(one-shot) music in your eyes [1/2]
Title: Music In Your Eyes
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing(s): Akame, RyoPin (friendship)
Genre: Romance, angst, friendship, AU.
Rating: PG-13 for language and kissing.
Disclaimer(s): Standard disclaimers apply.
Summary: Each person Jin meets has their own genre, music that defines them.
A/N: Written during mind lapses and during sleepy, hazy states of mind when finishing tests early in class. Please do not expect great coherency :| but I really enjoyed writing this, so do enjoy. Comments are very, very much loved, and I will try my best to find adequate time to reply to them when I can. ♥
Each person Jin meets has their own genre, music that defines them. The girl in the bakery where he orders a flaky, sweet chocolate croissant some mornings is full of bubble-gum pop, the songs that weave in as many corny storylines as possible. The elderly woman next door, the one with a lilt in her step and soft, rash voice is all out classical, bittersweet Mendelssohn that blends in with the warm aroma of the cookie platter she leaves by Jin’s door every morning.
Most mornings in Jin’s apartment are quiet; the only sounds are the distant stir of the city below his window and the chatter of schoolgirls in the elevator. Warmth floods onto his skin - a pleasant, tingling sensation that he identifies as sunlight seeping through his bedroom window.
As with most mornings, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. With only a slight amount of difficulty, Jin locates the device, his fingers fumbling for the correct button before he presses it to his ear.
“Rise and shine,” Yamapi’s voice is loud and cheerful, and Jin can almost hear the smile in his tone, the crackle of Yamapi’s upbeat music mixed in with something different - drums and a hard beat, but layered with a gentle melody underneath. Lips curving involuntarily upwards, Jin shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Is Ryo next to you?”
“God, Jin, you are seriously creepy,” Ryo’s voice is clear and humored on the other end, and Jin’s smile widens. Recognizing the music of his two best friends is far from the most difficult thing to accomplish.
There are a multitude of voices in the background, shouts that echo even into Jin’s phone. He catches the lingering tune of a march, something strict and almost military-like. “Somebody must be uptight over there,” he remarks, smoothing a finger across the fabric of his pant leg.
“Ugh, manager,” Yamapi is full of distaste, and there’s a loud rustling as footsteps approach, the march increasing in volume in Jin’s ears.
“Yamashita-kun, Nishikido-kun, stop lazing around, please! We need you. Now. You’ve both got three photo shoots today, and somebody new to meet and greet - come on, chop chop!” There are audible groans from both of Jin’s friends, along with more static-filled shuffling that Jin identifies as Yamapi’s cell phone being moved.
“Jin,” Ryo is quiet, reluctant. “Gotta go. We’ll be at your apartment the usual time. Don’t forget, idiot.”
Jin laughs - it’s a redundant statement, given the fact Ryo and Yamapi have been coming over to his apartment every evening for years. “Will try not to, but don’t get your hopes up too much,” he grins at the muffled laughter from the other end, brief in length before it disconnects with a click, returning to the comfortable silence of his apartment.
Sighing, Jin places the phone back on the table. He rests a hand on the nearest chair as he stands, slowly maneuvering his way to the bathroom, or the direction of the bathroom, as he’s learned from years of practice (and tripping and falling).
--
By the time he’s finished breakfast, the small, square clock Yamapi gave him for his birthday three years ago is already chiming ten. Carefully sliding his empty cereal bowl onto the counter, he pushes it cautiously, up until it clatters into the sink. Satisfied, Jin releases his hand from the counter, proceeding with measured steps through the doorway and into the living room.
A guitar case is lying sideways against the back of the couch, pieces of paper stuffed into the front pocket in a somewhat organized fashion. Jin picks it up with one hand, bringing the fingers of his other hand to the fold of the flap and lifting it, unclasping the case to rest on top of the couch.
There is a smooth-textured, freshly wood-smelling baby grand piano in the far corner of the room, lid halfway open and keys covered with a soft felt cloth. With precise movements, Jin pulls it away, discarding it on the arm of the opposite couch and bringing his guitar into the cascading warmth of sunlight from the window.
The piano keys are routinely familiar to his fingertips, the rise of the black keys a comforting pattern that he can predict and feel, even in the everlasting darkness of his world. As he strums the guitar strings, swiftly turning the knobs to the tune it in pitch with the piano, he feels a sense of comfort wash over him, a lukewarm pleasure that he could almost bask in forever. This is the definition of sunshine to him, complete with faint remembrances of the color yellow from his childhood - bright (a brightness he can no longer see), comfortable, cheerful mornings, with upbeat Yamapi music still ringing in his ears.
--
Yamapi calls at around four in the afternoon (or, at least Jin assumes it is about that time). His voice is hinting towards dismal, a great contrast from his earlier call. “Jin,” he says, above the zipping of bags and music of others in the background. “Can we come a little earlier today?”
Humming quietly, Jin halts his fingers from where they are roaming over a stack of CDs in his attempt to detect the one he is looking for by the thickness of the case. He inclines his head towards where the phone is resting on the cushion of the couch, blinking on speakerphone. “Why?”
“There’s,” pausing, Yamapi lets out a breath tainted with reluctance. “There’s a new guy that came in today, and we have to take him out with us to ‘get acquainted.’ He’s going to be working with us, mostly, so I figured he’d have to meet you sooner or later, anyway.”
Jin analyzes the amount of burdening in Yamapi’s voice. “You don’t like him, do you,” he concludes, flipping around to sink back into the cushions of the couch beside his phone.
“Jesus, that guy has got some kind of stick - no, mind you, probably a steel rod, up his ass,” clearly disgusted, Ryo’s voice approaches the phone. “You talking to Bakanishi?”
“The one and only.”
“Jin, you won’t believe - ” abruptly, Ryo is cut off, and it takes Jin a moment to realize that someone else has neared the phone. Furrowing his eyebrows, Jin strains his ears for some kind of music, but he hears nothing unfamiliar stuck in between Yamapi and Ryo’s melodies. He frowns and shrugs it off as his best friends’ music being overpowering; he’s due to meet this guy in less than ten minutes, anyway.
There’s an awkward silence, interrupted by an unfamiliar, jarringly close voice. “Nishikido-kun, Yamashita-kun.” Jin figures the stranger must be nodding in acknowledgement.
“Hello, Kamenashi-kun.” Yamapi sounds strained, and Jin bites his lip to try and prevent the laughter rising in his throat. “Are you joining us for dinner today?”
“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, it would be my pleasure.” Jin can already tell why Ryo hates this guy - reinforced by the barely stifled laughter from the latter that Jin can hear through the array of background noises on the other end.
“That’s cool, Kamenashi. We have somebody we want you to meet.” There’s a brief pause. “Jin, we’ll be there in a few.”
“Mm,” Jin closes the phone, resting his head back against the couch. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that even when Yamapi’s music had clearly traveled farther away, he still could not for the life of him find a trace of Kamenashi’s.
--
The doorbell rings precisely ten minutes later, a mixture of voices floating from the crack beneath the worn wood at the bottom. Pressing a hand to the wall, Jin finds his way to the door, unlocking it with deft fingers in obvious familiarity.
He is met by warmth enveloping him, strong arms wrapped for an instant around him before Yamapi pulls back. Jin smiles at the recognizable scent of his best friend - cologne, sweat from beneath dusty lights and the release of exhaustion. “You’re singing for us today,” Yamapi states, and it much less a question than a fact. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Perhaps,” quirking an eyebrow, Jin steps back a little. “If you guys behave.” He is suddenly aware of a looming silence from his left side, and turns his head in what he presumes to be that direction with innocent curiosity. “Ryo?”
Clearing his throat in a clearly uncomfortable manner, Ryo claps a hand on Jin’s back. Silent, Jin waits for the proceedings. “Kamenashi, this is Akanishi Jin, song-writer. Jin, this is Kamenashi Kazuya - our agency’s new model,” with a strong emphasis on the “our,” Ryo tightens his grip on Jin’s shoulder.
Jin, on the other hand, has barely noticed. Taken aback by the eerie, definite silence of the newcomer, he struggles for appropriate wording, completely thrown off. “Um,” he almost chokes when Ryo squeezes his shoulder in a slight warning, because this Kamenashi is obviously some kind of vital addition to the agency.
“It’s nice to meet you, Akanishi-kun,” Kamenashi’s greeting is smooth, completely undeterred by the usual surprise of strangers at seeing Jin’s blindness. “I hope to be further acquainted with you in the near future.”
Lips tightening, Jin nods again, forcing his lips into a smile with much effort. “You too,” he replies, his chest clenching as he feels Ryo’s hand guiding him towards the door, where his shoes are aligned beside the wall.
“Come on, Bakanishi, we have to get going,” uncertainty is hidden beneath the attempt at casualty in Yamapi’s voice, and Jin feels his toes hit the edge of his shoes. With a deep breath, he pulls them on, following Ryo’s hand at his elbow past the doorway and into the hall.
“Keys, Jin.” Ryo’s voice is uncommonly patient, softer than his usual witty remarks. Thankful for the reminder, Jin digs into his pocket, hands barely trembling as he hands Yamapi the set of keys and waits for the click to signal his apartment is secure. The keys that return to him are hard-edged in his palm, surfaces unbearably cold. He feels cold all over, actually - a frigid, lost kind of cold. The pad of Kamenashi’s footsteps is close by his heel, and he inhales sharply, confusion spreading through his veins. The thought that somebody has no music, the loss of his only ability to relate to meeting strangers is suddenly overwhelmingly frightful, and Jin almost trips over the step down on the way to the elevator in his swirl of disfigured emotions.
“Jin,” Yamapi’s breath is warm, familiar at his ear. “Are you okay? Should we go back?”
Immediately, Jin shakes his head curtly. “No! No, I’m fine,” he tucks his hands into his pockets, letting Yamapi slip two fingers around the curve of his elbow in order to guide him when they step out of the elevator. What’s strange is the piercing sensation of Kamenashi’s gaze on him the entire time, even as they walk out the lobby doors - Jin has never been this acutely aware of somebody’s eyes on him before; even though people watching him probably hasn’t been uncommon since he’s gained his disability.
The whoosh of car tires is indiscreet, almost non-existent. Several doors open and close, and Ryo’s music surrounds him, a hand at his elbow. Involuntarily, Jin leans into the familiar touch of his best friend, breathing out shakily.
“Jin?” Concern is evident in Ryo’s tone. “Dude, you’re scaring me. Are you alright?”
Jin begins to nod, to assure Ryo that he’s fine - but then he remembers it’s just Ryo, and he blurts it out. “He has no music.” It sounds stupid, even to his own ears, but he figures if Ryo (or Yamapi) doesn’t understand, then nobody will. “I can’t hear anything from him.”
For a second, Ryo doesn’t answer, and Jin is about to give up when he hears the quiet, unsure reply. “Are you for real?”
When Jin first told Ryo and Yamapi about the music he hears, they didn’t believe him. It wasn’t a surprise, really, because nobody ever had before them - people either said Jin needed to grow up and stop imagining things, or they regarded him as a freak, for which his disability was only a plus. But instead of those options, Ryo and Yamapi went for analyzing the facts - they began to pull out different people from the crowd, began to walk in certain directions towards people to see if Jin could do what he claimed. With each passerby, Jin proclaimed a different sensation - R&B mixed in with country, classical and pop rock, ballads, nursery songs - each time, his description matched the person’s preferences perfectly when they inquired, and each time, Ryo and Yamapi found themselves gaining awe for this newfound quality in their best friend.
Jin hasn’t always been blind. He has vague memories from when he was a toddler, random flashes of color beneath his eyelids that once present, disturb him for days until he is able to let it out in a new piece of music he composes, a new emotion to release and smother inside the notes Yamapi scrawls across the staff for him as he plays out the melody. From what he recalls, Yamapi and Ryo have always been there for him, ever since the crash.
As for the crash, he can’t really remember many details, given he was only five. What he was told in later years was that it wasn’t anybody’s fault; it was raining hard and the roads were extremely slippery when the tires of the car opposite theirs on the road slid and spun, colliding with them and sending both vehicles into the railing. His parents were gone on the spot, but he survived, losing only his sight.
Most of what Jin remembers, though, is pain in his eyes. Sometimes, when he tries harder to prod at his memory, the stickling remembrance of that pain is so overbearing that he wants to give up instantly. He remembers screaming for his parents, a blur of darkness and voices that made his heart burst with fear, mind spinning in confusion and tears streaking hot paths down his cheeks. He remembers a hand at his elbow, the gentle brownies-and-friendship smell of Yamapi’s mother as he buried his head into her shirt, uncontrollable sobs convulsing through his figure as Yamapi’s tiny arms encircled him from behind. He remembers darkness, rubbing his eyes frantically in the unfamiliar smell of a hospital bed, starchy covers pulled up to his chin and legs swathed in casts. He’s not sure how it happened, but before he knew it, his world was a completely dark one, lacking of light - and, more importantly, his parents.
He remembers a long period of time wherein he blamed himself for everything - his parents dying, growing up blind, having almost everyone his age (with Ryo and Yamapi as lone exceptions) stray around him in careful circles, as if he were a porcelain doll that would break any second.
But there was one time when he was standing on the sidelines of a soccer game, the shouts of the referee and shrill blow of the whistle reminiscent in his ears. Jin had been imagining the old, familiar feel of a soccer ball at his feet, the hard, confident material against his cleats - when suddenly, there it was, the ball pressing at his toes. Instinctively, he’d kicked it with all his strength, pointed in the direction he’d practiced in the years before the accident.
There’d been abrupt silence, like everybody was holding one breath. Later, Yamapi would tell him, the ball had flown through the air, soaring above the players’ heads like it had grown an angel’s wings, and plopped smack down behind the goalie on the opposite end of the field, rolling for a brief distance into the middle of the goal. Jin laughed, because it was just like Yamapi to exaggerate a success story, but still felt a full, brimming sense of achievement inside of him when each player on the teams came up to him one by one to clap him on the back and shake his hand. “Good game,” he said, the smile unfolding on his face at each compliment, each respectful call of his name.
Life eased into a straight line of familiarity there on out. Of course, with a disability like Jin’s, there were always times when he would feel miserable and undeserving, but for the most part, he’s done what he might not even have been able to if he was living happily and visually with his family. The source of the music he composes, if he had to dive down into the bottom of it, would be his experiences after the crash. He’d discovered the music inside of everybody not long after the crash occurred, and at first, had hated the existence of it. Music had never been his strong point - his childhood had not much to do with small, black notes on a staff, not much to do with sitting around at a piano all day to figure out the key signatures and flats and sharps, not much to do with threading melodies together and tying them at the end, like a shiny, exciting Christmas gift.
Every person Jin has come in contact with since the accident has his or her own music. Some people are multiple genres mixed together - Ryo, as a perfect example, with his hard outer shell and soft, squishy interior that Jin likes to poke at all too often, reaching inside to stretch out the beautiful, inner ballads he quite often detects hidden inside Ryo’s music.
“So,” at the present, Ryo’s ballads are strong in position, deafening over his usual hardcore drumbeat, and Jin can’t help the smile that flits across his face. “What’s up with that? Why are you smiling?”
Laughing, Jin draws away. “Because you’re secretly soft,” he comments, continuing before Ryo can protest. “And I don’t know what’s up with him. It’s never happened before.”
“Is he like…” Jin waits as Ryo searches for an appropriate word. “Not human?”
“Um,” Jin laughs quietly. “I hope not.” He feels a strange sort of stirring inside of him, and shifts uncomfortably - the insane desire has overcome him to see Kamenashi’s face, but he swats it away almost instantaneously, mentally scolding himself for even allowing such a thought to enter his brain (and why Kamenashi, of all people?). “Who knows, though, maybe some outer planet sent him down to discipline us pathetic human beings.”
It’s Ryo’s turn to laugh, a low, scoff-like rumble that pleases Jin, reminds him of relaxed sunny days and tidbits of memory contained inside him of the color blue, a canvas of blue sky. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” is the final conclusion, and Jin bites back a smile at the agreement, swinging his arm to brush against Ryo’s wrist in a friendly manner and sidling closer to bump shoulders together. For once, the other makes no protest (he’s usually very wary of being touchy, though he relents to Jin more often than anyone), and Jin feels the cheerfulness of the morning returning to him, the weird, queasy curiosity of Kamenashi dissolving as he lets Ryo lead him forward.
--
Yamapi and Kamenashi are already at the restaurant by the time Jin and Ryo arrive. Jin assumes they took a car - he doesn’t mind much; he’s always preferred fresh city air to the muted atmosphere of a moving vehicle. He catches a whiff of steamy dinner cooking from the restaurant, stomach growling in appeal as Ryo counts out the steps for him leading up to the doors.
When Jin reaches for the handle of the door, a hand lands on his, fingers grasping his knuckles confidently as it helps him pull the door open. The hand is unfamiliar to Jin; fingers slightly stubby and skin rough in certain places. Eyebrows worrying together, he lingers his touch upon the palm of the hand, recognizing the usual rough patches of skin that shows in baseball players.
He only recognizes the hand as Kamenashi’s, though, when the other’s voice sounds not far from his ears. “This is a nice place,” is the polite comment, and Yamapi murmurs some kind of absent agreement; Ryo doesn’t even bother. In fact, Ryo is so engrossed in pointedly avoiding Kamenashi’s uncomfortable politeness that he fails to notify Jin of the stairs up ahead, upon which Jin stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face.
Again, the same unfamiliar touch is there, but this time at his elbow, palms grasping his arm firmly to help him rise up from the step. Ryo’s hand is not far behind, tugging at his sleeve to assist him up and pulling him away from Kamenashi’s hands. “Sorry,” Ryo mutters in his ear, and Jin shrugs in forgiveness, still trying to brush off the prickling, strangely warm sensation Kamenashi has left imprinted inside him.
When they reach the dining area, Jin takes the chance to slip back, moving to walk alongside with Kamenashi’s footsteps. He feels a slow, seeping relief when Kamenashi doesn’t protest, and nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s even a hand at his elbow, the same place Ryo and Yamapi usually guide him by. Observant, Jin thinks, and turns his head sideways. “Do you play baseball?”
Kamenashi’s hand momentarily drifts away from his elbow; Jin guesses he is startled. “Yes,” comes the surprised answer, followed by curious silence. “How did you know?”
“Your hands,” Jin lets himself be led into a chair, and sits down, feels Kamenashi sink down into the seat beside him. “They’re calloused in the way a baseball player would be.”
With a light laugh, Kamenashi scoots his chair a bit closer. Jin catches the faint scent of cologne and vanilla-like shampoo, mixed in with a concoction of home and fresh air - sort of like how sunshine, he thinks, the way the air smells on bright mornings like today’s. “I never thought of that,” Kamenashi informs him, a smile in his voice. “That’s interesting.”
“Jin’s an interesting person.” Brisk and measured, Ryo diverts their conversation, his music rising into an upscale drum procession. Hiding his smile, Jin leans forward.
“Thank you, Ryo. I’m glad you acknowledge my superiority.”
“Oh, shut up, Bakanishi. Pi, please order the food soon so I can stuff his mouth.”
Amused, Jin retreats, reclining back in his chair to enjoy the wonderful mixture of music erupting from the peopled tables nearby. He finds an assortment of many different genres, ranging from jazz to pop opera - that’s something new, he thinks, and smiles to himself, drumming his fingers along his thighs as he tunes in on an obscure, contemporary classical song.
“Akanishi-kun?”
Interrupted from his reverie, Jin starts at the sound of Kamenashi’s inquiring voice. “Yes?”
“I just - I’ve been trying to get your attention, since Nishikido-kun and Yamashita-kun went to wash their hands,” Kamenashi seems almost sheepish, a large contrast from the original, stiffly polite tone he’d used in Jin’s apartment. “I was wondering, are you really going to sing for us tonight?”
A slow smile spreads across Jin’s features, cheeks tucking in a curve. “Would you like me to?”
“Yes, very much so,” there’s a pause, as if Kamenashi has just begun to hesitate. “But I mean, if it’s too much trouble, you don’t have to. I was…I really enjoy your music,” he concludes all in one breath, like they’re words he’s been holding in for much too long a while. “I love it a lot, actually.”
Pleased, Jin feels his nerves warming up - he loves it whenever someone mentions his music, albeit negatively or positively. It gives him an adrenaline rush, like he used to have when there was a soccer ball at his feet. “Do you, really?”
“Yes,” comes the breathy reply. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve always wondered where it comes from, what kind of genius could produce such splendor.”
With a laugh, Jin clasps his hands together to rest on the table. “Do you always talk like a book?”
“Ye - I mean, no, not really,” there’s a laugh from Kamenashi as well. “I just wanted you to know I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time now, ever since I heard your first song. You’ve been a great inspiration in my life - or, your music, at the least,” he is completely serious, Jin can tell. “It’s helped me through hard times.”
“I’m glad,” Jin’s lips quirk upward pleasantly, but his tone is sincere. “I’ve been through quite a few hard times too.”
“I know,” is the immediate reply. “I mean, I don’t know, but I know your story.”
The words dawn on Jin. “That’s why you weren’t surprised when you saw me,” he remarks thoughtfully, voicing his thoughts aloud. “And I’d been wondering.”
“Oh, man, did I ruin my good first impression?” There’s a hint of a smile in Kamenashi’s voice, and Jin finds himself smiling back, not on purpose.
“No!” Jin laughs. “No, not at all.”
The same touch from the door-opening inches onto his hand, warmth flooding through his veins at the contact. Without retracting his hand, Jin continues to smile, the initial queasiness about Kamenashi’s presence transforming into something lighter, exciting in comparison to Jin’s otherwise black-and-white take on life; familiar or unfamiliar.
Even when Ryo and Yamapi return from the washroom, crowding around Jin to put a smile on his face, he realizes he is increasingly aware of Kamenashi’s eyes on him, the feeling of excitement surging inside him at the thought.
Music or not, he thinks, there’s something about Kamenashi that twists inside of him, a deep ache of longing that is beginning to form inside his heart.
--
The streets are full of nighttime city sounds by the time they step out, shouts of teenagers and cheerful barking of neighboring dogs piercing the crisp night air. Just as the sound of the car nears, Kamenashi volunteers nonchalantly to walk with Jin, his voice carrying all the sincerity in the world.
Jin just nods when Yamapi questions his name, and he can feel his best friends’ uncertain gazes on him even as the car doors slam closed. Kamenashi’s hand is at his arm, fingers slowly becoming a familiar touch at his elbow like Ryo and Yamapi’s have throughout the years. Trusting, Jin allows Kamenashi to lead him down the sidewalk, cautioning him to step around fruit stands and the occasional homeless leaning against the walls. With each homeless person they pass by (Jin can tell when it’s a person he’s walking around by the music in his ears), there’s a clinking that trails at his heels, the obvious sound of coins being clanged together.
They’re halfway to Jin’s apartment building when Jin speaks up about it. “Do you give money to every one you pass?”
“Mm,” is his only casual answer, and he can’t tell if Kamenashi is shrugging it off to act cool or just doesn’t want to talk about it. From what he’s learned about the other, he figures it’s the latter. But instead of pressing further, he decides to leave it be.
“Have you been playing baseball long?”
The footsteps beside his hesitate. “Since I was in first grade.”
In adequate awe, Jin halts for a brief second. “You must be really good.”
“No,” Kamenashi’s voice is curt, unflinching - Jin reels back a little, bites his lip in regret; he must have hit a still healing wound. “Not really.”
They don’t speak for a block or two, and Jin soaks in the night air, the soles of his sneakers scraping against the cement of the sidewalk, breathing in the smells of the city - smoke, late night cooking, perfumes and colognes. He tries to imagine the color gray, the dusky shade of sky he remembers evenings to be - but unlike yellow, he can’t seem to recall much, only short, blurry clips of his mother’s back standing at a stove, red checkered apron tied around her waist; the feel of bare grass in the park tickling his bare toes.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Breaking away from his efforts, Jin turns in Kamenashi’s direction with a smile. “I was thinking about the color gray,” he replies honestly, and feels the hand at his elbow slip away. “Kamenashi-kun?”
“Call me Kame,” the hand returns to his elbow, along with a square piece of fabric that is placed into his palm. “Feel this?”
It’s a piece of felt. Jin nods, rubbing his fingers on the soft, wooly material, tiny pieces that are slowly breaking apart from the cloth.
“It’s like that.” Kame curls fingers around Jin’s, skin smoothing across skin as he traces the outline of the square on Jin’s palm. “Soft, but rough. It’s dark, but light. It blends in,” he continues, as Jin’s fingers close around the square of fabric. “It blends in with the skyscrapers, the fancy limousines passing by on the street. It blends in with the fog of smoke. It’s like the middle voice in a song - it’s not the melody, not the brightest or the most beautiful, not yellow or orange. It’s not the lowest voice, not the deep, soulful pounding of beat inside your chest, not black or blue or deep magenta, purple. It’s right in the middle of everything, and nothing’s right without it. That’s gray.”
The felt is now warm in Jin’s hands from his radiated body heat, from the warmth absorbed by Kame’s fingers, still entangled with his own. “Thank you,” Jin whispers, lips lifting (and heart soaring, a throb of life inside him that he’s never touched, never experienced in his life before). “Kame.”
“My mother was blind.” Kame’s voice is trembling, a solid attempt to stay strong but failing, like a lone leaf in a gust of autumn wind. Jin tucks the felt into his pocket, keeping his hold on Kame’s fingers and interlacing them together with his. “She was the greatest woman I ever knew. But you know,” his laugh is sad, tired. “The good people always go early. I was eight when she passed away.”
Just as he opens his mouth to say the complementary I’m sorry, Jin closes it again. He thinks of how Kame hasn’t mentioned a word, up to this point, about sorry; about pity for his disability, all the careful avoiding and planned pitying he’s despised since he gained his blindness. “I know how it feels,” he chooses to say instead, and feels Kame’s fingers shake under his, in sync with the shaking of his head.
“I shouldn’t be burdening you with my life. You, of all people, know enough of pain - ”
“No,” surprising even himself, Jin hears his own voice saying. “I want to know.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Kame’s hesitance is heavy in the air, condensing like droplets upon a windowpane in the dead mornings of winter. “My father,” the silence breaks with, “My father was an alcoholic. The rare times he was sober, he tried to make up his misgivings with being strict - that’s what he thought the definition of being a good father was. When he was drunk, well,” pain seeps through the cracking in Kame’s voice, pain that Jin feels reflected in his own heart. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty sight. He hated that I played baseball - he used to be a famed soccer player, and he hated baseball. He hated the sight of my bat, my baseball, my glove, my hat; hell, it was like he hated the sight of me.” Jin smiles at the wry, reminiscent tone of Kame’s voice. “I used to sneak out to the field at night to meet up with my friends, and we’d bring flashlights to practice in the dark. On the team at school,” pride swells inside the words, “I was one of the best. I can still hear the cheers from my second to last game there, last inning. We were two home runs down, bases fully loaded, and I was up at bat. It was a dream come true,” Kame laughs, like he is back at the game, dust collecting under the skid of his feet. “Best day of my life.”
They both stand in silence for a moment, letting the whirs and roars of city life pass them by. “Not all soccer players hate baseball,” Jin comments idly, and it makes Kame laugh pleasantly, a bright, playful sound in comparison to the rawness of his story. “Not all baseball players become models, either.”
“Not all the people you meet don’t have their own music, either.”
Surprised, Jin freezes. “How did you know?”
“Yamashita and Nishikido told me,” Kame sounds halfway torn between amused and disappointed. “While you were zoning out.”
“Oh,” is all Jin can manage, throat constricting as he tries to think of an explanation for the circumstances he doesn’t even understand. “It doesn’t mean that you’re - ”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind too much.” Kame sounds so honest that Jin is prone to believing him, letting the subject go until further discussion. The silence between them is comfortable, and only when Jin’s apartment building is already in sight does he remember that his fingers are still entwined with Kame’s, hands swinging between them like a bridge.
Kame appears to remember simultaneously, for his fingers begin to loosen reluctantly around Jin’s, as if to inconspicuously draw away, but Jin tightens his grasp, squeezing Kame’s hand in what he hopes to be a reassuring manner (he doesn’t remember much about holding hands, not even with his parents, but he’s pretty sure it’s warmer than anything he’s ever felt).
In his world of darkness, the one thing he misses as they pass through the doors of the lobby is Kame’s brilliant, involuntary smile.
--
Kame’s visits to his apartment start to become routinely, almost more than Ryo and Yamapi’s. Jin learns that Kame was previously a model under a rival agency, and that he is to be included in all of Ryo and Yamapi’s photo shoots from now on - which, in itself, is a feat, seeing as Ryo and Yamapi are the stars of their agency.
But when Kame comes over and takes him out on walks in the park, pointing out colors like he’s a normal person and describing them in terms of musicality, Jin just thinks of him as Kame. Strong-willed, determined, softhearted Kame - with the now familiar genteelness of his voice, the firm pad of his footsteps on the dirt pathway, the calloused palm covering Jin’s elbow. The lack of music no longer bothers Jin; it’s just another quirk he’s learned to accept about Kame, something he’s come to appreciate in the mess of never-ending music in his life.
Often, Kame likes to sit and listen to him play the guitar, humming to harmonize with his melodies and fixing lyrics for him when they fail to rhyme. The papers stuffed in Jin’s guitar case are increasingly filling with Kame’s handwriting (Yamapi seems happy enough to give up this tedious work to Kame), a deep imprint of scrawl that Jin can feel indented into the paper beneath his fingertips.
They are sitting at the piano one day, the sound of Kame’s pen scratching against the papers when Jin’s fingers abruptly stop, hands falling into his lap with quiet dignity. In surprise, Kame’s pen screeches to a halt, and Jin feels the hand at his elbow, a silent question.
“You’re weird today,” he says in reply to the silence, and sense Kame moving away. With rapid movements, he grabs onto Kame’s wrist before it can completely pull out of his reach. Kame’s fingers are clammier than usual, cold, nervous sweat tainting the usual warmth of his fingertips. “What’s wrong?”
The silence from Kame is almost audible, a loud drone of anxiety in his ears. Finally, Kame tugs away, and Jin releases him reluctantly, dropping his hand with an air of disappointment. “Jin,” Kame’s voice is neutral, somehow sad in nature. “What does it take to forgive a person?”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Jin spins around on the seat to face the direction Kame’s voice is coming from. “Is this about your father?”
Instead of answering, Kame presses onwards. “If I disappeared for, say a period of time, would you forgive me?”
Jin’s heart swoops down low into his stomach as the worst possibilities fly through his head - the top one being disease, and he gulps. “Are you…sick?”
“Me?” Kame seems shocked. “Oh, no, not me.” There’s something incomplete about the way he says it, like he’s preoccupied, and even though Jin knows he’s right there, he can tell Kame’s heart is far from here. Desperately, Jin bites lip in an attempt to retrieve it, to make Kame know he cares.
“Kame,” his tone is careful. “Are you planning on disappearing?”
When the other doesn’t reply, Jin reaches forward, nearly too far before Kame’s hands grip onto his, fingers pressing gently onto his skin to steady him. Holding on tightly, Jin shifts forward, until he can feel the warmth of Kame’s body heat, the familiar smell of light vanilla and early, sunny mornings drifting towards him. Uneasily, Kame’s fingers loosen, but Jin catches them again.
“Tell me your favorite color,” Jin tries to keep the quaver out of his voice, pulse racing where Kame’s fingertips are hot against his. “Your favorite music. Your favorite - ”
“Jin, what are you - ”
“Just, tell me something!” A sudden panic begins to claw its way out of Jin’s mouth, panic at losing this person, this something precious Kame has become, sneaking into his heart without him knowing. He wrenches away from Kame on his own, burying his head into the clumsy, heated cup of his own hands. “Anything,” he murmurs, words choking. “I need to know.”
“Jin,” there are hands on his own, a thumb massaging circles on his palm. “I’ll tell you anything. You know that.”
Raising his head, Jin brings one of Kame’s hands to his cheek, feeling the rough brush of the calloused palm, soft fingertips from holding the pen too tightly. “What do I look like?”
There’s a pause, a breath of quietness. “Beautiful,” comes the profound answer, and Jin feels himself grabbing the word, holding it close to his chest. “You’re like an undefined color, like a rainbow all mixed together and squashed. You’re all the genres of music, from every strange, beat-less piece to the cheesiest love song.” Kame’s voice is obviously strained, almost shaky. “You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and Jin wants to believe it, wants to steal the words and lock them up in a shelf in his heart forever.
“What do you look like?”
Kame’s hand against his cheek twitches, slowly pulling away, but the fingers around Jin’s knuckles make Jin’s hand follow in suit. Jin starts slightly at the touch of unfamiliar skin against his palm, the hardness of defined cheekbones, the bridge of a nose, perfectly arched eyebrows. He feels Kame’s eyelids fluttering closed beneath his wandering fingers, the soft tickle of eyelashes, the silky skin of a model under his touch. Moving downward, Jin finds Kame’s lips, jutting out slightly in a pout-like structure, parting patiently for his fingers.
Somehow, Kame’s presence has leaned in towards him - the scent of cologne and vanilla is stronger than before, heat radiating in waves towards him. Jin slows the pace of his fingers on Kame’s face, lingering upon the lips, heartbeat thudding through his entire body like the rigid, pounding beat of a dance song, ears ringing with the same undefined excitement that prickled his nerves the first time he met Kame. Hands enclose around his, bringing them down to rougher, more solid fabric, the cotton threading of a T-shirt. He fists his hands into it just as something soft touches his lips, something that moves and parts and he recognizes it as the lips he’d touched with his fingers moments earlier. Involuntarily, Jin leans into the contact, reveling in the explosion of tingling sensations that travel down his spine, a warmth that fills him up like the sunshine of a new day - but so much more.
“Jin,” Kame is whispering against his mouth, gentle murmurs of his name, and Jin slides his hands around to encircle a slender waist. Kame tastes faintly of mint Chapstick and something sweet, like the chocolate croissant Jin had for breakfast this morning. Every feeling he could ever name wells up inside him, and he sighs into the kiss, nuzzling closer into fine, vanilla-scented hair.
The realization is suddenly so clear, and he can’t help but laugh, embracing Kame tighter. “What,” Kame’s voice trembles through him, curious and affectionate.
“I know why you don’t have music,” Jin confides into his hair, and feels Kame’s head lower into the crook of his shoulder, heavy and warm. “You’re everything.”
“Everything?” Kame laughs into his shirt, hot breath pleasant against the skin of his sensitive collarbone. “That’s pretty vague for a genius like you.”
“Everything,” smiling, Jin pulls back, feeling Kame’s gaze on his face (because, of course, Kame’s gaze is always the one he can feel the strongest). “For me, you’re just everything.”
This time, Kame’s lips are confident and insistent upon his, and his smile widens, the fleeting remembrance of a rainbow clear cut in his mind before he completely lets go.
part 2
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing(s): Akame, RyoPin (friendship)
Genre: Romance, angst, friendship, AU.
Rating: PG-13 for language and kissing.
Disclaimer(s): Standard disclaimers apply.
Summary: Each person Jin meets has their own genre, music that defines them.
A/N: Written during mind lapses and during sleepy, hazy states of mind when finishing tests early in class. Please do not expect great coherency :| but I really enjoyed writing this, so do enjoy. Comments are very, very much loved, and I will try my best to find adequate time to reply to them when I can. ♥
Each person Jin meets has their own genre, music that defines them. The girl in the bakery where he orders a flaky, sweet chocolate croissant some mornings is full of bubble-gum pop, the songs that weave in as many corny storylines as possible. The elderly woman next door, the one with a lilt in her step and soft, rash voice is all out classical, bittersweet Mendelssohn that blends in with the warm aroma of the cookie platter she leaves by Jin’s door every morning.
Most mornings in Jin’s apartment are quiet; the only sounds are the distant stir of the city below his window and the chatter of schoolgirls in the elevator. Warmth floods onto his skin - a pleasant, tingling sensation that he identifies as sunlight seeping through his bedroom window.
As with most mornings, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. With only a slight amount of difficulty, Jin locates the device, his fingers fumbling for the correct button before he presses it to his ear.
“Rise and shine,” Yamapi’s voice is loud and cheerful, and Jin can almost hear the smile in his tone, the crackle of Yamapi’s upbeat music mixed in with something different - drums and a hard beat, but layered with a gentle melody underneath. Lips curving involuntarily upwards, Jin shifts forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Is Ryo next to you?”
“God, Jin, you are seriously creepy,” Ryo’s voice is clear and humored on the other end, and Jin’s smile widens. Recognizing the music of his two best friends is far from the most difficult thing to accomplish.
There are a multitude of voices in the background, shouts that echo even into Jin’s phone. He catches the lingering tune of a march, something strict and almost military-like. “Somebody must be uptight over there,” he remarks, smoothing a finger across the fabric of his pant leg.
“Ugh, manager,” Yamapi is full of distaste, and there’s a loud rustling as footsteps approach, the march increasing in volume in Jin’s ears.
“Yamashita-kun, Nishikido-kun, stop lazing around, please! We need you. Now. You’ve both got three photo shoots today, and somebody new to meet and greet - come on, chop chop!” There are audible groans from both of Jin’s friends, along with more static-filled shuffling that Jin identifies as Yamapi’s cell phone being moved.
“Jin,” Ryo is quiet, reluctant. “Gotta go. We’ll be at your apartment the usual time. Don’t forget, idiot.”
Jin laughs - it’s a redundant statement, given the fact Ryo and Yamapi have been coming over to his apartment every evening for years. “Will try not to, but don’t get your hopes up too much,” he grins at the muffled laughter from the other end, brief in length before it disconnects with a click, returning to the comfortable silence of his apartment.
Sighing, Jin places the phone back on the table. He rests a hand on the nearest chair as he stands, slowly maneuvering his way to the bathroom, or the direction of the bathroom, as he’s learned from years of practice (and tripping and falling).
--
By the time he’s finished breakfast, the small, square clock Yamapi gave him for his birthday three years ago is already chiming ten. Carefully sliding his empty cereal bowl onto the counter, he pushes it cautiously, up until it clatters into the sink. Satisfied, Jin releases his hand from the counter, proceeding with measured steps through the doorway and into the living room.
A guitar case is lying sideways against the back of the couch, pieces of paper stuffed into the front pocket in a somewhat organized fashion. Jin picks it up with one hand, bringing the fingers of his other hand to the fold of the flap and lifting it, unclasping the case to rest on top of the couch.
There is a smooth-textured, freshly wood-smelling baby grand piano in the far corner of the room, lid halfway open and keys covered with a soft felt cloth. With precise movements, Jin pulls it away, discarding it on the arm of the opposite couch and bringing his guitar into the cascading warmth of sunlight from the window.
The piano keys are routinely familiar to his fingertips, the rise of the black keys a comforting pattern that he can predict and feel, even in the everlasting darkness of his world. As he strums the guitar strings, swiftly turning the knobs to the tune it in pitch with the piano, he feels a sense of comfort wash over him, a lukewarm pleasure that he could almost bask in forever. This is the definition of sunshine to him, complete with faint remembrances of the color yellow from his childhood - bright (a brightness he can no longer see), comfortable, cheerful mornings, with upbeat Yamapi music still ringing in his ears.
--
Yamapi calls at around four in the afternoon (or, at least Jin assumes it is about that time). His voice is hinting towards dismal, a great contrast from his earlier call. “Jin,” he says, above the zipping of bags and music of others in the background. “Can we come a little earlier today?”
Humming quietly, Jin halts his fingers from where they are roaming over a stack of CDs in his attempt to detect the one he is looking for by the thickness of the case. He inclines his head towards where the phone is resting on the cushion of the couch, blinking on speakerphone. “Why?”
“There’s,” pausing, Yamapi lets out a breath tainted with reluctance. “There’s a new guy that came in today, and we have to take him out with us to ‘get acquainted.’ He’s going to be working with us, mostly, so I figured he’d have to meet you sooner or later, anyway.”
Jin analyzes the amount of burdening in Yamapi’s voice. “You don’t like him, do you,” he concludes, flipping around to sink back into the cushions of the couch beside his phone.
“Jesus, that guy has got some kind of stick - no, mind you, probably a steel rod, up his ass,” clearly disgusted, Ryo’s voice approaches the phone. “You talking to Bakanishi?”
“The one and only.”
“Jin, you won’t believe - ” abruptly, Ryo is cut off, and it takes Jin a moment to realize that someone else has neared the phone. Furrowing his eyebrows, Jin strains his ears for some kind of music, but he hears nothing unfamiliar stuck in between Yamapi and Ryo’s melodies. He frowns and shrugs it off as his best friends’ music being overpowering; he’s due to meet this guy in less than ten minutes, anyway.
There’s an awkward silence, interrupted by an unfamiliar, jarringly close voice. “Nishikido-kun, Yamashita-kun.” Jin figures the stranger must be nodding in acknowledgement.
“Hello, Kamenashi-kun.” Yamapi sounds strained, and Jin bites his lip to try and prevent the laughter rising in his throat. “Are you joining us for dinner today?”
“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, it would be my pleasure.” Jin can already tell why Ryo hates this guy - reinforced by the barely stifled laughter from the latter that Jin can hear through the array of background noises on the other end.
“That’s cool, Kamenashi. We have somebody we want you to meet.” There’s a brief pause. “Jin, we’ll be there in a few.”
“Mm,” Jin closes the phone, resting his head back against the couch. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that even when Yamapi’s music had clearly traveled farther away, he still could not for the life of him find a trace of Kamenashi’s.
--
The doorbell rings precisely ten minutes later, a mixture of voices floating from the crack beneath the worn wood at the bottom. Pressing a hand to the wall, Jin finds his way to the door, unlocking it with deft fingers in obvious familiarity.
He is met by warmth enveloping him, strong arms wrapped for an instant around him before Yamapi pulls back. Jin smiles at the recognizable scent of his best friend - cologne, sweat from beneath dusty lights and the release of exhaustion. “You’re singing for us today,” Yamapi states, and it much less a question than a fact. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Perhaps,” quirking an eyebrow, Jin steps back a little. “If you guys behave.” He is suddenly aware of a looming silence from his left side, and turns his head in what he presumes to be that direction with innocent curiosity. “Ryo?”
Clearing his throat in a clearly uncomfortable manner, Ryo claps a hand on Jin’s back. Silent, Jin waits for the proceedings. “Kamenashi, this is Akanishi Jin, song-writer. Jin, this is Kamenashi Kazuya - our agency’s new model,” with a strong emphasis on the “our,” Ryo tightens his grip on Jin’s shoulder.
Jin, on the other hand, has barely noticed. Taken aback by the eerie, definite silence of the newcomer, he struggles for appropriate wording, completely thrown off. “Um,” he almost chokes when Ryo squeezes his shoulder in a slight warning, because this Kamenashi is obviously some kind of vital addition to the agency.
“It’s nice to meet you, Akanishi-kun,” Kamenashi’s greeting is smooth, completely undeterred by the usual surprise of strangers at seeing Jin’s blindness. “I hope to be further acquainted with you in the near future.”
Lips tightening, Jin nods again, forcing his lips into a smile with much effort. “You too,” he replies, his chest clenching as he feels Ryo’s hand guiding him towards the door, where his shoes are aligned beside the wall.
“Come on, Bakanishi, we have to get going,” uncertainty is hidden beneath the attempt at casualty in Yamapi’s voice, and Jin feels his toes hit the edge of his shoes. With a deep breath, he pulls them on, following Ryo’s hand at his elbow past the doorway and into the hall.
“Keys, Jin.” Ryo’s voice is uncommonly patient, softer than his usual witty remarks. Thankful for the reminder, Jin digs into his pocket, hands barely trembling as he hands Yamapi the set of keys and waits for the click to signal his apartment is secure. The keys that return to him are hard-edged in his palm, surfaces unbearably cold. He feels cold all over, actually - a frigid, lost kind of cold. The pad of Kamenashi’s footsteps is close by his heel, and he inhales sharply, confusion spreading through his veins. The thought that somebody has no music, the loss of his only ability to relate to meeting strangers is suddenly overwhelmingly frightful, and Jin almost trips over the step down on the way to the elevator in his swirl of disfigured emotions.
“Jin,” Yamapi’s breath is warm, familiar at his ear. “Are you okay? Should we go back?”
Immediately, Jin shakes his head curtly. “No! No, I’m fine,” he tucks his hands into his pockets, letting Yamapi slip two fingers around the curve of his elbow in order to guide him when they step out of the elevator. What’s strange is the piercing sensation of Kamenashi’s gaze on him the entire time, even as they walk out the lobby doors - Jin has never been this acutely aware of somebody’s eyes on him before; even though people watching him probably hasn’t been uncommon since he’s gained his disability.
The whoosh of car tires is indiscreet, almost non-existent. Several doors open and close, and Ryo’s music surrounds him, a hand at his elbow. Involuntarily, Jin leans into the familiar touch of his best friend, breathing out shakily.
“Jin?” Concern is evident in Ryo’s tone. “Dude, you’re scaring me. Are you alright?”
Jin begins to nod, to assure Ryo that he’s fine - but then he remembers it’s just Ryo, and he blurts it out. “He has no music.” It sounds stupid, even to his own ears, but he figures if Ryo (or Yamapi) doesn’t understand, then nobody will. “I can’t hear anything from him.”
For a second, Ryo doesn’t answer, and Jin is about to give up when he hears the quiet, unsure reply. “Are you for real?”
When Jin first told Ryo and Yamapi about the music he hears, they didn’t believe him. It wasn’t a surprise, really, because nobody ever had before them - people either said Jin needed to grow up and stop imagining things, or they regarded him as a freak, for which his disability was only a plus. But instead of those options, Ryo and Yamapi went for analyzing the facts - they began to pull out different people from the crowd, began to walk in certain directions towards people to see if Jin could do what he claimed. With each passerby, Jin proclaimed a different sensation - R&B mixed in with country, classical and pop rock, ballads, nursery songs - each time, his description matched the person’s preferences perfectly when they inquired, and each time, Ryo and Yamapi found themselves gaining awe for this newfound quality in their best friend.
Jin hasn’t always been blind. He has vague memories from when he was a toddler, random flashes of color beneath his eyelids that once present, disturb him for days until he is able to let it out in a new piece of music he composes, a new emotion to release and smother inside the notes Yamapi scrawls across the staff for him as he plays out the melody. From what he recalls, Yamapi and Ryo have always been there for him, ever since the crash.
As for the crash, he can’t really remember many details, given he was only five. What he was told in later years was that it wasn’t anybody’s fault; it was raining hard and the roads were extremely slippery when the tires of the car opposite theirs on the road slid and spun, colliding with them and sending both vehicles into the railing. His parents were gone on the spot, but he survived, losing only his sight.
Most of what Jin remembers, though, is pain in his eyes. Sometimes, when he tries harder to prod at his memory, the stickling remembrance of that pain is so overbearing that he wants to give up instantly. He remembers screaming for his parents, a blur of darkness and voices that made his heart burst with fear, mind spinning in confusion and tears streaking hot paths down his cheeks. He remembers a hand at his elbow, the gentle brownies-and-friendship smell of Yamapi’s mother as he buried his head into her shirt, uncontrollable sobs convulsing through his figure as Yamapi’s tiny arms encircled him from behind. He remembers darkness, rubbing his eyes frantically in the unfamiliar smell of a hospital bed, starchy covers pulled up to his chin and legs swathed in casts. He’s not sure how it happened, but before he knew it, his world was a completely dark one, lacking of light - and, more importantly, his parents.
He remembers a long period of time wherein he blamed himself for everything - his parents dying, growing up blind, having almost everyone his age (with Ryo and Yamapi as lone exceptions) stray around him in careful circles, as if he were a porcelain doll that would break any second.
But there was one time when he was standing on the sidelines of a soccer game, the shouts of the referee and shrill blow of the whistle reminiscent in his ears. Jin had been imagining the old, familiar feel of a soccer ball at his feet, the hard, confident material against his cleats - when suddenly, there it was, the ball pressing at his toes. Instinctively, he’d kicked it with all his strength, pointed in the direction he’d practiced in the years before the accident.
There’d been abrupt silence, like everybody was holding one breath. Later, Yamapi would tell him, the ball had flown through the air, soaring above the players’ heads like it had grown an angel’s wings, and plopped smack down behind the goalie on the opposite end of the field, rolling for a brief distance into the middle of the goal. Jin laughed, because it was just like Yamapi to exaggerate a success story, but still felt a full, brimming sense of achievement inside of him when each player on the teams came up to him one by one to clap him on the back and shake his hand. “Good game,” he said, the smile unfolding on his face at each compliment, each respectful call of his name.
Life eased into a straight line of familiarity there on out. Of course, with a disability like Jin’s, there were always times when he would feel miserable and undeserving, but for the most part, he’s done what he might not even have been able to if he was living happily and visually with his family. The source of the music he composes, if he had to dive down into the bottom of it, would be his experiences after the crash. He’d discovered the music inside of everybody not long after the crash occurred, and at first, had hated the existence of it. Music had never been his strong point - his childhood had not much to do with small, black notes on a staff, not much to do with sitting around at a piano all day to figure out the key signatures and flats and sharps, not much to do with threading melodies together and tying them at the end, like a shiny, exciting Christmas gift.
Every person Jin has come in contact with since the accident has his or her own music. Some people are multiple genres mixed together - Ryo, as a perfect example, with his hard outer shell and soft, squishy interior that Jin likes to poke at all too often, reaching inside to stretch out the beautiful, inner ballads he quite often detects hidden inside Ryo’s music.
“So,” at the present, Ryo’s ballads are strong in position, deafening over his usual hardcore drumbeat, and Jin can’t help the smile that flits across his face. “What’s up with that? Why are you smiling?”
Laughing, Jin draws away. “Because you’re secretly soft,” he comments, continuing before Ryo can protest. “And I don’t know what’s up with him. It’s never happened before.”
“Is he like…” Jin waits as Ryo searches for an appropriate word. “Not human?”
“Um,” Jin laughs quietly. “I hope not.” He feels a strange sort of stirring inside of him, and shifts uncomfortably - the insane desire has overcome him to see Kamenashi’s face, but he swats it away almost instantaneously, mentally scolding himself for even allowing such a thought to enter his brain (and why Kamenashi, of all people?). “Who knows, though, maybe some outer planet sent him down to discipline us pathetic human beings.”
It’s Ryo’s turn to laugh, a low, scoff-like rumble that pleases Jin, reminds him of relaxed sunny days and tidbits of memory contained inside him of the color blue, a canvas of blue sky. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” is the final conclusion, and Jin bites back a smile at the agreement, swinging his arm to brush against Ryo’s wrist in a friendly manner and sidling closer to bump shoulders together. For once, the other makes no protest (he’s usually very wary of being touchy, though he relents to Jin more often than anyone), and Jin feels the cheerfulness of the morning returning to him, the weird, queasy curiosity of Kamenashi dissolving as he lets Ryo lead him forward.
--
Yamapi and Kamenashi are already at the restaurant by the time Jin and Ryo arrive. Jin assumes they took a car - he doesn’t mind much; he’s always preferred fresh city air to the muted atmosphere of a moving vehicle. He catches a whiff of steamy dinner cooking from the restaurant, stomach growling in appeal as Ryo counts out the steps for him leading up to the doors.
When Jin reaches for the handle of the door, a hand lands on his, fingers grasping his knuckles confidently as it helps him pull the door open. The hand is unfamiliar to Jin; fingers slightly stubby and skin rough in certain places. Eyebrows worrying together, he lingers his touch upon the palm of the hand, recognizing the usual rough patches of skin that shows in baseball players.
He only recognizes the hand as Kamenashi’s, though, when the other’s voice sounds not far from his ears. “This is a nice place,” is the polite comment, and Yamapi murmurs some kind of absent agreement; Ryo doesn’t even bother. In fact, Ryo is so engrossed in pointedly avoiding Kamenashi’s uncomfortable politeness that he fails to notify Jin of the stairs up ahead, upon which Jin stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face.
Again, the same unfamiliar touch is there, but this time at his elbow, palms grasping his arm firmly to help him rise up from the step. Ryo’s hand is not far behind, tugging at his sleeve to assist him up and pulling him away from Kamenashi’s hands. “Sorry,” Ryo mutters in his ear, and Jin shrugs in forgiveness, still trying to brush off the prickling, strangely warm sensation Kamenashi has left imprinted inside him.
When they reach the dining area, Jin takes the chance to slip back, moving to walk alongside with Kamenashi’s footsteps. He feels a slow, seeping relief when Kamenashi doesn’t protest, and nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s even a hand at his elbow, the same place Ryo and Yamapi usually guide him by. Observant, Jin thinks, and turns his head sideways. “Do you play baseball?”
Kamenashi’s hand momentarily drifts away from his elbow; Jin guesses he is startled. “Yes,” comes the surprised answer, followed by curious silence. “How did you know?”
“Your hands,” Jin lets himself be led into a chair, and sits down, feels Kamenashi sink down into the seat beside him. “They’re calloused in the way a baseball player would be.”
With a light laugh, Kamenashi scoots his chair a bit closer. Jin catches the faint scent of cologne and vanilla-like shampoo, mixed in with a concoction of home and fresh air - sort of like how sunshine, he thinks, the way the air smells on bright mornings like today’s. “I never thought of that,” Kamenashi informs him, a smile in his voice. “That’s interesting.”
“Jin’s an interesting person.” Brisk and measured, Ryo diverts their conversation, his music rising into an upscale drum procession. Hiding his smile, Jin leans forward.
“Thank you, Ryo. I’m glad you acknowledge my superiority.”
“Oh, shut up, Bakanishi. Pi, please order the food soon so I can stuff his mouth.”
Amused, Jin retreats, reclining back in his chair to enjoy the wonderful mixture of music erupting from the peopled tables nearby. He finds an assortment of many different genres, ranging from jazz to pop opera - that’s something new, he thinks, and smiles to himself, drumming his fingers along his thighs as he tunes in on an obscure, contemporary classical song.
“Akanishi-kun?”
Interrupted from his reverie, Jin starts at the sound of Kamenashi’s inquiring voice. “Yes?”
“I just - I’ve been trying to get your attention, since Nishikido-kun and Yamashita-kun went to wash their hands,” Kamenashi seems almost sheepish, a large contrast from the original, stiffly polite tone he’d used in Jin’s apartment. “I was wondering, are you really going to sing for us tonight?”
A slow smile spreads across Jin’s features, cheeks tucking in a curve. “Would you like me to?”
“Yes, very much so,” there’s a pause, as if Kamenashi has just begun to hesitate. “But I mean, if it’s too much trouble, you don’t have to. I was…I really enjoy your music,” he concludes all in one breath, like they’re words he’s been holding in for much too long a while. “I love it a lot, actually.”
Pleased, Jin feels his nerves warming up - he loves it whenever someone mentions his music, albeit negatively or positively. It gives him an adrenaline rush, like he used to have when there was a soccer ball at his feet. “Do you, really?”
“Yes,” comes the breathy reply. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve always wondered where it comes from, what kind of genius could produce such splendor.”
With a laugh, Jin clasps his hands together to rest on the table. “Do you always talk like a book?”
“Ye - I mean, no, not really,” there’s a laugh from Kamenashi as well. “I just wanted you to know I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time now, ever since I heard your first song. You’ve been a great inspiration in my life - or, your music, at the least,” he is completely serious, Jin can tell. “It’s helped me through hard times.”
“I’m glad,” Jin’s lips quirk upward pleasantly, but his tone is sincere. “I’ve been through quite a few hard times too.”
“I know,” is the immediate reply. “I mean, I don’t know, but I know your story.”
The words dawn on Jin. “That’s why you weren’t surprised when you saw me,” he remarks thoughtfully, voicing his thoughts aloud. “And I’d been wondering.”
“Oh, man, did I ruin my good first impression?” There’s a hint of a smile in Kamenashi’s voice, and Jin finds himself smiling back, not on purpose.
“No!” Jin laughs. “No, not at all.”
The same touch from the door-opening inches onto his hand, warmth flooding through his veins at the contact. Without retracting his hand, Jin continues to smile, the initial queasiness about Kamenashi’s presence transforming into something lighter, exciting in comparison to Jin’s otherwise black-and-white take on life; familiar or unfamiliar.
Even when Ryo and Yamapi return from the washroom, crowding around Jin to put a smile on his face, he realizes he is increasingly aware of Kamenashi’s eyes on him, the feeling of excitement surging inside him at the thought.
Music or not, he thinks, there’s something about Kamenashi that twists inside of him, a deep ache of longing that is beginning to form inside his heart.
--
The streets are full of nighttime city sounds by the time they step out, shouts of teenagers and cheerful barking of neighboring dogs piercing the crisp night air. Just as the sound of the car nears, Kamenashi volunteers nonchalantly to walk with Jin, his voice carrying all the sincerity in the world.
Jin just nods when Yamapi questions his name, and he can feel his best friends’ uncertain gazes on him even as the car doors slam closed. Kamenashi’s hand is at his arm, fingers slowly becoming a familiar touch at his elbow like Ryo and Yamapi’s have throughout the years. Trusting, Jin allows Kamenashi to lead him down the sidewalk, cautioning him to step around fruit stands and the occasional homeless leaning against the walls. With each homeless person they pass by (Jin can tell when it’s a person he’s walking around by the music in his ears), there’s a clinking that trails at his heels, the obvious sound of coins being clanged together.
They’re halfway to Jin’s apartment building when Jin speaks up about it. “Do you give money to every one you pass?”
“Mm,” is his only casual answer, and he can’t tell if Kamenashi is shrugging it off to act cool or just doesn’t want to talk about it. From what he’s learned about the other, he figures it’s the latter. But instead of pressing further, he decides to leave it be.
“Have you been playing baseball long?”
The footsteps beside his hesitate. “Since I was in first grade.”
In adequate awe, Jin halts for a brief second. “You must be really good.”
“No,” Kamenashi’s voice is curt, unflinching - Jin reels back a little, bites his lip in regret; he must have hit a still healing wound. “Not really.”
They don’t speak for a block or two, and Jin soaks in the night air, the soles of his sneakers scraping against the cement of the sidewalk, breathing in the smells of the city - smoke, late night cooking, perfumes and colognes. He tries to imagine the color gray, the dusky shade of sky he remembers evenings to be - but unlike yellow, he can’t seem to recall much, only short, blurry clips of his mother’s back standing at a stove, red checkered apron tied around her waist; the feel of bare grass in the park tickling his bare toes.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
Breaking away from his efforts, Jin turns in Kamenashi’s direction with a smile. “I was thinking about the color gray,” he replies honestly, and feels the hand at his elbow slip away. “Kamenashi-kun?”
“Call me Kame,” the hand returns to his elbow, along with a square piece of fabric that is placed into his palm. “Feel this?”
It’s a piece of felt. Jin nods, rubbing his fingers on the soft, wooly material, tiny pieces that are slowly breaking apart from the cloth.
“It’s like that.” Kame curls fingers around Jin’s, skin smoothing across skin as he traces the outline of the square on Jin’s palm. “Soft, but rough. It’s dark, but light. It blends in,” he continues, as Jin’s fingers close around the square of fabric. “It blends in with the skyscrapers, the fancy limousines passing by on the street. It blends in with the fog of smoke. It’s like the middle voice in a song - it’s not the melody, not the brightest or the most beautiful, not yellow or orange. It’s not the lowest voice, not the deep, soulful pounding of beat inside your chest, not black or blue or deep magenta, purple. It’s right in the middle of everything, and nothing’s right without it. That’s gray.”
The felt is now warm in Jin’s hands from his radiated body heat, from the warmth absorbed by Kame’s fingers, still entangled with his own. “Thank you,” Jin whispers, lips lifting (and heart soaring, a throb of life inside him that he’s never touched, never experienced in his life before). “Kame.”
“My mother was blind.” Kame’s voice is trembling, a solid attempt to stay strong but failing, like a lone leaf in a gust of autumn wind. Jin tucks the felt into his pocket, keeping his hold on Kame’s fingers and interlacing them together with his. “She was the greatest woman I ever knew. But you know,” his laugh is sad, tired. “The good people always go early. I was eight when she passed away.”
Just as he opens his mouth to say the complementary I’m sorry, Jin closes it again. He thinks of how Kame hasn’t mentioned a word, up to this point, about sorry; about pity for his disability, all the careful avoiding and planned pitying he’s despised since he gained his blindness. “I know how it feels,” he chooses to say instead, and feels Kame’s fingers shake under his, in sync with the shaking of his head.
“I shouldn’t be burdening you with my life. You, of all people, know enough of pain - ”
“No,” surprising even himself, Jin hears his own voice saying. “I want to know.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Kame’s hesitance is heavy in the air, condensing like droplets upon a windowpane in the dead mornings of winter. “My father,” the silence breaks with, “My father was an alcoholic. The rare times he was sober, he tried to make up his misgivings with being strict - that’s what he thought the definition of being a good father was. When he was drunk, well,” pain seeps through the cracking in Kame’s voice, pain that Jin feels reflected in his own heart. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a pretty sight. He hated that I played baseball - he used to be a famed soccer player, and he hated baseball. He hated the sight of my bat, my baseball, my glove, my hat; hell, it was like he hated the sight of me.” Jin smiles at the wry, reminiscent tone of Kame’s voice. “I used to sneak out to the field at night to meet up with my friends, and we’d bring flashlights to practice in the dark. On the team at school,” pride swells inside the words, “I was one of the best. I can still hear the cheers from my second to last game there, last inning. We were two home runs down, bases fully loaded, and I was up at bat. It was a dream come true,” Kame laughs, like he is back at the game, dust collecting under the skid of his feet. “Best day of my life.”
They both stand in silence for a moment, letting the whirs and roars of city life pass them by. “Not all soccer players hate baseball,” Jin comments idly, and it makes Kame laugh pleasantly, a bright, playful sound in comparison to the rawness of his story. “Not all baseball players become models, either.”
“Not all the people you meet don’t have their own music, either.”
Surprised, Jin freezes. “How did you know?”
“Yamashita and Nishikido told me,” Kame sounds halfway torn between amused and disappointed. “While you were zoning out.”
“Oh,” is all Jin can manage, throat constricting as he tries to think of an explanation for the circumstances he doesn’t even understand. “It doesn’t mean that you’re - ”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind too much.” Kame sounds so honest that Jin is prone to believing him, letting the subject go until further discussion. The silence between them is comfortable, and only when Jin’s apartment building is already in sight does he remember that his fingers are still entwined with Kame’s, hands swinging between them like a bridge.
Kame appears to remember simultaneously, for his fingers begin to loosen reluctantly around Jin’s, as if to inconspicuously draw away, but Jin tightens his grasp, squeezing Kame’s hand in what he hopes to be a reassuring manner (he doesn’t remember much about holding hands, not even with his parents, but he’s pretty sure it’s warmer than anything he’s ever felt).
In his world of darkness, the one thing he misses as they pass through the doors of the lobby is Kame’s brilliant, involuntary smile.
--
Kame’s visits to his apartment start to become routinely, almost more than Ryo and Yamapi’s. Jin learns that Kame was previously a model under a rival agency, and that he is to be included in all of Ryo and Yamapi’s photo shoots from now on - which, in itself, is a feat, seeing as Ryo and Yamapi are the stars of their agency.
But when Kame comes over and takes him out on walks in the park, pointing out colors like he’s a normal person and describing them in terms of musicality, Jin just thinks of him as Kame. Strong-willed, determined, softhearted Kame - with the now familiar genteelness of his voice, the firm pad of his footsteps on the dirt pathway, the calloused palm covering Jin’s elbow. The lack of music no longer bothers Jin; it’s just another quirk he’s learned to accept about Kame, something he’s come to appreciate in the mess of never-ending music in his life.
Often, Kame likes to sit and listen to him play the guitar, humming to harmonize with his melodies and fixing lyrics for him when they fail to rhyme. The papers stuffed in Jin’s guitar case are increasingly filling with Kame’s handwriting (Yamapi seems happy enough to give up this tedious work to Kame), a deep imprint of scrawl that Jin can feel indented into the paper beneath his fingertips.
They are sitting at the piano one day, the sound of Kame’s pen scratching against the papers when Jin’s fingers abruptly stop, hands falling into his lap with quiet dignity. In surprise, Kame’s pen screeches to a halt, and Jin feels the hand at his elbow, a silent question.
“You’re weird today,” he says in reply to the silence, and sense Kame moving away. With rapid movements, he grabs onto Kame’s wrist before it can completely pull out of his reach. Kame’s fingers are clammier than usual, cold, nervous sweat tainting the usual warmth of his fingertips. “What’s wrong?”
The silence from Kame is almost audible, a loud drone of anxiety in his ears. Finally, Kame tugs away, and Jin releases him reluctantly, dropping his hand with an air of disappointment. “Jin,” Kame’s voice is neutral, somehow sad in nature. “What does it take to forgive a person?”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Jin spins around on the seat to face the direction Kame’s voice is coming from. “Is this about your father?”
Instead of answering, Kame presses onwards. “If I disappeared for, say a period of time, would you forgive me?”
Jin’s heart swoops down low into his stomach as the worst possibilities fly through his head - the top one being disease, and he gulps. “Are you…sick?”
“Me?” Kame seems shocked. “Oh, no, not me.” There’s something incomplete about the way he says it, like he’s preoccupied, and even though Jin knows he’s right there, he can tell Kame’s heart is far from here. Desperately, Jin bites lip in an attempt to retrieve it, to make Kame know he cares.
“Kame,” his tone is careful. “Are you planning on disappearing?”
When the other doesn’t reply, Jin reaches forward, nearly too far before Kame’s hands grip onto his, fingers pressing gently onto his skin to steady him. Holding on tightly, Jin shifts forward, until he can feel the warmth of Kame’s body heat, the familiar smell of light vanilla and early, sunny mornings drifting towards him. Uneasily, Kame’s fingers loosen, but Jin catches them again.
“Tell me your favorite color,” Jin tries to keep the quaver out of his voice, pulse racing where Kame’s fingertips are hot against his. “Your favorite music. Your favorite - ”
“Jin, what are you - ”
“Just, tell me something!” A sudden panic begins to claw its way out of Jin’s mouth, panic at losing this person, this something precious Kame has become, sneaking into his heart without him knowing. He wrenches away from Kame on his own, burying his head into the clumsy, heated cup of his own hands. “Anything,” he murmurs, words choking. “I need to know.”
“Jin,” there are hands on his own, a thumb massaging circles on his palm. “I’ll tell you anything. You know that.”
Raising his head, Jin brings one of Kame’s hands to his cheek, feeling the rough brush of the calloused palm, soft fingertips from holding the pen too tightly. “What do I look like?”
There’s a pause, a breath of quietness. “Beautiful,” comes the profound answer, and Jin feels himself grabbing the word, holding it close to his chest. “You’re like an undefined color, like a rainbow all mixed together and squashed. You’re all the genres of music, from every strange, beat-less piece to the cheesiest love song.” Kame’s voice is obviously strained, almost shaky. “You’re beautiful,” he repeats, and Jin wants to believe it, wants to steal the words and lock them up in a shelf in his heart forever.
“What do you look like?”
Kame’s hand against his cheek twitches, slowly pulling away, but the fingers around Jin’s knuckles make Jin’s hand follow in suit. Jin starts slightly at the touch of unfamiliar skin against his palm, the hardness of defined cheekbones, the bridge of a nose, perfectly arched eyebrows. He feels Kame’s eyelids fluttering closed beneath his wandering fingers, the soft tickle of eyelashes, the silky skin of a model under his touch. Moving downward, Jin finds Kame’s lips, jutting out slightly in a pout-like structure, parting patiently for his fingers.
Somehow, Kame’s presence has leaned in towards him - the scent of cologne and vanilla is stronger than before, heat radiating in waves towards him. Jin slows the pace of his fingers on Kame’s face, lingering upon the lips, heartbeat thudding through his entire body like the rigid, pounding beat of a dance song, ears ringing with the same undefined excitement that prickled his nerves the first time he met Kame. Hands enclose around his, bringing them down to rougher, more solid fabric, the cotton threading of a T-shirt. He fists his hands into it just as something soft touches his lips, something that moves and parts and he recognizes it as the lips he’d touched with his fingers moments earlier. Involuntarily, Jin leans into the contact, reveling in the explosion of tingling sensations that travel down his spine, a warmth that fills him up like the sunshine of a new day - but so much more.
“Jin,” Kame is whispering against his mouth, gentle murmurs of his name, and Jin slides his hands around to encircle a slender waist. Kame tastes faintly of mint Chapstick and something sweet, like the chocolate croissant Jin had for breakfast this morning. Every feeling he could ever name wells up inside him, and he sighs into the kiss, nuzzling closer into fine, vanilla-scented hair.
The realization is suddenly so clear, and he can’t help but laugh, embracing Kame tighter. “What,” Kame’s voice trembles through him, curious and affectionate.
“I know why you don’t have music,” Jin confides into his hair, and feels Kame’s head lower into the crook of his shoulder, heavy and warm. “You’re everything.”
“Everything?” Kame laughs into his shirt, hot breath pleasant against the skin of his sensitive collarbone. “That’s pretty vague for a genius like you.”
“Everything,” smiling, Jin pulls back, feeling Kame’s gaze on his face (because, of course, Kame’s gaze is always the one he can feel the strongest). “For me, you’re just everything.”
This time, Kame’s lips are confident and insistent upon his, and his smile widens, the fleeting remembrance of a rainbow clear cut in his mind before he completely lets go.
part 2