i'm proud of my love ;;

[w-inds.] KeiRyo "long drabble"

Thu, 27 Nov 2008 13:22:33 GMT

I hesitate to call this a drabble, but I hesitate to call it a ficlet either. It's more like a long scene. I haven't edited this at all, so it's quite rough and -- frankly -- awful. I am just trying to get back into the habit of writing, so please forgive me the sheer crappiness, ahaha.

Word count: 800 on the dot says the Internet, but I'm sure it's give or take a few.
Pairing: KeiRyo
Notes: Uh, I keep saying that I want Keita and Ryohei to make out, so I thought I'd just do it for myself today. And then, of course, they didn't make out at all. This is why my writing is hopeless, apart from the complete lack of skill.

"I feel awful," Ryohei said.

"You look cute," Keita said with a pert grin, and before Ryohei could open his mouth to complain, Keita crawled upon the bed, eyes twinkling as he balanced himself over the other boy.

Ryohei groaned.

"Keita," he said, "we're in a hospital..."

Keita nodded. He touched Ryohei's face, long fingers gently gliding over Ryohei's cheekbones, his calloused fingertips rough against Ryohei's baby-soft skin. "I know," he said softly. "This is the first time I've had alone with you in weeks."

"I know," Ryohei said. He tried to roll away from Keita's touch. "But someone could walk in, and... and I feel awful, Keita, I'm on death's door, I..."

"Don't say that," Keita said quickly. Ryohei rolled his head over to look at him; Keita's eyes, sparkling and playful, had turned gloomy and downtrodden. "Don't," he repeated before lowering himself on the mattress, resting his heavy body next to Ryohei's much smaller one. His hand reached up to touch Ryohei's face again, but this time the danger was gone. It was gentle, serene, protective. Ryohei wasn't sure which touch he preferred. He thought he might hate both.

He sighed. "I didn't mean it," he said. His face rolled into Keita's hand. He knew better, but he didn't. He sighed again, softly. "You know I'm a weakling to colds, Keita, that's all I meant."

Keita cupped his cheek and peered softly into Ryohei's eyes. "And you know," he said quietly, "that you have been on death's door more times than either of us wants to admit. And every time it's started out just like this."

"I know," Ryohei whispered. He closed his eyes. Keita's hand was warm against his face; he curled in further towards the warmth. He let out a small breath. "Keita," he said quietly, "if we're caught like this..."

"I know," Keita said. He shifted his body atop the bed; his legs were too long and he was far too heavy (not too mention far too hefty) for the weak hospital mattress, especially when sharing it with another person. He allowed instinct to take over. He slid his legs under Ryohei's, large arms tugging him closer to himself before wrapping around his slender chest. He rested his chin on Ryohei's shoulder. "Of course I know what would happen if we were caught like this," he said quietly, rubbing circles into Ryohei's back, "but at the moment, I just don't care. It's kind of funny, actually. At these moments, I never actually care." He smiled softly and looked down at Ryohei's face. "I'm able to realize now that there's something more important than my reputation."

Ryohei moved within Keita's embrace. His face contorted, and he let out a sound distinctly between a groan and a chuckle.

"You're being corny again, Keita," he said, but the pink on his pale cheeks was undeniable as he looked up at Keita.

Keita grinned. "No, leader," he said, "I'm being honest. For the first time in a long while, I'm being absolutely honest."

Ryohei looked up at him. Keita's face blurred between his eyelashes, wholesome, earnest. He was grinning a little self-consciously, but there was pride evident in his eyes. Ryohei'd known Keita long enough to recognize it immediately.

He smiled.

"Anyway," he said, "I feel awful. I'm probably going to snot all over your arm."

"That's sexy," Keita said. "Do you need a tissue?"

Ryohei shook his head. "No, your arm's fine. Might as well not let this fine shirt go to waste." He tugged on Keita's sleeve and grinned.

Keita looked down at him for a moment. He smiled. "You really are cute, Ryohei Chiba."

Ryohei reached up and pinched Keita's nipple through his tight shirt. "You know I hate when you call me that," he said.

Keita scowled and batted Ryohei's hand away, rubbing the sore spot tenderly. "I know you do," he said. He leaned down and -- once again, with an ease that Ryohei's mind couldn't quite react to in time -- pressed his lips against Ryohei's earlobe. They were soft, moist; the air that flowed between them was warm. He could feel the breath falling from Keita's nose against his skin. The sensation made the hairs on his arms sway.

"That doesn't change," Keita whispered quietly into Ryohei's ear, "the fact that you are. Cute, that is."

Ryohei's body curved. He arched underneath Keita, resting his heavy head on his chest. The sound of Keita's heart pumping in his chest comforted him. He closed his eyes, focused on the sound, and let out one soft, shivering breath. He knew better, but he didn't. Keita's hand moved to the small of his back and he allowed it, curling up against it as his body formed a gentle s-shape. His sore legs rose towards his chest before deciding to fold out.

"Whatever," he said, absentmindedly fiddling with Keita's clothed nipple as he rested.

Cute for now, he thought. For now.

[w-inds.] to dance 2.5/unfinished

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 04:45:49 GMT

Title: to dance
Author: Ri-chan
Part: 2.5/unfinished
Word Count: 1849
Notes: Original Link

Ryohei walked over to the seat and sat down.

His heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel his breath struggling its way in and out of his lungs; his throat felt tight and dry, and his entire body felt cramped up, like there was just too much going on in too small a space. His stomach was churning in on itself. He briefly felt like he had to use the bathroom, but he dismissed the feeling immediately. He knew what it was.

Performance anxiety. Nerves.

A fear of the response.

He wanted to apologize. He knew this. He needed to apologize, to tell Keita he was sorry for having been such a terrible person, to tell him that, if he'd been aware of his actions, he would have never, ever wanted to hurt him. But, sitting there across from him, their bony knees mere inches away from each other, their breaths mingling in the air shared between them, he felt a sudden and intense fear.

He sat on his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Keita," he said softly. Keita sat on his bed, tall and gangly, each part of his body seemingly out of place. He was leaning back slightly, but his dark eyes were fixed somewhere on Ryohei's face. It felt like Keita was simultaneously staring into space and staring intently on Ryohei. Ryohei wasn't sure how that could work, but he had a feeling it was true.

He took a deep breath. He leaned forward. Keita's features were clearly visible in the dim hotel light. He could see his baggy nightshirt trying its hardest to cling to Keita's small, tight chest.

Their knees brushed together. Keita looked up. Their eyes suddenly met.

It's now or never, Chiba, Ryohei thought.

"Keita," Ryohei said, and the words cut out of his throat like a knife slicing through air, "I'm sorry."

In Ryohei's daydreams, Keita always responded to this with a warm smile, or a soft nod and a meaningful touch, or perhaps even a dismissive shake of the head: it's okay, Ryohei, I understand. Things always went right back to Okay in Ryohei's daydreams -- no, not just Okay, but Good. Great. Normal. In Ryohei's daydreams, Keita always accepted his apology (and, by extention, him) willingly and readily.

This, however, was not a daydream. Ryohei's words were met by nothing but an awkward silence and a slight tilt downwards in Keita's lips.

Ryohei knew suddenly that "sorry" would not be enough.

He sucked on his bottom lip. (It was getting chapped again. Too much wind, or too much nervous sucking -- he wasn't sure which.) His heart seemed to be pounding even faster than it did before the apology. He hadn't been expecting that. He was sure, in the relative silence of the hotel room, that Keita could hear its steady rhythm.

"I can explain," he said finally.

Keita nodded to this. Ryohei watched as his hands crawled on top of his knees, picking nervously (or so he assumed) at the skin there. His feet bounced softly on top of his mattress. He pulled them underneath himself and straightened himself out, looking somehow both taller and smaller at the same time as he looked straight at Ryohei, his large eyes suddenly filled with a new and different confidence.

"I hope so," he said, and then his hands crawled back to his knees, and Ryohei saw that confidence in his eyes suddenly flicker and soften, and it was reflected in his voice. "Because you really hurt me a lot," he continued, and by the end of his sentence, his voice had turned sad and dejected.

But his gaze -- his painful gaze -- held true.

Ryohei took a good look at him. His skinny arms, swimming in his too-large shirt. His long neck, connecting his dramatic collarbone to his softly squared chin. His oily skin, his long fingers, his bony knuckles and his awkward toes. His nose and his lips and his large, doe-like eyes.

He loved him, he realized again, and the thought filled his gut with a terrible yet solid strength. He loved him. He loved every single bit about him.

He nodded.

"I'll explain," he said. "I'll explain until you can believe me."

Keita nodded. There was something almost pleading in his eyes as he looked at Ryohei.

"Please," he softly said.

Ryohei looked at him one more time, took a deep breath, and sighed.

"I know," he said, "that this is going to sound completely... messed up, but please bear with me for a while?"

Keita nodded again. His eyes stayed intently on him. They seemed to say that Keita would bear with anything Ryohei had to throw at him, as long as he didn't back up and leave. And as appealing as that option may have sounded, contrasted firmly against the almost deafening pounding of his heart, Ryohei knew that this time, he had to stand (or sit, as it may be) his ground. He had to see it through.

Ryohei swallowed.

"I'm not a good..." he began, pausing to consider his next word before shaking his head, long bangs smacking against his sticky forehead. "Friend. Band-leader. Anything, really." He sighed. "I let my feelings get in the way of my duties as a leader and as your friend, and that's unforgivable."

Keita blinked. He stretched his long legs out in front of him again, hands holding on to his slowly thickening thighs. There was some a little more relaxed about his position than before; Ryohei would later look back on it and realize that it must have been about then that Keita figured out that he wasn't going to be receiving a verbal lashing, that Ryohei wasn't going to summon up his inner Hitomi Tachibana and start blaming him for not being strong, handsome, talented, smart, whatever enough to keep his respect. At the moment, however, Ryohei was simply stumped.

He pushed it aside, stared at his knees, and continued. The words came out slowly and sluggishly, but they were there, and that was all that Ryohei really cared about.

"You're my best friend, Keita," he said, and as soon as he said it, he knew it was true, and that gave him a little bit of strength. He looked back up at Keita's neck. He couldn't quite meet his eyes yet, but he'd work up there bit by bit. "You're my best friend," he said again, "and... and, I didn't want to hurt you. So I avoided you. Which I guess was an even worse choice, but I've never been good at... things like this, you know?" He finally looked back up and met Keita's eyes. He felt shy and awkward and infinitely stupid, but, to his great relief, the expression on Keita's face was not unkind.

"Ryohei," Keita said softly, blinking his large eyes, leaning forward slowly, his oversized hands smoothing their way up his lengthening legs, "why on Earth did you think you'd hurt me? I mean..." He rubbed his knees, skin peeling beneath his fingertips, rough and dry from countless skids on practice dance floors. "Enough that you thought, you know, avoiding me would be the answer?"

So there it was. The question. Heart and Mind and Body and Soul and anybody else hiding underneath the surface of Ryohei, the Thing, all clamored up inside of his head, crying out their conflicting opinions with a din that smothered even the loud pounding in his chest. But from deep within the noise, Ryohei heard and suddenly knew the right answer.

"Because I was becoming really jealous of you and Ryuichi," he said, "and I didn't want to take it out on you. Because I was going to. And it would have been bad."

"Worse than ditching me?" Keita asked sheepishly, but there was the soft undertone of a tiny smile to his voice, and hearing it made Ryohei's heart leap.

"Much worse," he said, giving Keita a small, shy smile. "You would have punched me in the face, broken my nose, you would have left the band, my mother would have been too ashamed to take me back in, and I would have ended up lost and homeless by age eighteen. Not exactly the brightest outlook, is it?" He chuckled softly and looked up at Keita, hoping Keita wouldn't mind either.

He didn't. Keita returned his smile and shook his head, giving him one soft, almost disbelieving chuckle. "There is nothing you could say or do, Ryohei, that would make me do that."

Except one thing, Ryohei thought, and that voice deep inside of him made a small noise in agreement. That's why now is not the time.

Ryohei instead leaned forward and softly touched Keita's knee. Keita stirred but did not object. Ryohei's fingers could barely feel the dead skin beneath his own calloused digits.

"So," he said softly, looking up into Keita's face fully for the first time since he'd arrived in the room, "does that mean you can forgive me this?"

Keita looked at him slowly. For a moment, time seemed to pause; the seconds lengthened into minutes that contained within themselves hours made of days. The air between them stopped, and only the slow whir of the air conditioner pointed to any sort of movement at all. Ryohei's fingers stayed soft on Keita's knee. His eyes looked into Keita's face. Keita's eyes quietly searched his own.

And then he spoke.

"Of course," he said. His face broke into its trademark grin, and Ryohei felt a surge of electricity run through his body as Keita's hand suddenly rested on his arm. "Of course I can forgive you, idiot."

Ryohei looked up at him. He smiled. Time had begun again in the room. The air between them shifted as he finally let out one long, captive breath.

And then he pounced.

If I can't tell him, Ryohei thought as he wrestled Keita down onto the mattress, laughing as his friend squealed and flailed beneath him, finally pinning down his body enough to find an opening to wrap his arms around Keita's skinny waist and hug him tight, at least I can show him. A little bit. A little bit.

"You're a moron!" Keita laughed, his voice cracking slightly as he hugged Ryohei back, squeezing him so tight Ryohei thought he might have the wind forced out of him -- but he didn't mind. "A complete and utter moron!"

"I am," Ryohei agreed, and he chuckled as he rested his head against Keita's chest. Keita smelled good. Keita smelled exactly like Keitas ought to smell, Ryohei thought -- he smelled like pure, unfiltered Boy. It was nice. "You still have time to get rid of me," he said softly, looking up at Keita with a small, shy smile, as if slightly worried that Keita might take him up on the offer.

But Keita merely shook his head. "No I don't," he said. He curled up against him, like they had when they both shared Ryohei's bed back when they were much younger, except now Keita had gotten so tall that their old proportions were completely off. "I can't get rid of you anymore, idiot, but you know what?"

Ryohei chuckled. "What?" he asked, giving Keita a gentle squeeze.

Keita laughed. "I'm glad," he said shortly, before closing his eyes and, hours past their established bed time, falling deeply asleep.

[w-inds.] to dance 2/unfinished

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 04:45:00 GMT

Title: to dance
Author: Ri-chan
Part: 2/unfinished
Word Count: 10,884
Notes: Original Link

Chapter One

to dance [Part Two]

The first time Ryohei Chiba had fallen while dancing, he'd dislocated his elbow and torn his right knee up. The first thing he noticed was the blood; it startled him how red it was, and how quiet, especially against the pale flesh of his skin and the sacred white of the dance floor. The second thing he noticed was the searing pain ripping through his body, joints and bones and blood vessels suddenly not in the right spots and screaming to be put back in place. He liked to tell people that everything went black then, because maybe it did, but when he thought back he could still remember hours and hours of endless, layered on pain, exploding in flashes against his eyes like out of season fireworks.

After his arm had been tied up and the stitches had been secured, his dance teacher had laughed quietly, patting him on the shoulder. "Banged yourself up pretty good, kid," he said in his odd northern drawl. "It happens to all of us, though, so don't get discouraged."

Ryohei was far from discouraged, though. He lied back on his hospital bed, closing his eyes (were they closed already? He couldn't tell.) and hearing his own breath split within him, transparent edges torn from each other by his body's frantic inner terror. He realized with a strong surge of passion that he never wanted to fall ever again, and that realization became a vow. He would never fall again. He would never lose himself long enough to fall.

Control, he'd decided then, feeling the sheets almost seem to crawl underneath him. His arms tingled. His entire body tingled. He felt out of place. Control, he thought. Control was necessary. Control would keep him safe.

And it had. Control had protected him. Control had helped shape him. Control had brought him to higher levels of accuracy than he had once thought possible. For the handful of years between his first fateful fall and his second, Ryohei Chiba had remained in almost perfect control.

Control only extends so far, however.

---

It was on the first day of their two day break from work that Ryohei began to notice certain things. It all happened in a flash, like a once-dark room suddenly hit by bright florescent lights; everything that became visible with the new found clarity had always been there, but hidden, unable to be seen.

It was like blinders being lifted from his eyes, and suddenly Ryohei caught himself looking at Keita -- the same old Keita, the Keita he'd always known -- with new found appreciation.

He was cute. He knew that. He'd always known that. But beyond cute... it all happened so quickly, and Ryohei didn't know how to keep track, but there was something new to him about the curve of Keita's jawline, or the way his hair sat on his head. His eyes were clearer, his skin tauter, the muscles moving underneath more and more impressive. And his nose -- his large, oversized nose, the nose Keita had always poked at with irritation, annoyed at its insistance on staying -- it wasn't just cute anymore, but it was... it was something, Ryohei discovered, although he didn't know what, and it was right above Keita's mouth, which was his other main distraction.

Ryohei had no idea what was going on. It was as if with his mind's silently uttered words -- I like you -- something shifted within himself, and he was the unknowing bystander suddenly caught in an earthquake, clueless of the earth around him as it swallowed him up.

Ryohei wasn't stupid. He'd been top of his class, a fact that his mother had always liked to make perfectly clear the moment the TV cameras began to chase her son. And Ryohei himself tended to praise himself on his keenness. He was usually level-headed, he thought, and he had the ability to see through a situation further than what was offered to him at first glance.

But Ryohei didn't know what was going on because Ryohei didn't have the means to know what was going on. He could tell that there was something happening underneath the surface of his mind, but he couldn't even feel out the shape, let alone the actual meaning, so he chose to pretend it didn't exist. Ryohei had been sheltered, and despite working with innumerous gay men as his backup dancers, and despite being very close to some of them (or so he felt), the idea of a guy being attracted to another guy like that was just something his brain could never come up with on its own. It was a gag used in comics to make a male character seem girly. It indicated some sort of underlying gender problem. Ryohei was very aware that he was a boy, and hence he was blinded to the entire possibility.

But mind and body and heart and soul had been slowly, carefully tearing apart for so long by then that they'd begun to act independent of each other, and while mind couldn't quite keep up with the program, heart had known that something was up for a while now, and body -- yeah. There was no denying it. Body was getting into it too.

He felt confused. He felt confused and dazed and slightly worried, because he knew there had to be something wrong with the way his eyes were moving, slowly and carefully over his friend's figure, noting with appreciation (appreciation?) how Keita was beginning to fill out the skin around his once painfully prominant bones, how his legs were getting longer, how his new dye job really brought out his eyes. He couldn't help himself, though, and he spent all of that first day like that, watching TV with Keita, going shopping with Keita, going out to eat with Keita, laughing and smiling and making his normal jokes, but all the while aware of the way Keita's lips moved as he finished eating his food.

---

It was on the second day of their break that he noticed something much more distressing than the first, as impossible as the idea may have seemed.

---

"Lunch," Keita declared.

"Lunch?" Ryohei repeated. It was early afternoon on their second day of break, and he was curled up on his bed, staring up intently at his Game Boy. He could never make it past one part in the level he was stuck at, but he refused to look up instructions on how to do so, since that would be cheating. He paused the game and rolled over to face Keita. "What about lunch?"

"I want some," Keita said simply. He was wearing a pair of shorts that came down to below his knees and a slightly large baseball tee. His sneakers were half pulled on. Compared to Ryohei's boxer shorts and ratty tank top, he was the height of class and fashion.

His calves looked amazing.

Ryohei blinked, clearing his mind before sitting up. "All right," he said, turning his Game Boy off (he wasn't going to beat that level anyway and, as much as it pained him, deep inside he knew it). "Just give me time to get dressed."

Keita smiled. It was a softer smile -- all lips, no teeth -- and one of Ryohei's absolute favorites, although he'd never, ever say so. "Are you even hungry?" he asked, pulling his knee up to his chest and tying his other sneaker while Ryohei untangled his legs from his sheets. "You don't have to eat if you don't want to..."

"I can get hungry," Ryohei laughed. "Give me a minute or two to think about food and you won't be able to tear me away, I promise."

Keita also laughed, smiling. "Unless there's vegetables involved, right?" he said, giving Ryohei a small wink as he stood up, readjusting the hems of his shorts. "And that's good," he continued, smiling cheekily at his bed-headed companion. "I wasn't about to take no for an answer anyway."

Something inside Ryohei knew that he shouldn't have been so happy to hear Keita say that, but he was. He hid it with a laugh, pulling out his own outfit from his once organized suitcase. "I'll be ready in a couple of minutes," he said. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Keita nodded. "All right. I'll go get Ryuichi while you do that."

Ryuichi.

As Keita left the room, his heavy feet stomping over to Ryuichi's room and pounding on his door, Ryohei found himself with an odd lump in his throat and a peculiar dryness in his mouth. He swallowed them both down as he pulled on his shorts, eyes narrowed in on the stubborn part of his hair, but he couldn't help but thinking that he thought he actually felt a little bit disappointed.

---

It was weird.

Ryohei didn't usually mind Ryuichi's company. In fact, he usually revelled in it; Ryuichi was one of his oldest friends, and while they rarely expressed it to each other (they were budding Men, after all), Ryohei was always appreciative and grateful for Ryuichi's presence in his life, and it was clear to him that the feeling was mutual. He considered Ryuichi to be the brother he never had, the ghost that haunted his childhood daydreams, and usually he wanted more time with him rather than less.

This was not one of those times.

The three of them were off to lunch somewhere together. It was a very normal situation -- they teased Ryohei about his eating habits, teased Keita about his ridiculous growth spurts, made fun of Ryuichi's inability to understand their soccer lingo. But yet there was something different about it, and it irritated Ryohei to his core. The last person he wanted to be around was Ryuichi.

He wanted Ryuichi gone.

"So, are we down to just McDonalds as an option?" Keita chirped happily from between Ryuichi and Ryohei, throwing his arms over their shoulders. Ryuichi laughed, leaning against Keita's side. Something inside Ryohei hissed.

"I guess so!" Ryuichi said, and Ryohei could feel Keita's body shift as Ryuichi wrapped his arm around Keita's waist. "McDonalds seems like the perfect place for a bunch of starving artist types to chow, especially with a picky anti-vegetarian in the mix." He grinned over at Ryohei.

Ryohei accepted the tease with a smile, although inside he wasn't even listening. All he could notice were small things: the way Ryuichi's fingers grasped onto Keita's side, how broadly Keita's hand covered Ryuichi's shoulder, the slight way Keita's body bent towards the other boy.

It made him feel sick. He was no longer hungry.

He had no idea what was going on.

Lunch only made things worse when they got there. Ryohei felt disconnected within himself. There was one part of him that was trying its hardest to be cool and logical -- the dancer part of him, he guessed -- but there was another part, a louder part, a part riddled with nausea and shortness of breath and heart palpitations that made no concernable sense, that was anything but cool and logical, that was instead every single thing Ryohei had never wanted to become.

And it made no sense.

They got to McDonalds. They ordered their food. They found themselves a booth -- Ryohei had always preferred booths, after all -- and they sat down, Ryuichi squishing himself next to Keita to give Ryohei the other seat to himself. They chatted over their food, the low-key sounds of an acoustic band Ryohei had never cared for playing over the store speakers, but Ryohei couldn't even bring himself to groan at the song. Ryuichi was talking loudly about how he felt french fries shouldn't be named such because, after all, they weren't really from France. Keita seemed interested, but Ryohei just felt annoyed. What a deep, personal conviction on the part of Ryuichi Ogata, he thought, the part of him still grasping onto logic bewildered by his irritation, but the rest of him feeling quite comfortable with his feeling -- after all, who didn't know that? The French could have never come up with the idea of french fries. It would have destroyed their figures.

Ryohei was a dancer, so he was well trained at maintaining his outer appearence. He was a budding master of control. So no matter what was going on inside, he looked cool and collected on the outside, smiling and laughing when was appropriate, even throwing in a comment or two when the proper timing came. But this time, he was completely on auto-pilot, because he really couldn't have cared less about Ryuichi's newly discovered guitar chord or his personal history of fried potatoes. All he could care about at that moment was how closely he and Keita sat together, and how many times they touched each other while talking, and how loudly they'd laugh at each other's jokes. He felt somehow betrayed on the inside, which didn't make sense -- it really didn't make any sense at all, his logical part insisted -- but the feeling persisted.

But it was when he found himself trying to come up with acceptable reasons for Keita and Ryuichi's chumminess that he really suddenly realized that there was something very and definitely wrong, and that beyond anything else -- beyond Ryuichi's naturally affectionate nature, or beyond Keita's love of attention -- he needed to prioritize figuring out and fixing that before everything else went to hell.

---

The bedtime on nights before workdays was ten o'clock, on the spot.

Ryohei sat on the edge of his bed, applying lotion to his legs. He was always made fun of for doing it, but he didn't care; it was the only way to keep his legs moist enough so that he didn't scratch them, and, he always said, he'd rather smell like strawberries and have clean legs than to smell grimy and manly and be covered with nailmarks.

He liked the smell, secretly.

Keita was in the bathroom, singing loudly and completely out of tune while he got ready for bed. Ryohei couldn't even recognize the song. He figured it was Keita's way of rebelling in advance from the strict vocal scrutiny he was about to go through. It was almost cute, Ryohei thought, smiling, before the smile faded to a frown and he focused again on his legs.

It was almost too cute.

He inwardly sighed.

Keita came out of the bathroom with a grin. He stretched, and Ryohei could hear his joints pop from underneath his thin white nightclothes. Keita's body cracked more than anybody else's he knew, including his own, which said something for its awkward design and lopsided grace.

Ryohei wondered how he even knew that.

He again inwardly sighed.

"Work tomorrow!" Keita cried out, falling down lifeless upon his bed. He rolled over onto his side, gathering his blankets in his arms and smiling slyly at Ryohei. "I have a plan, Ryohei."

Ryohei looked over his shoulder at him. He arched an eyebrow. "Do you, now?"

Keita nodded, his face all playful and boyish mischief, his eyes twinkling with delight. "Let's run away together," he said, his words laced with laughter. "You and I. If we leave now, we can make it to Okinawa by sunrise, and then we can stow upon a trade ship and sail to Korea!"

Ryohei couldn't help but laugh. He pulled his legs up on his bed and put his lotion away, rolling over onto his side to smile at Keita. "Oh yeah? And you don't think Korea will just send us on back?"

Keita laughed. "No!" he said, obviously delighted. "No, they won't! We'll blend right in, and then we can start a new life, Ryohei, a life without ten o'clock bedtimes and nine o'clock curfews! A life where we don't have to wake up by five in the morning just to go through the same routines we've been doing for years! A life where we can be free, Ryohei, where we can..." He paused, letting the faux-emotion take over him before nodding solemnly, fixing his eyes on Ryohei. "A life where we can live, Ryohei."

Ryohei burst out laughing, hoping that provided good cover for his suddenly reddening cheeks. He tossed one of his pillows over at Keita. "Oh, shut up, Keita," he said, smiling. "We're going to need to go a lot further than Korea to have that sort of unnoticed life."

Keita laughed, dodging Ryohei's pillow masterfully and tossing it back at him. "How far, then, Ryohei? I'd follow you 'til the ends of the Earth!"

Ryohei laughed, catching his pillow and putting it back in its place, straightening the covers around it before looking back at Keita. "I don't know," he said. "I kinda like the five AM routines, though. It keeps me in shape."

Keita snorted, lying down on his sheets and smiling. "You would, Ryohei." He sighed softly, the corners of his lips arching softly upward. "I had a nice break, though."

Ryohei lied down on the top of his bed too, pulling his sheet up and covering his lower body with it. "I did too," he said, not aware of whether he was lying or not.

Keita didn't seem to mind either way. "I'm glad," he said, rolling over to face Ryohei again, his hair falling awkwardly in his eyes, "that I got to spend it with you."

Ryohei blinked. He rolled over as well, facing his friend with a soft smile of his own. He had no idea why he felt so shy.

"I'm glad too," he said.

They soon after turned off the lights and bid each other goodnight. Keita fell asleep quickly -- Keita always fell asleep quickly, the end of the world couldn't keep Keita awake if he was comfortable -- but Ryohei didn't, instead staring up at the ceiling, watching as the darkness swirled in spots above his tired eyes.

Keita... there was something about Keita, he was starting to realize, and although he couldn't understand it, he also couldn't deny it. There was something... something about the way Keita made him feel, the way Keita affected him. There was something about how easily Keita could say things like that -- "I''m glad that I got to spend it with you" -- things that Ryohei could have never been able to say himself.

There was something about how quietly, how easily Keita could crawl underneath his skin, filling him up with the smallest of smiles, and breaking him down with the tiniest slights.

He was sure, in that moment, that there was something going on, and that Keita... Keita had somehow ceased being just a regular friend, or even just a very close, intimate friend. He was sure this exceeded 'best friend' status too. Ryohei wasn't sure... how could he be sure, this was all so strange!... but at the same time, deep inside, he knew.

He knew.

Because there wasn't just something about Keita now... there had always been something about Keita, from the moment that they'd met. From the moment that his eyes had first rested upon Keita, actually, there had been something about Keita. And he knew it... he knew it, he knew it, he had always known it.

Nobody made him laugh the way Keita did.

Nobody made him smile the way Keita did.

Nobody inspired him, frustrated him, made him ache the way Keita did.

And it didn't make sense. It didn't make sense, yet, at the same time, it made all the sense in the world. It was the only natural conclusion. It felt so right that Keita be like this to him, because it had happened so slowly, so naturally, without any nudging or pushing of his own; he'd never tried to make himself feel this way, he'd never even thought about the possibility. But there it was, plain and simple, hanging before his eyes like the darkness that tore itself into phantom ribbons against the hotel ceiling.

He really, deeply loved Keita.

He wasn't sure how it was possible. He was a boy -- a boy, goddamn it, almost a man! -- and so was Keita, despite all the joking to the contrary. But Ryohei was a smart enough boy to know that when something was the truth, you couldn't really deny it, no matter how strongly you might want to. He lied on his bed, staring upwards blankly, lost in the thoughts that crowded his mind.

He was in love.

He was in love with Keita.

That would explain it, he thought, the words coming like rapid fire. That would explain everything. That would explain why he was always excited when he and Keita were alone. That would explain his addiction to Keita's touch; it would explain how sulky and disappointed -- disappointed! -- he'd always felt when they were lying next to each other and Keita's arm wasn't draped over him. That would explain his love for his smile, his love for his laugh, how bashful and giddy Keita could make him feel.

It explained the bitterness, the jealousy.

It explained the sudden, horrid possessiveness.

Ryohei's stomach tied itself into another knot. From the bed next to his, he could hear Keita quietly snoring. In the second it had taken himself to make that sudden, powerful, sincere self-realization, it all crumbled down to the ground, and Ryohei felt like he'd been kicked in the chest repeatedly and left there to struggle with finding his breath.

This was ridiculous.

This was ridiculous. This was all ridiculous. Ryohei wasn't sure how it was possible for him to like another guy, namely Keita, and he wasn't sure if it was natural or common or anything of the sort, but this... this had to be ridiculous. There was no way this could work. He was a guy, and Keita was a guy, and even if he had some weird malfunction in his inner wiring that made him somehow fall in love with Keita (the words echoed mockingly in his mind. He felt embarrassed and ill.), there was no possible way that Keita would ever feel the same, and that had to be for the best. Guys went with girls, and girls went with guys, and girls did not go with girls and guys did not go with guys, especially guys named Keita Tachibana and Ryohei Chiba, and especially not if they were pop stars in the making whose most marketable feature was their assumed availability to the girls who paid to see them.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

And, Ryohei continued thinking, shame crawling over his skin in waves, he was not about to let this thought, this ridiculous, absurd thought, get in the way of his friendships with Keita and Ryuichi! He felt sick with himself when he thought about the way he'd felt earlier. Ryuichi had done nothing wrong by tagging along! He'd done nothing wrong by hugging and touching Keita, who was his friend, and he certainly did nothing wrong by laughing and joking with him! His stomach sank into his chest.

He'd gotten frustrated and angry with Ryuichi for nothing.

He'd lost his self-control.

No. This had to stop. He couldn't keep doing this anymore. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but he was a dancer, and he was well-trained enough that, by God, he could fix it. He could stop it. He could retrain his mind and body and heart to stop feeling the ways that they did, because not only were they senseless and outrageous, but they were dangerous as well. He was not about to let the band fall apart because he'd gotten the crazy idea to fall in love -- in love! -- with Keita.

No.

He lied still on his bed, his shallow breath matching the beat of Keita's snoring, the air conditioner whirling loudly near the window. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and quietly shook his head.

No.

From then on out, he decided, he was going to be a new person. A new Ryohei. A better, more focused, more in-control Ryohei. A Ryohei that didn't get flustered whenever his bandmate touched his arm, a Ryohei that didn't get jealous whenever his bandmate smiled at somebody else. He wasn't sure how he had become that Ryohei, but he knew the process could and had to be reversed. There was no other way.

From then on out, he decided, he wasn't going to love Keita anymore.

That night, he slept a dreamless sleep.

---

The tour went by quickly.

Ryohei was grateful for it. He woke up earlier than he had to and threw himself into extra dancing lessons. He stayed longer than he had to in order to work as well. The extra practice was showing, his teachers and backup dancers said, impressed, and Ryohei felt a certain measure of pride in how graceful and liquid his movements had become. He liked to look at pictures from their concerts to see how much sharper and more skilled his body looked mid-dance when next to the other two. Ryohei couldn't sing, and the ever-present nasal quality of his voice left him unable to rap efficiently either, but, by God, he was going to be the best dancer possible if it killed him!

He slept little, and dreamt about little more than his work.

Management was happy. They liked Ryohei's serious working spirit. Next to him, they often said, Ryuichi and Keita looked like sloppy bafoons, and while it was important that Keita stay in tune, especially with the changes his voice was going through, it was also equally important that he stay in step. That went double for Ryuichi, who, management said, actually had no excuse.

Ryohei pretended to be too busy practicing to hear.

Ryohei wasn't sure how to kill a feeling, but he'd decided that avoiding it was just as good for the meantime. Killing seemed messy -- there was bound to be blood on his hands and a knife in his heart, and while the overly dramatic nature of that thought bothered him, he still wasn't sure if he could deal with any potential hurt right now, since the last thing he wanted to be on stage was distracted. But he knew how to block the feeling out. Keita and Ryuichi had both, in different ways, climbed over the wall that he'd had built around himself. All Ryohei had to do, he figured, was just build it up again, higher and taller than it was before.

He became cold.

He didn't stay up laughing with the other boys anymore. On stops, he requested his own hotel room, so he could get up early without bothering anybody else. He sat alone on bus rides, listening to his walkman and doing the dance steps in his mind.

Over meals, he only talked about work. Sometimes he would let out a joke or two to try and maintain the appearence of deeply connected friendship, but that was dangerous so he kept it in line. He was very measured, his words like his feet, making sure he knew where they were going to land and at what angle, and never giving in an inch.

He hated it, but it was what had to be done. He hoped that once he was able to fully master himself, he could start warming up to the other boys again, but that was still lightyears away. He was lonely. He was lonely as hell, but he knew that was the price he had to pay for his own weakness and stupidity, so he accepted it and worked harder.

His body ached in every conceivable way.

When he wasn't working, he spent a lot of time thinking. Ryohei figured he could deconstruct that horrible feeling like a puzzle, so he chipped away at it piece by piece. He was far too embarrassed to ever ask anybody about his odd attraction towards another guy, but after long thought, he rationalized it in his head as a response to their situation. Management had made it clear from day one that they weren't allowed to date girls, so, Ryohei thought, his mind had wired itself to like guys instead. It was natural, he supposed. It was dangerous and wrong, but it made sense if he thought about it that way, and, really, he didn't want to think about it in any other way.

If he had been wise to the irony of his situation, he might have been amused. Unbeknownst to him, he was surrounded by gay men, men whom he considered friends, men who could have related to his fears and helped explain their cause. These were men whom Ryohei worked with every day and whom Ryohei respected, because, unlike him, their limbs always fell into the right angles and their feet always hit the ground on time. These were men whom Ryohei looked up to as his seniors, and, had he been willing and able to break the sacred rules that governed their senior/junior social politics, these were men that he could have confided in and found a fearsome understanding with.

But Ryohei wasn't wise to the irony of his situation. He never told any of his backup dancers anything, although they could all tell something was wrong. None of them were used to this Ryohei -- this one who only laughed so loud and only smiled so wide, who didn't get that special glimmer in his eyes when his friends were nearby. They all knew Ryohei had always been shy, but this was a different thing all together.

The ones who felt the change in Ryohei most, however, were Keita and Ryuichi. Ryohei had always been the one person Keita felt most comfortable with, but now he made him feel nothing but awkward. Ryohei never sought him out anymore. He didn't happily glide into his touches either, which sounded weird but still made Keita feel a little sick inside. Ryuichi knew how he felt, watching his once best friend (because that's what he'd been, right?) move further and further away from them, closing up into himself so tightly that he felt like a bother whenever he tried to get in.

Ryohei could tell they weren't happy. He could tell they weren't happy with him. But, he figured, there was nothing he could do about it. This was the only way he knew to get himself back on track.

Keita, he thought, would thank him for this someday.

He threw himself into his work and prayed that the rest of the tour would go peacefully.

---

One of the most telltale signs that something was wrong had to be the photoshoots.

There had once been a time (not too long ago, had he cared to remember) where Keita was hanging off of Ryohei in every photo spread. He either had his arm wrapped around him or their bodies so close they were practically sharing the same space; sometimes Keita had tried to look cool in these shoots, giving his best tough-guy gaze into the camera, seemingly unknowing of how awkward it looked coming from his lanky frame, but othertimes he couldn't help it and the true Keita shined through, his toothy grin extending from ear to oddly shaped ear.

In those pictures, Ryohei had always been smiling too, the soft, shy smile he'd become known for.

Things had changed. The number of photoshoots didn't decrease -- if anything, there seemed to be more of them than ever -- but their styles changed. Keita opted for his cool pose more and more, and if he had to cling to (or "molest", as Ryuichi had once put it) someone, he clung to Ryuichi. Ryohei stood off to the side, the Other, the serious, no-nonsense leader.

Ryuichi seemed slightly bewildered but willing all the same.

Everybody close to them could see something was wrong, and Ryohei wondered if even those not close to them could tell as well; he worried about the fans noticing, but, he figured, the fans probably were probably more concerned with their clothing than their standing positions. Sometimes during the shoots, he could see Ryuichi staring at him, the look on his face surely trying to ask a question that Ryohei couldn't (or wouldn't) answer. Ryohei always chose to ignore it and retreat instead into his private world.

His insides had become the silent battle ground of a cold, civil war. He'd given Head too much power, and Heart and Soul and Body were all suffering for it. He put on a smile, however, and made himself believe that he was working towards balance. The only thing he could afford to care about was not caring at all.

---

His sister asked first.

"Ryohei?" she asked, the concern in her voice evident even over the phone. "Is everything okay? You haven't looked too happy lately in pictures lately, that's all."

His backup dancer Tomo asked next.

"You doing all right, buddy?" he asked, clapping a strong hand on his shoulder. Ryohei'd never noticed before how big it was. "You haven't seemed like yourself lately."

Ken asked third.

"Ryohei, my man, you're doing great with the new dance steps, but you seem a little uptight. You all right, man?"

Their producer asked fourth.

"Ryohei, you haven't seemed cheerful lately. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

To each of them Ryohei forced a smile and a laugh before telling them all he was okay.

He was just tired.

Touring was harder than he thought.

He was just worried about messing up on stage.

There was only one person Ryohei knew he might not be able to lie to, if push ever came to shove.

And it did.

---

When Ryohei heard the knocking on his hotel door, he had a feeling that he already knew who it was.

"Ryuichi," he said as he opened the door, greeting his bandmate with a tired smile. "What is it?"

Ryuichi stared at him for a second before answering.

"We need to talk."

Ryohei nodded, ignoring the anxious feeling creeping up his throat, and stepped to the side. "Sure, come on in."

Ryohei's room was the definition of clean; his bed was made perfecty, his sheets still unwrinkled and unbunched, and his bags were all in one place. Everything was where it should have been and nothing was filthy; even the towels from his training seemed spotless and white, although Ryuichi knew they had to be sogging wet with the other boy's sweat. He made his way into the room, sitting down on the edge of Ryohei's bed while Ryohei closed the door.

"Is it locked?" he asked.

"Why?" Ryohei asked. He clicked the lock shut and chuckled, mind slipping into its new favorite routine for dealing with Ryuichi: Keep it Light, Keep it Casual. "Are you planning on killing me or something?"

Ryuichi didn't laugh. "No," he said, "but I could."

The smile dropped from Ryohei's face. He walked over to his room's desk chair and sat down across from Ryuichi, his tone serious again. "What's up?"

This time it was Ryuichi's turn to laugh. He shook his head. "I could ask you the same," he said, looking up at Ryohei solemnly, his dark eyes fixed on Ryohei's own. Ryohei felt pinned to the spot by them. "What the hell is going on, man? Do you think you're too good for us now or something?"

Ryohei blinked. "What? No, of course not!" he exclaimed, his mind racing to find an emergency plan to deal with this situation. All it came up with was used tissue scraps and recipes for pudding. He sighed. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Ryuichi said, eyes going wide. "Christ, Ryohei, you're not that dense. What do you think I mean?"

"If I knew, Ryuichi, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" Ryohei retorted. It was, of course, a lie, because Ryohei knew exactly what Ryuichi was talking about. But he also knew that it was essential that he keep up his guise; as hard as it would be to have to lie to Ryuichi, who'd been there with him from the very start, it would be harder to try and explain. Ryohei could deal with Ryuichi hating him, but he couldn't deal with disgusting him.

He had at least enough control to avoid that, Ryohei thought.

Ryuichi sighed. The room was eerily quiet save the two of them, and Ryuichi's sigh seemed both large and empty at the same time.

"I don't know," he said, twisting one of his rings around his finger. "You just... it just feels like you're trying to keep Keita and I at arm's lengths away, and since we're usually, you know, piled one on top of the other, it just feels weird. And suspicious. And worrysome, I guess."

Ryohei gave him his best tired smile. "I've just been exhausted with work," he said. "I barely have enough energy to remember my name after practice, let alone be good conversation."

Ryuichi's stare didn't waver.

"Do you expect me to buy that?"

Ryohei sighed. He knew he'd been beat.

"No, not at all."

---

Ryohei had met Ryuichi back in dance school, when the idea of being in a famous group had seemed like nothing more than an impossible fantasy. They were complete opposites on the outside: Ryohei was quiet, reserved, and serious, perfectionistic to such a point that his face would flush with shame on every flubbed move, and Ryuichi was loud, friendly and energetic, taking every mistake with stride and laughing it all off.

Dancing had been all Ryohei'd ever wanted, but Ryuichi, as he made a point of saying at least twice a day, had been forced into it by his sister.

They shouldn't have gotten along. Ryohei'd watched him from a distance, feeling an awkward mixture of feelings like any sensitive thirteen year old would; part of him loathed the other boy, who wasn't taking his dancing seriously and who insisted on being loud, distracting, and in the spotlight at all times, but yet another part of him was intruged and even a little charmed by him. Ryuichi had a lot of the characteristics Ryohei felt he probably possessed on the inside but was too shy to really express, and Ryuichi, for all of his flailing and flubbing, was extremely confident. Ryohei felt that he had to respect that, if just a little, because while he couldn't see exactly why that sort of confidence was merited -- Ryuichi had two left feet, as far as he was concerned -- the fact that Ryuichi wore it with such carefree grace intruged him beyond belief.

They'd been paired together by one of their dance teachers who had seen a sort of natural aesthetic beauty in their combination. He'd also, as he'd whispered in Ryohei's ear, hoped that Ryohei could help clean up Ryuichi's techniques. They looked good together -- they were always around the same height, but their other characteristics played off of each other well: Ryohei was pale, Ryuchi was dark, Ryohei was small, Ryuichi was more stocky. Their personalities fit together well too; just like their names would suggest, their teacher said, Ryohei was a center of cool serenity while Ryuichi could be a blazing dragon. It was an exercize in opposites, and he'd hoped it would work.

It did.

It wasn't long before Ryohei came to see exactly why he had felt bizarrely drawn to Ryuichi the entire time: Ryuichi wasn't just charming and goofy, but he had a natural sweetness about him as well, and while Ryohei's sensitivity was directed inwards at himself, Ryuichi's was aimed outwards at everybody else. Ryuichi was extremely well put together, Ryohei had often thought, and while part of him resented it, another part (a much larger one, in all truth) appreciated and was happy for it.

Ryuichi -- Ryuichi had to be the perfect boy, Ryohei had decided once while practicing his blank stare at his high school entrance examination study guide. Ryuichi wasn't soft and quiet like he was. Ryuichi wasn't shy and overly mature. Ryuichi liked to sing loudly in public and talk excitedly about his far-off dreams. He liked splashing in mud puddles and obsessing over cars. While he didn't like soccer (his one major fault in Ryohei's eyes), he was still athletic and fun and -- this was the most important part -- kind, in such an oddly giving and selfless way that it made Ryohei feel ashamed. Sensitive, after all, was just another word for self-absorbed, and while Ryuichi definitely had his ego (Ryohei'd had to listen to one too many speeches on Ryuichi's future as the Next Great Japanese Rock Star to not realize that), he carried it in a much better and, weirdly, sweeter way than Ryohei could have ever hoped to.

Ryuichi was fire. Ryohei was ice.

Ryuichi -- for some reason, Ryohei always added in his mind -- loved Ryohei. Dearly. He was attached to him the way you'd become attached to a favorite brother, and being sweet and intuitive like Ryuichi was, he always was excited to invite Ryohei over for sleepover at his house, where they'd watch movies (one of their few shared hobbies) while Ryuichi ate candy and Ryohei relished being away from his house. They were close, Ryohei supposed, but he couldn't figure out why because they never seemed to really talk too deeply. Ryuichi didn't know any of the specifics of Ryohei's life, but he responded to the effects perfectly without knowing the causes. Ryohei appreciated that, because he always felt awkward when it came to sharing himself, but, at the same time, he always longed for someone to understand.

That had always been the way Ryohei and Ryuichi communicated. They read each other without words, and understood without overt expression. As such, there were very few things more awkward to Ryohei than having to explain something to Ryuichi, especially things about why he'd been avoiding him, and especially things that involved aspects (if they must be called that) of himself that went beyond shy and awkward and socially clumsy and went into the realm of completely and utterly freakish and scary.

Sometimes, in the rare instances where Ryuichi and Ryohei needed to have a serious talk, Ryohei could force himself to give into the dancer side of himself, which was different from the social side of himself in that the dancer wasn't afraid of hitting the ground. He'd envision himself doing a hard fall as part of a routine, and he'd pray for his words to tumble out of his mouth like his body as it arched, arched, arched and finally -- smack! -- hit the ground, cruel, honest, and real.

That night in the hotel room, Ryohei knew he had to dance.

Even if it might shatter him, he knew he had to dance.

---

"You've got to understand," Ryohei began, "that this has nothing to do with you."

"Okay," Ryuichi replied. He seemed unconvinced. "Then why are you ignoring me?"

"I'm not ig... okay, I am ignoring you, but, I swear, it's nothing personal."

"I'm not following, Chiba."

Ryohei sighed. He felt sick. "This is really hard for me, Ryuichi, so could you just let me talk for a while?"

Ryuichi blinked before nodding. He looked a little more concerned than angry, which both comforted and worried Ryohei; he was glad Ryuichi could still care, but he had a hunch that his worry was merited and that he'd only be worsening it by telling him the truth.

But he couldn't not tell him the truth. He'd tried, and he'd failed. He was incapable of actually lying to Ryuichi, and he knew that. He'd always known that. Even if he lied to him -- made up some excuse about a girl, or about his social anxiety (both of which, part of him interjected bitterly, might have been partially correct) -- he knew Ryuichi wouldn't buy it. He'd know he was lying, like he had just before, and even if he didn't call him on it then, he knew that something between them would be broken, and that Ryuichi might not ever be able to really trust him again, and that their odd but precious connection might be at least temporarily shut down, if not permanently.

He couldn't deal with that. It might happen anyway, he thought, but at least it'd happen because Ryuichi thought Ryohei was a sick pervert, which was true, and not because he thought he was a red-faced liar.

He hadn't, he thought suddenly, thought this out very well at all.

Ryuichi's eyes were still on him, and he had no more time to waste.

"I..." he began, before letting out a sigh. "There's something wrong with me."

"What is it?" Ryuichi asked quietly, leaning forward in concern. His eyes seemed bigger, their brown darker. Ryohei, in turn, felt a little sicker.

How can I..., he thought, a wave of anxious nausea washing over him before something inside of him decided to click, and he remembered.

Once it's done, it's done. You bend your knees to lessen the impact, keep your arms loose, think of your direction, aim, and fall.

"I think I'm in love with Keita," he said.

Ryuichi stared at him for a couple of seconds. Ryohei could hear the ticking of his wrist watch magnified in his ears.

And then Ryuichi laughed.

"Is that all?"

Now it was Ryohei's turn to gawk for a few seconds.

"What... what do you mean, is that all?" he asked, staring at Ryuichi as if Ryuichi'd been the one to just come out with a huge secret. His mind frantically tried to make sense of the situation and found that it couldn't.

Ryuichi chuckled again. "Well... I don't know, Ryohei. Maybe I've just known you too long or something, but I've known you had a crush on Keita since the minute we met him. You didn't hide it very well." He seemed amused. Ryohei, on the other hand, felt frantic.

"Does Keita know?" he asked hurriedly. The ground that had seemed unexpectantly soft upon impact suddenly felt like quicksand, and his nausea returned two-fold. He could stand Ryuichi knowing, but not Keita. Never Keita.

Ryuichi just laughed again. "No," he said, and Ryohei felt a wave of relief wash over him. Ryuichi continued, still amused. "Keita's dense, if you haven't noticed."

"I haven't," Ryohei admitted. "I think he's ridiculously smart."

"Do you?" Ryuichi asked, raising an eyebrow. Ryohei felt a lurch in his chest again, but this one tasted more like shame than fear. "Then, Ryohei, you probably should give him credit enough to know that he's not taking this sudden cold shoulder of yours well."

Ryohei swallowed. "I know that he's not," he said. "But..."

"But...?" Ryuichi said.

Ryohei sighed. "But it's better for him than this."

Ryuichi stared at him. "Better for him than what? Than being ignored? Than having one of his best friends act like he's sick or something whenever they're in the same room? Christ, Ryohei, I don't think Keita would give one of two shits that you're queer, and I don't think he'd give the other shit that you're queer for him. But I do know that right now, he is giving a multitude of shits that you suddenly can't stand the sight of him anymore, and, goddammit, Ryohei, there's only so much I can do for him before it's obvious all he wants is for you to come fix things."

Ryohei couldn't catch that all at once. He took a moment before responding, swallowing down the new dryness in his mouth, watching as the evening shadows played against the walls and floor, the sunset through the translucent curtains dying he and Ryuichi's skin orange.

He was so confused.

"I... I don't know what to do," Ryohei finally said, his voice as tiny as a whisper.

Ryuichi reached over and patted Ryohei's hands. There was an odd look in his eyes, but he was smiling gently, and that was all Ryohei could be concerned with at the moment. "Talk to him," he said softly. "He's not going to hate you, Ryohei."

Ryohei looked up at him. He suddenly felt as shy and insecure as he had when first meeting Ryuichi, although at least back then he'd known he had the upper hand. "Are you sure?"

Ryuichi smiled. He nodded. "I'm sure."

Ryohei closed his eyes and nodded. He wasn't so sure -- he wasn't sure in the least bit -- but he knew Ryuichi had a point, and he knew that avoiding the problem was only making other problems worse.

And, he suddenly felt, it wasn't like his own was solving itself any better.

Ryuichi stood up. "Well," he said, smiling, "I'm glad we got that out of the way. Let's not have another talk like this for a few more years, all right? You're supposed to be my issue-free friend, don't you forget that."

He was trying to get Ryohei to laugh, he knew, so Ryohei decided to give him what he wanted. He laughed. "All right," he said. "But, Ryuichi? Can I ask you one more thing?"

Ryuichi chuckled. "I suppose Ryuddha could offer you advice one more time. Hit me."

Ryohei blinked. "You did not just call yourself that."

Ryuichi looked pleased with himself. "I totally just did."

Ryohei shook his head. He couldn't help but smile. Ryuichi was an idiot, but, he supposed, that was part of the reason why he was so fond of him. He felt a little more relaxed because of it.

"Um," he said, fidgeting a bit with the side of the chair seat. "You called me... was it queer or something? What the hell does that mean?"

Ryuichi's face dropped. "You have to be shitting me."

Ryohei grimaced. "I'm afraid I'm not."

A small chuckle escaped Ryuichi's throat, and he sat back down on the bed, making (Ryohei noticed) an unnecessarily large crease in the sheets as he did.

"We have a lot more talking to do, it seems," he said. "Better make yourself comfy."

---

Ryohei had always been a mama's boy. When he was small, his mother always liked to tell people, Ryohei used to hide behind her legs, or underneath her skirts if they were long enough. He was painfully shy, and she was the sole protector of him from everything dangerous out there in the world. His father was perpetually absent, emotionally if not physically, and while he grew to rely on his sister a lot as well, everything Ryohei ever did was motivated by or for his mother.

He loved her. He loved her in such a powerful way that he couldn't stand the thought of letting her down. He knew she adored him, so he tried his hardest to be adorable even when he least felt like it; sometimes, he felt, he was even playing himself rather than being himself around her, because he knew -- he knew, he knew, he knew -- that she loved having fights about eggplant with him, and that she loved when he complained that he was cold, because then she could be his wonderful and loving mother and supply him with blankets.

Ryohei rarely thought about this, but he always figured he was okay with it when he did, because, after all, his mother had done so much for him, and he loved her so very much.

His sister and his mother fought a lot. His sister was strong-willed and intelligent, two things she often accused their mother of not appreciating, and their mother would always retort that she didn't care if his sister had her own opinions and thoughts, but family came first and her skirts were too short. The only time in his life that Ryohei had felt his mother had been unfair was when he walked in on his sister crying because their mother had forbid her to take an opportunity to go to college down south in Honshuu. But, Ryohei thought, his mother must have had good reason for it. His mother was good-intentioned.

He loved his mother.

His mother had always screened the manga and books that he read, to make sure they didn't have any sort of "inappropriateness" in them -- things, Ryohei figured, like drugs or sex or constant cussing. He didn't mind this, because, he found, he wasn't drawn to any of those things himself. The large-breasted women on the covers of the manga the businessmen read in the train made him more uncomfortable than aroused, and he was too fond of the functional nature of his body to ever have any sort of interest in drugs or alcohol. When he expressed interest in dancing, his mother had first been reserved about the idea, because, she said, she didn't want him becoming one of "those people." Ryohei had assured her that he wouldn't; he had no plans to become famous, and, even if he did, he wouldn't become one of those stuck-up rock stars that his mother always made derisive noises at on the TV. He would always remember where he came from. He promised her that.

That, and that he would never pierce his ears.

His mother seemed assuaged by this.

Ryohei's mother had never liked Ryuichi. Ryuichi represented nearly everything she wanted to protect her son from; Ryuichi was overly charming, with a very forceful personality, and he was loud, and sometimes inconsiderate, and occasionally selfish, and she knew that when there were no parents around, Ryuichi had to swear like a busted up sailor. Ryohei's mother preferred that Ryohei keep company with more quiet, subdued friends, people more like himself, but Ryohei and Ryuichi got along so well that she couldn't bear to tear them apart. Besides, she could see, Ryuichi really did care about her son, and, she figured, even if he himself was on the wrong path, he would still try to protect her baby boy, as best as he could.

So, had she heard the conversation Ryohei and Ryuichi were having then, she would have had a heart attack. She had tried her hardest to shield him and to protect him from these things, but there Ryuichi went, like in her worst fears, filling Ryohei's head with thoughts and ideas that young boys should never be exposed to. And there sat Ryohei, on his chair, hanging on to every word, and even -- God help him -- asking questions of his own, interacting and participating with all those ideas.

It would have been enough to make her cry.

Ryohei, for his part, had silently apologized to her in his heart before going on with he and Ryuichi's conversation.

But then, leaving her and her countenance to the back of his mind for the first time in his life, on he went.

---

Sleep came difficultly that night.

Ryohei wasn't sure how to feel or what to think. This was become more and more common for him, he figured quietly, rolling over on his bed and grasping his pillow tight. The conversation he and Ryuichi had just had echoed throughout his mind, and part of him wanted to dive into it again, rolling around in its ideas like a dog in a clover patch, trying them on for size, to mix metaphors, and seeing how they fit, while another part of him thought he was already in it too deep and the proper thing to do would have been to back away.

But he found he couldn't. Everything Ryuichi had said had been like somebody reading off of the cue card of his mind, except Ryuichi exchanged Ryohei's fear and disgust with compassion and gentle authority, two things Ryohei had always respected. Some guys like guys, Ryuichi had said. And some girls like girls. Hasn't anime taught you at least that much?

Not what my mother let me watch, he'd said.

Oh.

But some guys like guys, Ryuichi had told him, and, he'd insisted, that was natural. A lot of his friends, he'd said, were guy-liking-guys (he'd called himself a "fag magnet" before getting a guilty look on his face and taking it back; Ryohei, for his part, hadn't known enough to be offended), and while he himself wasn't a guy-liking-guy, he certainly had nothing against it. Besides, he'd joked, the more good-looking guys were gay (that was the word he liked to use), the more girls there were left for him.

He'd laughed.

The opposite of gay, Ryuichi had explained, was straight, which was what Ryuichi Ogata was, Ryohei's mother was, Ryohei's sister was (unfortunately, Ryuichi had added), the Prime Minister was, and, potentially, one member of SMAP was, although he couldn't decide who. In-between gay and straight there was something called bi, which a few of Ryuichi's friends had claimed to be, but, he insisted, they all really had to just be gay.

Gay was fine, all right, acceptable, normal, and, Ryuichi said, all-the-fuck-around-them in the world they called the music business. If Ryohei just opened up his eyes, he'd be able to see it everywhere, Ryuichi said.

And... it was true, Ryohei thought. So many times he caught his backup dancers sitting too close, or kissing each other in what he thought was just a playful manner, or holding hands underneath tables when they thought nobody was looking; he was sure if he thought back hard enough, he could find a thousand concrete examples of things that went past platonic and went into the realm of romantic, but, he figured, dealing with himself was probably enough work for the moment.

A lot of people, Ryuichi explained, didn't think it was all right to be gay, but that was because they hadn't been exposed enough to it as an idea or had always been brought up thinking differently. Ryohei's mother, for example, probably was brought up with the strong idea that guys and girls went together, and that family was more important than love. Ryohei wasn't sure how he felt about the second half of Ryuichi's assessment, but, he also thought, it did have a bit of truth in it. Other guys, Ryuichi said, found gayness to be offensive because they themselves had fears about being gay. He himself, Ryuichi said, wasn't like that. He himself, Ryuichi said, embraced the gay. He just had none of his own to offer.

I like titties too much, he'd explained.

Ryohei lied in bed, mulling all of this over. Ryuichi had said it was all right. He hadn't been disgusted or even slightly weirded out; quite the contrary, he'd seemed expectant, even underwhelmed, and any shock he might have had had been directed at Ryohei's own ignorance.

It had been an hour or so into the conversation when Ryohei couldn't resist asking any longer.

Is Keita gay?

Ryuichi had smiled in amusement. He wasn't sure if Keita was gay, he'd said, but there was something definitely not-straight about him, and if he was straight, he was the queerest acting straight guy he knew. He'd mentally shuffled Keita under the "at least bi" category, although, he admitted, the idea of Keita being a sexual being made him feel a little uncomfortable, like the way questions involving small rodents on purity tests did.

Ryohei figured it was better not to ask.

It was a lot to take in all at once. Had he not trusted Ryuichi completely, he might have worried that he was just playing a cruel joke on him, and that these things that Ryuichi was telling him were nothing but lies he pulled out of thin air to see how he'd react. Part of him couldn't believe that he'd been so immensely ignorant, but, as he thought about it more and more, perhaps it made sense. It wasn't like they talked about this sort of stuff at school, and his friends had always been extremely normal people, almost isolatingly so. While his dance friends (all queer, Ryuichi said. All queer, save for him.) were pretty flamboyant, he'd always figured that was more artistry than self-expression. And if his mother hadn't wanted him to be exposed to it... well, it wasn't very hard to keep it away.

We're Japanese, Ryuichi had said. It sounds like it's getting a little better now, according to some of my older buds, but ever since it went out of style with the samurai, homosexuality's one of those deviant things we don't talk about. You know. Like rock music.

Ryohei still wasn't sure that he was gay, though. He couldn't remember ever having any sort of interest in any girls or their bodies (then again, he reasoned, his mother had tried to keep him from that as well), but, at the same time, Keita was the first guy who ever caught his eye too. How could he not, though? Keita was always so cute, and so endearing, and so... so heartbreakingly real, and Ryohei found himself feeling the way he always felt before he became terrified of the feeling, wanting nothing more than to keep and protect Keita from things the way he himself had been protected, although, he also thought, it was different in that he wanted to protect Keita from anything that would rob him of himself, instead of, he figured, the opposite that had been done to him.

It was all very confusing.

He'd been so lonely the past weeks without Keita. He'd been lonely without Ryuichi too, but Keita was a special sort of ache, a sort of constant craving that he couldn't satiate, no matter how he tried to fill himself up with other things. He missed Keita. He missed Keita badly. He missed his smile and his laugh and his special brand of bashfulness, and he missed how his feet fidgeted against each other when he was nervous, and he missed his jokes and his warmth and his endless supply of opinions. He missed him so much that he suddenly, violently felt his heart broken inside of him, and part of him wondered if it wasn't disgust that had made him run, but fear of being rejected, because, as odd and bizarre as his attraction might have felt, it also felt, in a deep, powerful sort of way, completely right.

It had always felt completely right.

I love Keita, Ryohei said to himself, tangled underneath his covers, arms grasping his pillow tight. I love Keita completely.

He felt the earth shifting underneath him. He felt incompletely complete. He felt fear and wonder and joy and heart-wrenching sorrow all in one, their colors mixing into a pale tint that colored his world. He suddenly understood everything he didn't understand, and he embraced the feeling, because it was painful and lonesome and absolutely terrifying, but it was also the truth, and, he mused, it was actually a little beautiful.

He was in love with Keita. He was so in love with Keita that his loneliness threatened to shatter him, more than anything he feared ever could, more even than the potential rejection. He clung onto his pillow harder, determined to keep control of himself but at the same time let himself feel. It was terrifying. But as he remembered all sorts of things he had forced out of his mind -- the way Keita used to smile at him so quietly when they shared his old bed, the tiny touches he used to give his arm before collapsing in their hotel room from exhaustion, the ability Keita had to make him feel like he was the only person in the entire world that mattered at the moment with just the slightest of looks -- he felt more and more assured that this feeling -- be it gay, be it queer, be it odd or one-sided or perpetually unrequited -- was, in the end, the truth.

His truth.

You should tell him, Ryuichi had said. Ryohei wasn't so sure. In fact, Ryohei was the complete opposite of sure. Ryohei was actually pretty certain that the worst thing he could do would be to tell Keita. But, as he thought, and as he remembered, and as he felt... he came to slowly realize that perhaps there wasn't any other way. Because to deny his feeling any longer and to pretend that it didn't exist, to act as if it had been cancelled out, like he had been, would mean the destruction of their friendship, because they both couldn't go on much longer the way that they were. And there were only two possible things he could do -- he could pretend to not feel it, as he had been, and let them break, or he could feel it, feel all of it, and give that feeling a chance, as scary as it was. He might be rejected. He might be alone. He might -- although Ryuichi did not see this as a viable outcome -- lose Keita forever. But, he thought, he'd rather lose him in an attempt to save the beautiful thing that they had than lose him by slowly destroying it.

He knew what he had to do.

He closed his eyes, grasped his pillow, and tried to force himself to sleep.

He knew what he had to do.

He had to tell Keita, tomorrow.

But tomorrow... no. Tomorrow wouldn't do. He might lose his nerve by tomorrow, he thought suddenly, or he might dissuade himself of this feeling, as he had been doing for weeks. No. Ryohei pushed his pillow away suddenly, pulling his legs stubbornly out of his sheets and pushing himself up into sitting position.

It was absolutely ridiculous, but he had to tell him right then. Tomorrow would be too late.

He pulled his slippers on and rushed over to his suitcase, throwing the first t-shirt he found on over his head. It couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed his hotel room key and marched briskly out of his room, closing the door behind him and pacing his way quickly to Keita's room.

He didn't hesistate one second to think before knocking.

---

The last person, Ryohei knew, Keita had expected to see at his door was him.

"Ryohei?" Keita said, blinking. He'd obviously just been trying to sleep. His hair was mussed up. "What..?"

"Keita," Ryohei said quickly, trying to ignore his heart thumping in his chest. "We need to talk."

Keita stared at him for a brief moment before nodding, opening the door to let Ryohei in and closing it behind him. He sat down on his bed and pulled out the chair from underneath his desk, twirling it to face him before patting it significantly, looking up at Ryohei with a look of mixed curiousity, fear, and miserable resentment.

"Okay," he said. "Sit down. Start talking."

[END OF PART TWO]

[w-inds.] to dance 1/unfinished

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 04:44:23 GMT

Title: to dance
Author: Ri-chan
Part: 1/unfinished
Word Count: 7,196 words
Notes: Original Link

to dance [Part One]

The thing about being a dancer, Ryohei Chiba learned early on, was that you had to have a knack for being both in tune and out of tune with the world at the same time. You had to be able to lose yourself to the music but still have enough of a hold on yourself to perform the precise dance moves properly; without that balance, your dance was either too stiff or too loose, and neither extreme was good.

Ryohei was a dancer. It was in his blood. It had been in his blood since the moment he'd seen other people dance, their bodies bending and twisting and turning in ways on his television set to the heavy bass-laden music that could only be described as cool. He'd been young, a few steps into the double digits of his life, and he couldn't tear his eyes away; there seemed to be a magic in dancing, something like the enchanting spells his characters in his favorite video games liked to cast, and the instant he recognized it, something deep within himself awakened. He put his soccer shoes away the very next day.

He was a dancer.

He was a dancer, and he was a good dancer, and he knew the rules of the game. He knew the inherent split. He knew to when to watch himself, and he knew when to let himself go.

---

Auditioning had really been all his idea. He'd dragged Ryuichi into it because he didn't want to do it alone, and because he knew and trusted the other boy in a way he'd never been able to know or trust his other classmates. Ryuichi wasn't a dancer; he could dance, but it wasn't his soul's one passion, so therefore he was able to keep himself warm. There was no real split with him. That was a line he wasn't willing to cross. Ryuichi was a musician, and hence he was all about losing himself, be it in a song, a person, a feeling, a book, whatever. He saw no need to hold back.

And as such, he loved Ryohei, and he'd go along.

Ryohei wasn't sure why he wanted to audition so badly. He saw it as a way out of the routine life that he was prescribed from birth as a middle class Japanese male. He had no interest in becoming a business man. He had no interest in meeting clients and bargaining out deals and selling his soul from the day he left college until the day he died. He once resolved, quietly, in the melodramatic manner fifteen year old boys can resolve such things, that he'd rather starve than face a life of such painful mediocrity. There was something appealing about dying a starving artist to him, but, he had to admit, there was something even more appealing about living as a non-starving artist, so therefore he had to give it a chance.

They were good. They were good, and they were cute, and Ryuichi charmed the judges with his infinite energy and happiness, and Ryohei remembered to smile wide. His only worry had been whether or not he'd accidentally gotten some of his lip gloss on his teeth. From the second they'd hit the stage, he knew exactly what to do. He wasn't afraid. This was right. This was right.

He could follow that beat.

---

"So," one of the many men they'd come to refer to as their manager said happily, "we have the beautiful beginnings of the new generation of Japanese hip-hop right here." He clasped Ryohei and Ryuichi hard on the shoulders; Ryuichi winced, but Ryohei just smiled. He could do this. He knew how to play the game.

"Where's the other kid?" Ryuichi asked. It was 2000, and they were supposed to be meeting their new bandmate (and friend, they'd been told over and over. Their new friend.) that day to begin practices. They were both anxious for different reasons. Ryuichi liked to meet new people and hoped this sudden third entry would like him. Ryohei just hoped he didn't suck.

Their manager laughed, hitting him on the shoulder again in what he must have thought was an affectionate manner. Ryuichi grit his teeth. "He'll be here shortly! It's a long way from Fukuoka, you know!"

"What's his name again?" Ryohei asked politely. He knew the name, of course, but he had a feeling these sorts of men liked to talk a lot. He was probably very right.

"Keita Tachibana," their manager said with a smile, chuckling to himself. "He's got the voice of an angel, and a very convincing mother. You'll like him, I'm sure of it." He laughed again, but Ryohei nodded, hearing the implicit or else underneath the words.

"Tachibana," Ryuichi said, laughing. "Tachibanana!"

"Look, here he comes now!" their manager said, lifting his hand from a grateful Ryuichi's shoulder to wave at a bus coming in. Ryuichi stood up straighter, smoothing his hair back nervously. Ryohei watched the bus come in impassively.

He'd better be good.

The bus rolled to a stop in front of them, body sagging as the engine was turned off and it was able to release its tired breath. The manager smiled, walking to the door and gesturing at the bus driver, who nodded, apparently knowing the rules of the game just as well as Ryohei (just let 'em talk, just let 'em talk) before opening the door.

A few seconds later, Keita Tachibana peeked out.

---

The thing about dancing, right, is that you have to be able to feel the music enough to give your dance heart without feeling the music so much that your dance becomes sloppy. There has to be a sort of quiet unity between heart, body, mind and soul in order for it to work; there probably also has to be a sort of quiet distrust between them too, because one absolutely cannot permit another part to take its place.

Keita Tachibana threatened this quiet balance the second he peeked his head out of the door.

For a second, Ryohei forgot to breathe.

---

"Keita!" their manager said happily, opening his arms in a gesture of greeting. "It's so good to see you!"

Keita merely smiled in response. He was shy, awkward. He didn't seem to fit right in his body and he knew it. His headphones were too large for his head, but so was his nose and there wasn't anything anybody could do about it. He fumbled his way down the bus stairs, carrying his bags with slender, lanky arms.

There was nothing even remotely graceful about him.

He was the cutest thing Ryohei had ever seen.

Ryuichi must have thought the same thing too (Ryohei wasn't sure why he assumed that, but it ended up being true in the end anyway), because he grinned wide, bouncing on the balls of his feet, anxious to introduce himself. Ryohei waited until he caught Keita's eye, then smiled. He was polite. He was low key. He was Japanese. Keita gave him a small, shy smile back. He felt his pulse quicken. He had no idea what was wrong with him.

"Boys!" his manager cried happily. "This is your new bandmate

(and friend, Ryohei thought. And friend.)

Keita! Keita, these are your new bandmates

(and friends, can't forget the friends, nothing sells like friends)

Ryohei and Ryuichi." He smiled at all of them. "Now, I'll let you all get acquainted before we begin the real practices, all right?"

Keita nodded quietly, and the manager grinned, clasping him on the shoulder (Ryuichi watched for any sign of flinch, and then let out a happy breath when he saw one; obviously they were meant to be the best of friends, with so much in common!) before leaving them to make some calls. Keita waited until he was gone before looking up and smiling a bit sheepishly, tugging his earphones down around his neck.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the voice fit the body so well Ryohei was almost shocked. "I'm awful with names -- which one of you is..?"

"I'm Ryuichi," Ryuichi said quickly, taking and shaking Keita's limp, unready hand with a grin. Ryohei wondered if Ryuichi'd always wanted an excuse to shake somebody's hand like people always did in the movies they watched together. Keita laughed, obviously caught off guard, but nodding politely in response before turning to Ryohei.

"So you're..."

Mind said I hope he can dance.

Body said I feel weird.

"I'm Ryohei," Ryohei said with a smile. Keita responded with one of his own, so bright and perfect that it nearly threw Ryohei off. He could tell why they'd picked this kid now.

Heart said I'm glad they did.

---

Keita couldn't dance.

When it came down to it, really, Ryuichi couldn't dance either. Ryohei could dance, although some of the routines were more difficult than he was used to, but that was fine to him. He found himself helping the other two with their trouble spots, which naturally made him the band leader.

"I'm sorry," Keita said for the ten thousandth time as he stumbled over his awkwardly sized feet. "I'm really no good, I have no idea why they chose me."

Because you're cute, Ryohei thought, but he smiled. "It's fine," he said, helping Keita up. "This stuff is hard. Do you have any formal dance training?"

"None," Keita said with a small moan. "I didn't even want to be a singer, it was all Mom's idea."

"Really?" Ryohei said, genuinely interested. He suddenly felt a little sorry for the other boy who was so obviously in over his head. He noticed he was still holding onto Keita's arm. He dropped it immediately, wondering why his cheeks felt warm.

"Yeah," Keita said, chewing on his bottom lip. He was cute, Ryohei thought again, not knowing why his brain felt the need to repeat that thought over and over as if it was anything important or significant. So, he was cute. So what? He was cute himself too, or they wouldn't have picked him, and Ryuichi was nothing if not cute. There was nothing particularly special about Keita's brand of cuteness.

But he's so cute.

"What did you want to do, then?" Ryohei asked, telling his brain to shut up. He was good at doing this. He'd never had to do it so much before, but he figured it was stress. He could master himself, or he'd die trying. "And maybe you should stretch your calves, they're probably feeling tight now."

"A bit," Keita admitted, laughing a little. He bent to the side, stretching his skinny legs out, ring-adorned fingers rubbing circles into his taut muscle. "I wanted to be a soccer player, actually," he said after a second, switching sides. "I'd never danced or sung a day before in my life."

Ryohei blinked. "You play soccer?"

Keita looked up at him. His eyes were so big. "Yeah," he said. "Why?"

Ryohei laughed. He had no idea why he felt so happy. Maybe he was tired. "I love soccer," he said. "I wanted to be a soccer player too, before I got into dancing."

Keita's face lit up. "Really?" he squeaked excitedly, jumping up on his feet. "Are you any good? Can we play sometime?"

Ryohei couldn't help laughing. Keita's cheerfulness was infectious.

"I'm damn good," he said, grinning. Keita grinned back, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. Ryohei smiled. He could use this.

"Get this dance down," he said slyly, "and we can play all day tomorrow, all right?"

Keita laughed. "You're on," he said, pushing his long bangs out of his face. "Just be prepared to lose."

---

Mom, I mean it.

I'm prepared to lose anything if that means I can dance.

Dancing is all my heart wants to do.

I can't do anything else.

I'm willing to take that chance.

---

Within months, the three of them lived together in what was generally called the "w-inds. house" but what the three of them liked to affectionately call their "little slice of ghetto". They figured they had it good, having their own place and all expenses paid by the age of sixteen, but that didn't mean that the place wasn't cramped and uncomfortable, a last ditch sort of discovery if they'd ever seen one.

"Our furniture doesn't even match," Keita had moaned.

But still, it was nice. Outside of work, the three of them had their own lives, but they still spent time together eating meals and watching television. Keita and Ryohei especially liked to watch soccer matches together, and it was just a matter of time before the naturally affectionate Tachibana unknowingly coaxed the shy Chiba out of his shell, leaving the two of them curled up on top of each other on the couch, screaming obscenities at the TV screen.

"Asshole!" Keita said, grabbing a handful of the plain popcorn they'd made (plain popcorn being one of the only safe foods he knew for Ryohei's irritatingly picky tongue) and throwing it at the television. "He should have totally had that! That was an illegal block!"

"Oi, Keita!" Ryohei said, pulling the bag in close to his chest. "Be careful with our dinner or I'll make you eat it off the floor!"

"I'm so mad!" Keita whined. "And what do you mean, our dinner? I have a can of tomato soup in there just waiting for me to eat it!"

"Ew, tomato."

"Ew, tomato," Keita teased, rolling his eyes and lightly hitting the other boy on the arm. "You're impossible to please, Ryohei."

"It's just gross," Ryohei murmurred, blushing. He wasn't impossible to please. If Keita would put his arm around him again, in fact, he'd be quite content. "Now, look, there's the replay, he obviously was well within his rights to block him. Will you stop wasting my precious food now?"

"No," Keita said, hand grabbing for more popcorn. "Maybe if I take it all away from you, you'll be forced to eat like a normal human being."

"Or maybe I'll be reduced to eating from the floor," Ryohei said, clinging the bag to his chest tightly, protecting it from Keita's prying hands.

"I'd pay good money to see that," Ryuichi said as he walked in, his guitar over his shoulder. He must have just had a jam session, Ryohei thought, suddenly becoming self-conscious of his position, sprawled against Keita like... like something. If Ryuichi noticed, he didn't seem to care, walking over and picking up a piece of Keita's tossed popcorn from the ground, examining it for fuzz before shrugging and popping it into his mouth.

---

Dancing is a lonesome occupation. When you dance, unless you're into partnered dance, you're really by yourself; even if you're dancing with somebody, really, in the end it's your own two feet two legs two knees two thighs you have to rely on.

Ryohei was used to being alone.

He didn't like this new feeling of lonely, though.

---

"You're like a weed," Ryohei said, laughing, as he moved over a few inches more on his bed. Keita had been growing taller, everybody had noted, but nobody really knew the extent of it better than Ryohei and the lanky boy now pouting as he tried to find a comfortable position.

"Shut up," Keita whined, bending his knees slightly to fit his feet on the mattress, frowning as he noticed how much space he took up. "This is no good."

"It's fine," Ryohei said, leaning back against his pillow. This had become their evening routine more and more as the tour drew closer and closer; Keita couldn't sleep by himself if he was nervous ("I think too much," he had said.) and frankly, Ryohei didn't mind the company. He had a knack for getting cold. Keita kept the bed warm.

Keita laughed. "You sure? I could go bother Ryuichi and leave you alone for once. You must be getting sick of sharing your space with me." He was smiling, but Ryohei could see past that; he knew that face well. It was one of his favorites.

"If you were in my way, Keita," he said, rolling over and facing the side of the other boy's head, (his ill-advised perm was starting to relax. He's so cute.) "I'd make a bed for you on the floor. I'd never subject you to swimming through Ryuichi's room. You'd never make it to his bed. Some gym sock would eat you alive halfway there, and neither of us can sing to save our lives." He laughed, rolling back over on his back. "So, really, it's in my best interest to keep you here, you see?"

Keita laughed. The faint hairs on Ryohei's neck stood up. He loved that sound. He had no idea what was wrong with him. "You're awful," Keita said, rolling over awkwardly and facing Ryohei. Ryohei could see him out of the corner of his eye. He was smiling. His cheeks were a little red. Ryohei almost rolled his eyes at himself.

He's so cute.

"I am," Ryohei agreed, turning over and facing the other boy again. He was laughing too. "I'm the most awful person in the universe. You really ought to get away while you still can."

Keita grinned. Something about the situation made Ryohei's heart race; they were too close, he decided, too close, and Keita was... Keita was too, too, too something, he wasn't sure what, but it was excessive, and it wasn't fair to him, because he was so cute and he was right there, less than a foot away, the streetlights from outside his window creating perfect shadows on his face. And it wasn't fair, because Ryohei had no idea what was going on, and he didn't like that.

"I think," Keita said happily, leaning further into his pillow and looking up at Ryohei with the one exposed eye (he's so damn cute), "I'll take my chances."

Ryohei hoped the darkness of the room hid his reddening cheeks. He tried to smile casually. He was the cool one, afterall. He was the dancer. "Okay," he said, laughing despite himself as he went on. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

---

They'd started rooming together one night when Keita couldn't sleep. He'd been caught on the edge of a nightmare, he explained, and he knew himself well enough to know he'd be awake like a baby all night unless he had company. Ryohei didn't know if this was true or not, but he'd budged over anyway, since Keita didn't mean any harm and he didn't mind the company.

They kept it up, however, long after the nightmares had been chased away. It was like a never ending slumber party, although Ryohei would have had no idea what that term meant had he heard it. Keita would come in every few nights and they'd stay up til one or two in the morning just talking to each other about whatever was on their minds at the time. Sometimes it was that day's practice. Other times, it was their vague sense of disbelief at having seen themselves in a magazine or on television that day. And other times it was soccer, family, friends, girls, whatever they wanted to talk about.

Ryohei'd never had a best friend before, but he figured it must have been something like this.

Ryohei mostly just liked to listen to Keita talk. Keita had opinions on everything, and if he didn't have one when you asked, he could make one up on the spot. It was

cute

endearing, and often times funny, especially when Keita recognized himself doing it and pulled away from his passionate diatribe like a bashful kid getting caught stealing from the cookie jar. Ryohei never thought any worse of Keita for it. If anything, he liked him more.

They were close, Ryohei realized once as he watched Keita sleep. He'd had other friends before, but this was somewhat different. Even Ryuichi, who'd been his friend for years, wasn't like this; it wasn't necessarily a better thing, whatever he and Keita had going, but it was certainly different, and Ryohei could also recognize that it was a little bit dangerous, but, as was the nature of the thing, he couldn't really bring himself to care.

---

Ryuichi'd been the first to notice.

"You know," he said once, looking over some of their recent photo shoots with Ryohei (this was one of Ryuichi's favorite hobbies; Ryohei figured the thrill of being in print would never wear off to him), "have you ever noticed how 'strike a pose' means 'molest the people closest to you' to Keita?"

Ryohei gawked. He figured he ought to have been used to hearing Ryuichi talk like that by now, but it still threw him off every time. I'm such a girl, he moaned on the inside, fixing his face into an even more casual expression to try and mask himself with the masculine coolness he was clearly lacking. "What do you mean?" he said, looking down at the pictures of the three of them and seeing immediately what Ryuichi meant. "Oh. Well. That's Keita, isn't it?" He laughed, shaking his head a little in what he hoped looked like an affectionate, if not slightly exasperated manner. "He's always like that."

Ryuichi watched him for a second before laughing too, looking down at the photographs again. "Yeah," he said, nodding, "You're right. That's just Keita. He's a touchy-feely mofo, ain't he?"

His mom never hugged him a lot growing up. "He is," Ryohei agreed, trying to keep his face straight. His dad thought it was better for men to grow up alone. From the pages, Keita beamed up at him, that impossibly big grin lighting up the entire frame in every picture it was in. Ryohei found it hard not to smile back. "I don't know," he said before he could stop himself. "It's kinda cute."

Ryuichi looked up at him again, dark eyes taking in the other boy's features as they looked down at the pictures, from the invisible sparkle in Ryohei's eyes that only he would notice to the subtle curve of his lips and the soft pink of his cheeks. Things suddenly made sense to him, like a song needing just one extra chord in order to have coherency, and he nodded, smiling, returning his gaze to the photographs.

"Yeah," he said, agreeing. "It is."

---

"So, Ryohei?"

"What?"

"...what kind of girl do you like, anyway?"

"...you sound like an interviewer for JUNON. Do you want me to give you my May answer or my June answer? I can even give you a sneak peak at November, if you'd like."

"No! I'm serious! What's your dream girlfriend like?"

"...I've never really thought about that."

"...yeah, me either."

---

Time passed.

Ryuichi and Keita got better at dancing. Ryohei was happy for this, although he was also happy (although he'd never admit it) that neither of them surpassed him; he couldn't sing all that well, and as Ryuichi became increasingly handsome (how many of the signs at their first real concerts of their first real tour had been for him?) and as Keita too seemed to suddenly mature, Ryohei wanted to make sure that he still had a role in the band that neither could fill.

This went so against his upbringing that it almost amazed him, but, he figured, such is show business.

He wasn't ready to stop dancing yet.

He wasn't ready to leave them yet.

Touring was exhausting, tiring, maddening, but it was also fun, and Ryohei found himself caught up in the energy. He liked all of his backup dancers (his backup dancers; it astonished him sometimes, when he thought about it -- scrawny little seventeen year old Ryohei Chiba with his own older, more experienced backup dancers!) a lot, and he liked listening to them talk, because they were from a world he didn't belong to, not quite yet, but one he longed to someday see.

Ryuichi was a natural tourer (if there was such a word -- if there wasn't, he created it by just the truth of his existence), loving every part of it. Ryohei could tell sometimes that he wanted to break away from the choreography and do his own thing, but he tried his hardest to keep himself pulled together. He was a good boy, Ryuichi, even if it pained him. Keita, despite his early nerves, also ended up being a natural on stage; he was cute, he was charming, he had a smile that seemed to shine brighter than the stage lights. He loved the energy, often getting caught up in it and ending up a mess of giggles and delight after the shows, clinging onto whomever was closest by until (or even after -- Keita was Keita, after all) the rush passed.

Ryohei always made sure to keep close.

By that time, they'd come out with a handful of singles and an album. Recording was Ryohei's least favorite part of the job so far, but he endured it with patience, understanding that it was the key to being able to do what he most wanted to do, which was dance. He and Ryuichi had begun learning how to rap, although their lessons mostly consisted on being told over and over to "enunciate clearly" the mostly absurd words in their sections.

Keita, for his part, watched over the lyric writing with a curious eye, trying his hardest to influence things one way or another. Ryohei had laughed when the band had met Shungo for the first time, not because there was anything inherently humorous about the friendly guy, but because Keita's eyes had widened and he had latched onto him almost immediately, seeing perhaps a chance to finally have somebody consistantly write songs that he wanted to sing.

Ryohei loved all of Keita's singing parts. He loved his voice, and while it wasn't the angelic one their first manager had claimed, Ryohei liked it better for its earthly, human quality. He also loved their lyrics, even when Keita didn't; he found them easy to relate to, although he wasn't sure why, and there were times he'd listen to Keita and suddenly want to cry, an urge that had been overcoming him more and more lately.

"Puberty," his mother had said expertly, and he'd thanked her then before she could say another word, having heard more than he wanted to.

He was getting soft. He couldn't help it. There was a feeling that seemed to have permeated him, a gentle, happy sort of feeling, and he felt that his emotions came faster and struck deeper. It had to be a good thing, he decided, ignoring his mind's cries to the contrary (what about the balance, Ryohei? Did you forget about the balance?) and letting it settle over him like a warm spring day.

He was in love.

He didn't actually let those words form in his mind (he had some control left, after all) but the lack of self-confession didn't make it any less true. He went through his days in a bright, gentle haze, knowing that there was something on the edge of his heart that was driving him on but not knowing what or why. He couldn't stop smiling, laughing, crying, feeling. Everything seemed more defined. He'd never felt more connected in his life.

Even had he known he was in love, he wouldn't have known with whom. Ryohei Chiba wasn't stupid, but his vocabulary didn't include the word gay, which left him with a brain that could only comprehend romantic love as something between a man and a woman, and while he was quite fond of some of the women they travelled with (he had one makeup artist in particular whom he especially loved; she reminded him of his mother, although a little more reserved), he certainly wasn't in love with any of them.

All he knew was that the days seemed lighter and the world seemed clearer, and he wouldn't have traded nor changed a single thing.

"This is the life," he said after one particularly fine concert to one of his fellow dancers. He stretched his arms, working out the various kinks they'd collected throughout the day before putting them behind his head, smiling up at the ceiling in the way one might gaze up at a breathtakingly blue sky. "I'm happy to be alive."

The dancer laughed. He wasn't always one of their stage dancers, preferring to help out backstage and only come on in case of injury (which, thankfully, hadn't happened yet), but Ryohei had liked him immediately for the air of quiet confidence and faith he gave off. His name was something boring like Tomohiro, but Ryohei preferred to call him Tomo, so Tomo it was. "Well, that's good," he said cheerfully, patting Ryohei on the back. "You don't have much choice in that matter, so you might as well enjoy it."

Ryohei laughed. His feet felt so light. He found himself biting down the urge to spin. "This is it, you know?" he said, aware all the while of how naive and young he must have sounded to his older and more experienced friend, but not really caring. "Good job, good friends, good life! Who can ask for more?"

Tomo laughed. He knew. All of the dancers knew, really; they'd known the second they'd met him, somehow timid yet confident at the same time, brown eyes blazing with a semi-controlled passion and an eagerness most of them hadn't seen in a long time. And those who'd doubted knew for sure the moment they watched the three of them interact together; Ryohei was a boy (a boy, still, not a man) of two loves, although he'd only claim one.

It took a dancer's perception to see it, sometimes. Ryohei was good at fooling people. He was an expert at his own face, knowing exactly how to control his expression and swallow things down; he possessed a young version of selfless mastery necessary to truly grow and advance as a dancer, although it still had its holes. Ken had noticed it first, pointing it out to the other skeptics in turn -- did they see how his eyes darted? how his hand instinctively inched over to brush his arm? Did they see the tiny lapse of breath when Keita opened his mouth? Did they see it?

They saw it; they all came around to seeing it in the end, and, as some of them found ironic, it seemed the only person in their dancing circle who didn't see it was Ryohei himself. Most of them found it cute. They all recognized its danger, but idol bands weren't built to last long. Let him have his fun, they said.

So when Ryohei rhetorically asked "who could ask for more?", Tomo had to laugh, because he knew Ryohei probably could. But he also knew that it was best that Ryohei not realize that, so he put on his best grin, letting out a hearty chuckle and a warm "amen!"

What Ryohei didn't know couldn't hurt him.

---

It wasn't that simple.

If touring was just touring, then that would have been one thing, but touring is never just that. Touring is part of a package, a deal of sorts, and mixed in with the concerts and practices and shady hotel rooms were countless photo shoots, magazine interviews, radio shows, television appearences. They weren't well trained, so they spent most of the time on air staring blankly into the cameras, nudging each other with their arms and their eyes to try and prompt somebody into brilliance.

Keita laughed a lot.

They learned.

They were left with a paradoxical simultaneous ton of time spent together and lack of time spent together. They were usually joined at the hip as they were herded from place to place, but it was business, and while they answered the questions asked to them and laughed in the right places and tried hard not to blink so much under the blinding lights, they found themselves with no time to actually spend together, talking and touching and acting without predetermined pretense.

They learned.

Keita especially hated it, finding it difficult to stop himself from acting in the ways that felt most natural (and, perhaps, necessary) to him. He had a special way of looking even more awkward on screen than he did in real life, which, as he always moaned, poking at his thin arms and his lengthening frame, was quite a feat. He always apologized to the other two for inevitably ruining their careers, since between his singing (which he felt was terrible, but only him) and his overall pop-star performance (which probably was terrible, by pop standards), w-inds. wasn't poised to last more than one album.

Ryohei wished he had more time to soothe Keita's fears, but there was no time. Life was a constant stream of

WAKE UP
MAKE UP
DANCE
DANCE
DANCE
MAKE UP
SMILE
DANCE
DANCE
SING
MAKE UP
FOOD? SURE.
DANCE
SMILE
WASH UP
SMILE
CRASH
SLEEP

and even when he and Keita were in the same hotel room, they both found themselves so exhausted that they could only offer each other the tiniest brushes of hand against arm before both collapsing into sleep.

In general, however, Ryohei was faring better than Keita. Ryohei had actually chosen this occupation, unlike Keita, so he was prepared to get used to the tiring schedule and the countless sacrifices of self necessary to make it work. He was good at smiling on cue, at giving properly vague answers, at lying when necessary. He was naturally shy on a personal level and he found it fit him well on a professional level, since he could just smile bashfully and blush and the girls would scream and the hosts would laugh and management would eat it up.

Ryuichi had done better than both of them, however, having found a system of checks and balances that allowed him to be the "crazy" boy of the group. While Ryohei forced a shy image, Ryuichi forged a more fitting one for himself, one that he maybe didn't quite match but would like to evolve into. He allowed himself room for error, never minding taking the idiot fall if necessary. Of the three of them, Ryohei once mused, Ryuichi probably was most ready for show business.

It didn't really matter.

They learned.

Ryohei loved touring. As irritating and tiring as the rest of it could get, he never actually minded. His mother used to call him her "little camera ham", and it was true; he liked being on film, he liked seeing himself in print. He figured that maybe the remedy for his lack of real time with the other boys would be to just create moments when and where he could, en route from place to place or while eating. They'd have to be careful, of course, since they were still young and management still wanted to make sure they didn't get any funny (by which they meant independent, Ryohei mused) thoughts in their heads, but still, a little something was better than a lot of nothing.

He sat next to Keita on the bus and talked excitedly about soccer.

Over dinner, he and Ryuichi reminisced about their old dance teacher.

He found he felt a little stronger.

He learned.

---

Listen, Ryohei Chiba, we have a big problem here. Head is all worried and calculating and he's got that tone of voice, you know which one, that "listen to me, I know what's going on, I'm the head, dammit, I'm in charge" voice, and we can't stand that. Mister bigshot. Meanwhile, heart is going absolutely crazy because it has an itch it just can't reach, and it keeps sighing dramatically while flopping itself onto its bed and listening to really awful music -- were you aware you carried a collection of the best (BY WHICH WE MEAN THE WORST) GLAY ballads of all time inside of you? well, you do, and heart is driving us nuts with all of its anxious and bipolar tittering and longing and sudden fits of GLEEEEEEE. Soul's good, at least, soul's mellow, if not a little scared, but that's fine for soul because soul's a good guy. But body -- oh, Ryohei Chiba, you gotta fix things, buddy, because body is about to drive us all up. the. wall. if it doesn't shut. up., because if it doesn't hurt, it's tired, and if it's not tired, it's got cravings, but the damned thing doesn't even know for what, except that they're BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD BAD.

So come on, Ryohei Chiba, help us out here. Do what's right. Be a good boy. Get it together.

Gotta make Mommy proud.

---

This was impossible.

---

"You have two days off," management had said, handing them the keys to their hotel rooms. "You know how to reach anybody in case of trouble. Keep a low profile and do as you will."

Two days off seemed like a blissful dream to Ryohei Chiba when he first heard the words. Two whole days -- no TV spots, no cameras following them around to get new "cute" footage to use to make more girls fall in helpless love with them, no forced practice. Just two days to do whatever they wanted before their concert in four days.

Ryohei'd made plans the instant he'd heard the words; maybe he could go back to Sapporo, see his mom and sister, or maybe he could go to the arcade and play some of the new games. He wanted to go shopping, too, and maybe see a movie. He planned on practicing, too, because he couldn't survive too long without it, but to have so much sudden spare time just thrilled him.

Two days.

Two days.

He and Keita moved their stuff into their hotel room (they always gave Ryuichi the single room; he liked to play his guitar til dawn broke, and unlike him, the other two boys needed their sleep), both of them unable to help smiling.

Two days!

"Vacation, finally," Keita said, plopping down on his bed and closing his eyes with a satisfied smile as the mattress hissed beneath him. "I thought they were going to wait until we couldn't walk anymore to finally give us a day off."

"They probably wish they could," Ryohei laughed, putting his own bags neatly away and sitting on his bed, stretching out his always aching legs. He was sure he had pulled some muscle the other night, but it was a bearable pain and he didn't want to worry any of his dance friends with it. It would pass. "Then they could get us to do wheelchair races on TV, the girls would love that."

"Ah," Keita said wisely, rolling over onto his side and looking at the other boy keenly, lips curved in a playful smile. "But would that offend somebody, Ryohei? Bad boy, Ryohei. Death be on you dare you ever say, do, think, or even see something that could potentially offend somebody, somewhere, sometime." He laughed, the sound high and giddy with his changing voice, and Ryohei couldn't help but laugh back.

Time couldn't change it. Keita was so cute.

"You're right," he said, falling helplessly against the seductively welcoming bed, feeling with a surge of joy how the cool mattress shifted to cradle his sore body. "You're right, Keita, I've been wrong. I'm an awful pop star. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me." He was laughing. The mattress shook with his laughter. He was in a good mood.

Keita grinned from over on his bed. Ryohei could barely see it through his peripheral vision. "I guess so," he said smoothly, rolling over onto his stomach with a loud oof, eyes flitting shut blissfully. "God, I'm so happy we're on break. I'm going to sleep for thirty hours straight."

Ryohei laughed. "Don't you do that, you'll never wake up."

Keita made a small noise into the mattress before forcing himself up, sitting awkwardly on the starchy blankets and looking at Ryohei with a soft, tired smile, mussed-up hair hanging oddly in his face. "What are your plans, then?" he asked, stretching his long arms and grimacing slightly with each pop. He knew that couldn't be healthy, but, as they were all coming to realize, nothing about this business was.

Ryohei rolled over, propping his head up on his arm and smiling at Keita. Suddenly nothing seemed better than spending two days just like that, lazing on their beds and talking to each other (especially if he keeps looking like that, his mind interposed, but Ryohei didn't even notice); however, Ryohei was always practical and he knew that'd be a waste (misuse, not waste) of good time.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought about going home for a day and seeing my mom and sister, but Sapporo's a long way from here and I don't know if I care to sit on any more trains for that long if I can help it."

A soft wave of relief seemed to suddenly turn over Keita's features, but it was gone as soon as Ryohei saw it. Maybe Keita was getting better at controlling his expression.

Or maybe you're just too hopeful, Chiba.

"I guess," he continued, discarding that thought and not missing a beat, "I'm just gonna hang around here. Rest a bit, do some shopping, play some games, practice when I can." He laughed. "Catch up on some manga."

Keita smiled. It was one of his quiet smiles, the sort that always reminded Ryohei of shy teenage girls asking them for autographs in restaurants. Keita had a thousand smiles, but this was one of Ryohei's favorites. He never understood it, but just seeing it made his pulse race and his mind slow down at the same time. "That sounds like fun," he said, bouncing a little on the mattress. "I've been meaning to check out the new games too, it's been too long."

Ryohei found himself smiling despite himself. "We should go together, then," he said, subconscious wondering why he always felt so light-headed when he said things like this. He was seventeen years old. He should be over his social anxiety by now. "I mean," he added quickly, "if you want to. It's always more fun with friends though."

He felt lame.

To his relief, Keita's face broke out in a grin. (A Real Grin, Keita Smile #56, Ryohei's third personal favorite.) "Really?" he said excitedly, voice squeaking. He laughed suddenly, cheeks pinking as he shook his head, eyes bright. "I mean, totally! That'd be fun! We haven't gotten to spend a lot of time together lately, I mean, outside of work, that is." He was blushing, awkward, lanky limbs hanging off the bed at weird angles, voice still not sure where or how to go and act. Puberty must be doing a number on Keita, Ryohei thought for a second before feeling disgusted as the words suddenly settled into his conscious. That was gross. Puberty was gross.

He sounded like his mother.

"Yeah," he replied, sitting up himself, brushing his bangs out of his face, chasing the thoughts away. "I've been thinking the same thing."

Keita blinked. "Really?" His voice cracked again, sending him into a fit of nervous giggles. "I sound like a moron," he said, face flushed. "I'm so sick of sounding like a mouse every time I say something."

"It's cute," Ryohei replied before realizing it. Luckily his brain, always on guard, pulled up his Emergency Plan No. 02 and curved his lips into a cool smile, trying to give off an impression of casualness that may or may not have worked. If only I could stop blushing, he thought irritably. It's not even cold.

Keita laughed. It was high, bashful. Uneasy? Ryohei couldn't tell. Keita's feet were rubbing against each other, a habit he'd learned Keita had when he was restless or nervous. During interviews, he always tried to sit with his legs apart so he couldn't do it.

"Yeah," he said with a high chuckle, the embarrassment still audible in his voice. "If you like chipmunks."

"I thought you were a mouse," Ryohei laughed, glad on some deep level for the distraction from his mind's first immediate thought.

No, but I like you.

---

[END OF PART 1]

[w-inds.] Old KeiRyo drabbles

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 04:43:48 GMT

Various KeiRyo drabbles from years ago. These were originally posted here.

(For nachtmusik, 1/5/06, who requested "KEIRYO. Something about uhhh...emo!Keita and late-night video game binges.")

Most love songs came with saccharine lyrics and expansive, emotive melody lines and instrumentation; they were packaged and sold that way, flowery metaphors tucked neatly into the climbing chorus lines, breaking loose at their explosive climaxes, ribbons of vows of eternal love tied neatly around the edges and ending with a neatly arranged bow. Keita especially knew that, as he was so commonly forced to sing those prearranged songs, forcing his voice to fit the emotion that may or may not have really been his. He considered himself a master of the love song, and its memorized formula almost seemed to run through his blood with the ease he was able to execute it.

But as his companion's slender fingers made their way expertly over the video game controller, eyes heavy with sleepiness but full lips pursed silently in concentration, Keita realized with a small smile that all of the sweet words and perfectly constructed rhymes in the world could never compare to the love forcing each synthesized note out of his television set; that was their love song, awkward and somewhat ridiculous, a little bit like them -- the awkward boy who always got lonely too easily and the ridiculous friend who always made lame excuses to keep him company. Sitting next to Ryohei and feeling the warmth radiating off of his smaller frame as he hunched forward in focused pursuit of his imaginary enemy, Keita couldn't help but smile.

Let them keep their sentimental similes and maudlin melodies; he liked their digitized love song best of all.

(For itsumademo on 3/21/06, who requested on my KeiRyo drabble meme "Strawberries in whipped cream, and Ryohei being on the bottom.")

For all his being the leader, for all his hardheadedness, for all his restraint and control and cool, calculated glances, Ryohei Chiba found it very hard to fight back when pressed down against his bed, Keita a mere handful of inches above him.

"My Mom--" he began for the tenth time that hour. He didn't have to say anything else; Keita had to have known it was dangerous too, sneaking over while Ryohei's mom was away. But if that was the case, why (oh why) was he taking his sweet time?

"Shh," Keita whispered, leaning down further, legs straddling the older boy's narrow body, until all Ryohei could feel was the warmth of Keita's imminent closeness and his breath on his face. He forced his eyes to stay open, feeling his heart begin to race faster in his chest.

It was embarrassing how quickly Keita could turn him into a fool.

"That's better," Keita said with a quiet smile. He stroked Ryohei's lips with practiced, guitar-calloused fingers, letting out a soft chuckle as he finally bent down the last distance and pressed a gentle kiss against Ryohei's mouth.

Keita was a decent kisser. He was slow, methodic, sometimes giving into waves of sudden fury and passion but usually keeping a mellow, almost tender sort of pace. He was attentive to details, like the small gasps that always escaped Ryohei's throat as Keita's tongue rolled across his bottom lip, or the way his hips arched up just slightly when Keita decided to explore a little bit further. Ryohei hadn't kissed all that many boys, admittedly, but he still felt Keita would have to be the best. For him, at least, his kisses were ideal.

A moment later (was it a moment? a second? a whole year? when was his mom coming home, anyway?) Keita pulled away, the tender smile on his face quickly being replaced by his favorite playful grin.

"Strawberry," he declared with a small nod. "I knew it. Today's lip gloss of choice by Ryohei Chiba."

It was embarrassing how quickly Keita could turn him into a fool.

But this time Ryohei didn't stand for it, and the look of amused victory on Keita's face was quickly wiped off as his boyfriend (right?) pulled him down for another round, aware, all the while, that he was letting Keita win again.

(For wishpaper, 3/21/06, for my KeiRyo drabble meme, who requested "My love for you is half adrenaline, half gibberish.")

Keita realizes he's in love when he suddenly can't come up with proper retorts to Ryohei's teases; Ryohei is so slight, so unassuming, so everything that Keita isn't that Keita has no idea what he's doing sometimes, watching from somewhere far beyond himself as he keeps touching him, laughing for far too long and far too loudly at whatever it is Ryohei has just said, unable to keep his hands off of his shoulders (small), his arms (small), his waist (delicate). Ryohei is everything Keita has never wanted out of love. Ryohei has long conversations with Ryuichi consisting of only dorky movie quotes, and Keita finds himself jealous, butting in with a lame attempt at his own and watching Ryohei carefully for any signs of scorn. He hates it. Sometimes Ryohei looks at him and something in his eyes makes Keita feel like he's the only person in the world, and then sometimes Ryohei'll go off for an evening with his mysterious friends and Keita'll choke down the urge to text him with obnoxious tidbits from his night out of a sudden need to reconfirm that Ryohei likes him more than them (whoever they might be). Ryohei drives Keita crazy, makes him incoherent, turns him into a flustered schoolgirl who just can't help herself, which is why it's such a relief when Ryohei finally kisses him, because at least then he knows he can keep his hand on Ryohei's (tiny) knee.

(For sapphira_angel on my KeiRyo drabble meme on 3/21/06. She requested "Ryohei is clearly magical", an inside joke from her old icon featuring the pretend RPG scene at the end of the SoA omake.)

The film looked good, Ryohei had to admit. It was clean, it was classy, it was a lot more sophisticated than their first one. However, there was one thing he, as the leader, felt he had to address before he could give it his final (and ultimately worthless, as management had all the say in it anyway) okay.

"Why," he began cautiously, "do I have so few hit points?"

It was late 2003, and the three boys that together made up the boy-band ("hip-hop unit," Ryohei's mind corrected, taking on the tones of all the television shows and magazines that insisted on calling them that. He gave it props for trying.) w-inds. were watching over the final cut of their tour DVD. Nothing they had to say really mattered, they knew, but it was fun to pretend that their suggestions would be taken to heart. So far, Keita wanted to know if they could do an entire do-over of the concert (he'd had a stomach ache, he insisted, prompting Ryuichi to lean over and whisper something about menstrual cycles in Ryohei's ear), Ryuichi merely wondered if they could do something about his hair, and Ryohei...

"Your hit points?" Keita asked, looking closely at the screen again before laughing. "Hey, that's right. A strong breeze could probably KO you."

It was a mock role-playing game they'd done at the end of the DVD extra clips, so it technically meant a whole lot of absolutely nothing, but Ryohei still found himself feeling a little let down.

"I hate it," he finally admitted, drooping down in his chair with a sigh. "I'm one of those characters you use in your party only to cast healing spells, and then you cuss at them loudly because they always die when the enemy targets them."

Ryuichi nodded, agreeing. "That is awfully annoying. Don't you hate having to waste a round reviving them?"

Keita shot Ryuichi a look before sitting down on the arm of Ryohei's chair, petting his head affectionately. "There, there, leader-san. You might be weak, but without you and your magic healing spells, Ryuichi and I..." He paused, shaking his head heavily. "We'd die."

Ryuichi smothered a chuckle before following Keita's lead and sitting on the other arm of Ryohei's chair, dangling his foot over and kicking Ryohei in the shin. "Yeah," he said in agreement. "And besides, Ryohei, I mean, dude, I ain't got any magic points. You might go down with a single Fire 1 spell, but at least you could cast the mothafucka right back at them!"

"After we revived him," Keita corrected, looking up at Ryuichi.

Ryuichi nodded. "Yeah, after we revived him."

"I hate both of you," Ryohei said, sinking further into the chair.

Ryuichi laughed. "You deal with Aerith here, Keita, I need to go piss." He hopped off the chair and practically pranced his way to the bathroom; how he could do that, Ryohei thought somewhere in the part of his mind that wasn't concentrating on being sulky, without urinating all over the floor was one of life's greatest mysteries.

Keita smiled, nuding Ryohei's side. "Budge over."

Ryohei obliged almost instinctively. Keita slid in to the seat next to him, his broadening frame taking up over half the space, but masterfully wrapping his arm around Ryohei and pulling him close so they both could fit.

"There," he said, voice soft. "Now, please tell me you're pulling this act just to look cute, Ryohei."

Ryohei felt his cheeks pink a little, but he gave way to Keita's skilled attacks and leant against the other boy, letting out an amused chuckle as he felt Keita's arm tighten around him. "I think you're passing on your frailty complex to me, Keita."

Keita laughed, squeezing Ryohei's shoulder and leaving one soft, swift kiss on Ryohei's hair. "Oh, shut up, idiot," he said, rubbing Ryohei's arm affectionately. "So you might be tiny. It works for you. You don't look awkward, and I don't think I could match you in dancing if I practiced for a thousand years."

Ryohei looked up at him. "No?"

Keita shook his head, smiling. "No, moron. Anyway, did you ever notice? Watching that concert..." He chuckled, giving Ryohei his winning grin before readjusting his hold on the smaller boy, pulling him up closer to him and resting his chin on his shoulder, voice breathy and hot on his ear. "The way you move is simply magical."

Ryohei squirmed. "Shut up," he whined, but he could feel (just as he was sure Keita could see -- Keita, with that goddamned cat-in-the-cream grin) his cheeks flush. It was pathetic how easily affected he could be. He shifted on the other boy's lap, giving him a warning look. "Watch your hand," he said sternly.

Keita merely laughed.

"Don't worry," he said, patting Ryohei's thigh affectionately to the sound of Ryuichi flushing the toilet. "We can save the real magic tricks for later."

And as Keita shuffled off of the chair and back onto his ledge, and as Ryuichi walked back towards them with a loud, victorious whoop (what he'd spent so long doing in there, the back of Ryohei's mind decided, he really didn't want to know), Ryohei realized that maybe, just maybe, he should have never, ever complained about the hit points thing.

But then again, his type always left themselves vulnerable.