(no subject)
Title: Asylum
Writer: vintage_belle
Rating: G
Pairing: Ohmiya (Ohno/Nino)
Original Story: Remix of Harborage by Bclar.
Author's Notes: This is basically a point of view remix. The original story is such a good idea and really hard to pull off, so I tried to stick to the description used there as much as possible.
Ohno is sitting in his chair, at his desk, doing nothing in particular, when he feels the air change - and he knows something important has changed with it. It makes his shoulders draw up towards his ears as if to ward away a chill that doesn’t exist.
Then his mother calls up from below. “Satoshi? Nino’s here.”
Ohno is at once surprised and entirely not. Though he doesn’t bring his band mates to his house as a group (because his mother isn’t much impressed by the ruckus that a group of twenty-something’s cause), individually they’re more than welcome. When Nino comes he most often sends a text before hand, but he’s come without any warning at all before and Ohno never minds. Ohno likes Nino’s visits - the younger man changes the atmosphere around him, just by being there, even if he and Ohno spend the whole visit in nothing but silence.
But today the air is different.
Ohno turns to greet Nino when the door opens behind him, but the words die on his lips. Nino looks as he ever does, but Ohno knows that he’s not all right. He’s not even somewhat fine. Ohno is thrown by that lack.
Nino stands in Ohno’s doorway for a moment, his eyes not focused on anything, his lips moving like he might try to say something. Then he walks straight through the room to Ohno’s unmade bed and crawls onto it, heedless of it’s state. He presses his back to the wall and draws his legs to his chest, creating a small ball of Nino. He says nothing.
Ohno stands slowly from his chair and moves to his side, sitting down. Nino neither speaks nor looks up. There is a long stretch of quiet while Ohno waits for Nino to say something - anything to let Ohno know what’s wrong - but Nino doesn’t rise to his usual role. Rather, he appears to get smaller with every passing moment.
“What happened?” Ohno asks softly when he can no longer stand it.
His question goes unanswered. There isn’t even a reaction. Nino only stares at his knees, at the faded material of his jeans. Ohno thinks maybe he’ll never know, the younger man stays quiet for so long after.
“My father died.”
Ohno stares. He doesn’t know what to say. Nino has never spoken much about his father - perhaps a passing sentence here or there, perhaps a few angry words, just enough spread out over different magazines that only the most devoted fans will ever piece together what they think is the true story of Nino’s home life. Even Ohno doesn’t know very much. He knows Nino’s father lived with them even after his parents divorced and that Nino slept on the couch while his mother slept in his room. He knows that Nino’s father was a chef. He knows that Nino was bullied when he was young, and that Nino doesn’t mind his partners cheating on him as long as he knows the cheating is happening.
Ohno doesn’t know what to say, so he sits close to the younger man’s side and waits for Nino to figure out what he can do to help. But Nino still doesn’t move, and the feeling of wrongness that began from the moment Nino opened the bedroom door grows until Ohno’s very insides feel like they’re squirming to get away from it.
He’s never seen Nino like this, his face free of any emotion but radiating fear and confusion with his very being. It hurts Ohno in some way he can’t describe to see it now. Nino is meant to be lively and loud - he is always in the middle of anything, even when he isn’t actively doing anything. At those times he is only waiting for the right moment to join in once again, making certain the mood remains workable. It is like his game systems: He is either running or on standby.
Nino has never been turned off in all the time Ohno has known him, and Ohno hates it.
Ohno wants to pull Nino close, to cradle him like his mother used to do, to rest Nino’s head on his shoulder and murmur softly, tell him to cry, shhhhh, just cry, it’s okay, I’m here and everything’s going to be all right. He wants to, but he doesn’t dare. Nino on his normal days is never predictable. Sometimes he’ll gladly return touch, sometimes he’ll slap the grasping hands away, sometime’s he’ll whine and whine about it even though he doesn’t try to pull away. It’s never depended on the occasion, who’s watching, what sort of touch it is. It depends solely on Nino’s mood.
Ohno can’t begin to evaluate what Nino’s mood is.
They sit in silence, shoulders touching: Nino stares at their knees, Ohno watches the light shining through his window change from white to orange. There is no sound but for the passing of a car on the street below.
Ohno watches the square of light move across his floor.
The door opens and his mother comes in - and Ohno thinks she probably wants to ask if they want dinner - but Ohno shakes his head before she can even open her mouth. Her eyes glance over Nino’s form. She nods and closes the door again.
The light changes from orange to red. There is nothing to indicate that Nino even noticed the interruption. Ohno is still waiting in silence, he thinks Nino might be waiting in silence. But for what, he knows that neither he nor Nino know.
The light disappears. Ohno hasn’t turned on his ceiling light. There is the barest movement in the dark. Nino stops holding himself like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t. His hands cover his face. Enough.
“Come here.”
It’s a soft whisper, easily ignorable, but Ohno knows that Nino will never ignore touch. Ohno puts his arms around Nino. Nino leans into it and Ohno pulls him closer, closer, until Nino’s face is hidden in his hands in Ohno’s shirt. Ohno presses his nose into Nino’s hair.
Ohno is not a talker. He doesn’t feel the need to speak unless prompted.
Now he doesn’t think he could stop himself.
“It’s okay, Nino. Whatever you need, take it. Whatever helps, do it. I’m here, you can cry, I’ll never tell. Don’t hold back. It’s just us, Nino. Don’t be afraid of me.” he keeps saying, over and over, until finally, finally, one tiny sob rips free from Nino’s throat. It’s barely audible over the stream of Ohno’s words, but it’s followed by another, another, another, growing louder as Nino loses control of himself.
Nino shakes horribly. He cries out and mumbles words that Ohno can’t understand - thinks maybe Nino doesn’t understand himself - and hiccups harshly. His hands give up trying to cover his face from the emotion and clutch at Ohno’s shirt. They tug the material, trying to pull Ohno forward while Nino tries to bury himself in the shelter of the older man’s arms - a child seeking the warmest, most caring sort of protection that exists.
Ohno could never deny Nino anything. He curls around Nino, holds him tight, rubs his back, strokes his arms, kisses his hair and the back of his neck. He keeps whispering soothing nonsense until his throat is dry. He doesn’t stop until Nino’s sobs quiet, until the shivering fades and tightly wound muscles relax under Ohno’s fingertips.
Ohno waits, feeling Nino breathe deeply and evenly against his chest. His shirt is soaked and his leg is wedged at an unhealthy angle between Nino and the wall. He doesn’t care. The barest shifting gets them lying down on the bed.
He never lets Nino out of his arms.
Writer: vintage_belle
Rating: G
Pairing: Ohmiya (Ohno/Nino)
Original Story: Remix of Harborage by Bclar.
Author's Notes: This is basically a point of view remix. The original story is such a good idea and really hard to pull off, so I tried to stick to the description used there as much as possible.
Ohno is sitting in his chair, at his desk, doing nothing in particular, when he feels the air change - and he knows something important has changed with it. It makes his shoulders draw up towards his ears as if to ward away a chill that doesn’t exist.
Then his mother calls up from below. “Satoshi? Nino’s here.”
Ohno is at once surprised and entirely not. Though he doesn’t bring his band mates to his house as a group (because his mother isn’t much impressed by the ruckus that a group of twenty-something’s cause), individually they’re more than welcome. When Nino comes he most often sends a text before hand, but he’s come without any warning at all before and Ohno never minds. Ohno likes Nino’s visits - the younger man changes the atmosphere around him, just by being there, even if he and Ohno spend the whole visit in nothing but silence.
But today the air is different.
Ohno turns to greet Nino when the door opens behind him, but the words die on his lips. Nino looks as he ever does, but Ohno knows that he’s not all right. He’s not even somewhat fine. Ohno is thrown by that lack.
Nino stands in Ohno’s doorway for a moment, his eyes not focused on anything, his lips moving like he might try to say something. Then he walks straight through the room to Ohno’s unmade bed and crawls onto it, heedless of it’s state. He presses his back to the wall and draws his legs to his chest, creating a small ball of Nino. He says nothing.
Ohno stands slowly from his chair and moves to his side, sitting down. Nino neither speaks nor looks up. There is a long stretch of quiet while Ohno waits for Nino to say something - anything to let Ohno know what’s wrong - but Nino doesn’t rise to his usual role. Rather, he appears to get smaller with every passing moment.
“What happened?” Ohno asks softly when he can no longer stand it.
His question goes unanswered. There isn’t even a reaction. Nino only stares at his knees, at the faded material of his jeans. Ohno thinks maybe he’ll never know, the younger man stays quiet for so long after.
“My father died.”
Ohno stares. He doesn’t know what to say. Nino has never spoken much about his father - perhaps a passing sentence here or there, perhaps a few angry words, just enough spread out over different magazines that only the most devoted fans will ever piece together what they think is the true story of Nino’s home life. Even Ohno doesn’t know very much. He knows Nino’s father lived with them even after his parents divorced and that Nino slept on the couch while his mother slept in his room. He knows that Nino’s father was a chef. He knows that Nino was bullied when he was young, and that Nino doesn’t mind his partners cheating on him as long as he knows the cheating is happening.
Ohno doesn’t know what to say, so he sits close to the younger man’s side and waits for Nino to figure out what he can do to help. But Nino still doesn’t move, and the feeling of wrongness that began from the moment Nino opened the bedroom door grows until Ohno’s very insides feel like they’re squirming to get away from it.
He’s never seen Nino like this, his face free of any emotion but radiating fear and confusion with his very being. It hurts Ohno in some way he can’t describe to see it now. Nino is meant to be lively and loud - he is always in the middle of anything, even when he isn’t actively doing anything. At those times he is only waiting for the right moment to join in once again, making certain the mood remains workable. It is like his game systems: He is either running or on standby.
Nino has never been turned off in all the time Ohno has known him, and Ohno hates it.
Ohno wants to pull Nino close, to cradle him like his mother used to do, to rest Nino’s head on his shoulder and murmur softly, tell him to cry, shhhhh, just cry, it’s okay, I’m here and everything’s going to be all right. He wants to, but he doesn’t dare. Nino on his normal days is never predictable. Sometimes he’ll gladly return touch, sometimes he’ll slap the grasping hands away, sometime’s he’ll whine and whine about it even though he doesn’t try to pull away. It’s never depended on the occasion, who’s watching, what sort of touch it is. It depends solely on Nino’s mood.
Ohno can’t begin to evaluate what Nino’s mood is.
They sit in silence, shoulders touching: Nino stares at their knees, Ohno watches the light shining through his window change from white to orange. There is no sound but for the passing of a car on the street below.
Ohno watches the square of light move across his floor.
The door opens and his mother comes in - and Ohno thinks she probably wants to ask if they want dinner - but Ohno shakes his head before she can even open her mouth. Her eyes glance over Nino’s form. She nods and closes the door again.
The light changes from orange to red. There is nothing to indicate that Nino even noticed the interruption. Ohno is still waiting in silence, he thinks Nino might be waiting in silence. But for what, he knows that neither he nor Nino know.
The light disappears. Ohno hasn’t turned on his ceiling light. There is the barest movement in the dark. Nino stops holding himself like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t. His hands cover his face. Enough.
“Come here.”
It’s a soft whisper, easily ignorable, but Ohno knows that Nino will never ignore touch. Ohno puts his arms around Nino. Nino leans into it and Ohno pulls him closer, closer, until Nino’s face is hidden in his hands in Ohno’s shirt. Ohno presses his nose into Nino’s hair.
Ohno is not a talker. He doesn’t feel the need to speak unless prompted.
Now he doesn’t think he could stop himself.
“It’s okay, Nino. Whatever you need, take it. Whatever helps, do it. I’m here, you can cry, I’ll never tell. Don’t hold back. It’s just us, Nino. Don’t be afraid of me.” he keeps saying, over and over, until finally, finally, one tiny sob rips free from Nino’s throat. It’s barely audible over the stream of Ohno’s words, but it’s followed by another, another, another, growing louder as Nino loses control of himself.
Nino shakes horribly. He cries out and mumbles words that Ohno can’t understand - thinks maybe Nino doesn’t understand himself - and hiccups harshly. His hands give up trying to cover his face from the emotion and clutch at Ohno’s shirt. They tug the material, trying to pull Ohno forward while Nino tries to bury himself in the shelter of the older man’s arms - a child seeking the warmest, most caring sort of protection that exists.
Ohno could never deny Nino anything. He curls around Nino, holds him tight, rubs his back, strokes his arms, kisses his hair and the back of his neck. He keeps whispering soothing nonsense until his throat is dry. He doesn’t stop until Nino’s sobs quiet, until the shivering fades and tightly wound muscles relax under Ohno’s fingertips.
Ohno waits, feeling Nino breathe deeply and evenly against his chest. His shirt is soaked and his leg is wedged at an unhealthy angle between Nino and the wall. He doesn’t care. The barest shifting gets them lying down on the bed.
He never lets Nino out of his arms.