[one-shot] if we obey the tides
Title: if we obey the tides
Pairing Ohmiya
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,829
Summary: Nino and Ohno ditch their responsibilities as idols to spend a week in a town where no one knows them.
Notes: Won second place in the ohmiyaday Valentine's Day contest!
I'm not really knowledgeable about climate in Japan, so the changes in weather are based on my area. The town doesn't exist, either - it's partially inspired by a place near where I grew up, but fictional. This ended up twice as long as I thought it'd be, was surprisingly easy to write, and has become very personal.
Maybe I’ll never die
I’ll just keep growing younger with you
And you’ll grow younger too
Now it seems too lovely to be true
But I know the best things always do
Let’s pretend we don’t exist
Let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica
-Of Montreal, Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Things
I want to take you far from the cynics in this town
And kiss you on the mouth
We'll cut our bodies free from the tethers of this scene
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change
We'll give ourselves new names (identities erased)
The sun will heat the grounds
Under our bare feet in this brand new colony
Everything will change
-The Postal Service, Brand New Colony
February 8th
You almost miss the call when it comes on that insignificant Sunday night (Monday morning?) because you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, a pile of blankets twisted around your entire frame. You had one arm poking out already, tracing shapes into the oversized paper and wondering how much longer it would be until you began filling the contours with color, but it still takes a minute of fumbling around before you manage to pick it up. Nino’s name is on the display, and you consider not answering, because this one part on the painting is almost finished, and you can never say no to Nino when he asks you out for drinks. But you pick up anyway, nearly poking your eye out with your pen because you forget you’re holding it and the phone in the same hand.
Nino starts up a normal conversation, chatting with you about how his day went, about filming and something funny about shrimp bento that you don’t quite catch but laugh at anyway. He acts as if it’s ordinary for him to be calling you late at night to share such details, even though he never has before.
After exhausting an hour’s worth of topics, Nino falls silent. But he’s not finished, you can tell; there are words caught up somewhere, still trying to get to your end of the line. Finally he makes his proposition: that the two of you abandon the responsibilities that are piled up for tomorrow and go somewhere far away; that for a single day, you pretend you’re merely silhouettes of yourselves. It almost sounds like a joke, but for some reason you can’t bring yourself to believe it’s one. Nino doesn’t say where he wants to go or why. You wonder what the catch is, because one obviously exists, lingering somewhere beneath his motives.
You push the receiver painfully against your ear, trying to transmit whatever it is that Nino’s thinking and feeling through the red mark it leaves around your lobe from the pressure. You gaze back at your drawing, where the lines are still disconnected but beginning to flow together into that black and white photo you’ve taken in your imagination. What colors should you use?
The reasons for you to decline are far greater than your reasons to accept, but you end up agreeing to join him anyway. You change out of your bright red pajamas into jeans and a long-sleeved tee, throwing on a jacket and a cap before heading outside. You pat your pockets and feel for your wallet and cell phone to make sure they’re there. And they’re all that’s there; you don’t bother packing extra clothes or toiletries or anything else, even though you don’t know where you’re going or if it will really only be for a day.
Nino is waiting for you by the time you meet him at the train station, tickets bought and paid for. He laughs and reaches up, rubbing beside your eye where you apparently got ink on you, probably from when you answered the phone. As he hands you your ticket, he says those words again about going somewhere far away together, until you reached a place where no one knew your names. And again, you wonder why, but you don’t even know why you decided to come along, so maybe it doesn’t matter, or maybe it’s something you aren’t supposed to know.
So together, you board the train. You don’t bother checking the destination.
The car is nearly empty, and Nino practically sits on your lap from the way he leans against you, with his arm wound around your waist and his hair tickling your nose. When you exhale, the strands fly about before returning to their former position. You play with them for a few minutes before you realize that Nino has become very heavy against you, and his breathing has evened out. You peer over his head as much as you can and manage to spot closed eyes. You give your watch a quick glance; it’s a little after midnight.
The lights are cut off into fragments from the speed of the train and wisp across the floor; it’s a kaleidoscope of the city. You doze off and wake again to the heat of Nino against you and the cold of the air surrounding you both, Nino nudging your side gently. He’s there when you open your eyes, and you can’t see him clearly because he’s so close that his face is blurred in your vision. His breath ghosts across your cheeks as he lets you know that the train has reached its last stop of the night.
He offers you his hand and pulls you up, not letting go after you step off the train. The announcer cackling over the intercom informs you that no more trains will be running that night. The marquee above the ticket booth welcomes you to your destination. Where-? Nino is walking too quickly for you to read it.
Nino pulls his keys out of his pockets and slides them around the ring one by one until he finds the key he’s looking for. You don’t recognize it. He leads you to a jeep waiting on the corner a block away from the station, and uses the key to unlock the door. You don’t recognize the jeep, either. Did he lend it from a friend? Must have… but then how long did Nino have this excursion planned?
You shiver as Nino starts the car; the leather seats are freezing. Nino switches on the radio as he puts the jeep in drive and peels away from the curb. The forecaster predicts rain.
And rain comes, but not heavily like the radio claimed it would. It’s only a light drizzle, but soon after the drops begin hitting the asphalt, a persistent fog rises (lowers? appears? You don’t really know about those kinds of things. Maybe you should ask Sho one day) and impedes your vision. Nino squints and leans forward, chin nearly touching the steering wheel as he tries to keep the jeep on the road. You mimic him, but you don’t see how it helps Nino discern where the road is. You can only see the road three feet in front of you - everything beyond that looks like it’s choking on white smoke.
Nino begins cursing in an oddly systematic way, and since you have nothing else to do, you make a game out of finding out the pattern. Whenever another vehicle gets close, he lets out a harsh fuck, then repeats the word until the dim headlights or taillights are lost in the fog, a safe distance away (which you don’t really understand - if you can’t see well, isn’t it better for other cars to be where you can see them? But he’s the one with the license, not you). And with that, of course, Nino calls the drivers who get too close assholes. When the fog gets particularly thick or the rain starts falling hard enough for Nino to have to increase the speed of the windshield wipers, he gives a frustrated shit. Every time the radio fizzles into static (it’s some late-night talk show now, but Nino’s swearing is so much more interesting, so you aren’t sure what the show’s about), he sighs a defeated damn it.
You’re at twenty-seven fucks, thirty-nine shits, twenty-two assholes, and nearly fifty damn its when you give up. The more you drive, the less fucks and assholes there are, and eventually you lose the radio station and it’s nothing but static, so Nino switches it off.
You stare out the window instead. Has the sun risen yet? The sky is dark with bloated black clouds and perpetuating mist. It seems a bit lighter than earlier, so maybe the sun is fighting against them from behind, like it’s pounding on a locked door, but that could just be the storm lessening. You don’t have time to contemplate it - after only a short while, you’re able to make out shapes in the fog. From what you can tell from the outlines that you assume are houses and shops, it looks like you’re in a small town.
The jeep slows to a stop, and you follow Nino’s lead and open the door. The distinct smell and taste of saltwater is masked by the rain, but it still hits you and promises a nearby ocean before you even turn around to see it. The waters are ghostly with the fog sailing across them, as if a haunted ship will break through at any moment. Nino swears again. What’s it for this time?
He takes you up to an inn beside the beach with a vacancy sign hanging on the door, and it shocks you how there seems to be no guests there despite the inn and the town and the beach being so pretty. You almost say this to Nino before remembering the fog. Well, no, you haven’t actually seen how pretty the inn and town and beach are, but you can just tell. It’s a hidden treasure blanketed in fog. Those pirates on that haunted ship are surely seeking such a rich treasure. You can just picture their ragged sail whipping the wind, the creak of the hull and the echoes of the men running across the wooden deck by orders of their captain as they prepared to invade…
Nino tells you to wait to the side while he speaks with the owner, and you look around at the photographs of the ocean in peach-colored frames, not paying much attention to what Nino’s saying to the owner but still overhearing that Nino has a reservation. You wonder when he made it.
Nino returns and takes your hand again, guiding you down a hallway to a room on the end, unlocking it and gently pushing you inside. The room is quaint, traditional-looking, and it almost surprises you to find a double bed instead of futons. You walk up to the window and peer outside. The storm hasn’t ceased, but it’s definitely morning - the outside world is colored a shade that distinctly says so. You’ve been up all night, but you aren’t really sleepy. You turn on the TV and flip channels aimlessly.
Nino scowls, pulling out his DS from his bag (he has a bag? You hadn’t noticed) and saying something about how he can’t take you to the beach because of the rain. You shrug compliantly, settling for a show featuring a pair of comedians you don’t recognize. You explore the room and find a complimentary notepad and pen in the bedside table drawer, the inn’s logo, name, and phone number printed on the top. You sketch a mighty haunted ship, sort of like the one in that one movie, cutting across the rampant waves, fog settled all around it. Only with the ship and the water and the fog all drawn with the same blue pen, it’s hard to distinguish the fog from the waves and it sort of looks like a boat getting sucked into some vortex.
You flip the sheet over, running your fingers along the imprints left behind, and start drawing Nino instead. He’s laying upside-down on the bed, feet perched up on the headboard and lips pursed in concentration. When that’s finished, you draw the ocean that you are finally able to see with some clarity. The storm has passed and the fog lifted, but the grey sky and violent waves retain it in their history.
You’re about to start drawing the outside of the inn when Nino declares that it’s lunchtime. Lunch? You blink, glancing out the window again. Is it already midday? You wordlessly follow him outside, towards the town. A plump woman in her fifties greets you and introduces herself as the owner’s wife as you pass through the foyer. You politely bow before taking your leave.
The town rises from the dead as sunlight stubbornly peaks through the clouds. You buy some soba in one of the shops and eat it as you walk further into town. If the people there recognize you, they aren’t making a big deal out of it. Are you even in Japan anymore? How far away from Tokyo have you gone? Is this road you’re strolling on really made of the same concrete or tar (or whatever it is that roads are made of) as any other place, or are you actually skipping along a cobblestone path without realizing it?
It’s quite an extraordinary feeling. You feel free.
And you enjoy your liberation by running to a puddle up ahead and promptly jumping in it. You turn to Nino and grin, and he smiles back at you. You step into every puddle you see until the ankles of your jeans are drenched and the water has soaked into your shoes, your socks squishy between your toes. You find another giant puddle and run up to it like you did the first one, again smiling widely to him - only, Nino’s smile has changed. It’s quivering, pained, contrived, as if he’s forcing it. You’re so distracted by the difference that you land at an odd angle and you fall backwards. You catch yourself with your elbows, jarring your shoulders a little, and your backside is dripping with water as you stand back up.
Nino has rushed up to you and checking your arms, back, head, legs - everywhere - for signs of injury. All he finds is a sore body and scrapes under your jacket that aren’t severe enough to be bleeding. Once finding that you’re alright, he steps back, looks you over, and bursts out laughing.
You pout, rubbing your arms. So maybe the falling part was a bit comedic, but it really wasn’t funny for you to get hurt, was it? But all is forgiven as Nino takes your hand and swings your arms playfully (you wince with pain from the fall and pull away; he apologizes with a little less spirit in him than just a few seconds ago), offering to buy you new clothes. The lady at the shop you enter graciously finds you a small hand towel that you can at least pat yourself down with so you don’t drip all over her carpet. She leads you both to the dressing room, and Nino asks you to stay there while he finds you some new clothes.
You kick off your shoes and peel off your socks, wiping your feet dry and hoping the shopkeeper won’t mind. You can’t seem to get that feeling off of your skin, as if a layer of wet fabric is still wrapped around your feet. You flex your toes, hoping that bending them will make them feel normal again.
Nino returns with a pair of plain baggy jeans, a black belt, and a greyish-blue sweater that’s a little too big but almost the same color of the sea that morning. You strip off your clothes and Nino pointedly exits your dressing room, saying he’s going to go ahead and pay for the clothes now. You’re fully dressed when he comes back with a pair of clean white socks and tennis shoes that must have come from a different store, since you don’t recall seeing any shoes for sale here. You slip on the new socks and rub your toes together again. The dry fabric warms your feet, but the squishy feeling is still buried underneath.
Once you’re done there, you explore a few other shops. Nino buys a pair of toothbrushes and toothpaste, a pack with three razors in one and a small container of shaving cream, a six-pack of beer, and a comb. He says you’ll have to go shopping again tomorrow to buy some extra clothes and anything else you might need. You’re about to ask him why you would need things like that when you’re leaving tomorrow, but your stomach growls and Nino says you should turn around and head back to the inn.
You stop at a grocery store along the way for some bentos and head over to the boardwalk, leaning against the railing and watching the sunset as you chomp into your fried shrimp. Reds and purples and oranges faintly tint the sky, still at war with the grey clouds. You wonder if there will be clear skies tomorrow.
You’re not sure when you fell asleep. Nino is whispering promises of a warm bed and helping you stand, allowing you to lean on him even though he’s juggling the things he bought earlier in his other hand. Your shoulder hurts. Somehow, you manage to make it inside, and you fall face-first on the bed. The exhaustion of going without sleep is finally catching up to you.
Vaguely, you are aware of Nino undressing you out of your new sweater and new belt and new shoes and new jeans and new socks. You curl up your toes. Squish, replies the imaginary wetness.
You sleep and dream of ghost pirates and ghost ships and ghost socks and a very real, very much alive Nino.
*
-Your inbox is full.-
Hey, where are you two? We’ve been waiting for an hour. Interview, remember? I asked your manager and he said he told you. We’ve been calling and Nino won’t answer his phone either. Just hurry up and get your asses over here.
Are you sure you want to delete this message?
Message deleted.
February 9th
The world is a haze around you - a freezing tundra that’s somehow smothering you. You shiver, tugging the blankets lying heavily around you further up until they cover your neck. The pain in your arms from the action helps bring you back to your senses.
A cold, wet cloth is draped over your forehead and starts sliding onto your eyes, but someone picks it up. They gently tug the blanket back down a little, ignoring your whines of protest as they press the cloth onto your neck, dabbing up the sweat. You shiver again.
A voice - Nino’s voice - orders you to go back to sleep. You are happy to oblige.
*
When you wake up again, you’re actually capable of coherent thought. You know that you’re sick, and you know that Nino has been caring for you since morning, or maybe even all night. You search for him when you open your eyes; he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eating another bento and watching TV, the sound so low it’s a wonder he can hear anything. You prod him with your feet to let him know you’re awake. For some reason, you want his attention solely on you.
He scoots up until he’s sitting right beside you, his back against the headboard. He pulls the cloth off and feels your head and neck with his hands. He asks if you’re hungry.
Like a child, you open your mouth as a reply, and he gathers up some rice with his chopsticks and feeds it to you. He takes a bite himself and gives you more, continuing until it’s gone. He helps lift your head and gives you some medicine for your fever - he must have gone out and bought it - and lifts a glass of water to your lips. You shift and rest your head on his lap in lieu of your pillow, and he covers you with the blanket again when it slides off and exposes your upper back. His fingers are cold and feel amazing against your feverish body.
You sigh into Nino’s thigh as he rubs your neck and massages your scalp, twirling your locks of hair in his fingers. He changes the channel to some cheesy TV movie about a dying man who is healed by the power of love or something like that. You watch the entire thing together, Nino’s hands never ceasing in their movements, and the room becomes dimmer until you’re only relying on the moonlight streaming in through the blinds and the glow from the television. The man and woman declare that they will love each other forever and ever no matter what happens, but soon the doctor is breaking the news to the woman who sobs and falls to the floor, a mournful sonata playing in the background. But the woman realizes that his love still lives within her heart, and so they will never be conquered, not even by death.
You’re tired again, but it’s not from being sick or from the moon’s announcement of twilight. It’s from this strange pang in your chest, like you’ve just witnessed an anecdote of your life and it isn’t what you wanted, even though the TV show is nothing like the situation in your life. You huddle closer to Nino.
Is that the definition of a beautiful love story? To be defeated by circumstance but not in heart?
Somehow, you’re not satisfied.
*
Leader, where the hell are you? Do you know how much trouble we all had to go through to make up some excuse for you and Nino and postpone the interview? If you overslept or went fishing or were too busy painting to notice I’m going to take all of your fishing poles and Nino’s DS and throw them in a fire.
Are you sure you want to delete-?
Message deleted.
February 10th
You feel much better the next morning, but Nino still advises you to stay inside instead of venturing to the beach or into town again, because even though the skies were sunny, it was still cold out. So while Nino went out to buy some food and more clothes, you stay at the inn.
The owner’s wife cooks you a traditional Japanese breakfast, which she apparently does for the guests every day. You chat with her for a while after about the town and the inn and the ocean, even about how the pier used to be a popular fishing spot. The entire town used to be flooded with tourists all year around, she says, but lately they only have customers in the summer. The two of you talk until Nino is back, and by then it’s lunchtime, and she insists on cooking that for you both as well.
After you help her with the dishes, you go back to your room. Nino pulls out deodorant and some more clothes - there isn’t a place to do laundry here, he explains - and to your surprise, a sketchbook and a pack of charcoal pencils. Tomorrow the two of you can go to the beach, you remember him saying earlier. Now you’ll be able to really draw the ocean. You looked back at the sketch you did on the hotel notepad earlier; it doesn’t even resemble an ocean, and you tore it out and threw it away.
You begin filling out the pristine pages with a portrait of the innkeeper and his wife. Maybe you’ll give it to them when you leave to thank them for their hospitality. Nino spends his time shuffling through decks of cards, occasionally showing you a magic trick, or playing on his DS. But you can feel his gaze lying heavily on you; you peek up every once and awhile to catch him staring. There’s a strange sort of resolve in him, and it’s so distracting that every curve and line you commit to paper is wrong, wrong, wrong.
You notice Nino opening his mouth, about to speak, and you excuse yourself for the bathroom. When you return, Nino refuses to acknowledge you, so you sigh and fling your sketchbook onto the side table, announcing that you’re going to take a bath.
You wash yourself slowly, but soak in the bathwater for only a few fleeting minutes, wanting time away to think but afraid to think too much. Once you reenter the room, Nino leaves it to take his own bath. You crawl into bed the second he shuts the door behind him, praying that sleep finds you before he gets back.
*
Um, Leader? We went to your house and Nino’s and you guys aren’t there. Are you okay? I was afraid you were sick or something but your mom says she doesn’t know where you are either. Call me back, okay?
Are you sure you want to delete-?
Message deleted.
February 11th
Contrary to popular belief, you are not a complete idiot, nor are you someone whose head is eternally stuck in the clouds, oblivious to everything.
And, quite frankly, Nino isn’t hiding it - he’s doing the exact opposite. You’re used to the touches and teasing and his eyes on you, but it’s different now. The touches are no longer innocent, the teasing is no longer just for fun, and his eyes are no longer lacking expectations, no longer devoid of lust. He’s being insistent, but not pushy; he’s waiting for you to give him more than mere acceptance.
But you’re not ready to offer it.
You’re finally able to go to the beach. You wade in up to your waist and peer into the water; the bottom is murky, but you can make out the rocks and shells and the occasional fish that’s ventured into shallow waters to see you. You dig up clay with your toes and reach in with your hands to form them into different shapes.
Nino stays on shore, fingering another deck of cards instead because he doesn’t like the ocean, the water is freezing, it’s winter you idiot, why do you want to actually go into the water? You politely avoid bringing up the fact that it was Nino’s choice to bring you here in the first place. Nino could have taken you to Okinawa or to some ski lodge or something.
For the first time, you begin wondering - really wondering - why Nino brought you here at all. You’re not celebrating anything. Nino’s ideal vacation is sitting at home doing nothing but play Dragon Quest or whatever game it is he’s into at the moment. Yet he decided to abandon his duties as a member of Arashi to take you to some chilly ocean so you could draw and play in the water while he pounded buttons on his DS and practiced magic tricks. Nino is methodical. Surely there’s a point to all of this.
You head back to dry land and walk along the bank. The shoreline is beautiful and clean, but you manage to find debris - a long, fat stick, a broken jump rope, and a tin can - and use them to create a makeshift fishing pole. You sit beside Nino as you tie them together as best as you can, and he accompanies you to the pier when you’re finished.
It’s not the same sensation as having a real pole in your hands, and you certainly don’t expect to catch anything with it, but you need it. You need something familiar, something constant and sure that you can let go entirely with. Something to be what you want Nino to be.
The sun sinks over the horizon. How many more times will you watch it from that boardwalk with Nino snuggling up beside you, head on your shoulders and arm around your waist?
When the earth grows darker with night, Nino stands and holds out his hand in silent invitation. You walk barefooted along the beach together, shoulders bumping and stars shining above you like some flimsy romance movie that induces fuzzy feelings like some love potion. Your heart aches with desire and you just want to drink up the overflow.
But there is no overflow with you - there are only the remnants trickling at the bottom of the cup, because everything else has been poured out already. How can you divide your love? That would mean spreading it out until it gets smaller and smaller and insignificant.
You’ve always loved Nino a bit differently, but how much of your worlds would be subjected to consequence if you decided to act?
You trail behind, making up the excuse that you didn’t want to take your fishing pole to the inn, so you would leave it on the boardwalk. Nino goes on ahead as you retrace your steps a little.
Glancing around to make sure no one is around, you twirl your pole around and stick the tip into the sand. Hurriedly, you write out your heart: Ohno loves Ni-
The waves roll up past your feet, erasing the letters before you can finish.
*
This isn’t funny. The company is panicking. They canceled everything for the week and they are pissed. Why won’t you or Nino call and explain? We don’t deserve to be blown off by you guys. We’re you’re bandmates, aren’t we? Your friends? And you’re our leader, so please, for once, act like one and come back so we can straighten out this mess you’ve made.
Are you sure you-?
Message deleted.
February 12th
One day is growing into one week.
But it seems like it will stop there. You ask as casually as possible, bringing it up and giving off what you hope is an air of nonchalance. Nino paused to think, but gave an answer: you would be back in Tokyo Monday morning.
You go into town again, looking into the shops like you did on the first day, but you don’t buy anything except lunch. You have a picnic on the beach again, sitting on the boardwalk to avoid getting sand in your food. You lament out loud how you wish you’d brought a camera; you’ve already missed capturing so much on film. Nino lightheartedly reminds you about Johnny’s no-picture policy. So Nino hasn’t forgotten that he is a part of Arashi after all.
You nudge him with your shoulder. He pokes you in the side. It somehow ends up with you running away from him as he tries to tickle you, laughter flying and sand getting kicked into the air along with it. He catches up to you and you collapse, rolling around and attacking by making each other laugh so hard neither of you can breathe. Nino sits on you with a triumphant grin, and suddenly you’re cold again. He brushes off the grains of sand sticking to your face, thumbs stroking your cheek. It’s an innocent action - at least it is at first - but it’s like a bucket of cold water has doused you, broken the trance, and you’re wide awake now.
You’re absolutely certain that if you let it be, Nino would lean in and kiss you. You know that if he does, you won’t give a shit if it’s broad daylight in some random seaside town or not - you will welcome Nino into you. You’ll have sex on the beach and the kisses will taste like salt and sand. You’ll pretend that love comes freely and that you could defeat the world as long as you took it on together.
Nino leans in by not even an inch, and you sit up, startling him into getting off of you. You feel dizzy.
Much to your relief, Nino spends the rest of the day treading lightly around you.
*
What the fuck are you idiots thinking, going and-
Are you sure y-?
Message deleted.
Are you sure you want to delete all messages?
Messages deleted. You have [0] new messages.
*
The lady at the inn strikes up a conversation with both of you as you’re coming inside, rattling on about how her husband will be running errands all day, so she had to take care of the inn all by herself, but she has a bad back so she can’t do much. Considering you and Nino are the only guests, this doesn’t really seem like a big deal to you. But nonetheless, she ends up volunteering you both to work for her for the day, and in return she’ll give you a discount on your room rate.
Since all you’ve been doing for this entire week is lazing around, it’s hard to object.
Nino sweeps the floors while you tackle the surfaces with a duster. She hums a song as she washes the dishes, some enka song that’s garbled by the sound of running water when she washes off the soap suds.
Within a few hours, you’ve scrubbed down the entire inn. You help with dinner, too: Nino chops vegetables while you stir the soup. It’s late at night when the inn’s owner returns, but you finish cooking only a few minutes before he arrives.
He shares his vision for the inn, how he did some traveling in America and wanted the inn to be a relaxing place infused with both Japanese and western charms. The inn began almost fifteen years ago and was met with enough success to keep them content.
After hours of talking, the woman announces that she has a surprise for her husband, so you and Nino bring dishes to the sink and wash them while she trots over to the fridge for it. She pulls out a small, homemade chocolate cake. It’s his favorite, she says with a blush. She made it that afternoon for Valentine’s Day, but why not have it that night and share it with you sweet boys, rather than save it for tomorrow? The couple exchanges a chaste kiss, wishing one another a happy Valentine’s Day.
You nearly drop the dishes. Valentine’s Day?
You eat a slice of cake because she insists, but you excuse yourself immediately afterwards. Nino follows you, asking what’s wrong, but you blame it on fatigue. You go to the bathroom and splash your face with water. Valentine’s Day. Nino couldn’t have taken you here for that reason… right?
When you get back, Nino is only wearing boxers and is lying on the bed, hands tucked under his head and elbows jutted in the air. He glances at you when you walk back in, and you can feel his eyes on you as you strip to your undergarments as well, to the point you’re almost embarrassed. You yawn and he chuckles, scooting over to give you room to climb on beside him. Every instinct screams danger, but you still tuck your head into his neck and close your eyes as he hugs you closer, squeezing them shut as one of his hands trails purposefully along your spine and neck, going back down then up again across the same course until finally going further up. His fingers thread through your hair and he starts petting you gently, kissing the top of your head. The action lulls you to sleep despite the way it makes your heart race, but you’re still trying to close your eyes. Your eyelids are shut but you can still see too much; you’re blind to the world but still so, so aware.
February 13th
The day goes by without ever meeting your expectations for something more to happen. You play together on the beach, although Nino refuses to go too deep into the water. You sit in the sand, close enough that the waves rolling in wet the tips of your toes. You collect seashells and toss them back in, draw shapes in the sand, splash each other and make sandcastles. Well, you make one. Nino buries your legs in the sand while you’re preoccupied trying to fix your oddly-shaped tower. When night falls again, you lay there and count the stars. Nino sits, and he’s not paying attention to the sky; he’s watching you, wiping the sand off of your shirt and out of your hair even though it’s pointless - you’ll still be covered in it when you stand.
You close your eyes again, erasing the stars from your vision, but Nino can never become unseen to you. You can see him past the darkness as he leans forward, cupping your cheek, outlining your cheekbone with his thumb. There’s no sand covering your face this time; it’s a deliberate action with a painfully clear intent. You can see the kiss, the gentle insistence as you’re firm against the bed of sand even though it feels like the grains are slipping around your body and you’re sinking, sinking…
You don’t move or open your eyes when Nino pulls away. He’s begging, whispering please with urgency in his voice (or is that in your heart?) but your senses are numb and you can’t figure out what he’s asking for (but you do know - it’s obvious). Eventually he gets up and walks away, just like that, leaving you to the tide and the stars. You open your eyes to make sure they still exist; to make sure that even though they’re so far away and even though they were momentarily out of your sight, they didn’t cease their shining.
*
When you finally arrive back at the inn, sand sticking to your skin, there’s no Nino; there’s only a note.
I’m sorry, Oh-chan. I’ll be back soon. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. I’m so sorry.
-Nino
You wash the sand off in the bathroom sink, not bothering with a shower, and wait in your room for Nino to return, but hours pass and he doesn’t come. The first signs of dawn peak through the window, and you start nodding off, unable to stay awake despite your unease. You curl up and hug the pillow, trying to remember why Nino brought you here in the first place. But it didn’t really matter, since you’d be going home tomorrow anyway. No, not tomorrow - it’s today now.
Today. Valentine’s Day.
You can hear the door opening slowly, creaking a little, but you’re too exhausted to give in to whatever the hell this emotion is you’re feeling, so you decide to give in to sleep instead.
*
Everyone is pretty mad at you… I don’t know if Sho-chan and Matsujun have been leaving you messages too, but they’re really worried. But I’m not mad at you, okay, Leader? Please come back… I love you both. We all love you, no matter what you do, you know. Just… we need you.
Message saved.
February 14th
Something is on your face, sliding softly across your brow, along your jawbone, through your eyelashes, down your nose, pressing against your lips…
Nino’s fingers recoil from your face when you stir, and the sudden loss of the dip in the bed as he jumps off is almost jolting. Is he apologizing again? You try to get out of this state of being only half-awake, stretching before sitting up groggily. When your vision clears, you find Nino grabbing the clothes you bought off the floor and your toothbrushes off of the chair in the corner you set them on. You peek down; you’re sleeping in the clothes you wore yesterday. Does he plan on leaving? That’s right, Nino’s letter. The kiss. You were leaving the quiet seaside and going back to Tokyo. It’s Valentine’s Day. Nino kissed you.
You look outside; the window’s plain white curtains are drawn. It’s nearing dusk (you must have slept all day - so much for leaving in the morning), but there’s still enough light to make out the small section of the beach, the same spot where you and Nino played together. None of the castles you made or words you wrote in the sand survived the cascades of the tide.
And it’s stupid that you would cry, but you do. Your sandcastles are no longer a sanctuary; your words are no longer your own. They are what could have been but never was, and now never will be. Now you’re sniffling, suffocating yourself in the blanket to catch the tears because you’re so lost on what to do; what you want; what you need. Nino reluctantly sits beside you and pats you on the back, trying to show comfort but you know better - he’s trapped in the same fucking current as you, and neither of you are strong enough to swim against it but you’re both too afraid to let it carry you.
You might be in love with him, and he might be in love with you. That’s all, that’s everything; only, you don’t live in that kind of world. You don’t live in this seaside inn where you can spend eternity wading in the salt waters and eating picnics on the rocky cove or the boardwalk while you hold hands and watch the way the ocean mirrors the sky when the sun sets. Your history isn’t imprinted in footprints on wet sand, always facing forward so you never have to see the way the water rushes up and erases it all. Instead, your lives are singing and television and concerts and promotional videos and interviews and photo shoots. It’s a life of impermanence, not infinities, and you know it all too well.
The two of you could be beautiful, but how long would it take for high tide to come and remind you that you don’t belong to yourselves, but to Arashi and the staff and the fans? How long before you would be washed away, back into the life you chose but didn’t really choose - the life you’ve come to love? How long until your castles become deformed mounds?
And yet, you want to be deceived by beautiful lies and beautiful love into thinking that you could obtain without sacrifice. So you kiss Nino and quote the ocean: communicating those stick-drawn hearts and confessions and I love you’s that you’ve both been writing for years but have always been washed away before the other could see.
It’s only half a lie.
Nino pulls back, gets up to lock the door and to pull the curtains over the window, and then he stares at you, unwilling to move first and repeat the night before. But you can’t do it, either - you’re trapped in this landlock of everything that could go wrong. Your words have already been lost. Speak, you silently beg, meeting his gaze. Say something.
He steps towards you, hesitates, but then he encloses the distances and his hands are on you, across the back of your neck and one on the side of your face. He’s apologizing again when you kiss, and that’s not what you want to hear. You don’t want this to be something you both feel sorry for.
You don’t want to regret it, even though you know that it’s a mistake.
You pull him closer, kiss him with more urgency, and you know when he pushes you backwards that you won’t be able to pretend, even if you can ignore it. Valentine’s Day isn’t your day of chocolates and red hearts and rose petals scattered across your romance; it’s the day of the year when you can trade in excuses for courage. You can’t play make believe and fool yourself into thinking it’s some empty impulse to ward off loneliness, fucking for fucking’s sake, like you’ll brush it off as a one-night stand by dawn. It’s not some expression of beauty, lovers tangled between the sheets after sweetly making love, once again showing how passion can rise against all odds. It’s dirty and rough and sloppy and not enough to fight against anything but it’s yours, and that makes it beautiful.
You’re rocking against each other because it’s instinctive and you’re not sure how else to move. You’re spreading your legs and urging him deeper because you’ve emptied out all of your love already and you’re dying of thirst, and when he fills you up you overflow. You’re gasping and sighing and moaning because you’re idols and singing is what you do, and even though you’ll never be able to craft a perfect love story, you want to at least create a defective love song.
Nino moans and moves. Stars ignite. You can still see them after they’ve cleared from your vision; their existence has been buried into your subconscious.
The room falls quiet. You embrace, sharing oxygen - you’re one another’s life supports. You stop trying to see and start listening: there’s Nino’s heartbeat and shallow breaths as he sleeps, the tides sweeping onto the shore and undoing all that’s imprinted there, and your song echoing all around you. All of the sounds are soft now, barely audible, but still there, playing in the background with the volume turned down.
February 15th
Snow falls as if dancing, thick snowflakes swirling with the wind. You catch them by sticking out your tongue with your head titled back, keeping your eyes open so you can watch the flakes as they drift from sky to earth. It’s surreal somehow, like the town is trapped in a snow globe. The sky is grey again, but the sun is visible behind them: an afterglow after yesterday’s clear skies and a promise to continue shining no matter how hard the clouds tried to hide it.
Nino tells you to get in the car already, but he’s smiling. Apparently the snow isn’t sticking and freezing, at least not yet, so you should start heading back while it’s safe, before the roads get icy. You wipe off your face with your sleeve; the snow melted upon contact, water trailing along your face, but remained intact when it landed on your eyelashes and hair, leaving freckles of white.
What are you to do with this Valentine’s aftermath? With these shy blushes when you make eye contact? With the way your hands lace together, both numb from the cold but still fitting together so naturally? With this mutual love song you’ve written?
You replay the week in slow motion in your mind and squeeze Nino’s hand for no other reason than to feel him squeezing back. The jeep is taking you to the train station, and the train will take you back to Tokyo, and Tokyo will take you back to your old lives. This semi-magical week away has been wonderful, but it’s still not yours to keep. No one else will see it through rose-tinted glass and act as though you’re five year olds who just exchanged homemade Valentine’s cards. You will have Arashi always, but even they might oppose. Are you driving onto a battlefield? Will you have to face the world, as weak as the both of you are?
Nino brings your conjoined hands up to his lips, kissing the back of your hand and breathing out to warm them. Maybe love doesn’t need to conquer all, you decide. Maybe love is only meant to conquer yourselves - to overcome the hesitations and fears so that even if you can’t defeat everything that comes against you, you’ll at least have the power to fight.
You glance into the review mirror, watching the ocean sink behind you like a final sunset. The waves are calm today, creeping along the shore. Your footprints and sandcastles have been washed away, wiping out all traces of your existence there. But there - in your memories, your conjoined hands, and your hearts beating in synch with one another - is the proof that you’re still alive.
---
A/N: Please read this.
Oh, and... this fic made me cry while writing it.
Pairing Ohmiya
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,829
Summary: Nino and Ohno ditch their responsibilities as idols to spend a week in a town where no one knows them.
Notes: Won second place in the ohmiyaday Valentine's Day contest!
I'm not really knowledgeable about climate in Japan, so the changes in weather are based on my area. The town doesn't exist, either - it's partially inspired by a place near where I grew up, but fictional. This ended up twice as long as I thought it'd be, was surprisingly easy to write, and has become very personal.
Maybe I’ll never die
I’ll just keep growing younger with you
And you’ll grow younger too
Now it seems too lovely to be true
But I know the best things always do
Let’s pretend we don’t exist
Let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica
-Of Montreal, Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Things
I want to take you far from the cynics in this town
And kiss you on the mouth
We'll cut our bodies free from the tethers of this scene
Start a brand new colony
Where everything will change
We'll give ourselves new names (identities erased)
The sun will heat the grounds
Under our bare feet in this brand new colony
Everything will change
-The Postal Service, Brand New Colony
February 8th
You almost miss the call when it comes on that insignificant Sunday night (Monday morning?) because you were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, a pile of blankets twisted around your entire frame. You had one arm poking out already, tracing shapes into the oversized paper and wondering how much longer it would be until you began filling the contours with color, but it still takes a minute of fumbling around before you manage to pick it up. Nino’s name is on the display, and you consider not answering, because this one part on the painting is almost finished, and you can never say no to Nino when he asks you out for drinks. But you pick up anyway, nearly poking your eye out with your pen because you forget you’re holding it and the phone in the same hand.
Nino starts up a normal conversation, chatting with you about how his day went, about filming and something funny about shrimp bento that you don’t quite catch but laugh at anyway. He acts as if it’s ordinary for him to be calling you late at night to share such details, even though he never has before.
After exhausting an hour’s worth of topics, Nino falls silent. But he’s not finished, you can tell; there are words caught up somewhere, still trying to get to your end of the line. Finally he makes his proposition: that the two of you abandon the responsibilities that are piled up for tomorrow and go somewhere far away; that for a single day, you pretend you’re merely silhouettes of yourselves. It almost sounds like a joke, but for some reason you can’t bring yourself to believe it’s one. Nino doesn’t say where he wants to go or why. You wonder what the catch is, because one obviously exists, lingering somewhere beneath his motives.
You push the receiver painfully against your ear, trying to transmit whatever it is that Nino’s thinking and feeling through the red mark it leaves around your lobe from the pressure. You gaze back at your drawing, where the lines are still disconnected but beginning to flow together into that black and white photo you’ve taken in your imagination. What colors should you use?
The reasons for you to decline are far greater than your reasons to accept, but you end up agreeing to join him anyway. You change out of your bright red pajamas into jeans and a long-sleeved tee, throwing on a jacket and a cap before heading outside. You pat your pockets and feel for your wallet and cell phone to make sure they’re there. And they’re all that’s there; you don’t bother packing extra clothes or toiletries or anything else, even though you don’t know where you’re going or if it will really only be for a day.
Nino is waiting for you by the time you meet him at the train station, tickets bought and paid for. He laughs and reaches up, rubbing beside your eye where you apparently got ink on you, probably from when you answered the phone. As he hands you your ticket, he says those words again about going somewhere far away together, until you reached a place where no one knew your names. And again, you wonder why, but you don’t even know why you decided to come along, so maybe it doesn’t matter, or maybe it’s something you aren’t supposed to know.
So together, you board the train. You don’t bother checking the destination.
The car is nearly empty, and Nino practically sits on your lap from the way he leans against you, with his arm wound around your waist and his hair tickling your nose. When you exhale, the strands fly about before returning to their former position. You play with them for a few minutes before you realize that Nino has become very heavy against you, and his breathing has evened out. You peer over his head as much as you can and manage to spot closed eyes. You give your watch a quick glance; it’s a little after midnight.
The lights are cut off into fragments from the speed of the train and wisp across the floor; it’s a kaleidoscope of the city. You doze off and wake again to the heat of Nino against you and the cold of the air surrounding you both, Nino nudging your side gently. He’s there when you open your eyes, and you can’t see him clearly because he’s so close that his face is blurred in your vision. His breath ghosts across your cheeks as he lets you know that the train has reached its last stop of the night.
He offers you his hand and pulls you up, not letting go after you step off the train. The announcer cackling over the intercom informs you that no more trains will be running that night. The marquee above the ticket booth welcomes you to your destination. Where-? Nino is walking too quickly for you to read it.
Nino pulls his keys out of his pockets and slides them around the ring one by one until he finds the key he’s looking for. You don’t recognize it. He leads you to a jeep waiting on the corner a block away from the station, and uses the key to unlock the door. You don’t recognize the jeep, either. Did he lend it from a friend? Must have… but then how long did Nino have this excursion planned?
You shiver as Nino starts the car; the leather seats are freezing. Nino switches on the radio as he puts the jeep in drive and peels away from the curb. The forecaster predicts rain.
And rain comes, but not heavily like the radio claimed it would. It’s only a light drizzle, but soon after the drops begin hitting the asphalt, a persistent fog rises (lowers? appears? You don’t really know about those kinds of things. Maybe you should ask Sho one day) and impedes your vision. Nino squints and leans forward, chin nearly touching the steering wheel as he tries to keep the jeep on the road. You mimic him, but you don’t see how it helps Nino discern where the road is. You can only see the road three feet in front of you - everything beyond that looks like it’s choking on white smoke.
Nino begins cursing in an oddly systematic way, and since you have nothing else to do, you make a game out of finding out the pattern. Whenever another vehicle gets close, he lets out a harsh fuck, then repeats the word until the dim headlights or taillights are lost in the fog, a safe distance away (which you don’t really understand - if you can’t see well, isn’t it better for other cars to be where you can see them? But he’s the one with the license, not you). And with that, of course, Nino calls the drivers who get too close assholes. When the fog gets particularly thick or the rain starts falling hard enough for Nino to have to increase the speed of the windshield wipers, he gives a frustrated shit. Every time the radio fizzles into static (it’s some late-night talk show now, but Nino’s swearing is so much more interesting, so you aren’t sure what the show’s about), he sighs a defeated damn it.
You’re at twenty-seven fucks, thirty-nine shits, twenty-two assholes, and nearly fifty damn its when you give up. The more you drive, the less fucks and assholes there are, and eventually you lose the radio station and it’s nothing but static, so Nino switches it off.
You stare out the window instead. Has the sun risen yet? The sky is dark with bloated black clouds and perpetuating mist. It seems a bit lighter than earlier, so maybe the sun is fighting against them from behind, like it’s pounding on a locked door, but that could just be the storm lessening. You don’t have time to contemplate it - after only a short while, you’re able to make out shapes in the fog. From what you can tell from the outlines that you assume are houses and shops, it looks like you’re in a small town.
The jeep slows to a stop, and you follow Nino’s lead and open the door. The distinct smell and taste of saltwater is masked by the rain, but it still hits you and promises a nearby ocean before you even turn around to see it. The waters are ghostly with the fog sailing across them, as if a haunted ship will break through at any moment. Nino swears again. What’s it for this time?
He takes you up to an inn beside the beach with a vacancy sign hanging on the door, and it shocks you how there seems to be no guests there despite the inn and the town and the beach being so pretty. You almost say this to Nino before remembering the fog. Well, no, you haven’t actually seen how pretty the inn and town and beach are, but you can just tell. It’s a hidden treasure blanketed in fog. Those pirates on that haunted ship are surely seeking such a rich treasure. You can just picture their ragged sail whipping the wind, the creak of the hull and the echoes of the men running across the wooden deck by orders of their captain as they prepared to invade…
Nino tells you to wait to the side while he speaks with the owner, and you look around at the photographs of the ocean in peach-colored frames, not paying much attention to what Nino’s saying to the owner but still overhearing that Nino has a reservation. You wonder when he made it.
Nino returns and takes your hand again, guiding you down a hallway to a room on the end, unlocking it and gently pushing you inside. The room is quaint, traditional-looking, and it almost surprises you to find a double bed instead of futons. You walk up to the window and peer outside. The storm hasn’t ceased, but it’s definitely morning - the outside world is colored a shade that distinctly says so. You’ve been up all night, but you aren’t really sleepy. You turn on the TV and flip channels aimlessly.
Nino scowls, pulling out his DS from his bag (he has a bag? You hadn’t noticed) and saying something about how he can’t take you to the beach because of the rain. You shrug compliantly, settling for a show featuring a pair of comedians you don’t recognize. You explore the room and find a complimentary notepad and pen in the bedside table drawer, the inn’s logo, name, and phone number printed on the top. You sketch a mighty haunted ship, sort of like the one in that one movie, cutting across the rampant waves, fog settled all around it. Only with the ship and the water and the fog all drawn with the same blue pen, it’s hard to distinguish the fog from the waves and it sort of looks like a boat getting sucked into some vortex.
You flip the sheet over, running your fingers along the imprints left behind, and start drawing Nino instead. He’s laying upside-down on the bed, feet perched up on the headboard and lips pursed in concentration. When that’s finished, you draw the ocean that you are finally able to see with some clarity. The storm has passed and the fog lifted, but the grey sky and violent waves retain it in their history.
You’re about to start drawing the outside of the inn when Nino declares that it’s lunchtime. Lunch? You blink, glancing out the window again. Is it already midday? You wordlessly follow him outside, towards the town. A plump woman in her fifties greets you and introduces herself as the owner’s wife as you pass through the foyer. You politely bow before taking your leave.
The town rises from the dead as sunlight stubbornly peaks through the clouds. You buy some soba in one of the shops and eat it as you walk further into town. If the people there recognize you, they aren’t making a big deal out of it. Are you even in Japan anymore? How far away from Tokyo have you gone? Is this road you’re strolling on really made of the same concrete or tar (or whatever it is that roads are made of) as any other place, or are you actually skipping along a cobblestone path without realizing it?
It’s quite an extraordinary feeling. You feel free.
And you enjoy your liberation by running to a puddle up ahead and promptly jumping in it. You turn to Nino and grin, and he smiles back at you. You step into every puddle you see until the ankles of your jeans are drenched and the water has soaked into your shoes, your socks squishy between your toes. You find another giant puddle and run up to it like you did the first one, again smiling widely to him - only, Nino’s smile has changed. It’s quivering, pained, contrived, as if he’s forcing it. You’re so distracted by the difference that you land at an odd angle and you fall backwards. You catch yourself with your elbows, jarring your shoulders a little, and your backside is dripping with water as you stand back up.
Nino has rushed up to you and checking your arms, back, head, legs - everywhere - for signs of injury. All he finds is a sore body and scrapes under your jacket that aren’t severe enough to be bleeding. Once finding that you’re alright, he steps back, looks you over, and bursts out laughing.
You pout, rubbing your arms. So maybe the falling part was a bit comedic, but it really wasn’t funny for you to get hurt, was it? But all is forgiven as Nino takes your hand and swings your arms playfully (you wince with pain from the fall and pull away; he apologizes with a little less spirit in him than just a few seconds ago), offering to buy you new clothes. The lady at the shop you enter graciously finds you a small hand towel that you can at least pat yourself down with so you don’t drip all over her carpet. She leads you both to the dressing room, and Nino asks you to stay there while he finds you some new clothes.
You kick off your shoes and peel off your socks, wiping your feet dry and hoping the shopkeeper won’t mind. You can’t seem to get that feeling off of your skin, as if a layer of wet fabric is still wrapped around your feet. You flex your toes, hoping that bending them will make them feel normal again.
Nino returns with a pair of plain baggy jeans, a black belt, and a greyish-blue sweater that’s a little too big but almost the same color of the sea that morning. You strip off your clothes and Nino pointedly exits your dressing room, saying he’s going to go ahead and pay for the clothes now. You’re fully dressed when he comes back with a pair of clean white socks and tennis shoes that must have come from a different store, since you don’t recall seeing any shoes for sale here. You slip on the new socks and rub your toes together again. The dry fabric warms your feet, but the squishy feeling is still buried underneath.
Once you’re done there, you explore a few other shops. Nino buys a pair of toothbrushes and toothpaste, a pack with three razors in one and a small container of shaving cream, a six-pack of beer, and a comb. He says you’ll have to go shopping again tomorrow to buy some extra clothes and anything else you might need. You’re about to ask him why you would need things like that when you’re leaving tomorrow, but your stomach growls and Nino says you should turn around and head back to the inn.
You stop at a grocery store along the way for some bentos and head over to the boardwalk, leaning against the railing and watching the sunset as you chomp into your fried shrimp. Reds and purples and oranges faintly tint the sky, still at war with the grey clouds. You wonder if there will be clear skies tomorrow.
You’re not sure when you fell asleep. Nino is whispering promises of a warm bed and helping you stand, allowing you to lean on him even though he’s juggling the things he bought earlier in his other hand. Your shoulder hurts. Somehow, you manage to make it inside, and you fall face-first on the bed. The exhaustion of going without sleep is finally catching up to you.
Vaguely, you are aware of Nino undressing you out of your new sweater and new belt and new shoes and new jeans and new socks. You curl up your toes. Squish, replies the imaginary wetness.
You sleep and dream of ghost pirates and ghost ships and ghost socks and a very real, very much alive Nino.
*
-Your inbox is full.-
Hey, where are you two? We’ve been waiting for an hour. Interview, remember? I asked your manager and he said he told you. We’ve been calling and Nino won’t answer his phone either. Just hurry up and get your asses over here.
Are you sure you want to delete this message?
Message deleted.
February 9th
The world is a haze around you - a freezing tundra that’s somehow smothering you. You shiver, tugging the blankets lying heavily around you further up until they cover your neck. The pain in your arms from the action helps bring you back to your senses.
A cold, wet cloth is draped over your forehead and starts sliding onto your eyes, but someone picks it up. They gently tug the blanket back down a little, ignoring your whines of protest as they press the cloth onto your neck, dabbing up the sweat. You shiver again.
A voice - Nino’s voice - orders you to go back to sleep. You are happy to oblige.
*
When you wake up again, you’re actually capable of coherent thought. You know that you’re sick, and you know that Nino has been caring for you since morning, or maybe even all night. You search for him when you open your eyes; he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, eating another bento and watching TV, the sound so low it’s a wonder he can hear anything. You prod him with your feet to let him know you’re awake. For some reason, you want his attention solely on you.
He scoots up until he’s sitting right beside you, his back against the headboard. He pulls the cloth off and feels your head and neck with his hands. He asks if you’re hungry.
Like a child, you open your mouth as a reply, and he gathers up some rice with his chopsticks and feeds it to you. He takes a bite himself and gives you more, continuing until it’s gone. He helps lift your head and gives you some medicine for your fever - he must have gone out and bought it - and lifts a glass of water to your lips. You shift and rest your head on his lap in lieu of your pillow, and he covers you with the blanket again when it slides off and exposes your upper back. His fingers are cold and feel amazing against your feverish body.
You sigh into Nino’s thigh as he rubs your neck and massages your scalp, twirling your locks of hair in his fingers. He changes the channel to some cheesy TV movie about a dying man who is healed by the power of love or something like that. You watch the entire thing together, Nino’s hands never ceasing in their movements, and the room becomes dimmer until you’re only relying on the moonlight streaming in through the blinds and the glow from the television. The man and woman declare that they will love each other forever and ever no matter what happens, but soon the doctor is breaking the news to the woman who sobs and falls to the floor, a mournful sonata playing in the background. But the woman realizes that his love still lives within her heart, and so they will never be conquered, not even by death.
You’re tired again, but it’s not from being sick or from the moon’s announcement of twilight. It’s from this strange pang in your chest, like you’ve just witnessed an anecdote of your life and it isn’t what you wanted, even though the TV show is nothing like the situation in your life. You huddle closer to Nino.
Is that the definition of a beautiful love story? To be defeated by circumstance but not in heart?
Somehow, you’re not satisfied.
*
Leader, where the hell are you? Do you know how much trouble we all had to go through to make up some excuse for you and Nino and postpone the interview? If you overslept or went fishing or were too busy painting to notice I’m going to take all of your fishing poles and Nino’s DS and throw them in a fire.
Are you sure you want to delete-?
Message deleted.
February 10th
You feel much better the next morning, but Nino still advises you to stay inside instead of venturing to the beach or into town again, because even though the skies were sunny, it was still cold out. So while Nino went out to buy some food and more clothes, you stay at the inn.
The owner’s wife cooks you a traditional Japanese breakfast, which she apparently does for the guests every day. You chat with her for a while after about the town and the inn and the ocean, even about how the pier used to be a popular fishing spot. The entire town used to be flooded with tourists all year around, she says, but lately they only have customers in the summer. The two of you talk until Nino is back, and by then it’s lunchtime, and she insists on cooking that for you both as well.
After you help her with the dishes, you go back to your room. Nino pulls out deodorant and some more clothes - there isn’t a place to do laundry here, he explains - and to your surprise, a sketchbook and a pack of charcoal pencils. Tomorrow the two of you can go to the beach, you remember him saying earlier. Now you’ll be able to really draw the ocean. You looked back at the sketch you did on the hotel notepad earlier; it doesn’t even resemble an ocean, and you tore it out and threw it away.
You begin filling out the pristine pages with a portrait of the innkeeper and his wife. Maybe you’ll give it to them when you leave to thank them for their hospitality. Nino spends his time shuffling through decks of cards, occasionally showing you a magic trick, or playing on his DS. But you can feel his gaze lying heavily on you; you peek up every once and awhile to catch him staring. There’s a strange sort of resolve in him, and it’s so distracting that every curve and line you commit to paper is wrong, wrong, wrong.
You notice Nino opening his mouth, about to speak, and you excuse yourself for the bathroom. When you return, Nino refuses to acknowledge you, so you sigh and fling your sketchbook onto the side table, announcing that you’re going to take a bath.
You wash yourself slowly, but soak in the bathwater for only a few fleeting minutes, wanting time away to think but afraid to think too much. Once you reenter the room, Nino leaves it to take his own bath. You crawl into bed the second he shuts the door behind him, praying that sleep finds you before he gets back.
*
Um, Leader? We went to your house and Nino’s and you guys aren’t there. Are you okay? I was afraid you were sick or something but your mom says she doesn’t know where you are either. Call me back, okay?
Are you sure you want to delete-?
Message deleted.
February 11th
Contrary to popular belief, you are not a complete idiot, nor are you someone whose head is eternally stuck in the clouds, oblivious to everything.
And, quite frankly, Nino isn’t hiding it - he’s doing the exact opposite. You’re used to the touches and teasing and his eyes on you, but it’s different now. The touches are no longer innocent, the teasing is no longer just for fun, and his eyes are no longer lacking expectations, no longer devoid of lust. He’s being insistent, but not pushy; he’s waiting for you to give him more than mere acceptance.
But you’re not ready to offer it.
You’re finally able to go to the beach. You wade in up to your waist and peer into the water; the bottom is murky, but you can make out the rocks and shells and the occasional fish that’s ventured into shallow waters to see you. You dig up clay with your toes and reach in with your hands to form them into different shapes.
Nino stays on shore, fingering another deck of cards instead because he doesn’t like the ocean, the water is freezing, it’s winter you idiot, why do you want to actually go into the water? You politely avoid bringing up the fact that it was Nino’s choice to bring you here in the first place. Nino could have taken you to Okinawa or to some ski lodge or something.
For the first time, you begin wondering - really wondering - why Nino brought you here at all. You’re not celebrating anything. Nino’s ideal vacation is sitting at home doing nothing but play Dragon Quest or whatever game it is he’s into at the moment. Yet he decided to abandon his duties as a member of Arashi to take you to some chilly ocean so you could draw and play in the water while he pounded buttons on his DS and practiced magic tricks. Nino is methodical. Surely there’s a point to all of this.
You head back to dry land and walk along the bank. The shoreline is beautiful and clean, but you manage to find debris - a long, fat stick, a broken jump rope, and a tin can - and use them to create a makeshift fishing pole. You sit beside Nino as you tie them together as best as you can, and he accompanies you to the pier when you’re finished.
It’s not the same sensation as having a real pole in your hands, and you certainly don’t expect to catch anything with it, but you need it. You need something familiar, something constant and sure that you can let go entirely with. Something to be what you want Nino to be.
The sun sinks over the horizon. How many more times will you watch it from that boardwalk with Nino snuggling up beside you, head on your shoulders and arm around your waist?
When the earth grows darker with night, Nino stands and holds out his hand in silent invitation. You walk barefooted along the beach together, shoulders bumping and stars shining above you like some flimsy romance movie that induces fuzzy feelings like some love potion. Your heart aches with desire and you just want to drink up the overflow.
But there is no overflow with you - there are only the remnants trickling at the bottom of the cup, because everything else has been poured out already. How can you divide your love? That would mean spreading it out until it gets smaller and smaller and insignificant.
You’ve always loved Nino a bit differently, but how much of your worlds would be subjected to consequence if you decided to act?
You trail behind, making up the excuse that you didn’t want to take your fishing pole to the inn, so you would leave it on the boardwalk. Nino goes on ahead as you retrace your steps a little.
Glancing around to make sure no one is around, you twirl your pole around and stick the tip into the sand. Hurriedly, you write out your heart: Ohno loves Ni-
The waves roll up past your feet, erasing the letters before you can finish.
*
This isn’t funny. The company is panicking. They canceled everything for the week and they are pissed. Why won’t you or Nino call and explain? We don’t deserve to be blown off by you guys. We’re you’re bandmates, aren’t we? Your friends? And you’re our leader, so please, for once, act like one and come back so we can straighten out this mess you’ve made.
Are you sure you-?
Message deleted.
February 12th
One day is growing into one week.
But it seems like it will stop there. You ask as casually as possible, bringing it up and giving off what you hope is an air of nonchalance. Nino paused to think, but gave an answer: you would be back in Tokyo Monday morning.
You go into town again, looking into the shops like you did on the first day, but you don’t buy anything except lunch. You have a picnic on the beach again, sitting on the boardwalk to avoid getting sand in your food. You lament out loud how you wish you’d brought a camera; you’ve already missed capturing so much on film. Nino lightheartedly reminds you about Johnny’s no-picture policy. So Nino hasn’t forgotten that he is a part of Arashi after all.
You nudge him with your shoulder. He pokes you in the side. It somehow ends up with you running away from him as he tries to tickle you, laughter flying and sand getting kicked into the air along with it. He catches up to you and you collapse, rolling around and attacking by making each other laugh so hard neither of you can breathe. Nino sits on you with a triumphant grin, and suddenly you’re cold again. He brushes off the grains of sand sticking to your face, thumbs stroking your cheek. It’s an innocent action - at least it is at first - but it’s like a bucket of cold water has doused you, broken the trance, and you’re wide awake now.
You’re absolutely certain that if you let it be, Nino would lean in and kiss you. You know that if he does, you won’t give a shit if it’s broad daylight in some random seaside town or not - you will welcome Nino into you. You’ll have sex on the beach and the kisses will taste like salt and sand. You’ll pretend that love comes freely and that you could defeat the world as long as you took it on together.
Nino leans in by not even an inch, and you sit up, startling him into getting off of you. You feel dizzy.
Much to your relief, Nino spends the rest of the day treading lightly around you.
*
What the fuck are you idiots thinking, going and-
Are you sure y-?
Message deleted.
Are you sure you want to delete all messages?
Messages deleted. You have [0] new messages.
*
The lady at the inn strikes up a conversation with both of you as you’re coming inside, rattling on about how her husband will be running errands all day, so she had to take care of the inn all by herself, but she has a bad back so she can’t do much. Considering you and Nino are the only guests, this doesn’t really seem like a big deal to you. But nonetheless, she ends up volunteering you both to work for her for the day, and in return she’ll give you a discount on your room rate.
Since all you’ve been doing for this entire week is lazing around, it’s hard to object.
Nino sweeps the floors while you tackle the surfaces with a duster. She hums a song as she washes the dishes, some enka song that’s garbled by the sound of running water when she washes off the soap suds.
Within a few hours, you’ve scrubbed down the entire inn. You help with dinner, too: Nino chops vegetables while you stir the soup. It’s late at night when the inn’s owner returns, but you finish cooking only a few minutes before he arrives.
He shares his vision for the inn, how he did some traveling in America and wanted the inn to be a relaxing place infused with both Japanese and western charms. The inn began almost fifteen years ago and was met with enough success to keep them content.
After hours of talking, the woman announces that she has a surprise for her husband, so you and Nino bring dishes to the sink and wash them while she trots over to the fridge for it. She pulls out a small, homemade chocolate cake. It’s his favorite, she says with a blush. She made it that afternoon for Valentine’s Day, but why not have it that night and share it with you sweet boys, rather than save it for tomorrow? The couple exchanges a chaste kiss, wishing one another a happy Valentine’s Day.
You nearly drop the dishes. Valentine’s Day?
You eat a slice of cake because she insists, but you excuse yourself immediately afterwards. Nino follows you, asking what’s wrong, but you blame it on fatigue. You go to the bathroom and splash your face with water. Valentine’s Day. Nino couldn’t have taken you here for that reason… right?
When you get back, Nino is only wearing boxers and is lying on the bed, hands tucked under his head and elbows jutted in the air. He glances at you when you walk back in, and you can feel his eyes on you as you strip to your undergarments as well, to the point you’re almost embarrassed. You yawn and he chuckles, scooting over to give you room to climb on beside him. Every instinct screams danger, but you still tuck your head into his neck and close your eyes as he hugs you closer, squeezing them shut as one of his hands trails purposefully along your spine and neck, going back down then up again across the same course until finally going further up. His fingers thread through your hair and he starts petting you gently, kissing the top of your head. The action lulls you to sleep despite the way it makes your heart race, but you’re still trying to close your eyes. Your eyelids are shut but you can still see too much; you’re blind to the world but still so, so aware.
February 13th
The day goes by without ever meeting your expectations for something more to happen. You play together on the beach, although Nino refuses to go too deep into the water. You sit in the sand, close enough that the waves rolling in wet the tips of your toes. You collect seashells and toss them back in, draw shapes in the sand, splash each other and make sandcastles. Well, you make one. Nino buries your legs in the sand while you’re preoccupied trying to fix your oddly-shaped tower. When night falls again, you lay there and count the stars. Nino sits, and he’s not paying attention to the sky; he’s watching you, wiping the sand off of your shirt and out of your hair even though it’s pointless - you’ll still be covered in it when you stand.
You close your eyes again, erasing the stars from your vision, but Nino can never become unseen to you. You can see him past the darkness as he leans forward, cupping your cheek, outlining your cheekbone with his thumb. There’s no sand covering your face this time; it’s a deliberate action with a painfully clear intent. You can see the kiss, the gentle insistence as you’re firm against the bed of sand even though it feels like the grains are slipping around your body and you’re sinking, sinking…
You don’t move or open your eyes when Nino pulls away. He’s begging, whispering please with urgency in his voice (or is that in your heart?) but your senses are numb and you can’t figure out what he’s asking for (but you do know - it’s obvious). Eventually he gets up and walks away, just like that, leaving you to the tide and the stars. You open your eyes to make sure they still exist; to make sure that even though they’re so far away and even though they were momentarily out of your sight, they didn’t cease their shining.
*
When you finally arrive back at the inn, sand sticking to your skin, there’s no Nino; there’s only a note.
I’m sorry, Oh-chan. I’ll be back soon. We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. I’m so sorry.
-Nino
You wash the sand off in the bathroom sink, not bothering with a shower, and wait in your room for Nino to return, but hours pass and he doesn’t come. The first signs of dawn peak through the window, and you start nodding off, unable to stay awake despite your unease. You curl up and hug the pillow, trying to remember why Nino brought you here in the first place. But it didn’t really matter, since you’d be going home tomorrow anyway. No, not tomorrow - it’s today now.
Today. Valentine’s Day.
You can hear the door opening slowly, creaking a little, but you’re too exhausted to give in to whatever the hell this emotion is you’re feeling, so you decide to give in to sleep instead.
*
Everyone is pretty mad at you… I don’t know if Sho-chan and Matsujun have been leaving you messages too, but they’re really worried. But I’m not mad at you, okay, Leader? Please come back… I love you both. We all love you, no matter what you do, you know. Just… we need you.
Message saved.
February 14th
Something is on your face, sliding softly across your brow, along your jawbone, through your eyelashes, down your nose, pressing against your lips…
Nino’s fingers recoil from your face when you stir, and the sudden loss of the dip in the bed as he jumps off is almost jolting. Is he apologizing again? You try to get out of this state of being only half-awake, stretching before sitting up groggily. When your vision clears, you find Nino grabbing the clothes you bought off the floor and your toothbrushes off of the chair in the corner you set them on. You peek down; you’re sleeping in the clothes you wore yesterday. Does he plan on leaving? That’s right, Nino’s letter. The kiss. You were leaving the quiet seaside and going back to Tokyo. It’s Valentine’s Day. Nino kissed you.
You look outside; the window’s plain white curtains are drawn. It’s nearing dusk (you must have slept all day - so much for leaving in the morning), but there’s still enough light to make out the small section of the beach, the same spot where you and Nino played together. None of the castles you made or words you wrote in the sand survived the cascades of the tide.
And it’s stupid that you would cry, but you do. Your sandcastles are no longer a sanctuary; your words are no longer your own. They are what could have been but never was, and now never will be. Now you’re sniffling, suffocating yourself in the blanket to catch the tears because you’re so lost on what to do; what you want; what you need. Nino reluctantly sits beside you and pats you on the back, trying to show comfort but you know better - he’s trapped in the same fucking current as you, and neither of you are strong enough to swim against it but you’re both too afraid to let it carry you.
You might be in love with him, and he might be in love with you. That’s all, that’s everything; only, you don’t live in that kind of world. You don’t live in this seaside inn where you can spend eternity wading in the salt waters and eating picnics on the rocky cove or the boardwalk while you hold hands and watch the way the ocean mirrors the sky when the sun sets. Your history isn’t imprinted in footprints on wet sand, always facing forward so you never have to see the way the water rushes up and erases it all. Instead, your lives are singing and television and concerts and promotional videos and interviews and photo shoots. It’s a life of impermanence, not infinities, and you know it all too well.
The two of you could be beautiful, but how long would it take for high tide to come and remind you that you don’t belong to yourselves, but to Arashi and the staff and the fans? How long before you would be washed away, back into the life you chose but didn’t really choose - the life you’ve come to love? How long until your castles become deformed mounds?
And yet, you want to be deceived by beautiful lies and beautiful love into thinking that you could obtain without sacrifice. So you kiss Nino and quote the ocean: communicating those stick-drawn hearts and confessions and I love you’s that you’ve both been writing for years but have always been washed away before the other could see.
It’s only half a lie.
Nino pulls back, gets up to lock the door and to pull the curtains over the window, and then he stares at you, unwilling to move first and repeat the night before. But you can’t do it, either - you’re trapped in this landlock of everything that could go wrong. Your words have already been lost. Speak, you silently beg, meeting his gaze. Say something.
He steps towards you, hesitates, but then he encloses the distances and his hands are on you, across the back of your neck and one on the side of your face. He’s apologizing again when you kiss, and that’s not what you want to hear. You don’t want this to be something you both feel sorry for.
You don’t want to regret it, even though you know that it’s a mistake.
You pull him closer, kiss him with more urgency, and you know when he pushes you backwards that you won’t be able to pretend, even if you can ignore it. Valentine’s Day isn’t your day of chocolates and red hearts and rose petals scattered across your romance; it’s the day of the year when you can trade in excuses for courage. You can’t play make believe and fool yourself into thinking it’s some empty impulse to ward off loneliness, fucking for fucking’s sake, like you’ll brush it off as a one-night stand by dawn. It’s not some expression of beauty, lovers tangled between the sheets after sweetly making love, once again showing how passion can rise against all odds. It’s dirty and rough and sloppy and not enough to fight against anything but it’s yours, and that makes it beautiful.
You’re rocking against each other because it’s instinctive and you’re not sure how else to move. You’re spreading your legs and urging him deeper because you’ve emptied out all of your love already and you’re dying of thirst, and when he fills you up you overflow. You’re gasping and sighing and moaning because you’re idols and singing is what you do, and even though you’ll never be able to craft a perfect love story, you want to at least create a defective love song.
Nino moans and moves. Stars ignite. You can still see them after they’ve cleared from your vision; their existence has been buried into your subconscious.
The room falls quiet. You embrace, sharing oxygen - you’re one another’s life supports. You stop trying to see and start listening: there’s Nino’s heartbeat and shallow breaths as he sleeps, the tides sweeping onto the shore and undoing all that’s imprinted there, and your song echoing all around you. All of the sounds are soft now, barely audible, but still there, playing in the background with the volume turned down.
February 15th
Snow falls as if dancing, thick snowflakes swirling with the wind. You catch them by sticking out your tongue with your head titled back, keeping your eyes open so you can watch the flakes as they drift from sky to earth. It’s surreal somehow, like the town is trapped in a snow globe. The sky is grey again, but the sun is visible behind them: an afterglow after yesterday’s clear skies and a promise to continue shining no matter how hard the clouds tried to hide it.
Nino tells you to get in the car already, but he’s smiling. Apparently the snow isn’t sticking and freezing, at least not yet, so you should start heading back while it’s safe, before the roads get icy. You wipe off your face with your sleeve; the snow melted upon contact, water trailing along your face, but remained intact when it landed on your eyelashes and hair, leaving freckles of white.
What are you to do with this Valentine’s aftermath? With these shy blushes when you make eye contact? With the way your hands lace together, both numb from the cold but still fitting together so naturally? With this mutual love song you’ve written?
You replay the week in slow motion in your mind and squeeze Nino’s hand for no other reason than to feel him squeezing back. The jeep is taking you to the train station, and the train will take you back to Tokyo, and Tokyo will take you back to your old lives. This semi-magical week away has been wonderful, but it’s still not yours to keep. No one else will see it through rose-tinted glass and act as though you’re five year olds who just exchanged homemade Valentine’s cards. You will have Arashi always, but even they might oppose. Are you driving onto a battlefield? Will you have to face the world, as weak as the both of you are?
Nino brings your conjoined hands up to his lips, kissing the back of your hand and breathing out to warm them. Maybe love doesn’t need to conquer all, you decide. Maybe love is only meant to conquer yourselves - to overcome the hesitations and fears so that even if you can’t defeat everything that comes against you, you’ll at least have the power to fight.
You glance into the review mirror, watching the ocean sink behind you like a final sunset. The waves are calm today, creeping along the shore. Your footprints and sandcastles have been washed away, wiping out all traces of your existence there. But there - in your memories, your conjoined hands, and your hearts beating in synch with one another - is the proof that you’re still alive.
---
A/N: Please read this.
Oh, and... this fic made me cry while writing it.