Fic: Tacit and Explicit
Title: Tacit and Explicit
Fandom: DOLLS
Characters: Kashiwabara Kenshin, Mikoshiba Shouta
Genre: M/M
Word count: 2035
Summary: It is Kashiwabara who is most stirred up by the return of Commander Mikoshiba to duty.
Additional Tags:[+++]Canon Moment Expanded, Introspection, Angst and Feels, Pining, Unrequited, almost-confessions,sensory issues
Author's Notes: The reunion scene in Chapter 74 from Kashiwabara’s POV. Why yes, I absolutely wrote a couple thousand words to fill in a gutter between a page’s worth of manga panels! :D
Disclaimer: DOLLS and its characters belong to naked ape.
A heavy thud of landing on the floor reverberates through his heels with dull ache. Ignoring it, Kashiwabara hastens to straighten up and stagger back from a very vexed, very confused Commander Mikoshiba.
“S-sure.” He pants, breathless. “Just-gimme a minute.”
Another step back, and another. The interior of the duty van is spacious enough to hold all of the necessary equipment; with six people crammed in, however, the narrow confined space appears cramped and stuffy. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but with his senses already in turmoil, this little peculiarity of the environment only aggravates his distress.
Miraculously sparing both the towering racks and the astonished unit members from being knocked down in his way, Kashiwabara retreats.
Numb and dizzy, he plops onto the swivel chair in front of his desk at the bulkhead. Everything around is spinning and blurring, fading into indistinct white noise. Resting his elbows on the table, Kashiwabara presses his face into his hands. It’s wet, clammy to touch, an odd contrast against his burning palms. A welling gush of exhilaration and euphoric relief dwindles away; the heat of thrill turns into cold perspiration and stinging awareness. The chill water of realization sinks in.
What he did was batshit insane. What’s gotten into him, what was he thinking… Was he even thinking with his head?
With a swift angry gesture, Kashiwabara wipes away the remnants of his stupid, foolish, unbidden tears. He dries his hands off over his pants, and notices his fingers trembling.
But what’s with such a clear-cut overreaction! All his penchant for a bit of flippancy aside, if his emotions begin to flare up and overtake him with such terrifying ease-
He needs to calm down, and quickly. The mental beating can wait.
He tries to breathe deeply and blinks, and wakes in awareness that his nose is clogged up; as if he wasn’t already feeling miserable enough. Antsy to keep his hands busy, as a distraction, he rakes through his hair, swiping the damp bangs from his forehead and dragging his fingertips over his scalp; he smooths his palms down his shirt, feeling the nice grainy texture of the fabric, and tugs at its hem to straighten out the creases. Small tasks of fixing himself presentable, carried out by instinct rather than by conscious choice.
The best thing is, they do help. The mundane haptics reinforce the reality of this moment, retrieving that soothing sense of being in control. In light of what he just-
He screwed up big time. Could he perhaps be in need of some quality rest himself? Except that now, with Mikoshiba’s return, any semblance of vacation shall be out of the question. But on the other hand-
‘ -Stop fussing over me! Just give the details-’
The mission. The briefing. Right now.
Kashiwabara grabs the clipboard and sags back into his flimsy, comfortless seat. His throbbing pulse keeps swishing in his ears, drowning out to an extent but failing to block out completely the complex diversity of ambient noises, the whispers of many fans mixed with the idle rumble of engine, the wordless snuffles of human beings behind his back…
Neat lines of text are densely printed, oppressive with the information they convey.
…the rustling of clothes, the hushed murmur of talking…
Kashiwabara catches himself staring frozen at them without seeing, let alone comprehending a single character. He frowns at the document and tries to keep his mind on it.
…Mikoshiba grumbling out something unintelligible…
An intrusive playback clicks in his head, right on cue, frustrating his attempt to concentrate.
‘-I thought you’d been watching, as usual-’
This is ridiculous. And him? Pathetic .
His eyelids buzz with tension as he squeezes them shut, a vision of a blaze of flashing lights and glowing patterns and sweeping, falling stars swirling in his mind’s eye. Hopefully this would be finally enough to clear his mind-space of anything…extra .
He’s got to get a grip. He let the pot boil over, now he has to clean up the mess.
Kashiwabara jerks up straight. Chin tucked in, legs crossed at the knees for whatever illusory precaution or support, he swivels the chair around to face the others.
The others all stare down at him. Their gazes, various degrees of confusion, are palpable on his skin. The air’s thick with wariness and expectation. How much time has passed - five minutes, half a minute? Somehow Mikoshiba is standing so very near to him, surprisingly so, in an unsettling proximity; he’s towering over Kashiwabara, silent and collected, arms folded over his chest, and Kashiwabara finds himself acutely incapable to look up into his face.
He isn’t sure he’ll be able to withstand it.
He can’t risk getting himself trapped in Mikoshiba’s charged, judging gaze. He longs to never take his eyes off Mikoshiba, in the most unbecoming way possible.
A dangerous, unseemly flight of fancy.
Training his bleary stare in the general direction of Mikoshiba’s as ever loosely tied necktie, Kashiwabara stiffens up even straighter, and steels himself to speak up. “Sorry for my loss of composure.”
The thick rasp that his vocal cords produce sounds alien. A bead of sweat crawls down the back of his neck, the high collar irritating against heated skin. Kashiwabara clears his throat. “I was just worried about you, is all.”
The words struggle to come. His head is light and hollow, like a drained off coffee can, his heart so full, so fluttering with emotion he can feel it bumping against his ribs, beat after beat after beat. He should explain himself. Should clarify his genuine intention. He needs to dispel any shadow of ambiguity, so that the Commander understands, and understands properly!
I was worried about you. He has already said this, hasn’t he. Yesterday, over the phone.
Kashiwabara wrings his hands together in his lap. Trapped between the clashing urges to convey and contain, wishing desperately that his voice won’t break off and spiral into an agitated screech, he manages to push through an almost near-normal, “I- I couldn’t help myself. I…”
He chokes up and swallows down the rest of the phrase. The imprudent, irrelevant words remain unuttered. Their gritty shapes scrape his clenched throat.
Sheesh, nope, he thinks, running his tongue over his dry lips. This will not do.
Later; there will be time for him to deal with this unsightly welter of emotions later. Stings of shame. Pangs of remorse. Oh, what a grave mistake he committed. That leap. How he exposed himself. The incoherent drivel that he gabbled out clinging to Mikoshiba, his hands prowling unleashed, his mental blocks and filters overridden, words popping out of nowhere and gliding off his tongue against his better judgment…
He was not in his right mind.
What a disgrace.
It’s a blessing that the human brain is pre-wired to be selective about the memories it chooses to retain. His memory can be selectively merciful. The poignancy of this mortification will fade, too, with effort and time, it will thin out and eventually blur into a translucent shadow, a shameful but trifling fact of life…
But now is too soon; the impression is still too raw, harrowing, humiliating. Some self-preserving incentive hurries him to eliminate the very words he has just uttered from his mind, and the very idea of willfully recalling them sounds affrighting.
Unlike the visuals. Unlike the modulations of voices. For some unfathomable reason, these tend to stick, and fit, and stay: with saturated vividness, with abnormal clarity, with the precision of a hi-fi video recording.
And now- oh, now, after so long of being settled for crumbs, he’s got a datum point for the tactile. For the silky hair at the back of the head he pawed through. For the chiseled cheekbone his thumb brushed against. Incredible. A flashbulb kind of memory that permanently imprints into the brain to disturb and delight, so deep and acute, so moving. A precious treasure to secure, to cherish; (to relish).
‘It’s not the same as watching through a monitor!’
This is a different thing entirely.
Just a mere thought about being able to conjure up that electrifying sense of embrace at any time ignites something vibrantly beautiful in the very core of his being.
free from decorum in the dead of night
a fine frontier between reality and reverie
that closeup face which he soaked up with sateless eyes
those strong supporting warm hands laying on his back
emerging high and standing tall unasked
a short circuit
a jet of sparks
But no, no, no. These thoughts-these daydreams- don’t belong here and now. All of this …
Later.
What he should be doing right now is make amends for causing such a scene, for inconveniencing everyone and, the important thing it all boils down to, in effect disrupting the unit’s morale in the run-up to the action on the field. Too bad his legs refuse to cooperate and remain jelly-weak and wobbly in the knees. Kashiwabara nibbles at his lip, wondering if his exhibit of reverence and respect would suffice as passably adequate if he forgoes rising from this damned chair altogether.
Well, once again.
Kashiwabara bends forward in an abrupt motion. Carefully curbing the cadence of his voice to bend it reverent and steady and properly detached, he enunciates the formal greeting formula. “Welcome back, General Commander, sir.”
“Yeah, thanks. Glad to be back.” There is a pause - a nod? a return of the greeting? Stock-still in a rigid bow, he has no way of knowing. Then, a snort, and “Look, you better stop doing that,” Mikoshiba says, voice void of the expected quick annoyance. He doesn’t sound angry-he’s rather just weary and, strangely, rueful?-when he adds with a sigh, “You don’t have to fret over me like that anymore.”
If only.
Some longings are better off dwelling in the misty realm of fantasizing. Some dreams should remain unexpressed and unfulfilled. Kashiwabara knows that. He is not blind. He knows better than to delude himself. Pretended closure would suit their mutual purposes just fine. It would be most convenient for them both if the Commander remained chastely unaware of the fact that what he had asked of Kashiwabara was effectively impossible.
Some wishes are simply never meant to be.
Were he less shaky, he'd flash a brazen grin, whip up a witty comeback, but the best he can do is a meek “All right, duly noted.” At least this professed repentance passes the bottleneck of his wounded dignity and out of his mouth with ease.
Mikoshiba nods. “Good. Now cut to the chase.”
Indeed. It’s really high time that he does.
Even more so that the van finally drifts out of the traffic jam and accelerates to its destination: a perfect timing in its own way. Kashiwabara hands out the files for the operatives to look at. His feet are solidly planted on the floor as he leans back and flips through his copy, squinting. The pages seem far too bright. If only there were a quick and solid and discreet way to dispel the strain before it blossoms into a full-blown migraine...
Shikibu gasps sharply.
Kashiwabara lets his eyes linger for a moment on the list of confirmed victims.
It will be no easy task, but he’ll do his best to help them through the perils of this assignment. His priorities have always been established clearly. Actions are more convincing than words. Just keep doing his duty. With their line of work, these guys never know if they will ever have another time. He, on the other hand…
All there is for him to do is adhere to his hard skills and stay alert for them, be cooperative and dependable - and prudent in what he allows himself to spill out.
I missed you dearly. I care deeply for you.
Kashiwabara takes a deep breath.
Just keep watching out. Maybe, some time, another opportunity occurs. And if he does ever get blessed with another chance, he might not choose to pass it up. One never knows. The context, after all, is of the utmost importance.
“Well, then,” he commences, adopting a brisk businesslike tone. “Let me expound on the details of our mission at hand.”
Fandom: DOLLS
Characters: Kashiwabara Kenshin, Mikoshiba Shouta
Genre: M/M
Word count: 2035
Summary: It is Kashiwabara who is most stirred up by the return of Commander Mikoshiba to duty.
Additional Tags:[+++]Canon Moment Expanded, Introspection, Angst and Feels, Pining, Unrequited, almost-confessions,sensory issues
Author's Notes: The reunion scene in Chapter 74 from Kashiwabara’s POV. Why yes, I absolutely wrote a couple thousand words to fill in a gutter between a page’s worth of manga panels! :D
Disclaimer: DOLLS and its characters belong to naked ape.
A heavy thud of landing on the floor reverberates through his heels with dull ache. Ignoring it, Kashiwabara hastens to straighten up and stagger back from a very vexed, very confused Commander Mikoshiba.
“S-sure.” He pants, breathless. “Just-gimme a minute.”
Another step back, and another. The interior of the duty van is spacious enough to hold all of the necessary equipment; with six people crammed in, however, the narrow confined space appears cramped and stuffy. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but with his senses already in turmoil, this little peculiarity of the environment only aggravates his distress.
Miraculously sparing both the towering racks and the astonished unit members from being knocked down in his way, Kashiwabara retreats.
Numb and dizzy, he plops onto the swivel chair in front of his desk at the bulkhead. Everything around is spinning and blurring, fading into indistinct white noise. Resting his elbows on the table, Kashiwabara presses his face into his hands. It’s wet, clammy to touch, an odd contrast against his burning palms. A welling gush of exhilaration and euphoric relief dwindles away; the heat of thrill turns into cold perspiration and stinging awareness. The chill water of realization sinks in.
What he did was batshit insane. What’s gotten into him, what was he thinking… Was he even thinking with his head?
With a swift angry gesture, Kashiwabara wipes away the remnants of his stupid, foolish, unbidden tears. He dries his hands off over his pants, and notices his fingers trembling.
But what’s with such a clear-cut overreaction! All his penchant for a bit of flippancy aside, if his emotions begin to flare up and overtake him with such terrifying ease-
He needs to calm down, and quickly. The mental beating can wait.
He tries to breathe deeply and blinks, and wakes in awareness that his nose is clogged up; as if he wasn’t already feeling miserable enough. Antsy to keep his hands busy, as a distraction, he rakes through his hair, swiping the damp bangs from his forehead and dragging his fingertips over his scalp; he smooths his palms down his shirt, feeling the nice grainy texture of the fabric, and tugs at its hem to straighten out the creases. Small tasks of fixing himself presentable, carried out by instinct rather than by conscious choice.
The best thing is, they do help. The mundane haptics reinforce the reality of this moment, retrieving that soothing sense of being in control. In light of what he just-
He screwed up big time. Could he perhaps be in need of some quality rest himself? Except that now, with Mikoshiba’s return, any semblance of vacation shall be out of the question. But on the other hand-
‘ -Stop fussing over me! Just give the details-’
The mission. The briefing. Right now.
Kashiwabara grabs the clipboard and sags back into his flimsy, comfortless seat. His throbbing pulse keeps swishing in his ears, drowning out to an extent but failing to block out completely the complex diversity of ambient noises, the whispers of many fans mixed with the idle rumble of engine, the wordless snuffles of human beings behind his back…
Neat lines of text are densely printed, oppressive with the information they convey.
…the rustling of clothes, the hushed murmur of talking…
Kashiwabara catches himself staring frozen at them without seeing, let alone comprehending a single character. He frowns at the document and tries to keep his mind on it.
…Mikoshiba grumbling out something unintelligible…
An intrusive playback clicks in his head, right on cue, frustrating his attempt to concentrate.
‘-I thought you’d been watching, as usual-’
This is ridiculous. And him? Pathetic .
His eyelids buzz with tension as he squeezes them shut, a vision of a blaze of flashing lights and glowing patterns and sweeping, falling stars swirling in his mind’s eye. Hopefully this would be finally enough to clear his mind-space of anything…extra .
He’s got to get a grip. He let the pot boil over, now he has to clean up the mess.
Kashiwabara jerks up straight. Chin tucked in, legs crossed at the knees for whatever illusory precaution or support, he swivels the chair around to face the others.
The others all stare down at him. Their gazes, various degrees of confusion, are palpable on his skin. The air’s thick with wariness and expectation. How much time has passed - five minutes, half a minute? Somehow Mikoshiba is standing so very near to him, surprisingly so, in an unsettling proximity; he’s towering over Kashiwabara, silent and collected, arms folded over his chest, and Kashiwabara finds himself acutely incapable to look up into his face.
He isn’t sure he’ll be able to withstand it.
He can’t risk getting himself trapped in Mikoshiba’s charged, judging gaze. He longs to never take his eyes off Mikoshiba, in the most unbecoming way possible.
A dangerous, unseemly flight of fancy.
Training his bleary stare in the general direction of Mikoshiba’s as ever loosely tied necktie, Kashiwabara stiffens up even straighter, and steels himself to speak up. “Sorry for my loss of composure.”
The thick rasp that his vocal cords produce sounds alien. A bead of sweat crawls down the back of his neck, the high collar irritating against heated skin. Kashiwabara clears his throat. “I was just worried about you, is all.”
The words struggle to come. His head is light and hollow, like a drained off coffee can, his heart so full, so fluttering with emotion he can feel it bumping against his ribs, beat after beat after beat. He should explain himself. Should clarify his genuine intention. He needs to dispel any shadow of ambiguity, so that the Commander understands, and understands properly!
I was worried about you. He has already said this, hasn’t he. Yesterday, over the phone.
Kashiwabara wrings his hands together in his lap. Trapped between the clashing urges to convey and contain, wishing desperately that his voice won’t break off and spiral into an agitated screech, he manages to push through an almost near-normal, “I- I couldn’t help myself. I…”
He chokes up and swallows down the rest of the phrase. The imprudent, irrelevant words remain unuttered. Their gritty shapes scrape his clenched throat.
Sheesh, nope, he thinks, running his tongue over his dry lips. This will not do.
Later; there will be time for him to deal with this unsightly welter of emotions later. Stings of shame. Pangs of remorse. Oh, what a grave mistake he committed. That leap. How he exposed himself. The incoherent drivel that he gabbled out clinging to Mikoshiba, his hands prowling unleashed, his mental blocks and filters overridden, words popping out of nowhere and gliding off his tongue against his better judgment…
He was not in his right mind.
What a disgrace.
It’s a blessing that the human brain is pre-wired to be selective about the memories it chooses to retain. His memory can be selectively merciful. The poignancy of this mortification will fade, too, with effort and time, it will thin out and eventually blur into a translucent shadow, a shameful but trifling fact of life…
But now is too soon; the impression is still too raw, harrowing, humiliating. Some self-preserving incentive hurries him to eliminate the very words he has just uttered from his mind, and the very idea of willfully recalling them sounds affrighting.
Unlike the visuals. Unlike the modulations of voices. For some unfathomable reason, these tend to stick, and fit, and stay: with saturated vividness, with abnormal clarity, with the precision of a hi-fi video recording.
And now- oh, now, after so long of being settled for crumbs, he’s got a datum point for the tactile. For the silky hair at the back of the head he pawed through. For the chiseled cheekbone his thumb brushed against. Incredible. A flashbulb kind of memory that permanently imprints into the brain to disturb and delight, so deep and acute, so moving. A precious treasure to secure, to cherish; (to relish).
‘It’s not the same as watching through a monitor!’
This is a different thing entirely.
Just a mere thought about being able to conjure up that electrifying sense of embrace at any time ignites something vibrantly beautiful in the very core of his being.
free from decorum in the dead of night
a fine frontier between reality and reverie
that closeup face which he soaked up with sateless eyes
those strong supporting warm hands laying on his back
emerging high and standing tall unasked
a short circuit
a jet of sparks
But no, no, no. These thoughts-these daydreams- don’t belong here and now. All of this …
Later.
What he should be doing right now is make amends for causing such a scene, for inconveniencing everyone and, the important thing it all boils down to, in effect disrupting the unit’s morale in the run-up to the action on the field. Too bad his legs refuse to cooperate and remain jelly-weak and wobbly in the knees. Kashiwabara nibbles at his lip, wondering if his exhibit of reverence and respect would suffice as passably adequate if he forgoes rising from this damned chair altogether.
Well, once again.
Kashiwabara bends forward in an abrupt motion. Carefully curbing the cadence of his voice to bend it reverent and steady and properly detached, he enunciates the formal greeting formula. “Welcome back, General Commander, sir.”
“Yeah, thanks. Glad to be back.” There is a pause - a nod? a return of the greeting? Stock-still in a rigid bow, he has no way of knowing. Then, a snort, and “Look, you better stop doing that,” Mikoshiba says, voice void of the expected quick annoyance. He doesn’t sound angry-he’s rather just weary and, strangely, rueful?-when he adds with a sigh, “You don’t have to fret over me like that anymore.”
If only.
Some longings are better off dwelling in the misty realm of fantasizing. Some dreams should remain unexpressed and unfulfilled. Kashiwabara knows that. He is not blind. He knows better than to delude himself. Pretended closure would suit their mutual purposes just fine. It would be most convenient for them both if the Commander remained chastely unaware of the fact that what he had asked of Kashiwabara was effectively impossible.
Some wishes are simply never meant to be.
Were he less shaky, he'd flash a brazen grin, whip up a witty comeback, but the best he can do is a meek “All right, duly noted.” At least this professed repentance passes the bottleneck of his wounded dignity and out of his mouth with ease.
Mikoshiba nods. “Good. Now cut to the chase.”
Indeed. It’s really high time that he does.
Even more so that the van finally drifts out of the traffic jam and accelerates to its destination: a perfect timing in its own way. Kashiwabara hands out the files for the operatives to look at. His feet are solidly planted on the floor as he leans back and flips through his copy, squinting. The pages seem far too bright. If only there were a quick and solid and discreet way to dispel the strain before it blossoms into a full-blown migraine...
Shikibu gasps sharply.
Kashiwabara lets his eyes linger for a moment on the list of confirmed victims.
It will be no easy task, but he’ll do his best to help them through the perils of this assignment. His priorities have always been established clearly. Actions are more convincing than words. Just keep doing his duty. With their line of work, these guys never know if they will ever have another time. He, on the other hand…
All there is for him to do is adhere to his hard skills and stay alert for them, be cooperative and dependable - and prudent in what he allows himself to spill out.
I missed you dearly. I care deeply for you.
Kashiwabara takes a deep breath.
Just keep watching out. Maybe, some time, another opportunity occurs. And if he does ever get blessed with another chance, he might not choose to pass it up. One never knows. The context, after all, is of the utmost importance.
“Well, then,” he commences, adopting a brisk businesslike tone. “Let me expound on the details of our mission at hand.”