Fic for goldfreckled (1/2)
Fic for goldfreckled part 1/2
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.
As July draws to a close, the colors on Kame’s calendar begin to condense into rainbows of rehearsals, magazine shoots, commercials, promotions and conferences to discuss the potential of an upcoming drama season. Besides the month of DREAM BOYS, Going! covers the majority of the calendar in bright pink ink, dotted neatly near the margins just beside where Koki drew a sloppy baseball bat and Nakamaru added in a ball that, by the scale of the bat, is ten times larger than it should be. Kame had whacked him on the side of his head with the tabloids.
He smudges out another day of business, crouching down to prop up the portraiture of his niece kissing his chin against the wall, just so the light catches on and matches the sunlight in the frame. The date after tomorrow on the calendar has been erased completely, only to be replaced with a huge red circle and scrawled lettering that reads: CALIFORNIA, with hearts drawn messily around. Yamapi-style hearts.
Kame frowns.
--
“I made it very clear,” Yamapi insists into his phone, toeing off his shoes. He flips the switch to illuminate the line of ceiling lights in his foyer, lifting his sunglasses to form a headband. “Don’t you worry about it, canijo.”
“Fuck you,” Jin’s voice mutters, static. “Don’t tell me you vandalized his calendar.”
“Without telling him first,” Yamapi confirms, and he sniffs the air. It smells like pesto. “And hearts. He may be poisoning the pasta tonight, just so you know what happened to me when he arrives in Los Angeles alone.” He dumps his keys onto the coffee table, barely glancing at the spare pair already lying on the glass. “Or with a knife,” he adds, with a hint of mirth.
“I can handle Kame with a knife any day, tio,” Jin shoots back, and Yamapi laughs a little as he heads into the kitchen. Kame, sure enough, is standing at the stove with his hair ruthlessly pulled back into a ponytail, hips tilted and red apron covering a worn black AC/DC T-shirt Jin gifted him years ago and slim, ragged jeans. He looks up when Yamapi’s slippers hit tile, mouth quirked in tight concentration.
“Assholes,” he accuses hotly. A strand of hair curls at his nape; his eyes are ringed with late nights and early mornings. “The both of you.”
Yamapi leans against the counter, phone still in hand. He clicks speakerphone, flicks off the whir of the fan, ignorant of Kame’s perpetual glare. “Classy, Kamenashi,” Jin’s voice is sharp through the miniscule iPhone speakers, dry and lackadaisical. “After Pi’s begging and groveling to get you a week off, this is what he gets?”
Kame snorts, stirs the pasta once to make sure it doesn’t stick before turning to the pesto. The window just beside the sink is cranked open to let in rushes of city air, sweet with the taste of faint smoke and damp cement. “Get back to filming,” he retorts, and Yamapi grins, holding the phone further away as the water the pasta’s cooking in erupts into bubbles and steam.
“He misses you,” he says to the phone, and Kame rolls his eyes. Jin’s laugh is warm on the other end, and Yamapi can see the twitch of a smile starting at the corners of Kame’s mouth at the sound, his eyes faintly hazy. “A lot.”
A breeze kicks in from the window, soft and tingling. The wind chimes Josefina gave him for Christmas last year tinkle from their hook on the low-rise ceiling just above. “Gotta go,” Jin is saying, voice slightly muffled. “Fighting scene in three.”
Kame raises his eyebrows, and Yamapi takes the cue immediately, sliding off the counter to help with the plates. “Defend yourself well,” he calls to the phone still sitting on the counter, “It’ll be good practice when you have to face Kame’s wrath.”
The line cuts off with a click. Kame scrunches his nose. “Ha, ha,” he says wryly, as Yamapi hovers over the table, setting a plate down and plucking penne out of the steaming bowl Kame places beside it. Kame slaps his wrist, pushing over the bowl to make room for the tomato sauce and basil leaves, already washed and dried, as Yamapi pulls out napkins from the holder.
“I can always use my fan as a weapon,” Kame murmurs thoughtfully, and Yamapi grimaces. He’s always found the 1582 act rather morbid, though he’s been warned by Jin not to say as much, if anything at all. Ranmaru might possibly be Kame’s idyllic model of a romantic figure, and it makes Yamapi frequently fear what type of person Kame’s going to bring home to them one day as his acclaimed soul mate or something. Kame’s very sentimental in grand abstract terms; he loves the tragic sacrifices and eternal flames of passion. Just this past winter, when Jin had dumped three volumes of unabridged, professionally translated Shakespeare he bought on discount from Kinokuniya in New York onto Kame’s lap, Kame’s eyes had glittered with excitement.
Personally, Yamapi thinks Romeo’s a bit of an idiot.
Kame does look good in a kimono, though. He says as much, along with the docile suggestion that seeing Kame in a kimono in the middle of Los Angeles may cause Jin death by laughter, and earns an elbow in the ribs from hard-edged, strong-muscled baseball arms. He winces, and chokes on his pasta.
--
On the last day of July, they fly into LAX on brilliant, taxing sunshine and the gentlest wisps of clouds. Kame flips through a glossy brochure about the Dodgers stadium, eyes hidden behind round, beady sunglasses, as Yamapi approaches the front desk of the rental car service.
They’re granted a downgraded Chevrolet Caprice, slightly scratched up along the rear but in full working condition, its headlights flashing to illuminate the dusty cement wall. Kame hears Yamapi mutter under his breath sullenly, something about unreliable American cars and Jin’s face. He’s sure he doesn’t want to know. Instead, he leans forward, clicking open the glove box and rummaging around as Yamapi turns the key in the ignition, the engine groaning and creaking as the car comes to life. It sounds a little like Kame’s lower back and hips, on a bad day.
There’s a GPS with the charger wire coiled like a tangle of ivy, the car’s registration and a few leftover receipts from parking garage pay machines, one dated from summer five years ago. Kame thumbs the edge; there’s a smudge of purple Sharpie at the corner, as if by accident, and he wonders for a brief moment what kind of person it might have belonged to. He tosses it aside, digging out the AAA maps of both the Los Angeles area and the entire state of California, creased crisply and folded perfectly.
He directs Yamapi towards the hotel address Jin gave them, marking the map with a pencil as they cross certain exits. Kame has never understood how to work a GPS, and he’s not going to attempt now. The last time he fiddled with new technology, Skype nearly shut his whole computer down before Nakamaru came to the rescue. He frowns at a stoplight as Yamapi leans over to switch on his iPhone, unraveling a cassette tape adapter and plugging it in. Yamapi shoves in the tape just as the light changes green in the corner of Kame’s gaze, and he feels the car accelerate as static ensues.
“Pick a song,” Yamapi says, and then, without even looking, “Press the iPod button. Use your finger to scroll through.”
“I know how to work an iPhone,” Kame snaps, and Yamapi laughs.
“Really? It’s only one-twentieth of your age, I think,” he replies, voice lilted and amused. Kame shoves him lightly, but he’s grinning, too.
Yamapi’s playlists cover broad scopes of music - from Gaga to Beirut, Miniature Tigers to Shostakovich, Chopin to Mr. Children. When Kame thumbs down more, he notices a playlist simply named “jboyz”, and presses a finger to it with creased brows.
When the first, rough strings of Andalucia ni Akogarete are hammered out through the speakers, Yamapi shoots him a quick, surprised glance. Kame lowers the iPhone, and the Chevy fills with the sound of Jin’s hoarse twenty-year-old voice crooning about underground rendezvous. The crowd cheers, tinny.
Yamapi rounds into the entrance of the hotel parking lot, waves the valet off. He swings into a fifteen-minute parking space just as eighteen-year-old Kame dons an imaginary Borsalino hat. Quickly, Yamapi reaches over, and presses to eject the cassette adapter. The silence that follows cradles Kame’s head like cotton, masquerading a light touch as it weighs down on him, suffocating.
“Let’s go,” Yamapi says.
His hand brushes Kame’s fleetingly as they bump into the lobby doors together, as if on purpose. As if to whisper, it’s all right.
--
“What the fuck,” Jin proclaims, as soon as he walks in the door, Starbucks iced coffee in hand. He’d been in North Hollywood for the day to plan out a schedule with the Warner staff about the production of his album, before he took off for a week without notice. His suitcase is bulky, huge and zipped closed, hogging nearly half the doorway as he steps around it. Another suitcase lies opened beside it, just abroad the entrance of the bathroom, and yet another is propped up, its lid lingering against the wall beside the sliding door of the closet. “You trashed my room.” He looks up, sliding his sunglasses up to rest on his hair as Yamapi strolls out of the adjacent bedroom, hair damp and curling where it settles on his shoulders. “I said for them to let you in, not mess up my stuff.”
Yamapi just smirks. “It was a collaborative effort,” he states, and drops onto the sofa that’s stretched out to the windows. ESPN is broadcasting poker on the TV screen; the scornful faces and presumably the sound of chips clattering against each other are muted. “Kame did the bathroom.” He wrinkles his nose. “And your clothes. And everything, basically, except for the bed.” Yamapi winks at Jin. “I did the bed.”
There’s a quiet moment, and Jin is giving him a withering, almost confused look. Finally, Jin sighs. “You’re gross,” he says in resignation, and slips off his shoes, wriggling out white slippers from beneath his suitcase with his toes. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
On cue, the inner door of the bathroom swings open, revealing rising steam from the shower and Kame, hair dark and hastily gathered into a ponytail, still dripping wet splotches onto his faded Queen of Pirates concert tour shirt. His sweatpants read UCLA down his left leg; Jin remembers buying them last year for Kame in extra-small when he’d been bored and skimming the shelves of the college bookstore with Aubree and Dom, while Lizzy caught up with a few old friends she bumped into on the street.
Kame’s rubbing the towel draped around his neck into his hair, glancing up to meet Jin’s eyes. Abruptly, he drops the towel, as if he’s been burned, and in the harsh light, Jin can see the smooth, deadly curve of dark rings under his eyes, the faint splatter of acne that likes to pop out when he hasn’t slept enough, if at all.
“Jin,” Kame says, and he sounds genuinely pleased, if not a bit hesitant. The name is warm and familiar in his gruff voice; Kame’s always been impeccable in swiftly changing gears to “Akanishi” on camera - but off-camera, it’s always been Jin.
Carefully, Jin draws forward. “Kamenashi,” he replies, trying to keep his voice neutral, but it wavers at the end the way it tends to, betraying him when he’s trying too hard. He thinks he sees Kame’s mouth quirk, ever slightly. “You look good,” he lies, and this time, he’s sure Kame’s smiling.
“You look like shit,” Kame responds, traced with amusement.
Jin doesn’t resist the urge to pull him into a hug.
--
They decide to start tomorrow. Jin and Yamapi listen as Kame details the outline of their trip, pencil scratching possible routes down the long zigzags of veined highways on the map. As Kame’s babbling begins to peter off, a crease forms between Jin’s now perfectly tamed eyebrows, his mouth tightening.
“Let’s take that one,” he says, and points a finger at Highway 1 - the scenic route.
“It’s the long way around,” Kame notes immediately, eyes flicking up to see Yamapi staring at them both, gaze sharpened in concern at Kame. “I - ” he bites his lip haltingly when Jin just shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, mouth pursing.
“I know.”
--
Yamapi is the one to suggest Dodgers Stadium, regardless of the fact that they have to wake up at four to kick-start the next morning, according to plans. Jin offers meager mumbles, mouth twisted as he uses a few choice words about baseball, and Kame would elbow him if he’d felt comfortable enough. Instead, he lets Yamapi place threats on the infamous fragile collarbones, can sense the way Jin involuntarily shields the area with a protective stance. His lips quirk as Jin scuffles behind them in the gravel.
It’s probably against some sort of rules, but they’re not the only stray people milling around, and when Jin ducks into an archway to find a staircase, Kame knows he’s been here before. He doesn’t know what that means, but it’s enough to prompt him to follow, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he scales the rest of the steps and stops at the railing fencing the seats in. “Ready?” Jin asks, eyes focused on the field sprawled out before them, voice strange.
Before Kame can process the question, Jin has leapt over the fence, movements swift and graceful. Not many people are aware, but he can still do back-flips on request just as easily, if not easier, than Kame. He just doesn’t want to. Kame can hear the rustle of fabric as Yamapi follows suit, the rough sweep of fingers brushing his elbow as Yamapi squeezes in to give himself room. Kame steps forward into the mistiness of the arena, darkness strewn with stadium lighting that’s hazy and disfigured in the humidity of the night air. A few rows down, a couple sits with hands entwined, murmuring in quiet, undistinguishable tones, battered sneakers and flip-flops propped up on the backs of the seats a row below them. In the vicinity of the commentators’ box, Kame sees the rise of box-like loudspeakers from which a song on the radio is playing, drums muted and voice ragged at the high notes because of the sound quality. It’s American and wistful, makes a fleeting mention of London among other lyrics he can’t quite figure out.
Jin is edged by light, face framed in shadows and the distant, tinny sound of car horns on the roadway, a siren that fades off somewhere else. His face is tilted upwards towards the sky; the lights cast by the cityscape mask the stars from view, but it seems like he’s still looking. Behind Kame, Yamapi shifts, an arm curling to lean comfortably on Kame’s left shoulder, chin leaning in to rest. He can feel puffs of Yamapi’s breath in the shell of his ear, the warmth enfolding his frame. Yamapi’s warmth has always been a bit different from Jin’s. Yamapi’s warmth has never been bittersweet.
None of them say anything, not even as Kame soaks in the broad playing field, the dust that he aches to rub between his fingers, knowing he’ll feel the rough, grainy, perfect texture; the expansive atmosphere that fills his lungs and burns his palms with the need to grip a bat; the throb that accompanies every dream he dashed and every unexpected one he fulfilled. Not until Jin lowers his head, stretches his arms upwards as if grasping for what he knows he can’t reach. “It makes me feel alive,” he whispers, voice coarse. “This city. Like I’ve never felt before - like I belong.”
Kame can feel the words Yamapi bites back without even turning his head. Mostly because he’s biting them back, too. That neither of them ever asked for an explanation, or an excuse, but Jin’s giving them one, anyway.
Instead, Yamapi unfolds himself from Kame smoothly. “You belong with us,” he replies, with no malice, simple. Jin blinks, surprised, and Kame vaguely recalls Takki in late 2006 telling him and Yamapi backstage at Countdown to make Jin proud. That night, after long, drowsy shots at the bar and feeble excuses before the senpai, the two of them had tumbled onto the ragged couch in Kame’s apartment and re-watched the entirety of One Piece to cry of heartbreak until they were whole again. He inhales sharply.
The song ends, and Kame’s breath catches in his throat.
--
It’s strangely easy to fall back into a rhythm with the three of them, even with the slight drawbacks of hesitation. They check out of the hotel after breakfast amidst Jin’s insistent grumbling, still sipping at his iced coffee and propping aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose as he complains about the heat and heavy limbs. Kame just shoves him into the back seat, flicking him on the forehead and smiling briefly, murmurs something along the lines of concert tours and illnesses.
“At least he’s not fat anymore,” Yamapi remarks, as they pull onto the highway. “Just lazy.” He turns to see Kame’s face split into a grin, feels the warmth of California sunshine caressing the fringed hole in his knees.
“Shut up, moobalicious,” Jin snaps from the back, and Kame outright laughs then, a short, squinty-eyed, open-mouthed laugh that has Yamapi glancing into the rearview mirror just to see Jin break into a smile. Kame’s laugh has always been inevitably contagious. It reminds Yamapi of summer, lazy days stretched into ice cream dripping sticky-sweet on sidewalks, fingers curled tight and bony around his own, the scent of fresh grass on his palms. After they’d managed to put aside their differences and tussles in street-side parks, it had blended into long hours wound together, ceaseless, reckless plans for the future, bright eyes and gritty young voices filled with dreams. Jin, Kazuya, and Pi, the invincible trio. Superstars. Superheroes.
Yamapi occupies the wheel, brakes gradually and switches lanes with ease, car chugging at a languid pace. The road is flat and quiet; other cars rumble alongside theirs as farmhouses and grassy areas blur past. They occasionally wind around the high tops of mountain rocks; trees sprouting from crevices and the splatter of storefronts, fast food chains with signs alighted above the highway exits. Santa Monica takes two rest stops and rice crackers from the front pocket of Kame’s suitcase, mostly crushed from the flight but still intact enough to dump into their mouths. Kame pours a wrapper full of crumbs into Yamapi’s mouth as he drives.
The pier is the tiniest bit breezier than the freeway, or perhaps it’s just the sight of water that calms the sizzles in their nerves as Yamapi parks beneath the half-shade of a tree. Jin is inhaling the melted ice mixed in with leftover drops of coffee, grimacing as he climbs out of the car and stretches to expose a flash of smooth tan skin across his hip. He jerks a hand towards the Ferris Wheel painted against the glinting morning sky, his ponytail swinging as he moves.
“Did it help some?” Yamapi asks, approaching from behind and indicating the empty plastic Starbucks container. He’s looking at Jin seriously, and Jin shrugs, rolling his shoulders out a few more times. There’s a dull ache in the plane between his shoulder blades that reaches with claws down to his lower back, digging in deep near his pelvis bones - probably a mesh of soreness from filming and the typical pain they all carry from Junior years.
“A little,” Jin says, and his voice comes out raspy, wedged in his throat. He turns halfway to peer back at the Chevy, finds the passenger seat vacant. He squints at Yamapi, shading his eyes with a hand on his forehead. His shades are back in the car, and the sun burns in his line of vision, searing through the headache that is slowly seeping into his temples, weariness curling into his bones. “Maybe not so much,” he confesses, and Yamapi huffs a quiet, thoughtful laugh.
“Figured as much.” The bottle rattles as Yamapi withdraws it from his jacket pocket, popping the lid open to pour the white squares into his cupped palm. Extra, with strawberries floating on the front, commercialized and cartoonist in their endeavors to appear appetizing. It practically has Kame’s name written on it. “Gum?”
Jin stares at the pieces in Yamapi’s hand for a long moment. “No thanks,” he says finally, and Yamapi just shrugs, pours both pieces into his own mouth. Jin listens for the crunch as Yamapi’s teeth break the exterior, the grind of destruction. His mouth twists; his stomach clenches momentarily. “It gets better,” he says, after a long pause, as if more to himself than anyone, but he can feel Yamapi’s stare snapping up to his face.
Gravelly footsteps make them both turn to see Kame approaching with a four-cup holder; only three are occupied. There’s a whitish drink with a straw stuck in, something else pinkish, and then what is most probably iced coffee, but with no Starbucks logo in sight. “I thought you went to the bathroom,” Yamapi says, drawing up in front of Jin to accept the outstretched cup of pink liquid.
Kame lifts a shoulder, noncommittal. “Thought we all needed something cold,” he replies. His movements are easy and sure, but there’s the faintest timidity in his voice, soft underneath the strong surface. His gaze lands on Jin swiftly. “I didn’t know if you wanted more,” he says, and Jin blinks. “I just assumed. With the jetlag and all.” The iced coffee is the only cup left in the holder.
You always know, Jin wants to say, but the words won’t form in his mouth. It suggests stumbling anxiously over lyrics in small, crowded motel rooms just hours before the flood of stage lights; suggests sticking sparkles onto each other’s biceps and choking on cigarettes and puddles of sweat in the mucky air of rehearsal studios; suggests - borderlines that he can’t, and doesn’t, want to cross right now. Instead, he pulls his hand from his pocket, clumsy and reaching out. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and wraps fingers around the cup. The condensation is soothing to the touch. He brings the straw to his mouth, gulps before glancing up to meet Kame’s eyes. “I did.”
Kame’s eyes soften.
--
“So,” Yamapi says, as Kame pulls the Chevy whirring into reverse, “We don’t get granted with a romantic kissing scene in front of the Ferris Wheel?” He’s grinning cheekily at Kame from the backseat, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe we should have touted along someone attractive to tempt you with. Your one true love. Just to reenact that drama scene for us.”
“Ew,” from the passenger seat, Jin turns back to scrunch his nose at Yamapi. “Don’t say that. He’ll bring Oda Nobunaga back from the dead or something.” He pauses when Kame snorts, shaking his head at them both. “Or maybe bring some really ripped baseball guy to knock us both flat on our feet.” Another pause. “Also, I’m plenty hot, man.”
“I don’t need some really ripped guy to knock you both out,” Kame replies, and there’s a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth as he puts the car into drive, his hands turning the wheel before straightening it out. “I manage perfectly fine on my own.”
Now, Yamapi’s laughing. “And Jin’s hot?”
“Fuck,” Kame grins, “no. I love you, Jin, but you’re too pretty, even for me. Just look at that shampoo commercial hair.” He tosses his head slightly for emphasis, as if to mimic Jin’s even longer, samurai-style hair that’s been retained from filming. Laughter bubbles out of him as Jin flips him off.
The smile spreads even wider across Yamapi’s cheeks when he catches Jin’s eyes in the rearview mirror, as Kame obliviously pulls onto the highway.
--
Kame’s perched on the edge of a cushioned chaise lounge chair underneath the beige canopy of a tent situated on the fringe of Paradise Cove, his stubby fingers still cupped around his iced chai as he hunches his shoulders to lean his elbows on his knees. The screams of childish euphoria and laughter remind him of his nephews and nieces, quaint arms wrapping around his neck and the delicate smell of baby powder when he wraps them in his arms and lets them nuzzle his neck. He doesn’t notice Yamapi’s approach until the cushion weighs down beside him, a bare knee that pokes out from unraveling threads pressing against his thigh as Yamapi shifts to sit in a half-pretzel.
“He’s asleep,” Yamapi affirms, when Kame looks up inquisitively. The knee draws away as Yamapi settles back, eyes dark with determination. It makes Kame’s chest wrench expectantly - he knows what’s coming. “The jetlag caught up to him.”
Nodding, Kame stirs his straw into the chai. “He’s always been awful with jetlag,” he says quietly; they both know this well. Often, Kame wonders if Jin’s sleep schedule is sometimes worse than his. He doesn’t doubt it, given the way Jin catches colds like the plague on concert tours.
Or, well, used to.
As if following his line of thought, Yamapi nudges him gently. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asks, his eyes careful, like it has everything to do with him. And, Kame thinks, it sort of does.
Shrugging, Kame bends forward to place his empty cup onto the sand beside the chair leg. It’s evident they are going to talk about it, no matter his answer. He waits for Yamapi to continue.
“You’ve forgiven him.”
Exhaling, Kame draws his legs up, crosses them. “I’m not an idiot,” he says, and then with a huff - “Or maybe I am, your pick.” He sighs, words steel on his tongue. “I’m not sure what it is.”
Yamapi narrows his eyes.
“I - ” he pauses, searching for the right words. “We’re doing well. Great, even. We’re so coherent now, so group-oriented.”
There’s a short laugh. “I know,” Yamapi says. “Ryo says you’re like the Japanese version of those goopy Korean idol variety shows.”
Kame laughs, too. “Douche,” he protests, but he’s smiling, eyes fond. It takes him a moment to regroup, physically pulling himself back together and composing his emotions. “It’s wonderful,” he starts, stops, chews his lower lip. “I guess I just miss it sometimes, you know?”
An arm slings around his shoulder, tightening. “Shuu~ji-kun,” Yamapi sings, in Akira’s voice, “don’t be sad.” He peeks into Kame’s shuttered face, eyes wide and open, pleading. Kame chuckles, a little wistful, bumps his fist with Yamapi’s when offered.
“Kon,” he whispers.
“Nobuta power,” Yamapi replies, his fingers switching to a horizontal peace sign. His lips quirk as he leans in, brushes a strand of hair out of Kame’s eyes; with anyone else, it would seem too intimate and strange, but Kame feels at ease, strength slowly rising to snag in his throat. “It’s normal to miss it,” Yamapi whispers; gaze confident and serious, holding Kame’s. “I’d probably punch you if you didn’t.”
Kame is startled into a laugh, breathless. “What - ”
“Well,” sticking out his tongue, Yamapi rolls off the chair to stand, barefoot, in the sand. “Leaving isn’t the same as hating.” He wiggles his toes, but his eyes are quiet and reserved, with a faint hint of something else. Kame tilts his head, and Yamapi glances up with a tentative smile. “You really are an idiot sometimes, Shuuji-kun,” he says, and dodges Kame’s light punch before backing away. He grins. “Don’t you miss that, too?”
“Yeah,” Kame replies, barely above a whisper. Yamapi waves his arms, carefree; beckoning him before starting to jog away, sand lifting in small puffs of clouds behind him. Kame’s never known how to thank Yamapi properly for Nobuta times, for the gyoza stuffed into his mouth on days he felt like sinking into the ground instead of eating, for the blankets draped over him whenever he blearily blinked open his eyes, uncertain of when he even fell asleep, for the late night text messages with a plethora of emoticons that demanded he be resting or else. They’ve never been good with words, the three of them, especially with each other.
Maybe this time -
Maybe it’s worth a try.
--
They surf on the waves with rented boards - the weight and balance is different, but they’re used to picking up on new boards easily from annual trips to Okinawa with Jin, pasted in between the rush of KAT-TUN concert preparations and Yamapi’s ever-burgeoning filming as yet another doctor or athlete or, the role Jin, the eternal cheapskate, teased about incessantly for months - swindler. Kame shakes his head, flipping back his bangs messily to blink the sting of salt out of his eyes, his vision refocusing on Yamapi raising a peace sign at him before paddling forward, eager for a wave break. Something anxious is knotted in Kame’s gut, a constant, resilient tug that yanks tight whenever he thinks of Jin. He grimaces, pursing his lips, and plunges his arms into the iciness to follow.
The sun is at its pinnacle when they wear out, limbs dragging and hair stringy. Kame collapses onto the ground, too exhausted to pay heed to the sand that immediately collects in gaps of his toes and coats the back of his legs, attracted to the ocean water still clinging to his skin. The tide has receded, and a miscellany of vivid towels and blankets have been spread out across the increasing surface area as the waves soften, retreating to lap at the shoreline marred by small footprints on the lookout for shells. Kame inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering closed as he lets the dry, tangy breeze blow across his cheeks, leaving light, reassuring tickles as he lies back, folding his arms to pillow his head on his hands.
“Enjoying yourself?” Warm and familiar, tinged with bemusement as Kame cracks open one eye to see Jin towering above him, shirt still rumpled with sleep and hair tousled, somewhat tamed back into a ponytail that protrudes into various directions in the back. He holds back a grin. “Look at you. It’s like someone stretched you into jelly and pounded all the stress out of you.” Jin cocks a hip, a hand tucked into his pocket. “Unacceptable, Kamenashi-kun.”
“Look who’s talking,” Kame retorts, eyes slipping shut again as he hears Jin giggle quietly, warm presence bumping and sidling onto the sand beside him. “Had a nice beauty sleep? Did Europe seep all the youth out of you?”
“Who told you that,” the smile is lazy in Jin’s voice; Kame can sense it without even looking. “I’m still living life on the edge, all the time, man. Every day.” Something bumps against the pinky toe of Kame’s left foot, and then Jin’s lying down beside him, pressed against him along the left side of his body, curves and angles all in the wrong places, the way they’ve always coexisted, strange and awkward and real. Warmth bleeds from the fabric of Jin’s shirt, worn and comfortable against Kame’s bare torso. It’s been a while. “You’re the one who’s secretly eighty years old.”
Kame rolls his head to the side, opens eyes to see Jin staring up at the sky, sunglasses large half-circles against his cheekbones. “That’s getting old,” Kame remarks, watches for how the smile grows on Jin’s face, creeps into the crevices of his features like sunshine through grungy blinds.
“You are,” Jin affirms, shrieking a moment later when Kame reaches over and swipes a hard thumb across his collarbones. Jin rolls to a stand, arms forming an X across his chest as his hands hover protectively over his sensitive spot. “Asshole,” he says, mouth widened into a laugh as he kicks sand at Kame’s arm, spraying grains that stick to Kame’s skin like magnets.
“Well, well,” Yamapi’s voice is high with humor; his hands are full with what appear to be hot dogs wrapped in foiled wrappers and two tall soda cups, one lid already halfway drenched in fizzing liquid. “Look what the tide brought in. Did he have to kiss you to make you wake, Sleeping Beauty?” Yamapi grins when Jin kicks him the shin. “Ah, careful, I bear food. You of all people wouldn’t want that to go to waste.”
“Like you would,” Jin sniffs, and plops down onto the sand, reaching up to help Yamapi with the hot dogs. He hands one to Kame. Yamapi balances the soda cups in the lowered valleys where the sand hills meet and sits down too, hair frizzy and curling as it dries along his shoulders. “Besides, I’d rather Kame kiss me than punch me. He’d probably break my nose or something,” Jin adds thoughtfully.
“Ditto,” Yamapi mumbles through a mouthful of ketchup and frankfurter, as Kame rolls his eyes, digging his elbows into the sand to prop himself and sit up so he can eat. “Those poor, poor taxi drivers.”
“Yeah,” shaking his head, Jin looks woefully down at his hot dog, as if it’s another wronged victim. “Can’t imagine how tough their lives must be, knowing he’s out there somewhere, just aching to beat them into a pulp.”
“Oh, you’re funny,” Kame snaps; he’s grimacing down at his hot dog with an expression akin to disgust. “It was an argument, not a fight, thank you. Also, I was slightly drunk,” he says, nose scrunching. “There’s ketchup in this. And pickles. Jin, did you give me the wrong one?”
Caught in the act of his first bite, Jin freezes, looks down his nose at the hot dog, void of both accused condiments, in his hand. “Whoops,” he says, and bites down anyway before holding it out to Kame, who in turn hands him the other hot dog like it’s a vile, repugnant trash bag. “My bad.” To his defense, all hot dogs look the same while still in wrappers.
“Thanks,” Kame mutters, casually biting into where Jin has already chewed out of his hot dog.
They eat in mostly silence, conversation stretched out in spurts between mouthfuls of bun and frankfurter washed down by what Kame and Jin soon find is Sprite and revoltingly sweet orange Fanta in the cups. Kame breaks open the cap of the Sprite cup when only ice layers the bottom, and pours out three ice cubes, two of which he hands to Jin and Yamapi, respectively. They all suck greedily on the coldness as Kame stuffs the hot dog wrappers into the soda cups; he likes to compact his trash to make the throwing away easier.
“I’m so tired,” Yamapi declares, voice distorted by a loud yawn as Kame meanders away to find a garbage can. Jin shifts closer as he leaves, moving to pillow his head on the flat plane of Yamapi’s stomach, muscles taut and then releasing as Yamapi exhales, lying his own head on his hands just as Kame did before. “I think Japan Standard Time’s catching up with me.”
Jin stretches his legs out straight; points his feet to dip his toes into the sand and wiggling them to flick the grains back off. He spreads his arms out to rest beside him, feels his body melt into the curvature between Yamapi’s body and the ground beneath him the way he always liked to do when the three of them were younger, inventing constellations in the grass before dawn broke. “You have no right to make fun of me,” Jin states, pulling off his sunglasses and rubbing a swift hand over his eyes before he shuts them tight against the sunlight. “You’re no better.” He hesitates. “In more ways than one.”
“Objection accepted,” Yamapi says, and yawns again a second later, his stomach sinking beneath Jin’s head with the force. “Fuck, I can’t drive like this.”
Twisting his neck, Jin looks up to stare at the jut of Yamapi’s chin, the droop of his eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to stay open. “I’ll drive,” he volunteers, rolling his head back towards the sky. “You and Kame can sleep. You’ll have to fight for backseat, though.”
Laughing, Yamapi raises his head ever slightly, enough to peer at Jin through still damp, dark bangs, eyes twinkling. “Did you leave your brain in Europe, Bakanishi? What makes you think Kame’s ever gonna sleep?”
Jin opens his mouth to retort, closes it again without prompt. Sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I guess I just thought - since you both - ”
“When does Kame ever sleep,” Yamapi repeats, and his voice is muted now, pitched low, barely above a whisper. His eyes flash when Jin turns to look at him, masked concern and full understanding of what Kame’s been up to, of what constitutes the ever-elongating circles shadowing Kame’s eyes, of stress from the past year that’s been more than partially Jin’s fault, even if everyone says it isn’t. Jin takes in a deep, shaky breath.
Yamapi glances away, and Jin doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know that Kame is returning. Words are left unspoken, halted at the pointed look Yamapi shoots Jin as he grasps the string of the surfboard Kame hands him, the rentals they have to return to the small shack of a shop back behind the boardwalk.
While Yamapi steps forward to return his board, Jin steps forward as well, subtly shifting to bump his hip against Kame’s. Kame tilts his head inquisitively.
“I’ll drive,” Jin whispers, gaze averted. He glances up quickly to see Kame look away simultaneously, with a curt nod and tensing of shoulders. He suddenly seems strangely distant to Jin; for a moment, Jin stares at the sharp contours of his face, the outlines of weird, elegant facial structures that Jin has always assumed familiarity with, and wonders how and why K ever turned into KA.
---part 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.
As July draws to a close, the colors on Kame’s calendar begin to condense into rainbows of rehearsals, magazine shoots, commercials, promotions and conferences to discuss the potential of an upcoming drama season. Besides the month of DREAM BOYS, Going! covers the majority of the calendar in bright pink ink, dotted neatly near the margins just beside where Koki drew a sloppy baseball bat and Nakamaru added in a ball that, by the scale of the bat, is ten times larger than it should be. Kame had whacked him on the side of his head with the tabloids.
He smudges out another day of business, crouching down to prop up the portraiture of his niece kissing his chin against the wall, just so the light catches on and matches the sunlight in the frame. The date after tomorrow on the calendar has been erased completely, only to be replaced with a huge red circle and scrawled lettering that reads: CALIFORNIA, with hearts drawn messily around. Yamapi-style hearts.
Kame frowns.
--
“I made it very clear,” Yamapi insists into his phone, toeing off his shoes. He flips the switch to illuminate the line of ceiling lights in his foyer, lifting his sunglasses to form a headband. “Don’t you worry about it, canijo.”
“Fuck you,” Jin’s voice mutters, static. “Don’t tell me you vandalized his calendar.”
“Without telling him first,” Yamapi confirms, and he sniffs the air. It smells like pesto. “And hearts. He may be poisoning the pasta tonight, just so you know what happened to me when he arrives in Los Angeles alone.” He dumps his keys onto the coffee table, barely glancing at the spare pair already lying on the glass. “Or with a knife,” he adds, with a hint of mirth.
“I can handle Kame with a knife any day, tio,” Jin shoots back, and Yamapi laughs a little as he heads into the kitchen. Kame, sure enough, is standing at the stove with his hair ruthlessly pulled back into a ponytail, hips tilted and red apron covering a worn black AC/DC T-shirt Jin gifted him years ago and slim, ragged jeans. He looks up when Yamapi’s slippers hit tile, mouth quirked in tight concentration.
“Assholes,” he accuses hotly. A strand of hair curls at his nape; his eyes are ringed with late nights and early mornings. “The both of you.”
Yamapi leans against the counter, phone still in hand. He clicks speakerphone, flicks off the whir of the fan, ignorant of Kame’s perpetual glare. “Classy, Kamenashi,” Jin’s voice is sharp through the miniscule iPhone speakers, dry and lackadaisical. “After Pi’s begging and groveling to get you a week off, this is what he gets?”
Kame snorts, stirs the pasta once to make sure it doesn’t stick before turning to the pesto. The window just beside the sink is cranked open to let in rushes of city air, sweet with the taste of faint smoke and damp cement. “Get back to filming,” he retorts, and Yamapi grins, holding the phone further away as the water the pasta’s cooking in erupts into bubbles and steam.
“He misses you,” he says to the phone, and Kame rolls his eyes. Jin’s laugh is warm on the other end, and Yamapi can see the twitch of a smile starting at the corners of Kame’s mouth at the sound, his eyes faintly hazy. “A lot.”
A breeze kicks in from the window, soft and tingling. The wind chimes Josefina gave him for Christmas last year tinkle from their hook on the low-rise ceiling just above. “Gotta go,” Jin is saying, voice slightly muffled. “Fighting scene in three.”
Kame raises his eyebrows, and Yamapi takes the cue immediately, sliding off the counter to help with the plates. “Defend yourself well,” he calls to the phone still sitting on the counter, “It’ll be good practice when you have to face Kame’s wrath.”
The line cuts off with a click. Kame scrunches his nose. “Ha, ha,” he says wryly, as Yamapi hovers over the table, setting a plate down and plucking penne out of the steaming bowl Kame places beside it. Kame slaps his wrist, pushing over the bowl to make room for the tomato sauce and basil leaves, already washed and dried, as Yamapi pulls out napkins from the holder.
“I can always use my fan as a weapon,” Kame murmurs thoughtfully, and Yamapi grimaces. He’s always found the 1582 act rather morbid, though he’s been warned by Jin not to say as much, if anything at all. Ranmaru might possibly be Kame’s idyllic model of a romantic figure, and it makes Yamapi frequently fear what type of person Kame’s going to bring home to them one day as his acclaimed soul mate or something. Kame’s very sentimental in grand abstract terms; he loves the tragic sacrifices and eternal flames of passion. Just this past winter, when Jin had dumped three volumes of unabridged, professionally translated Shakespeare he bought on discount from Kinokuniya in New York onto Kame’s lap, Kame’s eyes had glittered with excitement.
Personally, Yamapi thinks Romeo’s a bit of an idiot.
Kame does look good in a kimono, though. He says as much, along with the docile suggestion that seeing Kame in a kimono in the middle of Los Angeles may cause Jin death by laughter, and earns an elbow in the ribs from hard-edged, strong-muscled baseball arms. He winces, and chokes on his pasta.
--
On the last day of July, they fly into LAX on brilliant, taxing sunshine and the gentlest wisps of clouds. Kame flips through a glossy brochure about the Dodgers stadium, eyes hidden behind round, beady sunglasses, as Yamapi approaches the front desk of the rental car service.
They’re granted a downgraded Chevrolet Caprice, slightly scratched up along the rear but in full working condition, its headlights flashing to illuminate the dusty cement wall. Kame hears Yamapi mutter under his breath sullenly, something about unreliable American cars and Jin’s face. He’s sure he doesn’t want to know. Instead, he leans forward, clicking open the glove box and rummaging around as Yamapi turns the key in the ignition, the engine groaning and creaking as the car comes to life. It sounds a little like Kame’s lower back and hips, on a bad day.
There’s a GPS with the charger wire coiled like a tangle of ivy, the car’s registration and a few leftover receipts from parking garage pay machines, one dated from summer five years ago. Kame thumbs the edge; there’s a smudge of purple Sharpie at the corner, as if by accident, and he wonders for a brief moment what kind of person it might have belonged to. He tosses it aside, digging out the AAA maps of both the Los Angeles area and the entire state of California, creased crisply and folded perfectly.
He directs Yamapi towards the hotel address Jin gave them, marking the map with a pencil as they cross certain exits. Kame has never understood how to work a GPS, and he’s not going to attempt now. The last time he fiddled with new technology, Skype nearly shut his whole computer down before Nakamaru came to the rescue. He frowns at a stoplight as Yamapi leans over to switch on his iPhone, unraveling a cassette tape adapter and plugging it in. Yamapi shoves in the tape just as the light changes green in the corner of Kame’s gaze, and he feels the car accelerate as static ensues.
“Pick a song,” Yamapi says, and then, without even looking, “Press the iPod button. Use your finger to scroll through.”
“I know how to work an iPhone,” Kame snaps, and Yamapi laughs.
“Really? It’s only one-twentieth of your age, I think,” he replies, voice lilted and amused. Kame shoves him lightly, but he’s grinning, too.
Yamapi’s playlists cover broad scopes of music - from Gaga to Beirut, Miniature Tigers to Shostakovich, Chopin to Mr. Children. When Kame thumbs down more, he notices a playlist simply named “jboyz”, and presses a finger to it with creased brows.
When the first, rough strings of Andalucia ni Akogarete are hammered out through the speakers, Yamapi shoots him a quick, surprised glance. Kame lowers the iPhone, and the Chevy fills with the sound of Jin’s hoarse twenty-year-old voice crooning about underground rendezvous. The crowd cheers, tinny.
Yamapi rounds into the entrance of the hotel parking lot, waves the valet off. He swings into a fifteen-minute parking space just as eighteen-year-old Kame dons an imaginary Borsalino hat. Quickly, Yamapi reaches over, and presses to eject the cassette adapter. The silence that follows cradles Kame’s head like cotton, masquerading a light touch as it weighs down on him, suffocating.
“Let’s go,” Yamapi says.
His hand brushes Kame’s fleetingly as they bump into the lobby doors together, as if on purpose. As if to whisper, it’s all right.
--
“What the fuck,” Jin proclaims, as soon as he walks in the door, Starbucks iced coffee in hand. He’d been in North Hollywood for the day to plan out a schedule with the Warner staff about the production of his album, before he took off for a week without notice. His suitcase is bulky, huge and zipped closed, hogging nearly half the doorway as he steps around it. Another suitcase lies opened beside it, just abroad the entrance of the bathroom, and yet another is propped up, its lid lingering against the wall beside the sliding door of the closet. “You trashed my room.” He looks up, sliding his sunglasses up to rest on his hair as Yamapi strolls out of the adjacent bedroom, hair damp and curling where it settles on his shoulders. “I said for them to let you in, not mess up my stuff.”
Yamapi just smirks. “It was a collaborative effort,” he states, and drops onto the sofa that’s stretched out to the windows. ESPN is broadcasting poker on the TV screen; the scornful faces and presumably the sound of chips clattering against each other are muted. “Kame did the bathroom.” He wrinkles his nose. “And your clothes. And everything, basically, except for the bed.” Yamapi winks at Jin. “I did the bed.”
There’s a quiet moment, and Jin is giving him a withering, almost confused look. Finally, Jin sighs. “You’re gross,” he says in resignation, and slips off his shoes, wriggling out white slippers from beneath his suitcase with his toes. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
On cue, the inner door of the bathroom swings open, revealing rising steam from the shower and Kame, hair dark and hastily gathered into a ponytail, still dripping wet splotches onto his faded Queen of Pirates concert tour shirt. His sweatpants read UCLA down his left leg; Jin remembers buying them last year for Kame in extra-small when he’d been bored and skimming the shelves of the college bookstore with Aubree and Dom, while Lizzy caught up with a few old friends she bumped into on the street.
Kame’s rubbing the towel draped around his neck into his hair, glancing up to meet Jin’s eyes. Abruptly, he drops the towel, as if he’s been burned, and in the harsh light, Jin can see the smooth, deadly curve of dark rings under his eyes, the faint splatter of acne that likes to pop out when he hasn’t slept enough, if at all.
“Jin,” Kame says, and he sounds genuinely pleased, if not a bit hesitant. The name is warm and familiar in his gruff voice; Kame’s always been impeccable in swiftly changing gears to “Akanishi” on camera - but off-camera, it’s always been Jin.
Carefully, Jin draws forward. “Kamenashi,” he replies, trying to keep his voice neutral, but it wavers at the end the way it tends to, betraying him when he’s trying too hard. He thinks he sees Kame’s mouth quirk, ever slightly. “You look good,” he lies, and this time, he’s sure Kame’s smiling.
“You look like shit,” Kame responds, traced with amusement.
Jin doesn’t resist the urge to pull him into a hug.
--
They decide to start tomorrow. Jin and Yamapi listen as Kame details the outline of their trip, pencil scratching possible routes down the long zigzags of veined highways on the map. As Kame’s babbling begins to peter off, a crease forms between Jin’s now perfectly tamed eyebrows, his mouth tightening.
“Let’s take that one,” he says, and points a finger at Highway 1 - the scenic route.
“It’s the long way around,” Kame notes immediately, eyes flicking up to see Yamapi staring at them both, gaze sharpened in concern at Kame. “I - ” he bites his lip haltingly when Jin just shrugs and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, mouth pursing.
“I know.”
--
Yamapi is the one to suggest Dodgers Stadium, regardless of the fact that they have to wake up at four to kick-start the next morning, according to plans. Jin offers meager mumbles, mouth twisted as he uses a few choice words about baseball, and Kame would elbow him if he’d felt comfortable enough. Instead, he lets Yamapi place threats on the infamous fragile collarbones, can sense the way Jin involuntarily shields the area with a protective stance. His lips quirk as Jin scuffles behind them in the gravel.
It’s probably against some sort of rules, but they’re not the only stray people milling around, and when Jin ducks into an archway to find a staircase, Kame knows he’s been here before. He doesn’t know what that means, but it’s enough to prompt him to follow, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he scales the rest of the steps and stops at the railing fencing the seats in. “Ready?” Jin asks, eyes focused on the field sprawled out before them, voice strange.
Before Kame can process the question, Jin has leapt over the fence, movements swift and graceful. Not many people are aware, but he can still do back-flips on request just as easily, if not easier, than Kame. He just doesn’t want to. Kame can hear the rustle of fabric as Yamapi follows suit, the rough sweep of fingers brushing his elbow as Yamapi squeezes in to give himself room. Kame steps forward into the mistiness of the arena, darkness strewn with stadium lighting that’s hazy and disfigured in the humidity of the night air. A few rows down, a couple sits with hands entwined, murmuring in quiet, undistinguishable tones, battered sneakers and flip-flops propped up on the backs of the seats a row below them. In the vicinity of the commentators’ box, Kame sees the rise of box-like loudspeakers from which a song on the radio is playing, drums muted and voice ragged at the high notes because of the sound quality. It’s American and wistful, makes a fleeting mention of London among other lyrics he can’t quite figure out.
Jin is edged by light, face framed in shadows and the distant, tinny sound of car horns on the roadway, a siren that fades off somewhere else. His face is tilted upwards towards the sky; the lights cast by the cityscape mask the stars from view, but it seems like he’s still looking. Behind Kame, Yamapi shifts, an arm curling to lean comfortably on Kame’s left shoulder, chin leaning in to rest. He can feel puffs of Yamapi’s breath in the shell of his ear, the warmth enfolding his frame. Yamapi’s warmth has always been a bit different from Jin’s. Yamapi’s warmth has never been bittersweet.
None of them say anything, not even as Kame soaks in the broad playing field, the dust that he aches to rub between his fingers, knowing he’ll feel the rough, grainy, perfect texture; the expansive atmosphere that fills his lungs and burns his palms with the need to grip a bat; the throb that accompanies every dream he dashed and every unexpected one he fulfilled. Not until Jin lowers his head, stretches his arms upwards as if grasping for what he knows he can’t reach. “It makes me feel alive,” he whispers, voice coarse. “This city. Like I’ve never felt before - like I belong.”
Kame can feel the words Yamapi bites back without even turning his head. Mostly because he’s biting them back, too. That neither of them ever asked for an explanation, or an excuse, but Jin’s giving them one, anyway.
Instead, Yamapi unfolds himself from Kame smoothly. “You belong with us,” he replies, with no malice, simple. Jin blinks, surprised, and Kame vaguely recalls Takki in late 2006 telling him and Yamapi backstage at Countdown to make Jin proud. That night, after long, drowsy shots at the bar and feeble excuses before the senpai, the two of them had tumbled onto the ragged couch in Kame’s apartment and re-watched the entirety of One Piece to cry of heartbreak until they were whole again. He inhales sharply.
The song ends, and Kame’s breath catches in his throat.
--
It’s strangely easy to fall back into a rhythm with the three of them, even with the slight drawbacks of hesitation. They check out of the hotel after breakfast amidst Jin’s insistent grumbling, still sipping at his iced coffee and propping aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose as he complains about the heat and heavy limbs. Kame just shoves him into the back seat, flicking him on the forehead and smiling briefly, murmurs something along the lines of concert tours and illnesses.
“At least he’s not fat anymore,” Yamapi remarks, as they pull onto the highway. “Just lazy.” He turns to see Kame’s face split into a grin, feels the warmth of California sunshine caressing the fringed hole in his knees.
“Shut up, moobalicious,” Jin snaps from the back, and Kame outright laughs then, a short, squinty-eyed, open-mouthed laugh that has Yamapi glancing into the rearview mirror just to see Jin break into a smile. Kame’s laugh has always been inevitably contagious. It reminds Yamapi of summer, lazy days stretched into ice cream dripping sticky-sweet on sidewalks, fingers curled tight and bony around his own, the scent of fresh grass on his palms. After they’d managed to put aside their differences and tussles in street-side parks, it had blended into long hours wound together, ceaseless, reckless plans for the future, bright eyes and gritty young voices filled with dreams. Jin, Kazuya, and Pi, the invincible trio. Superstars. Superheroes.
Yamapi occupies the wheel, brakes gradually and switches lanes with ease, car chugging at a languid pace. The road is flat and quiet; other cars rumble alongside theirs as farmhouses and grassy areas blur past. They occasionally wind around the high tops of mountain rocks; trees sprouting from crevices and the splatter of storefronts, fast food chains with signs alighted above the highway exits. Santa Monica takes two rest stops and rice crackers from the front pocket of Kame’s suitcase, mostly crushed from the flight but still intact enough to dump into their mouths. Kame pours a wrapper full of crumbs into Yamapi’s mouth as he drives.
The pier is the tiniest bit breezier than the freeway, or perhaps it’s just the sight of water that calms the sizzles in their nerves as Yamapi parks beneath the half-shade of a tree. Jin is inhaling the melted ice mixed in with leftover drops of coffee, grimacing as he climbs out of the car and stretches to expose a flash of smooth tan skin across his hip. He jerks a hand towards the Ferris Wheel painted against the glinting morning sky, his ponytail swinging as he moves.
“Did it help some?” Yamapi asks, approaching from behind and indicating the empty plastic Starbucks container. He’s looking at Jin seriously, and Jin shrugs, rolling his shoulders out a few more times. There’s a dull ache in the plane between his shoulder blades that reaches with claws down to his lower back, digging in deep near his pelvis bones - probably a mesh of soreness from filming and the typical pain they all carry from Junior years.
“A little,” Jin says, and his voice comes out raspy, wedged in his throat. He turns halfway to peer back at the Chevy, finds the passenger seat vacant. He squints at Yamapi, shading his eyes with a hand on his forehead. His shades are back in the car, and the sun burns in his line of vision, searing through the headache that is slowly seeping into his temples, weariness curling into his bones. “Maybe not so much,” he confesses, and Yamapi huffs a quiet, thoughtful laugh.
“Figured as much.” The bottle rattles as Yamapi withdraws it from his jacket pocket, popping the lid open to pour the white squares into his cupped palm. Extra, with strawberries floating on the front, commercialized and cartoonist in their endeavors to appear appetizing. It practically has Kame’s name written on it. “Gum?”
Jin stares at the pieces in Yamapi’s hand for a long moment. “No thanks,” he says finally, and Yamapi just shrugs, pours both pieces into his own mouth. Jin listens for the crunch as Yamapi’s teeth break the exterior, the grind of destruction. His mouth twists; his stomach clenches momentarily. “It gets better,” he says, after a long pause, as if more to himself than anyone, but he can feel Yamapi’s stare snapping up to his face.
Gravelly footsteps make them both turn to see Kame approaching with a four-cup holder; only three are occupied. There’s a whitish drink with a straw stuck in, something else pinkish, and then what is most probably iced coffee, but with no Starbucks logo in sight. “I thought you went to the bathroom,” Yamapi says, drawing up in front of Jin to accept the outstretched cup of pink liquid.
Kame lifts a shoulder, noncommittal. “Thought we all needed something cold,” he replies. His movements are easy and sure, but there’s the faintest timidity in his voice, soft underneath the strong surface. His gaze lands on Jin swiftly. “I didn’t know if you wanted more,” he says, and Jin blinks. “I just assumed. With the jetlag and all.” The iced coffee is the only cup left in the holder.
You always know, Jin wants to say, but the words won’t form in his mouth. It suggests stumbling anxiously over lyrics in small, crowded motel rooms just hours before the flood of stage lights; suggests sticking sparkles onto each other’s biceps and choking on cigarettes and puddles of sweat in the mucky air of rehearsal studios; suggests - borderlines that he can’t, and doesn’t, want to cross right now. Instead, he pulls his hand from his pocket, clumsy and reaching out. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and wraps fingers around the cup. The condensation is soothing to the touch. He brings the straw to his mouth, gulps before glancing up to meet Kame’s eyes. “I did.”
Kame’s eyes soften.
--
“So,” Yamapi says, as Kame pulls the Chevy whirring into reverse, “We don’t get granted with a romantic kissing scene in front of the Ferris Wheel?” He’s grinning cheekily at Kame from the backseat, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe we should have touted along someone attractive to tempt you with. Your one true love. Just to reenact that drama scene for us.”
“Ew,” from the passenger seat, Jin turns back to scrunch his nose at Yamapi. “Don’t say that. He’ll bring Oda Nobunaga back from the dead or something.” He pauses when Kame snorts, shaking his head at them both. “Or maybe bring some really ripped baseball guy to knock us both flat on our feet.” Another pause. “Also, I’m plenty hot, man.”
“I don’t need some really ripped guy to knock you both out,” Kame replies, and there’s a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth as he puts the car into drive, his hands turning the wheel before straightening it out. “I manage perfectly fine on my own.”
Now, Yamapi’s laughing. “And Jin’s hot?”
“Fuck,” Kame grins, “no. I love you, Jin, but you’re too pretty, even for me. Just look at that shampoo commercial hair.” He tosses his head slightly for emphasis, as if to mimic Jin’s even longer, samurai-style hair that’s been retained from filming. Laughter bubbles out of him as Jin flips him off.
The smile spreads even wider across Yamapi’s cheeks when he catches Jin’s eyes in the rearview mirror, as Kame obliviously pulls onto the highway.
--
Kame’s perched on the edge of a cushioned chaise lounge chair underneath the beige canopy of a tent situated on the fringe of Paradise Cove, his stubby fingers still cupped around his iced chai as he hunches his shoulders to lean his elbows on his knees. The screams of childish euphoria and laughter remind him of his nephews and nieces, quaint arms wrapping around his neck and the delicate smell of baby powder when he wraps them in his arms and lets them nuzzle his neck. He doesn’t notice Yamapi’s approach until the cushion weighs down beside him, a bare knee that pokes out from unraveling threads pressing against his thigh as Yamapi shifts to sit in a half-pretzel.
“He’s asleep,” Yamapi affirms, when Kame looks up inquisitively. The knee draws away as Yamapi settles back, eyes dark with determination. It makes Kame’s chest wrench expectantly - he knows what’s coming. “The jetlag caught up to him.”
Nodding, Kame stirs his straw into the chai. “He’s always been awful with jetlag,” he says quietly; they both know this well. Often, Kame wonders if Jin’s sleep schedule is sometimes worse than his. He doesn’t doubt it, given the way Jin catches colds like the plague on concert tours.
Or, well, used to.
As if following his line of thought, Yamapi nudges him gently. “Are we going to talk about this?” he asks, his eyes careful, like it has everything to do with him. And, Kame thinks, it sort of does.
Shrugging, Kame bends forward to place his empty cup onto the sand beside the chair leg. It’s evident they are going to talk about it, no matter his answer. He waits for Yamapi to continue.
“You’ve forgiven him.”
Exhaling, Kame draws his legs up, crosses them. “I’m not an idiot,” he says, and then with a huff - “Or maybe I am, your pick.” He sighs, words steel on his tongue. “I’m not sure what it is.”
Yamapi narrows his eyes.
“I - ” he pauses, searching for the right words. “We’re doing well. Great, even. We’re so coherent now, so group-oriented.”
There’s a short laugh. “I know,” Yamapi says. “Ryo says you’re like the Japanese version of those goopy Korean idol variety shows.”
Kame laughs, too. “Douche,” he protests, but he’s smiling, eyes fond. It takes him a moment to regroup, physically pulling himself back together and composing his emotions. “It’s wonderful,” he starts, stops, chews his lower lip. “I guess I just miss it sometimes, you know?”
An arm slings around his shoulder, tightening. “Shuu~ji-kun,” Yamapi sings, in Akira’s voice, “don’t be sad.” He peeks into Kame’s shuttered face, eyes wide and open, pleading. Kame chuckles, a little wistful, bumps his fist with Yamapi’s when offered.
“Kon,” he whispers.
“Nobuta power,” Yamapi replies, his fingers switching to a horizontal peace sign. His lips quirk as he leans in, brushes a strand of hair out of Kame’s eyes; with anyone else, it would seem too intimate and strange, but Kame feels at ease, strength slowly rising to snag in his throat. “It’s normal to miss it,” Yamapi whispers; gaze confident and serious, holding Kame’s. “I’d probably punch you if you didn’t.”
Kame is startled into a laugh, breathless. “What - ”
“Well,” sticking out his tongue, Yamapi rolls off the chair to stand, barefoot, in the sand. “Leaving isn’t the same as hating.” He wiggles his toes, but his eyes are quiet and reserved, with a faint hint of something else. Kame tilts his head, and Yamapi glances up with a tentative smile. “You really are an idiot sometimes, Shuuji-kun,” he says, and dodges Kame’s light punch before backing away. He grins. “Don’t you miss that, too?”
“Yeah,” Kame replies, barely above a whisper. Yamapi waves his arms, carefree; beckoning him before starting to jog away, sand lifting in small puffs of clouds behind him. Kame’s never known how to thank Yamapi properly for Nobuta times, for the gyoza stuffed into his mouth on days he felt like sinking into the ground instead of eating, for the blankets draped over him whenever he blearily blinked open his eyes, uncertain of when he even fell asleep, for the late night text messages with a plethora of emoticons that demanded he be resting or else. They’ve never been good with words, the three of them, especially with each other.
Maybe this time -
Maybe it’s worth a try.
--
They surf on the waves with rented boards - the weight and balance is different, but they’re used to picking up on new boards easily from annual trips to Okinawa with Jin, pasted in between the rush of KAT-TUN concert preparations and Yamapi’s ever-burgeoning filming as yet another doctor or athlete or, the role Jin, the eternal cheapskate, teased about incessantly for months - swindler. Kame shakes his head, flipping back his bangs messily to blink the sting of salt out of his eyes, his vision refocusing on Yamapi raising a peace sign at him before paddling forward, eager for a wave break. Something anxious is knotted in Kame’s gut, a constant, resilient tug that yanks tight whenever he thinks of Jin. He grimaces, pursing his lips, and plunges his arms into the iciness to follow.
The sun is at its pinnacle when they wear out, limbs dragging and hair stringy. Kame collapses onto the ground, too exhausted to pay heed to the sand that immediately collects in gaps of his toes and coats the back of his legs, attracted to the ocean water still clinging to his skin. The tide has receded, and a miscellany of vivid towels and blankets have been spread out across the increasing surface area as the waves soften, retreating to lap at the shoreline marred by small footprints on the lookout for shells. Kame inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering closed as he lets the dry, tangy breeze blow across his cheeks, leaving light, reassuring tickles as he lies back, folding his arms to pillow his head on his hands.
“Enjoying yourself?” Warm and familiar, tinged with bemusement as Kame cracks open one eye to see Jin towering above him, shirt still rumpled with sleep and hair tousled, somewhat tamed back into a ponytail that protrudes into various directions in the back. He holds back a grin. “Look at you. It’s like someone stretched you into jelly and pounded all the stress out of you.” Jin cocks a hip, a hand tucked into his pocket. “Unacceptable, Kamenashi-kun.”
“Look who’s talking,” Kame retorts, eyes slipping shut again as he hears Jin giggle quietly, warm presence bumping and sidling onto the sand beside him. “Had a nice beauty sleep? Did Europe seep all the youth out of you?”
“Who told you that,” the smile is lazy in Jin’s voice; Kame can sense it without even looking. “I’m still living life on the edge, all the time, man. Every day.” Something bumps against the pinky toe of Kame’s left foot, and then Jin’s lying down beside him, pressed against him along the left side of his body, curves and angles all in the wrong places, the way they’ve always coexisted, strange and awkward and real. Warmth bleeds from the fabric of Jin’s shirt, worn and comfortable against Kame’s bare torso. It’s been a while. “You’re the one who’s secretly eighty years old.”
Kame rolls his head to the side, opens eyes to see Jin staring up at the sky, sunglasses large half-circles against his cheekbones. “That’s getting old,” Kame remarks, watches for how the smile grows on Jin’s face, creeps into the crevices of his features like sunshine through grungy blinds.
“You are,” Jin affirms, shrieking a moment later when Kame reaches over and swipes a hard thumb across his collarbones. Jin rolls to a stand, arms forming an X across his chest as his hands hover protectively over his sensitive spot. “Asshole,” he says, mouth widened into a laugh as he kicks sand at Kame’s arm, spraying grains that stick to Kame’s skin like magnets.
“Well, well,” Yamapi’s voice is high with humor; his hands are full with what appear to be hot dogs wrapped in foiled wrappers and two tall soda cups, one lid already halfway drenched in fizzing liquid. “Look what the tide brought in. Did he have to kiss you to make you wake, Sleeping Beauty?” Yamapi grins when Jin kicks him the shin. “Ah, careful, I bear food. You of all people wouldn’t want that to go to waste.”
“Like you would,” Jin sniffs, and plops down onto the sand, reaching up to help Yamapi with the hot dogs. He hands one to Kame. Yamapi balances the soda cups in the lowered valleys where the sand hills meet and sits down too, hair frizzy and curling as it dries along his shoulders. “Besides, I’d rather Kame kiss me than punch me. He’d probably break my nose or something,” Jin adds thoughtfully.
“Ditto,” Yamapi mumbles through a mouthful of ketchup and frankfurter, as Kame rolls his eyes, digging his elbows into the sand to prop himself and sit up so he can eat. “Those poor, poor taxi drivers.”
“Yeah,” shaking his head, Jin looks woefully down at his hot dog, as if it’s another wronged victim. “Can’t imagine how tough their lives must be, knowing he’s out there somewhere, just aching to beat them into a pulp.”
“Oh, you’re funny,” Kame snaps; he’s grimacing down at his hot dog with an expression akin to disgust. “It was an argument, not a fight, thank you. Also, I was slightly drunk,” he says, nose scrunching. “There’s ketchup in this. And pickles. Jin, did you give me the wrong one?”
Caught in the act of his first bite, Jin freezes, looks down his nose at the hot dog, void of both accused condiments, in his hand. “Whoops,” he says, and bites down anyway before holding it out to Kame, who in turn hands him the other hot dog like it’s a vile, repugnant trash bag. “My bad.” To his defense, all hot dogs look the same while still in wrappers.
“Thanks,” Kame mutters, casually biting into where Jin has already chewed out of his hot dog.
They eat in mostly silence, conversation stretched out in spurts between mouthfuls of bun and frankfurter washed down by what Kame and Jin soon find is Sprite and revoltingly sweet orange Fanta in the cups. Kame breaks open the cap of the Sprite cup when only ice layers the bottom, and pours out three ice cubes, two of which he hands to Jin and Yamapi, respectively. They all suck greedily on the coldness as Kame stuffs the hot dog wrappers into the soda cups; he likes to compact his trash to make the throwing away easier.
“I’m so tired,” Yamapi declares, voice distorted by a loud yawn as Kame meanders away to find a garbage can. Jin shifts closer as he leaves, moving to pillow his head on the flat plane of Yamapi’s stomach, muscles taut and then releasing as Yamapi exhales, lying his own head on his hands just as Kame did before. “I think Japan Standard Time’s catching up with me.”
Jin stretches his legs out straight; points his feet to dip his toes into the sand and wiggling them to flick the grains back off. He spreads his arms out to rest beside him, feels his body melt into the curvature between Yamapi’s body and the ground beneath him the way he always liked to do when the three of them were younger, inventing constellations in the grass before dawn broke. “You have no right to make fun of me,” Jin states, pulling off his sunglasses and rubbing a swift hand over his eyes before he shuts them tight against the sunlight. “You’re no better.” He hesitates. “In more ways than one.”
“Objection accepted,” Yamapi says, and yawns again a second later, his stomach sinking beneath Jin’s head with the force. “Fuck, I can’t drive like this.”
Twisting his neck, Jin looks up to stare at the jut of Yamapi’s chin, the droop of his eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to stay open. “I’ll drive,” he volunteers, rolling his head back towards the sky. “You and Kame can sleep. You’ll have to fight for backseat, though.”
Laughing, Yamapi raises his head ever slightly, enough to peer at Jin through still damp, dark bangs, eyes twinkling. “Did you leave your brain in Europe, Bakanishi? What makes you think Kame’s ever gonna sleep?”
Jin opens his mouth to retort, closes it again without prompt. Sighs. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “I guess I just thought - since you both - ”
“When does Kame ever sleep,” Yamapi repeats, and his voice is muted now, pitched low, barely above a whisper. His eyes flash when Jin turns to look at him, masked concern and full understanding of what Kame’s been up to, of what constitutes the ever-elongating circles shadowing Kame’s eyes, of stress from the past year that’s been more than partially Jin’s fault, even if everyone says it isn’t. Jin takes in a deep, shaky breath.
Yamapi glances away, and Jin doesn’t have to follow his gaze to know that Kame is returning. Words are left unspoken, halted at the pointed look Yamapi shoots Jin as he grasps the string of the surfboard Kame hands him, the rentals they have to return to the small shack of a shop back behind the boardwalk.
While Yamapi steps forward to return his board, Jin steps forward as well, subtly shifting to bump his hip against Kame’s. Kame tilts his head inquisitively.
“I’ll drive,” Jin whispers, gaze averted. He glances up quickly to see Kame look away simultaneously, with a curt nod and tensing of shoulders. He suddenly seems strangely distant to Jin; for a moment, Jin stares at the sharp contours of his face, the outlines of weird, elegant facial structures that Jin has always assumed familiarity with, and wonders how and why K ever turned into KA.
---part 2