Tendencies (1/2)
Title: Tendencies
Rating: R
Pairing: Aiba/Jun
Word count: 11,042
Summary: You can love someone but not know it before it's too late. Will Aiba face the facts or take his chances?
Warnings/Notes: Dubious decisions. Brief appearance of strippers (lol, but I swear, it's not that kind of story). Feelings, lots and lots, and through the years. Squeezing this in before hunkering down on my Nino Exchange offering. Enjoy!
“Not so close,” Aiba says, flinching.
“Oh. Sorry.”
And it’s over before it really begun, in three words. It’s a day bathed in sunshine, yet Jun’s smile is sudden and wary. Huh? Aiba wants to scrub it out of his memory-it isn’t a smile he associated with Jun’s bristling enthusiasm, with the flurry of familiarity they have wrapped themselves in. It will niggle at him, that he made Jun smile an un-Jun-like smile, but it’s not the end of the world. Surely!
Jun simply doesn’t wait up for him when it’s time to leave, and that is that. It probably doesn’t mean anything, he thinks. But he still makes a promise to himself.
Gravity is no match for the way they shoot up, huge servings of gyudon destroyed by their savage appetites. It’s fun to be just a bunch of boys gathering together in what could be a school club activity-except they have fans and they’re paid to be on television. They are whirling dervishes, curious, flashing, and inseperable in motion. What does it mean to be screamed at, worshipped even, when you’re just twelve, singing lofty words in a boy’s voice? Aiba feels like one of the big kids in the playground, and he kind of likes it.
Aiba can be terribly shy, but there is one big equalizer: none of the boys he associates with are holding the mic, not yet; they’re all just dancing in the back. There’s no pressure, for now. He thinks he fell into the right crowd, even if Jun could be overbearing and, well, annoying. But he likes Jun a lot, like he likes Toma and Nino. Every day is fun.
The next day, Aiba makes sure to spend time with Jun and correct that smile of his. Super Idol Aiba-chan will be having none of Matsujun’s fake tantrums, thank you very much! In any case, Aiba figures he also needs the help, and how perfect-he knows just the person who can give it to him! Said person being someone who would also gladly tell him how to do things, albeit in a bossy squeak. Yes, good plan!
He walks toward Jun, who is sitting against the mirror. When he kicks his foot, Jun scowls.
“What was that for!”
“Wanna practice? You know the chorus better than I do!”
Jun doesn’t say anything and stands up, bangs swishing with the effort. Aiba’s smile hurts as he rushes over to the stereo system to press play-he just knew Jun wouldn’t be able to resist. They start dancing to the beat, looking at their reflections on the mirror. Yeaaaaah! Sou nanda! Kitto koko kara ai nanda!
“The other foot, you bozo!” Jun shouts.
He likes the toothiness of Jun’s smile the best, after all. For the first time in his life, he understands what being in good company means. Something unfurls in his heart, beating against it, enough to bruise.
They finish after an hour, legs shaking. Jun is gross just like all the other boys when he perspires, just like Aiba himself. But when he hugs Jun tight, squeezes him to test his very bone structure, it feels like being given a gift.
“Thank you, senpai,” Aiba says feelingly.
“Let go!”
But Aiba really does feel thankful. For teaching him so he won’t get scolded by Inohara-san. For being the first one to talk to him. For the soft, runny spot inside him that he couldn’t explain but makes him happy anyway. Today is a great day. He hugs him even tighter.
“Ugh, you’re like a wet dog.”
“Dogs are awesome!”
Eventually, thin arms close around his warm back too. They don’t have to explain anything to each other, they’re just all humid puffs of breath and bones that poke in all the wrong angles. Definitely my favorite, Aiba thinks.
The door to the practice room opens and Toma whistles obnoxiously. “Get a room!”
Aiba only grins when Jun shoves him away.
*
“Sakurai-kun’s gonna help me with my homework,” Jun brags, missing his third shot in a row.
“Oh yeah? Well, tell him to help you with your shooting too.” He pushes Aiba, who just laughs.
“He’s much cooler than you or Nino, you know,” Jun says.
“Everyone’s cooler than Nino, so that’s not saying much,” Aiba says, dribbling back and forth. He runs up to a perfect lay-up, the ball swishing audibly, a clean and satisfying sound that Aiba loves. “Can your beloved Sakurai-kun do that? Huh, huh?”
Jun scowls, running after the ball. “You’re so lame. Oh, and he’s not my beloved Sakurai-kun, okay?”
Aiba shrugs, a bit stung for some reason. “Could have fooled me. I mean, it’s okay if you like boys. I’m not gonna rat on you.”
Jun passes the ball a bit too roughly. It hits his chest like a canon. “Jerk!”
It’s lonely, when Jun leaves him alone in the court, the afternoon sun pressing down on him from all sides. It’s lonely, when Jun doesn’t indulge him his stupid mouth and the things that come out of it. Why is it that when it’s Jun, everything feels so personal? Really, who cares if Jun is mooning over that Sakurai-kun, that haughty nerd who thinks wearing colored contact lenses is cool? Nino would blow a gut laughing if he ever admitted to him that he’s upset about it.
What’s so special about this Sakurai-kun? Why is Jun calling him a jerk for his sake?
Aiba, for the first time in his life, is confused.
*
The first time he finds out happens after he almost pushes Jun over the edge.
Everything unfolds before his brain processes it. Somehow, he isn’t really looking in front of him-he was concentrated on nailing Ohno’s obnoxious choreography. Aiba crashes into something before he realizes that that “something” is Jun, and Jun, for a split-second, squawks like an ungainly bird, a step away from a ten-feet drop.
“-got you!” Aiba grunts, wrapping an arm around Jun’s waist. The momentum pushes him back, and he, by instinct, takes Jun along with him, away from the edge. It knocks the breath out of him-Jun isn’t exactly whippet thin anymore. He gets unceremoniously whacked by an elbow in the face.
“Ow,” Aiba exclaims, adrenaline thinning out on the realization that his voice is echoing around the stadium. Jun scrambles to get up, smooth and haughty, even as he rubs his elbow.
The other members are running to where they are.
“Be careful next time,” Jun says, voice raised, reaching out a hand to him.
Aiba takes it, groaning a bit as the soreness starts to settle in. “Sorry.”
Jun gives his face a cursory glance before batting away an advancing Nino. “I’m okay,” he mutters.
After their manager checks in on them, their practice proceeds as planned. Aiba is a little sore, but it’s not something that hinders his ability to concentrate. Jun continues on as if nothing happened, and it makes Aiba relax. In fact, apart from the almost-accident, the practice session concludes smoothly.
Later in the locker rooms, Aiba is the last to leave. He puts on the menthol muscle patch Nino threw at him-“I always have some in my bag, don’t say I don’t take my job seriously”-and, for a second, contemplates the fact that Jun doesn’t even say a word to him after the little accident. But he shakes it off. It feels like just another day at work, and maybe Jun, understandably, has a lot of concert-related things on his mind. Jun is the center of that cluster, the one among them who seems to have a vision of what they could be. They trust that vision and get out of his way as best as they could.
So when he opens his apartment elevator opens to his floor, the last thing he expects is Jun slumped against his door with a paperbag at his feet.
“Hi?” Aiba walks up to him as he struggles to get the key from his jean pocket. He is surprised, of course. But more than that, he’s worried, because Jun has never visited him at home, ever. “What’s wrong?”
Jun shoves off from the door. “Just wanted to know if you were okay.”
“Okay?” Aiba comes closer to open the door.
Jun sighs impatiently. “I fell on you earlier today. Also, you really smell like an old lady.”
“Oh, that’s Nino,” Aiba says as an explanation, slotting in the key to his door. He enters his apartment, about to second-guess himself but stopping at the last moment. “Well, come in.”
“So you’re okay?” Jun asks, as Aiba is toeing off his shoes. “Like really okay?
Jun sounds so serious that Aiba couldn’t help it, especially with how grumpy Jun has always been lately. “I’m super okay. We can even go to the hospital if that would make you feel better.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
Aiba smiles at his sullen expression. “I would never.”
Jun looks like he is barely supressing an urge to roll his eyes before stepping in to remove his shoes. Aiba turns on the lights and bustles about, suddenly aware of how unkempt his place is. He starts to fix the stack of magazines and papers on his dining table.
“Don’t clean up for me,” Jun says, already taking up more space than is polite. He shakes the paperbag he’s brought. “Late dinner?”
There is another question on Aiba’s lips, but he bites it back. “Oh yeah? What did you bring?”
“Takeout pad thai from a couple of blocks away. I think it’s still warm.”
“I didn’t know there’s Thai food in this neighborhood!”
“Um, you’re the one who lives here?”
That’s how, at ten in the evening, Aiba finds himself eating pad thai with Matsujun in a hastily cleared corner of his dining table. It’s pretty comfortable, he thinks. He had turned on the television just in case things would get awkward, but Jun is actually pleasant company for winding down after a long day. It’s a weird discovery to find out that he has missed Jun, even though they’re almost always together at work. They don’t spend time together like this anymore. We got too busy.
Aiba can only smile when Jun wordlessly gives him extra green onions from his own bowl and allows him to have the last spring roll. He's happy to have the chance to watch Jun like this, up close. He's grown up, sure, but something essentially Jun is still there underneath. Little things, like Jun’s calm, puffy, blowing-on-hot-food face, remind Aiba of how well he used to know the real Jun, and not just the idol. He used to always be in front of those circled, blowing lips, talking a million miles a minute while devouring a meat bun. Jun would be there, bright but calm. He'd be carefully blowing on his cup noodles, a little master in a convenience store in a group of rag-tag boys. Even then, Aiba knew that Jun would make something amazing of himself.
“You’re staring,” Jun accuses.
Aiba stirs. “Your face."
"My face."
"It's really profound, isn’t it? I’m not insulting you, I swear. It’s just so…deep.”
Jun bites his lips suspiciously. “I say this a lot to you, but this time I really mean it-I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I was just thinking out loud.” He just really likes Jun’s blowing-on-hot-food face.
Jun laughs. Aiba smiles at him and slurps all the noodles strung on his chopsticks. They don’t need to say anything much.
Aiba is feeling good enough to offer Jun a beer after dinner. He takes it and settles on the couch, taking a long drink. “Ah, so good!” Jun exclaims.
“Thanks for feeding me! I’ll order from them next time.”
“You’re welcome, and yes, you should. I like their banh mi as well.”
“Banh what?”
“Never mind.”
He busies himself with throwing out the empty cartons and washing the used glasses on the sink. Minutes later, it takes him by surprise when he feels arms snaking warmly around his middle, a chin lightly finding its place on his shoulder. When he looks down, he could see Jun’s fingers, black and red painted nails and all, interlocked on his belly.
“Cross-ty,” Aiba blurts out.
Jun shifts. “What?”
“Your fingers are in a cross-ty, you know. Like if you’re holding hands with someone, there’s plain holding hands, and then there’s-”
“-I’m really sorry I hurt you,” Jun blurts out. He’s frozen in place. Oh, this is definitely uncharted territory.
“Matsujun, it’s okay, I told you.”
“I know this is strange, but-but let me just hold you for a while.”
Always that presumption, that crackling sincerity. Aiba forces his hands to rinse off the glasses, the smell and warmth of Jun suddenly all around him. An obnoxious car insurance commerical is blasting in the background. Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent! Call us now!
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Jun wraps his arms tighter around him, coiling around him almost. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that there are patches of crimson blooming on his face. He feels like he is overheating.
“What is it?” he pries.
You should feel comfortable with me, Aiba thinks as the water runs over his fingers and the sharp swells of his knuckles. I should feel comfortable with this, he supplies for himself. He feels Jun’s chest heaving in and out behind him, all warm and alive.
“Okay,” Jun huffs.
“Okay?”
“Masaki, if, just if, there was ever-I mean, if I could ever,” Jun mumbles then sighs close into his skin and making Aiba tremble in surprise. It is electrified silence for seconds, and Jun speaks again.
“…if you could let me tell you something selfish?”
When he tries to turn around, Jun holds him in place, surprisingly strong. “Don’t. Because I like you,” he says, and Aiba cannot comprehend what he is saying, he knows the words, but he can’t string them together, not now, not when he's still accounting for the arms circumferencing his middle, “but I don’t know how to face you. And I’d rather not. This will never be normal, I…I have no illusions about that,” he sighs, another big sigh that punctures something inside of Aiba.
“I guess that I just wanted to tell you. You run into me in all these different ways and I just…I can’t help but like you. It’s so stupid.”
“Jun-”
“Don’t turn around, I mean it.”
He feels dizzy. Aiba turns off the water and wipes his hands dry, tries to breathe normally. It hurts to hear the fear there, that’s all Aiba hears, and he wants to take it away from Jun, even if he doesn’t know how. Even if he feels a divide from what he hears to what he thinks, because, surely, he has nothing to offer Jun?
“Jun, I’m sorry-”
“No,” Jun says, cutting him off. “No apologizing-god, no apologizing.” This time, he lets go of Aiba, stepping back when Aiba turns around. When their eyes meet, Jun’s are round and pleading. He continues to step back, and Aiba knows this behavior, knows it far too well.
When animals are cornered, they turn to their first instinct.
“Don’t.”
Jun flees. He almost trips over his own feet, rushes to tie his shoelaces in the genkan, doesn’t say goodbye. Aiba stands there, rooted in place, feeling no control over his bones, over what he feels and doesn’t. The door closes shut behind Jun, leaving behind only a faint scent of a foreign cuisine and questions on Aiba’s lips.
*
Aiba doesn’t know when it starts, or if there even was a start, but he swims up to the truth. It takes a long while, but he does. He’s old enough to allow himself the time to accept it, even though he’s always known.
He's grown to love taking long, quiet swims at the community pool center. He goes at an odd time, after the moms and kids have left and the salary men and office ladies haven’t arrived yet. When he slaps on his goggles and fingers his hair into a cap, he feels like another person. In the water, there are no ratings, sales figures, and impossible images to keep. He can only be himself.
The water gives him space. He only has to take it stroke by stroke, knowing that he’ll get to the other side eventually.
He pushes against the gutter and raises himself out of the water. “Here,” a stranger says, handing Aiba a fresh towel once he drips away most of the water. “You have a great freestyle. You just need to improve your arm stroke.”
Aiba doesn’t miss the towel wrapped snuggly against the person’s slim hips, his broad shoulders, or the assured smile on his face, like he knows what kind of person Aiba is. Like he knows about what Aiba thinks and worries about when he’s swimming-the thought of which strikes Aiba as dangerous and intimate.
“Cat got your tongue?” he says, shaking the towel lightly. Aiba grabs it and wipes his still dripping face.
“Thanks.”
“He has a voice,” he says, teasing and friendly, and it makes Aiba grin at him. “Ryota.”
What Aiba doesn’t know then when he shakes his hand is that he will fall impossibly in love with this stranger. That their friendly pool-side conversation will turn into an invitation for beer, into nights of yakiniku and lame jokes, to personal swimming lessons and lingering touches. That he will be spent, skin to skin, and that this Ryota will do a patch-job on his heart with whispered words. You were swimming to where I was, and I saw you clearly.
“How about you, what do you do?” Ryota suddenly asks on one of their first meals together, after Aiba asks him a million questions about his ambition to compete for Japan someday. Their fingers are curled together underneath the table.
Aiba laughs, delighted to haven’t been found out or recognized. “Wait.” He digs into his phone, does a quick search, and gives it to Ryota. His eyes grow as big as saucers. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Then how are-how do you do it,” Ryota stutters, for the first the time since they’ve met. “I mean, isn’t this cavalier of you?” Aiba feels him squeeze his hands tighter.
Aiba tips his head towards him. “It is, but somehow, you make me feel comfortable. Like I’m myself.” His cheeks flush at the admission, but Ryota never lets go and instead just orders another round of sake. He watches him, his eyes that squint much like Aiba’s when he smiles, body firm and inviting.
When he bunches the front of Ryota’s shirt and kisses him for the first time, it’s Ryota who gasps.
Finish what you start, is what Aiba thinks, and he jumps right in. The truth isn’t so bad-this is me, this is who I am, he thinks. In fact, it feels like coming home, an uncomplicated emotion that he welcomes with enthusiasm.
*
Aiba has no excuses. Jun opens the door on the passenger side and takes a seat. After he buckles on his belt, Aiba drives on. He smiles more for his own benefit than Jun’s.
“You came.”
It takes another traffic light for Aiba to reply. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Jun murmurs. He is looking out his window. “You live the nearest, I really didn’t want to bother you, though.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Aiba thinks that he wouldn’t have minded otherwise. He remains quiet while Jun coordinates on the phone to have someone pick up his car. It is irrational, but Aiba is somehow happy to know that Jun called him. After that night, Jun had distanced himself, not enough to be noticeable for anyone else, but enough for Aiba to see the startling space in between them. He hadn’t been able to bridge the gap, still doesn’t know what to think.
But tonight, a smoky scent and the musk of Jun’s leather jacket surround Aiba. Like this, he almost feels needed, even if it’s thanks to a flat tire. He basks in the newness of Jun. No matter how long they’ve known each other, it’s as if there’s always something new to note about him.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
Aiba glances at him. “Ask what?”
“Nothing,” Jun sighs. Aiba’s not blind, he can see it. There’s now a calm grace to Jun’s lean limbs, and yes, the ferocity of the new angles on his face is unnerving and scene-stealing. Aiba gets it, gets the appeal of it to Jun’s new legions of fans.
What he doesn’t understand is how near-sighted Jun could be about how he affects other people. After all these years. It’s preposterous how artless he could be, how clueless. Aiba could be objective about that, at least. He knows now that he finds Jun attractive.
“Aiba-kun.”
“Mmm?” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Can I turn the music on?”
Aiba hands him his iPod, grateful for not having to say anything. He can’t help but smile when, minutes later, after skipping quite a few songs, Jun settles on a jazz track with a rousing piano track in it.
“I like this,” he says, voice earnest as he thumbs through the other tracks. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who listens to jazz, though.”
“I don’t, not really,” Aiba says. “But it’s supposed to make you feel less stressed right? I figured I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Jun places the player back on the dock. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
Aiba stiffens. “What?”
“You never change. You’re honest. You tell all these futile, small lies, lies to avoid harming anyone, lies to make people laugh, but you never lie about real things.”
Aiba’s heart pounds as he turns the thought over in his head. “Is that a compliment?”
“I think so.” A ringed finger traces the veins that line his forearm. Aiba exhales too loudly for it to be casual. In fact, he feels like he’s been dropped into a whole new dimension: an anomaly in the space-time continuum where Jun’s brown eyes are liquid and emboldened by the navy blue sweater he’s wearing underneath his jacket, where Jun is throwing him out of balance with the slightest touch, where his heartbeat trips and stutters in a strange, new way.
Where Jun is touching him like this, period.
The finger travels to the edge of his collar, up towards the girth of his neck, around the shell of his ear. “Soft,” Jun murmurs. He would never do this sober, Aiba realizes with a tremor.
“Did you drink tonight?” He’s been watching Jun, Aiba admits to himself. He’s been watching him recently, has been bothered by the sight and thought of him. Why does he feel like a spool of thread being unraveled when he does?
Jun looks up at him. “And if I did? I wasn’t speeding.”
“Just asking.”
‘Were you alone?’ is what Aiba doesn’t ask, couldn’t bear to ask. He imagines Jun sitting by a counter, shoulders wide and relaxed, lips tipping back a pungent red wine. The warm lighting hits his profile just so, casting shadows on his face. His lips glisten, eyes darting about. He is the unassuming attraction of the room, the person everyone pretends not to notice but does, anyway. It’s an assumption on Aiba’s part but he can see it clearly, like a mirage that turns out to be reality.
‘Were you alone?’ is a question that he feels is too far out of his league to ask.
“So, the number I gave you, they really have great service. Your manager would probably drive your car over sooner than you’d think,” he rambles instead, swallowing.
“Sounds reliable,” Jun says, with a smile as he plays with his collar.
Where is he, really? Somehow, his reflexes know to slow down, to park the car right in the mansion’s discreet driveway. Jun is fully turned towards him now, fingertips feather-light on his hand over the gear shift. He closes the distance sinuously, the notes in the background cooperating with him. His thumb anchors on Aiba’s wrist bone, soft, yet as if marking him. Aiba gasps when he feels his lips on the corner of his mouth.
He only realizes that his eyes have been closed when he opens them. Jun’s eyes are fully sober now. He can feel his small puffs of breath on his face.
Jun moves, closing in the distance. This time, their lips align in so light a touch that a ghost could pass through in between. Between the two of them, Aiba cannot tell who is trembling. A genuine devastation adheres to his skin, to the thimble-sized bone that Jun’s thumb is still pressing down against. He breathes out to Jun, lingering, and then taking, tenderly, slowly, as if he is asking a question and not merely just kissing him. His hands automatically go to Jun’s nape, an instinct yet unnamed driving him. Jun gasps, gasps in a way Aiba's never heard before, and he clutches Jun to him even closer. He needs to hold on to something. Jun is ardent, Jun matches him, breath for breath. He edges in to Aiba, unbuckling his seatbelt as he does.
Aiba opens up, and Jun makes a sound, a soft, muffled sound that sounds like he wants to be devoured, to be restrained. It unclenches a knot inside Aiba-he fully surrenders to it, is at the mercy of it. Jun slides his hand up his arm, worrying his sleeve up. Aiba's head spins and spins. Where? How? Jun’s lips are a revelation; he could get so entangled in his warmth, in the needy clutch of his hand, in the thoughts of a smile that resembles moonrise. I am kissing Jun, he is kissing me. Kissing me, the entirety of me.
It’s that specific thought that jars him: the thought that Jun is seeing him for everything that he is. Aiba cannot decide if that's a good thing, so he breaks away reluctantly. Jun’s eyes are cautious in an instant. Where did Jun learn to be so guarded, and what warranted it? And here I am, pausing, in a moment where pauses mean too much. It’s like the entire universe is listening in to a conversation that isn’t happening. Aiba runs his hand through his hair, trying to rein in his plodding heartbeat. Jun's lips are red with pressure, and Aiba could lose more than what he could bear to, right then and there.
“Aren’t we being reckless?” Aiba asks. The tinge of accusation is out before he could control it, and so is the flash of hurt in Jun’s eyes.
“You’re the one who came,” Jun says, suddenly guileless. “I thought-”
“I’m not-”
“You know what, let’s pretend I never said anything and you never came.” He grabs his bag from the backseat.
“Jun, wait, you’re not making any sense.”
Jun sighs. His eyes are dark and wide. “I’m sorry. I just thought that I could change your mind,” he says, his voice all tiny and cramped in a way that makes Aiba wince.
“What?”
“I saw you with him. So just, I don’t know, lie to me about this tomorrow.” And with that, he turns away and goes down from the car, leaving Aiba alone.
He grapples with what he realizes-Jun knows about Ryota, has seen them together-and what he feels. He tries to shake away the clear agitation of denying himself the selfish pleasure of raking his fingers through Jun’s raven hair none too gently, of touching Jun even more, of holding him even closer. How long has he wanted to do just that? How long has he wanted Jun, but never knew-at least, not in so many words? Is it real, or something that he feels because Jun means so much to him? But then there’s Ryota, and Ryota, he has feelings for. Real ones, and not just the sharp edge of wanting something new, something that is now in reach.
That was a fuck-up-something to regret, something he can’t fix. He wants to punch something, but breathes through the feeling instead. Jazz is still softly playing in the background, like a mockery of everything he just said.
Hasn’t he learned that Jun doesn’t let just anyone be that close?
It hurts to breathe. He takes a u-turn and drives straight to Ryota’s place. He feels like shit. How could I?
*
They don’t really take a long time to be a semblance of okay again, simpy because they are who they are-a strange mix of being professional and knowing that they couldn’t compromise a friendship that they both grew up with. They don’t have to talk about it, it was just something that they forgot. Or at least, that’s what Aiba hopes. He would hate for Jun to remember that night and the way he had acted, like he didn’t know Jun had soft spots, a crack in his hide that Aiba, in a moment of weakness, impressed upon. Aiba’s still devastated over what he allowed to happen. He would never want Jun to feel like it was a mistake, even though, maybe, it was. It didn’t feel wrong, but it was a mistake-that’s what Aiba believes. He musters the callousness to pretend that they never reeled over that moment, that night.
The next couple of years pile up-they become even busier as their stars shine brighter. Who knew? For the first time in Aiba’s life, he feels like this will all amount to something, that he could be a has-been someday but he will still be proud of what he’s, what they’ve, accomplished. One of those small victories on a random Thursday night lead Ohno to saying something to him that Aiba would never expect, not from their Leader.
“Aiba-chan, let me treat you to drinks at Ginza?”
He laughs in Ohno’s unperturbed face, until he realizes that Ohno’s serious. Ohno hails a cab after their meeting and leads the two of them to an austere-looking sushi bar where the fish gleams in the hand of a wizened chef and the price that a sake bottle commands would have made them squirm, perhaps just a couple of years ago. He tells Ohno so, and Ohno laughs, nodding happily. “Cheers!”
Soon, the delicately assembled sushi fill their stomachs and they have their fourth go of smooth-running sake down their throats. Ohno is by no means talkative, but Aiba is pleased enough to hear about how he’s doing, apart from their life together as Arashi. They rarely get the chance to catch up like this. When else would he find out that Ohno is starting to make creepy brown figurines, a picture of them on his phone wallpaper? When else would Ohno casually mention that he’s seeing a university student who’s taking up accounting? When pressed about where he even met someone like her, Ohno only shrugs. “I missed going to the clubs one night, and well, one night turned into breakfast with her.” Apparently numbers and pop songs go well together. Aiba loves seeing his bandmates happy, even if they won’t say it outrightly. If anything, Ohno looks smug.
Ostensibly, the talk turns to him. Aiba offers up details about Ryota that he thinks Ohno will appreciate, like how he sleeps with his leg hanging out from the side of the bed, which had disturbed Aiba at first, because, who does that? Ohno laughs. “Invite him over, Aiba-chan!”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
And so Aiba does. Ryota is stupidly deferrent when he arrives, obviously shy about meeting a “celebrity” like Ohno. Aiba claps his back. “Stop that, Leader’s practically like one of those cranky old men in small towns who don’t talk to anyone.” Ohno protests.
Ryota isn’t interrogated-it’s Ohno after all-and is simply offered a cup of sake for his trouble. Aiba grins at the way Ryota blushes. The three of them don’t talk about anything terribly important, and Aiba’s just pleased to be spending time with some of his favorite people ever. He’s so tickled that confident Ryota is seemingly smitten by Ohno, laughing a tad bit too much at his stories.
When they’re about to go home, Ryota insists on hailing a cab for Ohno, who obviously didn’t bring a car. Ohno is tipsy enough to wave him away to do it.
“Leader, that’s my boyfriend you’re ordering around!”
Ohno cracks up. “What, he’s cute.” Aiba beams at him, warmth spooling inside him. They stand there outside, enjoying the mild breeze. Ohno bumps his hip to Aiba’s. “Time to stop feeling guilty, yeah? He’ll live.”
Aiba whips his head to him. “What do you..who do you mean?”
“You know who,” he says, voice small. Aiba feels like a bucket of frigid water has been dumped over him. It’s at this timing that Ryota runs up to announce that he’s secured a taxi for Ohno.
They all say their goodbyes. Ohno walks away with a rather drunk eyebrow waggle at him before getting on the cab. Aiba takes a big breath and turns back to Ryota with a smile.
“Your friend is alright,” he offers.
“You’ve met the easiest one to please, and please him you did,” he teases back. Ryota shoves him off playfully.
The night doesn’t have to be over. Aiba can go on.
*
Aiba doesn’t need to see to know that Jun is dating around, has been falling in and out of love in between periods of being single, just like anyone else. A part of him sometimes trails back to the image of Jun’s arms tied around his waist. He figures Jun has grown out of it. At work, there are moments when he finds himself looking at Jun and thinking about how much more open he looks-like he’s not afraid to be seen anymore. Jun is both softer and stronger, has stopped trying not to laugh like a child.
Every single time is music to Aiba’s ears.
The invitation comes in the mail before the tentative announcement in the green room, just among the five of them. Aiba doesn’t know then that he will clap Jun’s shoulder and even be the one to hug him first. He opens it curiously, without knowing what to expect.
Ryota reads over his shoulder as he scrapes some butter on Aiba’s toast.
“Oh wow,” he says. “That’s going to be huge.”
Aiba could only nod, dumbstruck at the pit in his stomach. Who else but Jun could such a thing happen to, or conversely, make something as picture-perfect as this happen? It figures.
But there it is. That gnawing sense of loss that Jun never even told him. He had no idea they were even seeing each other that seriously. It’s irrational, Aiba knows, because they don’t owe each other that knowledge-in fact, they rarely ever talk about their relationships or who they’re seeing or dating.
They don’t share that part of their lives because really, everything else is fair game. Aiba tells himself that he’s just worried, but the questions in his head say otherwise.
Has Jun thought this through? Has Jun-
“What’s wrong?” Ryota asks.
Aiba shakes his head. He bites into the warm toast, crumbs falling to his bare legs.
*
>> Part 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Aiba/Jun
Word count: 11,042
Summary: You can love someone but not know it before it's too late. Will Aiba face the facts or take his chances?
Warnings/Notes: Dubious decisions. Brief appearance of strippers (lol, but I swear, it's not that kind of story). Feelings, lots and lots, and through the years. Squeezing this in before hunkering down on my Nino Exchange offering. Enjoy!
“Not so close,” Aiba says, flinching.
“Oh. Sorry.”
And it’s over before it really begun, in three words. It’s a day bathed in sunshine, yet Jun’s smile is sudden and wary. Huh? Aiba wants to scrub it out of his memory-it isn’t a smile he associated with Jun’s bristling enthusiasm, with the flurry of familiarity they have wrapped themselves in. It will niggle at him, that he made Jun smile an un-Jun-like smile, but it’s not the end of the world. Surely!
Jun simply doesn’t wait up for him when it’s time to leave, and that is that. It probably doesn’t mean anything, he thinks. But he still makes a promise to himself.
Gravity is no match for the way they shoot up, huge servings of gyudon destroyed by their savage appetites. It’s fun to be just a bunch of boys gathering together in what could be a school club activity-except they have fans and they’re paid to be on television. They are whirling dervishes, curious, flashing, and inseperable in motion. What does it mean to be screamed at, worshipped even, when you’re just twelve, singing lofty words in a boy’s voice? Aiba feels like one of the big kids in the playground, and he kind of likes it.
Aiba can be terribly shy, but there is one big equalizer: none of the boys he associates with are holding the mic, not yet; they’re all just dancing in the back. There’s no pressure, for now. He thinks he fell into the right crowd, even if Jun could be overbearing and, well, annoying. But he likes Jun a lot, like he likes Toma and Nino. Every day is fun.
The next day, Aiba makes sure to spend time with Jun and correct that smile of his. Super Idol Aiba-chan will be having none of Matsujun’s fake tantrums, thank you very much! In any case, Aiba figures he also needs the help, and how perfect-he knows just the person who can give it to him! Said person being someone who would also gladly tell him how to do things, albeit in a bossy squeak. Yes, good plan!
He walks toward Jun, who is sitting against the mirror. When he kicks his foot, Jun scowls.
“What was that for!”
“Wanna practice? You know the chorus better than I do!”
Jun doesn’t say anything and stands up, bangs swishing with the effort. Aiba’s smile hurts as he rushes over to the stereo system to press play-he just knew Jun wouldn’t be able to resist. They start dancing to the beat, looking at their reflections on the mirror. Yeaaaaah! Sou nanda! Kitto koko kara ai nanda!
“The other foot, you bozo!” Jun shouts.
He likes the toothiness of Jun’s smile the best, after all. For the first time in his life, he understands what being in good company means. Something unfurls in his heart, beating against it, enough to bruise.
They finish after an hour, legs shaking. Jun is gross just like all the other boys when he perspires, just like Aiba himself. But when he hugs Jun tight, squeezes him to test his very bone structure, it feels like being given a gift.
“Thank you, senpai,” Aiba says feelingly.
“Let go!”
But Aiba really does feel thankful. For teaching him so he won’t get scolded by Inohara-san. For being the first one to talk to him. For the soft, runny spot inside him that he couldn’t explain but makes him happy anyway. Today is a great day. He hugs him even tighter.
“Ugh, you’re like a wet dog.”
“Dogs are awesome!”
Eventually, thin arms close around his warm back too. They don’t have to explain anything to each other, they’re just all humid puffs of breath and bones that poke in all the wrong angles. Definitely my favorite, Aiba thinks.
The door to the practice room opens and Toma whistles obnoxiously. “Get a room!”
Aiba only grins when Jun shoves him away.
*
“Sakurai-kun’s gonna help me with my homework,” Jun brags, missing his third shot in a row.
“Oh yeah? Well, tell him to help you with your shooting too.” He pushes Aiba, who just laughs.
“He’s much cooler than you or Nino, you know,” Jun says.
“Everyone’s cooler than Nino, so that’s not saying much,” Aiba says, dribbling back and forth. He runs up to a perfect lay-up, the ball swishing audibly, a clean and satisfying sound that Aiba loves. “Can your beloved Sakurai-kun do that? Huh, huh?”
Jun scowls, running after the ball. “You’re so lame. Oh, and he’s not my beloved Sakurai-kun, okay?”
Aiba shrugs, a bit stung for some reason. “Could have fooled me. I mean, it’s okay if you like boys. I’m not gonna rat on you.”
Jun passes the ball a bit too roughly. It hits his chest like a canon. “Jerk!”
It’s lonely, when Jun leaves him alone in the court, the afternoon sun pressing down on him from all sides. It’s lonely, when Jun doesn’t indulge him his stupid mouth and the things that come out of it. Why is it that when it’s Jun, everything feels so personal? Really, who cares if Jun is mooning over that Sakurai-kun, that haughty nerd who thinks wearing colored contact lenses is cool? Nino would blow a gut laughing if he ever admitted to him that he’s upset about it.
What’s so special about this Sakurai-kun? Why is Jun calling him a jerk for his sake?
Aiba, for the first time in his life, is confused.
*
The first time he finds out happens after he almost pushes Jun over the edge.
Everything unfolds before his brain processes it. Somehow, he isn’t really looking in front of him-he was concentrated on nailing Ohno’s obnoxious choreography. Aiba crashes into something before he realizes that that “something” is Jun, and Jun, for a split-second, squawks like an ungainly bird, a step away from a ten-feet drop.
“-got you!” Aiba grunts, wrapping an arm around Jun’s waist. The momentum pushes him back, and he, by instinct, takes Jun along with him, away from the edge. It knocks the breath out of him-Jun isn’t exactly whippet thin anymore. He gets unceremoniously whacked by an elbow in the face.
“Ow,” Aiba exclaims, adrenaline thinning out on the realization that his voice is echoing around the stadium. Jun scrambles to get up, smooth and haughty, even as he rubs his elbow.
The other members are running to where they are.
“Be careful next time,” Jun says, voice raised, reaching out a hand to him.
Aiba takes it, groaning a bit as the soreness starts to settle in. “Sorry.”
Jun gives his face a cursory glance before batting away an advancing Nino. “I’m okay,” he mutters.
After their manager checks in on them, their practice proceeds as planned. Aiba is a little sore, but it’s not something that hinders his ability to concentrate. Jun continues on as if nothing happened, and it makes Aiba relax. In fact, apart from the almost-accident, the practice session concludes smoothly.
Later in the locker rooms, Aiba is the last to leave. He puts on the menthol muscle patch Nino threw at him-“I always have some in my bag, don’t say I don’t take my job seriously”-and, for a second, contemplates the fact that Jun doesn’t even say a word to him after the little accident. But he shakes it off. It feels like just another day at work, and maybe Jun, understandably, has a lot of concert-related things on his mind. Jun is the center of that cluster, the one among them who seems to have a vision of what they could be. They trust that vision and get out of his way as best as they could.
So when he opens his apartment elevator opens to his floor, the last thing he expects is Jun slumped against his door with a paperbag at his feet.
“Hi?” Aiba walks up to him as he struggles to get the key from his jean pocket. He is surprised, of course. But more than that, he’s worried, because Jun has never visited him at home, ever. “What’s wrong?”
Jun shoves off from the door. “Just wanted to know if you were okay.”
“Okay?” Aiba comes closer to open the door.
Jun sighs impatiently. “I fell on you earlier today. Also, you really smell like an old lady.”
“Oh, that’s Nino,” Aiba says as an explanation, slotting in the key to his door. He enters his apartment, about to second-guess himself but stopping at the last moment. “Well, come in.”
“So you’re okay?” Jun asks, as Aiba is toeing off his shoes. “Like really okay?
Jun sounds so serious that Aiba couldn’t help it, especially with how grumpy Jun has always been lately. “I’m super okay. We can even go to the hospital if that would make you feel better.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
Aiba smiles at his sullen expression. “I would never.”
Jun looks like he is barely supressing an urge to roll his eyes before stepping in to remove his shoes. Aiba turns on the lights and bustles about, suddenly aware of how unkempt his place is. He starts to fix the stack of magazines and papers on his dining table.
“Don’t clean up for me,” Jun says, already taking up more space than is polite. He shakes the paperbag he’s brought. “Late dinner?”
There is another question on Aiba’s lips, but he bites it back. “Oh yeah? What did you bring?”
“Takeout pad thai from a couple of blocks away. I think it’s still warm.”
“I didn’t know there’s Thai food in this neighborhood!”
“Um, you’re the one who lives here?”
That’s how, at ten in the evening, Aiba finds himself eating pad thai with Matsujun in a hastily cleared corner of his dining table. It’s pretty comfortable, he thinks. He had turned on the television just in case things would get awkward, but Jun is actually pleasant company for winding down after a long day. It’s a weird discovery to find out that he has missed Jun, even though they’re almost always together at work. They don’t spend time together like this anymore. We got too busy.
Aiba can only smile when Jun wordlessly gives him extra green onions from his own bowl and allows him to have the last spring roll. He's happy to have the chance to watch Jun like this, up close. He's grown up, sure, but something essentially Jun is still there underneath. Little things, like Jun’s calm, puffy, blowing-on-hot-food face, remind Aiba of how well he used to know the real Jun, and not just the idol. He used to always be in front of those circled, blowing lips, talking a million miles a minute while devouring a meat bun. Jun would be there, bright but calm. He'd be carefully blowing on his cup noodles, a little master in a convenience store in a group of rag-tag boys. Even then, Aiba knew that Jun would make something amazing of himself.
“You’re staring,” Jun accuses.
Aiba stirs. “Your face."
"My face."
"It's really profound, isn’t it? I’m not insulting you, I swear. It’s just so…deep.”
Jun bites his lips suspiciously. “I say this a lot to you, but this time I really mean it-I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I was just thinking out loud.” He just really likes Jun’s blowing-on-hot-food face.
Jun laughs. Aiba smiles at him and slurps all the noodles strung on his chopsticks. They don’t need to say anything much.
Aiba is feeling good enough to offer Jun a beer after dinner. He takes it and settles on the couch, taking a long drink. “Ah, so good!” Jun exclaims.
“Thanks for feeding me! I’ll order from them next time.”
“You’re welcome, and yes, you should. I like their banh mi as well.”
“Banh what?”
“Never mind.”
He busies himself with throwing out the empty cartons and washing the used glasses on the sink. Minutes later, it takes him by surprise when he feels arms snaking warmly around his middle, a chin lightly finding its place on his shoulder. When he looks down, he could see Jun’s fingers, black and red painted nails and all, interlocked on his belly.
“Cross-ty,” Aiba blurts out.
Jun shifts. “What?”
“Your fingers are in a cross-ty, you know. Like if you’re holding hands with someone, there’s plain holding hands, and then there’s-”
“-I’m really sorry I hurt you,” Jun blurts out. He’s frozen in place. Oh, this is definitely uncharted territory.
“Matsujun, it’s okay, I told you.”
“I know this is strange, but-but let me just hold you for a while.”
Always that presumption, that crackling sincerity. Aiba forces his hands to rinse off the glasses, the smell and warmth of Jun suddenly all around him. An obnoxious car insurance commerical is blasting in the background. Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent! Call us now!
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Jun wraps his arms tighter around him, coiling around him almost. He doesn’t need a mirror to know that there are patches of crimson blooming on his face. He feels like he is overheating.
“What is it?” he pries.
You should feel comfortable with me, Aiba thinks as the water runs over his fingers and the sharp swells of his knuckles. I should feel comfortable with this, he supplies for himself. He feels Jun’s chest heaving in and out behind him, all warm and alive.
“Okay,” Jun huffs.
“Okay?”
“Masaki, if, just if, there was ever-I mean, if I could ever,” Jun mumbles then sighs close into his skin and making Aiba tremble in surprise. It is electrified silence for seconds, and Jun speaks again.
“…if you could let me tell you something selfish?”
When he tries to turn around, Jun holds him in place, surprisingly strong. “Don’t. Because I like you,” he says, and Aiba cannot comprehend what he is saying, he knows the words, but he can’t string them together, not now, not when he's still accounting for the arms circumferencing his middle, “but I don’t know how to face you. And I’d rather not. This will never be normal, I…I have no illusions about that,” he sighs, another big sigh that punctures something inside of Aiba.
“I guess that I just wanted to tell you. You run into me in all these different ways and I just…I can’t help but like you. It’s so stupid.”
“Jun-”
“Don’t turn around, I mean it.”
He feels dizzy. Aiba turns off the water and wipes his hands dry, tries to breathe normally. It hurts to hear the fear there, that’s all Aiba hears, and he wants to take it away from Jun, even if he doesn’t know how. Even if he feels a divide from what he hears to what he thinks, because, surely, he has nothing to offer Jun?
“Jun, I’m sorry-”
“No,” Jun says, cutting him off. “No apologizing-god, no apologizing.” This time, he lets go of Aiba, stepping back when Aiba turns around. When their eyes meet, Jun’s are round and pleading. He continues to step back, and Aiba knows this behavior, knows it far too well.
When animals are cornered, they turn to their first instinct.
“Don’t.”
Jun flees. He almost trips over his own feet, rushes to tie his shoelaces in the genkan, doesn’t say goodbye. Aiba stands there, rooted in place, feeling no control over his bones, over what he feels and doesn’t. The door closes shut behind Jun, leaving behind only a faint scent of a foreign cuisine and questions on Aiba’s lips.
*
Aiba doesn’t know when it starts, or if there even was a start, but he swims up to the truth. It takes a long while, but he does. He’s old enough to allow himself the time to accept it, even though he’s always known.
He's grown to love taking long, quiet swims at the community pool center. He goes at an odd time, after the moms and kids have left and the salary men and office ladies haven’t arrived yet. When he slaps on his goggles and fingers his hair into a cap, he feels like another person. In the water, there are no ratings, sales figures, and impossible images to keep. He can only be himself.
The water gives him space. He only has to take it stroke by stroke, knowing that he’ll get to the other side eventually.
He pushes against the gutter and raises himself out of the water. “Here,” a stranger says, handing Aiba a fresh towel once he drips away most of the water. “You have a great freestyle. You just need to improve your arm stroke.”
Aiba doesn’t miss the towel wrapped snuggly against the person’s slim hips, his broad shoulders, or the assured smile on his face, like he knows what kind of person Aiba is. Like he knows about what Aiba thinks and worries about when he’s swimming-the thought of which strikes Aiba as dangerous and intimate.
“Cat got your tongue?” he says, shaking the towel lightly. Aiba grabs it and wipes his still dripping face.
“Thanks.”
“He has a voice,” he says, teasing and friendly, and it makes Aiba grin at him. “Ryota.”
What Aiba doesn’t know then when he shakes his hand is that he will fall impossibly in love with this stranger. That their friendly pool-side conversation will turn into an invitation for beer, into nights of yakiniku and lame jokes, to personal swimming lessons and lingering touches. That he will be spent, skin to skin, and that this Ryota will do a patch-job on his heart with whispered words. You were swimming to where I was, and I saw you clearly.
“How about you, what do you do?” Ryota suddenly asks on one of their first meals together, after Aiba asks him a million questions about his ambition to compete for Japan someday. Their fingers are curled together underneath the table.
Aiba laughs, delighted to haven’t been found out or recognized. “Wait.” He digs into his phone, does a quick search, and gives it to Ryota. His eyes grow as big as saucers. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Then how are-how do you do it,” Ryota stutters, for the first the time since they’ve met. “I mean, isn’t this cavalier of you?” Aiba feels him squeeze his hands tighter.
Aiba tips his head towards him. “It is, but somehow, you make me feel comfortable. Like I’m myself.” His cheeks flush at the admission, but Ryota never lets go and instead just orders another round of sake. He watches him, his eyes that squint much like Aiba’s when he smiles, body firm and inviting.
When he bunches the front of Ryota’s shirt and kisses him for the first time, it’s Ryota who gasps.
Finish what you start, is what Aiba thinks, and he jumps right in. The truth isn’t so bad-this is me, this is who I am, he thinks. In fact, it feels like coming home, an uncomplicated emotion that he welcomes with enthusiasm.
*
Aiba has no excuses. Jun opens the door on the passenger side and takes a seat. After he buckles on his belt, Aiba drives on. He smiles more for his own benefit than Jun’s.
“You came.”
It takes another traffic light for Aiba to reply. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Jun murmurs. He is looking out his window. “You live the nearest, I really didn’t want to bother you, though.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Aiba thinks that he wouldn’t have minded otherwise. He remains quiet while Jun coordinates on the phone to have someone pick up his car. It is irrational, but Aiba is somehow happy to know that Jun called him. After that night, Jun had distanced himself, not enough to be noticeable for anyone else, but enough for Aiba to see the startling space in between them. He hadn’t been able to bridge the gap, still doesn’t know what to think.
But tonight, a smoky scent and the musk of Jun’s leather jacket surround Aiba. Like this, he almost feels needed, even if it’s thanks to a flat tire. He basks in the newness of Jun. No matter how long they’ve known each other, it’s as if there’s always something new to note about him.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
Aiba glances at him. “Ask what?”
“Nothing,” Jun sighs. Aiba’s not blind, he can see it. There’s now a calm grace to Jun’s lean limbs, and yes, the ferocity of the new angles on his face is unnerving and scene-stealing. Aiba gets it, gets the appeal of it to Jun’s new legions of fans.
What he doesn’t understand is how near-sighted Jun could be about how he affects other people. After all these years. It’s preposterous how artless he could be, how clueless. Aiba could be objective about that, at least. He knows now that he finds Jun attractive.
“Aiba-kun.”
“Mmm?” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“Can I turn the music on?”
Aiba hands him his iPod, grateful for not having to say anything. He can’t help but smile when, minutes later, after skipping quite a few songs, Jun settles on a jazz track with a rousing piano track in it.
“I like this,” he says, voice earnest as he thumbs through the other tracks. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who listens to jazz, though.”
“I don’t, not really,” Aiba says. “But it’s supposed to make you feel less stressed right? I figured I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Jun places the player back on the dock. “I’ve always liked that about you.”
Aiba stiffens. “What?”
“You never change. You’re honest. You tell all these futile, small lies, lies to avoid harming anyone, lies to make people laugh, but you never lie about real things.”
Aiba’s heart pounds as he turns the thought over in his head. “Is that a compliment?”
“I think so.” A ringed finger traces the veins that line his forearm. Aiba exhales too loudly for it to be casual. In fact, he feels like he’s been dropped into a whole new dimension: an anomaly in the space-time continuum where Jun’s brown eyes are liquid and emboldened by the navy blue sweater he’s wearing underneath his jacket, where Jun is throwing him out of balance with the slightest touch, where his heartbeat trips and stutters in a strange, new way.
Where Jun is touching him like this, period.
The finger travels to the edge of his collar, up towards the girth of his neck, around the shell of his ear. “Soft,” Jun murmurs. He would never do this sober, Aiba realizes with a tremor.
“Did you drink tonight?” He’s been watching Jun, Aiba admits to himself. He’s been watching him recently, has been bothered by the sight and thought of him. Why does he feel like a spool of thread being unraveled when he does?
Jun looks up at him. “And if I did? I wasn’t speeding.”
“Just asking.”
‘Were you alone?’ is what Aiba doesn’t ask, couldn’t bear to ask. He imagines Jun sitting by a counter, shoulders wide and relaxed, lips tipping back a pungent red wine. The warm lighting hits his profile just so, casting shadows on his face. His lips glisten, eyes darting about. He is the unassuming attraction of the room, the person everyone pretends not to notice but does, anyway. It’s an assumption on Aiba’s part but he can see it clearly, like a mirage that turns out to be reality.
‘Were you alone?’ is a question that he feels is too far out of his league to ask.
“So, the number I gave you, they really have great service. Your manager would probably drive your car over sooner than you’d think,” he rambles instead, swallowing.
“Sounds reliable,” Jun says, with a smile as he plays with his collar.
Where is he, really? Somehow, his reflexes know to slow down, to park the car right in the mansion’s discreet driveway. Jun is fully turned towards him now, fingertips feather-light on his hand over the gear shift. He closes the distance sinuously, the notes in the background cooperating with him. His thumb anchors on Aiba’s wrist bone, soft, yet as if marking him. Aiba gasps when he feels his lips on the corner of his mouth.
He only realizes that his eyes have been closed when he opens them. Jun’s eyes are fully sober now. He can feel his small puffs of breath on his face.
Jun moves, closing in the distance. This time, their lips align in so light a touch that a ghost could pass through in between. Between the two of them, Aiba cannot tell who is trembling. A genuine devastation adheres to his skin, to the thimble-sized bone that Jun’s thumb is still pressing down against. He breathes out to Jun, lingering, and then taking, tenderly, slowly, as if he is asking a question and not merely just kissing him. His hands automatically go to Jun’s nape, an instinct yet unnamed driving him. Jun gasps, gasps in a way Aiba's never heard before, and he clutches Jun to him even closer. He needs to hold on to something. Jun is ardent, Jun matches him, breath for breath. He edges in to Aiba, unbuckling his seatbelt as he does.
Aiba opens up, and Jun makes a sound, a soft, muffled sound that sounds like he wants to be devoured, to be restrained. It unclenches a knot inside Aiba-he fully surrenders to it, is at the mercy of it. Jun slides his hand up his arm, worrying his sleeve up. Aiba's head spins and spins. Where? How? Jun’s lips are a revelation; he could get so entangled in his warmth, in the needy clutch of his hand, in the thoughts of a smile that resembles moonrise. I am kissing Jun, he is kissing me. Kissing me, the entirety of me.
It’s that specific thought that jars him: the thought that Jun is seeing him for everything that he is. Aiba cannot decide if that's a good thing, so he breaks away reluctantly. Jun’s eyes are cautious in an instant. Where did Jun learn to be so guarded, and what warranted it? And here I am, pausing, in a moment where pauses mean too much. It’s like the entire universe is listening in to a conversation that isn’t happening. Aiba runs his hand through his hair, trying to rein in his plodding heartbeat. Jun's lips are red with pressure, and Aiba could lose more than what he could bear to, right then and there.
“Aren’t we being reckless?” Aiba asks. The tinge of accusation is out before he could control it, and so is the flash of hurt in Jun’s eyes.
“You’re the one who came,” Jun says, suddenly guileless. “I thought-”
“I’m not-”
“You know what, let’s pretend I never said anything and you never came.” He grabs his bag from the backseat.
“Jun, wait, you’re not making any sense.”
Jun sighs. His eyes are dark and wide. “I’m sorry. I just thought that I could change your mind,” he says, his voice all tiny and cramped in a way that makes Aiba wince.
“What?”
“I saw you with him. So just, I don’t know, lie to me about this tomorrow.” And with that, he turns away and goes down from the car, leaving Aiba alone.
He grapples with what he realizes-Jun knows about Ryota, has seen them together-and what he feels. He tries to shake away the clear agitation of denying himself the selfish pleasure of raking his fingers through Jun’s raven hair none too gently, of touching Jun even more, of holding him even closer. How long has he wanted to do just that? How long has he wanted Jun, but never knew-at least, not in so many words? Is it real, or something that he feels because Jun means so much to him? But then there’s Ryota, and Ryota, he has feelings for. Real ones, and not just the sharp edge of wanting something new, something that is now in reach.
That was a fuck-up-something to regret, something he can’t fix. He wants to punch something, but breathes through the feeling instead. Jazz is still softly playing in the background, like a mockery of everything he just said.
Hasn’t he learned that Jun doesn’t let just anyone be that close?
It hurts to breathe. He takes a u-turn and drives straight to Ryota’s place. He feels like shit. How could I?
*
They don’t really take a long time to be a semblance of okay again, simpy because they are who they are-a strange mix of being professional and knowing that they couldn’t compromise a friendship that they both grew up with. They don’t have to talk about it, it was just something that they forgot. Or at least, that’s what Aiba hopes. He would hate for Jun to remember that night and the way he had acted, like he didn’t know Jun had soft spots, a crack in his hide that Aiba, in a moment of weakness, impressed upon. Aiba’s still devastated over what he allowed to happen. He would never want Jun to feel like it was a mistake, even though, maybe, it was. It didn’t feel wrong, but it was a mistake-that’s what Aiba believes. He musters the callousness to pretend that they never reeled over that moment, that night.
The next couple of years pile up-they become even busier as their stars shine brighter. Who knew? For the first time in Aiba’s life, he feels like this will all amount to something, that he could be a has-been someday but he will still be proud of what he’s, what they’ve, accomplished. One of those small victories on a random Thursday night lead Ohno to saying something to him that Aiba would never expect, not from their Leader.
“Aiba-chan, let me treat you to drinks at Ginza?”
He laughs in Ohno’s unperturbed face, until he realizes that Ohno’s serious. Ohno hails a cab after their meeting and leads the two of them to an austere-looking sushi bar where the fish gleams in the hand of a wizened chef and the price that a sake bottle commands would have made them squirm, perhaps just a couple of years ago. He tells Ohno so, and Ohno laughs, nodding happily. “Cheers!”
Soon, the delicately assembled sushi fill their stomachs and they have their fourth go of smooth-running sake down their throats. Ohno is by no means talkative, but Aiba is pleased enough to hear about how he’s doing, apart from their life together as Arashi. They rarely get the chance to catch up like this. When else would he find out that Ohno is starting to make creepy brown figurines, a picture of them on his phone wallpaper? When else would Ohno casually mention that he’s seeing a university student who’s taking up accounting? When pressed about where he even met someone like her, Ohno only shrugs. “I missed going to the clubs one night, and well, one night turned into breakfast with her.” Apparently numbers and pop songs go well together. Aiba loves seeing his bandmates happy, even if they won’t say it outrightly. If anything, Ohno looks smug.
Ostensibly, the talk turns to him. Aiba offers up details about Ryota that he thinks Ohno will appreciate, like how he sleeps with his leg hanging out from the side of the bed, which had disturbed Aiba at first, because, who does that? Ohno laughs. “Invite him over, Aiba-chan!”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
And so Aiba does. Ryota is stupidly deferrent when he arrives, obviously shy about meeting a “celebrity” like Ohno. Aiba claps his back. “Stop that, Leader’s practically like one of those cranky old men in small towns who don’t talk to anyone.” Ohno protests.
Ryota isn’t interrogated-it’s Ohno after all-and is simply offered a cup of sake for his trouble. Aiba grins at the way Ryota blushes. The three of them don’t talk about anything terribly important, and Aiba’s just pleased to be spending time with some of his favorite people ever. He’s so tickled that confident Ryota is seemingly smitten by Ohno, laughing a tad bit too much at his stories.
When they’re about to go home, Ryota insists on hailing a cab for Ohno, who obviously didn’t bring a car. Ohno is tipsy enough to wave him away to do it.
“Leader, that’s my boyfriend you’re ordering around!”
Ohno cracks up. “What, he’s cute.” Aiba beams at him, warmth spooling inside him. They stand there outside, enjoying the mild breeze. Ohno bumps his hip to Aiba’s. “Time to stop feeling guilty, yeah? He’ll live.”
Aiba whips his head to him. “What do you..who do you mean?”
“You know who,” he says, voice small. Aiba feels like a bucket of frigid water has been dumped over him. It’s at this timing that Ryota runs up to announce that he’s secured a taxi for Ohno.
They all say their goodbyes. Ohno walks away with a rather drunk eyebrow waggle at him before getting on the cab. Aiba takes a big breath and turns back to Ryota with a smile.
“Your friend is alright,” he offers.
“You’ve met the easiest one to please, and please him you did,” he teases back. Ryota shoves him off playfully.
The night doesn’t have to be over. Aiba can go on.
*
Aiba doesn’t need to see to know that Jun is dating around, has been falling in and out of love in between periods of being single, just like anyone else. A part of him sometimes trails back to the image of Jun’s arms tied around his waist. He figures Jun has grown out of it. At work, there are moments when he finds himself looking at Jun and thinking about how much more open he looks-like he’s not afraid to be seen anymore. Jun is both softer and stronger, has stopped trying not to laugh like a child.
Every single time is music to Aiba’s ears.
The invitation comes in the mail before the tentative announcement in the green room, just among the five of them. Aiba doesn’t know then that he will clap Jun’s shoulder and even be the one to hug him first. He opens it curiously, without knowing what to expect.
Ryota reads over his shoulder as he scrapes some butter on Aiba’s toast.
“Oh wow,” he says. “That’s going to be huge.”
Aiba could only nod, dumbstruck at the pit in his stomach. Who else but Jun could such a thing happen to, or conversely, make something as picture-perfect as this happen? It figures.
But there it is. That gnawing sense of loss that Jun never even told him. He had no idea they were even seeing each other that seriously. It’s irrational, Aiba knows, because they don’t owe each other that knowledge-in fact, they rarely ever talk about their relationships or who they’re seeing or dating.
They don’t share that part of their lives because really, everything else is fair game. Aiba tells himself that he’s just worried, but the questions in his head say otherwise.
Has Jun thought this through? Has Jun-
“What’s wrong?” Ryota asks.
Aiba shakes his head. He bites into the warm toast, crumbs falling to his bare legs.
*
>> Part 2