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petroniaOkay, I'm tired of being cabineted with this thing. So here's a chunk from the middle. And now you can all be "WTF?!" along with me!
(Yes, a chunk. I've hit seven pages, which is coincidentally the number of days I've worked this week. So tired...)
***
"Ban-chan," Ginji said, "the gelato's melting."
"Yeah? No shit." Ban wandered over to the open window for the fifth or sixth time. He couldn't sit still. "Hell, no wonder this place was going cheap. No air conditioning, no furniture, fridge on the fritz, and the noise."
"I like the music," Ginji said. The heat wasn't so bad either, after he'd stripped down to his shorts, and he'd taken a cold shower before. There was much to be said for having a roof over one's head.
"Yeah," said Ban. "Yeah, I know you do." Gardel now, after the cortina, and thus Gardel for the next half hour. He sighed. "Okay, let's finish it off then. How are we for spoons?"
***
It was a posh restaurant. So posh that the first thing Ban said when he got to the table was, "I'm not paying for this."
"I wasn't planning to make you," said Clayman. Ban threw himself into a chair. Ginji sat down more slowly, gazing around in wonder. Everything sparkled, it seemed: the chandeliers, the wineglasses, the mother-of-pearl inlay of the ashtrays.
"Ban, look, there's real musicians--"
"Yeah, I know," Ban said. They were playing "Jalousie", of all possible tunes, complete with bandoneon and piano. And couples on the dancefloor. He fished his pack out of his pocket and shook out a cigarette. "So why here, then?"
"Humour me." Clayman gestured to Ban's left. "I just wanted you to see that."
Ban turned. "Goya," he said after a moment. Ginji glanced up from the dessert menu he was perusing.
"Is it one of yours, Clayman-san?"
"You could say that, yes. It is posthumous. The position of Maya's arms differs from the accepted version in the Prado." Ginji turned back to the painting, exhaling through his teeth in wonder. Ban shrugged.
"Kind of... all-purpose Hispanic, isn't it? What do they serve, fajitas?"
"Well, this is Tokyo."
"Bloody over-priced rip-off." Ban stuck the cigarette between his teeth and lit it. "But no, I appreciate it. About the painting."
Clayman smiled. "I know," she said.
"So how about we talk business then? The dolls?"
They talked business. Clayman waved off the question of money. "It's an art," she said. "I won't charge you any more or less than it's worth." Ban's spidey-sense shrilled a warning, but the offer was too inherently useful to refuse, and anyhow he figured she'd have to pay him before she could get any of it back. They made an appointment for the next day, so Clayman could "run him through the scan" and take a few necessary photos.
The main question settled, he leant back in his chair, sipped at the coffee he'd ordered and let Ginji chatter away. Watched the couples stumble and weave over the polished square of parquet: Managerial retirees putting Latin dance lessons to use in their no-doubt plentiful spare time… The band struck up a Piazzolla number, and Ban's eyes narrowed in inadvertent disdain. The violinist was no Paz. Hell, he wasn't even in perfect tune. Not that any of the dancers were liable to care, by the look of it.
When he turned back he found Clayman observing him, eyebrows arched.
"Care to dance?" she said. Ginji almost snorted lemon sorbet up his nose.
"Come on, Clayman-san," he said. "Ban can't dance to something like this. He doesn't even like nightclubs, the last time we ended up in one he picked a fight with the--"
"Shut up," Ban said automatically, cuffing him. Clayman kept a straight face, but her eyes were twinkling.
"Well, he'll humour me again," she said. "Or is Ginji right and you can't?"
Warring sentiments skirmished over Ban's face, none of which Ginji could identify. He blinked, rubbing the side of his head. "Ban-chan?"
Ban snorted, expression resolving itself into a glare. "This is a waste of time," he said, and stood up abruptly enough that his chair scraped loudly over the floor. He stepped around the table and extended his hand to Clayman. "Well? Come on."
Clayman tilted her head gravely. "I'd be delighted," she said, placed one hand in Ban's, and rose to her feet.
Ginji stuck a spoonful of sorbet into his mouth, sucking on it consideringly as he watched them make their way over to the dance floor. No one protested, but Ginji noticed a few funny looks in their general direction. He thought that maybe his friends weren't dressed right, though he wasn't good about noticing things like that. They didn't look like any other couple there: Ban in his untucked oversized shirt and canvas trousers that had seen too many washings, Clayman cutting an almost masculine figure in her dark business suit. She was wearing the same shoes as the rest of the women, though – all straps and pointed heels, so that Ginji didn't understand how she could walk in them, let alone dance. With the several inches they added she just about came up to Ban's eyes.
The music came to an end. After a momentary pause the band leader tapped with his baton, and there was a flurry of sheet music being turned.
Ginji sat up straighter, feeling an unreasonable heat creep up his face.
Ban had placed his hand on Clayman's waist – not side, but the small of her back – and pulled her indecorously close. She leant into it unfazed, tilting her head up so that their eyes met. Her left arm came up and wrapped deliberately around his shoulder. The position made it appear almost as if Ban were carrying her entire weight, but to Ginji's eyes it spoke more of challenge than submission.
She said something then, and Ban's lips twitched. Ginji could hear neither the question or the answer.
Clayman's foot tapped the ground, an impatient, strangely elegant motion.
The baton came down. The bandoneon chimed an arpeggio.
And in perfect tandem, they flowed.
Ginji watched with mouth hanging open, all thoughts of dessert forgotten. There must be names for those steps, he knew, just like there were names for katas, but as with katas the staccato bursts of movement ran into one another like raindrops. Step, step, pivot, sway and arch of back, step. Step – and there was a hidden complexity to the music, a sinuous interplay between melody and beat he'd barely noticed until he saw it now, given tangible shape through time-space – paths crossing and feet flashing, seemingly unsustainable, the resolution miraculous. The other dancers made way for them, Ginji thought, then realised that wasn't the case. They were seeking out opportunity for movement, gliding through the crowd as easily as a steel blade slices through water. Step, step, twist, chassé, kick. A sudden turn – a sensual pause, long line of leg extended and tense, a half-moon sketched with one foot as if to complete some esoteric pattern – and then it began again.
In the Infinite Castle, Kazuki would occasionally say of one of their adjutants, "He fights as if he were dancing." It was a compliment. Ginji thought he understood better what Kazuki meant by it, now.
Grace was not necessary in power. But there was a power that lay quiescent, coiled and serpentine, and made itself known in grace.
At the end of the piece the nearest diners erupted in applause. Ban escorted Clayman back to the table, took one look at Ginji's face and knew he was in trouble.
"What?" he snapped. The note of warning flew right over Ginji's head.
"Ban-chan! You're amazing! I didn't know you could tangelo--"
Oh, for the love of--
"Tango," he said, "it's tango. Tangelo is a fruit." Clayman smiled again, taking a sip of water.
"It suits you," she said. "To be good at something like that."
"He plays the violin too," Ginji interjected. Ban whapped him upside the head.
***
It transpired that there was only one (plastic) spoon. They floated the container of gelato in a washbasin filled with the coldest water they could coax out of the faucet, and took turns until it became unwieldy. Ban ended up feeding them both. Spoonful for you, spoonful for me.
Gardel played on, langourous and brutal by turns.
"There's going to be a thunderstorm," Ginji said. He was sprawled out on the floor, swaying a little in time with the music. It was hard not to. The rhythm changed the quality of the air, making it somehow denser, more humid. Ban resisted it, but it felt like swimming upstream.
"There'd better be," he said. The spoon scraped bottom. He held it out to Ginji, who took the last bit of ice cream in his mouth. He was watching Ban through lowered lids, expression thoughtful. There was a sheen of sweat on his bare upper arms, his throat.
"Ne, Ban-chan," he said. "Teach me."
"Why?" No answer. Ginji had asked about the violin but never insisted, and the same went for – a dozen other things. Ban acquired more lessons from Ginji than vice-versa, really, but often they were of the intangible variety, and Ginji had no idea. "What's so special about it?"
"Because... I wanna try," Ginji said. He grinned suddenly. "And I want to see you like that again."
Ban gaped at him. "What?" And then, because Ginji had the light in his eyes that always made him fall off his fortified position, "...It's way too hot."
"No it isn't," Ginji said. He got up, and somehow in the same motion managed to pull Ban to his feet. "It's going to rain. Promise."
***
Clayman had said that time, "Argentinean style, no less. Where did you learn this?"
"From an old lady," he'd answered.
***
(Yes, a chunk. I've hit seven pages, which is coincidentally the number of days I've worked this week. So tired...)
***
"Ban-chan," Ginji said, "the gelato's melting."
"Yeah? No shit." Ban wandered over to the open window for the fifth or sixth time. He couldn't sit still. "Hell, no wonder this place was going cheap. No air conditioning, no furniture, fridge on the fritz, and the noise."
"I like the music," Ginji said. The heat wasn't so bad either, after he'd stripped down to his shorts, and he'd taken a cold shower before. There was much to be said for having a roof over one's head.
"Yeah," said Ban. "Yeah, I know you do." Gardel now, after the cortina, and thus Gardel for the next half hour. He sighed. "Okay, let's finish it off then. How are we for spoons?"
***
It was a posh restaurant. So posh that the first thing Ban said when he got to the table was, "I'm not paying for this."
"I wasn't planning to make you," said Clayman. Ban threw himself into a chair. Ginji sat down more slowly, gazing around in wonder. Everything sparkled, it seemed: the chandeliers, the wineglasses, the mother-of-pearl inlay of the ashtrays.
"Ban, look, there's real musicians--"
"Yeah, I know," Ban said. They were playing "Jalousie", of all possible tunes, complete with bandoneon and piano. And couples on the dancefloor. He fished his pack out of his pocket and shook out a cigarette. "So why here, then?"
"Humour me." Clayman gestured to Ban's left. "I just wanted you to see that."
Ban turned. "Goya," he said after a moment. Ginji glanced up from the dessert menu he was perusing.
"Is it one of yours, Clayman-san?"
"You could say that, yes. It is posthumous. The position of Maya's arms differs from the accepted version in the Prado." Ginji turned back to the painting, exhaling through his teeth in wonder. Ban shrugged.
"Kind of... all-purpose Hispanic, isn't it? What do they serve, fajitas?"
"Well, this is Tokyo."
"Bloody over-priced rip-off." Ban stuck the cigarette between his teeth and lit it. "But no, I appreciate it. About the painting."
Clayman smiled. "I know," she said.
"So how about we talk business then? The dolls?"
They talked business. Clayman waved off the question of money. "It's an art," she said. "I won't charge you any more or less than it's worth." Ban's spidey-sense shrilled a warning, but the offer was too inherently useful to refuse, and anyhow he figured she'd have to pay him before she could get any of it back. They made an appointment for the next day, so Clayman could "run him through the scan" and take a few necessary photos.
The main question settled, he leant back in his chair, sipped at the coffee he'd ordered and let Ginji chatter away. Watched the couples stumble and weave over the polished square of parquet: Managerial retirees putting Latin dance lessons to use in their no-doubt plentiful spare time… The band struck up a Piazzolla number, and Ban's eyes narrowed in inadvertent disdain. The violinist was no Paz. Hell, he wasn't even in perfect tune. Not that any of the dancers were liable to care, by the look of it.
When he turned back he found Clayman observing him, eyebrows arched.
"Care to dance?" she said. Ginji almost snorted lemon sorbet up his nose.
"Come on, Clayman-san," he said. "Ban can't dance to something like this. He doesn't even like nightclubs, the last time we ended up in one he picked a fight with the--"
"Shut up," Ban said automatically, cuffing him. Clayman kept a straight face, but her eyes were twinkling.
"Well, he'll humour me again," she said. "Or is Ginji right and you can't?"
Warring sentiments skirmished over Ban's face, none of which Ginji could identify. He blinked, rubbing the side of his head. "Ban-chan?"
Ban snorted, expression resolving itself into a glare. "This is a waste of time," he said, and stood up abruptly enough that his chair scraped loudly over the floor. He stepped around the table and extended his hand to Clayman. "Well? Come on."
Clayman tilted her head gravely. "I'd be delighted," she said, placed one hand in Ban's, and rose to her feet.
Ginji stuck a spoonful of sorbet into his mouth, sucking on it consideringly as he watched them make their way over to the dance floor. No one protested, but Ginji noticed a few funny looks in their general direction. He thought that maybe his friends weren't dressed right, though he wasn't good about noticing things like that. They didn't look like any other couple there: Ban in his untucked oversized shirt and canvas trousers that had seen too many washings, Clayman cutting an almost masculine figure in her dark business suit. She was wearing the same shoes as the rest of the women, though – all straps and pointed heels, so that Ginji didn't understand how she could walk in them, let alone dance. With the several inches they added she just about came up to Ban's eyes.
The music came to an end. After a momentary pause the band leader tapped with his baton, and there was a flurry of sheet music being turned.
Ginji sat up straighter, feeling an unreasonable heat creep up his face.
Ban had placed his hand on Clayman's waist – not side, but the small of her back – and pulled her indecorously close. She leant into it unfazed, tilting her head up so that their eyes met. Her left arm came up and wrapped deliberately around his shoulder. The position made it appear almost as if Ban were carrying her entire weight, but to Ginji's eyes it spoke more of challenge than submission.
She said something then, and Ban's lips twitched. Ginji could hear neither the question or the answer.
Clayman's foot tapped the ground, an impatient, strangely elegant motion.
The baton came down. The bandoneon chimed an arpeggio.
And in perfect tandem, they flowed.
Ginji watched with mouth hanging open, all thoughts of dessert forgotten. There must be names for those steps, he knew, just like there were names for katas, but as with katas the staccato bursts of movement ran into one another like raindrops. Step, step, pivot, sway and arch of back, step. Step – and there was a hidden complexity to the music, a sinuous interplay between melody and beat he'd barely noticed until he saw it now, given tangible shape through time-space – paths crossing and feet flashing, seemingly unsustainable, the resolution miraculous. The other dancers made way for them, Ginji thought, then realised that wasn't the case. They were seeking out opportunity for movement, gliding through the crowd as easily as a steel blade slices through water. Step, step, twist, chassé, kick. A sudden turn – a sensual pause, long line of leg extended and tense, a half-moon sketched with one foot as if to complete some esoteric pattern – and then it began again.
In the Infinite Castle, Kazuki would occasionally say of one of their adjutants, "He fights as if he were dancing." It was a compliment. Ginji thought he understood better what Kazuki meant by it, now.
Grace was not necessary in power. But there was a power that lay quiescent, coiled and serpentine, and made itself known in grace.
At the end of the piece the nearest diners erupted in applause. Ban escorted Clayman back to the table, took one look at Ginji's face and knew he was in trouble.
"What?" he snapped. The note of warning flew right over Ginji's head.
"Ban-chan! You're amazing! I didn't know you could tangelo--"
Oh, for the love of--
"Tango," he said, "it's tango. Tangelo is a fruit." Clayman smiled again, taking a sip of water.
"It suits you," she said. "To be good at something like that."
"He plays the violin too," Ginji interjected. Ban whapped him upside the head.
***
It transpired that there was only one (plastic) spoon. They floated the container of gelato in a washbasin filled with the coldest water they could coax out of the faucet, and took turns until it became unwieldy. Ban ended up feeding them both. Spoonful for you, spoonful for me.
Gardel played on, langourous and brutal by turns.
"There's going to be a thunderstorm," Ginji said. He was sprawled out on the floor, swaying a little in time with the music. It was hard not to. The rhythm changed the quality of the air, making it somehow denser, more humid. Ban resisted it, but it felt like swimming upstream.
"There'd better be," he said. The spoon scraped bottom. He held it out to Ginji, who took the last bit of ice cream in his mouth. He was watching Ban through lowered lids, expression thoughtful. There was a sheen of sweat on his bare upper arms, his throat.
"Ne, Ban-chan," he said. "Teach me."
"Why?" No answer. Ginji had asked about the violin but never insisted, and the same went for – a dozen other things. Ban acquired more lessons from Ginji than vice-versa, really, but often they were of the intangible variety, and Ginji had no idea. "What's so special about it?"
"Because... I wanna try," Ginji said. He grinned suddenly. "And I want to see you like that again."
Ban gaped at him. "What?" And then, because Ginji had the light in his eyes that always made him fall off his fortified position, "...It's way too hot."
"No it isn't," Ginji said. He got up, and somehow in the same motion managed to pull Ban to his feet. "It's going to rain. Promise."
***
Clayman had said that time, "Argentinean style, no less. Where did you learn this?"
"From an old lady," he'd answered.
***
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 09:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 09:42 pm (UTC)::small sample of me cackling with happiness upon reading this.::
no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 10:03 pm (UTC)"Tango," he said, "it's tango. Tangelo is a fruit."
n____________________n
hey hey, i love this so far <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 much too out of it right now to say more, but wub. <3
no subject
Date: 2003-08-10 10:57 pm (UTC)(tangential: resisting rhythm doesn't feel like swimming upstream, quite? 'cuz swimming's as much losing as letting the water take you is.)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-11 08:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-11 09:51 am (UTC)Exposition, thy name is Midou Ban. Which is really just the mangaka chickening out at points, but it makes him a neater character, as well as easier to write. XD
no subject
Date: 2003-08-11 09:54 am (UTC)(It kills me that this thing is now almost as long as another story I've been working on for the past ten months.)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-11 09:57 am (UTC)(And I haven't even gotten to the part that's intentionally Bad Place. _O_)