Name: I'm not your varlet (just a photographer with a penchant for svelte bodies)
Mod you're writing for: awintea
Authors: sonofon, ezylrybbit, The Night Owl is Addicted, SakuraIroKaze
Beta: TheBrokenQuill
Genre(s): comedy, crack
Pairing(s): ~Solitaire Pair~ (Whoops, I wrote platinum. Do I fail much or what? ._. ~Kura)
School(s): Rikkaidai, Hyoutei!
Wordlength: oneshot!
Summary: Four reasons why Shishido thinks being a model is a bad idea, and the one reason why he still hasn't quit.
Author's Note: Kura fails at life, and everyone else is awesome in writing their parts 8D We hope you enjoy this, Casie~~~ with much love (and pedobear hugs) from us!
1. when dubious scraps of fabrics are passed off as clothing, or some semblance of it.
When Shishido signed up for his new job, he was sure that this wasn't in the job scope.
But now, he's not that sure.
As he held up the dubious piece of cloth and squinted at the tiny scrap of material that was supposed to be some sort of clothing, the Terror (Shishido refused to believe that it was a lady, no matter how many times it tried to convince him otherwise) in charge of the wardrobe came in.
"Oh darh-ling, why haven't you put on your clothes yet? There's no time! We have to get you ready in two!"
"Hours?"
She tsked. "minutes, darh-ling. Minutes! Now put on that outfit, or I'll call him in. He likes his boys young, you know?" As she smiled brightly, Shishido felt shivers run down his spine.
Really, the Terror was a death trap.
As it exited the room, he pulled off his own casual clothes. Reaching for that scrap-of-material-that-resembled-clothes, he stared at it once more.
"B-but this is a skirt!"
Scrowling, Shishido strolled sulkily over to the makeup and hairdressing counter, all but one minute on time. In unison, the staff raised up their watch hand and tapped on the clock faces (he was absolutely sure by now the staff were all issued a standard guide on How to React to Whatever a Model Does) and shook their heads slightly in disapproval. Muttering his apologies as he sat down, Shishido tugged uncomfortably at the rim of his flare skirt, only to have his hand slapped away by the Terror.
"But," he protested, "It's a skirt! Why in the name of all androgynous not-sure-if-guy rockers must I be the one to wear a skirt?"
It sighed. "Oh, darh-ling, you're horribly mistaken! That's not a skirt you're wearing, it's a miniskirt!"
"Like hell if that makes any difference!"
A collective gasp sounded and Shishido winced.
"Okay, fine, it's a miniskirt. But why me?"
"Because, darh-ling, we're an androgynous clothing line! Ahndrogynous, I say! Now don't complain, you still have about ten outfits to model for this line."
"What? Ten? Are you going to force me into wearing another skirt-that-barely-covers-anyone's-butt, or shirts-that-look-like-they-were-murdered-by-blades, or platforms-that-are-insanely-high-and-idiotic, or all of the above and more?"
She laughed, and right at that moment Shishido swore that that laugh was the scariest thing that he had ever experienced.
Maybe even scarier than That Photographer with silver hair and slightly insane expressions and definitely perverted looks.
"In fact, darh-ling, today we're doing a different style. Don't you think that these are just faaaaabulous?" Reaching down, she picked up a pair of heels. Stiletto heels, to be exact.
Turning his gaze away, Shishido fought the extreme need to bang his head repeatedly on the makeup counter and settled instead on questioning himself on where he had placed his brain on that fateful day when he signed the contract.
2. all he had to do was stand and look pretty. not.
As if wearing outfits that were "fashionably ripped" in areas Shishido thought was supposed to be concealed, which was the whole point of wearing clothes in the first place, wasn't bad enough, that damned photographer Niou kept placing him in the most… awkward poses. Then again, Shishido really should have seen that coming when he agreed to model for a brand name as promiscuous as 'Sex Pot Revenge', but that's what being desperate for cash did—normal, sensible men like him sign a contract without so much as a second glance at the neon 'Danger! Bad idea! Stupid idea!' signs flashing about in his mind.
"Hey, come on! Raise your hips higher, Shishido," that bastard said for the fifth time for the same pose he'd put Shishido in for the past twenty-nine minutes (and thirty-one, thirty-two seconds; anything to keep his mind off that fact that his hamstring muscles were threatening to break soon and if he had to raise his hips any higher he'd rather just—)
He raised his hips. "Well?"
Niou rubbed his chin and said "I suppose," before steadying the camera.
Shishido gritted his teeth—thank god he didn't need to smile for this shot—and craned his neck to properly face the camera with a very surly look. His knees and elbows dug deeper on the plush red sofa as he shifted his weight, tired from not moving from his unnatural kneel, and waited for the flash.
But there came no flash.
"The hell? What are you waiting for?"
"For you to do your job right," said Niou matter-of-factly behind the camera.
Shishido narrowed his eyes. "My job? My job is to strike a pose and smile—or in this case, look as if I just got high off marijuana. I don't know about you, but I think I look sufficiently drugged now with all that make-up you made them put on me." He raised his upper body, muscles aching at the sudden movement. "Now maybe you need a recap of your job description 'cause I remember the photographer's job is to take pictures, but I don't see any sign of you doing that some time soon." And god, what Shishido would give to end this session as quickly as possible.
Niou clicked his tongue. "Shishido, Shishido, Shishido. Trust me, I know what I'm doing. It's too premature, the moment, and I'm waiting till you give me the look I'm looking for." He positioned himself again, lenses pointed at the model, and shooed Shishido back to his previous pose. "Now be a good boy, kneel, and give it to me."
Like hell he wasn't just trying to waste time because he was probably getting paid by the hour. "Damn it, aren't you tired of this pose yet? No? Well, fuck you, 'cause I am." And then, just to make a point, he collapsed and sprawled himself on the sofa, left arm and leg dangling lazily. And maybe he put his tongue out to follow through with the magical middle finger, too.
It was then that the damned flash came.
"What the—"
And another flash.
"Fuck," Shishido growled.
And another flash.
Niou smirked. "That, my dear Shishido, was quite a marvelous moment there. And you lasted longer in that pose than what I guessed. I thought for sure you'd only take fifteen minutes before your top blew off. Good for you, seems like anger management can be held off to next week."
"You made be pose like some whore waiting to be served when what you were looking for was for me to flip you out?" Shishido stood up, stormed over to Niou and gripped the photographer's collar. "Oh, I'll give you flipping out."
And another damned flash centimeters away from his eyes.
"Hey, stop that!" Shishido blindly grabbed for the camera, but Niou already had it out of his reach.
"Calm down, boy," he said as he ruffled Shishido's hair. Shishido swatted the hand away. "Okay, he's warmed up enough. Get this guy dressed for the next shot!"
As soon as he gave the word, stylists quickly manhandled Shishido into another set of clothes while the make-up artist removed his previous make-up. In record time, he was dressed in relatively casual attire emblazoned with the brand's usual graffiti designs with barely any make-up on and his hair left as it was—spiky and messy.
"…That's it?" Shishido inspected himself in the huge, bright mirror. Black shirt, bleached jeans, arm warmers, lots of jewelry. Yup, it was casual. Too casual. "No fish-net shirts fed to the shredder? Zombie make-up? Druggie clothes? Fake bloody scars? …Ropes?"
The girl doing final touch-ups on his clothes and glanced at the clipboard in her hands (Shishido could easily tell she was part of the brand's employees and not from Niou's crew, what with her numerous leather accessories, the dozen piercings on her whole face, and punk-goth ensemble). "…Yeah, that's it." She frowned, and Shishido noticed how pale she was and somehow knew that it wasn't just make-up. "I think it's pretty boring, too. If you want, I have a blade here—it's a bit rusty at the ends and oh! Oh shit, I swear that's not blood uh, anyway, it's still sharp! And—"
"No, I'm good." He cut her off, leaving her and her blade alone, and made his way to the set. The couch was still there, as well as the black curtain draped at the back, but instead of the previous bare wood floor, a black plastic thing was laid out underneath. The neon alerts signs were smacking his face again, and this time he tried paying attention and immediately searched the area for Niou.
It was Niou who found him. He suddenly appeared behind Shishido, camera hanging by its strap on his neck. "Yo, Shishido, get your ass on the couch and try seducing me."
"What?"
"No good?" Again, Niou rubbed his chin. "Hm, I didn't think you were that much of a virgin." Shishido sputtered and yelled indignantly, but all Niou did was flick his rat tail away from his shoulder, drawled "Well, can't be helped. I'll just have to get the look out of you again, then," and snapped his finger.
A bucket of water was splashed over Shishido and the camera flashed once.
"Bastard!" he shouted and lunged towards Niou. But before he could land a punch on the photographer, he was already pushed back. Put out of his balance, Shishido clumsily stumbled backwards and gracelessly fell over the couch.
"How're you feeling?" Niou had the gall to ask as he shot away.
"Fuck you," was Shishido's eloquent reply.
"Exactly what I had in mind, too." Niou clicked the shutter.
"What the hell was that for?"
"Well, Shishido, let me ask you. What do you do when your clothes get wet?"
Shishido reluctantly takes off the shirt (he knew there had to be something wrong with this session, what with his clothes being so damn simple) in front of the flashing camera.
"Here," Niou throws him a towel. "And be more sexy this time."
Shishido rolled his eyes and laid down on the couch-his attempt at sexy.
"Do you want to put on more make-up? A different set of clothes, maybe?"
Almost too quickly, Shishido sat straight, spread his legs and willed himself to stop looking panicked. Sexy, Shishido, sexy. How the hell was he supposed to be sexy?
"If they had you as basis, flustered would never be sexy. Ever."
"Oh, very funny. Haha. I'd like to see you try this." Shishido tried another pose.
Niou probably felt a bit of pity for him, because he actually took a shot. "All I'd need to do is stand and the girls swoon from all my sex appeal. S'why I'm behind the camera; can't have them getting distracted all the time."
"Right, watch me swoon at the sight of your sex appeal."
"We can work with that; swoon away."
"Fuck you."
"Hey, try that."
"...Try what?"
"Fuck me. Wait, no, I'm obviously topping. Fuck you then, Shishido."
Shishido gawked. "Why the hell should I?"
"Sex Pot Revenge."
It took Shishido twelve seconds to recall that it was the brand he was modelling for that day. "Oh."
"Right," Niou nodded gravely.
Shishido sighed and imagined himself (he visibly twitched) topped or fucking or on the couch. He looked at Niou and almost pleadingly (begged to be fucked, his mind supplied, and he quickly shot down the suggestion) asked, "Don't tell me the whole shoot's going to be like this?"
"Sex Pot Revenge, my dear Shishido. Sex Pot Revenge."
"Kill me now."
"Later. You get to have knives and snuffing equipment and the whole shit with poses to match. Aren't you excited?"
"Can't wait." His groan timed in sync with the flashing of the camera.
3. the legal semantics make his brain hurt.
Shishido thinks that the woman from the Human Resources desk at Russ-K is probably the most disagreeable person in the world. Like a cross between an American partisan critic and a middle-aged psychoanalytic—only more perverted, less sound in the mind, and a hundred times more likely to rat him out to the higher-ups to stow away her own shortcomings. Ambitious woman with too much spare time and blood on her hands. It wasn't like there was any cure for it, either, not a bad habit or anything; she simply did not listen to reason. There could be a terrorist attack at the modeling set the next day, and a couple of minutes later she'd be writing it off as a "device-bearing tourist" (if only to make sure that the lawsuits wouldn't reach her end of the aisle). And never mind that she gets paid three-thousand yen an hour to hand out character re-evaluation forms—didn't make her any less cruel. In fact, it is very likely that she may be blind and deaf in her right ear, as well (most likely a result of having too many unsatisfied contractors yelling at her).
As such, Shishido hates her. He hates her like he hates Niou's interest in Violent Passion Surrogate, hates her like he hates school uniforms and glittery belts and shameless Japanese pop idols parading around in girls' clothing. He hates her so much that, if he were to become a serial murderer tomorrow (and the chances are quite high, now) she would be Number One on his hit list. Number One, underlined, bolded, and italicized. Number One with stars and satanic symbols lining the underlines and bold and italics. Number One like there had been no Number One before.
She enters the office at 8:00AM sharp, wearing a stretchy shawl-cape thing that trails polyester strands all over the coffee mugs in the staffroom. Promptly cracks open her Dell laptop at 10:00AM, commences social-networking at 10:03AM, click-clacking purple-varnished nails all over people's walls and Twitfeeds. Lips smack on prostitute's lipstick heavier than icing on a cheesecake, eyelashes curl over makeup that make her seem more nocturnal than sexually-stimulating. (What an awful way to say sexy—sexually-stimulating. What is that supposed to mean, anyway?)
But what he hates most of all, is that she, by definition of the Human Resources Head, can actually do damage to his career. Had been in the job description since the beginning of job descriptions.
Fucking semantics.
"It has come to our attention, Shishido-san," she begins, and this is the cue for Shishido to scan the office for the fire escape, "Are you listening?" (Of course he's listening. He's listening and panicking. In his pocket, he palms for the speed dial buttons on his cell phone, prays that Oshitari or Choutarou or even Atobe would pick up and drive over with a bunch of executive privilege documents.)
"It has come to our attention, that there are several protocol requirements that our models are not meeting."
Shishido contemplates baring his teeth, and then decides that it would probably be best to feign misunderstanding. He blinks. "Protocol…requirements."
"Protocol requirements. Measure D-dash-three-hundred-nine asks for a clear understanding and application of RUSS-K rules and regulations. You'll also have to submit your own opinion of fellow models and their behavior in relation to your own." Her thick fingernails curl over a stack of 8-and-a-half-by-11 inch copy paper, and Shishido's head spins when he catches his own signature near the bottom of the page. A vague memory of a night of pretty colors and debauchery at the hostess bar down the corner, spilled brandy over boobs and police flashlights shining into his eyeballs, looking for ecstasy. And, oh wait—hadn't he signed a company policy, that day?
(This was fucking perversion.)
"You'll be subject to Measure C-dash-one-hundred-ten by means of salary-reduction if you choose not to cooperate."
(In a goddamn hostess bar.)
Shishido licks his lips dry. "Salary…reduction."
She nods perfunctorily. "Mostly as a result of your morally-unbinding language. I do not recall any RUSS-K-endorsed photo shoot involving the model abusing the F-word after every single frame."
"I'm not a fucking elementary school kid," Shishido says before he can help himself, and Miss Human Resources Head gives him a disapproving glare.
(At least it hadn't been at Oshitari's host club?)
"And you," she jerks a purple-varnished thumb in the direction of the slumped pop idol on the couch in the corner of the room, "I'm afraid we'll have to reassess your definition of non-platonic contractorship with the photographer."
Tegoshi visibly gulps, and Shishido feels properly ashamed. He'd gotten off light.
The second portion of the shoot is worse. The stylist cakes Shishido's hair in kiwi-flavored mousse and the designer wraps an awkward bit of plaid fabric around Shishido's waist, leaving three inches of tanned-thigh exposed to the world above the wool stockings. An ugly dog tag dangles around his neck, followed by a creepy leather jacket that has Shishido questioning the sanity of Japanese fashion designers. He steps onto the white screen and frowns into the camera.
"Well," Niou says, "I didn't think you could pull-off sexually-stimulating, but here I am. Congratulations, Ryou-chan."
(So he'd taken to calling Shishido "Ryou-chan", hadn't he. So he'd found another way to piss everyone off, hadn't he. So he'd decided that he could risk Emergency Room and intravenous tubes and future freak accidents and injuries sustained from physical assault, hadn't he. Fine. This was fine by Shishido.)
"I'm wearing a skirt thing. It's baring my upper thighs out to the greater public. Do you think I have any shred of sexual-stimulant left in my veins?"
"Pfft. Why do you think it's Zettai Ryouiki?" Niou clicks the shutter, chuckles at his own pun, "Oh hey, that was actually a really good one. Get it, Ryouiki? Oh God, that one's going in my book."
Shishido can only frown. "I thought that kind of thing only worked for girls."
"It works for Ryou-chan in a school uniform, too," Niou says, "I'm glad Director-han had you wax your legs."
"Fuck you."
Photographer smirk. "I thought we'd gone through this already. Oh no, wait. Was that morally-unbinding language I heard?"
"Seriously, fuck you."
"Hehhh. Can I really now?"
Shishido curls back his lip. "Shut up. I don't want to reassess my definition of non-platonic contractorship with the photographer, thank you very much."
Niou chokes on his own spit trying to stop laughing.
"But that would be ex dee-lick-toe, anyway."
"What the hell is that's supposed to mean?" (More legal jargon. He's had enough of it.)
"Measure C-dash-one-hundred-eleven," Niou smirks, "you signed the contract; the evaluation agreement is null. We don't listen to any outside advice, and any actions that embarrass the company is deemed at personal fault of the subject, contra-policy to the business and any additional protocol. Your fault for not reading the fine print."
"Wait, what about Measure C-dash-one-hundred-ten?" Shishido crosses his arms over the ridiculous dog tag on his chest. This had been the one bit of conversation he had caught with Miss Human Resources Head, and he was not letting it go, over Niou's dead body. "It was a job requirement to submit my opinion. And I thought I was going to be subject to immediate castigation through means of salary-reduction or something."
"What's Measure C-dash-one-hundred-ten?" Niou only looks confused.
"Oh, FUCK THIS."
4. unpredictability and unreliable do not a photographer make.
There was, however, one cause.
Shishido called it his belief that it was possible to retain at least some sense of personal dignity in this line of business. Niou called it all part of the job. He said it very ironically. With some pity added in for good measure.
He was wearing a collared shirt, stiff pants, knee-high boots that made it difficult to walk in and when he sat down he was always afraid that they were going to rip right down the middle. The designer must have been rushed for the final fittings because it seemed to Shishido that his legs had lost circulation. Also, his hat seemed to be on the perennial verge of slipping off his face, resulting in a curious angle that, coupled with his constant frown, was doing nothing for his wholesome and healthy image to the general public. "Hey, be ironical for me," Niou said all of sudden, his lenses aimed at Shishido's face. While, yes, Niou was always making strange demands of him, Shishido was not appreciating the vagueness. (Nor was he appreciating the lenses being shoved in his face. His reason was that he could not look fuckin' sexy when under such stress. "Well, I'll give you stress," was Niou's reply, but that was another story.)
But the vagueness was the worst because he was never sure what to do then. And no matter what he did, it was never what Niou wanted. He tried and he failed, and alas, it was not fun.
Shishido tried to look ironical. Niou frowned. "You're not doing it right," he said. "See? Your lips are all wrong. They're pouting. You're not supposed to do that."
"You do it then," Shishido shot back.
"Look, say something ironical."
"Will you try making some sense?"
"That's not ironical. We all need some pity. Say something pitiful."
"My day job."
"That's not bad. Now why is your day job so pitiful? Oh, right, of course." Niou tapped the camera with his pointer finger to the beat of a song. "You've got to be ironical but you're too dense to fig—"
"I'm not dense."
"Uh-huh. Says you. You don't even know how to be ironical. Look ironical for me. Say you love me."
"I love you."
"Now say you hate my guts."
"I hate your shitty guts."
"That's not bad."
"You—I—agh—"
"Didn't you know? Irony and pity's all the rage. Or, well, it was. But I'm going to revive it. We'll have revivals. Like dance clubs. Oh, wait, they're popular already? Maybe one day raves will go out-of-style and then, oh-ho, look out for me. But I don't mind, it's all part of the motions. I'm just going through the motions. Say, try it again: be pitiful for me."
Shishido shot a kind of purposeful glare at him.
"No, no, that's not good enough." Niou set the camera next to the rest of his equipment. They were on a table and he held up one of his prized 105 mm IS lenses and peered at Shishido through it. "You're not getting it."
"Then tell me. What is there to get?" He stood up and stretched because it was uncomfortable wearing the too-tight clothes; that they were not getting much work done only made matters worse. Then again, rarely was Niou productive. It was as if he had but one prerogative: waste time. He could actually imagine it. There would be a dark room (why a dark room? When he thought of Niou, he thought of dark rooms. It seemed to fit his face better, uh) and Niou would be sitting in a relic armchair and on the wall, there would be seven commandments. The number one commandment would say: 'Thou shalt waste as much time as possible.' He could see it all right.
"Say," said Niou, "what happened to the girl?"
"What girl? Which girl?"
"You know, the one from America. Dark-haired, light-skinned. She had a name from like, the sixties? Marjorie McKenna something or another."
"Oh, her."
"Yes, her. I rather liked her face."
"She didn't like her face. Cut off her hair and bleached it. She wanted me to do it with her. Made me go to the salon so I could better understand the process. She wanted us to be twins. Crazy bitch."
"No."
"Yes. Her hair became paler than pale and then all she did was tan so she turned dark, dark, dark with white, white hair. Everyone loved her. Post-modern. It's the biggest thing since Lady Gaga."
"But she's gone now."
"Oh, yes. Married. Went to Europe for her honeymoon. Married a British writer. And you know how those things end."
"The husband turns out to be impotent."
"But she dies in childbirth. How does that work anyway?"
"Hey, you don't joke about that."
"They'll meet a Spanish kid then."
"Not Spanish, Italian."
"What does it matter? They'll find a European kid."
"A real, genuine European kid?"
"What brought this on?" said Shishido. All the while Niou had been taking photos. They would not be very good photos, blurry and inconsequential and idyllic. In one of them, Shishido was tapping at his nose. In other, he was visibly yawning and therefore, unattractive. They would never appear in a Vogue spread but they would remain in Niou's private collection where he kept many other things that would remain private.
"I'm trying something new. It's this thing called candid. We talk and I take pictures. There'll be good pictures and there'll be bad pictures but the point is: it'll be easy for you and me."
"Wait. What are we talking about?"
"Beats me," Niou shrugged. "Say, would it be too much to ask for a smile?"
"I thought you said this was candid."
"Oh, yes. Oh, no. You're supposed to be fun and loving. That's what everyone said, you know. The cool kid. The cool loving kid. Well, that's public relations for you."
"It's not like I enjoy doing this," Shishido shifted a leg over.
"Who asked you? Do you think I enjoy going around ass-kissing some nameless anorexic boy, begging him to look pretty for me just so I can pay my rent? Hell no. If I had a choice, I'd be in London right now."
"Why London?"
"Why wouldn't you want to be in London? Fucking London and fucking English earl grey tea and the fucking gardens preserved from Victorian times, it means everything to me."
"Uh," said Shishido.
Niou laughed. "Don't you know anything? They're playing the grass court season right now."
"Oh."
"That's right: 'Oh.' But instead, I'm here, hoping and wishing that you'll smile for me and then everything will be okay. Click, click, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, bada-bing—you following me?"
Shishido snorted.
"Go ahead. Just be all high and mighty. Well, the day they find your body on a balcony with a few toys, even fewer clothes, and more imagination than all of South Korea, I'll be snorting at you. Yeah, the moment you meet your Maker, you'll know what I'll be doing. Say, what is this photoshoot for anyway?"
"You're the photographer here and you don't even know?"
"Why would I bother? I'm just free-lance. You give me an assignment, a fancy-smancy check, and I'm your man. Ass-kissing included. But I don't give a shit about anything else."
"Well," said Shishido, "I'm guessing this is some kind of military shoot. They weren't really specific about the details this time and I was in a rush. This is really annoying." He cocked his head over to a package of unused props. As if on second thought, he reached for the TT-33 Tokarev duplicate. He held it and appraised it. Then he pointed the barrel at Niou. "Bang."
"That's sexy. Do that again. Do that just for me."
"It's weird. I've never posed with a gun before."
"Ha, posing with a gun. That's a good one."
"S-shut it."
Niou held his hands up as if surrendering. The camera dangled on a cord that hung around his neck. "Well, well." They went back to posing and taking photos and it was quiet for a little while.
"Say," said Shishido, "when will this be over with?"
"Why, ya got a hot date waiting for you or something? Going to Ginza? They've got a lot of nice hotels there. I could give you a few recommendations if you want."
Then, something strange happened: Shishido blushed. It was not intentional, but he blushed. The effect was the same and it was a sobering one. Niou took about ten photos in the span of five seconds and then added, "Hey, what's up?"
"Just keep talking."
"All right then. What do you want to talk about?"
"Have you ever wanted to be someone you know you'll never be?"
"God damn. Story of my life."
"What happened?"
"I don't know you well enough."
"Oh."
"I'm kidding. I wanted to be a tennis professional. Then I got this little injury called a herniated disk in his back. Killed my career before it ever started. I suppose that's how it is. You get it right at the source."
"Why photography?"
"I've always liked taking photos," said Niou in a way that might be wrongly misconstrued, "it's easy and when I screw up, my pictures become even more beautiful. Sort of like you."
"What? What?"
"Sort of like now, actually. Your eyes have funny little lids and when you blink your head does a little side-to-side shake, but I think you do it unconsciously. I saw someone write about you once. Said something about an understated beauty that you radiantly exhibited? That was the biggest load of bullshit I ever read."
"What, uh, brought this on?"
"I'm not sure. But seeing you, it reminds me all over again. Maybe it's like an addiction. Hey, if you loved me, then your love would be my drug. That's actually pretty fucking hilarious. We should see each other more often. Say," said Niou, his voice dropped a little, "can I see you again?"
There was but one cause and there was but effect. Sometimes, Shishido wondered why he even bothered.
+1. but then there were those little things.
"Good work today, Shishido-kun, I think we have enough," said Niou, rounding off the final close-ups with a wry smile. He let the camera hang around his neck. "Here," he said, handing Shishido a water bottle, "you must be thirsty."
"I'm all right," he said, but took it anyway. As he drank, Niou ran off five consecutive shots without warning. "Hey, what was that for?"
"Hmm? It's habit."
"You could have said something!"
"But that defeats the purpose. You see, sometimes when I'm not taking photos, I feel like I'm missing out on something. And then I'll never have it back. I'll never see it again. Sometimes," and here Niou was a bit sheepish, "I think if I lose it once, I'll lose it forever. Or am I being too philosophical for you?"
Shishido blinked. "What does my drinking water have to do with philosophy?"
"Maybe I like the way you drink water. Maybe there's a subliminal message beneath it all."
Shishido eyed the bottle with a certain degree of disdain. (He was not a Hyoutei graduate for waste, after all.) "Like, plastic is bad for you?"
"It's deep," Niou insisted. "Deeper than that."
Shishido tried a little harder. "This plastic seems innocuous, but one day it will bring us all to ruin"
Niou tried not to look disappointed. "I think you're just tired."
"I think you're just weird. Crazy. All of the above."
"And that wouldn't be too far from the mark, would it." Strangely enough, it was not a question.
Outside, it was mid-afternoon, a time when the day was not quite sure whether to be light or dark and the compromise was not much better. They were in a part of the building complex that seemed better suited to filming suspense thrillers rather than having pretty pictures taken. But Niou was a good photographer and Shishido always got the work done. Today was no exception.
"Do you know if Director-han will be in tomorrow?" Niou asked. "I'll have the negatives in as soon as possible, but I need to speak to him anyway."
"Uh, I wouldn't know about it," Shishido said, thinking of Miss Human Resources Head and her penchant for those tiny neat books for telephone numbers (as if cellular phones did not exist nowadays; though, he would not be surprised to see her owning one of those new G4 iPhones: ah, decisions, decisions), "but if you really want to talk to him, you'd have his phone number."
"I don't."
"Oh, well then." Shishido had eased into the part of his routine where his answers became more and more monotone. That was inevitable. His back felt sore and he'd lost the feeling in his right shoulder from lifting it and holding it still for so long.
"Do you have it?"
"Maybe," he said. "It'd be in my phone." But he did not make any effort to go find it within the pile of his belongings.
In a single motion, Niou's arm swooped down and into Shishido's strewn jacket pocket, fishing out the phone. "Direct action always beats legislation," he said to no one in particular. Shishido was sort of slumped over five meters away.
So a silence occasionally punctured by the shrill beeping of a phone overtook them. Niou grinned and then said, "Found it."
"That's good."
"But you're missing something."
"Ah?"
"I see that in your contacts list, you're missing a name."
"I am?"
And Niou said, completely serious, "Me."
Shishido tilted his head and noticed, for the first time, that the ceiling was a beige and pink color all at once. "Am I now."
"Yes. I think I need to correct this wrong."
"Go ahead then. Make my day."
"Oh, I hope I can." Niou looked at Shishido and Shishido looked back at Niou, and Shishido thought that he must be going insane because he just thought—
He just thought—
—maybe it wouldn't be so bad working together after all.
Kura's note: "Zettai Ryōiki (絶対領域) (lit. Absolute Area/Domain/Region/Territory) is an anime/manga related term for describing the area of bare skin exposed on the thighs between the skirt and socks for female characters." – Wikipedia
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