Possession [HSJUMP - One-shot]

[alaeaureae.livejournal.com]

Title: Possession
Rating: Implied smexings.
Pairing: YamaJima
Wordcount: ~2000
Notes: June Myojo. Written April 2009.

He doesn't find out until weeks later. Even then, he only finds out when everyone else does - or already has. He finds out at school, really, when he’s yawning his way to the classroom, and sees a group of senpai gathered around a magazine. Oh, right, Myojo’s latest release, he thinks, and turns the corner to the hall that leads to 1-D. A girl he recognizes as a first year greets him shyly as he passes, and Yuto wonders why she was hanging around their classroom in the first place, and if everyone except for him already had a copy of Myojo.

 

And then he reaches the classroom. He sees the real one first – sprawled out over his desk and fast asleep, bangs hanging down over his eyes, brown hair tickling at his nose, cute and vulnerable – and then he sees the picture sprawled out over Chinen’s desk. And his heart jerks.

 

He sees the shoulder blades first, sharp and prominent in the exaggerated lighting. The curve of the spine, the soft bumps of skin emphasized by the soft glow of shadow. Muscled back, muscled arms, muscles that show faintly at his sides. A turn of head – just enough that his eyes flicker towards the camera – but not quite. Hair tucked behind ear, falling forward darkly, brushing the base of his neck, brushing his eyes. Eyes that stare – that glance – beyond the page, beyond the camera, to another place – heck, another time. He notices the nose last – undoubtedly Yamada’s nose, sharp and defined.

 

His heart jerks, because this isn’t just Yamada – it’s his Yamada.

 

“Good morning, Yuto!” Chinen’s voice calls him back to the current time cheerily. He waves his bandmate over. “It’s a really cool picture, isn’t it?” he adds.  “Yamachan looks so mature. I’m really glad they made us keep all the shoots a surprise!”

 

Yuto nods, and drops his bag onto his table with a thunk. “Morning,” he replies, and pauses. “It’s…interesting,” he says after a moment, because he doesn’t trust himself to say anything else. Or perhaps it’s because he trusts that he will say something else if he lets himself say anything else.

 

Chinen grins, oblivious to Yuto’s state of mind. “There’s no way you’d think it was the same person,” he says, jerking his head towards the sleeping Yamada. “He kinda looks like he’s just begging to be Sharpied…”

 

Just begging to be – Yuto begins the thought – and ends it quickly and silently and stuffs it far, far, far away – in his mind.

 

And it’s good, because at that moment, the teacher walks in, class begins, and a sleep-mussed-narrowly-avoided-being-sharpied Yamada peels himself reluctantly off the table.

 

- - -

 

“…and they kept on asking me if I was really older than you,” Daiki was saying with a sigh.

 

They had gathered for an emergency lunch meeting because Daiki wanted nothing better but the company of someone who would understand after a morning of being asked why he didn’t have a shirtless picture of the sexy variety in this issue when he was eighteen and far closer to being legal than Yamada-kun was. In the end, Yamada was sleeping again, curled up against Daiki’s side, and Chinen had borrowed Daiki’s lap, while Yuto looked on bemused.

 

“You’re definitely older,” Yuto said. “Like a nii-chan, right, Chii?”

 

“Right!” Chinen chirped, and snuggled deeper into Daiki’s school uniform which was slowly starting to take on the appearance of having been involved in indecent activities. Yamada grunted something that may have been assent or dissent or “shut up I’m sleeping” and clutched a little tighter at Daiki’s arm.

 

Daiki sighed and gave up on the idea of eating lunch at all. Instead, he reached over and patted Yamada on the head. “You’re growing up fast, Yamachan,” he said, and it sounded a little sad, a little disapproving, and a little proud all at once.

 

Yuto agreed with it all.

 

- - -

 

They collide on the path behind the school (not meet, but collide, because a meeting implies something planned, and this collision was haphazard in every regard). They walk in silence (silence, not quiet, because the words carry such different qualities that only one really fits). Until Yuto says – “I saw your picture,” as if Yamada didn’t know, as if everyone hadn’t already, as if he hadn’t had more nervous confessions to him in the past day than he usually got in a year (as if he hadn’t smiled and said thank you and sorry more times in a day than he had to in a year).

 

Yamada quirks his lips, swings his bag over his shoulder, glances sideways at the school. “I know,” he says. “It was an interesting photoshoot,” he adds.

 

“I suppose,” Yuto replies. He swings his bag as he walks, glances sideways at Yamada, watches the way he quirks his lips, the barely visible pink of his tongue.

 

They walk in silence – short step matching long step – until they reach the gate. Yamada stops, turns, pauses. “I have to go somewhere first,” he says. “Maybe you should go to rehearsal with Daichan and Chii today?” he suggests, and walks off.

 

“Yeah,” Yuto says (what else is he supposed to say?), and he watches as the edges of Yamada’s jacket shift in the wind, the curve in his arm that holds his school bag lightly at his side, the trickle of hair that slips down his shirt – and he wonders what happened to his Yamada.

 

- - -

They meet in the dressing room (meet, because it is in every way planned and expected and not unexpected), while Yuto teases Ryutaro about a possible classmate crush and Hikaru hides all the hair supplies in the room just because Takaki had refused to give him the last fry from lunch. It’s brief and not awkward (because you forget these sorts of things when you’re running high on laughter) and Yuto sees him and smiles and waves and says “Hi, Yamachan!” and goes right back to doing what he was doing.

 

They meet in the practice room, where ten people become twenty becomes thirty and forty as gestures and movements are multiplied in the mirrors. There’s one Yuto and two Yutos and three and four Yutos – and there’s one Yamada, and two Yamadas, and a million and one Yamadas (because there’s only three mirrors in the room but there’s a half-million in his heart) – and all the Yutos watch all the Yamadas as they run through the choreography of Jonetsu JUMP for the third (fourth, fifth, sixth, tenth) time. He watches the curve of his arms and the dip of his back (the arch of his back as he bites back a scream). He watches the way his hips lead and his body follows (effortlessly, and he brings Yuto with him) and the way he frowns and smiles and laughs as sweat begins to trickle down his neck and tendrils of hair follow and get stuck under his shirt (in the soft spot between his sharp shoulder blades). He watches until he almost forgets that it’s right right left and not right left left and that it’s one two three not one two three, and he collapses thankfully onto a bench as soon as a break is called because when Chinen is bouncing up and down in his face there’s nothing he can watch.

 

They meet in the showers, as they strip off sweaty clothing and stuff it in bags where the propagation of the stench of sweat has nowhere to go but the bag itself, and Yuto gratefully subjects himself to the stream of water that courses down his too-skinny body (and somewhere nearby is a stream of water that caresses toned muscles and sharp shoulder blades and the curve of someone’s back) until he feels like he’s taking too long (but he can’t wash the day away from him, not today) and he steps out with a towel tied around his waist – empty except for Yamada toweling his hair dry in between pulling out clean underwear and street clothes from his bag.

 

Pause.

 

“Good practice,” Yuto says.

 

“Yeah,” Yamada replies (his towel slips a little – slash of hip bone, line that traces down—).

 

Pause.

 

Droplets trickle down Yamada’s bare back, follow the curve in his arm until they slip down his sides, hugging the line of muscle and bone. Brown hair peeks out from under the vigorously moving white mess, soft – like pale skin that once trembled beneath his fingers.

 

“Stop it,” someone says, and Yamada stops, lets the towel fall to the bench, and Yuto realizes that the someone was him, him with a stranger’s voice.

 

“Stop what?” Yamada asks, but from the way his hands rest halfway on the towel, halfway in the air, he knows.

 

Yuto answers. Two steps, reaches out, long skinny fingers wrap around yielding wrists, through dripping hair. Lips press against yielding lips, against unyielding teeth, against tongue and tongue and lips. “Don’t…” he breaks away for a moment, long enough to see his eyes. A little messy, a little sloppy, a little brush of noses. Startled, surprised – familiar. Another breath: “don’t look that way.” The taste of mint gum and flavoured green tea and chocolate wafers. Another breath – questioning: “what way?” Game of Othello, downwards tug, the taste of chocolate wafers mint gum, and flavoured green tea. No breaths – that way – really? show me – fingers play with hair and flutter over skin under which muscles tremble.

 

“Daiki?” he questions. “Takaki?” he asks.

 

Yamada shifts – “Not that way,” he says. “Keito?” he asks.

 

Yuto shakes his head. “Not that way,” he says, but he doesn’t need to say because the way he casually tugs the towel down says it all (slash of hip bones, tracing lines down, merging into legs and everything that counts).

 

Towels slip off easily. They gather on the floor in pools of white. Hands flash and caress and move and dance and lips whisper and teeth nip and  –

 

“You’re mine (don’t ever look that way at anyone else like you're begging to be taken don’t show your body like that to anyone else don't),” he whispers, and he thrusts forward.

 

A desperate whimper, whisper, cry. “Yuto (you took too damn long forever’s an eternity and hell it worked didn’t it),” he says, pushing eagerly, hopefully, impatiently  –

 

They sit on the bench with their feet tucked under them and white towels spread over their knees, fingers twined under white and Yamada’s hair in Yuto’s face as he tucks his head against Yuto’s shoulder. “That was…nice,” he concludes after a moment. “It’s been a while,” he says.

 

Yuto ruffles Yamada’s drying hair. “It has,” he agrees, and presses his back against the cool wall. “I missed you,” he says quietly.

 

“Dummy. We see each other every day,” Yamada says, but his fingers tighten a little and he wiggles a little closer until their bodies are pressed against each other and they share the same heartbeat separated by two layers of skin.

 

“Yeah, we do.”

 

- - -

 

“Can I take my shower yet?” Ryutaro drummed his heels impatiently against the floor, shirt discarded long ago in the middle of a whiny complaint that Yamachan and Yuto were taking way too long and why did he have to give them some “time alone” because he was hot and sticky and he really wanted to shower.

 

Chinen wandered back into the room with a grin on his face. “Go ahead, Ryutaro,” he said, tossing him a set of keys, some of which were very prominently labeled Shower. “And give those back to your brother later.”

 

As Ryutaro headed out with a finally, Daiki sighed. “How come the fifteen year old gets the shirtless pose and the eighteen year old gets nothing?”

 

Hikaru patted him on the head. “Don’t worry, I think you still fit in the high chair.”

 

“Oh god.”