[drabble] Imperfection
Title: Imperfection
Author: Luna (dreamweavernyx )
Pairing: Takayama
Genre: Angst/Fluff
Notes: Request for Acchan (hibinoasami ).
~
It’s time to go up on stage again.
Yamada takes a deep breath, calms himself down, before discreetly slipping on his plastic smile.
Spotlights flood his vision as he steps out amidst the cheering of the fans.
It’s just another performance, another show for the camera, another nerve-wracking experience of being absolutely perfect.
He supposes he should be used to it by now, smiling the same plastic smile everyday and hiding away all insecurity beneath its impenetrable opaque surface. In the end, it doesn’t matter how many mistakes he makes in his dancing, or how many notes he sings off-key.
He’s perfect after all, there’s no wrong he can do.
He figures the only thing keeping him from just giving the bare minimum is his pride as a performer, the self-pride he still holds - intact, but only barely - that pushes him to do his best, any time, every time.
Frankly, he’s sick of it all.
“Oh, you can definitely do it! You’re Yamada, after all.”
“Good job, Yamada. Perfect as usual. Just as expected of you.”
“Yamada-kun, you’re to stand in the centre so the camera can focus on you.”
He still doesn’t understand exactly why he’s being given so much attention compared to everybody else. It’s not like he has the best singing voice, or the best dancing skills, or the ability to play an instrument.
It’s extremely unfair to the rest of his group, but however much he wishes some of his spotlight and screen time could transfer to them, it never does.
Popularity is what idols like him live on, and yet…
He’s sick of it.
Sick of being the most popular, sick of taking centre stage, sick of always being the one under the spotlights.
Sick of the stupid plastic smile he has to wear every day.
Sick of pretending to be the perfect one, the role model.
Sick of having to be somebody he’s not.
Good job! Perfect. Amazing, as usual.
Why can’t they ever give him a little bit of criticism? Tell him there’s some room for improvement, there’s something he could have done better. He doesn’t need to be babied - he certainly doesn’t have fragile glass emotions. It’s precisely the opposite. He needs to be told he’s wrong. He wants to know that he can improve.
Nobody’s perfect, after all. Him, least of all.
He just wants to hole up somewhere quiet and break down, take off his mask and let himself crumble for a while.
Finally, the chance comes when one day, he discovers that the rest of JUMP have left the dressing-room ahead of him, and he’s all alone there.
Quietly, he shuts the door, and walks slowly to the rack of costumes hanging in the half-open closet. He sinks down against the smooth wooden wall of the closet, hidden away from general view by the long sparkly costumes, and allows himself to slip off the mask.
“I’m not perfect,” he whispers aloud, the words echoing in the empty room. It takes a tiny bit of weight off his heart.
“I’m not perfect,” he says again, relishing the small feeling of freedom it gives him, to be able to deny his fake image of flawlessness. “I want to be recognized as imperfect. I want to be more obscure. I want to be myself.”
The bitter words hang in the air, as he finally gives in to the stress of perfection and cries for the normalcy he has always envied and wanted.
He doesn’t know how long he stays in that dark corner of the dressing-room closet, but he gets a huge shock when the curtain of clothes is pulled apart and a familiar face pokes in.
“Ah! There you are, Yama-chan! I’ve been looking all over for you,” says Takaki with a huge grin of relief on his face.
He catches sight of the tear trails still fresh and shining on Yamada’s cheeks, and the grin melts off his face faster than butter thrown in a hot pan.
“…Yama-chan?” he asks hesitantly, “You alright?”
Yamada squints against the sudden intrusion of bright light into his dark corner, and growls at Takaki, voice muffled through sobs.
“Shaddap and go away. You don’t care or whatever. Nobody ever does.”
“Now look here-” Takaki starts hotly, then stops again as his mind catches up with his mouth and he realizes what kind of mood Yamada’s in.
He sighs.
“What do you mean nobody cares?”
Yamada remains silent for a while.
“Everybody’s just fixated with making me the ‘perfect one’, even though I’m not, seeing me as like, some superstar or something. They totally don’t care about how I feel, being in the spotlight constantly, having to pretend that I can do anything because I’m perfect.”
The last word is snarled bitterly, and Yamada turns his head away to scrutinize the wooden walls of the closet again.
Takaki runs a hand through his hair. He’s not very good at comforting people - that’s Yabu’s job - but he figures Yamada won’t want him to drag someone else in this time.
He squats down and awkwardly pats Yamada’s shoulder.
“I care,” he says softly.
Yamada stiffens, and his head whips around, eyes burning in sudden fury.
“Like real-” he begins to say, then shuts up at the look in Takaki’s eyes. It’s the first time he’s seen the older boy look like this, look this honest and deep and-
It completely doesn’t seem like the happy and blur Takaki he knows, but somehow this serious image seems to fit him better.
He sighs, and his shoulders slump.
Takaki reaches out to pat his head gently and ruffle his hair.
“Would it make you any happier if I told you that your dancing still needs some work?”
Yamada stares at him with saucer-wide eyes.
“Well,” Takaki shrugs, “nobody’s perfect, right? Besides, I highly doubt perfect people run around dressing-rooms in fits of apoplectic rage when the fridge runs out of strawberry-related foodstuff, looking like highly undignified deranged chickens.”
A pause, before Yamada lifts an arm and punches Takaki on the arm.
“Bakaki you idiot,” he grumbles, a slight smile tugging at his lips, “do you even know what a deranged chicken looks like?”
Takaki sputters and tries to defend his use of vocabulary. Giving up, he whines instead and attacks Yamada in a tickle match in an attempt to salvage his ego by winning the match.
They end up in a giggling pile in the middle of the dressing room, both with sore fingers and panting hard.
Yamada rolls over and lies on his back, facing the ceiling.
“But really,” he says, “thanks, Takaki.”
“Any time,” Takaki says, sitting up.
Yamada gets up slowly.
“You made an effort to come look for me though. Thanks.”
Takaki laughs.
“Of course I would! I care, you know. I care about you.”
Yamada’s heart flutters slightly at that, though he doesn’t know why.
“Come on,” continues Takaki, “I bet Yabu’s about to call the police or something, we’ve been gone so long he probably thinks we’ve been kidnapped.”
Yamada smiles, and grabs his bag.
“Can’t help being late,” he says, “it’s not like I’m perfect or anything.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Takaki grabs his hand and they run out of the dressing-room and down the hallway together.