(no subject)
Title: Red Letter Day
Fandom: Kanjani8
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Summary: Yasuda pretends it isn't the end.
A/N: Written for shexay_yasuda. I know she's probably forgotten about it, but I promised I would make something especially for her here. I know you wanted something handmade, but my year has run out. I am sorry this is complete and utter fail. It is spur of the moment and full of panic; I know nothing about Kanjani8 except that my mother thinks Uchi is the masculine one. My main image of Yasu comes from nkiseki's words: "Yasu is flamboyant; he's like... you."
It's hot and ugly the day it all draws to an end.
The thermostat outside his window says 37°C, but Yasuda doesn't believe it. It's got to be 65°C, 148°C, 537°C, and his bracelets are melting into his skin. He watches them closely because he can't bring himself to do anything else.
Typically he cries on the last day of tour, curls himself up under the sheets in his hotel room and locks the door and cries until he can't stand it anymore and the rest have to send in whomever loses at jan ken pon to pull him to the venue where he smiles and bubbles and bounces for three hours before crashing and sleeping through everyone else's post-adrenaline tears.
He feels kind of blank and nauseated this year. Maybe because he's the only one that knows it's the end.
*
He's been laying in his room with his hands folded over his heart since they dropped him off the night before. There are one hundred and thirty-two little grooves in the ceiling and he isn't any closer to knowing the right words than when he was pulled into Johnny-san's office three thousand six-hundred and forty hours ago.
If he'd been smart, he would have told them then. He would have told them he was being phased out, his image didn't match Kanjani8's anymore, they could go on for a thousand more years without him and it wouldn't matter because while Kanjani8 is best, Kanjani6 is better than no Kanjani at all.
He isn't sure how to say any of that though, especially now that he has twelve hours before it's all over.
*
It's noon and their scapegoat is knocking, five tiny jabs at the door. Yasuda knows it's Yokoyama because of the clank of metal and how he barely waits for the last knock before barging in with a key pilfered from Yasuda's own pocket the night before. Yasuda's eyes are still on the ceiling, but he can feel Yokoyama's surprise sitting in the air.
"Yasu-kun?"
And Yasuda pretends to meet his eyes like he has been for the last three thousand six-hundred and forty-one hours. "Yes, Yoko-kun?"
"It's time for rehearsal." Yokoyama is standing in the doorjamb with his hip propped against frame; he likes to prop himself against counters, walls, people, and Yasuda doesn't want to think about next week when Yokoyama won't be propping himself against Yasuda.
Yasuda pretends to smile and so Yokoyama does too, but it's off, crooked and wary and it makes Yasuda cringe.
*
He pretends to nap in the van so he can pretend he doesn't notice their stares. The rest don't say anything about his dry face and Maruyama sits the same exact distance away, two widths of his hand, as he always does. They're loud, but they're always loud, so Yasuda crinkles his face against Yokoyama's shoulder and breathes in their air.
*
He runs around the arena laughing with bright eyes. He sings his parts and sits around when they have to iron out lighting issues. He leans against Ohkura during Murakami's solo and squirts Nishikido with his water bottle when they're goofing off instead of running lines for the skit.
It's just like every other concert of the tour except his head is kind of light and he kind of wants to sit down in the middle of Hokkaido Center's stage and swim through a thousand different artists' sweat and never say goodbye.
He tunes his guitar backstage and his fingers are a hundred steps ahead of his brain, picking out the chords of music he never wants Kanjani8 to hear. He has half a dozen songs for his solo album written and even though his new manager has told him half a dozen times that's not the sound the agency is expecting, they're all slow and soft and unconcerned.
Shibutani sits near him in the dressing room and dreams up melody lines and costumes for the next tour and Yasuda ignores his suggestions for a B sharp instead of a B flat because he knows there's never been a better time to tell them.
*
"Fifteen minutes!" and there's a roar coming from audience and Yasuda feels his eyes swelling.
He rubs his wrist and pretends he can see the melted gold flaking from his skin.
*
He's never seen their post-adrenaline breakdowns before, always has been asleep against Shibutani at this point in the evening. So it's weird to see the streaks on Murakami's face and Nishikido beaming all over the place. There are hugs and laughing and it's kind of like sunshine in thunderstorms for Yasuda.
*
After everyone's asleep, Yasuda leaves his things and takes the last train to Tokyo. He hopes the next time they see him, they pretend they're not disgusted.
Fandom: Kanjani8
Rating: G
Genre: Angst
Summary: Yasuda pretends it isn't the end.
A/N: Written for shexay_yasuda. I know she's probably forgotten about it, but I promised I would make something especially for her here. I know you wanted something handmade, but my year has run out. I am sorry this is complete and utter fail. It is spur of the moment and full of panic; I know nothing about Kanjani8 except that my mother thinks Uchi is the masculine one. My main image of Yasu comes from nkiseki's words: "Yasu is flamboyant; he's like... you."
It's hot and ugly the day it all draws to an end.
The thermostat outside his window says 37°C, but Yasuda doesn't believe it. It's got to be 65°C, 148°C, 537°C, and his bracelets are melting into his skin. He watches them closely because he can't bring himself to do anything else.
Typically he cries on the last day of tour, curls himself up under the sheets in his hotel room and locks the door and cries until he can't stand it anymore and the rest have to send in whomever loses at jan ken pon to pull him to the venue where he smiles and bubbles and bounces for three hours before crashing and sleeping through everyone else's post-adrenaline tears.
He feels kind of blank and nauseated this year. Maybe because he's the only one that knows it's the end.
*
He's been laying in his room with his hands folded over his heart since they dropped him off the night before. There are one hundred and thirty-two little grooves in the ceiling and he isn't any closer to knowing the right words than when he was pulled into Johnny-san's office three thousand six-hundred and forty hours ago.
If he'd been smart, he would have told them then. He would have told them he was being phased out, his image didn't match Kanjani8's anymore, they could go on for a thousand more years without him and it wouldn't matter because while Kanjani8 is best, Kanjani6 is better than no Kanjani at all.
He isn't sure how to say any of that though, especially now that he has twelve hours before it's all over.
*
It's noon and their scapegoat is knocking, five tiny jabs at the door. Yasuda knows it's Yokoyama because of the clank of metal and how he barely waits for the last knock before barging in with a key pilfered from Yasuda's own pocket the night before. Yasuda's eyes are still on the ceiling, but he can feel Yokoyama's surprise sitting in the air.
"Yasu-kun?"
And Yasuda pretends to meet his eyes like he has been for the last three thousand six-hundred and forty-one hours. "Yes, Yoko-kun?"
"It's time for rehearsal." Yokoyama is standing in the doorjamb with his hip propped against frame; he likes to prop himself against counters, walls, people, and Yasuda doesn't want to think about next week when Yokoyama won't be propping himself against Yasuda.
Yasuda pretends to smile and so Yokoyama does too, but it's off, crooked and wary and it makes Yasuda cringe.
*
He pretends to nap in the van so he can pretend he doesn't notice their stares. The rest don't say anything about his dry face and Maruyama sits the same exact distance away, two widths of his hand, as he always does. They're loud, but they're always loud, so Yasuda crinkles his face against Yokoyama's shoulder and breathes in their air.
*
He runs around the arena laughing with bright eyes. He sings his parts and sits around when they have to iron out lighting issues. He leans against Ohkura during Murakami's solo and squirts Nishikido with his water bottle when they're goofing off instead of running lines for the skit.
It's just like every other concert of the tour except his head is kind of light and he kind of wants to sit down in the middle of Hokkaido Center's stage and swim through a thousand different artists' sweat and never say goodbye.
He tunes his guitar backstage and his fingers are a hundred steps ahead of his brain, picking out the chords of music he never wants Kanjani8 to hear. He has half a dozen songs for his solo album written and even though his new manager has told him half a dozen times that's not the sound the agency is expecting, they're all slow and soft and unconcerned.
Shibutani sits near him in the dressing room and dreams up melody lines and costumes for the next tour and Yasuda ignores his suggestions for a B sharp instead of a B flat because he knows there's never been a better time to tell them.
*
"Fifteen minutes!" and there's a roar coming from audience and Yasuda feels his eyes swelling.
He rubs his wrist and pretends he can see the melted gold flaking from his skin.
*
He's never seen their post-adrenaline breakdowns before, always has been asleep against Shibutani at this point in the evening. So it's weird to see the streaks on Murakami's face and Nishikido beaming all over the place. There are hugs and laughing and it's kind of like sunshine in thunderstorms for Yasuda.
*
After everyone's asleep, Yasuda leaves his things and takes the last train to Tokyo. He hopes the next time they see him, they pretend they're not disgusted.