done, but I decided writing an optional additional happier one wouldn't hurt. So. I included that as an extra if you can't stand my original one. ): also, the way this is written leaves a lot of things up to interpretation. Comments are, as always, much loved! ♥
You meet him on the beach, the sand slipping through the cracks between your toes, wind sifting quiet fingers through your hair. His figure is outlined against the blurry line of the horizon, colors unfurling from the rising sun just above his bobbing head and the rough crash of waves. You lean back, elbows digging notches into the sand beneath you as he tumbles onto the shore, hair dripping and movements graceful.
“Nice, isn’t it,” he comments, and you send him a swift glance to see him staring at you, the shadow of a smile playing across his face. His surfboard lies a few feet away, right near where his toes meet the edge of the water.
Twisting your lips into a soft smile, you nod. “Beautiful,” you agree quietly.
---
He invites you to lunch the next week, informally, with a toss of hair and a smile. You find yourself gaping down at a handmade sandwich, sliced neatly and precisely down the center with the crust removed. Carefully, you pick it up with two fingers, biting down into the stacked slices of bread, cheese and cold cuts.
“Good?” There are flecks of sunshine in his eyes, his voice hopeful. “I made it myself.”
Biting your lip, you throw him something resembling a grimace. “Horrible,” you reply, and watch the droop of his expression, the way the corners of his mouth wrinkle downwards. A smile rises up inside of you at the sight, one that tugs at your lips and tucks into your cheeks like a forgotten secret. Soon, the laughter has bubbled involuntarily out of you, spilling into the back of your hand as you drop the sandwich onto your napkin.
He raises an eyebrow, contemplating this sudden change in disposition. “You’re terrible,” he tells you, and reaches over, fingers tickling the breath out of your lungs. His skin is calloused and warm against yours, fingertips sliding over your arms to reach for the crook of your shoulder. Gasping, you squirm off the towel that’s draped around your waist and head for the ocean, laughing when he tackles you from behind and drowns your smile into the salty water.
“It was good!” You sputter, still red-faced from laughter and sunshine as he pulls you up. You’re both soaked from head to toe, and he is trying on a bright smile, but it’s lopsided and broken. Your breath catches in your throat around the words. “It was great,” you repeat when his eyes lock with yours.
The smile disappears, and you’re left with just fond eyes. “Of course it was.”
---
You tell him your name late one July evening, just below the dusky onset of nighttime. He rolls around the two syllables in his mouth for a while, whispering them to himself as if to remember them by heart.
When you ask him for his name, he just gives you a curt shake of his head. “You have to find out for yourself,” he informs you, quirking an eyebrow to emphasize his point.
You sputter, crossing your arms indignantly. “That’s not fair,” you accuse, sounding for all the world like a child - once five, now fifteen. “I told you mine.”
“I never asked you to,” he reminds you, voice suddenly soft and hidden. You peer at the slowly darkening silhouette of his figure, his rounded cheekbones and tousled hair. He tilts his head, and you can see the curve of his back as he leans down, cupping hands into the icy ocean water at your feet.
“Why not?”
Hands relaxing, he turns to you in the dim light. His eyes flicker, face masked with nonchalance as he presses palms into the lumped sand around you. “I don’t like getting attached,” he states plainly, rubbing grains of sand between his fingers and letting them drop, one by one.
You shift, leaning forward to catch the falling grains in your own palm. His gaze snaps up to yours, almost uncertainly. “I understand,” you say confidently, like you can convince yourself if you’re able to convince him. You see his faint smile, the obligatory grateful nod before he averts his eyes. He lets you grab his wrists; flipping his hands palms-up so you can see the lifelines on his skin, feel the permanent calluses wedged in the borderline between his fingers. “I understand,” you say again, smoothing a fingertip over his pulse point.
He flinches when you reach the crooked scars just below the base of his hand, your fingers tracing the zigzags he has marked on his skin. He looks up at you with darkened eyes, and it all falls into place.
(I understand, you want to keep on telling him, until you both believe it. But you can’t bring yourself to dislodge the words from the choke forming in your throat.)
---
He doesn’t question you any further about your life, so you choose to do the same for him. After the first night, his smiles are dampened a little, but still radiate warmth. You return them in an easier manner than you thought you could, heart racing as you flick your eyes inconspicuously towards his wrists to check for sign of new scars.
(At first, he hides them from you, turning his palms inward and stiffening his posture to let his arms straighten against his sides. As the weeks pass, though, you become an expert at catching him in the process, grasping onto his arm before he can shrug you off, brushing gentle touches against his pain before he can refuse.
And it works, because two months in, you barely find anything new anymore.)
Two months later, and his smile is brand-new, all shiny and unwrapped in your presence. He wears it frequently, like he is showing off his new skill, a talent he has yet to polish and make his own. You grin back at him foolishly, hand hovering over your eyes as you watch him each day, balancing on his surfboard with arms outstretched and his smile plastered on.
“When are you leaving?” You throw him the question out of the blue one day, just as he collapses beside you onto the warm sand, spreading his arms out wide like he is making a snow angel, only out of sand. As soon as the words leave your mouth, though, he rolls around to face you in surprise.
“Leaving?” He looks at you hesitantly, like you’ve just told a bad joke.
With a short, uncomfortable laugh, you look down, away from his intense gaze. “Yeah, leaving.” When he doesn’t answer, you glance back up, gauging his hardened expression. “Like, you know, go back home? This is a hotel, you know,” you gesture vaguely at the building towering behind you, large glass windows and tiled flooring shining in all its glory.
Something breaks in his eyes, a snap of tension that pools deep inside you, darkens his pupils to an unreadable silence. Concern seeps into you, and you reach out for him automatically, but his words stop you. “I don’t have a home.”
Disbelievingly, you stare at him. “What?”
“I don’t belong anywhere,” he says, eyes boring deep into yours, desperate strength trickling into the cracks of his voice. “I’m not going back.” His eyes flash, and for the first time, you see the anger beneath his words, the sorrow he keeps around his shoulders like a burden. It’s more than just the scars, you realize. It’s more than just his physical, self-inflicted pain.
He turns away when you close in; his hair smells of fresh air and slightly salty as you bury your nose into it, into the soft curve of his neck, into the pain that leaks out of him. You wait for him to turn his head, catching his lips in midair and letting him press into your arms, as if you can absorb the unspoken, unknown stories he has bottled up inside.
Trembling, you scatter fluttered touches along the inside of his wrist, rubbing gentle circles around the scars and pulling him in tight as he muffles a sob, curbs his tears into your shoulder. His fingers tighten around your waist, fisting handfuls of fabric as he tries to ground himself, shuddering with the downpour of quiet tears and released emotion.
“You can come with me,” you whisper into his ear, but it’s a useless promise, empty of truth. He shakes his head against your chest, over and over and over until you pull him in tighter, squeezing your eyes shut and swallowing back your own tears.
(You belong with me, you mean to say, but the words are left to be unsaid.)
---
The day you leave, he doesn’t say good-bye. You can sense him watching from afar, and when you turn, you think, you’ll be able to see him, just around the corner of the fallen pieces of the fence, just near the ripples of the tide that is washing in. He’ll be there, sunlight framing his contours, figure short and graceful, faded scars lingering on his upturned wrists. He’ll be there, smile settling into his features like it was meant to be, eyes on you, forever on you.
(We were meant for another lifetime, you murmur in your head.)
You leave without looking back.
Extra (a.k.a. your optional cheesy happy ending):
You can still see yourself checking for scars, sunlight beating down on your backs, his voice ringing in your ears. It’s been years, and you’re legal now, free and independent, but you’ve never gone back.
You step onto the sand for the first time since then, the wind blowing harsh secrets past your ear. The hotel is old now, trimmed at the sides and worn, glass windows dirtied and palmed by fingerprints. The broken fence is long gone, replaced by a fresh wooden boardwalk that creaks with the weight of passing bikers, children bright and bouncy with laughter.
The waves are crashing onto shore as you slip your feet into the sand, wiggling your toes in the shifting grains that slide in soft patterns against your skin. Eyes fluttering closed, you think back to brilliant sunlit horizons, gentle kisses, his hair in your fingers, bumpy scars and warm skin beneath your palm.
“Long time no see,” a voice says startlingly close to your ear, and you whip around to see those same darkened eyes staring at you, now brimming with life and smiles. His stance is broader than you remember, jeans clinging to his hips and T-shirt rippling in the wind, hair tousled and flung across his eyes.
Speechless, you continue to stand, hands hooked into your pockets. You are unable to resist the automatic urge to glance downwards; eyes narrowing to search for scars as he takes a smooth step forward, bridging the gap. When you look back up, he is smiling, a comfortable, full smile that is so heartbreakingly fitting that you have to blink twice.
“Yamada Ryosuke,” he whispers, and bows down low in front of you. Immediately, you reach for him, dragging him out of the position and into your clutch of an embrace.
“It’s nice, isn’t it,” he murmurs, hot breath cascading across your skin. You laugh, because it’s great, it’s just so, so great - there’s a twinge in your chest, a gradual, overwhelming warmth that piles up and bursts inside of you.
“Beautiful,” you agree with all the composure you can muster.
(His lips curve against your skin into a smile, and when you thumb his wrists, his skin is completely smooth and barren of scars.)
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: Yamajima
Genre: Angst, romance, AU
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer(s): If I owned JE, there would be a new HSJ single out by now.
Summary: (I understand, you want to keep on telling him, until you both believe it. But you can’t bring yourself to dislodge the words from the choke forming in your throat.)
A/N: Since Yamajima fandom seems pretty dead lately, I thought I'd throw out a little contribution. This is angsty, okay. I really wanted to leave it at my angsty ending and be done, but I decided writing an optional additional happier one wouldn't hurt. So. I included that as an extra if you can't stand my original one. ): also, the way this is written leaves a lot of things up to interpretation. Comments are, as always, much loved! ♥
You meet him on the beach, the sand slipping through the cracks between your toes, wind sifting quiet fingers through your hair. His figure is outlined against the blurry line of the horizon, colors unfurling from the rising sun just above his bobbing head and the rough crash of waves. You lean back, elbows digging notches into the sand beneath you as he tumbles onto the shore, hair dripping and movements graceful.
“Nice, isn’t it,” he comments, and you send him a swift glance to see him staring at you, the shadow of a smile playing across his face. His surfboard lies a few feet away, right near where his toes meet the edge of the water.
Twisting your lips into a soft smile, you nod. “Beautiful,” you agree quietly.
---
He invites you to lunch the next week, informally, with a toss of hair and a smile. You find yourself gaping down at a handmade sandwich, sliced neatly and precisely down the center with the crust removed. Carefully, you pick it up with two fingers, biting down into the stacked slices of bread, cheese and cold cuts.
“Good?” There are flecks of sunshine in his eyes, his voice hopeful. “I made it myself.”
Biting your lip, you throw him something resembling a grimace. “Horrible,” you reply, and watch the droop of his expression, the way the corners of his mouth wrinkle downwards. A smile rises up inside of you at the sight, one that tugs at your lips and tucks into your cheeks like a forgotten secret. Soon, the laughter has bubbled involuntarily out of you, spilling into the back of your hand as you drop the sandwich onto your napkin.
He raises an eyebrow, contemplating this sudden change in disposition. “You’re terrible,” he tells you, and reaches over, fingers tickling the breath out of your lungs. His skin is calloused and warm against yours, fingertips sliding over your arms to reach for the crook of your shoulder. Gasping, you squirm off the towel that’s draped around your waist and head for the ocean, laughing when he tackles you from behind and drowns your smile into the salty water.
“It was good!” You sputter, still red-faced from laughter and sunshine as he pulls you up. You’re both soaked from head to toe, and he is trying on a bright smile, but it’s lopsided and broken. Your breath catches in your throat around the words. “It was great,” you repeat when his eyes lock with yours.
The smile disappears, and you’re left with just fond eyes. “Of course it was.”
---
You tell him your name late one July evening, just below the dusky onset of nighttime. He rolls around the two syllables in his mouth for a while, whispering them to himself as if to remember them by heart.
When you ask him for his name, he just gives you a curt shake of his head. “You have to find out for yourself,” he informs you, quirking an eyebrow to emphasize his point.
You sputter, crossing your arms indignantly. “That’s not fair,” you accuse, sounding for all the world like a child - once five, now fifteen. “I told you mine.”
“I never asked you to,” he reminds you, voice suddenly soft and hidden. You peer at the slowly darkening silhouette of his figure, his rounded cheekbones and tousled hair. He tilts his head, and you can see the curve of his back as he leans down, cupping hands into the icy ocean water at your feet.
“Why not?”
Hands relaxing, he turns to you in the dim light. His eyes flicker, face masked with nonchalance as he presses palms into the lumped sand around you. “I don’t like getting attached,” he states plainly, rubbing grains of sand between his fingers and letting them drop, one by one.
You shift, leaning forward to catch the falling grains in your own palm. His gaze snaps up to yours, almost uncertainly. “I understand,” you say confidently, like you can convince yourself if you’re able to convince him. You see his faint smile, the obligatory grateful nod before he averts his eyes. He lets you grab his wrists; flipping his hands palms-up so you can see the lifelines on his skin, feel the permanent calluses wedged in the borderline between his fingers. “I understand,” you say again, smoothing a fingertip over his pulse point.
He flinches when you reach the crooked scars just below the base of his hand, your fingers tracing the zigzags he has marked on his skin. He looks up at you with darkened eyes, and it all falls into place.
(I understand, you want to keep on telling him, until you both believe it. But you can’t bring yourself to dislodge the words from the choke forming in your throat.)
---
He doesn’t question you any further about your life, so you choose to do the same for him. After the first night, his smiles are dampened a little, but still radiate warmth. You return them in an easier manner than you thought you could, heart racing as you flick your eyes inconspicuously towards his wrists to check for sign of new scars.
(At first, he hides them from you, turning his palms inward and stiffening his posture to let his arms straighten against his sides. As the weeks pass, though, you become an expert at catching him in the process, grasping onto his arm before he can shrug you off, brushing gentle touches against his pain before he can refuse.
And it works, because two months in, you barely find anything new anymore.)
Two months later, and his smile is brand-new, all shiny and unwrapped in your presence. He wears it frequently, like he is showing off his new skill, a talent he has yet to polish and make his own. You grin back at him foolishly, hand hovering over your eyes as you watch him each day, balancing on his surfboard with arms outstretched and his smile plastered on.
“When are you leaving?” You throw him the question out of the blue one day, just as he collapses beside you onto the warm sand, spreading his arms out wide like he is making a snow angel, only out of sand. As soon as the words leave your mouth, though, he rolls around to face you in surprise.
“Leaving?” He looks at you hesitantly, like you’ve just told a bad joke.
With a short, uncomfortable laugh, you look down, away from his intense gaze. “Yeah, leaving.” When he doesn’t answer, you glance back up, gauging his hardened expression. “Like, you know, go back home? This is a hotel, you know,” you gesture vaguely at the building towering behind you, large glass windows and tiled flooring shining in all its glory.
Something breaks in his eyes, a snap of tension that pools deep inside you, darkens his pupils to an unreadable silence. Concern seeps into you, and you reach out for him automatically, but his words stop you. “I don’t have a home.”
Disbelievingly, you stare at him. “What?”
“I don’t belong anywhere,” he says, eyes boring deep into yours, desperate strength trickling into the cracks of his voice. “I’m not going back.” His eyes flash, and for the first time, you see the anger beneath his words, the sorrow he keeps around his shoulders like a burden. It’s more than just the scars, you realize. It’s more than just his physical, self-inflicted pain.
He turns away when you close in; his hair smells of fresh air and slightly salty as you bury your nose into it, into the soft curve of his neck, into the pain that leaks out of him. You wait for him to turn his head, catching his lips in midair and letting him press into your arms, as if you can absorb the unspoken, unknown stories he has bottled up inside.
Trembling, you scatter fluttered touches along the inside of his wrist, rubbing gentle circles around the scars and pulling him in tight as he muffles a sob, curbs his tears into your shoulder. His fingers tighten around your waist, fisting handfuls of fabric as he tries to ground himself, shuddering with the downpour of quiet tears and released emotion.
“You can come with me,” you whisper into his ear, but it’s a useless promise, empty of truth. He shakes his head against your chest, over and over and over until you pull him in tighter, squeezing your eyes shut and swallowing back your own tears.
(You belong with me, you mean to say, but the words are left to be unsaid.)
---
The day you leave, he doesn’t say good-bye. You can sense him watching from afar, and when you turn, you think, you’ll be able to see him, just around the corner of the fallen pieces of the fence, just near the ripples of the tide that is washing in. He’ll be there, sunlight framing his contours, figure short and graceful, faded scars lingering on his upturned wrists. He’ll be there, smile settling into his features like it was meant to be, eyes on you, forever on you.
(We were meant for another lifetime, you murmur in your head.)
You leave without looking back.
Extra (a.k.a. your optional cheesy happy ending):
You can still see yourself checking for scars, sunlight beating down on your backs, his voice ringing in your ears. It’s been years, and you’re legal now, free and independent, but you’ve never gone back.
You step onto the sand for the first time since then, the wind blowing harsh secrets past your ear. The hotel is old now, trimmed at the sides and worn, glass windows dirtied and palmed by fingerprints. The broken fence is long gone, replaced by a fresh wooden boardwalk that creaks with the weight of passing bikers, children bright and bouncy with laughter.
The waves are crashing onto shore as you slip your feet into the sand, wiggling your toes in the shifting grains that slide in soft patterns against your skin. Eyes fluttering closed, you think back to brilliant sunlit horizons, gentle kisses, his hair in your fingers, bumpy scars and warm skin beneath your palm.
“Long time no see,” a voice says startlingly close to your ear, and you whip around to see those same darkened eyes staring at you, now brimming with life and smiles. His stance is broader than you remember, jeans clinging to his hips and T-shirt rippling in the wind, hair tousled and flung across his eyes.
Speechless, you continue to stand, hands hooked into your pockets. You are unable to resist the automatic urge to glance downwards; eyes narrowing to search for scars as he takes a smooth step forward, bridging the gap. When you look back up, he is smiling, a comfortable, full smile that is so heartbreakingly fitting that you have to blink twice.
“Yamada Ryosuke,” he whispers, and bows down low in front of you. Immediately, you reach for him, dragging him out of the position and into your clutch of an embrace.
“It’s nice, isn’t it,” he murmurs, hot breath cascading across your skin. You laugh, because it’s great, it’s just so, so great - there’s a twinge in your chest, a gradual, overwhelming warmth that piles up and bursts inside of you.
“Beautiful,” you agree with all the composure you can muster.
(His lips curve against your skin into a smile, and when you thumb his wrists, his skin is completely smooth and barren of scars.)