(SMAP) The Month Kimura Nearly Threw His Phone into Tokyo Bay (Part 1)
The Month Kimura Nearly Threw His Phone into Tokyo Bay
Tsuyoshi/Kimura | PG-13 | Part 1
He wasn’t the first to hear the news, but as soon as he did, he meant to follow through with his vaguely thought-out plan: Avoid Tsuyoshi-kun Through Any and Every Means Possible. It’s not that he wanted to, far from it actually, but taking into account how serious Tsuyoshi was taking the temporary leave (never would he call it ‘suspension’ for that entailed a stopping of something and nothing nor no one could stop SMAP, not even time, but now’s not the time to be technical, is it?); it was the least he could do.
Management coordinated a press-conference and all they were left with was the job of creating a personal statement. They had done so with considerable ease; Nakai even allowed Shingo to tag a haiku he had written at the end (everyone was worried he’d take it as hard as Tsuyoshi, if not harder). Of course, by the time their statement was released, it had been scrapped and re-written so many times by management, that nothing of their genuine sincerity and affinity for one another was left to salvage; it was all hard and stilted words read over and over again from the mouths of reporters (“In further news, SMAP has now released a statement to apologize for the trouble and worry caused to fans and that of several related parties.”).
Kimura still couldn’t grasp how quickly and efficiently Johnny’s removed Tsuyoshi’s CMs and banned him from nearly every job he had at the time. The idea that they believed they could quite literally erase Tsuyoshi from existence was ridiculous and pissed him off (he reminded himself to never drink again with the cast after a day of shooting-they got an earful of how pissed he was, as well).
He’d only admit it to himself, but he was entirely grateful for Mr. Brain and his full shooting schedule; there was barely a moment he couldn’t distract himself (save for the few bathroom breaks he allowed himself between shoots where he would find himself straddling the toilet seat, wringing his hands and trying to think of nothing in particular as opposed to the particular... person he would be thinking about if it weren’t for the AD who’d come rushing in (just in time before the fuzzy images materialized), concerned and asking if everything was all right because apparently he’d been in the stall for ten minutes now).
Aside from those very brief moments, life went on, he continued shooting a drama and it wasn’t until the phone calls started coming in that he realized just exactly how hard this was going to be.
The first week of Tsuyoshi’s leave had only ended a day or two ago (he promised himself he wouldn’t keep count and had been pretty successful so far), and there Kimura was, legs crossed while leaning casually on the couch in his unusually small dressing room (which relieved him, he really didn’t find it necessary to have a big room anyway, as long as there was a chair he was good; the couch was an added bonus he couldn’t find the energy to complain about). He came to the set earlier than the scheduled shooting time with the intent of memorizing his lines; he had two more pages to go.
He was as comfortable as he would probably ever get this early in the morning, cradling a mug of steaming coffee between his legs, fully aware of the risk he was taking (but he was a pro, he’d done this every set he’d been on). He was now looking over a scene where his actions would speak far louder than his words (which also meant, less lines for him to memorize. Yes.), as he managed to balance the script between his knees while sipping slowly at the coffee now in his hands.
Bzztbzztbzzt. Bzztbzztbzzt.
(He had this terrible habit of always leaving his phone on vibrate, which, strangely enough, always ended up sounding more annoying than its ringtone).
“... who would be calling?” Mumbling to himself, with a practised move, coffee in one hand, script still tucked among his limbs; he reached for his phone, scanning the caller ID.
The name Tsuyoshi-kun stared up at him. He glared back. He couldn’t stifle the long sigh he let loose or help the fact he was now grinding his teeth. Everything in his arm told him to put the phone down, but every other part of him was working against it and he couldn’t let go of the small, buzzing thing. He willed it to stop vibrating (stopcallingstopcallingstopcallingstopca-OI! STOP CALLING, DAMNIT!) and it finally did, he never thought it would; his fingertips were trembling even after he returned the phone to the table.
He spent the rest of the day eating bananas, shooting scenes, and taking a few necessary bathroom breaks (leaving his phone in the dressing room the whole time).
At the end of the week, Kimura and Shingo somehow found the time to get together for a late dinner. Shingo asked first, rambling on about needing a break from being blind and swordfights. It’s not that he wasn’t having fun with Zatoichi, because Kimura knew he was, but he guessed, just maybe, Shingo was a little lonely too.
They had decided on a small Italian place that was out of their way, but Kimura was in the mood for pasta and Shingo figured he could ask for a side of mayonnaise with the sausages he’d probably get without being looked down upon. They’d been here a couple of times already, so they knew from experience that the booth hidden in the corner and perfectly adjacent to the hallway leading to the bathrooms would be empty.
Somehow, someway, Shingo managed to convince Kimura to have some wine with him (‘It’s really good. Did y’know that historically this stuff was put in squat bottles and held in a straw basket? I bet you didn’t! But now you do.’), so by the time their food came around, Kimura could claim he was partially full from Chianti and bread rolls slathered with butter (again, another thing Shingo had convinced him to do, why he still listened to the younger man, he’d never know).
The first few minutes of their meal was relatively quiet; aside from the clinking of their utensils on warm plates and Shingo’s repeated groans of satisfaction through his full mouth (‘orhmygawdthishissogood. You should try one, no really, try one. Eeeh? You need the mayo! That’s what makes them soso gooood.’), which earned him a smack on the back of his head.
“Has Tsuyoshi ever called you?” Kimura stared at Shingo when he asked this, taking note of how his brown eyes briefly lit up behind his dark fringe (Kimura hadn’t done anything to stop the laugh from a few weeks ago that erupted from his lips the day Shingo arrived (pouting and sighing) on the SMAPxSMAP set with his blonde hair gone and his natural black back).
“Huh? Oh yeah, all the time-we talk every night, actually. We probably shouldn’t though, since, yanno, I’m on-location and all, but I can’t help it. Tsuyopon’s so lonely.” Shingo’s so easy about the whole thing; it nearly catches Kimura by surprise when Shingo forks one of the meatballs off his plate (he had been saving it for last) and pushes it sloppily in his mouth (but not before rolling it around in the small bowl of mayonnaise he had gotten on the side). Kimura doesn’t waste his time in grimacing at the sight and murmuring a soft ‘baka’ (all Shingo could do was grin a grin that was made up of meat, mayonnaise, and love) before returning his gaze to his own plate.
Kimura wasn’t surprised; everyone knew how close Shingo and Tsuyoshi were, but even still-something flared and expanded in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the two talking until the sun came back up. He couldn’t place it (or maybe he just didn’t want to), and he took this moment to guzzle down the wine at his side (somewhere between bread rolls and head smacks his glass had been refilled).
“What ‘bout you, Kimura-kun? Have you talked to Tsuyopon yet?” Kimura doesn’t question the ‘-kun’, it’s Shingo; it could be anything from the wine to their friendship.
Kimura shrugs, “He’s called a few times, but I don’t pick up-”
“Why not?” the question is abrupt but Shingo’s not mad, merely really curious, and Kimura knows Shingo is straightforward about these things. Kimura begins twirling strands of pasta onto his fork, whether he’s looking for a distraction or actually hungry, he’s not so sure.
“If I picked up the phone, wouldn’t this whole thing be meaningless? The point is for him to think about his mistakes, right? And he’s not leaving the house either.” Kimura thinks, biting down on his completely covered fork as Shingo watches curiously, nodding a little to himself, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. “The person Tsuyoshi should be talking to is Tsuyoshi, not me.” Everything is quiet after that, Kimura pretending to eat, Shingo mulling things over.
Part 2
Tsuyoshi/Kimura | PG-13 | Part 1
He wasn’t the first to hear the news, but as soon as he did, he meant to follow through with his vaguely thought-out plan: Avoid Tsuyoshi-kun Through Any and Every Means Possible. It’s not that he wanted to, far from it actually, but taking into account how serious Tsuyoshi was taking the temporary leave (never would he call it ‘suspension’ for that entailed a stopping of something and nothing nor no one could stop SMAP, not even time, but now’s not the time to be technical, is it?); it was the least he could do.
Management coordinated a press-conference and all they were left with was the job of creating a personal statement. They had done so with considerable ease; Nakai even allowed Shingo to tag a haiku he had written at the end (everyone was worried he’d take it as hard as Tsuyoshi, if not harder). Of course, by the time their statement was released, it had been scrapped and re-written so many times by management, that nothing of their genuine sincerity and affinity for one another was left to salvage; it was all hard and stilted words read over and over again from the mouths of reporters (“In further news, SMAP has now released a statement to apologize for the trouble and worry caused to fans and that of several related parties.”).
Kimura still couldn’t grasp how quickly and efficiently Johnny’s removed Tsuyoshi’s CMs and banned him from nearly every job he had at the time. The idea that they believed they could quite literally erase Tsuyoshi from existence was ridiculous and pissed him off (he reminded himself to never drink again with the cast after a day of shooting-they got an earful of how pissed he was, as well).
He’d only admit it to himself, but he was entirely grateful for Mr. Brain and his full shooting schedule; there was barely a moment he couldn’t distract himself (save for the few bathroom breaks he allowed himself between shoots where he would find himself straddling the toilet seat, wringing his hands and trying to think of nothing in particular as opposed to the particular... person he would be thinking about if it weren’t for the AD who’d come rushing in (just in time before the fuzzy images materialized), concerned and asking if everything was all right because apparently he’d been in the stall for ten minutes now).
Aside from those very brief moments, life went on, he continued shooting a drama and it wasn’t until the phone calls started coming in that he realized just exactly how hard this was going to be.
The first week of Tsuyoshi’s leave had only ended a day or two ago (he promised himself he wouldn’t keep count and had been pretty successful so far), and there Kimura was, legs crossed while leaning casually on the couch in his unusually small dressing room (which relieved him, he really didn’t find it necessary to have a big room anyway, as long as there was a chair he was good; the couch was an added bonus he couldn’t find the energy to complain about). He came to the set earlier than the scheduled shooting time with the intent of memorizing his lines; he had two more pages to go.
He was as comfortable as he would probably ever get this early in the morning, cradling a mug of steaming coffee between his legs, fully aware of the risk he was taking (but he was a pro, he’d done this every set he’d been on). He was now looking over a scene where his actions would speak far louder than his words (which also meant, less lines for him to memorize. Yes.), as he managed to balance the script between his knees while sipping slowly at the coffee now in his hands.
Bzztbzztbzzt. Bzztbzztbzzt.
(He had this terrible habit of always leaving his phone on vibrate, which, strangely enough, always ended up sounding more annoying than its ringtone).
“... who would be calling?” Mumbling to himself, with a practised move, coffee in one hand, script still tucked among his limbs; he reached for his phone, scanning the caller ID.
The name Tsuyoshi-kun stared up at him. He glared back. He couldn’t stifle the long sigh he let loose or help the fact he was now grinding his teeth. Everything in his arm told him to put the phone down, but every other part of him was working against it and he couldn’t let go of the small, buzzing thing. He willed it to stop vibrating (stopcallingstopcallingstopcallingstopca-OI! STOP CALLING, DAMNIT!) and it finally did, he never thought it would; his fingertips were trembling even after he returned the phone to the table.
He spent the rest of the day eating bananas, shooting scenes, and taking a few necessary bathroom breaks (leaving his phone in the dressing room the whole time).
At the end of the week, Kimura and Shingo somehow found the time to get together for a late dinner. Shingo asked first, rambling on about needing a break from being blind and swordfights. It’s not that he wasn’t having fun with Zatoichi, because Kimura knew he was, but he guessed, just maybe, Shingo was a little lonely too.
They had decided on a small Italian place that was out of their way, but Kimura was in the mood for pasta and Shingo figured he could ask for a side of mayonnaise with the sausages he’d probably get without being looked down upon. They’d been here a couple of times already, so they knew from experience that the booth hidden in the corner and perfectly adjacent to the hallway leading to the bathrooms would be empty.
Somehow, someway, Shingo managed to convince Kimura to have some wine with him (‘It’s really good. Did y’know that historically this stuff was put in squat bottles and held in a straw basket? I bet you didn’t! But now you do.’), so by the time their food came around, Kimura could claim he was partially full from Chianti and bread rolls slathered with butter (again, another thing Shingo had convinced him to do, why he still listened to the younger man, he’d never know).
The first few minutes of their meal was relatively quiet; aside from the clinking of their utensils on warm plates and Shingo’s repeated groans of satisfaction through his full mouth (‘orhmygawdthishissogood. You should try one, no really, try one. Eeeh? You need the mayo! That’s what makes them soso gooood.’), which earned him a smack on the back of his head.
“Has Tsuyoshi ever called you?” Kimura stared at Shingo when he asked this, taking note of how his brown eyes briefly lit up behind his dark fringe (Kimura hadn’t done anything to stop the laugh from a few weeks ago that erupted from his lips the day Shingo arrived (pouting and sighing) on the SMAPxSMAP set with his blonde hair gone and his natural black back).
“Huh? Oh yeah, all the time-we talk every night, actually. We probably shouldn’t though, since, yanno, I’m on-location and all, but I can’t help it. Tsuyopon’s so lonely.” Shingo’s so easy about the whole thing; it nearly catches Kimura by surprise when Shingo forks one of the meatballs off his plate (he had been saving it for last) and pushes it sloppily in his mouth (but not before rolling it around in the small bowl of mayonnaise he had gotten on the side). Kimura doesn’t waste his time in grimacing at the sight and murmuring a soft ‘baka’ (all Shingo could do was grin a grin that was made up of meat, mayonnaise, and love) before returning his gaze to his own plate.
Kimura wasn’t surprised; everyone knew how close Shingo and Tsuyoshi were, but even still-something flared and expanded in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the two talking until the sun came back up. He couldn’t place it (or maybe he just didn’t want to), and he took this moment to guzzle down the wine at his side (somewhere between bread rolls and head smacks his glass had been refilled).
“What ‘bout you, Kimura-kun? Have you talked to Tsuyopon yet?” Kimura doesn’t question the ‘-kun’, it’s Shingo; it could be anything from the wine to their friendship.
Kimura shrugs, “He’s called a few times, but I don’t pick up-”
“Why not?” the question is abrupt but Shingo’s not mad, merely really curious, and Kimura knows Shingo is straightforward about these things. Kimura begins twirling strands of pasta onto his fork, whether he’s looking for a distraction or actually hungry, he’s not so sure.
“If I picked up the phone, wouldn’t this whole thing be meaningless? The point is for him to think about his mistakes, right? And he’s not leaving the house either.” Kimura thinks, biting down on his completely covered fork as Shingo watches curiously, nodding a little to himself, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. “The person Tsuyoshi should be talking to is Tsuyoshi, not me.” Everything is quiet after that, Kimura pretending to eat, Shingo mulling things over.
Part 2