Title: Masquerade Lies
Group/pairing: Nagasawa Masami/Ninomiya Kazunari
Rating: PG13 for content
Summary: Kazunari dreams of a masquerade balls and the masks.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anyone in this story~
Notes: I know Masami x Nino is a really touchy subject for some people, so sorry in advance if you don’t approve. There’s a lot of metaphorical meaning in this fic. Hope everyone enjoys!


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Kazunari blinks.

His eyes sweep around the large ballroom once, and then twice. He can hear himself breathing; each breath which escapes his parted lips rebounds back to him. Reaching up a quivering hand, he strokes the soft fabric of the mask he dons. Kazunari smiles wistfully. He can not see his mask; the world sees only his mask. The smile turns into a grimace underneath the painted face.

An expensive suit hangs loosely off of his small frame, and the tips of a black bowtie stand up erectly against his stiff collar. He brushes off the invisible dust on his shoulder and looks to the crowd.

Long, elegant gowns of different colors tentatively brush the polished ground. The women hold themselves high with pride. Masks of all varieties veil their faces; some are painted with exotic gold and silver streaks while others remain white but adorned with numerous accessories. Each one has been sculpted carefully, made to fit the owner perfectly. The men laugh courteously at the ladies’ jokes. Occasionally, one reaches up to tap his mask, as if making sure that it is still in place. Their figures, too, are dressed in classy tuxedos with a handsome bowtie.

Kazunari is snapped out of his reverie when the orchestra beings their selection of music for the night. He watches the performers with a careful eye. Surprised, he raises an eyebrow at the faceless violinists. They lack eyes, a mouth, and a nose. Looking closer, Kazunari notices that no members of the orchestras have any facial characteristics. Blank, white faces show no emotion. Their heads are tilted down slightly, as if they are looking at their precious instruments. Arms make minimalistic movements, dragging the bow with as little effort as possible.

The people in the ballroom bow to one another and pair up with the opposite sex. Each man finds himself an elegant woman and takes her hand gently. Their feet stand poised, and their masks stare at one another.

Kazunari is captured in an awed silence by himself. By an instinctive cue, everyone begins to dance. The ends of stunning gowns whisper secrets to the ground as they swish this way and that with the women’s bodies. Men lead the way in this slow, ballroom dance. Their steps are sure and coated with a quiet incentive. Palms rest modestly on the waists of ladies and the shoulders of gentlemen. Each pair of dancers laces their fingers together with their spare hands.

On the mellow beat of the music, the dancers turn their head in a single motion to look at the ground before continuing onto a spiral turn of the ladies. The gentlemen extend their arms, and the ladies spin out with the motion. With their hands still clasped firmly, the leaders pull the submissive back to them and hold them in a loose embrace. Kazunari watches the dance continue, holding his breath when a soft, single beam of light appears. It shines down from the ceiling, and envelops the dancers in a heavenly glow.

The beautiful and alluring dance continues.

Kazunari wonders who is dancing behind those perfectly constructed masks. He imagines the sins etched on their faces and the lies embedded within their eyes. The pure, exquisite visage is a pathetic attempt at beauty, he thinks. Why do these people insist on covering themselves with such a thick curtain? Kazunari asks himself this question as he looks on.

The music slows to an end, dying out with a trembling tone held in the last voice of a viola. Women curtsey, pulling out their dresses ever so slightly, and the men bow, holding an arm in front of their abdomen.

A clock strikes monotonously in the distance, and the dance is over.

Two couples stare at each other (Kazunari thinks that there is a longing, yearning feeling in their eyes), and hesitantly, they grasp the edges of their masks with their fingers and disarm themselves. Their faces are exposed to the cruelty of the world. One by one, the rest of the dancers in the ballroom bare themselves as well. The orchestra players have disappeared into nothing but shadows of dust. Kazunari notices that the single source of light has now been illuminated into the radiance of multiple chandeliers.

Tears cloud in the owner of the most beautiful mask’s eyes, and his mouth is twisted in a horrid frown. The keeper of the simplest mask in the room has a pleasant smile on her pretty face, and she smoothes down the newly formed wrinkles in her dress.

Gone are the painted smiles of the perfect masks. They are replaced with the honest, crumbling sobs or genuinely content grins. Kazunari watches this change of character with a pang of fear in his heart. Everyone has shown their true selves to the walls of the ballroom.

But not him.

They turn to stare to stare at the lone man, and Kazunari refuses the urge to back up into a corner. He keeps in the cry of despair, and instead, moves his hands to reach for the mask situated on his face. His fingers paw momentarily at his cheeks.

His mask is not there.

Or is it? The question flies through his mind like a shooting star.

Pieces of a once-existent façade cling to his pale skin. He can feel the fragments of a glass mask with the tips of his fingers. Shattered pieces and soft skin are side by side, just sitting on his face to be touched delicately in fear.

Seconds pass, and soon, Kazunari can not tell his real face from his mask. In silent horror, he realizes that he has merged with an unfamiliar image of himself. The smile which sits dauntingly on his face can not be described as genuine or fake; he simply doesn’t know if it is true to his self. Tears, which can be established as neither honest nor fraudulent, streak down his mixed mask. He lets out a scream which only he can hear within himself. It echoes painfully in his throbbing heart.

A woman approaches him with slow, but sure, steps. She smiles, but even in his confused state, Kazunari can feel a dash of falseness in it. He can not see her eyes for she is lacking the orbs which are described as a “window to a person’s soul.” Only a crafty smile sits on her flawless face. She lifts her hand, reaches for his face, and strokes his cheek. The fragments are pulled from Kazunari’s face, and they disappear into the diminishing light.

The last thing Kazunari can see before it goes completely dark is a kind smile.

And then a sneer.

He wakes with a start, his body shuddering with one big gasp of air.

“Nino?” he hears from the other side of the bed. Kazunari looks over hesitantly. Before his gaze connects with hers, he pushes all traces of any emotions out of his eyes.

“Is something wrong?” Kazunari asks quietly, not wanting to disrupt the tranquility of the early morning. She laughs kindly, and her eyes are alight with something unknown.

“I should be asking you that.” She combs a hair through her light brown hair, staring at him expectantly. Kazunari shifts his eyes to the rest of his bedroom, pushing down an awkward chuckle when he sees their clothes strewn about the floor messily.

“Nothing, Masami,” he whispers. His legs shuffle underneath the thin cotton sheets, and he readjusts his body into a more comfortable position. “Go back to sleep,” Kazunari mutters shyly. He hears a gentle laugh before feeling a small hand entangle its fingers with his. Slowly, he turns his head to look at her. “Sorry I woke you up.” He kisses her forehead lightly and grips her hand tighter.

Before she falls asleep again, the same crafted smile of the woman at the imaginary masquerade ball sits on her pink lips. The same falseness lies painted on her expression.

Nino falls asleep before he can imagine the sneer that he knows will come eventually.

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