Eye-catchers
Title: Eye-catchers
Characters: Ohno, Arashi
Rating: G
Words: 992
Summary: “There are three things one can stare at for hours: fire, water and people working.”
A/N: Unbeta’d. Inspired by the insightful words of a fellow student as cited in the summary. This was almost finished; it'll probably be the last Arashi fic for a while.
Ohno’s favourite things to watch are fire, water and people working.
He doesn’t come across fire too often, but when he is out drinking with friends he will almost always spend a minute or more just staring at the lit candle on the table. He will notice his vision blur, knowing there is a veil between the world and him for now but not caring, not trying to pull it away, content with how it re-shapes everything around him. He will feel drowsy and relaxed, his thoughts slow and random as they stumble around in his head, brush each other, wander along for a moment; sometimes they fit, mostly they don’t. He will be warm from the alcohol and the lateness of the evening, sometimes a little chilly when the door opens and a cold draft finds its way in. The little light shivers with him.
It’s a right little tease, this one. It knows how to enchant, acting all coy and warm with just a hint of danger, a promise of pain for being treated without care. It knows that the more it ignores its audience the longer they will look, so it focuses on nothing but itself. It dances to its own music, gently swaying, bending, rising, stuttering, jumping. They are similar in this moment, one lost in movement, one in stillness, both in themselves.
“Ohno,” someone will say, punching his arm, “hey, don’t ignore us!” And then Ohno will be back, laugh an embarrassed little laugh and join the conversation. When they leave, he will get strangely affected by the thought of someone thoughtlessly extinguishing the flame later, so he will bow down, apologize silently and gently blow it out himself. He imagines it goes peaceful.
::
When Ohno is fishing he will watch the sea. It is part of the process of course, but Ohno likes to think of it as an end in itself. He likes how the sea is different and yet the same every time.
He will stare at the surface, follow the hypnotising pattern of the ripples and waves as they hurry around, one after the other in the same direction, all looking the same yet none like the other. He can’t decide whether they’re fast or slow. He will listen to the hollow sounds they make as they slosh against the boat, an unexpected obstacle on their way, wondering if it is a sound of pain. If the never ending swoosh of waves breaking at the beach is a dying breath only louder or maybe a joyous whoop at swamping up the beach as far as possible before being pulled back into the open sea. If the low plashing of the tiny ripples around the boat is whispering, telling legends of what lies await at the end of their journey, or maybe jokes passed around to bide the time. He will wonder what kind of humour waves have, what makes them wave-chuckle or wave-snort or wave-laugh.
Suddenly the rod in Ohno’s hand will twitch, and then there will be pulling and shouting and motioning for a bigger bucket until the fish is safely on board, swimming circles in its plastic prison until the fishers get hungry.
Later, when he hears the dabble of waves sneaking around in the marina as he careens on solid concrete, Ohno will be convinced the waves are giggling at him.
::
When Ohno is waiting for whatever is scheduled to happen on whatever set he is scheduled to be at, he will watch people work.
Ohno knows almost all of the motions they do and has a grasp on what they are doing them for. There are people whose job it is to give directions and tell others what to do, others pass those orders along and keep an eye on that they are fulfilled the right way. Some work silently without needing to be prompted, some are waiting until it is their turn to contribute and fill in their part in making something big.
The room is filled with a constant buzz. Requests and replies, instructions and inquiries shouted into the room as a whole shoot straight through the air, miraculously finding their destined ears. Low murmur bubbles in various places where heads are bowed and fingers flit over papers or equipment. The shuffling of feet accompanies a telephone call, the voice taking that particular pitch that tries to get clear through the line while not disturb bystanders. Hushed private conversations, aware of being interrupted any moment, make for a steady whisper.
Then, from one moment to the other, something changes. The noises are still there, their harmony not disturbed yet fundamentally different, just a bit at first, then changing faster and faster. Movement, he realises. Not the voices move but he does, his position shifted from where was just a moment ago. He had forgotten he could move, that he could contribute to it all, that, should he want to, he could change it because he is there. He has a body people have to walk around and a will, a free will that can decide if he wants to be an observer or a participant. He feels enlightened. He blinks determinedly, feeling his face muscles contort, and the hand on the small of his back vanishes almost before he comes to notice it being there in the first place. He looks and sees Sho standing at the edge of the set, watching him; when their eyes meet, Sho turns to nod at a hovering make-up girl who immediately hurries to attack Ohno’s face with sponges and brushes. He closes his eyes under the ambush, the sounds around him taking over his mind once again. This time he listens. He makes out words and voices; Jun confirming details with the director, Sho laughing as Aiba makes fun of their outfits, Nino asking for water. When Ohno opens his eyes again, he feels more awake than ever.
Characters: Ohno, Arashi
Rating: G
Words: 992
Summary: “There are three things one can stare at for hours: fire, water and people working.”
A/N: Unbeta’d. Inspired by the insightful words of a fellow student as cited in the summary. This was almost finished; it'll probably be the last Arashi fic for a while.
Ohno’s favourite things to watch are fire, water and people working.
He doesn’t come across fire too often, but when he is out drinking with friends he will almost always spend a minute or more just staring at the lit candle on the table. He will notice his vision blur, knowing there is a veil between the world and him for now but not caring, not trying to pull it away, content with how it re-shapes everything around him. He will feel drowsy and relaxed, his thoughts slow and random as they stumble around in his head, brush each other, wander along for a moment; sometimes they fit, mostly they don’t. He will be warm from the alcohol and the lateness of the evening, sometimes a little chilly when the door opens and a cold draft finds its way in. The little light shivers with him.
It’s a right little tease, this one. It knows how to enchant, acting all coy and warm with just a hint of danger, a promise of pain for being treated without care. It knows that the more it ignores its audience the longer they will look, so it focuses on nothing but itself. It dances to its own music, gently swaying, bending, rising, stuttering, jumping. They are similar in this moment, one lost in movement, one in stillness, both in themselves.
“Ohno,” someone will say, punching his arm, “hey, don’t ignore us!” And then Ohno will be back, laugh an embarrassed little laugh and join the conversation. When they leave, he will get strangely affected by the thought of someone thoughtlessly extinguishing the flame later, so he will bow down, apologize silently and gently blow it out himself. He imagines it goes peaceful.
::
When Ohno is fishing he will watch the sea. It is part of the process of course, but Ohno likes to think of it as an end in itself. He likes how the sea is different and yet the same every time.
He will stare at the surface, follow the hypnotising pattern of the ripples and waves as they hurry around, one after the other in the same direction, all looking the same yet none like the other. He can’t decide whether they’re fast or slow. He will listen to the hollow sounds they make as they slosh against the boat, an unexpected obstacle on their way, wondering if it is a sound of pain. If the never ending swoosh of waves breaking at the beach is a dying breath only louder or maybe a joyous whoop at swamping up the beach as far as possible before being pulled back into the open sea. If the low plashing of the tiny ripples around the boat is whispering, telling legends of what lies await at the end of their journey, or maybe jokes passed around to bide the time. He will wonder what kind of humour waves have, what makes them wave-chuckle or wave-snort or wave-laugh.
Suddenly the rod in Ohno’s hand will twitch, and then there will be pulling and shouting and motioning for a bigger bucket until the fish is safely on board, swimming circles in its plastic prison until the fishers get hungry.
Later, when he hears the dabble of waves sneaking around in the marina as he careens on solid concrete, Ohno will be convinced the waves are giggling at him.
::
When Ohno is waiting for whatever is scheduled to happen on whatever set he is scheduled to be at, he will watch people work.
Ohno knows almost all of the motions they do and has a grasp on what they are doing them for. There are people whose job it is to give directions and tell others what to do, others pass those orders along and keep an eye on that they are fulfilled the right way. Some work silently without needing to be prompted, some are waiting until it is their turn to contribute and fill in their part in making something big.
The room is filled with a constant buzz. Requests and replies, instructions and inquiries shouted into the room as a whole shoot straight through the air, miraculously finding their destined ears. Low murmur bubbles in various places where heads are bowed and fingers flit over papers or equipment. The shuffling of feet accompanies a telephone call, the voice taking that particular pitch that tries to get clear through the line while not disturb bystanders. Hushed private conversations, aware of being interrupted any moment, make for a steady whisper.
Then, from one moment to the other, something changes. The noises are still there, their harmony not disturbed yet fundamentally different, just a bit at first, then changing faster and faster. Movement, he realises. Not the voices move but he does, his position shifted from where was just a moment ago. He had forgotten he could move, that he could contribute to it all, that, should he want to, he could change it because he is there. He has a body people have to walk around and a will, a free will that can decide if he wants to be an observer or a participant. He feels enlightened. He blinks determinedly, feeling his face muscles contort, and the hand on the small of his back vanishes almost before he comes to notice it being there in the first place. He looks and sees Sho standing at the edge of the set, watching him; when their eyes meet, Sho turns to nod at a hovering make-up girl who immediately hurries to attack Ohno’s face with sponges and brushes. He closes his eyes under the ambush, the sounds around him taking over his mind once again. This time he listens. He makes out words and voices; Jun confirming details with the director, Sho laughing as Aiba makes fun of their outfits, Nino asking for water. When Ohno opens his eyes again, he feels more awake than ever.