Chapter Nine: Maestro

The Sakurazuka house was built like one enormous loft consisting of smaller, more intricate lofts within—making up the various (extremely various) rooms. It was rare and precious when Fuuma or Seishiro threw a house party because due to the glass walls that made up most of the house, all the neighbors—although a good two acres away one either side—could clearly see what was going on.

But the Maestro returning to his hometown was something to be celebrated, and the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Sakurazuka were in Berlin was the perfect opportunity. Of course, there were certain people that simply had to attend, not because of formality—for the party was anything but—but rather because the Maestro had served as a mentor for those he thought would actually amount to something.

In other words, like a certain bewitching person, the Maestro's got an eye for real talent—and beauty.

Yuui Fluorite was probably the best known that'd been taken in by Seishiro. Which meant that he had some sort of obligation to go to the party and greet Seishiro. Besides, Yuui needed to have a word with his mentor. More than one, in fact.

The party was already raving when Yuui arrived. Most of the lights had been dimmed and the beer and wine was being passed around at an alarming rate. There was smoke wafting in the air, students from all four high-schools sharing bongs and a few who seemed to be dealing out tiny packets and bottles of white powder, along with some who handed out syringes as well.

Yuui admired the way a pathway through the crowd was instantly formed for him. There was once a time when he'd almost dreaded having to attend parties like these because of the irritation caused by all the groping hands that felt just behind the tops of his thighs and at his crotch. But now, of course, it'd been long cleared that touching Yuui Fluorite was equal to instant social death.

Doumeki was waiting for him on a pitch black suede sofa that had quite a few suspicious-looking stains on it—stains that looked considerably freshly spilt to Yuui. The pianist bent low and kissed him long and hard on the lips. "Having fun?" Yuui smiled.

The soccer player blinked and stood up. "He's over there."

Yuui tilted his head in the direction Doumeki blatantly pointed at. "I know. Have you seen Subaru anywhere? I'm pretty sure I know where Kamui's at. I need to talk to them, too."

"No." Doumeki swiveled around, his eyes searching the donut of people and the clusters beyond the little squished bunches in the room. "I should go. I need to look."

"For who? Watanuki?" Yuui asked with a raised eyebrow. "Not tonight, you aren't. You can't always be there for him if you want him to like you. Or want you. Or realize that he does. That comes later in the schedule. For now, ignore him and pretend he doesn't exist."

"But he does."

"That doesn't mean you need to acknowledge it. Besides," Yuui tousled Doumeki's hair and smirked. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And it makes a whole lot of other things plenty fonder—and harder." He stood up and brushed his tongue lightly over Doumeki's lips. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak with the Maestro. Have your chauffeur pick me up for school."

High maintenance, much?

"Sure," Doumeki stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So—"

"But don't go home," Yuui ordered briskly, stepping forward and causing the Red Sea to part for him again. "We have a little show to put on for your dear Watanuki—once I find him." And then he started back off into the crowd, leaving Doumeki to shrug and put his beer bottle to his lips for a swig.

Subaru put his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. He arched one eyebrow at the entangled mess of limbs, hair, beer, and blankets on the circular plush sofa. He pulled half of his mouth into a bitter smile. "Good to see you, Seishiro."

The conductor raised his dark head, and in turn, the boy blowing him raised his head from blowing Seishiro. The boy straightened his clothes and jumped nimbly from the couch, and Seishiro's eyes followed him amusedly before turning back to Subaru. "Good evening. Enjoying yourself?"

"Not as much as you seem to be." Subaru's lifeless tone seemed to give Seishiro's smile something to broaden about, as the college freshman wrapped his long fingers around Subaru's wrist and pulled him close, hands catching the trumpeter's waist. "Let go of me. I'm sure there are people more apt than myself who you'd much rather have, Maestro."

Seishiro's expression simply remained the same—smiling and lightly amused, maybe even a bit bored. His finger cuffed the belt loop of Subaru's black jeans until they were crotch to crotch. "What sort of welcome is that? I came back here just for you, y'know."

Unbelievable, isn't he? But that's why we love him, right, darlings?

Subaru's mind was practically shaking the inner walls of his head, banging and screaming and thumping against the area around his brain, yelling at him to get away because even humans had instinct, and instinct told you to move away, run away, sprint and jump and flee away from a battle you couldn't win—for your mental, physical, and emotional well-being, and Seishiro was hazardous to all three in Subaru's case.

Subaru looked at Seishiro with skeptical eyes. "Why would you need me? You have everyone else dancing on the palm of your hand. I don't even know why you bothered to come for Rondart's benefit. It's not like your name needs any more promotion."

Seishiro yanked Subaru's shirt collar until their faces were inches away. The conductor kissed Subaru on the mouth definitely and leaned back to smile at him. "If I want to be able to conduct by the time I graduate—professionally that is, I'll need patrons, and I was hoping Rondart could be one of them. And besides, I did miss you, you know." Seishiro raised his eyebrows. "Really."

C'mon, S III, don't fall for it. Shoulders back, head high—

The trumpeter stroked Seishiro's cheek, holding the side of his head, and reaching up through the dark, thick hair. Subaru let Seishiro pull him down onto the circular plush sofa and guide him onto his back. He let Seishiro ride his hands up into his shirt, playing and teasing against his skin. He closed his eyes and let Seishiro conduct—let Seishiro take his place in the conductor's box and orchestrate everything.

After all, that was how it'd always been, right? Subaru was only a trumpeter. All he could ever do was sit in the chair, behind his music stand, put up his horn and blow. He could never match Seishiro—Seishiro, who got up in front of millions and led an entire fleet of musicians, musicians who depended on him to keep them together, and followed every move of his hand.

It wasn't like Subaru ever stood a chance. And even if he'd had one in the beginning—maybe even just the slightest resemblance of a chance—it'd been all taken away long ago, all fallen and destroyed the minute Subaru became one of the blessed students to have been taken in by Seishiro Sakurazuka, the Maestro of Fuki, and now Akamizu's Maestro.

Hon, it's not that you never stood a chance. It's that you love him.

Yuui took another swig of his scotch, set it down on the nearest table and then proceeded to jumping a slender boy with tousled black hair right into the black settee directly beside them. The pianist turned the boy around and looked straight into Kamui's singed gray eyes. Yuui grinned as he pinned Kamui's wrists. "Did you move to Antarctica?"

Kamui's almost perpetually raised eyebrows went even higher into his signature disheveled bangs. "I was seriously debating with myself whether I should loan an igloo from an Eskimo, or whether I should just rough it out with the penguins. Which do you think?"

"I'd go with the penguins. Eskimos only live in the north. Shouldn't you already know that?" Yuui kissed Kamui on the lips briskly, before rolling off from on top of the journalist and lying on his side, one arm propping his head.

"Just because I'm a writer, doesn't necessarily mean I'm an encyclopedia," Kamui stretched his arms luxuriously, and sat up as well. He breathed in and out deeply, thoughtfully, and took a sip of Yuui's half-discarded scotch. "So, how's the brother/boyfriend drama going?"

"Shitty," Yuui shrugged, taking back his drink. "Do you have a smoke on you?"

Kamui rummaged in his pockets for a bit, finally retrieving a small white stick. "Just this. Last batch—and it was a good one, too. I think Subaru might have stolen most of it from my room, though. I don't even remember giving him the combination to my safe."

"Everyone knows the combination."

"I changed it last week."

"Oh." Yuui watched the writer light the pot and put it to his lips, letting the smoke gather in his mouth and pop out. The pianist parted his lips and allowed Kamui to shotgun him. Yuui kept the stick in his mouth, taking it out between his fingers and returning it to Kamui. "Since when does Subaru smoke? The most I've known him for is a pint of Prosecco per…night."

"Since the Maestro," Kamui said with bitter relish, "went to fucking Akamizu and Ichihara started reporting on Sakurazuka's misadventures in the bedrooms of numerous legacies and legends and all the other big flyers that as of now—in high school—Subaru doesn't stand a fucking chance against."

Yuui snorted, taking the joint for another go. "And that bothers him? Hasn't he seen what everyone else is going through? I don't see why you give such a crap about him—he'll learn and he'll get over it. The Maestro's a player, and there's nothing that's going to change that."

"Like you have any right to talk," Kamui shoved the pianist playfully—and in a rather stoned manner. "You're the one that keeps hoping against hope that your own darling, baby brother's going to realize that he doesn't really love Ashura, and that the tortured artist is going to hold you in his arms from evening till dawn. Not only that, you're the one that keeps grinding his innards every night when Rondart screws—and lets others screw—Fai into the floor, bed, table, countertop, car, garage wall, bathroom tile—"

"Enough," Yuui whispered. "I get it. I'll shut up." The two boys remained like that, silent, and side-by-side on their stomachs, sharing more than just a joint. Kamui was the only one who knew about Yuui and Fai's real living arrangements, because Kamui was the only one who'd ever understand that there were some things that were better left untold to the authorities and left just as they were. Kamui was a writer—he knew how the story always went, and he knew how real life would never go.

"Sorry," Kamui said softly, after a pause. "Is he doing any better?"

"Worse. All my fault, of course."

"You know, I think that one day, Fai and I should get together with you and shoot paintballs at your head so that maybe that would justify your self-loathing and you'd actually like yourself for a change. So where is the condemned man tonight?"

"With Ashura."

Kamui's voice rose in understanding and slight mock. "I see. So you're alone? No date, no fuck buddy?"

"Just you," Yuui smiled. "No…I do have this kid with me—a freshman. He's got a hell of a problem, too, and he doesn't fuck like a freshman, so…y'know. Why the hell not, right? I'm supposed to help him put on a show for his little sweetheart."

Kamui stared at Yuui's angelically smiling face for three minutes. "You sadistic son of a bitch." The journalist shook his head. "You're going to break two poor boys' hearts tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm only aiming for one, but if it's two, they'll get over it together. Besides, everyone needs a push in the right direction, and I don't do gentle prods. I shove them off the damn cliff, and if they don't have a parachute, they'll just have to learn to fly, won't they?" Yuui pursed his lips around the joint.

The writer shook his head. "A man after the Maestro's own heart, surely. Anyone who talks to you for ten minutes would be able to instantly distinguish that the man of my brother's wet dreams was your mentor."

"You make it sound like it's something to be ashamed of," Yuui laughed. "I'm rather proud. It's not as easy as it looks to be Seishiro Sakurazuka, the Maestro. And I'm certainly not taking over his legacy. Anyway, everyone already knows my name too well."

"I think everyone knows a lot more than just your name. Your entire image's become synonymous with the whole concept of promiscuity, along with terms such as slut and man-whore." Kamui, this time, let Yuui shotgun him.

Yuui eased a smile onto his lips and threw back his head, the hair falling airily back from his face. "So? Let them. It's not entirely a lie, and it's not like I've got anything else to do. If I can't have who I love, why not have some fun? I'm rich, I'm young, I'm beautiful and I'm talented. I've also got the best fucking future waiting for me—it's practically on a shelf with my name written on it."

Kamui pulled himself another drink from a nearby bottle and held the glass up to Yuui's own. "Then, a toast." Yuui grinned, and held up his glass. "To the return of our Maestro—your mentor—and to fucking them all."

It's nice to see young boys bond over their troubles in life, isn't it?

A/N: I love Yuui and Kamui as friends. And if you're wondering why they kissed and if they like each other, it's not that. It's just that they're...they're sexual people, and they're physical people because they've been raised that way, but it's like a friend-kiss. Personally, I think them shotgunning and sharing a joint is hot.

ANYhoo........Reviews.