Work Text:
He was once an artist.
Who loved to draw on anything akin to canvases, eager dominant hand manifesting something beautiful, more colorful, and vibrant that even when you close your eyes you can still see it come to life.
His hand was always light as a feather, painting and drawing to his will, applying pressures here and there as brushes and pencils and pens and charcoals satisfyingly dirtied his skin, created their way all over the stretched, infinite free world of his.
He was once a pianist.
Who used to spend his time practicing until his callused fingers bruised, his eyes weary and mind shut down against its will. His head would fall, hit the music sheets, sending them, fly and fly and scatter and scatter around and down and low at his feet.
The melody and chords made beautiful music back then. He loved them, loved performing for the little audience he had when he worked as a part-timer at a hotel. He could not afford to buy a branded grand piano by how little he was paid, but he could afford to be happy and appreciate the little things some people wouldn’t think of as enough.
He was once a singer.
When no other adults were spotted around, he would just sing any song – he could remember and be so lost, so deep into – all to his heart. He was no professional, but children of no judgmental minds where he worked at a day care liked listening to his singing and he at least knew where to hit the right pitch, control his breathing, all chest, throat and head.
Now, he is no longer any of who he was. Life has finally caught up to him. Now, he cannot find the time to do whatever he wants and did. He misses doing all of that a lot. People say if you feel nostalgic of your younger times, it means you are not living your current life to the fullest.
Truly? Truly.
It depresses him sometimes. Whenever he is so near to become what he’d always want to become, the thoughts of the piled work would come across and he would think twice, then discard the ideas because—
Hey, none of it is necessary anymore.
This world is cruel and harsh.
You’re a grown up. Who’s paying the loans and bills if not you?
But that’s where he makes the same mistake. Things have gone down again and again. Because he is made unavailable for his creative pursuits, for himself anymore.
He feels lonely, well, he is lonely. He comes home to an empty apartment and barely bothers with the silence because he’d pass out not long after. The days repeat themselves. He has no close friends. Family and relatives are never the people whom he always comfortably shares his feelings and thoughts with. He needs help so, so bad. But help always seems like it will arrive late.
And the kind of help he always receives comes in the form of a stranger.
The stranger who always sees him at his worst and comes to his side after a call or a simple text. The stranger who merely helps him relieve a part of his stress by way of nails marking his shapely thighs, pressing him up against the wall or the floor and making him scream wantonly with fullness inside of him of so much passion and energy that he craves but had once lost along with his youthful self.
No, he knows his name. But often, when the night is wearing on them, Takanori tries not to remember it, not even a syllable he’d accidentally slipped on his tongue during their heated times. The man is just a stranger, in his bed, in his apartment. He was a stranger when they first met at the bar. When the other offered his number, Takanori had only saved it for emergency – like this and has always been this – to ‘HELP’.
If only Takanori were able to say a single thing, he’d say his thanks to his helper and ‘will call you again whenever. Oh right, some cash for you and here it is’ at the door. But because his mind is blank, or too consumed by heavy thoughts, or tranquilized by the other’s wood scent in this warm night, he remains silent like a statue then like a doll, merely smiles emptily only just a little whenever the stranger asks whether he is okay or not.
Of course he is not.
“No, don’t touch—“ Takanori would grumble when the other man combs through his soft, after-sex tangled hair, and swat his hand away.
“Sorry,” The other would say above his head, almost too sweetly and Takanori hates that. This stranger always tries to be gentle with his gestures and do all other things that sometimes…sometimes tug at the fragile strings of his heart.
No, no, no and he is not going to experience that again.
Perhaps, Takanori should consider deleting HELP’s phone number after this. They have been meeting for a few times and been talking way too much to Takanori’s liking – although it is always his fault— and they need to put a stop to this.
“I’ll miss you.” The brunet says in the morning after, and he’s never said that. Takanori’s shocked face says it all.
“Why did you say that? Are you leaving the town and going somewhere?” Far?
The other chuckles and shakes his head, obviously basking in Takanori’s rare, subtle hint of discomfort at the simple announcement. He places a hand against the doorway, above Takanori’s head.
“No, it’s just…that’s what I always feel whenever I leave your place.”
“Huh?” Takanori’s pulse immediately takes a sudden, quick pace and he breathes in deeply to calm himself down and gather the strength to slowly push at the door. This is getting awkward and uneasy for Takanori to digest.
“I see…umh, you’ve got the money, right? Bye.”
“Call me if you need me again, okay? I’m kind of worried about you.”
Takanori frowns slightly, nods without another word, this is too much already – and holds his breath as he closes the door shut.
Waits for a second, two, three…
“Oh, never mind.” He shakes his head, wiping at the tears wetting his cheeks, his breath a shudder each time he draws it in. Leaving the front door, he takes a few weak steps to reach for his phone from the table then scrolls through the screen to find HELP’s number.
Delete this contact?
Yes | No
Takanori’s thumb hovers over one of the options. If he had been a single-minded person, he would’ve deleted it straight away. But he wasn’t.
“What?! Are you serious?!”
Takanori jumps at the voice and spins around to find his helper standing behind him. Both of them looking shocked more than ever as they stare at one another, and Takanori nearly facepalms when he sees the front door. How did he forget to lock it…
“Taka…” This time the stranger says it softly, expression hurtful. “Please, don’t do it.”
“Why did you come in here?” Takanori steels himself.
“It was just my instinct—“
“Just get out of here. Leave.”
“Takanori—“
“Was the money not enough for you or what?”
“Hey! Stop treating me like a fucking whore!”
“But you’ve never refused my money!”
“That’s because I just want have a reason to keep seeing you!”
Takanori shakes his head slowly, no more words to counter. And just as he’s about to burst into tears, the other man doesn’t waste his time to close the distance, taking his small body into his arms.
“You’re so helpless, Takanori…” The brunet rubs the skinny arms and hears the other muffle against his chest, so he leans in closer to listen to him.
“I just want to draw again… I want to play piano again… I-I want to sing again…” he sobs uncontrollably. “I w-want—“ to feel alive, to be free-
“I know. That’s what you’ve always told me—“
“I want to become someone to you t-too…” Not a constant one-night stand, just no more.
The brunet widens his eyes, and cannot help but smile at the confession. When he leans in, Takanori seeing this coming and allowing it, he kisses the smaller man properly for the first time ever.
“Alright, then.”