Title: The Air Up There
Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)
Archive: Yes to the ML-archive, fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw
Pairing(s): Taito
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The show.
Warnings: Angst.
Feedback: No. You can't. I hate it. Sensing sarcasm? I hope so.
Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Digimon? No? Then I still don't own it.
Summary: Taichi muses on the distance between.
- - - - - - -
The Air Up There
I drop my bag in the front closet and kick off my nikes. Ohhh…ecstasy. My feet *ache*. I guess five miles was a little too much to run after a day of coaching fifteen year old soccer fanatics. But there's something about physical exertion that just makes the world go away. It's been that way since…heh, since I was a fifteen year old soccer fanatic.
Hanging up my jacket, I stride to the kitchen before I witness it fall off the hanger. It *always* falls off the hanger. For some reason, I feel compelled to pick it up if I see it happen, so I avoid that like the plague.
Me, lazy? I laugh in the silence of my flat. Nahh.
Gin and tonic, gin and tonic, must have gin and tonic…
Ahhhhhh.
Now…TV. Need TV. Collapsing into my lumpy couch, I grab my remote, flick on the tube, and snuggle in.
And there you are.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Microphone. So what else is new? I can't go anywhere without seeing you anymore, without hearing you or hearing about you. Billboards on the way to work, posters in my students lockers, interviews, magazines, talk shows, award ceremonies, and if that wasn't enough, your voice on the radio, your name in the halls. Even when I'm working out they're playing your videos. Dammit, getting away from you is the reason I go to the gym!
I close my eyes and take a long, long drought of my G&T. I'd make another but I've never held my liquor well. Getting fired for trying to teach sex-ed with a hangover isn't my idea of a good Friday.
I *still* hate that class. I remember the way we used to turn condoms into balloons just to tick of Mr. Nasagi. And senior year, when you decided you'd rather eat the banana than prepare it…
Eh, well, I was never too interested in sex anyway.
At least no with anyone but you. That's the problem. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Microphone. Knock out.
You still are, you bastard; You know how to work it too. My favorites are the black and whites, personally. The "Deserve to Die" DC cover, for instance. Shit, your eyes, half-shadowed and so fucking *intense* -they made that one into a poster.
Yeah, everyone loves to look at you, Yama. I've heard the rumors, even here. The music industry's little slut. Not that I blame you. Or them. Hell, I wish I could *be* them.
Like that vixen you had on your arm for the Grammy's. Man, if I were straight…
She ticked me off. Out of all the people you've been filmed with -men and women- she really ticked me off the worst. I mean, it was the Grammy's, the *Grammy's*! And you took…ugh.
I was slightly mollified when you dedicated your speech to me. Slightly. But I was practically molested when I went to work the next day.
Propping my feet up on the table, I'm enamored, again, by the way your lips move.
Look at you now. God, just look at you. So gorgeous. So you. So high. Untouchable. Abso-fucking-lutely un-fucking-touchable. I hate it. I want my fingertips on your skin. I want your mouth with mine and your hands clutching me. I know you told me to wait, I will, I swear, but it hurts. Are you waiting for me?
How's the air up there, Yama? Intoxicating? The fame must be incredible. You're just so high. Higher than any bird. Your pedastal -made of bright lights and microphones and autographs.
How's the air without me?
I sigh, turn off the tube and head to my lonely bed.
I'm waiting.
Waiting for the day my students maul me because I never told them we were an item, for the day I can afford better hangers, for the day the air up there loses its flavor.
Waiting for blonde hair. Blue eyes.
Without the microphone.
*
End