oh I could hold you for a million years
;what they really mean when they type on seafoam green Underwoods
;Matsumoto Jun/Ninomiya Kazunari
;“It’s like I have gunpowder in my veins and fireworks under my eyelids,” Nino says.
;PG
;Absolute fiction.
;Cross-posted to arashirabu
;This was written as an experiment to see if I was capable of writing something other than Ohmiya. The experiment result? 失敗. D:
I suppose it’s a pretty bad idea to get stoned on a night like this, when we have rehearsal first thing in the morning and that means the alarm clock is going to go off in about three hours. But it felt like the right thing to do, especially after the fuck over the couch, and it’s not as if we get drugs everyday. Nino got the marijuana, from the brother of a colleague’s friend’s cousin of an acquaintance, as a birthday present. Nino knows half the world, even though he’s probably friends with less than ten of them. Including us.
The brother of the colleague’s friend’s cousin of the acquaintance mentioned to Nino that the joint is hardly potent but it does make my head tingle a bit. When I hand it back to Nino he pinches it gracelessly between his fingers and takes a small puff.
“It’s like I have gunpowder in my veins and fireworks under my eyelids,” Nino says. “It’s kind of beautiful, actually.”
Nino can get quite eloquent when he’s high. I’m just generalising here, because it’s only the second time we’ve gotten high, but the first time we smoked pot it had been with Aiba, and at the end Nino’s the one spewing poetry while Aiba started speaking canine.
When we’re together in bed like this I find it easier to think, although right now the marijuana is making the world seem softer around the edges and I’m not thinking like how I usually do, with every thought neat and compartmentalised. Usually I’d be on my back with my hands behind my head and Nino would be drowning between my pillows so that I can’t tell where his arms are. He’s lying on his back now, only because he’s afraid that I’ll suffocate him with the said pillows if he burns a hole through them with the joint, and he won’t live to see twenty-six. Tough.
Nino passes back the joint, and I start thinking about why it happens to be him and not Sho or Ohno or someone else who won’t leave before I get up. The most logical reason would be that Nino’s the only one amongst the five of us who is gay, other than me, but somehow that’s never been the point. Nino’s not gay so much as he just doesn’t give a flying fuck about gender boundaries, and even though it may be safer for us to have two people fucking each other within the band instead of fucking strangers it’s not as if we’ll never fuck it up ourselves. No, if I really get down to it, the reason why it’s Nino is because I know the morning after won’t resemble a train wreck.
I wake up in the mornings tasting him under my tongue, and sometimes he turns up at work still smelling of my fabric softener. That’s about it. We once had a senpai who had a theory on fan service. “Fan service is like being a cocktease,” he’d told us. “You give them just enough to fuck with their heads, and then you pull back.” That’s how it’s like with Nino and I, I suppose. We fuck with each other in the night and it’s okay, because by morning nothing really changes.
Maybe it’s because I’m high right now, but printing that quote on a t-shirt and giving it to Nino seems like a good idea. I’d give it to him as a birthday present. Or, perhaps, see if I can get the stylist who worked on him for ‘Step and Go’ fired. Maybe I can just get her transferred, and mention to management that I’ve heard Jin is looking for a new stylist. Nino would like that better.
I look to my right and Nino’s trying to blow smoke rings into the air, and suddenly I get this feeling I sometimes get during sex, when Nino’s leg accidentally slips off my shoulder because the back of his knee is getting sweaty, or when my hair keeps falling into his eyes and he laughs like I’ve just done something sweet.
There’s no love in all of this, I think. I tell Nino as much, and he looks at me as though I’d just asked him for the secret to some magic trick.
“That’s fucked up. I make coffee for you in the morning,” he says.
“Only because you feel guilty for hogging the sheets at night.” Nino never feels guilty about anything.
“I don’t know why I keep you here,” I continue, only because Nino doesn’t bother denying it.
He blows a bit of smoke at me. “Orgasms.”
“Stop it. The sheets will smell.”
The joint’s not halfway gone yet, but Nino stubs it out on a tray on the bedside table. When he turns back his face is near enough for me to take his bottom lip between my teeth, and I do. And even though I never asked him anything out loud Nino answers by wrapping his legs around my waist, and then my hands are all over his hips and stomach and thighs. Not out of curiosity, because I’ve been there thousands of times before, but I do it anyway.
When it’s over, we’re both raw and open and sinking into each other’s bones. We never touch each other after sex, and even when we do it is only by accident. Nino’s cold toes pushing against my ankles or my chin digging into the crown of his head. It must be the marijuana, I tell myself; I reach out, pull our skeletons close.
--
The sky outside is still dark, but the world’s not too soft around the edges. I hear the words we’d said during the night, in the whisper of clothes against Nino’s skin and the sound of the coffee machine starting. They rearrange themselves haphazardly in specks and splinters, as if my head can’t organise them fast enough before a full stop, or perhaps the slamming of the front door.
coffee in the night and orgasms in the morning under sheets that smell like you are fucked up and kind of beautiful and I love -
;Matsumoto Jun/Ninomiya Kazunari
;“It’s like I have gunpowder in my veins and fireworks under my eyelids,” Nino says.
;PG
;Absolute fiction.
;Cross-posted to arashirabu
;This was written as an experiment to see if I was capable of writing something other than Ohmiya. The experiment result? 失敗. D:
I suppose it’s a pretty bad idea to get stoned on a night like this, when we have rehearsal first thing in the morning and that means the alarm clock is going to go off in about three hours. But it felt like the right thing to do, especially after the fuck over the couch, and it’s not as if we get drugs everyday. Nino got the marijuana, from the brother of a colleague’s friend’s cousin of an acquaintance, as a birthday present. Nino knows half the world, even though he’s probably friends with less than ten of them. Including us.
The brother of the colleague’s friend’s cousin of the acquaintance mentioned to Nino that the joint is hardly potent but it does make my head tingle a bit. When I hand it back to Nino he pinches it gracelessly between his fingers and takes a small puff.
“It’s like I have gunpowder in my veins and fireworks under my eyelids,” Nino says. “It’s kind of beautiful, actually.”
Nino can get quite eloquent when he’s high. I’m just generalising here, because it’s only the second time we’ve gotten high, but the first time we smoked pot it had been with Aiba, and at the end Nino’s the one spewing poetry while Aiba started speaking canine.
When we’re together in bed like this I find it easier to think, although right now the marijuana is making the world seem softer around the edges and I’m not thinking like how I usually do, with every thought neat and compartmentalised. Usually I’d be on my back with my hands behind my head and Nino would be drowning between my pillows so that I can’t tell where his arms are. He’s lying on his back now, only because he’s afraid that I’ll suffocate him with the said pillows if he burns a hole through them with the joint, and he won’t live to see twenty-six. Tough.
Nino passes back the joint, and I start thinking about why it happens to be him and not Sho or Ohno or someone else who won’t leave before I get up. The most logical reason would be that Nino’s the only one amongst the five of us who is gay, other than me, but somehow that’s never been the point. Nino’s not gay so much as he just doesn’t give a flying fuck about gender boundaries, and even though it may be safer for us to have two people fucking each other within the band instead of fucking strangers it’s not as if we’ll never fuck it up ourselves. No, if I really get down to it, the reason why it’s Nino is because I know the morning after won’t resemble a train wreck.
I wake up in the mornings tasting him under my tongue, and sometimes he turns up at work still smelling of my fabric softener. That’s about it. We once had a senpai who had a theory on fan service. “Fan service is like being a cocktease,” he’d told us. “You give them just enough to fuck with their heads, and then you pull back.” That’s how it’s like with Nino and I, I suppose. We fuck with each other in the night and it’s okay, because by morning nothing really changes.
Maybe it’s because I’m high right now, but printing that quote on a t-shirt and giving it to Nino seems like a good idea. I’d give it to him as a birthday present. Or, perhaps, see if I can get the stylist who worked on him for ‘Step and Go’ fired. Maybe I can just get her transferred, and mention to management that I’ve heard Jin is looking for a new stylist. Nino would like that better.
I look to my right and Nino’s trying to blow smoke rings into the air, and suddenly I get this feeling I sometimes get during sex, when Nino’s leg accidentally slips off my shoulder because the back of his knee is getting sweaty, or when my hair keeps falling into his eyes and he laughs like I’ve just done something sweet.
There’s no love in all of this, I think. I tell Nino as much, and he looks at me as though I’d just asked him for the secret to some magic trick.
“That’s fucked up. I make coffee for you in the morning,” he says.
“Only because you feel guilty for hogging the sheets at night.” Nino never feels guilty about anything.
“I don’t know why I keep you here,” I continue, only because Nino doesn’t bother denying it.
He blows a bit of smoke at me. “Orgasms.”
“Stop it. The sheets will smell.”
The joint’s not halfway gone yet, but Nino stubs it out on a tray on the bedside table. When he turns back his face is near enough for me to take his bottom lip between my teeth, and I do. And even though I never asked him anything out loud Nino answers by wrapping his legs around my waist, and then my hands are all over his hips and stomach and thighs. Not out of curiosity, because I’ve been there thousands of times before, but I do it anyway.
When it’s over, we’re both raw and open and sinking into each other’s bones. We never touch each other after sex, and even when we do it is only by accident. Nino’s cold toes pushing against my ankles or my chin digging into the crown of his head. It must be the marijuana, I tell myself; I reach out, pull our skeletons close.
--
The sky outside is still dark, but the world’s not too soft around the edges. I hear the words we’d said during the night, in the whisper of clothes against Nino’s skin and the sound of the coffee machine starting. They rearrange themselves haphazardly in specks and splinters, as if my head can’t organise them fast enough before a full stop, or perhaps the slamming of the front door.
coffee in the night and orgasms in the morning under sheets that smell like you are fucked up and kind of beautiful and I love -