iverin
in
zekkouchou
The Impermanence of Things--JE
Title: The Impermanence of Things
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment
Characters: Tanaka Koki, Akanishi Jin, Kamenashi Kazuya
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The style is experimental, but other than that, I only warn for heavy makeup, historically awesome crossdressing, and kimono. Angst, but this is tied to the Japanese concept of "mono no aware", from which the fic takes its title. Please forgive any historical inaccuracy that was adopted for the purpose of accessibility.
Summary: Jin and Kame cannot handle the fame, and Koki may be left behind... How does he see things in their wake? A memoir and reminiscence of a certain time in three joined lives. Historical AU.
Notes: Half memoir (the italics), half plotless beauty. Despite my knowledge and love of Japanese history, I took a lot of liberties. For hilaryscribbles, at je_holiday 2009.
You float across the stage like a petal aloft in the wind, your face a mask of white, touched with red, eyes turned coyly to your lover. You bow your head, and the swirl of your black hair and magnificent robes is as the fall of maple seeds: delicate, ethereal, floating.
Jealousy stings my heart, slipping down to my stomach as he circles you, the victorious warrior appraising his benevolent goddess. The scenario is classic, and the audience sighs in appreciation as the hero strikes his signature pose, arms locked and eyes streaked with fire. You are beautiful and he is magnificent, and I see him glance down at me as he exits, my eyes drawn down the hanamichi, away from you, toward his familiar shape that is concealed by layer upon layer of cloth.
The shout of your family name from the man beside me stills my mind, drawing me back to your final, glorious scene.
Kamenashi, we cheer, as you hold your head to the sky. Kamenashi!
Tanaka Koki nudged by the exiting patrons, casually shielding his face with one raised arm as he headed toward the actors' chambers. It would not do, he understood, to stir the crowd into any further frenzy; nor would it do to take any attention away from the brilliant performance they had just witnessed. A tour de force, he mused, perfection embodied, as if gods were alive before them. Already the poet was mentally penning a review of the performance, the words and images working themselves into sleek vertical lines that would cascade from his mind to his ink soon enough.
But first, they would celebrate. Unbeknownst to many other kabuki enthusiasts--and his own readers--Tanaka had long been a fan of the genre, and particularly of the two stars he had seen that day. Through various meetings, small talk and tea house visits, the men had become fast friends and occasional lovers.
Fragile shoulders shake
Your face hidden by dropped sleeves
Are they waterfalls?
He swept the draped cloth aside, forgetting in his haste to announce his arrival. A familiar voice caught from within the room, and a half-powdered face turned to greet him.
"Ah, Tanaka-sama!" The man who had held the audience so raptly in the production's final moments bowed low in his seated position and smiled. "Your patronage is always a pleasant occasion."
"Kame," Tanaka replied swiftly, drawing out the "a" as he entered the room, "you don't have to be so formal! We're friends!"
The man--up-and-coming actor Kamenashi Kazuya--reached for a cloth to continue removing the makeup from his face.
He had been the first of the two men Tanaka became enamored with, and his reason for returning so frequently to the venue. Something about the one he so fondly called "Kame"--turtle--was as attractive and mysterious as nature itself. Kamenashi's quiet earnestness often made Tanaka wonder if it was possible for one's face to freeze into a delighted smile.
Kamenashi was always uncommonly cheerful, subtly shy, and graceful despite his rather wiry frame. Tanaka was drawn to him, intellectually and physically, and their long nights were spent more in bundled piles of gentle laughter than in sweat-slicked entanglement.
Something about his mood that day was somber, almost afraid, and Tanaka almost overlooked it, his eyes shaded by joy and exoneration in the wake of the play.
I reach for your hand before the cloth can mar the tracks in your makeup. Your partner, Akanishi, seethes with rage, his back turned to us. For a moment, I do not notice, my heart rent by your uncommon display of emotion, but he speaks, face still painted in the guise of a warrior, and I feel the price of notoriety pulse in the air.
In his hands, a wakizashi, irreverently soiled with human blood. At his knees, a poem, hastily scribbled and dotted with tearstains. A dishonorable suicide for want of an actor's love, I venture, and dread closes around my heart when the guess is confirmed.
The second, and the last, he will endure. For your sake, he flies.
Akanishi Jin, a hereditary kabuki performer and lover of all things edgy and modern, shielded their room from view, his broad costumed shoulders blocking the edges of the room's curtain.
"I've had enough of this," he raged, shoulders slumping forward as he brandished a fan. Tanaka shrunk backward, draping an arm over Kamenashi's delicately sloped figure. "This one tried to sneak back here to deliver it, as well! Only the owner of the building stopped him before we witnessed anything besides a crazed delivery--"
"Jin, stop," Kamenashi muttered, his voice measured once more. He had been trained as an onnagata, and he adopted all the public manners as a matter of course. But now, his voice was low, a profound sadness creeping out from his heart. Such contrast stayed even the fiery Akanishi's tongue. "I'm sure this happens to other people. It can't just be us."
Akanishi crossed the room, his lips brushing against Kamenashi's temple as he sat, hands brushing the other man's wig aside to reveal short, messy locks of the deepest black. Tanaka shrank to a corner of the room, feeling as though he was intruding on such a delicate scene; Akanishi's voice sank lower, melting against his fellow actor's skin in conciliatory utterances.
Or so Tanaka first thought.
Behind, as before, the two actors dance, words tangling as the heavy thoughts battle for dominance, pressing me into the tatami. You misdirect, mislead, stage tricks hidden behind closed screens,
Though I hear the plan, I forget it quickly, not wishing to believe the truth of your claims.
You would not leave us, your patrons, your home. Nor me, your lover, your confidante.
One straw mat protests footfalls of an intruder--the manager of your troupe--and I am hurried away before I can look into your eyes again. Shall we never again view the fall leaves, or the cherry blossom's first blush?
Tanaka's poems were full of nostalgia, reverence for the arts and for the beauty of the human form, making him a controversial but beloved literary figure. This appealed to Akanishi who, despite his stoic acceptance of the family tradition of kabuki, would rather be comfortable in his own skin than make the masses happy. But, as he told Tanaka one evening in a geisha's tea room, there were certain sacrifices to be made in order to keep one's wits and resources intact.
It seemed now to Tanaka that one or the other of those two things had slipped away from Akanishi.
"He can't stand it anymore," the cleverly-disguised Akanishi hissed, inching closer to the poet as their hostess plucked a koto's delicate strings. "Kame, I mean."
He draped one arm across Tanaka's body, his elaborate coif the mark of a geisha, which allowed him unfettered access to many of the drinking establishments and casual diversions he would otherwise be hounded out of by fans. Tanaka let one arm slip high around Akanishi's waist, his fingers brushing over the thick fabric of his obi.
"And you can't stand to see him look sad," Tanaka replied, feigning a laugh near Akanishi's ear, sending their hostess's eyebrow just a touch above its normal plane. He had learned more than a little about acting from his two dearest companions, knew the subtle body cues that sent their hostess away for more drinks with a deep bow, and he reveled in them for a moment. There was a sinking feeling in his gut that this would be the last time he would be so intimate with Akanishi.
Akanishi had been attractive to him because he was rebellious underneath the polished façade, and gave Tanaka an outlet for those most passionate and controversial thoughts. He had dreaded the day such impulsive thoughts would turn on him and render his sophisticated words completely moot.
"We're leaving," Akanishi crooned, once they were alone. Always a character, Tanaka noted, and hardly ever a human these days. Akanishi's soul was hidden away beneath layers of expectations, and he only showed that true heart to Kamenashi. "Yamashita, a friend in the south west, he has offered to take us in and find us new work. We'll be free. I'm sor--"
Tanaka cut his words short with a shove that sent Akanishi's wig askew and startled the returning hostess. "You decided that without me!"
Tanaka's mind whirled. Akanishi was a traitor to his own name--Jin, sincerity... The reality of his third-wheel status brought bile to Tanaka's throat. Was he so easily cast aside? Did his words really separate him so much from the art they were chained to?
"Of course we did, Tanaka-san," Akanishi replied coyly, face quickly hidden by a fan as he adjusted the wig. "Our destiny is bound together by a red ribbon, and yours is not entwined." A ploy, Tanaka knew instantly, just enough to throw the hostess off and expel her from the room with sheer dramatic force, but still, still...
I have my followers--the gangs, the thugs, the would-be revolutionaries who gather in drinking establishments around the country to review and acclaim me. Your followers, vociferous enthusiasts with little regard for the reality we drift through, frighten me now.
Will they separate us forever? Can they steal your soul away, drenched in the artistic dishonor of a crimson-stained finale?
Tanaka rushed to Kamenashi's residence, harried and haggard, topknot askew, throwing the door open as he flung his sandals aside. Kamenashi, for his part, cringed in anticipation of what he was sure was a fan-turned-assassin, even as Tanaka threw himself gracelessly down at his feet.
"You can't both leave! Maybe one of you, but not both of you.... If one of you left, then the other would return, and this stupid bullshit would just be a bad joke!"
At that moment, both men realized, with an unbearable wrenching sensation, that there had been much more to the three-pronged friendship than any of them could admit. Akanishi needed Kamenashi as support, to keep him grounded and attend to his little unspoken needs while he begrudged his destiny. Kamenashi needed Akanishi to protect him from the pressures of fame, and to remind him to care for his body as he would care for his makeup and art.
Tanaka's reality had been different from theirs. They were paragons, so different from him, untouchably glittering on high like so many stars. He, on the other hand, was the poet, the writer, the weaver of words and a mirror on reality. Perhaps he was simply too close to the dirt on the ground, the words that bound their scenarios... Perhaps he was too organically tied to the world to touch their hearts.
Kamenashi kneeled wordlessly, stroking his friend and lover's cheek with surprising gentleness. Their lips met, warm, soft, grounding.
"I cannot bear it here."
A tear fell from the man's cheek, like gathered dew finally rolling away, alleviating the strain and heaviness on a broad leaf. Tanaka quickly softened, gathering Kamenashi into his arms, their hands tangled in each other's kimono.
Perhaps, my fingers say to your skin, this is the last time we will touch. I am unashamed of my heart and my convictions as our lips meet, my soul desperately clinging to your influence and beauty.
"Will you be happy?"
Slowly, and with practiced conviction, the words fell from Kamenashi's lips: "Yes."
You have long wished to leave the eyes of the public, the unwavering gaze of tradition that holds you in place, forces you to wear the wigs and robes you don.
The final leaves are falling
Dewdrop tears cascade erratically
Writing "sadness" in their haste
Our love carries you as the wind
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment
Characters: Tanaka Koki, Akanishi Jin, Kamenashi Kazuya
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The style is experimental, but other than that, I only warn for heavy makeup, historically awesome crossdressing, and kimono. Angst, but this is tied to the Japanese concept of "mono no aware", from which the fic takes its title. Please forgive any historical inaccuracy that was adopted for the purpose of accessibility.
Summary: Jin and Kame cannot handle the fame, and Koki may be left behind... How does he see things in their wake? A memoir and reminiscence of a certain time in three joined lives. Historical AU.
Notes: Half memoir (the italics), half plotless beauty. Despite my knowledge and love of Japanese history, I took a lot of liberties. For hilaryscribbles, at je_holiday 2009.
You float across the stage like a petal aloft in the wind, your face a mask of white, touched with red, eyes turned coyly to your lover. You bow your head, and the swirl of your black hair and magnificent robes is as the fall of maple seeds: delicate, ethereal, floating.
Jealousy stings my heart, slipping down to my stomach as he circles you, the victorious warrior appraising his benevolent goddess. The scenario is classic, and the audience sighs in appreciation as the hero strikes his signature pose, arms locked and eyes streaked with fire. You are beautiful and he is magnificent, and I see him glance down at me as he exits, my eyes drawn down the hanamichi, away from you, toward his familiar shape that is concealed by layer upon layer of cloth.
The shout of your family name from the man beside me stills my mind, drawing me back to your final, glorious scene.
Kamenashi, we cheer, as you hold your head to the sky. Kamenashi!
Tanaka Koki nudged by the exiting patrons, casually shielding his face with one raised arm as he headed toward the actors' chambers. It would not do, he understood, to stir the crowd into any further frenzy; nor would it do to take any attention away from the brilliant performance they had just witnessed. A tour de force, he mused, perfection embodied, as if gods were alive before them. Already the poet was mentally penning a review of the performance, the words and images working themselves into sleek vertical lines that would cascade from his mind to his ink soon enough.
But first, they would celebrate. Unbeknownst to many other kabuki enthusiasts--and his own readers--Tanaka had long been a fan of the genre, and particularly of the two stars he had seen that day. Through various meetings, small talk and tea house visits, the men had become fast friends and occasional lovers.
Fragile shoulders shake
Your face hidden by dropped sleeves
Are they waterfalls?
He swept the draped cloth aside, forgetting in his haste to announce his arrival. A familiar voice caught from within the room, and a half-powdered face turned to greet him.
"Ah, Tanaka-sama!" The man who had held the audience so raptly in the production's final moments bowed low in his seated position and smiled. "Your patronage is always a pleasant occasion."
"Kame," Tanaka replied swiftly, drawing out the "a" as he entered the room, "you don't have to be so formal! We're friends!"
The man--up-and-coming actor Kamenashi Kazuya--reached for a cloth to continue removing the makeup from his face.
He had been the first of the two men Tanaka became enamored with, and his reason for returning so frequently to the venue. Something about the one he so fondly called "Kame"--turtle--was as attractive and mysterious as nature itself. Kamenashi's quiet earnestness often made Tanaka wonder if it was possible for one's face to freeze into a delighted smile.
Kamenashi was always uncommonly cheerful, subtly shy, and graceful despite his rather wiry frame. Tanaka was drawn to him, intellectually and physically, and their long nights were spent more in bundled piles of gentle laughter than in sweat-slicked entanglement.
Something about his mood that day was somber, almost afraid, and Tanaka almost overlooked it, his eyes shaded by joy and exoneration in the wake of the play.
I reach for your hand before the cloth can mar the tracks in your makeup. Your partner, Akanishi, seethes with rage, his back turned to us. For a moment, I do not notice, my heart rent by your uncommon display of emotion, but he speaks, face still painted in the guise of a warrior, and I feel the price of notoriety pulse in the air.
In his hands, a wakizashi, irreverently soiled with human blood. At his knees, a poem, hastily scribbled and dotted with tearstains. A dishonorable suicide for want of an actor's love, I venture, and dread closes around my heart when the guess is confirmed.
The second, and the last, he will endure. For your sake, he flies.
Akanishi Jin, a hereditary kabuki performer and lover of all things edgy and modern, shielded their room from view, his broad costumed shoulders blocking the edges of the room's curtain.
"I've had enough of this," he raged, shoulders slumping forward as he brandished a fan. Tanaka shrunk backward, draping an arm over Kamenashi's delicately sloped figure. "This one tried to sneak back here to deliver it, as well! Only the owner of the building stopped him before we witnessed anything besides a crazed delivery--"
"Jin, stop," Kamenashi muttered, his voice measured once more. He had been trained as an onnagata, and he adopted all the public manners as a matter of course. But now, his voice was low, a profound sadness creeping out from his heart. Such contrast stayed even the fiery Akanishi's tongue. "I'm sure this happens to other people. It can't just be us."
Akanishi crossed the room, his lips brushing against Kamenashi's temple as he sat, hands brushing the other man's wig aside to reveal short, messy locks of the deepest black. Tanaka shrank to a corner of the room, feeling as though he was intruding on such a delicate scene; Akanishi's voice sank lower, melting against his fellow actor's skin in conciliatory utterances.
Or so Tanaka first thought.
Behind, as before, the two actors dance, words tangling as the heavy thoughts battle for dominance, pressing me into the tatami. You misdirect, mislead, stage tricks hidden behind closed screens,
Though I hear the plan, I forget it quickly, not wishing to believe the truth of your claims.
You would not leave us, your patrons, your home. Nor me, your lover, your confidante.
One straw mat protests footfalls of an intruder--the manager of your troupe--and I am hurried away before I can look into your eyes again. Shall we never again view the fall leaves, or the cherry blossom's first blush?
Tanaka's poems were full of nostalgia, reverence for the arts and for the beauty of the human form, making him a controversial but beloved literary figure. This appealed to Akanishi who, despite his stoic acceptance of the family tradition of kabuki, would rather be comfortable in his own skin than make the masses happy. But, as he told Tanaka one evening in a geisha's tea room, there were certain sacrifices to be made in order to keep one's wits and resources intact.
It seemed now to Tanaka that one or the other of those two things had slipped away from Akanishi.
"He can't stand it anymore," the cleverly-disguised Akanishi hissed, inching closer to the poet as their hostess plucked a koto's delicate strings. "Kame, I mean."
He draped one arm across Tanaka's body, his elaborate coif the mark of a geisha, which allowed him unfettered access to many of the drinking establishments and casual diversions he would otherwise be hounded out of by fans. Tanaka let one arm slip high around Akanishi's waist, his fingers brushing over the thick fabric of his obi.
"And you can't stand to see him look sad," Tanaka replied, feigning a laugh near Akanishi's ear, sending their hostess's eyebrow just a touch above its normal plane. He had learned more than a little about acting from his two dearest companions, knew the subtle body cues that sent their hostess away for more drinks with a deep bow, and he reveled in them for a moment. There was a sinking feeling in his gut that this would be the last time he would be so intimate with Akanishi.
Akanishi had been attractive to him because he was rebellious underneath the polished façade, and gave Tanaka an outlet for those most passionate and controversial thoughts. He had dreaded the day such impulsive thoughts would turn on him and render his sophisticated words completely moot.
"We're leaving," Akanishi crooned, once they were alone. Always a character, Tanaka noted, and hardly ever a human these days. Akanishi's soul was hidden away beneath layers of expectations, and he only showed that true heart to Kamenashi. "Yamashita, a friend in the south west, he has offered to take us in and find us new work. We'll be free. I'm sor--"
Tanaka cut his words short with a shove that sent Akanishi's wig askew and startled the returning hostess. "You decided that without me!"
Tanaka's mind whirled. Akanishi was a traitor to his own name--Jin, sincerity... The reality of his third-wheel status brought bile to Tanaka's throat. Was he so easily cast aside? Did his words really separate him so much from the art they were chained to?
"Of course we did, Tanaka-san," Akanishi replied coyly, face quickly hidden by a fan as he adjusted the wig. "Our destiny is bound together by a red ribbon, and yours is not entwined." A ploy, Tanaka knew instantly, just enough to throw the hostess off and expel her from the room with sheer dramatic force, but still, still...
I have my followers--the gangs, the thugs, the would-be revolutionaries who gather in drinking establishments around the country to review and acclaim me. Your followers, vociferous enthusiasts with little regard for the reality we drift through, frighten me now.
Will they separate us forever? Can they steal your soul away, drenched in the artistic dishonor of a crimson-stained finale?
Tanaka rushed to Kamenashi's residence, harried and haggard, topknot askew, throwing the door open as he flung his sandals aside. Kamenashi, for his part, cringed in anticipation of what he was sure was a fan-turned-assassin, even as Tanaka threw himself gracelessly down at his feet.
"You can't both leave! Maybe one of you, but not both of you.... If one of you left, then the other would return, and this stupid bullshit would just be a bad joke!"
At that moment, both men realized, with an unbearable wrenching sensation, that there had been much more to the three-pronged friendship than any of them could admit. Akanishi needed Kamenashi as support, to keep him grounded and attend to his little unspoken needs while he begrudged his destiny. Kamenashi needed Akanishi to protect him from the pressures of fame, and to remind him to care for his body as he would care for his makeup and art.
Tanaka's reality had been different from theirs. They were paragons, so different from him, untouchably glittering on high like so many stars. He, on the other hand, was the poet, the writer, the weaver of words and a mirror on reality. Perhaps he was simply too close to the dirt on the ground, the words that bound their scenarios... Perhaps he was too organically tied to the world to touch their hearts.
Kamenashi kneeled wordlessly, stroking his friend and lover's cheek with surprising gentleness. Their lips met, warm, soft, grounding.
"I cannot bear it here."
A tear fell from the man's cheek, like gathered dew finally rolling away, alleviating the strain and heaviness on a broad leaf. Tanaka quickly softened, gathering Kamenashi into his arms, their hands tangled in each other's kimono.
Perhaps, my fingers say to your skin, this is the last time we will touch. I am unashamed of my heart and my convictions as our lips meet, my soul desperately clinging to your influence and beauty.
"Will you be happy?"
Slowly, and with practiced conviction, the words fell from Kamenashi's lips: "Yes."
You have long wished to leave the eyes of the public, the unwavering gaze of tradition that holds you in place, forces you to wear the wigs and robes you don.
The final leaves are falling
Dewdrop tears cascade erratically
Writing "sadness" in their haste
Our love carries you as the wind