'Shear Madness' - [Aoi/Uruha] 1/2
Title: Shear Madness
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Ruki/Reita
Genre: Crack. Oh, the crack. And some romance :D
Synopsis: In which Uruha is a beauty school dropout and Aoi is none the wiser.
Notes: I figured I'd finish a favorite WIP of mine for Uruha's birthday and for the sake of not being too late, I'm posting the first part now! I was originally going to write something riddled with metaphor and soft tones and romantic auras and... decided this would be a much better idea :DD (that and I adore puns)
.:.:.:.
Ruki was in the middle of turning the page of his magazine, pausing just so to admire those mauve pants on page three one last time, when the ever-living shit was knocked out of him.
“Ruki!”, a desperate, barely contained glee-slathered hiss rushed into his left ear, “Ruki, Ruki there he is!”
Ruki would have loved to reply. Maybe something poetically eloquent with a dash of metaphor - he was an artist after all - basically boiling down to: I don’t fucking give a two-cent whore’s ass. However, none of those Shakespearean-worthy allusions and metonymies would grace his lips since he currently had an Uruha slathered across his back, making his chest squeeze against the reception counter.
The overgrown tumor on his spine tightened its grip on his shoulders, “Christ, look at him.”
Ruki offered a venomous growl from below. He could feel his coveted magazine creasing where his hands unconsciously tightened as he was bowled over. Fuck. Now he’ll never be able to read the serial number of those pants…
Uruha was still whispering incoherent sweet-nothings in his ear and with the last breath still surviving in his lungs, the shorter man grumbled, “Uruha. Move.”
The taller did just that, only to crouch beside his man-handled friend and poke his head discreetly above the desk. Ignoring the way Ruki was gasping for air while he attempted to smooth out the ruined pages of his magazine, Uruha hummed with wonder, “That’s the sixth time he’s paused by our window this week. It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, that we might have a stalker on our hands - again.”
Uruha rolled his eyes, “Miyavi was harmless.”
“He was psychotic.”
“He was passionate about hair dye - who can blame the guy?”
Ruki glared and opened his mouth to bite off another retort, but was distracted by the searing pain in his arm as Uruha suddenly seized it in a horrific death-grip. “Oh my god, he’s coming in - fuck, Ruki! I didn’t straighten my bangs today!”
Through the haze of anguish - arm forever branded with a bruise of Uruha’s grip - Ruki peered at the elder’s reason of woe and silently agreed. The humidity was doing nothing for the asymmetrical bang. Ruki held back an unflattering grimace. Not to mention the man’s roots were several miles long. But Uruha didn’t need to know that - Ruki’s arm was in enough jeopardy.
There was no time to appear less guilty - both hunched crookedly over the desk, eyes shiftily peering over the edge, Ruki’s face twisted in infuriated agony while Uruha’s entire expression was torn between mortified and perfectly gleeful - as the bells above the door jangled (a grating reminder of how Uruha hadn’t taken them down yet from Christmas…).
Uruha’s perfectly groomed nails began to sink into Ruki’s flesh. The object of the taller’s desire scanned the salon before hesitantly striding up to the desk, seeming a little cautious of the two men’s culpable position, and offered a gentle smile. The pain in his arm began to retreat to the back of his mind, dulled for the moment, as Ruki couldn’t help but openly stare at the man’s choice of footwear.
Orange Crocs. With socks.
Swallowing back the gag, Ruki forced his gaze upward.
And met a bedraggled poncho filled with deliberate moth holes.
A haunting memory of Uruha’s penchant for baby blue loafers and capris smacked him in the face.
Ruki deemed the two a perfect match.
“Can we help you?”
The dry baritone of the short man snapped Aoi to attention, finally tearing his eyes away from the look of crazy slathered upon the taller blond who was clutching desperately at the other. It seemed the lighter blond was apathetic or too used to the treatment to care about the bruising and obliterated circulation.
Aoi gave the pair a hesitant smile, “Um, hi. I’d like to get a quick trim if it’s not too much trouble - sorry I don’t have an appointment or anythi - ”
“You’re fine - it’s fine! It’s fine, right Ruki? It’s totally fine. I mean we’d let you know if it wasn’t fine, but it is definitely fine. You’re fine. Fine.” Uruha beamed.
Ruki closed his eyes and willed patience to grace him.
Aoi blinked, but accepted the outburst nonetheless and smiled softly at the taller man, “Oh. Well, that’s great, then.”
Uruha refrained from clutching at his heart as he took in that gentle grin aimed his way. Sweet baby Buddha.
As Uruha attempted to come to grips with being smiled at by none other than the object of his desire, Ruki continued to count little Chihuahuas in his head just like his anger management coach instructed. Feeling a semblance of tolerance rise within him, Ruki opened his eyes once more and gestured towards the sinks in the back with his free hand, “Alright, well just head back there and Shou will be with you shortly.”
The stranger nodded in thanks and found his way to the appropriate chair.
Positively sure their customer was out of sight, Ruki snarled and began viciously wielding his ruined magazine at Uruha’s head. “You fucking IDIOT, get your FUCKING NAILS out of my goddamn ARM!”
Uruha threw up his hands in a fruitless attempt to salvage his hair from the mauve-pants-on-page-three’s malicious slaps - already frizzed locks now thoroughly mussed (and Uruha doubted it had the casual just-rolled-out-of-bed-maybe-from-naughty-adventures appeal that he was going for). “Stop, stop! You’re making it worse!”
Ruki sneered, magazine rolled into a crumpled mess in his neon decal-nailed grip, “I’ll tell you when it’s worse than the holes your freakish bear hands stabbed into my arm. I look like fucking damaged goods, goddammit!”
Uruha shrank back, eyeing Ruki’s clenched fist warily, “Ruki, your blood pressure…”
The shorter blonde took a menacing step forward, ready to stamp the catalogue number of page four’s juniper fleece sweater onto Uruha’s face, when Shou peered around the corner with wide eyes, “Um. Which chair do you want me to put him in, Ruki-san?”
Ruki snapped his gaze to the wilting Shou and took a deep breath, releasing the mangled magazine. He waved an uncaring hand around, “Just show him to mine. I’ll be there in a second after I find the nearest first-aid kit.”
Shou hesitated, concerned eyes roving over Ruki’s exasperated form before nodding in sympathy, “Oh, for your arm?”
The younger man grit his teeth, giving Uruha a sidelong glare, “We’ll see.”
Shou dutifully scampered off, even after Uruha’s desperate, whispered pleas to “stay so there are witnesses”, and began leading their newest client across the room.
.:.:.
Aoi ambled over to the proffered chair, a small smile gracing his lips as he thanked the shampoo assistant and sat down, gaze already taking in the work station’s eccentricities. Skull decals, little scraps of paper scrawled over in doodles and an array of cigarette lighters were scattered in organized chaos. Several pictures were tacked onto the mirror as well - little snapshots that captured the shorter stylist’s scowl as he was squished to the side of various people, including the taller blonde whose wide smile made his nose crinkle and eyes squint with mirth. Amused, Aoi leaned in to see better - spotting how Ruki’s hair seemed to change drastically in every photo and how the consistently blond man couldn’t seem to smile without opening his mouth in a hearty laugh.
His eyes drifted over to where the two stylists were still loitering by the appointment desk, blinking away the water droplets hanging from his bangs. The scowling blond was in the middle of running a hand down his face while the other man kept glancing his way, cheeks reddening as he seemed to prattle on in hushed whispers. Aoi’s grin slowly turned wary, not entirely sure if the wonderful scalp massage would be worth the suspicious leer being sent his way…
.:.:.
“Fuck, he looks even better wet. It’s like he came straight from Atlantis, giving us mortals the gift of sight to gaze upon his glorious, chiseled physique.”
“If the sopping-wet-rat look makes your panties twist, then I suppose so.”
A glare. “You’re blind.”
A scoff. “You’re delusional.”
Uruha glowered, now properly offended, as Ruki retrieved a smock from underneath the desk with a muttered curse and began to walk towards the awaiting chair.
A look of sheer horror soon swept across Uruha’s face, however, as the fellow stylist drew nearer to the man he had been pining after for weeks - the man obviously destined for him because how many salons were in Shibuya? Thousands of millions. And it took something far more than mere coincidence for an earthbound Adonis to just happen to pass by each day (and for Uruha’s palms to get all sweaty and gross just like when he tried to unhook Ami’s bra in ninth grade and couldn’t stop thinking about Kenzo’s jockstrap the entire time).
And that was Fate.
Destiny.
Just like it was destined for Uruha to lean in close and softly blow away a few stray hairs from that pale, slender neck, his fingertips brushing against flushed skin beneath the smock as he turns oh so slowly to the right and accidentally grazes his lips along the other man’s ear - accidentally confessing in a coy whisper, “Your hair and my pillow are perfectly color coordinated.”
And, goddammit, he’d been saving that line for years!
This was his chance.
With an exasperated sigh, Ruki sidled over to his newest customer. His critical, amber-eyed stare took in the man’s unruly tresses as well as his casual curiosity towards the irritating photos Uruha kept taping onto his mirror. Ruki followed his client’s gaze, teeth gritting when he spotted a particularly irksome picture of a night where he had been promised that no drinking would be involved. The scarlet-cheeked, exuberant Uruha latched onto his side like a needy leech, hands stretching Ruki’s scowling lips into a warped smile, spoke otherwise.
“I thought I burned that one..”
Aoi whipped around, wet locks nearly slapping Ruki in the face. The catastrophe was averted, however, by Ruki’s years of experience with dodging Uruha’s numerous attempts to sneak bottles of tequila into his system. Recognizing the blonde from the front desk as well as from the prize-winning photo of the 27th birthday party Ruki would rather block out completely, but still had the scar to prove it, the taller man gave him a tentative smile.
“These pictures are pretty cool - you and your friend seem really close.”
Ruki began unfolding the smock with a roll of his eyes, “Close enough to take out a life insurance policy.”
Aoi chuckled good-naturedly. Ruki did not.
Willing away the last tendrils of memories starting with the phone call “it’s a good idea, trust me” and ending with the text “with a stripper at the hospital - business, not pleasure”, Ruki shook out the smock with a detached air, “So, are we mowing the lawn or trimming the hedges?”
And Ruki would have loved to hear what the nonchalant client had in mind, would have loved to discuss how to get rid of irritating cowlicks and where to get decent footwear and the absolute genius of mothballs (and why don’t you try it?).
“Please-excuse-us-for-a-moment!”
...But, he was too busy being dragged away in an iron-nailed grip - too quick and sudden for him to get his footing, causing his newest shoes to streak against the freshly waxed floor. Ruki watched as the black scuff mark dragged across the pristinely white tiles, mouth gaping with insurmountable horror - mind flashing to the painful nights of scrubbing and power-washing and buffing until the cheap linoleum gleamed like marble -
“Ruki. You need to let me do this.”
-- only to be slathered, stained - scarred - with his own shoe polish.
“This might be my only chance and I know you’re too blind to see the red strings of fate here, but trust me.”
The irony was tart on his tongue and Ruki could only stare at the scuff while Uruha continued to tug at his sleeve.
“I’ll give you the tip and everything. Please, Ruki. I’ll do anything, anythi - ”
“You’re buffing that out.”
Uruha paused in his valiant begging, brow furrowing as he surveyed the noir stain across the floor. “Um, sure. I’ll sweep up and everything. Just let me do him.”
Ruki blankly stared.
“…I mean his hair.”
The floor was already a lost cause - a loss that he would be grieving tonight as he smothered himself with his pillow covered in Koron’s shedding - and was child’s play in comparison to the disaster that was suddenly looming on the horizon. Ruki tugged his arm out of Uruha’s gorilla-grip and made sure to look the taller man in the eye as he uttered firmly, “No.”
Uruha’s hopeful visage shattered, a pout already forming on his bowed lips and Ruki quickly looked away - and then away again because dear god that scuff mark is fucking huge we might as well paint the floor black - all too aware of his ultimate weakness for puppy-pouts. Every regretful night and aching hangover began with one. Many snapshots of those nights were taped to his work station.
Uruha reached for Ruki’s sleeve again, “Ruki, this is destiny! We were fated for this moment!” The taller blond dramatically clasped at his heart, “You’re denying us our fate!”
Slapping Uruha’s hands away once more, Ruki sneered, “I’m denying you access to anything sharp. You’re still on probation after the Kaolu Incident.”
“…It’ll grow back.”
Ruki ignored the sheepish whisper mercilessly, “You’re absolute crap with hair, Uruha. I stuck you in Makeup for a reason.”
Uruha bristled. He was not that bad - sometimes the scissors just slipped - and giving sweet-sixteen-year-olds a set of raccoon eyes was not on his path to destiny and wouldn’t grant him any breathless romps in bed with certain raven-haired gentlemen. Uruha quickly glanced over to his soon-to-be client, noting the quizzical stare the stranger was sending over his shoulder, wet hair stuck to his scalp in a sopping mess, and the blond made sure to smile back coyly.
“And I don’t need you dipping your pen in the company ink.”
Uruha snapped back to Ruki with a scathing glare, pleading forgotten, “Well, I’ll just have to let Reita know about all those pictures on your cell phone.”
The shorter stylist violently recoiled, face paling as his contacts glinted back sharply, “You fucking bastard. You wouldn’t.”
A diabolical grin stretched across the other man’s face - akin to the expression he usually wore right before the tequila was brought to the table - and Ruki grit his teeth. He had been carefully pursuing the delectable mailman for a month, slowly sizing up his prey as he inched closer to the final pounce. There were no red strings of fate in Ruki’s destiny, just calculated strikes, precisely unbuttoned shirts, and well-aimed camera-lenses. It would be any day now, the blond stylist was absolutely positive (given the fact that Reita no longer violently blanched at the sight of Ruki’s come-hither gaze as the younger purposely brushed his fingertips across the other’s knuckles when taking the proffered mail - or when he helpfully brushed away any lingering dust on his belt buckle).
He was so damn close.
Ruki growled lowly as Uruha continued to smile with a hint of malice, “I think it’s only fair for a man to know when he has his own photo folder on another man’s cell phone.”
There were two folders, but Ruki wasn’t about to burn the bridge any faster.
“I’m sure Reita will find it romantic, so - ”
“FINE.”
Uruha blinked as Ruki roughly shoved the smock into his hands with a grand flourish. “Cut the damn hair. Shave it off, give him a fucking perm for all I care.”
The elder felt himself shrink slightly under the heat of that amber glare, but grinned widely all the same - he had half a mind to tie the smock around his neck like a glorious cape and sprint over to the awaiting man with a proclamation of undying love and perfect highlights on his lips.
And they would embrace.
Uruha could already hear the uproarious applause, the cheers, the -
“Let’s just hope you do a better job than your root touch-up applicator.”
Uruha whipped around with horror-stricken eyes, his hand already anxiously sifting across the top of his scalp, “What?”
He quickly stole a glance at the unforgiving mirror beside them.
..Motherfuck.
.:.:.:.
A/N: Oh god, I don't know xDD;
I find that my crack!Uruha is always a little manic, haha. The second part focuses more on that Aoiha goodness (plus Ruki's wooing techniques towards Reita). I would've posted it altogether, but I wanted to be kinda-sorta on time for this lovely birthday.
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this first part :)
Pairing: Aoi/Uruha, Ruki/Reita
Genre: Crack. Oh, the crack. And some romance :D
Synopsis: In which Uruha is a beauty school dropout and Aoi is none the wiser.
Notes: I figured I'd finish a favorite WIP of mine for Uruha's birthday and for the sake of not being too late, I'm posting the first part now! I was originally going to write something riddled with metaphor and soft tones and romantic auras and... decided this would be a much better idea :DD (that and I adore puns)
.:.:.:.
Ruki was in the middle of turning the page of his magazine, pausing just so to admire those mauve pants on page three one last time, when the ever-living shit was knocked out of him.
“Ruki!”, a desperate, barely contained glee-slathered hiss rushed into his left ear, “Ruki, Ruki there he is!”
Ruki would have loved to reply. Maybe something poetically eloquent with a dash of metaphor - he was an artist after all - basically boiling down to: I don’t fucking give a two-cent whore’s ass. However, none of those Shakespearean-worthy allusions and metonymies would grace his lips since he currently had an Uruha slathered across his back, making his chest squeeze against the reception counter.
The overgrown tumor on his spine tightened its grip on his shoulders, “Christ, look at him.”
Ruki offered a venomous growl from below. He could feel his coveted magazine creasing where his hands unconsciously tightened as he was bowled over. Fuck. Now he’ll never be able to read the serial number of those pants…
Uruha was still whispering incoherent sweet-nothings in his ear and with the last breath still surviving in his lungs, the shorter man grumbled, “Uruha. Move.”
The taller did just that, only to crouch beside his man-handled friend and poke his head discreetly above the desk. Ignoring the way Ruki was gasping for air while he attempted to smooth out the ruined pages of his magazine, Uruha hummed with wonder, “That’s the sixth time he’s paused by our window this week. It’s a sign.”
“Yeah, that we might have a stalker on our hands - again.”
Uruha rolled his eyes, “Miyavi was harmless.”
“He was psychotic.”
“He was passionate about hair dye - who can blame the guy?”
Ruki glared and opened his mouth to bite off another retort, but was distracted by the searing pain in his arm as Uruha suddenly seized it in a horrific death-grip. “Oh my god, he’s coming in - fuck, Ruki! I didn’t straighten my bangs today!”
Through the haze of anguish - arm forever branded with a bruise of Uruha’s grip - Ruki peered at the elder’s reason of woe and silently agreed. The humidity was doing nothing for the asymmetrical bang. Ruki held back an unflattering grimace. Not to mention the man’s roots were several miles long. But Uruha didn’t need to know that - Ruki’s arm was in enough jeopardy.
There was no time to appear less guilty - both hunched crookedly over the desk, eyes shiftily peering over the edge, Ruki’s face twisted in infuriated agony while Uruha’s entire expression was torn between mortified and perfectly gleeful - as the bells above the door jangled (a grating reminder of how Uruha hadn’t taken them down yet from Christmas…).
Uruha’s perfectly groomed nails began to sink into Ruki’s flesh. The object of the taller’s desire scanned the salon before hesitantly striding up to the desk, seeming a little cautious of the two men’s culpable position, and offered a gentle smile. The pain in his arm began to retreat to the back of his mind, dulled for the moment, as Ruki couldn’t help but openly stare at the man’s choice of footwear.
Orange Crocs. With socks.
Swallowing back the gag, Ruki forced his gaze upward.
And met a bedraggled poncho filled with deliberate moth holes.
A haunting memory of Uruha’s penchant for baby blue loafers and capris smacked him in the face.
Ruki deemed the two a perfect match.
“Can we help you?”
The dry baritone of the short man snapped Aoi to attention, finally tearing his eyes away from the look of crazy slathered upon the taller blond who was clutching desperately at the other. It seemed the lighter blond was apathetic or too used to the treatment to care about the bruising and obliterated circulation.
Aoi gave the pair a hesitant smile, “Um, hi. I’d like to get a quick trim if it’s not too much trouble - sorry I don’t have an appointment or anythi - ”
“You’re fine - it’s fine! It’s fine, right Ruki? It’s totally fine. I mean we’d let you know if it wasn’t fine, but it is definitely fine. You’re fine. Fine.” Uruha beamed.
Ruki closed his eyes and willed patience to grace him.
Aoi blinked, but accepted the outburst nonetheless and smiled softly at the taller man, “Oh. Well, that’s great, then.”
Uruha refrained from clutching at his heart as he took in that gentle grin aimed his way. Sweet baby Buddha.
As Uruha attempted to come to grips with being smiled at by none other than the object of his desire, Ruki continued to count little Chihuahuas in his head just like his anger management coach instructed. Feeling a semblance of tolerance rise within him, Ruki opened his eyes once more and gestured towards the sinks in the back with his free hand, “Alright, well just head back there and Shou will be with you shortly.”
The stranger nodded in thanks and found his way to the appropriate chair.
Positively sure their customer was out of sight, Ruki snarled and began viciously wielding his ruined magazine at Uruha’s head. “You fucking IDIOT, get your FUCKING NAILS out of my goddamn ARM!”
Uruha threw up his hands in a fruitless attempt to salvage his hair from the mauve-pants-on-page-three’s malicious slaps - already frizzed locks now thoroughly mussed (and Uruha doubted it had the casual just-rolled-out-of-bed-maybe-from-naughty-adventures appeal that he was going for). “Stop, stop! You’re making it worse!”
Ruki sneered, magazine rolled into a crumpled mess in his neon decal-nailed grip, “I’ll tell you when it’s worse than the holes your freakish bear hands stabbed into my arm. I look like fucking damaged goods, goddammit!”
Uruha shrank back, eyeing Ruki’s clenched fist warily, “Ruki, your blood pressure…”
The shorter blonde took a menacing step forward, ready to stamp the catalogue number of page four’s juniper fleece sweater onto Uruha’s face, when Shou peered around the corner with wide eyes, “Um. Which chair do you want me to put him in, Ruki-san?”
Ruki snapped his gaze to the wilting Shou and took a deep breath, releasing the mangled magazine. He waved an uncaring hand around, “Just show him to mine. I’ll be there in a second after I find the nearest first-aid kit.”
Shou hesitated, concerned eyes roving over Ruki’s exasperated form before nodding in sympathy, “Oh, for your arm?”
The younger man grit his teeth, giving Uruha a sidelong glare, “We’ll see.”
Shou dutifully scampered off, even after Uruha’s desperate, whispered pleas to “stay so there are witnesses”, and began leading their newest client across the room.
.:.:.
Aoi ambled over to the proffered chair, a small smile gracing his lips as he thanked the shampoo assistant and sat down, gaze already taking in the work station’s eccentricities. Skull decals, little scraps of paper scrawled over in doodles and an array of cigarette lighters were scattered in organized chaos. Several pictures were tacked onto the mirror as well - little snapshots that captured the shorter stylist’s scowl as he was squished to the side of various people, including the taller blonde whose wide smile made his nose crinkle and eyes squint with mirth. Amused, Aoi leaned in to see better - spotting how Ruki’s hair seemed to change drastically in every photo and how the consistently blond man couldn’t seem to smile without opening his mouth in a hearty laugh.
His eyes drifted over to where the two stylists were still loitering by the appointment desk, blinking away the water droplets hanging from his bangs. The scowling blond was in the middle of running a hand down his face while the other man kept glancing his way, cheeks reddening as he seemed to prattle on in hushed whispers. Aoi’s grin slowly turned wary, not entirely sure if the wonderful scalp massage would be worth the suspicious leer being sent his way…
.:.:.
“Fuck, he looks even better wet. It’s like he came straight from Atlantis, giving us mortals the gift of sight to gaze upon his glorious, chiseled physique.”
“If the sopping-wet-rat look makes your panties twist, then I suppose so.”
A glare. “You’re blind.”
A scoff. “You’re delusional.”
Uruha glowered, now properly offended, as Ruki retrieved a smock from underneath the desk with a muttered curse and began to walk towards the awaiting chair.
A look of sheer horror soon swept across Uruha’s face, however, as the fellow stylist drew nearer to the man he had been pining after for weeks - the man obviously destined for him because how many salons were in Shibuya? Thousands of millions. And it took something far more than mere coincidence for an earthbound Adonis to just happen to pass by each day (and for Uruha’s palms to get all sweaty and gross just like when he tried to unhook Ami’s bra in ninth grade and couldn’t stop thinking about Kenzo’s jockstrap the entire time).
And that was Fate.
Destiny.
Just like it was destined for Uruha to lean in close and softly blow away a few stray hairs from that pale, slender neck, his fingertips brushing against flushed skin beneath the smock as he turns oh so slowly to the right and accidentally grazes his lips along the other man’s ear - accidentally confessing in a coy whisper, “Your hair and my pillow are perfectly color coordinated.”
And, goddammit, he’d been saving that line for years!
This was his chance.
With an exasperated sigh, Ruki sidled over to his newest customer. His critical, amber-eyed stare took in the man’s unruly tresses as well as his casual curiosity towards the irritating photos Uruha kept taping onto his mirror. Ruki followed his client’s gaze, teeth gritting when he spotted a particularly irksome picture of a night where he had been promised that no drinking would be involved. The scarlet-cheeked, exuberant Uruha latched onto his side like a needy leech, hands stretching Ruki’s scowling lips into a warped smile, spoke otherwise.
“I thought I burned that one..”
Aoi whipped around, wet locks nearly slapping Ruki in the face. The catastrophe was averted, however, by Ruki’s years of experience with dodging Uruha’s numerous attempts to sneak bottles of tequila into his system. Recognizing the blonde from the front desk as well as from the prize-winning photo of the 27th birthday party Ruki would rather block out completely, but still had the scar to prove it, the taller man gave him a tentative smile.
“These pictures are pretty cool - you and your friend seem really close.”
Ruki began unfolding the smock with a roll of his eyes, “Close enough to take out a life insurance policy.”
Aoi chuckled good-naturedly. Ruki did not.
Willing away the last tendrils of memories starting with the phone call “it’s a good idea, trust me” and ending with the text “with a stripper at the hospital - business, not pleasure”, Ruki shook out the smock with a detached air, “So, are we mowing the lawn or trimming the hedges?”
And Ruki would have loved to hear what the nonchalant client had in mind, would have loved to discuss how to get rid of irritating cowlicks and where to get decent footwear and the absolute genius of mothballs (and why don’t you try it?).
“Please-excuse-us-for-a-moment!”
...But, he was too busy being dragged away in an iron-nailed grip - too quick and sudden for him to get his footing, causing his newest shoes to streak against the freshly waxed floor. Ruki watched as the black scuff mark dragged across the pristinely white tiles, mouth gaping with insurmountable horror - mind flashing to the painful nights of scrubbing and power-washing and buffing until the cheap linoleum gleamed like marble -
“Ruki. You need to let me do this.”
-- only to be slathered, stained - scarred - with his own shoe polish.
“This might be my only chance and I know you’re too blind to see the red strings of fate here, but trust me.”
The irony was tart on his tongue and Ruki could only stare at the scuff while Uruha continued to tug at his sleeve.
“I’ll give you the tip and everything. Please, Ruki. I’ll do anything, anythi - ”
“You’re buffing that out.”
Uruha paused in his valiant begging, brow furrowing as he surveyed the noir stain across the floor. “Um, sure. I’ll sweep up and everything. Just let me do him.”
Ruki blankly stared.
“…I mean his hair.”
The floor was already a lost cause - a loss that he would be grieving tonight as he smothered himself with his pillow covered in Koron’s shedding - and was child’s play in comparison to the disaster that was suddenly looming on the horizon. Ruki tugged his arm out of Uruha’s gorilla-grip and made sure to look the taller man in the eye as he uttered firmly, “No.”
Uruha’s hopeful visage shattered, a pout already forming on his bowed lips and Ruki quickly looked away - and then away again because dear god that scuff mark is fucking huge we might as well paint the floor black - all too aware of his ultimate weakness for puppy-pouts. Every regretful night and aching hangover began with one. Many snapshots of those nights were taped to his work station.
Uruha reached for Ruki’s sleeve again, “Ruki, this is destiny! We were fated for this moment!” The taller blond dramatically clasped at his heart, “You’re denying us our fate!”
Slapping Uruha’s hands away once more, Ruki sneered, “I’m denying you access to anything sharp. You’re still on probation after the Kaolu Incident.”
“…It’ll grow back.”
Ruki ignored the sheepish whisper mercilessly, “You’re absolute crap with hair, Uruha. I stuck you in Makeup for a reason.”
Uruha bristled. He was not that bad - sometimes the scissors just slipped - and giving sweet-sixteen-year-olds a set of raccoon eyes was not on his path to destiny and wouldn’t grant him any breathless romps in bed with certain raven-haired gentlemen. Uruha quickly glanced over to his soon-to-be client, noting the quizzical stare the stranger was sending over his shoulder, wet hair stuck to his scalp in a sopping mess, and the blond made sure to smile back coyly.
“And I don’t need you dipping your pen in the company ink.”
Uruha snapped back to Ruki with a scathing glare, pleading forgotten, “Well, I’ll just have to let Reita know about all those pictures on your cell phone.”
The shorter stylist violently recoiled, face paling as his contacts glinted back sharply, “You fucking bastard. You wouldn’t.”
A diabolical grin stretched across the other man’s face - akin to the expression he usually wore right before the tequila was brought to the table - and Ruki grit his teeth. He had been carefully pursuing the delectable mailman for a month, slowly sizing up his prey as he inched closer to the final pounce. There were no red strings of fate in Ruki’s destiny, just calculated strikes, precisely unbuttoned shirts, and well-aimed camera-lenses. It would be any day now, the blond stylist was absolutely positive (given the fact that Reita no longer violently blanched at the sight of Ruki’s come-hither gaze as the younger purposely brushed his fingertips across the other’s knuckles when taking the proffered mail - or when he helpfully brushed away any lingering dust on his belt buckle).
He was so damn close.
Ruki growled lowly as Uruha continued to smile with a hint of malice, “I think it’s only fair for a man to know when he has his own photo folder on another man’s cell phone.”
There were two folders, but Ruki wasn’t about to burn the bridge any faster.
“I’m sure Reita will find it romantic, so - ”
“FINE.”
Uruha blinked as Ruki roughly shoved the smock into his hands with a grand flourish. “Cut the damn hair. Shave it off, give him a fucking perm for all I care.”
The elder felt himself shrink slightly under the heat of that amber glare, but grinned widely all the same - he had half a mind to tie the smock around his neck like a glorious cape and sprint over to the awaiting man with a proclamation of undying love and perfect highlights on his lips.
And they would embrace.
Uruha could already hear the uproarious applause, the cheers, the -
“Let’s just hope you do a better job than your root touch-up applicator.”
Uruha whipped around with horror-stricken eyes, his hand already anxiously sifting across the top of his scalp, “What?”
He quickly stole a glance at the unforgiving mirror beside them.
..Motherfuck.
.:.:.:.
A/N: Oh god, I don't know xDD;
I find that my crack!Uruha is always a little manic, haha. The second part focuses more on that Aoiha goodness (plus Ruki's wooing techniques towards Reita). I would've posted it altogether, but I wanted to be kinda-sorta on time for this lovely birthday.
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed this first part :)