Disclaimer: Gravitation and its characters are the property of Maki Murakami. I make no profit from this other than pleasure.
This is an AU, chapter one caveats still apply. :D
Warnings: Non-consensual sex, language, yaoi relationships...the usual in an adult Gravi fanfic. I'm thinking, after the first reviews, I need to add: Gritty reality. This is meant to be disturbing and hopefully thought-provoking. It's serious subject matter. That's why it's rated M.
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Chapter Four: White (k)Nights
by Vindaloo
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("Who was that, Shu?")
Shuuichi stared out the cab window, seeing not the lights of Tokyo flashing by, but his best friend's thin, handsome face. Hiro had intercepted him as he'd ducked out the back entrance, trying desperately to avoid exactly that confrontation.
He hated lying to Hiro.
("Who?"
("Tall, blond dude coming out of your dressing room just now.")
A puzzled frown had wrinkled Hiro's forehead.
("Looked kinda familiar.")
It had been a welcome distraction, and so he'd answered, as if he didn't know Hiro would recognize the name, which was only a little lie:
("Guy I met in the park the other night. Name of Yuki Eiri.")
Hiro had, of course, squawked in protest, had demanded to know details and (more to the point) why his best friend in the whole world hadn't told him about meeting one of his favorite authors and (even more to the point) why his so-called best friend hadn't introduced them, and by the time he'd smoothed things over with Hiro, the cab was there, just in time to effect a quick escape, having avoided the far greater lie of where he was headed.
The taxi pulled up at the entrance of a very fancy hotel. Sakano hadn't given him an address, had just told him the taxi would be waiting.
"H–how much?" he asked the driver.
"Covered, kid. Now hop out, will you? Got another fare waitin'."
"Uh, sure." He opened the door and slid out. "Thank—"
The cab took off, almost taking his hand with it as the door slammed shut.
"Shit," he muttered, and headed inside, digging in his pocket for the special key-card Sakano had given him.
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It didn't take a genius to figure out the likely cause for the kid's abrupt departure in his skimpy stage outfit. Vanity labels required funding. Obviously, the kid's body had been supplying that funding.
It was sick. It was wrong. And it was, dammitall, completely unnecessary. If Touma had only given that kid half a chance, he'd have come through for NG. Big time. As it was... from what he'd seen in the dressing room, the process of getting to this point might well have broken the charming brat he'd glimpsed in the park that first night.
It took more than talent to survive the soul-sucking music business.
There was still a chance. Slim, but a chance nonetheless, and damned if the gutsy kid didn't deserve that chance.
You're just a romance author... Not many he'd met had the balls to say that to his face.
Still, Eiri thought, sitting in his idling car, staring across the street at the five star hotel into which Shindou had just disappeared, he had to be one of the world's greatest fools.
First, he let himself be seduced by curiosity...who was this charming park-brat and why was Seguchi backing him? Then, his work was affected...he went home and wrote for thirty-seven hours straight, stopping only for bathroom and beer breaks. Additionally, his heroine mysteriously developed Liz Taylor eyes and a silky, low voice. That didn't surprise him. After almost five years of full-time writing, he recognized a valuable muse when he encountered one.
And so, out of curiosity about this new muse, he went to the damned concert—
Only to be seduced all over again, this time by the voice of an angel and the sensually swaying hips of a luscious pint-sized demon.
And then, Touma had to go and pull a Seguchi, a moment that just increased his aggression level where his brother-in-law was concerned, making meeting Shindou imperative, if just to tell Shindou to his face and in front of Seguchi that Seguchi was an idiot for not producing Bad Luck himself.
Which didn't explain why he'd continued without Seguchi. Or why he'd gone ahead and told Shindou he had potential, which was only the truth, just not a truth he usually admitted to the artist in question. That . . . that out-of-character softness was Shindou's fault, completely. Shindou and his hypnotic, tear-filled eyes. He'd gone to check out the stage siren and found a vulnerable kid trying oh so hard not to be neither vulnerable or a kid.
And it was the look in those eyes as the door had closed between them that made him follow that cab and contemplate going into that building and hauling the kid out. . . . If only to take him, psychological wounds and all, and dump him in Seguchi's lap.
That . . . yeah, the look on Seguchi's face would definitely be worth it.
He put the car in gear and pulled out into the street.
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2010.
Shuuichi stared at the room number. A penthouse. Usually these 'trysts' were kept as low-key as possible. What had Sakano done to him this time?
Shuddering, he tapped the door lightly, hoping, foolishly, that no one would hear, that somehow he could honestly claim he'd come, but no one answered.
Very foolish.
A tall man opened the door. American. The far continent counterpart of the last 'friend' he'd entertained.
The American smiled, a rather predatory baring of the teeth, and stepped back, gesturing Shuuichi into the room. Shuuichi sought his own smile, but feared it wasn't very successful. Somehow, no matter how many times he did this, he still felt like a virgin being led to the sacrificial altar.
He inched past the man, trying to take in the huge room, momentarily mesmerized by the magnificent view of Tokyo at night that filled the wall of windows. If only . . . if only he could be here legitimately, either as a tenant or as a valued visitor.
The view fractured; he blinked his eyes clear, and set his jaw. He was here legitimately, dammit. He was here to seal a contract, to get US distribution for the CDs sitting in a warehouse somewhere.
At the soft scuffing of feet behind him, he turned to face the tall American... And realized they weren't alone. There were three others. Two men and a woman. All with that same hungry, measuring look.
"W–wait a minute," he whispered. "Sakano said nothing about—"
The American came up close behind him, cutting off his protest. Thick fingers pulled his hoody off, exposing him in all his barely-legal stage-costumed glory. This man liked, so Sakano had explained as he'd exited Shuuichi's dressing room, the scent of stage sweat.
"What Sakano doesn't know won't hurt him, ne?" Broken, barely understandable Japanese.
"No." Shuuichi slid away and out of the tall man's increasingly possessive hold. "I didn't agree to this. Won't—"
"Oh, don't be difficult, sweetie."
That was the woman, and he turned to her, ready to plead, hoping for something remotely like understanding. Hope died a quick death as she just laughed. Male fingers ran down his arms from behind him, grabbed his wrists and before he realized what was happening, had secured them with something about which he knew only one thing: the only way it was coming off was if they took it off.
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There was one basic problem with Eiri's plan to follow Shindou: cars had to be parked. Even valet parking gave a taxi's occupant more than enough time to escape up an elevator.
Damn.
Eiri asked around, but no one had noticed one more kid in an oversized hoodie. He settled into a chair, prepared to wait all night if necessary, prepared to haul that kid to Touma, emotional scars and all, along with a warrant for Sakano's arrest, if he'd started pimping the kid when he was still underage.
Unfortunately, Sakano was too bright for that. Never mind the kid looked much younger than he was, never mind he radiated innocence, Sakano was too smart to get caught in such an obvious mistake.
He'd have made certain it was legal in whatever city the sex was taking place.
Damned fucked up legal system.
"It was too him! I saw that pink jade ring he always wears!" It was a girl's voice, shrill and indignant, for all her attempts to keep it a whisper. "I bet he's staying in this very hotel!"
"Don't be silly. Shu-u-u-u-uuichi lives in Tokyo. Why would he be staying in a hotel?"
"Because he's a star, you pea-brain. That was the penthouse elevator. He probably lives here."
Well, that was enlightening.
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Two bribes and five autographs later, he was standing outside suite 2010.
A scream from within, soundproofing having no chance against trained lungs, indicated the girls had guessed correctly. Except for the living part. Vanity label singers—at least those with Shindou Shuuichi's talent—didn't live in penthouses.
Another scream. Eiri shoved his bloody anger into a cold spot inside, and knocked on the door. Moments later, a woman in a hastily-belted robe threw the door open.
"It's about—" Startlement replaced the frowning anger, and the woman's stance subtly shifted. "Who the hell are you? Where's the champagne we ordered?"
"No idea."
"Fuck off."
Fortunately, his foot in the door prevented the woman from slamming it in his face. Unfortunately (at least for the woman in the robe) the door scuffed the polish on his Italian shoes.
Bloody anger momentarily escaped the cold spot and the female's no longer perfect face made a rather nasty-looking stain on the pale carpet.
Another scream shrilled from the bedroom to his right. Eiri reined his anger back again and stepped calmly over the sprawled female body. He might (and that was a large might) have felt some remorse if he hadn't known (thanks to autograph number three) that she was the most dangerous person in the room.
Sneaky, sneaky, hiring a beautiful woman as a bodyguard. Leave it to the Americans.
He walked over to the bedroom door and pushed it open.
"Marci, where's that—" English. American English. "Fuck!" And a scrambling for robes. "Who the fuck are you?"
Eiri caught only a glimpse of bare flesh before a sheet snapped between him and the small figure tied spread-eagled on the bed.
"The taxman," Eiri replied calmly, in perfect English. "We've had a report of inappropriate tax deductions on the part of a certain—"
"Like hell. Who—"
One of the minions' eyes widened, and he leaned toward the American to whisper something in his ear.
"Fuck. You're Seguchi's brother-in-law?"
Eiri just smiled, forcing himself to ignore the whimpers rising from under that sheet.
For the moment.
"Well, you can leave right now. Nothing going on here but a bit of fun among consenting adults."
"Consenting?" Eiri allowed himself a slight frown. "Really?" He moved over to the bed, warned the three men off with his patented death glare, and lifted the sheet gently away from a bruised and tear-stained face. "Consensual, huh?" The eyes were clouded. Glittering crystals on his face and chest, the small application tool lying, still radiating glue-melting heat, on the bedside table, indicated the source of the screams. "Ingenious," Eiri said dryly, and held his hand out. "Key. Now."
"Hell if! He's bought and paid for—"
"Sorry, dupe. He wasn't Sakano's to sell. Now..." He tapped fingertips to palm. "Key."
Another growling objection. "Take him away, and the deal's over. Bad Luck will never see US distribution!"
He sighed. "Just hand it over. You really do not want me to come after it."
There was very little awareness in Shindou's clouded eyes, and when he released the bloodied wrists from the cuffs, the kid curled onto his side, clasping his arms to his bare chest, whimpering mindlessly at what had to be fairly extensive pain.
The crystals were backed with glue, glue designed to melt and bond to fabric. Permanently.
But it wasn't just pain clouding those eyes.
"What did you give him?" He asked, pulling the bare body up to wrap the sheet around him, and when the asshole, would-be-rapist just stood there, he eased the boy back down and turned to face the man, letting his mask drop completely.
The American stumbled backward, eyes widening. "He signed an agreement, damn it. Sakano has a copy—"
"You know, I really don't give a fuck. Now what did he take?"
"D–didn't take."
Eiri looked down to see those cloudy eyes desperately seeking sanity.
"F–forced..."
"Drugs, Shu-kun?" The gentleness in his voice startled even him.
A tear-filled dip of a trembling chin.
Without looking at the American, he held out his hand again, palm up. A small pill box arrived dead center. He closed his fist around it, controlling the urge to put the fist through the man's face and marry his nose to the back of his skull.
"Get him something to wear." He shot a hard look at the rich businessman. "And not those skimpy rags he wore here. Something warm. Something modest, you disgusting pervert."
"There's nothing—"
"This is a fucking penthouse suite. They'll bring you anything—for a price. A sweatsuit. Men's. Size: midget! You order it, and you pay for it, and you get it up here now! Manage some discretion and your names and mug shots won't even find their way to the morning papers."
He watched as the bastard rang the front desk. Small hands clutched at him and he looked down into those purple eyes. "What is it, Shindou?"
"S–sick." And the small, lean body was indeed beginning to convulse.
Eiri swept the kid up, sheet and all, and got him to the bathroom in time to heave up his guts. The bout left Shindou trembling, but steadier on his feet.
"Sh–shower?" he whispered, and Eiri eyed him warily.
"Think you can manage without drowning?"
A tiny nod, but: "D–don't leave?"
"I won't."
Shindou's big eyes squeezed shut, and a hand escaped the sheet to clutch his sleeve. "A–arigatou."
He brushed the sweaty hair back. "Hang in there, kid. Going to check on clothes, okay?"
Another nod, and by the time he closed the door behind him, the shower was going.
The sweatsuit arrived along with a doctor for the female bodyguard. Leaving the doctor in the main room, Yuki shut the American in the bedroom with him and got the specifics of the drug involved, a white powder, then agreed not to kill the bastard as long as he agreed to keep his mouth shut and get the hell out of the country.
He even agreed (very reluctantly) the sapphire and ruby chips glued to Shindou's face were his to keep.
So generous. Yuki had to wonder how many other desperate young performers these men had disfigured for life with their sick little fetishes.
Oh, well, not his problem.
On the other hand, didn't hurt to suggest that Touma's connections might well keep them in line from here on out. Predictably, Touma's connections proved useful in other ways as well. The American was ever so cooperative, once Eiri made it clear that Bad Luck was now officially an NG property, one they'd damnwell carry or lose all distribution rights for the rest of NG's lucrative titles.
He made a mental note to inform Touma of Bad Luck's small change of status, as he went to retrieve the kid from the shower.
"Walk or carry?" he asked, when the kid stood wavering in front of him, clothed in thirty-thousand yen worth of soft blue with hot pink trim, designer jogging suit.
Ladies. Size medium. Courtesy of the lobby boutique. At least the kid didn't seem to care.
Quivering lips pressed determinedly together. "Walk."
He smiled, knowing just how hard that was going to be. "Brave lad," he murmured and turning that face up to him, Eiri had to admit, those damned jewels lining his cheekbones and in a starburst pattern on his forehead were sexy as hell. Without thinking, he leaned over and pressed his lips hard against Shindou's. A startled gasp, and suddenly, the kid was kissing him back, his feet steadier by the microsecond.
He broke off the kiss and smiled down into the wide eyes. "Ah, the wonders of adrenaline," he said, and Shindou gave another startled gasp, this time riddled with breathy laughter.
"Ready?" Eiri asked, and Shindou nodded.
Thanks in no small part to that kiss, the kid actually managed to get past his tormentors and as far as the elevator before his knees gave out. Eiri caught him up and carried him the rest of the way to the car. By the time he settled the undersized body into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel, the kid was snoring softly.
TBC
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Reviews: Hey, all, thanks for your patience with the repost. The numbers make a lot more sense now. The hit number on the first chapter had gotten, like, ten times as high as the second, which indicated to me people were having the same trouble accessing chapter two as I was. Everything seems good now, except for the lost reviews. Sigh
Re: Eiri: Hope this chapter clears up some of his motives in going to the concert, however, it doesn't seem to me that his attendance at the concert in either the anime or the manga was particularly well thought out (on Eiri's part), but rather (as mentioned here) the result of curiosity roused by Shu's invitation and its subsequent withdrawal, which this Shu did during the park meeting. The dynamic between Shu and Yuki is going to be different here, primarily because Shu and his situation are so different. Bad Luck is ready to go big time, and Shu isn't a happy-go-lucky kid pursuing Eiri, but rather a (at first meeting) confident singer on the rise and (at second meeting) a very scared, very confused, very vulnerable young man. Eiri is definitely in the driver's seat of the relationship here, without the need for a lot of introspection—at least early on. Shu will, ultimately, have him reconsidering his whole life. That being, of course, Shu's purpose in life. :D
I also think it's fun having Eiri at least peripherally involved in NG. Eiri, like most writers, has an opinion on everything and he doesn't strike me as the sort that would keep his opinion of Touma's decisions to himself.
Touma: So far we're dealing with Touma the businessman. Eiri's crack about him castrating Suguru to keep his voice high is, of course, meant to be ironic, but also indicative of Eiri's opinion of him as a ruthless CEO of a major production company who is more concerned with the quality and marketability of output than the individuals involved in creating that output. Also, in the manga and anime we are, from the start, dealing with Touma in protective mode, i.e. dealing with an individual (Shu) forcing himself into Eiri's life. Here...Eiri is the one who is pursuing the relationship, so, at the moment, Touma is just curious. What he'll do when Eiri gets serious about Shu, we have yet to find out (me included!)
Catmum56: Heh heh...neither did I (take a lit class). Math and Physics major here. I sat in on a lit class once...and was utterly appalled at the gross conclusions they were drawing about the intentions and motives of the author, conclusions not based on any analysis left by the writer but on the teacher's own assumptions about the author's psychology and (spooky music) sociological symbolism. Sometimes...a whirlpool is just a whirlpool. :D:D:D I'll never argue the notion that art has a symbiotic relationship to the culture that produced the artist, but I think deconstructionists carry it way too far.
You're all great. Thanks so much for the feedback. Next up: Ummm...haven't titled it yet. Let's call it... "Monkeyface." Shu wakes up in a strange bed and to the taste of strawberries, whipped cream...and tobacco. ;-)