She Lives.
Sooooo. I'm not dead. Just...not feeling entirely up to being sociable. I looked at my journal today and thought, "Man...I haven't done shit here since the 14th...and I haven't even really been busy."
But I have been working. On CM, and several other projects. And tonight, I decided to post something here--something I think I will be posting for your reading pleasure during long lulls (don't freak out, guys--I'm not saying that there's going to be a long wait for Chpt 38; actually, I may have it up by this weekend, if I can right my completely fucked up sleep schedule a tad. I feel like a fucking vampire these days, honestly.)
Anyway. Here she be:
Rooms on Fire
Rating: T (-ish?)
Genre: Romance/Humor
Summary: [AU] [SaitouTokio] “Well maybe I’m just thinkin’ that the rooms are all on fire, Every time that you walk in the room. Well there is magic all around you, If I do say so myself: I have known this much longer than I’ve known you….”
XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX
One: After the Glitter Fades
(Or: In which there is a problem)
XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX
His window desperately needed cleaning.
Hajime Saitou scowled darkly at the pane of glass, wondering why he couldn’t just space out like other writers. He had it on good authority (not really, but that was his story and he was sticking to it) that about 90 percent of writers were actually working when you caught them spaced out, staring out a window, or at a plant, or at the TV, or at whatever they happened to have decided to stare at.
So he’d tried it out, in the hopes that…something would happen.
…something other than his realizing that he needed to buy some Windex, stat.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed in frustration. Being blocked like this was a new experience for him. He’d been one of those lucky individuals (or weird freaks, as his agent preferred) who had never experienced the maddening, bang-your-head-up-against-a-wall hell that is writer’s block. His mind never stopped working, and churning out manuscript after manuscript had never been a problem. He’d received several comparisons to Ernest Hemingway for the spare quality of his prose, to Stephen King for his productivity and to Edgar Allen Poe for his use of the gothic and the macabre, but his style was all his, thank you very much.
All that talent appeared to have deserted him, however, and it really couldn’t have picked a worse time: he’d signed a new contract with his publishing house last year that stipulated he owed them five novels, and the first draft of the first one was due before the end of they year…which was like a month away.
Actually, it was exactly thirty-eight days away.
He knew because yesterday, he’d gotten bored of staring blankly at his monitor, so he’d counted down the days until his Doom, and marked the date with a red marker, and a lot of dribbling blood.
…hey, what did you expect from a man who specialized in dark humor and gothic settings?
“Souji, I think we’re fucked,” he said with a weary sigh.
From the couch, his two year old Lab perked up his ears at the sound of his name.
The phone began ringing, and he sighed again, much more deeply.
He knew exactly who it was: his agent, the irritating Misao Makimachi, who had been relentlessly hounding him for weeks, and also preventing him from making any progress in his newest endeavor, flipping playing cards into the baseball cap in the middle of the living room. The woman always called right when he was getting close to finally making one into the hat, and the sound of her voice always threw his aim off horrifically-last time, he’d sent a card under the fridge, he’d been so badly startled, so his deck was now down to 51 cards. It really sucked, too: they were nice cards, a gift for his birthday three years back from a long-time fan.
He listened to his curt message-“Speak if you must”-then the beep, and just as he’d known, Makimachi’s frantic voice filled the apartment:
“Saitou! Dammit, pick up the phone! You ass, pick it up, I know you’re there! You never leave that cave of yours! Saitou! SAITOU! Argh! They don’t pay me enough to deal with you! If you don’t pick up this phone right now I’m quitting! I’ll drop you like…like…like…well I don’t know! Like something! …dammit!”
He sighed quietly, then scrubbed his hands over his face. She threatened to foist him off on some other hapless agent at least six times a week, but never did. He suspected she was loath to give up the fat load of money she made being his agent, even if that meant dealing with him in all of his cranky glory. And secretly, as much as he hated the sound of her voice, he really didn’t want her foisting him off on some other hapless agent. He already had her various neuroses down, and learning someone else’s was so not his idea of fun.
…besides…he liked irritating Makimachi; it was ridiculously easy to accomplish…and it amused him.
He wasn’t a people person, so the fewer people he had to be around, the better. It was why he didn’t do book tours, as a rule, unless his publishing house really wanted to make him pay for some totally insignificant slight or another (calling the head of the publishing house’s wife a stupid cow, to her face, while not exactly polite, had nevertheless been accurate, and he’d submit to being tied to a chair and locked in a room with only Makimachi for company before he changed his opinion on that one). He rarely did interviews unless also threatened, blackmailed and/or otherwise manhandled into it, and he had a reputation for being a horrible interviewee, which he thought was completely unjustified-it wasn’t his fault that some of the people he’d been interviewed by in the past were utter morons.
His loyal readership didn’t mind any of that, which was ultimately the only thing he cared about, after his own feelings on it. He hadn’t exactly been polite the few times he’d been on book tours, but he’d submitted to the pictures and the signings with a modicum of grace that endeared him to the people who read his shit. Plus, they sort of liked that he didn’t really try to win anybody over. For kicks, he often visited a fan blog that took care of keeping his readership up-to-date and informed about the state of his working life, and he was consistently amused by the stories and photos people shared about meeting him. Most of them freely admitted to being intimidated by the severe expression that was basically his face’s default setting, but were quick to assure that he wasn’t as much of an asshole as he looked.
He had a devoted following that didn’t mind if he didn’t look exactly thrilled to be there. Some went so far as to assert he was even sort of nice, in his own way; one lady had shared a story about catching him two hours after the end of book signing, when he’d been sitting in a restaurant, eating a late dinner and not bothering to pretend to be paying attention to Makimachi, who was giving him the break down of his next appearance. She’d timidly approached the table and apologized for interrupting, but would he terribly mind signing a copy of one of his books for her, please? He’d remembered the woman immediately upon reading the first line, when she’d been explaining that her young son’s school play had delayed her getting to the signing in time to get the book signed, and she’d been reading his novels since he’d published the first one, all of which she’d shyly shared while asking if he’d sign the book she was tightly hugging against her chest.
Normally, he would have said no, but the woman looked embarrassed and hopeful, and sort of reminded him of Souji when the Lab had done something he wasn’t supposed to and knew it. So he’d silently set down his fork and held out one hand, and she’d blushed and beamed at him and stuttered out a heartfelt thank you. She’d ended the story by asserting that while he didn’t look it, Saitou was clearly a good guy. He’d almost felt dishonest that she held him in such high regard, because the truth was he wasn’t such a great guy.
He was mean and nasty and basically had to be forced to interact with people. His dog was really the only thing in the world he cared about, and that was the only thing that told him with any certainty that he had a soul, something he’d always secretly doubted.
Saitou leaned his head against the back of his chair and stared up at the roof.
“This sucks,” he muttered, and Souji whined, then hopped off the couch and padded over to his side.
Saitou reached down and rested a hand on the Lab’s head and rubbed; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dog’s tail slowly swish back and forth.
“I need a muse or something,” he said wearily. “Isn’t that what guys like Dante and Petrarch had? Some beautiful, untouchable woman to angst over and write sonnets and shit to?”
Souji woofed in agreement (or what Saitou decided to take as agreement; it was his dog, he could do as he pleased).
“Or maybe not some woman to write to so much as to write about,” he mused, absently rubbing Souji’s head. He sighed, then looked down at Souji, whose tongue was happily lolling out the side of his mouth.
Oh to be a dog, he thought enviously.
“So, got any ideas on where to find my Laura, my Beatrice?” he asked the Lab.
Souji woofed again and bumped his head against Saitou’s leg, clearly more interested in getting attention from his master than in helping said master with his dilemma.
Saitou sighed:
“Of course,” he mumbled.
He got up and decided he’d blatantly wasted enough time-it was time to waste it a little more discreetly, in a manner more likely to get him off the hook if Makimachi actually decided to try to break down his door.
“Come on Sou, let’s go for a walk,” he said, already heading for the door, and the Lab practically danced after him with joy.
If only everything else were as simple and uncomplicated.
But I have been working. On CM, and several other projects. And tonight, I decided to post something here--something I think I will be posting for your reading pleasure during long lulls (don't freak out, guys--I'm not saying that there's going to be a long wait for Chpt 38; actually, I may have it up by this weekend, if I can right my completely fucked up sleep schedule a tad. I feel like a fucking vampire these days, honestly.)
Anyway. Here she be:
Rooms on Fire
Rating: T (-ish?)
Genre: Romance/Humor
Summary: [AU] [SaitouTokio] “Well maybe I’m just thinkin’ that the rooms are all on fire, Every time that you walk in the room. Well there is magic all around you, If I do say so myself: I have known this much longer than I’ve known you….”
XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX
One: After the Glitter Fades
(Or: In which there is a problem)
XoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoXoX
His window desperately needed cleaning.
Hajime Saitou scowled darkly at the pane of glass, wondering why he couldn’t just space out like other writers. He had it on good authority (not really, but that was his story and he was sticking to it) that about 90 percent of writers were actually working when you caught them spaced out, staring out a window, or at a plant, or at the TV, or at whatever they happened to have decided to stare at.
So he’d tried it out, in the hopes that…something would happen.
…something other than his realizing that he needed to buy some Windex, stat.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed in frustration. Being blocked like this was a new experience for him. He’d been one of those lucky individuals (or weird freaks, as his agent preferred) who had never experienced the maddening, bang-your-head-up-against-a-wall hell that is writer’s block. His mind never stopped working, and churning out manuscript after manuscript had never been a problem. He’d received several comparisons to Ernest Hemingway for the spare quality of his prose, to Stephen King for his productivity and to Edgar Allen Poe for his use of the gothic and the macabre, but his style was all his, thank you very much.
All that talent appeared to have deserted him, however, and it really couldn’t have picked a worse time: he’d signed a new contract with his publishing house last year that stipulated he owed them five novels, and the first draft of the first one was due before the end of they year…which was like a month away.
Actually, it was exactly thirty-eight days away.
He knew because yesterday, he’d gotten bored of staring blankly at his monitor, so he’d counted down the days until his Doom, and marked the date with a red marker, and a lot of dribbling blood.
…hey, what did you expect from a man who specialized in dark humor and gothic settings?
“Souji, I think we’re fucked,” he said with a weary sigh.
From the couch, his two year old Lab perked up his ears at the sound of his name.
The phone began ringing, and he sighed again, much more deeply.
He knew exactly who it was: his agent, the irritating Misao Makimachi, who had been relentlessly hounding him for weeks, and also preventing him from making any progress in his newest endeavor, flipping playing cards into the baseball cap in the middle of the living room. The woman always called right when he was getting close to finally making one into the hat, and the sound of her voice always threw his aim off horrifically-last time, he’d sent a card under the fridge, he’d been so badly startled, so his deck was now down to 51 cards. It really sucked, too: they were nice cards, a gift for his birthday three years back from a long-time fan.
He listened to his curt message-“Speak if you must”-then the beep, and just as he’d known, Makimachi’s frantic voice filled the apartment:
“Saitou! Dammit, pick up the phone! You ass, pick it up, I know you’re there! You never leave that cave of yours! Saitou! SAITOU! Argh! They don’t pay me enough to deal with you! If you don’t pick up this phone right now I’m quitting! I’ll drop you like…like…like…well I don’t know! Like something! …dammit!”
He sighed quietly, then scrubbed his hands over his face. She threatened to foist him off on some other hapless agent at least six times a week, but never did. He suspected she was loath to give up the fat load of money she made being his agent, even if that meant dealing with him in all of his cranky glory. And secretly, as much as he hated the sound of her voice, he really didn’t want her foisting him off on some other hapless agent. He already had her various neuroses down, and learning someone else’s was so not his idea of fun.
…besides…he liked irritating Makimachi; it was ridiculously easy to accomplish…and it amused him.
He wasn’t a people person, so the fewer people he had to be around, the better. It was why he didn’t do book tours, as a rule, unless his publishing house really wanted to make him pay for some totally insignificant slight or another (calling the head of the publishing house’s wife a stupid cow, to her face, while not exactly polite, had nevertheless been accurate, and he’d submit to being tied to a chair and locked in a room with only Makimachi for company before he changed his opinion on that one). He rarely did interviews unless also threatened, blackmailed and/or otherwise manhandled into it, and he had a reputation for being a horrible interviewee, which he thought was completely unjustified-it wasn’t his fault that some of the people he’d been interviewed by in the past were utter morons.
His loyal readership didn’t mind any of that, which was ultimately the only thing he cared about, after his own feelings on it. He hadn’t exactly been polite the few times he’d been on book tours, but he’d submitted to the pictures and the signings with a modicum of grace that endeared him to the people who read his shit. Plus, they sort of liked that he didn’t really try to win anybody over. For kicks, he often visited a fan blog that took care of keeping his readership up-to-date and informed about the state of his working life, and he was consistently amused by the stories and photos people shared about meeting him. Most of them freely admitted to being intimidated by the severe expression that was basically his face’s default setting, but were quick to assure that he wasn’t as much of an asshole as he looked.
He had a devoted following that didn’t mind if he didn’t look exactly thrilled to be there. Some went so far as to assert he was even sort of nice, in his own way; one lady had shared a story about catching him two hours after the end of book signing, when he’d been sitting in a restaurant, eating a late dinner and not bothering to pretend to be paying attention to Makimachi, who was giving him the break down of his next appearance. She’d timidly approached the table and apologized for interrupting, but would he terribly mind signing a copy of one of his books for her, please? He’d remembered the woman immediately upon reading the first line, when she’d been explaining that her young son’s school play had delayed her getting to the signing in time to get the book signed, and she’d been reading his novels since he’d published the first one, all of which she’d shyly shared while asking if he’d sign the book she was tightly hugging against her chest.
Normally, he would have said no, but the woman looked embarrassed and hopeful, and sort of reminded him of Souji when the Lab had done something he wasn’t supposed to and knew it. So he’d silently set down his fork and held out one hand, and she’d blushed and beamed at him and stuttered out a heartfelt thank you. She’d ended the story by asserting that while he didn’t look it, Saitou was clearly a good guy. He’d almost felt dishonest that she held him in such high regard, because the truth was he wasn’t such a great guy.
He was mean and nasty and basically had to be forced to interact with people. His dog was really the only thing in the world he cared about, and that was the only thing that told him with any certainty that he had a soul, something he’d always secretly doubted.
Saitou leaned his head against the back of his chair and stared up at the roof.
“This sucks,” he muttered, and Souji whined, then hopped off the couch and padded over to his side.
Saitou reached down and rested a hand on the Lab’s head and rubbed; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dog’s tail slowly swish back and forth.
“I need a muse or something,” he said wearily. “Isn’t that what guys like Dante and Petrarch had? Some beautiful, untouchable woman to angst over and write sonnets and shit to?”
Souji woofed in agreement (or what Saitou decided to take as agreement; it was his dog, he could do as he pleased).
“Or maybe not some woman to write to so much as to write about,” he mused, absently rubbing Souji’s head. He sighed, then looked down at Souji, whose tongue was happily lolling out the side of his mouth.
Oh to be a dog, he thought enviously.
“So, got any ideas on where to find my Laura, my Beatrice?” he asked the Lab.
Souji woofed again and bumped his head against Saitou’s leg, clearly more interested in getting attention from his master than in helping said master with his dilemma.
Saitou sighed:
“Of course,” he mumbled.
He got up and decided he’d blatantly wasted enough time-it was time to waste it a little more discreetly, in a manner more likely to get him off the hook if Makimachi actually decided to try to break down his door.
“Come on Sou, let’s go for a walk,” he said, already heading for the door, and the Lab practically danced after him with joy.
If only everything else were as simple and uncomplicated.