Fanfiction: Johnny's Entertainment: Road Trip
Title: Road Trip
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment
Pairings: Kato Shigeaki/Nishikido Ryo
Warnings: Slash. Uh. A fail attempt at not-porn. -nervous- Oh, and abrupt endings of more fail.
Status: One-shot. Complete.
Notes: For misticloud's 22nd birthday. Which was 4 months ago. :D I AM SO FAIL SORRY LOVE ASJDKALSKJDASDAKSJDAS;D
(1)
You don’t remember the last time the two of you had an entire day off together, and here it is, a miracle of an entire weekend of hiatus for the whole group, sanctioned by the agency.
“Let’s go on a road trip,” he said. “Just you and me. Nobody else. Pack a few clothes and a twenty-four-pack of beer, take the car and go for a spin, only come back two years later. How about it?”
“Are those lyrics to a song?” was your unromantic reply.
“No,” he said, taking your hand and smiling into your eyes. “I’m saying it for real.”
For a split second, for a fantastic moment when everything seemed possible and common sense didn’t exist, you wanted so much to say yes. His unassuming manner, his earnest expression, his way of offering himself, heart and soul, so simply and wholly at your feet - it made your pulse quicken, your heart skip a dizzying beat.
But the next instant, your better judgment returned from its temporary suspension, clamped down on your wandering mind and returned your dreams to their proper place.
And you said, “No,” and you watched the way his smile faltered, and the light left his eyes. And you wondered how you could be so heartless.
So you said again, “No,
“Let’s just go away, but we’ll come back.”
(2)
So you take a change of clothes and your camera and he picks you up at the back exit of your apartment complex, and when you get in his car that twenty-four-pack of beer is sitting in a cooler in the back. He drives off and you ask, “So where are we going?” And he says, “I don’t know. Have you got anywhere in mind?” And you say, “Not in particular.” Anywhere with you is fine. He hums a flat tune before he says, “We’ll just drive out of here first, then.”
(3)
By the late afternoon you’ve reached nowhere in particular at all, though the car is illegally parked in some tiny street and you’re sitting on the steps leading down to the beach, sipping on the first of the beer and watching the sun set over the bay. There’s a crazy surfer who was making the most of the dying light to catch as many waves as he could; now he’s lying flat on his board, lazing as he bobs up and down with the waves, watching the shore come close, go far.
You wonder what it’s like from the surfer’s perspective, how the sunset must seem to him. For you it’s absolutely stunning, the sun turning a dark orange-red, spilling the last of its light out over the water and sand, turning the day dark with shadows, casting a dull hue over everything in sight. It all feels so very half-real, even the part where he is leaning against you and you’re unsure if that warmth against your skin is from the heat of the sun, or from his body, overflowing and seeping gently in.
You wonder what the surfer sees, wonder if the sun-burnt beach looks just as magical from the sea, and wonder if the two men sitting on the steps look just as at peace with the world as the surfer looks like he is.
You wonder if the surfer too feels the half-reality.
(4)
“It’s getting dark,” you say, and he sighs softly, happily, before reaching out to grasp blindly at your hand. You bring your hand to his. His fingers close around yours.
“I know,” he says, and he leans in closer, almost like a cuddle, and you can’t bring yourself to say that you both have to eventually go.
(5)
You’re in a residential area and so there isn’t any place to crash at and stay the night, as you eventually discover after driving around for half an hour.
“We could just sleep in the car,” he suggests, but you merely shake your head and say in a tone that suggested the obvious, “Your backseat is way too small.”
He smirks, and you blink and narrow your eyes as you realise what he’s thinking, and say, “I am not having sex with you in the backseat of your car.”
“Aw,” he mock-pouts, and those puppy-dog eyes nearly get to you. “My plan was foiled.”
“Drive,” you command, and he complies, but not without snickering at the way your voice goes high with protest.
(6)
It is, therefore, the laugh of the century when you end up in a love hotel.
He pulls up next to a block, the tenth stop in an hour of aimless driving. You look out of the window, groan and say, “No.”
He laughs. “It’s the place most likely to have a room, and where the staff are the least likely to ask any questions. It’s perfect.”
You can only grudgingly agree.
(7)
The windowless room is pitch-black, and he snores softly in your arms. Contrary to what you’d been close to resigning yourself to, he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light when he’d come in; only lain down with you, folded your arms over and around him, and fallen right asleep.
He’s been a lot more tired out than you’d originally thought.
You shift slightly, and wish your feet didn’t stink so much. There’s a tiny, though functional bathroom in the corner of the room, and you wonder if it’s possible to take a shower without awakening him. In an effort to further that thought, you try to shift your arm out from under him, but in the darkness you can’t see what you’re doing, and you’re scared of jolting him awake. You stop, and try to figure out the mess of limbs in your mind. When you think you’ve figured it out (one of his arms is thrown over your shoulder, a comfortable weight that you hadn’t noticed for most of the time you’d been lying there; the other is curled between your chests), you try once more to disengage yourself from him.
You get as far as managing to lift your arm off of him, but the moment you try to turn away to lie flat on your back, you feel his hand between the both of you uncurl, and feel his fingers twitch and grasp searchingly.
You roll back, and gently replace your arm over him, hug him slightly tighter. He mumbles and sighs. You close your eyes and think, I can always shower tomorrow.
(8)
In the morning you wake up to a disembodied wetness and intense, coiling tightness in your belly.
And then you realise that the wetness is not disembodied, no, not at all - in fact, it is very much attached to a very particular part of your body.
You don’t know how you didn’t wake up sooner. You must have been more tired than you’d thought.
But then he wraps his hand around you tighter and tugs as if dragging your attention toward him, and you look down, and he smiles around your cock, and takes you deeper in, and it’s all you can do to keep from bucking your hips upward and further into that warmth and wetness.
And then he hums, happily and wickedly, and it’s almost too much for you to take, and your hands scrabble desperately into the sheets.
“Ryo -” is all you can get out by way of warning, and then he chortles and swallows as you come, and fuck if that isn’t hot.
When it’s all over, you can only lie there, feeling rather boneless.
“Good morning,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and the self-conscious way he does it turns you on all over again. He pushes himself up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, which kind of excites you more, but you can also taste morning breath, and that kind of grosses you out.
“Good morning indeed,” you laugh against his lips, and then push him away so you can go shower. When you get up you can see the humungous heart hanging above the headboard of the bed, and you wince at how grotesque it is. Trust him to choose a room full of such lurid imagery.
(9)
“Where to next?” he asks you, when you’ve both showered (though not without distractions), checked out (“10,000 yen for a night is daylight robbery!” “That’s the usual charge, Kato.” “…I don’t want to know how you know.”) and are back in the relative safety and anonymity of his car.
“Yokohama.”
“Why?”
“The lights are beautiful at night.”
“That’s a strange reason.”
You shrug. “This entire trip is strange.”
“…Okay, then.”
(10)
Travelling with a destination in mind is somehow more dreadfully tiring than travelling with nowhere in mind.
Both of you are a lot more fractious than you usually are. Not that you usually aren’t, but at least the banter is ordinarily light-hearted and taken in good humour.
You think it could be because the knowledge of a destination creates anticipation, which makes time seem to travel slower, much like how the anticipation of the end of classes always seemed to make the clocks tick slower, and that always makes people more impatient.
Or perhaps it’s this heat. The sun is shining right down into your eyes, making you squint against the glare; it is warming your skin, providing a lovely platform for the cool air from the air-conditioning to contrast deliciously against. It is making you drowsy, and perhaps that is what starts it.
“Sleepy?” he says, as you yawn again in five minutes.
“What you did this morning didn’t help,” you say, grumpy.
You hadn’t meant for the words to come out in such a sarcastic, snappish manner, but they did, and they obviously rub him the wrong way.
“I didn’t see you complaining,” he tries to say casually, and somehow that riles you even more.
“Who’d turn a free blowjob down?”
The words sting, and rightly so. You regret them the moment they leave your mouth, but there is no way to take them back.
It’s funny how the same words in different contexts mean such different things. If either of you were in the right mood for such off-handed comments, neither of you would be handling this so badly.
“I’m sorry,” you say, but the silence in the car speaks louder than any words he could have said.
(11)
You wake up without even remembering that you’d fallen asleep.
The air-conditioning is running but the engine isn’t; it takes you only a few more moments to realise that he is no longer in the car with you. You blink hard in an attempt to feel slightly more awake, and sit up straight in your seat, wincing when your neck aches with the soreness of a sustained awkward angle. It is only then that you realise that you’re in Yokohama, and the car is in a car park not far from where the viewing deck is.
You get out, open the backseat door and rummage about for your camera before switching the engine completely off, removing the key and locking all the doors. You slip them into your pocket and begin to walk.
The crunch of your shoes against the gravel path is like something out of a movie - louder-than-life, the clarity a result of the stillness all around. It lets you focus on your thoughts, lets you hear the way there isn’t very much going on in your head right now. It’s a peace and relaxation that you’ve so very nearly forgotten, what with the work-school balance severely trying your nerves and ability to function without sleep. More than ever you’re glad you’re on this trip; more than ever you’re glad he talked you into this trip.
You reach the deck and he is there - sitting on a bench, facing the skyline, the setting sun blazing forth its scarlet swansong.
You cannot resist the way the light frames him, and so you lift the camera to your eye and take it as quickly and quietly as possible, because the last thing you want is for him to turn around and catch you being all voyeuristic over him.
When you’re done you walk forward towards him. He looks up as you pass him and keeps his eyes on you as you sit down next to him, but he doesn’t say a word. Neither do you.
(12)
Night eventually falls. You’ve been there for half an hour, and still both of you haven't said a word, simply sat there and watched the clouds turn red and gold, the colours blending and spreading out until it bled into the dusky sky.
You have no idea what he’s thinking, only that your own mind is blissfully empty. “It’s a beautiful night,” you eventually say. You hear your words coming as if from very far away; that’s the immensity of the silence around you.
“That it is,” he agrees.
“Are you still mad at me?”
You sense him sigh and look around. Then, slowly, carefully, he leans his head on your shoulder.
You relax and hunch to accommodate him, lean your head towards his. Turn your face and kiss his hair.
(13)
This is one of the classic shots of the Yokohama skyline, but you can never get enough of it. The buildings rise up in the distance, creating a landscape of grey that is brilliantly lit up in the night. You line the shot up, taking your time. He stands behind you, not wanting to spoil anything with even a word or a breath, though he really doesn’t have to. But you respect the silence he gives you, and you take the shot perfectly.
(14)
He drives the both of you back to Tokyo, and though the trip takes only slightly more than an hour, the way he is yawning and yawning while the traffic crawls its way home is scaring you more than you want to say.
“Let me take over the wheel,” is what you want to say despite the fact that you haven’t driven in too long. But your practical side is telling you that it isn’t safe to changeover on a highway, especially when traffic isn’t at a standstill, and so you keep silent, and instead your hands move to turn the radio on.
(15)
“Goodnight,” he says when he drops you off. His goodbyes are never meant to be permanent since you do work together, but when he does say them it makes you want to hold on to him and never let go. So you’ve never said it, but it pleases you immensely to hear him say goodnight.
“Goodnight,” you say, and shut the door. You turn and go upstairs, pretending to the world that he was nothing more than just a friend.
(16)
“Where are these from?”
“That night at Yokohama.”
“…the skyline?”
“Yes.”
“…but this is of me.”
“Yes.”
“How romantic, Kato.”
You roll your eyes at him and take the photograph back. “I was going to gift it to you, but since you’re so mean about it…”
He is immediately repentant. He gently takes the photograph from you, and the warm light in those sweet brown eyes melts you down, to pool and tingle in the tips of your toes.
“Thank you,” he says gravely, sincerely, then looks back down at the photograph in his hand.
It’s all right. You’ve got time. Time enough for him to notice the words you’ve written on the back.
Anywhere with you is fine.
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment
Pairings: Kato Shigeaki/Nishikido Ryo
Warnings: Slash. Uh. A fail attempt at not-porn. -nervous- Oh, and abrupt endings of more fail.
Status: One-shot. Complete.
Notes: For misticloud's 22nd birthday. Which was 4 months ago. :D I AM SO FAIL SORRY LOVE ASJDKALSKJDASDAKSJDAS;D
(1)
You don’t remember the last time the two of you had an entire day off together, and here it is, a miracle of an entire weekend of hiatus for the whole group, sanctioned by the agency.
“Let’s go on a road trip,” he said. “Just you and me. Nobody else. Pack a few clothes and a twenty-four-pack of beer, take the car and go for a spin, only come back two years later. How about it?”
“Are those lyrics to a song?” was your unromantic reply.
“No,” he said, taking your hand and smiling into your eyes. “I’m saying it for real.”
For a split second, for a fantastic moment when everything seemed possible and common sense didn’t exist, you wanted so much to say yes. His unassuming manner, his earnest expression, his way of offering himself, heart and soul, so simply and wholly at your feet - it made your pulse quicken, your heart skip a dizzying beat.
But the next instant, your better judgment returned from its temporary suspension, clamped down on your wandering mind and returned your dreams to their proper place.
And you said, “No,” and you watched the way his smile faltered, and the light left his eyes. And you wondered how you could be so heartless.
So you said again, “No,
“Let’s just go away, but we’ll come back.”
(2)
So you take a change of clothes and your camera and he picks you up at the back exit of your apartment complex, and when you get in his car that twenty-four-pack of beer is sitting in a cooler in the back. He drives off and you ask, “So where are we going?” And he says, “I don’t know. Have you got anywhere in mind?” And you say, “Not in particular.” Anywhere with you is fine. He hums a flat tune before he says, “We’ll just drive out of here first, then.”
(3)
By the late afternoon you’ve reached nowhere in particular at all, though the car is illegally parked in some tiny street and you’re sitting on the steps leading down to the beach, sipping on the first of the beer and watching the sun set over the bay. There’s a crazy surfer who was making the most of the dying light to catch as many waves as he could; now he’s lying flat on his board, lazing as he bobs up and down with the waves, watching the shore come close, go far.
You wonder what it’s like from the surfer’s perspective, how the sunset must seem to him. For you it’s absolutely stunning, the sun turning a dark orange-red, spilling the last of its light out over the water and sand, turning the day dark with shadows, casting a dull hue over everything in sight. It all feels so very half-real, even the part where he is leaning against you and you’re unsure if that warmth against your skin is from the heat of the sun, or from his body, overflowing and seeping gently in.
You wonder what the surfer sees, wonder if the sun-burnt beach looks just as magical from the sea, and wonder if the two men sitting on the steps look just as at peace with the world as the surfer looks like he is.
You wonder if the surfer too feels the half-reality.
(4)
“It’s getting dark,” you say, and he sighs softly, happily, before reaching out to grasp blindly at your hand. You bring your hand to his. His fingers close around yours.
“I know,” he says, and he leans in closer, almost like a cuddle, and you can’t bring yourself to say that you both have to eventually go.
(5)
You’re in a residential area and so there isn’t any place to crash at and stay the night, as you eventually discover after driving around for half an hour.
“We could just sleep in the car,” he suggests, but you merely shake your head and say in a tone that suggested the obvious, “Your backseat is way too small.”
He smirks, and you blink and narrow your eyes as you realise what he’s thinking, and say, “I am not having sex with you in the backseat of your car.”
“Aw,” he mock-pouts, and those puppy-dog eyes nearly get to you. “My plan was foiled.”
“Drive,” you command, and he complies, but not without snickering at the way your voice goes high with protest.
(6)
It is, therefore, the laugh of the century when you end up in a love hotel.
He pulls up next to a block, the tenth stop in an hour of aimless driving. You look out of the window, groan and say, “No.”
He laughs. “It’s the place most likely to have a room, and where the staff are the least likely to ask any questions. It’s perfect.”
You can only grudgingly agree.
(7)
The windowless room is pitch-black, and he snores softly in your arms. Contrary to what you’d been close to resigning yourself to, he hadn’t even bothered to turn on the light when he’d come in; only lain down with you, folded your arms over and around him, and fallen right asleep.
He’s been a lot more tired out than you’d originally thought.
You shift slightly, and wish your feet didn’t stink so much. There’s a tiny, though functional bathroom in the corner of the room, and you wonder if it’s possible to take a shower without awakening him. In an effort to further that thought, you try to shift your arm out from under him, but in the darkness you can’t see what you’re doing, and you’re scared of jolting him awake. You stop, and try to figure out the mess of limbs in your mind. When you think you’ve figured it out (one of his arms is thrown over your shoulder, a comfortable weight that you hadn’t noticed for most of the time you’d been lying there; the other is curled between your chests), you try once more to disengage yourself from him.
You get as far as managing to lift your arm off of him, but the moment you try to turn away to lie flat on your back, you feel his hand between the both of you uncurl, and feel his fingers twitch and grasp searchingly.
You roll back, and gently replace your arm over him, hug him slightly tighter. He mumbles and sighs. You close your eyes and think, I can always shower tomorrow.
(8)
In the morning you wake up to a disembodied wetness and intense, coiling tightness in your belly.
And then you realise that the wetness is not disembodied, no, not at all - in fact, it is very much attached to a very particular part of your body.
You don’t know how you didn’t wake up sooner. You must have been more tired than you’d thought.
But then he wraps his hand around you tighter and tugs as if dragging your attention toward him, and you look down, and he smiles around your cock, and takes you deeper in, and it’s all you can do to keep from bucking your hips upward and further into that warmth and wetness.
And then he hums, happily and wickedly, and it’s almost too much for you to take, and your hands scrabble desperately into the sheets.
“Ryo -” is all you can get out by way of warning, and then he chortles and swallows as you come, and fuck if that isn’t hot.
When it’s all over, you can only lie there, feeling rather boneless.
“Good morning,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, and the self-conscious way he does it turns you on all over again. He pushes himself up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, which kind of excites you more, but you can also taste morning breath, and that kind of grosses you out.
“Good morning indeed,” you laugh against his lips, and then push him away so you can go shower. When you get up you can see the humungous heart hanging above the headboard of the bed, and you wince at how grotesque it is. Trust him to choose a room full of such lurid imagery.
(9)
“Where to next?” he asks you, when you’ve both showered (though not without distractions), checked out (“10,000 yen for a night is daylight robbery!” “That’s the usual charge, Kato.” “…I don’t want to know how you know.”) and are back in the relative safety and anonymity of his car.
“Yokohama.”
“Why?”
“The lights are beautiful at night.”
“That’s a strange reason.”
You shrug. “This entire trip is strange.”
“…Okay, then.”
(10)
Travelling with a destination in mind is somehow more dreadfully tiring than travelling with nowhere in mind.
Both of you are a lot more fractious than you usually are. Not that you usually aren’t, but at least the banter is ordinarily light-hearted and taken in good humour.
You think it could be because the knowledge of a destination creates anticipation, which makes time seem to travel slower, much like how the anticipation of the end of classes always seemed to make the clocks tick slower, and that always makes people more impatient.
Or perhaps it’s this heat. The sun is shining right down into your eyes, making you squint against the glare; it is warming your skin, providing a lovely platform for the cool air from the air-conditioning to contrast deliciously against. It is making you drowsy, and perhaps that is what starts it.
“Sleepy?” he says, as you yawn again in five minutes.
“What you did this morning didn’t help,” you say, grumpy.
You hadn’t meant for the words to come out in such a sarcastic, snappish manner, but they did, and they obviously rub him the wrong way.
“I didn’t see you complaining,” he tries to say casually, and somehow that riles you even more.
“Who’d turn a free blowjob down?”
The words sting, and rightly so. You regret them the moment they leave your mouth, but there is no way to take them back.
It’s funny how the same words in different contexts mean such different things. If either of you were in the right mood for such off-handed comments, neither of you would be handling this so badly.
“I’m sorry,” you say, but the silence in the car speaks louder than any words he could have said.
(11)
You wake up without even remembering that you’d fallen asleep.
The air-conditioning is running but the engine isn’t; it takes you only a few more moments to realise that he is no longer in the car with you. You blink hard in an attempt to feel slightly more awake, and sit up straight in your seat, wincing when your neck aches with the soreness of a sustained awkward angle. It is only then that you realise that you’re in Yokohama, and the car is in a car park not far from where the viewing deck is.
You get out, open the backseat door and rummage about for your camera before switching the engine completely off, removing the key and locking all the doors. You slip them into your pocket and begin to walk.
The crunch of your shoes against the gravel path is like something out of a movie - louder-than-life, the clarity a result of the stillness all around. It lets you focus on your thoughts, lets you hear the way there isn’t very much going on in your head right now. It’s a peace and relaxation that you’ve so very nearly forgotten, what with the work-school balance severely trying your nerves and ability to function without sleep. More than ever you’re glad you’re on this trip; more than ever you’re glad he talked you into this trip.
You reach the deck and he is there - sitting on a bench, facing the skyline, the setting sun blazing forth its scarlet swansong.
You cannot resist the way the light frames him, and so you lift the camera to your eye and take it as quickly and quietly as possible, because the last thing you want is for him to turn around and catch you being all voyeuristic over him.
When you’re done you walk forward towards him. He looks up as you pass him and keeps his eyes on you as you sit down next to him, but he doesn’t say a word. Neither do you.
(12)
Night eventually falls. You’ve been there for half an hour, and still both of you haven't said a word, simply sat there and watched the clouds turn red and gold, the colours blending and spreading out until it bled into the dusky sky.
You have no idea what he’s thinking, only that your own mind is blissfully empty. “It’s a beautiful night,” you eventually say. You hear your words coming as if from very far away; that’s the immensity of the silence around you.
“That it is,” he agrees.
“Are you still mad at me?”
You sense him sigh and look around. Then, slowly, carefully, he leans his head on your shoulder.
You relax and hunch to accommodate him, lean your head towards his. Turn your face and kiss his hair.
(13)
This is one of the classic shots of the Yokohama skyline, but you can never get enough of it. The buildings rise up in the distance, creating a landscape of grey that is brilliantly lit up in the night. You line the shot up, taking your time. He stands behind you, not wanting to spoil anything with even a word or a breath, though he really doesn’t have to. But you respect the silence he gives you, and you take the shot perfectly.
(14)
He drives the both of you back to Tokyo, and though the trip takes only slightly more than an hour, the way he is yawning and yawning while the traffic crawls its way home is scaring you more than you want to say.
“Let me take over the wheel,” is what you want to say despite the fact that you haven’t driven in too long. But your practical side is telling you that it isn’t safe to changeover on a highway, especially when traffic isn’t at a standstill, and so you keep silent, and instead your hands move to turn the radio on.
(15)
“Goodnight,” he says when he drops you off. His goodbyes are never meant to be permanent since you do work together, but when he does say them it makes you want to hold on to him and never let go. So you’ve never said it, but it pleases you immensely to hear him say goodnight.
“Goodnight,” you say, and shut the door. You turn and go upstairs, pretending to the world that he was nothing more than just a friend.
(16)
“Where are these from?”
“That night at Yokohama.”
“…the skyline?”
“Yes.”
“…but this is of me.”
“Yes.”
“How romantic, Kato.”
You roll your eyes at him and take the photograph back. “I was going to gift it to you, but since you’re so mean about it…”
He is immediately repentant. He gently takes the photograph from you, and the warm light in those sweet brown eyes melts you down, to pool and tingle in the tips of your toes.
“Thank you,” he says gravely, sincerely, then looks back down at the photograph in his hand.
It’s all right. You’ve got time. Time enough for him to notice the words you’ve written on the back.
Anywhere with you is fine.