234.
+ i keep thinking i should write about hawaii...even though it's been like three weeks...and 10 million other people have already posted about it so???????
+ also i went to New York for 4 days to visit my dad and step-mom! highlights include: going to the Met, seeing Aladdin, walking the Highline, and eating as much Japanese food as I could find! and I found CC Lemon!
+ also: here's some fic. wait, what??
i guess i am inspired by nora posting all that glorious arashi-in-space fic, and also guilty because i guess i SAID i would give her ohmiya-arranged-marriage fic and i ALSO SAID i was totally writing it i swear, and so here's proof :D :D :D this is just a small part: praise me lavishly and perhaps i'll actually manage to finish the rest--which i do have a plan for!! i swear!!
okay here it is:
(working) title: one and only
rating: idk. nothing sexy happens in this part??
pairings: ohmiya, with possible future aimiya and sakumoto????
notes: prompt (from this list) was ohmiya + arranged marriage; i decided to set in in an AU 1920s~30s Japan where same-sex marriage is totally a thing that happens and it's cool, hence also arranged same-sex marriages. the rest is basically the same i guess? anyway. yeah. WHY CAN'T I EVER WRITE ANYTHING SIMPLE??
Now:
Satoshi crosses the garden to the back gate as quietly as he can. The pebbles that cover the meandering ornamental path crunch under his this sandals. Even though it’s so late, the summer heat still hangs in the dark air, thick with the sound of chirruping tree frogs and other nighttime creatures. But despite the noise, Satoshi can still hear it-the rumble of Nino’s boxy, second-hand Buick. He shouldn’t hurry, shouldn’t run, someone might hear, if the growl of Nino’s car in the back alley hasn’t woken them already. But Satoshi finds his feet moving faster despite himself.
He pushes open the heavy wooden door in the back garden wall, and there’s Nino, leaning back against the car, casual, as if he always drives around late at night and parks in dark alleys behind people’s houses. Their eyes meet and for a few moments they just stand there staring. Satoshi closes the garden door.
“Nino?” he asks quietly.
“Hey,” Nino says, sheepish.
“What are you doing here?” Satoshi asks.
Nino looks up at him, but Satoshi can’t really make out the look on his face in the dark.
“I wanted to see you,” Nino says. So softly, so reluctantly. “One more time. Before I leave.”
Satoshi is moving towards Nino before he has time to think about it, his sandals slapping over the dirt-packed road. He had meant to just walk, but suddenly he’s moving faster, and he sees Nino’s arms come up like maybe Nino’s trying to stop him, but then he realizes Nino is reaching for him-reaching back for him, because Satoshi is already reaching for Nino-and then they collide.
Satoshi kisses him, too hard, all crushing lips and clashing teeth. But it’s suddenly real now, that Nino is leaving, he’ll be gone, and Satoshi knows it’s too late to stop him. Still, he can’t help but feel a little flutter of hope, because none of this-Nino’s car in the alley behind Satoshi’s house, these desperate kisses-none of it was part of the plan.
They pull apart with startled gasps when, somewhere, a bell starts tolling the hour.
“Nino,” Satoshi says again, without moving away, keeping his hands on Nino’s face. “This isn’t-”
“I know,” Nino says. “This isn’t the plan, but…” He takes a shaky breath, as if this is more frightening than anything else that has lead up to this moment. “But plans can change.”
Nino’s hands clench in the fabric of Satoshi’s yukata.
“Come with me.”
:::
Six months earlier:
Satoshi looks himself over in the tall mirror-a luxury, testament to the recent success of the business-and cannot help feeling at least a little stirring of pride, despite his nerves. The kimono he is wearing is very fine, nothing so fancy as the pieces they make here in the shop for the kabuki theaters or the geisha houses, but perhaps even more beautiful for its subtlety. The silk is a dark, smooth navy, with a subdued pattern of gingko leaves that circles the hem of the garment and sweeps up across the back. The obi, tied low across his hips, is a lovely burnt orange, the perfect compliment.
“But no one dresses like this anymore,” Satoshi mutters again, smoothing his hands across the obi.
“Yes, so here we are, starving in the street for lack of business,” his mother says wryly. She adjusts the fall of his sleeve minutely, looking into the mirror with a pleased smile.
“I mean no one my age,” Satoshi corrects himself. “Just for going out. It’s so…formal.”
At least he has his hair cut short in the popular style. To really be fashionable, he should slick it back with pomade, but he hates the way the oil makes his hair stiff and greasy. Instead, the short strands fall soft across his forehead and just behind his ears.
He meets his mother’s gaze in the mirror. “Do we have to go?” he says in a small voice.
Her smile falters, and her round face-so much like his-darkens with a touch of disapproval. He knows she’s not angry, she so rarely gets angry with him, but perhaps he has asked this question one too many times.
“Satoshi,” she says with a little sigh, “you are thirty years old now, well past time you were married. I’m not going to live forever, you know, and I want to see that you’ll be well connected, well taken care of, when I’m gone. Oh, don’t give me that look,” she says, catching Satoshi’s stricken expression. “We will continue arranging these omiai until you find a suitable partner.” A little crease of worry mars her brow.
“Is it because we have only been looking at young men? Would you like to meet some women?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, flushing. Aside from the fact that it is traditional for younger sons to marry other younger sons, Satoshi has no desire to meet any young women. He recognizes that it’s a generous offer.
“No,” he says again. He sighs quietly through his nose.
This is their third matchmaking session in as many weeks, and there are too many reasons for his reluctance, he can’t explain it easily. What if he never does meet a suitable partner? What if they decide he should go live in his new husband’s house? Satoshi doesn’t care about becoming a spinster, he likes working in the shop hand-painting the fancy kimonos they sell, and he’s very good at it. But he knows things can’t stay the way they are forever.
And maybe that’s the real reason he doesn’t want to go.
*
Today they are meeting Ninomiya Kazunari, age 27, whose mother runs an accounting firm in town and is just well-off enough to make him a good match for Satoshi. As Satoshi expected, Ninomiya is not in a kimono, but is wearing an expertly fitted three-piece suit, a dark silk tie, and patent leather shoes that have been polished until they shine. He has short hair, like Satoshi, though his has been slicked back close to his head. There are three small strands across his forehead that are slowly escaping the hold of his pomade.
As with all the other matchmaking sessions, it’s their mothers who do most of the talking. Satoshi answers the questions that are occasionally directed at him as pleasantly as he can, and Ninomiya does the same. Ninomiya, Satoshi notices, seems just about as interested in the whole procedure as Satoshi himself, and the younger man spends the time he isn’t making small talk glancing around the private room of the tea house where their meeting is taking place.
But, Satoshi notices, Ninomiya doesn’t really look at anything: his eyes have that distant appearance of looking inward, and his fingers tap against his knees in an odd manner. He’s not simply tapping out a rhythm or fidgeting: there’s a pattern Satoshi can’t figure out, the middle fingers of Ninomiya’s hands pressing into the fabric of his slacks at the same time, skipping up, dancing down. Satoshi looks at his own hands, neatly folded in his lap, and frowns.
Eventually, Ninomiya’s hands go still, and Satoshi glances up to see if maybe something else has caught Ninomiya’s attention. He gives a tiny start of surprise to find Ninomiya looking straight at him.
Satoshi knows he should look away, it’s impolite to stare, but he finds himself holding Ninomiya’s gaze. And he thinks: What if this is the person you spend the rest of your life with?
Ninomiya, Kazunari, age 27, son of an accountant. He’s certainly not unattractive: he has a kind of hesitant, curious expression on his face; rounded nose, a nice brushstroke shape to his eyes, a little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. A little freckle, or a mole, just there on his chin. Satoshi tries to remember what they’ve been talking about, what he knows about Ninomiya so far. Ninomiya agreed that the weather is very fine today, even for mid-winter. And, yes, the tea at this shop is quite good. He works sometimes in his mother’s accounting offices, just like Satoshi works at the kimono shop. He goes to the cinema when he’s free, or driving in the car that he saved up his own money to buy last month.
But how could Satoshi possibly know, just from this, whether he could be happy, marrying this man? He knows it’s not really about love: that would be lucky, yes, but it’s not the main concern of getting married. Ninomiya’s family owns a good business, Satoshi’s family owns a good business, so together they could take good care of each other, just like his mother-and Ninomiya’s mother, most likely-wants. Would that be enough, for happiness?
“Satoshi,” his mother says. Says again, he realizes: this is at least the second time she’s said his name. He jerks his eyes away from Ninomiya and back to his mother’s face, but she doesn’t look particularly upset to have caught him staring.
“Yes?” he says, trying for a casual tone.
“I said: would you like to meet with Ninomiya-san again tomorrow? At the house, perhaps, for a little more privacy?”
“Oh,” Satoshi says. “I, um. Well, I suppose-”
“I would,” Ninomiya suddenly cuts in. When Satoshi turns back to him, Ninomiya’s hidden smile has crept out into a shy grin. He clears his throat and says again:
“I would like that very much.”
This entry was originally posted at http://harinezumi-kun.dreamwidth.org/60066.html with
comments. Reply at original post.
+ also i went to New York for 4 days to visit my dad and step-mom! highlights include: going to the Met, seeing Aladdin, walking the Highline, and eating as much Japanese food as I could find! and I found CC Lemon!
+ also: here's some fic. wait, what??
i guess i am inspired by nora posting all that glorious arashi-in-space fic, and also guilty because i guess i SAID i would give her ohmiya-arranged-marriage fic and i ALSO SAID i was totally writing it i swear, and so here's proof :D :D :D this is just a small part: praise me lavishly and perhaps i'll actually manage to finish the rest--which i do have a plan for!! i swear!!
okay here it is:
(working) title: one and only
rating: idk. nothing sexy happens in this part??
pairings: ohmiya, with possible future aimiya and sakumoto????
notes: prompt (from this list) was ohmiya + arranged marriage; i decided to set in in an AU 1920s~30s Japan where same-sex marriage is totally a thing that happens and it's cool, hence also arranged same-sex marriages. the rest is basically the same i guess? anyway. yeah. WHY CAN'T I EVER WRITE ANYTHING SIMPLE??
Now:
Satoshi crosses the garden to the back gate as quietly as he can. The pebbles that cover the meandering ornamental path crunch under his this sandals. Even though it’s so late, the summer heat still hangs in the dark air, thick with the sound of chirruping tree frogs and other nighttime creatures. But despite the noise, Satoshi can still hear it-the rumble of Nino’s boxy, second-hand Buick. He shouldn’t hurry, shouldn’t run, someone might hear, if the growl of Nino’s car in the back alley hasn’t woken them already. But Satoshi finds his feet moving faster despite himself.
He pushes open the heavy wooden door in the back garden wall, and there’s Nino, leaning back against the car, casual, as if he always drives around late at night and parks in dark alleys behind people’s houses. Their eyes meet and for a few moments they just stand there staring. Satoshi closes the garden door.
“Nino?” he asks quietly.
“Hey,” Nino says, sheepish.
“What are you doing here?” Satoshi asks.
Nino looks up at him, but Satoshi can’t really make out the look on his face in the dark.
“I wanted to see you,” Nino says. So softly, so reluctantly. “One more time. Before I leave.”
Satoshi is moving towards Nino before he has time to think about it, his sandals slapping over the dirt-packed road. He had meant to just walk, but suddenly he’s moving faster, and he sees Nino’s arms come up like maybe Nino’s trying to stop him, but then he realizes Nino is reaching for him-reaching back for him, because Satoshi is already reaching for Nino-and then they collide.
Satoshi kisses him, too hard, all crushing lips and clashing teeth. But it’s suddenly real now, that Nino is leaving, he’ll be gone, and Satoshi knows it’s too late to stop him. Still, he can’t help but feel a little flutter of hope, because none of this-Nino’s car in the alley behind Satoshi’s house, these desperate kisses-none of it was part of the plan.
They pull apart with startled gasps when, somewhere, a bell starts tolling the hour.
“Nino,” Satoshi says again, without moving away, keeping his hands on Nino’s face. “This isn’t-”
“I know,” Nino says. “This isn’t the plan, but…” He takes a shaky breath, as if this is more frightening than anything else that has lead up to this moment. “But plans can change.”
Nino’s hands clench in the fabric of Satoshi’s yukata.
“Come with me.”
:::
Six months earlier:
Satoshi looks himself over in the tall mirror-a luxury, testament to the recent success of the business-and cannot help feeling at least a little stirring of pride, despite his nerves. The kimono he is wearing is very fine, nothing so fancy as the pieces they make here in the shop for the kabuki theaters or the geisha houses, but perhaps even more beautiful for its subtlety. The silk is a dark, smooth navy, with a subdued pattern of gingko leaves that circles the hem of the garment and sweeps up across the back. The obi, tied low across his hips, is a lovely burnt orange, the perfect compliment.
“But no one dresses like this anymore,” Satoshi mutters again, smoothing his hands across the obi.
“Yes, so here we are, starving in the street for lack of business,” his mother says wryly. She adjusts the fall of his sleeve minutely, looking into the mirror with a pleased smile.
“I mean no one my age,” Satoshi corrects himself. “Just for going out. It’s so…formal.”
At least he has his hair cut short in the popular style. To really be fashionable, he should slick it back with pomade, but he hates the way the oil makes his hair stiff and greasy. Instead, the short strands fall soft across his forehead and just behind his ears.
He meets his mother’s gaze in the mirror. “Do we have to go?” he says in a small voice.
Her smile falters, and her round face-so much like his-darkens with a touch of disapproval. He knows she’s not angry, she so rarely gets angry with him, but perhaps he has asked this question one too many times.
“Satoshi,” she says with a little sigh, “you are thirty years old now, well past time you were married. I’m not going to live forever, you know, and I want to see that you’ll be well connected, well taken care of, when I’m gone. Oh, don’t give me that look,” she says, catching Satoshi’s stricken expression. “We will continue arranging these omiai until you find a suitable partner.” A little crease of worry mars her brow.
“Is it because we have only been looking at young men? Would you like to meet some women?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, flushing. Aside from the fact that it is traditional for younger sons to marry other younger sons, Satoshi has no desire to meet any young women. He recognizes that it’s a generous offer.
“No,” he says again. He sighs quietly through his nose.
This is their third matchmaking session in as many weeks, and there are too many reasons for his reluctance, he can’t explain it easily. What if he never does meet a suitable partner? What if they decide he should go live in his new husband’s house? Satoshi doesn’t care about becoming a spinster, he likes working in the shop hand-painting the fancy kimonos they sell, and he’s very good at it. But he knows things can’t stay the way they are forever.
And maybe that’s the real reason he doesn’t want to go.
*
Today they are meeting Ninomiya Kazunari, age 27, whose mother runs an accounting firm in town and is just well-off enough to make him a good match for Satoshi. As Satoshi expected, Ninomiya is not in a kimono, but is wearing an expertly fitted three-piece suit, a dark silk tie, and patent leather shoes that have been polished until they shine. He has short hair, like Satoshi, though his has been slicked back close to his head. There are three small strands across his forehead that are slowly escaping the hold of his pomade.
As with all the other matchmaking sessions, it’s their mothers who do most of the talking. Satoshi answers the questions that are occasionally directed at him as pleasantly as he can, and Ninomiya does the same. Ninomiya, Satoshi notices, seems just about as interested in the whole procedure as Satoshi himself, and the younger man spends the time he isn’t making small talk glancing around the private room of the tea house where their meeting is taking place.
But, Satoshi notices, Ninomiya doesn’t really look at anything: his eyes have that distant appearance of looking inward, and his fingers tap against his knees in an odd manner. He’s not simply tapping out a rhythm or fidgeting: there’s a pattern Satoshi can’t figure out, the middle fingers of Ninomiya’s hands pressing into the fabric of his slacks at the same time, skipping up, dancing down. Satoshi looks at his own hands, neatly folded in his lap, and frowns.
Eventually, Ninomiya’s hands go still, and Satoshi glances up to see if maybe something else has caught Ninomiya’s attention. He gives a tiny start of surprise to find Ninomiya looking straight at him.
Satoshi knows he should look away, it’s impolite to stare, but he finds himself holding Ninomiya’s gaze. And he thinks: What if this is the person you spend the rest of your life with?
Ninomiya, Kazunari, age 27, son of an accountant. He’s certainly not unattractive: he has a kind of hesitant, curious expression on his face; rounded nose, a nice brushstroke shape to his eyes, a little smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. A little freckle, or a mole, just there on his chin. Satoshi tries to remember what they’ve been talking about, what he knows about Ninomiya so far. Ninomiya agreed that the weather is very fine today, even for mid-winter. And, yes, the tea at this shop is quite good. He works sometimes in his mother’s accounting offices, just like Satoshi works at the kimono shop. He goes to the cinema when he’s free, or driving in the car that he saved up his own money to buy last month.
But how could Satoshi possibly know, just from this, whether he could be happy, marrying this man? He knows it’s not really about love: that would be lucky, yes, but it’s not the main concern of getting married. Ninomiya’s family owns a good business, Satoshi’s family owns a good business, so together they could take good care of each other, just like his mother-and Ninomiya’s mother, most likely-wants. Would that be enough, for happiness?
“Satoshi,” his mother says. Says again, he realizes: this is at least the second time she’s said his name. He jerks his eyes away from Ninomiya and back to his mother’s face, but she doesn’t look particularly upset to have caught him staring.
“Yes?” he says, trying for a casual tone.
“I said: would you like to meet with Ninomiya-san again tomorrow? At the house, perhaps, for a little more privacy?”
“Oh,” Satoshi says. “I, um. Well, I suppose-”
“I would,” Ninomiya suddenly cuts in. When Satoshi turns back to him, Ninomiya’s hidden smile has crept out into a shy grin. He clears his throat and says again:
“I would like that very much.”
This entry was originally posted at http://harinezumi-kun.dreamwidth.org/60066.html with
comments. Reply at original post.