DISCLAIMER: I own some DNA (it's in mah genes! XD), but not DNAngel.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:I was scanning DarkxDai fanfics last night and kept running across summaries about Dark being some sort of star. . . and I liked the ideas, so I decided to try this. XD Oh, this one is dedicated to my friend Deanna—she knows why. (Have fun at the concert, love!—and get chosen to dance!)

ALSO, LET IT BE KNOWN, ADMINISTRATIVE PEOPLES, THAT I WROTE THE "SONG" 'WANTING YOU TO WANT ME TOO' MYSELF. IT IS MINE. SO (PLEASE) DON'T DELETE THIS FOR BEING A SONGFIC. I PROMISE I WON'T SUE MYSELF FOR USING IT.

Thankies—and enjoy! XD

(KEY:

"Talking in a microphone."

"Singing in a microphone."

"Normal speech."

'Thought.')

XXX


Typical Night

XXX

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for—THE PHANTOM THEIF!"

It had begun as a typical night: same old songs, same old tricks, same old show. Nothing new. When the opening group cued him, as always, he plastered his trademark smirk on his face and sauntered out to the shrieking of his salivating fans. Like a pre-programmed robot, he brought the mike to his lips, greeting the city. The city screamed back, as rowdy as all of the others had been. Then his band began to play, as crisp and perfect as every other performance.

He beamed, as he had so often, like he was enjoying himself.

But within his silk-and-leather clad body, he felt his heart sink. It was just another show. Just another way to make a living. A job. Since when had music lost its flavor? Its spice and edge? Since when had it become a chore?

'I'm not having fun anymore.'

Doing as his choreographer had instructed, he allowed his long fingers to run down his chest and legs; dance through his wild violet locks. And, just like every other time, the mob screeched its undying approval. He could have slit someone's throat and they would have cheered.

It was just a typical night. . .

Biting back a sigh as the first song ended, 'the Phantom Thief' choked out a pleased and easy sounding laugh, trying to calm the excited throng with a wave of his hand. They knew what this gesture meant— it was a staple part of every one of his shows. He was about to invite one lucky ticket holder up to dance with him, grind and sway with his lithe body for a heavenly 4 minutes and 32 seconds; the entire length (instrumentals included) of his first big hit, "Wanting You to Want Me Too." And every listener knew, as the J-pop star himself realized, that there wasn't a single fan who wouldn't have happily sold their soul for this chance. In fact, selling their soul would have been cheaper—many obsessive patrons had been known to buy out entire rows for this priceless opportunity. Others claimed that their loyalty would eventually pay off.

However, at the core, one had to grudgingly admit that it was luck that brought the listener and the winning ticker together. That was all there was to it. The girls ranted about destiny, but it was all undeniable bull. At least, that was what many—including the singer himself—believed.

Until that night.

Then, it was fate.

"Ticket number 2374777—seat 15, row K," the young man called cheerfully into the mouthpiece of his headband microphone, reading off the digits on the scrap of paper he'd drawn. Then he waited, trying to ignore the twisting sensation of impatient disgust writhing in his gut. He knew what was to happen, after all: first, there'd be a scrambling rush of excitement, followed by a quiet whimper of regret— one that would swiftly rise in volume, until it sounded like the entire room was full of dying puppies. Just. Like. Always. God, how he loathed the noise, the monotony!

Yes, it was just a typical ni—

A frown tugged down on his lips. Wait a moment. . . what was this? This. . . hush. . .

Never before had he heard such a silence. Cocking his head in poorly suppressed curiosity, he looked up from the scrawled number. . .

And felt a gasp wedge itself in his throat. What? It wasn't another annoying fangirl, leaping to her feet with a banshee-like wail of joy. No. . .

It was a boy. A boy had been in the seat he'd called. . . And while that in and of itself was unusual—for it was mostly girls who attended his live programs—that was not the reason for the 'Phantom Thief's' shock. His surprise was due entirely to. . . well, the boy himself.

He was gorgeous.

Luscious pink lips on pale apricot skin; silky red hair that perfectly complimented his soft crimson eyes—an expression of mystery and thrill beyond that which the star had ever seen locked in their ruby depths. He was staring directly at the singer, slender body stock still for a moment. . .

And then he began glide; like a ghost, like a breeze; towards the stage. The older male felt his heart stop, having a difficult time breathing as he watched the child's slightly swaying hips. His approach was much too slow, and at the same time, too fast. By the time he reached, the young entertainer was sure he'd be dead from emotional overload. What was this fuzzy sharpness that was spreading through him, tearing at his insides like a pleasure-coated knife?

His mouth suddenly felt dry; eyes glued on the youth as he climbed the six steps to the stage. He seemed nervous. . . timid. Determined, but unsure of what to do.

The teen's desire was whetted. Such a delicious looking innocence he possessed. . . and a naive sweetness. Good character, beauty. Instinctively, the 'phantom thief' extended a hand—gently incasing the child's, giving him a sharp pull closer.

Shhh. . . The sound of silk on cotton. A shiver raced down the 'phantom's spine as their chests brushed. And he could tell by the boy's face that he felt the same; his scarlet eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

From somewhere far away, music began. But no longer was he singing before a hoard of excited fangirls. No.

Now he was singing for him. . . this intoxicating angel.

"The party rages, lights are low Couples grinding; swaying slow

Standing by the windowed wall—

Your shadow cast on moaning halls—

I feel your body with my eyes

Longing to elicit your sigh."

The young man groaned soundlessly, his fingers playing over the circling boy's— ruby meeting amethyst in a blaze of attraction. Sparks danced from their brushing digits; eyes forever locked.
What was this feeling. . . ? "And though I know it's wrong— It's right
And what we feel is ours—
Tonight
Yes, no one needs to know or care
You're all I crave; my fix, my prayer
And though you know how I need you—
I'm wanting you to want me, too. . ."

The child brought his body forward, limbs artfully twisting around the 'Phantom Thief's' in a way that mimicked the older male's own movements; silently memorizing this new playground of flesh and warmth. Succulent lips of a delicious bubble-gum color parted slightly, moistened by the dart of a cherry-hued tongue. He could smell the other's breath and body— cinnamon. Cinnamon and nutmeg.
Did he taste like it, too. . . ? The singer longed to find out.

"Lights are dancing on your skin

Skin I long to feel, to win

But in this war of hearts and parts

Which should guide us— souls or smarts?

Or does it matter? It's my take

That rules are only made to break!"

He could hear the redhead's soft panting, their jeans rubbing together in a sinful motion. Left and right hands intertwined, bangs tickling the opposite's flushed cheeks.

"All though I know it's wrong—
It's right
And what we feel is ours—
All night!
Oh, in this dark and ragged place
I lust for touch; to kiss your face
Everything I crave is you—
But I'm wanting you to want me, too. . .
I'm wanting you to want me, too!"

There was no one else in the world, just the idol and the teen. . . nearly one on the stage. "And though they claim it's wrong—
It's right
Our fantasies played out—
All night!
No matter what our lips may claim
Our feelings will remain the same!
But while you know that I want you—"

Their movements were identical: smooth, sultry, graceful.

"I'm wanting you—"

Their hips created a near forceful friction, palms dancing across the others' chest.

"I'm wanting you to want me—"
Their gazes remained locked.

"I'm wanting you to want me, too!"

The crowd's roar of delight—which had only grown louder and louder as the song had played—finally reached its peak; but neither the dancer nor singer heard. Rather, if they did, they didn't care. Instead they allowed their mouths to tug back in a smile, noses tip to tip and their faces hidden from the world by a screen of purple hair.

The singer placed a hand over his mike's mouthpiece.

"Hello there, cutie," he whispered, voice husky and gem-like eyes glittering with mischief. The second's blush deepened self consciously, but he didn't move away— he only made to close the gap further. "And what's your name?"

"Daisuke," the boy replied quietly, sounding much more confident than he looked. A turn on. "Daisuke Niwa."

"I see. . . in that case, hello there, Dai-chan," the singer chuckled, his lips inching closer and closer to Daisuke's—until they met in a heated embrace. "I'm Dark."

It had begun as a typical night: same old songs, same old tricks, same old show. Nothing new. But when the couple looked back upon it later. . .

. . . it hadn't been typical at all.

XXX