Second Chance (Arashi)
Title: Second Chance
Pairing: Jun x Aiba
Rating: PG
Summary: Fic exchange with notabox, part one. (Hers can be found here.)
Jun's hand held the cigarette without trembling. Unmoving, like a stone that had rolled too much moss, a tree planted firmly in the ground, sitting terrible and lonely beneath the rain, he took a breath. In, out--the simple rhythm of life meant no more to him now than did the gradual death of smoke, ash flicked daintily off chipped fingernails.
The note had made no sense to him. Dribbled words and smeared ink, and words purposefully blotted by tears, or perhaps omitted for the sake of the writer's agony. He wondered as his eyes scanned the page. He wondered the point.
Aiba's apartment had been cleaned out after the accident. Jun had watched the proceedings from across the street, tucked deep in the aroma of a coffeehouse. His eyes, sore, dark, but holding not a single tear, watched the procession of furniture, of boxes labeled in Aiba's brother's handwriting, of things he recognized and things he barely had a chance to know moving into the bed of a truck.
Jun let his mind fade away, and allowed the grind of coffee makers and clinking tea cups to drive away the constant pound of his memories, as if each of them were being yanked out of his head and filed away in one of those boxes, to be moved into a storage unit that would be emptied years later with regrettable indifference.
Beneath the ring of his coffee mug lay the note.
He wondered what had ever provoked the feelings spoken to on the paper. He wondered how he could even come across that way. Nights after work spent drinking weren't usually in the company of his bandmates if he could help it. It wasn't that he didn't like them, on the contrary, perhaps it was because they didn't like him.
But still, that note.
Maybe if he had known he was allowed some sort of special feelings--maybe if he knew that Aiba masturbated to him when he was away, maybe if he knew that nights spent tormenting in loneliness were simply nights wasted in ignorance, when the answer had been sitting mere phone digits away. Maybe if he had known, maybe, maybe, maybe.
Nino called it fate. Jun was loathe to think that he would succumb to any greater being than himself, but Nino called it fate.
Days later and as Jun waited for his chauffeur, he pulled the note from his pocket. Folded, wrinkled, he traced the line of Aiba's pen marks with one bejeweled finger, noting the inaccuracies.
Unfair, the way his heart twisted. Unfair, the way he could still remember.
Aiba's hair smelled so sweet in the morning. Even drenched in sweat, dried and tickled around his cheeks, it smelled of fresh shampoo and the lingering wave of cologne.
Jun enjoyed the sex, but there was something so tangible and innocent about Aiba's lithe form in the early, blinding rays of sunlight. There was something there that made him stay in bed just a few minutes longer, which made his lips paint lines and circles and tiny little shapes of kisses in Aiba's neck. Maybe there was something he was missing that he found in Aiba.
Talking about their feelings had been a waste. Jun was ever unwilling.
After time, the urges faded. The sex was merely sex, and late nights were spent in silence, accompanied by a bottle of Jack Daniel's and the obnoxious glare of his television set.
But maybe, maybe if he had known. Maybe if he had really tried. Maybe if he hadn't been such a--a dick.
Weeks later and the note was starting to fade, creases in the paper causing words to drop out and burn into memory. Soon Jun would even start to forget the original wording. Perception is everything.
No one liked to talk about what happened, and Jun was used to pretending everything was okay, so weeks faded into months. Six months, seven. He began to forget the touch of Aiba's skin against him. He began to forget the intensity of their kisses.
Months turned into a year, two years, and Jun's cheeks were damp with tears as he opened the note to find it despairingly blank.
"I loved you."
Jun's eyes opened to the sight of his popcorn ceiling.
He filled a mug with coffee and waited for his ride, in sleek jeans and a deep red jacket, embedded with tiny crystal jewels. Snow was predicted on the forecast, and as he squinted at the sky, a drop of rain hit him between the eyes. He swore revenge.
The studio was cold and empty, and Jun ran a hand through his hair to push it all out of his eyes. His music stand stood near Ohno's, filled with stacks of contracts and sheet music. Nino and Sho were sharing a box of pretzels on the old, ratty sofa.
Aiba's eyes met his, and as Jun opened his mouth to say something, anything, he noticed the neatly folded note poking from the corner of the pile. His name was handwritten across the front.
The cigarette he had lit on the way to work suddenly started shaking between his fingertips, and Aiba smiled at him, visibly nervous.
Nino called it fate.
Jun called it his second chance.
Pairing: Jun x Aiba
Rating: PG
Summary: Fic exchange with notabox, part one. (Hers can be found here.)
Jun's hand held the cigarette without trembling. Unmoving, like a stone that had rolled too much moss, a tree planted firmly in the ground, sitting terrible and lonely beneath the rain, he took a breath. In, out--the simple rhythm of life meant no more to him now than did the gradual death of smoke, ash flicked daintily off chipped fingernails.
The note had made no sense to him. Dribbled words and smeared ink, and words purposefully blotted by tears, or perhaps omitted for the sake of the writer's agony. He wondered as his eyes scanned the page. He wondered the point.
Aiba's apartment had been cleaned out after the accident. Jun had watched the proceedings from across the street, tucked deep in the aroma of a coffeehouse. His eyes, sore, dark, but holding not a single tear, watched the procession of furniture, of boxes labeled in Aiba's brother's handwriting, of things he recognized and things he barely had a chance to know moving into the bed of a truck.
Jun let his mind fade away, and allowed the grind of coffee makers and clinking tea cups to drive away the constant pound of his memories, as if each of them were being yanked out of his head and filed away in one of those boxes, to be moved into a storage unit that would be emptied years later with regrettable indifference.
Beneath the ring of his coffee mug lay the note.
He wondered what had ever provoked the feelings spoken to on the paper. He wondered how he could even come across that way. Nights after work spent drinking weren't usually in the company of his bandmates if he could help it. It wasn't that he didn't like them, on the contrary, perhaps it was because they didn't like him.
But still, that note.
Maybe if he had known he was allowed some sort of special feelings--maybe if he knew that Aiba masturbated to him when he was away, maybe if he knew that nights spent tormenting in loneliness were simply nights wasted in ignorance, when the answer had been sitting mere phone digits away. Maybe if he had known, maybe, maybe, maybe.
Nino called it fate. Jun was loathe to think that he would succumb to any greater being than himself, but Nino called it fate.
Days later and as Jun waited for his chauffeur, he pulled the note from his pocket. Folded, wrinkled, he traced the line of Aiba's pen marks with one bejeweled finger, noting the inaccuracies.
Unfair, the way his heart twisted. Unfair, the way he could still remember.
Aiba's hair smelled so sweet in the morning. Even drenched in sweat, dried and tickled around his cheeks, it smelled of fresh shampoo and the lingering wave of cologne.
Jun enjoyed the sex, but there was something so tangible and innocent about Aiba's lithe form in the early, blinding rays of sunlight. There was something there that made him stay in bed just a few minutes longer, which made his lips paint lines and circles and tiny little shapes of kisses in Aiba's neck. Maybe there was something he was missing that he found in Aiba.
Talking about their feelings had been a waste. Jun was ever unwilling.
After time, the urges faded. The sex was merely sex, and late nights were spent in silence, accompanied by a bottle of Jack Daniel's and the obnoxious glare of his television set.
But maybe, maybe if he had known. Maybe if he had really tried. Maybe if he hadn't been such a--a dick.
Weeks later and the note was starting to fade, creases in the paper causing words to drop out and burn into memory. Soon Jun would even start to forget the original wording. Perception is everything.
No one liked to talk about what happened, and Jun was used to pretending everything was okay, so weeks faded into months. Six months, seven. He began to forget the touch of Aiba's skin against him. He began to forget the intensity of their kisses.
Months turned into a year, two years, and Jun's cheeks were damp with tears as he opened the note to find it despairingly blank.
"I loved you."
Jun's eyes opened to the sight of his popcorn ceiling.
He filled a mug with coffee and waited for his ride, in sleek jeans and a deep red jacket, embedded with tiny crystal jewels. Snow was predicted on the forecast, and as he squinted at the sky, a drop of rain hit him between the eyes. He swore revenge.
The studio was cold and empty, and Jun ran a hand through his hair to push it all out of his eyes. His music stand stood near Ohno's, filled with stacks of contracts and sheet music. Nino and Sho were sharing a box of pretzels on the old, ratty sofa.
Aiba's eyes met his, and as Jun opened his mouth to say something, anything, he noticed the neatly folded note poking from the corner of the pile. His name was handwritten across the front.
The cigarette he had lit on the way to work suddenly started shaking between his fingertips, and Aiba smiled at him, visibly nervous.
Nino called it fate.
Jun called it his second chance.