Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.
A/N: Well, this I've structured oddly.
Prompt: Shuichi's developed a horrifying fear
Rating: Hard T, light M.
Camera Shy, Part 1
('You don't understand.'
'It's not that easy.'
"You're not trying."
'It's not that easy!'
"Do you even want to?"
'Why can't you understand?'
"I think you do … sometimes."
'I can still feel them.'
"I'm going to help you.")
The commotion outside of the door was loud and unintelligible – the shouts and cries were clearly recognized, but the words they echoed could not be made out to anything articulate or meaningful. As though they no point in their existence other than to simply exist, and in that manner of existence that was cruel and filled and happy and hollow, like floating homeless phantoms who were unable to complete their unfinished business despite their constant searching, despite their eagerness and willingness to sacrifice for it, despite their absolute almost lustfully exotic desire to obtain it, because the source of that unfinished business had yet to be found.
But that unfinished business, in the form of the teenager's soul, could hear their sharp orders to appear; could feel their cold, chilling breaths on the back of his neck, and his shivers were endless because of it.
In the shadows of an oppressing room, his brilliantly pink hair had gone crimson in the darkness of the moment that had so astutely shattered his resolve, blending into the dark paper of the wall is sweat-dampened head rested on. From its opposing side, he could not visually see the two familiar forms of his band-mates standing before the crowd. But his mind provided the image for him clearly, almost tauntingly – they were standing with a feigned air of pride, a faint blush on their faces as they explained away his absence to a sudden illness, though none in the crowd would be able to interpret the flush for anything more than pleased excitement. Their shuffling feet would be waved away as pent-up energy, their awkwardness as an artists' disinterest in frivolity, so long as they both kept beaming the false smiles of celebrity on their faces that had long since been perfected for the flashes of the devils that had driven him away in the first place.
A horrid flinch of intolerable pain crossed his face as one of those devils fluttered close, hissing pleasantly vicious in his ear, its forked tongue piercing his skin across its wicked, knowing smile.
"Shuichi." A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder, firm and comforting and friendly and familiar – familiar in more way than one that made his skin cry out in shock and his chest to scream as though it had been stabbed with a sharp thick blade. He balked away from the contact so violently his entire body crashed into the shadows as another devil came to sit where the other hand had just been, eyes flashing sadistically enough to bring tears to his own.
"Shuichi." The voice repeated his name again, softer this time. "Shuichi. The car's here. You can leave now." His dulled lifted – cautiously, dreading the sight – to meet the darkened blue ones of his manager. Car? Car. Here. For him.
He eyed the object with unblinking fixation, his thin arms pale and shaking as his slim fingers gripped the leather cover of the passenger seat of the whispered car of his lover. The little devils of brilliant glares had followed him from his building of protective shadows to his longed for security, a lonesome trip of forlorn sonnet and damned if he hadn't known all of the promises were too good to have been true.
"I told you I was going to help you through this, Brat."
Yuki. His Yuki, sitting beside him, topaz eyes as cold and calculating as ever as they stared ahead; yet somehow he had known of Shuichi's trepidation.
He eyed the object again, so small, so common – so harmless – as Yuki's long, pale, claw-like fingers reached out and wrapped around it's poisonous black casing. It didn't burn him the way just looking at it burned Shuichi.
"We're going to take some pictures, Shuichi."
(We're going to take some pictures.)
(God, you're so beautiful.)
"I will help you through this." Strong or convicted, he wasn't sure.
His hand clutched the silver child-locked door handle as the car of his questionable salvation raced down the night-covered streets, aching to tear it open.
(Smile for the camera, Shuichi.)
He wanted out.
3 parts of 3 parts.
Let me know what you're thinking? Or not. I'm open to either. :)