He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until whoever wouldn't stop knocking
on the door woke him up. Yawning, he untangled his glasses from his face
and rubbed his eyes. That they burned didn't give him one emotion or
another although he could almost hear Shuichi fussing over him, even though
his pink fire wasn't home. Habitually, he glanced at his watch. The small
count down at the bottom gave 23 hours and 42 minutes left until the time
that they'd both agreed that Shuichi's tour would be finished.
It was one thing for him to lock himself in his room for a month to finish a novel; it was another entirely for Shuichi to be unavailable for six weeks. Whoever had been knocking, was still knocking and that gave Yuki Eiri an emotion, but it wasn't the kind that he wanted to practice these days. Fingers tense, he closed his laptop, set his glasses down on the polished desk, and silently walked to the front door.
The empty couch begged him to stop and pet it on his way by, but he ignored it, the same way he ignored Shuichi when he felt like beating the hell out of someone. He stood for several more slow breaths before the door, waiting for the someone on the other side to stop pounding. When that didn't happen, he quietly took hold of the door knob and jerked the door open. "What in hell do you want?"
This editor's mouth dropped open. She blinked. Yuki Eiri glared. She swallowed. "Yuki-san! You didn't answer your phone!"
She clutched the latest draft of the out line for The Slumbering Fire to her Armani clad chest. Eyes looking desperate, she raked him over, looking for something that he had no idea under heaven what she thought she was looking for. He glared at her all the more sternly, feeling more and more uncomfortable in just a thin pair of black sweat pants and an older, but expensive blue shirt, which he probably hadn't buttoned properly. He didn't have to worry about such things when Shindo was away, and he liked it that way. "I unplugged it. What do you want?"
"You didn't answer my emails all day yesterday or this morning, not since I got the new draft of the outline, Yuki-san."
This was boring. "Is that unusual, Sandra-san?"
"No," she said, drawing the last vowel out, fingers, now tapping at the edge of the slightly more worn than it had been portfolio. "Why," she asked, thrusting the thing out to him. "Why did you change your mind? Why that ending? My god, Yuki! Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"
He rolled his eyes. "It's a clearly happy ending, Sandra-san. I know this is unusual for me, but as I have said," his tone was reproachful, as if he were repeating himself to an errant child, "Due to recent developments in my life, I felt I should write this as a gift for the person I love."
"Oh, God, Yuki," she muttered, slapping his arm with the portfolio, her mouth unable to get any other words out.
Sighing, exasperated, he took his own portfolio back and opened it, leaving the front door open for the usually sane woman to come inside. The last thing he needed was for Shuichi to see a photo of a sobbing woman on their doorsteps. Then he'd have a sobbing editor and a sobbing lover. Several steps inside he opened the cream colored portfolio. The string was bound wrong. He always bound it around the catch going clockwise. Sandra-san did as well, because he'd scolded her for it once. Now it was clockwise. "Who else looked at this? It was confidential between you and I, was it not?"
"No one, Yuki-san," she said, stepping just inside, but not closing the door, as if she had to keep a means of escape open. "I wouldn't let anyone else see *That*."
He gave her a look, but under the reprove was worry. He just didn't wish for the worry to show.
The paper inside felt like his own paper, a heavy weight laid texture cream colored paper. He dropped the portfolio on the couch and held the first sheet up to the light. His own personal watermark was in the paper as well. But then he read it.
His stomach knotted like Sakano-san on a bad Shuichi day. One page, two, three, then he sat down on the couch, blinked and read it again. His fingers trembled and he nearly crumpled the paper as he held the edges of all three sheets, flipping through them reading again. The plot was almost the same as his. All the high and low points, accept at the end, what was written on those sheets of stolen paper, Yuki forced out of his mind, refused to think of. Whoever wrote that ending for the story he meant to voice love and healing for himself and Shuichi, the person who wrote this other ending was dangerous. "
Yuki flung the papers away, and they fanned out over the coffee table, the back of his hand pressing against his lips, echoes demons he'd laid to rest on the beach with Shuichi and in years of therapy shadow dancing very loudly around his thoughts. "I did not write that. How can you even think that I could?"
"It's on your paper, your watermarked paper, Yuki-san," his editor accused.
"Phone the police, see if they can find finger prints on it." Frantic, Yuki thought what to do. Suddenly he was afraid to touch anything. Someone had to have been in their home, to have gotten his paper. It was perhaps even printed it from his own printer, chills went over his shoulders, up his neck and he grabbed a fist full of his hair. "Yesterday morning, I went out. Wired Shuichi flowers anonymously and bought coffee, and beer. That was at 10:30. I had just sent the outline by courier. When did you receive it?"
"2:30, that's why I had started emailing you, then calling," she said, staring now at the papers, shame and astonishment both rippling over her face. "You didn't write that? I should have known, your books never end so cleanly."
"Cleanly?" He nearly snarled.
"I mean decisively, usually your books end with a slight hint of ambiguity."
"I am going out of town." He said, making up his mind. First he'd see Tohma, then he'd pick up Shuichi. K would probably insist on seeing that where they went was secure, and at this point, Yuki Eiri accepted that. Someone didn't like his new story and someone had been in their home.
"Are you still going to write this story? Perhaps a pen name?"
He didn't even bother to look at her. Her foolishness wasn't irritating enough to fire her over. "I will have the draft on your desk on time," he said, dismissing her. Leaving her standing there, the door still open, he went off to pack for himself. At least Shuichi was already packed. He wouldn't allow any harm to come to Shuichi. And he would damn well write the story he chose to write as well.
It was one thing for him to lock himself in his room for a month to finish a novel; it was another entirely for Shuichi to be unavailable for six weeks. Whoever had been knocking, was still knocking and that gave Yuki Eiri an emotion, but it wasn't the kind that he wanted to practice these days. Fingers tense, he closed his laptop, set his glasses down on the polished desk, and silently walked to the front door.
The empty couch begged him to stop and pet it on his way by, but he ignored it, the same way he ignored Shuichi when he felt like beating the hell out of someone. He stood for several more slow breaths before the door, waiting for the someone on the other side to stop pounding. When that didn't happen, he quietly took hold of the door knob and jerked the door open. "What in hell do you want?"
This editor's mouth dropped open. She blinked. Yuki Eiri glared. She swallowed. "Yuki-san! You didn't answer your phone!"
She clutched the latest draft of the out line for The Slumbering Fire to her Armani clad chest. Eyes looking desperate, she raked him over, looking for something that he had no idea under heaven what she thought she was looking for. He glared at her all the more sternly, feeling more and more uncomfortable in just a thin pair of black sweat pants and an older, but expensive blue shirt, which he probably hadn't buttoned properly. He didn't have to worry about such things when Shindo was away, and he liked it that way. "I unplugged it. What do you want?"
"You didn't answer my emails all day yesterday or this morning, not since I got the new draft of the outline, Yuki-san."
This was boring. "Is that unusual, Sandra-san?"
"No," she said, drawing the last vowel out, fingers, now tapping at the edge of the slightly more worn than it had been portfolio. "Why," she asked, thrusting the thing out to him. "Why did you change your mind? Why that ending? My god, Yuki! Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"
He rolled his eyes. "It's a clearly happy ending, Sandra-san. I know this is unusual for me, but as I have said," his tone was reproachful, as if he were repeating himself to an errant child, "Due to recent developments in my life, I felt I should write this as a gift for the person I love."
"Oh, God, Yuki," she muttered, slapping his arm with the portfolio, her mouth unable to get any other words out.
Sighing, exasperated, he took his own portfolio back and opened it, leaving the front door open for the usually sane woman to come inside. The last thing he needed was for Shuichi to see a photo of a sobbing woman on their doorsteps. Then he'd have a sobbing editor and a sobbing lover. Several steps inside he opened the cream colored portfolio. The string was bound wrong. He always bound it around the catch going clockwise. Sandra-san did as well, because he'd scolded her for it once. Now it was clockwise. "Who else looked at this? It was confidential between you and I, was it not?"
"No one, Yuki-san," she said, stepping just inside, but not closing the door, as if she had to keep a means of escape open. "I wouldn't let anyone else see *That*."
He gave her a look, but under the reprove was worry. He just didn't wish for the worry to show.
The paper inside felt like his own paper, a heavy weight laid texture cream colored paper. He dropped the portfolio on the couch and held the first sheet up to the light. His own personal watermark was in the paper as well. But then he read it.
His stomach knotted like Sakano-san on a bad Shuichi day. One page, two, three, then he sat down on the couch, blinked and read it again. His fingers trembled and he nearly crumpled the paper as he held the edges of all three sheets, flipping through them reading again. The plot was almost the same as his. All the high and low points, accept at the end, what was written on those sheets of stolen paper, Yuki forced out of his mind, refused to think of. Whoever wrote that ending for the story he meant to voice love and healing for himself and Shuichi, the person who wrote this other ending was dangerous. "
Yuki flung the papers away, and they fanned out over the coffee table, the back of his hand pressing against his lips, echoes demons he'd laid to rest on the beach with Shuichi and in years of therapy shadow dancing very loudly around his thoughts. "I did not write that. How can you even think that I could?"
"It's on your paper, your watermarked paper, Yuki-san," his editor accused.
"Phone the police, see if they can find finger prints on it." Frantic, Yuki thought what to do. Suddenly he was afraid to touch anything. Someone had to have been in their home, to have gotten his paper. It was perhaps even printed it from his own printer, chills went over his shoulders, up his neck and he grabbed a fist full of his hair. "Yesterday morning, I went out. Wired Shuichi flowers anonymously and bought coffee, and beer. That was at 10:30. I had just sent the outline by courier. When did you receive it?"
"2:30, that's why I had started emailing you, then calling," she said, staring now at the papers, shame and astonishment both rippling over her face. "You didn't write that? I should have known, your books never end so cleanly."
"Cleanly?" He nearly snarled.
"I mean decisively, usually your books end with a slight hint of ambiguity."
"I am going out of town." He said, making up his mind. First he'd see Tohma, then he'd pick up Shuichi. K would probably insist on seeing that where they went was secure, and at this point, Yuki Eiri accepted that. Someone didn't like his new story and someone had been in their home.
"Are you still going to write this story? Perhaps a pen name?"
He didn't even bother to look at her. Her foolishness wasn't irritating enough to fire her over. "I will have the draft on your desk on time," he said, dismissing her. Leaving her standing there, the door still open, he went off to pack for himself. At least Shuichi was already packed. He wouldn't allow any harm to come to Shuichi. And he would damn well write the story he chose to write as well.