defeminized (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
defeminized) wrote2012-05-14 03:43 am
defeminized) wrote2012-05-14 03:43 am
Entry tags:
ask me when the shooting star falls - kame/nakamaru
Title: ask me when the shooting star falls
Pairing: Kame/Nakamaru
Wordcount: 3028
Rating: Slight R
Warnings: ANGST, fluff
Summary: It started with a night of mild drunkenness and Kame finding out that Nakamaru has terribly low alcohol tolerance.
Notes: Something experimental. Thanks topinkeuphoria1, all other mistakes are mine.
*
Some time ago, Nakamaru came to Kame and asked if he would like to have a drink, if he would like some company, and if he ever felt like drinking alone, he should call him out.
Kame laughed in disbelief, wondering how Nakamaru had come to a conclusion that he would even consider asking Nakamaru out when he wanted to drink alone.
“Because I can stay outside the bar and you would be drinking alone anyway,” Nakamaru said, eyes widened earnestly, like he was giving a tutorial.
That’s how Nakamaru has always been; he walks in and waltzes out and stalks back in before Kame gets the chance to see that he’s gone.
*
They call Kame an enigma, the book nobody can read, the music score nobody can play, an indiscernible form of art.
What they’ll never understand is that the more they try to read between the lines, the more complicated things get.
He falls in love, falls hard, waiting for someone to undo the seams of the embroidery in him.
*
It didn’t start with the white lie Kame told the fans.
He had said in an interview that he took Nakamaru to a meal and made Nakamaru pay for it, and two days later, Nakamaru asked him for a meal and told him that it was because he didn’t want to lie to their fans.
“You’re always so kind,” Kame said, “but you’re still paying.”
Nakamaru sighed, checked his wallet for the expendable cash, and told Kame that they weren’t ordering sashimi.
*
It didn’t start with the shopping trips either.
There was this time when Kame needed someone to help him choose yet another bladeless fan—“But it’s for my mother’s niece!”—because his favourite store was having a promotion on Dyson products. There was another time when Nakamaru needed to buy some new shirts and Kame coincidentally called and told him that his argyles were so old-fashioned, they were better off burned—“Think of the environment!” Nakamaru hollered—and he should get some new shirts from Aoki. There was also another time when Kame called Nakamaru and said that he needed his help to shop for a new pair of jeans because he couldn’t fit—no, the size of his old jeans couldn’t cope with his growth.
“You’re such a great company to go shopping with, Ueda sometimes hides the price and makes me buy the most expensive item,” Kame said, “and don’t worry, you’re not paying for my clothes.”
Nakamaru laughed, checked his wallet for expendable cash, and told Kame that he wasn’t going to buy anything new until their next paycheck arrived.
*
It did, however, start with a night of mild drunkenness and Kame finding out that Nakamaru has terribly low alcohol tolerance.
Kame was told that he’s a person of extremities, and his extremities quadruple whenever he drinks, and yet there was nothing more amusing than watching Nakamaru gulp down those glasses of scotch (scotch!), flushing with a deeper shade of scarlet by the minute and speaking in mumbles.
“I’m never going drinking with you again,” Nakamaru murmured the sanest thing he said that night.
Nakamaru flopped on to the table when he reached his limits and Kame tucked his hair behind his ear, realising that he was getting increasingly charmed by the idea of spending time with Nakamaru.
*
Nakamaru seems to live a life of discipline. He wakes up at certain hours after sleeping for a certain duration, never depends on coffee, brings extra cash wherever he goes, makes sure that his face is as clean as new everyday—in ways which he wouldn’t be different from Kame, not at all.
Only that Kame’s a stage actor and his body’s a mask he molds and later wears.
Kame can be Hatanaka Kousaku, Kiritani Shuuji, Odagiri Ryu, Kanzaki Hiroto, a representation of Mori Ranmaru, Takano Kyouhei, a vampire, a baseball player, Bem—and still, Ohno Keigo, Kitajima Daichi, Kawahara Taro, Hayami Kaoru are Nakamaru in flesh and mannerism.
“It’s kind of bad, isn’t it?” Nakamaru says, discovering that he has yet to master the art of slipping into the world of another person.
He takes a glance at Nakamaru, who’s fretting over the news that he’s been offered a role as a news commentator, and feels himself growing infatuated with the idea of consistency.
Nakamaru’s like the wall, unshaken by the tremors of being an idol.
*
“Do you think I’ll be okay?” Nakamaru asks Kame and Kame nods without hesitation.
“Do you think the audience will like me?” Nakamaru asks and Kame nods again, telling him that he’ll be fine, over and over.
“Do you think I can do it?” Nakamaru asks again, eyelashes fluttering with doubt.
Kame smiles at him, gives him a kiss on the cheek which he knows Nakamaru’s immune to, and says, “If there’s anyone in the world who can do it, it’s you.”
*
Kame once saw a shooting star and wondered if it was possible to gather the stardust so that he could sprinkle it on Nakamaru.
*
“You can do it,” Kame once said. “You’re KAT-TUN, that’s why you can do it.”
*
There are cameras near and Kame only has a split second to decide what he wants to do. The options are endless—pretending to initiate a kiss, grabbing Nakamaru’s hand, starring at him right in the eyes, resting his chin on his shoulder, pretending to bite him somewhere; any of them or all of them, Kame has done them all.
Nakamaru’s unmoved; anticipating but not waiting, watching but not reacting, not knowing but never asking.
“Why do you do that?” Ueda asks.
“Do what?”
“Pretend to kiss him and such.”
The question is why isn’t he asking me that himself. “He hates it?”
“Not exactly,” Ueda says, zipping his backpack. “I actually think it’s the opposite, but who knows with him, really.”
Ueda walks towards the door and takes his sunglasses out from the smallest compartment in his backpack.
“It’s not like he’ll tell you anyway.”
*
Kame takes Nakamaru for a detour after a shooting for Dramatic Game and tells him that he will stop everything—the pretend kisses, the intentional closeness—if he doesn’t like it.
“You’re doing it for the fans, right?” Nakamaru asks. His eyes aren’t wavering; there’s nothing on his face that suggests that he’s lying or sugarcoating.
It’s what Kame likes about Nakamaru. He’s a child with an old man’s determination; wise but painfully straightforward, mature but naïve.
“Well, not really,” Kame says honestly. “I sort of like touching you too.”
Kame expects Nakamaru to snap at him, to tell him that he should stop fucking joking with him, because touching—and all the pretend kisses, longing looks and so on—belongs to the stage and the camera, not to the conversation in a car during a private drive.
“I don’t mind,” Nakamaru answers.
Kame feels like pulling over and asking him again, but stops himself when he realises that it would feel like he’s asking Nakamaru to say no, to admonish him for his complete disregard for personal space.
Instead, Nakamaru puts his hand on his arm and says, “Don’t worry.”
*
It’s for the fans, Kame repeats to himself.
But something like a thread tightly spindled unwinds and it’s making him feel like it’s possible to feel broken at the seams without having the embroidery in him undone.
*
It takes time to observe and Kame finally concludes something about Nakamaru.
He thinks of other people and remembers useless details about them. He remembers Ueda’s common misunderstandings of how the computer works, Junno’s gaming records, the brands of animal food that Koki uses and where to buy them, and Kame’s schedule and the days when it would be best to give him morning calls. Yet, he’s the one who ends up buying the wrong gifts and worrying about the most mundane parts of everyone’s life and taking their inane but harmless comments too seriously.
Nakamaru has the skin of steel, the impenetrable kind, but his heart is made of glass and Kame understands why nobody could ever feel like wanting to hurt him for real.
He sometimes wonders how it would feel to be Nakamaru, devoid of all pretenses and only wearing the mask named after himself.
*
“You should part your hair somewhere on the right, make the hair slightly thinner there,” Kame says.
Nakamaru looks into the mirror and combs and puffs his hair. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Kame replies. “Like this.”
*
Nakamaru’s a paradox. He spends forever in front of a mirror and yet doesn’t know how attractive he is.
*
“Three seconds.”
“What?” Nakamaru eyes go round with disbelief.
“Three seconds,” Kame repeats, “is all you have to maintain a pose.”
“Only three?”
“Basically, as a rule-of-thumb, yes,” Kame says. “Look into the camera, freeze and count up to three, then look another way, freeze and count up to three, repeat as needed.”
“Why three seconds though?”
“Because after those three seconds, you’ll wink at the camera.”
*
Three seconds is also the amount it takes for their eyes to meet and for Kame to decide that he’s undeniably attracted to Nakamaru.
*
Kame wraps his arm around Nakamaru’s neck and places a palm on his chest.
“What—“
Kame puts a finger on his lips, watching him swallow his saliva and feeling his heartbeat quickening by the second.
“I’m going to kiss you, and this time, I’m kissing you for real.”
“And you’re not drunk.”
“Yes, I’m not drunk,” Kame repeats.
“And you’re serious.”
“Yes, I’m serious,” Kame pulls Nakamaru towards him. “What do you think?”
“You’re not doing it for the fans,” Nakamaru whispers.
“I’m doing it for myself,” Kame says, licking his lips. “Will you let me kiss you?”
Kame presses theirs lips together before Nakamaru gets to say anything else, feeling the way Nakamaru gets into the kiss with a speed so excruciatingly slow, Kame can count his heartbeat rate. He soon feels a pair of hands around his waist and moving up his back and Kame feels himself heated up into a molten.
*
Kame has kissed many people—girls, boys, older women, older men—but this is the first time he feels himself stripped down to his core.
It’s what Nakamaru does. He’s simple and uncomplicated, but Kame can’t help getting tangled in him.
*
By the time Kame finishes writing the lyrics to his new song, Nakamaru’s alarm clock has started ringing.
He climbs up to the bed and wakes Nakamaru up with a kiss on his lips.
“Wake up, ojiisan,” Kame teases. “It’s time to feed the chickens.”
Nakamaru rubs his eyes and pouts slightly. “There are no chickens around and are you telling me you haven’t slept again?”
Kame hugs him tightly and complains. “But Sakaki-san said that he needs the song ready by tomorrow and I’m finally finished! Right now, I’m only lacking a title.”
“Still lacking something?”
“Not my fault they used the song I wrote last year for Dream Boys, and not my fault you like recycling.”
Nakamaru yawns and Kame steals the chance to kiss his ear. “Wake me up in a while, will you?”
“Alright—“
Before Nakamaru leaves the bed, Kame turns him so that they are face-to-face.
“At least give me a kiss before I go to sleep.”
Nakamaru obliges.
*
When Kame wakes up (via Nakamaru’s phone calls), he sees a stick-on note on this table with various suggestions of a song title, all scribbled with Nakamaru’s handwriting. The choices are kind of awful, ranging from “Lone Shooting Star” to “By My Side”, and Kame scratches them all and writes Zutto on top of the paper he has written the lyrics on.
*
Nakamaru has the skin of steel, the impenetrable kind, and Kame used to find it amusing how thick—literally—he is.
Now he’s just glad that Nakamaru is what he is, because it means that Kame’s not going to be able to hurt him. He isn’t planning to, of course, but a shield wielded is a battle won and Kame isn’t going to argue about the status of a conquest.
*
“Ever had sex with a guy?” Kame asks, fighting a momentary battle with Nakamaru’s belt.
“Well, there was Ueda—“
“As I thought, something happened between you two in the lavender field.”
“Nothing happened,” Nakamaru insists, “it was just a kiss.”
Kame finally opens Nakamaru’s zipper and slips a hand inside. “Really?”
“I can’t talk,” Nakamaru’s voice quivers, “when you have your hand there.”
“Great,” Kame says, dropping his body lower to plant kisses on Nakamaru’s naked chest. “You don’t have to talk until I make you come.”
*
“I wish I could draw,” Nakamaru says when they spot a shooting star outside his window. “I want to paint a picture of you.”
Kame looks up at him and meets his intense eyes, mind reeling with the strangest wish he has ever heard Nakamaru made.
*
Kame watches Nakamaru as he recounts the stories of his outdoor shootings, crowded by fans and flattered by praises. He glows somehow, like something extraordinary happened, like drops of magic fell on him.
Kame trails a finger along the outline of his nose and Nakamaru runs his fingers through his hair, his touches soft and gentle, but something about the way he tangles his fingers in his hair tells Kame of his possessiveness.
Suddenly Nakamaru’s transparent, all laid bare right in front of him.
*
There are cameras near and Kame only has a split second to decide what he wants to do. The options are rather limited—pushing him away or playing along.
He watches as Ueda acts the part of a tattletale and recounts the various stories of Nakamaru’s alleged uncharacteristic forwardness, deflects the issue back to Taguchi and Koki’s dubious closeness, and acts like a conflicted girl stuck between two men.
There’s something strange about having to choose between the two choices, and Kame doesn’t know if there’s something wrong with Nakamaru or if he’s just being in denial.
*
Kame used to be the enigma, the book nobody can read, the music score nobody can play, the indiscernible form of art.
The man who kisses him somehow feels like a stranger, a book with pages he’s not ready to turn.
*
“You think too much,” is Ueda’s answer when Kame asks him.
*
It’s for the fans, Kame says to himself.
*
Kame arches back with the kiss and Nakamaru lowers his lips to his shoulder blade, tongue playing seductively with the surface it touches.
“Yu…cchi,” Kame moans, and Nakamaru’s lips return to kiss Kame’s. When Kame opens his eyes as they part, he sees the familiar stranger that is the fire in Nakamaru’s eyes.
“What is it?”
Kame shakes his head lightly, tugging at Nakamaru’s wrist. “Nothing, it’s just that—“
“Is it about me?”
“You seem like you want me,” Kame says, choosing his words carefully.
Nakamaru’s lips curve upwards, somehow managing to smirk as he kisses Kame again. “What makes you think it has been otherwise all this while?”
*
“It’s not for the fans,” Nakamaru says, fingers creeping up Kame’s chest.
*
Kame watches Nakamaru as he smiles at the camera, pokes his cheeks in his attempts to be cute, and glare at the audience to incite responses.
The shield made of steel has been broken and Kame discovers that Nakamaru’s heart is not made of glass.
*
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice says, “You made him that way.”
*
Right before Kame falls asleep, he feels a hand stroking his hair.
“Yucchi?”
“When you wake up later, shall we go for a bubble bath?”
He takes Nakamaru’s hand in his and falls asleep holding it.
*
“I still want to paint a picture of you,” Nakamaru explains the crumpled papers in his paper bin.
Kame cups Nakamaru’s face in his palm and sees his own colour reflected in his eyes.
*
“Will you—“
Nakamaru puts his finger on Kame’s lips to silence him.
“I’ll do anything,” Nakamaru says, hands moving towards his crotch and beginning to work on his cock. “Anything.”
Kame pants into a fierce kiss, hands grabbing Nakamaru’s hair. Nakamaru’s lips begin to move to his jaw and Kame brings his face to his to kiss him again because he’s about to scream anytime soon.
Nakamaru turns slightly away and takes his palm to his lips, kissing and sucking his finger, and Kame groans.
He comes and Nakamaru lets go of his hand, their eyes locking in the prelude of a game that he doesn’t want to play.
*
They’re his, solely his. Those passionate kisses. Those gleaming eyes.
When Kame stops being a predator, he becomes the prey.
*
“You seem wary of me,” Nakamaru asks.
“Why do you think so?”
Nakamaru’s hand caresses Kame’s neck and Kame coos into his touch.
“I know so.”
There’s another shooting star outside the window and Nakamaru takes a long look at the falling star before turning to Kame.
“I wish I could say that I want us to be simpler, just colleagues and close friends,” Nakamaru says as he pulls Kame close, “but I think I’m in too deep.”
Kame leans in and lets Nakamaru hold him.
“You can’t just push me away, after all you’ve done to invite me in.”
*
Kame wishes that everything was as simple as running towards the sunset of youth, all about being charged up towards a single goal.
*
“Yucchi,” Kame asks, “will you let me hold you?”
“Told you,” Nakamaru answers. “I’ll do anything.”
“Will you let me kiss you?”
Nakamaru squeezes his hand tight and lowers his face to Kame.
“Yes.”
*
They say falling in love is like diving into a whirlpool of enigma, reading an incomprehensible book and singing a song nobody knows.
Love is an art, and only the painter knows the subject.
*
“Yucchi,” Kame asks again. “you’ll do anything?”
“Yes.”
“Will you draw me?”
Nakamaru slips a finger behind Kame’s ear and twists it gently.
“Yes.”
*
Pairing: Kame/Nakamaru
Wordcount: 3028
Rating: Slight R
Warnings: ANGST, fluff
Summary: It started with a night of mild drunkenness and Kame finding out that Nakamaru has terribly low alcohol tolerance.
Notes: Something experimental. Thanks to
pinkeuphoria1, all other mistakes are mine. Some time ago, Nakamaru came to Kame and asked if he would like to have a drink, if he would like some company, and if he ever felt like drinking alone, he should call him out.
Kame laughed in disbelief, wondering how Nakamaru had come to a conclusion that he would even consider asking Nakamaru out when he wanted to drink alone.
“Because I can stay outside the bar and you would be drinking alone anyway,” Nakamaru said, eyes widened earnestly, like he was giving a tutorial.
That’s how Nakamaru has always been; he walks in and waltzes out and stalks back in before Kame gets the chance to see that he’s gone.
They call Kame an enigma, the book nobody can read, the music score nobody can play, an indiscernible form of art.
What they’ll never understand is that the more they try to read between the lines, the more complicated things get.
He falls in love, falls hard, waiting for someone to undo the seams of the embroidery in him.
It didn’t start with the white lie Kame told the fans.
He had said in an interview that he took Nakamaru to a meal and made Nakamaru pay for it, and two days later, Nakamaru asked him for a meal and told him that it was because he didn’t want to lie to their fans.
“You’re always so kind,” Kame said, “but you’re still paying.”
Nakamaru sighed, checked his wallet for the expendable cash, and told Kame that they weren’t ordering sashimi.
It didn’t start with the shopping trips either.
There was this time when Kame needed someone to help him choose yet another bladeless fan—“But it’s for my mother’s niece!”—because his favourite store was having a promotion on Dyson products. There was another time when Nakamaru needed to buy some new shirts and Kame coincidentally called and told him that his argyles were so old-fashioned, they were better off burned—“Think of the environment!” Nakamaru hollered—and he should get some new shirts from Aoki. There was also another time when Kame called Nakamaru and said that he needed his help to shop for a new pair of jeans because he couldn’t fit—no, the size of his old jeans couldn’t cope with his growth.
“You’re such a great company to go shopping with, Ueda sometimes hides the price and makes me buy the most expensive item,” Kame said, “and don’t worry, you’re not paying for my clothes.”
Nakamaru laughed, checked his wallet for expendable cash, and told Kame that he wasn’t going to buy anything new until their next paycheck arrived.
It did, however, start with a night of mild drunkenness and Kame finding out that Nakamaru has terribly low alcohol tolerance.
Kame was told that he’s a person of extremities, and his extremities quadruple whenever he drinks, and yet there was nothing more amusing than watching Nakamaru gulp down those glasses of scotch (scotch!), flushing with a deeper shade of scarlet by the minute and speaking in mumbles.
“I’m never going drinking with you again,” Nakamaru murmured the sanest thing he said that night.
Nakamaru flopped on to the table when he reached his limits and Kame tucked his hair behind his ear, realising that he was getting increasingly charmed by the idea of spending time with Nakamaru.
Nakamaru seems to live a life of discipline. He wakes up at certain hours after sleeping for a certain duration, never depends on coffee, brings extra cash wherever he goes, makes sure that his face is as clean as new everyday—in ways which he wouldn’t be different from Kame, not at all.
Only that Kame’s a stage actor and his body’s a mask he molds and later wears.
Kame can be Hatanaka Kousaku, Kiritani Shuuji, Odagiri Ryu, Kanzaki Hiroto, a representation of Mori Ranmaru, Takano Kyouhei, a vampire, a baseball player, Bem—and still, Ohno Keigo, Kitajima Daichi, Kawahara Taro, Hayami Kaoru are Nakamaru in flesh and mannerism.
“It’s kind of bad, isn’t it?” Nakamaru says, discovering that he has yet to master the art of slipping into the world of another person.
He takes a glance at Nakamaru, who’s fretting over the news that he’s been offered a role as a news commentator, and feels himself growing infatuated with the idea of consistency.
Nakamaru’s like the wall, unshaken by the tremors of being an idol.
“Do you think I’ll be okay?” Nakamaru asks Kame and Kame nods without hesitation.
“Do you think the audience will like me?” Nakamaru asks and Kame nods again, telling him that he’ll be fine, over and over.
“Do you think I can do it?” Nakamaru asks again, eyelashes fluttering with doubt.
Kame smiles at him, gives him a kiss on the cheek which he knows Nakamaru’s immune to, and says, “If there’s anyone in the world who can do it, it’s you.”
Kame once saw a shooting star and wondered if it was possible to gather the stardust so that he could sprinkle it on Nakamaru.
“You can do it,” Kame once said. “You’re KAT-TUN, that’s why you can do it.”
There are cameras near and Kame only has a split second to decide what he wants to do. The options are endless—pretending to initiate a kiss, grabbing Nakamaru’s hand, starring at him right in the eyes, resting his chin on his shoulder, pretending to bite him somewhere; any of them or all of them, Kame has done them all.
Nakamaru’s unmoved; anticipating but not waiting, watching but not reacting, not knowing but never asking.
“Why do you do that?” Ueda asks.
“Do what?”
“Pretend to kiss him and such.”
The question is why isn’t he asking me that himself. “He hates it?”
“Not exactly,” Ueda says, zipping his backpack. “I actually think it’s the opposite, but who knows with him, really.”
Ueda walks towards the door and takes his sunglasses out from the smallest compartment in his backpack.
“It’s not like he’ll tell you anyway.”
Kame takes Nakamaru for a detour after a shooting for Dramatic Game and tells him that he will stop everything—the pretend kisses, the intentional closeness—if he doesn’t like it.
“You’re doing it for the fans, right?” Nakamaru asks. His eyes aren’t wavering; there’s nothing on his face that suggests that he’s lying or sugarcoating.
It’s what Kame likes about Nakamaru. He’s a child with an old man’s determination; wise but painfully straightforward, mature but naïve.
“Well, not really,” Kame says honestly. “I sort of like touching you too.”
Kame expects Nakamaru to snap at him, to tell him that he should stop fucking joking with him, because touching—and all the pretend kisses, longing looks and so on—belongs to the stage and the camera, not to the conversation in a car during a private drive.
“I don’t mind,” Nakamaru answers.
Kame feels like pulling over and asking him again, but stops himself when he realises that it would feel like he’s asking Nakamaru to say no, to admonish him for his complete disregard for personal space.
Instead, Nakamaru puts his hand on his arm and says, “Don’t worry.”
It’s for the fans, Kame repeats to himself.
But something like a thread tightly spindled unwinds and it’s making him feel like it’s possible to feel broken at the seams without having the embroidery in him undone.
It takes time to observe and Kame finally concludes something about Nakamaru.
He thinks of other people and remembers useless details about them. He remembers Ueda’s common misunderstandings of how the computer works, Junno’s gaming records, the brands of animal food that Koki uses and where to buy them, and Kame’s schedule and the days when it would be best to give him morning calls. Yet, he’s the one who ends up buying the wrong gifts and worrying about the most mundane parts of everyone’s life and taking their inane but harmless comments too seriously.
Nakamaru has the skin of steel, the impenetrable kind, but his heart is made of glass and Kame understands why nobody could ever feel like wanting to hurt him for real.
He sometimes wonders how it would feel to be Nakamaru, devoid of all pretenses and only wearing the mask named after himself.
“You should part your hair somewhere on the right, make the hair slightly thinner there,” Kame says.
Nakamaru looks into the mirror and combs and puffs his hair. “Like this?”
“Yes,” Kame replies. “Like this.”
Nakamaru’s a paradox. He spends forever in front of a mirror and yet doesn’t know how attractive he is.
“Three seconds.”
“What?” Nakamaru eyes go round with disbelief.
“Three seconds,” Kame repeats, “is all you have to maintain a pose.”
“Only three?”
“Basically, as a rule-of-thumb, yes,” Kame says. “Look into the camera, freeze and count up to three, then look another way, freeze and count up to three, repeat as needed.”
“Why three seconds though?”
“Because after those three seconds, you’ll wink at the camera.”
Three seconds is also the amount it takes for their eyes to meet and for Kame to decide that he’s undeniably attracted to Nakamaru.
Kame wraps his arm around Nakamaru’s neck and places a palm on his chest.
“What—“
Kame puts a finger on his lips, watching him swallow his saliva and feeling his heartbeat quickening by the second.
“I’m going to kiss you, and this time, I’m kissing you for real.”
“And you’re not drunk.”
“Yes, I’m not drunk,” Kame repeats.
“And you’re serious.”
“Yes, I’m serious,” Kame pulls Nakamaru towards him. “What do you think?”
“You’re not doing it for the fans,” Nakamaru whispers.
“I’m doing it for myself,” Kame says, licking his lips. “Will you let me kiss you?”
Kame presses theirs lips together before Nakamaru gets to say anything else, feeling the way Nakamaru gets into the kiss with a speed so excruciatingly slow, Kame can count his heartbeat rate. He soon feels a pair of hands around his waist and moving up his back and Kame feels himself heated up into a molten.
Kame has kissed many people—girls, boys, older women, older men—but this is the first time he feels himself stripped down to his core.
It’s what Nakamaru does. He’s simple and uncomplicated, but Kame can’t help getting tangled in him.
By the time Kame finishes writing the lyrics to his new song, Nakamaru’s alarm clock has started ringing.
He climbs up to the bed and wakes Nakamaru up with a kiss on his lips.
“Wake up, ojiisan,” Kame teases. “It’s time to feed the chickens.”
Nakamaru rubs his eyes and pouts slightly. “There are no chickens around and are you telling me you haven’t slept again?”
Kame hugs him tightly and complains. “But Sakaki-san said that he needs the song ready by tomorrow and I’m finally finished! Right now, I’m only lacking a title.”
“Still lacking something?”
“Not my fault they used the song I wrote last year for Dream Boys, and not my fault you like recycling.”
Nakamaru yawns and Kame steals the chance to kiss his ear. “Wake me up in a while, will you?”
“Alright—“
Before Nakamaru leaves the bed, Kame turns him so that they are face-to-face.
“At least give me a kiss before I go to sleep.”
Nakamaru obliges.
When Kame wakes up (via Nakamaru’s phone calls), he sees a stick-on note on this table with various suggestions of a song title, all scribbled with Nakamaru’s handwriting. The choices are kind of awful, ranging from “Lone Shooting Star” to “By My Side”, and Kame scratches them all and writes Zutto on top of the paper he has written the lyrics on.
Nakamaru has the skin of steel, the impenetrable kind, and Kame used to find it amusing how thick—literally—he is.
Now he’s just glad that Nakamaru is what he is, because it means that Kame’s not going to be able to hurt him. He isn’t planning to, of course, but a shield wielded is a battle won and Kame isn’t going to argue about the status of a conquest.
“Ever had sex with a guy?” Kame asks, fighting a momentary battle with Nakamaru’s belt.
“Well, there was Ueda—“
“As I thought, something happened between you two in the lavender field.”
“Nothing happened,” Nakamaru insists, “it was just a kiss.”
Kame finally opens Nakamaru’s zipper and slips a hand inside. “Really?”
“I can’t talk,” Nakamaru’s voice quivers, “when you have your hand there.”
“Great,” Kame says, dropping his body lower to plant kisses on Nakamaru’s naked chest. “You don’t have to talk until I make you come.”
“I wish I could draw,” Nakamaru says when they spot a shooting star outside his window. “I want to paint a picture of you.”
Kame looks up at him and meets his intense eyes, mind reeling with the strangest wish he has ever heard Nakamaru made.
Kame watches Nakamaru as he recounts the stories of his outdoor shootings, crowded by fans and flattered by praises. He glows somehow, like something extraordinary happened, like drops of magic fell on him.
Kame trails a finger along the outline of his nose and Nakamaru runs his fingers through his hair, his touches soft and gentle, but something about the way he tangles his fingers in his hair tells Kame of his possessiveness.
Suddenly Nakamaru’s transparent, all laid bare right in front of him.
There are cameras near and Kame only has a split second to decide what he wants to do. The options are rather limited—pushing him away or playing along.
He watches as Ueda acts the part of a tattletale and recounts the various stories of Nakamaru’s alleged uncharacteristic forwardness, deflects the issue back to Taguchi and Koki’s dubious closeness, and acts like a conflicted girl stuck between two men.
There’s something strange about having to choose between the two choices, and Kame doesn’t know if there’s something wrong with Nakamaru or if he’s just being in denial.
Kame used to be the enigma, the book nobody can read, the music score nobody can play, the indiscernible form of art.
The man who kisses him somehow feels like a stranger, a book with pages he’s not ready to turn.
“You think too much,” is Ueda’s answer when Kame asks him.
It’s for the fans, Kame says to himself.
Kame arches back with the kiss and Nakamaru lowers his lips to his shoulder blade, tongue playing seductively with the surface it touches.
“Yu…cchi,” Kame moans, and Nakamaru’s lips return to kiss Kame’s. When Kame opens his eyes as they part, he sees the familiar stranger that is the fire in Nakamaru’s eyes.
“What is it?”
Kame shakes his head lightly, tugging at Nakamaru’s wrist. “Nothing, it’s just that—“
“Is it about me?”
“You seem like you want me,” Kame says, choosing his words carefully.
Nakamaru’s lips curve upwards, somehow managing to smirk as he kisses Kame again. “What makes you think it has been otherwise all this while?”
“It’s not for the fans,” Nakamaru says, fingers creeping up Kame’s chest.
Kame watches Nakamaru as he smiles at the camera, pokes his cheeks in his attempts to be cute, and glare at the audience to incite responses.
The shield made of steel has been broken and Kame discovers that Nakamaru’s heart is not made of glass.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice says, “You made him that way.”
Right before Kame falls asleep, he feels a hand stroking his hair.
“Yucchi?”
“When you wake up later, shall we go for a bubble bath?”
He takes Nakamaru’s hand in his and falls asleep holding it.
“I still want to paint a picture of you,” Nakamaru explains the crumpled papers in his paper bin.
Kame cups Nakamaru’s face in his palm and sees his own colour reflected in his eyes.
“Will you—“
Nakamaru puts his finger on Kame’s lips to silence him.
“I’ll do anything,” Nakamaru says, hands moving towards his crotch and beginning to work on his cock. “Anything.”
Kame pants into a fierce kiss, hands grabbing Nakamaru’s hair. Nakamaru’s lips begin to move to his jaw and Kame brings his face to his to kiss him again because he’s about to scream anytime soon.
Nakamaru turns slightly away and takes his palm to his lips, kissing and sucking his finger, and Kame groans.
He comes and Nakamaru lets go of his hand, their eyes locking in the prelude of a game that he doesn’t want to play.
They’re his, solely his. Those passionate kisses. Those gleaming eyes.
When Kame stops being a predator, he becomes the prey.
“You seem wary of me,” Nakamaru asks.
“Why do you think so?”
Nakamaru’s hand caresses Kame’s neck and Kame coos into his touch.
“I know so.”
There’s another shooting star outside the window and Nakamaru takes a long look at the falling star before turning to Kame.
“I wish I could say that I want us to be simpler, just colleagues and close friends,” Nakamaru says as he pulls Kame close, “but I think I’m in too deep.”
Kame leans in and lets Nakamaru hold him.
“You can’t just push me away, after all you’ve done to invite me in.”
Kame wishes that everything was as simple as running towards the sunset of youth, all about being charged up towards a single goal.
“Yucchi,” Kame asks, “will you let me hold you?”
“Told you,” Nakamaru answers. “I’ll do anything.”
“Will you let me kiss you?”
Nakamaru squeezes his hand tight and lowers his face to Kame.
“Yes.”
They say falling in love is like diving into a whirlpool of enigma, reading an incomprehensible book and singing a song nobody knows.
Love is an art, and only the painter knows the subject.
“Yucchi,” Kame asks again. “you’ll do anything?”
“Yes.”
“Will you draw me?”
Nakamaru slips a finger behind Kame’s ear and twists it gently.
“Yes.”