[je] fic: like this (ryo/shige)
Title: Like This
Written: 291108
Summary: A typical morning in the not-too-recent future. Ryo/Shige. AU-ish. WC: 1806.
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment.
Notes: I took a train ride the other day and an old uncle sat down next to me in the priority seat. After he sat down, he kept kneading and pressing his knee - for some inexplicable reason, i kept staring at that arthritic hand of his massaging his own knee, and then this story appeared fully formed in my head. Dedicated to praghufanfic because I said I would :) Both title and poem nicked from Rumi.
A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the verandah,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden's beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.
----Rumi, 'Kulliyat-e Shams, 2114'
Shige wakes up to the chill morning air slightly biting against his skin. Gently, he disengages the warm fingers curled loosely around his forearm before he pushes the thick white quilt covers aside and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to sit up, feeling the gentle draft wafting through the curtains. Ryo must have forgotten to shut the windows again last night, though he'll probably stubbornly deny it later when he wakes up. Any allusions to memory loss these days are met with childish indignation.
Steadying himself against the bedside table, Shige carefully heaves himself into standing, wincing a little at the twinging ache that shoots down his right leg when he puts his full weight upon it. Five years ago, Ryo was still insisting that they sleep on futons, but he's relented ever since Shige had that nasty fall three years back. The effects still linger on - in the perpetual stiffness of his right knee on cool mornings like these, the altered cadence of his gait, the throbbing and warmth surrounding his kneecap after a long walk or a brisker-than-normal hobble when trying to beat the green man at the traffic lights.
The most visible sign of his post-fall complications leans against the dresser across the room from the bed, and Shige keeps one hand against the wall as he makes his unhurried way towards the walking stick. Usually he doesn't need it within the house - once he's warmed up and busily occupied with the various tasks he plans to accomplish for the day - but he stumbled upon the step entering the front door yesterday, only barely catching the frame in time as his right knee buckled, and Ryo obstinately insisted he hang onto the inconvenient piece of aluminium for the rest of that evening.
He curls his hand around the smooth wooden handle topping the metal stick and brings it along with him into the bathroom, swinging it instead of setting the rubber-tipped end solidly upon the floor. Ryo had said to keep his hand on the walking stick, but he never specified anything about its position. Shige knows which battles to pick and choose. He'll use it properly, once Ryo returns to the land of the waking and deigns to leave the cosy burrow of their bed covers.
Warmed up by the scalding hot shower that has now become an essential element of his daily routine, Shige limps down the stairs to the kitchen to brew their morning coffee - a vice the both of them still refuse to let go of. Cigarettes were consigned to the dustbin the day they moved to this place, and even alcohol is only once or twice a week, reserved for when they frequent the little town's bar, or when old friends come by to visit.
As he enters the kitchen, he waves a careless hand over the large flat-screen suspended on the wall next to the archway. The images flicker to life, sharp and crisp, and the newscaster's comments start overpowering the peaceful chirping of the birds outside and the distant crashing surf. Shige listens with half his attention, letting the early morning news filter into his brain unconsciously as he stands in front of the open cabinet over the countertop, contemplating breakfast. They have an 'intelligent screen' in every room of the house - except for the bedroom, Shige had put his foot firmly down for that - the only concession Ryo has made in allowing the entry of the new 'artificial intelligence' into their home.
The rice still has fifteen minutes to steam in the cooker before it will be done, and the dashi is heating up in the saucepan on the stove. Ryo shuffles into the kitchen in his bathrobe, hands tucked under his arms against the cold, as Shige begins to melt the miso, breaking up the paste with the chopsticks in his left hand. Ryo stops in front of the countertop next to Shige, left hand reaching out for the coffee mug that Shige's left for him, while his right comes to rest upon Shige's lower back, absently rubbing in light circles.
“How's your knee?” he asks in lieu of 'good morning', after gulping down half the contents in his mug. He sets his coffee down, peels back the sealed plastic on the tofu carton, upends the container to let the tofu plop out and quickly slices it into cubes to pass to Shige after Shige has added the miso to the simmering dashi. Then he picks up the bowl with the soaked wakame, stealing a piece for himself before handing it over to Shige as well.
“It's fine,” Shige answers, like he always does. He puts in the ingredients in the order he receives them from Ryo, then turns his face to meet Ryo's for the first kiss of the day. It's slow, leisurely, and Shige's tongue registers with a burst the wakame and coffee lingering in Ryo's mouth.
The sun's started peeking out from behind the cloud cover as they finish breakfast and clear the dishes. Shige watches the hints of blue filtering through the wispy white outside the window as he dries the plates and bowls with the cloth in his hand. “Let's go for a walk after this?”
Ryo looks up from where he's rinsing off the last dish at the sink. “Alright, but you're bringing along your walking stick.”
Shige frowns, about to open his mouth to debate the issue, but Ryo raises one hand to stop him. “You know as well as I do that the path out there is uneven. Don't make me have to carry you back.” And even though they both know Ryo doesn't really mean it, it's enough to dissolve Shige's inclination to argue.
“Fine, whatever.” Shige rolls his eyes in a perfect imitation of Ryo when he's defeated by Shige's logic. Ryo grins as he passes the dish to Shige and heads back up to their bedroom to change into proper clothes, his step still light and quick. Ryo never did get rid of his bathrobe-wearing habit - Shige reckons the trauma of too many costume changes have left its indelible mark. He dries off the last dish, returns it to the rack, and carefully makes his way to the genkan to wait for Ryo.
The morning has warmed up with the sun's stronger appearance, making it comfortable enough to be out in the open without having to be excessively wrapped up. They stroll down from their front gate along the winding coastal road, moving further away from the outskirts of the sleepy seaside town and the house that Wagahai fell in love with after his years of roaming the world. Ryo stays close, their arms brushing more often than not.
Ten minutes brings them to a small path cleared through the woods that obscure the view of the sea and Shige feels Ryo's hand gently squeeze his shoulder in reminder to be more careful on the uneven surface. Shige starts using his stick in earnest as they step onto the path, and once they round a bend that cuts off vision from the main road, he reaches out for Ryo's hand. Ryo's returning grasp is firm and the smile he gives Shige still holds traces of shyness, even after all this passage of time.
They continue down towards the end of the path with fingers entwined, and Shige knows that it's not rational, that Ryo's hand is merely holding his and not providing any extra support whatsoever, but it still feels like his body has suddenly become stronger, his footing surer.
The little clearing they enter upon emerging from the edge of the woods is where the path finishes. There's really still a ways to go before the actual cliffs can be reached, but it's a route littered with broken boulders and loose gravel that would defeat even Ryo now. But since the elevation is highest where they're standing, the coastline and the white-tipped foam bounding it unfurls in panoramic sprawl in front of them. About half a year ago, two of Ryo's nephews came by to visit and left them a solid wooden bench under the branching shade of the outermost trees. Now it's become one of Shige's most favourite spots in the whole wide world.
Shige lowers himself onto the bench, a little too heavily than he can control, while his hand grips the armrest tightly. His knee is aching and throbbing a little, and he gingerly straightens it, kneading the muscles in his thigh as he does so. “You're doing it wrong, baka.” His fingers are brushed away brusquely by Ryo, who has seated himself to Shige's right, and who has taken over the massage instead, using his thumb and knuckles to press against knots of tension that gradually loosen and ease the more he does it. His hands move with the certainty born of long practice, more expert than any professional masseuse.
“Thanks,” Shige says, leaning against the backrest, slowing moving the knee back and forth to further work out the stiffness. Ryo also sits back, barely an inch of distance between the two of them, keeping his left hand still lying atop of Shige's thigh. Shige covers Ryo's hand with his own, idly running his fingers over the rough calluses on the pads of Ryo's fingers.
The salt-laced breeze suddenly picks up, scattering the clouds, and the sun finally unleashes its full glory, illuminating the landscape, making everything suddenly seem sharper, their colours more vibrant. The light glints off the streaks of silver in Ryo's hair as Shige leans in closer to him so they can share their second kiss of the morning.
owari
A/N: the cliffside i imagine is the one in the 3rd part of the story-arc in the movie 'accuracy of death' starring kaneshiro takeshi, where he and the old lady watch the sunrise(?) - it's a wonderful, peaceful, yet strangely powerful scene, in a peaceful yet strangely powerful movie. i actually had a different ending, but it felt fitting enuff to stop where i did. but i've added the alternative below :)
omake
Shige stirs, sleepily blinking into wakefulness at the feel of soft lips against his own. He tries to shift but realises that he's trapped underneath the weight of Ryo's body, and brings up his right hand to tug at the back of Ryo's sweater.
“Hi,” Ryo whispers against Shige's mouth, and gives his attention to the tiny lick-bites he's trailing along the line of Shige's jaw down to his throat.
“Hi,” Shige gasps as he arches up, trying to grind against Ryo, but the angle's all wrong and there's too much bedding in the way. He satisfies himself instead by placing his hand over the back of Ryo's neck so Ryo doesn't pull back much further. “When did you get home?”
“Only just,” Ryo replies with a yawn, letting himself go limp with his head resting over Shige's heart. “What were you dreaming of? You were smiling in your sleep when I first came in.”
Shige closes his eyes and lazily runs his fingers through Ryo's hair, playing with the ends a little. “The future. I dreamt of the future.”
Written: 291108
Summary: A typical morning in the not-too-recent future. Ryo/Shige. AU-ish. WC: 1806.
Fandom: Johnny's Entertainment.
Notes: I took a train ride the other day and an old uncle sat down next to me in the priority seat. After he sat down, he kept kneading and pressing his knee - for some inexplicable reason, i kept staring at that arthritic hand of his massaging his own knee, and then this story appeared fully formed in my head. Dedicated to praghufanfic because I said I would :) Both title and poem nicked from Rumi.
A moment of happiness,
you and I sitting on the verandah,
apparently two, but one in soul, you and I.
We feel the flowing water of life here,
you and I, with the garden's beauty
and the birds singing.
The stars will be watching us,
and we will show them
what it is to be a thin crescent moon.
You and I unselfed, will be together,
indifferent to idle speculation, you and I.
The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar
as we laugh together, you and I.
In one form upon this earth,
and in another form in a timeless sweet land.
----Rumi, 'Kulliyat-e Shams, 2114'
Shige wakes up to the chill morning air slightly biting against his skin. Gently, he disengages the warm fingers curled loosely around his forearm before he pushes the thick white quilt covers aside and slowly swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to sit up, feeling the gentle draft wafting through the curtains. Ryo must have forgotten to shut the windows again last night, though he'll probably stubbornly deny it later when he wakes up. Any allusions to memory loss these days are met with childish indignation.
Steadying himself against the bedside table, Shige carefully heaves himself into standing, wincing a little at the twinging ache that shoots down his right leg when he puts his full weight upon it. Five years ago, Ryo was still insisting that they sleep on futons, but he's relented ever since Shige had that nasty fall three years back. The effects still linger on - in the perpetual stiffness of his right knee on cool mornings like these, the altered cadence of his gait, the throbbing and warmth surrounding his kneecap after a long walk or a brisker-than-normal hobble when trying to beat the green man at the traffic lights.
The most visible sign of his post-fall complications leans against the dresser across the room from the bed, and Shige keeps one hand against the wall as he makes his unhurried way towards the walking stick. Usually he doesn't need it within the house - once he's warmed up and busily occupied with the various tasks he plans to accomplish for the day - but he stumbled upon the step entering the front door yesterday, only barely catching the frame in time as his right knee buckled, and Ryo obstinately insisted he hang onto the inconvenient piece of aluminium for the rest of that evening.
He curls his hand around the smooth wooden handle topping the metal stick and brings it along with him into the bathroom, swinging it instead of setting the rubber-tipped end solidly upon the floor. Ryo had said to keep his hand on the walking stick, but he never specified anything about its position. Shige knows which battles to pick and choose. He'll use it properly, once Ryo returns to the land of the waking and deigns to leave the cosy burrow of their bed covers.
Warmed up by the scalding hot shower that has now become an essential element of his daily routine, Shige limps down the stairs to the kitchen to brew their morning coffee - a vice the both of them still refuse to let go of. Cigarettes were consigned to the dustbin the day they moved to this place, and even alcohol is only once or twice a week, reserved for when they frequent the little town's bar, or when old friends come by to visit.
As he enters the kitchen, he waves a careless hand over the large flat-screen suspended on the wall next to the archway. The images flicker to life, sharp and crisp, and the newscaster's comments start overpowering the peaceful chirping of the birds outside and the distant crashing surf. Shige listens with half his attention, letting the early morning news filter into his brain unconsciously as he stands in front of the open cabinet over the countertop, contemplating breakfast. They have an 'intelligent screen' in every room of the house - except for the bedroom, Shige had put his foot firmly down for that - the only concession Ryo has made in allowing the entry of the new 'artificial intelligence' into their home.
The rice still has fifteen minutes to steam in the cooker before it will be done, and the dashi is heating up in the saucepan on the stove. Ryo shuffles into the kitchen in his bathrobe, hands tucked under his arms against the cold, as Shige begins to melt the miso, breaking up the paste with the chopsticks in his left hand. Ryo stops in front of the countertop next to Shige, left hand reaching out for the coffee mug that Shige's left for him, while his right comes to rest upon Shige's lower back, absently rubbing in light circles.
“How's your knee?” he asks in lieu of 'good morning', after gulping down half the contents in his mug. He sets his coffee down, peels back the sealed plastic on the tofu carton, upends the container to let the tofu plop out and quickly slices it into cubes to pass to Shige after Shige has added the miso to the simmering dashi. Then he picks up the bowl with the soaked wakame, stealing a piece for himself before handing it over to Shige as well.
“It's fine,” Shige answers, like he always does. He puts in the ingredients in the order he receives them from Ryo, then turns his face to meet Ryo's for the first kiss of the day. It's slow, leisurely, and Shige's tongue registers with a burst the wakame and coffee lingering in Ryo's mouth.
The sun's started peeking out from behind the cloud cover as they finish breakfast and clear the dishes. Shige watches the hints of blue filtering through the wispy white outside the window as he dries the plates and bowls with the cloth in his hand. “Let's go for a walk after this?”
Ryo looks up from where he's rinsing off the last dish at the sink. “Alright, but you're bringing along your walking stick.”
Shige frowns, about to open his mouth to debate the issue, but Ryo raises one hand to stop him. “You know as well as I do that the path out there is uneven. Don't make me have to carry you back.” And even though they both know Ryo doesn't really mean it, it's enough to dissolve Shige's inclination to argue.
“Fine, whatever.” Shige rolls his eyes in a perfect imitation of Ryo when he's defeated by Shige's logic. Ryo grins as he passes the dish to Shige and heads back up to their bedroom to change into proper clothes, his step still light and quick. Ryo never did get rid of his bathrobe-wearing habit - Shige reckons the trauma of too many costume changes have left its indelible mark. He dries off the last dish, returns it to the rack, and carefully makes his way to the genkan to wait for Ryo.
The morning has warmed up with the sun's stronger appearance, making it comfortable enough to be out in the open without having to be excessively wrapped up. They stroll down from their front gate along the winding coastal road, moving further away from the outskirts of the sleepy seaside town and the house that Wagahai fell in love with after his years of roaming the world. Ryo stays close, their arms brushing more often than not.
Ten minutes brings them to a small path cleared through the woods that obscure the view of the sea and Shige feels Ryo's hand gently squeeze his shoulder in reminder to be more careful on the uneven surface. Shige starts using his stick in earnest as they step onto the path, and once they round a bend that cuts off vision from the main road, he reaches out for Ryo's hand. Ryo's returning grasp is firm and the smile he gives Shige still holds traces of shyness, even after all this passage of time.
They continue down towards the end of the path with fingers entwined, and Shige knows that it's not rational, that Ryo's hand is merely holding his and not providing any extra support whatsoever, but it still feels like his body has suddenly become stronger, his footing surer.
The little clearing they enter upon emerging from the edge of the woods is where the path finishes. There's really still a ways to go before the actual cliffs can be reached, but it's a route littered with broken boulders and loose gravel that would defeat even Ryo now. But since the elevation is highest where they're standing, the coastline and the white-tipped foam bounding it unfurls in panoramic sprawl in front of them. About half a year ago, two of Ryo's nephews came by to visit and left them a solid wooden bench under the branching shade of the outermost trees. Now it's become one of Shige's most favourite spots in the whole wide world.
Shige lowers himself onto the bench, a little too heavily than he can control, while his hand grips the armrest tightly. His knee is aching and throbbing a little, and he gingerly straightens it, kneading the muscles in his thigh as he does so. “You're doing it wrong, baka.” His fingers are brushed away brusquely by Ryo, who has seated himself to Shige's right, and who has taken over the massage instead, using his thumb and knuckles to press against knots of tension that gradually loosen and ease the more he does it. His hands move with the certainty born of long practice, more expert than any professional masseuse.
“Thanks,” Shige says, leaning against the backrest, slowing moving the knee back and forth to further work out the stiffness. Ryo also sits back, barely an inch of distance between the two of them, keeping his left hand still lying atop of Shige's thigh. Shige covers Ryo's hand with his own, idly running his fingers over the rough calluses on the pads of Ryo's fingers.
The salt-laced breeze suddenly picks up, scattering the clouds, and the sun finally unleashes its full glory, illuminating the landscape, making everything suddenly seem sharper, their colours more vibrant. The light glints off the streaks of silver in Ryo's hair as Shige leans in closer to him so they can share their second kiss of the morning.
owari
A/N: the cliffside i imagine is the one in the 3rd part of the story-arc in the movie 'accuracy of death' starring kaneshiro takeshi, where he and the old lady watch the sunrise(?) - it's a wonderful, peaceful, yet strangely powerful scene, in a peaceful yet strangely powerful movie. i actually had a different ending, but it felt fitting enuff to stop where i did. but i've added the alternative below :)
omake
Shige stirs, sleepily blinking into wakefulness at the feel of soft lips against his own. He tries to shift but realises that he's trapped underneath the weight of Ryo's body, and brings up his right hand to tug at the back of Ryo's sweater.
“Hi,” Ryo whispers against Shige's mouth, and gives his attention to the tiny lick-bites he's trailing along the line of Shige's jaw down to his throat.
“Hi,” Shige gasps as he arches up, trying to grind against Ryo, but the angle's all wrong and there's too much bedding in the way. He satisfies himself instead by placing his hand over the back of Ryo's neck so Ryo doesn't pull back much further. “When did you get home?”
“Only just,” Ryo replies with a yawn, letting himself go limp with his head resting over Shige's heart. “What were you dreaming of? You were smiling in your sleep when I first came in.”
Shige closes his eyes and lazily runs his fingers through Ryo's hair, playing with the ends a little. “The future. I dreamt of the future.”