je_prompts #32 watch
TITLE: What Everyone Does
FANDOM: Kanjani8, KAT-TUN
PAIRING: Yokoyama You/Taguchi Junnosuke
WORD LENGTH: 1,724
SUMMARY: Taguchi is a great host, Yokoyama is a terrible guest but somehow the houseparty turns out all right.
DISCLAIMER: Not real, not mine, don't sue, etc.
NOTES: My first published JE fanfic so please tell me what you think! This is unbeta'd -- if you'd like to be my beta reader, please PM me. I hope you enjoy it ♥ Comments and especially concrit greatly appreciated.
Taguchi Junnosuke made a surprisingly good host. He drifted among clusters of friends with new snippets of scandalous gossip to share, ensured the food trays were constantly crammed with enough food for a diplomatic convention, carefully avoided blasting his own songs from the surround-sound stereo system and when the champagne flowed by the crateful, his jokes set the room alight with laughter. There were strobe lights mingling with disco balls, the walls had been covered up with crushed black velvet, cupboard doors fastidiously locked and celeb-proofed, and buckets placed discretely in the corners of each room. Thankfully, they were all yet to be used.
Yokoyama You, on the other hand, made a terrible guest. He had squeezed between the wall and the hat stand with a glass of orange juice spiked with something vaguely alcoholic and was sipping pointedly whenever someone came close by, his gaze averted with determination. He was wearing his most fashionable shirt, which also doubled as a work shirt in desperate times, but the creases had long started to settle in and he tugged irritably at the sleeves whenever he felt someone staring in his direction. It seemed to do the trick since whenever he snuck a peek to see if the offender had moved on, the people around him appeared to have lapsed back into their own glittery worlds of dance and dance music, and television shows and television stars.
He had carefully timed it so that his glass lasted him exactly twenty minutes, after which he would get another glass, drink for another twenty minutes, then make his excuses to go home while still under the legal alcohol limit. When the party hit eleven o'clock, he sidled up to the drinks bar, eyed the stoned bartender with trepidation and asked for a glass of white wine. The bartender gave him a cocktail instead and turned away to continue flirting with an aspiring singer whose dress was as short as it was expensive. Yokoyama took his drink and mapped out a strategic path back to his hideout among the coats.
"This music really makes you want to move, doesn't it?" someone shouted in his ear, slinging an arm around his shoulders and leaning in so close they were either obnoxious or incredibly drunk. A few attempts were made to get Yokoyama to dance but he politely pushed them away, not bothering to figure out if it had been a man or a woman.
Kill me now, he thought. No, really. Now.
Chanting nownownow in his head to ensure that the gods heard him clearly enough, he slipped through the throngs of people swaying and laughing. Someone said hello to him but he didn't recognise them in the semi-darkness of the apartment and a strobe light hit his eye, blinding him, so he nodded quickly and headed off in the opposite direction. Another person grabbed his arm and congratulated him on his television drama.
"Thank you," he muttered, but she had already started moaning about how no-one appreciated her obvious acting talent, and wouldn't it be great if she could have a guest appearance on his show? They had fantastic chemistry together, didn't they? Did he want to see her audition tapes? Yokoyama ran.
Heart pounding, he ducked into the corridor beside an enthusiastic stranger-couple and fixed his stare on a hideous piece of artwork hanging on the wall instead. In the smoky gloominess of the corridor, he could only make out smudges of brown and black but it was probably artistic in an art gallery type of way. He didn't care; it was ugly enough to be called a masterpiece and there was no harm in letting others think of him as an aesthete.
"Admiring my art?" asked Taguchi, who had lurched out of nowhere to hover near his shoulder. He was holding a glass of something violently red and fizzling so much it splattered his fingers.
"Yes," Yokoyama answered automatically. "It's very beautiful. I didn't know you were into collecting art."
"Ah, Yokoyama-kun..." Taguchi laughed, pushing his glass into Yokoyama's free hand and dragging him away from the corridor, deeper into the mess of doors. His host fumbled with the door knobs, having forgotten which ones he'd locked and which ones were open for public use. Finally a door swung open and they quickly apologised to the couple inside before stepping around the clothes strewn across the floor to make their way onto the cramped balcony.
"I didn't buy those. My mother found them in a cupboard with all my other school projects." He turned to faced Yokoyama with a bright smile, seemingly oblivious to the sound of the bed squeaking and the woman moaning inside. "She likes to save all my work. Our house is quite messy as a result but it makes her happy."
"Oh," said Yokoyama, looking away. The street lamps dotting the city and the flare of headlights whirring past suddenly looked brighter than they had ever appeared. "It's important to make sure your mum is happy."
Taguchi cocked his head, his expression frozen on hesitation. Yokoyama could almost see his drink-addled brain trying to catch up with the direction of the conversation. After a pause that was too long to be natural, Taguchi flashed him an idiotic smile and patted the drinks still nestled in Yokoyama's hands. "Drink up! You've barely touched anything all evening. One tiny vodka orange doesn't count."
In the face of such exuburance, Yokoyama found it difficult to refuse -- he downed the drinks within seconds; they were sweet enough for him not to choke. The world didn't feel any different so he sighed gratefully. "There, are you happy now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned far over the railing of the balcony and could just make out a pair of cats chasing each other down the alley.
"Whoa, you've got to be careful there," Taguchi slapped a giant hand on his back and yanked him back to safety. "Someone died doing just that. It wasn't at my party though."
Yokoyama hurriedly backed away from the edge and pressed himself up against the glass sliding door. "Good party. Yours, I mean. Everyone's having lots of fun."
"Everyone except you," said Taguchi in a lilting voice. His eyes never ceased to twinkle and the perma-smile only widened. Yokoyama had always considered himself to be tall amongst his fellow Johnnys but with Taguchi ambling forward to loom before him, all broad shoulders and long arms and even longer legs, he felt small. Breathing suddenly became a conscious action. "Everyone's drunk and having fun, hitting on one another and messing up my floor, hoping to win a collaboration and invites to more parties but when I looked at you, all I saw was a pair of eyes hiding behind some coats and hats." Laughing, Taguchi pressed closer. "You didn't even acknowledge me when I tried to invite you over. Everyone's really friendly, you know. If you brush aside the obvious pandering."
"I don't want to be like everyone." He was being childish, but Yokoyama didn't care. The woman inside was being exceptionally noisy.
Placing a finger between his lips in a parody of curiosity, Taguchi threw him a skeptical look. "What do you do in your free time?"
Yokoyama flushed and bit back sarcastically, "Well, obviously what I don't do is get drunk and have fun, and--and..."
"And hit on others?"
Yokoyama looked away hurriedly. When did Taguchi move so close? "No," he said firmly.
"You don't want to mess up my floor, Yokoyama?" grinned Taguchi, plucking the glasses away from Yokoyama and placed them on the garden table behind him, his gaze unwavering. He languidly circled the top button of Yokoyama's shirt with a considering look. "You don't want to collaborate?"
Yokoyama's lips formed the word no but sound failed to come out. Just a faint breath of air so light it might as well have been the wind. There was nowhere else for him to back into. The sliding door behind him felt hot and sticky, and even the winter air had somersaulted to coax prickling persperation along the back of his neck.
"We can--"
"I'm not inviting you to my party," Yokoyama managed to gasp out.
Undeterred, Taguchi shrugged with ease and answered him with a chuckle. His hands slipped down and curled almost protectively around Yokoyama's hips, burning hot and secure. His hair had fallen forward and brushed softly against Yokoyama's forehead. He was so close Yokoyama could feel each breath, achingly slow and deliberate.
Yokoyama closed his eyes, part fear, part denial, part something else entirely.
Taguchi tilted his head forward, hovering an inch before Yokoyama's lips.
"It's okay; you're already at mine."
***
Yokoyama You had always made a terrible guest. He never drank enough to allow himself to loosen up, he wore clothes that were painfully sombre out of some misguided impression that black was sophisticated, and he staunchly refused to dance and play silly games. Perched on the plush arm of a leather sofa, he clumsily murmured kanpai and sipped at his blue coloured lemonade. His preference was watching others around him stagger about in wanton insouciance and listening to them howl bawdy lyrics to popular songs. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up and the creases left forgotten in the blur that was 3am and four complaints from the neighbours.
Taguchi Junnosuke, on the other hand, was a popular and clever host. His friendship was fast and uncomplicated, he was always thoughtful enough to bring out cups of coffee when the alcohol began to run dry, and by the time guests started dropping out his door as the sun rose, he had already dialed a fleet of waiting taxis. He switched the music on his stereo to classical and hummed along with the first violins, tucked blankets around the guests who had chosen to make a bed out of his floor, and glid around the apartment, cleaning placidly as he went.
At seven o'clock, with the sun heavy and bursting through the window blinds, Taguchi knelt down next to a bleary eyed Yokoyama, who mumbled that it was time for him to go home, if only this couch weren't so comfortable, would it be okay if he stayed for ten minutes longer?
"Shhh," Taguchi smiled, easing a pillow underneath Yokoyama's head. "Be my guest."
-- end --
FANDOM: Kanjani8, KAT-TUN
PAIRING: Yokoyama You/Taguchi Junnosuke
WORD LENGTH: 1,724
SUMMARY: Taguchi is a great host, Yokoyama is a terrible guest but somehow the houseparty turns out all right.
DISCLAIMER: Not real, not mine, don't sue, etc.
NOTES: My first published JE fanfic so please tell me what you think! This is unbeta'd -- if you'd like to be my beta reader, please PM me. I hope you enjoy it ♥ Comments and especially concrit greatly appreciated.
Taguchi Junnosuke made a surprisingly good host. He drifted among clusters of friends with new snippets of scandalous gossip to share, ensured the food trays were constantly crammed with enough food for a diplomatic convention, carefully avoided blasting his own songs from the surround-sound stereo system and when the champagne flowed by the crateful, his jokes set the room alight with laughter. There were strobe lights mingling with disco balls, the walls had been covered up with crushed black velvet, cupboard doors fastidiously locked and celeb-proofed, and buckets placed discretely in the corners of each room. Thankfully, they were all yet to be used.
Yokoyama You, on the other hand, made a terrible guest. He had squeezed between the wall and the hat stand with a glass of orange juice spiked with something vaguely alcoholic and was sipping pointedly whenever someone came close by, his gaze averted with determination. He was wearing his most fashionable shirt, which also doubled as a work shirt in desperate times, but the creases had long started to settle in and he tugged irritably at the sleeves whenever he felt someone staring in his direction. It seemed to do the trick since whenever he snuck a peek to see if the offender had moved on, the people around him appeared to have lapsed back into their own glittery worlds of dance and dance music, and television shows and television stars.
He had carefully timed it so that his glass lasted him exactly twenty minutes, after which he would get another glass, drink for another twenty minutes, then make his excuses to go home while still under the legal alcohol limit. When the party hit eleven o'clock, he sidled up to the drinks bar, eyed the stoned bartender with trepidation and asked for a glass of white wine. The bartender gave him a cocktail instead and turned away to continue flirting with an aspiring singer whose dress was as short as it was expensive. Yokoyama took his drink and mapped out a strategic path back to his hideout among the coats.
"This music really makes you want to move, doesn't it?" someone shouted in his ear, slinging an arm around his shoulders and leaning in so close they were either obnoxious or incredibly drunk. A few attempts were made to get Yokoyama to dance but he politely pushed them away, not bothering to figure out if it had been a man or a woman.
Kill me now, he thought. No, really. Now.
Chanting nownownow in his head to ensure that the gods heard him clearly enough, he slipped through the throngs of people swaying and laughing. Someone said hello to him but he didn't recognise them in the semi-darkness of the apartment and a strobe light hit his eye, blinding him, so he nodded quickly and headed off in the opposite direction. Another person grabbed his arm and congratulated him on his television drama.
"Thank you," he muttered, but she had already started moaning about how no-one appreciated her obvious acting talent, and wouldn't it be great if she could have a guest appearance on his show? They had fantastic chemistry together, didn't they? Did he want to see her audition tapes? Yokoyama ran.
Heart pounding, he ducked into the corridor beside an enthusiastic stranger-couple and fixed his stare on a hideous piece of artwork hanging on the wall instead. In the smoky gloominess of the corridor, he could only make out smudges of brown and black but it was probably artistic in an art gallery type of way. He didn't care; it was ugly enough to be called a masterpiece and there was no harm in letting others think of him as an aesthete.
"Admiring my art?" asked Taguchi, who had lurched out of nowhere to hover near his shoulder. He was holding a glass of something violently red and fizzling so much it splattered his fingers.
"Yes," Yokoyama answered automatically. "It's very beautiful. I didn't know you were into collecting art."
"Ah, Yokoyama-kun..." Taguchi laughed, pushing his glass into Yokoyama's free hand and dragging him away from the corridor, deeper into the mess of doors. His host fumbled with the door knobs, having forgotten which ones he'd locked and which ones were open for public use. Finally a door swung open and they quickly apologised to the couple inside before stepping around the clothes strewn across the floor to make their way onto the cramped balcony.
"I didn't buy those. My mother found them in a cupboard with all my other school projects." He turned to faced Yokoyama with a bright smile, seemingly oblivious to the sound of the bed squeaking and the woman moaning inside. "She likes to save all my work. Our house is quite messy as a result but it makes her happy."
"Oh," said Yokoyama, looking away. The street lamps dotting the city and the flare of headlights whirring past suddenly looked brighter than they had ever appeared. "It's important to make sure your mum is happy."
Taguchi cocked his head, his expression frozen on hesitation. Yokoyama could almost see his drink-addled brain trying to catch up with the direction of the conversation. After a pause that was too long to be natural, Taguchi flashed him an idiotic smile and patted the drinks still nestled in Yokoyama's hands. "Drink up! You've barely touched anything all evening. One tiny vodka orange doesn't count."
In the face of such exuburance, Yokoyama found it difficult to refuse -- he downed the drinks within seconds; they were sweet enough for him not to choke. The world didn't feel any different so he sighed gratefully. "There, are you happy now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He leaned far over the railing of the balcony and could just make out a pair of cats chasing each other down the alley.
"Whoa, you've got to be careful there," Taguchi slapped a giant hand on his back and yanked him back to safety. "Someone died doing just that. It wasn't at my party though."
Yokoyama hurriedly backed away from the edge and pressed himself up against the glass sliding door. "Good party. Yours, I mean. Everyone's having lots of fun."
"Everyone except you," said Taguchi in a lilting voice. His eyes never ceased to twinkle and the perma-smile only widened. Yokoyama had always considered himself to be tall amongst his fellow Johnnys but with Taguchi ambling forward to loom before him, all broad shoulders and long arms and even longer legs, he felt small. Breathing suddenly became a conscious action. "Everyone's drunk and having fun, hitting on one another and messing up my floor, hoping to win a collaboration and invites to more parties but when I looked at you, all I saw was a pair of eyes hiding behind some coats and hats." Laughing, Taguchi pressed closer. "You didn't even acknowledge me when I tried to invite you over. Everyone's really friendly, you know. If you brush aside the obvious pandering."
"I don't want to be like everyone." He was being childish, but Yokoyama didn't care. The woman inside was being exceptionally noisy.
Placing a finger between his lips in a parody of curiosity, Taguchi threw him a skeptical look. "What do you do in your free time?"
Yokoyama flushed and bit back sarcastically, "Well, obviously what I don't do is get drunk and have fun, and--and..."
"And hit on others?"
Yokoyama looked away hurriedly. When did Taguchi move so close? "No," he said firmly.
"You don't want to mess up my floor, Yokoyama?" grinned Taguchi, plucking the glasses away from Yokoyama and placed them on the garden table behind him, his gaze unwavering. He languidly circled the top button of Yokoyama's shirt with a considering look. "You don't want to collaborate?"
Yokoyama's lips formed the word no but sound failed to come out. Just a faint breath of air so light it might as well have been the wind. There was nowhere else for him to back into. The sliding door behind him felt hot and sticky, and even the winter air had somersaulted to coax prickling persperation along the back of his neck.
"We can--"
"I'm not inviting you to my party," Yokoyama managed to gasp out.
Undeterred, Taguchi shrugged with ease and answered him with a chuckle. His hands slipped down and curled almost protectively around Yokoyama's hips, burning hot and secure. His hair had fallen forward and brushed softly against Yokoyama's forehead. He was so close Yokoyama could feel each breath, achingly slow and deliberate.
Yokoyama closed his eyes, part fear, part denial, part something else entirely.
Taguchi tilted his head forward, hovering an inch before Yokoyama's lips.
"It's okay; you're already at mine."
***
Yokoyama You had always made a terrible guest. He never drank enough to allow himself to loosen up, he wore clothes that were painfully sombre out of some misguided impression that black was sophisticated, and he staunchly refused to dance and play silly games. Perched on the plush arm of a leather sofa, he clumsily murmured kanpai and sipped at his blue coloured lemonade. His preference was watching others around him stagger about in wanton insouciance and listening to them howl bawdy lyrics to popular songs. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up and the creases left forgotten in the blur that was 3am and four complaints from the neighbours.
Taguchi Junnosuke, on the other hand, was a popular and clever host. His friendship was fast and uncomplicated, he was always thoughtful enough to bring out cups of coffee when the alcohol began to run dry, and by the time guests started dropping out his door as the sun rose, he had already dialed a fleet of waiting taxis. He switched the music on his stereo to classical and hummed along with the first violins, tucked blankets around the guests who had chosen to make a bed out of his floor, and glid around the apartment, cleaning placidly as he went.
At seven o'clock, with the sun heavy and bursting through the window blinds, Taguchi knelt down next to a bleary eyed Yokoyama, who mumbled that it was time for him to go home, if only this couch weren't so comfortable, would it be okay if he stayed for ten minutes longer?
"Shhh," Taguchi smiled, easing a pillow underneath Yokoyama's head. "Be my guest."
-- end --