HanaKimi: cheaper by the dozen
FOR YOU, YIN DARLING, BECAUSE I PROMISED. And because I have an excuse as to why it's crap fiction: I'm new to the series! *claims immunity*
His hands are cold and smell like medicine and cigarettes at the same time. Your arm around his waist is very careful, as if you were holding a very small animal or developing pictures of someone who had just died, so you can pick yourself up and leave as soon as he really wants you gone.
His fingers are white and long. You are the one shaking, not him.
You blow across the back of his neck, the edge of his ear. Kiss him slowly around his ear lobe and move down to the jaw where you can feel his grip tighten around your hand. The chair is caught in between the two of you, warmer than his hand, and is symbolic like a badly taken photo shoot. He is not afraid to hit you; you, of touching him.
"You could always say no," you tell him. You wish very very hard against his hair, hoping that he can hear you even if you're not begging out loud. You want to touch that hair, want to taste it, want him to stay like he is, immobile and you inoffensive.
"Okay, then," he says, and pushes you away. "No."
*
Still, after all this time, there is Kijima. You remember him as he was back then; you are an Osaka Gakuen graduate too. You want to be able to say something like, 'I'll be better than him. I'll love you more, the way you want to be loved,' but it doesn't really matter; after all this time, it's not love that Umeda's chasing anymore, if ever.
So you stay quiet. Let him hit you and kick you and throw you away, and you come back for more because you're stupid and you don't know what else to do. To him you're trash, you're garbage, you're a stray dog without any sense of gratitude. You like his office and you like Mizuki and you like it when the three of you sit down together and talk about her problems. At least then you aren't talking about your problems or the reason why you are here, and at least then he won't make you leave until she does too.
You still like him a lot. You want to know what else there is to say.
*
On days he is wearing Kijima's gift cologne you don't touch him, though later your clothes will smell like it anyway because you get so close you soak it up, and you go home to think about them staying up late at nights barcrawling together, Kijima drunk with his arms slung around Umeda to hold himself up. In your bed by yourself you think of alcohol and Umeda's high tolerance and body warmth until you want to die.
Despite the fact that you know nothing will ever happen between them, you don't go to his office the morning after those days, not until you're sure you're completely over it. You say to yourself, when you see him next time you will smile as widely as you can and say 'I love you Umeda-senpai', opening your arms unconditionally--
Instead you ask, "How are things going between you and Kijima?"
"They aren't," he says shortly, slamming a cup of coffee in front of you. "Now shut up and let me pretend you're not here."
You've always loved his glasses, and so for today you watch the line of the sunlight flicker off their lenses as he fills out medical emergency forms and rearranges daily doses for the boys who need allergy medications. You have liked him for a long time, almost as long as he has liked Kijima, and so this is only another manifestation of retribution and karma and bad coincidences. Umeda has no sympathy, but you'll touch him later just to make sure, because sometimes you catch him off guard and he doesn't have the time to tell you no.
*
What you really want is to have a brain like a roll of undeveloped film, eyes sharper than shutter speeds, and hands that connect sensations straight to the brain. "Hey," you say, re-tying your ponytail with the elastic between your teeth, "do you remember when we were still in school and there was that one time you were willing to model for me?"
He's putting on his coat, so when he looks at you he has to turn his head over his shoulder, considering. You wonder if he's really forgotten or if it's only that you're desperate enough to remember. Finally he relaxes, scowls at you, and shoves his hands in his pockets. You can smell the flint from his cigarette lighter and the aloe of his unscented hand lotion, intimate contradictory smells. You wonder if Kijima recognizes them.
"Oh god." He throws his head back, wincing as he reminisces. "Those must have been awful."
"They weren't really, even though I was sort of an amateur at that time," you admit, and resolve that the first thing you'll do when you get home is to burn those photos.
*
Now he is in some throwback mood where he can only barely register your presence, and you want, you need, you crave. He's putting a cigarette in his mouth, he's hanging it out of the corner of his lips, he's looking so far ahead he's not there with you anymore. He's forward, you're backward.
He's so goddamn beautiful. You're aching with his beauty like he's made it all into tiny pieces of glass and he's sticking it into your skin, excrutiatingly kind and gentle splinters you've carried around for more than a decade. Sometimes you think of those relapses the two of you have. He'll forget himself. You'll be brave and smart and intelligent, and you'll win him over momentarily so that when he kisses you, he's thinking of you and not really of anyone else.
Kijima will have his phone turned off.
Now you take his cigarette lighter out of his hand and say to him very slowly so that he'll hear you, "You know I'm always here, right?" You've been chasing his image for as long as you have known him, and you like him still.
"Akiha, do you smoke?" he murmurs. He takes your hand into his hand, a hand that has so tenderly and single-mindedly cared for scrapes and bruises and wounds. He has daubed antiseptic and soaked up blood with that hand before; now he uses it to guide your hand, still holding the lighter, up to his mouth.
"No."
"Right," he says, and smiles, using your hand to hold the lighter steady as he sets fire to the end of the cigarette. "You don't."
Now he is in some distant, lofty height in his memories. He is hidden so far away from you that you can't find him anymore; no one can find him where he is now, except for maybe someone with dark hair and dark eyes and a melting, impersonal smile. You can go looking for him with your camera lenses and your snap-flash-quick photography, but you'll never find him. He is in some place you will never know.
You touch him anyway. You kiss him and you wait for him to react. He has a mouth that tastes like smoke and coffee and frightened electricity, but his hands are still cold, still white, and still push you away as if you meant nothing to him at all.
By the way, does anyone a) have chapter 119 of HanaKimi or b) know how to use IRC and is willing to download a chapter of Ping Pong for me? Please?
His hands are cold and smell like medicine and cigarettes at the same time. Your arm around his waist is very careful, as if you were holding a very small animal or developing pictures of someone who had just died, so you can pick yourself up and leave as soon as he really wants you gone.
His fingers are white and long. You are the one shaking, not him.
You blow across the back of his neck, the edge of his ear. Kiss him slowly around his ear lobe and move down to the jaw where you can feel his grip tighten around your hand. The chair is caught in between the two of you, warmer than his hand, and is symbolic like a badly taken photo shoot. He is not afraid to hit you; you, of touching him.
"You could always say no," you tell him. You wish very very hard against his hair, hoping that he can hear you even if you're not begging out loud. You want to touch that hair, want to taste it, want him to stay like he is, immobile and you inoffensive.
"Okay, then," he says, and pushes you away. "No."
*
Still, after all this time, there is Kijima. You remember him as he was back then; you are an Osaka Gakuen graduate too. You want to be able to say something like, 'I'll be better than him. I'll love you more, the way you want to be loved,' but it doesn't really matter; after all this time, it's not love that Umeda's chasing anymore, if ever.
So you stay quiet. Let him hit you and kick you and throw you away, and you come back for more because you're stupid and you don't know what else to do. To him you're trash, you're garbage, you're a stray dog without any sense of gratitude. You like his office and you like Mizuki and you like it when the three of you sit down together and talk about her problems. At least then you aren't talking about your problems or the reason why you are here, and at least then he won't make you leave until she does too.
You still like him a lot. You want to know what else there is to say.
*
On days he is wearing Kijima's gift cologne you don't touch him, though later your clothes will smell like it anyway because you get so close you soak it up, and you go home to think about them staying up late at nights barcrawling together, Kijima drunk with his arms slung around Umeda to hold himself up. In your bed by yourself you think of alcohol and Umeda's high tolerance and body warmth until you want to die.
Despite the fact that you know nothing will ever happen between them, you don't go to his office the morning after those days, not until you're sure you're completely over it. You say to yourself, when you see him next time you will smile as widely as you can and say 'I love you Umeda-senpai', opening your arms unconditionally--
Instead you ask, "How are things going between you and Kijima?"
"They aren't," he says shortly, slamming a cup of coffee in front of you. "Now shut up and let me pretend you're not here."
You've always loved his glasses, and so for today you watch the line of the sunlight flicker off their lenses as he fills out medical emergency forms and rearranges daily doses for the boys who need allergy medications. You have liked him for a long time, almost as long as he has liked Kijima, and so this is only another manifestation of retribution and karma and bad coincidences. Umeda has no sympathy, but you'll touch him later just to make sure, because sometimes you catch him off guard and he doesn't have the time to tell you no.
*
What you really want is to have a brain like a roll of undeveloped film, eyes sharper than shutter speeds, and hands that connect sensations straight to the brain. "Hey," you say, re-tying your ponytail with the elastic between your teeth, "do you remember when we were still in school and there was that one time you were willing to model for me?"
He's putting on his coat, so when he looks at you he has to turn his head over his shoulder, considering. You wonder if he's really forgotten or if it's only that you're desperate enough to remember. Finally he relaxes, scowls at you, and shoves his hands in his pockets. You can smell the flint from his cigarette lighter and the aloe of his unscented hand lotion, intimate contradictory smells. You wonder if Kijima recognizes them.
"Oh god." He throws his head back, wincing as he reminisces. "Those must have been awful."
"They weren't really, even though I was sort of an amateur at that time," you admit, and resolve that the first thing you'll do when you get home is to burn those photos.
*
Now he is in some throwback mood where he can only barely register your presence, and you want, you need, you crave. He's putting a cigarette in his mouth, he's hanging it out of the corner of his lips, he's looking so far ahead he's not there with you anymore. He's forward, you're backward.
He's so goddamn beautiful. You're aching with his beauty like he's made it all into tiny pieces of glass and he's sticking it into your skin, excrutiatingly kind and gentle splinters you've carried around for more than a decade. Sometimes you think of those relapses the two of you have. He'll forget himself. You'll be brave and smart and intelligent, and you'll win him over momentarily so that when he kisses you, he's thinking of you and not really of anyone else.
Kijima will have his phone turned off.
Now you take his cigarette lighter out of his hand and say to him very slowly so that he'll hear you, "You know I'm always here, right?" You've been chasing his image for as long as you have known him, and you like him still.
"Akiha, do you smoke?" he murmurs. He takes your hand into his hand, a hand that has so tenderly and single-mindedly cared for scrapes and bruises and wounds. He has daubed antiseptic and soaked up blood with that hand before; now he uses it to guide your hand, still holding the lighter, up to his mouth.
"No."
"Right," he says, and smiles, using your hand to hold the lighter steady as he sets fire to the end of the cigarette. "You don't."
Now he is in some distant, lofty height in his memories. He is hidden so far away from you that you can't find him anymore; no one can find him where he is now, except for maybe someone with dark hair and dark eyes and a melting, impersonal smile. You can go looking for him with your camera lenses and your snap-flash-quick photography, but you'll never find him. He is in some place you will never know.
You touch him anyway. You kiss him and you wait for him to react. He has a mouth that tastes like smoke and coffee and frightened electricity, but his hands are still cold, still white, and still push you away as if you meant nothing to him at all.
By the way, does anyone a) have chapter 119 of HanaKimi or b) know how to use IRC and is willing to download a chapter of Ping Pong for me? Please?