(one-shot) compile a list of places we shouldn't go (and if you ever fall know i'd kiss you better)
More archiving.
Title: Compile a list of places we shouldn't go (and if you ever fall know I'd kiss you better)
Author: singlehappiness (current journal)
Pairing(s): Akame, Pin (friendship), Nakame (friendship)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Kame has a new celebrity crush.
Notes: This is all for mnemonic_psych because she held up her end of the deal we had. Lots of love, twin. ♥ A heartfelt thanks to the brilliant gingifere for beta-ing and making me feel better, lots of love. ♥ Sorry the title is so weirdly long. I was lame and borrowed lyrics. Props to whoever guesses where from. Originally posted here at ficwars.
It’s a few days before his flight back to Tokyo that he calls Kame again, seated with his laptop on the coffee table and feet tucked beneath his knees on the couch. It takes only two rings for Kame to pick up, of course, a soft breath and the murmur of voices before Kame rustles onto the line. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Jin responds, fingers curling involuntarily around his own phone. The sunlight of eight o’clock in Los Angeles filters through his window, and he tilts his laptop back slightly to accommodate the glare. “What’s up?”
There’s a brief pause. “Nakamaru’s here,” Kame answers. “Your chill friend,” he laughs quietly, but there’s no hint of malice to it.
Jin raises an eyebrow. “Who taught you how to use the Internet?”
“Nakamaru,” Kame says again, and as if on cue, Jin hears Maru’s voice calling in the background.
“He’s on, Kame!”
“Okay, thanks,” Kame calls back.
“Who’s on?” Jin furrows his eyebrows in suspicion, feeling suddenly like he does when he secretly reads new KAT-TUN interviews or radio show transcripts online, about new inside jokes they’ve developed and the stronger dynamic they have as a group - like someone threw an obliviate spell at him and KAT-TUN has always existed without him.
“Johnny Weir,” Kame responds nonchalantly. The name rings a vague bell in Jin’s head. He frowns. “He’s an ice skater,” Kame clarifies, as if sensing the curiosity in Jin’s silence. “Miyao introduced me to ballet, which led to ice skating, and then…” There is faint applause in background, and when Kame continues, there’s a lilt to his voice. “He’s pretty good. I think he lives in Los Angeles, too.”
Blinking, Jin sits up straighter. He looks down to see that he has automatically typed “Johnny Weir” into his Google search bar, and purses his lips. He ignores the rising feeling that burns at the back of his throat, first at the way Kame’s voice slips low into admiration, and second for the mention of Kame’s attractive former co-star, but he bites his lip against it. “You’re kind of a creepy fan,” he mutters instead, and clicks on the Images button.
Kame hums a little, casually. “Triple lutz,” he remarks, just as applause sounds again in the background. “Impressive.” There’s a brief silence as Jin clicks through the images, the pages upon pages of the most ridiculous sparkled costumes that could rival the Jimusho’s own. Kame’s always been a sucker for the stupid costumes. Jin’s frown deepens.
“If I wasn’t,” Kame says then, “I would never know what you were up to.”
It takes Jin a moment to realize what he’s talking about. It’s not like he’s been trying not to call Kame - well, sans the fact that he’s still uncertain about where they stand, and even though Kame had constantly reassured him things were fine, the underlying strain in his tone and obvious eye bags during talk shows speak otherwise.
“It’s not like you ever call me either,” he risks retorting. Johnny Weir is still grinning at him from the computer screen. “Or tell me about your new celebrity crushes,” he adds, and it comes out more bitter than he meant it to.
There’s a pause, and then Kame just laughs. “You know,” he replies finally, “sometimes, you’re kind of an idiot.”
--
“He’s really good,” Yamapi informs him while he is sitting in the VIP lounge at LAX. It is approximately ten in the morning in Japan on Yamapi’s day off, but like Kame, Yamapi doesn’t sleep much (or, Jin might have coerced him into picking up the phone by leaving obnoxious threats on his machine for twenty minutes). “He reminds me of Kame, kind of. Probably why Kame likes him so much.”
Sighing, Jin leans back in his chair. “He’s not that pretty,” he says ruefully, narrowing his eyes when Yamapi laughs.
“Oh, but Jin, don’t you think you should give some respect to who your crush is crushing on?”
“Kame does not have a crush on him,” Jin hisses indignantly, lowering his voice when the primly dressed businessmen in the lounge cast him strange, annoyed glances. “Besides, they don’t even speak the same language.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve been speaking much Japanese lately either, Aquaneesha.”
Jin groans inwardly. “Are you all reading my interviews together or something?”
“Yep,” Yamapi replies cheerfully. “We get together every Friday night at Kame’s apartment and tear them apart literally before throwing them into a fire to burn. Then we sing Real Face and build shrines to Johnny Weir,” he says. “I think there might be voodoo dolls involved too.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jin grumbles. He rubs the denim of his jeans between his fingers, hears the morning news blaring in the background of Yamapi’s apartment. “I miss Japan,” he adds, like an afterthought that wasn’t meant to be said aloud.
“I miss you too, best friend,” Yamapi responds. “Don’t worry, I won’t let Johnny Weir replace you in my heart.”
--
Tokyo is better than he remembered - streets lined with skyscrapers and alighted storefronts, quick Japanese chatter rushing into his ears as he takes off his headphones. The sun is low in the sky, settled on the brim of the horizon amidst the noisy static of streetlights and car headlights. He stares at it a bit wistfully from behind the tinted car windows, missing the heat of Los Angeles already. He sighs, and can see his own breath condensing in front of him.
He directs the driver to Kame’s apartment and thankfully gets no protest - either the driver is new, or just pretending not to notice, even though Jin’s pretty sure every driver for the Jimusho has to know the idols’ addresses like the back of their own hands. He even tries his luck at asking for permission to smoke - the cigarettes in Los Angeles were mad expensive - and is pleasantly surprised when a clean ashtray is wordlessly handed back to him. He rolls down his window the tiniest bit, just to be courteous. Nobody wants secondhand smoke hanging around in the car.
Thanks to traffic, it takes almost an hour to get to Kame’s apartment complex. Jin isn’t actually sure whether he’s welcome, but it takes him the full hour to convince himself not to worry too much, even though Kame had been dry and cryptic over the phone, especially after Jin’s clipped comments about Johnny Weir. Then again, Kame has always been dry and cryptic, even when he still had those caterpillar eyebrows and only Jin thought he was pretty. In some ways, Jin thinks, they haven’t really changed much since those days.
In some ways, though, they’ve changed a lot. He steps briskly out of the car and is escorted into the building, remembering the first time he’d been given such treatment, about a year before KAT-TUN officially debuted. He’d been appalled then, completely out of his depth when he’d asked why and his escort had politely replied, “You’re a star now, Akanishi-san.” He’s not sure he’ll ever actually get used to it.
He thanks his current escort awkwardly, watching as the elevator doors close on the brief nod and polite bow. Closing his eyes, he counts the dings of the floors as they pass, and only then does it strike him that Kame may not want him here, at this hour of the evening, when he is no doubt enjoying dinner with his dogs and maybe Nakamaru or Ueda, off from work early on a Friday and discussing the KAT-TUN schedule in which Jin no longer exists. Jin falters a little, hand slipping from the railing as the doors slide open too soon.
There’s not much he can do now but step out, dread suddenly settling in the pit of his stomach. Kame’s door is just diagonally across from the elevators; he can already make out the golden numbers etched out on the door panel, the classy silver doorknob Kame had installed when he first moved in. Jin inhales sharply.
The doorbell’s a bit too obnoxious in his anxious silence. He hears a dog barking and muffled voices, something that sounds like the pad of slippers on the wooden flooring. There’s a split second where he toys with the brief, last minute notion of running, but he brushes it away as ridiculous just as the door opens.
Kame is wearing old, navy blue sweatpants that are rolled up at the ankles. His hair is tousled and highlighted, contours soft in the outline of lamplight, rainbow necklace accompanied by a black V-neck T-shirt. “Jin,” he says, surprised, and the polite idol expression he’d put on to open the door with melts into something more warm, more comfortable, more sad. “You’re back.”
Something like applause erupts from where the television is in the living room, and Jin hesitates. “Am I interrupting something? Sorry - I just - ”
“No,” Kame cuts in smoothly. “No, come in.” He steps back to reveal a thankfully empty living room as well as Ran-chan, who leaps up to paw at Jin’s knees, tongue hanging and eyes bright. Jin chuckles, rubbing her head and behind her ears indulgently - at least someone is obviously glad to see him, he thinks, biting back the hope that’s beginning to unclench the knots in his chest.
“Johnny Weir, ladies and gentlemen,” the television announces, and Jin walks in to see the skater bowing, arms raised high up in the air. His costume is a confusing mixture of sequins and streaks of colors, a design Jin is almost certain even Kame couldn’t pull off. “Skating to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.”
“Lady Gaga?” Jin repeats, turning to look at Kame, who is peacefully making tea in the kitchen, just beyond the counter. “I thought you hated her music.” Jin remembers clearly the disgusted look on Kame’s face the first time he’d tried blasting the Telephone music video in the KAT-TUN dance studio, the way the corners of his lips had quirked downwards even as he’d tried to placate Jin by claiming that it was interesting.
Now, though, Kame just shrugs. He moves forward and presses a mug of tea into Jin’s hand, but Jin is so resolved in his questioning that he barely notices when their fingers brush. What he does notice, though, is the way Kame’s eyes glaze over in admiration as they flick towards the screen. “People change,” Kame says by way of explanation, and takes a calm sip of his tea. “It’s not so bad.”
Jin grips his mug only a little bit tighter. “Huh,” he comments intelligently, and sits down onto a nearby stool. Kame sits down on the one beside him, glancing only briefly at him before returning his gaze to the television.
“I wish he’d do more spin jumps during the shows,” Kame says thoughtfully, just as Jin is prepared to open his mouth and introduce a new, less nerve-grating conversation topic. “His performances are the most beautiful with spin jumps.” His voice is low again. Jin closes his mouth, and stares determinedly at the leaves in his tea. “But he’s very graceful otherwise. Like a dancer on ice.”
“Isn’t he gay,” Jin blurts out before he can stop himself, raising his eyes to see Kame’s gaze snap to him. “That’s what I read, at least. That he’s - not to be stereotypical, I mean.” He fumbles when he realizes Kame’s full attention is suddenly on him. “People online were just…speculating,” he finishes lamely, wondering how in the world he always manages to be stupid in front of Kame.
There’s a short silence. “So?” Kame is still looking at him oddly, and Jin feels something twist in his gut.
“So,” he repeats, and stops. He breathes in, and closes his eyes. “So. I just.” He stops again.
“Akanishi,” Kame says slowly, like he’s talking to a five-year-old. “If you’re trying to make a point, it’s not getting through.”
Jin stares some more into the bottom of his mug. There is applause again from the television, like it’s taunting him. He exhales. “So you can’t,” he says quietly, hands slipping from his mug to the counter. “You can’t like him.”
“What - ”
“I ONLY WANT YOU TO BE GAY FOR ME, OKAY,” Jin bursts out, and immediately wants to hide his face. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Kame’s reaction. “I just. In America. So many things reminded me of you. They even threw a stupid stuffed turtle onto the stage in San Francisco,” he says, and it’s like somebody threw open the gates, nonsensical words spilling out. “And you would have liked San Francisco. I mean. It was so you.” He takes a deep breath, waits for a response.
There’s a lapse of silence, longer than Jin anticipated (he didn’t think it would take too long for Kame to kick him out) - and when he opens his eyes, cautiously, Kame is staring at him. As Jin watches, Kame gets up from the stool, walking around the counter and leaning over to get the remote control from the couch.
The television turns off with a click, leaving only the whirring of the dishwasher and the sudden, faded silence ringing in Jin’s ears. Kame has returned to his side of the counter somehow, eyes bright and kind of soft. Jin holds his breath; fingers twitching when Kame draws the tiniest bit closer so that Jin can smell his shampoo with the underlying scent of just Kame. “You’re kind of an idiot, you know?” Kame breathes, fingers ghosting over the underside of Jin’s wrist.
“What does that mean,” Jin responds, frowning, and Kame just laughs. Jin tries to pretend his hands aren’t trembling, but his breath catches in his throat when Kame leans closer.
“It means this,” Kame says, and closes the distance.
Jin’s oh is only a mere whisper into Kame’s mouth.
--
He wakes up to empty warmth beside him, panic surging through him before the sleepy haze clears and he recognizes the rush of water from the shower in the bathroom, steam seeping out from the crack beneath the doorway because Kame always turns the heat up insanely high. Jin waits, listening for the squeak of the faucet as Kame turns it off, the swish of Kame pulling his towel off the rack. He closes his eyes.
The door swings open after about a minute; Kame is still toweling his hair, white T-shirt thrown loosely over his figure and jeans clinging to his waist. “Morning,” he smiles when he notices Jin watching, moving close so that Jin can feel the heat still radiating off of him. “Pleasant dreams?”
“Mm,” Jin murmurs, shifting to make room as Kame sits down beside him. Jin cranes his neck forward a little to meet Kame’s gaze. “You’ve gained weight,” he says bluntly, and Kame laughs. “In the good way.”
“Thanks?” Kame lets Jin reach out and smooth touches over his eye bags, fingers a bit desperate in wanting to rub away the tiredness. “Tell me about America,” he murmurs, and Jin does. Jin babbles about everything from the adrenaline highs to the rehearsal lows, from New York to San Francisco, from the recording studio to donut parties. When he gets to the part about his dancers during the shows, Kame arches an eyebrow, especially when Jin gloats about how hot the dancing parts were with Aubree and Lizzy. “So,” he says carefully, when Jin gives him an opportunity to talk. “You were letting hot girls rub up against you on stage.”
Blinking, Jin sits up. “Well,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I mean. I didn’t really think of it that way, but.”
“And you’re sitting in my bed talking about this.”
“I…” Jin hesitates, giving Kame a hopeless look. “Yeah?”
“And just last night, you were jealous because I was just watching Johnny Weir on TV?”
Just as Jin opens his mouth to protest, there’s a sweep of fingers over his collarbone, and whatever he was going to say dissolves into a fit of giggles as he curls up against the attack, but Kame is relentless. “You asshole,” he accuses, but through a shield of crossed arms, Jin can see he’s laughing. “You are such a jerk.”
Attempting to raise his palms in surrender, Jin rolls over, taking Kame down with him. “I’M SORRY,” he tries, but Kame only reaches for his collarbones again, and Jin is forced to grab his wrists. The covers fall halfway off the bed as they wrestle, rolling until Jin has Kame’s wrists pinned together to a pillow, hair still wet and dark against the white sheets and eyes twinkling with mirth.
“I hate you,” Kame says, jutting out his chin, but he doesn’t look so threatening anymore now that he’s under Jin’s control. “I can’t believe I slept with you.”
Jin grins widely, and leans down until he is a breath away from Kame’s lips. He can feel Kame involuntarily arching up against him, legs warm and hooking around his waist. “Because I’m hot, right,” he purrs, turning away when Kame tries to kiss him.
“And stupid,” Kame growls in retaliation, vainly attempting to free his wrists from Jin’s grasp. He’s a lot stronger, Jin will admit, but Jin knows how to work muscle against him. “And conceited and a d - ” he’s cut off when Jin swipes lips against his, further insults vanishing into a quiet, pleased sound when Jin presses in deeper.
They kiss for a while, deep and slow and fast and needy; Jin presses lingering, languid kisses into the corners of Kame’s mouth until Kame finally wrenches his wrists free and pulls Jin to settle onto him, limbs tangling together. Jin buries his face into Kame’s hair, still slightly damp but drying quickly, and inhales the familiar scent of shampoo.
“You should come with me next time,” he muffles into it, and Kame trails fingers along the nape of his neck silently. “To America, I mean. On the tour.” He knows it’s not possible, they both know it, but he takes Kame not answering as a good sign to continue dreaming. “I could take you out to Starbucks.”
“I am perfectly capable of finding Starbucks in Tokyo,” Kame laughs against him, and Jin pushes himself up to look at Kame, Kame who is looking at him with soft, bright eyes above his familiar crooked nose. “Though sure, I’d love to come.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Kame smiles indulgently, tilts his head. “If you take me to Los Angeles, I could meet Johnny Weir.”
Jin lets out a sound of outrage, pummeling Kame into the sheets again as Kame laughs, trying to squirm sideways and out of reach until Jin pulls him in tight, chest against his back and chin notching onto his shoulder. Kame sighs, his struggles dying out as he relaxes against Jin. The sunlight leaves warm patches on their bedspread as it filters through the window, and Jin spreads his legs, hooking his right one around Kame’s to keep them in place.
“I missed Japan,” he confides after a long, quiet moment. He almost expects Kame to turn it into something sappy, or perhaps even make a snide remark about KAT-TUN. He’d deserve it after all this time Kame has been holding back.
But Kame just snorts, and runs his finger along one of Jin’s arms that is wrapped around him. “I know,” he replies. “I know.”
Title: Compile a list of places we shouldn't go (and if you ever fall know I'd kiss you better)
Author: singlehappiness (current journal)
Pairing(s): Akame, Pin (friendship), Nakame (friendship)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Kame has a new celebrity crush.
Notes: This is all for mnemonic_psych because she held up her end of the deal we had. Lots of love, twin. ♥ A heartfelt thanks to the brilliant gingifere for beta-ing and making me feel better, lots of love. ♥ Sorry the title is so weirdly long. I was lame and borrowed lyrics. Props to whoever guesses where from. Originally posted here at ficwars.
It’s a few days before his flight back to Tokyo that he calls Kame again, seated with his laptop on the coffee table and feet tucked beneath his knees on the couch. It takes only two rings for Kame to pick up, of course, a soft breath and the murmur of voices before Kame rustles onto the line. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Jin responds, fingers curling involuntarily around his own phone. The sunlight of eight o’clock in Los Angeles filters through his window, and he tilts his laptop back slightly to accommodate the glare. “What’s up?”
There’s a brief pause. “Nakamaru’s here,” Kame answers. “Your chill friend,” he laughs quietly, but there’s no hint of malice to it.
Jin raises an eyebrow. “Who taught you how to use the Internet?”
“Nakamaru,” Kame says again, and as if on cue, Jin hears Maru’s voice calling in the background.
“He’s on, Kame!”
“Okay, thanks,” Kame calls back.
“Who’s on?” Jin furrows his eyebrows in suspicion, feeling suddenly like he does when he secretly reads new KAT-TUN interviews or radio show transcripts online, about new inside jokes they’ve developed and the stronger dynamic they have as a group - like someone threw an obliviate spell at him and KAT-TUN has always existed without him.
“Johnny Weir,” Kame responds nonchalantly. The name rings a vague bell in Jin’s head. He frowns. “He’s an ice skater,” Kame clarifies, as if sensing the curiosity in Jin’s silence. “Miyao introduced me to ballet, which led to ice skating, and then…” There is faint applause in background, and when Kame continues, there’s a lilt to his voice. “He’s pretty good. I think he lives in Los Angeles, too.”
Blinking, Jin sits up straighter. He looks down to see that he has automatically typed “Johnny Weir” into his Google search bar, and purses his lips. He ignores the rising feeling that burns at the back of his throat, first at the way Kame’s voice slips low into admiration, and second for the mention of Kame’s attractive former co-star, but he bites his lip against it. “You’re kind of a creepy fan,” he mutters instead, and clicks on the Images button.
Kame hums a little, casually. “Triple lutz,” he remarks, just as applause sounds again in the background. “Impressive.” There’s a brief silence as Jin clicks through the images, the pages upon pages of the most ridiculous sparkled costumes that could rival the Jimusho’s own. Kame’s always been a sucker for the stupid costumes. Jin’s frown deepens.
“If I wasn’t,” Kame says then, “I would never know what you were up to.”
It takes Jin a moment to realize what he’s talking about. It’s not like he’s been trying not to call Kame - well, sans the fact that he’s still uncertain about where they stand, and even though Kame had constantly reassured him things were fine, the underlying strain in his tone and obvious eye bags during talk shows speak otherwise.
“It’s not like you ever call me either,” he risks retorting. Johnny Weir is still grinning at him from the computer screen. “Or tell me about your new celebrity crushes,” he adds, and it comes out more bitter than he meant it to.
There’s a pause, and then Kame just laughs. “You know,” he replies finally, “sometimes, you’re kind of an idiot.”
--
“He’s really good,” Yamapi informs him while he is sitting in the VIP lounge at LAX. It is approximately ten in the morning in Japan on Yamapi’s day off, but like Kame, Yamapi doesn’t sleep much (or, Jin might have coerced him into picking up the phone by leaving obnoxious threats on his machine for twenty minutes). “He reminds me of Kame, kind of. Probably why Kame likes him so much.”
Sighing, Jin leans back in his chair. “He’s not that pretty,” he says ruefully, narrowing his eyes when Yamapi laughs.
“Oh, but Jin, don’t you think you should give some respect to who your crush is crushing on?”
“Kame does not have a crush on him,” Jin hisses indignantly, lowering his voice when the primly dressed businessmen in the lounge cast him strange, annoyed glances. “Besides, they don’t even speak the same language.”
“Well, it’s not like you’ve been speaking much Japanese lately either, Aquaneesha.”
Jin groans inwardly. “Are you all reading my interviews together or something?”
“Yep,” Yamapi replies cheerfully. “We get together every Friday night at Kame’s apartment and tear them apart literally before throwing them into a fire to burn. Then we sing Real Face and build shrines to Johnny Weir,” he says. “I think there might be voodoo dolls involved too.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Jin grumbles. He rubs the denim of his jeans between his fingers, hears the morning news blaring in the background of Yamapi’s apartment. “I miss Japan,” he adds, like an afterthought that wasn’t meant to be said aloud.
“I miss you too, best friend,” Yamapi responds. “Don’t worry, I won’t let Johnny Weir replace you in my heart.”
--
Tokyo is better than he remembered - streets lined with skyscrapers and alighted storefronts, quick Japanese chatter rushing into his ears as he takes off his headphones. The sun is low in the sky, settled on the brim of the horizon amidst the noisy static of streetlights and car headlights. He stares at it a bit wistfully from behind the tinted car windows, missing the heat of Los Angeles already. He sighs, and can see his own breath condensing in front of him.
He directs the driver to Kame’s apartment and thankfully gets no protest - either the driver is new, or just pretending not to notice, even though Jin’s pretty sure every driver for the Jimusho has to know the idols’ addresses like the back of their own hands. He even tries his luck at asking for permission to smoke - the cigarettes in Los Angeles were mad expensive - and is pleasantly surprised when a clean ashtray is wordlessly handed back to him. He rolls down his window the tiniest bit, just to be courteous. Nobody wants secondhand smoke hanging around in the car.
Thanks to traffic, it takes almost an hour to get to Kame’s apartment complex. Jin isn’t actually sure whether he’s welcome, but it takes him the full hour to convince himself not to worry too much, even though Kame had been dry and cryptic over the phone, especially after Jin’s clipped comments about Johnny Weir. Then again, Kame has always been dry and cryptic, even when he still had those caterpillar eyebrows and only Jin thought he was pretty. In some ways, Jin thinks, they haven’t really changed much since those days.
In some ways, though, they’ve changed a lot. He steps briskly out of the car and is escorted into the building, remembering the first time he’d been given such treatment, about a year before KAT-TUN officially debuted. He’d been appalled then, completely out of his depth when he’d asked why and his escort had politely replied, “You’re a star now, Akanishi-san.” He’s not sure he’ll ever actually get used to it.
He thanks his current escort awkwardly, watching as the elevator doors close on the brief nod and polite bow. Closing his eyes, he counts the dings of the floors as they pass, and only then does it strike him that Kame may not want him here, at this hour of the evening, when he is no doubt enjoying dinner with his dogs and maybe Nakamaru or Ueda, off from work early on a Friday and discussing the KAT-TUN schedule in which Jin no longer exists. Jin falters a little, hand slipping from the railing as the doors slide open too soon.
There’s not much he can do now but step out, dread suddenly settling in the pit of his stomach. Kame’s door is just diagonally across from the elevators; he can already make out the golden numbers etched out on the door panel, the classy silver doorknob Kame had installed when he first moved in. Jin inhales sharply.
The doorbell’s a bit too obnoxious in his anxious silence. He hears a dog barking and muffled voices, something that sounds like the pad of slippers on the wooden flooring. There’s a split second where he toys with the brief, last minute notion of running, but he brushes it away as ridiculous just as the door opens.
Kame is wearing old, navy blue sweatpants that are rolled up at the ankles. His hair is tousled and highlighted, contours soft in the outline of lamplight, rainbow necklace accompanied by a black V-neck T-shirt. “Jin,” he says, surprised, and the polite idol expression he’d put on to open the door with melts into something more warm, more comfortable, more sad. “You’re back.”
Something like applause erupts from where the television is in the living room, and Jin hesitates. “Am I interrupting something? Sorry - I just - ”
“No,” Kame cuts in smoothly. “No, come in.” He steps back to reveal a thankfully empty living room as well as Ran-chan, who leaps up to paw at Jin’s knees, tongue hanging and eyes bright. Jin chuckles, rubbing her head and behind her ears indulgently - at least someone is obviously glad to see him, he thinks, biting back the hope that’s beginning to unclench the knots in his chest.
“Johnny Weir, ladies and gentlemen,” the television announces, and Jin walks in to see the skater bowing, arms raised high up in the air. His costume is a confusing mixture of sequins and streaks of colors, a design Jin is almost certain even Kame couldn’t pull off. “Skating to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance.”
“Lady Gaga?” Jin repeats, turning to look at Kame, who is peacefully making tea in the kitchen, just beyond the counter. “I thought you hated her music.” Jin remembers clearly the disgusted look on Kame’s face the first time he’d tried blasting the Telephone music video in the KAT-TUN dance studio, the way the corners of his lips had quirked downwards even as he’d tried to placate Jin by claiming that it was interesting.
Now, though, Kame just shrugs. He moves forward and presses a mug of tea into Jin’s hand, but Jin is so resolved in his questioning that he barely notices when their fingers brush. What he does notice, though, is the way Kame’s eyes glaze over in admiration as they flick towards the screen. “People change,” Kame says by way of explanation, and takes a calm sip of his tea. “It’s not so bad.”
Jin grips his mug only a little bit tighter. “Huh,” he comments intelligently, and sits down onto a nearby stool. Kame sits down on the one beside him, glancing only briefly at him before returning his gaze to the television.
“I wish he’d do more spin jumps during the shows,” Kame says thoughtfully, just as Jin is prepared to open his mouth and introduce a new, less nerve-grating conversation topic. “His performances are the most beautiful with spin jumps.” His voice is low again. Jin closes his mouth, and stares determinedly at the leaves in his tea. “But he’s very graceful otherwise. Like a dancer on ice.”
“Isn’t he gay,” Jin blurts out before he can stop himself, raising his eyes to see Kame’s gaze snap to him. “That’s what I read, at least. That he’s - not to be stereotypical, I mean.” He fumbles when he realizes Kame’s full attention is suddenly on him. “People online were just…speculating,” he finishes lamely, wondering how in the world he always manages to be stupid in front of Kame.
There’s a short silence. “So?” Kame is still looking at him oddly, and Jin feels something twist in his gut.
“So,” he repeats, and stops. He breathes in, and closes his eyes. “So. I just.” He stops again.
“Akanishi,” Kame says slowly, like he’s talking to a five-year-old. “If you’re trying to make a point, it’s not getting through.”
Jin stares some more into the bottom of his mug. There is applause again from the television, like it’s taunting him. He exhales. “So you can’t,” he says quietly, hands slipping from his mug to the counter. “You can’t like him.”
“What - ”
“I ONLY WANT YOU TO BE GAY FOR ME, OKAY,” Jin bursts out, and immediately wants to hide his face. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Kame’s reaction. “I just. In America. So many things reminded me of you. They even threw a stupid stuffed turtle onto the stage in San Francisco,” he says, and it’s like somebody threw open the gates, nonsensical words spilling out. “And you would have liked San Francisco. I mean. It was so you.” He takes a deep breath, waits for a response.
There’s a lapse of silence, longer than Jin anticipated (he didn’t think it would take too long for Kame to kick him out) - and when he opens his eyes, cautiously, Kame is staring at him. As Jin watches, Kame gets up from the stool, walking around the counter and leaning over to get the remote control from the couch.
The television turns off with a click, leaving only the whirring of the dishwasher and the sudden, faded silence ringing in Jin’s ears. Kame has returned to his side of the counter somehow, eyes bright and kind of soft. Jin holds his breath; fingers twitching when Kame draws the tiniest bit closer so that Jin can smell his shampoo with the underlying scent of just Kame. “You’re kind of an idiot, you know?” Kame breathes, fingers ghosting over the underside of Jin’s wrist.
“What does that mean,” Jin responds, frowning, and Kame just laughs. Jin tries to pretend his hands aren’t trembling, but his breath catches in his throat when Kame leans closer.
“It means this,” Kame says, and closes the distance.
Jin’s oh is only a mere whisper into Kame’s mouth.
--
He wakes up to empty warmth beside him, panic surging through him before the sleepy haze clears and he recognizes the rush of water from the shower in the bathroom, steam seeping out from the crack beneath the doorway because Kame always turns the heat up insanely high. Jin waits, listening for the squeak of the faucet as Kame turns it off, the swish of Kame pulling his towel off the rack. He closes his eyes.
The door swings open after about a minute; Kame is still toweling his hair, white T-shirt thrown loosely over his figure and jeans clinging to his waist. “Morning,” he smiles when he notices Jin watching, moving close so that Jin can feel the heat still radiating off of him. “Pleasant dreams?”
“Mm,” Jin murmurs, shifting to make room as Kame sits down beside him. Jin cranes his neck forward a little to meet Kame’s gaze. “You’ve gained weight,” he says bluntly, and Kame laughs. “In the good way.”
“Thanks?” Kame lets Jin reach out and smooth touches over his eye bags, fingers a bit desperate in wanting to rub away the tiredness. “Tell me about America,” he murmurs, and Jin does. Jin babbles about everything from the adrenaline highs to the rehearsal lows, from New York to San Francisco, from the recording studio to donut parties. When he gets to the part about his dancers during the shows, Kame arches an eyebrow, especially when Jin gloats about how hot the dancing parts were with Aubree and Lizzy. “So,” he says carefully, when Jin gives him an opportunity to talk. “You were letting hot girls rub up against you on stage.”
Blinking, Jin sits up. “Well,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I mean. I didn’t really think of it that way, but.”
“And you’re sitting in my bed talking about this.”
“I…” Jin hesitates, giving Kame a hopeless look. “Yeah?”
“And just last night, you were jealous because I was just watching Johnny Weir on TV?”
Just as Jin opens his mouth to protest, there’s a sweep of fingers over his collarbone, and whatever he was going to say dissolves into a fit of giggles as he curls up against the attack, but Kame is relentless. “You asshole,” he accuses, but through a shield of crossed arms, Jin can see he’s laughing. “You are such a jerk.”
Attempting to raise his palms in surrender, Jin rolls over, taking Kame down with him. “I’M SORRY,” he tries, but Kame only reaches for his collarbones again, and Jin is forced to grab his wrists. The covers fall halfway off the bed as they wrestle, rolling until Jin has Kame’s wrists pinned together to a pillow, hair still wet and dark against the white sheets and eyes twinkling with mirth.
“I hate you,” Kame says, jutting out his chin, but he doesn’t look so threatening anymore now that he’s under Jin’s control. “I can’t believe I slept with you.”
Jin grins widely, and leans down until he is a breath away from Kame’s lips. He can feel Kame involuntarily arching up against him, legs warm and hooking around his waist. “Because I’m hot, right,” he purrs, turning away when Kame tries to kiss him.
“And stupid,” Kame growls in retaliation, vainly attempting to free his wrists from Jin’s grasp. He’s a lot stronger, Jin will admit, but Jin knows how to work muscle against him. “And conceited and a d - ” he’s cut off when Jin swipes lips against his, further insults vanishing into a quiet, pleased sound when Jin presses in deeper.
They kiss for a while, deep and slow and fast and needy; Jin presses lingering, languid kisses into the corners of Kame’s mouth until Kame finally wrenches his wrists free and pulls Jin to settle onto him, limbs tangling together. Jin buries his face into Kame’s hair, still slightly damp but drying quickly, and inhales the familiar scent of shampoo.
“You should come with me next time,” he muffles into it, and Kame trails fingers along the nape of his neck silently. “To America, I mean. On the tour.” He knows it’s not possible, they both know it, but he takes Kame not answering as a good sign to continue dreaming. “I could take you out to Starbucks.”
“I am perfectly capable of finding Starbucks in Tokyo,” Kame laughs against him, and Jin pushes himself up to look at Kame, Kame who is looking at him with soft, bright eyes above his familiar crooked nose. “Though sure, I’d love to come.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Kame smiles indulgently, tilts his head. “If you take me to Los Angeles, I could meet Johnny Weir.”
Jin lets out a sound of outrage, pummeling Kame into the sheets again as Kame laughs, trying to squirm sideways and out of reach until Jin pulls him in tight, chest against his back and chin notching onto his shoulder. Kame sighs, his struggles dying out as he relaxes against Jin. The sunlight leaves warm patches on their bedspread as it filters through the window, and Jin spreads his legs, hooking his right one around Kame’s to keep them in place.
“I missed Japan,” he confides after a long, quiet moment. He almost expects Kame to turn it into something sappy, or perhaps even make a snide remark about KAT-TUN. He’d deserve it after all this time Kame has been holding back.
But Kame just snorts, and runs his finger along one of Jin’s arms that is wrapped around him. “I know,” he replies. “I know.”