Hajime no Insho
sho goju.
”Matsumoto-san? I believe this belongs to you.”
Takanori was slouched, gaze cast downward, and he didn’t have to look up to know that his father was seething. “Sadly,” the older man said, glaring at his son, “he does. You can let him go now- thank you for finding him.” Takanori didn’t have to glance up to see his father fake a smile, either. He slumped a little as the hold on his jacket was released, and he stumbled into the house as a hand on his back pushed him forward.
“Have a good night.”
Takanori continued to gaze downward as his father shut the door and slipped the lock into place, and inwardly, he cringed as he heard a disappointed sigh and his father muttering under his breath.
“Well?”
“Well w-what?”
“Explain yourself.”
The forcibly calm tone of his father’s voice was chilling, and he actually shivered. “I…I don’t know what you want me to say, otosan.” He dipped his head in a sort of apology, though there was a part of him that wasn’t sorry for running away. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble, or- or worry-“
“Worry?” His father’s eyes flashed, and Takanori recognized that flash as anger. “Your mother and I have been calling around for hours, trying to find you. What in the hell were you thinking?”
Takanori sighed, the puff of breath taking less than a second to escape. “I-I wanted out. All I was thinking was of getting out.”
His father fell quiet, eyes narrowing, arms crossed over his chest and tensing. Somewhere inside the house, Takanori’s mother was taking care of dishes from dinner, and he barely glanced up at his father as silence ensued. And then his father huffed, and he muttered a single word- “Fine.”
“F-fine?”
“Fine. Get out. Pack your things, kiss your mother goodbye, I don’t give a damn- get out.”
Takanori bit his lip, bowed at his waist, and then straightened, staring his father straight in the eye. “Fine.” He turned, fully aware of his father’s glare, and walked to his room, wincing as his father dealt the final verbal blow-
“And when you leave this house, Takanori, you are no longer my son.”
“Takanori?” A warm hand touched his cheek, and he flinched, surprised by the touch. “Takanori, love, wake up, you’re only dreaming.” Akira’s thumb was stroking his skin, and it wasn’t until his eyes opened blearily that he realized that there were tears on his face. Akira wiped them away with all the tenderness in the world, and as his eyes opened more and he saw the concerned expression on his love’s face, he understood that it had only been a dream after all. “’nori, you were crying…are you okay?”
The singer tried a smile, his hand resting over Akira’s. “It’s nothing; just a bad dream.”
Akira smiled too, but his smile was fainter and not as long-lasting. “’nori, what were you dreaming about? I mean, you…you nearly broke out in a cold sweat.”
Takanori could see the concern much more clearly now – Akira’s eyes were almost pleading, and Takanori could only begin to understand what a sight he must have been. He gave a small, sad smile that seemed more tired than anything, and he sighed softly as Akira leaned forward and pressed a comforting kiss to his lips. And the two of them lay in silence for a few moments, the only sounds their breathing and the slight rustling of sheets and blankets if either of them shifted. Akira held back from whispering words of consolation, instead attempting to decode the sadness in Takanori’s eyes, and then he shifted forward once more, kissing Takanori’s forehead and letting his lips rest there, murmuring an “I love you” against his skin.
And then Takanori was trembling, and then he was crying quietly into the comfort that was Akira’s wife beater, the blonde drawing him closer and stroking his back. And Takanori was holding onto the bassist as though he was all he had, and, worried as he was, Akira remained silent, kissing the singer’s hair and whispering that he was there. He thought that he might know what had brought on the tears, but mentioning it seemed tactless, so he took on the role of protector for Takanori, and it worked well enough- Takanori cried, Akira soothed him. Within a few minutes, the crying had ceased, and Takanori was trembling only slightly, and he felt like a small child having to be comforted after a nightmare, but that was what his dream had felt like.
He’d spent a few years of his life convinced that he’d forgotten the day he’d dreamed about – the day his father’s disappointment in him had reached its limit – but that dream had been proof to the contrary, and it had reminded him of exactly why he’d fought so hard to survive in a band in Tokyo, why he’d wanted to go home to his parents in a serious relationship, why he’d wanted to go home and have some success of note. The truth hurt, honestly, and it hurt enough to make him break just long enough to let most of his emotions out.
And when his emotions were finally finished running rampant and he could lift his head from the tear-stained mess that had become Akira’s shoulder, he was met by a soft smile and a kiss, and he was grateful for both. He smiled back, sniffling just slightly, and pressed his face into Akira’s warm palm as the bassist’s thumb wiped the last of his tears away.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, and his eyes were almost childlike as they gazed up at the bassist, and they flashed with something unrecognizable as Akira sighed and brushed at his cheek.
The blonde’s eyes said don’t say sorry as he asked, “’nori, what’s wrong?”
“My parents,” he said quietly. “My subconscious decided that now was an excellent time to remember the day they disowned me.”
Akira could feel his heart sink, and he could feel it hurt. He understood that statement well enough- Takanori rarely spoke of the day his parents had kicked him out, and he had certainly never gone into detail, and no one had ever pressed him to. The people that knew him knew that he’d accepted that it had partially been his fault, and they knew that it had done terrible things for his self-esteem for months afterward, and they knew that his father accepting his lifestyle had been the ultimate gift.
And Akira could only watch the hurt creep back into Takanori’s eyes, and then, when he really just couldn’t handle seeing any more, he leaned down and kissed the singer’s mouth, hoping to distract hurt with love- an old-fashioned kind of ambition, but he wanted Takanori to smile all the same. He brushed at the singer’s cheek with his thumb, drawing back, hoping to be met with a smile.
“I love you,” he said, and Takanori’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “And no matter what your parents have thought of you before or how they see you now, that is one thing that will never change.”
“…’kira, do you think that I’ll be able to make them proud?”
“Want me to be honest?” Takanori nodded, despite feeling only slightly unsure, and looked up at the man that he’d loved for so long.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice small, and Akira smiled at him all the same. “Yes, I do.”
The blonde chuckled, and he was quiet for a moment, brushing at Takanori’s cheek with the back of his hand, and then his voice was soft like the finest cotton as he said, “If you were my son, I would already be proud.”
Takanori was slouched, gaze cast downward, and he didn’t have to look up to know that his father was seething. “Sadly,” the older man said, glaring at his son, “he does. You can let him go now- thank you for finding him.” Takanori didn’t have to glance up to see his father fake a smile, either. He slumped a little as the hold on his jacket was released, and he stumbled into the house as a hand on his back pushed him forward.
“Have a good night.”
Takanori continued to gaze downward as his father shut the door and slipped the lock into place, and inwardly, he cringed as he heard a disappointed sigh and his father muttering under his breath.
“Well?”
“Well w-what?”
“Explain yourself.”
The forcibly calm tone of his father’s voice was chilling, and he actually shivered. “I…I don’t know what you want me to say, otosan.” He dipped his head in a sort of apology, though there was a part of him that wasn’t sorry for running away. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble, or- or worry-“
“Worry?” His father’s eyes flashed, and Takanori recognized that flash as anger. “Your mother and I have been calling around for hours, trying to find you. What in the hell were you thinking?”
Takanori sighed, the puff of breath taking less than a second to escape. “I-I wanted out. All I was thinking was of getting out.”
His father fell quiet, eyes narrowing, arms crossed over his chest and tensing. Somewhere inside the house, Takanori’s mother was taking care of dishes from dinner, and he barely glanced up at his father as silence ensued. And then his father huffed, and he muttered a single word- “Fine.”
“F-fine?”
“Fine. Get out. Pack your things, kiss your mother goodbye, I don’t give a damn- get out.”
Takanori bit his lip, bowed at his waist, and then straightened, staring his father straight in the eye. “Fine.” He turned, fully aware of his father’s glare, and walked to his room, wincing as his father dealt the final verbal blow-
“And when you leave this house, Takanori, you are no longer my son.”
“Takanori?” A warm hand touched his cheek, and he flinched, surprised by the touch. “Takanori, love, wake up, you’re only dreaming.” Akira’s thumb was stroking his skin, and it wasn’t until his eyes opened blearily that he realized that there were tears on his face. Akira wiped them away with all the tenderness in the world, and as his eyes opened more and he saw the concerned expression on his love’s face, he understood that it had only been a dream after all. “’nori, you were crying…are you okay?”
The singer tried a smile, his hand resting over Akira’s. “It’s nothing; just a bad dream.”
Akira smiled too, but his smile was fainter and not as long-lasting. “’nori, what were you dreaming about? I mean, you…you nearly broke out in a cold sweat.”
Takanori could see the concern much more clearly now – Akira’s eyes were almost pleading, and Takanori could only begin to understand what a sight he must have been. He gave a small, sad smile that seemed more tired than anything, and he sighed softly as Akira leaned forward and pressed a comforting kiss to his lips. And the two of them lay in silence for a few moments, the only sounds their breathing and the slight rustling of sheets and blankets if either of them shifted. Akira held back from whispering words of consolation, instead attempting to decode the sadness in Takanori’s eyes, and then he shifted forward once more, kissing Takanori’s forehead and letting his lips rest there, murmuring an “I love you” against his skin.
And then Takanori was trembling, and then he was crying quietly into the comfort that was Akira’s wife beater, the blonde drawing him closer and stroking his back. And Takanori was holding onto the bassist as though he was all he had, and, worried as he was, Akira remained silent, kissing the singer’s hair and whispering that he was there. He thought that he might know what had brought on the tears, but mentioning it seemed tactless, so he took on the role of protector for Takanori, and it worked well enough- Takanori cried, Akira soothed him. Within a few minutes, the crying had ceased, and Takanori was trembling only slightly, and he felt like a small child having to be comforted after a nightmare, but that was what his dream had felt like.
He’d spent a few years of his life convinced that he’d forgotten the day he’d dreamed about – the day his father’s disappointment in him had reached its limit – but that dream had been proof to the contrary, and it had reminded him of exactly why he’d fought so hard to survive in a band in Tokyo, why he’d wanted to go home to his parents in a serious relationship, why he’d wanted to go home and have some success of note. The truth hurt, honestly, and it hurt enough to make him break just long enough to let most of his emotions out.
And when his emotions were finally finished running rampant and he could lift his head from the tear-stained mess that had become Akira’s shoulder, he was met by a soft smile and a kiss, and he was grateful for both. He smiled back, sniffling just slightly, and pressed his face into Akira’s warm palm as the bassist’s thumb wiped the last of his tears away.
“S-sorry,” he mumbled, and his eyes were almost childlike as they gazed up at the bassist, and they flashed with something unrecognizable as Akira sighed and brushed at his cheek.
The blonde’s eyes said don’t say sorry as he asked, “’nori, what’s wrong?”
“My parents,” he said quietly. “My subconscious decided that now was an excellent time to remember the day they disowned me.”
Akira could feel his heart sink, and he could feel it hurt. He understood that statement well enough- Takanori rarely spoke of the day his parents had kicked him out, and he had certainly never gone into detail, and no one had ever pressed him to. The people that knew him knew that he’d accepted that it had partially been his fault, and they knew that it had done terrible things for his self-esteem for months afterward, and they knew that his father accepting his lifestyle had been the ultimate gift.
And Akira could only watch the hurt creep back into Takanori’s eyes, and then, when he really just couldn’t handle seeing any more, he leaned down and kissed the singer’s mouth, hoping to distract hurt with love- an old-fashioned kind of ambition, but he wanted Takanori to smile all the same. He brushed at the singer’s cheek with his thumb, drawing back, hoping to be met with a smile.
“I love you,” he said, and Takanori’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “And no matter what your parents have thought of you before or how they see you now, that is one thing that will never change.”
“…’kira, do you think that I’ll be able to make them proud?”
“Want me to be honest?” Takanori nodded, despite feeling only slightly unsure, and looked up at the man that he’d loved for so long.
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice small, and Akira smiled at him all the same. “Yes, I do.”
The blonde chuckled, and he was quiet for a moment, brushing at Takanori’s cheek with the back of his hand, and then his voice was soft like the finest cotton as he said, “If you were my son, I would already be proud.”