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dictionarysaysThe Month Kimura Nearly Threw His Phone into Tokyo Bay
Tsuyoshi/Kimura | PG-13 | Part 2
Shingo finally breaks the silence, slapping his big hands on the table with a bam.
“I get it.” Kimura raises an eyebrow at that. Shingo’s mouth suddenly breaks out into a huge bright smile, “You’re so cool! That takes a lot of courage, ne? I couldn’t do that, I mean, it’s not that we talk about anything special but I try to keep it normal. Even though, Tsuyopon still finds the time to apologize as much as he can in one phone call. He’s so silly.” Shingo laughs it off but his affection tinkles at the edges.
Kimura breathes out from his nose, a strange smile playing around his lips. He doesn’t think he’s being nearly as noble as Shingo thinks he is. He grabs for Shingo’s wineglass now and takes a swig from that, smirking at the hands that try to stop him.
Kimura spares a glance around the restaurant as Shingo chatters on about a fight scene he had a few days ago. Kimura’s listening with half of his face; the other half is taking in the low lights and red upholstery. There’s only a few other patrons, most of them old couples from the distance that appears to exist but when Kimura looks a little closer, the twined pinkies and irrevocably soft smiles tell of dates from long ago and leftover dinners past.
Goro-chan was the first to take him to this place, he loves his western food and he knows how Kimura feels about well-made pasta in meat sauce. The second time he came was with Goro-chan again, but they brought along Nakai that time and had him in grateful awe by the time dessert was served. Through word of mouth (mostly Nakai’s), Tsuyoshi’s interest was up and it was the third time around that Kimura brought him here.
Kimura remembers Tsuyoshi having a hard time choosing an entrée and instead of his mouth twisting out of annoyance like Kimura’s would, his brows furrowed into concentration and he’d keep shooting him an apologetic smile over the top of his menu. Kimura didn’t mind, how could he after a look like that? He ended up ordering a simple lasagne dish (‘I’m sorry... I did all that agonizing for nothing, ne?’), but the expression on his face after the first bite was anything but. Kimura was pleased and their dinner had ended smoothly (Tsuyoshi couldn’t resist dessert either).
He distinctly remembers the delicate hand Tsuyoshi curved around his elbow (he was wearing a short-sleeve that night so he was aware of the underworked pads of Tsuyopon’s fingers and every fingernail that rubbed against the inside of his arm) as he urged (ultimately led) him into the first cab that pulled over. Kimura tried offering, even explained sharing the ride, but they were going opposite ways (thinking back on it, he almost wishes they weren’t), so Tsuyoshi smiled his tender smile as he eventually had to push Kimura into the backseat (Kimura was too shocked to laugh and Tsuyoshi could tell—his smile faded into a low chuckle that settled in Kimura’s stomach like he settled into the seat). Tsuyoshi told the driver his address and waved him off, promising to send a mail when he got his own cab (he shut the door on Kimura’s opposition, nearly dismembering his arm, and leaving him to sigh and swear to himself and the cab-driver who was fairly amused).
“You even listening?” Shingo leans over and jabs at Kimura’s collarbone (it was sticking out from his unusual v-neck); Kimura mumbles an ‘oi’ and smacks it away. “I know you stopped listening minutes ago but I thought if I kept talking you’d eventually cut me off. But how about yooou? How’s Mr. Brain going? Your hair’s longer than ever.” Kimura knows (mostly hopes) that Shingo can tell he’s grateful for the change in subject (in his heart of hearts he knows Shingo knows he has something on his mind, but Shingo lets it go).
Shingo reaches and rubs the fine ends of Kimura’s hair between his index and thumb, Kimura smiles and smirks (in some way, at the same time), “It’s going good, everyone’s pretty nice, I do a lot of running around though. You’d like it. My sense of fashion is mildly strange in it.” Shingo gives Kimura a once over that says ‘I can tell’ and he returns it with a forced scowl half grin that says ‘shut up’.
The rest of the dinner goes on like this, Shingo takes the time to repeatedly poke and prod Kimura when he thinks he’s not listening. Kimura frowns and tries to act angry every time but the shadow of a laugh around his mouth doesn’t get by Shingo and he has him recite everything he’s said—just in case. Kimura goes along with it because he has nothing better to do (and Shingo has the admirable ease to bring up Tsuyoshi from time to time (‘Tsuyopon said something about that actually,’ ‘I don’t think I’d mind, Tsuyopon probably would though, ne?’) and it boggles Kimura’s mind and keeps him listening).
“I got it—”
“You do?” Kimura laughs through his nose at the surprise and rarely regulated eagerness written all over Shingo’s face when Kimura pays the bill.
“Yeah. I didn’t listen, so I’ll pay.”
“At all?” Kimura shrugs, half of it in response to his question, half of it to get into his coat. “But you summarized everything I said!”
“I've known you how long, Shingo-kun? I’d know what you talked about if I was in Alaska.” Shingo makes a face (they both know it means nothing) and it’s nearly midnight when the two finally leave the restaurant; the night air is cool so Kimura stuffs his hands in his coat’s big pockets—Shingo goes out of his way to do a jig (‘I’ll be warmer than you in no time, Kimura-kun!’).
Shingo wants to walk home but Kimura won’t have any of that (‘No one’s going to rape my tall ass.’), so he ends up walking with Shingo instead, (they live the same way anyway) and make their way across town—Shingo points out things and Kimura manoeuvres him around drunks by the sleeve of his jacket.
“Kimura-kun,” Kimura hums, not looking Shingo’s way, but listening all the same. They start to cross the street, there are no cars. “Y’think things will go back to being the same? Once Tsuyopon’s back?” Shingo’s question is sincere and supported by a high-pitched cackle that streams out from a bar across the street, which makes it that much harder for Kimura to avoid his look, focusing in on the cracks in the pavement instead, his walk never missing a beat.
“Probably not. Things changed after Goro’s, didn’t they?” Kimura feels Shingo’s nod more than he sees it. “Knowing us, we’ll come out of it stronger than ever though and for the better too.” Kimura can’t stop his arm that slings across Shingo’s shoulders, the movement so easy he smiles at a smiling-even-more Shingo. He tousles his hair good naturedly, murmuring, “Don’t worry, kid.”
Shingo laughs, unabashed, “I’m not. You’re the one who is.” Kimura’s smile softens, he pinches Shingo’s arm but his stomach’s tight—because Shingo’s so right.
Kimura is swamped with work (rehearsals early in the morning, shooting ‘til the moonlight filters into the studio, then sleep—everything seems to just repeat itself), but he still thinks about Tsuyoshi. He finds his thoughts wandering at the most inopportune times; halfway through a scene where he’s supposed to laugh out loud, in preparation for a meeting while he’s skimming through the itinerary; and the worst—right before bed, when he’s all but exhausted but his brain won’t stop whirring.
It has nothing to do with the phone calls—those are now few and far between and he’s (nearly) gotten used to the vibrating. His hands still clench and his heart speeds up, but he quickly distracts himself with the script or a colleague (‘aren’t you going to get that?’), enough that he stops feeling bad (kind of not really).
His sheets are cool around his mostly naked skin (he’s never gotten the courage to slip out of his briefs—there’s something incredibly vulnerable about the whole thing), he flips his pillow over for the umpteenth time—he can’t stop. He grunts, rubbing his face tiredly (his palms are clammy) and stares up at the dark ceiling—Kimura hates that his eyes are adjusting to the blackness. His body is sore from the shooting earlier, he likes doing his own stunts but his brain just won’t shut the hell up.
Every time he blinks, it’s not the ceiling he sees but an image, fuzzy, and from the past.
Part 3
Tsuyoshi/Kimura | PG-13 | Part 2
Shingo finally breaks the silence, slapping his big hands on the table with a bam.
“I get it.” Kimura raises an eyebrow at that. Shingo’s mouth suddenly breaks out into a huge bright smile, “You’re so cool! That takes a lot of courage, ne? I couldn’t do that, I mean, it’s not that we talk about anything special but I try to keep it normal. Even though, Tsuyopon still finds the time to apologize as much as he can in one phone call. He’s so silly.” Shingo laughs it off but his affection tinkles at the edges.
Kimura breathes out from his nose, a strange smile playing around his lips. He doesn’t think he’s being nearly as noble as Shingo thinks he is. He grabs for Shingo’s wineglass now and takes a swig from that, smirking at the hands that try to stop him.
Kimura spares a glance around the restaurant as Shingo chatters on about a fight scene he had a few days ago. Kimura’s listening with half of his face; the other half is taking in the low lights and red upholstery. There’s only a few other patrons, most of them old couples from the distance that appears to exist but when Kimura looks a little closer, the twined pinkies and irrevocably soft smiles tell of dates from long ago and leftover dinners past.
Goro-chan was the first to take him to this place, he loves his western food and he knows how Kimura feels about well-made pasta in meat sauce. The second time he came was with Goro-chan again, but they brought along Nakai that time and had him in grateful awe by the time dessert was served. Through word of mouth (mostly Nakai’s), Tsuyoshi’s interest was up and it was the third time around that Kimura brought him here.
Kimura remembers Tsuyoshi having a hard time choosing an entrée and instead of his mouth twisting out of annoyance like Kimura’s would, his brows furrowed into concentration and he’d keep shooting him an apologetic smile over the top of his menu. Kimura didn’t mind, how could he after a look like that? He ended up ordering a simple lasagne dish (‘I’m sorry... I did all that agonizing for nothing, ne?’), but the expression on his face after the first bite was anything but. Kimura was pleased and their dinner had ended smoothly (Tsuyoshi couldn’t resist dessert either).
He distinctly remembers the delicate hand Tsuyoshi curved around his elbow (he was wearing a short-sleeve that night so he was aware of the underworked pads of Tsuyopon’s fingers and every fingernail that rubbed against the inside of his arm) as he urged (ultimately led) him into the first cab that pulled over. Kimura tried offering, even explained sharing the ride, but they were going opposite ways (thinking back on it, he almost wishes they weren’t), so Tsuyoshi smiled his tender smile as he eventually had to push Kimura into the backseat (Kimura was too shocked to laugh and Tsuyoshi could tell—his smile faded into a low chuckle that settled in Kimura’s stomach like he settled into the seat). Tsuyoshi told the driver his address and waved him off, promising to send a mail when he got his own cab (he shut the door on Kimura’s opposition, nearly dismembering his arm, and leaving him to sigh and swear to himself and the cab-driver who was fairly amused).
“You even listening?” Shingo leans over and jabs at Kimura’s collarbone (it was sticking out from his unusual v-neck); Kimura mumbles an ‘oi’ and smacks it away. “I know you stopped listening minutes ago but I thought if I kept talking you’d eventually cut me off. But how about yooou? How’s Mr. Brain going? Your hair’s longer than ever.” Kimura knows (mostly hopes) that Shingo can tell he’s grateful for the change in subject (in his heart of hearts he knows Shingo knows he has something on his mind, but Shingo lets it go).
Shingo reaches and rubs the fine ends of Kimura’s hair between his index and thumb, Kimura smiles and smirks (in some way, at the same time), “It’s going good, everyone’s pretty nice, I do a lot of running around though. You’d like it. My sense of fashion is mildly strange in it.” Shingo gives Kimura a once over that says ‘I can tell’ and he returns it with a forced scowl half grin that says ‘shut up’.
The rest of the dinner goes on like this, Shingo takes the time to repeatedly poke and prod Kimura when he thinks he’s not listening. Kimura frowns and tries to act angry every time but the shadow of a laugh around his mouth doesn’t get by Shingo and he has him recite everything he’s said—just in case. Kimura goes along with it because he has nothing better to do (and Shingo has the admirable ease to bring up Tsuyoshi from time to time (‘Tsuyopon said something about that actually,’ ‘I don’t think I’d mind, Tsuyopon probably would though, ne?’) and it boggles Kimura’s mind and keeps him listening).
“I got it—”
“You do?” Kimura laughs through his nose at the surprise and rarely regulated eagerness written all over Shingo’s face when Kimura pays the bill.
“Yeah. I didn’t listen, so I’ll pay.”
“At all?” Kimura shrugs, half of it in response to his question, half of it to get into his coat. “But you summarized everything I said!”
“I've known you how long, Shingo-kun? I’d know what you talked about if I was in Alaska.” Shingo makes a face (they both know it means nothing) and it’s nearly midnight when the two finally leave the restaurant; the night air is cool so Kimura stuffs his hands in his coat’s big pockets—Shingo goes out of his way to do a jig (‘I’ll be warmer than you in no time, Kimura-kun!’).
Shingo wants to walk home but Kimura won’t have any of that (‘No one’s going to rape my tall ass.’), so he ends up walking with Shingo instead, (they live the same way anyway) and make their way across town—Shingo points out things and Kimura manoeuvres him around drunks by the sleeve of his jacket.
“Kimura-kun,” Kimura hums, not looking Shingo’s way, but listening all the same. They start to cross the street, there are no cars. “Y’think things will go back to being the same? Once Tsuyopon’s back?” Shingo’s question is sincere and supported by a high-pitched cackle that streams out from a bar across the street, which makes it that much harder for Kimura to avoid his look, focusing in on the cracks in the pavement instead, his walk never missing a beat.
“Probably not. Things changed after Goro’s, didn’t they?” Kimura feels Shingo’s nod more than he sees it. “Knowing us, we’ll come out of it stronger than ever though and for the better too.” Kimura can’t stop his arm that slings across Shingo’s shoulders, the movement so easy he smiles at a smiling-even-more Shingo. He tousles his hair good naturedly, murmuring, “Don’t worry, kid.”
Shingo laughs, unabashed, “I’m not. You’re the one who is.” Kimura’s smile softens, he pinches Shingo’s arm but his stomach’s tight—because Shingo’s so right.
Kimura is swamped with work (rehearsals early in the morning, shooting ‘til the moonlight filters into the studio, then sleep—everything seems to just repeat itself), but he still thinks about Tsuyoshi. He finds his thoughts wandering at the most inopportune times; halfway through a scene where he’s supposed to laugh out loud, in preparation for a meeting while he’s skimming through the itinerary; and the worst—right before bed, when he’s all but exhausted but his brain won’t stop whirring.
It has nothing to do with the phone calls—those are now few and far between and he’s (nearly) gotten used to the vibrating. His hands still clench and his heart speeds up, but he quickly distracts himself with the script or a colleague (‘aren’t you going to get that?’), enough that he stops feeling bad (kind of not really).
His sheets are cool around his mostly naked skin (he’s never gotten the courage to slip out of his briefs—there’s something incredibly vulnerable about the whole thing), he flips his pillow over for the umpteenth time—he can’t stop. He grunts, rubbing his face tiredly (his palms are clammy) and stares up at the dark ceiling—Kimura hates that his eyes are adjusting to the blackness. His body is sore from the shooting earlier, he likes doing his own stunts but his brain just won’t shut the hell up.
Every time he blinks, it’s not the ceiling he sees but an image, fuzzy, and from the past.
Part 3
