(no subject)
Title: How to Fall Apart
Author: mage_of_time
Fandom: KAT-TUN
Pairing: Akame, hints of Junno/Maru and Ueda/Jin.
Summary: He didn't...exactly... expect it to end happily. (Years later, Jin goes back.)
Notes: Unbeta'd. Written because I didn't feel like writing 52 Weeks.
He didn’t…. exactly… expect it to end happily.
He didn’t expect it to end, of course, but it did as, he supposed, all things must. (Kame would’ve told him what the fuck was he now, a poet? But they didn’t talk much anymore.) It’s just… when it was over, he didn’t expect it to be so… quiet. He didn’t expect the ending to be pressed between coupons for free beer and fishing magazines, a small, typed note, eager to destroy his life.
Akanishi.
I’m quitting the band.
Junno is, too.
Sorry.
Nakamaru.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed that it was ending. They’d had a long run, that was all, and they were bound to get a bit angry, a little tired. Their words wouldn’t always be quiet and loving-best friends fought all the time, right? This shouldn’t be any different, right?
Kame’s voice, half-static through the cellphone. “It’s just… Jin… there’s nothing left anymore. The group’s gone. Take that away, and there isn’t really much left.”
“But I…”
He sounds tired. “Please don’t,” he whispers, and Jin wonders if his heart is breaking, too. “Just… don’t end it on a cliché. It would be tasteless.”
The cellphone goes dead, and splits cleanly in two as it hits the wall. For the next two hours Jin stares at it, hoping that, far away, Kame is dying in the same sort of way.
(He’s always been a romantic.)
He didn’t remember much after that. There wasn’t much to remember. A few magazine shoots, a few interviews, a ‘where are they now’ piece a few years later. (He was the only one that was available for interview.) He remembered seeing it later that week on TV, eyes tracing the younger him, wondering what the hell happened (trying not to see the beer cans littering the apartment floor, ignoring the trash-bags building up beside the door.)
They kept in contact for a few years, then… It fell apart. He didn’t really feel the guilt when he threw away Junnosuke’s number last year (and he’s Junnosuke now, and he’s Nakamaru, and he’s Kamenashi now, he’ll always be Kamenashi from now on.) He didn’t think the calls would be returned.
(They never were before.)
He saw Ueda once. It was by accident, of course, and afterwards they went about their lives like nothing had happened. Somehow the fairy princess had managed to escape the feminine curse of his childhood, and had grown into something that he always pretended he wanted. He looked a bit sad in the café.
The conversation was awkward, clumsy. They had fallen out of the habit, and they didn’t want to try. Ueda tried to kiss him in the bathroom, in the third stall from the door (the one with the leaky pipe and broken light bulb.) Jin pushed him away after a moment. They laughed kind of sadly, and they walked away without saying anything else.
Eventually he left. The only reason he had stayed in the city was out of habit-he was comfortable other places, he just couldn’t forget the… nostalgia, and all that. (He wasn’t waiting for them to come back. He’d given up on them a long time ago.)
It was a pretty city, in a country with a language he loved. It was nice speaking it again, after all these years. The country wasn’t cleaner, exactly, but it was less crowded, less angry. There wasn’t the chance of anyone recognizing him for what he used to be here. There wasn’t any chance of heartbreak here.
He fell in love again, or pretended to. He got a job again, and somehow managed to find himself singing. He put out an album, and somehow it found itself on the top of the charts. He somehow found himself famous again, and for some reason, didn’t mind.
And then it sort of came together. He sang, and he got back into the habit. He kept singing, and the praise kept coming. He assembled another fanbase, and it was amazing, the rush at realizing-he had fans again. People cared about him.
His lover left him, saying he couldn’t be the person Jin wanted him to be. Jin didn’t really mind-he hadn’t expected him to be, it was just nice to pretend that he could somehow go back to summer nights and fireflies and soft brown eyes. If he couldn’t have that, it wasn’t really worth feeling over. There were other people, there were other chances (just, none of it mattered.)
He read the news from Japan, sometimes. Ueda had given up boxing, and coached people now, world famous, revered (rumored to be an alcoholic, how come he never smiles, is he depressed?) Nakamaru and Junnosuke were suddenly the darlings of the entertainment industry, Johnny’s shining stars, beautiful, talented, in love. (Nothing more you could want.) He didn’t really have any idea what happened to Koki, except for a postcard three years ago, yellowing and stained with coffee, something scribbled in his indistinguishable scrawl. (He kept it in his front pocket at all times. Just a reminder.)
Kame, though… He didn’t read anything about Kazuya- Kamenashi. He was Kamenashi now (it was so easy to slip into old habits.) He didn’t read how he was a world famous fashion model, or how he was taking the industry by storm, and he certainly didn’t feel a vindictive little stab of pleasure as he certainly didn’t read about his break-up with a certain Yamashita Tomohisa. (Because he can’t be bothered to care. He can’t.)
And he only went back once. After that he returned to his new country, and remained a star, fading only very slightly. He didn’t talk about his old life, or his old love, or that last visit home.
He didn’t talk about the phone call that prompted the visit, the broken voice at the end of the line that whispered that he needed help.
He didn’t talk about the way the door slammed as his latest love left the apartment in a cloud of fury at the audacity he had, to up and leave over… over someone he hadn’t seen in twelve years, hadn’t mentioned in their entire time together. (When asked which he would choose, he didn’t answer. The turn of the doorknob was the reply he got.)
He didn’t talk about the plane ride home, staring out the window and watching the sunlight brush the clouds ever so slightly, hands clutching the soft armrests and eyes shut tight, wondering why he cared. The flight attendant asked him if he was all right. He didn’t respond.
He didn’t talk about the way his eyes carefully scanned the airport for the shine of copper hair, the soft smile, the flash of sunglasses atop the head. He didn’t talk about the way he pushed through the crowds, looking, hoping, praying.
He didn’t talk about the way he finally found him, after what seemed like hours, sitting in a small airport café and trying not to drown.
He didn’t talk about the way the other man pushed back the chair, wordlessly stood, awkward, shy smile on his face, waiting.
He didn’t talk about the way it seemed he was in his arms in seconds, or the way his hands slowly reached up to his shoulders, or the way they stood like that for eternity, or the way when they finally did break apart, neither was crying (although they should’ve been.)
He didn’t talk about what happened after that. He didn’t need to. It was a secret, of tangled bedsheets and rough kisses and morning sunlight streaming softly through half-opened blinds.
He didn’t talk about their last kiss, soft, sweet, like in the beginning. He didn’t talk about the way they didn’t say anything on the way back to the airport, just let their hands entwine and smile slightly.
He left, after that.
He didn’t go back.
Author: mage_of_time
Fandom: KAT-TUN
Pairing: Akame, hints of Junno/Maru and Ueda/Jin.
Summary: He didn't...exactly... expect it to end happily. (Years later, Jin goes back.)
Notes: Unbeta'd. Written because I didn't feel like writing 52 Weeks.
He didn’t…. exactly… expect it to end happily.
He didn’t expect it to end, of course, but it did as, he supposed, all things must. (Kame would’ve told him what the fuck was he now, a poet? But they didn’t talk much anymore.) It’s just… when it was over, he didn’t expect it to be so… quiet. He didn’t expect the ending to be pressed between coupons for free beer and fishing magazines, a small, typed note, eager to destroy his life.
Akanishi.
I’m quitting the band.
Junno is, too.
Sorry.
Nakamaru.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed that it was ending. They’d had a long run, that was all, and they were bound to get a bit angry, a little tired. Their words wouldn’t always be quiet and loving-best friends fought all the time, right? This shouldn’t be any different, right?
Kame’s voice, half-static through the cellphone. “It’s just… Jin… there’s nothing left anymore. The group’s gone. Take that away, and there isn’t really much left.”
“But I…”
He sounds tired. “Please don’t,” he whispers, and Jin wonders if his heart is breaking, too. “Just… don’t end it on a cliché. It would be tasteless.”
The cellphone goes dead, and splits cleanly in two as it hits the wall. For the next two hours Jin stares at it, hoping that, far away, Kame is dying in the same sort of way.
(He’s always been a romantic.)
He didn’t remember much after that. There wasn’t much to remember. A few magazine shoots, a few interviews, a ‘where are they now’ piece a few years later. (He was the only one that was available for interview.) He remembered seeing it later that week on TV, eyes tracing the younger him, wondering what the hell happened (trying not to see the beer cans littering the apartment floor, ignoring the trash-bags building up beside the door.)
They kept in contact for a few years, then… It fell apart. He didn’t really feel the guilt when he threw away Junnosuke’s number last year (and he’s Junnosuke now, and he’s Nakamaru, and he’s Kamenashi now, he’ll always be Kamenashi from now on.) He didn’t think the calls would be returned.
(They never were before.)
He saw Ueda once. It was by accident, of course, and afterwards they went about their lives like nothing had happened. Somehow the fairy princess had managed to escape the feminine curse of his childhood, and had grown into something that he always pretended he wanted. He looked a bit sad in the café.
The conversation was awkward, clumsy. They had fallen out of the habit, and they didn’t want to try. Ueda tried to kiss him in the bathroom, in the third stall from the door (the one with the leaky pipe and broken light bulb.) Jin pushed him away after a moment. They laughed kind of sadly, and they walked away without saying anything else.
Eventually he left. The only reason he had stayed in the city was out of habit-he was comfortable other places, he just couldn’t forget the… nostalgia, and all that. (He wasn’t waiting for them to come back. He’d given up on them a long time ago.)
It was a pretty city, in a country with a language he loved. It was nice speaking it again, after all these years. The country wasn’t cleaner, exactly, but it was less crowded, less angry. There wasn’t the chance of anyone recognizing him for what he used to be here. There wasn’t any chance of heartbreak here.
He fell in love again, or pretended to. He got a job again, and somehow managed to find himself singing. He put out an album, and somehow it found itself on the top of the charts. He somehow found himself famous again, and for some reason, didn’t mind.
And then it sort of came together. He sang, and he got back into the habit. He kept singing, and the praise kept coming. He assembled another fanbase, and it was amazing, the rush at realizing-he had fans again. People cared about him.
His lover left him, saying he couldn’t be the person Jin wanted him to be. Jin didn’t really mind-he hadn’t expected him to be, it was just nice to pretend that he could somehow go back to summer nights and fireflies and soft brown eyes. If he couldn’t have that, it wasn’t really worth feeling over. There were other people, there were other chances (just, none of it mattered.)
He read the news from Japan, sometimes. Ueda had given up boxing, and coached people now, world famous, revered (rumored to be an alcoholic, how come he never smiles, is he depressed?) Nakamaru and Junnosuke were suddenly the darlings of the entertainment industry, Johnny’s shining stars, beautiful, talented, in love. (Nothing more you could want.) He didn’t really have any idea what happened to Koki, except for a postcard three years ago, yellowing and stained with coffee, something scribbled in his indistinguishable scrawl. (He kept it in his front pocket at all times. Just a reminder.)
Kame, though… He didn’t read anything about Kazuya- Kamenashi. He was Kamenashi now (it was so easy to slip into old habits.) He didn’t read how he was a world famous fashion model, or how he was taking the industry by storm, and he certainly didn’t feel a vindictive little stab of pleasure as he certainly didn’t read about his break-up with a certain Yamashita Tomohisa. (Because he can’t be bothered to care. He can’t.)
And he only went back once. After that he returned to his new country, and remained a star, fading only very slightly. He didn’t talk about his old life, or his old love, or that last visit home.
He didn’t talk about the phone call that prompted the visit, the broken voice at the end of the line that whispered that he needed help.
He didn’t talk about the way the door slammed as his latest love left the apartment in a cloud of fury at the audacity he had, to up and leave over… over someone he hadn’t seen in twelve years, hadn’t mentioned in their entire time together. (When asked which he would choose, he didn’t answer. The turn of the doorknob was the reply he got.)
He didn’t talk about the plane ride home, staring out the window and watching the sunlight brush the clouds ever so slightly, hands clutching the soft armrests and eyes shut tight, wondering why he cared. The flight attendant asked him if he was all right. He didn’t respond.
He didn’t talk about the way his eyes carefully scanned the airport for the shine of copper hair, the soft smile, the flash of sunglasses atop the head. He didn’t talk about the way he pushed through the crowds, looking, hoping, praying.
He didn’t talk about the way he finally found him, after what seemed like hours, sitting in a small airport café and trying not to drown.
He didn’t talk about the way the other man pushed back the chair, wordlessly stood, awkward, shy smile on his face, waiting.
He didn’t talk about the way it seemed he was in his arms in seconds, or the way his hands slowly reached up to his shoulders, or the way they stood like that for eternity, or the way when they finally did break apart, neither was crying (although they should’ve been.)
He didn’t talk about what happened after that. He didn’t need to. It was a secret, of tangled bedsheets and rough kisses and morning sunlight streaming softly through half-opened blinds.
He didn’t talk about their last kiss, soft, sweet, like in the beginning. He didn’t talk about the way they didn’t say anything on the way back to the airport, just let their hands entwine and smile slightly.
He left, after that.
He didn’t go back.