Sadness doesn't make a Sound
Title : Sadness doesn't make a Sound
Pairing : RyoKame
Genre : angst, drama.
Rating : PG-13
A/N : written on a whim because I am pissed. Quite frankly this fic is mediocre at best maybe cos I wasn't even sure what I wanted to convey. But comments are nice. Go easy, it's been some time since I write. :P And it's nowhere as deep as the title sounds. XD
He sat in the dim light of the room, the four little panels of windows letting the light shine through the grime and dust. For years, this had become his secret sanctuary and sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he would sit here, just waiting for the sunrise, knowing that at least he wouldn’t need to try his hand at sleeping anymore. Today he had come straight from a performance and he had sat there in his pants, the sequins sewn and woven into the material of his pants scraping against his skin. He didn’t know what he found so riveting or comforting about hearing the churning of the old freight train along the railway track, hearing the slight tremble of the window panes as the rumble of the train neared but it was. It soothed him, put a salve on his wounds the way he didn’t know how. Because in exchange for being good at everything everyone wanted him to be, he was nothing more than a blank canvas to himself. He donned the different colors to suit the different occasions, there was the flamboyant red, the sombre mysterious midnight blue and recently, recently he was just a muted grey hue. It was like the different characters he had assumed had all gradually seeped their colors into him and blended into a palette of mixture. And somewhere in that mixture, was him.
--
“Why do you always look so sad?” Kamenashi Kazuya heard the low voice pitched at him, felt the calloused pad of his thumb lightly tracing over the contour of his lower lip.
“I do?” He curved his fingers around the carousing hand, felt the pulse drumming against his fingertips. Good, it wasn’t just him who was nervous.
“You always look like you’re hiding off in your own world. Like people can get near but you are allowing them to because you cordoned part of yourself off.” Kame looked at the Ryo surveying him with quiet intensity. Frankly he wanted to tell him to back off, because there was nothing accidental about this deliberate invasion of his personal space. Honestly he had this feeling Ryo had planned this ambush for weeks, like he had escaped his attentions only because Ryo had enjoyed the chase and the cornering.
“So does it sound like the truth?”
“Quite frankly I think you smell like bullshit.”
--
Kame had gotten used to the loneliness, to residing inside his own head. In his own mind, he was anyone he cared to be. Thought most of the time, he didn’t give two hoots as long as he was reeling in the cash. It wasn’t so much materialism, but the fact it made him feel like he was different. That the money was his able accomplice and that was the only way he derived his validation and self-worth. That at least he didn’t have to scrape by on meager earnings by squeezing in the bullet brain with the clones of suited salaryman all living in fear and uncertainty. All he had to please was his fans and they were notoriously easy. For an idol, love was cheap, love was abundant; love was measured in album sales and drama ratings. For an idol who was this well-loved, he was supposed to be happy.
--
Nishikido Ryo was always in the perpetual state of being freshly and unceremoniously dumped. It had become a long-standing joke amongst his friends and bandmates. Always dumped and always on the lookout for a rebound. Then again he being constantly dumped might have to do with the fact he was constantly dating, several at a time. He had been called selfish so many times it had become a perfect synonym for his name. Being the sadistic self-torturing bastard he was, he accepted it all with good grace. Except one. That one hadn’t just been a defeat, it had been a self-inflicted blow because as livid as Kame made him, as much as it hurt knowing he would never be inside, he could never bring himself to say “Go.” So they fought, they exchanged vulgarities and childish spats and warring silences, before they would tentatively gather the pieces and make a truce. Save today, and fight another day because there was always something that could go wrong with the both of them together. But after every fight, it felt like he was memorizing Kame anew. With every fight, he clung desperately to every awaking morning, keenly aware of the fact that maybe the next argument could be the last straw and this morning would be his last memory, his last sustenance. With Kame, he was always walking on eggshells, treading carefully, bloodying his own feet but he was never nearer, never any closer to closing the distance.
“What did I do wrong this time? Never mind, I don’t need any explanations.” Ryo slammed the wardrobe shut, the clothes hangers rattling against each other. Of course he wanted one. Of course, because it was only common sense to want an answer to a question or a problem he couldn’t solve.
But of course, being Kame, he had to do the opposite. They never said what they meant, and what they said could never be further away from the truth. Kame reopened the wardrobe, started pulling off the shirts, tugging them off the hangers and hauling them onto the bed.
“Good. Because I have none.”
--
Ryo liked it best when Kame was sleeping. It wasn’t even about the prelude to sleeping, the frenzied lovemaking, or the whispered words of apology and regret that never made it past their lips except in the form of slow meandering kisses. In sleep, at least he could convince himself their love was a two-way street. Kame slept on his stomach, with every breath straining his skin against his ribcage like it was a painful thing. He didn’t cling, didn’t cuddle, didn’t even look like he needed a warm body against his. But he couldn’t object. And every morning, Ryo would wake up, way before dawn, just listening to the soft rhythmic breathing and running his hand softly along the arch of his back, memorizing the landscape of his body beneath his fingertips. This little morning ritual of his reminded himself why he was here, he had no illusions of grandeur, or trying to make this thing between them sound better than it actually was. He just knew they were capable of so much more. And he would be here, until he crashed back to earth from the best dream he could ever have. Sometimes he thought they would only be done with each other, until they had scrubbed each other raw and bloodied, just to see who admitted defeat first. Until then, there was always the dramatics and the other people, who filled in the blanks in between time.
--
When Ryo was busy filming Last Friends and being vilified for his performance nationwide, Kame decided to go to California. To escape from seeing Ryo on television every time he switched it on. California was like the poster child for fake sun tans, bottle blonde and flashy cars. In short, it was pretty much like Japan, only with a lot less edge. He spent his time in the laidback cafes with his books and coffee. Trying to forget about things, until he realized the things he was trying so desperately to forget were the ones he was trying to remember and hold onto all along. Of course, being the kind of person he was, it took him half a world away to figure that out.
--
“You have the worst taste in women.” Kame said, his voice hoarse and eyes red-rimmed, from too much anger and whiskey. He grappled with the buttons on Ryo’s shirt, his hands unsteady, and finally he slipped the first button through. Ryo could feel Kame’s hands, too thankful for warm skin against his, curving around his neck, fingers slipping into his hair at his nape.
“Worst taste in men too.” Kame continued, his fingers digging into Ryo’s skin, daring him to deny that. There was something askew with Kame today, like he was blurred around the edges and he was shaking inside. But with Kame, you never know, because with Kame, sadness doesn’t make a sound. Not even a defeated whimper or an echo of a cry. But some things don’t have to make a sound to be heard.
“You’re getting slow. I realized that long ago.” Ryo cradled Kame’s face in his hands, feeling the tears decked in his hands.
“Ryo I don’t like to fight.”
“Then we won’t.” Knowing him, they would probably fight about this tomorrow morning. But with Ryo, if it wasn’t difficult, if it wasn’t full of tumultuous ups and downs and going back and forth, then it wasn’t love. There would always be the sidestepping and the second-guessing, but there would always be the making up. And making up, was the best part.
Pairing : RyoKame
Genre : angst, drama.
Rating : PG-13
A/N : written on a whim because I am pissed. Quite frankly this fic is mediocre at best maybe cos I wasn't even sure what I wanted to convey. But comments are nice. Go easy, it's been some time since I write. :P And it's nowhere as deep as the title sounds. XD
He sat in the dim light of the room, the four little panels of windows letting the light shine through the grime and dust. For years, this had become his secret sanctuary and sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he would sit here, just waiting for the sunrise, knowing that at least he wouldn’t need to try his hand at sleeping anymore. Today he had come straight from a performance and he had sat there in his pants, the sequins sewn and woven into the material of his pants scraping against his skin. He didn’t know what he found so riveting or comforting about hearing the churning of the old freight train along the railway track, hearing the slight tremble of the window panes as the rumble of the train neared but it was. It soothed him, put a salve on his wounds the way he didn’t know how. Because in exchange for being good at everything everyone wanted him to be, he was nothing more than a blank canvas to himself. He donned the different colors to suit the different occasions, there was the flamboyant red, the sombre mysterious midnight blue and recently, recently he was just a muted grey hue. It was like the different characters he had assumed had all gradually seeped their colors into him and blended into a palette of mixture. And somewhere in that mixture, was him.
--
“Why do you always look so sad?” Kamenashi Kazuya heard the low voice pitched at him, felt the calloused pad of his thumb lightly tracing over the contour of his lower lip.
“I do?” He curved his fingers around the carousing hand, felt the pulse drumming against his fingertips. Good, it wasn’t just him who was nervous.
“You always look like you’re hiding off in your own world. Like people can get near but you are allowing them to because you cordoned part of yourself off.” Kame looked at the Ryo surveying him with quiet intensity. Frankly he wanted to tell him to back off, because there was nothing accidental about this deliberate invasion of his personal space. Honestly he had this feeling Ryo had planned this ambush for weeks, like he had escaped his attentions only because Ryo had enjoyed the chase and the cornering.
“So does it sound like the truth?”
“Quite frankly I think you smell like bullshit.”
--
Kame had gotten used to the loneliness, to residing inside his own head. In his own mind, he was anyone he cared to be. Thought most of the time, he didn’t give two hoots as long as he was reeling in the cash. It wasn’t so much materialism, but the fact it made him feel like he was different. That the money was his able accomplice and that was the only way he derived his validation and self-worth. That at least he didn’t have to scrape by on meager earnings by squeezing in the bullet brain with the clones of suited salaryman all living in fear and uncertainty. All he had to please was his fans and they were notoriously easy. For an idol, love was cheap, love was abundant; love was measured in album sales and drama ratings. For an idol who was this well-loved, he was supposed to be happy.
--
Nishikido Ryo was always in the perpetual state of being freshly and unceremoniously dumped. It had become a long-standing joke amongst his friends and bandmates. Always dumped and always on the lookout for a rebound. Then again he being constantly dumped might have to do with the fact he was constantly dating, several at a time. He had been called selfish so many times it had become a perfect synonym for his name. Being the sadistic self-torturing bastard he was, he accepted it all with good grace. Except one. That one hadn’t just been a defeat, it had been a self-inflicted blow because as livid as Kame made him, as much as it hurt knowing he would never be inside, he could never bring himself to say “Go.” So they fought, they exchanged vulgarities and childish spats and warring silences, before they would tentatively gather the pieces and make a truce. Save today, and fight another day because there was always something that could go wrong with the both of them together. But after every fight, it felt like he was memorizing Kame anew. With every fight, he clung desperately to every awaking morning, keenly aware of the fact that maybe the next argument could be the last straw and this morning would be his last memory, his last sustenance. With Kame, he was always walking on eggshells, treading carefully, bloodying his own feet but he was never nearer, never any closer to closing the distance.
“What did I do wrong this time? Never mind, I don’t need any explanations.” Ryo slammed the wardrobe shut, the clothes hangers rattling against each other. Of course he wanted one. Of course, because it was only common sense to want an answer to a question or a problem he couldn’t solve.
But of course, being Kame, he had to do the opposite. They never said what they meant, and what they said could never be further away from the truth. Kame reopened the wardrobe, started pulling off the shirts, tugging them off the hangers and hauling them onto the bed.
“Good. Because I have none.”
--
Ryo liked it best when Kame was sleeping. It wasn’t even about the prelude to sleeping, the frenzied lovemaking, or the whispered words of apology and regret that never made it past their lips except in the form of slow meandering kisses. In sleep, at least he could convince himself their love was a two-way street. Kame slept on his stomach, with every breath straining his skin against his ribcage like it was a painful thing. He didn’t cling, didn’t cuddle, didn’t even look like he needed a warm body against his. But he couldn’t object. And every morning, Ryo would wake up, way before dawn, just listening to the soft rhythmic breathing and running his hand softly along the arch of his back, memorizing the landscape of his body beneath his fingertips. This little morning ritual of his reminded himself why he was here, he had no illusions of grandeur, or trying to make this thing between them sound better than it actually was. He just knew they were capable of so much more. And he would be here, until he crashed back to earth from the best dream he could ever have. Sometimes he thought they would only be done with each other, until they had scrubbed each other raw and bloodied, just to see who admitted defeat first. Until then, there was always the dramatics and the other people, who filled in the blanks in between time.
--
When Ryo was busy filming Last Friends and being vilified for his performance nationwide, Kame decided to go to California. To escape from seeing Ryo on television every time he switched it on. California was like the poster child for fake sun tans, bottle blonde and flashy cars. In short, it was pretty much like Japan, only with a lot less edge. He spent his time in the laidback cafes with his books and coffee. Trying to forget about things, until he realized the things he was trying so desperately to forget were the ones he was trying to remember and hold onto all along. Of course, being the kind of person he was, it took him half a world away to figure that out.
--
“You have the worst taste in women.” Kame said, his voice hoarse and eyes red-rimmed, from too much anger and whiskey. He grappled with the buttons on Ryo’s shirt, his hands unsteady, and finally he slipped the first button through. Ryo could feel Kame’s hands, too thankful for warm skin against his, curving around his neck, fingers slipping into his hair at his nape.
“Worst taste in men too.” Kame continued, his fingers digging into Ryo’s skin, daring him to deny that. There was something askew with Kame today, like he was blurred around the edges and he was shaking inside. But with Kame, you never know, because with Kame, sadness doesn’t make a sound. Not even a defeated whimper or an echo of a cry. But some things don’t have to make a sound to be heard.
“You’re getting slow. I realized that long ago.” Ryo cradled Kame’s face in his hands, feeling the tears decked in his hands.
“Ryo I don’t like to fight.”
“Then we won’t.” Knowing him, they would probably fight about this tomorrow morning. But with Ryo, if it wasn’t difficult, if it wasn’t full of tumultuous ups and downs and going back and forth, then it wasn’t love. There would always be the sidestepping and the second-guessing, but there would always be the making up. And making up, was the best part.