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writetomyheart2015-02-23 04:06 pm
defiancebyfire.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2015-02-23 04:06 pm
[team four] fate/dance
Last post for team four before the reshuffle. Set in my Bilocation AU, set some days after this. Title from two Up Dharma Down songs.
Shades of mottled blue and black wrap around his hips, hand imprints and phantom touches that make his whole body still tender. The door closes, a soft sound in the silent room. It's strange, if a little comforting--definitely something unusual ever since their debut had been deemed official and they'd been pushed into interviews left and right.
Kamiyama gives his reflection a once-over, then shakes his head in resignation. Small patches of red are visible on his neck and collarbones, the evidence of two nights ago screaming at him whenever he forgets and undresses without checking if he's unaccompanied.
He'd gotten looks from the others earlier today, but nobody had bothered to ask where the marks were from. The closest thing to a reprimand he'd gotten was Shige putting a hand to his shoulder and squeezing it the tiniest bit tighter, and then they'd been herded to the studio by Akito, and that moment was that.
"If that's from a girl, you'd better tell me now. Better to know who to find and threaten in case you get into a scandal," Junta's disembodied voice says calmly. He's on the couch, sounding like he's just woken up.
Kamiyama turns sharply; he hadn't noticed he had company. "It's not. It's fine--I'm fine," he admits, trying not to wince when he presses fingers to his hip and they tingle with nerves.
Still not fully conscious, Junta looks up at him. "Probably not a girl, if it looks like that."
Kamiyama shifts slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.
"I know him, don't I?" Junta doesn't sound angry, and that's a relief. He doesn't sound worried either--more like curious, but not wanting to pry information from him forcibly.
"Ryuusei," Kamiyama fights the reflex to avert his eyes. Junta deserves the truth; they all do. "Over the weekend."
Silence washes over the room, Junta carefully studying him, turning the words over and over in his head.
There's a note of searching when Kamiyama finally says, "say something". He's never liked Junta's quiet. It wasn't oppressive, not really. But he and Junta were strikingly similar, and he didn't want to know what Junta thought about this.
Junta stands up, graceful as ever. "What I want you to tell me is if you know what you're doing." He doesn't look at Kamiyama, just calmly goes and puts his things inside his duffel.
"It's not exactly clean-cut like that." Not much there is to say, not without voicing his suspicions out loud. Kamiyama doesn't think it's his story to tell. If Ryuusei wants to share, he will. "There are some...things. I can't explain that easily."
The soft sound of a chair scraping against the tiles, and Junta's righting the dressing room. He picks up Kamiyama's shirt and pants, folds them neatly by the couch. "And I'm not asking you to. Just be cautious. That goes for him, too."
Kamiyama nods. He understands this much, at least.
Bag strap already on his shoulder, Junta moves toward him, steps padding softly on the floor. He pats Kamiyama's cheek--hand lingering for a moment, not harsh, but not totally affectionate. "Know that you'll have to clean up whatever mess you make by yourselves."
"Yes. We'll be careful."
The hand cradling Kamiyama's face falls away, but not before Junta lightly ruffles his hair. "Get dressed and go home. I'll see you tomorrow," Junta says, finally, leaving him to the white noise of his thoughts.
Shades of mottled blue and black wrap around his hips, hand imprints and phantom touches that make his whole body still tender. The door closes, a soft sound in the silent room. It's strange, if a little comforting--definitely something unusual ever since their debut had been deemed official and they'd been pushed into interviews left and right.
Kamiyama gives his reflection a once-over, then shakes his head in resignation. Small patches of red are visible on his neck and collarbones, the evidence of two nights ago screaming at him whenever he forgets and undresses without checking if he's unaccompanied.
He'd gotten looks from the others earlier today, but nobody had bothered to ask where the marks were from. The closest thing to a reprimand he'd gotten was Shige putting a hand to his shoulder and squeezing it the tiniest bit tighter, and then they'd been herded to the studio by Akito, and that moment was that.
"If that's from a girl, you'd better tell me now. Better to know who to find and threaten in case you get into a scandal," Junta's disembodied voice says calmly. He's on the couch, sounding like he's just woken up.
Kamiyama turns sharply; he hadn't noticed he had company. "It's not. It's fine--I'm fine," he admits, trying not to wince when he presses fingers to his hip and they tingle with nerves.
Still not fully conscious, Junta looks up at him. "Probably not a girl, if it looks like that."
Kamiyama shifts slightly, lips pressed into a thin line.
"I know him, don't I?" Junta doesn't sound angry, and that's a relief. He doesn't sound worried either--more like curious, but not wanting to pry information from him forcibly.
"Ryuusei," Kamiyama fights the reflex to avert his eyes. Junta deserves the truth; they all do. "Over the weekend."
Silence washes over the room, Junta carefully studying him, turning the words over and over in his head.
There's a note of searching when Kamiyama finally says, "say something". He's never liked Junta's quiet. It wasn't oppressive, not really. But he and Junta were strikingly similar, and he didn't want to know what Junta thought about this.
Junta stands up, graceful as ever. "What I want you to tell me is if you know what you're doing." He doesn't look at Kamiyama, just calmly goes and puts his things inside his duffel.
"It's not exactly clean-cut like that." Not much there is to say, not without voicing his suspicions out loud. Kamiyama doesn't think it's his story to tell. If Ryuusei wants to share, he will. "There are some...things. I can't explain that easily."
The soft sound of a chair scraping against the tiles, and Junta's righting the dressing room. He picks up Kamiyama's shirt and pants, folds them neatly by the couch. "And I'm not asking you to. Just be cautious. That goes for him, too."
Kamiyama nods. He understands this much, at least.
Bag strap already on his shoulder, Junta moves toward him, steps padding softly on the floor. He pats Kamiyama's cheek--hand lingering for a moment, not harsh, but not totally affectionate. "Know that you'll have to clean up whatever mess you make by yourselves."
"Yes. We'll be careful."
The hand cradling Kamiyama's face falls away, but not before Junta lightly ruffles his hair. "Get dressed and go home. I'll see you tomorrow," Junta says, finally, leaving him to the white noise of his thoughts.