Drabble Batch 01
I am trying to get used to posting (let alone writing) again if I am going to (attempt) to write 150K words in 2012 for getyourwordsout. :X So here are a few things written in the past, er, month?
For kitsune714 from the unofficial “make this rainy day better” meme.
g. 406. Yamashita Tomohisa, Horikita Maki. Unbeta’d.
She arrives with her DVD copy of LIVE! LIVE! LIVE! - signed by all six members - held protectively in front of her face. “You broke up my favorite band.“
“You never came to a single concert.”
“You never got me front-row seats like Sakurai-kun.” She carefully sets the DVD into her purse before looking up with expectant eyes. “May I come in?”
He wants to say no, but he hasn’t been outside in days - his kitchen sink is piled with empty containers of fast food takeout - hasn’t dared touch his laptop, and his TV is on the fritz. So he opens the door wider, just a touch, just enough for her to slide into his apartment with practiced ease.
“I heard about Rina-chan.”
“Ah. And I thought you were here to comfort me.”
“Do you need comforting?”
He bites back a hot retort, scrapes the skin off of his lips with his teeth instead.
“That’s bad for your idol image.”
“Apparently I’m bad for my idol image.”
“Well.” She smiles a little, presses her cold little fingers against the corners of his lips. “Stop that.”
He stops.
“And stop - stop this. Stop feeling bad about yourself and your decisions. You - well, you’ve been hated before. For far pettier things, I might add.”
“And this is supposed to make me feel better?”
“I said I wasn’t here for that.”
“Right.”
“You made this decision on your own, right? So live with it - and even if you fail, live with it. That’s part of being an adult right?”
“You’re twenty-three.”
“But I’ve made far more life decisions than you probably have.” From anyone else it would sound condescending, but from her it’s kind, sympathetic, warm - even if her fingertips wriggling into his clasped hands are always so cold.
“Maybe one day I’ll become a wise adult like you.”
“If you’re lucky.” She squeezes his hands once, and then just like that - she slips away. “I should get going. Kame-kun is probably waiting for me.”
“Tell him I said hi.”
“Of course.”
“Ah,“ he sighs, full of dramatic self-pity, and for the first time in weeks, not a drop of it real, “I still can’t believe Nobuta chose Shuuji in the end.”
She sticks her tongue out at him. “Akira chose him first.”
When she leaves, he opens the blinds of every window in the apartment.
It’s raining.
Inspired, he writes.
Comment-spam for anamuan.
g. 187. Kuroki Meisa/Horikita Maki. Unbeta’d.
They go shopping in the morning -- she goes shopping in the morning, Maki does, all bright-eyed and flushed-cheeked in the crisp December air. Meisa follows behind her, with an air of begrudging complacence, but it’s not hard to get swept up in the way the sunlight flecks gold onto Maki’s hair, and the way the shadows cascade across her face as she steps under awning after awning, pressing her fingers flat against storefront windows, breath fogging up the glass, a small red patch on the tip of her nose when she steps back to exclaim, “Meisa, over here!” before traipsing into yet another little boutique.
Meisa carries small and medium-sized, perfumed-scented bags all day until her arms are sore and her patience is just about to run dry, but finally Maki’s fingers and face settle on the storefront of a newly opened cafe and the smell of freshly-baked bread and the promise of a nice, cushiony seat is enough to settle Meisa’s impatience. That, and the tiny gloved hand Meisa’s captures in mid-wave. “Your nose is red,” she announces, pressing their noses and hands close together.
For dalampasigan because she asked.
g.126. Ohkura Tadayoshi/Horikita Maki. Unbeta’d.
She remembers his birthday, before the crew brings out a giant sheet cake with, unfortunately, his face screen-printed onto it. He doesn’t even remember telling her about it, but she remembers, and it’s a feeling unmatched by any other in maybe all his birthdays he’s ever had. Until the next moment. It’s a small gesture, the hand-off, the slight brushing of her fingertips against his, the almost imperceptible smile on her face at his look of wonder, even her “Happy birthday, little brother,” doesn’t quell the warmth that spreads from hdedication inside, fingertips brushing, scent of the pagesis fingers to his toes to the tips of his ears. It’s a small parcel, flat and thin, neatly wrapped with squares of mismatched wrapping paper.
(Later he’ll count: 26 little squares of paper in all.)