On the House
So, I had this idea for a Death Note AU wherein our boys from Wammy's are professional strippers, all dressed up in pantyhose and skirts and leather, struttin' their stuff on the catwalk to a myriad of male voyeurs. First, I thought, "Man, this some good crack!" but then, "hey, this might actually work!" So, here goes nothing. Tell me what you think.
MattxMello will be the prevailing romance (looks as though I've completely fallen for those two...), and I hope to include LightxL for later and some other minor pairings. This'll likely turn into some crackish, out-of-character, AU mess, but I hope I can do this enticing idea I had justice with my limited writing skills and attention span.
That being said, please enjoy the introduction and tell me if this is worth continuing.
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It all started with L. L was an apparition, a figure wilder than dreams and more mysterious than fear. And once you saw him – spoke to him, heard him speak, watched him move – it was hard to believe that there was anything of worth in the world that didn't start with L.
Known only by that one letter except to the very select few, "L" started the successful strip bar with business partner "Mr. Wammy", or as he was more widely known, "Watari"; in an offshoot of Tokyo's sex entertainment district. Wedged between neon lights and immaculately black pavement is set L's legacy, Wammy's House.
The connection between Watari and L is unknown, but it is mostly conceived that they are old friends, or perhaps Watari is a manager with a lot of experience, sought out and hired by L to work up his grand sceme. Watari looks the type of an old, retired butler; or perhaps an entrepreneur in his youth who with his pension decided to break into the entertainment industry. He looks a friendly fellow, and undoubtedly is, but he isn't one to be crossed. People have caused a fuss at his establishment – harassed his beneficiaries (or came close to, because it is unlikely Watari would ever let anything happen to his boys), attempted to harm his petit progeny, as it were; and ended up quite ruined or merely missing. "Such is the scene," Watari, a man of few words, would explain, if ever asked. "Bad things happen."
"Japan is a good scene," L had said, general knowledge contends, having travelled to the country when he was on the cusp of adulthood, merely 16 and in awe of the city of lights and technology and progress that was Tokyo. It was a good place to set up shop, full of growth and people and fetishes and money. He could've said "it's a place where a lot of perverts are," which may have been more accurate, but he didn't, some believe on account of his customary politeness, but others believe it was because L still clung and clings to the image of Tokyo he used to have – the one of brilliant minds and hard work, of innovation and tradition meeting in a flourish of bright lights.
Positioned in the back alley amongst all other sorts of night clubs, bars and theatres, some for women and some for men, some with themes and some with fetishes; sits Wammy's House. Run by men, frequented by men, and featuring men. Treated to front-runners L, Mello and Near, voyeurs of all sorts come to watch boys clad in fishnets and leather, in evening gowns and nothing more than their lingerie; and they do not leave unsatisfied.
Wammy's House is designed not like a traditional geisha house wherein clients are escorted to private rooms, but more like an old-fashioned American bar of the year 1940. The room is one big dance hall where customers take up a seat in view of the simple protrusion of center stage where the shows go on. For one reason or another, L chose to keep intact some of the old-fashioned fineries of pub nightlife. There are no booming subwoofers blasting bouncing remix tracks, instead there is live music played during each performance, utilizing the house piano and other brass and woodwinds. There are no flashing strobes or neon bands lighting the room, but foggy, gentle yellow filament bulbs that compliment the pure hues of the stage lights, warming the windowless walls and rich red curtains. There are no distractions; there are only the boys and their craft, commanding you watch.
"Come on, come on!" Hurry up and get ready!" Mello whines, his fingers wringing the wrist of his fingerless glove, toying with the buttons that decorate halfway up the arm. He passes a blue glance over Near, who is sitting relaxed in an armchair a few feet from him.
"I am ready," Near replies quietly. He curls a finger in his white hair, tugging the lock half-absentmindedly, it would appear, though Near is one with a mind that is never absent. He tucks his knees into his chest, minding not to damage his new pink tights that reach mid-thigh.
Mello huffs angrily. He's anxious; the anticipation of tonight's introduction sends tingles up and down his arms and to his fingertips. He looks around the backstage area, scanning in the darkness Near's position. The boy looks bored, untroubled by the upcoming event. So help me God, if you screw anything up – Mello thinks tensely, though he knows with certainty that it's nearly impossible for Near to screw anything up.
"Don't sit like that. You look lazy," Mello snaps. He tugs sharply at the hem of his shiny leather shorts, balancing with practiced ease on his platforms.
Near is silent for a moment before his clear reply comes. "L doesn't mind if I sit like this."
Mello frowns; mumbles something ironic about the Boy Who Always Has to Be Right. He shifts again on his feet, lifting them one at a time and they clunk back to the floor rhythmically with little clicks. His nerves are slightly settled by the soft piano music playing beyond the curtain, the mumble of the customers' voices resounding in the big room outside.
Mello breathes in the scent of cologne and alcohol, of vinyl and perfume and freshly polished furniture. The House has always smelled like that, just before the opening act. Before the scent of human floods the place, before anxious men push themselves out of their daytime shells of sobriety and abstinence, let go to the richness of emotion and feeling, spilling sweat and alcohol and fluids onto the linoleum and rugs.
L always smelled the way that the clean House did, Mello recalled, fresh and new and unspoilt, save for the occasional lingering of icing and candy on his lips.
The very name L could all but bring tears to Mello's eyes. For some reason it'd been that way since he was young, before Near, before their huge success, when there was only L, and he, and Mello had never loved anything or anyone more. He knew that Near felt this way too, though he had no recognizable emotions most of the time. Everyone loved L. And little Mello and Near could delight greedily in the notion that the two of them, L's successors, held a special place in the man's heart.
While Mello twitched and Near flicked at his hair, out of the shadows of the curtains, emerging like a spirit of his element, the embodiment of casual sensuality, appeared L. His outfit was simple tonight – a sort of slim black top and short skirt that hugged his hips – but he could've been drizzled in chocolate and wrapped with gold, he was so perfect. With the usual messy hair and shiny black eyes, he looked a beautiful messenger in a worldly vessel. He stood with effortless grace, in an air that spoke of something beautiful and mysterious beneath the human form.
Mello all but snapped to attention in L's presence. Even Near stood up and straightened his white skirt. Mello watched L approach them and take his place between them, languidly stepping into stride behind the curtain, long, gloved arms dropping gently to his sides.
"Are you two ready?" L asked gently, a small smile on his face, one that only his two prodigies ever saw. He asked this before every intro, and Mello was fully aware if either he or Near ever answered with a "no", L wouldn't hesitate to cancel everything and tend to their needs.
However, Mello and Near both answered a quiet "yes" as the intro music began to play, and the room beyond the curtain grew quiet. L nodded, a little glimmer of playfulness sparkled in his eyes, hard to notice in the black depths, but clear, as he caught Mello's eyes reassuringly. He turned to Near and pet his hair softly. Near wasn't immediately responsive, but enjoyed the contact nonetheless, as the pinkness on his cheeks informed.
L turned to look forward, unwavering, unblinking at the crowd beyond the curtain before him. The murmur of the voices outside buzzed continually, growing over the growing loudness of the music outside. Mello's fingers twitched anxiously; Near fretted with the fringe of his skirt; L was still. There they stood, the Wammy's House front line-up. They were superstars in this time, in this place, for this purpose. They were loved by those who saw them, they were mysteries known hardly by aliases. Each of them pondered what the others thought of their positions, their fame.
The music drifted, unimpeded to their ears by the lifted curtain. The three stepped forward, lead by L, and the applause that erupted like thunder broke their uneasiness to pieces.
Short intro. The next chapters will have more content, I promise. I'm going for a sort of casual representation of sensuality and sexuality, taking the three boys' uniqueness' into account. I hope this doesn't degenerate into being hopelessly OOC. Anyways, happy Halloween, folks! I challenge you fans to dress as your favourite Wammy's Boy in drag.