[Fic] le petit mort, part i
People, when you have no life and a million WiPs to indulge, and you can't seem to wrap up a story, the solution is not to give up! Oh no, the solution is to cut it up into little pieces so you'll have one more multi-chaptered project breathing down your neck *face-palms*
Title: le petit mort
Rating: R
Pairing: Soubi/Ritsuka
Summary: After four years apart, Soubi finds Ritsuka again, but things are not exactly how he remembers them. A futurefic with a dash of dark humor.
Disclaimer: Loveless belongs to Kouga Yun. Chapter title and quotes are taken from Verlaine's poems.
le petit mort
- - - - - - - - - - - -
i. ô triste, triste était mon âme
- - - - - - - - - - - -
"O vraiment maratre Nature,
Puisqu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusqu'au soir!"
Pierre de Ronsard, "Ode a Cassandre"
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The funny thing is, Soubi never even took Ritsuka's ears.
Not for lack of trying. There simply wasn't enough time, between the mess with Ritsu-sensei and Nagisa and Seimei's metaphorical rise from the grave (only to go plummeting back; the worms must miss him, Soubi decided). Once the whole sorry ordeal had blown itself over, Ritsuka's mother lost no time in snatching him up and running, disappearing without so much as a wrinkle in the water. Soubi didn't find out about this until much later, laid-up in the hospital as he was with three broken limbs and a severe concussion (some people just wouldn't go down without a fight), and by the time he was discharged, a butterfly-stickered cell phone left on his bedside table was the only proof that he had ever known Ritsuka at all.
He made inquiries at the school, but no one among the staff seemed to know where the remnants of the Aoyagi family had drifted away to. Yuiko cried awfully-long heart-broken sobs muffled into his shirt collars-because Ritsuka had left without saying goodbye, and Soubi took it as his cue to leave when Hitomi-sensei began shooting furtively sympathetic looks his way. He would not be the object of their pity.
Ritsuka's therapist was better-informed but resolutely tight-lipped regarding the whereabouts of her former patient, claiming it to be against her ethics as a medical practitioner. Soubi politely quenched the urge to enlighten her on where he personally felt she may stick those ethics of hers. He thought all shrinks were not much more than professional frauds anyway.
Eventually, he conceded defeat and tried instead to pick up the pieces of his life, but it wasn't much of one. He learned this one morning when he woke with a screaming headache to the sight of Kio bawling and compulsively stuffing his clothing into two brown suitcases, telling Soubi that he was a mess, a mess made of quicksand, and that Kio was getting out of there before he sucked him under. Soubi, hung-over at the time, remembers saying something along the line that Kio was just sour and jealous from being rejected, to which Kio retorted quote unquote that sure he was jealous, madly jealous of Soubi's steady relationship with that tall, dark, and handsome Jack Daniel, anyways, he was sick and tired of cleaning up after Soubi and see how he'd like it taking care of himself for a change.
It wasn't until after the door had slammed and Soubi had washed down a mouthful of aspirin with half a bottle of vodka did he realize that Kio was right.
Je suis plus pauvre que jamais.
He decided then to turn over a new leaf, starting with the pride-swallowing decision to commit himself into a local rehabilitation center. For about two years, he drifted back and forth between rehab and university. He never quite managed to kick his habit, but still graduated after three years with mediocre grades and a degree in Design and Fine Arts. And after awhile, even Kio came crawling back, because the thing about Agatsuma Soubi was that even though he was a living catastrophe, he was also a beautiful catastrophe, and always cleaned up real nice.
The year following his graduation was rough, mainly due to the fact that he was broke 95 percent of the time and also struggling with the metaphysical task of finding the ever-elusive meaning of his life. His art was neither traditional nor controversial enough to make money off of, and Soubi wasn't sure he could stand another three years of incarceration in the ivory tower of academia, so graduate programs were out of the question.
Instead, he spent five months wandering around in a premature mid-life crisis, skirting dangerously close to falling off the wagon territory, until he got a call from one of his former professors (the one who'd always used to say that Soubi's works had something of Monet's flair; it was a lie, but he'd still appreciated hearing it). The woman informed him that she wanted to refer him to a teaching position at the National University of Fine Arts and Music in Tokyo.
It was as good an option as any, and the money was a nice incentive.
So he packed up his art books (but not his brushes or easels: those he'd burned the night after his last exam), kissed Kio goodbye (not literally), and left the posh and slightly snobbish suburbs of Yokohama for the jazzy neon lights and crazy fashion of Tokyo.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
So passed the last four years of his mostly useless life.
Soubi mulls this over while sipping appreciatively at his Screwdriver and wincing at the bad techno music blaring in the background. The Shibuya nightclub he's chosen-pretentiously named "Rêve"-leaves much to be desired in the music and decor department, but at least the drinks aren't too substandard. Not at all, he thinks, savoring the bitter burn of the vodka on his tongue as it mingles with the slightly citric taste of orange juice. He hasn't touched any of the hard stuff since rehab, and drinking on his first night in Tokyo isn't exactly the prime way to kick off his new life, but he desperately needs something to keep at bay the thoughts of all those unopened cardboard boxes still clutttering the linoleum floor of his empty new apartment.
He'll stop shy of coming into lecture tomorrow morning with a hangover though. There are some things a teacher can't get away with, even if said teacher happens to teach Arts and is also a young and attractive college graduate.
The young and attractive part, he notes with a smirk, is reaffirmed as a group of nubile, scantily-clad clubbers of mixed genders meander past and flick smoldering, drunkenly-glazed eyes at him hopefully. Sorry darlings, not tonight, I have a lecture to prepare later. The thought sends him sniggering into his cocktail. Barely twenty-four, and he's already acting like an old man. God.
The drunken hopefuls give up on their vain pursuit and proceed to move down the bar towards some other pretty young thing dressed in leather. Soubi takes another sip of his drink, then nearly spits it out in surprise. Is it just the filtered light, or does that pretty young thing in leather look disturbingly familiar? He squints in an attempt to see through the thick mist of faux fog wafting up from the dance floor, and nearly falls off his stool when he gets a good look at his bar companion.
Avant que tu ne t'en ailles.
The same flyaway dark hair. The same soulful blue eyes. The same pale, narrow face, albeit heavily smeared with glitter and kohl. There, before Soubi's disbelieving eyes-sans ears and tails-is the one and only Aoyagi Ritsuka.
Or perhaps not. For one thing, Soubi doesn't remember the Ritsuka of four years ago being so fond of purple lipstick, nor did he ever see such a winsome, simpering smile grace the young man's lips during the entirety of their brief acquaintance. Presently, a wiry and muscular man in an off-white wife-beater with a huge gold signet ring sidles up next to Ritsuka at the bar and offers to buy him a drink. Soubi puts down his glass just in time to see Ritsuka let out a peal of coquettish laughter and swing a shapely leather-clad thigh over the barstool to rub his knee against Signet Ring's, hooking his fingers into the other man's belt.
And that's as far as Soubi knows, because in the next moment, his fist has connected with Signet Ring's bottom jaw, dislocating it neatly with a sharp crunch. It is the first time he's had to use his Fighter's strength since the fiasco of four years before. The release is kind of intoxicating.
As the man goes down, Soubi swiftly grabs hold of Ritsuka's wrist and uses it to haul him out of the club, throwing his money down on the counter. The bartender regards them with indifferent eyes, his drink-mixing hands not pausing for a second, as if he witnessed such brawling everyday.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ritsuka protests loudly, straining against Soubi's grasp. Now that's the perpetually annoyed brat he knows and (hypothetically) loves. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
Soubi releases Ritsuka's wrist when they reach the pavement, and turns to face him.
"Soubi?"
"So you do remember."
Ritsuka's eyes grow round as saucers, the crystalline blue shards of the irises glittering in the sepia-yellow light of the street lamp. Then he quirks his lips into an exultant smile and says breathlessly, "Is it really you, Soubi? It's so good to see you again!"
Will wonders never cease?
Quickly, Soubi searches Ritsuka's face for a sign of substance abuse-surely he must be drunk or high-but beneath the shiny rouge, Ritsuka's cheeks are unflushed, and his eyes are completely void of the feverish addict glint. Still lost in the haze of his bewilderment, it takes a moment for Soubi's brain to process that Ritsuka is still talking.
"…this place nearby. What do you think?"
"Come again?"
Ritsuka rolls his eyes skyward, the gesture both out of place and oddly endearing in its juvenility. "Come on!" he says, taking Soubi by the hand (Ritsuka? Initiating skin contact?) and pulling him down the street, weaving their way through the milling throngs of night prowlers.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
"I like to come here late at night," Ritsuka explains, stirring corn syrup into his espresso. "It's open around the clock, and they serve the best coffee you've ever tasted!"
Soubi nods slowly, sipping at his own cup of designer Italian beverage. The book-café Ritsuka's led them to lies in the thick of the Ginza district, a chic and understatedly stylish affair that guarantees to serve up a hefty bill on a silver platter. The ventilated air is filled with the smell of crisp new pages and the bittersweet fragrance of fresh-roast coffee beans.
Très art poétique.
Perhaps it's Soubi's imagination, but away from the brightly colored strobe lights of the nightclub, Ritsuka's make-up seems less garish somehow, the slippery purple sheen of his lipstick not so shocking, the thick mascara on his lashes no longer bleeding so heavily into his eyes. Even his (rather tasteless) leather outfit appears less conspicuous, taking on a gawkish, unassuming air, as if the boy in it is unused to wearing such provocative clothes. Then again, Soubi figures he probably shouldn't bet his life savings on that possibility.
"Really, I'm so happy to see you again," Ritsuka is saying, a bright smile plastered across his giddy face. Soubi can't help but grin a little at his palpable excitement, strange as it is. Despite the bold way-of-the-world veneer, Ritsuka's expression still holds something of the childish stubbornness Soubi first found so charming about him, and beneath that: Seimei.
He really should have known better. Of course nothing has changed, because this is Ritsuka. Drinking coffee-no, espresso in a Ginza book-café. Wearing leather.
Mon petit, he thinks, hedging a smile. What am I to do? You have somehow become the quintessential Lolita of Tokyo.
"What have you been doing all these years?" Ritsuka asks.
"I think," Soubi begins seriously, clearing his throat, "I should be the one asking that question."
Everything in the world and more, by the sound of it. After his mother took him away from Yokohama (Soubi notices Ritsuka is careful to gloss over all the details relevant to the departure), they spent a year or two moving from place to place before finally winding up in Kobe. There, his mother accepted a new job with a local real-estate firm, and Ritsuka was enrolled in a new school. His mother was a lot more stable-the new medication was doing wonders for her moods-and the two of them were well on their way to becoming a normal, happy family.
"Well, then what happened?" Soubi asks.
"I'm not quite sure myself," Ritsuka answers, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I came home from school one day and found her lying at the bottom of the stairs. She took a whole bottle of Cipramil. Didn't even leave me a note to explain why."
Soubi stares at him over the brim of his cup, at a loss for words. Ritsuka just shrugs his shoulders delicately. "This was about a year ago."
"What did you do then?"
"Not much," Ritsuka says. "I finished my last year of high school in Kobe, graduated a year early, and won full scholarship to the University of Tokyo. That's where I go now! I'm studying Philosophy and Classical Literature."
His father still sends him child-support, which is how Soubi figures he can manage to finance his expensive lifestyle. But why then, in the name of all that is holy and decent, did Ritsuka not move in with his father after his mother's death?
"Don't think that hasn't occurred to me once or seventeen times. I just didn't feel comfortable about it," Ritsuka says by way of explanation. "He has a new family, a wife and two kids-girls. They live in Paris now. He sent me a picture of my half-sisters last year. They're disgustingly cute."
They sit in silence for a good long minute, drinking their coffee without looking at each other. Ritsuka rubs absently at his waxen wrist where, Soubi notices with a pang, there is a ring of red imprint in the shape of long fingers. The moment passes, and Soubi can no longer hold back the question he's been meaning to ask since he spotted Ritsuka earlier in the night.
"What was going on back there?"
Ritsuka's eyes widen in what may have been genuine surprise. "What do you mean?"
Soubi suddenly wishes he could bury his face in his hands, and settles instead for massaging his temples. "You. In the club."
"Oh," replies Ritsuka. "That."
"Yes, that. How did you even get in? I wasn't aware that bars in Tokyo serve alcohol to minors."
"They don't," says Ritsuka mischievously. "But I never have to buy my own drinks."
Apparently, nobody cards you when you look that good in skin-tight pants either.
"What were you trying to do anyway?" Soubi asks, growing impatient.
Ritsuka stares at him in incomprehension. "Just having some fun. Really, Soubi, you overreacted back there."
Soubi opens his mouth to argue (overreacted?), but Ritsuka promptly cuts him off, "Anyway, where do you live in Tokyo? Can I come over sometime? I live in the university dorm and it's horribly boring! Do you want to visit my school--"
And just like that, Soubi knows he will get no closer to deciphering the riddle that night.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
-à suivre-
>> part ii
Title: le petit mort
Rating: R
Pairing: Soubi/Ritsuka
Summary: After four years apart, Soubi finds Ritsuka again, but things are not exactly how he remembers them. A futurefic with a dash of dark humor.
Disclaimer: Loveless belongs to Kouga Yun. Chapter title and quotes are taken from Verlaine's poems.
le petit mort
- - - - - - - - - - - -
i. ô triste, triste était mon âme
- - - - - - - - - - - -
"O vraiment maratre Nature,
Puisqu'une telle fleur ne dure
Que du matin jusqu'au soir!"
Pierre de Ronsard, "Ode a Cassandre"
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The funny thing is, Soubi never even took Ritsuka's ears.
Not for lack of trying. There simply wasn't enough time, between the mess with Ritsu-sensei and Nagisa and Seimei's metaphorical rise from the grave (only to go plummeting back; the worms must miss him, Soubi decided). Once the whole sorry ordeal had blown itself over, Ritsuka's mother lost no time in snatching him up and running, disappearing without so much as a wrinkle in the water. Soubi didn't find out about this until much later, laid-up in the hospital as he was with three broken limbs and a severe concussion (some people just wouldn't go down without a fight), and by the time he was discharged, a butterfly-stickered cell phone left on his bedside table was the only proof that he had ever known Ritsuka at all.
He made inquiries at the school, but no one among the staff seemed to know where the remnants of the Aoyagi family had drifted away to. Yuiko cried awfully-long heart-broken sobs muffled into his shirt collars-because Ritsuka had left without saying goodbye, and Soubi took it as his cue to leave when Hitomi-sensei began shooting furtively sympathetic looks his way. He would not be the object of their pity.
Ritsuka's therapist was better-informed but resolutely tight-lipped regarding the whereabouts of her former patient, claiming it to be against her ethics as a medical practitioner. Soubi politely quenched the urge to enlighten her on where he personally felt she may stick those ethics of hers. He thought all shrinks were not much more than professional frauds anyway.
Eventually, he conceded defeat and tried instead to pick up the pieces of his life, but it wasn't much of one. He learned this one morning when he woke with a screaming headache to the sight of Kio bawling and compulsively stuffing his clothing into two brown suitcases, telling Soubi that he was a mess, a mess made of quicksand, and that Kio was getting out of there before he sucked him under. Soubi, hung-over at the time, remembers saying something along the line that Kio was just sour and jealous from being rejected, to which Kio retorted quote unquote that sure he was jealous, madly jealous of Soubi's steady relationship with that tall, dark, and handsome Jack Daniel, anyways, he was sick and tired of cleaning up after Soubi and see how he'd like it taking care of himself for a change.
It wasn't until after the door had slammed and Soubi had washed down a mouthful of aspirin with half a bottle of vodka did he realize that Kio was right.
Je suis plus pauvre que jamais.
He decided then to turn over a new leaf, starting with the pride-swallowing decision to commit himself into a local rehabilitation center. For about two years, he drifted back and forth between rehab and university. He never quite managed to kick his habit, but still graduated after three years with mediocre grades and a degree in Design and Fine Arts. And after awhile, even Kio came crawling back, because the thing about Agatsuma Soubi was that even though he was a living catastrophe, he was also a beautiful catastrophe, and always cleaned up real nice.
The year following his graduation was rough, mainly due to the fact that he was broke 95 percent of the time and also struggling with the metaphysical task of finding the ever-elusive meaning of his life. His art was neither traditional nor controversial enough to make money off of, and Soubi wasn't sure he could stand another three years of incarceration in the ivory tower of academia, so graduate programs were out of the question.
Instead, he spent five months wandering around in a premature mid-life crisis, skirting dangerously close to falling off the wagon territory, until he got a call from one of his former professors (the one who'd always used to say that Soubi's works had something of Monet's flair; it was a lie, but he'd still appreciated hearing it). The woman informed him that she wanted to refer him to a teaching position at the National University of Fine Arts and Music in Tokyo.
It was as good an option as any, and the money was a nice incentive.
So he packed up his art books (but not his brushes or easels: those he'd burned the night after his last exam), kissed Kio goodbye (not literally), and left the posh and slightly snobbish suburbs of Yokohama for the jazzy neon lights and crazy fashion of Tokyo.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
So passed the last four years of his mostly useless life.
Soubi mulls this over while sipping appreciatively at his Screwdriver and wincing at the bad techno music blaring in the background. The Shibuya nightclub he's chosen-pretentiously named "Rêve"-leaves much to be desired in the music and decor department, but at least the drinks aren't too substandard. Not at all, he thinks, savoring the bitter burn of the vodka on his tongue as it mingles with the slightly citric taste of orange juice. He hasn't touched any of the hard stuff since rehab, and drinking on his first night in Tokyo isn't exactly the prime way to kick off his new life, but he desperately needs something to keep at bay the thoughts of all those unopened cardboard boxes still clutttering the linoleum floor of his empty new apartment.
He'll stop shy of coming into lecture tomorrow morning with a hangover though. There are some things a teacher can't get away with, even if said teacher happens to teach Arts and is also a young and attractive college graduate.
The young and attractive part, he notes with a smirk, is reaffirmed as a group of nubile, scantily-clad clubbers of mixed genders meander past and flick smoldering, drunkenly-glazed eyes at him hopefully. Sorry darlings, not tonight, I have a lecture to prepare later. The thought sends him sniggering into his cocktail. Barely twenty-four, and he's already acting like an old man. God.
The drunken hopefuls give up on their vain pursuit and proceed to move down the bar towards some other pretty young thing dressed in leather. Soubi takes another sip of his drink, then nearly spits it out in surprise. Is it just the filtered light, or does that pretty young thing in leather look disturbingly familiar? He squints in an attempt to see through the thick mist of faux fog wafting up from the dance floor, and nearly falls off his stool when he gets a good look at his bar companion.
Avant que tu ne t'en ailles.
The same flyaway dark hair. The same soulful blue eyes. The same pale, narrow face, albeit heavily smeared with glitter and kohl. There, before Soubi's disbelieving eyes-sans ears and tails-is the one and only Aoyagi Ritsuka.
Or perhaps not. For one thing, Soubi doesn't remember the Ritsuka of four years ago being so fond of purple lipstick, nor did he ever see such a winsome, simpering smile grace the young man's lips during the entirety of their brief acquaintance. Presently, a wiry and muscular man in an off-white wife-beater with a huge gold signet ring sidles up next to Ritsuka at the bar and offers to buy him a drink. Soubi puts down his glass just in time to see Ritsuka let out a peal of coquettish laughter and swing a shapely leather-clad thigh over the barstool to rub his knee against Signet Ring's, hooking his fingers into the other man's belt.
And that's as far as Soubi knows, because in the next moment, his fist has connected with Signet Ring's bottom jaw, dislocating it neatly with a sharp crunch. It is the first time he's had to use his Fighter's strength since the fiasco of four years before. The release is kind of intoxicating.
As the man goes down, Soubi swiftly grabs hold of Ritsuka's wrist and uses it to haul him out of the club, throwing his money down on the counter. The bartender regards them with indifferent eyes, his drink-mixing hands not pausing for a second, as if he witnessed such brawling everyday.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ritsuka protests loudly, straining against Soubi's grasp. Now that's the perpetually annoyed brat he knows and (hypothetically) loves. "Who the hell are you anyway?"
Soubi releases Ritsuka's wrist when they reach the pavement, and turns to face him.
"Soubi?"
"So you do remember."
Ritsuka's eyes grow round as saucers, the crystalline blue shards of the irises glittering in the sepia-yellow light of the street lamp. Then he quirks his lips into an exultant smile and says breathlessly, "Is it really you, Soubi? It's so good to see you again!"
Will wonders never cease?
Quickly, Soubi searches Ritsuka's face for a sign of substance abuse-surely he must be drunk or high-but beneath the shiny rouge, Ritsuka's cheeks are unflushed, and his eyes are completely void of the feverish addict glint. Still lost in the haze of his bewilderment, it takes a moment for Soubi's brain to process that Ritsuka is still talking.
"…this place nearby. What do you think?"
"Come again?"
Ritsuka rolls his eyes skyward, the gesture both out of place and oddly endearing in its juvenility. "Come on!" he says, taking Soubi by the hand (Ritsuka? Initiating skin contact?) and pulling him down the street, weaving their way through the milling throngs of night prowlers.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
"I like to come here late at night," Ritsuka explains, stirring corn syrup into his espresso. "It's open around the clock, and they serve the best coffee you've ever tasted!"
Soubi nods slowly, sipping at his own cup of designer Italian beverage. The book-café Ritsuka's led them to lies in the thick of the Ginza district, a chic and understatedly stylish affair that guarantees to serve up a hefty bill on a silver platter. The ventilated air is filled with the smell of crisp new pages and the bittersweet fragrance of fresh-roast coffee beans.
Très art poétique.
Perhaps it's Soubi's imagination, but away from the brightly colored strobe lights of the nightclub, Ritsuka's make-up seems less garish somehow, the slippery purple sheen of his lipstick not so shocking, the thick mascara on his lashes no longer bleeding so heavily into his eyes. Even his (rather tasteless) leather outfit appears less conspicuous, taking on a gawkish, unassuming air, as if the boy in it is unused to wearing such provocative clothes. Then again, Soubi figures he probably shouldn't bet his life savings on that possibility.
"Really, I'm so happy to see you again," Ritsuka is saying, a bright smile plastered across his giddy face. Soubi can't help but grin a little at his palpable excitement, strange as it is. Despite the bold way-of-the-world veneer, Ritsuka's expression still holds something of the childish stubbornness Soubi first found so charming about him, and beneath that: Seimei.
He really should have known better. Of course nothing has changed, because this is Ritsuka. Drinking coffee-no, espresso in a Ginza book-café. Wearing leather.
Mon petit, he thinks, hedging a smile. What am I to do? You have somehow become the quintessential Lolita of Tokyo.
"What have you been doing all these years?" Ritsuka asks.
"I think," Soubi begins seriously, clearing his throat, "I should be the one asking that question."
Everything in the world and more, by the sound of it. After his mother took him away from Yokohama (Soubi notices Ritsuka is careful to gloss over all the details relevant to the departure), they spent a year or two moving from place to place before finally winding up in Kobe. There, his mother accepted a new job with a local real-estate firm, and Ritsuka was enrolled in a new school. His mother was a lot more stable-the new medication was doing wonders for her moods-and the two of them were well on their way to becoming a normal, happy family.
"Well, then what happened?" Soubi asks.
"I'm not quite sure myself," Ritsuka answers, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I came home from school one day and found her lying at the bottom of the stairs. She took a whole bottle of Cipramil. Didn't even leave me a note to explain why."
Soubi stares at him over the brim of his cup, at a loss for words. Ritsuka just shrugs his shoulders delicately. "This was about a year ago."
"What did you do then?"
"Not much," Ritsuka says. "I finished my last year of high school in Kobe, graduated a year early, and won full scholarship to the University of Tokyo. That's where I go now! I'm studying Philosophy and Classical Literature."
His father still sends him child-support, which is how Soubi figures he can manage to finance his expensive lifestyle. But why then, in the name of all that is holy and decent, did Ritsuka not move in with his father after his mother's death?
"Don't think that hasn't occurred to me once or seventeen times. I just didn't feel comfortable about it," Ritsuka says by way of explanation. "He has a new family, a wife and two kids-girls. They live in Paris now. He sent me a picture of my half-sisters last year. They're disgustingly cute."
They sit in silence for a good long minute, drinking their coffee without looking at each other. Ritsuka rubs absently at his waxen wrist where, Soubi notices with a pang, there is a ring of red imprint in the shape of long fingers. The moment passes, and Soubi can no longer hold back the question he's been meaning to ask since he spotted Ritsuka earlier in the night.
"What was going on back there?"
Ritsuka's eyes widen in what may have been genuine surprise. "What do you mean?"
Soubi suddenly wishes he could bury his face in his hands, and settles instead for massaging his temples. "You. In the club."
"Oh," replies Ritsuka. "That."
"Yes, that. How did you even get in? I wasn't aware that bars in Tokyo serve alcohol to minors."
"They don't," says Ritsuka mischievously. "But I never have to buy my own drinks."
Apparently, nobody cards you when you look that good in skin-tight pants either.
"What were you trying to do anyway?" Soubi asks, growing impatient.
Ritsuka stares at him in incomprehension. "Just having some fun. Really, Soubi, you overreacted back there."
Soubi opens his mouth to argue (overreacted?), but Ritsuka promptly cuts him off, "Anyway, where do you live in Tokyo? Can I come over sometime? I live in the university dorm and it's horribly boring! Do you want to visit my school--"
And just like that, Soubi knows he will get no closer to deciphering the riddle that night.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
-à suivre-
>> part ii