[fic: arashi] tangible existence
[Title] tangible existence
[Author] turtle_ai
[Disclaimer] I don't own Arashi, or Johnny's Ent. They do own my heart, however.
[Pairing] Ohno/Nino
[Rating] G
[Summary] Ohno hesitates, and his hands tremble.
[Notes] Automaton!fic. You can't really tell it's Nino, so I suppose it could be Ohno/anyone. I... personally, I really like this piece. :D
Fingers pull on the wires gingerly, tweaking them back and forth. The metal creaks painfully against the stretch. Should this part go here, or should the other one be put there in its stead? Fists clench tightly before loosening again and reaching to the core, to the very center of the machinery. Reach out, and sometimes it’s not enough. The fingers are creased, long and slender with dark oil staining them in rough patches all across his arms. The muscles groan in pain when he pulls, pulls at the very middle, and it feels as though he’s tugging at his own heart.
He hesitates, his hands trembling.
It doesn’t work. He sits down, lets his fingers loosen, and slumps to one side, leaning against the dirty, gray walls. Why won’t it work? His heart is heavy, his mind pounding with fears-an inexpressible kind of fear that attacks at his heart and renders him vulnerable. Now it is waiting, waiting for him to completely let go, waiting for those metal bars to crumble and crackle and break into nothing.
In flashes of memories, he remembers. Wooden dolls and soft, long brown hair. Laughter and smiles and happiness that had eternalized the world enough but time. He remembers the moist paint in between his fingers, and he remembers swirls of colour; colour that moved before his eyes, colours pressed tightly together, contrasting against each other; colours that said so much in red, purple, yellow, green and blue.
The past is too far away to grasp, and the present too near to keep close.
Still, Ohno picks his hands up again and tug at the wires, because it is his now, and to abandon would mean the end of everything.
--
It is dark. Dark, damp, and clammy. Red is everywhere-red and orange and yellow, flickering back and forth. It is beautiful light; it leaves an everlasting tingle that runs throughout your body and stays there. You move closer, lift a hand towards it. Touch it, something is telling you.
Touch it. Touch it.
And you want to-it is beautiful; the sparks fly out at you, and it creates an amazing red glow. You like bright and shiny objects; you always have-always loved the stars, the sparks of metal against metal; the lights peeking from under the small crack of the door.
But sometimes, it gets lonely. There is no light joining you to the world of humans-the world of human flesh, the world of limbs and joints and flesh and blood. The world of eyes that sparkle and shine when one is happy-or perhaps it is just a game, a game of eyes watching other eyes, watching to see if they have the same sparkle or shine.
There is none of that, and sometimes, there is a dull, old ache of pain in your chest. (You like to think that it is your heart, but there exists no heart for you, only the same pain of metal clanging against metal, hot wire touching panels in the very core where it hurts the most.)
But in light, there is freedom. In light, there is everything-an oasis, perhaps, of perfection and trees and bright colours and rainbows and everything beautiful-and you want to go to that everything; you want to go there, to that place, to embrace it, to see it, to experience it with real, genuine eyes and pretend that it is your happiness (when it really isn’t, because when you are being asked to function again, all of it disappears and you are once again, nothing but nothingness).
Once you touch it, your hand begins to melt. It starts at the metal joint of your index finger, and then it crawls up, melting your arm, melting you, and for some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much as the pain in your chest does.
There is no forever for you.
--
It is finished. He looks at it from an angle and realizes for the first time that it is large, though barely bigger in build than he is. The grease and grime is everywhere-on his pants, on the machinery, on the small, closed-in walls-but Ohno only scrambles around the metal-what if it doesn’t work? What will happen then? What will he do?
It is old and rusty, and there is orange-brown colour all over his hands, but they are trembling too hard, he is too shaken to notice it, and it is almost an amazing feeling. The hinges are squeaky; the steel is rough, old. Spare wires lie in a disorganized pile to the side, useless.
It is an automaton. A boy. It is scraggly and messy, and despite the heavy, old machinery, the boy looks young, face clean of wrinkles, face hard, clear, and put together finely.
And on his chest, there is a small switch. He swallows. Does he turn it on? What will happen? Will it work?
He flicks it on without another thought, and the change is brilliant.
The entire body of the automaton lights up suddenly, gears working, energy channeling through to everywhere it can reach. Suddenly, it looks alive, real, and so wonderfully vibrant, shining through to Ohno’s world. Ohno’s heart thumps with hope, pounding strangely in his throat; waiting.
Just waiting.
And then, the eyelids flick upwards, and Ohno can see his eyes. The head turns, and Ohno can only gaze in wonder. The body is sleek, shiny, made of metal, and looks invincible, like it can do anything. Its eyes are penetrating Ohno’s own, seeing through to him, seeing something that no other human had seen before.
Ohno hadn’t seen anything look more alive than this piece of machinery in far, far too long.
The automaton does not react when Ohno throws his arms around it, clinging to it and squeezing his eyes tight. He is drowning in his memories, looking for something to hold onto, because he doesn’t remember anymore; yet he does, and that is exactly what is so frustrating.
But it’s alive. It’s real-it’s moving, functioning-an aspect that Ohno has missed so much, an aspect that Ohno has been searching for, and it doesn’t matter that it was not bone nor flesh, but it is here and it exists and it is everything that Ohno had been wanting to revive-the familiar urge to experience reality, to be able to touch and feel what is tangible, to be able to hold on to something and say don’t leave.
The automaton’s eyes blink slowly, move moment by moment, and stare at the man holding it. There are no memories stored. There is no fear, no pain, no love, no hate, no need, no selflessness.
But still, its arms creak when it lifts them; move jerkily to wind its own arms in a shabby, uncontrolled embrace.
Thank you, its ears pick up; the voice is shaking, ever so slightly, the voice heavy and yet feathery. Thank you, for being here.
Even though it can remember nothing, nostalgia fills, and it can remember the pain in its chest, the emptiness it felt even though there isn’t supposed to be anything there. It can remember-the stench of oil and gas, the lights, the red glow-and somewhere inside, it pretends that its heart is beating.
It thumps, beats, with every second ticking with time, with every single second washing away into reminiscent memories.
Thump.
Thump.
It is slow, steady, rhythmic, repeats, similar to that of a mantra, and it feels warm inside-warm to the very touch, filled with a feeling that is maybe called compassion, and longs for the feeling to stay, because it knows that it cannot.
And the automaton will imagine it happening-it’ll imagine a little bit and dream a little more, just because.
The thudding in his chest stops, whisking away into nothing, and once more, the automaton is a clunk of dark, cold, hard metal that has no feelings, no compassion, no warmth-only a hollow, empty shell.
Its eyes gaze at Ohno. Ohno is warm against him, body shaking, with clenched fingers and a tight heart. Ohno is pure, lonely, only wanting something to believe in, someone to trust, someone to hold onto and never let go.
But Ohno is clinging onto it-Ohno wants it to stay, it to understand, it to simply be there and tell him that everything is alright, because even though dreams are too far away, too far to reach for, too far to want to believe in, at least-at the very least, there will always be something to try and acquire that hope.
Despite all of it, the automaton can see the light flickering deep within, can see the strength that Ohno can hold, can see that together, maybe they can create something new.
Thank you, the automaton wants to say. Thank you for giving me my forever.
But it can only say nothing, and it goes on, holding the man with strong, metal hands, pretending that its cheeks were wet, pretending that the heart in its chest was filled with a wonderful kind of thrumming, thumping-emotion, movement. It goes on, letting the nonexistent tears sting the corners of its eyes.
And then something goes wrong. The automaton jerks, backward and forward, and again. Ohno raises his head, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He inches backwards from the machinery and stares-no, no, please don’t.
Red flashes. The automaton’s eyes move upwards and downwards and left and right and panic rises in Ohno’s throat, because this is not supposed to happen-will he be abandoned again? Its arms jerk away from its body, making horrible, clumsy, sudden movements. The gears slow in the automaton’s head, twisting and turning no more, and everything dies.
The flicker of life-the energy, fire, the light-that had shone so brightly in the machinery’s eyes, fade-almost step by step, the light diminishing, and then-gone.
Ohno, in a desperate attempt to do something-do anything-to stop this, to stop whatever is happening, waves his fingers in front of where the face is, his throat closed tight. He places his hands against the cold steel, shakes it a little, tells himself that it’s not supposed to malfunction. But he can’t feel it anymore-he can’t feel the distinct connection, the familiar bond. There is no more warmth-nothing there anymore.
It is empty. Ohno feels lost.
He begins to remember again. Butterflies and the sound of grand, gentle music. Cake with the taste of tears. He remembers tissue-thin, white pieces of tissue that floated over the corn field into the sea of blue sky, looking like giant, white butterflies, vast, free, and nostalgic.
Still-in the far, far distance, Ohno can still hear it-the sound of metal clashing together, the creaks and rust and the scrapes, all melded into one, making a beautiful orchestra of sounds.
In one fleeting heartbeat, Ohno’s chest hurts, the pain digging right through to him, a pang, a longing, and he hears something. It is a soft, soft sound at first-almost delicate, fragile, trilling in his ear. Ohno cranes his head forward, alert, quivering; waiting.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A low voice whispers in his ear-it’ll be alright-and Ohno can still feel the heaviness of the automaton’s arm, the cold yet comfortingly smooth surface of the metal resting on his back, brushing his skin.
Ohno smiles, reaches for the automaton’s small, cold hand, and squeezes.
It feels real and warm (and Ohno does nothing to brush his tears away).
[Author] turtle_ai
[Disclaimer] I don't own Arashi, or Johnny's Ent. They do own my heart, however.
[Pairing] Ohno/Nino
[Rating] G
[Summary] Ohno hesitates, and his hands tremble.
[Notes] Automaton!fic. You can't really tell it's Nino, so I suppose it could be Ohno/anyone. I... personally, I really like this piece. :D
Fingers pull on the wires gingerly, tweaking them back and forth. The metal creaks painfully against the stretch. Should this part go here, or should the other one be put there in its stead? Fists clench tightly before loosening again and reaching to the core, to the very center of the machinery. Reach out, and sometimes it’s not enough. The fingers are creased, long and slender with dark oil staining them in rough patches all across his arms. The muscles groan in pain when he pulls, pulls at the very middle, and it feels as though he’s tugging at his own heart.
He hesitates, his hands trembling.
It doesn’t work. He sits down, lets his fingers loosen, and slumps to one side, leaning against the dirty, gray walls. Why won’t it work? His heart is heavy, his mind pounding with fears-an inexpressible kind of fear that attacks at his heart and renders him vulnerable. Now it is waiting, waiting for him to completely let go, waiting for those metal bars to crumble and crackle and break into nothing.
In flashes of memories, he remembers. Wooden dolls and soft, long brown hair. Laughter and smiles and happiness that had eternalized the world enough but time. He remembers the moist paint in between his fingers, and he remembers swirls of colour; colour that moved before his eyes, colours pressed tightly together, contrasting against each other; colours that said so much in red, purple, yellow, green and blue.
The past is too far away to grasp, and the present too near to keep close.
Still, Ohno picks his hands up again and tug at the wires, because it is his now, and to abandon would mean the end of everything.
--
It is dark. Dark, damp, and clammy. Red is everywhere-red and orange and yellow, flickering back and forth. It is beautiful light; it leaves an everlasting tingle that runs throughout your body and stays there. You move closer, lift a hand towards it. Touch it, something is telling you.
Touch it. Touch it.
And you want to-it is beautiful; the sparks fly out at you, and it creates an amazing red glow. You like bright and shiny objects; you always have-always loved the stars, the sparks of metal against metal; the lights peeking from under the small crack of the door.
But sometimes, it gets lonely. There is no light joining you to the world of humans-the world of human flesh, the world of limbs and joints and flesh and blood. The world of eyes that sparkle and shine when one is happy-or perhaps it is just a game, a game of eyes watching other eyes, watching to see if they have the same sparkle or shine.
There is none of that, and sometimes, there is a dull, old ache of pain in your chest. (You like to think that it is your heart, but there exists no heart for you, only the same pain of metal clanging against metal, hot wire touching panels in the very core where it hurts the most.)
But in light, there is freedom. In light, there is everything-an oasis, perhaps, of perfection and trees and bright colours and rainbows and everything beautiful-and you want to go to that everything; you want to go there, to that place, to embrace it, to see it, to experience it with real, genuine eyes and pretend that it is your happiness (when it really isn’t, because when you are being asked to function again, all of it disappears and you are once again, nothing but nothingness).
Once you touch it, your hand begins to melt. It starts at the metal joint of your index finger, and then it crawls up, melting your arm, melting you, and for some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much as the pain in your chest does.
There is no forever for you.
--
It is finished. He looks at it from an angle and realizes for the first time that it is large, though barely bigger in build than he is. The grease and grime is everywhere-on his pants, on the machinery, on the small, closed-in walls-but Ohno only scrambles around the metal-what if it doesn’t work? What will happen then? What will he do?
It is old and rusty, and there is orange-brown colour all over his hands, but they are trembling too hard, he is too shaken to notice it, and it is almost an amazing feeling. The hinges are squeaky; the steel is rough, old. Spare wires lie in a disorganized pile to the side, useless.
It is an automaton. A boy. It is scraggly and messy, and despite the heavy, old machinery, the boy looks young, face clean of wrinkles, face hard, clear, and put together finely.
And on his chest, there is a small switch. He swallows. Does he turn it on? What will happen? Will it work?
He flicks it on without another thought, and the change is brilliant.
The entire body of the automaton lights up suddenly, gears working, energy channeling through to everywhere it can reach. Suddenly, it looks alive, real, and so wonderfully vibrant, shining through to Ohno’s world. Ohno’s heart thumps with hope, pounding strangely in his throat; waiting.
Just waiting.
And then, the eyelids flick upwards, and Ohno can see his eyes. The head turns, and Ohno can only gaze in wonder. The body is sleek, shiny, made of metal, and looks invincible, like it can do anything. Its eyes are penetrating Ohno’s own, seeing through to him, seeing something that no other human had seen before.
Ohno hadn’t seen anything look more alive than this piece of machinery in far, far too long.
The automaton does not react when Ohno throws his arms around it, clinging to it and squeezing his eyes tight. He is drowning in his memories, looking for something to hold onto, because he doesn’t remember anymore; yet he does, and that is exactly what is so frustrating.
But it’s alive. It’s real-it’s moving, functioning-an aspect that Ohno has missed so much, an aspect that Ohno has been searching for, and it doesn’t matter that it was not bone nor flesh, but it is here and it exists and it is everything that Ohno had been wanting to revive-the familiar urge to experience reality, to be able to touch and feel what is tangible, to be able to hold on to something and say don’t leave.
The automaton’s eyes blink slowly, move moment by moment, and stare at the man holding it. There are no memories stored. There is no fear, no pain, no love, no hate, no need, no selflessness.
But still, its arms creak when it lifts them; move jerkily to wind its own arms in a shabby, uncontrolled embrace.
Thank you, its ears pick up; the voice is shaking, ever so slightly, the voice heavy and yet feathery. Thank you, for being here.
Even though it can remember nothing, nostalgia fills, and it can remember the pain in its chest, the emptiness it felt even though there isn’t supposed to be anything there. It can remember-the stench of oil and gas, the lights, the red glow-and somewhere inside, it pretends that its heart is beating.
It thumps, beats, with every second ticking with time, with every single second washing away into reminiscent memories.
Thump.
Thump.
It is slow, steady, rhythmic, repeats, similar to that of a mantra, and it feels warm inside-warm to the very touch, filled with a feeling that is maybe called compassion, and longs for the feeling to stay, because it knows that it cannot.
And the automaton will imagine it happening-it’ll imagine a little bit and dream a little more, just because.
The thudding in his chest stops, whisking away into nothing, and once more, the automaton is a clunk of dark, cold, hard metal that has no feelings, no compassion, no warmth-only a hollow, empty shell.
Its eyes gaze at Ohno. Ohno is warm against him, body shaking, with clenched fingers and a tight heart. Ohno is pure, lonely, only wanting something to believe in, someone to trust, someone to hold onto and never let go.
But Ohno is clinging onto it-Ohno wants it to stay, it to understand, it to simply be there and tell him that everything is alright, because even though dreams are too far away, too far to reach for, too far to want to believe in, at least-at the very least, there will always be something to try and acquire that hope.
Despite all of it, the automaton can see the light flickering deep within, can see the strength that Ohno can hold, can see that together, maybe they can create something new.
Thank you, the automaton wants to say. Thank you for giving me my forever.
But it can only say nothing, and it goes on, holding the man with strong, metal hands, pretending that its cheeks were wet, pretending that the heart in its chest was filled with a wonderful kind of thrumming, thumping-emotion, movement. It goes on, letting the nonexistent tears sting the corners of its eyes.
And then something goes wrong. The automaton jerks, backward and forward, and again. Ohno raises his head, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He inches backwards from the machinery and stares-no, no, please don’t.
Red flashes. The automaton’s eyes move upwards and downwards and left and right and panic rises in Ohno’s throat, because this is not supposed to happen-will he be abandoned again? Its arms jerk away from its body, making horrible, clumsy, sudden movements. The gears slow in the automaton’s head, twisting and turning no more, and everything dies.
The flicker of life-the energy, fire, the light-that had shone so brightly in the machinery’s eyes, fade-almost step by step, the light diminishing, and then-gone.
Ohno, in a desperate attempt to do something-do anything-to stop this, to stop whatever is happening, waves his fingers in front of where the face is, his throat closed tight. He places his hands against the cold steel, shakes it a little, tells himself that it’s not supposed to malfunction. But he can’t feel it anymore-he can’t feel the distinct connection, the familiar bond. There is no more warmth-nothing there anymore.
It is empty. Ohno feels lost.
He begins to remember again. Butterflies and the sound of grand, gentle music. Cake with the taste of tears. He remembers tissue-thin, white pieces of tissue that floated over the corn field into the sea of blue sky, looking like giant, white butterflies, vast, free, and nostalgic.
Still-in the far, far distance, Ohno can still hear it-the sound of metal clashing together, the creaks and rust and the scrapes, all melded into one, making a beautiful orchestra of sounds.
In one fleeting heartbeat, Ohno’s chest hurts, the pain digging right through to him, a pang, a longing, and he hears something. It is a soft, soft sound at first-almost delicate, fragile, trilling in his ear. Ohno cranes his head forward, alert, quivering; waiting.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
A low voice whispers in his ear-it’ll be alright-and Ohno can still feel the heaviness of the automaton’s arm, the cold yet comfortingly smooth surface of the metal resting on his back, brushing his skin.
Ohno smiles, reaches for the automaton’s small, cold hand, and squeezes.
It feels real and warm (and Ohno does nothing to brush his tears away).