[fic] Tug
Title: Tug
Author/Artist: fencer_x
Warnings/Rating: PG, definitely worksafe
Notes: Got inspired to write something LIKE this last night on the train, but what came out is weird and stream-of-consciousness-y and different :P The premise is the same, at least, so I guess that counts? XD
Takashi would probably admit, if pressed, that he was a tactile person.
He loved the chill that rippled up his arms, raising goosebumps, when he sank his hands elbow-deep into a fresh vat of paint, or the mysterious warm moistness emanating from her fingers when his niece would wrap her small arms around his neck, begging for a piggy back ride. And really, little in the world could compare to that pleasant stiffness he was met with when putting his arms through the long sleeves of a freshly washed and air-dried shirt, meeting the firm tug and tightness around his arms, his chest, as if he'd only just tried it on for the first time.
Touch was definitely something Takashi appreciated, though seldom took the time to really notice, so it was not without some surprise and confusion that he found his hand--long fingers, prominent veins, rough calluses and all--grasped by that of the man sitting next to him--in much the same state--without a word one Thursday morning sitting in a subway car halfway between Shibuya and Meiji-jingumae.
They were hardly alone--there was a woman wearing a pair of dark glasses rolling a suitcase who got on after them and was sitting across the aisle, and two sections of seats down, and one row over on their side was a young couple chatting animatedly about some topic they both obviously found fascinating.
Takashi glanced around nervously, then at the space between them that until a moment ago had just been an innocent few centimeters separating two friends, nothing special, nothing to be concerned about or show any interest in at all, even. But now it was Something, and now it was filled with confusion, curiosity, a little concern perhaps, but mostly hands. Two hands; one his and one definitely not his. One which sat there limp and numb, frozen, and one which curled fingers between his, pressing a warm palm against his to resuscitate.
The hairs on the back of Takashi's neck stood on end, and his chest tightened up. Another moment passed, and Takashi looked away, trying to focus on the here and now and not this space between them that was filled with fingers and palms and hands and questions. The doors hissed open, and the couple further down the car got off.
"This is us--" Tuti interrupted the silence, and Takashi thought for a wild moment that, 'Yeah, this is us. I get it,' before remembering that yes, this was Meiji-jingumae and it was Thursday and he'd agreed to go to Omotesandou Hills with his friend two weeks ago because, Tuti had said, it was too intimidating to go in alone.
But Takashi didn't move. Instead he sat and waited, patiently, for that tug he hoped would come, the tug on his arm that would tell him that Tuti still was holding on, waiting, wanting him to follow, that the connection hadn't been broken. That this was them.
A buzzer sounded the announcement that the doors were about to close, and then there was the tug and Takashi was on his feet like he'd never been sitting down, squeezing tight and pressing their palms together and enjoying a new sensation--the warmth of friction welding their hands together.
Tuti turned to look over at him, one corner of his lips quirking up, amused. "Ever been here?"
And in his head Takashi answered, 'Never, but I like it here,' but his mouth made him say, "For a photoshoot. Once. I didn't stay long."
Tuti just nodded, and headed for the staircase, which was perfect for holding hands of course. When you climbed stairs, inevitably one partner would lag behind the other, and then that tug that made holding hands all the more worthwhile would come and pull you up until you reached the top and god but stairs were great.
As they approached the ticket gates, though, that elation that had filled him simply by walking up the steps quickly dispersed, because if stairs were perfect for holding hands, then ticket gates were anything but. A few paces separated them from the looming black monoliths which Takashi had never noticed were quite so imposing. A grade-schooler darted in front of them, shoving past them to run through the gates, only slapping his ticket-holder against the panel before dashing off around a corner.
And Tuti let go. Let go, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He reached into his coat pocket and walked ahead, and it took Takashi a moment to register that no longer were there long, thin fingers wrapped around his, holding him at arm's length, and his hand just sat there, frozen in place hanging out at his side. He pulled it back in, already missing the tug, and reached into his bag in search of his pass. Tuti passed through the gates with ease--of course it was easy when you weren't holding hands--and spun in place until he was facing back in, calmly waiting for Takashi to make his way through.
After a brief moment of panic that he'd somehow managed to lose his pass, Takashi's fingers finally found it to his great relief, and he gripped it hard until his knuckles turned white. Force of habit from five minutes of hand-holding, he told himself. He let a little old lady go in front of him, and Tuti stepped aside to let her pass, then Takashi was through and he shoved the pass back into his bag.
Tuti was smiling when he looked back up. "Lose something?" Takashi shook his head vehemently, pouting, and Tuti let out a harsh bark of laughter that earned a frown from a station hand. "Come on," he said, and without asking he snatched up Takashi's hand again in his own, lacing their fingers together again like a key to a lock and giving a soft squeeze. "Sorry," Tuti apologized, tugging him towards an exit. Takashi decided right then he could get used to that.
"Why?"
"Nothing."
Now, here came the rub. It was safe down here, three levels below the street, holding hands and walking down ceramic-tiled hallways under harsh fluorescent lights. Down here it was just them and the occasional pocket of girls giggling their way to the platforms further below, or a bum just looking for a place to not be in the way. Down here was a reality of people caught up in their own worlds, focused only on the time between stations and finding a seat in a crowded car and how much the owed to change their ticket.
But just two more escalators (one, actually, if you counted the stairwell connecting to the street level, and Takashi definitely counted the stairwell) and they'd emerge from this underworld where all that mattered was getting through the ticket barrier as quickly as possible and holding hands again, into the light of day where loud music blared and humanity rushed around them, bumping and pushing and reminding them that their clasped hands were just another barrier to be broken through in the dash to get from point A to point B.
Takashi clenched his fist tighter, tugging Tuti closer--or was he tugged closer to Tuti? It didn't matter either way, so long as some tugging was happening, because that meant they were still holding hands and some salaryman hadn't broken through. Yet. Tuti just laughed softly and rubbed a thumb over the thin skin on the back of Takashi's knuckles and wow that was almost as good as tugging.
"Let's go," Tuti called, and tugged, and then they were walking up the escalator, slowly, awkwardly, sidestepping everyone on the left side and jostling women with their shopping bags and parcels, and Takashi couldn't imagine why on earth Tuti would want to get up there any sooner than they had to. Hell, he'd just become a tunnel bum and live in stations for the rest of his life if it meant Tuti'd keep holding his hand. Fingerless gloves and moth-eaten skullcaps were a small price to pay for tugging and Tuti doing that rubbing thing.
Escalators weren't quite as good as stairs, because they were narrower and didn't last as long, but he supposed they were almost as good, and at least they got to walk up the last flight. "Think it'll be crowded?" he asked, in a desperate effort to inject some sense of apathy into their long ascent upwards that disguised how much he wanted to sit down on the next step and just vegetate. Put down roots and stay there, stuck to Tuti until the Tokyo Metro station-hands came by with weed killer and made them go on about their business.
"It's Thursday," Tuti reasoned, and this really didn't tell Takashi anything, so he abandoned all efforts entirely. Three more steps, then two, and Takashi took a big step up on the last to skip the final one, promising it he'd come back later, so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Tuti (well, shoulder to upper arm, at least) when they emerged onto the street. He didn't need tugging all the time, and Tuti'd surely let go now that there were people around, or they'd get separated anyways in the hustle and bustle of Harajuku which never slept or went to work.
He let his hand relax, told his fingers to cease their death grip, and even half-considered pulling away and taking the lead. He knew where the place was, probably better than Tuti, and besides. Tuti'd been dragging (tugging) him around for the past ten minutes, he could stand to walk on his own again to remind himself that men nearly 30 years old didn't hold hands with their best friends in young, yuppie Tokyo.
But, "Nuh uh," Tuti almost growled, breath falling over Takashi's ear like a death sentence, and strode out in front, proud and bold and long legs stretching impossibly far, tugging (dragging) Takashi along beside him, gripping his hand like a piece of dead meat now and plowing his way through the crowds. Takashi struggled to keep up, adjusting his glasses where they'd started to slide down his nose and dodging bags and umbrellas and every manner of parcel or package that Thursday-at-noon could throw at the pair. And in all that hubbub and rush, Tuti did not loosen his grip. It was only when they reached the street corner that Takashi caught up, caught his breath, and caught a glimpse of Tuti's face. He was studying the sidewalk ahead on the other side of the street, perhaps mapping out the path of least resistance, or perhaps just avoiding looking at Takashi.
Takashi adjusted his jacket--an awkward feat with only one hand--resettling the bag at his hip and pushing up his glasses again. Then he relaxed his hand against Tuti's palm, twisting his wrist until their palms aligned just so again, then his fingers curled inward and dovetailed into the space marked Takashi between Tuti's and suddenly Harajuku seemed a little less crowded, everyone parting to let them pass.
Omotesandou Hills loomed before them now, daring anyone not fashion-forward enough to walk through its doors, and Tuti took a breath deep enough for the both of them (surely he had the most to fear) and stepped inside, tugging Takashi along behind him. A blast of cool air blew over them, and inside the ceiling entryway sparkled at them welcoming the newest pair (couple) to the long, ramped walkways, stairwells, and escalators of a hundred shops that neither one of them could afford nor particularly wanted anyways.
After circling the entire complex--twice--they eventually decided gelato seemed the cheapest item in the building, and relieved one of the restaurants of two small morsels while their own wallets were relieved of a couple thousand yen. Tuti complained loudly about the price, but shushed up when Takashi rolled his eyes and squeezed his hand.
They realized it was going to be impossible to eat with one hand quite quickly. Takashi let go first this time, and as an apology--for what?--he reached his spoon over and stole some of Tuti's treat. How this was an apology, neither really quite understood, but it was accepted as one all the same. "Take a picture with me?" they asked each other, and several (dozen) shots later Tuti grumbled he was tired of posing and how many shots did Takashi need, really? "This is special," Takashi reasoned, and while Tuti frowned at the logic, he still posed one final time after extracting a promise that the other man wouldn't post them all. Takashi didn't feel the need to reveal that he didn't want to post any.
The walk back to the station found their hands together, again, and a quick stop outside of Lawsons let them dispose of the trash from their day in Omotesandou, leaving them with little more to carry back than pictures on cameras and lighter hearts on both parts. They walked down the stairs (of course), and Takashi made sure to stub his toe on the top step in apology for skipping it earlier. Tuti eyed him curiously, but patiently waited two steps below so he didn't pull his friend down.
Three levels down, Takashi slowed, then stopped, then tugged. "What is it?"
"Gotta pee."
"Oh." Tuti quickly released his hand, laughing roughly, embarrassed, but Takashi caught his sleeve in a heartbeat, grasping with both hands now and pulling him in with him.
"Nuh uh."
"Wha--Takashi--what the hell are you--?" Around the barrier, the foyer was empty, and into a stall they piled. Tuti's voice left him, and he held onto Takashi's hand for dear life now, eyes wide and curious and maybe a little concerned, but he still had sense enough to fasten the lock behind them, door rattling shut. "What're you--"
"This is us." Takashi reached up and grabbed him by the un-ironed collar--both hands, unfortunately, it just couldn't be done with one--and tugged him into a soft, slow kiss, open mouthed and gentle and, sure, it took Tuti a moment to respond, but the feel of his hands on Takashi's face--doing to his cheeks what he'd done to the skin on the back of his knuckles before, god that was great--was so many times better than holding hands, he almost considered the merits of walking around town joined at the lips instead of the hands now.
"What was that for?" Tuti breathed when they finally parted, lips moist and hovering just over Takashi's.
"Dunno. Just 'cause."
"You kissed me."
A shrug. "You held my hand."
"...Oh."
"What?"
"Gaju said...friends hold hands." Well, they were friends. But friends didn't squeeze or smile that way or tug or rub like that or kiss you like you'd been doing it for ages while straddling a porcelain urinal in a dirty toilet in a Tokyo subway station. At least, none of Takashi's friends did. Maybe Tuti's were different.
"...No they don't. Not past kindergarten, at least."
"I know," Tuti smiled, leaning in again. "I just wanted an excuse."
Author/Artist: fencer_x
Warnings/Rating: PG, definitely worksafe
Notes: Got inspired to write something LIKE this last night on the train, but what came out is weird and stream-of-consciousness-y and different :P The premise is the same, at least, so I guess that counts? XD
Takashi would probably admit, if pressed, that he was a tactile person.
He loved the chill that rippled up his arms, raising goosebumps, when he sank his hands elbow-deep into a fresh vat of paint, or the mysterious warm moistness emanating from her fingers when his niece would wrap her small arms around his neck, begging for a piggy back ride. And really, little in the world could compare to that pleasant stiffness he was met with when putting his arms through the long sleeves of a freshly washed and air-dried shirt, meeting the firm tug and tightness around his arms, his chest, as if he'd only just tried it on for the first time.
Touch was definitely something Takashi appreciated, though seldom took the time to really notice, so it was not without some surprise and confusion that he found his hand--long fingers, prominent veins, rough calluses and all--grasped by that of the man sitting next to him--in much the same state--without a word one Thursday morning sitting in a subway car halfway between Shibuya and Meiji-jingumae.
They were hardly alone--there was a woman wearing a pair of dark glasses rolling a suitcase who got on after them and was sitting across the aisle, and two sections of seats down, and one row over on their side was a young couple chatting animatedly about some topic they both obviously found fascinating.
Takashi glanced around nervously, then at the space between them that until a moment ago had just been an innocent few centimeters separating two friends, nothing special, nothing to be concerned about or show any interest in at all, even. But now it was Something, and now it was filled with confusion, curiosity, a little concern perhaps, but mostly hands. Two hands; one his and one definitely not his. One which sat there limp and numb, frozen, and one which curled fingers between his, pressing a warm palm against his to resuscitate.
The hairs on the back of Takashi's neck stood on end, and his chest tightened up. Another moment passed, and Takashi looked away, trying to focus on the here and now and not this space between them that was filled with fingers and palms and hands and questions. The doors hissed open, and the couple further down the car got off.
"This is us--" Tuti interrupted the silence, and Takashi thought for a wild moment that, 'Yeah, this is us. I get it,' before remembering that yes, this was Meiji-jingumae and it was Thursday and he'd agreed to go to Omotesandou Hills with his friend two weeks ago because, Tuti had said, it was too intimidating to go in alone.
But Takashi didn't move. Instead he sat and waited, patiently, for that tug he hoped would come, the tug on his arm that would tell him that Tuti still was holding on, waiting, wanting him to follow, that the connection hadn't been broken. That this was them.
A buzzer sounded the announcement that the doors were about to close, and then there was the tug and Takashi was on his feet like he'd never been sitting down, squeezing tight and pressing their palms together and enjoying a new sensation--the warmth of friction welding their hands together.
Tuti turned to look over at him, one corner of his lips quirking up, amused. "Ever been here?"
And in his head Takashi answered, 'Never, but I like it here,' but his mouth made him say, "For a photoshoot. Once. I didn't stay long."
Tuti just nodded, and headed for the staircase, which was perfect for holding hands of course. When you climbed stairs, inevitably one partner would lag behind the other, and then that tug that made holding hands all the more worthwhile would come and pull you up until you reached the top and god but stairs were great.
As they approached the ticket gates, though, that elation that had filled him simply by walking up the steps quickly dispersed, because if stairs were perfect for holding hands, then ticket gates were anything but. A few paces separated them from the looming black monoliths which Takashi had never noticed were quite so imposing. A grade-schooler darted in front of them, shoving past them to run through the gates, only slapping his ticket-holder against the panel before dashing off around a corner.
And Tuti let go. Let go, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He reached into his coat pocket and walked ahead, and it took Takashi a moment to register that no longer were there long, thin fingers wrapped around his, holding him at arm's length, and his hand just sat there, frozen in place hanging out at his side. He pulled it back in, already missing the tug, and reached into his bag in search of his pass. Tuti passed through the gates with ease--of course it was easy when you weren't holding hands--and spun in place until he was facing back in, calmly waiting for Takashi to make his way through.
After a brief moment of panic that he'd somehow managed to lose his pass, Takashi's fingers finally found it to his great relief, and he gripped it hard until his knuckles turned white. Force of habit from five minutes of hand-holding, he told himself. He let a little old lady go in front of him, and Tuti stepped aside to let her pass, then Takashi was through and he shoved the pass back into his bag.
Tuti was smiling when he looked back up. "Lose something?" Takashi shook his head vehemently, pouting, and Tuti let out a harsh bark of laughter that earned a frown from a station hand. "Come on," he said, and without asking he snatched up Takashi's hand again in his own, lacing their fingers together again like a key to a lock and giving a soft squeeze. "Sorry," Tuti apologized, tugging him towards an exit. Takashi decided right then he could get used to that.
"Why?"
"Nothing."
Now, here came the rub. It was safe down here, three levels below the street, holding hands and walking down ceramic-tiled hallways under harsh fluorescent lights. Down here it was just them and the occasional pocket of girls giggling their way to the platforms further below, or a bum just looking for a place to not be in the way. Down here was a reality of people caught up in their own worlds, focused only on the time between stations and finding a seat in a crowded car and how much the owed to change their ticket.
But just two more escalators (one, actually, if you counted the stairwell connecting to the street level, and Takashi definitely counted the stairwell) and they'd emerge from this underworld where all that mattered was getting through the ticket barrier as quickly as possible and holding hands again, into the light of day where loud music blared and humanity rushed around them, bumping and pushing and reminding them that their clasped hands were just another barrier to be broken through in the dash to get from point A to point B.
Takashi clenched his fist tighter, tugging Tuti closer--or was he tugged closer to Tuti? It didn't matter either way, so long as some tugging was happening, because that meant they were still holding hands and some salaryman hadn't broken through. Yet. Tuti just laughed softly and rubbed a thumb over the thin skin on the back of Takashi's knuckles and wow that was almost as good as tugging.
"Let's go," Tuti called, and tugged, and then they were walking up the escalator, slowly, awkwardly, sidestepping everyone on the left side and jostling women with their shopping bags and parcels, and Takashi couldn't imagine why on earth Tuti would want to get up there any sooner than they had to. Hell, he'd just become a tunnel bum and live in stations for the rest of his life if it meant Tuti'd keep holding his hand. Fingerless gloves and moth-eaten skullcaps were a small price to pay for tugging and Tuti doing that rubbing thing.
Escalators weren't quite as good as stairs, because they were narrower and didn't last as long, but he supposed they were almost as good, and at least they got to walk up the last flight. "Think it'll be crowded?" he asked, in a desperate effort to inject some sense of apathy into their long ascent upwards that disguised how much he wanted to sit down on the next step and just vegetate. Put down roots and stay there, stuck to Tuti until the Tokyo Metro station-hands came by with weed killer and made them go on about their business.
"It's Thursday," Tuti reasoned, and this really didn't tell Takashi anything, so he abandoned all efforts entirely. Three more steps, then two, and Takashi took a big step up on the last to skip the final one, promising it he'd come back later, so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Tuti (well, shoulder to upper arm, at least) when they emerged onto the street. He didn't need tugging all the time, and Tuti'd surely let go now that there were people around, or they'd get separated anyways in the hustle and bustle of Harajuku which never slept or went to work.
He let his hand relax, told his fingers to cease their death grip, and even half-considered pulling away and taking the lead. He knew where the place was, probably better than Tuti, and besides. Tuti'd been dragging (tugging) him around for the past ten minutes, he could stand to walk on his own again to remind himself that men nearly 30 years old didn't hold hands with their best friends in young, yuppie Tokyo.
But, "Nuh uh," Tuti almost growled, breath falling over Takashi's ear like a death sentence, and strode out in front, proud and bold and long legs stretching impossibly far, tugging (dragging) Takashi along beside him, gripping his hand like a piece of dead meat now and plowing his way through the crowds. Takashi struggled to keep up, adjusting his glasses where they'd started to slide down his nose and dodging bags and umbrellas and every manner of parcel or package that Thursday-at-noon could throw at the pair. And in all that hubbub and rush, Tuti did not loosen his grip. It was only when they reached the street corner that Takashi caught up, caught his breath, and caught a glimpse of Tuti's face. He was studying the sidewalk ahead on the other side of the street, perhaps mapping out the path of least resistance, or perhaps just avoiding looking at Takashi.
Takashi adjusted his jacket--an awkward feat with only one hand--resettling the bag at his hip and pushing up his glasses again. Then he relaxed his hand against Tuti's palm, twisting his wrist until their palms aligned just so again, then his fingers curled inward and dovetailed into the space marked Takashi between Tuti's and suddenly Harajuku seemed a little less crowded, everyone parting to let them pass.
Omotesandou Hills loomed before them now, daring anyone not fashion-forward enough to walk through its doors, and Tuti took a breath deep enough for the both of them (surely he had the most to fear) and stepped inside, tugging Takashi along behind him. A blast of cool air blew over them, and inside the ceiling entryway sparkled at them welcoming the newest pair (couple) to the long, ramped walkways, stairwells, and escalators of a hundred shops that neither one of them could afford nor particularly wanted anyways.
After circling the entire complex--twice--they eventually decided gelato seemed the cheapest item in the building, and relieved one of the restaurants of two small morsels while their own wallets were relieved of a couple thousand yen. Tuti complained loudly about the price, but shushed up when Takashi rolled his eyes and squeezed his hand.
They realized it was going to be impossible to eat with one hand quite quickly. Takashi let go first this time, and as an apology--for what?--he reached his spoon over and stole some of Tuti's treat. How this was an apology, neither really quite understood, but it was accepted as one all the same. "Take a picture with me?" they asked each other, and several (dozen) shots later Tuti grumbled he was tired of posing and how many shots did Takashi need, really? "This is special," Takashi reasoned, and while Tuti frowned at the logic, he still posed one final time after extracting a promise that the other man wouldn't post them all. Takashi didn't feel the need to reveal that he didn't want to post any.
The walk back to the station found their hands together, again, and a quick stop outside of Lawsons let them dispose of the trash from their day in Omotesandou, leaving them with little more to carry back than pictures on cameras and lighter hearts on both parts. They walked down the stairs (of course), and Takashi made sure to stub his toe on the top step in apology for skipping it earlier. Tuti eyed him curiously, but patiently waited two steps below so he didn't pull his friend down.
Three levels down, Takashi slowed, then stopped, then tugged. "What is it?"
"Gotta pee."
"Oh." Tuti quickly released his hand, laughing roughly, embarrassed, but Takashi caught his sleeve in a heartbeat, grasping with both hands now and pulling him in with him.
"Nuh uh."
"Wha--Takashi--what the hell are you--?" Around the barrier, the foyer was empty, and into a stall they piled. Tuti's voice left him, and he held onto Takashi's hand for dear life now, eyes wide and curious and maybe a little concerned, but he still had sense enough to fasten the lock behind them, door rattling shut. "What're you--"
"This is us." Takashi reached up and grabbed him by the un-ironed collar--both hands, unfortunately, it just couldn't be done with one--and tugged him into a soft, slow kiss, open mouthed and gentle and, sure, it took Tuti a moment to respond, but the feel of his hands on Takashi's face--doing to his cheeks what he'd done to the skin on the back of his knuckles before, god that was great--was so many times better than holding hands, he almost considered the merits of walking around town joined at the lips instead of the hands now.
"What was that for?" Tuti breathed when they finally parted, lips moist and hovering just over Takashi's.
"Dunno. Just 'cause."
"You kissed me."
A shrug. "You held my hand."
"...Oh."
"What?"
"Gaju said...friends hold hands." Well, they were friends. But friends didn't squeeze or smile that way or tug or rub like that or kiss you like you'd been doing it for ages while straddling a porcelain urinal in a dirty toilet in a Tokyo subway station. At least, none of Takashi's friends did. Maybe Tuti's were different.
"...No they don't. Not past kindergarten, at least."
"I know," Tuti smiled, leaning in again. "I just wanted an excuse."