Paler Kind of Life or Take it in Stride

by funscone

This isn't what Shuichi had imagined for his life, but when he meets Yuki inevitably things change. AU. Oneshot.Alternative Summary: Bitter!Prostitute!Shuichi meets Bitter!Writer!Yuki. Madness ensues.

Title: Paler Kind of Life or Take it in Stride
Fandom: Gravitation
Pairing: Shuichi/Yuki
Rating: R
Words: 4100
Genre: General/Romance
Summary: This isn't what Shuichi had imagined for his life, but when he meets Yuki inevitably things change. AU
Alternative Summary: Bitter!Pornwhore!Shuichi meets Bitter!Writer!Yuki. Madness ensues.
Warnings: Prostitution/Implied Violence (slight Yuki OOC) explained in my LJ
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Notes: Encouraged by the wonderful kibethan. Spurred out of randomness, and the want to write bitter!pornwhore!Shuichi after reading a badficcing over at gravibadfic. Just spelling checked.

for N, even though you'll probably never read this.

with love,
L

It's cold tonight. The wind sweeps through lamp lit streets and into darker alleys, its chilly fingers sliding along the walls and into the little nook next to a streetlight where Shuichi stands. His arms and legs are cold, bare to the night air as they are, and his numb fingers seek bodyheat wherever they can get it. It's a slow night, no regulars, and the streets have proven fruitless so far. He wants to go home, his feet ache, he's out of cigarettes, and his eyeliner is probably smudged—the dim reflection in the window a few feet away only shows the shadows on his face, and he'd accidentally broken his compact mirror a few days ago when he stepped on it with his high-heeled boots—but he has rent to pay.

He'd heard once that it meant seven years of accidents and unhappiness to break a mirror, but compact mirrors were tiny, and Shuichi has had enough bad luck already for it to make any difference. Plus, the man had been American. Western superstition never made any sense.

He sighs, the warmth of his breath dissipating into the night, the echo of it on his lips leaving place for a renewed chill. Most rentboys don't do business like this. They have their clientele taken care of, protected by and bound to their brothels. "Coats work the streets, and skin stays in," it had been explained long ago, and a sultry voice and glittery make-up always accompanied the statement in Shuichi's memory.

They hadn't wanted him there, in the end. He was too eccentric. It didn't appeal to the approved customers. So he'd had to make it on his own, take the dirty jobs that even whores wouldn't do, and the bruises and cuts and scratches he'd had to endure had eventually left permanent marks on his skin, like flesh painted with pain.

It's nothing like his visions for his life had been. Whoever thinks that they'll end up a prostitute? Still, it isn't as bad as he'd dreaded. It had become clear to him rather soon that his clients didn't pay for his mind, and somehow that made it all endurable.

A gust of wind ruffles his hair further, sneaks beneath his thin clothing to raise more goose bumps, and he shivers, deciding that ten more minutes is quite enough, and stale buns are still food.

The clack of shoes on asphalt breaks the silence, and Shuichi glances down the street towards the sound. It's a tall man in a long dark coat, with a green scarf whipping over his shoulder in the wind. Shuichi uncurls, ignoring the cold, settling for a relaxed pose against the wall, hands resting easily on his hips, which are tilted forward, he leans his head to the side and gazes with half-lidded eyes as the man walks closer. He's blond, with a chill-bitten nose and light eyes. Tourist, then. Probably American. The light is too weak for Shuichi to see more than that until the man comes closer, and the yellow circle of light around the streetlight makes his hair practically glow against the dark night behind him.

He's beautiful. Too beautiful. He doesn't look like a person who has to pay to get laid, but the hour is late, and Shuichi doesn't want to have stood there for so long without some results. Last shot for the night. At least he will be back in the relative warmth of his apartment soon if this doesn't work out. Shuichi pushes away from the wall, and takes a few measured subtly hip swaying steps towards the man. "Hey gorgeous," he purrs.

The man stops, his eyes traveling over Shuichi's scantily clad body before he snorts and resumes trying to walk past him. "Goodbye."

Shuichi isn't fazed. He's had difficult customers before. He moves to stand in the stranger's way, closer than the unwritten rule of peronal space permits, and an effective way of making people pause.

"Ah. Lonely and bitter," he smirks, and looks up a the man from beneath long lashes, "You must have had a rough night." He places his hand on the man's chest, leaning just a bit closer, parting his lips slightly as if hinting at a kiss. That is a fraud in and of itself, because Shuichi never kisses on the lips. That is something lovers do.

"That..." the man murmurs, tilting his head down towards Shuichi so that their noses are almost touching, "Is none of your business." His Japanese is faultless. Maybe not a tourist then. He grabs Shuichi's wrist and pushes it away from his chest.

"Angry too. I have no qualms about that," Shuichi says, casually ignoring the subtle refusal. His wrist is still clutched in the tight grip of the man's fingers, and somehow Shuichi gets the impression that he's not too averse to the advance.

"I'm going to be blunt," the man says in a low sharp tone, "I can have anyone I want. Anyone. I have no use for the likes of you." He releases Shuichi's hand, and with a final piercing look he starts stalking down the street again.

Shuichi rubs his wrist. Damn. It's going to bruise, and this entire night has been useless. "It's not really about who you want me to be though, is it? It's about who you want to be," he cries petulantly after the man, turning his pout into a scowl with practiced ease.

The man stops. His back tenses as he takes a deep breath. Then he turns around.

"Call me Yuki."

"How much do I owe?"

Shuichi had told him when they entered the slightly shabby apartment, but they had been rather preoccupied since then. And that had been hours ago. He repeats the sum, and Yuki picks up his wallet, placing a couple smooth yen bills on the bedside-table.

Shuichi winks. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Yuki scoffs. "You say that to everyone, don't you?"

Shuichi tilts his head. "True," a pause, then he adds, "It's very rare that I mean it though." He reaches out and places a hand on Yuki's arm. It's strong and warm and solid beneath the fabric of his shirt.

Silence sinks over them, and Yuki shifts uncomfortably after a while. "I suppose I'd better-"

"Go, yes," Shuichi interrupts him. He looks up into Yuki's light eyes, trying to read them. "But coming back is always an option."

Shuichi has ramen for breakfast. The buns are mouldy, and the entire contents of his fridge is a jar of pickled cocktail onions. He feels oddly effervescent, with his forehead leaning against the not fully functioning kitchen fan, and he smiles down at the cooking noodles in the pot, tapping his foot against the floor in an unheard rhythm.

He listens to radio as he eats, singing along to bubbly pop songs between bites.

Shuichi learns that when he with his legs wrapped tightly around Yuki's sweaty hips croons "Yuki-sensei," the man orgasms.

Yuki is the most beautiful man Shuichi has ever known, he realises their third time together, as Yuki hovers over him, soft skin like silk between his thighs.

Once this thought has entered his mind, it is hard to let it go. It's hard to not look at Yuki's face as sweat pearls on his brow, as he shudders, and moans and closes his eyes. It's hard not to be attracted to him. But not being attracted is not part of Shuichi's job description, he reminds himself. So he pretends that this is how it should be, and allows himself to feel.

Yuki is dressed, but Shuichi is just wearing his underwear, lounging among the tangled bedsheets, leisurely smoking a cigarette.

"I never paid for sex before I met you."

Shuichi smiles and stands up slowly. "Yuki, honey, we all pay for sex. It's just that most of the time we don't pay with money." He leans in, pressing their scruffy cheeks together for a moment. "We pay with our souls," he whispers before pulling away, a smug grin plastered to his face as he takes another drag from the cigarette. He stumbles back onto the bed, and the springs creak beneath him.

Yuki holds out a card. "My place next time. This is a dump."

Shuichi gives him a measuring look, then reaches out with the hand holding the cigarette between the index and third fingers to take it. "Fine." He glances at the address. It's almost on the other side of town. "You pay for the train. I can't make tax withdrawals, as you know." He chuckles dryly, but the joke is apparently lost on Yuki.

"Whatever. Just be there."

The door slams behind him. Shuichi calmly stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray, holding in his breath until he lies down again, and then expels it, letting it curl around his face like fog. Time for some sleep.

It's not like it becomes harder to take care of his other costumers. But then, it has never been easy either. At first it was scary and painful, then it became normal. Then it became normal and painful at times. He tries to steer clear from the ones with the worst kinks, because sometimes they end up costing him more than they pay.

Still, there are times when he closes his eyes and can almost feel soft tresses of hair skimming over his cheeks.

"How do you do this?"

Shuichi grins and tilts his head down conspiratorially. The bedsheets feel crisp and rough and clean against his naked skin. "I take it in stride."

Yuki gives him a dry glance, and his cheeks hollow out as he breathes in around his cigarette. "That makes no sense." The smoke wafts over Shuichi's face like a wave.

"I never claimed it would."

Yuki is Japanese. Shuichi learns this during a lavish western style brunch, a piece of bacon tasting salty and good in his mouth. He's wearing one of Yuki's shirts, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks tanned against the clear white, nothing like the washed-out colour of his own white clothing, and Yuki keeps glancing down at where Shuichi's thighs peek out, smooth and thin, from under the shirt-tails.

"Oh, so you're Shuichi," Yuki's brother says the first time they meet. There is a glint in his eyes that unsettles Shuichi, but Yuki hasn't told him how much Tatsuha knows, so he figures it's better to keep his mouth shut and get out of there as soon as possible.

"He's doing much better since he met you," Tatsuha remarks, opening a beercan.

"Tatsuha." Yuki's tone is cold.

"What?"

"Shut up."

Tatsuha blows Yuki a raspberry and leans in towards Shuichi to whisper, "Of course, he's such a grouch that you wouldn't notice."

Shuichi grins. Yuki scowls.

"You're getting ripped off, you know. My other regulars don't pay half as much as you do."

"Don't talk about them."

Shuichi shrugs, which is little more than a wiggle of his shoulders as he is lying on his stomach on the couch. "Okay." He turns a page in the magazine in front of him, to see Akanishi Jin's lopsided smile grinning up at him from the glossy page. Maybe he could use a hairstyle like that. Pink is a bit passé, and the bleach and hairdye are expensive. "You're still getting ripped off."

Yuki's expression is carefully blank. "I don't care."

Shuichi looks up at Yuki, whose gaze is steadfastly directed at the large television across the room. "And I usually don't get paid to sit around and watch TV," he says, getting on his knees and crawling over the splayed open magazine to the side of the couch where Yuki sits.

"Well, now you are," Yuki says tonelessly, the line of his body stiff.

Slowly, Shuichi places a hand on the inside of Yuki's thigh, near the knee, and inches it upwards, palm sliding over line-pressed sleek khakis. He presses small dry kisses to Yuki's neck, breathing in the soft scent of soap and cologne. Sometimes he smells it in his dreams.

"Don't," Yuki breathes, and Shuichi pauses, but the words are lost as Yuki's knuckles whiten where they are clenched in the fabric of Shuichi's t-shirt.

The skin on Shuichi's back burns as it rubs against the leather of the couch, but he doesn't care, because Yuki's eyes look dark, and the rapture makes everything else fade.

"I killed a man."

"So?" Shuichi deadpans.

"What do you mean 'so'?"

"One life isn't worth more than another." He twists between the green sheets to lie on his side, facing Yuki. "I kill spiders all the time."

Yuki doesn't answer. His fringe is splayed like golden threads over his forehead and his eyes stare blankly at the sterile white ceiling.

"What, did you want me to say something else?" Shuichi asks curiously.

Yuki turns his face towards him, his expression bemused. Then he smiles, and Shuichi's stomach is suffused with heat. "No, I suppose not."

He has come to spend two-three days a week with Yuki, and going back to his own worn down apartment doesn't feel like going home at all.

They walk around in Yuki's apartment in various states of undress, coming together with a diversity of scenery that makes Shuichi wonder how his other clients make do with his little creaky bed, clean though it may be.

Sometimes Yuki stares at him, a small pensive line between his eyebrows, then he gets up and rushes to his study, muttering a "Stay," to Shuichi over his shoulder, before disappearing for several hours. Those times Shuichi curls up on the couch with a can of beer and various snacks, watching silly game shows, the news, and complicated dramas. He watches a concert with a young popular boy band, and blandly notes that the suggestive hip movement that took him months to perfect, done by the buttercup soft looking young man on television makes an ocean of girls swoon, while done by Shuichi it only invokes enough desire to stop him from freezing during slow nights, and provide him with a breakfast that might actually be metabolic.

When Shuichi asks what Yuki does in his study for several hours, he tells him that he's a writer.

Uesugi Eiri, he reads on the address card.

The book looks too vibrant somehow, with its shiny cover depicting a sunny day over a green nature scenery, a couple walking hand in hand over a hill, the woman's dress fanning out in the wind. Shuichi traces the name on the front of the book, indented, in large silvery letters. They should be golden, he thinks.

He finishes the book at dawn, and sits on the window ledge watching dark sky sift into grey, then burn orange along the horizon, until the morning blooms a light blue, and the sun touches his face in a tentative caress.

He doesn't understand it at all.

"I read one of your books," he says, licking smeared jam from his fingers.

Yuki doesn't look up from the newspaper. "Okay."

Shuichi pauses with his toast half-way to his mouth. "Aren't you going to ask me if I liked it?"

The venetian blinds make rays over the table and Yuki's face as sunlight breaks through dappled clouds. "I don't need you to read my books."

The dismissal is obvious this time, but Shuichi doesn't want to let it go. He is still discombobulated by the ending, and the person who can spread most clarity over it is sitting right across from him. "It was good. The ending threw me off though."

Yuki doesn't answer, but his mouth settles into a thin line. The newspaper rustles as he turns a page.

"Like you didn't really want it to be that way." Shuichi's voice fades out, and suddenly there is nothing in the world he wants more than to leave. He has never felt more unwelcome, unwanted than he does right now in the face of Yuki's strained and frustrated expression, in his casual refusal to acknowledge Shuichi.

"It's just a book."

Shuichi doesn't finish his breakfast, but it's a lie when he tells Yuki that he isn't hungry. He just can't swallow around the thickness in his throat.

On some level, Shuichi might have known that it was a very bad idea to get this drunk, but his other customer that day had been particularly sadistic, and he had wanted to forget the bruises and the pain of feeling like he was being ripped open in any way he could. His mind is good and foggy now, his body almost numb with a fuzzy languidness that relaxes him to the bones.

He wants to melt into the warmth, the gold, the hand that's slowly combing through his hair. More warmth, and softness pressing against his neck. It tickles and he giggles, trying to wave it away, but his hand settles against something bigger and warmer. When he opens his eyes Yuki's face is blurry, his eyes bright dots. Stars and gold, he thinks.

Stars and gold, that's what Yuki is. Too far away for Shuichi to ever reach him, and too exquisite for Shuichi to ever be worthy of him. Stars and gold.

Then, the softness is on Shuichi's lips, and it feels better than anything has felt in years. His mouth opens, and he can taste beer, but his mouth tasted like that already, so he doesn't know if it makes any difference. It feels warm, and it makes him warm—he can feel the heat flush in his veins, and how his clothes suddenly seem chilly on his body.

This is kissing, he knows. It feels really nice, like sunshine and ramen and ponta. Why hasn't he done this in so long? He breaks away, tumbling back against the armrest, giggling.

"Bad Yuki," he says, each syllable lengthened and slurred, "Noooo... Kissing." He grins, feeling proud that it all came out right.

"And why is that again?" Yuki's voice is hushed. Stars and gold.

Shuichi scrunches his nose. Why is it... "Feels too nice," he slurs eventually, tilting his head and smiling.

He is not exactly certain how it happens, but in the next moment they are kissing again, and this time he doesn't pull away.

Shuichi doesn't know why anybody would call him at this hour, all he can register is that his head is heavy and throbbing, and that his mobile is ringing. His mouth tastes like something rotted, and Sleepless Beauty has never sounded so piercing.

He only has dim images of how he got home, and all he wants to do is sleep, but Sakuma Ryuichi's voice doesn't give up, and it is with a groan that he reaches out for the phone, almost knocks it off the bedside table, presses the answer button and puts it against his ear.

"Moshi Moshi," he mumbles, tongue heavy and unwilling to cooperate.

"Shuichi?" The voice sounds vaguely familiar.

"Yeah?"

"It's Tatsuha. Can you meet me at the coffee shop Eiri likes at one?"

"Uhn," Shuichi replies, wanting nothing more than to end the conversation and go back to sleep.

"Great. See you there."

The line goes blank and Shuichi sighs in relief. What did he agree to again? The headache that is pressing against his temples is beginning to lessen, thankfully, and he starts to remember waking up next to Yuki early that morning, strong arm curled around his waist like a band of heat, lips pressed against his neck in a sleep-shaped kiss. He remembers the inexplicable fear he felt right then, and how he carefully crawled out of Yuki's embrace, mind still clouded with alcohol, and left him there.

It doesn't occur to him until later that he has no idea how Tatsuha got his number.

Tatsuha looks split between annoyance and smugness. It's an odd expression, that ends up making him seem confused more than anything. "What is going on between you two? Eiri won't tell me anything."

Shuichi stares down into the coffee cup—mocha, he's never lost that perpetual sweet tooth of his—and nibbles his lip. That's what he gets for getting too involved with a customer. "It's none of my business what Yuki does or does not tell you."

"It's Eiri, and it looks a lot like love to me," Tatsuha smirks.

Shuichi freezes, heart pounding in his chest. And that is the entire issue now, isn't it? He closes his eyes. "Look, I can't tell you anything about Y- your brother. But I can tell you something about me." He lapses into a momentary silence.

Tatsuha looks at him enquiringly, and makes a 'go on' movement with his hands.

This will make hell break loose, but the inevitable outcome will be the best, in the end. Shuichi takes a breath and braces himself. "I am a prostitute."

Tatsuha's stunned silence feels heavy, like Shuichi has put his head underwater and the water is pressing against his ears. Then the dam breaks. "What?"

Shuichi smiles and rolls his eyes, trying to give off the impression of being terribly amused. It is all for the best. "I'm not his boyfriend," he says. "I'm sure that he can fill you in on the rest of the details." He gets up, the plastic-tipped chair legs rattling against the floor. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have places to go, and men to fuck. Good day."

He swallows against the thickness in his throat as he walks out of the coffee shop. The mocha is left to slowly go cool, untouched.

All for the best.

He doesn't answer his phone when Yuki calls, just lies on his stomach watching as it lights up and starts playing Nittle Grasper time and time again, the vibrations dissipating into the bedsheets.

He left Yuki without getting paid, but he knows with a startling clarity that he can't accept payment for last night. His eyes are full of tears, but eventually he falls asleep without having shed a single one. He's stronger than that now.

He is woken by an insistent pounding on his door.

"Alright, alright," he grumbles, stumbling out of bed and moving towards the door, only clad in his boxers and the sheet he wraps around his waist.

When he opens the door and finds Yuki on the other side, he feels more exposed than he ever has. "Oh, it's you," he says in a clipped tone, automatically moving aside to let Yuki in. Yuki walks past him and sits down on the bed.

Silence reigns, and in his discomfort Shuichi grabs a package of cigarettes and his lighter off the night table, tapping his fingers against the white carton.

"Why did you say those things to Tatsuha?" Yuki asks eventually. His eyes are shuttered, but they don't leave Shuichi for a second.

Shuichi shakes out a cigarette and lights it before answering with a shrug. "Because they are true." He tosses the lighter and the package of cigarettes on the bed.

"Right."

Shuichi starts taking measured steps back and forward along the side of the bed, his hands moving nervously. The smoke from the cigarette curls after him in a vague line.

"You left," Yuki says softly.

"I did."

"I never said you could."

"Yes, well, you don't say a lot of things," Shuichi bites out in frustration that dissipates as quickly as it rose.

"It could be different."

Shuichi exhales sharply. "Why are you here? Are you going to tell me that my life could be better with you? It's not like that. We're not like that," he says, brow furrowed. He stops his pacing to take a drag from the cigarette. "You want me to get another job, right? But then I'd have to move in with you, because this is the only thing I can do, and I have to pay rent." He stops again, and butts out the cigarette in the ashtray.

"If you want." Yuki's voice is steady.

Shuichi sits down on his knees in front of him, insinuating his upper body between Yuki's thighs, placing his hands on Yuki's legs. Yuki's jaw is soft and prominent from this angle. "I steal the covers. We'll argue. I'll throw things at you. It won't be pretty," he says matter-of-factly, voice low.

Yuki sighs, and looks away from Shuichi for the first time since he arrived. "Look, if you don't want to this badly—" Shuichi cuts him off with a kiss.

He smiles brilliantly, the tenseness easing out of him in a mere moment. "I'd love to."

Then Yuki smiles back, and Shuichi knows that this is the best day of his life.

fin.