Tomorrow. Fanfiction. Complete. Doozo.
Title: Tomorrow
Pairing: Ohno Satoshi / Ninomiya Kazunari
Summary: For if there is no tomorrow, there will be no Oh-chan.
Rating: PG/PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Arashi. I don’t have the money >.<
Genre: Speculative. ^^ (I can’t place it. It’s a mix of self-reflection and life.)
Beta-san: makkuroneko. ありがとう!
Notes: This story was originally born as a result of little brain-storming in the middle of the night. As it was, I tried to write in a different style and don’t know, if I succeeded in making it readable. (The length of it already tells that I failed at keeping the word count down ^__^’) Ah, and it’s written from Ohno’s perspective featuring a cynical Oh-chan. Onegaishimasu ~
TOMORROW
I couldn’t live like that, I used to think. Live like there’s no tomorrow and hanging on to the present day as if it would disappear the moment I let my eyes loose from it. I had to believe in tomorrow. I still have to.
Because, if I loose all the tomorrows, what is there to live for anymore? Why should I make my tired body to stay awake and produce that last witty comment they want from me at the interviews? Why should I bother to wake up anymore in the mornings and face the day? What thought would be ringing in my mind and keep me sane enough to be able to stand others?
Indeed, I am not a person who enjoys the constant breaches of my personal space and the never ending chit-chat and pretending. I detest the constant noise produced by all the people working around me and the ever escaping quietness. I hate the way I am always presented as something perfect and beautiful, never ugly, and, if I make the mistake to appear as a normal - not supreme - being, they immediately attack and transform me into something ethereal and unreachable.
Instead, I prefer a quiet and more intelligent take on things. I like privacy and my own personal space while still communicating with others. Quiet conversations and non-verbal contributions to conversations are near my ideal way of living and I find such instances relaxing. They are like a skilfully woven fabric, completely mixed and only working properly in their original context.
But there is something which threatens to break my perfectly woven shell around my mind. That something is not attacking me from outside. My mind has been completely swallowed by my own thoughts. And all those thoughts center around the same person. A lovely, intriguing and above all a perfect person in my opinion. Worse though, are the conflicting thoughts that fight for control in my mind.
The little pieces of information that enter my brains daily: how soft the skin is, how nice it feels to be the center of his attention, how perfect the world feels when I am near him and how it is crushed down to pieces smaller than sand the moment he leaves. I still sometimes remember the days when I didn’t know anything of him; at the same time I long for those days unfilled with him and thank the all mighty that I met him. For the truth is, he is in control of far more than he even dares to think.
Today I woke up at six in the morning to make it into work before seven after five hours of fitful sleep. I took the train along with all the others trying to avoid the morning traffic. I debated over grabbing a coffee from the café on the way up to the office but decided not to. The day had already started in a not wonderful way and I didn’t want to make my way through the long waiting line and force myself to endure the endless chattering that accompanied such detours. Yes, the coffee from the office would be good enough. After all, work wasn’t meant to be pleasant but endured even if the pretention would demand me to act otherwise.
I entered the office and shuffled my way to the elevators. I joined the queue and pondered over my appearance, now wet and sloppy after walking through the rain without an umbrella. I decided not to bother as I would change into a new set of clothes soon enough. Shudder ran through my spine and I entered the elevator which, of course, stopped at every floor with people getting in and out, constantly.
By the time I reached our dressing room I was annoyed, wet and all in all not in a good mood. I stared at the door and tried to decide what would be the politest way to offer my resignation letter. But of course such a thing could never be done. I sighed and entered the dressing room while a long and familiar list of reasons kept running through my mind. I needed the pay, I needed the work to take my time and minimize the amount of time I spent in the company of my family and I needed it to maybe some day to be able to take control of my life. I needed the work to be able to save and salvage what was left of me and not lose control of all the strings that kept my finely woven fabric in one piece.
The dressing room was not empty. Of course, that went right in accord with my already not-so-wonderful day and I knew it was only right it was Nino who was already in. I kept my face neutral and wandered through the room to plop myself on the couch next to him. I breathed in his scent and stretched my ears to hear the familiar sound of his fingers on the buttons of his DS. I shifted my knee a little and, sure enough, there was the little response. His knee now touched mine and linked us together proclaiming good morning to both of us. I shut my eyes and relaxed onto the couch. My morning was finally getting a little better and for a short moment I felt that my life was worth living. But of course it couldn’t last. It never did and never will.
*
Tomorrows are my saviours. They reinforce my belief that tomorrow will be better. That after all this waiting there is something at the end of the line that I want, that is worth waiting for. That maybe, just maybe, one day I will be truly happy. Of course, I am happy now. I enjoy my work and I love my family and I have really wonderful, caring friends with whom I can relax and spend my free time.
But still there is something missing. Something that is completely mine, something that I don’t have to share with other people. Someone, who is just for me and for whom I come first as the most important thing in the world.
I love my family like everyone else, after all they are my parents and they watched me grow up and were there for me in my youth. But that doesn’t mean I really, really love them. As it is, I would survive without seeing them for but once a year perfectly fine. But expressing such thoughts would upset my mother and consequentially my father and that would create a conflict. I don’t care for conflicts as they nearly always involve raised voices and sharp edged words that stay in the mind a lot longer than the memory of the fight. I despise the need to express myself in a way that breaks the comfortable bubble I’ve created around myself and that includes me telling my mother that I’d really rather not live at home at the age of 24 anymore.
But until I’ve earned enough money to be able to comfortably buy my own apartment and furnish it as I wish with the more expensive kind of furniture, I won’t risk the conflict that would arise if I were to remove myself from my family home. It is a plan that has been slowly but surely formulating in my mind for years.
First I need to prove to my mother that I really need to move away from my family house. That it’s more convenient and purposeful for me to live near my work place and not at the suburbs. That I have all the knowledge and assets needed to buy my own place at a suitable and respectable neighbourhood. That I am grown up enough, that I can be entrusted to live on my own and not bring up any trouble to myself or others around me. That my mother really has to let me go and relinquish all control of my life to me and not keep any herself.
For the time I am waiting to put my plan into action, I am working on other aspects of my carefully constructed plan. But it never really entered my mind that I would become so attached to one person entirely against my better knowledge. So enamoured that I would be sorely tempted to let loose my carefully woven fabric so that it would become but one thread woven tightly around his finger.
But I couldn’t let myself be broken into pieces like that. I had to believe that tomorrow would be different, if not better. That there would be light at the end of the tunnel and everything would turn out alright. That my plan would succeed and not fall apart. I had to believe.
*
It is him, it is her. So perfectly shaped, so fine, so attractive. I am drunk, I recognise, but that doesn’t stop me. I am dancing, I am feeling the soft skin under my fingers and enjoying the sensations that course through my body. Suddenly I am in heat, warmer than I have ever been and the noise of the club fades to the background. Time slows down allowing me to reflect on what I am about to do. The act, if it is worth committing and if I should prevent it.
But my want is stronger. My body has craved for something more for a long time and now it overrules my mind. And now that my body has the control, it doesn’t want to give it up. The need for contact, for something more has grown unbearable in the last few months. The joke, always on the audience, for the audience, has stretched my body’s limits and now it has reached a point where it will either get what it wants or break.
I refuse to be reduced to a mere thread.
*
My mind is more stable now that my body has had its release. Even though I don’t fully appreciate it, I recognise that it was probably for the better. At least my mind is stable for the moment and my body does what I demand from it.
But the guilty feeling still doesn’t leave me. Even though I have reasoned with myself and explained it many times over it’s still nagging in the corner of my mind. The thought, that no matter how hard it was, I should have stopped myself.
But how should I even feel the guilt and worse, spend time on it, if there is nothing to feel guilty for? Because in the end, I’ve done nothing to indicate otherwise or to give the impression that would have lead to a conclusion. I’ve been so careful with my control over my body that sometimes I even doubt myself. For how can I read the signs correctly, if nothing of what I’ve given has been true?
But the work never stops. It swallows me as a whole and leaves me no time to think about the past, present and future. My plans are put aside and progressing more slowly than I would like, even though, they are still progressing. And I feel irritated and sour that my plans take such a long time to reach completion. That tomorrows are never better and that they always seem to be the same. Never ending, never changing. But I can’t allow myself to break so I keep believing.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
*
I am drawing. My thoughts fly and my hand keeps moving with tiny shakes colouring the picture into life. My mind is at complete peace and detached from my body. There is no cold, sadness, hunger or complexity present. Just me, my hand and the paper. I’ll draw. What it is, I’m not yet sure of. But something that has me in it. As my hand moves upon the paper a small part of me is transferred to the drawing marking it as mine.
I start thinking. It is a reflex and I welcome it while making space available for it. Thinking is something I appreciate but rarely have time for, but I do try to make time for it. It makes me feel more organized. As if remembering all the events again, committing them to my memory and analyzing them from every perspective will help me somehow. I don’t know if it does or doesn’t, but I do it. It’s a part of me and I welcome that part as one centralizing thing that shapes me.
My most recent memories are about work. How all five of us gathered this morning to work on our new PV. I liked the song somewhat, it was nice after all. But it wasn’t really that great of a song, although for the fans of Jun’s new drama it undoubtedly would be. Nino looked tired during the shooting. Distracted, unwilling and unfocused. Uncaring. Why would he be so distracted during work and why didn’t he bother to cover it up?
I repeat the scene again in my mind and come to the conclusion that whatever it was that bothered Nino started before he arrived at work and therefore I couldn’t be the cause of it. Relief and annoyance fill me. On one hand it is great that I wasn’t the one who caused his low-tension mood, but on the other hand I seriously wish I would be the reason for his troubled thoughts. That I would be so important to him, that he would be bothered about me and show it at work and not be aware enough to hide it. That would mean he would be thinking about me and after all, I do want to be in his mind like he is always in mine.
But I’m not sure if his thoughts about me would be joyful. Would he wish to be near me as often as I wish to be near him? Or would he be thinking up ways to get rid of me and gently, perhaps, let me down? And that is the heart of my problems. I am unsure.
I am afraid that if I’ll do something decisive it will break apart the carefully constructed structure that is Arashi. That would mean the end for me, for him, for my plans and, above all, the end for Arashi. I couldn’t let such things happen. Arashi comes first. It has in the past, it does right now and it will continue to come first in the future.
*
My drawing is ready. It is a picture of Nino. He is lounging on the dressing room sofa with his sky blue Game Boy in his hands and eyes focused on the game. A hidden smirk is trying to creep onto his lips and the slouch in his shoulders indicates his relaxed state. He is where he wants to be, far away in the lands of warriors, goblins and heroes unseen by mere mortal eyes.
I have wrapped it in a plain paper as a present for his birthday. I don’t allow my hands to shake when I sit next to him on the couch and slide the package on his lap under the hands that grip the Game Boy.
I wait and almost doze off before he finally saves and pauses his game. His hamburger hands grip the present and he shudders and shifts closer to me. It isn’t intentional but a long ago developed reflex. He unwraps the present and his breath escapes his mouth for a second. His body tenses and he forgets to breath. I can see the wheels turning in his head and he shudders. This time I am sure it is his intention to get closer to me and I respond slightly. I move my left knee to touch his and lean further on the couch and close the remaining space between our sides.
His head lowers and for a long moment he doesn’t say anything. But I do see the three dark spots on his jeans. Tears. Over my present. Briefly I panic.
Didn’t he like it? No, that’s not it. If he didn’t like it, he would have complimented it already ready to change to a new topic.
Is he feeling happy? No, that’s not right either. When he’s happy his mouth’s corners turn up and his eyes laugh. He certainly isn’t doing that now.
Is he sad? He is crying after all. But why would he feel sad about the picture? Did he expect something more expensive from me? But I prefer giving home-made presents if I can and he knows it.
I lower my face and stare at my hands sure that I’ve done something wrong. He breaths in again and lets out a whispered cry.
“Oh-chan, your present -“
I pull away from his side and try to establish some distance between us again. I debate over getting up and leaving before remembering that we would be having a concert later in the evening and I have nowhere to go. Or rather, hide.
“That’s not it, Oh-chan. I - you - me “, he swallows and I know he tries to remember how to use his tongue again. Shaking his head he puts the picture on the table and rises. I hear his steps as he walks up to the make-up table and I hear him grabbing a tissue. He blows his nose - he was crying that hard - and throws the used tissue in the waste bin.
I hear his steps as he nears me and finally stops in front of me. Determinedly I stare at my hands. I don’t want to face him right now or ever again. Again, I wonder about the resignation letter.
“Oh-chan - “, he starts but his voice is cut off by the arrival of the other members. Sometimes I hate them but mostly I love them. For now, I am grateful for the interruption. It gives me more time think of how to salvage this situation as best as possible.
I hear him greeting the other members and arrogantly asking for his presents because Oh-chan gave him one already so they should have one for him as well. But however much I try to deny it, my heart jumps every time I hear him call me Oh-chan. I hope he never stops and will say it again tomorrow. For tomorrows’ sake I have faith and for tomorrows I live.
For if there is no tomorrow, there will be no Oh-chan.
End of Tomorrow.
© tiusan
[Thank you for reading! Hearts and Sparkles to Everyone! ^^]
Pairing: Ohno Satoshi / Ninomiya Kazunari
Summary: For if there is no tomorrow, there will be no Oh-chan.
Rating: PG/PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Arashi. I don’t have the money >.<
Genre: Speculative. ^^ (I can’t place it. It’s a mix of self-reflection and life.)
Beta-san: makkuroneko. ありがとう!
Notes: This story was originally born as a result of little brain-storming in the middle of the night. As it was, I tried to write in a different style and don’t know, if I succeeded in making it readable. (The length of it already tells that I failed at keeping the word count down ^__^’) Ah, and it’s written from Ohno’s perspective featuring a cynical Oh-chan. Onegaishimasu ~
TOMORROW
I couldn’t live like that, I used to think. Live like there’s no tomorrow and hanging on to the present day as if it would disappear the moment I let my eyes loose from it. I had to believe in tomorrow. I still have to.
Because, if I loose all the tomorrows, what is there to live for anymore? Why should I make my tired body to stay awake and produce that last witty comment they want from me at the interviews? Why should I bother to wake up anymore in the mornings and face the day? What thought would be ringing in my mind and keep me sane enough to be able to stand others?
Indeed, I am not a person who enjoys the constant breaches of my personal space and the never ending chit-chat and pretending. I detest the constant noise produced by all the people working around me and the ever escaping quietness. I hate the way I am always presented as something perfect and beautiful, never ugly, and, if I make the mistake to appear as a normal - not supreme - being, they immediately attack and transform me into something ethereal and unreachable.
Instead, I prefer a quiet and more intelligent take on things. I like privacy and my own personal space while still communicating with others. Quiet conversations and non-verbal contributions to conversations are near my ideal way of living and I find such instances relaxing. They are like a skilfully woven fabric, completely mixed and only working properly in their original context.
But there is something which threatens to break my perfectly woven shell around my mind. That something is not attacking me from outside. My mind has been completely swallowed by my own thoughts. And all those thoughts center around the same person. A lovely, intriguing and above all a perfect person in my opinion. Worse though, are the conflicting thoughts that fight for control in my mind.
The little pieces of information that enter my brains daily: how soft the skin is, how nice it feels to be the center of his attention, how perfect the world feels when I am near him and how it is crushed down to pieces smaller than sand the moment he leaves. I still sometimes remember the days when I didn’t know anything of him; at the same time I long for those days unfilled with him and thank the all mighty that I met him. For the truth is, he is in control of far more than he even dares to think.
Today I woke up at six in the morning to make it into work before seven after five hours of fitful sleep. I took the train along with all the others trying to avoid the morning traffic. I debated over grabbing a coffee from the café on the way up to the office but decided not to. The day had already started in a not wonderful way and I didn’t want to make my way through the long waiting line and force myself to endure the endless chattering that accompanied such detours. Yes, the coffee from the office would be good enough. After all, work wasn’t meant to be pleasant but endured even if the pretention would demand me to act otherwise.
I entered the office and shuffled my way to the elevators. I joined the queue and pondered over my appearance, now wet and sloppy after walking through the rain without an umbrella. I decided not to bother as I would change into a new set of clothes soon enough. Shudder ran through my spine and I entered the elevator which, of course, stopped at every floor with people getting in and out, constantly.
By the time I reached our dressing room I was annoyed, wet and all in all not in a good mood. I stared at the door and tried to decide what would be the politest way to offer my resignation letter. But of course such a thing could never be done. I sighed and entered the dressing room while a long and familiar list of reasons kept running through my mind. I needed the pay, I needed the work to take my time and minimize the amount of time I spent in the company of my family and I needed it to maybe some day to be able to take control of my life. I needed the work to be able to save and salvage what was left of me and not lose control of all the strings that kept my finely woven fabric in one piece.
The dressing room was not empty. Of course, that went right in accord with my already not-so-wonderful day and I knew it was only right it was Nino who was already in. I kept my face neutral and wandered through the room to plop myself on the couch next to him. I breathed in his scent and stretched my ears to hear the familiar sound of his fingers on the buttons of his DS. I shifted my knee a little and, sure enough, there was the little response. His knee now touched mine and linked us together proclaiming good morning to both of us. I shut my eyes and relaxed onto the couch. My morning was finally getting a little better and for a short moment I felt that my life was worth living. But of course it couldn’t last. It never did and never will.
*
Tomorrows are my saviours. They reinforce my belief that tomorrow will be better. That after all this waiting there is something at the end of the line that I want, that is worth waiting for. That maybe, just maybe, one day I will be truly happy. Of course, I am happy now. I enjoy my work and I love my family and I have really wonderful, caring friends with whom I can relax and spend my free time.
But still there is something missing. Something that is completely mine, something that I don’t have to share with other people. Someone, who is just for me and for whom I come first as the most important thing in the world.
I love my family like everyone else, after all they are my parents and they watched me grow up and were there for me in my youth. But that doesn’t mean I really, really love them. As it is, I would survive without seeing them for but once a year perfectly fine. But expressing such thoughts would upset my mother and consequentially my father and that would create a conflict. I don’t care for conflicts as they nearly always involve raised voices and sharp edged words that stay in the mind a lot longer than the memory of the fight. I despise the need to express myself in a way that breaks the comfortable bubble I’ve created around myself and that includes me telling my mother that I’d really rather not live at home at the age of 24 anymore.
But until I’ve earned enough money to be able to comfortably buy my own apartment and furnish it as I wish with the more expensive kind of furniture, I won’t risk the conflict that would arise if I were to remove myself from my family home. It is a plan that has been slowly but surely formulating in my mind for years.
First I need to prove to my mother that I really need to move away from my family house. That it’s more convenient and purposeful for me to live near my work place and not at the suburbs. That I have all the knowledge and assets needed to buy my own place at a suitable and respectable neighbourhood. That I am grown up enough, that I can be entrusted to live on my own and not bring up any trouble to myself or others around me. That my mother really has to let me go and relinquish all control of my life to me and not keep any herself.
For the time I am waiting to put my plan into action, I am working on other aspects of my carefully constructed plan. But it never really entered my mind that I would become so attached to one person entirely against my better knowledge. So enamoured that I would be sorely tempted to let loose my carefully woven fabric so that it would become but one thread woven tightly around his finger.
But I couldn’t let myself be broken into pieces like that. I had to believe that tomorrow would be different, if not better. That there would be light at the end of the tunnel and everything would turn out alright. That my plan would succeed and not fall apart. I had to believe.
*
It is him, it is her. So perfectly shaped, so fine, so attractive. I am drunk, I recognise, but that doesn’t stop me. I am dancing, I am feeling the soft skin under my fingers and enjoying the sensations that course through my body. Suddenly I am in heat, warmer than I have ever been and the noise of the club fades to the background. Time slows down allowing me to reflect on what I am about to do. The act, if it is worth committing and if I should prevent it.
But my want is stronger. My body has craved for something more for a long time and now it overrules my mind. And now that my body has the control, it doesn’t want to give it up. The need for contact, for something more has grown unbearable in the last few months. The joke, always on the audience, for the audience, has stretched my body’s limits and now it has reached a point where it will either get what it wants or break.
I refuse to be reduced to a mere thread.
*
My mind is more stable now that my body has had its release. Even though I don’t fully appreciate it, I recognise that it was probably for the better. At least my mind is stable for the moment and my body does what I demand from it.
But the guilty feeling still doesn’t leave me. Even though I have reasoned with myself and explained it many times over it’s still nagging in the corner of my mind. The thought, that no matter how hard it was, I should have stopped myself.
But how should I even feel the guilt and worse, spend time on it, if there is nothing to feel guilty for? Because in the end, I’ve done nothing to indicate otherwise or to give the impression that would have lead to a conclusion. I’ve been so careful with my control over my body that sometimes I even doubt myself. For how can I read the signs correctly, if nothing of what I’ve given has been true?
But the work never stops. It swallows me as a whole and leaves me no time to think about the past, present and future. My plans are put aside and progressing more slowly than I would like, even though, they are still progressing. And I feel irritated and sour that my plans take such a long time to reach completion. That tomorrows are never better and that they always seem to be the same. Never ending, never changing. But I can’t allow myself to break so I keep believing.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
*
I am drawing. My thoughts fly and my hand keeps moving with tiny shakes colouring the picture into life. My mind is at complete peace and detached from my body. There is no cold, sadness, hunger or complexity present. Just me, my hand and the paper. I’ll draw. What it is, I’m not yet sure of. But something that has me in it. As my hand moves upon the paper a small part of me is transferred to the drawing marking it as mine.
I start thinking. It is a reflex and I welcome it while making space available for it. Thinking is something I appreciate but rarely have time for, but I do try to make time for it. It makes me feel more organized. As if remembering all the events again, committing them to my memory and analyzing them from every perspective will help me somehow. I don’t know if it does or doesn’t, but I do it. It’s a part of me and I welcome that part as one centralizing thing that shapes me.
My most recent memories are about work. How all five of us gathered this morning to work on our new PV. I liked the song somewhat, it was nice after all. But it wasn’t really that great of a song, although for the fans of Jun’s new drama it undoubtedly would be. Nino looked tired during the shooting. Distracted, unwilling and unfocused. Uncaring. Why would he be so distracted during work and why didn’t he bother to cover it up?
I repeat the scene again in my mind and come to the conclusion that whatever it was that bothered Nino started before he arrived at work and therefore I couldn’t be the cause of it. Relief and annoyance fill me. On one hand it is great that I wasn’t the one who caused his low-tension mood, but on the other hand I seriously wish I would be the reason for his troubled thoughts. That I would be so important to him, that he would be bothered about me and show it at work and not be aware enough to hide it. That would mean he would be thinking about me and after all, I do want to be in his mind like he is always in mine.
But I’m not sure if his thoughts about me would be joyful. Would he wish to be near me as often as I wish to be near him? Or would he be thinking up ways to get rid of me and gently, perhaps, let me down? And that is the heart of my problems. I am unsure.
I am afraid that if I’ll do something decisive it will break apart the carefully constructed structure that is Arashi. That would mean the end for me, for him, for my plans and, above all, the end for Arashi. I couldn’t let such things happen. Arashi comes first. It has in the past, it does right now and it will continue to come first in the future.
*
My drawing is ready. It is a picture of Nino. He is lounging on the dressing room sofa with his sky blue Game Boy in his hands and eyes focused on the game. A hidden smirk is trying to creep onto his lips and the slouch in his shoulders indicates his relaxed state. He is where he wants to be, far away in the lands of warriors, goblins and heroes unseen by mere mortal eyes.
I have wrapped it in a plain paper as a present for his birthday. I don’t allow my hands to shake when I sit next to him on the couch and slide the package on his lap under the hands that grip the Game Boy.
I wait and almost doze off before he finally saves and pauses his game. His hamburger hands grip the present and he shudders and shifts closer to me. It isn’t intentional but a long ago developed reflex. He unwraps the present and his breath escapes his mouth for a second. His body tenses and he forgets to breath. I can see the wheels turning in his head and he shudders. This time I am sure it is his intention to get closer to me and I respond slightly. I move my left knee to touch his and lean further on the couch and close the remaining space between our sides.
His head lowers and for a long moment he doesn’t say anything. But I do see the three dark spots on his jeans. Tears. Over my present. Briefly I panic.
Didn’t he like it? No, that’s not it. If he didn’t like it, he would have complimented it already ready to change to a new topic.
Is he feeling happy? No, that’s not right either. When he’s happy his mouth’s corners turn up and his eyes laugh. He certainly isn’t doing that now.
Is he sad? He is crying after all. But why would he feel sad about the picture? Did he expect something more expensive from me? But I prefer giving home-made presents if I can and he knows it.
I lower my face and stare at my hands sure that I’ve done something wrong. He breaths in again and lets out a whispered cry.
“Oh-chan, your present -“
I pull away from his side and try to establish some distance between us again. I debate over getting up and leaving before remembering that we would be having a concert later in the evening and I have nowhere to go. Or rather, hide.
“That’s not it, Oh-chan. I - you - me “, he swallows and I know he tries to remember how to use his tongue again. Shaking his head he puts the picture on the table and rises. I hear his steps as he walks up to the make-up table and I hear him grabbing a tissue. He blows his nose - he was crying that hard - and throws the used tissue in the waste bin.
I hear his steps as he nears me and finally stops in front of me. Determinedly I stare at my hands. I don’t want to face him right now or ever again. Again, I wonder about the resignation letter.
“Oh-chan - “, he starts but his voice is cut off by the arrival of the other members. Sometimes I hate them but mostly I love them. For now, I am grateful for the interruption. It gives me more time think of how to salvage this situation as best as possible.
I hear him greeting the other members and arrogantly asking for his presents because Oh-chan gave him one already so they should have one for him as well. But however much I try to deny it, my heart jumps every time I hear him call me Oh-chan. I hope he never stops and will say it again tomorrow. For tomorrows’ sake I have faith and for tomorrows I live.
For if there is no tomorrow, there will be no Oh-chan.
End of Tomorrow.
© tiusan
[Thank you for reading! Hearts and Sparkles to Everyone! ^^]