Take and Give

Featuring Yukimura, Fuji, Atobe, Sanada.

-

Funerals are horrible things, Yukimura thinks; there's too much thought of death and dying and everything associated with that aspect of life, something he's not looking forward to. And he doesn't want to be there.

"He was a good man," someone says - Yukimura's not sure who, exactly, it is up front talking, might be some priest or the late model's former manager, and it's all Yukimura can do to not roll his eyes.

Proper signs of respect, he intones in his mind; it would be bad manners to make it completely obvious how little one respects the dead. Not all dead, just this dead in general. Especially since eyes are still on him, instead of the idiot up front.

Yukimura shifts on his seat, and thinks: When I die, I certainly don't want a funeral as dull as this one, with hard wooden seats and propriety keeping everyone awake.

Next to him, he feels Fuji shift, and then Fuji's hand is sliding into his, and Yukimura can't help but smile. It's hardly appropriate, but not as bad as rolling his eyes or sighing loudly during the idiot's speech.

His fingers trace the heart line on Fuji's palm and Yukimura concentrate's on the person still droning on up front, rather than on Fuji's reactions. He's not going to get a visible one, he knows; Fuji's reaction to it all is to torment Yukimura just as thoroughly as Yukimura is tormenting him. Slight touches, fingertip tracings on his palm. They're playing an intricate game of footsies.

If this is what most people do at a funeral to keep themselves awake, no wonder why they go home and fuck; already he's feeling the arousal. At least he's better than most at hiding such things.

Fuji can tell though; Fuji notices the squeeze of his hand, the throb of his pulse in his hand. Had they been anywhere but a funeral, Yukimura thinks - knows - he and Fuji would have disappeared by now, to find peace and privacy.

"We'll miss him," the man says, and people begin to shift, move about, and Yukimura realizes it's the end. Not of the entire thing itself; just the ceremony. There's still entombment and the wake afterwards. He wants to skip them all, but he can't. Too many people are expecting him to show up at the wake, at least, to leave at this point.

"I have to go to the grave site." Fuji leans over to whisper in Yukimura's ear, giving his hand a final squeeze. "I'll see you later."

Yukimura's only response is a nod and a quick squeeze to Fuji's hand. He'll wait until Fuji is gone before leaving, until everyone going to the grave site has departed. He's got an appointment with Sanada and Atobe that he doesn't want to be late for, but neither does he want to stand out in the parking lot and talk to people for hours. Leaving late is the best option.

Atobe's got limos enough to spare; Yukimura doesn't bother to drive, none of Tezuka's exclusive models - he and Fuji and Kikumaru - do anymore. It makes the trip back to the building Sanada controls seem both shorter and longer than necessary. He doesn't brood, but the painfully boring funeral can't escape his mind.

For once, Yukimura looks forward to the meeting.

-

Sanada's office is all smooth leather and comfortable seating, a far cry from the stiffness of the church they funeral was held at. Yukimura sinks into a chair, keeping back a sigh of pleasure, and feels his body relax. There are eyes on him, so he does nothing improper or out of the ordinary, but anyone with an eye accustomed to his movements can tell he's relaxing.

"Well?" he asks, settling back, and folds one leg over the other, watches Sanada's eyes travel the length of his body. He knows Sanada wants him, it's written in every expression, gesture, and tone, and he also knows what a line he walks.

So Sanada watches, and Yukimura makes him wait.

"With everything happening, Atobe decided it was best to assign you a bodyguard," Sanada begins, before Atobe can begin. Atobe frowns, but doesn't interrupt. "Most models have one in their entourage."

And I don't even have an entourage, Yukimura wants to say, but doesn't, because he knows this has been coming for a while. The bodyguard, the personal assistant, the personal stylist, the hanger-ons. Its fashion, its fame: and he's over halfway to the top.

"Who is this bodyguard?"

"We're still deciding on that. We want to discuss hiring a personal stylist." Its Atobe talking this time, and it's kind of surprising; this is out of order. There's no mention of a personal assistant yet.

"I'll agree to the bodyguard, but no stylist."

"It'd be best for you to have someone who knows you-"

"What we've worked with so far has been fine." Yukimura glances at Atobe, narrows his eyes and smiles. It's a smile, not a baring of teeth, but there's a glitter in it that Atobe knows.

"If you're going to refuse a stylist, you have to get a personal assistant."

The road to fame, Yukimura thinks, to being on top of the world. It's what he wants, and what he'll get.

"As long as it is someone of my choosing."

Atobe and Sanada glance at each other; they weren't expecting that, Yukimura knows; they were expecting an argument and a refusal.

"Do you have someone in mind?"

Yukimura tosses a card onto the desk. "Yanagi Renji. He's the one I want. I'll have a name for a bodyguard tomorrow."

He leaves before they can say no, before they can stop him. If he's going to walk this road, it's going to be on his own terms.

-

The wake is dull, dreadfully dull; the champagne is warm, the food tasteless, the people talking about the recently deceased, and it's enough to cause Yukimura's head to pound.

He's been there five minutes.

Greetings and chats and condolences first, then a break, and more chats with people who mean nothing and are nothing. A wake is a party is a job: it's all the same, when it comes down to it, and Yukimura's not sure why he even bothers.

It's something of a relief when he finds Fuji.