Fic for misao_duo
Title: You’re not all alone anymore
By: fingeredheart
Pairing: Jin/Kame, hint of Kame/OC
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: Romance, angst, humor (if you can detect it), fluff, AU
Prompt: All there is to do now is to see this world with your own eyes.
Notes: For misao_duo. Apologies for straying a bit off the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. An immense thank you to my glorious beta for being everything she has to me; you know who you are. ♥ I have also thrown together a quick mix of songs that inspired me while writing this, if you’d like to have a listen. Happy reading! :’)
Summary: “We make such a pair,” Kame says, voice tinged with cynical bemusement, eyes still on the guitar. “Look at us, all broken and messed up on the inside.”
He’s a lone figure leaned against the wall, heels of his feet propped up and knees pointed outwards. A guitar is rested on his thighs, black case opened in front of him, hair tied up messily with a ponytail. His jeans are ripped at the edges, T-shirt faded with age, jacket puffy and red, a bright contrast from the shades of gray and black of passerby. His voice is low, his French slightly stilted, accompanied by the light strumming of his guitar and the occasional clink of coins in his case.
As the song ends, he leans back with closed eyes, fingers careful as they bring the tune to a close. Above the silencing of his music, the whoosh of the subway comes rushing in, followed by the clatter of heels and murmured, rounded French syllables, stuck in between the tourist-accented questions and the rapid conversation of college-aged girls, hair clipped back to cascade down their shoulders into curls. He breathes out, eyes silently misty when they open again, darkening and focusing as they flit over to the person sitting nearby.
Kame jolts out of his reverie when he looks up again to see the street musician staring straight back at him, gaze tinged with curiosity and bemusement. Uncertainly, Kame’s hand stops in the midst of its erratic movements, and he glances down at unfinished, light sketches on the page, the outlined contours of the man’s posture, the darkened shading of his face, shadows playing across his guitar.
“I hear it pays good money,” the familiar Japanese sounds raw to his ears, slicing through the blur of passing Parisian life. Kame looks back up to see the man nodding at him with a swift glance at the rumpled pages, the charcoal staining lines along the side of his hand, his fingertips. “It treats people’s vanity, getting themselves drawn to be prettier than they actually are.”
Scoffing, Kame flips his sketchbook closed, pocketing the charcoal and arching an eyebrow at the amused look on the musician’s face. “I draw realistic art,” he replies firmly, slightly unnerved when the other just laughs, tilting his head downwards. More stray strands loosen from his ponytail, brushing against the smooth-skinned crook of his neck - Kame shakes his head, breaking from the momentary distraction to rest his gaze upon the money in the guitar case. “I hear you put most of the money in there yourself,” he remarks, and meets the other’s eyes again in time to see the quirk fade from his lips.
“I’m a realist too,” the musician responds defiantly. “I don’t need tricks like that to fool myself, or others.” When Kame just purses his lips and nods, seemingly unimpressed, he snorts. “What, don’t believe me?”
“I believe you just as much as you believe me.”
Rolling his eyes, the musician places his guitar aside, scooting the case farther into the corner as he stands with a hand outstretched. “Let me see that for a second,” he says, motioning towards the sketchbook still lying in Kame’s lap. “Yeah, that.”
Feeling suddenly reserved, Kame picks it up hesitantly, holding it out for the other. “It’s really - ”
“See,” the other cuts in, hands grasping both sides of the page as he tilts it towards the dim lighting. “See that.” He turns it to allow Kame to peek at the drawing - the unfinished one Kame had just closed it on, with the hint of streaked passerby in the background, the musician still outlined against the pillar. “My hand,” the musician continues. “The scar? You didn’t draw it. What of that?” He stretches open his left hand, palm facing downwards, and Kame catches the splotch of healed burnt skin, curved around the base of his thumb. Begrudgingly, Kame stays silent - he’d noticed it before, and admittedly, hadn’t even taken into account the idea of including it in the sketch. “Like I told you. Prettier than actuality.”
With a relenting sigh, Kame crosses his arms. “Fine, point taken. But that doesn’t…” he trails off when the musician’s hands freeze, pages ruffling in the brief wind of another passing subway. Uncomfortably, Kame shifts, trying to see which drawing the other has come upon, but to no avail - the musician is a few inches taller than him, with a tiny advantage. Kame lets out an impatient breath.
“Wow,” the man muses. “This is,” he breaks off abruptly, glancing up at Kame with an impressed glaze in his eyes. “Who is she?” He spins the sketchbook around.
Kame’s breath catches, and he can feel his throat closing up at the mere image - the softness in her eyes, the curl of her fingers around the railing, the peal of silent laughter in her opened mouth. He presses his hands closed, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm as he breathes in shakily. “Everything,” he replies slowly, and lets his eyelids flutter closed, feels the pain seeping out as quickly as it invaded, the sharpness of that rainy morning still leaving him cold inside. “She was everything,” he whispers, fingers barely trembling when he unclenches his fists.
The understanding in the other’s eyes is unmistakable. “What happened?”
Screams, his own screams. Shattered glass. Blood, so much blood happened - the stale stench of alcohol, the helplessness weighing down on him, so heavy, infinitely heavy, like somebody had torn down strips of the sky and laid them on his shoulders.
His breathing shallows, throat closing up as he remembers the cracking of his own voice, the sharp heat of tears rising in his face as the stretcher passed him, a sheet flung over her face, over the remaining shreds of her body. I’m sorry, so sorry, please don’t leave me, I love you - words he’d never said out loud, never would be able to reach her ears.
“Kame?” He snaps out of the memories, shuddering at how cold the station suddenly feels, how weary his bones are. The musician is staring at him, eyes clouded with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up - ”
“How do you know my name?” Kame tries to keep the flood of emotions out of his voice, shaking away the pained thoughts that have clung to him like vines for years.
“You sign every sketch with it,” the other gives him a lopsided grin, and hands back the sketchbook. “Jin would like to know if you’d like to have a drink with him,” he muses, hooking his hands into his back pockets as Kame tucks the sketchbook into the inner flaps of his jacket.
“Jin?”
“Yours truly,” he bows down low with a swoop of his arms, and Kame chuckles, the remaining wisps of memories temporarily forgotten. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you’re trying to get me drunk to make me end up telling you my life story, embarrassing moments and all.”
The corner of Jin’s lips twitch. “Nothing wrong with a bit of heart-to-heart talk,” he returns, winking playfully as he bends down to cover his guitar with a velvet cloth, gathering the coins into a pocket at the side and positioning the instrument back in place. “Besides, I have to flatter you by paying for you with my day’s worth of hard-earned money.”
Narrowing his eyes, Kame folds his arms. “I pay. If I don’t, I’m not going.”
Jin looks surprised. “But - ”
“I’m richer than I look,” Kame interrupts, gesturing vaguely at the casually stylish jeans tight against his hips, the black of his jacket accenting the stretched white T-shirt within. He fingers the simple charm necklace, letting it plod against the peek of bare skin along his neckline, and can’t help a tiny smile at the fact that Jin is obviously staring.
When Kame clears his throat, Jin startles out of his daze, looking up to meet amused eyes. “Richer?” Jin manages, and raises an eyebrow when Kame shrugs. “Braggart.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kame replies confidently, and Jin laughs - a rough, warm sound, hoarse, like his voice. It makes Kame fight down the smile that threatens around his lips, echoing in the emptiness of the station, the rare swish of passerby.
It leaves him feeling lighter than he has in years.
--
“She was,” Kame pauses, head swaying slightly, and Jin immediately moves forward, catching his arm right before he is about to topple off the bar stool. “Thanks,” Kame murmurs, and downs the umpteenth full glass of alcohol in his hand. Frowning, Jin gently pries the glass from his hand, setting it down on the counter and whispering at the bartender for no more refills. “She was all I had in the world.”
Forehead creasing, Jin holds out another hand to steady Kame. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says quietly, enough to make Kame glance at him, eyes glazed and blurry. “Kame,” Jin whispers, eyeing the way the other’s bangs fringe over his forehead, soft strands of hair framing defined cheekbones, and he has to resist the urge to draw them back with his fingers.
“It was all my fault,” Kame exhales, his breath contaminated with alcohol. “I was selfish. I wanted to study abroad, to expand my horizons, but all she wanted…” he gulps in a breath, slides his arms down the counter to rest his chin on the cold marble surface, and Jin lets go of him reluctantly, watching the flicker of changes cross his face. “All she wanted was a permanent home, and I refused to give it to her.”
“You were young,” Jin comforts, and Kame turns to gaze at him, as if just registering his presence. Finally, the artist just sighs.
“No, I was,” he breaks off a little, trying to orient his words. “Ignorant,” he says, “So, so stupid,” he enunciates each word with a bang of his fist against the bar, and Jin bites his lip, shooting the bartender an apologetic look. The man shrugs, mouthing something along the lines of better get him home soon, and Jin nods.
“It was all my fault,” Kame is saying again, his eyes shut tight, as if in pain. “I killed her. If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have gone out, she wouldn’t have gotten drunk with her friend, they never would have - ”
“Kame,” Jin leans in, but the close proximity doesn’t seem to bother a drunken Kame in the least. “It’s okay,” Jin murmurs, reaches out a hand and runs fleeting touches along Kame’s arm, grips his wrist tightly. Kame watches Jin with dark eyes. “Let’s get you home.”
Quietly, Kame allows Jin to hoist him up from the stool, slinging a heavy arm around the musician’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Jin repeats when Kame opens his mouth to say something, and gives him a calm, wistful look that makes whatever thought he was about to express vanish into thin air.
They stumble out of the bar and into the street, Kame a heavy weight against Jin. “Sorry,” Kame mutters when Jin curses a little under his breath, palming the side of the doorway in order to steady himself.
Sending him a sideways glance, Jin gives a short laugh. “Even courteous when you’re drunk,” he says, more to himself than Kame, and turns around abruptly when the weight disappears from his shoulders. “Kame?” Panicked, Jin searches the nearby surroundings, casting worried glances over the tops of heads and the rush of cars to land on a shadowed figure bent over the garbage can at the edge of the sidewalk.
Quickly, Jin weaves his way through people to the garbage can, making out the familiar scope of Kame’s figure in the streaks of colored lighting from the storefronts. When he arrives, Kame is still retching into it, barely reacting when Jin places a tentative hand on the small of his back, soft words hidden into the shell of his ear.
Kame finishes with a hacking cough, sinking to his knees and burying his face into the bend of his elbows. “I’m sorry,” he is repeating, voice straggled and thready, like a mantra - over and over and over. Jin worries his bottom lip, pausing for a moment to stare at the helpless figure before him before crouching down. He moves over, curling a hand on Kame’s knee and causing the other to peer up at him through messy bangs, eyes completely lost.
“Let’s get you home, okay?”
He watches as Kame registers his words and nods carefully, looking so utterly forlorn among the sea of languid strollers and lulled conversation, the brisk clap of business shoes against pavement, the passing chatter of Parisian life.
--
He wakes up to a throbbing headache and cozy sunlight seeping in through the shades. It takes him a second to remember where he is, and he groans, stretching lazily and yawning as he turns to squint at the clock - nine-thirty, and Kame sits up abruptly, hand reaching up to nurse the sharp pain in his temples. He grimaces. It’s been a while since he last had a hangover.
“Morning, beautiful,” a familiar voice makes him whip around to see Jin sitting on the sofa chair nearby, legs folded pretzel-style, hair damp and smile bright. Kame’s sketchbook lies horizontal in his lap, and his hands are smothered black with charcoal. “Had a nice nap?”
Blinking, Kame instantly looks down, suppressing the wave of relief when he realizes he’s still fully clothed. “I haven’t slept in this late in years,” he exhales, and looks back up to see Jin staring at him with a renewed softness in his eyes. Biting his lip, Kame averts his gaze, and deems it best to not try and recall what he might have said the day before. Instead, his eyes land on the opened sketchbook, and the obvious evidence on Jin’s hands. “What are you drawing?”
“You,” Jin replies with an easy smile, and tosses the sketchbook onto the bed in front of Kame. Kame bends over it curiously, only to be met with a dark, childish drawing of a turtle with a broken heart formed on its shell. It has rounded legs, darkened circles rimming the bottom of its eyes. Arching an eyebrow, Kame glances up at Jin inquisitively.
Scooting the sofa chair closer, Jin leans over to prop his elbows on the bed sheets. “Kame,” he says, and points at the turtle, “with a broken heart, stubby fingers, and perpetual eye bags.” He smears at the eyes a little, darkening the haze. “Artistic, and lonely.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as Kame absorbs the drawing. “Not bad, huh?”
Kame stares down at the drawing, the layout of his life mapped out so simply, the turmoil of emotions he hasn’t been able to get over for years - and here is Jin, here is this turtle with the worst of him pasted on the outside, here are things he hasn’t told anyone, people back in Japan who think he leads a charmed life, a happy life, a famous life. Here is Jin, a person he barely knows, and yet, the person that knows him best.
“But you see,” Jin is saying, and he draws a thick arrow towards the left, the back of the turtle. “In your past.” He scribbles a few meaningless blobs, a heart towards the far corner, something resembling a smiling face in the center. “Things you can never let go of - shattered,” he emphasizes this with a large ‘X’ through the middle of the “past” blob, and glances up at Kame, placing down the charcoal.
Inhaling sharply, Kame straightens.
“Did the turtle do anything to make that ‘X’ happen?” Jin shakes his head. “Sometimes. But this turtle,” Jin touches the shell with an index finger. “He can only keep moving forward. Looking back isn’t going to do him any good. What’s happened has happened, and it’s a part of him now, something he’ll always remember.”
When he sees Kame’s mouth opening, Jin cuts in. “Oh, I know, he should have been this, should have done that. But you know, he didn’t,” shrugging, Jin pushes back from the bedside. “And it hurt, and it cost, but he’s never going to be able to change it anymore. In fact,” he leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, cupping his chin in his hands. “I bet someone up there would be very, very disappointed if that turtle just spent the rest of his life mourning. Because she loved him, and wants him to be happy.”
Silence settles between them, the only sound Kame’s ragged breathing, entwined with the wisps of the breeze coming in from the doorway of the bedroom, from the curtains flapping open in the living room, just beyond the corner. Kame’s head is bowed, fingers trembling against the pale beige covers, and Jin takes a deep breath.
“I,” Jin begins, gaze still focused on Kame’s lowered head, the disheveled tufts of hair from just waking up. “I used to,” he hesitates, and slowly but surely, pulls up the long sleeves of his shirt, bunching the fabric beneath his elbow. He straightens his left arm, straining the skin against the daylight breaking through, and holds it out for Kame to glance at from beneath his bangs.
There are faintly visible scars along the inside of his arm, a few ridges near the joint of his elbow. Carefully, Jin brushes one of his own fingertips against the scars beneath his wrist. “Razor blades,” he explains, trailing his finger down lower to his elbow. “Drugs, but only for a little while,” he presses his lips into a tight line. “The pain felt better to me. Better than living with people who couldn’t even be called human, much less parents. Better than having to tough it out at school, put on the pretense that I was a popular, smart kid, the perfect kid - somebody I wasn’t. Better than having people realize I swung both ways, to have them judge me for it. Better than remembering the clouded look in my older brother’s eyes before he died, as pale as the starched hospital sheets, without a soul by his side except me.”
He barely flinches when Kame’s finger touches his arm, skims over the remembrances of pain. He looks up to see Kame gazing - not at his arm, but at him, with an intensity that makes his breath hitch. “But you learned from it,” Kame whispers, smoothing his fingers more firmly over the scarred skin. “You learned to be strong.”
“And didn’t you?” Jin clasps Kame’s fingers as they wander over his wrist, entangles their fingers. “You’re here, and alive, and doing what you do best, aren’t you? You’re still here, and I’m talking to you, and you’re creating a life for yourself. Out of those,” he nods towards the sketchbook on the bed, “you’re going to make it big some day.”
At the words, Kame starts out of his grasp, pulling back, turned away from the surprise in Jin’s eyes. “I have to go,” Kame breathes out, grabbing the sketchbook and hugging it to his chest. “I…see you,” he says, and nearly runs out the door, slipping on his shoes and letting the front door slam closed behind him.
When he makes it to the end of hallway, he sinks down against the wall, his sketchbook still pressed against him. His cell phone buzzes at that precise moment, and he fishes it out of his pocket to see his manager’s name flashes at him on the screen.
They want your artwork in three months, the text reads, and they need two months after that to prepare.
Kame sighs, flipping his phone closed.
--
Jin isn’t anywhere to be seen for an entire month - anywhere in Kame’s line of vision, at least, which isn’t much considering how many nooks and crannies there are to be found in Paris. Kame finds himself changing subway lines just to walk along the side of the tracks where they met, in vain hopes of seeing a familiar figure beside the pillar, guitar case at hand.
He’s sketching the view of the city from the base of the Arc de Triomphe, perched on the large ledge beside a mother and child eating baguettes and cold cuts for lunch, when his phone vibrates in his back jeans pocket. Stiffening, Kame ignores it, concentrating on the slanted rise of the Eiffel Tower protruding from the skyline and capturing it in large strokes of his hand. There’s a young woman sitting on a bench yards away, her hair pulled tight into a ponytail, shopping bags littering the ground between her and her friend, who is checking her make-up in a glinting compact mirror. He sketches them in first, a strong impact beneath the scenery of light sky and delicate European-style buildings.
But his phone still buzzes insistently in his pocket, so much that the child eating the baguette is beginning to eye him curiously. Reluctantly, Kame sets down the charcoal, balancing his sketchbook on the triangle his leg forms, left ankle resting on his right knee. “Make it quick,” he answers the phone irritably, under the assumption that it’s his manager - but there’s a laugh at the other end, and he freezes at the familiar, warm tingle that sweeps through him at the sound.
“Jin?”
“Cranky,” Jin responds, amidst background noise and the obnoxious roar of what sounds like a sight-seeing bus. “Nice to hear from you, too.” There’s a pause. “I was actually wondering if I should call you. I mean, at the risk of making me seem like a creep.”
“How did you get my number?” Kame can’t help the fleeting rise of warmth on his face at the mention of Jin creeping on him - like he’s worth being creepy for. He suppresses a smile.
“Stole it when you were sleeping the other day,” Jin replies. “Which, by the way, you made quite a grand exit from.”
“Ah,” clearing his throat, Kame looks down sheepishly, twirling a few loose threads of his jacket around his index finger. “Sorry about that,” he offers by way of explanation. He waits a beat, listens to the rhythmic breathing on the other end, the gentle humming of Jin’s voice.
“Yeah. I…where are you right now?” There’s a hesitance in Jin’s voice, like he’s asking for permission. “Can I meet you somewhere?”
“You know this city better than I do,” tucking the phone under his chin, Kame begins to fold together his materials, wrapping the charcoals back into their old, worn cloths. The pages of his sketchbook ripple as he shuts it closed, pulling it back to his chest against the oncoming chilly breeze.
“There’s this place,” Jin responds after a quiet moment, “near Denfert-Rochreau,” the French syllables roll off his tongue with only the slightest of accents. “Can you get there?”
Kame nods, standing from his spot, before he realizes the other can’t see him. “It’s right across from my hotel,” he replies, nodding once with a smile at the child that is still gazing questioningly at him, baguette no longer in hand - no doubt curious about the strange language he’s speaking.
“See you there in ten.”
--
Jin’s huddled at the top of the staircase, beanie covering the upper half of his ears, guitar slanted over the faded blue of his denim Capri’s. He straightens when he notices Kame climbing the stairs, familiar black jacket flapping with the wind, collar turned upwards.
“Do you ever sleep well?” Jin greets, hoisting his guitar over his shoulder and observing the darkness beneath Kame’s eyes.
“I live up to stereotypes,” Kame shakes his head, shuffling his feet to the top of the stairs as Jin chuckles. “Artists with insomnia.”
“I’m a musician,” Jin responds accusingly, “and I sleep like a baby.”
“Babies don’t sleep that well, to be completely honest with you,” Kame retorts as Jin’s pace quickens, guitar bouncing against the back of his knees. “Where are we going?”
“A log, then, if you’re content with me being an inanimate object,” throwing a smile over his shoulder, Jin sidesteps the curb, worn sneaker playfully kicking a rock and making it tumble across the pavement. “And you’ll see.”
Kame does see, brief moments later, when they emerge by a roadside parked with cars, a statue of a lion in the middle of the circle just across the street, head held high with grandeur. While Kame makes an impressed noise, Jin just smirks, tugging the sleeve of his elbow towards the left. With ease, Jin rounds the corner of a short, fancily designed fence, filled inside with a large patch of grass and lilies adorning an elegantly carved circle in the soil.
“Pretty, isn’t it,” Jin says, and Kame doesn’t realize he’s been standing and staring until he glances over to see the musician already seated on a green, metallic bench, guitar resting on his lap. Kame can’t help but think the instrument fits into Jin’s contours perfectly, the long fingers and jean-clad thighs, the curvature of Jin’s spine, arms wrapped around his guitar possessively.
“Very pretty,” Kame muses, walking over to stand in front of Jin’s line of vision. Jin looks up from tuning the guitar, his eyes crinkling into a smile when Kame holds his gaze, quiet.
“I could play for you,” he suggests, awaits the curt nod of agreement. “Sit down.” He closes his eyes, strumming random chords on the strings as Kame’s weight settles down onto the bench.
“Could you…” Kame starts in the midst of the chords, and Jin’s fingers halt, eyes flying open in genuine honesty. Taken, Kame swiftly looks away from the trust, the undeterred softness that makes his heart fumble for footing, makes his breathing shallow. He closes his eyes. “Could you play that French tune you were playing at the subway station? When we met?”
Jin seems surprised. “The lullaby?” He hums the melody by ear, his voice soothing and lilted layered into the quiet, hurried sounds of city life.
“Yeah, that,” Kame’s voice is barely above a whisper, his gaze intent as he watches Jin begin to strum the chords, fingers sliding expertly along the neck of the guitar. The tune is nostalgic, almost broken - the slow rise and fall of the notes, the depth of Jin’s voice, strong and clear.
But as the music progresses, Jin’s voice fades to shallow breathing, the crack of syllables forming among the heart-wrenching melody. Breaking from his trance, Kame glances over to see Jin’s head bowed over the guitar, hair untangling from beneath the dark purple beanie. The words are choked, and Kame reaches out a hand to close it over the one playing the guitar, stopping the chords. Jin peeks up at him from the shade of his beanie, pain glittering in his eyes.
Kame doesn’t say anything.
“My father,” Jin manages, “my real father; he used to sing this to me every night.” He closes his eyes. “He died when I was thirteen.”
Instead of removing his hand, Kame rubs gentle circles on the back of Jin’s, earns a fleeting, pleasantly surprised look. “We make such a pair,” Kame says, voice tinged with cynical bemusement, eyes still on the guitar. “Look at us, all broken and messed up on the inside.”
With tentative movements, Jin’s fingers find Kame’s, curling tight around them. A weak laugh emits from Jin’s mouth, and he looks up at Kame, tilts his head in thought. “We totally fit the stereotypes,” he says finally, almost wistfully. “Hard lives, us artistic people.”
At that, Kame laughs, a burst of warm sound, and draws away to lean back against the cold metal. He tilts his chin up, watches the float of clouds, the smeared sunlight penetrating in through the scattered branches of the tree in front of them, knobby and crooked with age. “So much for sleeping like a log,” he replies, and listens to the graceful snort of laughter from Jin, feels the warmth seep into his bones and curl into his heart.
--
It becomes an unspoken agreement between them, meeting beneath the arc of tree branches on the green metal benches, rain or shine. Kame lets Jin look at his sketchbook, the new people he’s met every day, the places he’s found hidden in corners, secured away from the bustle of tourism and everyday life.
The weeks pass, and Kame’s sketchbook fills in with drawings, splashes of shadow and stark emotion, a new story, a new character on each page. As Jin ventures into the depths of his art, Kame fiddles with the guitar - he plucks a few strings, one at a time, waits to let the sound fade out amidst the rustle of tree branches and rumble of automobiles.
“Have you ever thought about the future?” The question comes out of the blue one day, and Kame’s head snaps up from the guitar to meet Jin’s questioning gaze, his hands poised over an open page of the sketchbook. “Like, you know, having a family, growing old with someone.”
“Settling down, you mean,” Kame clarifies, and Jin nods hesitantly. “Like…”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jin brushes non-existent dust off his shirt; clearly he has had this on his mind for quite a while now. With pursed lips, Kame lets him continue. “Like, for example,” he waits a beat. “I really want children,” he lets out a breath. “It’s always been a dream of mine, to have my own children.”
Unprecedented, Kame feels his heart swoop low in his chest, braces himself for the outcome. “Well,” he phrases carefully, “what’s stopping you?”
The silence that falls between them is awkward, heavy. Jin’s eyes are downcast, fingertips pressing into each other, as if he might break apart. “You never told me you were famous,” Jin whispers in a fragile voice, and Kame nearly drops the guitar, catching himself just in time, his knees wobbling against the smooth, worn wood.
“How did you - ”
“I’m not stupid, Kame,” Jin’s voice holds no malice, no accusation - only a deep, quiet sorrow. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. Kazuya, the famous, mysterious artist - no full name, no face, no defined location.” A breath in between. “The drawings, Kame. They’re so you.”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
At the words, Jin’s fingers flex, the lines of his face drawing into a frown. “I,” he says, tight-lipped, his body turning subtly away. “I thought I knew you,” he whispers.
“Jin, you - ”
“No!” Wrenching away from Kame’s reach, Jin pulls back, stands up straight. “No,” he repeats firmly, eyes hardening. “I wanted to trust you,” he breathes, “I wanted to,” he sucks in a shaky breath.
“I didn’t,” Kame starts, shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to feel - ”
“What? Inferior?” Chuckling bitterly, Jin flits his eyes over the scene, his guitar laid out on the bench, Kame’s shaking head. “Thanks, Kamenashi. This makes me feel a lot better. You think you know a guy, that you can trust him, and he never even tells you - ”
“What did you want me to do, Jin?” The words come out in a slur of breath, from between gritted teeth. “Did you want me to just come up and say, ‘oh, by the way, I’m famous’? ‘By the way, I’m a rich, lonely artist’?” His gaze locks with Jin’s, who is towering above him, mere inches away from leaving. “What do you want from me?”
Jin’s eyes mellow around the edges; his voice is faint when he answers. “I want to love you,” he says, and Kame’s breath stops.
“And you tell me that by telling me you want to settle down and have children?”
Deliberately, Jin leans in - so close that Kame can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, catches a whiff of aloe shampoo and cologne, and something that makes his toes curl. “I don’t know who you really are either,” Kame accuses breathlessly, but Jin doesn’t reply, only moves in closer, until Kame is involuntarily tilting his head to expose a smooth expanse of skin and silky hair, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones.
“I grew up with young parents,” Jin breathes into his neck, and Kame inhales sharply, heartbeat erratic at the hot breath cascading onto his skin. “My father was from a rich family, but he eloped with my mother, who was the daughter of a restaurant owner. They were a real-life fairy tale,” Jin murmurs, nuzzling into the bend of Kame’s neck. “Sort of like us.”
“We are not,” Kame begins, but Jin presses a finger to his lips, coarse skin preventing Kame from saying anything further.
“Car crash,” Jin says, and his arms sneak in to wrap around Kame’s waist, drawing him in closer. “When I was thirteen. He left me a fortune, but. After that,” he buries his face into Kame’s shoulder. “Came hell. And I’m sure you already know enough about that.”
“Jin,” Kame tries to push him away, but Jin reaches down and clasps their hands together, stuck between them. “Jin, don’t - ”
Soft lips descend on his, so gentle and yielding and persistent that every coherent thought flies out of Kame’s mind. His heart is thudding in his ears, warmth flooding his cheeks as Jin nibbles on his lower lip, asking for access. Jin’s weight is flush against his body, scent enveloping his senses - everything is Jin, Jin, Jin - dark eyes, unraveling hair, long, delicate fingers that twine around his own, dancing patterns across his skin.
The sudden, loud honk of a horn from the street nearby has Kame shoving Jin away, making the musician fall back onto the bench heavily. “What the hell, Kame?” Jin’s face is a mixture of hurt and shock, eyes still swirling with desire, with affection, with -
Kame spins to face the opposite direction. “I can’t do this,” he says, still trying to regain his composure. He grabs his sketchbook off the bench, wedging it into his elbow and standing up in brisk movements. “I’m not - I can’t,” he repeats, refusing to look back at Jin. “I have to go.”
“You can,” Jin whispers, so fondly that Kame has to fight back the strong urge to turn back - but he can’t, he knows he can’t. He scuffs his shoe, looks down at the ground, and takes a deep breath. “Kame,” Jin says, a bit louder, more desperately, but Kame starts to walk away, towards the corner and blending back into the Parisian passerby. He can still hear Jin’s voice calling him, and he speeds up, quicker and quicker until he is sprinting around the corner, the fluorescent lights of storefronts smudging together in his peripheral vision. He heads towards the rectangular sign of the subway, his feet slapping on the cement - and he feels a droplet, two, three, looks up to see the sky threatening to pour.
The subway sign begins to waver in his vision, as the droplets become a continuous, harsh downpour, and the pavement starts to dampen, the rainwater soaking in, darkening the ground, the flapping fabric his jacket, splattering against the store windows. He attempts to blink the water out of his eyes - tears or rain, he’s not sure anymore, but it stings, slaps at his cheeks as he runs. He’s close, though, so close he can see the bright white lettering of Denfert-Rochreau, the blue of the rectangle -
His feet stumble against a crack in the sidewalk, and his palms fall flat onto the ground, scraping skin off into blood that mixes in with the tiny puddles forming. He’s right at the edge of the stairs, but he suddenly feels extremely drained - weak, weary of the world, and he’s sobbing like he’s still back in high school and just had his heart broken. The rain is streaking in rivulets down his spine, soaking him to the core, and he crawls into the space beneath the railing, shields his eyes with his hands for a bit of shelter.
People pass by him without so much of a glance, people with rain boots and parkas and soon, umbrellas appear in a steady, never-ending stream, of assorted shapes and sizes and designs. He watches each one as it passes, how it bobs up and down in the onslaught of rain, how millions of water droplets splash and drip simultaneously onto the pavement, only to be stepped on underfoot.
He stays there until the rain begins to let up, until the only people left are a young couple nearby, seated on the ledge above the staircase, speaking in sharp foreign tones and watching the sun break through the clouds, bright along the edges of the Eiffel Tower. He stays until it’s only a small, small drizzle, until the couple has left, hands linked in a swinging bridge in the gap between them, until his socks are so soaked through that his toes are numbed and without feeling.
When he finally stands, smelling of rain and city dirt, he unfolds his arms quietly. The sketchbook lies sopping on his sleeve, charcoal washed out and paper stuck together in wet clumps, the lines on the pages barely recognizable and mixing with the rain to drip onto the ground. With a blank face, Kame pinches the top right corner with his index and thumb, and walks over to the nearest garbage can with precise, defined steps.
The Real Sketchbook, he’d always called it in his mind - the sketchbook filled with personal sketches, with new techniques he’d try out, with significant pieces or people or places that reserved special meaning for him. The Real Him, lost in the sorrows and faults of the past, just like the turtle Jin had drawn, broken beyond measure. Too broken.
He pauses for a split second, as if to reconsider his options, but he knows he’s already made the choice.
He drops the sketchbook into the depths of the garbage, and walks away without looking back.
--
The next time he sees Jin, it’s at the exact same place where they first met.
Without a word, Kame uncovers his brand-new sketchbook, still yet to be opened. He smoothes it out to the first page, and unrolls his newly bought pieces of charcoal, damp and beautifully dark - he chooses the medium-sized, darkest one after a moment’s consideration, and stores the others back into his pocket, careful not to disturb the gauze bandaging the bottom half of his palms.
At first, he’s not sure Jin has seen him, or that he wants Jin to. He tries to stay inconspicuous, leaning back against the roughly textured wall, legs folded pretzel-style on the wooden bench. The gauze on his hand rubs against the paper as he sketches the beginnings of the setting, the dark, endless depths where the subway comes roaring in, the tiling of the wall Jin is sitting against.
It’s only after a while that he pauses to survey his outlines, glancing up to watch the approach of yet another subway, yet another crowd of people and smooth French words in passing, going about everyday Parisian lives. Kame catches the glimpse of a group of children, one with her hand clamped tightly in the schoolteacher’s, small béret atop her head. Her lips are puckered as she blows her cheeks out like a blowfish, and she waves at Kame with her free hand, eyes alight with child-like, innocent joy.
With a grin, Kame raises a hand in response, watching her through the glass as the doors shut closed. She returns his smile happily, continuing to wave as the subway engine spurts, and the vehicle begins to roll down the tracks. Adieu, Kame mouths, and the little girl’s smile widens, still as bright as ever, even as the subway speeds up and disappears into the darkness, onwards with life.
The silence left behind is tainted with a familiar melody, heartbroken notes floating in the atmosphere. A businessman clips by in professional, polished shoes, briefcase in hand, wristwatch glinting in the light - and Kame closes his eyes, hears the clink of coins in the guitar case, the brief pause of notes and Jin’s murmured merci.
It’s only them left for the time being. Kame spares a glance down at his unfinished sketch, and looks back up to see Jin cross-legged on the ground, strumming light chords and humming the rest of the lullaby, words lost in the come and go of Paris.
Kame knows Jin has seen him.
He picks up his charcoal, and continues.
--
“You have one drawing?” His manager’s voice is clipped, dry.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Kame drops the charcoal, wipes his hand absently on his sleeve. “Wrong. One unfinished drawing.”
There’s a long, slow breath at the other end.“You’re kidding me, Kamenashi. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Kame fingers the remaining strips of gauze on his hand, picking at the loose threads. “Believe what you like. If they want it, then take it. If not, then I’m not going to be a part of this exhibition,” he states in a matter-of-fact manner.
Pause. “Kamenashi, do you know what this exhibition means for you?” He waits, but Kame stays silent. “It means your breakthrough. You’ve already made quite a name for yourself - Kazuya, the mysterious, Kazuya, the hidden genius, Kazuya, The Kazuya. You could make it worldwide with this exhibition. Do you know how many artists would give their lives to be in it?”
“Does it look like I’m counting?” Kame counters. “Look. More fame, more money, more reputation, I get it. But you know, actually, I’ve been thinking.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want any more of that. In fact, I don’t want to be this Kazuya anymore, Kazuya The Mysterious, The Great, what have you.” Breath. “I’m planning on releasing my full name and identity, the real me, with this drawing. Everything down to the core.”
“You,” there’s a huff, “wouldn’t dare. The mystery is the enchanting - ”
“I’ll leave it up to the public to judge for themselves how enchanting or not I am, but I refuse to keep up this mask. I am who I am,” Kame purses his lips, “and everything I’ve done and experienced. They can’t know the stories behind the art if they don’t know the person. Who I really am.”
“That - that’s absurd.”
“Take it or leave it,” Kame responds quietly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a drawing to get back to.” He snaps the phone closed without waiting for the answer, dropping it onto his folded jacket beside him. As soon as he looks up, charcoal in hand, Jin immediately turns away, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.
Kame can’t help but smile.
--
They don’t talk for weeks, but they’re both there, at the same spot every day, Jin with his red puffy jacket and shades propped on his head, even on the gray, cloudy days.
It’s already a month since their last conversation when Kame finds the courage to text, his fingers trembling against the number pad, anxiety curling deep in his stomach. He watches Jin out of the corner of his eyes, the way the musician languidly fishes out his phone, shades slipping slightly as he reads the blue-tinted screen.
The reply comes seconds later.
Eiffel Tower, eight-thirty.
--
Scattered tourists and locales are milling the grounds when Kame reaches the grass sprawled out in front of the Tower, carrying nothing but a piece of paper rolled around his forearm. He scans the area closely, halting when his eyes light upon a figure in the far corner, just beside where the grass ends, sitting atop a stool, arms around a guitar.
Kame strides over to see that a small crowd has gathered in a semi-circle around Jin, all sparkling eyes and low, admiring murmurs at the crooning voice, the caress of Jin’s fingertips on the guitar strings. As Kame approaches the edge of the crowd, Jin catches his gaze, holding for a long, meaningful moment at the bridge of the song. Jin’s voice soars high, and Kame smiles.
When the song winds down to a stop, the crowd applauds, and Kame along with it, the healing scars on his palms still partially bandaged. He watches as each person deposits a few coins into the guitar case, with Jin nodding in quiet thanks. The crowd slowly disperses then, leaving Kame standing a few far feet from the case, figure silhouetted by the tall metal legs of the Tower nearby.
Jin packs his guitar back meticulously, kneeling down in his jeans to clasp the case shut. He stays in that position for a second, head hung low, barely moving, before he looks up straight at Kame. “I think you’d find it a comfort to know that I haven’t slept well in the past month,” he says finally, straightening to a standing position and slinging the guitar case over his shoulder.
Hiding his smile, Kame steps forward, further into the dotted patterns of light. “Like a baby,” he remarks, and watches the nod of Jin’s head, the slow crane of his neck.
“You wanted to talk?”
“Something like that,” Kame replies vaguely, keeping his distance. He observes the curl of Jin’s hair just above his shoulders, the hoodie stretching across his collarbones, the imprint of forgotten laughter in his cheeks.
Jin clears his throat, obviously uncertain. “You want to grab a drink or something?”
Laughing softly, Kame shakes his head. “Don’t want to repeat what happened last time.”
“Ah,” Jin chuckles hesitantly. “Right.” He toes the soiled ground with his sneaker, flinging back some of his hair and tucking it behind his ear. “Um. Coffee?” He looks back up at Kame with inquisitive eyes.
Shaking his head mutely, Kame steps forward - one at a time, with measured movements, until he is mere inches away from Jin, can see the built-up tension and sorrow lining the other’s face. “Here,” he whispers, and holds out the rolled up paper around his arm. Jin’s eyes widen.
“Is that…”
“For you,” Kame finishes, and lets Jin unroll the paper from his arm. Tentatively, Jin holds up the drawing, letting the light cast a dim glow onto the page as he peers at it. It’s a childishly drawn turtle, with a large, large heart right in the center of the shell.
Kame watches the transformation in Jin’s eyes, the twitch of his lips as he looks up from the page. “God, I hate you,” Jin states after a long moment, but the twinkle in his eyes completely gives him away.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Kame smirks. “Pity,” he responds evenly. “Guess you won’t be hearing the rest of my confession then.”
“Oh?” Arching an eyebrow, Jin takes a large step forward, rolls the page back up and slips it into the front pocket of his guitar case. “And what might be this confession of yours?”
Kame’s lips quirk playfully. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if you really want to…” he gasps when Jin bounds forward and tackles him onto the grass, yelping at the sudden attack, long guitarist fingers that easily search out his most ticklish spots, making him squirm and laugh in breathless heaves.
A few moments has Kame lying on his back with Jin hovering over him menacingly, sharing his laughter. “You bastard,” Jin accuses, leaning down, and Kame sucks in a deep breath when he realizes the close proximity. “Let me hear it, come on.”
“Hear what?” Beaming, Kame attempts to wiggle out from under Jin, but only succeeds in having Jin pin him down more securely onto the grass, hands planted on either side of his head.
“You know what,” Jin whispers, his mouth a breath away from Kame’s. Kame’s eyes haze over a little, softening to a deeper brown as they flick down to Jin’s lips and back up, his breathing shallower than before. “Tell me, Kazuya.”
Without replying, Kame leans upwards, but Jin pulls back just in time, a smirk adorning his features. “You have to tell me,” he teases when Kame wrinkles his nose in dismay, clearly unappreciative of the effect. “Come on, you can do it.”
Rolling his eyes, Kame sits up. “Do I need to - ”
“Just one sentence. Three words.”
“You didn’t even - ”
“Ready, set…”
“Oh, just shut up already,” pushing Jin to fall back onto the grass, Kame swoops down and captures his lips, knocking whatever breath and tease was left out of him. Jin’s lips are pliant and welcoming, opening in acceptance as Kame presses himself on top of Jin, running water-cool hands up and down his sides and slipping them under Jin’s T-shirt, making him gasp into the kiss.
“Is that enough of a confession for you,” Kame murmurs before descending to Jin’s neck, nipping gently at the skin and slicking a tongue right above the collarbones. “Or do you want to take this somewhere else,” he mouths against heated skin.
“Yes to the second,” Jin manages, “and - ” he’s cut off breathless when Kame flutters fingers along the waist band of his boxers. “ - oh God, just do whatever you want.”
At the words, Kame untangles himself, leaving Jin breathing harshly. “That’s what I thought,” he smirks, and stands, waits for a beat to watch Jin scramble up from the sudden change in mood, still dazed. “Race you to Denfert-Rochreau,” he challenges, and holds out a hand.
“What - ”
“Hotel,” is all he says as he pulls Jin up, watches the musician dust off his jeans and pick up his guitar from the ground. “Ready, set…” he pauses for another moment. “Go!”
As he takes off, he hears Jin’s indignant exclamations behind him, something along the lines of running off yet again without a legit explanation, and how he’s going to pay. Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, Kame laughs out loud, hears the patter of Jin’s sneakers against the pavement behind him. A droplet lands on his head, and he looks up briefly as he runs, feels the succession of droplets that follow behind, one by one by one until it turns into a full-fledged rainstorm. He splashes through puddles and leaps over cracks, grinning at Jin’s complaints trailing behind him.
He’s soaked through by the time he reaches the subway station, bounding down the stairs and past the ticket booth in record time. He slides into the last vehicle just before the doors are shut, his hair dripping a mess onto the smoothed flooring. He looks up to see Jin jogging to a stop at the platform, shaking water droplets from the tips of his hair and scrunching his nose in playful distaste at Kame through the glass.
Adieu, Kame mouths, raising his hand in a wave, and Jin sticks out his tongue. I’m going to get you.
Kame laughs as Jin disappears around the corner, darkness submerging the windows. He turns around, leaning back against the railing to catch his breath, smile wide and brilliant on his lips.
--
In the subway that follows the exact same path ten minutes later, Jin steadies his guitar against the railing. There’s a rustling behind him, and as he sticks out a foot in reflex to prevent his guitar from falling over at a turn in the tracks, a piece of paper flutters to the ground behind him, seemingly from his back pocket.
Curiously, Jin bends down and fingers the corners, unfolding the image as best as manageable in the rickety, unsteady conditions. He holds it up with one hand to the light, his other hand reaching out to keep a hold on his guitar.
It’s the sketch of him, complete with shadings and perspective, contours and emotions, the perfect black-and-white candid image of himself - against the pillar, guitar in his lap, case outstretched in front. It’s signed Kame at the bottom.
He closes his eyes, leans back, and smiles.
By: fingeredheart
Pairing: Jin/Kame, hint of Kame/OC
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Warnings: Romance, angst, humor (if you can detect it), fluff, AU
Prompt: All there is to do now is to see this world with your own eyes.
Notes: For misao_duo. Apologies for straying a bit off the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. An immense thank you to my glorious beta for being everything she has to me; you know who you are. ♥ I have also thrown together a quick mix of songs that inspired me while writing this, if you’d like to have a listen. Happy reading! :’)
Summary: “We make such a pair,” Kame says, voice tinged with cynical bemusement, eyes still on the guitar. “Look at us, all broken and messed up on the inside.”
He’s a lone figure leaned against the wall, heels of his feet propped up and knees pointed outwards. A guitar is rested on his thighs, black case opened in front of him, hair tied up messily with a ponytail. His jeans are ripped at the edges, T-shirt faded with age, jacket puffy and red, a bright contrast from the shades of gray and black of passerby. His voice is low, his French slightly stilted, accompanied by the light strumming of his guitar and the occasional clink of coins in his case.
As the song ends, he leans back with closed eyes, fingers careful as they bring the tune to a close. Above the silencing of his music, the whoosh of the subway comes rushing in, followed by the clatter of heels and murmured, rounded French syllables, stuck in between the tourist-accented questions and the rapid conversation of college-aged girls, hair clipped back to cascade down their shoulders into curls. He breathes out, eyes silently misty when they open again, darkening and focusing as they flit over to the person sitting nearby.
Kame jolts out of his reverie when he looks up again to see the street musician staring straight back at him, gaze tinged with curiosity and bemusement. Uncertainly, Kame’s hand stops in the midst of its erratic movements, and he glances down at unfinished, light sketches on the page, the outlined contours of the man’s posture, the darkened shading of his face, shadows playing across his guitar.
“I hear it pays good money,” the familiar Japanese sounds raw to his ears, slicing through the blur of passing Parisian life. Kame looks back up to see the man nodding at him with a swift glance at the rumpled pages, the charcoal staining lines along the side of his hand, his fingertips. “It treats people’s vanity, getting themselves drawn to be prettier than they actually are.”
Scoffing, Kame flips his sketchbook closed, pocketing the charcoal and arching an eyebrow at the amused look on the musician’s face. “I draw realistic art,” he replies firmly, slightly unnerved when the other just laughs, tilting his head downwards. More stray strands loosen from his ponytail, brushing against the smooth-skinned crook of his neck - Kame shakes his head, breaking from the momentary distraction to rest his gaze upon the money in the guitar case. “I hear you put most of the money in there yourself,” he remarks, and meets the other’s eyes again in time to see the quirk fade from his lips.
“I’m a realist too,” the musician responds defiantly. “I don’t need tricks like that to fool myself, or others.” When Kame just purses his lips and nods, seemingly unimpressed, he snorts. “What, don’t believe me?”
“I believe you just as much as you believe me.”
Rolling his eyes, the musician places his guitar aside, scooting the case farther into the corner as he stands with a hand outstretched. “Let me see that for a second,” he says, motioning towards the sketchbook still lying in Kame’s lap. “Yeah, that.”
Feeling suddenly reserved, Kame picks it up hesitantly, holding it out for the other. “It’s really - ”
“See,” the other cuts in, hands grasping both sides of the page as he tilts it towards the dim lighting. “See that.” He turns it to allow Kame to peek at the drawing - the unfinished one Kame had just closed it on, with the hint of streaked passerby in the background, the musician still outlined against the pillar. “My hand,” the musician continues. “The scar? You didn’t draw it. What of that?” He stretches open his left hand, palm facing downwards, and Kame catches the splotch of healed burnt skin, curved around the base of his thumb. Begrudgingly, Kame stays silent - he’d noticed it before, and admittedly, hadn’t even taken into account the idea of including it in the sketch. “Like I told you. Prettier than actuality.”
With a relenting sigh, Kame crosses his arms. “Fine, point taken. But that doesn’t…” he trails off when the musician’s hands freeze, pages ruffling in the brief wind of another passing subway. Uncomfortably, Kame shifts, trying to see which drawing the other has come upon, but to no avail - the musician is a few inches taller than him, with a tiny advantage. Kame lets out an impatient breath.
“Wow,” the man muses. “This is,” he breaks off abruptly, glancing up at Kame with an impressed glaze in his eyes. “Who is she?” He spins the sketchbook around.
Kame’s breath catches, and he can feel his throat closing up at the mere image - the softness in her eyes, the curl of her fingers around the railing, the peal of silent laughter in her opened mouth. He presses his hands closed, fingernails digging into the skin of his palm as he breathes in shakily. “Everything,” he replies slowly, and lets his eyelids flutter closed, feels the pain seeping out as quickly as it invaded, the sharpness of that rainy morning still leaving him cold inside. “She was everything,” he whispers, fingers barely trembling when he unclenches his fists.
The understanding in the other’s eyes is unmistakable. “What happened?”
Screams, his own screams. Shattered glass. Blood, so much blood happened - the stale stench of alcohol, the helplessness weighing down on him, so heavy, infinitely heavy, like somebody had torn down strips of the sky and laid them on his shoulders.
His breathing shallows, throat closing up as he remembers the cracking of his own voice, the sharp heat of tears rising in his face as the stretcher passed him, a sheet flung over her face, over the remaining shreds of her body. I’m sorry, so sorry, please don’t leave me, I love you - words he’d never said out loud, never would be able to reach her ears.
“Kame?” He snaps out of the memories, shuddering at how cold the station suddenly feels, how weary his bones are. The musician is staring at him, eyes clouded with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up - ”
“How do you know my name?” Kame tries to keep the flood of emotions out of his voice, shaking away the pained thoughts that have clung to him like vines for years.
“You sign every sketch with it,” the other gives him a lopsided grin, and hands back the sketchbook. “Jin would like to know if you’d like to have a drink with him,” he muses, hooking his hands into his back pockets as Kame tucks the sketchbook into the inner flaps of his jacket.
“Jin?”
“Yours truly,” he bows down low with a swoop of his arms, and Kame chuckles, the remaining wisps of memories temporarily forgotten. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you’re trying to get me drunk to make me end up telling you my life story, embarrassing moments and all.”
The corner of Jin’s lips twitch. “Nothing wrong with a bit of heart-to-heart talk,” he returns, winking playfully as he bends down to cover his guitar with a velvet cloth, gathering the coins into a pocket at the side and positioning the instrument back in place. “Besides, I have to flatter you by paying for you with my day’s worth of hard-earned money.”
Narrowing his eyes, Kame folds his arms. “I pay. If I don’t, I’m not going.”
Jin looks surprised. “But - ”
“I’m richer than I look,” Kame interrupts, gesturing vaguely at the casually stylish jeans tight against his hips, the black of his jacket accenting the stretched white T-shirt within. He fingers the simple charm necklace, letting it plod against the peek of bare skin along his neckline, and can’t help a tiny smile at the fact that Jin is obviously staring.
When Kame clears his throat, Jin startles out of his daze, looking up to meet amused eyes. “Richer?” Jin manages, and raises an eyebrow when Kame shrugs. “Braggart.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kame replies confidently, and Jin laughs - a rough, warm sound, hoarse, like his voice. It makes Kame fight down the smile that threatens around his lips, echoing in the emptiness of the station, the rare swish of passerby.
It leaves him feeling lighter than he has in years.
--
“She was,” Kame pauses, head swaying slightly, and Jin immediately moves forward, catching his arm right before he is about to topple off the bar stool. “Thanks,” Kame murmurs, and downs the umpteenth full glass of alcohol in his hand. Frowning, Jin gently pries the glass from his hand, setting it down on the counter and whispering at the bartender for no more refills. “She was all I had in the world.”
Forehead creasing, Jin holds out another hand to steady Kame. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says quietly, enough to make Kame glance at him, eyes glazed and blurry. “Kame,” Jin whispers, eyeing the way the other’s bangs fringe over his forehead, soft strands of hair framing defined cheekbones, and he has to resist the urge to draw them back with his fingers.
“It was all my fault,” Kame exhales, his breath contaminated with alcohol. “I was selfish. I wanted to study abroad, to expand my horizons, but all she wanted…” he gulps in a breath, slides his arms down the counter to rest his chin on the cold marble surface, and Jin lets go of him reluctantly, watching the flicker of changes cross his face. “All she wanted was a permanent home, and I refused to give it to her.”
“You were young,” Jin comforts, and Kame turns to gaze at him, as if just registering his presence. Finally, the artist just sighs.
“No, I was,” he breaks off a little, trying to orient his words. “Ignorant,” he says, “So, so stupid,” he enunciates each word with a bang of his fist against the bar, and Jin bites his lip, shooting the bartender an apologetic look. The man shrugs, mouthing something along the lines of better get him home soon, and Jin nods.
“It was all my fault,” Kame is saying again, his eyes shut tight, as if in pain. “I killed her. If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have gone out, she wouldn’t have gotten drunk with her friend, they never would have - ”
“Kame,” Jin leans in, but the close proximity doesn’t seem to bother a drunken Kame in the least. “It’s okay,” Jin murmurs, reaches out a hand and runs fleeting touches along Kame’s arm, grips his wrist tightly. Kame watches Jin with dark eyes. “Let’s get you home.”
Quietly, Kame allows Jin to hoist him up from the stool, slinging a heavy arm around the musician’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” Jin repeats when Kame opens his mouth to say something, and gives him a calm, wistful look that makes whatever thought he was about to express vanish into thin air.
They stumble out of the bar and into the street, Kame a heavy weight against Jin. “Sorry,” Kame mutters when Jin curses a little under his breath, palming the side of the doorway in order to steady himself.
Sending him a sideways glance, Jin gives a short laugh. “Even courteous when you’re drunk,” he says, more to himself than Kame, and turns around abruptly when the weight disappears from his shoulders. “Kame?” Panicked, Jin searches the nearby surroundings, casting worried glances over the tops of heads and the rush of cars to land on a shadowed figure bent over the garbage can at the edge of the sidewalk.
Quickly, Jin weaves his way through people to the garbage can, making out the familiar scope of Kame’s figure in the streaks of colored lighting from the storefronts. When he arrives, Kame is still retching into it, barely reacting when Jin places a tentative hand on the small of his back, soft words hidden into the shell of his ear.
Kame finishes with a hacking cough, sinking to his knees and burying his face into the bend of his elbows. “I’m sorry,” he is repeating, voice straggled and thready, like a mantra - over and over and over. Jin worries his bottom lip, pausing for a moment to stare at the helpless figure before him before crouching down. He moves over, curling a hand on Kame’s knee and causing the other to peer up at him through messy bangs, eyes completely lost.
“Let’s get you home, okay?”
He watches as Kame registers his words and nods carefully, looking so utterly forlorn among the sea of languid strollers and lulled conversation, the brisk clap of business shoes against pavement, the passing chatter of Parisian life.
--
He wakes up to a throbbing headache and cozy sunlight seeping in through the shades. It takes him a second to remember where he is, and he groans, stretching lazily and yawning as he turns to squint at the clock - nine-thirty, and Kame sits up abruptly, hand reaching up to nurse the sharp pain in his temples. He grimaces. It’s been a while since he last had a hangover.
“Morning, beautiful,” a familiar voice makes him whip around to see Jin sitting on the sofa chair nearby, legs folded pretzel-style, hair damp and smile bright. Kame’s sketchbook lies horizontal in his lap, and his hands are smothered black with charcoal. “Had a nice nap?”
Blinking, Kame instantly looks down, suppressing the wave of relief when he realizes he’s still fully clothed. “I haven’t slept in this late in years,” he exhales, and looks back up to see Jin staring at him with a renewed softness in his eyes. Biting his lip, Kame averts his gaze, and deems it best to not try and recall what he might have said the day before. Instead, his eyes land on the opened sketchbook, and the obvious evidence on Jin’s hands. “What are you drawing?”
“You,” Jin replies with an easy smile, and tosses the sketchbook onto the bed in front of Kame. Kame bends over it curiously, only to be met with a dark, childish drawing of a turtle with a broken heart formed on its shell. It has rounded legs, darkened circles rimming the bottom of its eyes. Arching an eyebrow, Kame glances up at Jin inquisitively.
Scooting the sofa chair closer, Jin leans over to prop his elbows on the bed sheets. “Kame,” he says, and points at the turtle, “with a broken heart, stubby fingers, and perpetual eye bags.” He smears at the eyes a little, darkening the haze. “Artistic, and lonely.” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest as Kame absorbs the drawing. “Not bad, huh?”
Kame stares down at the drawing, the layout of his life mapped out so simply, the turmoil of emotions he hasn’t been able to get over for years - and here is Jin, here is this turtle with the worst of him pasted on the outside, here are things he hasn’t told anyone, people back in Japan who think he leads a charmed life, a happy life, a famous life. Here is Jin, a person he barely knows, and yet, the person that knows him best.
“But you see,” Jin is saying, and he draws a thick arrow towards the left, the back of the turtle. “In your past.” He scribbles a few meaningless blobs, a heart towards the far corner, something resembling a smiling face in the center. “Things you can never let go of - shattered,” he emphasizes this with a large ‘X’ through the middle of the “past” blob, and glances up at Kame, placing down the charcoal.
Inhaling sharply, Kame straightens.
“Did the turtle do anything to make that ‘X’ happen?” Jin shakes his head. “Sometimes. But this turtle,” Jin touches the shell with an index finger. “He can only keep moving forward. Looking back isn’t going to do him any good. What’s happened has happened, and it’s a part of him now, something he’ll always remember.”
When he sees Kame’s mouth opening, Jin cuts in. “Oh, I know, he should have been this, should have done that. But you know, he didn’t,” shrugging, Jin pushes back from the bedside. “And it hurt, and it cost, but he’s never going to be able to change it anymore. In fact,” he leans forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, cupping his chin in his hands. “I bet someone up there would be very, very disappointed if that turtle just spent the rest of his life mourning. Because she loved him, and wants him to be happy.”
Silence settles between them, the only sound Kame’s ragged breathing, entwined with the wisps of the breeze coming in from the doorway of the bedroom, from the curtains flapping open in the living room, just beyond the corner. Kame’s head is bowed, fingers trembling against the pale beige covers, and Jin takes a deep breath.
“I,” Jin begins, gaze still focused on Kame’s lowered head, the disheveled tufts of hair from just waking up. “I used to,” he hesitates, and slowly but surely, pulls up the long sleeves of his shirt, bunching the fabric beneath his elbow. He straightens his left arm, straining the skin against the daylight breaking through, and holds it out for Kame to glance at from beneath his bangs.
There are faintly visible scars along the inside of his arm, a few ridges near the joint of his elbow. Carefully, Jin brushes one of his own fingertips against the scars beneath his wrist. “Razor blades,” he explains, trailing his finger down lower to his elbow. “Drugs, but only for a little while,” he presses his lips into a tight line. “The pain felt better to me. Better than living with people who couldn’t even be called human, much less parents. Better than having to tough it out at school, put on the pretense that I was a popular, smart kid, the perfect kid - somebody I wasn’t. Better than having people realize I swung both ways, to have them judge me for it. Better than remembering the clouded look in my older brother’s eyes before he died, as pale as the starched hospital sheets, without a soul by his side except me.”
He barely flinches when Kame’s finger touches his arm, skims over the remembrances of pain. He looks up to see Kame gazing - not at his arm, but at him, with an intensity that makes his breath hitch. “But you learned from it,” Kame whispers, smoothing his fingers more firmly over the scarred skin. “You learned to be strong.”
“And didn’t you?” Jin clasps Kame’s fingers as they wander over his wrist, entangles their fingers. “You’re here, and alive, and doing what you do best, aren’t you? You’re still here, and I’m talking to you, and you’re creating a life for yourself. Out of those,” he nods towards the sketchbook on the bed, “you’re going to make it big some day.”
At the words, Kame starts out of his grasp, pulling back, turned away from the surprise in Jin’s eyes. “I have to go,” Kame breathes out, grabbing the sketchbook and hugging it to his chest. “I…see you,” he says, and nearly runs out the door, slipping on his shoes and letting the front door slam closed behind him.
When he makes it to the end of hallway, he sinks down against the wall, his sketchbook still pressed against him. His cell phone buzzes at that precise moment, and he fishes it out of his pocket to see his manager’s name flashes at him on the screen.
They want your artwork in three months, the text reads, and they need two months after that to prepare.
Kame sighs, flipping his phone closed.
--
Jin isn’t anywhere to be seen for an entire month - anywhere in Kame’s line of vision, at least, which isn’t much considering how many nooks and crannies there are to be found in Paris. Kame finds himself changing subway lines just to walk along the side of the tracks where they met, in vain hopes of seeing a familiar figure beside the pillar, guitar case at hand.
He’s sketching the view of the city from the base of the Arc de Triomphe, perched on the large ledge beside a mother and child eating baguettes and cold cuts for lunch, when his phone vibrates in his back jeans pocket. Stiffening, Kame ignores it, concentrating on the slanted rise of the Eiffel Tower protruding from the skyline and capturing it in large strokes of his hand. There’s a young woman sitting on a bench yards away, her hair pulled tight into a ponytail, shopping bags littering the ground between her and her friend, who is checking her make-up in a glinting compact mirror. He sketches them in first, a strong impact beneath the scenery of light sky and delicate European-style buildings.
But his phone still buzzes insistently in his pocket, so much that the child eating the baguette is beginning to eye him curiously. Reluctantly, Kame sets down the charcoal, balancing his sketchbook on the triangle his leg forms, left ankle resting on his right knee. “Make it quick,” he answers the phone irritably, under the assumption that it’s his manager - but there’s a laugh at the other end, and he freezes at the familiar, warm tingle that sweeps through him at the sound.
“Jin?”
“Cranky,” Jin responds, amidst background noise and the obnoxious roar of what sounds like a sight-seeing bus. “Nice to hear from you, too.” There’s a pause. “I was actually wondering if I should call you. I mean, at the risk of making me seem like a creep.”
“How did you get my number?” Kame can’t help the fleeting rise of warmth on his face at the mention of Jin creeping on him - like he’s worth being creepy for. He suppresses a smile.
“Stole it when you were sleeping the other day,” Jin replies. “Which, by the way, you made quite a grand exit from.”
“Ah,” clearing his throat, Kame looks down sheepishly, twirling a few loose threads of his jacket around his index finger. “Sorry about that,” he offers by way of explanation. He waits a beat, listens to the rhythmic breathing on the other end, the gentle humming of Jin’s voice.
“Yeah. I…where are you right now?” There’s a hesitance in Jin’s voice, like he’s asking for permission. “Can I meet you somewhere?”
“You know this city better than I do,” tucking the phone under his chin, Kame begins to fold together his materials, wrapping the charcoals back into their old, worn cloths. The pages of his sketchbook ripple as he shuts it closed, pulling it back to his chest against the oncoming chilly breeze.
“There’s this place,” Jin responds after a quiet moment, “near Denfert-Rochreau,” the French syllables roll off his tongue with only the slightest of accents. “Can you get there?”
Kame nods, standing from his spot, before he realizes the other can’t see him. “It’s right across from my hotel,” he replies, nodding once with a smile at the child that is still gazing questioningly at him, baguette no longer in hand - no doubt curious about the strange language he’s speaking.
“See you there in ten.”
--
Jin’s huddled at the top of the staircase, beanie covering the upper half of his ears, guitar slanted over the faded blue of his denim Capri’s. He straightens when he notices Kame climbing the stairs, familiar black jacket flapping with the wind, collar turned upwards.
“Do you ever sleep well?” Jin greets, hoisting his guitar over his shoulder and observing the darkness beneath Kame’s eyes.
“I live up to stereotypes,” Kame shakes his head, shuffling his feet to the top of the stairs as Jin chuckles. “Artists with insomnia.”
“I’m a musician,” Jin responds accusingly, “and I sleep like a baby.”
“Babies don’t sleep that well, to be completely honest with you,” Kame retorts as Jin’s pace quickens, guitar bouncing against the back of his knees. “Where are we going?”
“A log, then, if you’re content with me being an inanimate object,” throwing a smile over his shoulder, Jin sidesteps the curb, worn sneaker playfully kicking a rock and making it tumble across the pavement. “And you’ll see.”
Kame does see, brief moments later, when they emerge by a roadside parked with cars, a statue of a lion in the middle of the circle just across the street, head held high with grandeur. While Kame makes an impressed noise, Jin just smirks, tugging the sleeve of his elbow towards the left. With ease, Jin rounds the corner of a short, fancily designed fence, filled inside with a large patch of grass and lilies adorning an elegantly carved circle in the soil.
“Pretty, isn’t it,” Jin says, and Kame doesn’t realize he’s been standing and staring until he glances over to see the musician already seated on a green, metallic bench, guitar resting on his lap. Kame can’t help but think the instrument fits into Jin’s contours perfectly, the long fingers and jean-clad thighs, the curvature of Jin’s spine, arms wrapped around his guitar possessively.
“Very pretty,” Kame muses, walking over to stand in front of Jin’s line of vision. Jin looks up from tuning the guitar, his eyes crinkling into a smile when Kame holds his gaze, quiet.
“I could play for you,” he suggests, awaits the curt nod of agreement. “Sit down.” He closes his eyes, strumming random chords on the strings as Kame’s weight settles down onto the bench.
“Could you…” Kame starts in the midst of the chords, and Jin’s fingers halt, eyes flying open in genuine honesty. Taken, Kame swiftly looks away from the trust, the undeterred softness that makes his heart fumble for footing, makes his breathing shallow. He closes his eyes. “Could you play that French tune you were playing at the subway station? When we met?”
Jin seems surprised. “The lullaby?” He hums the melody by ear, his voice soothing and lilted layered into the quiet, hurried sounds of city life.
“Yeah, that,” Kame’s voice is barely above a whisper, his gaze intent as he watches Jin begin to strum the chords, fingers sliding expertly along the neck of the guitar. The tune is nostalgic, almost broken - the slow rise and fall of the notes, the depth of Jin’s voice, strong and clear.
But as the music progresses, Jin’s voice fades to shallow breathing, the crack of syllables forming among the heart-wrenching melody. Breaking from his trance, Kame glances over to see Jin’s head bowed over the guitar, hair untangling from beneath the dark purple beanie. The words are choked, and Kame reaches out a hand to close it over the one playing the guitar, stopping the chords. Jin peeks up at him from the shade of his beanie, pain glittering in his eyes.
Kame doesn’t say anything.
“My father,” Jin manages, “my real father; he used to sing this to me every night.” He closes his eyes. “He died when I was thirteen.”
Instead of removing his hand, Kame rubs gentle circles on the back of Jin’s, earns a fleeting, pleasantly surprised look. “We make such a pair,” Kame says, voice tinged with cynical bemusement, eyes still on the guitar. “Look at us, all broken and messed up on the inside.”
With tentative movements, Jin’s fingers find Kame’s, curling tight around them. A weak laugh emits from Jin’s mouth, and he looks up at Kame, tilts his head in thought. “We totally fit the stereotypes,” he says finally, almost wistfully. “Hard lives, us artistic people.”
At that, Kame laughs, a burst of warm sound, and draws away to lean back against the cold metal. He tilts his chin up, watches the float of clouds, the smeared sunlight penetrating in through the scattered branches of the tree in front of them, knobby and crooked with age. “So much for sleeping like a log,” he replies, and listens to the graceful snort of laughter from Jin, feels the warmth seep into his bones and curl into his heart.
--
It becomes an unspoken agreement between them, meeting beneath the arc of tree branches on the green metal benches, rain or shine. Kame lets Jin look at his sketchbook, the new people he’s met every day, the places he’s found hidden in corners, secured away from the bustle of tourism and everyday life.
The weeks pass, and Kame’s sketchbook fills in with drawings, splashes of shadow and stark emotion, a new story, a new character on each page. As Jin ventures into the depths of his art, Kame fiddles with the guitar - he plucks a few strings, one at a time, waits to let the sound fade out amidst the rustle of tree branches and rumble of automobiles.
“Have you ever thought about the future?” The question comes out of the blue one day, and Kame’s head snaps up from the guitar to meet Jin’s questioning gaze, his hands poised over an open page of the sketchbook. “Like, you know, having a family, growing old with someone.”
“Settling down, you mean,” Kame clarifies, and Jin nods hesitantly. “Like…”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jin brushes non-existent dust off his shirt; clearly he has had this on his mind for quite a while now. With pursed lips, Kame lets him continue. “Like, for example,” he waits a beat. “I really want children,” he lets out a breath. “It’s always been a dream of mine, to have my own children.”
Unprecedented, Kame feels his heart swoop low in his chest, braces himself for the outcome. “Well,” he phrases carefully, “what’s stopping you?”
The silence that falls between them is awkward, heavy. Jin’s eyes are downcast, fingertips pressing into each other, as if he might break apart. “You never told me you were famous,” Jin whispers in a fragile voice, and Kame nearly drops the guitar, catching himself just in time, his knees wobbling against the smooth, worn wood.
“How did you - ”
“I’m not stupid, Kame,” Jin’s voice holds no malice, no accusation - only a deep, quiet sorrow. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. Kazuya, the famous, mysterious artist - no full name, no face, no defined location.” A breath in between. “The drawings, Kame. They’re so you.”
“I didn’t want you to know.”
At the words, Jin’s fingers flex, the lines of his face drawing into a frown. “I,” he says, tight-lipped, his body turning subtly away. “I thought I knew you,” he whispers.
“Jin, you - ”
“No!” Wrenching away from Kame’s reach, Jin pulls back, stands up straight. “No,” he repeats firmly, eyes hardening. “I wanted to trust you,” he breathes, “I wanted to,” he sucks in a shaky breath.
“I didn’t,” Kame starts, shakes his head. “I didn’t want you to feel - ”
“What? Inferior?” Chuckling bitterly, Jin flits his eyes over the scene, his guitar laid out on the bench, Kame’s shaking head. “Thanks, Kamenashi. This makes me feel a lot better. You think you know a guy, that you can trust him, and he never even tells you - ”
“What did you want me to do, Jin?” The words come out in a slur of breath, from between gritted teeth. “Did you want me to just come up and say, ‘oh, by the way, I’m famous’? ‘By the way, I’m a rich, lonely artist’?” His gaze locks with Jin’s, who is towering above him, mere inches away from leaving. “What do you want from me?”
Jin’s eyes mellow around the edges; his voice is faint when he answers. “I want to love you,” he says, and Kame’s breath stops.
“And you tell me that by telling me you want to settle down and have children?”
Deliberately, Jin leans in - so close that Kame can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, catches a whiff of aloe shampoo and cologne, and something that makes his toes curl. “I don’t know who you really are either,” Kame accuses breathlessly, but Jin doesn’t reply, only moves in closer, until Kame is involuntarily tilting his head to expose a smooth expanse of skin and silky hair, dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones.
“I grew up with young parents,” Jin breathes into his neck, and Kame inhales sharply, heartbeat erratic at the hot breath cascading onto his skin. “My father was from a rich family, but he eloped with my mother, who was the daughter of a restaurant owner. They were a real-life fairy tale,” Jin murmurs, nuzzling into the bend of Kame’s neck. “Sort of like us.”
“We are not,” Kame begins, but Jin presses a finger to his lips, coarse skin preventing Kame from saying anything further.
“Car crash,” Jin says, and his arms sneak in to wrap around Kame’s waist, drawing him in closer. “When I was thirteen. He left me a fortune, but. After that,” he buries his face into Kame’s shoulder. “Came hell. And I’m sure you already know enough about that.”
“Jin,” Kame tries to push him away, but Jin reaches down and clasps their hands together, stuck between them. “Jin, don’t - ”
Soft lips descend on his, so gentle and yielding and persistent that every coherent thought flies out of Kame’s mind. His heart is thudding in his ears, warmth flooding his cheeks as Jin nibbles on his lower lip, asking for access. Jin’s weight is flush against his body, scent enveloping his senses - everything is Jin, Jin, Jin - dark eyes, unraveling hair, long, delicate fingers that twine around his own, dancing patterns across his skin.
The sudden, loud honk of a horn from the street nearby has Kame shoving Jin away, making the musician fall back onto the bench heavily. “What the hell, Kame?” Jin’s face is a mixture of hurt and shock, eyes still swirling with desire, with affection, with -
Kame spins to face the opposite direction. “I can’t do this,” he says, still trying to regain his composure. He grabs his sketchbook off the bench, wedging it into his elbow and standing up in brisk movements. “I’m not - I can’t,” he repeats, refusing to look back at Jin. “I have to go.”
“You can,” Jin whispers, so fondly that Kame has to fight back the strong urge to turn back - but he can’t, he knows he can’t. He scuffs his shoe, looks down at the ground, and takes a deep breath. “Kame,” Jin says, a bit louder, more desperately, but Kame starts to walk away, towards the corner and blending back into the Parisian passerby. He can still hear Jin’s voice calling him, and he speeds up, quicker and quicker until he is sprinting around the corner, the fluorescent lights of storefronts smudging together in his peripheral vision. He heads towards the rectangular sign of the subway, his feet slapping on the cement - and he feels a droplet, two, three, looks up to see the sky threatening to pour.
The subway sign begins to waver in his vision, as the droplets become a continuous, harsh downpour, and the pavement starts to dampen, the rainwater soaking in, darkening the ground, the flapping fabric his jacket, splattering against the store windows. He attempts to blink the water out of his eyes - tears or rain, he’s not sure anymore, but it stings, slaps at his cheeks as he runs. He’s close, though, so close he can see the bright white lettering of Denfert-Rochreau, the blue of the rectangle -
His feet stumble against a crack in the sidewalk, and his palms fall flat onto the ground, scraping skin off into blood that mixes in with the tiny puddles forming. He’s right at the edge of the stairs, but he suddenly feels extremely drained - weak, weary of the world, and he’s sobbing like he’s still back in high school and just had his heart broken. The rain is streaking in rivulets down his spine, soaking him to the core, and he crawls into the space beneath the railing, shields his eyes with his hands for a bit of shelter.
People pass by him without so much of a glance, people with rain boots and parkas and soon, umbrellas appear in a steady, never-ending stream, of assorted shapes and sizes and designs. He watches each one as it passes, how it bobs up and down in the onslaught of rain, how millions of water droplets splash and drip simultaneously onto the pavement, only to be stepped on underfoot.
He stays there until the rain begins to let up, until the only people left are a young couple nearby, seated on the ledge above the staircase, speaking in sharp foreign tones and watching the sun break through the clouds, bright along the edges of the Eiffel Tower. He stays until it’s only a small, small drizzle, until the couple has left, hands linked in a swinging bridge in the gap between them, until his socks are so soaked through that his toes are numbed and without feeling.
When he finally stands, smelling of rain and city dirt, he unfolds his arms quietly. The sketchbook lies sopping on his sleeve, charcoal washed out and paper stuck together in wet clumps, the lines on the pages barely recognizable and mixing with the rain to drip onto the ground. With a blank face, Kame pinches the top right corner with his index and thumb, and walks over to the nearest garbage can with precise, defined steps.
The Real Sketchbook, he’d always called it in his mind - the sketchbook filled with personal sketches, with new techniques he’d try out, with significant pieces or people or places that reserved special meaning for him. The Real Him, lost in the sorrows and faults of the past, just like the turtle Jin had drawn, broken beyond measure. Too broken.
He pauses for a split second, as if to reconsider his options, but he knows he’s already made the choice.
He drops the sketchbook into the depths of the garbage, and walks away without looking back.
--
The next time he sees Jin, it’s at the exact same place where they first met.
Without a word, Kame uncovers his brand-new sketchbook, still yet to be opened. He smoothes it out to the first page, and unrolls his newly bought pieces of charcoal, damp and beautifully dark - he chooses the medium-sized, darkest one after a moment’s consideration, and stores the others back into his pocket, careful not to disturb the gauze bandaging the bottom half of his palms.
At first, he’s not sure Jin has seen him, or that he wants Jin to. He tries to stay inconspicuous, leaning back against the roughly textured wall, legs folded pretzel-style on the wooden bench. The gauze on his hand rubs against the paper as he sketches the beginnings of the setting, the dark, endless depths where the subway comes roaring in, the tiling of the wall Jin is sitting against.
It’s only after a while that he pauses to survey his outlines, glancing up to watch the approach of yet another subway, yet another crowd of people and smooth French words in passing, going about everyday Parisian lives. Kame catches the glimpse of a group of children, one with her hand clamped tightly in the schoolteacher’s, small béret atop her head. Her lips are puckered as she blows her cheeks out like a blowfish, and she waves at Kame with her free hand, eyes alight with child-like, innocent joy.
With a grin, Kame raises a hand in response, watching her through the glass as the doors shut closed. She returns his smile happily, continuing to wave as the subway engine spurts, and the vehicle begins to roll down the tracks. Adieu, Kame mouths, and the little girl’s smile widens, still as bright as ever, even as the subway speeds up and disappears into the darkness, onwards with life.
The silence left behind is tainted with a familiar melody, heartbroken notes floating in the atmosphere. A businessman clips by in professional, polished shoes, briefcase in hand, wristwatch glinting in the light - and Kame closes his eyes, hears the clink of coins in the guitar case, the brief pause of notes and Jin’s murmured merci.
It’s only them left for the time being. Kame spares a glance down at his unfinished sketch, and looks back up to see Jin cross-legged on the ground, strumming light chords and humming the rest of the lullaby, words lost in the come and go of Paris.
Kame knows Jin has seen him.
He picks up his charcoal, and continues.
--
“You have one drawing?” His manager’s voice is clipped, dry.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Kame drops the charcoal, wipes his hand absently on his sleeve. “Wrong. One unfinished drawing.”
There’s a long, slow breath at the other end.“You’re kidding me, Kamenashi. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Kame fingers the remaining strips of gauze on his hand, picking at the loose threads. “Believe what you like. If they want it, then take it. If not, then I’m not going to be a part of this exhibition,” he states in a matter-of-fact manner.
Pause. “Kamenashi, do you know what this exhibition means for you?” He waits, but Kame stays silent. “It means your breakthrough. You’ve already made quite a name for yourself - Kazuya, the mysterious, Kazuya, the hidden genius, Kazuya, The Kazuya. You could make it worldwide with this exhibition. Do you know how many artists would give their lives to be in it?”
“Does it look like I’m counting?” Kame counters. “Look. More fame, more money, more reputation, I get it. But you know, actually, I’ve been thinking.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want any more of that. In fact, I don’t want to be this Kazuya anymore, Kazuya The Mysterious, The Great, what have you.” Breath. “I’m planning on releasing my full name and identity, the real me, with this drawing. Everything down to the core.”
“You,” there’s a huff, “wouldn’t dare. The mystery is the enchanting - ”
“I’ll leave it up to the public to judge for themselves how enchanting or not I am, but I refuse to keep up this mask. I am who I am,” Kame purses his lips, “and everything I’ve done and experienced. They can’t know the stories behind the art if they don’t know the person. Who I really am.”
“That - that’s absurd.”
“Take it or leave it,” Kame responds quietly. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a drawing to get back to.” He snaps the phone closed without waiting for the answer, dropping it onto his folded jacket beside him. As soon as he looks up, charcoal in hand, Jin immediately turns away, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing.
Kame can’t help but smile.
--
They don’t talk for weeks, but they’re both there, at the same spot every day, Jin with his red puffy jacket and shades propped on his head, even on the gray, cloudy days.
It’s already a month since their last conversation when Kame finds the courage to text, his fingers trembling against the number pad, anxiety curling deep in his stomach. He watches Jin out of the corner of his eyes, the way the musician languidly fishes out his phone, shades slipping slightly as he reads the blue-tinted screen.
The reply comes seconds later.
Eiffel Tower, eight-thirty.
--
Scattered tourists and locales are milling the grounds when Kame reaches the grass sprawled out in front of the Tower, carrying nothing but a piece of paper rolled around his forearm. He scans the area closely, halting when his eyes light upon a figure in the far corner, just beside where the grass ends, sitting atop a stool, arms around a guitar.
Kame strides over to see that a small crowd has gathered in a semi-circle around Jin, all sparkling eyes and low, admiring murmurs at the crooning voice, the caress of Jin’s fingertips on the guitar strings. As Kame approaches the edge of the crowd, Jin catches his gaze, holding for a long, meaningful moment at the bridge of the song. Jin’s voice soars high, and Kame smiles.
When the song winds down to a stop, the crowd applauds, and Kame along with it, the healing scars on his palms still partially bandaged. He watches as each person deposits a few coins into the guitar case, with Jin nodding in quiet thanks. The crowd slowly disperses then, leaving Kame standing a few far feet from the case, figure silhouetted by the tall metal legs of the Tower nearby.
Jin packs his guitar back meticulously, kneeling down in his jeans to clasp the case shut. He stays in that position for a second, head hung low, barely moving, before he looks up straight at Kame. “I think you’d find it a comfort to know that I haven’t slept well in the past month,” he says finally, straightening to a standing position and slinging the guitar case over his shoulder.
Hiding his smile, Kame steps forward, further into the dotted patterns of light. “Like a baby,” he remarks, and watches the nod of Jin’s head, the slow crane of his neck.
“You wanted to talk?”
“Something like that,” Kame replies vaguely, keeping his distance. He observes the curl of Jin’s hair just above his shoulders, the hoodie stretching across his collarbones, the imprint of forgotten laughter in his cheeks.
Jin clears his throat, obviously uncertain. “You want to grab a drink or something?”
Laughing softly, Kame shakes his head. “Don’t want to repeat what happened last time.”
“Ah,” Jin chuckles hesitantly. “Right.” He toes the soiled ground with his sneaker, flinging back some of his hair and tucking it behind his ear. “Um. Coffee?” He looks back up at Kame with inquisitive eyes.
Shaking his head mutely, Kame steps forward - one at a time, with measured movements, until he is mere inches away from Jin, can see the built-up tension and sorrow lining the other’s face. “Here,” he whispers, and holds out the rolled up paper around his arm. Jin’s eyes widen.
“Is that…”
“For you,” Kame finishes, and lets Jin unroll the paper from his arm. Tentatively, Jin holds up the drawing, letting the light cast a dim glow onto the page as he peers at it. It’s a childishly drawn turtle, with a large, large heart right in the center of the shell.
Kame watches the transformation in Jin’s eyes, the twitch of his lips as he looks up from the page. “God, I hate you,” Jin states after a long moment, but the twinkle in his eyes completely gives him away.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Kame smirks. “Pity,” he responds evenly. “Guess you won’t be hearing the rest of my confession then.”
“Oh?” Arching an eyebrow, Jin takes a large step forward, rolls the page back up and slips it into the front pocket of his guitar case. “And what might be this confession of yours?”
Kame’s lips quirk playfully. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if you really want to…” he gasps when Jin bounds forward and tackles him onto the grass, yelping at the sudden attack, long guitarist fingers that easily search out his most ticklish spots, making him squirm and laugh in breathless heaves.
A few moments has Kame lying on his back with Jin hovering over him menacingly, sharing his laughter. “You bastard,” Jin accuses, leaning down, and Kame sucks in a deep breath when he realizes the close proximity. “Let me hear it, come on.”
“Hear what?” Beaming, Kame attempts to wiggle out from under Jin, but only succeeds in having Jin pin him down more securely onto the grass, hands planted on either side of his head.
“You know what,” Jin whispers, his mouth a breath away from Kame’s. Kame’s eyes haze over a little, softening to a deeper brown as they flick down to Jin’s lips and back up, his breathing shallower than before. “Tell me, Kazuya.”
Without replying, Kame leans upwards, but Jin pulls back just in time, a smirk adorning his features. “You have to tell me,” he teases when Kame wrinkles his nose in dismay, clearly unappreciative of the effect. “Come on, you can do it.”
Rolling his eyes, Kame sits up. “Do I need to - ”
“Just one sentence. Three words.”
“You didn’t even - ”
“Ready, set…”
“Oh, just shut up already,” pushing Jin to fall back onto the grass, Kame swoops down and captures his lips, knocking whatever breath and tease was left out of him. Jin’s lips are pliant and welcoming, opening in acceptance as Kame presses himself on top of Jin, running water-cool hands up and down his sides and slipping them under Jin’s T-shirt, making him gasp into the kiss.
“Is that enough of a confession for you,” Kame murmurs before descending to Jin’s neck, nipping gently at the skin and slicking a tongue right above the collarbones. “Or do you want to take this somewhere else,” he mouths against heated skin.
“Yes to the second,” Jin manages, “and - ” he’s cut off breathless when Kame flutters fingers along the waist band of his boxers. “ - oh God, just do whatever you want.”
At the words, Kame untangles himself, leaving Jin breathing harshly. “That’s what I thought,” he smirks, and stands, waits for a beat to watch Jin scramble up from the sudden change in mood, still dazed. “Race you to Denfert-Rochreau,” he challenges, and holds out a hand.
“What - ”
“Hotel,” is all he says as he pulls Jin up, watches the musician dust off his jeans and pick up his guitar from the ground. “Ready, set…” he pauses for another moment. “Go!”
As he takes off, he hears Jin’s indignant exclamations behind him, something along the lines of running off yet again without a legit explanation, and how he’s going to pay. Wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, Kame laughs out loud, hears the patter of Jin’s sneakers against the pavement behind him. A droplet lands on his head, and he looks up briefly as he runs, feels the succession of droplets that follow behind, one by one by one until it turns into a full-fledged rainstorm. He splashes through puddles and leaps over cracks, grinning at Jin’s complaints trailing behind him.
He’s soaked through by the time he reaches the subway station, bounding down the stairs and past the ticket booth in record time. He slides into the last vehicle just before the doors are shut, his hair dripping a mess onto the smoothed flooring. He looks up to see Jin jogging to a stop at the platform, shaking water droplets from the tips of his hair and scrunching his nose in playful distaste at Kame through the glass.
Adieu, Kame mouths, raising his hand in a wave, and Jin sticks out his tongue. I’m going to get you.
Kame laughs as Jin disappears around the corner, darkness submerging the windows. He turns around, leaning back against the railing to catch his breath, smile wide and brilliant on his lips.
--
In the subway that follows the exact same path ten minutes later, Jin steadies his guitar against the railing. There’s a rustling behind him, and as he sticks out a foot in reflex to prevent his guitar from falling over at a turn in the tracks, a piece of paper flutters to the ground behind him, seemingly from his back pocket.
Curiously, Jin bends down and fingers the corners, unfolding the image as best as manageable in the rickety, unsteady conditions. He holds it up with one hand to the light, his other hand reaching out to keep a hold on his guitar.
It’s the sketch of him, complete with shadings and perspective, contours and emotions, the perfect black-and-white candid image of himself - against the pillar, guitar in his lap, case outstretched in front. It’s signed Kame at the bottom.
He closes his eyes, leans back, and smiles.