[ficlet]: your god-forsaken right (ryo/shige)
Title: Your God-forsaken Right
Written: 090609
Summary: Ryo goes to Shige's butai. WC: 758.
Notes: Thanks to trivialaffair, whose entry of flist-love finally prodded me to write something :p Also for misticloud - it's not the fic you asked for, but this silliness is all I can manage in the interim, ur actual bdae fic will materialise... soon? XD Warnings for confusing changes in tenses and weird, contrived pov's.
You say, you were excused, you know. Wagahai already said you were busy with Eito stuff.
But there's this sparkle to your eye that seems to diminish the fatigue that is inevitable after twenty-two consecutive performances, and the smile I see in the mirror as you remove your make-up is the one that you have when you're secretly pleased.
Our eyes meet in our reflections and I say, no, I wanted to come, why did you think I wouldn't, and I like how your gaze flickers away from mine for an instant because you're a little flustered and I know if I run my finger over the shell of your ear it would be warm from the sudden rush of blood.
You didn't come the last time - there's a pout in your tone - and Maruyama-kun said you told Eito you weren't going to come this time as well, and this is how my kindness in letting Maru stay over at our place that one night in April comes back to bite me in the ass.
I mumble something along the lines of Tokyo Dome and rehearsals and not wanting to get your hopes up because I can't, will never tell you that someone (probably Yoko) left the newspaper with the article promoting 'Seminar' spread prominently across the table in Eito's gakuya, for reasons known only to themselves. The picture of you and Natsuki-san kissing jumped right off the page and I developed an inexplicable compulsion to watch it, that scene, and all the other scenes, of you kissing the others, being intimate with them, even though the thought of it leaves a frantic churning in my guts.
It's nothing but irrational - you've been shunted onto the sex-appeal track after all, and it's all but expected for you to get up close and personal with potential co-stars. Repeatedly reminding myself of this still didn't lessen the emotional impact of the image, and it seared my mind over the following days until I just had to come watch the play, regardless of how I would end up feeling after. I'm not as level-headed or intelligent as Wagahai - curiosity had already sunk its claws into me.
But very often, it's the uncertainty of not-really-knowing, the sickly flourishing of our paranoid imagination that makes things harder to bear.
I'm glad I came. Overwhelmingly relieved, in fact. Because the person who arrogantly strutted across the stage, leaving sex and suspicion and intrigue in his wake didn't know the meaning of intimacy. He had no idea how to give it.
The women (and man) drawn to him would never experience waking up to your soft breath against their foreheads, exchange sleepy morning kisses with you against the bathroom sink, follow the lines of water from the overhead shower sluicing down your body with their tongues.
There'll only be half-hearted conversations over cooling tea, taunting exchanges about Greek and dating and playing the violin. They won't ever have the lazy murmur of your voice late into the night, your head against my shoulder, as you 'gripe' about Koyama's latest silliness or Tegoshi's superiority; or feel the desperate passion in your lips and touch at the prospect of a long separation. Their hearts will never skip that little beat because you've just given me a mischievous, sexy grin across the meeting room table, right in the middle of a discussion when I can't do anything truly meaningful about it. They'll never get to savour just laying upon the couch on rainy afternoons, your body pressed close to mine, your heartbeat against my ear.
A knock on the door is followed by a stagehand popping in to say that the crew will be leaving for the wrap-up party soon and you hurry to strip off your costume. I need to go, you say a little apologetically, pulling your shirt over your head. I brush aside the apology - it's the end of a successful Tokyo run, and your co-stars and crew are waiting for their Lauren.
I'll see you later.
I don't wait up for you when I get home - it's not likely that you will be back early. But in the meantime, I'll burrow under the sheets, hug your pillow to my chest, and let my imagination float free as I close my eyes.
There will be a fountain, and you'll be sitting in front of it.
You say, there are always countless reasons to keep on living, and you'll never look away from me.
owari
a/n: thanks for reading, comments always loved :)
Written: 090609
Summary: Ryo goes to Shige's butai. WC: 758.
Notes: Thanks to trivialaffair, whose entry of flist-love finally prodded me to write something :p Also for misticloud - it's not the fic you asked for, but this silliness is all I can manage in the interim, ur actual bdae fic will materialise... soon? XD Warnings for confusing changes in tenses and weird, contrived pov's.
You say, you were excused, you know. Wagahai already said you were busy with Eito stuff.
But there's this sparkle to your eye that seems to diminish the fatigue that is inevitable after twenty-two consecutive performances, and the smile I see in the mirror as you remove your make-up is the one that you have when you're secretly pleased.
Our eyes meet in our reflections and I say, no, I wanted to come, why did you think I wouldn't, and I like how your gaze flickers away from mine for an instant because you're a little flustered and I know if I run my finger over the shell of your ear it would be warm from the sudden rush of blood.
You didn't come the last time - there's a pout in your tone - and Maruyama-kun said you told Eito you weren't going to come this time as well, and this is how my kindness in letting Maru stay over at our place that one night in April comes back to bite me in the ass.
I mumble something along the lines of Tokyo Dome and rehearsals and not wanting to get your hopes up because I can't, will never tell you that someone (probably Yoko) left the newspaper with the article promoting 'Seminar' spread prominently across the table in Eito's gakuya, for reasons known only to themselves. The picture of you and Natsuki-san kissing jumped right off the page and I developed an inexplicable compulsion to watch it, that scene, and all the other scenes, of you kissing the others, being intimate with them, even though the thought of it leaves a frantic churning in my guts.
It's nothing but irrational - you've been shunted onto the sex-appeal track after all, and it's all but expected for you to get up close and personal with potential co-stars. Repeatedly reminding myself of this still didn't lessen the emotional impact of the image, and it seared my mind over the following days until I just had to come watch the play, regardless of how I would end up feeling after. I'm not as level-headed or intelligent as Wagahai - curiosity had already sunk its claws into me.
But very often, it's the uncertainty of not-really-knowing, the sickly flourishing of our paranoid imagination that makes things harder to bear.
I'm glad I came. Overwhelmingly relieved, in fact. Because the person who arrogantly strutted across the stage, leaving sex and suspicion and intrigue in his wake didn't know the meaning of intimacy. He had no idea how to give it.
The women (and man) drawn to him would never experience waking up to your soft breath against their foreheads, exchange sleepy morning kisses with you against the bathroom sink, follow the lines of water from the overhead shower sluicing down your body with their tongues.
There'll only be half-hearted conversations over cooling tea, taunting exchanges about Greek and dating and playing the violin. They won't ever have the lazy murmur of your voice late into the night, your head against my shoulder, as you 'gripe' about Koyama's latest silliness or Tegoshi's superiority; or feel the desperate passion in your lips and touch at the prospect of a long separation. Their hearts will never skip that little beat because you've just given me a mischievous, sexy grin across the meeting room table, right in the middle of a discussion when I can't do anything truly meaningful about it. They'll never get to savour just laying upon the couch on rainy afternoons, your body pressed close to mine, your heartbeat against my ear.
A knock on the door is followed by a stagehand popping in to say that the crew will be leaving for the wrap-up party soon and you hurry to strip off your costume. I need to go, you say a little apologetically, pulling your shirt over your head. I brush aside the apology - it's the end of a successful Tokyo run, and your co-stars and crew are waiting for their Lauren.
I'll see you later.
I don't wait up for you when I get home - it's not likely that you will be back early. But in the meantime, I'll burrow under the sheets, hug your pillow to my chest, and let my imagination float free as I close my eyes.
There will be a fountain, and you'll be sitting in front of it.
You say, there are always countless reasons to keep on living, and you'll never look away from me.
owari
a/n: thanks for reading, comments always loved :)