[Fic] masterpiece theatre
Title: masterpiece theatre
Fandom: Crossroads (Artist AU)
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,489
Rating: T
Warning/s: --
Summary: His artworks are displayed at the small annex of a Chinese restaurant three blocks from his apartment building. | kou, tomoe, and the culmination
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: part 3 of the strange symmetry universe. thank you to miles who has graciously lent (lent???) me kou. title and cut from marianas trench's masterpiece theatre iii. #30DaysofErotica
His artwork is displayed at the small annex of a Chinese restaurant three blocks from his apartment building. It's only a two-day affair and Akiyama has to pay for all the lights and display cases but she had never seen him as intent and absorbed as he had been during the preparations. Many times he had turned her away, claiming to be busy, and on the second day of his art show when she drops by to visit - a deliberate decision she tries to disguise as an afterthought on the way home, when in fact it is five blocks out of the way - it had been three months since she had last seen him.
The elaborate braid of her hair is the afterthought.
The room is divided into two parts by a wooden partition upon which hangs several canvases of the view outside his kitchen window at night. Even from afar she can already tell what his subject had been. The paintings have his characteristic style: the heavy strokes, the dark colors. There are only two other people in this section of the room, a Chinese couple from the looks of it. She isn't sure if the smell of food is coming from them or from the restaurant: the salty tang of condiments and the sweet aroma of steamed pork buns with an overlying hint of fried rice. It reminds her that she had forgone lunch to work on her Spanish literature paper so she can free the evening for this.
She steps inside, walking in a clockwise direction around the first section of the room to view the paintings. She has to step close and squint at the details because the room is dimly-lit. His subjects are mostly still-life, some realistic depictions of landscape, the twilight skyline - all blacks, grays, dark blues and indigos. The only red he uses is a crimson stain which reminds her of the stained glass in his flat. These are elements of his art that she views with a superficial eye; in each of the paintings what she looks for is the curve of his signature containing the bold stroke of kanji, the definite arch at the last character.
She feels fulfilled when she finds it, always at the bottom right corner. It's like- this is how they would know him by; she, she has stepped into his world.
She walks into the next part of the room-
and stops.
Her hand pauses where she had been trailing her fingertips along the wooden partition.
It is a room full of paintings of her. Various poses, sometimes candid, sometimes looking at him, all with the vivid bright color of her hair thrown over one shoulder. There are a few rough sketches: penciled, charcoaled, inked, one frame containing scraps of paper torn from various notepads that had different expressions of her eyes.
Her hand flutters above her chest when she sees the canvas at the end of the room. She wanders across the floor, her steps slow, drawn towards it like she's walking in a dream. Up close and she can see the intricate details on the painting, her hair long and light and heavy, the hollow of her throat, the shadows beneath the curve of her breasts. It is the painting he had done the first time she came to his apartment. In the canvas, her chin is slightly tipped up in a subtle challenge. Her eyes are resolute, intent.
The afternoon light limns her outline as if she is surrounded by fire.
"What do you think." The whisper ghosts over the skin of her neck, a warm barely-there caress.
She turns her head and is startled by the sudden stark realization that she has never seen him outside his apartment. It had always been Akiyama in the confines of his kitchen, with the stained fingertips, the wooden color palette, the button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He is wearing a button-down now but the image is disjointed and out-of-focus, as if he is somewhere he doesn't belong.
"These are…" she raises her hand in a vague gesture.
The Chinese couple steps out of the room and it is just the two of them.
"Intense. These are intense."
He exhales through his nose, the corners of his lips quirking up.
He doesn't need to invite her back to his apartment; she follows him wordlessly.
They do not have Chinese take-out. They do not have dinner. Her stomach rumbles as she strides across the checkered kitchen floor, sliding her bag off her shoulder and laying it on the ground. The strap of her shirt slips and before she can pull it back up, she catches a glimpse of Akiyama staring at her intently, at her shoulder, at the strap, and experimentally she drags it across her skin, slow and deliberate.
His eyes travel the expanse of her neck, the angle of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, and then meets her gaze. They are intent, and burning.
She imagines his paint-stained fingertips, closing her eyes to remember the way he held the paintbrush and swept its bristles against the arch of her hipbone. She glides the flat of her palm beneath her navel, her thumb catching the hem of her shirt and dragging it up the plane of her stomach. It rests beneath the underwire of her brassiere and she turns her head to rest her chin on her shoulder, a pose he could paint later on.
She tugs the hem of her tank top up, a drawn-out trajectory up the curve of her spine. He watches, sitting there on the lone dining chair in the kitchen, as she draws the shirt across the pale expanse of her arms, over her head. She carefully, purposefully folds the clothing and places it beside her bag on the floor.
She exhales and coasts her palm down her chest, her stomach, to the buttons of her jeans. Single-handedly flicks it off and pulls down the zipper, loud in the deafening silence that has settled over them. Akiyama rests an elbow on his knee and leans his chin on a propped-up loose fist. She cannot read his eyes and it gives her a thrill of pleasure, the danger of the unknown. They are alone and he can do anything to her and she is inviting him to.
She feels graceful as she slides the pants down her thighs, her calves, bending down with an arched back, slipping it off her ankle, her heel, one foot then the next - elegant even as she takes them off in a way she had always taken them off before him, perfunctory, functional. Except this time this is her art and she is letting him see her bare legs, the scars below her navel, the shadows at her wrists. He has already seen the crevices of her body and has perused her light and darkness for his canvas, but as he unmakes her and creates her in his image she finds herself too and this is what she shows him, down to her undergarments in the harsh lighting of his kitchen.
Here, she feels more honest naked than clothed.
She opens her eyes, turns her head, and looks at him.
His fist curls tighter, the knuckles standing out on his skin.
It is easy to reach behind her and undo the clasps of her brassiere, to rest her arms by her sides and let the straps fall down her arms. It is joined by her panties, which she tugs down with her forefinger hooked to the garter.
She cups one palm over her mouth - No words - and with her other reaches up to removes the pins from her braid, one piece at a time, locks of her hair falling loose across her shoulders until she takes the band holding it all together and the weight of her hair cascades down her back - long and heavy.
She drops her hands, breathing hard through her parted lips, standing in front of him as bare as all the other times and yet different somehow - in the slight upward quirk of her mouth, in the half-mast set of her eyes.
She looks at him beneath her lashes, and smiles.
He watches her display, watching, only watching, his gaze searing across her skin, each line and curve and plane committed to memory, devouring her image, until he can paint her even in the darkness behind his closed eyelids.
But later.
Later.
Now, he stands up and walks across the room and when he is beside her, his shoulder beside her chin, his legs beside her legs, his breath ghosting across her temple, he reaches out and for the first time -
For the first time-
she feels his bare skin as he slithers his knuckles down the line of her spine.
part 3 of 3
So here's another day, I'll spend away from you,
Another night I'm on another broken avenue,
Trading in who I've been for shiny celebrity skin
I like to push until my luck is over
I wonder what you're doing,
I wonder if you doubt it.
I wonder how we used to ever go so long without it.
All the work to impress, charming girls out
(I thought you wanted me)
Of their dresses and smiling pretty and pretty
(I thought you wanted me)
I'm right beside you,
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
I'll make this perfect again.
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
If I burn out and slip away,
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
you're beautiful, you are
I've been here so very long and I could slip into you,
It's so easy to come back into you,
I'll hide it, could I hide in you awhile.
I'm not sick of you yet, is that as good as it gets.
I never took you for a trip but sometimes
I don't know what you want, I could take it
If you need to take this out on someone.
If this is just a part I portray,
I don't know how it got this way
Masterpiece Theatre III | Marianas Trench
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/18118.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: Crossroads (Artist AU)
Characters: Akiyama Kou, Yomohiro Tomoe | Kou/Tomoe
Word Count: 1,489
Rating: T
Warning/s: --
Summary: His artworks are displayed at the small annex of a Chinese restaurant three blocks from his apartment building. | kou, tomoe, and the culmination
Disclaimer: Kou is Miles'!
Notes: part 3 of the strange symmetry universe. thank you to miles who has graciously lent (lent???) me kou. title and cut from marianas trench's masterpiece theatre iii. #30DaysofErotica
His artwork is displayed at the small annex of a Chinese restaurant three blocks from his apartment building. It's only a two-day affair and Akiyama has to pay for all the lights and display cases but she had never seen him as intent and absorbed as he had been during the preparations. Many times he had turned her away, claiming to be busy, and on the second day of his art show when she drops by to visit - a deliberate decision she tries to disguise as an afterthought on the way home, when in fact it is five blocks out of the way - it had been three months since she had last seen him.
The elaborate braid of her hair is the afterthought.
The room is divided into two parts by a wooden partition upon which hangs several canvases of the view outside his kitchen window at night. Even from afar she can already tell what his subject had been. The paintings have his characteristic style: the heavy strokes, the dark colors. There are only two other people in this section of the room, a Chinese couple from the looks of it. She isn't sure if the smell of food is coming from them or from the restaurant: the salty tang of condiments and the sweet aroma of steamed pork buns with an overlying hint of fried rice. It reminds her that she had forgone lunch to work on her Spanish literature paper so she can free the evening for this.
She steps inside, walking in a clockwise direction around the first section of the room to view the paintings. She has to step close and squint at the details because the room is dimly-lit. His subjects are mostly still-life, some realistic depictions of landscape, the twilight skyline - all blacks, grays, dark blues and indigos. The only red he uses is a crimson stain which reminds her of the stained glass in his flat. These are elements of his art that she views with a superficial eye; in each of the paintings what she looks for is the curve of his signature containing the bold stroke of kanji, the definite arch at the last character.
She feels fulfilled when she finds it, always at the bottom right corner. It's like- this is how they would know him by; she, she has stepped into his world.
She walks into the next part of the room-
and stops.
Her hand pauses where she had been trailing her fingertips along the wooden partition.
It is a room full of paintings of her. Various poses, sometimes candid, sometimes looking at him, all with the vivid bright color of her hair thrown over one shoulder. There are a few rough sketches: penciled, charcoaled, inked, one frame containing scraps of paper torn from various notepads that had different expressions of her eyes.
Her hand flutters above her chest when she sees the canvas at the end of the room. She wanders across the floor, her steps slow, drawn towards it like she's walking in a dream. Up close and she can see the intricate details on the painting, her hair long and light and heavy, the hollow of her throat, the shadows beneath the curve of her breasts. It is the painting he had done the first time she came to his apartment. In the canvas, her chin is slightly tipped up in a subtle challenge. Her eyes are resolute, intent.
The afternoon light limns her outline as if she is surrounded by fire.
"What do you think." The whisper ghosts over the skin of her neck, a warm barely-there caress.
She turns her head and is startled by the sudden stark realization that she has never seen him outside his apartment. It had always been Akiyama in the confines of his kitchen, with the stained fingertips, the wooden color palette, the button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He is wearing a button-down now but the image is disjointed and out-of-focus, as if he is somewhere he doesn't belong.
"These are…" she raises her hand in a vague gesture.
The Chinese couple steps out of the room and it is just the two of them.
"Intense. These are intense."
He exhales through his nose, the corners of his lips quirking up.
He doesn't need to invite her back to his apartment; she follows him wordlessly.
They do not have Chinese take-out. They do not have dinner. Her stomach rumbles as she strides across the checkered kitchen floor, sliding her bag off her shoulder and laying it on the ground. The strap of her shirt slips and before she can pull it back up, she catches a glimpse of Akiyama staring at her intently, at her shoulder, at the strap, and experimentally she drags it across her skin, slow and deliberate.
His eyes travel the expanse of her neck, the angle of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, and then meets her gaze. They are intent, and burning.
She imagines his paint-stained fingertips, closing her eyes to remember the way he held the paintbrush and swept its bristles against the arch of her hipbone. She glides the flat of her palm beneath her navel, her thumb catching the hem of her shirt and dragging it up the plane of her stomach. It rests beneath the underwire of her brassiere and she turns her head to rest her chin on her shoulder, a pose he could paint later on.
She tugs the hem of her tank top up, a drawn-out trajectory up the curve of her spine. He watches, sitting there on the lone dining chair in the kitchen, as she draws the shirt across the pale expanse of her arms, over her head. She carefully, purposefully folds the clothing and places it beside her bag on the floor.
She exhales and coasts her palm down her chest, her stomach, to the buttons of her jeans. Single-handedly flicks it off and pulls down the zipper, loud in the deafening silence that has settled over them. Akiyama rests an elbow on his knee and leans his chin on a propped-up loose fist. She cannot read his eyes and it gives her a thrill of pleasure, the danger of the unknown. They are alone and he can do anything to her and she is inviting him to.
She feels graceful as she slides the pants down her thighs, her calves, bending down with an arched back, slipping it off her ankle, her heel, one foot then the next - elegant even as she takes them off in a way she had always taken them off before him, perfunctory, functional. Except this time this is her art and she is letting him see her bare legs, the scars below her navel, the shadows at her wrists. He has already seen the crevices of her body and has perused her light and darkness for his canvas, but as he unmakes her and creates her in his image she finds herself too and this is what she shows him, down to her undergarments in the harsh lighting of his kitchen.
Here, she feels more honest naked than clothed.
She opens her eyes, turns her head, and looks at him.
His fist curls tighter, the knuckles standing out on his skin.
It is easy to reach behind her and undo the clasps of her brassiere, to rest her arms by her sides and let the straps fall down her arms. It is joined by her panties, which she tugs down with her forefinger hooked to the garter.
She cups one palm over her mouth - No words - and with her other reaches up to removes the pins from her braid, one piece at a time, locks of her hair falling loose across her shoulders until she takes the band holding it all together and the weight of her hair cascades down her back - long and heavy.
She drops her hands, breathing hard through her parted lips, standing in front of him as bare as all the other times and yet different somehow - in the slight upward quirk of her mouth, in the half-mast set of her eyes.
She looks at him beneath her lashes, and smiles.
He watches her display, watching, only watching, his gaze searing across her skin, each line and curve and plane committed to memory, devouring her image, until he can paint her even in the darkness behind his closed eyelids.
But later.
Later.
Now, he stands up and walks across the room and when he is beside her, his shoulder beside her chin, his legs beside her legs, his breath ghosting across her temple, he reaches out and for the first time -
For the first time-
she feels his bare skin as he slithers his knuckles down the line of her spine.
part 3 of 3
So here's another day, I'll spend away from you,
Another night I'm on another broken avenue,
Trading in who I've been for shiny celebrity skin
I like to push until my luck is over
I wonder what you're doing,
I wonder if you doubt it.
I wonder how we used to ever go so long without it.
All the work to impress, charming girls out
(I thought you wanted me)
Of their dresses and smiling pretty and pretty
(I thought you wanted me)
I'm right beside you,
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
I'll make this perfect again.
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
If I burn out and slip away,
(what you want what you need)
(I thought you wanted me)
you're beautiful, you are
I've been here so very long and I could slip into you,
It's so easy to come back into you,
I'll hide it, could I hide in you awhile.
I'm not sick of you yet, is that as good as it gets.
I never took you for a trip but sometimes
I don't know what you want, I could take it
If you need to take this out on someone.
If this is just a part I portray,
I don't know how it got this way
Masterpiece Theatre III | Marianas Trench
This entry was originally posted at http://quadrantal.dreamwidth.org/18118.html. Please comment there using OpenID.