Fic for goldfreckled (2/2)
Fic for goldfreckled Part 2/2
Title: Take That Champion Hoodie Off in the California Sunshine
Pairing: Jin/Kame/Yamapi
Word count: ~11,840
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: Friendship, fluff, humor, angst, drama, possibly slice-of-life, a façade of a plotline, The Jin Crisis, a copious amount of fandom references, some foul language and bad habits, and hints at the oncoming NEWS Crisis if you squint.
Notes: Dear goldfreckled, I have been very blatantly biased in taking the starry eyes after Akamepi in your request form into account. I apologize for the lame humor, slight melodrama, and shameless amount of Jin. This is the song that first inspired me to write this. There is a lot more I could say about this, but in conclusion, it was a tremendous pleasure to write for you, and I sincerely hope you like it. _ A special thanks to my Jin for the boundless love and supportive ideas, Kame for forever being my creepy number one fan, Yamapi for just always being there for and putting up with me and my issues, and Takki and Sunshine for the loving encouragement.
Summary: Of all the missed opportunities they had with each other, the twists and bends that send them careening off course and pulled back together like elastic. This is how they’ll always be. This is how they learn to breathe again.
Predictably, Kame doesn’t sleep.
In fact, he seems extremely alert, arm resting on the ledge of the door beneath the window, which is rolled down halfway to let in the rough whisk of California breeze. His index finger taps a steady rhythm to inaudible music, a thrumming in the dry silence of early afternoon. Beaches are strung all along the left side of the highway, a smattering of colors and people in momentary snapshots of life as they roll past in the Chevy.
Jin clears his throat; Kame turns to gaze at his side profile. “So,” Jin says, and his voice sounds crackly, estranged. He coughs lightly, hesitates. “You can put on some music. If you want.”
Kame’s lips are thinned into a tight line when Jin tosses him a glance, and there’s a peculiar blur in his eyes. “Sure,” Kame says, a breath, and then he’s slipping the cassette adapter in, reaching for Jin’s iPhone from the otherwise empty cup holders. “Anything you prefer?”
With a stiff shrug, Jin takes a deep, silent breath. “Anything you want,” he replies, and it comes out like a sigh; Kame’s gaze lingers on him for a brief moment before averting. There’s the click of the iPhone keypad, brief silence before guitar strings are plucked out of the rusty speakers, suave and blues-y, a grainy voice rubbed coarse and raw around the edges. “Still Clapton,” Jin remarks after a long pause, the words rising like a question; his slender fingers wrap around the volume knob to turn it higher. After all these years.
“This is Pi’s favorite album,” Kame says, painstakingly casual, like it isn’t the same gritty live performances he and Jin choked on beers over as awkward, lanky teenagers, swallowing the burn of alcohol down their throat and shoving around Jin’s Sony CD player, already beginning to chip from one too many falls to the ground. He’s already such an idol, Kame remembers Jin saying one night, tipsy at 2 AM with lead-filled limbs and sweaty exhaustion pooling on their skin, emptied and crushed beer cans littering the wooden planks of Jin’s first apartment, crowded in by four walls. Jin had been telling him a jilted, broken story through slurring and brief, spastic nonsensical giggle sessions about the other Junior Jin knew, a kid named Yamashita who’d already been in the agency for two years before them. Such a star, Jin had continued, pitifully flinging himself onto his back to stare up at the peeling paint on his ceiling, a browned, dried spot where rain had leaked in during the storm a week earlier.
Kame remembers flipping onto his stomach, not nearly as much alcohol buzzing through his bloodstream as Jin. He remembers staring at the grooves and creases of Jin’s face, the shadows flitting and playing over Jin’s cheeks in the mustard yellow streetlight from the window over the couch. He remembers sweeping an arm around to collect the excess of beer cans and stack them in rows on the coffee table, so he could carry them downstairs in bags in the fresh, brisk light of morning before Jin woke up, dump them into one of the bins lining the curb beyond the back door of the building.
He remembers biting fiercely down on the words threatening at the tip of his tongue then, words that would replay at him, hauntingly, in Jin’s older, explosively furious voice years later, when their roles were somehow recast and Kame found himself thrown inexplicably into a supposedly temporary unit with Yamapi and seemingly leaving Jin by the wayside, when Kame spent nights chugging beer cans alone and watching all his formulated dreams shatter like the glass of a drunk man’s vodka on the sidewalk. He remembers the words he couldn’t bite down anymore when he was informed about Los Angeles in 2006, and again in 2010, like déjà vu, a recurring nightmare. He remembers the night Jin pressed his hoodie-covered face into Kame’s neck, scruffy and unshaven, and scrawled his departure from KAT-TUN onto Kame’s now muscular arms, voice shot and body weak as he leaned in to prop himself up against Kame just to stand upright; the words Yamapi never said when Kame laid his never-ending stream of strife bare in the dim florescent lighting above a bar top, casting an eerie glow on his fingers as he gripped Yamapi’s forearm so hard the skin turned white beneath his fingertips, tearless, heaving sobs wracking his chest as he tried to relearn how to breathe.
He remembers all the words the three of them have kept from each other, invisible secrets hidden in the heaps of things they already know, ghouls of thoughts amidst the wreckage of what they have said, all the useless fury and grief and banter and concern and small talk.
He remembers his little adolescent friends, Jin and Pi, who wanted to rule the world with drumbeats and love songs.
He remembers, and he knows they do, too.
--
The conversation is stilted through an hour of Clapton; occasional jokes in Jin’s low, quiet voice clammed with Kame’s soft laugh, the one he never uses on camera. It takes that hour for them to unwind against each other, words unraveling until the small talk falls away, ribbon undone into the throbbing, real pulse of the wound. Kame inhales sharply, and feels his heart stutter when Jin speaks next.
“I liked your newest single.” The words are an offering, and Jin glances rapidly at him with dark, fleeting eyes, mouth folded in concentration. Kame can’t even remember what they’d been discussing previously; the air suddenly hangs low and his lungs constrict. “It was catchy,” Jin is continuing, filling in the gaps. “I liked the B-sides better, though.”
Kame sucks in a breath, chooses his words carefully. “Well, you know, we are KAT-TUN. The B-sides are always better,” he says, tries to make it light, and feels a spark of success rush through his veins when Jin laughs, the laugh that KAT-TUN lost somewhere back in 2007.
“And the covers always suck,” Jin adds, and Kame laughs, too. They’re quiet for another moment; the slap of waves onshore and voices of harried mothers and happy, gossipy teens carries in the breeze. “Like someone pasted our faces onto Paint.”
“Your face wasn’t even on the cover of Eternal,” Kame says, and it slips out of his mouth, easy, unburdened. He watches Jin’s lips quirk.
“It’s called artistry, Kame.”
“Bullshit,” Kame accuses, voice tinged with mirth. “You’re just too lazy to look good for the camera.”
“Damn,” snapping his fingers, Jin grins, mouth lifted and mischievous. “You caught me. Know me too well.”
“Don’t I always.” The retort is lofty and light-hearted, but Kame knows Jin hears the underlying sentimentality. Jin’s a sap; he always does, even with the meanings Kame never voices, the words Yamapi ceases to sound. Kame thinks of all the missed opportunities they had with each other, the twists and bends that send them careening off course and pulled back together like elastic. Kame thinks of Yamapi, concern clouding his gaze, lines and words tight past his lips - I think he was brave for doing so - and Kame closes his eyes. “We miss you,” he breathes, squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that pinpricks and spirals of rainbow blur into the darkness.
There’s an intake of breath. “I miss you, too,” Jin exhales; his hands are running along the steering wheel anxiously as the road curves. Santa Barbara passes in whiffs of sunscreen and steakhouses, the scrape of feet rubbing sand into wood and the clang of beach chairs as they’re pulled out of car trunks. Buildings rise in signal bars along the skyline; obscure rounded and angled rooftops a ludicrous sandstone red, dwarfed by palm trees that rise crooked and skinny into the blue. “I miss being in a group. I have dancers, but,” Jin shrugs, “It’s not the same.”
A drift catches onto a banner hanging from a streetlamp as Jin slows at the pedestrian walkway, fingers curled around the wheel like a vise. “Do you - ” Kame starts, and then bites his lip.
“Do I regret it,” Jin finishes, sunglasses slipping to his hairline from the top of his head. Absently, he pulls them off, placing them in the cradle of the cup holder beside his iPhone. “Yes, sometimes. When I’m eating barbecue alone in some dingy Japanese shop in London, I ask myself why I ever thought it was a good idea.” He pauses, and Kame waits for him to continue. “But then…I just, I think of you, and you’re there. You’ve made what you want. Like we used to say we would. And Pi…” He huffs a short, resigned laugh. “It was selfish. I had to make a choice.”
“It was selfish,” Kame agrees, after a long pause. Jin gives him an uncomfortable, surprised look - opens his mouth as if to apologize, but Kame cuts him off by speaking first. “But when are we not selfish with each other?”
Jin is startled into a laugh, one that fades gradually as the scenery morphs into a more rural setting, strings of trees flashing spurts of blue sky. “Right,” he murmurs, straightening his arms to lean and stretch his back into the seat. “You know that - that I’m never really, gone,” he says, almost hesitantly. “I mean. You’re great without me. Different, but great, better.” He sighs ruefully. “And this is selfish too, but - we don’t work together anymore, so - ”
“So we don’t have to ignore each other all the fucking time,” and Kame is beaming, sloppy and bright, genuine. Jin scoffs, but he’s smiling, too.
Eric Clapton is still layered into the background; the album has looped more than twice by now. Kame purses his lips, tastes in his mouth the words he held back all those years ago in the squalid apartment Jin moved out of a year before they debuted, affronted by the continuous rain-puddle stains splattering his ceiling and the cramped space in which they’d stumbled and crammed together in alcoholic hazes.
They fall from his lips like a promise, an apology for all the things he’s never said.
“You’re going to be a superstar.”
--
They stop at a seedy roadside gas station on the outskirts of Santa Maria; the windows of the convenience store are smudged with streaks of dust and mud and the door grinds when opened by the occasional customer. Kame steps out to battle with the gas pump, fumbling with it and nearly dropping it onto the cement before managing to wedge the nozzle into the car. Jin runs in to buy cigarettes, giving Kame beseeching eyes afterwards when Kame turns and frowns at the still unshakable habit. “You’re worse than me,” Kame clucks, and Jin sticks out his tongue in a very mature manner, throwing the pack into his duffel bag beneath the backseat of the car.
Kame leans a hip against the side of the car; fingers drumming impatiently as he watches the digital numbers rise steadily. He glances in the backseat window to see Jin rooting around aimlessly in the duffel bag, shooting Kame a markedly impish look and jerking his head at Yamapi, who is still soundly asleep. With deft fingers, Jin pulls out a thick black marker, tugging off the cap with his teeth and letting it dangle from his mouth as he leans over Yamapi with precise, meticulous movements.
After a few, long, drawn-out seconds, Jin hunches back on his legs, knees crammed into a crouch against the side of the Chevy. Kame has to stifle a snort when he sees the loopy French moustache, out of place and obnoxious along Yamapi’s upper lip. The nozzle clicks just then, and he twists around to see the numbers have frozen in place; rows of digits that barely make any sense to him.
“I’ll do it,” Jin says from behind, and Kame turns to see him step up to the pump, swiping a credit card down a slot. In the backseat, Yamapi is stirring, legs crossing and uncrossing, arms stretching back to slam against the door handle. There’s a pained groan, and Jin is obviously trying - and failing - to hide a smirk. “Go check on Pi,” he murmurs, punching in the mini keyboard of letters on the pump, and Kame whacks him gently on the side of the head before doing as told.
“’Morning, sunshine,” Kame greets, climbing into the passenger seat and twisting to face Yamapi. Rubbing his eyes blearily, Yamapi slowly slides upward, swinging his legs around. “Sweet dreams?” The moustache is absolutely ridiculous on his face, and Kame feels the laughter gurgling at his throat, has to force himself to control the twitch of his lips.
“Mm,” Yamapi hums, the fog clearing from his eyes. He raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth wide in a silent yawn as he eyes Kame suspiciously. “What are you so excited about?”
“Oh, nothing,” Kame grins, cheeky. “Nothing at all.”
Yamapi narrows his eyes. “You feeling better?” he asks, like he’s crossing tentative lines, a burglar through invisible laser alarms as he glances over to where Jin is staring down the gas pump machine, brow creased with intense focus.
With a shrug, Kame flips back around to face the front, smoothes a rocky hand over the dashboard. “Better,” he affirms, and clears his throat, coughs delicately.
“Really,” Yamapi says, wryly. “What makes you think I’m going to believe you.”
Kame splutters. “I swear.”
“Oh, swear not by the moon,” Yamapi croons, dissolving into giggles when Kame gives him indignant eyes and, mockingly offended, says, “There is no fucking moon,” voice rickety with laughter and quick, carrot-top fingers scratching at the ticklish spots near Yamapi’s waistline. With a howl, Yamapi scrambles upright, arms raised in surrender as he slams into the car door. “You win, you win,” he screeches, face split in a grin and breaths desperately winded as Kame inches back primly into the passenger seat, expression smug.
“What does he win,” Jin says; he’s sliding into the driver’s seat and closes his wallet with a snap, stuffs it into the front right pocket of his jeans. “Your undying affection? A drunken kiss from a hunky guy at a bar?”
“Both,” Yamapi states confidently, chin tilted in his defiance, and Kame struggles once more with the overflow of laughter rising inside him. “Next time I’m drunk, Kame has agreed to kiss me.”
“Did not,” Kame snaps, at the same time Jin piles into giggles on the steering wheel, his hilarity uncontainable. “Have you looked at your face,” Jin gasps, and soon Kame’s frame is shaking as well, mirth rippling his shoulders as he tries to look at Yamapi solemnly.
Confused, Yamapi touches his face. “What’s wrong with my face,” he says, blinking, and immediately shifts forward, straightening to peer at himself in the rearview mirror.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, you - insane, ridiculous - jerks,” he manages, jaw dropped in surprise as he presses a finger to the marker moustache abroad his upper lip. “What in the. I. I LOOK LIKE FUCKING SHOCHIKUBAI TOKIMUNEI,” he says, “In his worst disguise.”
Lips still pursed in a smirk, Jin turns back around to turn the keys in the ignition. “You look beautiful,” Kame comments, and Jin barks out a laugh.
Yamapi scoffs, haughty. “I am definitely not believing - ”
“No no nooooooo, you show me the faiiiiiiiiiith~” Jin interrupts mildly, wildly high-pitched, voice resonating as he accelerates and overlaps his hands to turn out of the station and back onto Highway 1.
In the passenger seat, Kame can’t stop laughing. “Kanarazu, I keep it for youuuuuuuuuuu,” dodging the smack Yamapi aims at the vicinity of his ear and catching Jin’s outstretched hand for a high-five.
“I’m going to kill you both~” Yamapi sings from the backseat, in the same tune. “Da da da, don’t you wish you could KEEP YOUR FACE.” Kame and Jin both break into laughter, and as Kame inhales in an attempt to recompose himself, he peeks at Jin, whose face is alighted with nostalgia and pure, unadulterated joy, the likes of which he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
He looks up into the rearview mirror, and catches Yamapi’s gaze. Yamapi winks, moustache twitching and ridiculously out of place. That sets Kame off again - he snorts, claps his hands and laughs until he’s gasping, lungs burning like they haven’t in ages.
He can barely breathe, but he feels alive.
--
It takes Yamapi a mere ten minutes to wash out the fake moustache, scrubbing with cheap, foamy soap in the dim rustic lighting of the steakhouse they stop at when they get to town. They share two tri-tips amongst the three of them; Kame eyes the barbecued beef warily as Jin complains fondly about the last time he visited and how Josh and Ryo stole the majority of his beef cut. Kame chews slowly and tentatively, drinks a lot of the blue-tinted margarita Yamapi ordered him as an off-hand joke, and subtly slips a good amount of his portion onto Jin’s plate.
Yamapi notices, and begins the gradual process of shoving the rest of his meat on Kame’s plate. “I’m not fucking 40 kilos anymore,” Kame finally protests, and it comes out resembling a whine. He can see the blatant surprise in Yamapi’s eyes, the way Jin’s head snaps up to look at him, tension quickly fading as Kame rolls his shoulders and offers a lilting, tiny smile. Yamapi huffs, and dumps the remains of his meal onto Kame’s plate.
“Well, you better not be even close, or else we’ll skin you alive. Right, Jin?”
Jin’s eyes are soft, almost like a trick of light. “Right,” he murmurs, and Kame’s gaze swiftly catches onto his. “It’s all or nothing, Kame. No food, no us.”
Kame laughs, quiet, and turns to Yamapi, whose eyes are now twinkling, grin stamped on his face. “Breaking my heart since 1998,” he says, as pitifully as he possibly can. There’s a snort from Jin, but Yamapi’s grin widens, and he stares directly and meaningfully into Kame’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he replies grandly, and for a moment, Kame knows he means it. The novelty of the sentimentality wears off, though, when mere seconds later, Yamapi’s frame begins to tremble, shielding an arm over his mouth and choking on unexpected laughter. “I’m sorry, Kame,” he’s giggling, “I just… I can’t, just, YOUR BEAUTIFUL BROWN EYES,” and he guffaws all over once more.
Kame lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and sips at his drink demurely, rolling his eyes in bemusement. “So much for romantic gestures,” he mutters, attempting to sound bitter, but Yamapi laughs even harder, eyes squinting like he’s not sure how to restrain himself, like for once he’s the one losing control out of the three of them, like times to come. Jin just smiles.
--
It takes much longer than ten minutes for Kame to initiate the washing-out of the hesitation and insecurity that’s been lurking in corners ever since July of last year. It flutters about in the air around them, shadowed yet palpable, and clearly not lost on any of them. In a way, it’s how they’ve always been, the three of them, extending old cobwebs until they’re thin enough to cease existence, save for vague, fragile remnants. It’s how they’ll always be.
Jin sits on the windowsill of their motel room in a neon yellow hoodie, legs crossed and cigarette suspended from his fingertips, hair loosely gathered in a ponytail and large, black headphones covering his ears. He’s almost like a mirage, with the faint click of his touch pad and the hum of his MacBook, the occasional crackle as he taps his cigarette on the brim of the small tin ashtray beside him.
When, after two hours of worrying his bottom lip and one more of grunts and dramatic sighs of displeasure, he finally rolls over to stand on the carpet and quietly suggests a bit more than one or two drinks, both Kame and Yamapi are perfectly willing to comply. They attack the nearest store, a 7-11 stocked with large, chilled cans of Sapporo that they heap into the red plastic shopping basket like ravenous animals on a mission. The cashier merely screens one can’s bar code without sparing them a glance, and types in the count, her long, gemmed nails clacking against the keyboard as she pops her gum loudly. Kame squints at the lights overhead, and lets Yamapi pay.
It isn’t easy for any of them to become fully intoxicated, but there’s something about the night that gives them all leeway with themselves and each other. It’s been two days since the day they started; conversation has been relatively easygoing, sentences that wind and escape around issues they no longer wish to bring up; the tension halted to a standstill. Often, Jin has pulled out his guitar to strum at it absently, head tilted back against the headrest and body curving into the contours of the instrument, molded and fitting as the sunlight slants across the rumpled fabric of his V-necks. Sometimes, Kame or Yamapi will sing along with Jin, voices carrying in threaded tunes over the sand dunes, floating away to disappear into the crash of waves onshore, the groan of the old engine and growl of other cars as they pass. Most of the time, Jin sings alone.
Unsurprisingly, Kame is the one to let loose inhibitions first - he doesn’t drink nearly as frequently or as hard as Jin and Yamapi do, tucked into the nooks of private rooms at clubs with friends hoarded around pool tables and empty glasses. His vision is ashy and blurred at the edges; he feels the anticipatory dull throb that usually accompanies a massive headache, but he drinks more to numb it, feels the liquid scorch a trail down his throat. Yamapi’s hand steadies his shoulder as he sways backward into the couch; legs spread out wide. “More,” he murmurs, sliding his glass over to where Jin is filling his own glass again. “Please, Jin.” When Jin hesitates, hand pulling the bottle in by its neck as his gaze flits to Kame’s glass, Kame lets out a small, frustrated noise. “Jin.”
Jin looks up at him with dark eyes. “I don’t think so,” he replies, and his voice is rough, laced with steel determination that makes Kame’s stomach churn. He doesn’t really want to think about anything right now. He doesn’t want to have to figure out all of Jin’s stupid careful words and motions, because since when is Jin ever subtle about anything. And he hates that he can’t say anything about it because he’s Kamenashi and Kamenashi is strong and willful and composed and just trying to fucking salvage his sanity. He hates that he has to pretend to be perfectly complacent about having to shoulder the A and sometimes, sometimes he hates being Kamenashi, he really does, because who the fuck is Kamenashi - he’s Kame, he’s just Kame or Kazuya, really, he’s always been Kazuya who has no idea what he’s doing, and Yamapi knows what he’s talking about because Yamapi somehow always understands what Jin is thinking and what Kazuya is thinking which makes no sense but even when Kamenashi tells him off and says he’s fine, says he’s not tired, says he’s abso-fucking-lutely perfect -
“Kazu,” Jin is saying, mouth widened in shock, face contorted, and Kame’s mouth shuts with a clack. “Kazu,” Jin says again, and somehow he’s become closer, so much closer, and there are strong arms, Yamapi’s arms that wrap around Kame’s now trembling shoulders, and Jin’s ever-so-long, tender fingers are stroking Kame’s hair, damp and clumpy with humidity, are framing his cheeks with feather-light touches that speak volumes more than any of the words Jin’s never said. “I’m sorry,” Jin whispers, into the shell of Kame’s ear, and one of Yamapi’s arms disappear, but suddenly Jin is pressed tighter against him, and Kame knows that Yamapi is hugging Jin, too.
“Thank you,” Kame chokes out; there are no tears but it comes out rough, streaked with sobs that evaporate into the cavity of his chest, raw and scraped. “Thanks, Pi,” he breathes, heavy with the gratitude he’s always buried tight between the lines, never expressed because he - doesn’t know when he - stopped knowing how to be genuine. “Thank you,” he repeats, like he’s clinging to the only words that are willing to fall out, and Yamapi’s fingers clutch at him, tips branding his shoulder blade with heat.
There’s a slight shift in motion, and then Jin’s pinky is outstretched in the middle of the suffocating, plastered circle their bodies have formed with each other, knees twisted and feet jammed into closed spaces. Yamapi links first, joints curving in promise. Kame lets Yamapi unpeel Kame’s hand that’s balled into a fist, lets him extend the fingers so that the unclenched emotions surround and fill the air around them. Automatically, Kame’s pinky finds the crook of Jin’s, wraps around the knuckle of Yamapi’s and squeezes, skin turning white.
The bitter taste of Sapporo lingers in Kame’s mouth; his hands are clammy and his head spins. The only thing keeping him from toppling over is Yamapi’s knee digging into his back, solid and grounding.
“To home,” Jin whispers, hoarse, the way he used to sound after winding down from concert highs and encores, and he doesn’t mean Los Angeles. Kame’s gut wrenches. A sliver of light is creeping through the drawn blinds from the purpling sky. Dawn is breaking.
“To home,” he repeats, raspy, and leans in with Yamapi’s weight. Their foreheads knock together, Jin on his right and Yamapi on his left. Their breaths mingle.
“To us,” Yamapi says, “and everything we’ve ever loved.” His voice cracks just slightly.
Kame sucks in a lungful of hot, arid air, and closes his eyes.
He breathes out.
--
They take turns driving; the scenery of the beach outside is soon swallowed into trees and sprawling rocky forests, and then slowly meshes and flattens back into beaches again, like a flipbook that changes as they turn pages together. Most nights, they drive into the nearest roadside motel, rooms aligned in two-story buildings off the highway.
One night, they spontaneously invade a park, car stopped alongside the photograph area as dusk envelops the sky. There’s a sign that declares they should keep off the grass, mossy rocks and greens overlooking the steep, jagged edge of a waterfall; but Yamapi merely flings himself onto the ground, rolling onto his back to kick his feet up at the stars. Following suit, Jin and Kame pillow their heads on stomachs respectively, their three bodies forming a disfigured, staggered staircase outlined in the pitch black of night.
They shout their names at each other, listening to the sounds ricochet off the treetops; they call up Yuu and Ryo to discuss the significance of the saints whose streets they’ve been strolling through and the grand ideas of their invented constellations. Jin yells, “Hey you! What’s up, Yuu!” like it’s the funniest thing, and Ryo claims Santa Monica would be the hottest chick. Yamapi calls him a sick bastard.
Amigitos, Yuu says, is not a word. Kame traces the faint lines of stars that form a clover-like shape, almost like thumbs raised and pressed up against each other, paused in Seishun Amigo choreography. Rules, he thinks, are sometimes made to be broken.
Vodka of Life, Yuu also says, is probably the stupidest constellation he’s ever heard of.
“Fuck you,” Jin hisses into the phone, but his stomach is shaking with laughter underneath Kame’s head. From his position parallel to Kame, Yamapi smiles, straight teeth and bright eyes, hair fanned onto the grass. He reaches out a hand, as if for support, and Kame responds by lacing their fingers together.
--
The Chevy sputters into San Francisco on Saturday morning, sides splattered with dust and mud, windows rolled down to let in sunshine. Jin is driving, left elbow perched on the sill of his window and fingers tapping the sides as he pulls into a spot along the sidewalk, on the avenue that hooks around Washington Square. Kame had wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge first, but Jin insists it’s a disappointment. Jin, in turn, had wanted to take the ferry to Alcatraz, but Yamapi is hungry, and suggests that they board the evening ferry and grab lunch first, instead.
They’d be too noticeable in Japantown, so Little Italy is the next best option. Tony’s Pizza Napoletana has a small corner canopy entrance, with roofed outdoor seating that opens to the street. Kame sticks the wiry legs of his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt and stretches, watching as Jin sidles up to a man playing guitar a few feet away, foot balanced on a chair and maroon case lying open beside him.
“I can play anything,” the man claims, teeth crooked and accent stilted, slightly Neapolitan. He grants them a medley of old R&B, chords vibrant and voice sandy in the patches of sunlight that splotch their food, Margharita pizza and salad tossed with creamy, dripping Caesar dressing. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it,” Jin tells him, English rolling off his tongue, breezy and Californian, peppered with a Japanese twang. He throws a few bills into the case, urges Yamapi to do the same as Kame sips at his iced tea. The busker’s eyes land on him.
“Sir?”
Kame muses for a second. “Can you play Clapton?” he asks, heavily accented, polite.
Yamapi makes a noise between resignation and laughter; Jin just groans, mutters something in Japanese that sounds like do you ever get enough?
“Sure,” the man says, and grins largely, a billion-dollar smile, untainted by fame.
His fingers grip the neck of the guitar, and he begins to play.
--
After lunch, they buy gelato from the parlor across the street, a medium-sized cup of lemon flavor that they stab three spoons into and call their own. Yamapi runs to a bench just as an elderly couple leaves; his arms dance in victory against the blue canvas of sky as Jin flings a spoonful of ice at him. It doesn’t aim very well; the droplets splatter onto the cement.
“It looks like Jin,” Yamapi mulls, as they sit on the bench together, digging into the ice savagely with their spoons. Kame licks his, head cocking to the side.
“Yeah, it sort of does.”
Spluttering, Jin narrows his eyes. “It does not,” he replies indignantly, “My face does not look like a bunch of - ”
“We meant your name, idiot,” Yamapi interrupts. His eyes are focused on the dried gelato droplets, and before anyone can stop him, he reaches into the container with a finger, dipping it into the melting ice and letting it drip carefully onto the cement. “There,” he says, a few dribbled lines completing the character. “Jin.”
With a snort, Jin peers at it thoughtfully. “Hm,” he says, and sticks his finger into the container as well, flings it in a wave, a square, and lines curving into hooks. “Kazuya,” he murmurs; the characters are drying bright pastel yellow in the sunshine. They both turn to Kame.
Silently, Kame leans down, and draws a gelato-covered finger onto the cement, a single letter. He stares at it, the wobbly line wearing the curve.
Later, he thinks, they’ll go back to being Akanishi, Kamenashi, and Yamapi. They’ll return to Japan, and resume their normal grindstones of schedules, sparse invitations sent through texts for dinner or lunch. Later, Jin will watch reruns of KAT-TUN on Music Lovers and wrap his head and knees into an awkward ball, feel the familiar burn in his chest that will never really go away. Later, in the overcast lighting of a sushi shop, Kame will let Yamapi heap squid onto his plate like Nobuta times, and wait for the vibration from the phone on the table that will signal Jin’s desperately late call. Later, they will drink copious amounts of therapeutic sake on stools around Yamapi’s kitchen island and tumble onto the couch together, limbs tangling to fit as Jin shoves One Piece into the DVD player for the umpteenth time, because Vivi never truly leaves the ship, Yamapi.
And later, much later, the three of them will stampede into the waves of Okinawa, barebacked and suntanned, and learn to breathe above water together again and again, like they did in California sunshine - Jin, Kazuya, and Pi.
Kame tosses his spoon into the trash bin nearby with a tiny quirk of lips, and lets Jin and Yamapi argue over the remaining gelato.
--
END.
Title: Take That Champion Hoodie Off in the California Sunshine
Pairing: Jin/Kame/Yamapi
Word count: ~11,840
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: Friendship, fluff, humor, angst, drama, possibly slice-of-life, a façade of a plotline, The Jin Crisis, a copious amount of fandom references, some foul language and bad habits, and hints at the oncoming NEWS Crisis if you squint.
Notes: Dear goldfreckled, I have been very blatantly biased in taking the starry eyes after Akamepi in your request form into account. I apologize for the lame humor, slight melodrama, and shameless amount of Jin. This is the song that first inspired me to write this. There is a lot more I could say about this, but in conclusion, it was a tremendous pleasure to write for you, and I sincerely hope you like it. _ A special thanks to my Jin for the boundless love and supportive ideas, Kame for forever being my creepy number one fan, Yamapi for just always being there for and putting up with me and my issues, and Takki and Sunshine for the loving encouragement.
Summary: Of all the missed opportunities they had with each other, the twists and bends that send them careening off course and pulled back together like elastic. This is how they’ll always be. This is how they learn to breathe again.
Predictably, Kame doesn’t sleep.
In fact, he seems extremely alert, arm resting on the ledge of the door beneath the window, which is rolled down halfway to let in the rough whisk of California breeze. His index finger taps a steady rhythm to inaudible music, a thrumming in the dry silence of early afternoon. Beaches are strung all along the left side of the highway, a smattering of colors and people in momentary snapshots of life as they roll past in the Chevy.
Jin clears his throat; Kame turns to gaze at his side profile. “So,” Jin says, and his voice sounds crackly, estranged. He coughs lightly, hesitates. “You can put on some music. If you want.”
Kame’s lips are thinned into a tight line when Jin tosses him a glance, and there’s a peculiar blur in his eyes. “Sure,” Kame says, a breath, and then he’s slipping the cassette adapter in, reaching for Jin’s iPhone from the otherwise empty cup holders. “Anything you prefer?”
With a stiff shrug, Jin takes a deep, silent breath. “Anything you want,” he replies, and it comes out like a sigh; Kame’s gaze lingers on him for a brief moment before averting. There’s the click of the iPhone keypad, brief silence before guitar strings are plucked out of the rusty speakers, suave and blues-y, a grainy voice rubbed coarse and raw around the edges. “Still Clapton,” Jin remarks after a long pause, the words rising like a question; his slender fingers wrap around the volume knob to turn it higher. After all these years.
“This is Pi’s favorite album,” Kame says, painstakingly casual, like it isn’t the same gritty live performances he and Jin choked on beers over as awkward, lanky teenagers, swallowing the burn of alcohol down their throat and shoving around Jin’s Sony CD player, already beginning to chip from one too many falls to the ground. He’s already such an idol, Kame remembers Jin saying one night, tipsy at 2 AM with lead-filled limbs and sweaty exhaustion pooling on their skin, emptied and crushed beer cans littering the wooden planks of Jin’s first apartment, crowded in by four walls. Jin had been telling him a jilted, broken story through slurring and brief, spastic nonsensical giggle sessions about the other Junior Jin knew, a kid named Yamashita who’d already been in the agency for two years before them. Such a star, Jin had continued, pitifully flinging himself onto his back to stare up at the peeling paint on his ceiling, a browned, dried spot where rain had leaked in during the storm a week earlier.
Kame remembers flipping onto his stomach, not nearly as much alcohol buzzing through his bloodstream as Jin. He remembers staring at the grooves and creases of Jin’s face, the shadows flitting and playing over Jin’s cheeks in the mustard yellow streetlight from the window over the couch. He remembers sweeping an arm around to collect the excess of beer cans and stack them in rows on the coffee table, so he could carry them downstairs in bags in the fresh, brisk light of morning before Jin woke up, dump them into one of the bins lining the curb beyond the back door of the building.
He remembers biting fiercely down on the words threatening at the tip of his tongue then, words that would replay at him, hauntingly, in Jin’s older, explosively furious voice years later, when their roles were somehow recast and Kame found himself thrown inexplicably into a supposedly temporary unit with Yamapi and seemingly leaving Jin by the wayside, when Kame spent nights chugging beer cans alone and watching all his formulated dreams shatter like the glass of a drunk man’s vodka on the sidewalk. He remembers the words he couldn’t bite down anymore when he was informed about Los Angeles in 2006, and again in 2010, like déjà vu, a recurring nightmare. He remembers the night Jin pressed his hoodie-covered face into Kame’s neck, scruffy and unshaven, and scrawled his departure from KAT-TUN onto Kame’s now muscular arms, voice shot and body weak as he leaned in to prop himself up against Kame just to stand upright; the words Yamapi never said when Kame laid his never-ending stream of strife bare in the dim florescent lighting above a bar top, casting an eerie glow on his fingers as he gripped Yamapi’s forearm so hard the skin turned white beneath his fingertips, tearless, heaving sobs wracking his chest as he tried to relearn how to breathe.
He remembers all the words the three of them have kept from each other, invisible secrets hidden in the heaps of things they already know, ghouls of thoughts amidst the wreckage of what they have said, all the useless fury and grief and banter and concern and small talk.
He remembers his little adolescent friends, Jin and Pi, who wanted to rule the world with drumbeats and love songs.
He remembers, and he knows they do, too.
--
The conversation is stilted through an hour of Clapton; occasional jokes in Jin’s low, quiet voice clammed with Kame’s soft laugh, the one he never uses on camera. It takes that hour for them to unwind against each other, words unraveling until the small talk falls away, ribbon undone into the throbbing, real pulse of the wound. Kame inhales sharply, and feels his heart stutter when Jin speaks next.
“I liked your newest single.” The words are an offering, and Jin glances rapidly at him with dark, fleeting eyes, mouth folded in concentration. Kame can’t even remember what they’d been discussing previously; the air suddenly hangs low and his lungs constrict. “It was catchy,” Jin is continuing, filling in the gaps. “I liked the B-sides better, though.”
Kame sucks in a breath, chooses his words carefully. “Well, you know, we are KAT-TUN. The B-sides are always better,” he says, tries to make it light, and feels a spark of success rush through his veins when Jin laughs, the laugh that KAT-TUN lost somewhere back in 2007.
“And the covers always suck,” Jin adds, and Kame laughs, too. They’re quiet for another moment; the slap of waves onshore and voices of harried mothers and happy, gossipy teens carries in the breeze. “Like someone pasted our faces onto Paint.”
“Your face wasn’t even on the cover of Eternal,” Kame says, and it slips out of his mouth, easy, unburdened. He watches Jin’s lips quirk.
“It’s called artistry, Kame.”
“Bullshit,” Kame accuses, voice tinged with mirth. “You’re just too lazy to look good for the camera.”
“Damn,” snapping his fingers, Jin grins, mouth lifted and mischievous. “You caught me. Know me too well.”
“Don’t I always.” The retort is lofty and light-hearted, but Kame knows Jin hears the underlying sentimentality. Jin’s a sap; he always does, even with the meanings Kame never voices, the words Yamapi ceases to sound. Kame thinks of all the missed opportunities they had with each other, the twists and bends that send them careening off course and pulled back together like elastic. Kame thinks of Yamapi, concern clouding his gaze, lines and words tight past his lips - I think he was brave for doing so - and Kame closes his eyes. “We miss you,” he breathes, squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that pinpricks and spirals of rainbow blur into the darkness.
There’s an intake of breath. “I miss you, too,” Jin exhales; his hands are running along the steering wheel anxiously as the road curves. Santa Barbara passes in whiffs of sunscreen and steakhouses, the scrape of feet rubbing sand into wood and the clang of beach chairs as they’re pulled out of car trunks. Buildings rise in signal bars along the skyline; obscure rounded and angled rooftops a ludicrous sandstone red, dwarfed by palm trees that rise crooked and skinny into the blue. “I miss being in a group. I have dancers, but,” Jin shrugs, “It’s not the same.”
A drift catches onto a banner hanging from a streetlamp as Jin slows at the pedestrian walkway, fingers curled around the wheel like a vise. “Do you - ” Kame starts, and then bites his lip.
“Do I regret it,” Jin finishes, sunglasses slipping to his hairline from the top of his head. Absently, he pulls them off, placing them in the cradle of the cup holder beside his iPhone. “Yes, sometimes. When I’m eating barbecue alone in some dingy Japanese shop in London, I ask myself why I ever thought it was a good idea.” He pauses, and Kame waits for him to continue. “But then…I just, I think of you, and you’re there. You’ve made what you want. Like we used to say we would. And Pi…” He huffs a short, resigned laugh. “It was selfish. I had to make a choice.”
“It was selfish,” Kame agrees, after a long pause. Jin gives him an uncomfortable, surprised look - opens his mouth as if to apologize, but Kame cuts him off by speaking first. “But when are we not selfish with each other?”
Jin is startled into a laugh, one that fades gradually as the scenery morphs into a more rural setting, strings of trees flashing spurts of blue sky. “Right,” he murmurs, straightening his arms to lean and stretch his back into the seat. “You know that - that I’m never really, gone,” he says, almost hesitantly. “I mean. You’re great without me. Different, but great, better.” He sighs ruefully. “And this is selfish too, but - we don’t work together anymore, so - ”
“So we don’t have to ignore each other all the fucking time,” and Kame is beaming, sloppy and bright, genuine. Jin scoffs, but he’s smiling, too.
Eric Clapton is still layered into the background; the album has looped more than twice by now. Kame purses his lips, tastes in his mouth the words he held back all those years ago in the squalid apartment Jin moved out of a year before they debuted, affronted by the continuous rain-puddle stains splattering his ceiling and the cramped space in which they’d stumbled and crammed together in alcoholic hazes.
They fall from his lips like a promise, an apology for all the things he’s never said.
“You’re going to be a superstar.”
--
They stop at a seedy roadside gas station on the outskirts of Santa Maria; the windows of the convenience store are smudged with streaks of dust and mud and the door grinds when opened by the occasional customer. Kame steps out to battle with the gas pump, fumbling with it and nearly dropping it onto the cement before managing to wedge the nozzle into the car. Jin runs in to buy cigarettes, giving Kame beseeching eyes afterwards when Kame turns and frowns at the still unshakable habit. “You’re worse than me,” Kame clucks, and Jin sticks out his tongue in a very mature manner, throwing the pack into his duffel bag beneath the backseat of the car.
Kame leans a hip against the side of the car; fingers drumming impatiently as he watches the digital numbers rise steadily. He glances in the backseat window to see Jin rooting around aimlessly in the duffel bag, shooting Kame a markedly impish look and jerking his head at Yamapi, who is still soundly asleep. With deft fingers, Jin pulls out a thick black marker, tugging off the cap with his teeth and letting it dangle from his mouth as he leans over Yamapi with precise, meticulous movements.
After a few, long, drawn-out seconds, Jin hunches back on his legs, knees crammed into a crouch against the side of the Chevy. Kame has to stifle a snort when he sees the loopy French moustache, out of place and obnoxious along Yamapi’s upper lip. The nozzle clicks just then, and he twists around to see the numbers have frozen in place; rows of digits that barely make any sense to him.
“I’ll do it,” Jin says from behind, and Kame turns to see him step up to the pump, swiping a credit card down a slot. In the backseat, Yamapi is stirring, legs crossing and uncrossing, arms stretching back to slam against the door handle. There’s a pained groan, and Jin is obviously trying - and failing - to hide a smirk. “Go check on Pi,” he murmurs, punching in the mini keyboard of letters on the pump, and Kame whacks him gently on the side of the head before doing as told.
“’Morning, sunshine,” Kame greets, climbing into the passenger seat and twisting to face Yamapi. Rubbing his eyes blearily, Yamapi slowly slides upward, swinging his legs around. “Sweet dreams?” The moustache is absolutely ridiculous on his face, and Kame feels the laughter gurgling at his throat, has to force himself to control the twitch of his lips.
“Mm,” Yamapi hums, the fog clearing from his eyes. He raises his eyebrows, opening his mouth wide in a silent yawn as he eyes Kame suspiciously. “What are you so excited about?”
“Oh, nothing,” Kame grins, cheeky. “Nothing at all.”
Yamapi narrows his eyes. “You feeling better?” he asks, like he’s crossing tentative lines, a burglar through invisible laser alarms as he glances over to where Jin is staring down the gas pump machine, brow creased with intense focus.
With a shrug, Kame flips back around to face the front, smoothes a rocky hand over the dashboard. “Better,” he affirms, and clears his throat, coughs delicately.
“Really,” Yamapi says, wryly. “What makes you think I’m going to believe you.”
Kame splutters. “I swear.”
“Oh, swear not by the moon,” Yamapi croons, dissolving into giggles when Kame gives him indignant eyes and, mockingly offended, says, “There is no fucking moon,” voice rickety with laughter and quick, carrot-top fingers scratching at the ticklish spots near Yamapi’s waistline. With a howl, Yamapi scrambles upright, arms raised in surrender as he slams into the car door. “You win, you win,” he screeches, face split in a grin and breaths desperately winded as Kame inches back primly into the passenger seat, expression smug.
“What does he win,” Jin says; he’s sliding into the driver’s seat and closes his wallet with a snap, stuffs it into the front right pocket of his jeans. “Your undying affection? A drunken kiss from a hunky guy at a bar?”
“Both,” Yamapi states confidently, chin tilted in his defiance, and Kame struggles once more with the overflow of laughter rising inside him. “Next time I’m drunk, Kame has agreed to kiss me.”
“Did not,” Kame snaps, at the same time Jin piles into giggles on the steering wheel, his hilarity uncontainable. “Have you looked at your face,” Jin gasps, and soon Kame’s frame is shaking as well, mirth rippling his shoulders as he tries to look at Yamapi solemnly.
Confused, Yamapi touches his face. “What’s wrong with my face,” he says, blinking, and immediately shifts forward, straightening to peer at himself in the rearview mirror.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, you - insane, ridiculous - jerks,” he manages, jaw dropped in surprise as he presses a finger to the marker moustache abroad his upper lip. “What in the. I. I LOOK LIKE FUCKING SHOCHIKUBAI TOKIMUNEI,” he says, “In his worst disguise.”
Lips still pursed in a smirk, Jin turns back around to turn the keys in the ignition. “You look beautiful,” Kame comments, and Jin barks out a laugh.
Yamapi scoffs, haughty. “I am definitely not believing - ”
“No no nooooooo, you show me the faiiiiiiiiiith~” Jin interrupts mildly, wildly high-pitched, voice resonating as he accelerates and overlaps his hands to turn out of the station and back onto Highway 1.
In the passenger seat, Kame can’t stop laughing. “Kanarazu, I keep it for youuuuuuuuuuu,” dodging the smack Yamapi aims at the vicinity of his ear and catching Jin’s outstretched hand for a high-five.
“I’m going to kill you both~” Yamapi sings from the backseat, in the same tune. “Da da da, don’t you wish you could KEEP YOUR FACE.” Kame and Jin both break into laughter, and as Kame inhales in an attempt to recompose himself, he peeks at Jin, whose face is alighted with nostalgia and pure, unadulterated joy, the likes of which he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.
He looks up into the rearview mirror, and catches Yamapi’s gaze. Yamapi winks, moustache twitching and ridiculously out of place. That sets Kame off again - he snorts, claps his hands and laughs until he’s gasping, lungs burning like they haven’t in ages.
He can barely breathe, but he feels alive.
--
It takes Yamapi a mere ten minutes to wash out the fake moustache, scrubbing with cheap, foamy soap in the dim rustic lighting of the steakhouse they stop at when they get to town. They share two tri-tips amongst the three of them; Kame eyes the barbecued beef warily as Jin complains fondly about the last time he visited and how Josh and Ryo stole the majority of his beef cut. Kame chews slowly and tentatively, drinks a lot of the blue-tinted margarita Yamapi ordered him as an off-hand joke, and subtly slips a good amount of his portion onto Jin’s plate.
Yamapi notices, and begins the gradual process of shoving the rest of his meat on Kame’s plate. “I’m not fucking 40 kilos anymore,” Kame finally protests, and it comes out resembling a whine. He can see the blatant surprise in Yamapi’s eyes, the way Jin’s head snaps up to look at him, tension quickly fading as Kame rolls his shoulders and offers a lilting, tiny smile. Yamapi huffs, and dumps the remains of his meal onto Kame’s plate.
“Well, you better not be even close, or else we’ll skin you alive. Right, Jin?”
Jin’s eyes are soft, almost like a trick of light. “Right,” he murmurs, and Kame’s gaze swiftly catches onto his. “It’s all or nothing, Kame. No food, no us.”
Kame laughs, quiet, and turns to Yamapi, whose eyes are now twinkling, grin stamped on his face. “Breaking my heart since 1998,” he says, as pitifully as he possibly can. There’s a snort from Jin, but Yamapi’s grin widens, and he stares directly and meaningfully into Kame’s eyes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he replies grandly, and for a moment, Kame knows he means it. The novelty of the sentimentality wears off, though, when mere seconds later, Yamapi’s frame begins to tremble, shielding an arm over his mouth and choking on unexpected laughter. “I’m sorry, Kame,” he’s giggling, “I just… I can’t, just, YOUR BEAUTIFUL BROWN EYES,” and he guffaws all over once more.
Kame lets out a long, dramatic sigh, and sips at his drink demurely, rolling his eyes in bemusement. “So much for romantic gestures,” he mutters, attempting to sound bitter, but Yamapi laughs even harder, eyes squinting like he’s not sure how to restrain himself, like for once he’s the one losing control out of the three of them, like times to come. Jin just smiles.
--
It takes much longer than ten minutes for Kame to initiate the washing-out of the hesitation and insecurity that’s been lurking in corners ever since July of last year. It flutters about in the air around them, shadowed yet palpable, and clearly not lost on any of them. In a way, it’s how they’ve always been, the three of them, extending old cobwebs until they’re thin enough to cease existence, save for vague, fragile remnants. It’s how they’ll always be.
Jin sits on the windowsill of their motel room in a neon yellow hoodie, legs crossed and cigarette suspended from his fingertips, hair loosely gathered in a ponytail and large, black headphones covering his ears. He’s almost like a mirage, with the faint click of his touch pad and the hum of his MacBook, the occasional crackle as he taps his cigarette on the brim of the small tin ashtray beside him.
When, after two hours of worrying his bottom lip and one more of grunts and dramatic sighs of displeasure, he finally rolls over to stand on the carpet and quietly suggests a bit more than one or two drinks, both Kame and Yamapi are perfectly willing to comply. They attack the nearest store, a 7-11 stocked with large, chilled cans of Sapporo that they heap into the red plastic shopping basket like ravenous animals on a mission. The cashier merely screens one can’s bar code without sparing them a glance, and types in the count, her long, gemmed nails clacking against the keyboard as she pops her gum loudly. Kame squints at the lights overhead, and lets Yamapi pay.
It isn’t easy for any of them to become fully intoxicated, but there’s something about the night that gives them all leeway with themselves and each other. It’s been two days since the day they started; conversation has been relatively easygoing, sentences that wind and escape around issues they no longer wish to bring up; the tension halted to a standstill. Often, Jin has pulled out his guitar to strum at it absently, head tilted back against the headrest and body curving into the contours of the instrument, molded and fitting as the sunlight slants across the rumpled fabric of his V-necks. Sometimes, Kame or Yamapi will sing along with Jin, voices carrying in threaded tunes over the sand dunes, floating away to disappear into the crash of waves onshore, the groan of the old engine and growl of other cars as they pass. Most of the time, Jin sings alone.
Unsurprisingly, Kame is the one to let loose inhibitions first - he doesn’t drink nearly as frequently or as hard as Jin and Yamapi do, tucked into the nooks of private rooms at clubs with friends hoarded around pool tables and empty glasses. His vision is ashy and blurred at the edges; he feels the anticipatory dull throb that usually accompanies a massive headache, but he drinks more to numb it, feels the liquid scorch a trail down his throat. Yamapi’s hand steadies his shoulder as he sways backward into the couch; legs spread out wide. “More,” he murmurs, sliding his glass over to where Jin is filling his own glass again. “Please, Jin.” When Jin hesitates, hand pulling the bottle in by its neck as his gaze flits to Kame’s glass, Kame lets out a small, frustrated noise. “Jin.”
Jin looks up at him with dark eyes. “I don’t think so,” he replies, and his voice is rough, laced with steel determination that makes Kame’s stomach churn. He doesn’t really want to think about anything right now. He doesn’t want to have to figure out all of Jin’s stupid careful words and motions, because since when is Jin ever subtle about anything. And he hates that he can’t say anything about it because he’s Kamenashi and Kamenashi is strong and willful and composed and just trying to fucking salvage his sanity. He hates that he has to pretend to be perfectly complacent about having to shoulder the A and sometimes, sometimes he hates being Kamenashi, he really does, because who the fuck is Kamenashi - he’s Kame, he’s just Kame or Kazuya, really, he’s always been Kazuya who has no idea what he’s doing, and Yamapi knows what he’s talking about because Yamapi somehow always understands what Jin is thinking and what Kazuya is thinking which makes no sense but even when Kamenashi tells him off and says he’s fine, says he’s not tired, says he’s abso-fucking-lutely perfect -
“Kazu,” Jin is saying, mouth widened in shock, face contorted, and Kame’s mouth shuts with a clack. “Kazu,” Jin says again, and somehow he’s become closer, so much closer, and there are strong arms, Yamapi’s arms that wrap around Kame’s now trembling shoulders, and Jin’s ever-so-long, tender fingers are stroking Kame’s hair, damp and clumpy with humidity, are framing his cheeks with feather-light touches that speak volumes more than any of the words Jin’s never said. “I’m sorry,” Jin whispers, into the shell of Kame’s ear, and one of Yamapi’s arms disappear, but suddenly Jin is pressed tighter against him, and Kame knows that Yamapi is hugging Jin, too.
“Thank you,” Kame chokes out; there are no tears but it comes out rough, streaked with sobs that evaporate into the cavity of his chest, raw and scraped. “Thanks, Pi,” he breathes, heavy with the gratitude he’s always buried tight between the lines, never expressed because he - doesn’t know when he - stopped knowing how to be genuine. “Thank you,” he repeats, like he’s clinging to the only words that are willing to fall out, and Yamapi’s fingers clutch at him, tips branding his shoulder blade with heat.
There’s a slight shift in motion, and then Jin’s pinky is outstretched in the middle of the suffocating, plastered circle their bodies have formed with each other, knees twisted and feet jammed into closed spaces. Yamapi links first, joints curving in promise. Kame lets Yamapi unpeel Kame’s hand that’s balled into a fist, lets him extend the fingers so that the unclenched emotions surround and fill the air around them. Automatically, Kame’s pinky finds the crook of Jin’s, wraps around the knuckle of Yamapi’s and squeezes, skin turning white.
The bitter taste of Sapporo lingers in Kame’s mouth; his hands are clammy and his head spins. The only thing keeping him from toppling over is Yamapi’s knee digging into his back, solid and grounding.
“To home,” Jin whispers, hoarse, the way he used to sound after winding down from concert highs and encores, and he doesn’t mean Los Angeles. Kame’s gut wrenches. A sliver of light is creeping through the drawn blinds from the purpling sky. Dawn is breaking.
“To home,” he repeats, raspy, and leans in with Yamapi’s weight. Their foreheads knock together, Jin on his right and Yamapi on his left. Their breaths mingle.
“To us,” Yamapi says, “and everything we’ve ever loved.” His voice cracks just slightly.
Kame sucks in a lungful of hot, arid air, and closes his eyes.
He breathes out.
--
They take turns driving; the scenery of the beach outside is soon swallowed into trees and sprawling rocky forests, and then slowly meshes and flattens back into beaches again, like a flipbook that changes as they turn pages together. Most nights, they drive into the nearest roadside motel, rooms aligned in two-story buildings off the highway.
One night, they spontaneously invade a park, car stopped alongside the photograph area as dusk envelops the sky. There’s a sign that declares they should keep off the grass, mossy rocks and greens overlooking the steep, jagged edge of a waterfall; but Yamapi merely flings himself onto the ground, rolling onto his back to kick his feet up at the stars. Following suit, Jin and Kame pillow their heads on stomachs respectively, their three bodies forming a disfigured, staggered staircase outlined in the pitch black of night.
They shout their names at each other, listening to the sounds ricochet off the treetops; they call up Yuu and Ryo to discuss the significance of the saints whose streets they’ve been strolling through and the grand ideas of their invented constellations. Jin yells, “Hey you! What’s up, Yuu!” like it’s the funniest thing, and Ryo claims Santa Monica would be the hottest chick. Yamapi calls him a sick bastard.
Amigitos, Yuu says, is not a word. Kame traces the faint lines of stars that form a clover-like shape, almost like thumbs raised and pressed up against each other, paused in Seishun Amigo choreography. Rules, he thinks, are sometimes made to be broken.
Vodka of Life, Yuu also says, is probably the stupidest constellation he’s ever heard of.
“Fuck you,” Jin hisses into the phone, but his stomach is shaking with laughter underneath Kame’s head. From his position parallel to Kame, Yamapi smiles, straight teeth and bright eyes, hair fanned onto the grass. He reaches out a hand, as if for support, and Kame responds by lacing their fingers together.
--
The Chevy sputters into San Francisco on Saturday morning, sides splattered with dust and mud, windows rolled down to let in sunshine. Jin is driving, left elbow perched on the sill of his window and fingers tapping the sides as he pulls into a spot along the sidewalk, on the avenue that hooks around Washington Square. Kame had wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge first, but Jin insists it’s a disappointment. Jin, in turn, had wanted to take the ferry to Alcatraz, but Yamapi is hungry, and suggests that they board the evening ferry and grab lunch first, instead.
They’d be too noticeable in Japantown, so Little Italy is the next best option. Tony’s Pizza Napoletana has a small corner canopy entrance, with roofed outdoor seating that opens to the street. Kame sticks the wiry legs of his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt and stretches, watching as Jin sidles up to a man playing guitar a few feet away, foot balanced on a chair and maroon case lying open beside him.
“I can play anything,” the man claims, teeth crooked and accent stilted, slightly Neapolitan. He grants them a medley of old R&B, chords vibrant and voice sandy in the patches of sunlight that splotch their food, Margharita pizza and salad tossed with creamy, dripping Caesar dressing. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it,” Jin tells him, English rolling off his tongue, breezy and Californian, peppered with a Japanese twang. He throws a few bills into the case, urges Yamapi to do the same as Kame sips at his iced tea. The busker’s eyes land on him.
“Sir?”
Kame muses for a second. “Can you play Clapton?” he asks, heavily accented, polite.
Yamapi makes a noise between resignation and laughter; Jin just groans, mutters something in Japanese that sounds like do you ever get enough?
“Sure,” the man says, and grins largely, a billion-dollar smile, untainted by fame.
His fingers grip the neck of the guitar, and he begins to play.
--
After lunch, they buy gelato from the parlor across the street, a medium-sized cup of lemon flavor that they stab three spoons into and call their own. Yamapi runs to a bench just as an elderly couple leaves; his arms dance in victory against the blue canvas of sky as Jin flings a spoonful of ice at him. It doesn’t aim very well; the droplets splatter onto the cement.
“It looks like Jin,” Yamapi mulls, as they sit on the bench together, digging into the ice savagely with their spoons. Kame licks his, head cocking to the side.
“Yeah, it sort of does.”
Spluttering, Jin narrows his eyes. “It does not,” he replies indignantly, “My face does not look like a bunch of - ”
“We meant your name, idiot,” Yamapi interrupts. His eyes are focused on the dried gelato droplets, and before anyone can stop him, he reaches into the container with a finger, dipping it into the melting ice and letting it drip carefully onto the cement. “There,” he says, a few dribbled lines completing the character. “Jin.”
With a snort, Jin peers at it thoughtfully. “Hm,” he says, and sticks his finger into the container as well, flings it in a wave, a square, and lines curving into hooks. “Kazuya,” he murmurs; the characters are drying bright pastel yellow in the sunshine. They both turn to Kame.
Silently, Kame leans down, and draws a gelato-covered finger onto the cement, a single letter. He stares at it, the wobbly line wearing the curve.
Later, he thinks, they’ll go back to being Akanishi, Kamenashi, and Yamapi. They’ll return to Japan, and resume their normal grindstones of schedules, sparse invitations sent through texts for dinner or lunch. Later, Jin will watch reruns of KAT-TUN on Music Lovers and wrap his head and knees into an awkward ball, feel the familiar burn in his chest that will never really go away. Later, in the overcast lighting of a sushi shop, Kame will let Yamapi heap squid onto his plate like Nobuta times, and wait for the vibration from the phone on the table that will signal Jin’s desperately late call. Later, they will drink copious amounts of therapeutic sake on stools around Yamapi’s kitchen island and tumble onto the couch together, limbs tangling to fit as Jin shoves One Piece into the DVD player for the umpteenth time, because Vivi never truly leaves the ship, Yamapi.
And later, much later, the three of them will stampede into the waves of Okinawa, barebacked and suntanned, and learn to breathe above water together again and again, like they did in California sunshine - Jin, Kazuya, and Pi.
Kame tosses his spoon into the trash bin nearby with a tiny quirk of lips, and lets Jin and Yamapi argue over the remaining gelato.
--
END.