[fic] In which Yamapi Proves that Ignorance is Indeed Bliss (ryopi; 1/1)
I feel so excited to be able to cross something off my list of Things I Need To Write. *beams*
Title: In which Yamapi Proves that Ignorance is Indeed Bliss
Author: inevitabilityy
Pairings: Nishikido Ryo/Yamashita Tomohisa
Rating: pg13.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Notes: Request by faito_oh! And our crazy RyoDa threads. :)
Summary: Yamapi doesn't get it.
They could say it was because they were young. (And maybe that one would be just a little bit true, they were eighteen after all, they’d swear, they didn’t know anything back then.)
But it doesn’t really matter what they say, because four, five, six years later, that’s all it’s ever been: empty words. Ryo still comes home to Yamapi sleeping on his couch and Yamapi still opens his door at two in the morning to Ryo, yawning and sleepy-eyed. Sometimes Ryo will scowl, nudge Yamapi with his foot until he wakes up; sometimes he’ll roll his eyes and let it go, a smile (that Yamapi always pretends not to notice) stretching the sharp corners of his jaw. Sometimes Yamapi pulls Ryo in by the belt loops and there is a quiet pressing of mouths against mouths, slowly, lazily, before Yamapi sends him to the shower, laughing; sometimes, when Ryo’s eyes are tired and hollow, his body thin and overworked and wrapped in Yamapi’s blankets that always smell of late nights and early mornings, Yamapi hums a chord or two, taps out a beat on the back of Ryo’s hand and murmurs a lullaby, a fairy tale, a Christmas song, the latest single, or anything at all into the soft strands of Ryo’s hair, until Ryo’s asleep, dreaming of stars and kings and sugarplums and girls with yellow-green eyes.
“Good morning,” Yamapi’s always there to say the morning after; always the right bed, always the right person.
“You have bed hair,” Ryo will say, and roll his eyes, but it’s too early for sarcasm anyways.
It’s never over, but then again, it never really began.
They fade in, they fade out, they shine, they burn; but that’s why they work together so well anyways - Yamapi’s too selfish to keep for too long and Ryo would never willing admit he liked someone enough to see him at his worst, tired and vulnerable. So Ryo gives and Yamapi takes or Yamapi pushes and Ryo pulls, and sometimes they meet up in the middle, but more usually than not, the scales are always tipped in one direction.
But the main thing with them is that they are comfortable together, and it’s only because they’re best friends that Ryo doesn’t want to utterly kill him when they spend too much time together and Yamapi has absolutely no intention of ever falling in love with Ryo, which does hurt just a little bit, especially because Ryo’s sort of sensitive and the sort of earnest person who does indeed care and - no, he is not going there, that’s not what they’ve (silently) agreed on.
Mostly, Ryo just hates having to be the one who cares so much.
(He tries to tell Yamapi this, but this wouldn’t do at all, his uncooperative tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth every time he tries to say something; and well, God forbid he ruins anything they have now.)
He feels stupid, what with this lame crush of his, but decides he’ll get over it eventually because no matter how many times Yamapi’s mouth slides over his, tugging and licking and biting, he knows it doesn’t really mean anything to him (it shouldn’t matter to both, really, but Ryo’s always been more selfish than Yamapi) and well, they’ve been best friends, Ryo can at least pride himself on knowing Yamapi. And Yamapi’s always sort of been a bit of a whore anyways, a really easy one at that, bright eyes and sunny smiles the most expensive he gets.
When Ryo turns on the radio and the stupid holiday songs are playing all the time, he pushes a worried hand to his forehead, checking for signs of fever when he realizes that he thinks Yamapi’s stupid, off-key version (that he had whispered into the hollows of Ryo’s collarbone last night) better than this version by professionals who are paid to sing this commercial crap to appease the masses (not like Ryo can really be talking, he’s a Johnny after all, but he’s a Johnny with class, alright, not like KAT-TUN and their stupid shirtless photo shoots - it’s not like they can sing or anything). Oh for fuck’s sake, he thinks angrily, hitting the power button with unrestrained force, this is too much.
It’s just a crush, his heart chants over and over again, just a crush.
But then Yamapi becomes familiar and more than being familiar, he becomes habit. Ryo hates this; hates watching Yamapi entwine his fingers with Jin’s, hates watching Yamapi loop his arms around Tegoshi’s waist, around Shige’s shoulders, through Koyama’s arms, even if he knows that tonight, he’s going the be the one that Yamapi sings to sleep, running hands over the angles in his face and smoothing the hardness out of his voice.
It’s a stupid jealousy, an irrational fear. But it’s Yamapi, and that’s all the reason anyone in the world ever needs to write off irrational fears and stupid jealousies.
So Yamapi runs warms hands down Ryo’s arms, Ryo’s back against a wall, lyrics for their new song completely forgotten; and Ryo wants to rip out his heart and hope that he dies a prompt death, especially when Yamapi’s looking at him through lowered lashes and his heart’s beating a tattoo in his chest (and maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll die of a heart attack instead).
When Ryo opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Let’s stop doing this.”
(It takes Yamapi three days to get over the blow to his pride and five to start talking to Ryo again.
Ryo never really quite gets over it, but he’s an entertainer, fake smiles and feigned cheerfulness under distress his forte.)
“I don’t get it,” Yamapi complains to Tegoshi.
“Get what?” Tegoshi asks, blinking innocently up at Yamapi.
“Ryo-chan,” Yamapi says, and crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. “I thought he wanted a CD for Christmas.”
Tegoshi follows Yamapi’s gaze to where Ryo is mercilessly trying to force Shige’s mohawk into a red Santa’s hat. “Maybe Ryo-tan wanted something else,” Tegoshi replies softly, handing his cheerfully wrapped present to Yamapi.
Yamapi never really quite gets it.
Ryo’s sort of grateful for that.
But of course, he forgets to take into account Yamapi’s tenacious and dogged personality (read: stubborn as an ass), which leads to Yamapi ringing his doorbell at ten at night.
“What do you want, Yamashita,” is the answer Yamapi finally gets after a whole minute’s ringing, his finger almost sore from the incessant pushing.
“Ryo-chan,” Yamapi whines, voice pitched higher than normal, “Ryo-chan, aren’t we best friends?”
“No,” is the answer that comes through the door.
Yamapi frowns, though Ryo can’t see it, and knocks again, softly, pressing his cold cheek to the door. He exhales slowly, and then hums the opening bars from the CD he gave Ryo. When he starts singing, Ryo shakes the sleep from his eyes and yanks open the door.
He stands in front of Yamapi, looking down, hands twisting into the hem of his shirt, and Yamapi grins, reaching for bony wrists with cold hands. He steps in, a little bit closer, hesitating in the doorway.
“Best friends, ne, Ryo-chan,” he asks softly, tugging the crinkled hem of Ryo’s shirt.
“Best friends,” Ryo replies, and closes his eyes.
Title: In which Yamapi Proves that Ignorance is Indeed Bliss
Author: inevitabilityy
Pairings: Nishikido Ryo/Yamashita Tomohisa
Rating: pg13.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Notes: Request by faito_oh! And our crazy RyoDa threads. :)
Summary: Yamapi doesn't get it.
They could say it was because they were young. (And maybe that one would be just a little bit true, they were eighteen after all, they’d swear, they didn’t know anything back then.)
But it doesn’t really matter what they say, because four, five, six years later, that’s all it’s ever been: empty words. Ryo still comes home to Yamapi sleeping on his couch and Yamapi still opens his door at two in the morning to Ryo, yawning and sleepy-eyed. Sometimes Ryo will scowl, nudge Yamapi with his foot until he wakes up; sometimes he’ll roll his eyes and let it go, a smile (that Yamapi always pretends not to notice) stretching the sharp corners of his jaw. Sometimes Yamapi pulls Ryo in by the belt loops and there is a quiet pressing of mouths against mouths, slowly, lazily, before Yamapi sends him to the shower, laughing; sometimes, when Ryo’s eyes are tired and hollow, his body thin and overworked and wrapped in Yamapi’s blankets that always smell of late nights and early mornings, Yamapi hums a chord or two, taps out a beat on the back of Ryo’s hand and murmurs a lullaby, a fairy tale, a Christmas song, the latest single, or anything at all into the soft strands of Ryo’s hair, until Ryo’s asleep, dreaming of stars and kings and sugarplums and girls with yellow-green eyes.
“Good morning,” Yamapi’s always there to say the morning after; always the right bed, always the right person.
“You have bed hair,” Ryo will say, and roll his eyes, but it’s too early for sarcasm anyways.
It’s never over, but then again, it never really began.
They fade in, they fade out, they shine, they burn; but that’s why they work together so well anyways - Yamapi’s too selfish to keep for too long and Ryo would never willing admit he liked someone enough to see him at his worst, tired and vulnerable. So Ryo gives and Yamapi takes or Yamapi pushes and Ryo pulls, and sometimes they meet up in the middle, but more usually than not, the scales are always tipped in one direction.
But the main thing with them is that they are comfortable together, and it’s only because they’re best friends that Ryo doesn’t want to utterly kill him when they spend too much time together and Yamapi has absolutely no intention of ever falling in love with Ryo, which does hurt just a little bit, especially because Ryo’s sort of sensitive and the sort of earnest person who does indeed care and - no, he is not going there, that’s not what they’ve (silently) agreed on.
Mostly, Ryo just hates having to be the one who cares so much.
(He tries to tell Yamapi this, but this wouldn’t do at all, his uncooperative tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth every time he tries to say something; and well, God forbid he ruins anything they have now.)
He feels stupid, what with this lame crush of his, but decides he’ll get over it eventually because no matter how many times Yamapi’s mouth slides over his, tugging and licking and biting, he knows it doesn’t really mean anything to him (it shouldn’t matter to both, really, but Ryo’s always been more selfish than Yamapi) and well, they’ve been best friends, Ryo can at least pride himself on knowing Yamapi. And Yamapi’s always sort of been a bit of a whore anyways, a really easy one at that, bright eyes and sunny smiles the most expensive he gets.
When Ryo turns on the radio and the stupid holiday songs are playing all the time, he pushes a worried hand to his forehead, checking for signs of fever when he realizes that he thinks Yamapi’s stupid, off-key version (that he had whispered into the hollows of Ryo’s collarbone last night) better than this version by professionals who are paid to sing this commercial crap to appease the masses (not like Ryo can really be talking, he’s a Johnny after all, but he’s a Johnny with class, alright, not like KAT-TUN and their stupid shirtless photo shoots - it’s not like they can sing or anything). Oh for fuck’s sake, he thinks angrily, hitting the power button with unrestrained force, this is too much.
It’s just a crush, his heart chants over and over again, just a crush.
But then Yamapi becomes familiar and more than being familiar, he becomes habit. Ryo hates this; hates watching Yamapi entwine his fingers with Jin’s, hates watching Yamapi loop his arms around Tegoshi’s waist, around Shige’s shoulders, through Koyama’s arms, even if he knows that tonight, he’s going the be the one that Yamapi sings to sleep, running hands over the angles in his face and smoothing the hardness out of his voice.
It’s a stupid jealousy, an irrational fear. But it’s Yamapi, and that’s all the reason anyone in the world ever needs to write off irrational fears and stupid jealousies.
So Yamapi runs warms hands down Ryo’s arms, Ryo’s back against a wall, lyrics for their new song completely forgotten; and Ryo wants to rip out his heart and hope that he dies a prompt death, especially when Yamapi’s looking at him through lowered lashes and his heart’s beating a tattoo in his chest (and maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll die of a heart attack instead).
When Ryo opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Let’s stop doing this.”
(It takes Yamapi three days to get over the blow to his pride and five to start talking to Ryo again.
Ryo never really quite gets over it, but he’s an entertainer, fake smiles and feigned cheerfulness under distress his forte.)
“I don’t get it,” Yamapi complains to Tegoshi.
“Get what?” Tegoshi asks, blinking innocently up at Yamapi.
“Ryo-chan,” Yamapi says, and crosses his arms over his chest with a sigh. “I thought he wanted a CD for Christmas.”
Tegoshi follows Yamapi’s gaze to where Ryo is mercilessly trying to force Shige’s mohawk into a red Santa’s hat. “Maybe Ryo-tan wanted something else,” Tegoshi replies softly, handing his cheerfully wrapped present to Yamapi.
Yamapi never really quite gets it.
Ryo’s sort of grateful for that.
But of course, he forgets to take into account Yamapi’s tenacious and dogged personality (read: stubborn as an ass), which leads to Yamapi ringing his doorbell at ten at night.
“What do you want, Yamashita,” is the answer Yamapi finally gets after a whole minute’s ringing, his finger almost sore from the incessant pushing.
“Ryo-chan,” Yamapi whines, voice pitched higher than normal, “Ryo-chan, aren’t we best friends?”
“No,” is the answer that comes through the door.
Yamapi frowns, though Ryo can’t see it, and knocks again, softly, pressing his cold cheek to the door. He exhales slowly, and then hums the opening bars from the CD he gave Ryo. When he starts singing, Ryo shakes the sleep from his eyes and yanks open the door.
He stands in front of Yamapi, looking down, hands twisting into the hem of his shirt, and Yamapi grins, reaching for bony wrists with cold hands. He steps in, a little bit closer, hesitating in the doorway.
“Best friends, ne, Ryo-chan,” he asks softly, tugging the crinkled hem of Ryo’s shirt.
“Best friends,” Ryo replies, and closes his eyes.