Androids Don't Speak With Words (And They Don't Text Message Either)
manhattan's a bit brighter than the jfk airport.
akira doesn't know when the plane landed and why he wasn't awake to see it. he only knows where they are, why they are, who they are, and that's really the best that he's going to get out of himself. new york looks nothing like the postcards: it's gray, industrialized to the point of ridiculousness with none of the bright colors that foreigners brag about constantly. it's slate and boring with yellow pinpricks of firefly-lights shining every so often like a star.
akira doesn't smile as he walks toward the nearest airport bathroom, desperate for a piss. he misses colors.
--
manhattan's a bit brighter than the jfk airport, but not by much. the buildings give a claustrophobic feel that akira believes he should've gotten used to many years ago. one would think that after living in tokyo for so long that he would've felt at home, but he only wants the smells back, the sights, the language. he wonders if this is what culture shock feels like.
sakai has said nothing about it at this point, only listening as their translator tells him the schedule.
akira ticks off the minutes, slipping his thumb into his pocket. his sigh is throttled by the city streets.
--
he doesn't know why the rock stars have to, fucking have to take pictures in some grungy, run down shithole in greenwich village, but apparently “all of the up and coming artists do it at one point!” and akira has to bite down on his tongue to keep from telling the photographer that he's not really “up and coming” anymore. he's been doing this for eight years.
he aims his cell phone at the other side of the street where gray meets a different shade of gray, a few youths with edgy haircuts and plaid shirts and joints hanging from their mouths, squatting beside an iHome that is blasting some strange concoction of acoustic guitars and tambourines, a whiny voice crooning weird sounds along with it. akira adds, i wonder if i kicked them, would they fall like bowling pins and catch on fire?
fifteen minutes later, his pocket vibrates:
stee-rike.
akira can't remember the last time he's ever laughed so hard, but he's fairly certain that the kids across the street are now frightened of the crazy japanese man.
--
four days feel even longer when you're in a place that feels nothing like home. akira can only shake his head when asked if he's hungry, if he's ready for another photoshoot, another interview with some underground magazine that no one but the rave kids read. he forces smiles for the rare fan that recognizes him, asks in clumsy japanese for a hug, a picture, an autograph. “oh my god, i love you, reita-san! i love you a whole lot!”
he sends a picture sakai took with his phone: akira, smirking without a single movement of his mouth, with two teenage girls on either side of him. he sighs upon seeing it, but decides to send it anyway, for shits and giggles and snarky remarks.
i didn't know girls could squeal so high-pitched and not make their heads explode.
ten minutes later and his pocket's buzzing, you're a pimp now?
only for you, baby.
fuck you.
--
akira doesn't think that it's the lack of colors that bothers him so much anymore. it's the fact that he's alone without being alone. he has sakai, yes, but sakai is only there to make sure he doesn't get himself killed without peace and smile company's supervision. sakai cares, sakai's his friend (if he can even associate the term with him, which he barely can), and sakai really needs to not take the last clean towel again or else akira's going to beat him with the shower curtains.
he doesn't know how, but he's going to damn well try.
akira takes revenge on his manager and his paparazzi skills by snapping a photo while the other is sleeping, smiling for the first time since he's arrived in new york as he adds a comment: i killed the prom queen.
it takes his phone two minutes to vibrate this time. he's greeted with the image of a sad face doodled into a piece of paper, a chihuahua's paw stepping onto it from the top left corner, an all-too familiar ring placed underneath the drawing like a super villain's calling card. why'd you ruin such perfectly good sheets?!
akira has to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from waking his manager.
--
akira doesn't know when the plane landed, but he knows where they are, who they are, why they are, and that's truthfully the most he's going to get out of his exhausted mind. he takes out his phone, checks his messages. he has one, saved, and presses the camera button, aiming up at the terminal sign with a little heart emoticon as the only caption, because he's used up all his words and he really just wants to go home to his own bed.
he isn't greeted with a reply, only a tobacco-deepened voice saying his name when he waits for his bags to come around the carousel. he turns to see takanori holding up his phone with a smirk-smile on his lips, a picture of akira standing in the airport, concentration stretched across his tired face, one hand gripping a cell phone while the other was tangled in his hair, scratching the back of his head absentmindedly.
underneath the photo is hi and a bracket, the number three, joined to form a heart.
there are no words for him to use when he's immediately embraced, kissed with one fleeting peck on his mouth.
akira misses his bag the first time around and it's only when sakai tells him to grab it does he get his clothes back. he honestly thinks, with a smile, that losing a little bit of his wardrobe at the airport is nothing compared to the phone bill he expects to be on his kitchen table when he gets home, with the rest of his mail.
he's still smiling nonetheless when he exits the airport with takanori's hand in his jacket pocket, a text message reading, you look like an idiot right now, is displayed on his cell phone screen.
akira sees the colors again and knows that it's not because of the city.
akira doesn't smile as he walks toward the nearest airport bathroom, desperate for a piss. he misses colors.
--
manhattan's a bit brighter than the jfk airport, but not by much. the buildings give a claustrophobic feel that akira believes he should've gotten used to many years ago. one would think that after living in tokyo for so long that he would've felt at home, but he only wants the smells back, the sights, the language. he wonders if this is what culture shock feels like.
sakai has said nothing about it at this point, only listening as their translator tells him the schedule.
akira ticks off the minutes, slipping his thumb into his pocket. his sigh is throttled by the city streets.
--
he doesn't know why the rock stars have to, fucking have to take pictures in some grungy, run down shithole in greenwich village, but apparently “all of the up and coming artists do it at one point!” and akira has to bite down on his tongue to keep from telling the photographer that he's not really “up and coming” anymore. he's been doing this for eight years.
he aims his cell phone at the other side of the street where gray meets a different shade of gray, a few youths with edgy haircuts and plaid shirts and joints hanging from their mouths, squatting beside an iHome that is blasting some strange concoction of acoustic guitars and tambourines, a whiny voice crooning weird sounds along with it. akira adds, i wonder if i kicked them, would they fall like bowling pins and catch on fire?
fifteen minutes later, his pocket vibrates:
stee-rike.
akira can't remember the last time he's ever laughed so hard, but he's fairly certain that the kids across the street are now frightened of the crazy japanese man.
--
four days feel even longer when you're in a place that feels nothing like home. akira can only shake his head when asked if he's hungry, if he's ready for another photoshoot, another interview with some underground magazine that no one but the rave kids read. he forces smiles for the rare fan that recognizes him, asks in clumsy japanese for a hug, a picture, an autograph. “oh my god, i love you, reita-san! i love you a whole lot!”
he sends a picture sakai took with his phone: akira, smirking without a single movement of his mouth, with two teenage girls on either side of him. he sighs upon seeing it, but decides to send it anyway, for shits and giggles and snarky remarks.
i didn't know girls could squeal so high-pitched and not make their heads explode.
ten minutes later and his pocket's buzzing, you're a pimp now?
only for you, baby.
fuck you.
--
akira doesn't think that it's the lack of colors that bothers him so much anymore. it's the fact that he's alone without being alone. he has sakai, yes, but sakai is only there to make sure he doesn't get himself killed without peace and smile company's supervision. sakai cares, sakai's his friend (if he can even associate the term with him, which he barely can), and sakai really needs to not take the last clean towel again or else akira's going to beat him with the shower curtains.
he doesn't know how, but he's going to damn well try.
akira takes revenge on his manager and his paparazzi skills by snapping a photo while the other is sleeping, smiling for the first time since he's arrived in new york as he adds a comment: i killed the prom queen.
it takes his phone two minutes to vibrate this time. he's greeted with the image of a sad face doodled into a piece of paper, a chihuahua's paw stepping onto it from the top left corner, an all-too familiar ring placed underneath the drawing like a super villain's calling card. why'd you ruin such perfectly good sheets?!
akira has to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from waking his manager.
--
akira doesn't know when the plane landed, but he knows where they are, who they are, why they are, and that's truthfully the most he's going to get out of his exhausted mind. he takes out his phone, checks his messages. he has one, saved, and presses the camera button, aiming up at the terminal sign with a little heart emoticon as the only caption, because he's used up all his words and he really just wants to go home to his own bed.
he isn't greeted with a reply, only a tobacco-deepened voice saying his name when he waits for his bags to come around the carousel. he turns to see takanori holding up his phone with a smirk-smile on his lips, a picture of akira standing in the airport, concentration stretched across his tired face, one hand gripping a cell phone while the other was tangled in his hair, scratching the back of his head absentmindedly.
underneath the photo is hi and a bracket, the number three, joined to form a heart.
there are no words for him to use when he's immediately embraced, kissed with one fleeting peck on his mouth.
akira misses his bag the first time around and it's only when sakai tells him to grab it does he get his clothes back. he honestly thinks, with a smile, that losing a little bit of his wardrobe at the airport is nothing compared to the phone bill he expects to be on his kitchen table when he gets home, with the rest of his mail.
he's still smiling nonetheless when he exits the airport with takanori's hand in his jacket pocket, a text message reading, you look like an idiot right now, is displayed on his cell phone screen.
akira sees the colors again and knows that it's not because of the city.