Fic for reiicharu (2/3)
Fic for reiicharu part 2/3
Title: Down in the foundry we forge for us the changing bell
Pairing: Yamashita Tomohisa/Kamenashi Kazuya
Word count: 16,400~
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: slight angst, fluff/slice-of-life, possible mess up of dates, Pi leaving NewS and Jincident, and (very vague) mentions of the earthquake in Japan.
Notes: Dear Rei, the prompts you gave instantly caught me and articulated the bunch of ideas I had in my head. It was a wonderful hectic experience to write for you and I really, really hope you like it. A special thanks to my wonderful beta for the endless pointers and (amazingly) fast replies, and to Producer-kun for the immense patience and the slight spoiling; without them, I would’ve had a surmenage at some point. Finally, I was looping this album while writing, so the mood may have been influenced by it, and this song gave me the final boost I needed to wrap this up.
Summary: Shuuji and Akira are BACK!
Today’s school is not as easy as the previous ones. The kids are a bit more insane, bouncy and talkative, and they can’t convince the class the games they have prepared aren’t boring until the teacher intervenes and calms down the mob that is almost tackling Kame to the floor. Even Yamapi flinches at the stern voice, despite the old lady smiling later. Granted, the kids follow their instructions swiftly after that. Yamapi seldom wonders why Johnny is really doing this, finding no other profit than squeezing working hours from Kame and himself. But then he looks back and waves to the bouncy kids, and wonders if maybe Johnny isn’t really as profit oriented as he has thought all these years.
“Urgh,” Kame growls, and Yamapi looks up. From his place in the couch, he can see perfectly Kame frowning at whatever he has on his hand. It isn’t a reassuring image, not with the kitchen knife he has in the other one. Kame huffs, puts it down, and starts rummaging in the fridge.
Yamapi raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Wrong brand,” Kame answers, muffled, and Yamapi lets out a short laugh. He joins Kame in the kitchen, pushing bottles and jars around until he finally can make room for himself in the little space there is with how Kame has decided he needs to take everything out of the cabinets to make lasagna. He is wearing one of Yamapi’s shirts, and it’s ironic how it sticks to his torso as if it were a size too small. It reminds Yamapi of how it used to be the opposite, Kame so scrawny and thin he looked as if he didn’t have any internal organs; so light Jin and Yamapi could lift him off the ground in those rare occasions Kame was distracted enough to not retaliate immediately and aim for Jin’s collarbones.
“Here,” Yamapi says, and hands him the salt when Kame seems to be searching for it. As he moves around some more, Yamapi notices how his arms are buffed, but his waist is slimmer; his chest shallow again even if it’s still muscular. He wants to poke him, pinch his tummy, but doesn’t think it wise with Kame holding a bowl of white sauce. Instead, Yamapi reaches for the vegetables, and throws some in the large pan where the uncooked pasta is.
Kame frowns at him, playful, and lets him throw the rest of the vegetables on after each layer, a colourful sketch covered soon by white sauce before there is another layer of pasta and more vegetables and white sauce to cover it. Yamapi loves cooking, he always has; even during those times meals became an enemy in disguise, he had enjoyed it, moving smoothly around the kitchen, chopping and boiling and creating new flavours from familiar ones. He knows Kame loves it too, the tasting and experimenting, even when there were times he had needed to write down on his agenda every single lunchtime not to skip it.
They move effortlessly around the kitchen, a comfortable silence settling around them, the CD Kame brought playing in the background with something that sounds like guitar chords and a gentle male voice. It is Japanese, and Yamapi wonders if it is the same Suga Shikao album Kame has been looping on his car.
“Oh, no, leave that. I’ll wash later,” he says when Kame opens the tap, but the other smacks his hands away.
“I’ll just wash while it gets done,” Kame says, and grabs one of the bowls, doesn’t really look at Yamapi as he speaks. “Set the table,” he instructs. And then turns, cheeky and mischievous, his voice conspiratorially lowering. “I have wine in my bag.”
Yamapi gasps. “Alcohol at work!” he cries, and dashes out of the kitchen in a twirl of melodrama. “The scandal!”
“I’m living on the edge!” Kame yells from the kitchen, and Yamapi laughs, pulling two glasses from the winery.
From the look of them, they have never been used. Kame says as much when he joins him in the living room, drying his hands in a towel. “Clearly you only hang out with Akanishi,” he comments, and Yamapi finds it in himself to not be surprised anymore; as if Jin was one of the many lingering bridges between them, and not as distant from Kame as he had initially thought. Kame smiles, and the napkins on his hands are some old fabric ones Yamapi’s mom bought him last year. They have never been used either.
“Don’t you ever use your things, Yamashita?” Kame asks, waving the napkins on his face, a little indignant.
Yamapi huffs. “I haven’t been eating at home,” he replies. Kame’s reproof is tangible in his snort. “Feel honoured. You’re using brand new dinnerware.”
Kame snorts again, but he looks more pleased than he’s letting on; Yamapi is satisfied with that. Leaning his hip against the counter, he hands Kame the corkscrew, watches him easily uncork the bottle of Chianti. Yamapi is no connoisseur of wines, but there is a delicate tangy scent of cherry and orange and almonds, and he smiles, passing the round glasses to Kame.
Kame looks at him from behind the transparent material, eyes twinkling with the fluttering feeling of normalcy.
“What are we toasting for?” Yamapi asks, and Kame’s face lightens even more.
His hunches his shoulders, indifferent, and still strangely mellow where he’s leaning against the cabinets. “I don’t know,” he answers sincerely, and Yamapi lets himself not care when Kame’s voice sounds so relaxed, swaying like the wine in the glass between his fingers. “To Johnny?”
They laugh together. Yamapi nods. “As good an excuse as any,” he agrees, and Kame nods a thank you, like he just had a brilliant idea validated, clinking their glasses together as red wine sways at the bottom, so different from how the cans of beer he is used to clash in dainty questionable situations. Dinner and pasta and wine sounds like a Kame thing to do; and it’s slowly becoming a Yamapi thing to do, the more time he spends with Kame inside the walls of his apartment. Some days, he misses late nights of video games and beer and silly teasing and bantering. Today, he doesn’t.
“To Johnny, huh?” he mutters amused, and Kame laughs; turns to the oven when something creaks, glass tinkling when it’s set on marble, and Yamapi huffs in amusement. To Johnny, huh, he thinks. And well, even when Johnny may be senile and slightly demented at times, Yamapi must accept that he still has some good ideas. Especially as Kame shoves lasagna on his face, steaming hot on the tip of a fork, Yamapi has to whole-heartedly agree. Johnny can still get some great ideas from time to time.
And he does deserve the toast.
--
There is no jetlag. There is no convincing Jin otherwise either, as his friend frets around him instead of just calming down and sitting on the couch. Yamapi keeps the headache at bay and instead trips Jin, who stumbles, but doesn’t lose his balance and only smacks him back and gets the message. He seems like he can’t believe, really believe, that Yamapi is sitting there, lounging at his place in L.A., plaid pajama bottoms the only thing he had pulled out of his suitcase since he arrived and told Jin he wasn’t there for touristic stuff. Jin had seemed unconvinced, but the worried frown on Yamapi’s face had made him scurry inside the kitchen and come back with some beers, vague explanations of his roommate not being there and showing him around done in less than five minutes before he was sitting cross-legged on Jin’s bed, in front of a spread-eagled Jin lying on his stomach, waiting for Pi to talk. The TV is on just for the white noise it creates.
Jin takes a swig of his beer. “Is this about Kame?” he asks then, out of the blue.
Yamapi actually chokes.
“What the hell,” Yamapi curses, as Jin shoves his hand away because clearly he prioritizes no beer on his bed over beer on his floor. He snorts, they both laugh, and Yamapi smacks him away and extends his legs in front of him. So much for being serious. “The hell, Jin, why would this be about Kame?”
Jin shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know? You two are working together, right?” and there is something in Jin’s eyes. Because it’s Yamapi and Kame, and Kame without Jin, and it unseals a memory chest of a year hectic enough to be forgotten because it is exhausting to even start to recall.
Yamapi sighs. “How do you know?” he asks. And laughs when Jin promptly says Nakamaru. Yamapi should’ve seen that coming. “No, I wouldn’t travel this far for Kame.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” comes the rushed question. A tricky one.
Pi answers honestly.
“I don’t know.”
Jin nods, chin on his hands. It is almost as if he is really, really thinking about Yamapi’s answer and Yamapi has no idea what he is making of it because he himself isn’t really sure of the why. “Alright,” Jin finally accepts, and looks up at Yamapi again. He must have seen something, because he frowns in concern now, all annoyance gone from his face. Yamapi smiles softly; Jin can be less hard-headed when he wants to be. “What is it then?”
It is at this moment that Yamapi halts; thinks of everything that made him come here instead of opening his laptop and abducting Jin virtually for hours and hours. Everything rushes to his mind, things they haven’t really talked about before. Things like Jin’s mood swings and Kame’s hands curling around a phone, white knuckles so tight that Yamapi wondered how he managed not to break it. Of hiccups and runny noses and that one weird night ages ago, the first time all hell broke loose, when Kame looked detached, aloof, sitting in a bar by his side as he tried to avoid Jin’s existence at all costs and Yamapi wasn’t sure what to say or do or act like when he rushed to the figure sitting on top of a toilet seat, knees drawn up to his chest, face hidden between bony knees.
He wants to ask about emails and long conversations and tell Jin all about how he has dealt with it so far, how he has hinted to Koyama and Shige and Massu and Tegoshi, and the late night talks with Ryo sipping on some beer and nodding gravely with a frown as he spoke, first quite subtle before it became tangible, and Ryo snapping at him, his mind made up already as he yelled at Yamapi to stop prioritizing everyone but himself.
There are questions lingering on the tip of his tongue; on how it is and how he is coping and whether or not he misses it. Whether it was worth it, the solitude and the freedom; the vast expanse of possibilities of working with oneself and that alone. The extra responsibility and pressure he signed up for. The different type of satisfaction. The lonely dressing rooms; the lack of sequins. He wants to ask if he still has his ex-bandmates numbers in his cell phone, if he still sees them; how it feels to browse through old stuff and not be on the most recent ones, to imagine a year without missing a decent New Year’s date because he’s twirling around and dancing at Countdown.
He wants to ask if Jin still talks to Kame, or if they just hear from each other, tiptoeing around their friendship as they had been doing all these years; as Pi himself has without knowing whether they still were Pi and Jin and Kazuya from Takki’s living room, from sleepovers with late night scary stories, or if they had finally become Kamenashi and Akanishi and Yamashita somewhere along the way, the distances constantly growing and filling with new faces, new gaps, and more and more glass walls.
“It’s NewS,” he ends up saying, and his voice strains, thinner than it has been. His throat suddenly dries as if he’s swallowed a sponge and it has gotten stuck against his vocal chords.
Jin seems startled for a moment. But he isn’t sprawled on the mattress anymore; his face is in front of Yamapi’s, concerned and frowning, but he doesn’t look shocked. It makes Yamapi wonder how much he has really let on in emails and phone calls, and if someone (or everyone) has seen it coming. Someone close enough to him to read between the few lines he has dropped on the subject.
Jin nods. “I’ll bring some more beer, ok?” he says, softly, and disappears. The pillows are comfortable where Yamapi lets himself fall on them, and he’s a boneless mass of nerves. Saying it out loud, discussing it; really putting it into words, the final decision and the ultimatum, makes it more real than it had been before. And it’s crushing on his shoulders.
Yamapi only leaves Jin’s apartment once. And it’s to go back to the airport.
--
It is nothing like he expects it to be. There are sharp suits, pointed stares, and their managers stand like soldiers on a chessboard beside each of them, the large table enough to fit twelve people. The voice of his manager is monotone beside him, and he stares at some point beside Koyama’s left ear, because it’s easier to just stare there and not listen and breath in, breathe in, because he still has that nagging feeling that doesn’t want to go away, the images conjured by his mind of angry glances and curt denials and Jin’s sunken cheeks after few weeks without the other letters surrounding him. He felt more courageous inside Jin’s bedroom walls, but here, under the sterile light of the conference room, he feels stripped of all the logic and rational decisions that were so clear just earlier that morning. He flinches when someone snorts, and ducks his head down. Not out of shame, that is one feeling that doesn’t twist in the uncomfortable rock that has settled on the pit of his stomach. It is not shame; but it still makes him unable to face them.
“Yamashita,” Yuya’s voice cuts in. Tegoshi’s. Yamapi wonders if he will have to delete his number from his phone. “Yamashita. Say something.”
Yamapi would’ve almost preferred a meeting like he had imagined; of chairs scraping on the floor as they were shoved back and muttered curses and cold glares then watered down by logical arguments and an undefined date for the break up announcement that made them all more upset about the final timing than the decision itself. Would’ve preferred not to have to say anything because he knows his voice will be thin, snapped in half and unsure. But Ryo kicks him under the table, glares, and Yamapi stands up instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. His back strains when he bends, but he really means it. “I’m sorry,” but this is the right thing to do, he doesn’t add. I have to leave the group to do what I want to, but he doesn’t say that either.
Tegoshi snorts. And Yamapi feels movement around him again, tension rising up high against the ceiling when Ryo’s manager starts to talk.
--
“Shuuji-kun~!”
Koki turns. And Nakamaru too. But Kame seems too entranced with pulling on some sequined white jacket where it has tangled with his hair that he doesn’t even notice. Then he turns, and seems to not recognize him at first, so Yamapi strides in, poking him when he’s close enough. Kame flinches, and bats his hands away. “What -?”
“So Koki dies this time, huh?” he asks offhandedly, and bumps fists with Koki. Stumbles over greetings with Nakamaru because they aren’t really close, but Kame shoves him playfully and starts taking off his makeup. Lounging backstage is always fun; people are usually too tired or occupied with getting ready to go home as fast as possible to pay any attention, but there is enough activity, the general buzz of chairs being pulled forwards and zippers closing and phones snapping shut, that it helps the purpose of keeping Yamapi’s head full of noise. And thus, blank. Just what he needs.
Koki stands next to him, zipping up his jacket. His bright blond hair suits him.
“Yo,” Koki says. He has always been nice, a face too gentle to be half the gangster he appears to be. “Any chance of you guys going to Juri’s school?”
It is amusing, how everyone suddenly cares. Kame smirks through the mirror, says he is trying to avoid schools with juniors and Koki whines. Nakamaru interrupts, “That would erase half the schools in Tokyo,” and Kame mock-glares at him for subtly siding up with Koki on this one. Yamapi twirls a hairbrush in his hands because he is too entertained to really participate in the small friendly banter. Kame laughs, cheeks rising like a squirrel, and Koki throws an arm over his shoulders. Jin used to talk, sometimes complain about them; of Kame straying somewhere far before he was pulled back by their eternal rubber band, and later nodding when Yamapi stated they had grown up, that it has never been a matter of hoarding one’s attention; that the core of friendship is something else. It is more of a titillating feeling of belonging that matters.
Jin, of course, had laughed and mocked his moment of brilliance.
Kame turns to him, mirth still dancing in his eyes. And Yamapi notices he is back here, in the present, and the noise around him has slightly diminished.
“So, what should we do, Akira?”
Yamapi laughs softly, puts the hairbrush down. “I guess we could go to Juri’s school?”
Koki beams and Nakamaru complains he’s too loud between laughter. Kame slides in next to him against the makeup table and hands him a piece of candy. His eyes are wide, open, and his fingers linger softly on Yamapi’s arm then, squeezing just a little. Yamapi wonders if he knows, if his face isn’t hiding it enough, but Kame distracts him with his bright grin and a pull toward the door, and Yamapi unwraps his candy as they say goodbye to the others. It’s too sweet, strawberry red, and it leaves the taste on Yamapi’s mouth even as they climb in Kame’s car, comfortably putting on some radio while stumbling around stations.
There’s a package on his lap, still wrapped up in paper, bottle-shaped and heavy and cold.
“Koki gave it to me,” Kame states. And starts the engine. “It’s supposed to be good sake.”
Yamapi grins. And thankfully, his calendar is still free with the exception of the green circles with school names scribbled in Kame’s neat handwriting on his wall.
--
They keep the windows up, the slight breeze of spring locked away with the aircon on as they roam through the streets without a real destination or hurry. Kame juggles their drinks on his lap, and takes Yamapi’s from his hand as soon as the red light changes and they’re moving forward again. The lights from the lampposts turn on, a slithering line of awakening golden dots on both sides where the street curves and curls, expanding over the horizon with nothing but more and more concrete to roll over. Kame is talking about something he saw on TV the other day, some new show he may or may not follow if he has the time, and how Nakamaru had told him he could watch it online. Kame had fussed with his laptop for a while before deciding it was easier to just wait until he got the chance to buy the DVDs.
“I was so annoyed, windows kept popping and…” he huffs, ending his tale with hands emulating an explosion in front of him, and Yamapi mocks him, teases about his skills with computers. Kame agrees. “Me and computers…” he shakes his head wryly, and Yamapi nods, gets punched lightly on the arm as Kame laughs.
The conversation is stilted through some minutes of silence; occasional comments in Kame’s low, quiet voice interspersed with Yamapi’s soft laugh, his mouth tight, somewhat awkward and lopsided, mind here and there and not really focused on Kame or the road or his own thoughts which had been stumbling over the same subject for weeks. Sneaking glances at Kame in the other seat, Yamapi sees a soft smile, the muffled humming to a pop song playing on the radio, and it is kind of soothing. Like he could just sit back and enjoy the ride in the detached comfort they build around each other.
Kame sighs deeply then, and fumbles with the radio. His stubby fingers still cup around his iced chai, and he hunches his shoulders as he raises his legs up. Yamapi almost tells him not to curl up on his car seat, but the way Kame leans back and sighs again makes him ignore it, focus on the lit up streets and the cars dashing past him.
A familiar tune comes on the radio. It has the upbeat sound of their junior days, and two young voices harmonizing perfectly above the loud intro. It is then made of six different tenors and high notes that make Kame still in silence. Then, he is humming along again. Yamapi grabs his chance when Kame glances back to the radio; it is scribbled on his face as plain as it once was on Jin’s. The expression doesn’t crack and sink, but it stills into the mellow fondness childhood memories are made of.
“Do you miss it?” Yamapi ventures.
Kame squirms, sighs again and looks away. His profile, bumpy nose and sharp jaw, is odd; the sharp bone structure gives him an elegant outline, bizarre in the way it has morphed so much, evolved out of its caterpillar cocoon. Kame opens his mouth just as the light goes from green to red; it is easier for Yamapi to turn to him, and he expects to look honestly interested in his answer because he is.
The voice filling the car carries some heaviness on it. And sounds as light as a feather. “It is complicated,” Kame finally says.
Yamapi somehow expected that, because Jin pulled out a similar card from his deck ages ago. But Yamapi doesn’t expect Kame to smile afterwards, almost grimacing because he is frowning, but not entirely. It’s just a little sad, soft smile that tugs on his chest with the tenderness underneath. Yamapi doesn’t expect that.
“I… I guess I do, yes.”
He is taken aback. Kame chuckles softly, and points Yamapi to the now green light.
“But I don’t want it back,” he adds. It takes some visible effort for the words to unravel and come out, laid out bare now and throbbing. Kame inhales sharply; Yamapi wonders if he is subduing the real puncturing wound deep below the surface, but that is not what he hears. Despite his soft tone, there is an underlying utter conviction wrapped around the statement. Kame sounds firm, almost solemn, even as he wraps his hands tighter around his drink and turns, cheek pressed against the headrest, looking at Yamapi even though Yamapi is driving and can only feel his eyes on him.
It is better, in a way.
“We are… good. Great. Like a real group. As if everything fell into place, you know?”
Yamapi doesn’t. Or maybe he does, but doesn’t say anything in return.
“I miss it, but I don’t want it,” Kame adds, and laughs a bit, almost bitter, as if trying to put some order to his thoughts. “Does that make sense?” he asks with a short laugh, visibly trying to assemble again, and it’s not only his thoughts that need some tug at being pulled back together.
Yamapi extends his hand; it squeezes Kame’s knee with a subtle message. “It does,” he replies. It makes perfect sense, he adds with fingers closing tight over denim, doing his little something to pull the scattered pieces of his mind together.
Kame looks at him, grateful smile through the rear-view mirror. He may as well have been sorting his feelings, his thoughts, inside his mind, lips opening with the intention to elaborate, but not doing it. The chai goes up to his lips instead, steam rising from the cup, and he turns to the window, more streetlights and houses and pedestrians passing by as he returns to his humming. It is another pop song now, but it’s neither NewS nor KAT-TUN. Yamapi wonders if his bandmates would miss him too, if they’ll feel like this as well when someone asks them that question. And whether or not the dark lines that are clear now on Kame’s face are some unspoken truth he should’ve read between lines and didn’t.
His heart stutters when he mutters, almost to himself. “It makes perfect sense.” But this time, Kame doesn’t look at him. He keeps watching the pedestrians outside, silence filling up the gaps of unanswered questions and lingering feelings within.
--
His phone vibrates on the table, but Yamapi remains in place, slumped over the tabletop, slowly gyrating on the stool next to his kitchen island, the right side of his face pressed against the pages spread underneath. It’s Friday, he thinks, eyeing the calendar hanging just below the kitchen clock. The mug in his hand is now cold, and Yamapi wonders whether or not he should heat it up, when his phone vibrates once again. From where he is laying on the table, he can actually see it rocking slightly in its place. And finally picks it up.
He is still all over the table when Jin’s rushed voice and curses reach his ears. It adds to the headache he’s been nursing, and so he just puts him on speaker and waits till he has stopped his melodramatic rant with a high note of “why does Ryo have to call me, Pi, didn’t we agree you’d tell me when it’ll happen?”
Yamapi sighs, deeply; he doesn’t really feel like talking, not this early, not today. It had been part of why he didn’t call Jin like he said he would. The other part was basically because he hadn’t known the exact date till that dreadful meeting; it had loomed over his head and it had finally fallen on him sooner than expected. Avoiding everything had slightly worked. Not perfectly, but enough. And -
“Pi?” Jin’s voice filters into the kitchen. He sounds metallic; it catches Yamapi's attention with how concerned he sounds.
“M’ere,” he mumbles. His words are unintelligible, at least to his ears, so he pushes himself up on an elbow. “I’m here.”
There is a rough sound over there, wherever Jin is calling from, and the added distance of his muffled voice reminds Yamapi that Jin isn’t even on the same continent. He isn’t physically approachable, and even farther than his voice betrays him to be.
“Are you alright?”
Yamapi laughs mechanically, emotionless. Almost bitter; and as numb as his fingertips feel, playing with the hem of his sleeves and almost falling on the countertop again. He desperately wants to claw at the phone, call Johnny, or Toma, or have Jin says something else because he is obviously not alright, but he bites down on his tongue and closes his eyes, and yes, he is alright now. He has to be alright because this was his decision and whatever it is that he left behind, he can’t miss it. He can’t be like Kame, can’t feel that longing missing bit; has no right to. He was the one who left.
“Yes, Jin,” he mutters.
“Really?”
Yamapi trembles, shakes; knows somewhere inside his mind that Jin is asking because he knows, but right now, he doesn’t care. He just counts in his head and breathes, unclenches the hand that has balled into a fist. Then Yamapi rests his forehead on the cool marble, phone so close to him it looks massive and huge. He holds his breath, answers. “Yes,” when he wants to say no, but the words evaporate soon, as does his strength to cling to the phone. “Call you later, ‘k?”
Jin whines, but Yamapi hangs up anyway. Jin is an idiot; a clueless idiot made of heart and dreams and brightness as blinding as the smile he doesn’t show to the cameras. Yamapi wishes himself to be like that, courageous enough to jump; wonders if he has done so because he almost felt it, Jin’s heart twining with his own and making him believe everything was possible with one single flick of his wrist. But now that he has, he is alone down here, swimming with his own strength, and he feels the sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach already, without the race having even started. He gets a call from his manager then; it tells him the green circle over today’s date on his calendar has been cancelled.
Yamapi wonders if he has to change his entire calendar to white now.
----> part 3
Title: Down in the foundry we forge for us the changing bell
Pairing: Yamashita Tomohisa/Kamenashi Kazuya
Word count: 16,400~
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: slight angst, fluff/slice-of-life, possible mess up of dates, Pi leaving NewS and Jincident, and (very vague) mentions of the earthquake in Japan.
Notes: Dear Rei, the prompts you gave instantly caught me and articulated the bunch of ideas I had in my head. It was a wonderful hectic experience to write for you and I really, really hope you like it. A special thanks to my wonderful beta for the endless pointers and (amazingly) fast replies, and to Producer-kun for the immense patience and the slight spoiling; without them, I would’ve had a surmenage at some point. Finally, I was looping this album while writing, so the mood may have been influenced by it, and this song gave me the final boost I needed to wrap this up.
Summary: Shuuji and Akira are BACK!
Today’s school is not as easy as the previous ones. The kids are a bit more insane, bouncy and talkative, and they can’t convince the class the games they have prepared aren’t boring until the teacher intervenes and calms down the mob that is almost tackling Kame to the floor. Even Yamapi flinches at the stern voice, despite the old lady smiling later. Granted, the kids follow their instructions swiftly after that. Yamapi seldom wonders why Johnny is really doing this, finding no other profit than squeezing working hours from Kame and himself. But then he looks back and waves to the bouncy kids, and wonders if maybe Johnny isn’t really as profit oriented as he has thought all these years.
“Urgh,” Kame growls, and Yamapi looks up. From his place in the couch, he can see perfectly Kame frowning at whatever he has on his hand. It isn’t a reassuring image, not with the kitchen knife he has in the other one. Kame huffs, puts it down, and starts rummaging in the fridge.
Yamapi raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Wrong brand,” Kame answers, muffled, and Yamapi lets out a short laugh. He joins Kame in the kitchen, pushing bottles and jars around until he finally can make room for himself in the little space there is with how Kame has decided he needs to take everything out of the cabinets to make lasagna. He is wearing one of Yamapi’s shirts, and it’s ironic how it sticks to his torso as if it were a size too small. It reminds Yamapi of how it used to be the opposite, Kame so scrawny and thin he looked as if he didn’t have any internal organs; so light Jin and Yamapi could lift him off the ground in those rare occasions Kame was distracted enough to not retaliate immediately and aim for Jin’s collarbones.
“Here,” Yamapi says, and hands him the salt when Kame seems to be searching for it. As he moves around some more, Yamapi notices how his arms are buffed, but his waist is slimmer; his chest shallow again even if it’s still muscular. He wants to poke him, pinch his tummy, but doesn’t think it wise with Kame holding a bowl of white sauce. Instead, Yamapi reaches for the vegetables, and throws some in the large pan where the uncooked pasta is.
Kame frowns at him, playful, and lets him throw the rest of the vegetables on after each layer, a colourful sketch covered soon by white sauce before there is another layer of pasta and more vegetables and white sauce to cover it. Yamapi loves cooking, he always has; even during those times meals became an enemy in disguise, he had enjoyed it, moving smoothly around the kitchen, chopping and boiling and creating new flavours from familiar ones. He knows Kame loves it too, the tasting and experimenting, even when there were times he had needed to write down on his agenda every single lunchtime not to skip it.
They move effortlessly around the kitchen, a comfortable silence settling around them, the CD Kame brought playing in the background with something that sounds like guitar chords and a gentle male voice. It is Japanese, and Yamapi wonders if it is the same Suga Shikao album Kame has been looping on his car.
“Oh, no, leave that. I’ll wash later,” he says when Kame opens the tap, but the other smacks his hands away.
“I’ll just wash while it gets done,” Kame says, and grabs one of the bowls, doesn’t really look at Yamapi as he speaks. “Set the table,” he instructs. And then turns, cheeky and mischievous, his voice conspiratorially lowering. “I have wine in my bag.”
Yamapi gasps. “Alcohol at work!” he cries, and dashes out of the kitchen in a twirl of melodrama. “The scandal!”
“I’m living on the edge!” Kame yells from the kitchen, and Yamapi laughs, pulling two glasses from the winery.
From the look of them, they have never been used. Kame says as much when he joins him in the living room, drying his hands in a towel. “Clearly you only hang out with Akanishi,” he comments, and Yamapi finds it in himself to not be surprised anymore; as if Jin was one of the many lingering bridges between them, and not as distant from Kame as he had initially thought. Kame smiles, and the napkins on his hands are some old fabric ones Yamapi’s mom bought him last year. They have never been used either.
“Don’t you ever use your things, Yamashita?” Kame asks, waving the napkins on his face, a little indignant.
Yamapi huffs. “I haven’t been eating at home,” he replies. Kame’s reproof is tangible in his snort. “Feel honoured. You’re using brand new dinnerware.”
Kame snorts again, but he looks more pleased than he’s letting on; Yamapi is satisfied with that. Leaning his hip against the counter, he hands Kame the corkscrew, watches him easily uncork the bottle of Chianti. Yamapi is no connoisseur of wines, but there is a delicate tangy scent of cherry and orange and almonds, and he smiles, passing the round glasses to Kame.
Kame looks at him from behind the transparent material, eyes twinkling with the fluttering feeling of normalcy.
“What are we toasting for?” Yamapi asks, and Kame’s face lightens even more.
His hunches his shoulders, indifferent, and still strangely mellow where he’s leaning against the cabinets. “I don’t know,” he answers sincerely, and Yamapi lets himself not care when Kame’s voice sounds so relaxed, swaying like the wine in the glass between his fingers. “To Johnny?”
They laugh together. Yamapi nods. “As good an excuse as any,” he agrees, and Kame nods a thank you, like he just had a brilliant idea validated, clinking their glasses together as red wine sways at the bottom, so different from how the cans of beer he is used to clash in dainty questionable situations. Dinner and pasta and wine sounds like a Kame thing to do; and it’s slowly becoming a Yamapi thing to do, the more time he spends with Kame inside the walls of his apartment. Some days, he misses late nights of video games and beer and silly teasing and bantering. Today, he doesn’t.
“To Johnny, huh?” he mutters amused, and Kame laughs; turns to the oven when something creaks, glass tinkling when it’s set on marble, and Yamapi huffs in amusement. To Johnny, huh, he thinks. And well, even when Johnny may be senile and slightly demented at times, Yamapi must accept that he still has some good ideas. Especially as Kame shoves lasagna on his face, steaming hot on the tip of a fork, Yamapi has to whole-heartedly agree. Johnny can still get some great ideas from time to time.
And he does deserve the toast.
--
There is no jetlag. There is no convincing Jin otherwise either, as his friend frets around him instead of just calming down and sitting on the couch. Yamapi keeps the headache at bay and instead trips Jin, who stumbles, but doesn’t lose his balance and only smacks him back and gets the message. He seems like he can’t believe, really believe, that Yamapi is sitting there, lounging at his place in L.A., plaid pajama bottoms the only thing he had pulled out of his suitcase since he arrived and told Jin he wasn’t there for touristic stuff. Jin had seemed unconvinced, but the worried frown on Yamapi’s face had made him scurry inside the kitchen and come back with some beers, vague explanations of his roommate not being there and showing him around done in less than five minutes before he was sitting cross-legged on Jin’s bed, in front of a spread-eagled Jin lying on his stomach, waiting for Pi to talk. The TV is on just for the white noise it creates.
Jin takes a swig of his beer. “Is this about Kame?” he asks then, out of the blue.
Yamapi actually chokes.
“What the hell,” Yamapi curses, as Jin shoves his hand away because clearly he prioritizes no beer on his bed over beer on his floor. He snorts, they both laugh, and Yamapi smacks him away and extends his legs in front of him. So much for being serious. “The hell, Jin, why would this be about Kame?”
Jin shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know? You two are working together, right?” and there is something in Jin’s eyes. Because it’s Yamapi and Kame, and Kame without Jin, and it unseals a memory chest of a year hectic enough to be forgotten because it is exhausting to even start to recall.
Yamapi sighs. “How do you know?” he asks. And laughs when Jin promptly says Nakamaru. Yamapi should’ve seen that coming. “No, I wouldn’t travel this far for Kame.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” comes the rushed question. A tricky one.
Pi answers honestly.
“I don’t know.”
Jin nods, chin on his hands. It is almost as if he is really, really thinking about Yamapi’s answer and Yamapi has no idea what he is making of it because he himself isn’t really sure of the why. “Alright,” Jin finally accepts, and looks up at Yamapi again. He must have seen something, because he frowns in concern now, all annoyance gone from his face. Yamapi smiles softly; Jin can be less hard-headed when he wants to be. “What is it then?”
It is at this moment that Yamapi halts; thinks of everything that made him come here instead of opening his laptop and abducting Jin virtually for hours and hours. Everything rushes to his mind, things they haven’t really talked about before. Things like Jin’s mood swings and Kame’s hands curling around a phone, white knuckles so tight that Yamapi wondered how he managed not to break it. Of hiccups and runny noses and that one weird night ages ago, the first time all hell broke loose, when Kame looked detached, aloof, sitting in a bar by his side as he tried to avoid Jin’s existence at all costs and Yamapi wasn’t sure what to say or do or act like when he rushed to the figure sitting on top of a toilet seat, knees drawn up to his chest, face hidden between bony knees.
He wants to ask about emails and long conversations and tell Jin all about how he has dealt with it so far, how he has hinted to Koyama and Shige and Massu and Tegoshi, and the late night talks with Ryo sipping on some beer and nodding gravely with a frown as he spoke, first quite subtle before it became tangible, and Ryo snapping at him, his mind made up already as he yelled at Yamapi to stop prioritizing everyone but himself.
There are questions lingering on the tip of his tongue; on how it is and how he is coping and whether or not he misses it. Whether it was worth it, the solitude and the freedom; the vast expanse of possibilities of working with oneself and that alone. The extra responsibility and pressure he signed up for. The different type of satisfaction. The lonely dressing rooms; the lack of sequins. He wants to ask if he still has his ex-bandmates numbers in his cell phone, if he still sees them; how it feels to browse through old stuff and not be on the most recent ones, to imagine a year without missing a decent New Year’s date because he’s twirling around and dancing at Countdown.
He wants to ask if Jin still talks to Kame, or if they just hear from each other, tiptoeing around their friendship as they had been doing all these years; as Pi himself has without knowing whether they still were Pi and Jin and Kazuya from Takki’s living room, from sleepovers with late night scary stories, or if they had finally become Kamenashi and Akanishi and Yamashita somewhere along the way, the distances constantly growing and filling with new faces, new gaps, and more and more glass walls.
“It’s NewS,” he ends up saying, and his voice strains, thinner than it has been. His throat suddenly dries as if he’s swallowed a sponge and it has gotten stuck against his vocal chords.
Jin seems startled for a moment. But he isn’t sprawled on the mattress anymore; his face is in front of Yamapi’s, concerned and frowning, but he doesn’t look shocked. It makes Yamapi wonder how much he has really let on in emails and phone calls, and if someone (or everyone) has seen it coming. Someone close enough to him to read between the few lines he has dropped on the subject.
Jin nods. “I’ll bring some more beer, ok?” he says, softly, and disappears. The pillows are comfortable where Yamapi lets himself fall on them, and he’s a boneless mass of nerves. Saying it out loud, discussing it; really putting it into words, the final decision and the ultimatum, makes it more real than it had been before. And it’s crushing on his shoulders.
Yamapi only leaves Jin’s apartment once. And it’s to go back to the airport.
--
It is nothing like he expects it to be. There are sharp suits, pointed stares, and their managers stand like soldiers on a chessboard beside each of them, the large table enough to fit twelve people. The voice of his manager is monotone beside him, and he stares at some point beside Koyama’s left ear, because it’s easier to just stare there and not listen and breath in, breathe in, because he still has that nagging feeling that doesn’t want to go away, the images conjured by his mind of angry glances and curt denials and Jin’s sunken cheeks after few weeks without the other letters surrounding him. He felt more courageous inside Jin’s bedroom walls, but here, under the sterile light of the conference room, he feels stripped of all the logic and rational decisions that were so clear just earlier that morning. He flinches when someone snorts, and ducks his head down. Not out of shame, that is one feeling that doesn’t twist in the uncomfortable rock that has settled on the pit of his stomach. It is not shame; but it still makes him unable to face them.
“Yamashita,” Yuya’s voice cuts in. Tegoshi’s. Yamapi wonders if he will have to delete his number from his phone. “Yamashita. Say something.”
Yamapi would’ve almost preferred a meeting like he had imagined; of chairs scraping on the floor as they were shoved back and muttered curses and cold glares then watered down by logical arguments and an undefined date for the break up announcement that made them all more upset about the final timing than the decision itself. Would’ve preferred not to have to say anything because he knows his voice will be thin, snapped in half and unsure. But Ryo kicks him under the table, glares, and Yamapi stands up instantly.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. His back strains when he bends, but he really means it. “I’m sorry,” but this is the right thing to do, he doesn’t add. I have to leave the group to do what I want to, but he doesn’t say that either.
Tegoshi snorts. And Yamapi feels movement around him again, tension rising up high against the ceiling when Ryo’s manager starts to talk.
--
“Shuuji-kun~!”
Koki turns. And Nakamaru too. But Kame seems too entranced with pulling on some sequined white jacket where it has tangled with his hair that he doesn’t even notice. Then he turns, and seems to not recognize him at first, so Yamapi strides in, poking him when he’s close enough. Kame flinches, and bats his hands away. “What -?”
“So Koki dies this time, huh?” he asks offhandedly, and bumps fists with Koki. Stumbles over greetings with Nakamaru because they aren’t really close, but Kame shoves him playfully and starts taking off his makeup. Lounging backstage is always fun; people are usually too tired or occupied with getting ready to go home as fast as possible to pay any attention, but there is enough activity, the general buzz of chairs being pulled forwards and zippers closing and phones snapping shut, that it helps the purpose of keeping Yamapi’s head full of noise. And thus, blank. Just what he needs.
Koki stands next to him, zipping up his jacket. His bright blond hair suits him.
“Yo,” Koki says. He has always been nice, a face too gentle to be half the gangster he appears to be. “Any chance of you guys going to Juri’s school?”
It is amusing, how everyone suddenly cares. Kame smirks through the mirror, says he is trying to avoid schools with juniors and Koki whines. Nakamaru interrupts, “That would erase half the schools in Tokyo,” and Kame mock-glares at him for subtly siding up with Koki on this one. Yamapi twirls a hairbrush in his hands because he is too entertained to really participate in the small friendly banter. Kame laughs, cheeks rising like a squirrel, and Koki throws an arm over his shoulders. Jin used to talk, sometimes complain about them; of Kame straying somewhere far before he was pulled back by their eternal rubber band, and later nodding when Yamapi stated they had grown up, that it has never been a matter of hoarding one’s attention; that the core of friendship is something else. It is more of a titillating feeling of belonging that matters.
Jin, of course, had laughed and mocked his moment of brilliance.
Kame turns to him, mirth still dancing in his eyes. And Yamapi notices he is back here, in the present, and the noise around him has slightly diminished.
“So, what should we do, Akira?”
Yamapi laughs softly, puts the hairbrush down. “I guess we could go to Juri’s school?”
Koki beams and Nakamaru complains he’s too loud between laughter. Kame slides in next to him against the makeup table and hands him a piece of candy. His eyes are wide, open, and his fingers linger softly on Yamapi’s arm then, squeezing just a little. Yamapi wonders if he knows, if his face isn’t hiding it enough, but Kame distracts him with his bright grin and a pull toward the door, and Yamapi unwraps his candy as they say goodbye to the others. It’s too sweet, strawberry red, and it leaves the taste on Yamapi’s mouth even as they climb in Kame’s car, comfortably putting on some radio while stumbling around stations.
There’s a package on his lap, still wrapped up in paper, bottle-shaped and heavy and cold.
“Koki gave it to me,” Kame states. And starts the engine. “It’s supposed to be good sake.”
Yamapi grins. And thankfully, his calendar is still free with the exception of the green circles with school names scribbled in Kame’s neat handwriting on his wall.
--
They keep the windows up, the slight breeze of spring locked away with the aircon on as they roam through the streets without a real destination or hurry. Kame juggles their drinks on his lap, and takes Yamapi’s from his hand as soon as the red light changes and they’re moving forward again. The lights from the lampposts turn on, a slithering line of awakening golden dots on both sides where the street curves and curls, expanding over the horizon with nothing but more and more concrete to roll over. Kame is talking about something he saw on TV the other day, some new show he may or may not follow if he has the time, and how Nakamaru had told him he could watch it online. Kame had fussed with his laptop for a while before deciding it was easier to just wait until he got the chance to buy the DVDs.
“I was so annoyed, windows kept popping and…” he huffs, ending his tale with hands emulating an explosion in front of him, and Yamapi mocks him, teases about his skills with computers. Kame agrees. “Me and computers…” he shakes his head wryly, and Yamapi nods, gets punched lightly on the arm as Kame laughs.
The conversation is stilted through some minutes of silence; occasional comments in Kame’s low, quiet voice interspersed with Yamapi’s soft laugh, his mouth tight, somewhat awkward and lopsided, mind here and there and not really focused on Kame or the road or his own thoughts which had been stumbling over the same subject for weeks. Sneaking glances at Kame in the other seat, Yamapi sees a soft smile, the muffled humming to a pop song playing on the radio, and it is kind of soothing. Like he could just sit back and enjoy the ride in the detached comfort they build around each other.
Kame sighs deeply then, and fumbles with the radio. His stubby fingers still cup around his iced chai, and he hunches his shoulders as he raises his legs up. Yamapi almost tells him not to curl up on his car seat, but the way Kame leans back and sighs again makes him ignore it, focus on the lit up streets and the cars dashing past him.
A familiar tune comes on the radio. It has the upbeat sound of their junior days, and two young voices harmonizing perfectly above the loud intro. It is then made of six different tenors and high notes that make Kame still in silence. Then, he is humming along again. Yamapi grabs his chance when Kame glances back to the radio; it is scribbled on his face as plain as it once was on Jin’s. The expression doesn’t crack and sink, but it stills into the mellow fondness childhood memories are made of.
“Do you miss it?” Yamapi ventures.
Kame squirms, sighs again and looks away. His profile, bumpy nose and sharp jaw, is odd; the sharp bone structure gives him an elegant outline, bizarre in the way it has morphed so much, evolved out of its caterpillar cocoon. Kame opens his mouth just as the light goes from green to red; it is easier for Yamapi to turn to him, and he expects to look honestly interested in his answer because he is.
The voice filling the car carries some heaviness on it. And sounds as light as a feather. “It is complicated,” Kame finally says.
Yamapi somehow expected that, because Jin pulled out a similar card from his deck ages ago. But Yamapi doesn’t expect Kame to smile afterwards, almost grimacing because he is frowning, but not entirely. It’s just a little sad, soft smile that tugs on his chest with the tenderness underneath. Yamapi doesn’t expect that.
“I… I guess I do, yes.”
He is taken aback. Kame chuckles softly, and points Yamapi to the now green light.
“But I don’t want it back,” he adds. It takes some visible effort for the words to unravel and come out, laid out bare now and throbbing. Kame inhales sharply; Yamapi wonders if he is subduing the real puncturing wound deep below the surface, but that is not what he hears. Despite his soft tone, there is an underlying utter conviction wrapped around the statement. Kame sounds firm, almost solemn, even as he wraps his hands tighter around his drink and turns, cheek pressed against the headrest, looking at Yamapi even though Yamapi is driving and can only feel his eyes on him.
It is better, in a way.
“We are… good. Great. Like a real group. As if everything fell into place, you know?”
Yamapi doesn’t. Or maybe he does, but doesn’t say anything in return.
“I miss it, but I don’t want it,” Kame adds, and laughs a bit, almost bitter, as if trying to put some order to his thoughts. “Does that make sense?” he asks with a short laugh, visibly trying to assemble again, and it’s not only his thoughts that need some tug at being pulled back together.
Yamapi extends his hand; it squeezes Kame’s knee with a subtle message. “It does,” he replies. It makes perfect sense, he adds with fingers closing tight over denim, doing his little something to pull the scattered pieces of his mind together.
Kame looks at him, grateful smile through the rear-view mirror. He may as well have been sorting his feelings, his thoughts, inside his mind, lips opening with the intention to elaborate, but not doing it. The chai goes up to his lips instead, steam rising from the cup, and he turns to the window, more streetlights and houses and pedestrians passing by as he returns to his humming. It is another pop song now, but it’s neither NewS nor KAT-TUN. Yamapi wonders if his bandmates would miss him too, if they’ll feel like this as well when someone asks them that question. And whether or not the dark lines that are clear now on Kame’s face are some unspoken truth he should’ve read between lines and didn’t.
His heart stutters when he mutters, almost to himself. “It makes perfect sense.” But this time, Kame doesn’t look at him. He keeps watching the pedestrians outside, silence filling up the gaps of unanswered questions and lingering feelings within.
--
His phone vibrates on the table, but Yamapi remains in place, slumped over the tabletop, slowly gyrating on the stool next to his kitchen island, the right side of his face pressed against the pages spread underneath. It’s Friday, he thinks, eyeing the calendar hanging just below the kitchen clock. The mug in his hand is now cold, and Yamapi wonders whether or not he should heat it up, when his phone vibrates once again. From where he is laying on the table, he can actually see it rocking slightly in its place. And finally picks it up.
He is still all over the table when Jin’s rushed voice and curses reach his ears. It adds to the headache he’s been nursing, and so he just puts him on speaker and waits till he has stopped his melodramatic rant with a high note of “why does Ryo have to call me, Pi, didn’t we agree you’d tell me when it’ll happen?”
Yamapi sighs, deeply; he doesn’t really feel like talking, not this early, not today. It had been part of why he didn’t call Jin like he said he would. The other part was basically because he hadn’t known the exact date till that dreadful meeting; it had loomed over his head and it had finally fallen on him sooner than expected. Avoiding everything had slightly worked. Not perfectly, but enough. And -
“Pi?” Jin’s voice filters into the kitchen. He sounds metallic; it catches Yamapi's attention with how concerned he sounds.
“M’ere,” he mumbles. His words are unintelligible, at least to his ears, so he pushes himself up on an elbow. “I’m here.”
There is a rough sound over there, wherever Jin is calling from, and the added distance of his muffled voice reminds Yamapi that Jin isn’t even on the same continent. He isn’t physically approachable, and even farther than his voice betrays him to be.
“Are you alright?”
Yamapi laughs mechanically, emotionless. Almost bitter; and as numb as his fingertips feel, playing with the hem of his sleeves and almost falling on the countertop again. He desperately wants to claw at the phone, call Johnny, or Toma, or have Jin says something else because he is obviously not alright, but he bites down on his tongue and closes his eyes, and yes, he is alright now. He has to be alright because this was his decision and whatever it is that he left behind, he can’t miss it. He can’t be like Kame, can’t feel that longing missing bit; has no right to. He was the one who left.
“Yes, Jin,” he mutters.
“Really?”
Yamapi trembles, shakes; knows somewhere inside his mind that Jin is asking because he knows, but right now, he doesn’t care. He just counts in his head and breathes, unclenches the hand that has balled into a fist. Then Yamapi rests his forehead on the cool marble, phone so close to him it looks massive and huge. He holds his breath, answers. “Yes,” when he wants to say no, but the words evaporate soon, as does his strength to cling to the phone. “Call you later, ‘k?”
Jin whines, but Yamapi hangs up anyway. Jin is an idiot; a clueless idiot made of heart and dreams and brightness as blinding as the smile he doesn’t show to the cameras. Yamapi wishes himself to be like that, courageous enough to jump; wonders if he has done so because he almost felt it, Jin’s heart twining with his own and making him believe everything was possible with one single flick of his wrist. But now that he has, he is alone down here, swimming with his own strength, and he feels the sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach already, without the race having even started. He gets a call from his manager then; it tells him the green circle over today’s date on his calendar has been cancelled.
Yamapi wonders if he has to change his entire calendar to white now.
----> part 3