[fic: arashi] watching you; watching me
[Title] watching you; watching me
[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] Do you remember that time when you asked me about the rain?
[Notes] For calerine , who I owed fic 'cause I changed my layout. XD ♥ you, you awesome person XD
The rain hits the window's glass, and I can't help but think, even though I know I shouldn't.
Is it raining in Tokyo right now?
I remember you asking me if I liked rain. I told you no, I didn't. Rain is cold, dark, gloomy, and wet. Rain reminded me of things I never wanted to remember, and of things I never tried to. You had smiled at my reply, and I didn't know why, but to me you looked melancholic then.
The response you gave me was simply nothing, as though you understood, and yet you were disappointed. I didn't know what it was you were expecting or wanted, but you’d always been a mystery, to me and to many others as well. I didn't know what you saw in me, why you always appeared by my side, watching me as I continued to focus on nothing but my game, watching me as I defeated the opponents, the bosses, watching me as my character leveled up and walked into the dim, orange light of the sunset. And when I was done, you would grin at me and crinkle your nose, and I knew that it was your way of saying congratulations.
Watching me. You were always watching, striking eyes hidden under long lashes. Sometimes you made me feel like a wary animal, when I played and you watched from behind the chain-link fence.
You were a presence, always there, always nearby, until it felt strange to be without you.
And then I realized, not why you kept your eyes on me, but that I couldn't have known you were watching, unless I was looking back at you.
Watching you; watching me.
We didn't talk much at all, and we still don't. That one time you asked me about the rain, I was surprised. I was rained in, photo shoot cancelled, along with many other staff members who didn't expect the sudden downpour. I had lent my umbrella to someone who needed to leave urgently, and just stood in the hall and waited for the bad weather to pass. Somehow you appeared behind me, poked me in the shoulder, and asked the question.
After standing together for a while, you suddenly told me you had an umbrella and could walk home with me, and I wondered why you stood with me and waited in the first place.
I remember walking with you, the two of us squeezed under one black umbrella, and feeling your body heat. The right side of me was cold and wet because the umbrella wasn't large enough, and the left side was on fire when it brushed against you again and again as we walked. We walked slowly, even though we were both half soaked, as if wanting to drag things out.
I had stood outside your front door, you inside, and we looked at each other. A threshold.
I had backed away and turned.
It rained again the day after that, although the weather had been promising. The shoot cut short; somehow the two of us were the last ones to still be in the room.
I can't say what made me do it, I can blame it on the rain, or the fact that I had felt empty when I backed away from the threshold, fearing it was a point of no return, but whatever it was, I ignored your words and backed you towards the window. The bag you were holding landed on the floor with a dull thud, and you looked up at me.
Watching you; watching me.
For how long we stayed like that I can't recall. But I backed away again when the crack of a thunder sounded, shaking me to the core. I turned around, bitterness eating me raw, and picked up my own bag.
As I left the room, I heard you quietly say behind me, "I like the rain. It keeps you from looking anywhere else."
After that, we talked even less than before. And then I left the country; the drama was taking place in the west, far away from home and far away from everyone else.
We don't talk now, nor write letters. But week after week I get mail from you. There are never letters inside the envelopes, just photographs, sometimes of the whole group, sometimes of random sights, and behind each of them you'd write neatly explaining what was happening in the picture. I've never sent anything back, yet you continue to send pictures over.
I take out the envelope I have received this morning, and open it. Pictures again. Arashi, the beach you went to, the sunset you saw.
The green room.
I turn the picture over and you've written on the back, "Do you like the rain?"
I reach for the phone and dial your number.
"I like the rain." I say the moment you answer the call. "Is it raining in Tokyo?"
[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] Do you remember that time when you asked me about the rain?
[Notes] For calerine , who I owed fic 'cause I changed my layout. XD ♥ you, you awesome person XD
The rain hits the window's glass, and I can't help but think, even though I know I shouldn't.
Is it raining in Tokyo right now?
I remember you asking me if I liked rain. I told you no, I didn't. Rain is cold, dark, gloomy, and wet. Rain reminded me of things I never wanted to remember, and of things I never tried to. You had smiled at my reply, and I didn't know why, but to me you looked melancholic then.
The response you gave me was simply nothing, as though you understood, and yet you were disappointed. I didn't know what it was you were expecting or wanted, but you’d always been a mystery, to me and to many others as well. I didn't know what you saw in me, why you always appeared by my side, watching me as I continued to focus on nothing but my game, watching me as I defeated the opponents, the bosses, watching me as my character leveled up and walked into the dim, orange light of the sunset. And when I was done, you would grin at me and crinkle your nose, and I knew that it was your way of saying congratulations.
Watching me. You were always watching, striking eyes hidden under long lashes. Sometimes you made me feel like a wary animal, when I played and you watched from behind the chain-link fence.
You were a presence, always there, always nearby, until it felt strange to be without you.
And then I realized, not why you kept your eyes on me, but that I couldn't have known you were watching, unless I was looking back at you.
Watching you; watching me.
We didn't talk much at all, and we still don't. That one time you asked me about the rain, I was surprised. I was rained in, photo shoot cancelled, along with many other staff members who didn't expect the sudden downpour. I had lent my umbrella to someone who needed to leave urgently, and just stood in the hall and waited for the bad weather to pass. Somehow you appeared behind me, poked me in the shoulder, and asked the question.
After standing together for a while, you suddenly told me you had an umbrella and could walk home with me, and I wondered why you stood with me and waited in the first place.
I remember walking with you, the two of us squeezed under one black umbrella, and feeling your body heat. The right side of me was cold and wet because the umbrella wasn't large enough, and the left side was on fire when it brushed against you again and again as we walked. We walked slowly, even though we were both half soaked, as if wanting to drag things out.
I had stood outside your front door, you inside, and we looked at each other. A threshold.
I had backed away and turned.
It rained again the day after that, although the weather had been promising. The shoot cut short; somehow the two of us were the last ones to still be in the room.
I can't say what made me do it, I can blame it on the rain, or the fact that I had felt empty when I backed away from the threshold, fearing it was a point of no return, but whatever it was, I ignored your words and backed you towards the window. The bag you were holding landed on the floor with a dull thud, and you looked up at me.
Watching you; watching me.
For how long we stayed like that I can't recall. But I backed away again when the crack of a thunder sounded, shaking me to the core. I turned around, bitterness eating me raw, and picked up my own bag.
As I left the room, I heard you quietly say behind me, "I like the rain. It keeps you from looking anywhere else."
After that, we talked even less than before. And then I left the country; the drama was taking place in the west, far away from home and far away from everyone else.
We don't talk now, nor write letters. But week after week I get mail from you. There are never letters inside the envelopes, just photographs, sometimes of the whole group, sometimes of random sights, and behind each of them you'd write neatly explaining what was happening in the picture. I've never sent anything back, yet you continue to send pictures over.
I take out the envelope I have received this morning, and open it. Pictures again. Arashi, the beach you went to, the sunset you saw.
The green room.
I turn the picture over and you've written on the back, "Do you like the rain?"
I reach for the phone and dial your number.
"I like the rain." I say the moment you answer the call. "Is it raining in Tokyo?"