fic for newsficcon
Gift fic for: newsficcon
From: anonymous
This fic was written by one of our fantastic pinch hitters, but in the end we didn't need it. They were, however, generous enough to offer it to the comm as a whole! They asked to remain anonymous, but we still want to say how grateful we are for the extra gift ^^ ♥
Title: Harp Music
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shige/Massu
Warnings: oddity. AU (?). a little crushin'.
Summary: Because bricks can't talk.
Notes: It was a pleasure to write. =)
01
And so there are three hundred bricks stacked against the garden wall. Three hundred bricks airbrushed with a grimy layer of dust and bugs and blades of green grass, the birdsong parading through willowy weeds and the hot breath of summer knocking against his knees from the garden's gates. He remembers the dream he'd dreamt last night. Idealized shapes, esoteric garden romance, one fell swoop over a masquerade ball, green petals purple stems over the door of a limousine. So he stares at them, feels the sweat on his palms seep onto the wooden handle of the shovel. So he stares and stares and stares and the bricks stare back at him, equally distrustful and equally judgmental. Give us another bricklayer, they say to him, go home and let us stack among ourselves in peace. Without your help. With anyone but you. We want a real bricklayer. Not some lazy-assed college student with a head full of Hemingway quotes. We have no use for Catherine Barkley. Send us our James Dean.
It takes one full minute for him to remember that bricks did not possess oratory abilities, and another minute for him to get back to work.
02
Then they lie the bricks down in the garden and slick on slabs of that sludgy brown substance in between the bricks. Most of the time, all he does is layer it with an arbitrary gardening tool and get yelled at for wasting the sludgy brown substance. Occasionally, one of the other Burly Gorilla Men would let out a shout of mild and manly surprise at finding a crumbly hornet's nest stuck to the lip of the upper greenery shelf, or a piece of rose petal might bend over and trip another guy over his feet. And they would all blame it on him. Such a clumsy little fuckwit, aren't you, can't you watch where you're going? No, don't stick the fuckin' thing over here. Jeez, Kato, just pick up the cement mix, man, you're dropping your shit all over the place. Goddamn, I knew we shouldn't have hired a law student, goddamn, I knew. Go and sit down on the wheelbarrow, one of the nicer men would say, take a breather for a while, won't you?
If anything, the only time he ever got a break from it was when they picked on The Other Guy, the one who always wore blue overalls and a stupid grin to work, attached himself to the flower plot from the beginning of their day to the end, even during the smoke break. He would stand in the sun and talk to the flower seeds sometimes, cup them in his gritty palms and give them his time of day while the others looked on, bemused. He was the one in charge of the gardening-center fertilizers that the deliverymen would wheel in, and sometimes he would glance surreptitiously over at Shige and Shige would glance surreptitiously back.
“That guy?” they would always say, “That's Masuda. All he does is stuff his face. Not the most sociable type, is he?”
(And oh, how wrong they were.)
03
Their first handshake is stiff.
“Just call me Massu,” Massu says, smiles a big smile and extends his hand, “From the housing district. Here to ruin your life.”
“Shige,” Shige says back, and the grin climbs up onto his face like a caterpillar. Massu's smile makes his gaze droop a little, makes his heart plummet even farther. This might be a really good thing. The other men in their group exchange weird looks as if they couldn't believe this was happening, but Shige ignores them, and he hopes that Massu would do the same.
“I plant flowers in my spare time,” Massu says, “some of them are less likely to bloom, sure, but they're all pretty. Very pretty.”
04
(They stare at each other for the longest time.
“I'm not just a glutton,” Massu finally says, the same time Shige says, “I hope you don't think of me as merely a klutz.”
And yeah, this kind of friendship is manageable, at least for Shige.)
05
“Read me a poem,” Massu tells Shige, “I want to hear a poem from you. You're good at those, right?”
He grunts. “A poem? About what?”
“Anything.”
Your hair, he wants to say, your hair. It's so soft. It's so soft it shines. It's so soft that he kind of wants to reach out and brush his hands against it. Feel it against the pads of his fingertips, sheen of sweat under the blaze of the sun. If he was any good at waxing poetic, he'd have probably written a psalm and arranged a piano recording by now. But he's a simple person, that's what he realizes. He's a simple person with simple delights and simple thoughts and simple pleasures. It probably hurts to be as simple as this. He's usually very adept at comparing girls to Catherine Barkley, but this is just kind of depressing.
“Read me a poem,” Massu tells Shige, “I want to hear a poem from you.”
And so he does. Something about the grass under the graves and Walt Whitman, and Massu listens, and it's kind of nice.
06
“Sometimes they talk to me,” Shige says.
“Who?”
“The bricks,” he mumbles, and hurriedly adds, “I mean. I know they can't talk, but sometimes they do. It's a little weird. I think I might be under sun stroke. I know they can't talk.”
Massu only grins. “Well. Who's to say they can't?”
“I dunno,” Shige says, “Why do you smile so much?”
“Why do I smile? I smile because it's nice outside today and my garden is fresh and dry. Hey, wanna know a secret?”
“What?”
Masuda says it in a whisper, with his eyes half-closed and his chin turned up towards the sun. “Sometimes I can hear the bricks play harp music.”
Shige snorts. “Now you're just making fun of me, aren't you?”
07
“I'm moving out from this job today,” Massu tells him in the afternoon a week later. “New district. Housing contracts to fill. That sorta thing.”
There's a bit of an awkward silence, but none of the other men on the team notice and Shige lets it pass, brushes a trickle of sweat away from his neck. It's still so hot. It's nearly September, and it's still so hot. Too many clouds in the sky and too much global warming all over the place. He wonders what he should say in a situation like this. So you're moving out, huh. Moving out from the job.
(He wonders if he should tell Masuda that he'd like to keep in touch with him, but then he kind of wishes he didn't have to say something awkward and potentially gross-sounding. Wonders if he should write down his phone number somewhere. Wonders if he should just say goodbye and pretend that it didn't matter to him, either way. Wonders about a lot of things until he's just wondering.)
“Yeah,” he says instead, licks his lips. “Yeah, so. I-I'll see you?”
“Maybe,” Masuda smiles, presses a hand into Shige's pocket. Leaves a slip of paper behind, along with a few memories and maybe a piece of his heart.
Their last handshake is warm.
08
Hey, Shige--
I wasn't lying about the harp music, actually. I moved into an apartment recently, and the previous tenants told me it was good luck to talk to the flower seeds before you planted them. I talked to tulip seeds about your poem, you know, and then they sprouted a week early! Anyway, here's my number. Drop by sometime, and maybe we can share a plate of gyoza together. :)
--Massu.
p.s. I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I really really like your hair. It looks really clean from far away. And clean close up, too. Hahaha.
09
So while Shige cleans up the rest of the garden, listens to the birdsong trickling under the stream and the deciduous trees tidy out their closet for another winter and the midnight in the air and the hornet's nests kicked under the wooden swing, the bricks on the wall stare at him and tell him how much of a wonderful job he's doing.
10
And who's to say they can't talk, anyway?
-the end-
From: anonymous
This fic was written by one of our fantastic pinch hitters, but in the end we didn't need it. They were, however, generous enough to offer it to the comm as a whole! They asked to remain anonymous, but we still want to say how grateful we are for the extra gift ^^ ♥
Title: Harp Music
Rating: PG
Pairing: Shige/Massu
Warnings: oddity. AU (?). a little crushin'.
Summary: Because bricks can't talk.
Notes: It was a pleasure to write. =)
01
And so there are three hundred bricks stacked against the garden wall. Three hundred bricks airbrushed with a grimy layer of dust and bugs and blades of green grass, the birdsong parading through willowy weeds and the hot breath of summer knocking against his knees from the garden's gates. He remembers the dream he'd dreamt last night. Idealized shapes, esoteric garden romance, one fell swoop over a masquerade ball, green petals purple stems over the door of a limousine. So he stares at them, feels the sweat on his palms seep onto the wooden handle of the shovel. So he stares and stares and stares and the bricks stare back at him, equally distrustful and equally judgmental. Give us another bricklayer, they say to him, go home and let us stack among ourselves in peace. Without your help. With anyone but you. We want a real bricklayer. Not some lazy-assed college student with a head full of Hemingway quotes. We have no use for Catherine Barkley. Send us our James Dean.
It takes one full minute for him to remember that bricks did not possess oratory abilities, and another minute for him to get back to work.
02
Then they lie the bricks down in the garden and slick on slabs of that sludgy brown substance in between the bricks. Most of the time, all he does is layer it with an arbitrary gardening tool and get yelled at for wasting the sludgy brown substance. Occasionally, one of the other Burly Gorilla Men would let out a shout of mild and manly surprise at finding a crumbly hornet's nest stuck to the lip of the upper greenery shelf, or a piece of rose petal might bend over and trip another guy over his feet. And they would all blame it on him. Such a clumsy little fuckwit, aren't you, can't you watch where you're going? No, don't stick the fuckin' thing over here. Jeez, Kato, just pick up the cement mix, man, you're dropping your shit all over the place. Goddamn, I knew we shouldn't have hired a law student, goddamn, I knew. Go and sit down on the wheelbarrow, one of the nicer men would say, take a breather for a while, won't you?
If anything, the only time he ever got a break from it was when they picked on The Other Guy, the one who always wore blue overalls and a stupid grin to work, attached himself to the flower plot from the beginning of their day to the end, even during the smoke break. He would stand in the sun and talk to the flower seeds sometimes, cup them in his gritty palms and give them his time of day while the others looked on, bemused. He was the one in charge of the gardening-center fertilizers that the deliverymen would wheel in, and sometimes he would glance surreptitiously over at Shige and Shige would glance surreptitiously back.
“That guy?” they would always say, “That's Masuda. All he does is stuff his face. Not the most sociable type, is he?”
(And oh, how wrong they were.)
03
Their first handshake is stiff.
“Just call me Massu,” Massu says, smiles a big smile and extends his hand, “From the housing district. Here to ruin your life.”
“Shige,” Shige says back, and the grin climbs up onto his face like a caterpillar. Massu's smile makes his gaze droop a little, makes his heart plummet even farther. This might be a really good thing. The other men in their group exchange weird looks as if they couldn't believe this was happening, but Shige ignores them, and he hopes that Massu would do the same.
“I plant flowers in my spare time,” Massu says, “some of them are less likely to bloom, sure, but they're all pretty. Very pretty.”
04
(They stare at each other for the longest time.
“I'm not just a glutton,” Massu finally says, the same time Shige says, “I hope you don't think of me as merely a klutz.”
And yeah, this kind of friendship is manageable, at least for Shige.)
05
“Read me a poem,” Massu tells Shige, “I want to hear a poem from you. You're good at those, right?”
He grunts. “A poem? About what?”
“Anything.”
Your hair, he wants to say, your hair. It's so soft. It's so soft it shines. It's so soft that he kind of wants to reach out and brush his hands against it. Feel it against the pads of his fingertips, sheen of sweat under the blaze of the sun. If he was any good at waxing poetic, he'd have probably written a psalm and arranged a piano recording by now. But he's a simple person, that's what he realizes. He's a simple person with simple delights and simple thoughts and simple pleasures. It probably hurts to be as simple as this. He's usually very adept at comparing girls to Catherine Barkley, but this is just kind of depressing.
“Read me a poem,” Massu tells Shige, “I want to hear a poem from you.”
And so he does. Something about the grass under the graves and Walt Whitman, and Massu listens, and it's kind of nice.
06
“Sometimes they talk to me,” Shige says.
“Who?”
“The bricks,” he mumbles, and hurriedly adds, “I mean. I know they can't talk, but sometimes they do. It's a little weird. I think I might be under sun stroke. I know they can't talk.”
Massu only grins. “Well. Who's to say they can't?”
“I dunno,” Shige says, “Why do you smile so much?”
“Why do I smile? I smile because it's nice outside today and my garden is fresh and dry. Hey, wanna know a secret?”
“What?”
Masuda says it in a whisper, with his eyes half-closed and his chin turned up towards the sun. “Sometimes I can hear the bricks play harp music.”
Shige snorts. “Now you're just making fun of me, aren't you?”
07
“I'm moving out from this job today,” Massu tells him in the afternoon a week later. “New district. Housing contracts to fill. That sorta thing.”
There's a bit of an awkward silence, but none of the other men on the team notice and Shige lets it pass, brushes a trickle of sweat away from his neck. It's still so hot. It's nearly September, and it's still so hot. Too many clouds in the sky and too much global warming all over the place. He wonders what he should say in a situation like this. So you're moving out, huh. Moving out from the job.
(He wonders if he should tell Masuda that he'd like to keep in touch with him, but then he kind of wishes he didn't have to say something awkward and potentially gross-sounding. Wonders if he should write down his phone number somewhere. Wonders if he should just say goodbye and pretend that it didn't matter to him, either way. Wonders about a lot of things until he's just wondering.)
“Yeah,” he says instead, licks his lips. “Yeah, so. I-I'll see you?”
“Maybe,” Masuda smiles, presses a hand into Shige's pocket. Leaves a slip of paper behind, along with a few memories and maybe a piece of his heart.
Their last handshake is warm.
08
Hey, Shige--
I wasn't lying about the harp music, actually. I moved into an apartment recently, and the previous tenants told me it was good luck to talk to the flower seeds before you planted them. I talked to tulip seeds about your poem, you know, and then they sprouted a week early! Anyway, here's my number. Drop by sometime, and maybe we can share a plate of gyoza together. :)
--Massu.
p.s. I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I really really like your hair. It looks really clean from far away. And clean close up, too. Hahaha.
09
So while Shige cleans up the rest of the garden, listens to the birdsong trickling under the stream and the deciduous trees tidy out their closet for another winter and the midnight in the air and the hornet's nests kicked under the wooden swing, the bricks on the wall stare at him and tell him how much of a wonderful job he's doing.
10
And who's to say they can't talk, anyway?
-the end-