collab: ode to arashi's hands
The following five drabble-type things were written originally in floweranza's journal here, spurred on by her 25-word promptfics you can find here. But because we loved them so much, we both decided to put them on our writing journals to show the world. These are all genfic, Arashi-related, no pairings, and rated PG I guess for mentions of sexy things.
1. Ode to Ohno's Hands by littlealex
Aiba loves Ohno's hands when they fall around his shoulders when they're both drunk and giggling and can barely keep themselves upright, fingers squishing into his cheeks like Ohno's a blind person trying to memorize the face of a new friend.
Jun loves Ohno's hands when they find the right place to press at the back of his neck, thumbs digging into muscle for a second before retreating and resting on the middle of his back, drawing up his posture no matter how tired his bones are.
Sho loves Ohno's hands when they curve around his own in the middle of winter, skin warmer than it has every right to be, warming his whole body with the slightest touch.
Nino loves Ohno's hands when they reach for him, angling for pieces of accidentally exposed skin or attempting to surprise him, not retreating even when Nino slaps them away with a swift flick of his wrist, settling for curling around the inside of his elbow as a concession to holding hands.
Ohno loves his hands when they smooth over the rough surfaces of an untouched lump of clay, teasing out the form it wants to be. He loves when they're covered in splatters of paint, when they're dusted with charcoal or chalk. He loves the scars he has from brand-new sculpting tools, he loves the sting from broken cuticles mixing with watercolors. He loves getting his hands dirty in mediums that describe life much better than words ever could, and he loves washing them clean at the end of the day, only to see that flecks of permanent ink have left spidery stains on his thumbprints, or flecks of glitter have buried beneath his fingernails, or he's created a fresh wound that will stay with him beyond the completion of the piece. He loves his hands when they create things he can't explain, when they hold things he doesn't really understand, when they feel a new texture that the world has to offer, when they tingle as he touches a familiar plane of skin, when they make someone's eyes close and mouth open and breathe his name.
Ohno loves his hands when they speak for him, better than his voice ever could; they tell his story, they apologize, they comfort and cajole, and they're more expressive than his vocabulary in any language.
2. Nino's self-ode to his hands, as they are pretty damn awesome. by floweranza
From the beginning Nino hasn't thought that his hands are idol-ish. They're short (stubby) and capable (just that); they're not long-fingered or slender or pale or anything close to the ideal that makes girls shiver in their seats from the mere thought of it. He gets teased about it, but Nino accepts it with the easy air of someone who's been bullied about everything: the mole on his chin, the roundness of his nose, his height. I can't change them, anyway, Nino thinks prosaically, and goes on with life.
[Examples: Nino's nails have always been clipped close and neat. His palms are meaty and square and flushed pink. When he gets tired, his hands hang limp and loose on his wrists. They're unremarkable hands.]
He can't change them, but sometimes Nino amuses himself (when he's alone) by pulling on his fingers and humming to himself, "Let's get longer?" Then he laughs and picks his controller back up; that doesn't make sense. Nino turns his attention to admiring Jun and Ohno's hands. Because he can, he makes invasive comments about Ohno's hands (and butt) everywhere.
[Examples: Jun's hands have little moles on them. His fingers are slender and graceful without effort. Ohno's hands are Ohno's hands; they're the hands of an artist and Nino loves them. Ohno's nails are long but pretty and pale, the skin translucent and veined with purpose. They're remarkable hands.]
Eventually, though, Nino thinks that his hands do have their purpose. He's not amazed by them being able to move on a guitar or piano (the calluses on his fingertips); that's expected. And their ability to play games for him faster than anything is just the work of years (the shiny patches on the inside of his thumbs). But when Nino first tries a trick with some brand-new cards bought from the combini down the street and his hands move and get it right, he's impressed.
And when Aiba's feeling down and all it takes is the squeeze of Nino's hand on his shoulder to get a small smile, that's pretty cool. And when Sho's thoroughly drunk and warbling about how cute your hands are, Nino (and your thighs) -- well, Nino's mildly traumatized, but it makes him happy. And when Jun sees Nino's cuticles after a break (tons of gaming, and possibly some voluntary ignoring of personal hygiene) and huffs and pulls Nino's hand in to clean them up, it amuses Nino to see his scruffy hand in between Jun's well-manicured ones. It's a nice contrast. And when Ohno sheepishly cocks his head and asks Nino if he can sketch Nino's hands because they're interesting and hamburger-like, delicious (he never asks anyone else if he can draw them) - they fit you, Nino - Nino's sold.
His hands are awesome.
3. Ode to Jun's hands: aka moments of narcissism, explained. by littlealex
Jun's hands aren't perfect.
People have commented on his hands before - how soft they feel, how long and slender his fingers are, how neat his nails are - but he knows better. He looks at his hands more than any other part of his body, and all the perfection that people see is just a product of his close attention. In the same way that his flexibility is thanks to noticing the way his muscles twinge with certain motions, and his slim figure is thanks to noticing the smallest protrusion of his stomach after a week of eating nothing but conbini bentos, his soft and manicured hands can be explained by his keeping constant watch of his skin.
Contrary to popular belief, Jun doesn't get manicures. He takes the time to maintain his skin himself, rubbing moisturizer into the backs of his hands twice a day (three times in the dry cold snap of winter), treating them to a night under the wrap of gloves and a protective layer of Bag Balm once a fortnight. He watches his nail beds for signs of distress, eyes like a hawk's over his cuticles, which he tends to every night after showering, massaging with a cuticle oil a friend brought back from Europe. He keeps his nails in check, absently filing away at them between sips of wine as he watches television on his evenings off, keeping them short and neat. It doesn't take as long as people think, and it's worth it when he rubs his hands together and feels nothing but smooth skin.
But they're not perfect all by themselves. He gets hangnails (and covers them with gauze), he cuts his hands chopping vegetables (and wraps the wound with a bandage), and his knuckles get dry easily (and he has hand moisturizer ready for those moments). He prevents damage by wearing gloves to clean and wash dishes, wearing mittens as soon as the dry weather sets in, and keeps himself hydrated with bottles upon bottles of water.
The best part about his hands, though - the part that always makes Jun smile out of the corner of his mouth - is that the effect they have on other people. He sifts his fingers through Aiba's hair and he giggles. He circles his hand around Sho's wrist and he smiles. He wraps an arm around Ohno's shoulders and he leans in. And he slaps Nino's hand away as he reaches for his wallet and they share a look that speaks volumes. It doesn't sound like much, but it reminds him that his hands, his touches, his presence, are worth preserving.
He knows this wouldn't change if his hands were calloused like Nino's, or flecked with paint like Ohno's, or wind-swept dry like Sho's, or ignored like Aiba's, but he likes the way the world feels beneath his fingers. He can't ask for much more than that.
4. Sho's hands have always been full of passion; an off-hand ode. by floweranza
When he was young people had always told his parents, "That's a good child; he'll get somewhere." Sho had brightened (although those expectations had always been expected of him) and thrown himself into school work and extracurriculars, fingers gripping his pencils and pens with an excited rigidity. It took him a while to realise he was losing himself in the process.
His hands became to mean constraint. Sho would sit up at night over his homework and dream of the freedom of his feet when he was playing soccer, flying over the field. He'd get angrier and angrier watching the shadows of light creeping over his hands, the dip of skin where his pencil had always rested. He hated his hands.
The first time he yelled at his parents his mother had let him do it until his face was scrunched up and ugly, pink with teenage indignation. Then she'd reached out to his hand and sighed, said, "They've gotten so big." His mother said that they'd given him all these choices so that he could choose whatever he wanted. Next afternoon, without thinking about it much, Sho's hands wrote his name (a lazy, simplified sakura kanji) on a Johnny's application and sent it in, surrounding by laughing friends.
As he got older, he began to understand what his mother had said. His hands were plain and masculine; knobby knuckles and thin fingers and slightly furred on the back. But they opened a whole new world to him - freedom within constraint.
They let him draw bad pictures that haven't changed in years to make his bandmates laugh. They let him touch Masaki's forehead to see if he has a fever (they're always still too clumsy with words; expressing with touch is far easier). They let him link fingers with Satoshi and Nino; well into their twenties, they still walk around dressing rooms and sets and look for misadventure. They gradually lead Sho to better understand Jun after losing track of him, seeing that the Jun he had known is still in the Jun that's turned into a man. The warmth of Jun's shoulder under his hand, slightly leaning towards him, is enough to tell him that.
Everything that's Sho lies in his hands, plain (but startlingly pretty) and hard-working, the words his hands write making him as free as his feet ever did on a soccer field.
5. If Aiba could remember how to use the word 'ode', he might be embarrassed by this one to his hands by littlealex
Aiba has always used his hands to experience life. Not that he thinks he can taste with them, or see with them, or anything like that, but his sense of touch has always felt like the most important. Sure, some of it comes from skinship, from his mother and father always hugging and kissing and holding him (he stopped kissing his father when he was twelve, stopped holding hands with his mother when he was fourteen, but they still give each other bear hugs when they meet), but he knows it isn't all nurture. He's always had his hands on things, fingers poking and prodding and testing, since he was a baby rubbing his face against carpet and blankets and stuffed toys until now, when his fingers run over tree bark and hedgehog spines and a lover's skin.
He knows that not everything likes to be touched. A snail's eyes shrink back into themselves, electrical sockets zap his nerves, chili seeds burn his skin, and a tense shoulder will shrug off his hand. They're rules he learned long ago, that he used to keep in a notebook beside his bedside table. With RULES OF LIFE emblazoned on the cover in his childish handwriting, he's stuck rules like "never touch a bee" between "don't look through dad's dresser" and "don't ask grandma why her house smells funny". Rules like "don't touch Nino's Game Boy game consoles" follow "Johnny's isn't about basketball", but come before "don't touch Matsujun's coffee".
He doesn't mind making mistakes, though. He'd rather touch something to find out that it bites back than never touch it at all (unless it might kill him, like a spider or a snake). Each new sensation he encounters excites him, raising his heartbeat. It doesn't matter what sort of texture it has, whether it's soft or cold or sharp; if it's new, he loves it. The first time Pan-kun grabbed his hand, he giggled: the chimp's skin was rough and felt like millions of years of evolution and the life of an animal who was always outside. The first time he touched snow, he smiled: it was soft and fluffy and cold, in whispy mounds in his hands and caught on his eyelashes. The first time he touched a girl's bare breast, he gasped: it was warmer, smoother and rounder than he'd imagined, the hiccup of a nipple interrupting the middle of his palm.
He might remember his firsts, but they don't overshadow the familiar, everyday things. He loves flipping through the worn pages of his favorite manga, the softness of the pages like tree rings counting years of love. He loves the way his cotton sheets breathe under his hands, letting him escape the heat in summer and protecting him from the cold in winter. He loves running his fingers through Jun's unstyled hair, just to see the way he tries to hide a smile as he retreats. He loves sliding his arm around Ohno's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace because he knows that Ohno is warmer than anyone. He loves pinching Nino's cheeks, poking at them as they fall elastically back into place, marveling at the qualities of youthful skin. He even loves rubbing his hands in wide circles over Sho's back at the end of a long night as they keep the toilet company for a while.
But what he loves the most is holding someone else's hand. Lacing his fingers through theirs, he maps all the lines and dips and curves, feeling all the dry spots and callouses, all the scars and wounds, the damp feeling of nerves and the heat of excitement. And when they squeeze back, he always grins, bright and shining, because an expression wrapped in a touch speaks straight to his heart.
1. Ode to Ohno's Hands by littlealex
Aiba loves Ohno's hands when they fall around his shoulders when they're both drunk and giggling and can barely keep themselves upright, fingers squishing into his cheeks like Ohno's a blind person trying to memorize the face of a new friend.
Jun loves Ohno's hands when they find the right place to press at the back of his neck, thumbs digging into muscle for a second before retreating and resting on the middle of his back, drawing up his posture no matter how tired his bones are.
Sho loves Ohno's hands when they curve around his own in the middle of winter, skin warmer than it has every right to be, warming his whole body with the slightest touch.
Nino loves Ohno's hands when they reach for him, angling for pieces of accidentally exposed skin or attempting to surprise him, not retreating even when Nino slaps them away with a swift flick of his wrist, settling for curling around the inside of his elbow as a concession to holding hands.
Ohno loves his hands when they smooth over the rough surfaces of an untouched lump of clay, teasing out the form it wants to be. He loves when they're covered in splatters of paint, when they're dusted with charcoal or chalk. He loves the scars he has from brand-new sculpting tools, he loves the sting from broken cuticles mixing with watercolors. He loves getting his hands dirty in mediums that describe life much better than words ever could, and he loves washing them clean at the end of the day, only to see that flecks of permanent ink have left spidery stains on his thumbprints, or flecks of glitter have buried beneath his fingernails, or he's created a fresh wound that will stay with him beyond the completion of the piece. He loves his hands when they create things he can't explain, when they hold things he doesn't really understand, when they feel a new texture that the world has to offer, when they tingle as he touches a familiar plane of skin, when they make someone's eyes close and mouth open and breathe his name.
Ohno loves his hands when they speak for him, better than his voice ever could; they tell his story, they apologize, they comfort and cajole, and they're more expressive than his vocabulary in any language.
2. Nino's self-ode to his hands, as they are pretty damn awesome. by floweranza
From the beginning Nino hasn't thought that his hands are idol-ish. They're short (stubby) and capable (just that); they're not long-fingered or slender or pale or anything close to the ideal that makes girls shiver in their seats from the mere thought of it. He gets teased about it, but Nino accepts it with the easy air of someone who's been bullied about everything: the mole on his chin, the roundness of his nose, his height. I can't change them, anyway, Nino thinks prosaically, and goes on with life.
[Examples: Nino's nails have always been clipped close and neat. His palms are meaty and square and flushed pink. When he gets tired, his hands hang limp and loose on his wrists. They're unremarkable hands.]
He can't change them, but sometimes Nino amuses himself (when he's alone) by pulling on his fingers and humming to himself, "Let's get longer?" Then he laughs and picks his controller back up; that doesn't make sense. Nino turns his attention to admiring Jun and Ohno's hands. Because he can, he makes invasive comments about Ohno's hands (and butt) everywhere.
[Examples: Jun's hands have little moles on them. His fingers are slender and graceful without effort. Ohno's hands are Ohno's hands; they're the hands of an artist and Nino loves them. Ohno's nails are long but pretty and pale, the skin translucent and veined with purpose. They're remarkable hands.]
Eventually, though, Nino thinks that his hands do have their purpose. He's not amazed by them being able to move on a guitar or piano (the calluses on his fingertips); that's expected. And their ability to play games for him faster than anything is just the work of years (the shiny patches on the inside of his thumbs). But when Nino first tries a trick with some brand-new cards bought from the combini down the street and his hands move and get it right, he's impressed.
And when Aiba's feeling down and all it takes is the squeeze of Nino's hand on his shoulder to get a small smile, that's pretty cool. And when Sho's thoroughly drunk and warbling about how cute your hands are, Nino (and your thighs) -- well, Nino's mildly traumatized, but it makes him happy. And when Jun sees Nino's cuticles after a break (tons of gaming, and possibly some voluntary ignoring of personal hygiene) and huffs and pulls Nino's hand in to clean them up, it amuses Nino to see his scruffy hand in between Jun's well-manicured ones. It's a nice contrast. And when Ohno sheepishly cocks his head and asks Nino if he can sketch Nino's hands because they're interesting and hamburger-like, delicious (he never asks anyone else if he can draw them) - they fit you, Nino - Nino's sold.
His hands are awesome.
3. Ode to Jun's hands: aka moments of narcissism, explained. by littlealex
Jun's hands aren't perfect.
People have commented on his hands before - how soft they feel, how long and slender his fingers are, how neat his nails are - but he knows better. He looks at his hands more than any other part of his body, and all the perfection that people see is just a product of his close attention. In the same way that his flexibility is thanks to noticing the way his muscles twinge with certain motions, and his slim figure is thanks to noticing the smallest protrusion of his stomach after a week of eating nothing but conbini bentos, his soft and manicured hands can be explained by his keeping constant watch of his skin.
Contrary to popular belief, Jun doesn't get manicures. He takes the time to maintain his skin himself, rubbing moisturizer into the backs of his hands twice a day (three times in the dry cold snap of winter), treating them to a night under the wrap of gloves and a protective layer of Bag Balm once a fortnight. He watches his nail beds for signs of distress, eyes like a hawk's over his cuticles, which he tends to every night after showering, massaging with a cuticle oil a friend brought back from Europe. He keeps his nails in check, absently filing away at them between sips of wine as he watches television on his evenings off, keeping them short and neat. It doesn't take as long as people think, and it's worth it when he rubs his hands together and feels nothing but smooth skin.
But they're not perfect all by themselves. He gets hangnails (and covers them with gauze), he cuts his hands chopping vegetables (and wraps the wound with a bandage), and his knuckles get dry easily (and he has hand moisturizer ready for those moments). He prevents damage by wearing gloves to clean and wash dishes, wearing mittens as soon as the dry weather sets in, and keeps himself hydrated with bottles upon bottles of water.
The best part about his hands, though - the part that always makes Jun smile out of the corner of his mouth - is that the effect they have on other people. He sifts his fingers through Aiba's hair and he giggles. He circles his hand around Sho's wrist and he smiles. He wraps an arm around Ohno's shoulders and he leans in. And he slaps Nino's hand away as he reaches for his wallet and they share a look that speaks volumes. It doesn't sound like much, but it reminds him that his hands, his touches, his presence, are worth preserving.
He knows this wouldn't change if his hands were calloused like Nino's, or flecked with paint like Ohno's, or wind-swept dry like Sho's, or ignored like Aiba's, but he likes the way the world feels beneath his fingers. He can't ask for much more than that.
4. Sho's hands have always been full of passion; an off-hand ode. by floweranza
When he was young people had always told his parents, "That's a good child; he'll get somewhere." Sho had brightened (although those expectations had always been expected of him) and thrown himself into school work and extracurriculars, fingers gripping his pencils and pens with an excited rigidity. It took him a while to realise he was losing himself in the process.
His hands became to mean constraint. Sho would sit up at night over his homework and dream of the freedom of his feet when he was playing soccer, flying over the field. He'd get angrier and angrier watching the shadows of light creeping over his hands, the dip of skin where his pencil had always rested. He hated his hands.
The first time he yelled at his parents his mother had let him do it until his face was scrunched up and ugly, pink with teenage indignation. Then she'd reached out to his hand and sighed, said, "They've gotten so big." His mother said that they'd given him all these choices so that he could choose whatever he wanted. Next afternoon, without thinking about it much, Sho's hands wrote his name (a lazy, simplified sakura kanji) on a Johnny's application and sent it in, surrounding by laughing friends.
As he got older, he began to understand what his mother had said. His hands were plain and masculine; knobby knuckles and thin fingers and slightly furred on the back. But they opened a whole new world to him - freedom within constraint.
They let him draw bad pictures that haven't changed in years to make his bandmates laugh. They let him touch Masaki's forehead to see if he has a fever (they're always still too clumsy with words; expressing with touch is far easier). They let him link fingers with Satoshi and Nino; well into their twenties, they still walk around dressing rooms and sets and look for misadventure. They gradually lead Sho to better understand Jun after losing track of him, seeing that the Jun he had known is still in the Jun that's turned into a man. The warmth of Jun's shoulder under his hand, slightly leaning towards him, is enough to tell him that.
Everything that's Sho lies in his hands, plain (but startlingly pretty) and hard-working, the words his hands write making him as free as his feet ever did on a soccer field.
5. If Aiba could remember how to use the word 'ode', he might be embarrassed by this one to his hands by littlealex
Aiba has always used his hands to experience life. Not that he thinks he can taste with them, or see with them, or anything like that, but his sense of touch has always felt like the most important. Sure, some of it comes from skinship, from his mother and father always hugging and kissing and holding him (he stopped kissing his father when he was twelve, stopped holding hands with his mother when he was fourteen, but they still give each other bear hugs when they meet), but he knows it isn't all nurture. He's always had his hands on things, fingers poking and prodding and testing, since he was a baby rubbing his face against carpet and blankets and stuffed toys until now, when his fingers run over tree bark and hedgehog spines and a lover's skin.
He knows that not everything likes to be touched. A snail's eyes shrink back into themselves, electrical sockets zap his nerves, chili seeds burn his skin, and a tense shoulder will shrug off his hand. They're rules he learned long ago, that he used to keep in a notebook beside his bedside table. With RULES OF LIFE emblazoned on the cover in his childish handwriting, he's stuck rules like "never touch a bee" between "don't look through dad's dresser" and "don't ask grandma why her house smells funny". Rules like "don't touch Nino's Game Boy game consoles" follow "Johnny's isn't about basketball", but come before "don't touch Matsujun's coffee".
He doesn't mind making mistakes, though. He'd rather touch something to find out that it bites back than never touch it at all (unless it might kill him, like a spider or a snake). Each new sensation he encounters excites him, raising his heartbeat. It doesn't matter what sort of texture it has, whether it's soft or cold or sharp; if it's new, he loves it. The first time Pan-kun grabbed his hand, he giggled: the chimp's skin was rough and felt like millions of years of evolution and the life of an animal who was always outside. The first time he touched snow, he smiled: it was soft and fluffy and cold, in whispy mounds in his hands and caught on his eyelashes. The first time he touched a girl's bare breast, he gasped: it was warmer, smoother and rounder than he'd imagined, the hiccup of a nipple interrupting the middle of his palm.
He might remember his firsts, but they don't overshadow the familiar, everyday things. He loves flipping through the worn pages of his favorite manga, the softness of the pages like tree rings counting years of love. He loves the way his cotton sheets breathe under his hands, letting him escape the heat in summer and protecting him from the cold in winter. He loves running his fingers through Jun's unstyled hair, just to see the way he tries to hide a smile as he retreats. He loves sliding his arm around Ohno's shoulders, pulling him into an embrace because he knows that Ohno is warmer than anyone. He loves pinching Nino's cheeks, poking at them as they fall elastically back into place, marveling at the qualities of youthful skin. He even loves rubbing his hands in wide circles over Sho's back at the end of a long night as they keep the toilet company for a while.
But what he loves the most is holding someone else's hand. Lacing his fingers through theirs, he maps all the lines and dips and curves, feeling all the dry spots and callouses, all the scars and wounds, the damp feeling of nerves and the heat of excitement. And when they squeeze back, he always grins, bright and shining, because an expression wrapped in a touch speaks straight to his heart.