[Hanazakari no Kimitachi e] Time-lapse
Title: Time-lapse
Rating: G
Pairing: Akiha/Umeda
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: It starts out subtly, hardly noticeable.
Notes: Ahaha. Oh, where to start? beckerbell asked for Akiha/Umeda with the prompt 'photographic evidence' fic for her birthday (HAHAHA, I know, right? OMG, I'm so sorry!) and then somehow - magically - I never did. I can't even explain it to myself without wanting to punch myself in the face. A lot. Anyway, I wrote you fic? :D
It starts out subtly, hardly noticeable.
Magazines left here or there, opened to pages featuring couples doing various things. Some are holding hands, some brushing shoulders, and some are just...he's not even sure but it seems to involve a lot of yarn. At first he just thinks he's living with a slob, someone who can't or won't clean up after themselves, but then...
Then there are folders, portfolios with glossy pictures spilling out just so. Fanned out across the table or counter in a deliberate sort of manner, nothing at all happenstance about the way they're positioned. Placed carefully, oh so carefully so there would be no chance he might overlook them.
He stares at them, certain now that there's some sort of message, some point that the idiot is trying to get through to him but all he sees are smiling faces, laughing faces, and none of it clicks.
Just...people.
Everyday people like those he passes on the street or bumps into on the train or at the grocery store. Couples and individuals who are unremarkable and average looking until they smile or laugh, and then they become something else. Beautiful and stunning and something he can't quite put his finger on.
He knows because once he starts, he can't stop until he looks through the entire thing. He sees everyday people and their everyday expressions until he hits this picture or that one, and suddenly they're beautiful, lips curved into brilliant smiles. There are pictures where he can almost hear the laughter, but he still...he doesn't understand.
Not until the day he finds the idiot seated at the kitchen table, mug of coffee in his hands. Comfortable and settled in like he's been there for some time and doesn't intend to move until he's ready.
"It took a while," the idiot says, and he doesn't quite meet his eyes at first. "It took a while, but I think I did it."
There's another folder, another set of pictures spilling out onto the table. This time he recognizes the people in them. Faces he sees looking back at him from the mirror or across the table from him.
He slides a chair out and sits, doesn't do anything for a moment. It's quiet, just the two of them, and he supposes that means something, too, when he looks through the photographs. Some are blurry, unfocused, clearly the work of an amateur photographer, but that doesn't matter so much as the content.
“This one,” the idiot's smiling, still won't meet his eyes as he slides a photo in front of him. “I like this one.”
He looks down and sees himself glaring at the camera from under a hideous party hat with polka dots and a sparkly pompom attached at the top, the idiot hanging off his shoulders. Even though he can clearly remember plotting revenge for the multiple blows to his dignity that day, he can't stop staring.
It's the idiot's smile in the picture, bright and happy, and something else.
He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but the words just don't come.
It goes on like that for a while, and the idiot somehow inches closer with each picture until they're side by side, and he thinks that maybe he's beginning to understand what this is all about. What it's always been about.
“But this one,” the idiot's talking again, “I like this one best.”
In it he's wearing a pair of fuzzy reindeer antlers and a little red plastic nose on his face from the school Christmas party only a few weeks ago. Io's standing next to him with an arm slung around his shoulders and a satisfied smile on her face. He's not looking at the camera, though, his gaze focused on something - someone - just off to the side, mouth quirked in the tiniest of smiles.
When he gets to the last one he sits back and stares at them. Pictures of people who are unremarkable and average looking until they smile or laugh, and then they become something else and realizes 'Oh'. Oh.
The idiot laughs, leans against him and whispers into his ear. “I think I finally did it.”
Rating: G
Pairing: Akiha/Umeda
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: It starts out subtly, hardly noticeable.
Notes: Ahaha. Oh, where to start? beckerbell asked for Akiha/Umeda with the prompt 'photographic evidence' fic for her birthday (HAHAHA, I know, right? OMG, I'm so sorry!) and then somehow - magically - I never did. I can't even explain it to myself without wanting to punch myself in the face. A lot. Anyway, I wrote you fic? :D
It starts out subtly, hardly noticeable.
Magazines left here or there, opened to pages featuring couples doing various things. Some are holding hands, some brushing shoulders, and some are just...he's not even sure but it seems to involve a lot of yarn. At first he just thinks he's living with a slob, someone who can't or won't clean up after themselves, but then...
Then there are folders, portfolios with glossy pictures spilling out just so. Fanned out across the table or counter in a deliberate sort of manner, nothing at all happenstance about the way they're positioned. Placed carefully, oh so carefully so there would be no chance he might overlook them.
He stares at them, certain now that there's some sort of message, some point that the idiot is trying to get through to him but all he sees are smiling faces, laughing faces, and none of it clicks.
Just...people.
Everyday people like those he passes on the street or bumps into on the train or at the grocery store. Couples and individuals who are unremarkable and average looking until they smile or laugh, and then they become something else. Beautiful and stunning and something he can't quite put his finger on.
He knows because once he starts, he can't stop until he looks through the entire thing. He sees everyday people and their everyday expressions until he hits this picture or that one, and suddenly they're beautiful, lips curved into brilliant smiles. There are pictures where he can almost hear the laughter, but he still...he doesn't understand.
Not until the day he finds the idiot seated at the kitchen table, mug of coffee in his hands. Comfortable and settled in like he's been there for some time and doesn't intend to move until he's ready.
"It took a while," the idiot says, and he doesn't quite meet his eyes at first. "It took a while, but I think I did it."
There's another folder, another set of pictures spilling out onto the table. This time he recognizes the people in them. Faces he sees looking back at him from the mirror or across the table from him.
He slides a chair out and sits, doesn't do anything for a moment. It's quiet, just the two of them, and he supposes that means something, too, when he looks through the photographs. Some are blurry, unfocused, clearly the work of an amateur photographer, but that doesn't matter so much as the content.
“This one,” the idiot's smiling, still won't meet his eyes as he slides a photo in front of him. “I like this one.”
He looks down and sees himself glaring at the camera from under a hideous party hat with polka dots and a sparkly pompom attached at the top, the idiot hanging off his shoulders. Even though he can clearly remember plotting revenge for the multiple blows to his dignity that day, he can't stop staring.
It's the idiot's smile in the picture, bright and happy, and something else.
He opens his mouth to speak, to say something, but the words just don't come.
It goes on like that for a while, and the idiot somehow inches closer with each picture until they're side by side, and he thinks that maybe he's beginning to understand what this is all about. What it's always been about.
“But this one,” the idiot's talking again, “I like this one best.”
In it he's wearing a pair of fuzzy reindeer antlers and a little red plastic nose on his face from the school Christmas party only a few weeks ago. Io's standing next to him with an arm slung around his shoulders and a satisfied smile on her face. He's not looking at the camera, though, his gaze focused on something - someone - just off to the side, mouth quirked in the tiniest of smiles.
When he gets to the last one he sits back and stares at them. Pictures of people who are unremarkable and average looking until they smile or laugh, and then they become something else and realizes 'Oh'. Oh.
The idiot laughs, leans against him and whispers into his ear. “I think I finally did it.”