011. (fic) 虹::Niji
title:虹-Niji
rating/genre: PG13 (for implied sexiness)
pairing(s): ohmiya
words: 2,139
summary: yeah, it's another "Niji" song-fic :/
disclaimer: FICTION.
notes: while i know the whole "Nino's song-fic" thing has been done to death, i think i managed to put together something semi-respectable here, so...enter at your own peril, i guess (^^;)
Verse One:
This is how it goes when they fight: Ohno does something to upset Nino, Nino refuses to tell Ohno what it is, Nino pouts, and then he takes Ohno’s stuff.
Not all his stuff-just something important. Sometimes it’s his iPod, or his phone, or his socks. Once, while Ohno was still in the shower after a concert, Nino stole his boxers. For a few hours, or a day, or however long Nino stays mad, he’ll hide whatever he took somewhere Ohno can’t find it. Eventually, he’ll relent and return whatever he stole, with a grudging apology but never an explanation about what upset him.
But the truth is, Ohno figured out Nino’s hiding place a long time ago. He’s never let on, though, because he knows that would just make Nino even more angry, and usually the stuff he takes doesn’t really cause that much of a problem (sure it was uncomfortable to walk around without underwear, but still, he managed).
This time, though, Nino took something that Ohno’s not willing to live without for even a day.
So now Ohno’s up on the roof of the company building, heading towards their old spot on the west corner where they used to sneak off and smoke before they both quit. He stops in front of the chest-high barrier that wraps around the roof. The cement blocks that top the short wall have a little ledge underneath, perfect for hiding cigarettes. Or small, pocket-sized sketchbooks.
Ohno pulls out his sketchbook with a relieved smile, flips through it quickly, just to make sure Nino didn’t decide to rip anything out to keep for himself. But everything’s there and intact. Ohno leans back against the wall, slipping the sketchbook into his pocket.
He looks up at the sky for a while, letting the wind whip through his hair and around his face. It’s getting close to sunset, and the clouds are pink and lilac instead of white, set against a deepening cerulean sky. The sounds of the city are far away, a whispered conversation heard from another room. Being up here, Ohno feels like a teenager again, feels all the over-dramatic turmoil and uncertainty stir in him, even though the days of half-empty concert halls are long past. There’s even, he realizes, still a lingering scent of tobacco smoke. He’s surprised until he realizes he and Nino probably aren’t the only ones who thought to smoke on the roof.
Nino. Ohno brings his gaze back down to earth, and furrows his brows. As usual, he’s not really sure what he did to piss Nino off this time. And, personally, he’s kind of pissed at Nino for taking his sketchbook. But anger has always been a hard emotion for Ohno to hang on to, and it’s quickly fading to simple confusion. Why does Nino always have to make things so complicated? Why can’t he just say what he really means, tell Ohno what he really wants?
Because Ohno thinks he knows what Nino wants. Yes, Ohno is laid-back and a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but he’s not stupid. He knows that when someone is touching you ninety-eight percent of the time you’re in the same room together, there’s probably some kind of attraction going on. But when he tries to touch Nino back, there’s suddenly tension, there’s Nino pulling away, or acting offended. When they’re in public, hugs and touches and even groping are the norm, but once they find themselves alone, Nino is suddenly across the room and engrossed in his DS.
But as much as he wants to, Ohno can’t put all the blame on Nino. Ohno himself has never really tried to broach the topic, and honestly, part of him isn’t sure he wants to. It would be weird and uncomfortable, wouldn’t it?
It’s already weird and uncomfortable, he thinks, sighing.
He ends up waiting another hour on the roof, until he hears the heavy door to the stairwell creak open. Ohno’s turned to look out at the slowly lengthening shadows that creep across the city, so he doesn’t see Nino approach, but he hears his reluctant, shuffling footsteps.
Nino stops, but Ohno doesn’t turn. He just waits.
“So you knew, huh?” Nino says, a trace of annoyance in his voice.
“Aah.”
There’s a heavy pause, and Ohno turns his head enough to see Nino watching him with a pronounced pout on his face. Their eyes meet briefly, and Nino turns his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Sorry,” he mutters, barely audible over the wind.
In that single word, Ohno hears a dozen apologies. Any vestige of anger he might have been feeling slips away, and he turns to Nino holding out a hand-a silent forgiveness, an invitation to touch. Because he knows Nino needs to touch. What Nino doesn’t tell people with words, he says through an arm around the shoulder or a hand on the knee. And whatever else he might feel for Nino, Ohno knows he always wants to feel that touch.
Nino stares at Ohno’s outstretched hand for a few long moments. There’s still a pout on his face, but his eyes are blank and unreadable. Then, he’s crossing the roof, bypassing Ohno’s hand entirely and dropping his head onto Ohno’s shoulder. His arms are still crossed over his chest, but he’s putting most of his weight against the older man, pressing him a bit uncomfortably into the cement block behind him.
“Sorry,” he says again.
Ohno looks down, but all he can see is the top of Nino’s head. This apology sounds different to him, but he’s not sure why. After a brief hesitation, he wraps his arms around Nino’s back, and rests his cheek against Nino’s hair. Simultaneously, they let out a long slow breath. Ohno smiles.
“Hey,” he says a little while later, “look at this.”
He turns Nino around, one arm still around the younger man’s shoulder, and points to the impossibly tall shadow they’re throwing against the metal box supporting the building’s massive air conditioning unit.
“They’re overlapping,” Ohno says, waving his free arm. Nino gives a tiny laugh, almost closer to a sigh, and does likewise.
“You’re so weird,” Nino tells him, but they spend the next few minutes making their wide-chested two-headed shadow monster dance around.
That’s what it’s like, Ohno thinks.
They fit together. All their uncertain, unspoken pieces fit together and make one whole person. Maybe it’s imperfect and weird, but it’s whole.
Verse Two:
It’s June and it’s raining in Tokyo. Thick clouds hang low over the city, close enough to touch the tops of stoic skyscrapers, and keep the streets trapped in twilight dimness all day long.
Ohno likes the rain. It’s relaxing, refreshing, makes the air smell clean. He knows Nino just thinks it’s a pain-wet shoes and pant cuffs, and too much humidity. Ohno can hear him muttering about it even now. They’re walking slowly down the tiny, criss-crossing streets near Ohno’s house, umbrellas bumping when Nino tries to move closer without thinking.
“Gah!” The younger man gives an irritated hop-step as water from Ohno’s umbrella drips down the back of his neck. “Oh-chan, stop getting me wet!”
“You got yourself wet!” Ohno protests. “We could’ve just shared an umbrella.” He glances at Nino out of the corner of his eye, but the other man is just rubbing his neck vigorously, pretending like he didn’t hear Ohno’s suggestion.
Recently, Ohno has found himself testing Nino’s resolve. Let’s go for a drink, he’ll say to Nino when no one else is around, or Let’s go to a deserted island on national TV, or Let’s just share an umbrella as they’re leaving work on a rainy day. Inevitably he is met with refusal, but it’s a stammering, blushing kind of refusal that won’t allow him to give up. Ohno knows what Nino wants. Ohno thinks he wants it too, but it’s harder than he thought to just take it.
They walk on in silence for a while. But soon enough, Nino is edging closer again, and this time it’s Ohno who suffers a minor drenching.
“Oi!”
Nino just laughs. “Serves you right,” he says, giving his umbrella an extra shake in Ohno’s direction.
Ohno clicks his tongue in irritation, and sticks out his bottom lip. Nino just laughs harder.
And in that instant, like something out of a maudlin romance movie, time seems to slow down. The rain falls softer. The world fades to watery gray. Nino’s laughter rings out, cancelling every other sound, and Ohno knows that here, in this moment, he is happy. On an impulse he’s barely aware of, he reaches out and catches Nino by the wrist, pulling him close and tangling their umbrellas again.
They’re almost nose to nose now, and the moment of stillness has passed. The rain is loud on the vinyl of their umbrellas, overlapping and pulled down low, wrapping them up in filtered blue light and hiding them from the rest of the world. Outside their little cocoon of closeness and shared breath, Ohno thinks he can hear a bicycle bell jangling in the distance, running feet and the shrieking laughter of children.
He knows this is dangerous, if anyone sees them like this. He doesn’t care. Nino is staring at him, eyes wide, breath coming fast, but he doesn’t back away. Neither of them move, and the seconds seem to drag by.
“We should have just shared an umbrella,” Ohno mutters.
Nino opens his mouth to reply, to apologize, but Ohno doesn’t wait. He leans in and presses his mouth to Nino’s, feeling as much as hearing the other man gasp.
For a moment, it is just an awkward crush of lips. For a moment, Ohno thinks he might have ruined everything, that maybe it was destined to always be uncomfortable and weird for them.
But then Nino lets out the breath he was holding, tilts his head just slightly-and then they fit. Suddenly, Nino is kissing back, urgently, like he’s afraid this might never happen again, and Ohno releases the younger man’s wrist so he can slip his arm around Nino’s waist and pull him closer, flush, until they seem to be all of a piece.
When they pull back, breathless, they are both smiling.
Bridge:
Ohno doesn’t think he’s especially needy. He’s not clingy, or possessive. But he doesn’t think it’s asking too much to want to hear Nino say “I love you.”
“Three little words,” he says quietly, when they are skin to skin in Nino’s dark apartment.
“Don’t nag, Oh-chan. It’s annoying.” Nino is half-asleep already, and Ohno doesn’t take the pointed words personally.
But still, it would be nice.
Eventually, he starts to understand that those words are heavier for Nino than for other people. They are hard for him to say because they are so important. So they make it a game. They sneak “I love you”s into unexpected places, and grin stupidly at each other because they know they are real when everyone else just laughs.
At magazine interviews, they squeeze declarations of love between the lines of endless questions about new singles and favorite foods. Nino writes it on Ohno’s back in yellow paint, because yellow is Nino’s color and Ohno belongs to him. Ohno says it on a morning talk show without hesitation, and the female hosts giggle nervously. They draw an umbrella and write their names under it, like lovers do, but it’s written in ketchup on top of an omlette.
Still, it’s hard. It’s hard, because even when they’re all alone in the dark and quiet and Ohno says “I love you”, Nino just says “I know”.
Last Verse:
They’re up on the roof again, where they now sneak away to make out instead of smoke cigarettes. It’s cold, with the wind blowing, and there is a misty rain in the air coming from the tattered clouds. The real rain stopped a while ago, but left long shallow puddles all over the roof that glitter with the tremulous on-and-off sunlight.
They are side by side, backs to the low wall. Nino has his head against Ohno’s shoulder, and both his hands in Ohno’s right coat pocket, to keep them warm. Ohno glances up to watch the clouds tear by, and suddenly smiles.
“Nino, look. A rainbow.”
Nino looks up and makes a noncommittal kind of noise.
“It’s pretty,” Ohno insists.
“You’re pretty,” Nino murmurs, and immediately buries his face in Ohno’s shoulder.
Ohno grins delightedly at the top of Nino’s head. He presses his noise into the shaggy black strands of Nino’s hair, and speaks against the crown of his head.
“Thanks.”
Nino groans in embarrassment, but Ohno keeps smiling.
“Thanks,” he says again.
And he knows that here, in this moment, he is loved.
Author's Notes: so i know i was all "sexy epilogue y/y? :D" for Cafe Ole, but when i actually sat down to write it, somehow it turned into ohmiya bickering about how cold nino's apartment is [/fail]. hope this made up for it ;p
also, any actual events i used in this fic (see icon) have been chronologically fubar'd to suit my plot, mwaha. and i also just have a very poor chronological sense of when any given interview/tv episode happened, so. go with it.
rating/genre: PG13 (for implied sexiness)
pairing(s): ohmiya
words: 2,139
summary: yeah, it's another "Niji" song-fic :/
disclaimer: FICTION.
notes: while i know the whole "Nino's song-fic" thing has been done to death, i think i managed to put together something semi-respectable here, so...enter at your own peril, i guess (^^;)
Verse One:
This is how it goes when they fight: Ohno does something to upset Nino, Nino refuses to tell Ohno what it is, Nino pouts, and then he takes Ohno’s stuff.
Not all his stuff-just something important. Sometimes it’s his iPod, or his phone, or his socks. Once, while Ohno was still in the shower after a concert, Nino stole his boxers. For a few hours, or a day, or however long Nino stays mad, he’ll hide whatever he took somewhere Ohno can’t find it. Eventually, he’ll relent and return whatever he stole, with a grudging apology but never an explanation about what upset him.
But the truth is, Ohno figured out Nino’s hiding place a long time ago. He’s never let on, though, because he knows that would just make Nino even more angry, and usually the stuff he takes doesn’t really cause that much of a problem (sure it was uncomfortable to walk around without underwear, but still, he managed).
This time, though, Nino took something that Ohno’s not willing to live without for even a day.
So now Ohno’s up on the roof of the company building, heading towards their old spot on the west corner where they used to sneak off and smoke before they both quit. He stops in front of the chest-high barrier that wraps around the roof. The cement blocks that top the short wall have a little ledge underneath, perfect for hiding cigarettes. Or small, pocket-sized sketchbooks.
Ohno pulls out his sketchbook with a relieved smile, flips through it quickly, just to make sure Nino didn’t decide to rip anything out to keep for himself. But everything’s there and intact. Ohno leans back against the wall, slipping the sketchbook into his pocket.
He looks up at the sky for a while, letting the wind whip through his hair and around his face. It’s getting close to sunset, and the clouds are pink and lilac instead of white, set against a deepening cerulean sky. The sounds of the city are far away, a whispered conversation heard from another room. Being up here, Ohno feels like a teenager again, feels all the over-dramatic turmoil and uncertainty stir in him, even though the days of half-empty concert halls are long past. There’s even, he realizes, still a lingering scent of tobacco smoke. He’s surprised until he realizes he and Nino probably aren’t the only ones who thought to smoke on the roof.
Nino. Ohno brings his gaze back down to earth, and furrows his brows. As usual, he’s not really sure what he did to piss Nino off this time. And, personally, he’s kind of pissed at Nino for taking his sketchbook. But anger has always been a hard emotion for Ohno to hang on to, and it’s quickly fading to simple confusion. Why does Nino always have to make things so complicated? Why can’t he just say what he really means, tell Ohno what he really wants?
Because Ohno thinks he knows what Nino wants. Yes, Ohno is laid-back and a little slow on the uptake sometimes, but he’s not stupid. He knows that when someone is touching you ninety-eight percent of the time you’re in the same room together, there’s probably some kind of attraction going on. But when he tries to touch Nino back, there’s suddenly tension, there’s Nino pulling away, or acting offended. When they’re in public, hugs and touches and even groping are the norm, but once they find themselves alone, Nino is suddenly across the room and engrossed in his DS.
But as much as he wants to, Ohno can’t put all the blame on Nino. Ohno himself has never really tried to broach the topic, and honestly, part of him isn’t sure he wants to. It would be weird and uncomfortable, wouldn’t it?
It’s already weird and uncomfortable, he thinks, sighing.
He ends up waiting another hour on the roof, until he hears the heavy door to the stairwell creak open. Ohno’s turned to look out at the slowly lengthening shadows that creep across the city, so he doesn’t see Nino approach, but he hears his reluctant, shuffling footsteps.
Nino stops, but Ohno doesn’t turn. He just waits.
“So you knew, huh?” Nino says, a trace of annoyance in his voice.
“Aah.”
There’s a heavy pause, and Ohno turns his head enough to see Nino watching him with a pronounced pout on his face. Their eyes meet briefly, and Nino turns his head, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Sorry,” he mutters, barely audible over the wind.
In that single word, Ohno hears a dozen apologies. Any vestige of anger he might have been feeling slips away, and he turns to Nino holding out a hand-a silent forgiveness, an invitation to touch. Because he knows Nino needs to touch. What Nino doesn’t tell people with words, he says through an arm around the shoulder or a hand on the knee. And whatever else he might feel for Nino, Ohno knows he always wants to feel that touch.
Nino stares at Ohno’s outstretched hand for a few long moments. There’s still a pout on his face, but his eyes are blank and unreadable. Then, he’s crossing the roof, bypassing Ohno’s hand entirely and dropping his head onto Ohno’s shoulder. His arms are still crossed over his chest, but he’s putting most of his weight against the older man, pressing him a bit uncomfortably into the cement block behind him.
“Sorry,” he says again.
Ohno looks down, but all he can see is the top of Nino’s head. This apology sounds different to him, but he’s not sure why. After a brief hesitation, he wraps his arms around Nino’s back, and rests his cheek against Nino’s hair. Simultaneously, they let out a long slow breath. Ohno smiles.
“Hey,” he says a little while later, “look at this.”
He turns Nino around, one arm still around the younger man’s shoulder, and points to the impossibly tall shadow they’re throwing against the metal box supporting the building’s massive air conditioning unit.
“They’re overlapping,” Ohno says, waving his free arm. Nino gives a tiny laugh, almost closer to a sigh, and does likewise.
“You’re so weird,” Nino tells him, but they spend the next few minutes making their wide-chested two-headed shadow monster dance around.
That’s what it’s like, Ohno thinks.
They fit together. All their uncertain, unspoken pieces fit together and make one whole person. Maybe it’s imperfect and weird, but it’s whole.
Verse Two:
It’s June and it’s raining in Tokyo. Thick clouds hang low over the city, close enough to touch the tops of stoic skyscrapers, and keep the streets trapped in twilight dimness all day long.
Ohno likes the rain. It’s relaxing, refreshing, makes the air smell clean. He knows Nino just thinks it’s a pain-wet shoes and pant cuffs, and too much humidity. Ohno can hear him muttering about it even now. They’re walking slowly down the tiny, criss-crossing streets near Ohno’s house, umbrellas bumping when Nino tries to move closer without thinking.
“Gah!” The younger man gives an irritated hop-step as water from Ohno’s umbrella drips down the back of his neck. “Oh-chan, stop getting me wet!”
“You got yourself wet!” Ohno protests. “We could’ve just shared an umbrella.” He glances at Nino out of the corner of his eye, but the other man is just rubbing his neck vigorously, pretending like he didn’t hear Ohno’s suggestion.
Recently, Ohno has found himself testing Nino’s resolve. Let’s go for a drink, he’ll say to Nino when no one else is around, or Let’s go to a deserted island on national TV, or Let’s just share an umbrella as they’re leaving work on a rainy day. Inevitably he is met with refusal, but it’s a stammering, blushing kind of refusal that won’t allow him to give up. Ohno knows what Nino wants. Ohno thinks he wants it too, but it’s harder than he thought to just take it.
They walk on in silence for a while. But soon enough, Nino is edging closer again, and this time it’s Ohno who suffers a minor drenching.
“Oi!”
Nino just laughs. “Serves you right,” he says, giving his umbrella an extra shake in Ohno’s direction.
Ohno clicks his tongue in irritation, and sticks out his bottom lip. Nino just laughs harder.
And in that instant, like something out of a maudlin romance movie, time seems to slow down. The rain falls softer. The world fades to watery gray. Nino’s laughter rings out, cancelling every other sound, and Ohno knows that here, in this moment, he is happy. On an impulse he’s barely aware of, he reaches out and catches Nino by the wrist, pulling him close and tangling their umbrellas again.
They’re almost nose to nose now, and the moment of stillness has passed. The rain is loud on the vinyl of their umbrellas, overlapping and pulled down low, wrapping them up in filtered blue light and hiding them from the rest of the world. Outside their little cocoon of closeness and shared breath, Ohno thinks he can hear a bicycle bell jangling in the distance, running feet and the shrieking laughter of children.
He knows this is dangerous, if anyone sees them like this. He doesn’t care. Nino is staring at him, eyes wide, breath coming fast, but he doesn’t back away. Neither of them move, and the seconds seem to drag by.
“We should have just shared an umbrella,” Ohno mutters.
Nino opens his mouth to reply, to apologize, but Ohno doesn’t wait. He leans in and presses his mouth to Nino’s, feeling as much as hearing the other man gasp.
For a moment, it is just an awkward crush of lips. For a moment, Ohno thinks he might have ruined everything, that maybe it was destined to always be uncomfortable and weird for them.
But then Nino lets out the breath he was holding, tilts his head just slightly-and then they fit. Suddenly, Nino is kissing back, urgently, like he’s afraid this might never happen again, and Ohno releases the younger man’s wrist so he can slip his arm around Nino’s waist and pull him closer, flush, until they seem to be all of a piece.
When they pull back, breathless, they are both smiling.
Bridge:
Ohno doesn’t think he’s especially needy. He’s not clingy, or possessive. But he doesn’t think it’s asking too much to want to hear Nino say “I love you.”
“Three little words,” he says quietly, when they are skin to skin in Nino’s dark apartment.
“Don’t nag, Oh-chan. It’s annoying.” Nino is half-asleep already, and Ohno doesn’t take the pointed words personally.
But still, it would be nice.
Eventually, he starts to understand that those words are heavier for Nino than for other people. They are hard for him to say because they are so important. So they make it a game. They sneak “I love you”s into unexpected places, and grin stupidly at each other because they know they are real when everyone else just laughs.
At magazine interviews, they squeeze declarations of love between the lines of endless questions about new singles and favorite foods. Nino writes it on Ohno’s back in yellow paint, because yellow is Nino’s color and Ohno belongs to him. Ohno says it on a morning talk show without hesitation, and the female hosts giggle nervously. They draw an umbrella and write their names under it, like lovers do, but it’s written in ketchup on top of an omlette.
Still, it’s hard. It’s hard, because even when they’re all alone in the dark and quiet and Ohno says “I love you”, Nino just says “I know”.
Last Verse:
They’re up on the roof again, where they now sneak away to make out instead of smoke cigarettes. It’s cold, with the wind blowing, and there is a misty rain in the air coming from the tattered clouds. The real rain stopped a while ago, but left long shallow puddles all over the roof that glitter with the tremulous on-and-off sunlight.
They are side by side, backs to the low wall. Nino has his head against Ohno’s shoulder, and both his hands in Ohno’s right coat pocket, to keep them warm. Ohno glances up to watch the clouds tear by, and suddenly smiles.
“Nino, look. A rainbow.”
Nino looks up and makes a noncommittal kind of noise.
“It’s pretty,” Ohno insists.
“You’re pretty,” Nino murmurs, and immediately buries his face in Ohno’s shoulder.
Ohno grins delightedly at the top of Nino’s head. He presses his noise into the shaggy black strands of Nino’s hair, and speaks against the crown of his head.
“Thanks.”
Nino groans in embarrassment, but Ohno keeps smiling.
“Thanks,” he says again.
And he knows that here, in this moment, he is loved.
Author's Notes: so i know i was all "sexy epilogue y/y? :D" for Cafe Ole, but when i actually sat down to write it, somehow it turned into ohmiya bickering about how cold nino's apartment is [/fail]. hope this made up for it ;p
also, any actual events i used in this fic (see icon) have been chronologically fubar'd to suit my plot, mwaha. and i also just have a very poor chronological sense of when any given interview/tv episode happened, so. go with it.