(one-shot) because the world doesn't stop spinning (and it's always your fault)
Title: Because the world doesn't stop spinning (and it's always your fault)
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Angst, friendship, perhaps romance.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Am not old, not male, not Japanese, not rich. Not Johnny. Also, I obviously have no idea what Kame feels about all this crap lately, but I can only fathom. Maki is an original character, but an unoriginal name.
Summary: The first time he held your hand, your world started to spin - everything became a mesh of colors, a blur of lights and sounds (starry nights, the world in your palm).
A/N: Was going to write about this earlier, but I couldn't find the inspiration. Today, I had the worst day I've had in a while, and I saw a butterfly when my friend was complaining that I study too hard. Second person, written in two and a half hours. Enjoy? Comments are, as always, a lot of love! I will be failing at replying to them (and yesterday's), but please do know that they're so, insanely appreciated. ♥
The first time he held your hand, your world started to spin - everything became a mesh of colors, a blur of lights and sounds (starry nights, the world in your palm). His skin was surprisingly soft against yours, his laughter pressed against you, fingers curling around your knuckles. It was a kind of love you’d never known - lanky limbs, breathy voices, messed up dance steps, sweaty hair and all. You loved him, and your world just kept on spinning. You loved him, and you were the one that first pulled away at his touch, broke the chain of hugs and kisses and the fragile bridge of friendship, crossed the line into awkward territory and never looked back. It’s always your fault.
Now, your world spins too - but not the way it did when you were fourteen, when you were in love. It spins because it’s your fault, because things didn’t turn out the way they were planned to - they never do. It’s always your fault.
It’s all your fault that Kimura has the lowest rating he’s ever had since 1997; it’s all your fault that you’re Kamenashi and you’re part of KAT-TUN and you are, should be, perfect. It’s always your fault, because you’re the youngest and have to try twice as hard to be somebody you can’t, have to run to catch up with the unspoken, easy, sarcastic maturity of the others. You feel so behind sometimes, so unwanted. It’s always your fault.
Your world is still spinning when you lower yourself down onto the ground, head in your hands (you want to stop, spinning and all - just stop, but the world doesn’t wait for you; it never does). The ground is cold beneath your feet, rigid, unyielding. You wish it would swallow you up, accept you (because nobody else does). You will back the tears, curb a sob, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. It’s always your fault.
Johnny walked into the studio earlier this morning, wrinkled face, wrinkled nose, wrinkled eyes, pulled you out of the way to whisper in your ear. It’s fine, he told you solemnly, eyes guarded (you could feel the stares at your back, the other members’ permanently worried glances that you always pretend not to see). Just ignore the media. It wasn’t comforting, the way he said it - he never says anything comforting (not even when Akanishi was leaving for Los Angeles, no). You know he doesn’t, and you still can’t help but feel like he blames you; he doesn’t forgive you, not yet. You’re afraid to look for Kimura, scared, ashamed. It rises up in you like a curse, bubbles into your heart, your mind - the insecurity of it all, the goals you’ve never achieved, the people you’ve let down (that friendship, that awful ache).
It’s always, always your fault.
You left work early in the afternoon, your hair, your heart a mess (disheveled, splattered all over the place - you wish somebody would help you pick it up). You refused Koki’s kind-hearted inquiry to eat out; made sure you squeezed Ueda’s shoulder enough times to make the concern in his voice die down a little; whacked Nakamaru on the head with a water bottle to confirm the normality of your mood. You even stole Junno’s PSP, worked your fingers around random buttons until you drowned in a pit of fire and he laughed lightly, eyes glimmering with his endless smile. Akanishi glanced sideways at you, gave you his magazine when he saw you peering over his shoulder at the article - awkward, always awkward, but not awkward enough to break. It’s always your fault, anyway.
It’s quiet, a gentle sort of quiet in the small park besides your apartment building, where you are now. You are leaning against a tree (one of the only remaining tall ones left), your fingers carving patterns into the grass, stains tainting the ripped knees of your jeans. Your world is still spinning, but you’re almost used to it (just like you’re used to the ache of your heart, the fact that it’s always your fault).
A girl runs up to you, her hands cupped together, eyes bright (almost as much as the sunshine above her head). Her dark, short hair reflects the sunshine, her small feet bare, sunk down comfortably in the grassy border beside the sidewalk, where you are sitting. She smiles at you, head tilting, and offers you her hands, opens them up in front of your face.
From the cup of her hands comes a butterfly, soft white wings and delicate legs, a flutter in the midst of the blue canvas of the sky. You both watch as it flies away gracefully, twirls in a few circles before it disappears into the distance. Sometimes, you wish you could be a butterfly (so naturally, easily beautiful, so opposite of you).
“Maki,” a voice calls out nearby, your only warning before a familiar figure is strolling in your direction, hands tucked into pockets, fedora dipped low over brown, wavy hair. “Where - oh,” he halts in place when he sees you, lips quirking up slightly (or you might just be imagining). “You found him.”
Nodding, Maki makes a dash at Akanishi, her tiny arms clasping around his thigh, dark hair buried against his waistline. He gives her a look, moving to rest a hand on her head before he returns his gaze to you, unwavering. You feel like you’ve intruded upon something extremely personal (you feel left out, too left out), and turn away, tell yourself that you should have expected it - after not knowing him, pulling out of his grasp for so many years. It’s always your fault.
There’s a shuffle by your side, soft footsteps in the grass, and then there are tiny arms around you, warm child’s breath by your ear. It’s a brief hug - she doesn’t cling to you, not like she did with Akanishi - and she draws away, holding out a small, white flower, its leaves curling with the fresh smell of soil.
You accept it hesitantly, watching as she runs off in the opposite direction, hair flying behind her, brilliant against the sunlight. “Cute, isn’t she,” his voice says from behind you, and you turn, the flower still fragrant in between your fingers. His eyes speak multitudes, make you uneasy yet comfortable at the same time as he steps forward, crouches down to your level.
“She’s from the orphanage,” he remarks, plucks a flower (similar to the one in your hand) from the ground, twirls it around absently. “The one Reio’s helping out at. He’s brought her back to stay for a few days. She’s a weaker one, doesn’t eat nearly enough.”
“She’s beautiful,” you murmur as Maki frolics about in the distance, swinging her legs up onto a set of monkey bars, her face lighted with laughter. You look back at Akanishi, at the stem of the flower he is rubbing between his fingers (the petals are spinning, spinning, spinning, just like your world.
Just like you, you want to add onto the end of your statement, want to see the way he grins, the flash of white teeth and golden specks in his eyes, how they crinkle at the corners. But you don’t, you can’t, and it’s your fault, really.)
He follows your gaze down to the flower in his hand, twists his wrist so that the petals are spinning facing you. “Thinking about somebody?” he asks, voice almost teasing but not quite, his legs shifting closer to yours, rough denim brushing against the cement. He doesn’t mention work, tomorrow’s schedule, or Kimura’s drama rankings. He doesn’t mention how tired you must look, dark circles heavy beneath your eyes, hair tousled, jeans worn. He doesn’t mention that it’s always your fault.
Pursing your lips thoughtfully, you place your own flower aside, sticking it in between blades of grass, pressing it deep down against the dirt. “Perhaps,” you say, attempting to sound nonchalant (as always - always trying too hard, too much). “Yes.”
Instead of poking fun like you expected him to do, Akanishi holds out the flower, places it in your palm. “Try,” is all he answers with, and looks at you with expectant eyes. You’re almost incredulous that he wants you to play this game - this ridiculous, high school girl game, but when you remember Maki’s smile, and his smile, and blindingly blue skies; you think you might as well.
Each petal you pick off is velvety, hopeful to your touch. He loves me, you count in your mind, he loves me not. A breeze picks up, blows the petals out of reach. When you peek up, he is smiling.
He loves me -
Maki tumbles into the grass beside him, flippant laughter and smiles in her words, her actions. Akanishi tucks your abandoned flower into her hair, smoothes the fabric of her shirt when she isn’t looking, hums her a children’s song in his low, melodic voice.
He loves me not.
You have three petals left when Maki departs again, off to catch another butterfly. He observes the flower in your hand, gazes at you curiously. You already know the outcome, already are too baffled by this game. Your world is still spinning, and maybe you’re just too stupid to figure it out - your fault.
“What are you on?”
“Not,” you say, and jump when his hand closes around yours, fingers warm, entwining themselves across your knuckles. For a moment, you completely forget about it - about everything, Kimura and Johnny and ratings, everything but his skin, his hand on yours, your world spinning.
“Loves you,” he whispers, and plucks a petal off, letting it fall, “Loves you not,” and another petal. The last petal is left hanging by only a small connection, blowing dangerously in the cool breeze.
“Loves you,” Akanishi says finally, lets go of your hands, pries your fingers away. The stem and the remaining petal float away with the wind, twirling in circles towards the direction of Maki’s distant figure, towards the sun in the sky. It spins continuously, and you watch it spin (like how you watch the world go by, how you watch everything end up being your fault). “It’s not your fault,” he tells you, edges onto the sidewalk to sit up against you, lets you fist your hands into the fabric of his shirt, trembling - because it’s forever been your fault, it’s forever been you trying too hard.
“It’s not your fault, Kame,” he repeats, and you close your eyes as his warmth envelops you, presses against your skin and bone, the stark weariness of your figure, the spinning of your head, your world. (You can feel his heart racing underneath your fingertips, fluttering, like a butterfly, like Maki’s butterfly.)
“It’s not your fault,” he says again, over and over and over, leans his forehead on yours. You breathe in his scent, a blur of colors and sounds beneath your eyelids - your heart is overflowing, your eyes brimming. It can’t be your fault.
Your eyes open, and you see him - Jin, his gaze boring into yours, lips curved upwards, fedora toppled off of his head. “He loves you,” he breathes gently, your hands stuffed between you, his knees wedged into, slipping into the space between your feet. It’s always been this, this kind of love you’ve never known, a kind of love you can’t really put words to, a kind of love that is entirely his fault, entirely not your fault.
(And finally, finally your world stops spinning.)
Author: mustenentwined3
Pairing: Akame
Genre: Angst, friendship, perhaps romance.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Am not old, not male, not Japanese, not rich. Not Johnny. Also, I obviously have no idea what Kame feels about all this crap lately, but I can only fathom. Maki is an original character, but an unoriginal name.
Summary: The first time he held your hand, your world started to spin - everything became a mesh of colors, a blur of lights and sounds (starry nights, the world in your palm).
A/N: Was going to write about this earlier, but I couldn't find the inspiration. Today, I had the worst day I've had in a while, and I saw a butterfly when my friend was complaining that I study too hard. Second person, written in two and a half hours. Enjoy? Comments are, as always, a lot of love! I will be failing at replying to them (and yesterday's), but please do know that they're so, insanely appreciated. ♥
The first time he held your hand, your world started to spin - everything became a mesh of colors, a blur of lights and sounds (starry nights, the world in your palm). His skin was surprisingly soft against yours, his laughter pressed against you, fingers curling around your knuckles. It was a kind of love you’d never known - lanky limbs, breathy voices, messed up dance steps, sweaty hair and all. You loved him, and your world just kept on spinning. You loved him, and you were the one that first pulled away at his touch, broke the chain of hugs and kisses and the fragile bridge of friendship, crossed the line into awkward territory and never looked back. It’s always your fault.
Now, your world spins too - but not the way it did when you were fourteen, when you were in love. It spins because it’s your fault, because things didn’t turn out the way they were planned to - they never do. It’s always your fault.
It’s all your fault that Kimura has the lowest rating he’s ever had since 1997; it’s all your fault that you’re Kamenashi and you’re part of KAT-TUN and you are, should be, perfect. It’s always your fault, because you’re the youngest and have to try twice as hard to be somebody you can’t, have to run to catch up with the unspoken, easy, sarcastic maturity of the others. You feel so behind sometimes, so unwanted. It’s always your fault.
Your world is still spinning when you lower yourself down onto the ground, head in your hands (you want to stop, spinning and all - just stop, but the world doesn’t wait for you; it never does). The ground is cold beneath your feet, rigid, unyielding. You wish it would swallow you up, accept you (because nobody else does). You will back the tears, curb a sob, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. It’s always your fault.
Johnny walked into the studio earlier this morning, wrinkled face, wrinkled nose, wrinkled eyes, pulled you out of the way to whisper in your ear. It’s fine, he told you solemnly, eyes guarded (you could feel the stares at your back, the other members’ permanently worried glances that you always pretend not to see). Just ignore the media. It wasn’t comforting, the way he said it - he never says anything comforting (not even when Akanishi was leaving for Los Angeles, no). You know he doesn’t, and you still can’t help but feel like he blames you; he doesn’t forgive you, not yet. You’re afraid to look for Kimura, scared, ashamed. It rises up in you like a curse, bubbles into your heart, your mind - the insecurity of it all, the goals you’ve never achieved, the people you’ve let down (that friendship, that awful ache).
It’s always, always your fault.
You left work early in the afternoon, your hair, your heart a mess (disheveled, splattered all over the place - you wish somebody would help you pick it up). You refused Koki’s kind-hearted inquiry to eat out; made sure you squeezed Ueda’s shoulder enough times to make the concern in his voice die down a little; whacked Nakamaru on the head with a water bottle to confirm the normality of your mood. You even stole Junno’s PSP, worked your fingers around random buttons until you drowned in a pit of fire and he laughed lightly, eyes glimmering with his endless smile. Akanishi glanced sideways at you, gave you his magazine when he saw you peering over his shoulder at the article - awkward, always awkward, but not awkward enough to break. It’s always your fault, anyway.
It’s quiet, a gentle sort of quiet in the small park besides your apartment building, where you are now. You are leaning against a tree (one of the only remaining tall ones left), your fingers carving patterns into the grass, stains tainting the ripped knees of your jeans. Your world is still spinning, but you’re almost used to it (just like you’re used to the ache of your heart, the fact that it’s always your fault).
A girl runs up to you, her hands cupped together, eyes bright (almost as much as the sunshine above her head). Her dark, short hair reflects the sunshine, her small feet bare, sunk down comfortably in the grassy border beside the sidewalk, where you are sitting. She smiles at you, head tilting, and offers you her hands, opens them up in front of your face.
From the cup of her hands comes a butterfly, soft white wings and delicate legs, a flutter in the midst of the blue canvas of the sky. You both watch as it flies away gracefully, twirls in a few circles before it disappears into the distance. Sometimes, you wish you could be a butterfly (so naturally, easily beautiful, so opposite of you).
“Maki,” a voice calls out nearby, your only warning before a familiar figure is strolling in your direction, hands tucked into pockets, fedora dipped low over brown, wavy hair. “Where - oh,” he halts in place when he sees you, lips quirking up slightly (or you might just be imagining). “You found him.”
Nodding, Maki makes a dash at Akanishi, her tiny arms clasping around his thigh, dark hair buried against his waistline. He gives her a look, moving to rest a hand on her head before he returns his gaze to you, unwavering. You feel like you’ve intruded upon something extremely personal (you feel left out, too left out), and turn away, tell yourself that you should have expected it - after not knowing him, pulling out of his grasp for so many years. It’s always your fault.
There’s a shuffle by your side, soft footsteps in the grass, and then there are tiny arms around you, warm child’s breath by your ear. It’s a brief hug - she doesn’t cling to you, not like she did with Akanishi - and she draws away, holding out a small, white flower, its leaves curling with the fresh smell of soil.
You accept it hesitantly, watching as she runs off in the opposite direction, hair flying behind her, brilliant against the sunlight. “Cute, isn’t she,” his voice says from behind you, and you turn, the flower still fragrant in between your fingers. His eyes speak multitudes, make you uneasy yet comfortable at the same time as he steps forward, crouches down to your level.
“She’s from the orphanage,” he remarks, plucks a flower (similar to the one in your hand) from the ground, twirls it around absently. “The one Reio’s helping out at. He’s brought her back to stay for a few days. She’s a weaker one, doesn’t eat nearly enough.”
“She’s beautiful,” you murmur as Maki frolics about in the distance, swinging her legs up onto a set of monkey bars, her face lighted with laughter. You look back at Akanishi, at the stem of the flower he is rubbing between his fingers (the petals are spinning, spinning, spinning, just like your world.
Just like you, you want to add onto the end of your statement, want to see the way he grins, the flash of white teeth and golden specks in his eyes, how they crinkle at the corners. But you don’t, you can’t, and it’s your fault, really.)
He follows your gaze down to the flower in his hand, twists his wrist so that the petals are spinning facing you. “Thinking about somebody?” he asks, voice almost teasing but not quite, his legs shifting closer to yours, rough denim brushing against the cement. He doesn’t mention work, tomorrow’s schedule, or Kimura’s drama rankings. He doesn’t mention how tired you must look, dark circles heavy beneath your eyes, hair tousled, jeans worn. He doesn’t mention that it’s always your fault.
Pursing your lips thoughtfully, you place your own flower aside, sticking it in between blades of grass, pressing it deep down against the dirt. “Perhaps,” you say, attempting to sound nonchalant (as always - always trying too hard, too much). “Yes.”
Instead of poking fun like you expected him to do, Akanishi holds out the flower, places it in your palm. “Try,” is all he answers with, and looks at you with expectant eyes. You’re almost incredulous that he wants you to play this game - this ridiculous, high school girl game, but when you remember Maki’s smile, and his smile, and blindingly blue skies; you think you might as well.
Each petal you pick off is velvety, hopeful to your touch. He loves me, you count in your mind, he loves me not. A breeze picks up, blows the petals out of reach. When you peek up, he is smiling.
He loves me -
Maki tumbles into the grass beside him, flippant laughter and smiles in her words, her actions. Akanishi tucks your abandoned flower into her hair, smoothes the fabric of her shirt when she isn’t looking, hums her a children’s song in his low, melodic voice.
He loves me not.
You have three petals left when Maki departs again, off to catch another butterfly. He observes the flower in your hand, gazes at you curiously. You already know the outcome, already are too baffled by this game. Your world is still spinning, and maybe you’re just too stupid to figure it out - your fault.
“What are you on?”
“Not,” you say, and jump when his hand closes around yours, fingers warm, entwining themselves across your knuckles. For a moment, you completely forget about it - about everything, Kimura and Johnny and ratings, everything but his skin, his hand on yours, your world spinning.
“Loves you,” he whispers, and plucks a petal off, letting it fall, “Loves you not,” and another petal. The last petal is left hanging by only a small connection, blowing dangerously in the cool breeze.
“Loves you,” Akanishi says finally, lets go of your hands, pries your fingers away. The stem and the remaining petal float away with the wind, twirling in circles towards the direction of Maki’s distant figure, towards the sun in the sky. It spins continuously, and you watch it spin (like how you watch the world go by, how you watch everything end up being your fault). “It’s not your fault,” he tells you, edges onto the sidewalk to sit up against you, lets you fist your hands into the fabric of his shirt, trembling - because it’s forever been your fault, it’s forever been you trying too hard.
“It’s not your fault, Kame,” he repeats, and you close your eyes as his warmth envelops you, presses against your skin and bone, the stark weariness of your figure, the spinning of your head, your world. (You can feel his heart racing underneath your fingertips, fluttering, like a butterfly, like Maki’s butterfly.)
“It’s not your fault,” he says again, over and over and over, leans his forehead on yours. You breathe in his scent, a blur of colors and sounds beneath your eyelids - your heart is overflowing, your eyes brimming. It can’t be your fault.
Your eyes open, and you see him - Jin, his gaze boring into yours, lips curved upwards, fedora toppled off of his head. “He loves you,” he breathes gently, your hands stuffed between you, his knees wedged into, slipping into the space between your feet. It’s always been this, this kind of love you’ve never known, a kind of love you can’t really put words to, a kind of love that is entirely his fault, entirely not your fault.
(And finally, finally your world stops spinning.)