Dear Nino (Arashi)
Title: Dear Nino
Pairing: Dare I say - perhaps - Everyone x Nino?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Somebody's writing a letter to Nino. (If that weren't obvious). Because, of course, right before finals you're supposed to write crappy fics.
If paper had eyes--beady, tiny little things, black, unblinking, unlearning, quiet and smug--he would have gouged them out already. Blotches of red ink lay smeared across the top of the paper, a dot to represent every moment he sat there, hesitating and thinking: there were maybe nine of them there, like a decoration, and with a smack of his lips he continued down along the edge of the paper, drawn to complete the wayward border he had unintentionally started.
Well, it was somewhere to put his attention, anyway, and he slurred the pen along the lower corners of the paper, crossing along in a zig-zag and moving up again.
Border now complete, he stared. Switched pens.
The new tip was blue and soft, like a feather brush, and it made a strange, squeaky noise when he pressed it down into the paper, erupting an awkward set of giggles just past the pursing of his lips.
"Oi," Sho said from across the room, newspaper in one hand, the other curled around the lip of a coffee cup. "What are you doing over there?"
"Nothing," He replied, as sweetly as he could, and resettled himself over the table, arms protecting that small sheet of paper.
"Sure..." Sho almost grumbled, his eyes scanning harmlessly across the black and white print. "I don't know how you can be laughing, so early in the morning."
The reply was immediate, smooth, and nearly out of character: "It's a gift," He replied, and began on the words.
Dear Nino, he wrote.
There was an arch to the last character, a flash of the pen upward--and then another squeaky noise, but this only roused a grin, continuing on down to the next line.
An elbow landed on his head.
"What are you doing over here?" MatsuJun asked, drilling the sharp bone of arm into him, half-grinning, sunglasses perched precariously atop his head. They were probably Gucci or some other ridiculous, expensive brand, but who really had the time to notice when their letter was so dangerously close to being misread?
"Does it really matter?" He grumbled, trying to shake MatsuJun away from him, arms crossing and shoulders hunched up in a thin, even line, like a wall of brick, or perhaps ice, stiff and frozen and unwilling to let eyes, hands, or even teeth pass.
Teeth, he thought with another grin, I should put that in the letter too.
"You forgot to put the cap on this," MatsuJun muttered, the pressure relieved from the soft bed of hair, reaching gracefully for the previously abandoned pen. "It's going to stain the table."
"Thank you," was the reply, sweet, sarcastic, before spreading his hand across the top of the letter, blotting out the words already scribed. "Your thoughtfulness amazes me."
MatsuJun snorted.
Relieved of the disturbance, he started up again, as the quiet murmur of Sho's voice came casually to his ears.
"Coffee?" Sho asked MatsuJun, and then there was the sound of the sofa as another body sank into it, relaxing back, and the sure, quiet complaint of too much sugar, not enough milk, how can you be a newscaster and not drink the proper coffee.
Dear Nino, he wrote. I've been in love with you for such a long time.
Ever since we were together as children, I've felt like we had a connection. A bond, maybe, is that the word people use? I don't like to sound stupid despite the bias--
No, no. His lips pursed into a line, re-reading, eyes narrowed.
So there became a big smear of blue ink, and then: I don't like sounding stupid, but I thought you should know. Is there any chance we could be together?
"Heyyyy," Ohno whined into his ear, lips dangerously close to the shell of it. "You left without me this morning."
"Shush," he grumbled, head jerking sideways, feeling the tingle up his spine, the rush of warmth to his gut at the feel of Ohno's damp breath, his puckered lips. "I'm working."
"Can I help?" Ohno asked, leaning away, his fingers carefully undoing the buttons of his green sweater. Ugly thing, really, if he had time to think about it--but who really had the time to think about it when their letter was so dangerously close to being misread?
Surprisingly, the reply came from his lips before he could stop himself: "Yes, you can help."
"Oh," Ohno chirped, and sat down on the opposite side, artistic hands smoothed against the cool wood of the table. "What do I do?"
His hand scribbled as he spoke: I think about you more than I'd like to admit. Your fingers, the way they're so possessive when you touch things - your guitar or even your gameboy, or when you pick fuzzies off the back of my shirt or even dare to hold my hand - they -
"Write on this envelope," he murmured, passing it across the table with his other hand, eyes focused down on the continuation of his sentence: something about the dark secrets of the bedroom, and then a blotch of ink, because that's too porny, maybe something like--like, the smell of Nino on his sheets, the sweat between their bodies, the way he would kiss him and--
A frown. How was that any less porny?
"Heyyy." Ohno's voice broke the reverie, his nails drumming against the tabletop in consternation. "What do I write on it?"
The pen stilled. "To Nino."
"But--"
"But nothing, just write it."
Crisis averted, and the words continued along to the edge of the paper, hurried and quick, because the sound of Sho and MatsuJun's voices had been joined by staff members, and people were moving equipment and doing sound checks. Lights were being turned on and off.
I want to love you, he wrote. I want to show you that I can love you.
"Here--"
"Good, now - ...why did you smudge it like this?"
With a frustrated breath he straightened up the piece of paper with a flourished, extravagant signature, the envelope deft between his fingers, held up in the air like a white flag. A sign of surrender.
Please, he wrote, and dropped the pen: Sincerely Yours, Aiba Masaki.
"You guys," came Nino's voice as he hid his hands under the table, nimbly folding the letter and sliding it unnoticed within the envelope, "I have a problem."
Sho and MatsuJun's conversation died down. Ohno's eyes were focused on Nino's face, watching, curious, and only after a moment did he make the connection, but by then, the letter was already being handed over with delicate fingers.
"I've been reading this all morning. What do I do?"
Dear Nino, it said.
"I tried to write a reply, but I don't know how to say it."
Dear Nino, it said. I've been in love with you for such a long time.
Jun's fingers curled around the paper, and his eyes flickered to Sho's, gauging and indignant, his hip thrown out to one side in mock seriousness.
Sho's eyebrows had settled into one thin, crossed line.
"Should I just give in?" Nino asked, wringing his hands, feet pressed neatly together. "Should I let him do what he wants with me?"
The door opened. Ohno was the first to react, his mouth parting in some sort of warning, something, anything, half-rising from his chair and shaking his head when nothing would come out.
Three other pairs of eyes fell on the door, and a dull, laced edge silence filled the space between them.
"Let who do what?" Aiba asked with a painfully innocent smile.
Pairing: Dare I say - perhaps - Everyone x Nino?
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Somebody's writing a letter to Nino. (If that weren't obvious). Because, of course, right before finals you're supposed to write crappy fics.
If paper had eyes--beady, tiny little things, black, unblinking, unlearning, quiet and smug--he would have gouged them out already. Blotches of red ink lay smeared across the top of the paper, a dot to represent every moment he sat there, hesitating and thinking: there were maybe nine of them there, like a decoration, and with a smack of his lips he continued down along the edge of the paper, drawn to complete the wayward border he had unintentionally started.
Well, it was somewhere to put his attention, anyway, and he slurred the pen along the lower corners of the paper, crossing along in a zig-zag and moving up again.
Border now complete, he stared. Switched pens.
The new tip was blue and soft, like a feather brush, and it made a strange, squeaky noise when he pressed it down into the paper, erupting an awkward set of giggles just past the pursing of his lips.
"Oi," Sho said from across the room, newspaper in one hand, the other curled around the lip of a coffee cup. "What are you doing over there?"
"Nothing," He replied, as sweetly as he could, and resettled himself over the table, arms protecting that small sheet of paper.
"Sure..." Sho almost grumbled, his eyes scanning harmlessly across the black and white print. "I don't know how you can be laughing, so early in the morning."
The reply was immediate, smooth, and nearly out of character: "It's a gift," He replied, and began on the words.
Dear Nino, he wrote.
There was an arch to the last character, a flash of the pen upward--and then another squeaky noise, but this only roused a grin, continuing on down to the next line.
An elbow landed on his head.
"What are you doing over here?" MatsuJun asked, drilling the sharp bone of arm into him, half-grinning, sunglasses perched precariously atop his head. They were probably Gucci or some other ridiculous, expensive brand, but who really had the time to notice when their letter was so dangerously close to being misread?
"Does it really matter?" He grumbled, trying to shake MatsuJun away from him, arms crossing and shoulders hunched up in a thin, even line, like a wall of brick, or perhaps ice, stiff and frozen and unwilling to let eyes, hands, or even teeth pass.
Teeth, he thought with another grin, I should put that in the letter too.
"You forgot to put the cap on this," MatsuJun muttered, the pressure relieved from the soft bed of hair, reaching gracefully for the previously abandoned pen. "It's going to stain the table."
"Thank you," was the reply, sweet, sarcastic, before spreading his hand across the top of the letter, blotting out the words already scribed. "Your thoughtfulness amazes me."
MatsuJun snorted.
Relieved of the disturbance, he started up again, as the quiet murmur of Sho's voice came casually to his ears.
"Coffee?" Sho asked MatsuJun, and then there was the sound of the sofa as another body sank into it, relaxing back, and the sure, quiet complaint of too much sugar, not enough milk, how can you be a newscaster and not drink the proper coffee.
Dear Nino, he wrote. I've been in love with you for such a long time.
Ever since we were together as children, I've felt like we had a connection. A bond, maybe, is that the word people use? I don't like to sound stupid despite the bias--
No, no. His lips pursed into a line, re-reading, eyes narrowed.
So there became a big smear of blue ink, and then: I don't like sounding stupid, but I thought you should know. Is there any chance we could be together?
"Heyyyy," Ohno whined into his ear, lips dangerously close to the shell of it. "You left without me this morning."
"Shush," he grumbled, head jerking sideways, feeling the tingle up his spine, the rush of warmth to his gut at the feel of Ohno's damp breath, his puckered lips. "I'm working."
"Can I help?" Ohno asked, leaning away, his fingers carefully undoing the buttons of his green sweater. Ugly thing, really, if he had time to think about it--but who really had the time to think about it when their letter was so dangerously close to being misread?
Surprisingly, the reply came from his lips before he could stop himself: "Yes, you can help."
"Oh," Ohno chirped, and sat down on the opposite side, artistic hands smoothed against the cool wood of the table. "What do I do?"
His hand scribbled as he spoke: I think about you more than I'd like to admit. Your fingers, the way they're so possessive when you touch things - your guitar or even your gameboy, or when you pick fuzzies off the back of my shirt or even dare to hold my hand - they -
"Write on this envelope," he murmured, passing it across the table with his other hand, eyes focused down on the continuation of his sentence: something about the dark secrets of the bedroom, and then a blotch of ink, because that's too porny, maybe something like--like, the smell of Nino on his sheets, the sweat between their bodies, the way he would kiss him and--
A frown. How was that any less porny?
"Heyyy." Ohno's voice broke the reverie, his nails drumming against the tabletop in consternation. "What do I write on it?"
The pen stilled. "To Nino."
"But--"
"But nothing, just write it."
Crisis averted, and the words continued along to the edge of the paper, hurried and quick, because the sound of Sho and MatsuJun's voices had been joined by staff members, and people were moving equipment and doing sound checks. Lights were being turned on and off.
I want to love you, he wrote. I want to show you that I can love you.
"Here--"
"Good, now - ...why did you smudge it like this?"
With a frustrated breath he straightened up the piece of paper with a flourished, extravagant signature, the envelope deft between his fingers, held up in the air like a white flag. A sign of surrender.
Please, he wrote, and dropped the pen: Sincerely Yours, Aiba Masaki.
"You guys," came Nino's voice as he hid his hands under the table, nimbly folding the letter and sliding it unnoticed within the envelope, "I have a problem."
Sho and MatsuJun's conversation died down. Ohno's eyes were focused on Nino's face, watching, curious, and only after a moment did he make the connection, but by then, the letter was already being handed over with delicate fingers.
"I've been reading this all morning. What do I do?"
Dear Nino, it said.
"I tried to write a reply, but I don't know how to say it."
Dear Nino, it said. I've been in love with you for such a long time.
Jun's fingers curled around the paper, and his eyes flickered to Sho's, gauging and indignant, his hip thrown out to one side in mock seriousness.
Sho's eyebrows had settled into one thin, crossed line.
"Should I just give in?" Nino asked, wringing his hands, feet pressed neatly together. "Should I let him do what he wants with me?"
The door opened. Ohno was the first to react, his mouth parting in some sort of warning, something, anything, half-rising from his chair and shaking his head when nothing would come out.
Three other pairs of eyes fell on the door, and a dull, laced edge silence filled the space between them.
"Let who do what?" Aiba asked with a painfully innocent smile.