Fic: Steady Settings
Title: Steady Settings
Pairing(s): Ohmiya
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Do. Not. Own. Unfortunately.
Wordcount: 1,320
Summary: A home is build on hope and dreams.
Author's Notes: Trying to get out of WB. I needed to try something new. Strangely satisfying to write. I KNOW YOU'RE LURKING, DEB. Un-beta'd.
The apartment is silent.
When you enter and look to the right, pairs of shoes are a displayed in neat rows. The door will close behind you with almost no sound, courtesy of a friend who was so very tired of the door creaking.
The floor is clean, but not to an obssessive extent. The floor looks as if it’s been walked upon a thousand times, looks comfortable to tread upon. To one of the visiting friends it is quite the eyesore, but even he can admit, albeit grudgingly, that the apartment wouldn’t be what it is if it doesn't have that floor.
Continuing from the hallway, you can see various jackets and hoodies through the almost closed closet. The walls surrounding you might look white to the quick observer, but it isn’t quite true. It’s a somewhat warmer colour, one of the friends of the inhabitants of the apartment insists that it’s a sandy colour (though the inhabitants couldn’t care less, seeing as the walls are cluttered with paintings and pictures anyway.)
The apartment is silent. Though, not quite, if you listen closely.
The insistent humming of the refrigerator alerts your attention to the kitchen. The kitchen is small, but not overly so. It can fit two or three people, though you’ll have to know where they are in order to not bump in to them. On the counter, the furthest away from the sink, a DS lies.
Two bowls stand in the sink along with two pairs of chopsticks - perhaps forgotten, perhaps only awaiting cleaning when it’s time. Despite the thought that two bowls might be accompanied by two glasses, more than five glasses stand beside the sink. One of the glasses still has some liquid in it, three of them have colourful fingerprints on them, one has lingering paint in the bottom and the two remaining glasses are empty.
The sound of the refrigerator is still buzzing at the edge of your hearing, and if you open it, you’ll see lots of food that’ll be easy and quick to prepare. You’ll see the usual; milk, water, eggs, beer. And…a small figurine on the top shelf will look quite suspicious to you, and if you look closer, you’ll see a pair of eyes and a large frozen grin looking back at you.
Prompted by that you head out of the kitchen and into the living room.
Here, it’s silent.
Well, not exactly silent here, either, because though the television is turned off, the Playstation 3 on the floor is humming with electricity. Several (a lot, rather) games are piled up next to the console, and they are only a fraction of the huge collection one of the cupoards is hiding.
The controllers lying innocently next to the console are shining dully from use. The cords, that never ever have even the slightest chance of becoming seriously tangled because of the frequent use, appears to have lives on their own. They seem to be a complete disaster, but nimble and experienced fingers can separate them in seconds.
When you look up, you see that the walls here also have paintings and drawings all over. They give the apartment a sense of someone belonging here, that someone lives here and breathes here.
A pencil, a Gameboy, keys, an open sketching pad, some magazines (courtesy of the friend who dislikes the floor), the remote to the television and a phone are lying on the table next to the sofa. A shoulder bag is leaning against the legs of the table, looking as if it’s about to fall down completely, but for some reason just doesn’t.
The sofa is another thing entirely. When you look at it, you can easily imagine people sitting there, lying there, sleeping there, laughing there. It can easily fit four people, and the floor directly next to it somehow suggests that someone sits there often.
It just has that comfy vibe, you know?
A shirt is draped over one of the armrests of it, looking as if it belongs there. The floor here has the faded traces of blotches of paint of various colours. Very faint, but there nevertheless.
One of the inhabitants of the apartment has long since given up on trying to get rid of the colours from the surfaces there shouldn’t be paint on.
The entire room is bathed in the early and sharp morning light, tinted a mixture of orange and pink. The blinds are forever left untouched, because the friends who sometimes stay over somehow always forget to close them (“Ne, it wasn’t me this time~! <3” “Wasn’t me.” “Fuck you all, it’s too early.”)
Two doors lead away from the living room.
One of them contains a room of chaos, seemingly. Pencils, pens, brushes, paint, scattered all over… old shirts hanging loosely over the back of some chairs. Once upon a time the walls were white, but now there are handprints in the colours of the rainbow, feet, dots, writing and small sketches scattered on them. The desk standing by the furthest wall is covered in sketches, clay, various tools and a bowl of snacks.
A pair of glasses and a cap hang from the turned off lamp.
The early light from the window falls upon a canvas with a half finished painting.
This room invites you in, but you’re not sure if you’re really allowed to enter, lest you ruin the illusion of controlled chaos.
Back in the living room, you eye the door. The room behind it is almost empty. Empty, save a piano, a guitar and two chairs.
Though the naked white walls would perhaps appear sterile and somewhat clinical, they’re not. You’re not entirely sure what makes them so, but you just know they’re not. As if they’ve absorbed the music coming from the instruments, instead of it just bouncing off.
You don’t feel as if you’re allowed in here, so you back off instantly.
Out in the living room you retrace your steps back to where you entered the apartment. A door you didn’t notice then catches your eye now.
This room isn’t silent either. Two persons, the inhabitants of the apartment, are sleeping soundly on the bed inside. They’re a mess of tangled limbs, one of the persons is curled comfortably around the other. Hands, legs, fingers are woven together, looking uncomfortably natural at the same time.
The room is slightly darkened (because the blinds in here are closed, so you can’t see that many details.) Not that it would matter, though, because your eyes are unexplicably drawn to the sleeping lumps on the bed.
The steady rhythm of breathing, occasionally punctuated with soft sighs and rustles from covers, as well as the few near silent grunts of discomfort when the other is tightening their grip too much.
Neither of them wake, though, despite the stranglehold they appear to have on each other.
A foot is peeking out innocently from under the covers, but it’s quite impossible to decipher to whose it is.
One of them stretches and yawns softly, making the other occupant of the bed yawn too.
“What time is it?” A voice asks groggily,
The one who stretched turns a bit to look at the clock on the table next to the bed. “Too early, I don’t have filming until later,” a voice replies and slumps back into the bed.
“You're not going fishing today, either.”
No reply to that, but that is apparently not expected either. A soft snore rings through the room.
“Oh-chan?” Then a sigh followed by a fond chuckle. “Idiot.”
The person wraps his arms around ‘Oh-chan’s waist, burying his face between the shoulder blades.
Now, feeling entirely like an intruder, you back out of the room, and towards the door leading outside. You cast a lingering glance at what you can see of the living room from here.
You leave the apartment, the door closes behind you with finality.
So, that’s a home.
/END
AN: Con crit is welcomed with open arms!