Oneshot: I'm Still Your Fag

[andrew_in_drag]

Title: I'm Still Your Fag
Author: andrew_in_drag
Pairing: Reita/Ruki
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: hints of bullying and suicidal thoughts, hints of slash
Note: inspired by the song and MV of the same name by the lovely band, Broken Social Scene
Synopsis: Reita, you're so transparent. I'm still your fag.

I'm Still Your Fag

He thought he was alone, but of course he wasn't. People like him are never, ever alone.

But everybody always lets their guard down when they think nobody's watching, and back then, I blended into the shadows like I was made of air. He was on the pitch, dribbling the ball up and down faster and faster, just to test his own agility. He lined up impossible penalty kicks; when they hit home, he yanked the hem of his soccer shirt up over his face and pumped the air with his arms, taking a victory lap; he played pretend.

The sky was grey and damp and heavy, and I felt myself smiling as I got closer to him even though I didn't have anything to smile about.

“Hi, Reita.”

He snatched the shirt down very quickly and made some stupid pantomime of raking his fingers through his hair, like that was all he had been doing. The expression on his face when he saw it was only me was one of relief, and then suspicion.

“Hello Ruki.” He shuffled his feet awkwardly. He picked up the ball and then seemed unsure what to do with it, bundling it first under one arm and then the other. I pulled up my hood and offered my umbrella to him, but he flushed a hot red and shook his head no: so, he'd heard.

Drops of rain were pecking against its canopy like fat, slow birds. I tapped my fingernails against the handle thoughtfully.

“Can I talk to you?” I asked. He went even redder, if that was possible.

“I guess,” he said. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, I guess. I mean, sure.”

I wondered when it had gotten so awkward.

Reita and I had been friends when we were kids. It seemed funny to think of, now. Back then we'd lived next door to each other and our mothers had been friends, carting us back and forth and yard to yard before we were even walking properly; I had it all tracked out for me in home movies, the day when we stopped playing back to back and started to play together. We had sleepovers in his garden, in his father's old army tent. I told him ghost stories until his teeth banged together and he spilled secrets into me until my heart swelled, and then halfway through elementary school, he had to move away. He moved further than a kid could cycle; moved out of range of our walkie-talkies.

We tried writing letters, but ten-year-olds don't have so much to say. Our friendship was in between the words; it was in those nights curled up like cashews in our matching sleeping bags; it was in a dozen handfuls of torn-up grass, stolen marbles; it was in caught beetles and worms; it was in soccer, him teaching me how to play.

I wound a lock of dyed blond hair around my finger tightly.

“So listen,” I said carefully, “I'm thinking of killing myself.”

When I saw him on the first day of high school, I couldn't even kid myself that it would all be the same again. We were like two animals that shared some ancestor way, way back, but had moved on and evolved off on our different continents, and he had adapted himself to this lush tangle of girlfriend and soccer team, his social rainforest; and I had adapted myself to my icy tundra and the sound of my own footsteps, and I had learnt how to round my corners off like a stone.

“What?” he said, stupidly, and then pulled himself together. He dared to try and touch my shoulder but fell short; his fingers grazed my jacket. “Ruki, I – what? Is this...” he swallowed awkwardly, “Is it because of what everybody's saying? Because – I can tell them it's not true, you know. I can say it's just a rumour.”

My lips quirked.

“Why would you? It's true.”

A small, wicked part of me flared warm when his gaze dropped so embarrassedly away from mine. Head down, I watched his teeth as he bit his lips; his throat as he swallowed.

“You can't do that,” he said quietly. “That's crazy. You can't just stand here and smile at me and say that. I mean, it's mental; that's mental.”

I didn't say anything. I watched how his fingernails had dug into the surface of the soccer ball.

“Why?” he asked at last.

I had to smile. But he was looking at me again, waiting for an answer, so I shrugged.
“Because it's not going to get any easier. Because whatever I say, you and I both know the odds of me getting out of this town are fucked. I'm always going to be on my own here. I don't want to be lonely any more.”

His cheeks were still pink. He cursed under his breath and glanced up at the sky, as if it would help him.

“Anyway,” I said nervously, a slight waver in my voice, “I wanted to ask you something. I just – I'm going to do it on Friday—”

“Don't do it,” he interrupted forcefully, his fingers closing hard around my wrist, “Just don't do it, alright?”

He hadn't touched me, his actual skin on my skin, in years. It was a sweet surprise: the way that it still made my heart beat faster. It was my one thing still tucked away and kept invulnerable: the whole school knew that I was a fag, but nobody knew that inside, I was his fag.

His hand fell away and I realized that I was clenching my fists so hard that my nails were digging little white crescent moons into my palms.

“I'm going to do it on Friday,” I continued, calmer, “That's three days away. And before I do it I wanted to know if you would kiss me.”

“What?”

This time, he gawped at me. I had never seen him look so flustered. I stood solid in the rain, feet together, my elbows tucked in and my umbrella cutting off a perfect circle all around me.

“Kiss you?” he repeated, his voice strained and shy, “Like a proper – a real kiss?”

I nodded. “If that's alright.”

He raked his hands through his hair agitatedly, dropping the ball in the process. It rolled to my feet, coming to a neat stop next to my toes.

“You really like boys, then?” he asked. His voice was hushed, like he was afraid.

I nodded again. “Yeah, I do.”

His stare was making me feel awkward. I looked at my feet and shrugged. “Sorry.”

We were both quiet for a moment, staring at the ground. Finally, he nodded at the ball.

“Pass it,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The ball...pass it?”

Nonplussed, I kicked the ball back to him, using the side of my foot in the way he had taught me. He caught it up on his toe and flicked it into the air, punting it around him a few times whilst I watched, nonplussed.

“Okay,” he said, “Will you do me a favour? Do you think you could keep goal for me, just a few times? Nobody else will do it in the rain.”

He paused. “You might get your nice clothes a bit muddy, though,” he said, awkwardly nodding towards my jacket, “It's nice.”

“Thanks,” I responded, confused. “Do you think I could get my favour first? It's kind of – it's just kind of important. To me.”

“Right.” He bit his lower lip and then licked it nervously. “You want me to just—?”

I felt like my heart was breaking, but I smiled.

“Just pretend I'm a girl,” I said.

I guess it was for the best that the rain kept everybody away that day. Reita set his hands carefully on my hips, and then readjusted, frowning in concentration. He pulled my hood off, shrugging embarrassedly when I looked up at him; in the end, he cupped both of my cheeks and slid his hands gently into my hair.

“Close your eyes,” he demanded.

“Why?”

“That's what you do when it's a kiss,” he said, his words short and uncomfortable, “Just do it, okay?”

“Okay.”

I cheated though. The moment his lips touched mine, I peeked. I wanted to make it so that moment turned itself into a picture-perfect memory, and I would always have the barely-there freckles across his nose and the length of his eyelashes stored away neatly in my mind. I didn't want to miss out on any of it. So I looked at him.

His eyes were closed; he followed his own rules. His lips were soft.

It was over too soon, but I would have felt that way no matter how long it was.

“Thanks,” I said. He shrugged lop-sidedly, not exactly meeting my eyes.

“That's okay. You'll be goalie now, right?”

“I guess so.”

He retreated, keeping the ball with him, and I placed my umbrella awkwardly to the side and found my place within the great white net at the end of the pitch. If I stretched, I wondered if I would be able to touch the bar at the top. I didn't want to stand in front of him and try and not make it.

“Ready?” he asked me. I had thought he would try one of those strange side-shots, but he was standing directly in front of me. I nodded and he set the ball down carefully, counting a few big paces back. I couldn't see his face, but his shoulders cut a lonely outline against the sky; it made me feel sad.

“I nodded,” I called when he didn't move to kick it. “I'm ready.”

He turned his head to the side. There were clouds over our heads, but in the distance the sun was setting, and a sudden slant of golden light caught the side of his cheek, highlighting all the downy, peachfuzz hairs there. It made him look young, and upset.

“I don't want to play anymore,” he said hollowly, “I guess I'm tired.”

“Oh.”

“But you'll keep your promise, right?”

“Promise?”

“You'll be in goal for me?” He looked at me sharply, “You promised.”

I knew I hadn't, but I nodded anyway. I would have done anything he'd told me too. I didn't care if that soccer ball was smacking me in the face all day; I knew it would be worth it just to look at him.

I wonder what made it worth it for him; the risk and ridicule that would come with being seen with me. I was half-dazed that he was willing to even be around me now. Secretly, behind my back, I pinched myself.

“Good,” he said, clipped. “Same time next week, okay?”

He stared at me, making sure I'd gotten it. “Next Tuesday. Okay?”

“Okay,” I echoed. He nodded firmly, and in my confusion I picked up my umbrella and left.

Next Tuesday.

I thought I could probably make that.

It all seems such a long time ago, now. I suppose it was a long time ago; thinking about it, it seems impossible, but it's been almost fifteen years.

I live in Tokyo now. Very, very occasionally, I get my gossip from back home updated by my mother; Reita's married, Reita has children.

When I heard about that, I tried to picture Reita in that marital bed, doing whatever he had done to make those kids.

It makes me smile. I can still feel him. Even if it's just one night out of every year, I know that sometimes his body shifts to follow his wife's movements in its sleep, and his hands slip around her waist and he dreams of me.

Reita, you're so transparent.

I'm still your fag.

Comments

[rosswen91.livejournal.com]

you write so beautifully!
I'm becoming you fan! I'll be reading your other stories, too!
thanks for writing and sharing :)

[andrew-in-drag.livejournal.com]

Aw, thank you so much! That's so kind of you :)

[gabbyrockzz.livejournal.com]

Wah (T_T) that was.... Nice. I feel a bit sad though buhuhu.
At least Reita kept him alive.

[jrock-truelove.livejournal.com]

;-; Ruki.... ~hugs him~ oh gosh..
I'm happy for Reita.... But.... Ruki......

Anyways! Haha, it's a really good and beautifully written piece. I love it! :D