A/N: *looks up from gobbling generous reviews* I LOVE YOU ALL!!! *bows,
with big, gooey, penitential eyes* Sorry for not updating. I've been really
busy, a little uninspired, and sort of vaguely grounded. ...Nothing further.
Read my unworthy tribute. Or I'll eat you. Oh, and, like this, updates may
not come so quickly. I have school and useless crap like that interfering
with my fluffy yaoi fantasies.
After a while, rational Yuki won out. Hiro's whining, K's raving, and Suguru's sulking all threatened to drive him utterly and irrevocably insane. Oddly enough, he found Ryuichi a comfort. As usual, the last one to catch on to the obvious, he'd never really noticed the resemblance that had caught Tatsua's eye so easily.
Deciding there was nothing to be accomplished here, he left, vowing to return as often as he could. Something struck him as right out of one of his own stupid books about waiting patiently with a comatose lover, who might... never... awaken... Ignoring stares on the bus, he wiped tears from his eyes, almost surprised to find them there.
He was likewise surprised to find himself at home, with almost no memory of the half-hour trip. Vaguely, he wished for his car (now in a garage), but doubted he'd ever be able to get behind a wheel again.
Lighting a cigarette, he sank into the chair in front of his trusty laptop. He was pretty close to the end of his still unnamed masterpiece, and thought a nice all-nighter might take his mind off... everything.
The story was veiled just enough so as not to tip off the general public, or at least his editors, to the real nature of the work. It centered around self-star-crossed lovers Shunichi, a bleached-blond piano prodigy, and Yutaka, a struggling, reclusive poet. He'd been wanting so, so badly to add a happy ending, but...
Yuki's fingers flew across the keyboard to their own rhythm, quickly adapting to one useless arm, largely independent of Yuki himself.
The face that hides sadness is lead astray.
Why the trembling?
The pleasure principal is to laugh.
23 Yutaka tremblingly lit a cigarette and waited for the nicotine buzz he so desperately needed. The initial daze of the news had worn off, and he desperately fought reality setting in. He knew he'd soon be hearing from various well-wishers, and possibly even the news. Even he could see the human-interest story in the tragic demise of a young and promising musician.
Even thinking the words "tragic demise" literally knocked him off his chair. Feeling drunk, despite being sober for at least four weeks, he hauled himself back into his chair. The only thing clear in his head was that phone call, that damn, innocuous ring that had shattered the fragile, beautiful world he'd been stupid enough to believe would last.
"Shun...chan..." Tears pricked the back of his eyes, that singular yet familiar sensation he'd almost forgotten, when
"YUKI, OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!"
The real Yuki fell off his chair, having almost reached the euphoric state where even the blond locks in his eyes turned the brown-red he'd written for Yutaka. "...Mika?"
"Open the door, little brother..." She was sounding sweet the way she only did when fantastically outraged.
Rather confused, Yuki saved, snapped down the laptop (the last thing he needed was her commentary), and opened the door. "Wha...?"
"What's going on, where have you been, why aren't you answering the phone, where's your pesky boytoy, what happened to your arm, and WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"
As the torrent of Mika-ness sunk in, Yuki gradually realized it was pitch black outside. He was sure he'd only come in about twenty minutes ago. He blinked a few times. "...Wha?"
She slapped him. "I assume you didn't hear the phone."
"Uh... no."
"Or me knocking for the last half-hour?"
"No..."
"Where's Shuichi?"
"Uh..." Feeling the tears he'd just described for Yutaka, and foreseeing terrible repercussions, he slammed the door in Mika's face and slumped to the floor just in front of it, sobbing uncontrollably.
After a while, rational Yuki won out. Hiro's whining, K's raving, and Suguru's sulking all threatened to drive him utterly and irrevocably insane. Oddly enough, he found Ryuichi a comfort. As usual, the last one to catch on to the obvious, he'd never really noticed the resemblance that had caught Tatsua's eye so easily.
Deciding there was nothing to be accomplished here, he left, vowing to return as often as he could. Something struck him as right out of one of his own stupid books about waiting patiently with a comatose lover, who might... never... awaken... Ignoring stares on the bus, he wiped tears from his eyes, almost surprised to find them there.
He was likewise surprised to find himself at home, with almost no memory of the half-hour trip. Vaguely, he wished for his car (now in a garage), but doubted he'd ever be able to get behind a wheel again.
Lighting a cigarette, he sank into the chair in front of his trusty laptop. He was pretty close to the end of his still unnamed masterpiece, and thought a nice all-nighter might take his mind off... everything.
The story was veiled just enough so as not to tip off the general public, or at least his editors, to the real nature of the work. It centered around self-star-crossed lovers Shunichi, a bleached-blond piano prodigy, and Yutaka, a struggling, reclusive poet. He'd been wanting so, so badly to add a happy ending, but...
Yuki's fingers flew across the keyboard to their own rhythm, quickly adapting to one useless arm, largely independent of Yuki himself.
The face that hides sadness is lead astray.
Why the trembling?
The pleasure principal is to laugh.
23 Yutaka tremblingly lit a cigarette and waited for the nicotine buzz he so desperately needed. The initial daze of the news had worn off, and he desperately fought reality setting in. He knew he'd soon be hearing from various well-wishers, and possibly even the news. Even he could see the human-interest story in the tragic demise of a young and promising musician.
Even thinking the words "tragic demise" literally knocked him off his chair. Feeling drunk, despite being sober for at least four weeks, he hauled himself back into his chair. The only thing clear in his head was that phone call, that damn, innocuous ring that had shattered the fragile, beautiful world he'd been stupid enough to believe would last.
"Shun...chan..." Tears pricked the back of his eyes, that singular yet familiar sensation he'd almost forgotten, when
"YUKI, OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR!"
The real Yuki fell off his chair, having almost reached the euphoric state where even the blond locks in his eyes turned the brown-red he'd written for Yutaka. "...Mika?"
"Open the door, little brother..." She was sounding sweet the way she only did when fantastically outraged.
Rather confused, Yuki saved, snapped down the laptop (the last thing he needed was her commentary), and opened the door. "Wha...?"
"What's going on, where have you been, why aren't you answering the phone, where's your pesky boytoy, what happened to your arm, and WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!"
As the torrent of Mika-ness sunk in, Yuki gradually realized it was pitch black outside. He was sure he'd only come in about twenty minutes ago. He blinked a few times. "...Wha?"
She slapped him. "I assume you didn't hear the phone."
"Uh... no."
"Or me knocking for the last half-hour?"
"No..."
"Where's Shuichi?"
"Uh..." Feeling the tears he'd just described for Yutaka, and foreseeing terrible repercussions, he slammed the door in Mika's face and slumped to the floor just in front of it, sobbing uncontrollably.
