I drew a line for you
;so if you have a minute why don't we
;One-shot
;Ohno Satoshi/Ninomiya Kazunari
;Two, three, maybe ten years further down the road, I’ll wake up in the morning and make coffee.
;PG
;If you squint, and tilt your head a bit, you might be able to spot some semblance of angst.
;It's called JE for a reason.
;Note: I wrote this in 10 minutes while I was supposed to be studying for my preliminary exams. o.o *garbles*
When all this is over, it’ll be without much fanfare. Sure, the fans will be devastated, but they’ll have grown up, and so will we.
Jun will be the most upset amongst all of us, but I’ll be the one who steals a scarf, a shoelace, a ring with a skull and some fishing string. I’ll put them all in an old Nike shoebox, beside a bottle of coloured sand from Hawaii.
We’ll try to meet up once a month. It'll work well for awhile, but we’ll be busy, things will crop up and Sho will be delivering a special report in Minato. So we’ll change it to a yearly reunion.
The first year, we’ll come together in a burst of noise and colour. Aiba will buy us tie-dyed t-shirts from Mumbai with elephant prints on them. They happen to come in blue, green, purple, yellow and red, he’ll say.
The second year, you’ll come as a personal invitation, ducking your head bashfully with a ring around your finger. There’ll be more noise and colour. I will say congratulations and be happy for you, both before and after we break out the beer and only start hating myself after.
The next year, I’ll be stuck in some recording studio in Chiyoda.
You'll stop coming after the fourth year, and I'll turn up every year after that.
You’ll forget my birthdays occasionally, but there’ll be a card in your mailbox on the twenty-sixth of November every year. You’ll feel guilty, so even when it’s in the middle of January or February or March I will find bubblewrapped clay figurines in a FedEx box outside my door. Sometimes, there’ll be two figures dressed in red and blue feathers and plastic goggles. I will arrange them all on my coffee table one afternoon and keep them the next day under my bed, next to an old shoebox.
Two, three, maybe ten years further down the road, I’ll wake up in the morning and make coffee. There’ll be a woman sleeping beside my warm spot on the bed. Or maybe a man. If it’s a busy day, I’ll drink two cups of black coffee. If it’s not, I’ll probably make waffles with cold butter, three scampering children shrieking as they run around my knees.
I will change and drive to work. The deck of cards stays at home. Work will probably consist of writing songs, signing copyrights, looking through royalties. There won’t be singing and dancing. Maybe I won’t even be in Tokyo. Maybe I’ll be on a set in Santa Monica, or behind a camera in Berlin. And like it.
I’ll go home late in the night, on days when I don’t feel like staying back at work. There’ll be leftover dinner in the fridge, maybe with a note on heating directions. I’ll put it in the microwave and watch a disc of warm light spin round and round, and think of perhaps taking a vacation, or really going back home.
Then maybe when I’m brushing cherry blossoms out of my hair, eating really good udon, or perhaps wincing as I watch an orange sunrise, I’ll look to my left, out of habit, and still be surprised that you’re not there.
{end.}
;One-shot
;Ohno Satoshi/Ninomiya Kazunari
;Two, three, maybe ten years further down the road, I’ll wake up in the morning and make coffee.
;PG
;If you squint, and tilt your head a bit, you might be able to spot some semblance of angst.
;It's called JE for a reason.
;Note: I wrote this in 10 minutes while I was supposed to be studying for my preliminary exams. o.o *garbles*
When all this is over, it’ll be without much fanfare. Sure, the fans will be devastated, but they’ll have grown up, and so will we.
Jun will be the most upset amongst all of us, but I’ll be the one who steals a scarf, a shoelace, a ring with a skull and some fishing string. I’ll put them all in an old Nike shoebox, beside a bottle of coloured sand from Hawaii.
We’ll try to meet up once a month. It'll work well for awhile, but we’ll be busy, things will crop up and Sho will be delivering a special report in Minato. So we’ll change it to a yearly reunion.
The first year, we’ll come together in a burst of noise and colour. Aiba will buy us tie-dyed t-shirts from Mumbai with elephant prints on them. They happen to come in blue, green, purple, yellow and red, he’ll say.
The second year, you’ll come as a personal invitation, ducking your head bashfully with a ring around your finger. There’ll be more noise and colour. I will say congratulations and be happy for you, both before and after we break out the beer and only start hating myself after.
The next year, I’ll be stuck in some recording studio in Chiyoda.
You'll stop coming after the fourth year, and I'll turn up every year after that.
You’ll forget my birthdays occasionally, but there’ll be a card in your mailbox on the twenty-sixth of November every year. You’ll feel guilty, so even when it’s in the middle of January or February or March I will find bubblewrapped clay figurines in a FedEx box outside my door. Sometimes, there’ll be two figures dressed in red and blue feathers and plastic goggles. I will arrange them all on my coffee table one afternoon and keep them the next day under my bed, next to an old shoebox.
Two, three, maybe ten years further down the road, I’ll wake up in the morning and make coffee. There’ll be a woman sleeping beside my warm spot on the bed. Or maybe a man. If it’s a busy day, I’ll drink two cups of black coffee. If it’s not, I’ll probably make waffles with cold butter, three scampering children shrieking as they run around my knees.
I will change and drive to work. The deck of cards stays at home. Work will probably consist of writing songs, signing copyrights, looking through royalties. There won’t be singing and dancing. Maybe I won’t even be in Tokyo. Maybe I’ll be on a set in Santa Monica, or behind a camera in Berlin. And like it.
I’ll go home late in the night, on days when I don’t feel like staying back at work. There’ll be leftover dinner in the fridge, maybe with a note on heating directions. I’ll put it in the microwave and watch a disc of warm light spin round and round, and think of perhaps taking a vacation, or really going back home.
Then maybe when I’m brushing cherry blossoms out of my hair, eating really good udon, or perhaps wincing as I watch an orange sunrise, I’ll look to my left, out of habit, and still be surprised that you’re not there.
{end.}