Human Error - 01, 02, 03. (Arashi)
Title: Human Error
Pairing: Ohno x Nino
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The first three parts of an AU series. Ohno's life has reached a peak in monotony, but a chance meeting has the potential to change it all. (More parts to come later).
01.
Every evening, at exactly three minutes before seven, Ohno Satoshi rides the train home.
Tardiness is nearly impossible. His mother knows where he works, knows the exact time he leaves his desk. She knows how long it takes to get to the station, and she knows that with the commuter pass, five stops down the line and he’s within walking distance. There could be nothing simpler.
He’s used to feeling caged like this. His entire life has been a series of schedules-every hour marked with tasks to accomplish, errands to run or subjects to study. Perhaps it is why he is so good at his job. An inane, boring desk job that leaves his mind in a state of constant organization, the world of staplers, red ink, and filing cabinets is the bane of his existence.
He owns a cell phone, but no one calls it. Once upon a time, in school, he had friends, but they all went to pursue careers they felt would make them happy, and he had been pushed under his mother’s thumb, quiet and ignorant. He didn’t know what was really out there. He didn’t know that things could be different.
Every evening, at five past seven, Ohno Satoshi reads the newspaper on the train home.
It’s hard. Words that he’s never used, never seen, never heard spoken-they confuse him, and it’s with great care that he memorizes the curves of the characters, the images they give him in his mind. Perhaps-perhaps, one day, he will decorate an entire wall with these mysteries, these meanings that are unknown to him. It will be orange, and maybe purple; colours mean more to him than the simple black-and-white of magazine and newspaper articles. Shapes mean more to him, too.
He doesn’t really know why.
Life seems to be a dull mixture of the same grays and greens he wears on his neatly pressed suits, because to him, life outside the suits means nothing. He could memorize the labels on the paperwork he does but he never really knows what they meant either. It doesn’t matter. During the work day, he spends a majority of the time sitting, alone, wheeling the squeaky desk chair back and forth across indented linoleum, and no one ever asks him questions. There is no need. Sometimes, he likes to imagine that the voice he never speaks is clear, amazing; something that could echo off the cubicle walls and splinter the hard crystal of wine glasses.
Sometimes, in reality, he forgets what it even sounds like.
“We have arrived in Harajuku.”
Ohno looked up from the newspaper in his lap.
Squinting out the window behind him, he was confused. Had he fallen asleep? He’d never been this far down the line, and the shock of colourful, printed clothes mixed in with the beige, crispness of the working world both awed and frightened him. Without thinking, his legs moved. Briefcase in hand, Ohno walked off the train and onto the platform.
Where was he?
Somewhere he had read about, yes, but no where he had been in a long, long time. For a moment, he stood still, trying to place his memories, but nothing came. Perhaps in junior high he had frequented this station with his old friend Sakurai, and they had gone to restaurants and clothing shops and had laughed and squinted at the giant billboards, the ornate street signs. Ohno’s mouth was agape.
How could he get home from here?
People pushed past him, and it was with great effort that Ohno finally managed to work his way down the stairs, looking for signs, for anything that could direct him in the right direction. A woman edged past his right, and Ohno’s eyebrows furrowed, mouth open to say something, but the gate was right in front of him and he had to fumble to get his train pass out.
The open air tasted sweet to him.
Past the sanctuary of the station, Ohno didn’t know what to do. His cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket, and he knew that he must be late, and his mother must be worrying-as he reached for it, the crosswalk sign flashed green, and he was swept up by the crowds. His silver cell phone was flung out of his hand. Ohno cried out, a sound foreign even to his ears, and stumbled to catch it.
A young boy’s sneaker cushioned the fall.
Off to the side and far, far back, his shoulders against the station wall, the boy’s eyes focused keenly on the expensive piece of technology. He reached for it.
“Excuse me,” Ohno panted, the leather of his briefcase chafing against the fold of his arm, both hands on his knees. “That’s mine.”
“I know,” the boy said, and shifted the guitar in his lap. “I don’t want it, it’s ugly.”
“Ugly?” Ohno repeated without even knowing he had repeated it.
His phone was nudged aside. “Do you want to hear a song?” the boy asked, and his smile was something that Ohno had only seen in television commercials or ads on the train. It fluttered.
He knew that, in reality, such a thing wasn’t possible, but-it fluttered. The boy’s teeth were white, peculiar, because a box of cigarettes was half crushed inside the velvet of an open guitar case nearby, and his eyes shone with the innocence of someone who has seen everything but chooses not to let it show. Mischievous-it was the word Ohno had heard his mother use to describe the stray cat that used to claw at their laundry when it fell off the line.
Ohno bent to pick up his phone. “I don’t really know any songs,” he confessed, crouching, his long fingers curling around the dirty frame of silver. “I don’t really listen to music.”
The boy looked flabbergasted. “What, they’ve forbidden CD players in the office now?”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Ohno smiled.
“I never said that,” he amended, turning his head to the side. The sunlight caught on his bleach washed, auburn brown hair. “I just don’t listen to it.”
The boy strummed a few notes. “Because it’s distracting?”
“No.” Ohno shook his head, and found himself feeling like he should just sit down. People kept walking past him and staring, and he wondered if it was because he looked funny, crouched here, the pant legs of his suit riding up and the tails of his jacket awkwardly tucked. He licked his lips. “I’m afraid I won’t understand.”
The boy stared at him.
Ohno’s palms suddenly felt sweaty, like all the dampness in his throat had drained, traveling through his body and into his hands. He couldn’t speak under those eyes.
But his phone vibrated.
“I-“ He stuttered, but the boy grinned, looking down, his short, dirty nails dancing across the strings again, lazy.
“I’ll see you around,” he said.
“I’m Ohno.”
The phone kept vibrating. His voice sounded cracked.
Those eyes met his again, soft, muted, and suddenly flowing with the tracks of a thousand journeys, the pictures of a million different maps, some ripped and outdated and some fresh, like blood from a paper cut.
“Ninomiya. My name’s Ninomiya.”
02.
Ohno's mother was a strong, broad shouldered woman. Her hair, which, in old photographs, flowed down her back like a tangle of vines, was now clipped short, and held within the teeth of a brown-speckled spider clip. When Ohno arrived at the door every evening, arching past the strong, black gate that held the placard of their name, she would be waiting for him in a magenta apron, two flowers stitched together, side by side, near the top. His sister had made it.
They didn't look like their mother. Ohno's father had died some time ago, but Ohno still remembered his face. He remembered the smell of his suits, the way that he would tease, pulling on his sister's braided pigtails or squirting him inadvertently with tooth paste. Ohno remembered his mother smiling, then, once in awhile. That was back in grade school.
But Ohno couldn't remember a time that his mother ever truly believed in him.
"You were lost?" She asked him now, seated at the broad, polished oak of their dining room table. "That's odd. You never get lost."
Ohno shrugged. He found that talking less made the scolding less.
"Were you not paying attention?" His mother's chopsticks hit the rim of her rice bowl, and she folded her hands against the place mat beneath it, eyes full of disappointment. "You know better than to space out anymore. You're an adult. You can't do the things--"
"--you want to do anymore," Ohno supplied. "I know that, mother. I just..."
Ninomiya's eyes flashed in his memory.
"I just..."
He tried to lie, but the words wouldn't come. His forehead tensed in frustration.
Perhaps his mother sensed that nothing good was coming from the conversation, or perhaps she mistook his frustration for remorse, even guilt. She smiled at him, reaching across the table to pat his sleeve.
"It's alright. You start working overtime next week, right?"
Ohno nodded, a breath of relief flowing out of him without conscious thought. He imagined it a bird, with brilliant blue-and-red feathers that arced and fluttered through the stale summer air, the yellow of its beak soft and frayed and searching for flies or worms.
It was nearly fall, Ohno realized, and looked down at his hands.
"If it makes it easier," his mother started, interrupting his thoughts, "you can get dinner on the way home. You know, if you're going to be especially late? I won't be awake and I don't want to listen to you clunking dishes around while I'm trying to dream."
Ohno found it peculiar that his mother would use such a word on him. He'd been instructed not to have dreams anymore; they were a waste of time. Nothing ever came true and disappointment was not an option, simply a distraction. The world would still turn whether he were happy or not.
"Yes, mother," Ohno replied, feeling a tang of frustration as he bit into a slice of salmon.
03.
“We have arrived in Harajuku.”
Ohno was wide awake this time. He stepped onto the platform.
Things that were of interest to him always stayed in his memory. He liked it when sunlight hit a spray of water and a rainbow, tiny and fleeting, caught within the strands of his vision. He liked it when the dog that lived across the street would abandon its morning post, and walk with him to the bus stop, sniffing and pawing gently at his pant leg. He liked it when he saw the ocean.
He had also liked Ninomiya's voice, and so it stayed in his memory.
Turning the corner, Ohno went down the steps again. It was later this time, at least another hour and a half, and he wondered if Ninomiya would have already gone home. Perhaps he had a mother like Ohno's, and just the thought of that was exciting, because maybe he had found someone exactly like him out in this world and maybe, they could battle the chains of their scheduled lives together. Maybe something could be done.
When he exited the station, he heard a guitar.
The sound was muted. Perhaps on the other side? Ohno walked, quiet, listening to the beat of his shoes in correspondence with the slowly strummed chords of music. It was definitely a song, not just something thrown together. It was a real song.
Ohno's shoes stopped at a point just outside the frayed wood of Ninomiya's guitar case.
Ninomiya glanced up. "Oh," he said, and the music stopped, abrupt and awkward. "It's you."
Ohno's smile hitched up in barely restrained excitement.
"I don't have to go home for awhile," He blurted out, and suddenly felt stupid for saying it. Why would it matter to Ninomiya whether he had to be home or not? What if his family wasn't like Ohno's? What if he lived with a wife, or a girlfriend, or with a sibling and didn't have the restraints that Ohno had grown painstakingly accustomed to?
Ninomiya smiled at him, but it wasn't the same as before. It was tired.
"Sit down," Ninomiya murmured, and it was then that Ohno finally got a glance at the old milk crate that cushioned Ninomiya's tattered jeans. His eyes caught in the shape of it, the dull, postal blue colour. They took in the condition of his clothes, the odd patches of his jacket and the almost fashionable cuts in his jeans. He saw the stain of blood in more than one place, dried and a dark, lonely brown. Ohno swallowed.
"Actually," Ninomiya said, fumbling behind his guitar case as Ohno, without a care, tossed his briefcase down and took a seat on it, "I have something I was going to show you."
Curiosity was etched across his face as Ninomiya's small, weathered hands passed him a bundle of papers.
"What is this?" Ohno asked, even as his fingers were working past the faded brown cover, impatient and eager. The character at the top of the page--he could read it, yes, and it was with great excitement that his eyes traced the shape over and over, the stylish, hand-written scroll: rainbow. It said 'rainbow'.
Rows and rows of tiny, inked circles stared at him. Ohno's mouth contorted.
"What is this?" Ohno repeated, and in his ears, he heard the unmistakable cry of his own intelligence, withered and frail. It hurt. "How do you read this?"
"It's music," Ninomiya said, soft. His eyes were watching, and Ohno suddenly felt very raw, like all those years of quiet, undisturbed silence had finally caught up with his features and made them old.
Ninomiya's hand came over his. Ohno only noticed then that it was trembling.
"It's music," Ninomiya repeated, and drew his fingers back, slow and deliberate. They were drawn to the guitar, propped up in his lap, and Ohno's eyes darted from the papers to the strings, watching. Disappointment was rushing through him, storing in his blood and filtering out the heat. He felt cold inside.
The sound of Ninomiya's voice, strong, heady, and clear, came in through Ohno's parted lips.
It ran down his throat, chasing past vocal chords rarely used and a deep, screaming voice somewhere at the head of his chest, and continued on, rushing through his lungs--they filled with a hot, bubbling air, something bittersweet and intangible--and when it struck his blood, Ohno's eyes were staring at Ninomiya's face.
He understood. Past the tweaking of guitar chords and the subtle roar of nearby crowds, of cars driving by and the train yards away, he understood.
But he couldn't put it into words.
"You don't have to be able to read something to really get it," came the hint of Ninomiya's voice, and the music continued by his hand, minor and melancholy. "You just have to feel."
When Ohno got on the train that night, he held the packet of sheet music to his chest and closed his eyes.
Pairing: Ohno x Nino
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The first three parts of an AU series. Ohno's life has reached a peak in monotony, but a chance meeting has the potential to change it all. (More parts to come later).
01.
Every evening, at exactly three minutes before seven, Ohno Satoshi rides the train home.
Tardiness is nearly impossible. His mother knows where he works, knows the exact time he leaves his desk. She knows how long it takes to get to the station, and she knows that with the commuter pass, five stops down the line and he’s within walking distance. There could be nothing simpler.
He’s used to feeling caged like this. His entire life has been a series of schedules-every hour marked with tasks to accomplish, errands to run or subjects to study. Perhaps it is why he is so good at his job. An inane, boring desk job that leaves his mind in a state of constant organization, the world of staplers, red ink, and filing cabinets is the bane of his existence.
He owns a cell phone, but no one calls it. Once upon a time, in school, he had friends, but they all went to pursue careers they felt would make them happy, and he had been pushed under his mother’s thumb, quiet and ignorant. He didn’t know what was really out there. He didn’t know that things could be different.
Every evening, at five past seven, Ohno Satoshi reads the newspaper on the train home.
It’s hard. Words that he’s never used, never seen, never heard spoken-they confuse him, and it’s with great care that he memorizes the curves of the characters, the images they give him in his mind. Perhaps-perhaps, one day, he will decorate an entire wall with these mysteries, these meanings that are unknown to him. It will be orange, and maybe purple; colours mean more to him than the simple black-and-white of magazine and newspaper articles. Shapes mean more to him, too.
He doesn’t really know why.
Life seems to be a dull mixture of the same grays and greens he wears on his neatly pressed suits, because to him, life outside the suits means nothing. He could memorize the labels on the paperwork he does but he never really knows what they meant either. It doesn’t matter. During the work day, he spends a majority of the time sitting, alone, wheeling the squeaky desk chair back and forth across indented linoleum, and no one ever asks him questions. There is no need. Sometimes, he likes to imagine that the voice he never speaks is clear, amazing; something that could echo off the cubicle walls and splinter the hard crystal of wine glasses.
Sometimes, in reality, he forgets what it even sounds like.
“We have arrived in Harajuku.”
Ohno looked up from the newspaper in his lap.
Squinting out the window behind him, he was confused. Had he fallen asleep? He’d never been this far down the line, and the shock of colourful, printed clothes mixed in with the beige, crispness of the working world both awed and frightened him. Without thinking, his legs moved. Briefcase in hand, Ohno walked off the train and onto the platform.
Where was he?
Somewhere he had read about, yes, but no where he had been in a long, long time. For a moment, he stood still, trying to place his memories, but nothing came. Perhaps in junior high he had frequented this station with his old friend Sakurai, and they had gone to restaurants and clothing shops and had laughed and squinted at the giant billboards, the ornate street signs. Ohno’s mouth was agape.
How could he get home from here?
People pushed past him, and it was with great effort that Ohno finally managed to work his way down the stairs, looking for signs, for anything that could direct him in the right direction. A woman edged past his right, and Ohno’s eyebrows furrowed, mouth open to say something, but the gate was right in front of him and he had to fumble to get his train pass out.
The open air tasted sweet to him.
Past the sanctuary of the station, Ohno didn’t know what to do. His cell phone buzzed in his pants pocket, and he knew that he must be late, and his mother must be worrying-as he reached for it, the crosswalk sign flashed green, and he was swept up by the crowds. His silver cell phone was flung out of his hand. Ohno cried out, a sound foreign even to his ears, and stumbled to catch it.
A young boy’s sneaker cushioned the fall.
Off to the side and far, far back, his shoulders against the station wall, the boy’s eyes focused keenly on the expensive piece of technology. He reached for it.
“Excuse me,” Ohno panted, the leather of his briefcase chafing against the fold of his arm, both hands on his knees. “That’s mine.”
“I know,” the boy said, and shifted the guitar in his lap. “I don’t want it, it’s ugly.”
“Ugly?” Ohno repeated without even knowing he had repeated it.
His phone was nudged aside. “Do you want to hear a song?” the boy asked, and his smile was something that Ohno had only seen in television commercials or ads on the train. It fluttered.
He knew that, in reality, such a thing wasn’t possible, but-it fluttered. The boy’s teeth were white, peculiar, because a box of cigarettes was half crushed inside the velvet of an open guitar case nearby, and his eyes shone with the innocence of someone who has seen everything but chooses not to let it show. Mischievous-it was the word Ohno had heard his mother use to describe the stray cat that used to claw at their laundry when it fell off the line.
Ohno bent to pick up his phone. “I don’t really know any songs,” he confessed, crouching, his long fingers curling around the dirty frame of silver. “I don’t really listen to music.”
The boy looked flabbergasted. “What, they’ve forbidden CD players in the office now?”
For the first time in what felt like forever, Ohno smiled.
“I never said that,” he amended, turning his head to the side. The sunlight caught on his bleach washed, auburn brown hair. “I just don’t listen to it.”
The boy strummed a few notes. “Because it’s distracting?”
“No.” Ohno shook his head, and found himself feeling like he should just sit down. People kept walking past him and staring, and he wondered if it was because he looked funny, crouched here, the pant legs of his suit riding up and the tails of his jacket awkwardly tucked. He licked his lips. “I’m afraid I won’t understand.”
The boy stared at him.
Ohno’s palms suddenly felt sweaty, like all the dampness in his throat had drained, traveling through his body and into his hands. He couldn’t speak under those eyes.
But his phone vibrated.
“I-“ He stuttered, but the boy grinned, looking down, his short, dirty nails dancing across the strings again, lazy.
“I’ll see you around,” he said.
“I’m Ohno.”
The phone kept vibrating. His voice sounded cracked.
Those eyes met his again, soft, muted, and suddenly flowing with the tracks of a thousand journeys, the pictures of a million different maps, some ripped and outdated and some fresh, like blood from a paper cut.
“Ninomiya. My name’s Ninomiya.”
02.
Ohno's mother was a strong, broad shouldered woman. Her hair, which, in old photographs, flowed down her back like a tangle of vines, was now clipped short, and held within the teeth of a brown-speckled spider clip. When Ohno arrived at the door every evening, arching past the strong, black gate that held the placard of their name, she would be waiting for him in a magenta apron, two flowers stitched together, side by side, near the top. His sister had made it.
They didn't look like their mother. Ohno's father had died some time ago, but Ohno still remembered his face. He remembered the smell of his suits, the way that he would tease, pulling on his sister's braided pigtails or squirting him inadvertently with tooth paste. Ohno remembered his mother smiling, then, once in awhile. That was back in grade school.
But Ohno couldn't remember a time that his mother ever truly believed in him.
"You were lost?" She asked him now, seated at the broad, polished oak of their dining room table. "That's odd. You never get lost."
Ohno shrugged. He found that talking less made the scolding less.
"Were you not paying attention?" His mother's chopsticks hit the rim of her rice bowl, and she folded her hands against the place mat beneath it, eyes full of disappointment. "You know better than to space out anymore. You're an adult. You can't do the things--"
"--you want to do anymore," Ohno supplied. "I know that, mother. I just..."
Ninomiya's eyes flashed in his memory.
"I just..."
He tried to lie, but the words wouldn't come. His forehead tensed in frustration.
Perhaps his mother sensed that nothing good was coming from the conversation, or perhaps she mistook his frustration for remorse, even guilt. She smiled at him, reaching across the table to pat his sleeve.
"It's alright. You start working overtime next week, right?"
Ohno nodded, a breath of relief flowing out of him without conscious thought. He imagined it a bird, with brilliant blue-and-red feathers that arced and fluttered through the stale summer air, the yellow of its beak soft and frayed and searching for flies or worms.
It was nearly fall, Ohno realized, and looked down at his hands.
"If it makes it easier," his mother started, interrupting his thoughts, "you can get dinner on the way home. You know, if you're going to be especially late? I won't be awake and I don't want to listen to you clunking dishes around while I'm trying to dream."
Ohno found it peculiar that his mother would use such a word on him. He'd been instructed not to have dreams anymore; they were a waste of time. Nothing ever came true and disappointment was not an option, simply a distraction. The world would still turn whether he were happy or not.
"Yes, mother," Ohno replied, feeling a tang of frustration as he bit into a slice of salmon.
03.
“We have arrived in Harajuku.”
Ohno was wide awake this time. He stepped onto the platform.
Things that were of interest to him always stayed in his memory. He liked it when sunlight hit a spray of water and a rainbow, tiny and fleeting, caught within the strands of his vision. He liked it when the dog that lived across the street would abandon its morning post, and walk with him to the bus stop, sniffing and pawing gently at his pant leg. He liked it when he saw the ocean.
He had also liked Ninomiya's voice, and so it stayed in his memory.
Turning the corner, Ohno went down the steps again. It was later this time, at least another hour and a half, and he wondered if Ninomiya would have already gone home. Perhaps he had a mother like Ohno's, and just the thought of that was exciting, because maybe he had found someone exactly like him out in this world and maybe, they could battle the chains of their scheduled lives together. Maybe something could be done.
When he exited the station, he heard a guitar.
The sound was muted. Perhaps on the other side? Ohno walked, quiet, listening to the beat of his shoes in correspondence with the slowly strummed chords of music. It was definitely a song, not just something thrown together. It was a real song.
Ohno's shoes stopped at a point just outside the frayed wood of Ninomiya's guitar case.
Ninomiya glanced up. "Oh," he said, and the music stopped, abrupt and awkward. "It's you."
Ohno's smile hitched up in barely restrained excitement.
"I don't have to go home for awhile," He blurted out, and suddenly felt stupid for saying it. Why would it matter to Ninomiya whether he had to be home or not? What if his family wasn't like Ohno's? What if he lived with a wife, or a girlfriend, or with a sibling and didn't have the restraints that Ohno had grown painstakingly accustomed to?
Ninomiya smiled at him, but it wasn't the same as before. It was tired.
"Sit down," Ninomiya murmured, and it was then that Ohno finally got a glance at the old milk crate that cushioned Ninomiya's tattered jeans. His eyes caught in the shape of it, the dull, postal blue colour. They took in the condition of his clothes, the odd patches of his jacket and the almost fashionable cuts in his jeans. He saw the stain of blood in more than one place, dried and a dark, lonely brown. Ohno swallowed.
"Actually," Ninomiya said, fumbling behind his guitar case as Ohno, without a care, tossed his briefcase down and took a seat on it, "I have something I was going to show you."
Curiosity was etched across his face as Ninomiya's small, weathered hands passed him a bundle of papers.
"What is this?" Ohno asked, even as his fingers were working past the faded brown cover, impatient and eager. The character at the top of the page--he could read it, yes, and it was with great excitement that his eyes traced the shape over and over, the stylish, hand-written scroll: rainbow. It said 'rainbow'.
Rows and rows of tiny, inked circles stared at him. Ohno's mouth contorted.
"What is this?" Ohno repeated, and in his ears, he heard the unmistakable cry of his own intelligence, withered and frail. It hurt. "How do you read this?"
"It's music," Ninomiya said, soft. His eyes were watching, and Ohno suddenly felt very raw, like all those years of quiet, undisturbed silence had finally caught up with his features and made them old.
Ninomiya's hand came over his. Ohno only noticed then that it was trembling.
"It's music," Ninomiya repeated, and drew his fingers back, slow and deliberate. They were drawn to the guitar, propped up in his lap, and Ohno's eyes darted from the papers to the strings, watching. Disappointment was rushing through him, storing in his blood and filtering out the heat. He felt cold inside.
The sound of Ninomiya's voice, strong, heady, and clear, came in through Ohno's parted lips.
It ran down his throat, chasing past vocal chords rarely used and a deep, screaming voice somewhere at the head of his chest, and continued on, rushing through his lungs--they filled with a hot, bubbling air, something bittersweet and intangible--and when it struck his blood, Ohno's eyes were staring at Ninomiya's face.
He understood. Past the tweaking of guitar chords and the subtle roar of nearby crowds, of cars driving by and the train yards away, he understood.
But he couldn't put it into words.
"You don't have to be able to read something to really get it," came the hint of Ninomiya's voice, and the music continued by his hand, minor and melancholy. "You just have to feel."
When Ohno got on the train that night, he held the packet of sheet music to his chest and closed his eyes.