Tenipuri (Hyoutei) fic :P
Jun. 22nd, 2005 12:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petroniaIn time for the Seigaku-Hyoutei manga rematch, ahaha. 500 words trimmed from The Subrosa Fic We Don't Like To Talk About. As of the moment it exists in three versions: the one that was posted, a file called "demo mix" containing most of what was hurriedly hacked off from the posted version, and a file called "final mix" that is still in progress. My essential problem with this fic is that I don't know what its point is. I usually don't know what the point of a story is until I finish it, though, so it's a bit of a catch-22. I think I'm going to have to make an arbitrary decision re: what Oshitari really feels about Atobe, and stick to it. ^^; And write the tennis which I absolutely suck at.
Anyway. The original concept I had was that the fic would cover a fairly lengthy time period, but the final product turned into a sort of blow by blow narrative of the current Hyoutei third-years' first year, with Ohtori and Hiyoshi not even in the picture and a fair amount of what I mentally term Blaise Zabini-age. So I have no idea what to do with stuff like the following (which takes place in the "Private Beach" futurefic continuity, you know, in which Atobe is a pop star?), other than posting it for the errm edification of my flist yeah right.
He's studying for his end of term exams when the phone rings. It is Atobe, and he barely dwells on social pleasantries before getting down to the point. He's abrupt these days, Yuushi thinks, it's not like him. Or perhaps Atobe has changed as well, and he hasn't been paying enough attention.
"I'm playing Osaka-jo next Saturday. May I stay at your apartment?"
"Of course," Yuushi says, bemused. As with most of Atobe's putative requests tone of voice turns it from a query regarding what could be into a statement of what will be. What he doesn't understand is why Atobe does not simply take over the top floor of the New Otani for himself and his 'people'. "When should I expect you?"
"Late," Atobe says. "Friday night." There is a pause, but just as Yuushi begins to wonder if a response is required Atobe adds, "I'll bring dinner with me," and hangs up. It is not until minutes later that Yuushi remembers the existence of fans and reporters and paparazzi cameramen.
The worry proves unnecessary. If an escape is involved it is evidently well-executed as well as premeditated: at ten-thirty on Friday evening the sleek black hull of a limousine moors itself to the postern gate of Yuushi's building in a street deserted of life and sound. Yuushi watches until it glides away again, then sighs and drops the curtains. The buzzer sounds as he's clearing his textbooks from the kitchen table.
Atobe sweeps in as soon as Yuushi opens the door, trailed by a brace of house servants – not record company gofers – carrying picnic baskets and a miniature luggage set. "Over there," he says, gesturing at the just-emptied table. "Evening, Oshitari."
Yuushi feels like laughing. "I see you're well." Cold air is still clinging to the folds of Atobe's ankle-length golden sables; he can feel it, a tingle against his skin. On a common young man the coat would look ridiculous – the object is tossed carelessly into his arms the ensuing second, heavy and shining like honey under the lamplight – but Atobe carries it like a birthright. It's been too long, he thinks, then wonders at himself. Too long since what?
By the time he's hung the coat up and closes the closet door, the servants have set the table and been summarily dismissed. Atobe turns on his heel in the middle of the open-plan floor, taking in the surroundings. His clothing is slimly, casually tailored, brown velvet and dusty rose corduroy and cream angora, a touch of sky blue silk at his throat. He's by far the most colourful object in the room.
"It looks like an empty art gallery," he says. "Why don't you get some paintings?" Yuushi raises an eyebrow.
"Women," he says. "I like beautiful women, who know their own minds and tastes. Women with style."
"They replace works of art for you?"
"It wouldn't do to let anyone clash with the interior decoration. Champagne?"
~tbc I suppose~
Anyway. The original concept I had was that the fic would cover a fairly lengthy time period, but the final product turned into a sort of blow by blow narrative of the current Hyoutei third-years' first year, with Ohtori and Hiyoshi not even in the picture and a fair amount of what I mentally term Blaise Zabini-age. So I have no idea what to do with stuff like the following (which takes place in the "Private Beach" futurefic continuity, you know, in which Atobe is a pop star?), other than posting it for the errm edification of my flist yeah right.
He's studying for his end of term exams when the phone rings. It is Atobe, and he barely dwells on social pleasantries before getting down to the point. He's abrupt these days, Yuushi thinks, it's not like him. Or perhaps Atobe has changed as well, and he hasn't been paying enough attention.
"I'm playing Osaka-jo next Saturday. May I stay at your apartment?"
"Of course," Yuushi says, bemused. As with most of Atobe's putative requests tone of voice turns it from a query regarding what could be into a statement of what will be. What he doesn't understand is why Atobe does not simply take over the top floor of the New Otani for himself and his 'people'. "When should I expect you?"
"Late," Atobe says. "Friday night." There is a pause, but just as Yuushi begins to wonder if a response is required Atobe adds, "I'll bring dinner with me," and hangs up. It is not until minutes later that Yuushi remembers the existence of fans and reporters and paparazzi cameramen.
The worry proves unnecessary. If an escape is involved it is evidently well-executed as well as premeditated: at ten-thirty on Friday evening the sleek black hull of a limousine moors itself to the postern gate of Yuushi's building in a street deserted of life and sound. Yuushi watches until it glides away again, then sighs and drops the curtains. The buzzer sounds as he's clearing his textbooks from the kitchen table.
Atobe sweeps in as soon as Yuushi opens the door, trailed by a brace of house servants – not record company gofers – carrying picnic baskets and a miniature luggage set. "Over there," he says, gesturing at the just-emptied table. "Evening, Oshitari."
Yuushi feels like laughing. "I see you're well." Cold air is still clinging to the folds of Atobe's ankle-length golden sables; he can feel it, a tingle against his skin. On a common young man the coat would look ridiculous – the object is tossed carelessly into his arms the ensuing second, heavy and shining like honey under the lamplight – but Atobe carries it like a birthright. It's been too long, he thinks, then wonders at himself. Too long since what?
By the time he's hung the coat up and closes the closet door, the servants have set the table and been summarily dismissed. Atobe turns on his heel in the middle of the open-plan floor, taking in the surroundings. His clothing is slimly, casually tailored, brown velvet and dusty rose corduroy and cream angora, a touch of sky blue silk at his throat. He's by far the most colourful object in the room.
"It looks like an empty art gallery," he says. "Why don't you get some paintings?" Yuushi raises an eyebrow.
"Women," he says. "I like beautiful women, who know their own minds and tastes. Women with style."
"They replace works of art for you?"
"It wouldn't do to let anyone clash with the interior decoration. Champagne?"
~tbc I suppose~
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Date: 2005-06-22 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-22 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-23 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-23 01:52 am (UTC)I'm *hearing* him Kansai-ben that. ♥ Waiting for final mix!