Fandom: Hana Yori Dango ; Pair: Domyouji Tsukasa/Makino Tsukushi ; 1/?mlinaOctober 15 2011, 14:08:37 UTC
Angst/Dark
There is something bitter about the winter chill in New York. Domyouji Tsukasa has known cold evenings in Japan that would send a body scrambling for the nearest fire, but here in this foreign country the wind seems to bite and scratch in ways that leave him feeling frayed and worn.
He knows he should go home, maybe have dinner in the familiar confines of his family's high-rise. Even at this late hour, Chef would no doubt get out of bed and cook him up whatever his heart desires if he asked it. Instead, Tsukasa finds himself wandering down Broadway: his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his wool coat, collar turned up to keep his bare neck warm.
He isn't sure what it is that draws him in the direction that he goes. He doesn't usually wander down this side of the city, though he's driven by numerous times, chauffeured in his limousine. Bookstores just aren't his thing and it's much more convenient to order his required texts online, but when he sights the facade of Kinokuniya, something inside of him expands before settling like a familiar and comforting weight.
The lights inside the building are dark. The store is closed for the evening. Still, he wanders over, one hand leaving the warmth of his coat pocket to reach out to ghost across the frosted glass. A smile quirks on the corner of his mouth as he sights a familiar title: a newer edition of a book that had once belonged to his elder sister; one he'd scribbled over with red crayon as a child.
He doesn't see the magazine until he begins to turn away, and when he does his first thought is that while the male model is striking, it is the girl posed beside him that makes him pause. He regards that face, tilts his head and wonders for a moment what it is about the girl that roots him where he stands, but then the need to think it over passes and he steps away to head back the way he came.
It is only when Chef serves him a plate of newly-baked, warm, oatmeal cookies that it dawns upon him that beneath the smoky-eyed make-up and the porcelain look achieved by airbrushed editing, Makino is still Makino, after all.
AU; Role Reversal
She's chewed a perfect arc off her thumbnail before she realizes what she's done.
Cursing under her breath, Makino Tsukushi quickly rummages through her Hermes Picotin Lock purse for the manicure set her father had bought her for her thirteenth birthday. The nail clipper is small and handy, but it's made of the finest Sterling silver and her birth stone winks right on the tiny chain that is looped through the handle.
The sound of her trimming the frayed nail is oddly loud in the silence. When she looks up, the lull as much a distraction as any sound, she finds herself subjected to the inquisitive eyes of Akira and Soujiroh.
"Is there something on my face?" she asks, her voice hitching with an annoyance she cannot seem to shake. When they don't so much as blink at her, she narrows her eyes, lips pursing to form words that she forgets as soon as another sound distracts her.
Down, in the cafeteria below their little roost, his voice -- loud, obnoxious and self-important in spite of his lowly station -- floats up towards her.
That damn Domyouji is talking to himself again, she thinks as she narrows her eyes. He deserves to be committed to a mental institution. It's just not normal, the way he is.
Unbidden, their encounter from the other week comes to the fore of her mind and her fingers curl around the clipper: four perfectly uniformed French Tips and one that her manicurist will need to repair.
I don't care if you know how to hold your own against guys in a fist fight. I don't hit girls even if they annoy the heck out of me. It's not manly at all.
Her jaw clenches when she hears him laugh: the fool's jokes are so lame the only one who can ever get them is him. Turning her head to one side, she catches sight of him snickering to himself as he works on another small jigsaw puzzle, not unlike the one she's heard he usually carries around.
"Tsukushi," Rui's voice draws her gaze towards her childhood best friend, his cheek resting lightly on his fisted hand. "How long has it been, since you last bit your nails?"
There is something bitter about the winter chill in New York. Domyouji Tsukasa has known cold evenings in Japan that would send a body scrambling for the nearest fire, but here in this foreign country the wind seems to bite and scratch in ways that leave him feeling frayed and worn.
He knows he should go home, maybe have dinner in the familiar confines of his family's high-rise. Even at this late hour, Chef would no doubt get out of bed and cook him up whatever his heart desires if he asked it. Instead, Tsukasa finds himself wandering down Broadway: his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his wool coat, collar turned up to keep his bare neck warm.
He isn't sure what it is that draws him in the direction that he goes. He doesn't usually wander down this side of the city, though he's driven by numerous times, chauffeured in his limousine. Bookstores just aren't his thing and it's much more convenient to order his required texts online, but when he sights the facade of Kinokuniya, something inside of him expands before settling like a familiar and comforting weight.
The lights inside the building are dark. The store is closed for the evening. Still, he wanders over, one hand leaving the warmth of his coat pocket to reach out to ghost across the frosted glass. A smile quirks on the corner of his mouth as he sights a familiar title: a newer edition of a book that had once belonged to his elder sister; one he'd scribbled over with red crayon as a child.
He doesn't see the magazine until he begins to turn away, and when he does his first thought is that while the male model is striking, it is the girl posed beside him that makes him pause. He regards that face, tilts his head and wonders for a moment what it is about the girl that roots him where he stands, but then the need to think it over passes and he steps away to head back the way he came.
It is only when Chef serves him a plate of newly-baked, warm, oatmeal cookies that it dawns upon him that beneath the smoky-eyed make-up and the porcelain look achieved by airbrushed editing, Makino is still Makino, after all.
AU; Role Reversal
She's chewed a perfect arc off her thumbnail before she realizes what she's done.
Cursing under her breath, Makino Tsukushi quickly rummages through her Hermes Picotin Lock purse for the manicure set her father had bought her for her thirteenth birthday. The nail clipper is small and handy, but it's made of the finest Sterling silver and her birth stone winks right on the tiny chain that is looped through the handle.
The sound of her trimming the frayed nail is oddly loud in the silence. When she looks up, the lull as much a distraction as any sound, she finds herself subjected to the inquisitive eyes of Akira and Soujiroh.
"Is there something on my face?" she asks, her voice hitching with an annoyance she cannot seem to shake. When they don't so much as blink at her, she narrows her eyes, lips pursing to form words that she forgets as soon as another sound distracts her.
Down, in the cafeteria below their little roost, his voice -- loud, obnoxious and self-important in spite of his lowly station -- floats up towards her.
That damn Domyouji is talking to himself again, she thinks as she narrows her eyes. He deserves to be committed to a mental institution. It's just not normal, the way he is.
Unbidden, their encounter from the other week comes to the fore of her mind and her fingers curl around the clipper: four perfectly uniformed French Tips and one that her manicurist will need to repair.
I don't care if you know how to hold your own against guys in a fist fight. I don't hit girls even if they annoy the heck out of me. It's not manly at all.
Her jaw clenches when she hears him laugh: the fool's jokes are so lame the only one who can ever get them is him. Turning her head to one side, she catches sight of him snickering to himself as he works on another small jigsaw puzzle, not unlike the one she's heard he usually carries around.
"Tsukushi," Rui's voice draws her gaze towards her childhood best friend, his cheek resting lightly on his fisted hand. "How long has it been, since you last bit your nails?"
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