you better find somebody to love
Title: you better find somebody to love
Pairings/Characters: Koyama/Shige
Rating: PG
Warnings: Magical Realism?
Words: 1,015
Summary: Being a fern is a tough job, but someone's got to do it.
Notes: *repost* uhhh… I'm sorry. Many thanks to my beta and others for letting me whinge. <3 Originally written for je_telephone, Version 8, a remix of sashjun's Version 7, The pot flower that saw it all.
Version 1| Soundtrack for Version 1| Version 2| Version 3| Version 4| Version 5| Version 6| Soundtrack for Version 6| Version 7
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The fern had been a gift from his latest ex, early in their relationship. At first Koyama had been thrilled by the unusual gift, had cooed over the story about the plant being symbolic of their love. But as the fresh-love glow began to wear off, and the relationship began to cool, he wondered why it hadn't been a flowering plant of some sort. Something wonderful and beautiful that caused a bloom in his own heart rather than this pretty but boring plant that never seemed to change.
Now the man was gone but the fern was still here and Koyama faithfully tended to its needs, often spending minutes just eyeing it and wondering why he hadn't gotten rid of it yet. Truth was that, in the absence of someone to love, he'd let it become a surrogate, and for now he was okay with that. He wasn't quite ready for another heartbreak yet, and short of tripping him with its long fronds and causing some sort of tragic accident involving his ribcage and Nyanta, he didn't see how the fern could give him emotional trauma. It was a little pathetic and a lot therapeutic.
"Who do we want to love us," he'd ask it. "Someone kind. Someone clever." He'd spritz the air around the fern and twitch a few of the long fronds that almost touched the ground now from their perch four feet in the air. "Someone who wouldn't leave." He'd smile pensively, run his fingers over the tiny leaves, before moving on to something else. Once, as he'd lightly dragged one finger down a frond, there had been a sharp prick and he'd gasped, jerking the finger to his mouth to suck at the copper tang there. Confused, he'd examined the plant carefully, a slight smear of now-dark blood the only strange thing he'd seen.
And, unbeknownst to him, his words of wistful affection and longing took root and began to grow. He watched in wonder as one of the fronds grew long enough to trail across the floor, leaves lengthening and broadening far more than any fern its size had been known to. In amusement, he lavished the frond with extra praise, musing over how long and wide it might grow and whether he might enter it into the Guiness Book of World Records. But instead of opening, the leaves stayed closed, rounding pregnant and heavy along the floor while Koyama eyed it dubiously.
Overnight it swelled enormously, and Koyama entered the living room and stared in confusion, and a little bit of horror. "Fern," he whispered, and like magic, the giant leaves unfolded to reveal a man cocooned inside, skin still glistening and dewy and tinged with green, a mop of dark hair slicked against his skull.
This was impossible. Then the impossible opened his eyes and tried to focus on Koyama, pupils dilating and constricting wildly in warm brown irises. Koyama rushed to help him up, unheeding of the sticky substance smearing against his clothes between them because everywhere their skin touched he tingled.
They sat at Koyama's small dining table, hands wrapped around tea mugs, silence heavy and thick between them as they stared at one another.
"Shige," Koyama finally ventured, "why were you in my fern?"
"I was hoping you'd know," Shige replied.
Koyama had no clue, but it was his fern, after all, and he felt responsible. "I'm sorry?" He fiddled with his mug. "I thought you went on vacation to Guam. Without me."
Shige groaned. "Come on, Kei. It's not like I didn't want you to be there. You're busy, I'm not. And anyway, I was on vacation in Guam. For one whole day that I can remember. After that it's all… green and fuzzy. I swore I could hear you talking, though." He raised an eyebrow at Koyama. "Do you always talk to your fern?"
"Well… I was lonely."
Shige shot a fond smile in his direction. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous? You're the one who just came out of my fern."
"Yes, well… and it was disturbing. So whatever you did, don't do it again."
"I didn't do anything!"
Swirling his tea cup absently, Shige grunted.
"You didn't actually hear what I was saying while you were in there, did you?" Koyama asked cautiously.
"Hmm."
"Because I'm perfectly happy being single. Just me and Nyanta and… fern."
Shige smiled. "Do you think I'm kind, Koyama?"
"Well, when you're not making fun of me, you're pretty nice," Koyama admitted, lips barely tilting up.
"And do you think I'm clever?" he continued.
Koyama winced. "You did hear," he accused.
Shige just looked at him expectantly.
"Yes, yes. You're clever. You also have an ego bigger than the country, since we're talking about you." Then it all came clear. That first bright flash of pain and his blood smeared over delicate leaves, purchasing his wish. You can never get something for nothing. "Shige," Koyama said slowly. "I think my fern is magic."
"Oh you've just figured this out, have you?" Shige said dryly. "What's more amusing is that you had to use magic to get me here."
"I didn't do it on purpose! How was I supposed to know?"
"Besides," Shige continued, ignoring his outburst, "you already have me, you know. You could have just called."
Koyama flushed and looked down at the table. "I wasn't wishing for a friend, Shige."
And then Shige was standing next to him, looking down at him with knowing eyes. Wrapping a hand around Koyama's elbow, he tugged him up out of the chair, not stepping back when they were close enough that they were brushing together with every shaky breath. "I know," he told him firmly, and cupped Koyama's jaw in his hand and kissed him, and everywhere their skin touched, it tingled.
The fern looked on benignly from its perch. Deep in its plant-brain, it felt a touch of pride at a job well done. Silly humans. They always wanted what they already had and were just too dumb to see. A fern's job was never done.
Pairings/Characters: Koyama/Shige
Rating: PG
Warnings: Magical Realism?
Words: 1,015
Summary: Being a fern is a tough job, but someone's got to do it.
Notes: *repost* uhhh… I'm sorry. Many thanks to my beta and others for letting me whinge. <3 Originally written for je_telephone, Version 8, a remix of sashjun's Version 7, The pot flower that saw it all.
Version 1| Soundtrack for Version 1| Version 2| Version 3| Version 4| Version 5| Version 6| Soundtrack for Version 6| Version 7
---
The fern had been a gift from his latest ex, early in their relationship. At first Koyama had been thrilled by the unusual gift, had cooed over the story about the plant being symbolic of their love. But as the fresh-love glow began to wear off, and the relationship began to cool, he wondered why it hadn't been a flowering plant of some sort. Something wonderful and beautiful that caused a bloom in his own heart rather than this pretty but boring plant that never seemed to change.
Now the man was gone but the fern was still here and Koyama faithfully tended to its needs, often spending minutes just eyeing it and wondering why he hadn't gotten rid of it yet. Truth was that, in the absence of someone to love, he'd let it become a surrogate, and for now he was okay with that. He wasn't quite ready for another heartbreak yet, and short of tripping him with its long fronds and causing some sort of tragic accident involving his ribcage and Nyanta, he didn't see how the fern could give him emotional trauma. It was a little pathetic and a lot therapeutic.
"Who do we want to love us," he'd ask it. "Someone kind. Someone clever." He'd spritz the air around the fern and twitch a few of the long fronds that almost touched the ground now from their perch four feet in the air. "Someone who wouldn't leave." He'd smile pensively, run his fingers over the tiny leaves, before moving on to something else. Once, as he'd lightly dragged one finger down a frond, there had been a sharp prick and he'd gasped, jerking the finger to his mouth to suck at the copper tang there. Confused, he'd examined the plant carefully, a slight smear of now-dark blood the only strange thing he'd seen.
And, unbeknownst to him, his words of wistful affection and longing took root and began to grow. He watched in wonder as one of the fronds grew long enough to trail across the floor, leaves lengthening and broadening far more than any fern its size had been known to. In amusement, he lavished the frond with extra praise, musing over how long and wide it might grow and whether he might enter it into the Guiness Book of World Records. But instead of opening, the leaves stayed closed, rounding pregnant and heavy along the floor while Koyama eyed it dubiously.
Overnight it swelled enormously, and Koyama entered the living room and stared in confusion, and a little bit of horror. "Fern," he whispered, and like magic, the giant leaves unfolded to reveal a man cocooned inside, skin still glistening and dewy and tinged with green, a mop of dark hair slicked against his skull.
This was impossible. Then the impossible opened his eyes and tried to focus on Koyama, pupils dilating and constricting wildly in warm brown irises. Koyama rushed to help him up, unheeding of the sticky substance smearing against his clothes between them because everywhere their skin touched he tingled.
They sat at Koyama's small dining table, hands wrapped around tea mugs, silence heavy and thick between them as they stared at one another.
"Shige," Koyama finally ventured, "why were you in my fern?"
"I was hoping you'd know," Shige replied.
Koyama had no clue, but it was his fern, after all, and he felt responsible. "I'm sorry?" He fiddled with his mug. "I thought you went on vacation to Guam. Without me."
Shige groaned. "Come on, Kei. It's not like I didn't want you to be there. You're busy, I'm not. And anyway, I was on vacation in Guam. For one whole day that I can remember. After that it's all… green and fuzzy. I swore I could hear you talking, though." He raised an eyebrow at Koyama. "Do you always talk to your fern?"
"Well… I was lonely."
Shige shot a fond smile in his direction. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm ridiculous? You're the one who just came out of my fern."
"Yes, well… and it was disturbing. So whatever you did, don't do it again."
"I didn't do anything!"
Swirling his tea cup absently, Shige grunted.
"You didn't actually hear what I was saying while you were in there, did you?" Koyama asked cautiously.
"Hmm."
"Because I'm perfectly happy being single. Just me and Nyanta and… fern."
Shige smiled. "Do you think I'm kind, Koyama?"
"Well, when you're not making fun of me, you're pretty nice," Koyama admitted, lips barely tilting up.
"And do you think I'm clever?" he continued.
Koyama winced. "You did hear," he accused.
Shige just looked at him expectantly.
"Yes, yes. You're clever. You also have an ego bigger than the country, since we're talking about you." Then it all came clear. That first bright flash of pain and his blood smeared over delicate leaves, purchasing his wish. You can never get something for nothing. "Shige," Koyama said slowly. "I think my fern is magic."
"Oh you've just figured this out, have you?" Shige said dryly. "What's more amusing is that you had to use magic to get me here."
"I didn't do it on purpose! How was I supposed to know?"
"Besides," Shige continued, ignoring his outburst, "you already have me, you know. You could have just called."
Koyama flushed and looked down at the table. "I wasn't wishing for a friend, Shige."
And then Shige was standing next to him, looking down at him with knowing eyes. Wrapping a hand around Koyama's elbow, he tugged him up out of the chair, not stepping back when they were close enough that they were brushing together with every shaky breath. "I know," he told him firmly, and cupped Koyama's jaw in his hand and kissed him, and everywhere their skin touched, it tingled.
The fern looked on benignly from its perch. Deep in its plant-brain, it felt a touch of pride at a job well done. Silly humans. They always wanted what they already had and were just too dumb to see. A fern's job was never done.