31 Days: A boy
Aug. 5th, 2005 01:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
petronia(http://www.livejournal.com/users/petronia/tag/31days)
I apologize for reposting this, but it's so obviously part of the series in ideology that I feel obliged to archive it as such. ^^; For people who've not read this - from remarks dropped here and there in the series I've always had a mental image of the teenage Tachibana Yoshiaki as being... Nanjou Kouji, more or less, sans jpop involvement (though Kouji fell into his career also because he was looking for someone and thought media exposure would help, a topos I encountered last in Kon Satoshi's Millennium Actress - but I'll leave the AU possiblities for others XD). Also for pictoral reference, Naoe would have been eighteen in 1981.
***
She is not very old, by the tallying of years. But there are only two kinds of women: those who are young, and those who have lived forever.
Afterward he sprawls on the upholstered armchair near the window, watching her dress. They never bothered to close the drapes. The lowering sun filters, hazy and indolent, through the inner curtains of gauze. His school blazer is still where he left it, folded neatly over the back of the chair; the tie has slipped to the carpet. His feet are bare. This, too, is a forbidden game.
His gaze conveys an older man's appreciation, not wonder. It troubles her. She arches her back as she rolls her stockings back up over her thighs, meeting his eyes sidelong.
Aren't you going to shower? she says.
In a moment, he says. He reaches into the side pocket of the blazer and fishes out a pack of cigarettes. Pass me a light?
Such a terrible boy, she says, and means it.
She stands in front of him and flicks the lighter. As he leans forward she's startled into a gesture of prudishness, crossing her arm over her chest to adjust her bra strap. But his eyes are sliding past even as he inhales. She's seen him do it before, in the car, as they were stopped at an intersection. Before the light shifted to green they were boxed in on three sides by a stream of pressing, uniform humanity. At the time she noticed the geometric curve of his eyelashes, a few shades darker than his hair.
What are you looking for?
The other end of a thread, he answers.
***
I apologize for reposting this, but it's so obviously part of the series in ideology that I feel obliged to archive it as such. ^^; For people who've not read this - from remarks dropped here and there in the series I've always had a mental image of the teenage Tachibana Yoshiaki as being... Nanjou Kouji, more or less, sans jpop involvement (though Kouji fell into his career also because he was looking for someone and thought media exposure would help, a topos I encountered last in Kon Satoshi's Millennium Actress - but I'll leave the AU possiblities for others XD). Also for pictoral reference, Naoe would have been eighteen in 1981.
***
She is not very old, by the tallying of years. But there are only two kinds of women: those who are young, and those who have lived forever.
Afterward he sprawls on the upholstered armchair near the window, watching her dress. They never bothered to close the drapes. The lowering sun filters, hazy and indolent, through the inner curtains of gauze. His school blazer is still where he left it, folded neatly over the back of the chair; the tie has slipped to the carpet. His feet are bare. This, too, is a forbidden game.
His gaze conveys an older man's appreciation, not wonder. It troubles her. She arches her back as she rolls her stockings back up over her thighs, meeting his eyes sidelong.
Aren't you going to shower? she says.
In a moment, he says. He reaches into the side pocket of the blazer and fishes out a pack of cigarettes. Pass me a light?
Such a terrible boy, she says, and means it.
She stands in front of him and flicks the lighter. As he leans forward she's startled into a gesture of prudishness, crossing her arm over her chest to adjust her bra strap. But his eyes are sliding past even as he inhales. She's seen him do it before, in the car, as they were stopped at an intersection. Before the light shifted to green they were boxed in on three sides by a stream of pressing, uniform humanity. At the time she noticed the geometric curve of his eyelashes, a few shades darker than his hair.
What are you looking for?
The other end of a thread, he answers.
***
