[toma] falling through time
Feb. 14th, 2009 10:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
morendoTitle: Falling Through Time
Pairing: Toma-centric
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1643
Summary: Toma knows he has somewhere to be. Maybe he’ll sleep on the journey, laid out in transit lounges of places unknown.
A/N: (24 hours of) Happy Valentine’s Day to my wife-chansanamuan and roundaboutit! Written to a prompt (used as title) given by Nikki, and helped along by music and om nom pictures. I don't know what the fuck this is ♥ There isn't even porn! D: Love to trivialaffair and girlearthless for proofing and fixing my grammar! Don’t know what I’ll do without them.
- Jam-chan is Toma's pet dog.
alissa | crystallekil | coiled_iris | joshua_glass | liangzhu | mousapelli | myxstorie | nicocoer | pastdazed | silver_rose88 | slytherisa | snowqueenofhoth | tinyangl | trivialaffair
*
Toma grabs the keys, shoves them into his pocket, and then spins around on his heel, catching a book off the shelf by its sleeve. It lands on the floor with a surprisingly soft sound for spilled words, pages splayed open. Toma almost misses the thing that comes spinning out: a bookmark, crudely made with what seems like a sequined piece of costume, with a message scrawled in permanent silver marker across the black. Picking the book back up gingerly by its spine – no more hurried accidents now, not when he won’t be back to clean up for days – he opens it to a random page (In due time, we’ll finally see – there’s barely ) and jams it securely between the rasping pages.
He opens the door of the fridge with a pop and checks it one last time, eyes raking the shelves – the yoghurt will keep but toss the eggs – Toma grabs a slim can of Red Bull, because he could always use one. It joins the book in his bag, the moisture already condensing on the metal surface seeping into the glossed cover, but Toma barely cares for water wrinkles at the moment – he has to go!
*
Toma’s first performance at Tokyo Dome is etched into his mind (technically not his, but Tackey and Tsubasa’s), the bright lights, too far to burn but enough to set them on fire, glinting and dazzling, show business in its most clichéd glory.
It was a start, a push in the right direction, with soothing fingers that tuck stray strands of hair behind ears and away from eyes, huddled together watching shapes move, silhouetted against the dark curtains. Palms meeting with a crack in the dark, it began from there: a loping run, with eyes fixed on the horizon and never looking back.
All the best! Love, the message was written with a childish, broken hand.
*
Yamapi’s face is priceless when he opens the door – slightly blotchy from sleep, a clip stuck in his fringe, shirt hitched up to reveal a bit of hip.
“What? Oh it’s you, Toma.” He rubs his eyes sleepily, dislodging the clip further.
“Can you do me a favour?” Toma reaches over and plucks it from Yamapi’s hair, pressing a hand to Yamapi’s forehead, he pins it back to the side, flattening the unruly strands. Then, he slaps the bit of Yamapi’s exposed skin playfully.
“What the hell,” Yamapi takes a step backwards. Toma takes the chance to slide Jam-chan’s carrier through the open door.
“Take care of her for me,” Toma drops his car keys into Yamapi’s hand. “I parked her next to yours.”
He takes off down the stairway before Yamapi can reach over to grab him by the collar, followed by curses and Jam-chan’s whine.
*
Driving in the rain is more enjoyable when he isn’t the one at the wheel, Toma thinks, but the other man seems to be enjoying it.
“Why do we have to go so far?” Toma asks, leaning his forehead against the cool glass.
Only in Japan will they be able to get delicious, steaming food at 3AM. The glare of the streetlights reflects off the rain-glazed streets, and the soft piano music that filters from the car radio is underlaid with the rustle of rain outside. Toma waits in the car as he gets out and rushes through the door with his head bowed. A mischievous idea comes to Toma as he soaks in the suddenness of being alone – he could lock the car doors. He’d be surprised when the door handle yanks back instead, and Toma would shut him out for as long as it takes to wet his shirt (which would stick to his skin!) and drip water all over the leather seats (which would make him mad!), but Toma doesn’t know what would become of himself later, so.
Before Toma can act, he’s back, wiping his hand dry on jeans, the smell of warm curry spice filling the interior of the car.
“Mmmm,” Toma hums appreciatively, “I see.”
*
“Can you stop here?” Toma pats the shoulder of the driver’s seat urgently. “I just need to grab something.”
He dashes into the conbini, things running through his mind – fast, because the meter is ticking and some things, unlike cabs, won’t wait –
Someone’s honking impatiently even though the cab is pulled to the side of the road with all its lights blinking like crazy, so Toma executes an apologetic bow quickly before he pulls the cab door open and gets in, nearly losing a shoe (had not laced them up tight, lack of time and finesse) against the step, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Sorry, please go!”
The food will be cold and drinks warm later, but Toma repacks the curry pan and pastries into Tupperware containers, thanking his mom under his breath, piling old shirts he’s pretty sure aren’t his on top of yogurt health drinks and packs of bittersweet chocolate. Toma’s eyelid jumps, so he smoothes cool fingers over them, enjoying a moment of pleasant darkness behind his eyelids against the afternoon sun outside. Maybe he’ll sleep on the journey, laid out in transit lounges of places unknown.
*
They hadn’t spoken for a few painful few weeks after that, rage sitting like a gurgling cauldron at the base of their skulls, hissing and shifting sinisterly, ready. Toma still remembers the front door sighing shut, indignant peel of tires that betrayed true feelings echoing in his mind.
Toma found him stretched out over the couch, eyes hooded and almost shut in a way that made Toma unsure if the other man was really asleep.
“Thought you’d thrown the key away,” Toma remarks, voice surprisingly devoid of emotion – he’s too tired to muster any fight anymore at this stage. Being in disagreement was tiring, and there’s always a point where you lose track of what you were upset about, not wanting to be bothered by the suddenly trivial things. It was too elaborate a dance, even though he didn’t have to do most of the choreography, acting it out was tough.
“I did.”
Frowning, Toma taps his foot, waiting for the explanation.
“I asked your mom,” the other man says petulantly, cracking one eye open to look at Toma, who makes a noise with his tongue. Tch.
“You would,” Toma holds his gaze as he stalks over, crossing the distance of the living room with few steps.
When they kiss (yes, kiss, hard, fast, furious, lips chapped and dry, impatient tongues), an almost fatalistic feeling of dread blooms in Toma’s chest. He slips in, slides his hand into Toma’s hair and curls his fingers tight, nails scraping carelessly against scalp as he presses them closer, shuddering as Toma leaves skittering, intimate touches across the folded shell of his ear in return.
Breathless when they pull apart, the world spins slowly and fluidly, but in the end it finally comes to a gentle stop, out of time.
If only just having love was enough to make everything right.
*
Not fast enough, Toma tries not to think about the way the traffic is moving – he’s been stuck on the same street for a good half hour. Maybe it wasn’t actually that long, but the songs on his ipod seem to croon on forever, and he wants to leave the scenery behind.
Watching people entering and exiting the video rental store across the street, Toma wonders if he can borrow time, and whom should he approach for such a favour? Perhaps if he napped time will pass faster. He pulls a pair of shades out of his bag, but realizes they aren't his – warm brown aviator shades that aren’t exactly his favourite style, but look good on his face anyway.
They make him take it off when he passes through security, but Toma puts them back on when he reclines in his seat, waiting impatiently for them to turn off the cabin lights on the long haul flight.
*
Glorious sunlight is shifting through his apartment when they stumble out of bed in a too-warm mess of limbs. When Toma turns around from the coffee maker, he is sitting at the table with his shades on, curls of hair sticking out wildly around his ears.
“Why are you wearing your sunglasses?” Toma asks incredulously when his cocked eyebrow goes unseen, flinching at his own voice, too loud in the heavy mid-morning.
“Too bright,” He mumbles, and accepts the cup Toma hands him with both hands. “Thanks.”
*
He had a dream, one of those faceless chase dreams in which Toma runs after something, someone. He was going to be late, he was going to miss the biggest event of the century, and if he let it slip by Toma knew he would hate himself forever. This one hadn’t really ended well, or arrived at a conclusion at all – Toma had run past a mirror, then, shelves of breakfast cereal in a store, pausing momentarily to buy fresh strawberries – random events Toma thinks could have possibly happened a year or a week ago, then he was falling, knowing full well he was dreaming and he’d really like to wake up before he hits the ground (if it were even possible).
He jerks awake, feeling his soul fall back into himself with a plop! The lady sitting next to him looks at him strangely when he lets out a nervous sleepy laugh, amused, and Toma placates her with an award-winning smile.
Toma has to shield his eyes against the light as he steps out into the dry air, away from the stale controlled humidity of the airport terminal.
“You’re early,” He’s leaning on the side of the car smoking, leather jacket squared nonchalantly across his shoulders.
“So are you,” Toma smiles around the cigarette he had just stolen.
Pairing: Toma-centric
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1643
Summary: Toma knows he has somewhere to be. Maybe he’ll sleep on the journey, laid out in transit lounges of places unknown.
A/N: (24 hours of) Happy Valentine’s Day to my wife-chans
anamuan and roundaboutit! Written to a prompt (used as title) given by Nikki, and helped along by music and om nom pictures. I don't know what the fuck this is ♥ There isn't even porn! D: Love to trivialaffair and girlearthless for proofing and fixing my grammar! Don’t know what I’ll do without them. - Jam-chan is Toma's pet dog.
Toma grabs the keys, shoves them into his pocket, and then spins around on his heel, catching a book off the shelf by its sleeve. It lands on the floor with a surprisingly soft sound for spilled words, pages splayed open. Toma almost misses the thing that comes spinning out: a bookmark, crudely made with what seems like a sequined piece of costume, with a message scrawled in permanent silver marker across the black. Picking the book back up gingerly by its spine – no more hurried accidents now, not when he won’t be back to clean up for days – he opens it to a random page (In due time, we’ll finally see – there’s barely ) and jams it securely between the rasping pages.
He opens the door of the fridge with a pop and checks it one last time, eyes raking the shelves – the yoghurt will keep but toss the eggs – Toma grabs a slim can of Red Bull, because he could always use one. It joins the book in his bag, the moisture already condensing on the metal surface seeping into the glossed cover, but Toma barely cares for water wrinkles at the moment – he has to go!
Toma’s first performance at Tokyo Dome is etched into his mind (technically not his, but Tackey and Tsubasa’s), the bright lights, too far to burn but enough to set them on fire, glinting and dazzling, show business in its most clichéd glory.
It was a start, a push in the right direction, with soothing fingers that tuck stray strands of hair behind ears and away from eyes, huddled together watching shapes move, silhouetted against the dark curtains. Palms meeting with a crack in the dark, it began from there: a loping run, with eyes fixed on the horizon and never looking back.
All the best! Love, the message was written with a childish, broken hand.
Yamapi’s face is priceless when he opens the door – slightly blotchy from sleep, a clip stuck in his fringe, shirt hitched up to reveal a bit of hip.
“What? Oh it’s you, Toma.” He rubs his eyes sleepily, dislodging the clip further.
“Can you do me a favour?” Toma reaches over and plucks it from Yamapi’s hair, pressing a hand to Yamapi’s forehead, he pins it back to the side, flattening the unruly strands. Then, he slaps the bit of Yamapi’s exposed skin playfully.
“What the hell,” Yamapi takes a step backwards. Toma takes the chance to slide Jam-chan’s carrier through the open door.
“Take care of her for me,” Toma drops his car keys into Yamapi’s hand. “I parked her next to yours.”
He takes off down the stairway before Yamapi can reach over to grab him by the collar, followed by curses and Jam-chan’s whine.
Driving in the rain is more enjoyable when he isn’t the one at the wheel, Toma thinks, but the other man seems to be enjoying it.
“Why do we have to go so far?” Toma asks, leaning his forehead against the cool glass.
Only in Japan will they be able to get delicious, steaming food at 3AM. The glare of the streetlights reflects off the rain-glazed streets, and the soft piano music that filters from the car radio is underlaid with the rustle of rain outside. Toma waits in the car as he gets out and rushes through the door with his head bowed. A mischievous idea comes to Toma as he soaks in the suddenness of being alone – he could lock the car doors. He’d be surprised when the door handle yanks back instead, and Toma would shut him out for as long as it takes to wet his shirt (which would stick to his skin!) and drip water all over the leather seats (which would make him mad!), but Toma doesn’t know what would become of himself later, so.
Before Toma can act, he’s back, wiping his hand dry on jeans, the smell of warm curry spice filling the interior of the car.
“Mmmm,” Toma hums appreciatively, “I see.”
“Can you stop here?” Toma pats the shoulder of the driver’s seat urgently. “I just need to grab something.”
He dashes into the conbini, things running through his mind – fast, because the meter is ticking and some things, unlike cabs, won’t wait –
Someone’s honking impatiently even though the cab is pulled to the side of the road with all its lights blinking like crazy, so Toma executes an apologetic bow quickly before he pulls the cab door open and gets in, nearly losing a shoe (had not laced them up tight, lack of time and finesse) against the step, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Sorry, please go!”
The food will be cold and drinks warm later, but Toma repacks the curry pan and pastries into Tupperware containers, thanking his mom under his breath, piling old shirts he’s pretty sure aren’t his on top of yogurt health drinks and packs of bittersweet chocolate. Toma’s eyelid jumps, so he smoothes cool fingers over them, enjoying a moment of pleasant darkness behind his eyelids against the afternoon sun outside. Maybe he’ll sleep on the journey, laid out in transit lounges of places unknown.
They hadn’t spoken for a few painful few weeks after that, rage sitting like a gurgling cauldron at the base of their skulls, hissing and shifting sinisterly, ready. Toma still remembers the front door sighing shut, indignant peel of tires that betrayed true feelings echoing in his mind.
Toma found him stretched out over the couch, eyes hooded and almost shut in a way that made Toma unsure if the other man was really asleep.
“Thought you’d thrown the key away,” Toma remarks, voice surprisingly devoid of emotion – he’s too tired to muster any fight anymore at this stage. Being in disagreement was tiring, and there’s always a point where you lose track of what you were upset about, not wanting to be bothered by the suddenly trivial things. It was too elaborate a dance, even though he didn’t have to do most of the choreography, acting it out was tough.
“I did.”
Frowning, Toma taps his foot, waiting for the explanation.
“I asked your mom,” the other man says petulantly, cracking one eye open to look at Toma, who makes a noise with his tongue. Tch.
“You would,” Toma holds his gaze as he stalks over, crossing the distance of the living room with few steps.
When they kiss (yes, kiss, hard, fast, furious, lips chapped and dry, impatient tongues), an almost fatalistic feeling of dread blooms in Toma’s chest. He slips in, slides his hand into Toma’s hair and curls his fingers tight, nails scraping carelessly against scalp as he presses them closer, shuddering as Toma leaves skittering, intimate touches across the folded shell of his ear in return.
Breathless when they pull apart, the world spins slowly and fluidly, but in the end it finally comes to a gentle stop, out of time.
If only just having love was enough to make everything right.
Not fast enough, Toma tries not to think about the way the traffic is moving – he’s been stuck on the same street for a good half hour. Maybe it wasn’t actually that long, but the songs on his ipod seem to croon on forever, and he wants to leave the scenery behind.
Watching people entering and exiting the video rental store across the street, Toma wonders if he can borrow time, and whom should he approach for such a favour? Perhaps if he napped time will pass faster. He pulls a pair of shades out of his bag, but realizes they aren't his – warm brown aviator shades that aren’t exactly his favourite style, but look good on his face anyway.
They make him take it off when he passes through security, but Toma puts them back on when he reclines in his seat, waiting impatiently for them to turn off the cabin lights on the long haul flight.
Glorious sunlight is shifting through his apartment when they stumble out of bed in a too-warm mess of limbs. When Toma turns around from the coffee maker, he is sitting at the table with his shades on, curls of hair sticking out wildly around his ears.
“Why are you wearing your sunglasses?” Toma asks incredulously when his cocked eyebrow goes unseen, flinching at his own voice, too loud in the heavy mid-morning.
“Too bright,” He mumbles, and accepts the cup Toma hands him with both hands. “Thanks.”
He had a dream, one of those faceless chase dreams in which Toma runs after something, someone. He was going to be late, he was going to miss the biggest event of the century, and if he let it slip by Toma knew he would hate himself forever. This one hadn’t really ended well, or arrived at a conclusion at all – Toma had run past a mirror, then, shelves of breakfast cereal in a store, pausing momentarily to buy fresh strawberries – random events Toma thinks could have possibly happened a year or a week ago, then he was falling, knowing full well he was dreaming and he’d really like to wake up before he hits the ground (if it were even possible).
He jerks awake, feeling his soul fall back into himself with a plop! The lady sitting next to him looks at him strangely when he lets out a nervous sleepy laugh, amused, and Toma placates her with an award-winning smile.
Toma has to shield his eyes against the light as he steps out into the dry air, away from the stale controlled humidity of the airport terminal.
“You’re early,” He’s leaning on the side of the car smoking, leather jacket squared nonchalantly across his shoulders.
“So are you,” Toma smiles around the cigarette he had just stolen.
