[fic] The Truth (Arashi//Sakumiya, loosely//Part 2)

Title: The Truth
Author: Tashy
Pairing: Sho/Nino, but not really obviously so.
Rating: R, I guess, potentially triggering?
Summary: Sho has suspicions about Nino's behavior. PART ONE can be found here. Thanks for the comments on the last part, it really pushed me to try to actually make something longer than a one-shot ... ...even if this part is shorter than the last. Sorry! There will be more, though... this part probably won't make any sense yet, but. Try anyway. ♥ (Same icon as before, too! Yay, placebo+nino.)


The morning was coarse, brisk, tired--the clouds hung like socks on a clothesline, dripping with perspiration, sleepy and dark, shielding the sun from the empty ground below. In herds, people began to move; the trains ran evenly across tracks of metal, creaking beneath the weight, a light, airy music--windows sang to the bright gray of the sky, opening, holding themselves high, and somewhere below all that, below the clouds that greeted each other without a care and the lines of electricity that flickered with each flip of a switch, below building tops and motherly trees and lamp posts that grew dim as time wore on, below all that was a door, white and sterile, flung open by a pair of strong arms.

The studio greeted him dully, unamused--it was used to his face, his voice, the way his eyebrows met together like a couple, wrinkles growing like flowers between them; it was used to the heavy andante of his voice, the way he searched the room specifically for one person--it was used to his abrupt calculations, his hand that flew out like an excited bird, clammy and shaking.

"Nino--" came the echo into the room, and his fingers were curled up in a fistful of cotton, soft and dyed pink, protecting the warm skin beneath. His hand jerked, pulling, dragging, leading them across the room. Nino was stumbling, a cup of yogurt in one hand, his spoon falling deft against the floor as he tripped over himself, face clearly agitated, and also afraid.

"Sho-kun, cut it out. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We need to talk."

"That's all fine and well, but we have practice, and if you don't let go of me, I won't be able to fucking finish this. My throat hurts."

The fingers loosened, whispering to each other, unsure of the next move. Those words stuck to him, tying him up in confusion, in a web of half-truths and oh, he could remember the mirrors in Nino's apartment so clearly, and the way they had begged for release, to let their secrets soar out into the sky like the clouds that hung there, soft and happily unaware--

"We need to talk," Sho repeated, low and harsh and worried.

"No."

"We ne--"

"No," Nino murmured, shrugging his shoulder up, enough to dislodge Sho's hold on him. "Don't," he said, and when Sho tried to reach for him again, Nino took a step back, eyes flaring. "Don't."

The door opened again just as Sho blurted out his request, deeply shaken and afraid to even have an answer, arms spread in a desperate, vulnerable gesture.

"Let me take you out to lunch."

The door shut. People were pouring into the room, staff carrying microphone stands and clipboards, folders with sheet music and schedules, papers pinned together with staples and big, wide chairs to accommodate the growing crowd.

Sho didn't get a response.