FanFiction.Net - unleash your imagination
| FanFiction.Net - unleash your imagination |
|
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Maki Murakami owns Gravitation, and this is just for the amusement of fans.
Summary: After a performance, Shuichi has a strange encounter with Ryuichi--or thinks he does.
Warnings: Swearing, M/M sexual situations.
The singer was standing between the green satin of Tohma and purple sequins of Noriko, starting Nittle Grasper's encore. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt, the latter hanging open, sticking sweat-soaked to his chest. Behind him, the giant video screen showed a closeup of his face, framed by dripping brown spears of hair glued to his skin. Television cameras were broadcasting this concert live all over Japan.
He could not fall apart.
Shuichi watched from the wings, with K and Sakano beside him. Sakano's fingernail-ends had been sacrificed to his nerves before the Grasper-Bad Luck tour had even begun, and he was chewing pencils by the gross, working them over like corncobs.
"I think he can do it. C'mon Ryu," K murmured.
Sakano wobbled a little. Without taking his eyes off the singer, K lifted a bottle out of his breast pocket, unscrewed the cap, and waved it under Sakano's nose. The smelling salts halted the faint before it could occur, and the producer steadied. K had been doing this so often lately that it was like tying his shoelaces, an action he no longer had to see to perform.
"I've got a pencil if you need another," Shuichi piped up. He felt ready to start on his own fingernails. The whole tour had been nerve-wracking. It wasn't just performing with his idols, it was Ryuichi's determination to keep singing. How could he do it?
Nothing had stopped him. Not two straight weeks of mysterious fever, not doctors' orders, or ineffectual medicines. And for two weeks, Sakuma's eyes and behavior had been very strange. The back seats in the tour bus had been removed for his futon, and Ryuichi had been lying there constantly, clutching Kumagoro. He said little, and smiled not at all.
For two weeks Shuichi had been riding in the tour bus, feeling Ryuichi's eyes on him.
It seemed Sakuma was interested in little else.
Unfortunately, a sick Ryuichi was scary-mode Ryuichi. The staring blue eyes were ever present, frightening.
And for two weeks, Shuichi had been going crazy. Was Ryuichi trying to psych him out? Did Ryuichi think that because he was sick, he couldn't allow Shuichi to upstage him?
Tohma and Noriko had babied their bandmate, coming back to sit on his futon and playing with Kumagoro to keep him company. But somehow, Ryuichi's obsession had escaped their notice. Both K and Sakano were oblivious too, as well as Hiro. No one acknowledged the endless staring.
Synthesizers crashed in on the beat, as Tohma and Noriko joined the last verse. The song ended, and Sakuma threw his microphone into the air. Then he dove off the stage, headfirst.
"Crap!" K moaned. "One of these days the fans will miss him and he'll brain himself." He ran towards the frantic security men and roadies.
A second later, a circle of roadies were flinging the singer back on stage, away from the mauling, screaming fans. Ryuichi spun through the air and landed on his feet, grinning. This was the only time he ever smiled nowadays, on stage. K grabbed him and hauled him off, just ahead of the wave of fans climbing up after him. They tramped up the security men like ladders.
The next thing Shuichi knew, K was pelting towards him, Ryuichi tucked under his arm like a football. "Tag! You're it! Thanks for volunteering to decoy, Shuichi!" K yelled.
For one second Shuichi gaped, rubbing his sore arm. A tidal wave of fans was flowing towards him. "Run, you baka!" Hiro shouted. Even the stagehands were scattering.
Shuichi ran. His dressing room door had a lock, he remembered. But he had to make it down two flights of stairs to reach it. He leapt right over the guardrails down each half-flight, falling more than running. When he reached the bottom, he sped down the hallway, flew into his dressing room, and locked the door behind him.
For a second he listened to see if he were being followed, but he was breathing so hard he couldn't hear anything through the door. Someone else was breathing hard too, right into his ear.
Panic made him jump. He landed on top of the makeup table and snatched up a music stand to fend off the intruder.
Ryuichi Sakuma was standing there, panting. They were alone.
"K ditched you here?" Shuichi shrieked. Then he covered his mouth, remembering he was supposed to be hiding. I could kill him! I can't hold off ten thousand fans by myself!
Another leap took him to the door again. He braced his back against it, holding the music stand out like a samurai sword. A funny gasping made him peer at his idol.
"Shu-i-chi," Ryuichi said. It took Shuichi a moment to realize that the other man was laughing.
Ryuichi's sweat-plastered shirt was askew, his hair mussed. One of his shoes was gone. He was swaying, his mouth working.
Then he fainted.
Shuichi let the music stand-sword clang to the floor as he dove. He caught Ryuichi's shoulders just in time, though Sakuma seemed to need little help. He was a very graceful fainter, going completely limp into a soft spiral. His head landed right in Shuichi's lap.
"Oh my God!" Shuichi screamed. "He passed out he's going to die and I can't get him to a doctor because of the crazy fans and I'm sorry Sakuma-san I've been thinking you were all jealous of me and I hate myself for it because you're going to die because it's my fault!"
He banged on the walls and ceiling with the music stand, as if he were in a sunken ship, trying to alert someone to their presence. In the process, he accidently stepped on Sakuma's hand, flinched aside and cursed himself for being such a klutz, banged on the door, stepped on Sakuma's hand again, and landed in a wailing heap when he realized what he'd done. He'd hurt his beloved idol!
He'd also revived Ryuichi from his faint. The singer was sitting up, shaking his hand in a puzzled way.
Shuichi grabbed the injured appendage and kissed across the knuckles like they were piano keys, up and back again. Ryuichi's head nodded along, following in sync every bob of the other's lips.
Then Shuichi became aware of something. Ryuichi's face was only an inch from his.
"Bruwh," Shuichi spluttered. He twitched backwards at jabbed-in-the-eyeball speed.
"What's the matter?" Sakuma asked. "Did something get in your eye?"
"No, I'm fine. But I uh, stepped on your hand?" What Shuichi really wanted to know was whether Ryuichi minded being slobbered on like this. Poor Sakuma was grabbed and kissed so often by fans that he probably had to worry about every communicable disease in Asia. That must be why he's sick! Instantly, Shuichi panicked again. Was he being too noxious? Wait, that orange popsicle at lunch. Oh GOD, HE WAS BREATHING OVERLY-AGED POPSICLE BREATH ON HIS IDOL.
Shuichi covered his face with his arms, scooting himself thud into the wall behind him.
"Shuichi," said a voice.
He sneaked a look. Past the tips of his black Nikes, he could see Ryuichi's tilted face, trying to peer into the tunnel of arms. Ryuichi's hands reached out, and Shuichi smacked into the wall again as he tried to get away. A strong pry forced the locked arms apart. There was a twisting swing, and Shuichi found himself pinned to the floor on his face, his arms behind his back.
"Now, Shuichi, you have to calm down. If you've taken something, you have to let me know so I can call a doctor, okay?"
"Hey! This isn't fair!" Shuichi bawled. "You're sick, yet you're still stronger than me and I just helped save you and you think I'm on drugs!"
The tight grip relaxed, and Ryuichi dropped down to the floor next to him. Their noses were almost touching. "Do you mean you act like this normally?" Ryuichi asked.
Something about lying on the floor loosened Sakuma's vocal cords into a throaty baritone. Shuichi felt a gust of breath across his face. They were both sweating hard from their performances, and it had been a hot day as well.
Sweat. Another's warm breath. Closeness.
Shuichi eased away, then sat up in embarrassment. This was too much like resting after sex.
"Yeah," Shuichi replied, scratching his ear. "It's just me."
Ryuichi's eyes closed. "I guess I don't know you as well as I thought."
After all the bizarre staring, this normal-sounding remark amazed Shuichi. Had it been fever? Had Ryuichi been staring at him just to rest his eyes somewhere? Had he been delirious? Did Ryuichi actually not hate him?
"Shuichi. Do you mind if I lie down here? I notice you have a futon."
"Sure! I'm not using it. And if you need anything else ."
Shuichi's voice petered out. Ryuichi had sat up, eased his shoulders out of his shirt, and flung it aside. A toe popped the lone shoe off, and socks were flicked into a corner. Then, in one fluid motion, Ryuichi stood up and eeled out of his trousers.
He didn't have on any underwear. Ryuichi was completely naked.
Shuichi spun away in shock.
"Sorry," Ryuichi said. "I can't stand this heat."
It must be an American thing, stripping off your clothes and thinking nothing of it. I'm sure he learned it in America. "That's okay," Shuichi choked. This is sacrilege. I can't look at him.
Shuichi was facing the dressing table. To his horror, the large mirrors reflected the other singer quite well. He slapped a hand over his eyes.
The slight slither of bare feet over to the futon alerted him. It sounded like Ryuichi was too tired to take a regular step.
Two fingers spread a millimeter apart. He wasn't peeking, he was just taking a helpful interest in another person's welfare. "Sakuma-san, are you all right? Do you still have that fever?" Besides, he already had a boyfriend, namely Eiri Yuki, who'd been a prick again and hadn't called Shuichi once the whole tour. Ever proper, Shuichi nipped the window-gap closed once he'd finished the question.
The noise of a body settling. No answer.
"Sakuma-san?" Shuichi quivered.
"Do you have any water?" a voice asked. It was so different from the concert, so weak.
He's still sick! "I have some ice water and a can of sugarcane juice and I could go get you a bubble tea if you like, 'cause I think the fans are gone and there's a vendor in the lobby upstairs."
"The ice water's fine," the voice replied. "How about a towel?"
"Oh yeah, here!" Without thinking, Shuichi uncovered his eyes and snatched up both the towel and the large take-out cup of ice water. He hustled these over to Sakuma, remembering too late that Ryuichi was still nude.
Shuichi skidded to a stop, waving cup and towel frantically in front of his eyes. A trickle of ice water struck Ryuichi's shoulder. The singer was lying on his side, turned away. This position gave him a slight measure of modesty. But at the splash, he turned over on his back.
"Oh, that's wonderful! Could you do me a favor and rub me down with that water?"
Have. Americans. No. Trace. Of. Modesty? Oh wait, he's Japanese, I forgot!
"I guess so, Sakuma-san," replied Shuichi, trembling under the towel. It was covering his head like a chador. He dipped the front curtain of towel into the cup, knelt slowly, feeling for the floor, and dabbed blindly at Ryuichi's chest.
"Shuichi."
"Am I getting you, Sakuma-san?"
"Shuichi!"
A tug, and the towel was off his head, falling across Ryuichi's chest. Shuichi froze at the sight of Ryuichi's eyes. That stare was back. Strange, flat blue discs.
"Shuichi, I'm sorry if I've offended you, but I'm feeling awful. I really need that water. If it makes you feel better, I'll lie on my face."
"O--okay, Sakuma-san."
Ryuichi turned over. Any relief Shuichi felt was instantly quelled by the sight of his idol's back. He'd never seen it before. Many chests, of course, all over CD covers, posters, et cetera.
Ryuichi had a very nice back. He had more muscle around the shoulders than Shuichi expected, tapering off to slimness. Little bumps of backbone pointed down like an arrow towards a pair of dimples and--what was below the dimples. He'd never seen that before, either.
Shuichi dipped his towel in the cup, twisted it, and wrung it out over the singer, raining cool streams.
Ryuichi groaned in ecstasy.
Shuichi shut his eyes, and snapped himself in the face with the end of the wet towel. I have a boyfriend, dammit, I have a boyfriend. Besides, Ryuichi hates me.
I THINK he hates me.
"The towel?"
"Oh yes, sorry, Sakuma-san." He began to massage the cold water all over the singer. Ryuichi had a musician's tan (i.e., none), and he looked almost ashy. The towel brought a little redness to him, which seemed healthier. A touch of Shuichi's fingers,slipping off the towel to the now-cool skin, brought a startling revelation to him. Sakuma was a knotted mass of over-control. Shuichi was touching willpower everywhere, the will to keep on going, to keep dancing and singing. To force himself to conquer yet another stage.
He must hurt like hell, Shuichi thought. In a different mood, he washed with a little more vigor, cleaning old sweat off the singer's arms and legs, and delving into the taut muscles. This took Shuichi's mind off his embarrassment for a while. He had done this before, massaging Yuki, though he'd used oil instead.
He hung the towel over his shoulder, brushed Ryuichi's sweaty hair aside, and began a series of gentle, two-fingered strokes at the base of the neck. Almost immediately, Ryuichi's eyes closed, and his jaw relaxed. Shuichi moved to the shoulders, digging thumbs in to hit the pressure points, pressing large circles into the singer's flesh with one hand on top of the other.
After he thought he had dealt with most of the ropy knots, he followed the long muscles down the crease of the spine, pausing to thumb the insides of the shoulder blades. When he reached the small of Ryuichi's back, he hesitated, then thought, what the hell.
He rubbed circles around the dimples, and pressed deeply into the sides of Sakuma's hips, feeling for where the muscles met joint.
A little unnerved by his daring, he switched to the thighs, working down the hamstrings. The singer's legs parted a little, and Shuichi got a good look at what was inside. Okay, I can deal with it. I've got that, too. His fingers delved between, compressing and releasing the skin.
Oops. The towel's dripping water on him, right there. Uh, better do his feet and legs fast!
Quickly, he glided circles down the rounded calves. He paid great attention to the feet, lifting them up and wiping in between the toes, which made the singer's feet curl. Ryuichi didn't complain, however.
It was somewhere around the toe-pads that Shuichi began, unconsciously, to compare Ryuichi to his lover. Smaller feet, very tough soles. Yuki never walks except to get a beer from the fridge or buy cigarettes, so of course his feet are softer. And he has longer legs, knobby in the joints. His shin bones stick out like scythes. No wonder Yuki never wears shorts. Ryuichi has much nicer legs. And well, you can tell he doesn't sit around all day like Yuki. Better not look too closely at that part.
He moved each toe in a circle to loosen them, and rubbed the large tendon between the sole and ankle. Without conscious thought, he was massaging Ryuichi the way he did Yuki. Yuki would come in after a day at the computer shaking his wrists, wailing about writer's cramp from head to foot. And he'd have it too, from all the bad posture and tension and yelling at his characters. He's always complaining how loud I am. He doesn't know how loud HE is.
A soft snore interrupted his work.
He's . . . asleep?
Shuichi considered. He hadn't washed Ryuichi's front, wasn't sure he had the nerve to do it anyway, and wasn't sure Ryuichi would prefer to be let alone or not.
But he also hadn't finished comparing.
Carefully, Shuichi turned the singer over by the shoulders and thighs.
I'm not looking. I'm just going to wash him off. The water's warming up, so I don't think I'll wake him. I'm not going to look at anything except the patch of him that's right before my eyes because I'm not some sicko pervert who gets off on ogling naked men--well, maybe I am, but that's beside the point. I'm doing Sakuma-san a favor because he's sick, well, he's been sort of a bastard to me, too, or I think he has, and I'm not going to look at him.
But if he's been a bastard to me, why shouldn't I look? Why should I be the protector of his modesty? It's not like he cares.
Shuichi lifted the towel away, and took a long look.
For some reason, he thought of art class. He'd always felt lost when his teachers explained Western Art, bewildered by Christian saints and Greek gods he'd never heard of. Then he'd be confronted by some bulky female nude from the Renaissance, held up as an icon of beauty. None of it had ever made much sense to him.
This made sense.
Ryuichi de Milo, the sleeping God of Music.
One of Ryuichi's arms was lying across the inward slope of his stomach, the other tilted up towards his face, and touching his loose crown of hair. The glitter of earrings, the face of a lovely teenage boy. Too many bracelets, like manacles. And further down .
Shuichi was quiet for about five minutes, watching.
Finally, he began little kneadings around the collarbones, and placed his spread fingers on the wide plates of muscles across Ryuichi's chest.
Stop looking, you moron!
He forced himself to continue, padding down the breastbone, walking his thumbs over the abdomen.
He was trying not to think of the area he was nearing.
With a great effort he looked away. He was mostly finished, unless he wanted to .
Dammit!
He managed to rise. There was a folding screen lying against the wall. Yes, he would set that up for Ryuichi. Besides, he needed to change his own clothes. But the screen was behind some chairs, and he had to move these aside. The metal hinges of the screen squeaked loudly when opened. Shuichi winced.
There, he was safe. Or Sakuma-san was. Anyway, it was time to change his clothes and he had a boyfriend.
But where did I put my street clothes? Oh, they're in the gym bag. Idiot. Hey, this sleeveless shirt is so damp it doesn't want to peel off.
I HAVE A BOYFRIEND.
Okay, my gym shoes are untied, and my pants are sliding down, but not so easily because--.
Whoops! Fast change, Sakuma-san can't see that! I must have been staring too long.
He had a boyfriend. Who would strangle him, if he could see Shuichi now.
The baggy pants wrapped around his ankles. Shuichi jerked them off so fast he tore them, frantic to get into his jeans. Ignoring his underwear, he began to yank his jeans upwards.
Then he accidently nudged his gym bag.
Which nudged the screen.
Which toppled over, and hit the floor with a noise like a gunshot. Several, in fact, as the screen folded shut. It landed just short of the futon.
Ryuichi's eyes opened, and followed the bouncing path of Shuichi's back, as Shuichi tried to hop the rest of the way into his jeans and hide behind the music stand at the same time.
"You weren't being straight with me about the drugs, were you?"
"Oh sorry! Sorry! I accidently knocked the screen over while I was dressing. I didn't mean to wake you, honest."
"If that had struck me, you would have become the headliner for our tour." Sakuma eyed the fallen screen. Something about his face made Shuichi cease his hopping.
Ryuichi looked . . .
. . . resentful?
"By the way, I've heard you're homosexual. Is it true that your boyfriend is Eiri Yuki?"
"Uh ," Shuichi replied. He loathed this sort of personal question. But coming from a naked Ryuichi, it was even worse. "I guess so," he replied. He began to spin the top of the music stand.
"And is it true he treats you badly?"
Shuichi was stupefied. What could he say?
"He's jealous, you know. You're the more famous writer."
"WHAT? I'm not a writer! I'm just a lyricist."
Ryuichi leaned forward. "No. You create words. He creates words. You're both professional writers, but you're the one the Japanese public can quote. Yuki resents that, and he's jealous."
"That's not true!" Shuichi insisted hotly. Yuki jealous? Impossible. "If he hates me,
then why is he still my lover?"
"Because he resents you and admires you at the same time. I feel exactly the same emotions. I think I hate you."
Shuichi stopped spinning the music stand.
"Maybe," Ryuichi added.
Shuichi stared.
"For two weeks, I've had to perform my best, because of you. For two weeks I've been through hell. You're torturing me. I can't be outdone. You owe me amends," Ryuichi concluded softly.
"A--amends? What do you mean?"
Ryuichi stood up, and walked over. "For the next hour, you have to let me do whatever I want to you."
Shuichi was too shocked to reply. There was no smile on Sakuma's face as he spoke.
"What do you mean?" Shuichi squeaked.
Now a smile was there, just the faintest motion at the corners. "I'm not going to be specific. Do you agree? If not, we're enemies for life."
"Wait a minute! If this involves violence or maiming or stuff like that, forget it!"
"I'm not going to tell you." He reached out, and switchbacked a fingertip down Shuichi's chest. "I just want to decide whether I really do hate you."
Shuichi, though not born yesterday, took a very long moment to understand. The clues were there to his fuddled brain, the long look, the intrusive touch, the ohmygodunbelievable nakedness of his idol.
Then Shuichi was running for the door. He had it open, and was about to bolt, when he heard a voice call from behind him.
"STOP!"
Shuichi hesitated. Should he turn back, or not?