Crescendi (Oneshot)

Title: Crescendi
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: Reita/Uruha.
Rating: PG.
Genre: Fluff. Friendship. Life.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words.
Summary: They were more than grass-stained knees and four corners of a rectangular field. They were Uruha and Reita.
Author’s Notes: Pardon the fic-spamming. I'm rather smitten by the boys at the moment.

We've always been different, you and I, in the way we looked at the world. Our views a little skewed and (always) the opposite of everyone else's reverse. And although it wasn't something we've ever said to each other, it was there: this yearning that we felt—

in the way that our
grass-stained bones
protested & creaked
with words like
more than this.

And yet we tried our hardest to fit in, made our parents (your Mom) proud by limiting our dreams within just the four corners of this field. It was always a mad, slightly strategic scramble for team glory as we got ready in—

our spike-clad feet
as we ran marathons
within a great rectangle
searching wildly for
more than this.

And we never said it aloud, but both of us knew that what we were looking for, it wasn't here. So we looked elsewhere, grasping the fading thrum of echoes and chasing after disintegrating wisps.

"We're going to be more than this," you tell me after a particularly gruesome game, your right knee scratched raw and my left eyesocket beginning to color purple as we stand away from our celebrating teammates, part of the victory but not exactly the reason for it.

"You'll see Kouyou," you whisper with fists clenched tight, the stubborn set of your face fiercer than usual as you turn to me. And then your determined scowl melts into something else. Something warm, as you nudge me on the side with a bony elbow, and suddenly you're grinning. "You'll see."

And I believed you.

Watching the world watch us back onstage, I throw an arm around your shoulder and bump my head against yours, our matching calluses aching in tandem because this is our victory and we're part of it this time, together.

There's a quirk to your lips when you turn your head to face me, eyes gleaming and all-knowing as you raise a brow—see Kouyou?

I nod and hum. Encase you in a one-armed hug. And you're as warm as I remember you being, as warm as ever.

"I've always believed you, Akira."

Pewter (Oneshot)

Author: inkstrain / Aki
Rating:R for swearing and other situations.
Disclaimer:I own nothing but my words.
Summary:His feelings are tarnished, the once gleaming surface of his emotions scratched raw in dying shades of gray-black-gray bleeding please please, again// Because Aoi is past the point of yearning and Uruha realizes it too late.
Author’s Notes:Err, 'cause in an alternate fangirl-based universe, if Aoi were to have this crush on Uruha who's always ignoring him anyway, he's bound to get tired right? This is that. Inspired by the Tokyo Dome (un)kiss AoiHa shippers have probably watched a billion times.

It starts with broken beats, insistent taps on the wood that shake his fainting consciousness awake with every disjointed pound, pulling him back from fading into slumber. At first, he thinks it's just part of the rain's pitter-patter–it had been drizzling nonstop after all–but when he hears the singsong of his name, he eventually realizes that someone is on the other side of the door, knocking.

At a little past three in the morning.


He sits up with a jolt, disgruntled. Sleepiness momentarily forgotten, he climbs out of bed with an irritated sigh, hurrying to open his hotel room door to get whatever-this-isover and done with as quickly as possible–but nope, that's not happening. As soon as the door opens, he finds himself with an armful of dead weight lead guitar, whiskey-flavored spittle flying everywhere including on his face.

"There you are, you fucking thief!"

Aoi's entire body freezes as his gaze flies down to the gaping mess that has so suddenly latched itself on his chest, eyes impossibly wide. He's startled by the slurred accusation-out-of-nowhere, but more so at the sight of Uruha half embracing him. The younger man is surprisingly drunk, nuzzling his still make up-caked faced against Aoi's chest and staining his pristine sleep shirt with stygian smudges of barely-there eyeshadow and kohl. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Aoi's hands find the younger man's shoulders to push him away, growling under his breath.

"Uruha, what th—"

He doesn't complete his statement because the breath is knocked out of him; a merciless thump on his ribcage that he thinks is supposed to beaffectionate, before a cheerful voice comes out of those shapely lips, grin stretched so wide it's become nothing but a painful-looking grimace.

"You give it back to me right the fucknow, Shi-ro-ya-ma!"

Slightly alarmed, Aoi tries to put at least a semblance of distance between himself and his inebriated bandmate, but Uruha won't let go–clings to him tighter instead,  hands clawing at the fabric over his heart as if wanting to sink those black-painted nails into sinew and bone. It almost feels like he's going to yankyankyankout what he can from Aoi's chest cavity any moment, make him bleed all over the carpeted floor.

But hey, it's not like this is the first time right? Because that almost-kiss if Uruha hadn't turned away is the last straw, and Aoi realizes he may have conquered Tokyo Dome but not him—never him.

"Wha-hat the hell?Give ba-hackwhat?" Aoi sputters in between heaves of needed air, lungs still trying to recover from Uruha's jab as the other begins ripping at his top, literally. "And what are you doi–"

Uruha is mumbling to himself through gritted teeth, scrambling for purchase on fragile cotton fabric, not even paying him any mind. "It's here somewhere..."


The scene of two guitarists grappling at each other pauses almost comically at the sudden hiss of Uruha's real name, the door across Aoi's flying open to reveal a frantic-looking Reita without his noseband and already garbed to turn in for the night. The bassist takes in the sight before him with saucer-eyes, mouth agape, and then—

Uruha fuckinggiggles, alleviating the charged tension in the air, black-rimmed eyes all crinkly with fake mirth. Because whatever humor is injected on his voice doesn't reach his eyes, and aside from glassy it's nothing but a shade of insipid brown–lifeless, dead.

"Oops Akira, sorry." He says lazily, fists still tight around the hem of Aoi's ruined shirt, but at least he's no longer pulling. His ear is pressed against the elder's beating heart, almost as if he's listening. And perhaps he is, but the rhythm guitarist is too frazzled to notice or even care, at this point, eyes narrowed as he tries to understand what the hell Uruha is talking about. "But it's right here, I told you!"

Aoi looks up and glares at Reita-slash-Akira like it's his fault he's being harrassed, and also because he's just standing there like an idiot. Raising his arms up and gesturing at Uruha's clinging form, he gives the bassist a pointed look.

"Well? Help me out here!"

Reita shakes his head with a heavy sigh, walking over and prying Uruha's fingers off Aoi one by one, all while speaking in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. And the older man doesn't understand what the hell Reita's saying either, feels completely out of the loop because the other seems to know exactly what Uruha is talking about while he has no fucking clue.

"I know Kouyou, but we've talked about this and..." He doesn't miss the wary gleam in Reita's eyes as his gaze flickers at his face for a millisecond, arms coming to wrap around Uruha's jutting shoulders before he's crooning at his wasted bestfriend. "It's not yours. Just... come on, let's leave Aoi to get some rest."

Uruha, compliant the entire time Reita's detaching him from his co-guitarist, suddenly tries to lunge at him again, but this time Aoi is able to evade those grabby hands by jumping back. And the look of hurt that flashes across Uruha's face confuses and shocks the hell out of rhythm guitar, but before he can figure anythingout, Reita's already dragging Kouyouaway with muttered apologies.

"I'm sorry man," Reita tells him, without any further explanation as to why he's just been semi-attacked and accused of stealing who-knew-what. Just an excuse, and a lacking one at that. "He's had too much to drink."

And as Aoi stands on his doorway with a shirt that's stretched beyond repair, his flesh scratched red, he wonders blankly what the hell all that was about as the door across his closes with a concluding thud.

So that's that.


He steps on a crumpled shirt by his doorstep just as he's heading out to meet the band and staff for breakfast, a page from the hotel's standard-issue notepad peeking out of one of its sleeves.

Replacement for the one last night.

Everyone's downstairs by the time he gets to the lobby, except for the lead guitarist who has gone home ahead of them all with some kind of emergency.

And when he turns to the bassist with questioning eyes, Reita averts his gaze and turns to Kai, allowing the drummer to talk his ears off so that there's no way in hell Aoi will be able to interrupt thatone-sided conversation.


Found what you were looking for?

Because Reita is perfecting the art of being unavailable every time he approaches with questions of what the hell was that 3AM shit, Aoi decides on a somewhat direct approach. The reply to his text message comes a minute and a half later, mysterious and vague and just... weird.

Not yet, but I know where it is.

But what was it? Are you sure it's with me?


What was it then? Did it get mixed in with my stuff or something?


When the doorbell rings, he's not yet sleeping, just getting ready to, towel-drying his raven locks with his eyelashes still dripping bathtub water. He usually checks who's on the other side through the peephole but he doesn't this time, expecting Kai to come over to drop off music sheets and lyrics from Ruki.

(He hasn't checked his phone yet, doesn't know the band leader sent a message while he was on the bath telling him he'll just visit early tomorrow because he's tired—)

So instead of the incessant chatter he's mentally prepared himself to endure, he gets a whiff of hard liquor and a glimpse of flat brown eyes instead, catching him off guard as someone barrels forward and he falls...


Aoi's spine meets the floor hard as he is pushed down and straddled, and in his haze of ow-fuck-what-in-the, it takes him several seconds to discern that he has a face full of Uruha. And the younger man is drunk again, worst than ever, and there goes those nails digging at him in a repeat performance of earlier.

Uruha's nose is cold as he presses it against Aoi's cheek, and the older man shudders as those lips, equally chilled and wet even, decides to fervently whisper against his warm skin in broken gasps, separate words.

"Give. It. Back. Now!"

The door is wide open, and because he can't get the younger guitarist off him and the sight of them like thiswill look rather suspicious to any passers-by, Aoi kicks his front door closed before confronting the sloshed man on top of him with a firm hand on his shoulders, temper flaring as his palms shove at those collarbones.

"What is wrongwith you Takashi-"

And the kiss that Aoi gets in response tastes like alcohol and nicotine with just the slightest hint of please please again—and there would have been a time in the past where he would have molded his lips back against the ones pressed on his own gladly, with abandon, soul singing yes, finally

Uruha drags his mouth down to Aoi's chin, pulling at the hem of the second shirt he's ruined for the day and following the path of his fingers, creating a trail of saliva as he exposes the rhythm guitarist's chest.


Uruha's whispering lips hover over the flesh covering a rapidly beating heart, and in stunned understanding, Aoi knows what the hell it is they've all been (Reita included) talking about.

"It's mine Shiroyama, give it back."

He swallows, body going lax against Uruha's as his eyes stare fixedly on a point on his off-white ceiling. From confused anger, Aoi slumps in defeat because the lead guitarist is right.

Or well, would have been anyway.

He combs his fingers through the other's dyed hair gently, cradling a skull he would have loved to hold close, for all eternity. But that was before, when Aoi wasn't yet tired of waiting for those eyes to fucking see him just please god Kouyou

With Uruha's kiss pressed firmly on the beating thing he's ignored all this time, at least until now, Aoi whispers back.

"Not anymore."


White Letch (Oneshot)

Title: White Letch
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Uruha/Aoi depending on how you look at it.
Rating: R.
Genre: Angst.
Disclaimer: There’s nothing to own but my words.
Summary: Uruha doesn't want much, not when it comes to Aoi.
Author’s Notes: I've been away for years but have come back completely smitten by AoiHa (years too late). Testing the waters here, so this is short. Comments would be lovely.


It starts with just a little bit—

Because it isn't enough, not even with the absence of space between their heaving chests. Aoi's face is so damn close to hisand he wonders: are they even breathing on their own anymore? Or have they been stealing each other's air from the start with how they're almost kissing (but aren't), sucking in oxygen from one mouth to the other in a touchless liplock?

And fuck–when did it become so damn difficult to get anything into his nicotine-stained lungs? His breaths have become ragged pants, harsh staccatos of yes, yesand just like thatas calloused hands graspand grope at him in mindless desperation. And this is all he has been reduced to, lead guitarist to just this: a seeker of release where it can be had, with whoever's willing.

And he asks
–wastedand willing are synonymous, aren't they?
And answers himself with
–no, no they're not.

But it's perfectly okay. He can just pretendand he will, with eyes closed begging just a little bit—

Because it feels good to be bonelessand satiated like he is now: skin coated with cumand sweat, his entire body still buzzing with drunken murmursand slurred confessions. He writes down the words on the empty space underneath his ribs knowing, come morning, that they won't mean shit. So he keeps them close, tucks them away somewhere safe as their overheated bodies get cooled down by the recycled air within their shared hotel room.

But fuck–it's still so warm isn't it? Too damn warm as they lie on top of the sheets without bothering to cover themselves, exhausted limbs fitting so closely together in broken stanzas of we're made for each other can't you fucking see.

And he asks
–can we stop fooling aroundand be something more?
And answers himself with
–no, no we can't.

And it's perfectly okay. Uruha will pretendand he can, that everything's fineand that it doesn't hurt. If only to keep Aoi to himself just a little bit—



His Better Half (Oneshot)

Title: His Better Half
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: ToraxSaga.
Rating: PG.
Genre: Angst and… fluff. Yes, for real.
Disclaimer: There’s nothing to own but my words.
Summary: Because things aren’t right without you.
Author’s Notes: I’ve been restless and useless. This just had to be written for my peace of mind.
When he arrives home that night, standing by his doorway and fumbling with the keys to be able to get in, he smiles to himself at hearing the noise on the other side – the TV’s turned on pretty loud and it’s a comforting sound. He inserts the key into the lock, turns it, opens and closes the door as he drops house and car keys at a nearby table. “I’m home,” he says, but gets no reply.
Chikin appears from the hallway, paws making soundless footfalls on the carpet. He’s still smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore as he picks a meowing cat in his arms. Maybe it was replying welcome home to him, in its own language? Or just hungry, more like. The can he left for the poor thing has most probably been empty since early this evening.
He ignores the TV which he’s left turned on ever since he went to work this morning, half listening to the news – as though he’s come home to someone, when there’s only his cat home.
He’s never one to enjoy dramas, but there’s nothing else to watch. This one’s a comedy, everything the female lead does is too funny for words. He laughs a little at some of them, and then one scene completely blows him away and he starts guffawing. The entire package comes along – teary eyes, painful stomach, breathlessness. And then the scene ends, and his laughing echoes around the empty living room before subsiding.
He turns when he feels a pair of eyes gazing at him with in what he would imagine as morbid curiosity, and finds Chikin a few feet from him, just looking. The cat’s probably wondering what he’s laughing about, but he doesn’t speak cat so he’s not sure he’ll be able to explain it to his pet properly.
Sighing, he shuts the TV off and retreats to the kitchen to the sound of stillness.
The smell of coffee is relaxing, wafting around the empty house like incense. Even Chikin reacts to its intoxicating scent, nose up in the air, and comes into the kitchen to investigate where that wonderful smell is coming from as he pauses by the doorway. He smiles at his beloved pet as pours himself a cup filled to the brim, and then frowns slightly when he realizes he’s made too much of the caffeinated drink.
“You want some?” he asks aloud, turning to the curious cat still just standing by the entrance to the kitchen, tail swishing back and forth, back and forth. He doesn’t get an answer of course, doesn’t expect one or he’s going to run screaming, before he makes a decision.
With a splash, the rest of the coffee good enough for one more cup, disappears down the drain in a whirlpool of dark, dark brown.
It’s half past four when he finally feels the effects of caffeine wear off. It had been a bad idea to drink coffee before going to sleep. Pushing his bedroom door open, he all but collapses atop his bed in nothing but his sweatpants, swimming in his blankets for a comfortable position as he fights to stay awake, just to be able to properly settle under the covers.
When he’s all comfy and ready for his much needed shut eye, he realizes how spacious his bed has become and stares at the ceiling for a long time, unable to sleep as he lies down beside air. Rising up and heading to the living room, he gets six items from the couch and returns to the bedroom, throwing them onto the bed.
He falls asleep, drowning in huge throw pillows with no space for emptiness left around him.
When he arrives home that night, standing by his doorway and fumbling with the keys to be able to get in, he grins to himself at hearing the silence the other side – not a sound, not even a breath, and it’s an unsettling, excited sound. He inserts the key into the lock, turns it, opens and closes the door as he drops house and car keys at a nearby table. “I’m home,” he says.
And gets a reply, just as Chikin appears from the hallway, in someone’s arms. “Tora you idiot, you left the TV on this morning again!”
Chikin meows, probably to chastise him too, but he isn’t really sure because the annoyed man who’s welcomed him home has leaned in to peck his lips.
He chuckles as he turns the TV on for the news. “I’ve been gone only three days but you’re already racking up the electric bill!” He watches him disappear into the kitchen with a small smile but doesn’t say anything
He’s never one to enjoy dramas, but there’s nothing else to watch. This one’s a comedy, everything the female lead does is too funny for words. He laughs a little at some of them, and then one scene completely blows him away and he starts guffawing. The entire package comes along – teary eyes, painful stomach, breathlessness. And then the scene ends, and his laughing echoes around the empty living room before subsiding.
“What’s so funny?”
He turns when he feels two pairs of eyes gazing at him with in what he would imagine as morbid curiosity, and finds Chikin a few feet from him, still in his arms. Both cat and human are at him as if he’s gone crazy, and he stands up, points at the LCD with a stupid grin.
“It’s because of this scene…” They go into the kitchen, shared laughter soon ringing around the house like wind chimes dancing with the wind as soon as he finishes relating the story.
The smell of coffee is relaxing, wafting around the empty house like incense. Even Chikin reacts to its intoxicating scent, nose up in the air, and comes into the kitchen to investigate where that wonderful smell is coming from as he pauses by the doorway. He smiles at his beloved pet as pours himself a cup filled to the brim, and then receives a somewhat painful whack at the back of the head just as he’s about to take a sip from his cup.
“Tora!” He pouts and rubs the spot where he’s been hit, turning to the culprit who’s glaring at him as the speech is continued. “What is this for, bathing? How come you made so much coffee at this hour?!”
Grinning slightly, he watches the other get a cup of his own, muttering to himself about having to drink the remaining coffee for it not to go to waste.
It’s half past four when he finally feels the effects of caffeine wear off. It had been a bad idea to drink coffee before going to sleep (he never learns). Pushing his bedroom door open, he all but collapses atop his bed in nothing but his sweatpants, swimming in his blankets for a comfortable position as he fights to stay awake, just to be able to properly settle under the covers.
When he’s all comfy and ready for his much needed shut eye, he realizes how spacious his bed has become and stares at the ceiling for a long time, unable to sleep as he lies down beside air. Rising up and heading to the living room, he returns with a squirming Saga soon after, dumping the other on the bed.
“Tora! I’m not sleepy yet!” the brunette complains, glaring up at the older man who’s smiling the same soft warm smile he’s had ever since he came home this evening. He ignores the comment, crawls in and wraps an arm securely around the bassist’s waist.
“You were gone three days,” he whispers, looking at the other with even softer eyes. “I’ve had to leave the TV on so I can pretend I’m not going home to an empty house. I laughed aloud hoping you’d come into the living room asking why I was but only Chikin did that yesterday. I made too much coffee that I had to throw some away, and had to sleep with tons of pillows around me so the bed won’t be so empty…”
Tora is shushed by Saga’s lips sealing his own.
“All right, all right.” When the younger man pulls away, Tora sees a smile on the other’s face that wasn’t there earlier. “I missed you too, Tora.”
Tora falls asleep drowning in the scent of Saga’s hair, with no space for emptiness as he holds the younger man in his arms.
- FIN -

What Men Just Did (Oneshot)

Title: What Men Just Did ( A sequel to What Men Don't Do)
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: ToraxSaga.
Rating: R.
Genre: Angst. 
Disclaimer: I own the words and the story.
Summary: Tongue darting out to part hesitant lips, Saga pushes Tora down on the bed with him on top, moving to whisper directly beside his ear. “Come on Tora. Get me off your system.”
Author’s Notes: The sequel to What Men Don’t Do which you can find here. You don’t have to read the prequel to understand this story (I think), but the original does give you at least an idea on how they ended up in this situation. Anyway, this is pretty straight to the point; not very profound, unfortunately. As always, comments are lovely.
Guilt has a funny way of eating you from the inside out.
When Saga walks into the studio after a four-day off following the end of tour and finds Tora missing, he gets a funny feeling in his stomach.
“Called in sick the last minute, a bit under the weather he said.” Was Nao’s reply when he asks where the rhythm guitarist is, and Saga’s stomach heaves with unease as he absently watches the drummer call Hiroto and Shou to cancel today’s rehearsals. Even though he tries to convince himself it’s because of something he ate, he knows the sudden butterflies in his stomach has nothing to do with breakfast.
It’s because of what took place the night after their post-live drinking celebration.
“Well let me just show you what men don’t fucking do!”
And, Saga will never know what possessed him, but he does the next thing he does on a whim, perhaps the effect of being overly emotional. He grabs the back of Tora’s head and kisses him hard, all tongue and teeth and pain.
When he steps out of the studio it is half past nine, and Saga finds himself heading home with several purchases from a convenience store. He doesn’t want to think much, and these items might help.
It’s a disease that starts somewhere, although it doesn’t really matter if you figure out where it began or not.
Saga stares at the phone in his hand for the longest time, an empty bottle and a shot glass lying on the floor beside him. A second bottle is on his other hand, half empty. He drinks straight from it and winces slightly, oblivious of Chiko who’s watching him watching his cell phone.
It’s a pretty funny sight, if only there’s anything funny going on inside Saga’s head.
This. All this because of a kiss that friends aren’t supposed to share or – heck – that men to begin with are not supposed to, friendship aside. Saga regrets it, but there are things that cannot be undone. What he did that night is one of them.
Even if he tries to, words cannot even express the anger and frustration Saga puts into the kiss. A kiss that Tora responds to.
And just like that, Saga has him all figured out.
Saga’s mom finds him passed out on his bedroom floor when she gets home that night. She helps his son onto his bed, tucks him in, and places the cell phone her son’s been clutching on the space beside Saga’s pillow.
She doesn’t see the half finished message intended to be sent to Tora as he picks up two empty vodka bottles and a shot glass from the floor.
By that time, guilt’s done with its spreading, just like lethal cancer cells invading every inch of you it can from within.
The next day consists of several interviews and a radio guesting – minus Tora.
“Still not feeling well,” Nao explains when Saga hears Hiroto ask. They’re on the break room of the radio station, waiting for their turn and being entertained with caffeine, snacks, and cigarettes. “He already went to the doctor; he’s been advised to rest for now.”
What Nao says is complete, utter bullshit in Saga’s opinion, but he does not say anything as he pretends to focus on his cigarette, cradling an aching head.
“Hey, you okay?” Saga looks up at the question and finds Shou peering at him in concern. He manages a half grin and nods, pushing the sunglasses he has up on his hairline back on the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mutters, reaching for his coke bottle and drinking from it. “Just a little hung over, that’s all.”
The rest of the day finds the Alice Nine bassist in a zombie-like state, holding onto his cell phone for dear life as though expecting something. The message he tried to compose yesterday is saved on his outbox, unsent and still unfinished.
Guilt makes you rot until you’re nothing but an indiscernible mess of remorse and shame.
The third day of Tora’s no-show is the last straw.
Saga receives the text message just as he’s leaving the house, and he’s finally reached his peak. Without thinking, he dials the older man’s number and then panics when he realizes what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter though – he doesn’t even get a ring.
Tora’s phone is turned off.
“Well let me just show you what men don’t fucking do!”
A kiss that Tora responds to.
Saga has him all figured out.
It takes two bottles of vodka (again) before Saga finally admits to himself he knows what needs to be done, blood and liquor pounding on his veins at the thought. He smells and looks drunk but he doesn’t give a damn, doesn’t even notice the disapproving looks he receives on his way to Tora’s apartment just because he’s in this state at noon.
And then he gets there, and Saga stands in front of the door for the longest time without knocking, unsure of what to do.
To say he’s surprised is an understatement. Saga literally jumps when he hears his name, and when he turns toward the direction of the elevators, he finds Tora himself standing just a few feet away, sharing his expression, carrying a convenience store plastic bag containing god-knows-what. It takes an effort to get his composure back, but Saga’s drunk – it’s not hard to switch moods when you’re head is swimming like his is now.
“Tora. We need to talk.”
Saga senses more than sees Tora’s own mood change at his words. When the older man replies, his tone has changed too. It’s toneless and flat, so Tora-like but not so that Saga aches at the pinching in his chest when he realizes what they lost that night. This is the same, but things have changed, have taken a new meaning.
“What’s there to talk about?”
Saga tilts his head to the side and looks around, past Tora and then behind him. “You sure you want to me to tell you what we need to talk about here? In the hallway?” he asks incredulously, and he makes a point because the tiger sighs and concedes, walking past him and opening the door with a fumbling of keys. Without looking back, Tora steps inside and Saga follows, closing the door behind him.
“You’re drunk,” Tora says, flicking a few lights within the apartment on. Saga doesn’t answer, not immediately at least. Instead, he stands in the middle of the living room, watching the other move about, mind reeling. He’s here to talk, but how to begin? Go from there, start with Tora’s comment maybe?
It’s probably the liquor that’s talking for him, but it’s helpful. At least he won’t have to think – he just has to speak. “I’m surprised you aren’t.” He answers as Tora pauses in his task of unloading whatever’s in the plastic bag he’s brought home. The older man turns around and meets his gaze levelly at his next words. “I mean, after what happened between us, liquor’s like, the only thing that has kept me sane the past few days.”
Tora doesn’t say anything at once, but there is a shaking on his free hand that wasn’t there before. Saga notices this. Anger, nervousness? Both, maybe? He can’t tell, but he thinks he knows what to say, now that he’s begun, now that he’s getting a reaction from the tiger.
“You know, it’s really weird,” he steps forward and closes the distance between them without breaching personal space. “I should be the one staying away from you after that night, not the other way around.”
He watches him swallow before answering. “If you’re here to make fun of what you discovered, you know the way out Saga.” Tora replies, his gaze cutting through the bassist’s. And then it’s over – Tora turns around and goes back in his task, getting things out of his precious plastic bag.
“I’m not making fun of you.”
Tora once again pauses in his actions. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?” and now the shaking’s in the rhythm guitarist’s voice too, and Saga knows if he doesn’t say what he wants to next, he’ll be kicked out and there goes his chance at redemption from the mucky guilt he’s been drowning in for days on end now.
“Kiss me again.”
The silence that follows Saga’s words is tense, and when Tora turns around with a confused look on his face, the shaking in his voice has worsened. “What?” he whispers, staring in disbelief at Saga who shrugs, manages to be casual despite the erratic thudding of his heart within his chest. “You heard me the first time I’m sure, I don’t think I have to repeat myself.”
And that’s when he closes the distance between them fully, Saga’s hand careful but sure as he places it at the back of Tora’s neck to pull him close for a kiss. And this second one is affectionate and gentle, and…
“Fuck you.” Tora whispers, the shaking in his voice now a tremor in his entire body as he doesn’t kiss back, as he stands still, probably fighting the urge to return the action. Saga doesn’t relent, doesn’t give up though – if the other man didn’t really want this, he would be pushing him away.
He whispers in Tora’s ear. “That’s what you want to do to me, right?” and when he receives no answer, he continues. “No one’s stopping you. I’m right here.”
Saga soon finds his hair being fisted as Tora looks him straight in the eye, still shaking visibly. “Why are you doing this?” is the question he gets, and he grabs the collar of Tora’s shirt, speaks through their touching lips.
“Because this is my fault. Because I want to make it up to you. Because this is the only way I can think of for us to move forward and forget about this, after it’s over and done with, and go back to normal.” And this time as he leans in to kiss Tora again, he is met halfway – and the hands that find his waist are familiar and foreign both, calloused fingers brushing against his skin, struggling and fighting to remove his shirt as they stumble against objects and a door, toward the bedroom.
With his shirt discarded on the floor, Tora pulls away, and Saga watches him staring at his half nakedness. He’s just about to ask what’s wrong, but the older man has flopped down the side of his bed and fisted his hair in his hands, his eyes tightly shut.
“Fuck… I’m disgusting. Why are you letting me do this Saga?” and there is a desperation in Tora’s voice as he looks back up to stare at him with haunted eyes.
Saga’s answer to that is plain and simple as he straddles the older man on the bed, leading those hands to wrap around his waist. “Because you have to get this off your system,” he whispers, kissing Tora again, this time more fiercely, more forcefully than earlier.
Tongue darting out to part hesitant lips, Saga pushes Tora down on the bed with him on top, moving to whisper directly beside his ear. “Come on Tora. Get me off your system.” And perhaps that is all the older man needs. A beckoning, a direct order from Saga to let go.
In a quick movement, Saga finds their positions reversed, and Tora hovers over him for a few seconds, just staring at his face as if looking for something, before their lips meet again, their clothes coming off soon after, inexperienced hands exploring and touching forbidden places.
There is pain, and Saga’s name is whispered over and over again as the bed creaks, as they fist bed sheets, as Tora’s calloused fingers drive him over the edge. And in this moment of all white, of their pleasured moans, as he opens his eyes just in time to meet the older man’s lustful gaze, he thinks maybe, just maybe…
In Saga’s outbox, the unsent, still unfinished message read: I’m sorry. I think I’m in–


Dear Shou (Oneshot)

Title: Dear Shou
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: ToraxShou
Rating: PG-13.
Genre: Romance. General.
Disclaimer: I own the words and the story. Everything else pretty much own themselves.
Summary: It started with an attempt to write a love letter that Tora would never need to give to Shou.
Author’s Notes: I wrote this a long time ago which was, according to this document’s created date, on July 18 2010. I’m posting it only now because I never really knew ToraxShou fans that would actually read it. Apparently I was wrong. That and it’s nice to see a really active Alice Nine related community again, so I decided finishing this would be my little contribution to this flourishing community. Enjoy ToraxShou shippers.


Tora glared at the piece of paper in front of him, one hand tapping the tip of his pen on the tabletop. He read the single line written on the upper left of the page, one he had written over an hour ago and which was still only the two words there was on the almost clean sheet of paper.
Dear Shou.
Dear Shou what? He thought furiously, sighing in frustration and running a hand through his hair. How annoying. Obviously he did not have the ability for words – he couldn’t seem to put his feelings into meaningful phrases, not the way the Alice Nine vocalist could. But Nao had advised him that, since Tora did not have such talent for expressing his feelings through the written language, surely Shou would appreciate his effort of confessing through a love letter.
It’s not something you always do, you don’t even update your blog and that counts as writing, Nao had told him sometime ago, all giddy and excited both because of his usual coffee fix and the news that Tora was going to finally, finally tell Shou how he felt during their little post gig sleepover at Tora’s place. If you confess to Shou-kun this way, he’ll see your effort and will surely appreciate it.
But then it was almost going to one and a half hour since Tora sat down to write and he hadn’t come up with anything interesting, funny or sweet to write down. Confessing out loud, face to face, was out of the question. Tora felt like he couldn’t deal with that just yet, not without giving Shou a heads up first, which was the letter, and then continuing from that point. It was probably kind of cowardly, but what the heck.
Growling in annoyance, Tora leaned back against his chair and pulled at his hair slightly after tossing his pen on the table, frustrated. Tilting his seat on two legs as he stared up at the ceiling, he tried to think of something, anything, but nothing came to mind. The task was hopeless, especially since he didn’t have the liberty of time what with the guys already on the way in a few minutes or so.
That was, except one.
The door to his study burst open and Nao walked in, beaming. As usual, the band leader was earlier than the rest. “Tora-san, can I please eat something? You’re starving your guest – you haven’t offered me anything since I arrived.” the drummer announced, making Tora straighten on his chair.
However, before he could reply, Nao was already beside him, narrowed eyes finding the piece of paper sitting on his desk. “Eh? You’re writing the letter only now?” Nao said, looking disapprovingly at Tora “And why does it have only Dear Shou written on it?”
Tora sighed. “Actually I have been trying to write since you told me to. As you can see, it’s going nowhere.” He muttered, putting his face on his hand as he looked up at Nao helplessly. “I just can’t seem to verbalize what I want to say.” He exhaled exaggeratedly, making most of his bangs flutter upward.
“Help me out here Nao-san. I don’t know what to write.”
Nao chuckled and began moving away, a cute grin brightening his childish face. “Nu-uh Tora-san. This has to be your effort. And besides, I don’t feel what you feel for Shou-kun so I wouldn’t be able to express what it is you want to…”
Tora quirked a brow expectantly when Nao trailed off all of a sudden, as if something came to mind. Watching as the other brought his mobile phone out to read something, he took note of the mischievous look that passed over the other’s face – so fast it was almost unnoticeable – before Nao was looking back up at him again, and now with an even brighter smile than ever before as the drummer pocketed his phone.
For a moment Tora thought something about the other’s actions looked quite suspicious, but Tora did not have time to think about the hidden meanings of Nao’s different facial expressions. He was fighting against time here. He needed this letter written.
“Well?” he prompted, and Nao looked like he was about to burst as he spoke up. “I know, I have an idea… this is what you’re going to do!” the drummer exclaimed, keeping both hands inside his pockets and walking over to stand beside Tora with a strange gleam in his eyes. “Close your eyes and organize your thoughts on how you want to say what you feel, only in letter-like fashion.” The band leader instructed, to which Tora rolled his eyes.
“No way.” Tora muttered, almost ready to abandon what he was doing but being forced to sit back down just as he was about to leave his seat for something easier to do, like say organize his home before the guys arrived. Nao looked like he wouldn’t let Tora do anything else but the letter however…
“Oh come on Tora-san. This will help! After this trust me – you’ll be able to write better!”
Tora stared at Nao dubiously. Thinking about it, what did he have to lose really? There was nothing the other didn’t know about how he felt for Shou in the first place because Tora had always confided in Nao so… what they were about to do was no different right? Sighing in defeat, Tora sunk back on his chair.
“All right, all right… I’ll do it.” Looking up at Nao, he added: “But do I have to close my eyes?” To which Nao looked very patient as he nodded his head. “Yeah. So you won’t be distracted by what you see. Come on, close your eyes… close it.” Tora did as he was told, and after a few minutes of silence wherein Nao directed him to clear his mind and do some breathing exercises, he was prompted to begin. Nao’s voice sounded like he was in another part of the room, and the tiger did wonder why he had to move away, but only thought it wasn’t really important.
And so he began.
“Dear Shou,” Tora paused and groped a little for words.
“I’m writing this letter… or no, I’m saying this letter – erm, that sounds wrong but then I am saying it aloud right? Maybe… ah…” He made a face, because he was using the wrong words. In the first place, letters were not said, they were written! But… Uh never mind! He told himself. He continued.
“Oh yeah, now I know. I’m saying this about-to-be-written letter to let you know something that I can’t simply tell you face-to-face.” Tora tilted his head slightly to the side, directing a question to Nao who had to be somewhere in his little study. He wanted to know if he should continue or not, because at the rate he was going… he was worried that he would only confuse Shou. “How am I doing so far?”
Nao gave little humming sounds or approval. “You’re doing great, just continue Tora-san.” The drummer encouraged, and Tora nodded, coughing to clear his throat and getting comfortable in his seat. He felt as though he was on a roll – maybe Nao was right after all. Maybe after this he would be able to write a somewhat decent love letter to Shou. He kept on.
“We’ve been friends for a very long time now, and through the years of that friendship I’ve really come to realize how special you are to me,” Tora smiled a little, looking back at the time when he actually started having feelings for the vocalist. He had hated himself for it at first, confused that he was feeling such emotions for someone of the same gender, but now he was pretty sure that if the worse came, he would have no regrets at all.
“However, lately my feelings for you have really been confusing. It’s like I care about you more than I used to before and I really didn’t understand it at first – why I was unreasonably overprotective of you, even from our own band mates. I was even jealous that you and Hiroto were always doing fan service – well not only you and Hiroto-kun, but the rest of our band mates as well. Your eyes always seemed to find everyone else on stage but me, as if I’m not even there, performing  with you. I know that’s not true but… I’m not really sure anymore. There are a lot of things I’m insecure about when it comes to you.”
Taking a deep breath, it took Tora a while to get the last few words out of what would be the last part of his letter should he ever get to writing it. And he was quite sure he would manage, now that he knew what he wanted to say.
“But there’s one thing I’m really, really sure about Shou-kun. It’s that I really like you as more than friends. I like you, and I don’t know… it might just be more than that even. Of course I’m not asking you to return this feeling, that would be too demanding, but I just wanted you to know that should you need someone around, I’ll always be here. That’s how special – and important – you have become to me.” Tora swallowed, his voice growing quite worried. “I do hope that by knowing this, by discovering that I care about you more than you’ve perhaps accounted for, our relationship won’t change. I’m still the Amano Shinji you used to know, after all. Only this time,”
The smile on Tora’s face overcame the worry in his voice, and it seemed that a burden was lifted off his chest. And for what? For saying all these things out loud. After this was over and done with, he was going to give Nao a hug.
“I’m willing to do a lot more things for you that a friend can’t, because there’s nothing more that I want but for you to be happy.”
He paused once more, and then decided that was good enough for a letter. He couldn’t forget the closing line of course. “Hugs and kisses…” Tora giggled, and he couldn’t help himself. That was just a very high school-ish line. “Or fine, that’s too forward and… epic. Something else then, the classic: Love,” His smile softened at the thought that occurred to him, and Tora was sure this time that his letter would rock.
“Your Tiger.”
There was a long moment of silence, where Tora was close to thinking that Nao had left him alone to make him look stupid. After all, he was talking to himself. As he opened his eyes however, at which point the clapping began, the sight that greeted Tora shocked him to the point of a heart attack when he saw who was there. Eyes widening comically, the pitch of his voice came out higher than usual.
“Shou-kun?” he exclaimed in a pre-pubescent voice, on his feet at once and watching as the Alice Nine vocalist stood by the doorway beside a very amused, silently laughing Nao, clapping his hands together lightly with a secretive smile on his lips – and all of this directed to Tora. His face warming up, Tora knew that he was blushing. Damn being light skinned. Surely his blush was reflecting on the walls by now. He directed his eyes toward the band drummer for a split second with a warning glare, before he was looking back at Shou.
“Wh—what are you…” How shameful really, but yes indeed, Tora’s words were coming out as gibberish. This was worse than his writing skills. “Doing here?” He finished as Shou crossed the room before stopping before him, the desk the only barrier between them. He still had the same smile on.
Tora was sooooooo going to kill Nao.
Tora watched as Shou, in one swift move, climbed on top of his office desk, for what exactly the older man had no idea. Smirking slightly, the vocalist sat down in front of him, legs apart so that Tora found himself standing between them. His heart was practically violating speed limits… 
What the fuck was Shou doing exactly? Nao was standing right there!
“I like you too, Tora.” Shou’s next words surprised him, but before he could react, the vocalist had already leaned in and kissed him and –
With a jolt, Tora sat up to find himself sitting behind his desk, holding a pen, and staring at Nao who had banged a fist on the table to wake him up. “The guys are here, you should – ” the drummer was saying something but only one thing was registering in Tora’s head.
Nao had banged a fist on the table to wake him up.
“It’s just a dream?!” he asked himself aloud, cutting Nao off mid sentence.  He looked down at the piece of paper in front of him and found that had two only words as it should; still Dear Shou. And a rush of relief had him laying a hand over his heart as he thanked the Kami that it was just a stupid dream.
“What’s just a dream?” Nao asked curiously, looking from Tora to the paper he was gazing at. “Eh? You’re writing the letter only now?” he then added, looking disapprovingly at Tora “And why does it have only Dear Shou written on it?”
For a quick moment, Tora felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. Deja vu. That was exactly what Nao said in his dream and then Tora would ask for his help and…
Surprising Nao that the drummer actually yelped and jumped back, Tora had stood up at the same time as his exclamation and glared at Nao accusingly.
“No, you’re not going to help me write my letter for Shou because in my dream, you asked me to vocalize my feelings first, to be able to write the letter better, and then had him sneak into the room while I’m talking aloud that I like him!” Tora banged a fist on the table this time, smirking triumphantly.
“No – you’re not going to be able to make me do it! Today’s not the day Shou’s going to know that I like him! NO!” He paired his words with a short, mock laugh.
And then there was a moment of pure silence, Nao looking utterly confused at what he’d just said and Tora still sneering. Before one of them could speak though, someone else beat them to it.
“Uh… sorry I didn’t mean to eavesdrop…”
Shou was standing by the doorway, looking both unsure and embarrassed, his cheeks just the slightest of pinks. Tora froze and knew, just by the heat he felt on his cheeks, that he was blushing madly.
“I… I don’t know about that Tora-san,” Nao muttered carefully, looking from band mate to band mate. Tora slapped a hand on his forehead, not believing his luck. So much for his first confession being a dream – this was fucking not.
Not again!


Author’s Notes: I didn’t bother editing anything, so I apologize for any grammar lapses and spelling errors. :)


What Men Don't Do (Oneshot)

Title: What Men Don’t Do
Author: inkstrain  / Aki
Pairing: ToraxSaga.
Rating: R. All swearing and shit.
Genre: Angst.
Disclaimer: I own the words and the story. Everything else pretty much own themselves.
Summary: The things that men don't do, in Tora's opinion. Saga has a different definition.
Author’s Notes: It’s been a while but this is not a come-back fic (believe me, I wish it was). I’m just off work sick and have time in my hands. I haven’t been writing in eight months so I’m apologizing early if there are any lapses in grammar whatsoever. Constructive criticism will also help. After all, it’s been more than half a year. About this story… cluttered. Very disorganized. Think of a boy’s mind, his things, his room. Yes, that’s it. That was what I was aiming for.


Once upon a random live, it began in between sets, during breaks.

Tora coughs, several times, and Saga looks up to find him discarding a barely finished cigar stick on the concrete, stepping on it with the heel of his shoe. He chuckles and lifts a hand up, patting the rhythm guitarist’s back in an effort to clear nicotine infected airway. Probably in vain, but it’s the thought that counts.

“You’re getting old.” He teases, and Tora looks up with a sarcastic impression of silent laughter, his coughing fit stopping long enough for him to retort and complete said action. “Says the oh-so-young one.” He shoots back, shrugging the hand that’s relieving (or at least trying to) his clogged up lungs. “And get your hand away, I’m fine.”

Saga withdraws his hand and rolls his eyes, re-busying himself with temporarily abandoned cigarette. “You’ve always had an issue about being touched,” the bassist muses, turning toward the near empty parking lot of the live venue’s backstage entrance indignantly. “It’s not like I want to touch you – it’s just a common action when someone’s coughing and I had to do it.”

Tora buries his hands inside his pockets, leaning against the wall beside the door as he closes his eyes with a tired sigh. “It’s not like it’s going to help.” He grumbles, a little more to himself than to Saga. And he continues. “And besides, men don’t show affection like that. It’s just… I don’t know, gay.”

At his words, Saga bursts out laughing and finally discards his own cigarette, shaking his head and giving the older man a slap on the arm. “Seriously Tora,” he says, still laughing. “We’ve been in this industry for several years now. We’ve been called gay before and you never really gave a damn.”

“I’ve never been called that. I was talking about you,” Tora harrumphs, and Saga erupts in another round of laughter, pulling the door open and heading inside, the other following suit. “Go ahead. Delude yourself it’s just me they pertain to.”

Another hmph, and Saga laughs all the way back to the dressing room.

It had been harmless at first. All those off hand comments Tora had been making for the past several months. At first they had been scattered, random, something he didn’t really bother to remember. But lately, Saga had come to notice that those one-liners of Tora’s frequented most of their conversations as though it was a constant reminder. But to who was the question. To him, to the both of them, someone else? He didn’t really have a clue. If it was a reminder to him, then it was not needed.

Saga thought he was just over thinking at first.

On the way to a live aboard the company tour bus, it persisted.
“Uuuuuuuuuuugh. I’m fucking bored.”

Saga shifts on his seat, restless, as he pushes his eyeglasses up on his hairline. The drive is too long, and he’s itching for something to do that will require him to move about. Unfortunately, there’s none, and he’s been squirming and acting all sorts of annoying on his seat for the last thirty minutes or so.

The person occupying the seat next to him sighs in flagrant distaste, but not for the first time in half an hour. To speak however, it is his first for he has reached his limit. “Some aren’t Saga.” Tora hisses, turning to the bassist and half glaring at him. “In fact, some of them like the person beside you for instance, are trying to sleep!”

Saga ignores Tora altogether, instead repeats himself, still shifting on his seat. “I said I’m bored.” He pouts in a childish manner, feeling silly and dorky. It had been two hours and they’re still aboard the tour bus and everyone’s been asleep ever since and he’s just… he can’t stay put. He would have lighted a cigarette if it was allowed, but it wasn’t and there was nothing left to do but pester his seatmate.

Tora is still glaring at him, but he continues speaking, still disregarding the other’s earlier comment. “Do something about it. I might just die of it Tora. You don’t want to lose a band mate.”

There’s another sigh, as irritated as the first. “Can you not just sleep like everyone else…” Tora moans, burying his face on the pillow he’s been cradling. He says more, but the pillow muffles the rest of his words and Saga doesn’t really try to listen to them.

As Tora continues to grumble his complaints on an innocent pillow, Saga decides to be extra annoying by tugging on the sleeve of the tour shirt the older man is wearing. “Come on Tora,” he pleads, turning to his side fully so that he’s facing him. “I’m dying here. Wake up and talk to me. Let’s do something crazy. Think of something.”

“That’s it,” the tiger shoves his pillow on Saga’s face. “It’s either I lose a band mate due to boredom or because of murder!” He reclaims the pillow as the bassist frowns at him, but he gives Saga the evil eye in return. “What will it be?”

Saga sighs, sits properly on his chair. “Fine, fine,” he grumbles, and for a long while there’s silence as the tiger mutters a satisfied good and rearranges himself on his own seat. The younger man cannot help but be his annoying self, however, and soon he allows his head to fall on Tora’s shoulder to find a more comfortable position.

There’s a slight stiffening of the muscles just right beside his ear, before Saga is being pushed away by the shoulder he’s leaning on. “Hey – get off, get off.” Tora mutters, without even bothering to look at him this time. “Men don’t sleep on each other’s shoulders.”

Saga rolls his eyes, talks to himself sarcastically. “Oh yeah, because it’s so gay.” He sighs and stands up, wanting to look for somebody else to annoy.

“Right, whatever.”

He hadn’t been over thinking it. Saga felt, eventually as the brushing off continued on countless other occasions, as though Tora was implying something against him. He didn’t know if he was misinterpreting the older man’s actions and words, but he didn’t like it at all. It offended him if Tora thought of him that way.

Of course though, being unsure, he didn’t want to speak about it at first. He didn’t want to appear defensive after all. But it bothered him, bothered Saga so much, he knew he’d explode any moment.

And in a drunken haze, in a flurry of emotions, what began ended, what ended began.

Saga helps Tora into their shared hotel room, both of them stumbling silly as he exchanges slurred good nights with the rest of the band. It’s not an easy task – the older man’s frame is broader, much larger than his, and things get even more difficult when the rhythm guitarist announces he’s going to throw up.

He rushes them to the bathroom and they barely make it. Too much liquor whilst celebrating a wonderful live, and the tiger’s wasted, puking his stomach out on the toilet. This isn’t usually the case -- usually it’s himself who has to be dragged back to the hotel or driven home and what not. But Saga doesn’t dwell. Tora’s just had too much and perhaps that’s it.

Saga kneels beside him after the gagging has stopped. “You okay?” he asks gently, lifting a hand up to push strands of hair away from Tora’s sweaty forehead. Halfway though, and his hand is slapped away. As usual. Sometimes, those brush offs offend Saga and sometimes they don’t.

Tonight, influenced by the alcohol running through his veins, the action hits a nerve. More so the words, although they are very vague and somewhat… unfitting. “I’m fine. Don’t get all mushy on me.”

Saga raises a brow, a little confused. “Mushy?” he repeats through slightly gritted teeth, but Tora does not elaborate and, instead, tries to stand up by himself. In his state, he is not able to alone – and at the last minute, swaying dangerously as a drunk man only would, the bassist wraps an arm around the other’s waist to prevent him from falling on the floor.

He doesn’t appreciate the reaction he gets.

Tora shoves him unceremoniously, surprising Saga that for a second he is at a loss for words. It’s a bit of an extreme reaction when he only meant to help, and it is intensified by its accompanying words. “Stay the fuck away.” His words hurt, but fuck Tora right back if he’s going to act all touchy feely about it.

If Tora thinks he’s gay, then fuck him.

He bites the side of his mouth, bites down on his inner cheek. He doesn’t want to say anything he will regret, so he opts to escape. It’ll be helpful too – that’s what the older man wants, anyway. “Whatever the hell you want. Good night.” He stomps out of the bathroom and heads to his own bed, one of two, kicking off his shoes and crawling under the covers.

It takes several minutes before Tora comes out, looking slightly more awake. He stands awkwardly at his side of the bed, but he’s facing Saga. He sighs, does not look at the bassist as he speaks. “I’m sorry.” At this point though, Saga can care less about the apology and instead, verbally attacks the older man as he finds himself suddenly sitting up.

“Fuck that! What the hell is your problem?!”

Tora sighs. “Nothing. It’s just uncomfortable when you’re breaching my personal space and doing things… that you do.” He mutters, not looking at Saga who scoffs and stands up, provoking the tiger by stepping in close – too close. “And why is that? Because it’s fucking gay to be this close to you? Even as a friend?”

“It’s not about that – ”

Saga is on an emotional roll, and he doesn’t allow Tora to continue. “Fuck, what a perverted kind of mind you’ve been keeping in that head of yours, Tora-san,” he mocks, poking the other on the chest. “Not everyone wants you that way moron!”

His gaze is still not met, not matched, and his outburst continues. “I don’t know. It’s just men –”

Having heard the phrase at least a hundred times, Saga completes it himself, in a rage. “Yes! Your most famous line! Men don’t do that kind of thing! Men don’t do this and that!” He steps in closer than ever before, his breathing ragged. “What the fuck are you Tora, the father of mankind, the one who tells them what to and what not to do?”

When receiving no reply, he smirks. “Well let me just show you what men don’t fucking do!”

And, Saga will never know what possessed him, but he does the next thing he does on a whim, perhaps the effect of being overly emotional. He grabs the back of Tora’s head and kisses him hard, all tongue and teeth and pain. Even if he tries to, words cannot even express the anger and frustration Saga put into the kiss. A kiss that Tora responds to.

And just like that, Saga has him all figured out.

“No fucking way,” he mutters as he steps back abruptly and stops the kiss, to find Tora looking at him with an unreadable expression on his face. He stares, and he immediately regrets doing what he just did when the realization hits him hard. “You’re not…” he trails off, because the rhythm guitarist turns away, turns around so that his back is to Saga.

There is dejection in Tora’s voice when he finally speaks.

“Yes.” He climbs into bed without looking at the bassist. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you.”

And Saga realizes why men don’t do those kinds of things.


Author’s Notes: There might be a sequel, yes, but I don’t think I’ll be able to write that anytime soon since I’ll be going back to work tomorrow. But we’ll see. With that, comments are lovely.


Linger (Oneshot)

Title: Linger
Author: inkstrain</lj> / Aki
Pairing: ToraxSaga.
Rating: NC-17 to be safe.
Genre: Angst.
Disclaimer: The plot is mine.
Summary: “I like your pain,” Tora whispers, lips gentle and soft on Saga’s damp cheeks, one after the other, fingers chasing his tears away. “And that’s because if you hurt when I inflict you pain, then you are mine.”
Author’s Notes: I was trying to continue part three of my master’s birthday gift but for some reason, this came out instead. Kind of angst-y, but that’s exactly how I like it. Sort of similar to my other fic of the same pairing, Black Tears but reversed. If you’re interested, you can read that here.



It is morning again, and morn finds itself covered in mist, the rain rapping against curtain-covered frosted glass, dimming the distant hum of a city that is once again, coming back to life after long hours of darkness and slumber. It is the start of another day: droning car engines stuck in rush hour traffic, clattering trains filling up with too many passengers, far-flung voices saying goodbye, hello as they leave and arrive in various destinations. Distant yet there, but still much too far away to register, being that all of them are meaningless noise with his heart beat so close, steady thuds echoing in the silence of a warm, cozy apartment that belongs to them only at night, in secret.


Although awake, his eyes are still closed, reluctant to leave the land of the unconscious as he fights to reclaim stolen sleep. Reality is a place too painful and harsh to return to, and it is during the day, when he has to open his eyes and start the day with everybody else, that he feels the cruelty of living outside a dream. And this dream, the night before (like so many other nights long gone), is still fresh in his head, and he drowns himself in last night’s events, dying a little bit more inside as he realizes, although he has always known, that they can never be more than just friends.



“I promised myself…” Saga swallows and hesitates, watches the glaring eyes that are boring into his acquire a familiar darker shade as he sits on the couch across from him: him is Tora, an image of a wild animal waiting to pounce on willing prey. He almost decides not to continue his sentence, but the older man’s strong voice brutally slices through the tense atmosphere, making him wince internally.


“Promised yourself what?”


He swallows again, this time loudly, before turning away and looking down at his feet. “I promised myself that what happened between us the last time won’t ever happen again.” He blurts out in his subdued, gentle voice. And he has the grace to blush at the mention, remembering vividly that moment he just pertained to like so many others similar to it with amazing clarity, as though it has been embedded on his very soul.


There is a soft chuckle in reply to his words, and it is surprisingly genuine, devoid of Tora’s usual sarcasm. He looks up, finds a rare sparkle of humor in the tiger’s brown, green-speckled eyes that causes Saga’s entire world to completely spin off its axis. “I’ve heard that before,” he hears Tora say to himself, before the same gaze is upon him once more, less intense than earlier but still intense nonetheless. “I wonder if the only reason why you keep saying that is because it’s become a habit.”


He shakes his head slightly. “I mean it this time, Tora.” He says with no conviction, and again another chuckle spills from Tora’s perfect mouth at his words, making his knees weaken that should Saga try to stand, he would probably collapse back onto the couch.


“I’ve heard that before too.”


Saga turns away and bites his lower lip to keep himself from saying anything more, but only because it is futile to be repeating such empty words. They both know he says these things but only means them half heartedly – but he feels the need to say this aloud, hopes that when he does Tora would actually believe him. The tiger never does though, because he knows how much Saga has fallen into this bottomless pit of disguised love.


Silence falls hard and thick between them that it actually hurts his ears, and when Saga finally looks up, it is to find Tora standing up to move a little bit closer. He stiffens, entire body going tense, but the slightest touch on his arm leaves him relaxing into the arms of a man who has done nothing but give him pain, over and over and over.


Tora sits close, too close, and gathers Saga’s smaller frame into his arms. “If you promised yourself that,” Saga listens to him begin, closing his eyes as the other’s lips find a spot beside his ear, breath warm and sweet against his skin. He is only vaguely aware of his surroundings now, lost in the depths of falling all over again, and always for the same person. “Then why did you come with me here?”


Saga turns his head slightly but does not open his eyes as he partly faces Tora. “Because I want to be with you.” He answers, and this time wholeheartedly. And then he feels those familiar lips on his own: gentle and slow, as though each kiss will always be a first.


“And this is it,” Tora whispers, pulling him closer, fingers unbuttoning one button of his shirt after another, without his consent. Saga lets him. “This is being with me.”


He still has his eyes closed, trapped in spur of the moment euphoria that never lasts until after he has allowed himself to be used, and shakes his head. “You know that’s not what I mean. This isn’t want I want.”


When he opens his eyes, his shirt has been discarded on the floor and he finds himself lying awkwardly on the couch, underneath Tora. Always submitting to the tiger’s will. How very foolish.


Tora pulls away for just a moment, pressing his lips on Saga’s forehead.



“But Saga,” his lips move to the tip of his nose, before reclaiming his mouth. “This is all I can give.”





His wonderland falls apart, and his chest constricts when he hears his voice, husky from sleep. He does not open his eyes, but they are both aware he is awake, and it is at this moment, always, that he feels the bile rising in his throat and the cold numbing out his limbs.


This is wrong, but he wants this. This shouldn’t be happening, but he wants this. But the only reason why he wants this is because he wants him.





The voice is more insistent, but he does not move, feigns sleeps, and breathes evenly. A warm hand finds his face, calloused fingers caressing his cheeks, and then Tora finally says more than his name. “Saga, I’m sorry.” Saga’s breathing accelerates, and he finally opens his eyes to look up at the only man he has ever wanted like this.


It takes so much effort to speak, but he manages. “Don’t.” he chokes out, turning his back on Tora and facing the wall. He finds himself gasping for lost breath, pushing back the liquid warmth pooling in his eyes. It is always the same.


Fuck me tonight, apologize in the morning.




He closes his eyes, tries to tune everything out, but Tora embraces him from behind and makes his presence so painfully known, causing him to open his eyes again. He tries to shrug away, but in his fragile state, it is as useless as moving an office building to a new location with your bare hands. “Saga please…”


“Just don’t Tora,” he says, voice thick, a tear finally escaping one eye – more of them following a few seconds later. He closes his eyes again, but this time in an effort to make the tears stop, but they won’t. They probably never will, not anymore. Not until he decides to stop being so stupid for Tora. “Haven’t you hurt me enough? Don’t apologize as if each time was a mistake and you didn’t mean it.”


The arms around him tighten, before he is being forced to turn around. He doesn’t fight. What’s the use? Whatever the case, Saga will always bend to Tora’s will. Perhaps it is just the way it is.


"I like your pain,” Tora whispers, lips gentle and soft on Saga’s damp cheeks, one after the other, fingers chasing his tears away. “And that’s because if you hurt when I inflict you pain, then you are mine.”


He opens his eyes and through the haze, he looks at Tora. “I’m yours, yes,” he answers softly, dejectedly. Tears in the early morn, what a nice way to begin one’s day. He sniffs, trying to speak through a clogged nose. “I will be, for a very long time.” Sucking in a breath, he closes his eyes as he continues.


“What else could you possibly want from me?”



Tora lips find his, gentle but demanding. “I want you to stay, always.” Tora whispers, closing the miniscule gap between them underneath pristine bed sheets. “I own you.” And at these words, Saga’s heart does not shatter into a million pieces, but not because he has learned to accept things as they are.


It is because nothing’s there to break anymore.



In between heated kisses, moans, curses, Saga submits like he always does. “I’ll always stay,” he whispers, too far gone to notice much else. And although he does not acknowledge Tora’s last statement, he knows and so does he, that it is true. That Tora, without meaning to, has claimed Saga as his own.



They plummet into another version of the night before (like so many other nights long gone), and Saga drowns himself in guilt this time, dying a little bit more inside as he realizes, although he has always known, that no.


He and Tora, they can never ever be more than just friends.




Author’s Notes: There we are. Comments would be lovely.


Black Tears (Oneshot)

Title: Black Tears
Author: inkstrain / Aki
Pairing: ToraxSaga.
Rating: R.
Genre: Angst.
Disclaimer: The plot is mine.
Summary: We’ve changed so much; can you still recognize what we’ve become?
Author’s Notes: I know I promised a ShouxPon fic, but for some reason, the plot that went to mind applied more to this pairing. I hope you still like it though! For my master, chirorichan  ♥. This is one of your two birthday presents, sorry it’s late! I promise to get to the other one soon. 8D

(The original post can be found here.)


The world is overdone, and he has stepped way past his personal boundaries in a span of a few hours. He’s had too much alcohol, too much cigarettes, too much fun, and everything appears all sorts of wrong: funny and depressing, silly and serious, up and down: polar opposites all at the same time. In a drunken man’s perspective, the earth is flat and currently tipped to one side, easily pushing him over the edge with no way back up. In his perspective, everything is crystal clear. And since he is drunk, the world is pristine or so he thinks and believes as he insists he is fine, says he’s not even tipsy even though everyone else knows otherwise.



They are alone now. Muddled and smashed, through the haze of fading smoke and the after taste of bitter liquor, he figures that maybe, just maybe, it won’t really hurt him, them, to go with the flow. To try. But try what, he cannot figure out. Saga is different tonight, that much he figures as he looks at the other’s slender, fragile form. Something’s off about him and between them, but he can’t tell what. He knows better than to discover what what is, but he is drunk and curious about the things running inside that head of his, with every subtle change of facial expression reflected in his black lined eyes, strong nose, womanly lips, dark hair. They stare at each other waiting, just waiting – too familiar with each other to know what is wrong and right later on, when they find themselves crossing the line between what is real, what is not, what’s in between and beyond.


It is half past two, and Nao is most probably knocked out at the moment, will be until late tomorrow, sprawled on his own sofa and surrounded by empty beer cans, dirty dishes, half finished food; waiting for a hang over that will not be cured even by his favorite caffeinated drink, will not be lessened by his huffing and puffing when he tidies his apartment the next day and complains about everything from heartless band mates who left without cleaning up to who among them suggested a drinking session in the first place.


Shou and Hiroto have already left together meanwhile – tired, drunk, swaying amidst dark and light through half closed lids, heading home in Hiroto’s car. And whose home, who really knows? Whoever offers or suggests first. He knows about them, about their little secret – has them figured out because he’s been friends with Shou for far too long. They will end up in a single house, doing god-knows-what, just like the many other secret nights they have spent sleeping too close together and waking up in a tangle of arms, sheets, legs, tongues.


He usually leaves by himself, building his own wrecked morning, but it is different tonight as he finds himself accumulating a headache now and, unknown to him, a heartache later. For he is already in the beginnings of being consumed by a desire kept a secret for far too long, guided by the careless reasoning of his half functioning brain running high on alcohol, nicotine, and denied emotions. He knows, knows what he is capable of. But caught off guard, too trustworthy of others for his own good, who was Tora to really know?


Which is why he stands beside his motorcycle with someone instead of the usual, about to be torn to shreds.


Had there been girls (or the occasional guys) involved in this get together, Saga would have left with one, two, maybe all of them for a night of not-so-innocent fun, just because it’s what he does best. He’s not a sex god, or so the fans have dubbed him, for nothing. But he is still here with Tora in the parking area because there is no one else and it is cold – wind blowing on almost equally pale faces, sifting through dark colored locks, numbing out one warm heart whose intention was and is never to fall for someone who plays people like puppets.



They’ve been friends, band mates, for far too long. Five years is a long time. So when Tora offers Saga a ride home, Saga who stands beside him looking so harmless and unsure, he sees nothing wrong with his own gesture. After all, it is late; it is dangerous even for a man. Tora can take the other home safely as opposed to the bassist taking a bus and possibly being mugged in the process.



“It’s late. I should give you a ride home.” He more of states than offers, and at this the other nods silently, climbs after him. He glances at the other as he starts his bike, the motorcycle roaring to life, the engine’s sound cutting through the silence of the dawn. He narrows his eyes.


“You’re not going to hold onto me?” he asks, turning behind him fully to peer at his companion’s half lidded eyes – drunk, sleepy, lustfuI. When he receives no quick response, he guides the other’s hands around his waist slowly, unaware that his actions are serving as an invitation even though it is not. “There we are. Hold on tight, I don’t want to be responsible for your death if you fall off.”


The other finally laughs, although a few seconds later, before speaking in that quiet, deep voice of his and getting comfortable on his newfound human pillow. “Well isn’t this gay.” And at this statement Tora finds himself laughing himself as they finally pull away from the parking lot and into the road. He shouts amidst the roar of his engine and the wind against his face.


“Better gay than dead!”


“Hmm.” The arms wrapped around his waist tightened considerably but he thinks nothing of it although he feels the slightest bit of discomfort, and more so as the other speaks directly beside his ear. It feels good but wrong… it even tickles and he wants it there, but at the same time he knows this shouldn’t be. “Are you sure gay is better than dead Tora-san?”


Tora shies away from those warm, wet lips, and as he does his motorcycle sways a bit, threatening to throw him and Saga onto the freeway. For a moment, he forgets to breathe as he steadies the vehicle, tries to control his rapidly thudding heart. And although he knows provoking the other by saying something stupid can be avoided, he cannot help himself. He wants to know what will, can happen now that they are drunk beyond belief. “It depends of course.” He replies, laughing if a little nervously, and he glances back slightly to peer at the bassist’s face with a suggestive smirk, if only momentarily. The other’s soft lips brush against his cheek at this, and for a split second he forgets that they are on the road as Saga speaks again.


“Depends on what?”


He chuckles, mind numbed out by too much alcohol. “Depends on who that gay person is.” And having said this, heart as fast as his bike, he makes to turn away but Saga has already captured his lips for a not-so-innocent kiss, here in public while on his bike, recklessly so, without a care in the world. The bike they’re on swerves dangerously to one side, and Tora pulls away, gasping for air as several car horns yank him back to reality. He once again steadies their vehicle, mind and heart racing.


He knows he could have stopped that from happening, but he wanted it to happen. Why, Tora does not have a clue.



Saga’s lips are too close on his earlobe again. “Take me home, Tora.” He whispers, and his lips remain there, hot breath caressing the side of the tiger’s face. He doesn’t turn, lest Saga does something incredibly stupid again, but answers. “That’s what I’m doing. I’m taking you to your house.”


The bassist squirms closer, the arms around his waist loosens, and one hand comes dangerously close to the hem of his jeans. “No, not my house.” Saga presses his lips at the back of Tora’s ear, mischievously licks the skin there, before he is back to whispering.


“Take me home to yours.”





“I’m not gay.”



Tora wonders when a smirk appears on Saga’s lips at his statement, but he loses a portion of his mind when the bassist kicks the front door closed and pushes him against the nearest wall, aligning the part of their bodies that need utmost attention before grinding against him. An involuntary moan escapes from his lips at the action as he closes his eyes and throws his head back, hitting it on the concrete behind him.


A soft chuckle permeates Tora’s dark, silent house. “And you say you’re not,” Saga whispers teasingly, seductively, repeating the action this time slower, harder. He moans again, louder this time, panting wildly as he tries to speak. “I–I’m n—not.”


The bassist kisses him lightly on the cheek, trailing down his jaw, to the back of his ear, to his neck. “But you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the other asks, and when he doesn’t reply, Saga repeats the same action of grinding a third time, forcing an answer out of him.


“Y—yes! Yes…”




And Tora finds himself being kissed, and terribly aroused to the point of no return, he finds himself returning it despite knowing that the entire thing isn’t right, shouldn’t even be happening had he not allowed it to. Leaving a trail of clothes on the hallway, he and Saga don’t even make it to the bedroom – they fall beside the couch, on the carpet, Saga’s lips warm, soft, and wet on his own.


Saga pulls away and begins to venture down. He knows what he’s doing, and Tora lets him do what it is that he wants – moaning, whimpering, crying out in all the right places. In a fraction of a few minutes, he discovers that he is Saga’s. In more ways than one.





Calloused fingers and a rough hand encircles his manhood, and he loses his breath as a hesitant tongue touches the tip of his cock. “What is it Tora?” the bassist asks, tongue no longer shy in a split second, and Tora moans, hips rocking forward involuntarily. But he forgets when Saga takes his cock inside his mouth, shattering his world into a million indiscernible pieces with every lick and swirl of the tongue.



He doesn’t come.


“Not yet,” Saga whispers, engaging him in another kiss so that Tora gets a taste of himself. He is beyond aroused, wants nothing more but to claim Saga, and flipping them around, he traps the bassist beneath him, taking control although not really so. For if he really was the one in control, they would not have ended up like this: butt naked and fucking on his living room carpet.


Without preamble, without warning, without even the slightest preparation, Tora pushes himself inside tight heat, and somehow he feels a kind of sick satisfaction at hearing Saga cry out in both pain and pleasure – for the first time since they began. Black tears rolled down the side of the bassist’s face as his face scrunches up, and Tora leans down, wiping his eyeliner stained tears away.


“I love you,” he whispers, breathless. And then he begins to move, pulling out, pushing in, keeping up a steady rhythm, in and out, fast and faster. He does not wait for an answer to his expression of devotion.


There will be none.


“Tora… yes, Tora…” Saga moans, calling out his name as if it means something special. He moves harder, faster, crushes Saga’s lips with his own as he nears release. He doesn’t want to hear it – hear the bassist calling out his name.


Because Tora knows.



Knows that he, all this, does not mean anything to Saga.





He wakes up alone in the living room the next day, head and heart pounding dully against the confines of his flesh. He is half naked, dressed in his boxers, and he laughs humorlessly at such misplaced concern, cradling an aching head on one hand as he sits up. He did not put that on, so someone else must have.



There is no note, no nothing, to signify Saga was there the night before. Tora is painfully by himself, knowing exactly why he feels distraught but wondering why so. He did get what he want, or at least a fraction of it. That is supposed to be good enough, given the chance to get at least something at all, right?


“Yeah,” he mumbles to himself as he stands up, repeating the same thought in his head over and over until he almost believes it. He retraces his, their steps from the night before. Shoes, pants, button-down shirt… like what Hansel (or was it Gretel?) did. Clothes in hand, Tora glances at his watch and realizes how late he is. He did not hurry, however, as he climbs up the stairs to get ready for the day.



For who in their right mind hurries heartbreak?






As if to mock him, the moment he hops off his bike, Tora sees Saga getting off his car, equally late but in no rush.  And it isn’t funny when their eyes meet – his guarded, Saga’s deadpan. As though nothing took place the night before.



He turns away, snatches his keys, hurries toward the PSC building without another glance. The last thing he wants is to talk, and although he actually really wants to, Tora isn’t sure he is prepared for all the lies he is going to hear. Heart hammering against his ribcage, stomach churning in pain, he briskly heads toward the elevator.


Pressing the up button, he waits for a few minutes.




He gets in. And only one other person follows him inside. They stay on opposite sides of the enclosed space as the elevator door closes, and their eyes meet again. Saga speaks first.



“Are you mad at me?”


He turns away and scoffs. What an odd question, but he answers anyway. His voice, he finds, is weak and devoid of emotion. “No, why would I be?” he asks, and through his peripheral vision, he sees Saga shrug, eyes intent on him. “I don’t know. It just seems that way to me.”


He places his hands inside his pockets and busies himself with watching the floor numbers flash on the electric panel atop the elevator door. “Well I’m not. No reason to be.” And a long, agonizing silence, which is in reality just a few precious seconds, plagues them both. Until.



“I’m sorry.”


Tora is already shaking his head long before the apology escapes Saga’s lips. “No, no. There’s no need to say sorry.” He sighs, hands shaking slightly. He doesn’t need this, not after baring his soul to Saga the night before. He didn’t have to say those three stupid words. Saga didn’t need to know.



“But I am, I really am sorry. It was my fault.”


Tora grits his teeth. “It wasn’t your fault alone. Stop saying sorry.” He closes his eyes, his chest constricting so badly he feels like he is on the verge of tears or a heart attack. Maybe both.


They are almost at their destination, and when he sees Saga about to open his mouth to say something again, Tora cuts him short. He does not want to hear any more than he already had.


It’s not what he wants to hear.



“Besides, I should be the one who’s sorry.” He looks at Saga, really looks at him, and smiles bitterly as he continues. “I’m sorry it’s you. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want it to be you. Not you, of all people.”





The elevator door opens. “It’s not that I don’t care about you…” Saga began. Tora shakes his head once more and laughs but without humor, shutting the bassist up when he cuts in once again. Lies, more lies and bullshit. And Saga, Saga can be the king of cliché if he wants to be.


“But you don’t,” Tora walks out of the elevator and glances at the other only briefly, before turning around and finally walking away. “You don’t.”



And that was the painful truth.





Author’s Notes: There we are. Comments would be lovely ;D (*The story was edited March 08, 2010.)