CHAPTER136
I do not own Skip Beat! Yoshiki Nakamura does.
~Octoberfifteen~
Ren
The glaring lights of an alarm are glowing blue in a hotel room, changing all four numbers as it turned two am. Weather was warming up instead of cooling, and a fresh spring air was whooshing by the jarred windows.
The middle of the night was remotely quiet, here in the outer border of Sydney City.
And on the wooden floor, drops were trickling down quietly. A smartphone is lying not far, just near the window, charging.
106, he thought, muscles tauting as he pushed off the ground again. He had finished his scenes around midnight today, but he had refused sleep. His slumbers were full of ethereal dreams she was the main protagonist of. Desperate soft touches inhabiting every shot he remembered, or shifting to inaccessible sorrowful nightmares when he dared slept longer.
Each time, he would only awake with more longing and exhaustion, and a massive boner. It was not worth it. He had to pull himself together. He had to.
108, he counted, lifting off the ground, as his thoughts escaped him once more.
His gaze glanced at his phone.
Did she reply to my last message yet? He had enquired when could be the next time for a call. But the screen hadn't lightened up, and he knew it was supposed to do so if he was to receive anything coming from her.
Focus.
110.
It had been like this since the whole month and a half he had been in this country. No matter what time of the day or the night he would finish. The only way he would sleep peacefully was to push himself to sheer and complete debilitated fatigue. Then, he would eventually drop into dreamless rest.
113.
He had been supposed to return to Japan at the beginning of October but they had to arrange everyone schedule because one of the main leads wouldn't be available at all when the second session of filming–in November–had been planned. Result, his own November month and beginning of December would be crammed once back in Japan, but in the meanwhile, he was staying here. Up until a few days before the end of this month at least.
Despite the humongous hassle it had been, the advantage was, he would not have to return to Australia for more filming this year after he would leave, around the 24th. The only time he might need to return would be in the second half of January for some touch-ups scenes.
The way they had adapted things for him to shoot most of his scenes had helped hurry the process, of course. It wouldn't have been nearly sufficient to finish it all, if he had not been so willing to add extra hours to his schedule at the moment. All his solo scenes had been filmed late in the evenings, even some in the middle of the night.
And truly, it had suited him just fine.
Anything, so long he didn't have to stay in a lone room with his thoughts.
Also why, when it couldn't be helped–such as sleep hours would happen to be–, he would work out as much as he could.
120.
He pressed down towards the floor.
It should be a little over five p.m. over there.
She probably isn't done with her day. I hope she won't finish too late.
121.
She sounded weary about her film more than a couple times.
Shit.
He had done it again. His thoughts kept circling back to her.
122.
123.
124.
Some lassitude was finally peeking its nose in, but it wouldn't be enough for him to be fully out yet.
She is not sharing everything … probably again not to trouble me…
… I just hope it is not anything serious.
125.
If only she just talked to me.
Again and again. He rolled on his back and start a series of sit-ups.
3.
The RMandy magazine had been out for two weeks, it was lying in his travel bag, in the inside-left pocket.
He had refused to look at it.
He lifted himself from the ground again.
6.
Two weeks it was out, and he was still ignoring it like it had never existed.
Even if everyone kept congratulating him for it. Yashiro. The Boss. His friends. Masamoto. The photographer that kept congratulating him.
He just couldn't stomach the thought.
To bear witness of the imagery … in high definition and in the full palette of colour … of them. Playing a couple … Playing together. Appearing as if they were flirting, touching … caring for the other as a couple would.
He had only seen the top front of the magazine, and his mind had said … nope.
The most he had managed was warning Kyoko of the release by message, and asking if she had seen it. As well as sending her the free links provided by RMandy to the both of them, as the main models figuring in it.
She had told him she hadn't got the time to check the results yet, and thanked him for warning her. And he had dropped the subject like a hot potato.
He could have asked what she thought of it. He could have, but…
There were too many bruises his heart had already taken recently. The lack of reaction she would have, surely, was too much to witness for him, for now.
11.
They were calling each other again. Every few weeks. And she was not as laconic in her texts. He couldn't help to think he was missing something.
But it didn't matter.
It was not enough.
It was a pinch of salt given to the freshwater ocean he was composed of.
Worse, it felt lacking. Something was still off, distant.
And he feared for the moment something … anything would snap.
He hit the back of his head on the floor's planks.
Again and again.
No.
He stood from the ground. He couldn't go on this way. He knew. He had to change things. He had to change his behaviour towards her. The way he saw her. He had to.
He grabbed the iron bar he had temporarily set up, and tracked himself up and off the ground, crossing ankles below him.
He had to. He had to.
He had to keep his distance. He had to change.
Pull yourself together.
Staying like this was useless. He had to accept it … somehow.
Five.
He had to.
You have to.
Six.
You have to.
Seven.
Consider her as a friend.
Eight.
And only that.
Nine.
You.
Ten.
Are.
11.
Not.
12.
Attracted.
13.
To her.
14.
She is not-
15.
Attractive.
He huffed a couple of times before continuing.
She is only a friend.
16.
You don't want to kiss her.
He lifted himself again.
You don't want to touch her.
17.
18.
19.
You don't want to-
20.
Keep her in your arms.
21.
She is only—
He pulled down.
…— a friend.
Pulled up, down. Faster.
22. 23.
Like her current age.
He let go, and leaned on the wall, before sitting down against it. Weariness was finally here, and coupled with his current lack of good nights, he was about ready to collapse anytime.
Yet, the fever was there. Always and licking inside in a blazing reminder. Surging and coursing his veins like lava under the surface, ready to explode to burn him into ashes. Consume him to the last organ, to the last cell.
Like a sticking coat … the longing, the affection, the memories … they fogged his thoughts and clogged any way out, any rational thought.
The dreams were the worst … they haunted him.
Like he could taste the savour of her skin on his lips in them. Hear her sighs and moans. Her indulgent soft whispers. As far from reality and delusional as those were. His dreams taunted him, his mind plotting his demise by concocting things that never happened but brought more devastating flavours to his agony.
So close…
… yet… So far.
… I miss her…
… God, I miss her.
He grabbed his phone and connected to Instagram, just to peek at her latest pictures, maybe catch a smile of hers.
He sighed at himself even as he did it. Not like it was a first. Mostly an established routine at this point. Yet, his wish was not fulfilled. The account might bring him new and recent pictures of her, but they all felt non-personal. She was rarely smiling, and the worsening shadows in her eyes continue to bring more concern inside him. He could even see a certain tiredness peeking under the filters.
He liked a couple of her pictures, complimenting her outfits, but ended up in his own personal folder of pictures of her … just to be able to see a real smile of hers once again.
Staring at his screen, he had a bitter smile.
She would scold me if she knew I was awake at this time of the night, he thought. The scold of the century even, if she knew how I spent most of my nights, recently.
It made him chuckle. Comforted him slightly.
He could nearly hear her voice grumbling at him, and lecturing.
Just for that, he started to type a message.
"How is your day?"
His phone vibrated in his hand just as he was pocketing it and pondering taking a shower, before crashing.
"What the hell are you doing awake?"
"It's- … three in the morning over there, you mad man."
"I'm aware."He replied with a laughing smiley. "I'm over there at the moment."
She sent him an eye-rolling smiley, and he snorted.
"When do you need to get up?" she sent next.
"A couple hours."He texted back.
An aghast-smiley was her response.
"What were you doing awake when you have to get up early tomorrow?"
"Hm … working out?"She would not be happy but he would beg for the conversation to go on by any means, right now. Even if he had to admit this and get a lesson.
"It seems you need to re-learn the definition of rest…"
He grinned.
"Probably."
"Be a little ashamed for your body, you dummy."
"Couldn't sleep." That was the understatement of the century.
"Need help?"Came after a prolonged moment, and he had to groan. He was too sleep-deprived.
Stay focus, hope is forbidden, he coached himself.
"Unless you can knock me out at distance, I don't really see how you would. But thank you." He added a heart smiley.
She didn't reply for a little while after that, and he thought she might be still at work and acting, and decided not to send her anything more, and went to take a shower to get rid of the grit and sweat of the workout.
When he came out, he checked his phone, and discovered a sent file from her in their chat box.
Curious, he pressed play.
A low, very soothing lullaby made of guitar sounds began to play delicately from it, the soft strong notes tingling away in the room. Unconsciously, he started to smile and his shoulders eased.
He let the file play but downloaded it before typing back in a rush.
"You had this on the fly to send?" Hoping his disbelief was evident in the text, as to how she had managed to find this so fast. Plus, he thought she was busy. But then, an evident thought struck him. He was really way too tired for being coherent.
"Wait, I'm sorry. I'm guessing you found this online."
"Ah. No, actually."
She didn't?
But then—
"I borrowed a guitar on the set, and asked if I could use it shortly. I hope it is OK?"
"You composed this?" He asked, to be sure.
"Yes." She replied, laconically. And even in that short yes, he could hear her embarrassment.
"I thought a soothing sound might help for your sleep. There is plenty on YouTube, and I'm sure you know many, and if not, I could tell you of a few too. But I thought it could be a hurdle if you had to stay connected to listen to them to sleep. Anyway, I hoped it could help."
She had composed this. She had rushed to borrow an instrument from a colleague to compose a little instrumental song for him. To help him sleep.
Gosh … Kyoko…
"Thank you."
He dressed in pants–it was too hot to add a top, truly–and angled his phone to shoot a picture of him with his earphones in his ears and lying down in his bed.
"Ready to sleep rocked by your sweet lullaby."
"Sleep, silly. It's late."
"Goodnight Kyoko."
"Goodnight."
And dead on his feet and lulled by the soft melody she had played, he finally did. It wouldn't be a long one, but it would not be a dreary one.
§§§
~~October 20~~
~~Kyoko~~
She had avoided responding how she was again. It was the third time since the time he had texted her in the middle of his night.
She just ignored how to respond anymore.
Fine or OK would be as much a lie as if she tried to elaborate it more. She was bad at lying.
Curt responses were better. But he would know anyway.
Those were dismissive. He wasn't stupid either.
She knew he knew something was off with her.
But what could she say?
My colleagues are a damn pain to work with? The director of the movie is a suggestible diva, manipulated to the bone?
Ah. And I'm missing you so much I've turned into a depressed zombie?
No way.
She was sitting at her favourite spot, well, her most acceptable and preferred spot to brood, rather. There, right against the window, sitting on the carpet floor.
Her only relief when she was not acting as someone else, with other thoughts than hers, was music.
She hardly ever left her guitar since she was here. And carried notebooks everywhere, so that she could at least snuff out the insufferable atmosphere on set with a pair of earbuds, relaxing music for her nerves, and her focus either on her script, or on a sheet of music.
Knowing all her lines in advance, she had the pros of avoiding that crack as means to attack her and blame her. In other words, they could hardly blame her when she did something else between her scenes. And she was really grateful for that, since it was one of the few things keeping her sane.
On the other hand, having to rebuff immaturity and borderline behaviours tended to capture your attention quite a bit … which helped in surprising ways.
Especially when you didn't want to think about someone you missed.
And while those were displeasing ways, she couldn't get picky nowadays.
His new arrow had barely happened a couple of days earlier, when he had sent her that shirtless picture–because why not drives her nuts even more, huh?–but she had already plenty issues to fight against, before he had even added the latest blow.
She rubbed her feet against the ground in a semi-conscious soothing move, and took a deep breath.
When she was not execrating this flat, her feet could appreciate the lack of coldness escaping from it, thanks to the carpeted floor.
Her left hand pet Snow glued against her thigh, and the purr heightened both in volume and intensity, while she checked the sheets one last time.
She was quite sure she was done with it. The only part remaining was singing it. And recording it.
The words and the music that had moved in–inside her–since three months ago, phantoms of a moment branded with a hot scarlet iron in her skin. Like a crushing imprint on her nerves, on her every living cell … on every sensitive termination … every sensorial input she had.
That night.
That fireflies night.
She had avoided it. She had avoided it for a long while even.
Unable to handle putting to words her feelings. Writing down what she had felt … she thought she'd never be able to.
Thinking so deeply again about that time … how it had felt to be touched…
When it had been precisely the reason she had broken down, why she was here, right now.
So far away…
But then … there was just one more issue she had not planned.
It would never leave her in peace. Never again.
She dreamt of it at least trice a week. And when she didn't? She missed it.
Her body remembered the feeling like his arms were still there.
Her ears sometimes felt like she could hear him again, asking her … to let him touch her.
Even months away from the event itself, she still shuddered remembering.
Her nose had imprinted how deeply she had delved into his scent at that moment, how intoxicated she had been with his proximity.
She had tried to avoid it.
She had tried to ignore it.
She had tried to forget it.
She had tried to push it aside.
She had tried to pretend it didn't happen.
But the more she fought, the deeper the recollections appeared to carve themselves inside her skin memory, her chills, her emotions … even unconscious. The more vivid the dreams became. The more frustrated she turned. In every way possible. Both anger and sexual, yes.
She had had no choice.
Writing the song was her way to exorcise it. Eliminate it from her blood like the syrupy poisonous nectar it was. The most divine delicacy to savour for her senses, but the deadliest toxin for her emotions. One that left no respite.
So, after much hesitation … after much pain, many tears shed above sheets and failed attempts at writing down coherent words, she had finally found the medium that let the music into her emotions without being too overwhelming for her to make music of it … or to sing.
Her left hand lifted from Snow, letting her fall asleep by her side, seeping the heat of her body in her thin dark leggings. Her fingers wrapped around the neck of her guitar, and she set it against her belly, brushing away the wrinkles her light sweater dress so it would set at the right angle for her to access the strings exactly so, and idly, she felt thankful she hadn't had to move to thicker clothes yet.
Fireflies Lips.
A grab at my hips
Places me in his lap
Fireflies flying,
Distracts me from your trap.
A brush of his lips,
A push of his tongue,
On each of my buttons
One move, One touch,
Tearing, my shirt is tearing apart.
Fireflies kisses are flying.
His hands are there,
On me,
Roaming, Petting, Caressing,
On me.
Pealing away,
Resistance I didn't have.
A touch in the neck, tiny peck,
Tickling, Shuddering,
Soft forbidden feeling.
His intoxicated breath,
Rasping against my skin.
I weakly babble, poor attempt,
Against my raging desire.
Right this moment,
He doesn't know.
Not coherent,
Not conscious,
Who is in his arms?
I'm sorry Mr. Fairy,
But you are drunk,
And I'm not enough,
To abuse your trust.
Another touch,
Ohhh
Ragdoll I become,
Kisses fall upon.
Words fail me,
Exchange for gasps and whimpers.
Tiny seconds,
I forget myself.
Imagine it's real.
Ohhh
His glossy eyes,
Portrait of deceitful emotions.
I look to you
& wish for nothing more,
Than this,
Right here, right now.
Right here, right now.
Taking part in this embrace.
What a night can erase,
A heart can't erase,
Forgive I could not,
If I walk over your trust.
Fireflies are flying,
Fire on my skin.
His lips gliding,
From throat to belly button,
Burning wet path for scorching kisses,
I lose focus,
Grasping his hips, his hair.
Fireflies are flying,
Fire on my skin.
I'm sorry Mr. Fairy,
But you are drunk,
And I'm not enough,
To abuse your trust.
Would you keep your bewitching lips and warm hands to yourself?
I'm weak
& you have fairy kisses and magic.
Would you please stop grinding your hips?
I' m sorry boy, you're charming
& about to win.
But would you keep your bewitching lips and hands to yourself?
I'm weak
& you have fairy kisses and magic.
Would you please stop stripping?
Hush now, Mr. Fairy,
It's time to sleep.
I step away,
Body and heart screaming,
Hush now, Mr. Fairy,
It's time to sleep.
Fireflies are flying,
Fire on my skin.
Forgotten memory,
Haunting dream.
Lips still pulsing,
Around me,
Touches and smell lingering.
Ohhh
Hush now,
Hush now,
Sleep will erase,
The reality,
His touch had.
Fireflies are flying,
Whispering … once upon a night.
Fireflies are flying,
Whispering,
The memory of fairy kisses.
Fireflies are flying,
Twinkling,
Twinkling,
Fireflies are flying,
Fireflies are flying.
Ohhhh.
Fireflies are flying.
The last notes rang out of her throat in the cushioned apartment, ringing and ringing … before she closed her mouth with quiet shut. Erupted in full-body shudders in the middle of the song, she was trembling like a leaf. She curled over her instrument for support, hugging it to her bust.
Water blurred words and notes on the scattered papers.
Her phone rang the end of the recording with a tiny glittering pixy-dust sound.
The sobs that shook her throwing her guitar to the side.
Snow meowled anxiously, standing and rubbing herself against her, until she managed to slip in between her clenched arms, purring like she wanted to supplant her pain with it.
§§§
PS:Well, well. I was planning to wait more before posting, but I figured, screw it and why not? I hope you will all enjoy this. Kisses to you all and happy beginning of the new year.
Also, I swear, only a few chapters of suffering remain. Hang in there, everyone.
Also, yes, I know I'm a sadist for making her do a song of that night, and yes, it is totally to rub it in for her. We are after all on the verge of something different. Kisses again.
This time for real, I'll go. Happy January everyone, and let's pray to have some sun.
Mimagfan.
AUTHOR OUT.