[Hanazakari no Kimitachi e] Forward Motion
Title: Forward Motion
Rating: G
Pairing: Akiha/Umeda
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: The act of moving forward (as towards a goal).
Notes: For beckerbell, who gave me the prompt 'five years from now', which, you know, had me thinking about all those little quizzes that always ask you where you think you'll be in X amount of years and so forth that somehow turned into this. I don't know. Whatever.
Mizuki comes to to see him after a particularly trying day in which everything (everyone) had been either annoying or simply frustrating, clutching a magazine in her hands with a look bordering on desperation on her face. She's not quite there yet, not exactly crying, but her eyes are shiny with the promise (threat) of tears and he is just really not made for this sort of thing.
He reaches for the coffee (cold) on his desk and points at the examination table in what he hopes is a commanding manner as he drinks the coffee anyway. He has the feeling he's going to need the caffeine.
She smiles at him, a weak, wobbling thing that's almost painful to see and throws back his mug to finish off the coffee in one gulp. When he sets it down she's watching him with wide eyes, still shiny but not dangerously so. He settles himself back into his chair and crosses his arms and looks at her. He refuses to be the one to start this, this outpouring of emotion or whatever lies ahead, absolutely flat-out refuses to do so.
He sees the realization on her face a moment before her eyes narrow and her own arms come up, a little awkward with the magazine still gripped tightly in one hand, but she manages it. Arms crossed and chin lifted slightly, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling.
They stare at one another for several minutes before her resolve breaks, defiance traded for a sullen pout and she kicks her feet for a second, like she's letting him know that his is a only a temporary victory.
And then, and then she's talking, shoving the magazine at him and babbling about some stupid questionnaire -
“Quiz,” she corrects with a strange sort of emphasis, as if there's a vital difference he's not quite grasping. “It's a quiz.”
He just stares at her, because first, first it's one of those teen magazines with blinding colors and picture layouts he sees at the grocery store. Oversize text on the cover proclaiming an 'in-depth expose' regarding some actor or musician, which turns out to be banal questions concerning said celebrity's favorite movie, color, and, if it's a special, something about what their favorite animal is. He doesn't understand how any of that is considered 'in-depth' but can only assume that means he's not a teenage girl.
Which is when it occurs to him to point out that Mizuki might not actually pull off her little charade if she goes around reading teen heartthrob magazines.
"It's Nakatsu's," she says with a shrug, as if it's something she's used to. "I just borrowed it for a little bit."
There's nothing he can say to that, so he doesn't.
Mizuki just stares at him, and after a second or two he realizes that (apparently) this is where he is expected to offer some nugget of wisdom regarding her dilemma. He might consider it, if he actually knew what it was.
“This part, right here, “ she tells him, flipping to a different page. She jabs a finger at one section of tiny print and then looks up at him with an expression on her face that clearly says 'See? See?' and to be absolutely honest, he doesn't.
At first.
Then he reads the question when she starts to pout again, and thinks he might understand what the problem is.
It's another typical question, one that manages to worm itself into almost every questionnaire (quiz) that deals with teenagers, relationships, and life goals. It's nothing too terrible, really, unless you happen to be in Mizuki's position. He doesn't think there are all that many people in similar situations, however, so...
"I don't know how to answer!" She wails, hand still holding the magazine coming dangerously close to his face as she flaps her arms.
He scrambles for tissues and grabs a handful from the box on his desk, shoving them at her while he tries to think.
So of course, of course, that's when the idiot pops up, eyes wide as he looks at them through the window. The open window.
Mizuki makes a surprised noise when she sees the idiot, and then he's climbing inside making soft, cooing noises at her. She doesn't protest when he hops up on the examination table next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, head next to hers as he whispers something in her ear.
She sniffles and blows her nose, nodding at whatever the idiot says to her. Laughs, actually laughs, when the idiot lifts his head and looks right at him, mouth tugged up into a strange little smile before they go back to whispering to one another.
After a few more minutes of that he rolls his eyes and decides that the idiot seems ton have matters well in hand and starts getting ready to leave, making sure to give the two of them enough space so that he doesn't get dragged back into the conversation. He's not sure he's entirely comfortable with the way they both giggle and look over at him every so often, but he's absolutely certain he wants no part of it.
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========
Even after all this time Mizuki still sends them letters, pictures and newspaper clippings when she can, long rambling letters full of life and energy that talk about everything and nothing at all using the words 'we' and 'us'. The first time they got one the idiot had turned wounded eyes on him for making the (unforgivable) mistake of opening it when the the idiot was working late. ('We're supposed to read them together,' he'd said with a ridiculous pout, 'they're addressed to both of us.')
He hadn't really understood why it was such a big deal at the time, but he'd just rolled his eyes and promised the idiot that they would open all of her letters together from that point on. The idiot had beamed at him for that, and he still couldn't figure out why it had meant so much.
They've gotten a bigger apartment since those days, large enough that the idiot has space for his work and he has space to himself when he needs it. Their furniture is an odd mix of comfortable and functional with flashes of unique and bizarre here and there. Cat hair covers all of it (and them) in equal measure.
Things are comfortable now, they're comfortable, lives settled down into familiar routines with moments of strangeness and 'Let's go, let's pack up and go for a little bit,' followed by new places that are exotic and reassuringly familiar in turn for small stretches of time that go by all too quickly.
One day, though, one day Mizuki sends a letter within a letter. A second envelop enclosed with the usual handwritten pages and photographs, battered and worn with age, completely covered in tape and scrawled warnings not to open until - he has to squint a little to read the last - a date from two days ago.
He's tempted, curious, because the idiot's name is all over it (literally) accompanied by glittery hearts and flowers and what looks like it might be a combination of the two curling and twisting in on one another in one corner.
When the idiot comes home from work that night he's sitting in the kitchen staring at the envelope sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, scowling a little as though he expects it to break under his gaze and spill all its secrets.
The idiot halts mid-leap, foregoing his usual greeting, a look of concern on his face as he comes closer. "What - "
"Mizuki sent another letter."
The idiot frowns, settles a hand on his shoulder as he leans in for a better look, and then the fingers on his shoulder are suddenly gone as the idiot lets out a soft noise of surprise, fumbling for the envelope.
He looks up to see the look of surprise on the idiot's face, eyes wide as he finally gets hold of the envelope. He handles it with care, makes sure to hold by the edges like a treasured photograph as he stares down at it, mouth pulling up into a slow smile.
"I didn't think she'd remember." He says, smiling a little as he traces one faded heart with a fingertip, sparkling pieces of glitter catching on his skin.
"What?"
The idiot laughs, shakes his head and sits into his lap like it's any other day, completely certain of his welcome. Unquestioning.
The idiot looks around, finally sees the letter opener set aside on the table and uses it to make an opening along the seam of the envelope, carefully widening it until he can get the letter out. Unfolds it to reveal a page from a magazine carefully folded inside, worn creases cutting into the bright colors and laughing faces peering out at them.
A scrap of memory flashes through his mind then, years old, five, if he remembers correctly, wide tearful eyes and and open window. Muffled giggles and whispered words.
"Is that?"
The idiot nods, leans back against his chest as he scans the paper, reads his own handwriting, while he absently puts the magazine page down on the table, fingers resting on one corner of it. "Yes," He answers, a little distracted. "I still can't believe she remembered."
He wants to ask, but doesn't. Rests his hand on the idiot's hip, and waits. Hears a cat-sized thump from another room, something falling but doesn't bother to get up to check.
“We...” the idiot stops, frowns a little like he's trying to find the words. “I told her to write the future she wanted to see, and I'd do the same.” The idiot fidgets, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table. “We traded answers and promised to show them to each other later, like a time capsule.”
He doesn't say anything at first, unsure of what to say, and the idiot sighs and tilts the letter until he can read it over his shoulder, angles the magazine page so he can read the question. It's still familiar after all this time, the answer not entirely unexpected, but surprising all the same.
"You - " He really doesn't know what to say, doesn't think there's anything he could say that would be enough, but it's okay because the idiot knows. He knows.
They are years away from that long ago afternoon, five, if he remembers correctly, years that are filled with good times and bad, some that are a little bit of both. All of it though, all of it is wrapped up in, tangled together with, the person staring down at him with a smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes.
“We should,” he waves a hand in a vague gesture. Glances at the letter forgotten on the table. “We should write her back.”
It's not enough, not even close to it, but the idiot's smile widens and he nods, leaning down to press their lips together. “Later,” he whispers, “I don't think she'll mind.”
She doesn't.
Rating: G
Pairing: Akiha/Umeda
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: The act of moving forward (as towards a goal).
Notes: For beckerbell, who gave me the prompt 'five years from now', which, you know, had me thinking about all those little quizzes that always ask you where you think you'll be in X amount of years and so forth that somehow turned into this. I don't know. Whatever.
Mizuki comes to to see him after a particularly trying day in which everything (everyone) had been either annoying or simply frustrating, clutching a magazine in her hands with a look bordering on desperation on her face. She's not quite there yet, not exactly crying, but her eyes are shiny with the promise (threat) of tears and he is just really not made for this sort of thing.
He reaches for the coffee (cold) on his desk and points at the examination table in what he hopes is a commanding manner as he drinks the coffee anyway. He has the feeling he's going to need the caffeine.
She smiles at him, a weak, wobbling thing that's almost painful to see and throws back his mug to finish off the coffee in one gulp. When he sets it down she's watching him with wide eyes, still shiny but not dangerously so. He settles himself back into his chair and crosses his arms and looks at her. He refuses to be the one to start this, this outpouring of emotion or whatever lies ahead, absolutely flat-out refuses to do so.
He sees the realization on her face a moment before her eyes narrow and her own arms come up, a little awkward with the magazine still gripped tightly in one hand, but she manages it. Arms crossed and chin lifted slightly, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling.
They stare at one another for several minutes before her resolve breaks, defiance traded for a sullen pout and she kicks her feet for a second, like she's letting him know that his is a only a temporary victory.
And then, and then she's talking, shoving the magazine at him and babbling about some stupid questionnaire -
“Quiz,” she corrects with a strange sort of emphasis, as if there's a vital difference he's not quite grasping. “It's a quiz.”
He just stares at her, because first, first it's one of those teen magazines with blinding colors and picture layouts he sees at the grocery store. Oversize text on the cover proclaiming an 'in-depth expose' regarding some actor or musician, which turns out to be banal questions concerning said celebrity's favorite movie, color, and, if it's a special, something about what their favorite animal is. He doesn't understand how any of that is considered 'in-depth' but can only assume that means he's not a teenage girl.
Which is when it occurs to him to point out that Mizuki might not actually pull off her little charade if she goes around reading teen heartthrob magazines.
"It's Nakatsu's," she says with a shrug, as if it's something she's used to. "I just borrowed it for a little bit."
There's nothing he can say to that, so he doesn't.
Mizuki just stares at him, and after a second or two he realizes that (apparently) this is where he is expected to offer some nugget of wisdom regarding her dilemma. He might consider it, if he actually knew what it was.
“This part, right here, “ she tells him, flipping to a different page. She jabs a finger at one section of tiny print and then looks up at him with an expression on her face that clearly says 'See? See?' and to be absolutely honest, he doesn't.
At first.
Then he reads the question when she starts to pout again, and thinks he might understand what the problem is.
It's another typical question, one that manages to worm itself into almost every questionnaire (quiz) that deals with teenagers, relationships, and life goals. It's nothing too terrible, really, unless you happen to be in Mizuki's position. He doesn't think there are all that many people in similar situations, however, so...
"I don't know how to answer!" She wails, hand still holding the magazine coming dangerously close to his face as she flaps her arms.
He scrambles for tissues and grabs a handful from the box on his desk, shoving them at her while he tries to think.
So of course, of course, that's when the idiot pops up, eyes wide as he looks at them through the window. The open window.
Mizuki makes a surprised noise when she sees the idiot, and then he's climbing inside making soft, cooing noises at her. She doesn't protest when he hops up on the examination table next to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, head next to hers as he whispers something in her ear.
She sniffles and blows her nose, nodding at whatever the idiot says to her. Laughs, actually laughs, when the idiot lifts his head and looks right at him, mouth tugged up into a strange little smile before they go back to whispering to one another.
After a few more minutes of that he rolls his eyes and decides that the idiot seems ton have matters well in hand and starts getting ready to leave, making sure to give the two of them enough space so that he doesn't get dragged back into the conversation. He's not sure he's entirely comfortable with the way they both giggle and look over at him every so often, but he's absolutely certain he wants no part of it.
========
========
Even after all this time Mizuki still sends them letters, pictures and newspaper clippings when she can, long rambling letters full of life and energy that talk about everything and nothing at all using the words 'we' and 'us'. The first time they got one the idiot had turned wounded eyes on him for making the (unforgivable) mistake of opening it when the the idiot was working late. ('We're supposed to read them together,' he'd said with a ridiculous pout, 'they're addressed to both of us.')
He hadn't really understood why it was such a big deal at the time, but he'd just rolled his eyes and promised the idiot that they would open all of her letters together from that point on. The idiot had beamed at him for that, and he still couldn't figure out why it had meant so much.
They've gotten a bigger apartment since those days, large enough that the idiot has space for his work and he has space to himself when he needs it. Their furniture is an odd mix of comfortable and functional with flashes of unique and bizarre here and there. Cat hair covers all of it (and them) in equal measure.
Things are comfortable now, they're comfortable, lives settled down into familiar routines with moments of strangeness and 'Let's go, let's pack up and go for a little bit,' followed by new places that are exotic and reassuringly familiar in turn for small stretches of time that go by all too quickly.
One day, though, one day Mizuki sends a letter within a letter. A second envelop enclosed with the usual handwritten pages and photographs, battered and worn with age, completely covered in tape and scrawled warnings not to open until - he has to squint a little to read the last - a date from two days ago.
He's tempted, curious, because the idiot's name is all over it (literally) accompanied by glittery hearts and flowers and what looks like it might be a combination of the two curling and twisting in on one another in one corner.
When the idiot comes home from work that night he's sitting in the kitchen staring at the envelope sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, scowling a little as though he expects it to break under his gaze and spill all its secrets.
The idiot halts mid-leap, foregoing his usual greeting, a look of concern on his face as he comes closer. "What - "
"Mizuki sent another letter."
The idiot frowns, settles a hand on his shoulder as he leans in for a better look, and then the fingers on his shoulder are suddenly gone as the idiot lets out a soft noise of surprise, fumbling for the envelope.
He looks up to see the look of surprise on the idiot's face, eyes wide as he finally gets hold of the envelope. He handles it with care, makes sure to hold by the edges like a treasured photograph as he stares down at it, mouth pulling up into a slow smile.
"I didn't think she'd remember." He says, smiling a little as he traces one faded heart with a fingertip, sparkling pieces of glitter catching on his skin.
"What?"
The idiot laughs, shakes his head and sits into his lap like it's any other day, completely certain of his welcome. Unquestioning.
The idiot looks around, finally sees the letter opener set aside on the table and uses it to make an opening along the seam of the envelope, carefully widening it until he can get the letter out. Unfolds it to reveal a page from a magazine carefully folded inside, worn creases cutting into the bright colors and laughing faces peering out at them.
A scrap of memory flashes through his mind then, years old, five, if he remembers correctly, wide tearful eyes and and open window. Muffled giggles and whispered words.
"Is that?"
The idiot nods, leans back against his chest as he scans the paper, reads his own handwriting, while he absently puts the magazine page down on the table, fingers resting on one corner of it. "Yes," He answers, a little distracted. "I still can't believe she remembered."
He wants to ask, but doesn't. Rests his hand on the idiot's hip, and waits. Hears a cat-sized thump from another room, something falling but doesn't bother to get up to check.
“We...” the idiot stops, frowns a little like he's trying to find the words. “I told her to write the future she wanted to see, and I'd do the same.” The idiot fidgets, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table. “We traded answers and promised to show them to each other later, like a time capsule.”
He doesn't say anything at first, unsure of what to say, and the idiot sighs and tilts the letter until he can read it over his shoulder, angles the magazine page so he can read the question. It's still familiar after all this time, the answer not entirely unexpected, but surprising all the same.
"You - " He really doesn't know what to say, doesn't think there's anything he could say that would be enough, but it's okay because the idiot knows. He knows.
They are years away from that long ago afternoon, five, if he remembers correctly, years that are filled with good times and bad, some that are a little bit of both. All of it though, all of it is wrapped up in, tangled together with, the person staring down at him with a smile on his lips and laughter in his eyes.
“We should,” he waves a hand in a vague gesture. Glances at the letter forgotten on the table. “We should write her back.”
It's not enough, not even close to it, but the idiot's smile widens and he nods, leaning down to press their lips together. “Later,” he whispers, “I don't think she'll mind.”
She doesn't.