rikke_leonhart: Owl (Perfume - lights)
[personal profile] rikke_leonhart
Title: Paradigm 2/9
Pairing(s): Ohno/Nino, Arashi friendship
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nuh-uh!
Word count: ~1,200/~12,000
Warnings: Language
Summary: There are things Nino has spent a long time trying not to remember. Too bad Ohno didn't get the memo.
Author's Notes: Fuck it, new update because I can. Still massive amounts of thanks to the lovely Gati and [livejournal.com profile] walking_orgy <3


*
2.
In between filming film three and that damn spring special they’re filming during the freaking winter, Nino finds himself staying over at Ohno’s apartment for three days, which is weird because a) he’s never stayed over with Ohno before, b) Ohno is kind of particular about things you can seriously never guess before you’ve actually experienced them, and c) because he doesn’t even know why he does; such is the way Nino’s life works these days.

He has three days off. Well-deserved, it’s a novelty and extremely unsettling. Nino is waiting for the Ni no Arashi strip to pop up in his face any moment now. The silence is eerie and unusual.

“I think something crawled in and died in my mouth. Or maybe it was already dead when it got there,” Ohno announces over coffee (and Ohno actually takes the time to make proper coffee in the morning, it’s an oddly domestic trait in someone who’s so used to living alone. Which, is rather obvious seeing how Ohno never makes enough for two, while Nino, at home, never even makes coffee for himself). Someone, probably his manager, dumped Ohno on his bed at some really unfortunate hour of the night, and Nino doesn’t think he was drunk, just exhausted.

(Ohno sleeps diagonally in his bed when he makes it there. It’s odd being here, so entirely not tour life where they actually can enforce privacy if they want it.)

“Congratulations. Would you like a side of whining to go with it?” Nino, however, knows how to make enough coffee for two. Which, he doesn’t need to, since Ohno already has his cup, or bowl rather, and now Nino is just waiting for his to be ready. Fucking slow coffee machine.

“I got a new drama,” Ohno then says, draining the cup, and Nino guesses he has about fifty three seconds more until the caffeine kicks in as well as it can in Ohno. “Monday slot. I’m officially insane and dead. And set to lose about five kilos. We start filming in February.”

Nino frowns. Ouch, harsh. “Well, you do look fantastic when all skeletal, I guess I really do see the appeal. Well done on your enthusiasm, by the way.”

“All the food,” Ohno mourns. “Dieting sucks.”

And Ohno goes to work and Nino sits in Ohno’s apartment and thinks, not knowing if he actually invited himself to stay or if Ohno did, it’s that kind of weirdass thing going on where things just happen without his knowledge or without him registering what comes out of his mouth at which times. Inconvenient, really.

I miss the time when you were nice to me. Ohno said that and Nino logically knows that it didn’t mean anything, it shouldn’t and doesn’t, but logic can quite frankly go fuck itself as far as Nino is concerned, because Ohno is many things but not careless with his words. Ohno is a poster child for the concept of mostly only speaking when you have things to say.

So Nino thinks and thinks and thinks, tries to remember just when he turned into that asshole friend that only sees everyone else when they’re co-workers and he slides out of commitments as if he’s been dunked in oil. Nino sits in Ohno’s huge, soft leather armchair, the one that will swallow him whole if he lets it, and thinks. And thinks and thinks.

On the morning of day two, Nino brings his notepad with him to the chair and writes. It’s not like he actually really sees Ohno around much, he’s literally only there for sleep and morning coffee. So he sits and he writes and he writes a lot; who knew he’d actually have things to say?

When he gets back to his own apartment after three days where he didn’t think about anything but everything, he goes back to work and pretends the days didn’t exist.

Pretending they didn’t exist becomes increasingly difficult when Ohno calls him a few days later and says, “I want to hear it.”

And because Nino is just that eloquent, he says, very intelligently, “Huh?”

“The song,” Ohno says, patient. “I found part of it. Sing me the rest of it.”

“There is no song,” Nino denies, because he did start one, fuck, he started several, all of them ending with very unattractive teenage angst and things he wishes he could make rhyme. “Also it’s creepy that you found it, I’m pretty sure I threw it out.”

“It was at the top,” Ohno says steadily. “Sing me the rest.”

“There is no rest,” Nino says patiently. There are four lines, nothing else, because Nino knows which song (no, not song, there is no song, damn it) Ohno is talking about, which is alarming in itself. There is no song, end of story.

“I like it. You should finish it.”

“Aren’t you pushy,” Nino says, trying to narrow his eyes and frown at the same time, which is harder than it sounds and probably harder than it should be.

Ohno shrugs. Nino can hear it and is pretty sure he knows Ohno too well if he can hear it. “It’s unusual and pretty and strange. It’s very Nino.”

Nino really isn’t sure how to take that. “I’ll take that as the compliment I’m sure it was intended as.”

Ohno breathes, says slowly, “I didn’t mean anything by it. You need to know that I didn’t.”

“By what? Saying I’m strange? I’ve heard worse.”

“No, not that. Nino.”

Nino kind of hates Ohno a little for how easily he reads him, and he also hates himself a little bit for being so transparent. He also hates Ohno for how he can say his name like that, like it’s more than four letters and two syllables. “I’m not writing it.”

“Shame,” Ohno says. “I’m listening for it.”

Oh, that fucker. “You’ll be listening for a long time. I’m hanging up on you now. Aren’t you supposed to be filming?”

“I’m very busy trying to imitate a skeleton, yes,” Ohno says, rolling his eyes as he does, fuck, Nino can hear it. “The hardships of my life.”

“Hanging up,” Nino says again, but it’s still Ohno that hangs up first. There’s a letter for him the next day with the scrap of paper with four lines scribbled on it, thoughtfully written on a grey winter morning overlooking Tokyo from Ohno’s chair.

Not finishing it, he texts Ohno.

So you say, Ohno texts back.

It’s hyperbolical, writing songs, Nino feels. Not just because he has less time now to write than he did earlier in his life, but because there’s only so much he can write about that special brand of love he likes but can’t actually describe without being saccharine. A million love songs already, he really should try something new.

Even if Ohno is right, Nino will never tell him.

He keeps the paper. Just so Ohno won’t get his hands on it again.

*
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