[Akame] Addiction
Title: Addiction
Author: seiyoku
Rating: R
Genre: angsty retrospective slutty ficlet
Warnings: Drug references, sexual references, swearing
Pairings: Akame
Disclaimers: Hell used to belong to Satan; and then Kat-tun took over.
Authors notes: Weee! They are rockstars! Let's give 'em booze and drugs cause it makes for great fanfic plot bunnies.
Dedicated to my dear zurui_koi. Happy Birthday! We need to go clubbing!
Summary: Drink after drink; shot of tequila and shot of absinthe and then back to the start. Loops and circles, vicious and never ending and Kame would be a shaking, pleading mess by the end of it. Eyes sunken and knees trembling, he'd lick at parched lips and watch tendrils of smoke roll from the depths of that mouth he craved so much.
*****
Jin was like a drug. He came on slow; a glance; a smirk; a wink. It left you feeling that you'd been jibbed and that someone had slipped you a handful of stamped aspirin instead of the real thing. There was that moment where you were angry that you paid good yen for the shit placebos and the idea of storming out in search of the dodgy dealer came to mind. A moment of hate and fear, where you weren't too sure if you wanted to make the scene or not.
Forget about it. Forget about him.
Then, just like any party pill, Jin hit. It was like fire in your blood, scorching and boiling and threatening to explode. Dry mouth. Shaking hands. Throbbing legs. Weak knees. The need to curl up into a ball and never move again mixed with the overwhelming desire to just move. To sway to the beat; to bounce on the spot; to scratch at the fucking walls until someone gave you what you needed.
Akanishi Jin.
Time after time, hit after hit and Jin had you. Stuck and trapped and scratching at your arm while begging for another fix. Wiping your nose and sniffing self consciously while being unable to sit still. Eyes roaming over everything and seeing nothing while heavy limbs struggle to bring burning paper to lips.
And through it all, the need to dance, to follow and watch and to fucking pop another one to intensify that rush.
Feel it for days.
Never come down.
Maybe that was why Kame couldn't see right now. The bathroom was blurring around him, the bright light stinging his eyes and making salty water leak from the corners. Not crying. No. It was just the light burning itself into the back of his brain, searing and scorching white hot lines of pain that cut through any attempted thought.
Kame didn't cry, at least not in the teary, emotional way. He cried out loud at times, his voice deep and shouting for more or demanding like a diva. In pleasure he called out at the top of his lungs, screaming and panting out his needs and wants and when he was smashed and fucked off his face, he'd curl in the bottom of his shower, the cold water swallowing the sounds of his emotions while he shook and twitched with the aftershock.
Fingers clawing at tiles.
But when it came to emotions, there was no crying, no tears and no outward expression.
So then why was he having trouble staying out there with the others? He asked himself that over and over again, struggling to find the answer within his own mind as his hands pressed in on the white porcelain of the washbasin. It brought his face closer to the glass and Kame hated what he saw. Hollow eyes, splotchy skin and sunken cheeks.
He felt like an idiot hiding out in the bathroom. His scattered mind made an unlikely jump to a similar scene he'd done for a drama once. His character nervous and confused, trying to work out what mask to put in place before facing his own fate. Crowds. Questions. Eyes searching and Kame watched himself shiver in the mirror.
Life imitated art and then art mocked the fucking shit out of life. If this wasn't a proverbial slap to the face then Kame didn't know what was.
Dragging in a deep breath, Kame rubbed his hands under his eyes and pressed in on the dark bags that coloured the skin. He looked like shit and he knew it.
Booze, cigarettes, girls and secret touches stolen in the flashing colours of club lights.
The fluorescent globe above him seemed to flicker at the memory and it set Kame's teeth on edge. His jaw clenched, his eyes squinted and before he knew it, he was dragging his hands up the side of his face and pushing his fingers messily into his own hair. Said fingers grabbed at the strands, twisting and pulling until his bangs were out of his face and yanked into a messy, hand held bun at the back of his head.
His eyes closed and still that light burnt. It flashed in time with a beat that his body knew; something that was almost primal. A reaction that his mind had nothing at all to do with and with his hands in his hair and his eyes closed, Kame felt - fucking watched in some outer body experience - as his hips and shoulders ever so subtly swung to the sound that only he could hear.
Moving slowly, Kame's mind wandered. He'd read somewhere that sight was the least important of all the senses. It was the one that every single person relied on and dreaded losing, but the whiff of a familiar scent or a soft sound barely heard could trigger the most ground breaking memories.
That was how it was now.
The tune played in the back of his mind, over and over again and each and every time Kame's body swayed to the toxic pull of the beat. Sucking in deep, panting breaths, Kame didn't smell toilet clearer and soap; it was cologne and leather seats. The sticky sweet scent of alcohol on breath already tainted with nicotine. The sound of horns and tires and the buzz of the city street outside. Heels against pavement, the timer clicking away the minutes until the red light. Familiar and real and yet smothered in a haze of deafening need.
Nights had been spent lost in the lights. Roppongi. Shibuya. Shinjuku. Neon and smog flashed by, reflected in the frosted windows of the taxi and casting a myriad of colours into hair and eyes. Silver shone around necks, disappearing between folds of fabric and being grabbed at by needy hands. Mouths met, time and time again and teeth clashed with the ferocity of their need. The taste of stale rum on his lips and the feel of hands in the back of his hair, demanding, exigent and pulling
Ripping.
Kame would gasp and move closer.
Closer. Always closer. Breathing in the other was the only way to be whole. Skin pressed against skin was the only way to feel alive even as his heart skipped beat after beat.
Kame could still remember the first time he'd tried a cigarette. First time for a lot of things. Jin had been there, puffing away with his legs spread and his arm draped over the back of the couch. A girl sat off to his left, huge eyes blinking false eyelashes and makeup sparkling in the red and green lights. She hadn't mattered. Not while he was sitting there looking like some ancient Greek painting of Eros, basking in his own magnificence of sexual desire and carnality.
And Kame was already falling.
The VIP room had been quiet, the throb of ear splitting music muffled by carpet and rugs, heavy curtains and Belle Époque furnishing. Lush. Ambient.
But Kame didn't care. The others had left, staggering and drunk, clinging and laughing with their scores for the night and it had only been the booze to keep Kame in his seat. Too much had left him with the knowledge that standing would be impossible and in hopes of saving face - both figuratively and literally - he had waved them off and stayed rooted to the spot.
Too much to drink and his mind had started wandering. It was just the alcohol, he had told himself again and again. That was why he was still sitting there and that was why he was staring and all but fucking drooling over the last of his bandmates.
Too much alcohol and Kame was unsteadily reaching for a top up as Jin let a trail of smoke out into the air and poked at the girls nose playfully.
Kame couldn't stop staring. There had been something so entrancing about the way Jin sat there, taking shot for shot like it was water and flicking his burnt out cigarette butts in the well used ashtray. There had even been something mesmerising about that though Kame couldn't put his finger on what or why or how.
The flash of light, flame and the glow of a new red cherry had Kame swallowing awkwardly, licking his lips and praying that Jin didn't realise he'd been staring.
But it was Jin and he noticed everything. He proved it with a smirk, with a shift of his legs and a gift of attention upon the quiet girl. Her mouth opened and her eyes fluttered closed, those stupidly long eyelashes touching her cheek as Jin's mouth closed around the hollow of her neck.
Right in the place that Jin hated to be touched.
Kame hadn't been able to watch. The way the girls legs went out straight, her toes pointing forward even in those ugly shoes and the the way she tossed her head back at the attention was threatening to have his alcohol filled stomach flip and churn out all its minimal content.
Kame had averted his gaze, turning his eyes to his glass and swirling the liquor around in his dry mouth.
A gasp, a giggle, the sound of leather on leather and then the bitter scent of tobacco in his face.
Jin was there, towering over him with a cloud of smoke marking his wake. Eyes sparkling and grin in place, Kame had squirmed when the older man's knee rested against Kame's right leg, the couch dipping under his weight. Smoke wafted into Kame's face as Jin took it from his lips, holding it between his fingers. And then Jin had moved, his arms stretching out to grab at the back of the couch on either side of Kame's head while his other leg pushed its way between Kame's knees.
Breathing heavily, Kame had been unable to look away from the other and when Jin shifted, his face looming over Kame's, Kame couldn't resist but to lift his chin and press his head back into the leather of the booth. Eyes locked and with the older man pinning him into his seat, Kame hadn't even had the strength to not look needy and wanton; an early stage junkie trying not to fidget while begging for a line.
Jin had just smiled; that wild, cunning smirk that made his eyes darken and his features look devilish. Inch by slow inch, Jin had come closer, his leg shifting further and further up between Kame's as the couch dipped some more.
Kame's hands had moved on their own accord. One went backwards, his palm pressing into the back of the couch as he squirmed further into the cushions. Had he been trying to get away from Jin and his roaming leg or had he been propping himself up to allow Jin better access. Kame would never know, not through the cloud of smoke and booze that encompassed the night.
The other hand had been the give away though. It shot up, long fingers wrapping around an arm easily twice as muscular as his own, that stretched out above Kame's shoulder. Said muscles tensed at the touch, Jin's hand no doubt fisting into the leather of the backrest and Kame had shivered again as skin and cloth quivered under his touch. Jin's eyebrow had lifted in question, his eyes dancing with something that could have been caused by playfulness or alcohol or nicotine or something even stronger and Kame had to remind himself to breathe while tightening those fingers around that sinful arm.
Jin had chuckled and jabbed his chin commandingly and Kame had understood as good as if the action had been words. His head pressed back more, his body arched on its own accord and then he fucking groaned as Jin shifted his bent knee to rub against his crotch.
Trapped and loving it, Kame hadn't bothered to try and fight the need to move his hips, to rub and silently beg for some sort of friction and Jin, in all his glory, had offered nothing more than a simple press and an unreadable smirk.
That damn cigarette was back, pressed between his lips and when he removed it, that fucking mouth had pursed into an O, directing the flow of toxic, addictive smoke straight into Kame's face. He followed it up with an almost violent shift of his knee and somehow that hand with the smoke balanced between two fingers was grabbing at the back of Kame's hair, pulling and tugging and fucking demanding control.
And Kame did exactly as Jin wanted. He had opened his mouth, kept his eyes half hooded and taken a deep breath. He sucked in the second hand smoke like it was the secret to everlasting life and just when he was sure he couldn't take any more, Jin's face was against his and the older man's tongue had flicked at Kame's bottom lip playfully.
His world shattered and Kame had felt something inside of him break.
And then that smoke was resting between his own lips and Jin was stalking away, leaving Kame cold and shaking and craving. Words had floated back to him; 'You look good like that,' and Kame had struggled to make sense of them as he had pinched at the white cigarette with his fingers and drawn a trembling drag through the filter.
Seeing Jin was like rolling up his sleeve and slapping a vein to the surface. It was a rush and a thrill that took over Kame's body entirely. His mind shut down, his heart sped up and threatened to beat clear out of his chest and his eyes couldn't see anything else at all. Nothing but that face.
Addiction.
It drove him crazy. Making him need and want and beg for things he had never even dreamt of before. It was all Jin. He would smile and smirk, raise an eyebrow and offer to give Kame exactly what he wanted. And fucked if Kame didn't need it more then air itself.
A druggie scouring the night for a cheap fix.
But fucking Jin would always wait. Tease and taunt and be out of reach. Lead Kame on a slowly walked chase, hips swinging to the bass that reverberated through the floor of the clubs. Drink after drink; shot of tequila and shot of absinthe and then back to the start. Loops and circles, vicious and never ending and Kame would be a shaking, pleading mess by the end of it. Eyes sunken and knees trembling, he'd lick at parched lips and watch tendrils of smoke roll from the depths of that mouth he craved so much. Jin would smirk and lift his face slightly, his jaw angling upwards in a way that could almost be called defiant as that grey smoke curled and floated upwards, obscuring Jin's eyes and twisting around the hair in front of his face.
Always with a cigarette. Always with a glass in hand.
Temptation and vice embodied and Kame stood no chance in hell of resisting.
Because it wasn't until those large hands were on him, moving, roaming, hitting all the right places, that the high came. Only when those fingers brushed the underside of Kame's wrists or sunk into the back of his hair or pinned his hips to the wall that Kame felt that heat explode in his blood and quench his need.
If seeing Jin had Kame's arm in a tourniquet with a vein popping then it was those fucking hands that pushed in the needle and slammed down the plunder, emptying the barrel straight into Kame's bloodstream.
They threatened overdose.
Hands that would also settle on his hips, bodies moving to the throb of the music as Jin finally gave in and pushed Kame back. Step, stumble and arms around Jin's neck and it was all Kame could do just to remember to breathe. Jin was all that Kame could see and hear. All that he could feel. The whole fucking world boiled down to one pair of hands, one set of dark brown eyes and one wild as all hell smirk that made Kame's heart skip a beat.
Spiralling out of control.
The Crystal Room in Feria, Womb with its giant mirror ball and its secluded VIP rooms away from the press of dancing bodies. Balconies above the crowd, private bars and leather couches. Weight on Kame's hips and the feeling of Jin's hands pressing his wrists into the black upholstery above his head. The feel of wallpaper against his cheek, his hands fisting into expensive curtains. Breath condensing on frosted windows.
Nights blurred into one, the lines of reality, sobriety and horrible come downs unable to define. Desire and stolen moments. The sound of zippers and heavy panting. Rough and fast, groans aggravated and hands bruising. Shouted commands and thrown glasses, smashed bars and police cars and confrontations in the newspapers afterwards; taxis home and the glowing lights of the city burning like the hell-fire in his blood.
Teeth nipping and ripping as the pain blended with the pleasure and dissolved into the air, disappearing with the grey haze rolling out between their lips.
And through it all Kame was sinking to the floor, his eyes on the lines cut across a glass tabletop and his mind not being able to focus on the people that Jin knew. The names, the faces, the occupations.
Dealer; junkie; friend; enemy. Lover. English; Japanese and words and concepts blurred in Kame's mind, distorting and turning into something dark and twisted; always on the move.
Kame gasped out loud, his hands dropping from his hair and his knuckles falling uncaring against the basin at the sound of a loud knock on the bathroom door.
“Kamenashi?”
Kame blinked, his eyes watering in the bright light and his head starting to feel light.
Where was he?
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, realisation of where his mind had been wandering off to finally setting in. Nights long past lost in a sea of foggy, drug confused memories.
Bathroom. Mirror. Flickering light. People outside.
“Just a minute,” he called back. It was snappy and rude; nothing polite about it at all but Kame didn't care. He was struggling to know where he was. Who he was. The hands against the sink; were they really his? Had they really been the only ones to touch his hair in months?
The sound of running water was deafening as he turned the tap. Cupping his hands, Kame splashed his face, feeling the droplets stick to his eyelashes like beads of sweat. He shook his head and wiped his face, slapping colour into his pasty cheeks.
It helped, but nothing could fix the look in his eyes.
His hand shook as he reached for the dark glasses he'd so carelessly dropped when he'd first walked in. They were in the bottom of the sink, one arm open and prodding at the drain as if to see if it would fit down there. Disappearing into a dark hole where Kame couldn't follow. Picking them up, Kame let out an uneven breath and brushed them off like one would lint on the shoulder of someone's suit.
Eyes flicking up to the mirror, Kame licked his lips once and smiled as he slipped the glasses over his cheeks and into the mess of his hair. Those dark circles and heavy bags disappeared and the patchiness of his skin seemed to fade out and blend like airbrushing.
They reminded him of Jin. The other man always had a thing for wearing big, dark sunglasses that pretty much exclaimed 'fuck off' to everyone who looked at him. Kame had never understood that. They were idols; they were meant to be seen and showy and open and inviting; not parading around like American rockstars on an acid trip.
But now he got it. Now he understood and despite the fact that Jin was older, Kame still couldn't help but wonder how the other man had got to that point of realisation so many years before him. Kame had always been the one to see the trees for the forest. There was a whole and it meant the world, but it was the little things, the shrubs and weeds, that made up that whole and in the world of entertainment, those weeds were stepping stones and the shrubs were broken ladders to climb. One thing after another. Challenge after challenge and performance after performance. Step after step.
Day after fucking day and that, he reminded himself, was all this was. Just another day in a string of countless.
Composed, Kame pushed the glasses flush to his face and crossed the bathroom without another look at that mocking mirror. He tried not to think of anything as he opened the door, tired not to let his mind wander to the feeling of sinking, to the feeling of losing his head and his senses in a sea of moving lights and grating bodies.
Wordless. He followed the crew member through the passageways and kept his eyes down when he joined the rest of the band. Behind a screen he could see shapes and figures and as the curtain was pulled back in preparation, Kame's eyes closed behind his glasses.
Cameras flashed and Kame saw the bright lights of the clubs. People talked and chattered, the roar before the calm and all Kame could hear was the throbbing bass line of a song long forgotten. He moved his hand to his temple, trying to block out the assault of sensations and for the briefest of moments, his fingers weren't his own.
Kame shivered and let his hand drop to his side. Off to his left their manager talked furiously with the sound crew and security and before he knew it, arms were flailing at him to move.
He lead the procession. Up the six stairs to the platform stage, lit and heated by the glow of spotlights and flash catchers. When he walked onto the stage, leather jacket zipped up and sunglasses hiding the bags under his eyes, Kame looked every bit like a rockstar. The chequered scarf around his neck hid his small frame and his hair, wild and messy, made him look like the hungover look was intentional.
These things were always the same. Nothing new and no surprises. It wasn't like guesting on a tv show where you never knew what to expect or what they would ask. You couldn't prepare for that sort of stuff, but these press conferences were a piece of cake. Everything was scripted, everything rehearsed and if a reporter asked something they didn't like then it was easy enough to ignore it and move onto the next question.
Easy, mind numbingly boring and always exactly the same.
Except this time there was only five seats behind the skirted table instead of six and for a moment that threw Kame off his game. He knew there was only five - that was the point of this entire ordeal after all - but seeing them, counting from one to five with his eyes skimming over each place hammered everything home.
This was real and this was the end. Maybe not of them and maybe not of the group, but this moment would forever be set in stone and would cement all the rumours travelling around.
Third seat. That was his and Kame walked towards it excreting all the confidence in the world. The other four followed him, filing in to stand behind their respective spots and as one, they all bowed to the gathered press. The sound of metal chair legs scraping against wood filled the room as they all sat.
And then Kame took the plunge. It was like a band aid, or hopping into cold water. It was quicker and easier to just do something then and there and fucking fast then it was to beat around the bush waiting for something to give.
“I know the rumours have already started but this is not a break up so don’t worry,” the words came easier than he ever thought they would. They just slipped out, so well rehearsed in front of the mirror and apparently there was some part of his mind that was sober enough to take over. A hand movement, a flick of his fringe and a half smile gave him an appeal that no other boy band members had. Snobby and pompous; he made it apparent that he was a god and that those in the press with their cameras and microphones wanted to hang on his every word.
It was a trick he'd learnt from studying Jin time and time again. Confident and cocky and self assured got you everywhere in a world where appearance was everything.
“Making KAT-TUN grow stronger is our mission and our dream. Akanishi managed to succeed in his solo concert so the five of us need to make sure our concerts succeed too. I want to treat this like a new start,” Kame continued.
Cameras flashed and Kame saw Womb's massive disco ball turning. He took a sip of water that burnt like tequila, licked his lips, and then drank some more; eager and insatiable and when he put the glass down he could taste the faint lingering of nicotine on his lips.
On the lips of someone else. The scent left on large hands and fingers calloused by guitar strings.
“He’s doing what he wants to do,” Kame continued, his throat constricting slightly as he struggled to swallow. “We can’t ignore that and tell him to stop it and come work with us.”
A question was asked and Kame didn't hear; didn't want to hear it. He had said his bit. The rest was up to the other four. Practised and rehearsed, his speech had been perfect through delivery but that didn't mean that he trusted himself to comment on anything spontaneous.
Time passed and voices echoed and Kame didn't hear a thing.
Not until the room went quiet and Kame was forced to look up. The room was still, one woman in a grey skirt suit standing in the middle with her microphone held forward and an expectant look on her hard face.
Kame blinked behind his glasses and somehow the reporter got the hint. With a subtle smirk, the woman spoke slowly and clearly, repeating the question.
“Kamenashi-san is close with Akanishi-san, correct?” It wasn't a question; everyone knew the answer to that. They had been inseparable both before and after the night a single cigarette changed their lives. Akame; Johnny had even marketed them as a pair, appealing to the weak side of Fujoshi girls and raiding their seemingly never ending wallets and store cards.
There was no question so Kame gave no answer.
“Sources say that Akanishi-san was seen in Roppongi last night, marking his return to Japan,” the reporter said and Kame just knew that the woman's eyes flicked knowingly to his dark sunglasses. “Were you aware of that? And if so, shouldn't he be here for this announcement?”
Cornered and Kame tried to force his composure.
“I haven’t heard from him,” Kame said with a small smile and something about it reminded him of nights drowning in music and alcohol and cigarette smoke coiling with dark, dark hair and obscuring wild eyes.
The room stopped, the press of questions halting as the reporters hurriedly scratched down those words. It wasn't world war and it wasn't important politics, but in the jumble of Japan's entertainment industry, the idea of Kamenashi Kazuya and Akanishi Jin not talking was enough to stop the printing presses.
It was a shock, a slap in the face to their fans and Kame knew that Johnny would probably be pissed about this later.
But it was easier this way.
Because Jin was like a drug. He came on slow; a glance; a smirk; a wink and then he fucking burnt when he took over, leaving scars and cracks in all that Kame had once been.
He turned you into a junkie; someone hooked and needy and desperate for everything he did. Jin messed your mind around, taking balance and thought away with every look and every sound, every exhale of cigarette smoke and every sly upward curl of those lips.
Addiction.
Then he would be gone. The bright lights of the club would still be flashing, the bass making the walls tremble and his scent still lingering on Kame's skin. But he would be no where to be seen. He took what he wanted and occasionally pity-gifted something back, all the while knowing exactly - exactly - what sort of effect he had on Kame.
Control.
After that there was nothing but emptiness left in his wake and a craving for another fix. The next day, the next night; again and again. Against the wall; in the shadows of a private booth; the back seat of a taxi; a darkened alley.
Need. Constant.
But then the nights stopped coming with oceans between. The cycle broke and Kame smashed back down to the ground and hit reality with a thud. He couldn't move, couldn't think, breathe or swallow.
The come down. Withdrawals. The shakes. The feeling of crawling skin. Blackened veins and nostrils rubbed raw. Cotton mouth and Kame would be on the floor of his shower, scrubbing at imaginary scent and turning fanciful bruises into welts.
So it was easier this way, because Jin wasn't like a drug; he was the drug. Kame's weakness and vice. The thing that he would always go back to if offered the chance. Destruction and Kame couldn't keep going there, couldn't keep reaching those highs and then falling so far. Maybe once more and he would be fine, twice more if lucky; three times and then that would be it. Kame would fall too far, the preluding high dizzying to the point where he wouldn't see the ground when he crashed and somehow he knew that he would fall through, losing all that he had been while staring up at all that he could be.
So it was cold turkey.
Because it had been two months since Jin had set off back across that large expanse of water and it had been three weeks, four days and seventeen hours since Kame had last crashed against those white tiles with the water pounding down on his head.
Three weeks, four days and seventeen hours and maybe Kame was crazy and maybe he was throwing away something that he shouldn't. Maybe Jin was the only one who would ever compliment him - the yin to his yang - but those three weeks, four days and seventeen hours had been the hardest of his life.
Self enforced rehab and Kame knew that he had to quit all together. Quit while there was enough of his mind left to force his arms and legs to scramble and claw his way out of this self destructive cycle.
And then his mouth opened, words forming and a part of Kame died, right then and there on stage just as another part kicked and stirred back into life. The reporters face blurred and through those dark sunglasses, Kame was looking at a filled syringe, glowing and reflecting back a wild smile as Kame's hands itched to roll up his sleeve and flick a vein.
“Is he in Japan?”
*****
Authors Notes:
- Oh my god, can you tell I miss Tokyo night life??! Writing this was fun, but fuck, I need to go out and party!!! *curses the need to save and credit card bills*
- No, I am not saying that they do hard drugs. In fact, I don't think that the muses are on anything here, even with all of Kame's withdrawal issues and thoughts. It is just how their relationship is; demanding and dominating and needy and all consuming. But either way, it makes for great analogy ficlets and meh, popstars on drugs. PARTY!
- Also, I had no intention of having my Jin muse as such a motherfucking cunt but he just came out that way and damnit, but I love him. Must get over this bad boy thing.
- The end took me forever to write. I just couldn't finish it at all. For those that don't know, I NEVER to rewrites. What you get is what came out the first time, just proof read and yet with this I had to copy and paste and click and drag and delete and start again so many times. Originally I had it that Kame did give up and it was going to be an inspiring ending of overcoming all that shit but I couldn't get an ending sentence to just click into place. And then I changed some of the press conference so I could drag that last direct quote down to the end which gives the fic a whole new meaning. It gives the news report I based this off a whole new meaning as well; I always saw it as a harsh, snappy thing that Kame said, but now... well, maybe it wasn't. What do you think?
- I think I have a weird thing for bathrooms. I only just realised this, but every fandom I have ever been in has somehow had a bathroom scene one shot. Four Brothers had a drug come down scene in a shower, Jrock had Ruki sitting in the bathtub in the middle of the night, fully dressed and contemplating his hands. Now there is this where Kame pretty much has a melt down in front of a bathroom mirror... anyone else see this as kinda odd.
- 1582 is the BEST song to write weird, fucked up drug fics to.
- I am pretty proud of this odd, disconnected little fic, especially since it was written in a day while being pretty damn hungover.
So, as always, comments and thoughts are love and will be used to bribe my muses into pole-dancing for everyone's amusement.
Cheers.
Author: seiyoku
Rating: R
Genre: angsty retrospective slutty ficlet
Warnings: Drug references, sexual references, swearing
Pairings: Akame
Disclaimers: Hell used to belong to Satan; and then Kat-tun took over.
Authors notes: Weee! They are rockstars! Let's give 'em booze and drugs cause it makes for great fanfic plot bunnies.
Dedicated to my dear zurui_koi. Happy Birthday! We need to go clubbing!
Summary: Drink after drink; shot of tequila and shot of absinthe and then back to the start. Loops and circles, vicious and never ending and Kame would be a shaking, pleading mess by the end of it. Eyes sunken and knees trembling, he'd lick at parched lips and watch tendrils of smoke roll from the depths of that mouth he craved so much.
*****
Jin was like a drug. He came on slow; a glance; a smirk; a wink. It left you feeling that you'd been jibbed and that someone had slipped you a handful of stamped aspirin instead of the real thing. There was that moment where you were angry that you paid good yen for the shit placebos and the idea of storming out in search of the dodgy dealer came to mind. A moment of hate and fear, where you weren't too sure if you wanted to make the scene or not.
Forget about it. Forget about him.
Then, just like any party pill, Jin hit. It was like fire in your blood, scorching and boiling and threatening to explode. Dry mouth. Shaking hands. Throbbing legs. Weak knees. The need to curl up into a ball and never move again mixed with the overwhelming desire to just move. To sway to the beat; to bounce on the spot; to scratch at the fucking walls until someone gave you what you needed.
Akanishi Jin.
Time after time, hit after hit and Jin had you. Stuck and trapped and scratching at your arm while begging for another fix. Wiping your nose and sniffing self consciously while being unable to sit still. Eyes roaming over everything and seeing nothing while heavy limbs struggle to bring burning paper to lips.
And through it all, the need to dance, to follow and watch and to fucking pop another one to intensify that rush.
Feel it for days.
Never come down.
Maybe that was why Kame couldn't see right now. The bathroom was blurring around him, the bright light stinging his eyes and making salty water leak from the corners. Not crying. No. It was just the light burning itself into the back of his brain, searing and scorching white hot lines of pain that cut through any attempted thought.
Kame didn't cry, at least not in the teary, emotional way. He cried out loud at times, his voice deep and shouting for more or demanding like a diva. In pleasure he called out at the top of his lungs, screaming and panting out his needs and wants and when he was smashed and fucked off his face, he'd curl in the bottom of his shower, the cold water swallowing the sounds of his emotions while he shook and twitched with the aftershock.
Fingers clawing at tiles.
But when it came to emotions, there was no crying, no tears and no outward expression.
So then why was he having trouble staying out there with the others? He asked himself that over and over again, struggling to find the answer within his own mind as his hands pressed in on the white porcelain of the washbasin. It brought his face closer to the glass and Kame hated what he saw. Hollow eyes, splotchy skin and sunken cheeks.
He felt like an idiot hiding out in the bathroom. His scattered mind made an unlikely jump to a similar scene he'd done for a drama once. His character nervous and confused, trying to work out what mask to put in place before facing his own fate. Crowds. Questions. Eyes searching and Kame watched himself shiver in the mirror.
Life imitated art and then art mocked the fucking shit out of life. If this wasn't a proverbial slap to the face then Kame didn't know what was.
Dragging in a deep breath, Kame rubbed his hands under his eyes and pressed in on the dark bags that coloured the skin. He looked like shit and he knew it.
Booze, cigarettes, girls and secret touches stolen in the flashing colours of club lights.
The fluorescent globe above him seemed to flicker at the memory and it set Kame's teeth on edge. His jaw clenched, his eyes squinted and before he knew it, he was dragging his hands up the side of his face and pushing his fingers messily into his own hair. Said fingers grabbed at the strands, twisting and pulling until his bangs were out of his face and yanked into a messy, hand held bun at the back of his head.
His eyes closed and still that light burnt. It flashed in time with a beat that his body knew; something that was almost primal. A reaction that his mind had nothing at all to do with and with his hands in his hair and his eyes closed, Kame felt - fucking watched in some outer body experience - as his hips and shoulders ever so subtly swung to the sound that only he could hear.
Moving slowly, Kame's mind wandered. He'd read somewhere that sight was the least important of all the senses. It was the one that every single person relied on and dreaded losing, but the whiff of a familiar scent or a soft sound barely heard could trigger the most ground breaking memories.
That was how it was now.
The tune played in the back of his mind, over and over again and each and every time Kame's body swayed to the toxic pull of the beat. Sucking in deep, panting breaths, Kame didn't smell toilet clearer and soap; it was cologne and leather seats. The sticky sweet scent of alcohol on breath already tainted with nicotine. The sound of horns and tires and the buzz of the city street outside. Heels against pavement, the timer clicking away the minutes until the red light. Familiar and real and yet smothered in a haze of deafening need.
Nights had been spent lost in the lights. Roppongi. Shibuya. Shinjuku. Neon and smog flashed by, reflected in the frosted windows of the taxi and casting a myriad of colours into hair and eyes. Silver shone around necks, disappearing between folds of fabric and being grabbed at by needy hands. Mouths met, time and time again and teeth clashed with the ferocity of their need. The taste of stale rum on his lips and the feel of hands in the back of his hair, demanding, exigent and pulling
Ripping.
Kame would gasp and move closer.
Closer. Always closer. Breathing in the other was the only way to be whole. Skin pressed against skin was the only way to feel alive even as his heart skipped beat after beat.
Kame could still remember the first time he'd tried a cigarette. First time for a lot of things. Jin had been there, puffing away with his legs spread and his arm draped over the back of the couch. A girl sat off to his left, huge eyes blinking false eyelashes and makeup sparkling in the red and green lights. She hadn't mattered. Not while he was sitting there looking like some ancient Greek painting of Eros, basking in his own magnificence of sexual desire and carnality.
And Kame was already falling.
The VIP room had been quiet, the throb of ear splitting music muffled by carpet and rugs, heavy curtains and Belle Époque furnishing. Lush. Ambient.
But Kame didn't care. The others had left, staggering and drunk, clinging and laughing with their scores for the night and it had only been the booze to keep Kame in his seat. Too much had left him with the knowledge that standing would be impossible and in hopes of saving face - both figuratively and literally - he had waved them off and stayed rooted to the spot.
Too much to drink and his mind had started wandering. It was just the alcohol, he had told himself again and again. That was why he was still sitting there and that was why he was staring and all but fucking drooling over the last of his bandmates.
Too much alcohol and Kame was unsteadily reaching for a top up as Jin let a trail of smoke out into the air and poked at the girls nose playfully.
Kame couldn't stop staring. There had been something so entrancing about the way Jin sat there, taking shot for shot like it was water and flicking his burnt out cigarette butts in the well used ashtray. There had even been something mesmerising about that though Kame couldn't put his finger on what or why or how.
The flash of light, flame and the glow of a new red cherry had Kame swallowing awkwardly, licking his lips and praying that Jin didn't realise he'd been staring.
But it was Jin and he noticed everything. He proved it with a smirk, with a shift of his legs and a gift of attention upon the quiet girl. Her mouth opened and her eyes fluttered closed, those stupidly long eyelashes touching her cheek as Jin's mouth closed around the hollow of her neck.
Right in the place that Jin hated to be touched.
Kame hadn't been able to watch. The way the girls legs went out straight, her toes pointing forward even in those ugly shoes and the the way she tossed her head back at the attention was threatening to have his alcohol filled stomach flip and churn out all its minimal content.
Kame had averted his gaze, turning his eyes to his glass and swirling the liquor around in his dry mouth.
A gasp, a giggle, the sound of leather on leather and then the bitter scent of tobacco in his face.
Jin was there, towering over him with a cloud of smoke marking his wake. Eyes sparkling and grin in place, Kame had squirmed when the older man's knee rested against Kame's right leg, the couch dipping under his weight. Smoke wafted into Kame's face as Jin took it from his lips, holding it between his fingers. And then Jin had moved, his arms stretching out to grab at the back of the couch on either side of Kame's head while his other leg pushed its way between Kame's knees.
Breathing heavily, Kame had been unable to look away from the other and when Jin shifted, his face looming over Kame's, Kame couldn't resist but to lift his chin and press his head back into the leather of the booth. Eyes locked and with the older man pinning him into his seat, Kame hadn't even had the strength to not look needy and wanton; an early stage junkie trying not to fidget while begging for a line.
Jin had just smiled; that wild, cunning smirk that made his eyes darken and his features look devilish. Inch by slow inch, Jin had come closer, his leg shifting further and further up between Kame's as the couch dipped some more.
Kame's hands had moved on their own accord. One went backwards, his palm pressing into the back of the couch as he squirmed further into the cushions. Had he been trying to get away from Jin and his roaming leg or had he been propping himself up to allow Jin better access. Kame would never know, not through the cloud of smoke and booze that encompassed the night.
The other hand had been the give away though. It shot up, long fingers wrapping around an arm easily twice as muscular as his own, that stretched out above Kame's shoulder. Said muscles tensed at the touch, Jin's hand no doubt fisting into the leather of the backrest and Kame had shivered again as skin and cloth quivered under his touch. Jin's eyebrow had lifted in question, his eyes dancing with something that could have been caused by playfulness or alcohol or nicotine or something even stronger and Kame had to remind himself to breathe while tightening those fingers around that sinful arm.
Jin had chuckled and jabbed his chin commandingly and Kame had understood as good as if the action had been words. His head pressed back more, his body arched on its own accord and then he fucking groaned as Jin shifted his bent knee to rub against his crotch.
Trapped and loving it, Kame hadn't bothered to try and fight the need to move his hips, to rub and silently beg for some sort of friction and Jin, in all his glory, had offered nothing more than a simple press and an unreadable smirk.
That damn cigarette was back, pressed between his lips and when he removed it, that fucking mouth had pursed into an O, directing the flow of toxic, addictive smoke straight into Kame's face. He followed it up with an almost violent shift of his knee and somehow that hand with the smoke balanced between two fingers was grabbing at the back of Kame's hair, pulling and tugging and fucking demanding control.
And Kame did exactly as Jin wanted. He had opened his mouth, kept his eyes half hooded and taken a deep breath. He sucked in the second hand smoke like it was the secret to everlasting life and just when he was sure he couldn't take any more, Jin's face was against his and the older man's tongue had flicked at Kame's bottom lip playfully.
His world shattered and Kame had felt something inside of him break.
And then that smoke was resting between his own lips and Jin was stalking away, leaving Kame cold and shaking and craving. Words had floated back to him; 'You look good like that,' and Kame had struggled to make sense of them as he had pinched at the white cigarette with his fingers and drawn a trembling drag through the filter.
Seeing Jin was like rolling up his sleeve and slapping a vein to the surface. It was a rush and a thrill that took over Kame's body entirely. His mind shut down, his heart sped up and threatened to beat clear out of his chest and his eyes couldn't see anything else at all. Nothing but that face.
Addiction.
It drove him crazy. Making him need and want and beg for things he had never even dreamt of before. It was all Jin. He would smile and smirk, raise an eyebrow and offer to give Kame exactly what he wanted. And fucked if Kame didn't need it more then air itself.
A druggie scouring the night for a cheap fix.
But fucking Jin would always wait. Tease and taunt and be out of reach. Lead Kame on a slowly walked chase, hips swinging to the bass that reverberated through the floor of the clubs. Drink after drink; shot of tequila and shot of absinthe and then back to the start. Loops and circles, vicious and never ending and Kame would be a shaking, pleading mess by the end of it. Eyes sunken and knees trembling, he'd lick at parched lips and watch tendrils of smoke roll from the depths of that mouth he craved so much. Jin would smirk and lift his face slightly, his jaw angling upwards in a way that could almost be called defiant as that grey smoke curled and floated upwards, obscuring Jin's eyes and twisting around the hair in front of his face.
Always with a cigarette. Always with a glass in hand.
Temptation and vice embodied and Kame stood no chance in hell of resisting.
Because it wasn't until those large hands were on him, moving, roaming, hitting all the right places, that the high came. Only when those fingers brushed the underside of Kame's wrists or sunk into the back of his hair or pinned his hips to the wall that Kame felt that heat explode in his blood and quench his need.
If seeing Jin had Kame's arm in a tourniquet with a vein popping then it was those fucking hands that pushed in the needle and slammed down the plunder, emptying the barrel straight into Kame's bloodstream.
They threatened overdose.
Hands that would also settle on his hips, bodies moving to the throb of the music as Jin finally gave in and pushed Kame back. Step, stumble and arms around Jin's neck and it was all Kame could do just to remember to breathe. Jin was all that Kame could see and hear. All that he could feel. The whole fucking world boiled down to one pair of hands, one set of dark brown eyes and one wild as all hell smirk that made Kame's heart skip a beat.
Spiralling out of control.
The Crystal Room in Feria, Womb with its giant mirror ball and its secluded VIP rooms away from the press of dancing bodies. Balconies above the crowd, private bars and leather couches. Weight on Kame's hips and the feeling of Jin's hands pressing his wrists into the black upholstery above his head. The feel of wallpaper against his cheek, his hands fisting into expensive curtains. Breath condensing on frosted windows.
Nights blurred into one, the lines of reality, sobriety and horrible come downs unable to define. Desire and stolen moments. The sound of zippers and heavy panting. Rough and fast, groans aggravated and hands bruising. Shouted commands and thrown glasses, smashed bars and police cars and confrontations in the newspapers afterwards; taxis home and the glowing lights of the city burning like the hell-fire in his blood.
Teeth nipping and ripping as the pain blended with the pleasure and dissolved into the air, disappearing with the grey haze rolling out between their lips.
And through it all Kame was sinking to the floor, his eyes on the lines cut across a glass tabletop and his mind not being able to focus on the people that Jin knew. The names, the faces, the occupations.
Dealer; junkie; friend; enemy. Lover. English; Japanese and words and concepts blurred in Kame's mind, distorting and turning into something dark and twisted; always on the move.
Kame gasped out loud, his hands dropping from his hair and his knuckles falling uncaring against the basin at the sound of a loud knock on the bathroom door.
“Kamenashi?”
Kame blinked, his eyes watering in the bright light and his head starting to feel light.
Where was he?
“Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, realisation of where his mind had been wandering off to finally setting in. Nights long past lost in a sea of foggy, drug confused memories.
Bathroom. Mirror. Flickering light. People outside.
“Just a minute,” he called back. It was snappy and rude; nothing polite about it at all but Kame didn't care. He was struggling to know where he was. Who he was. The hands against the sink; were they really his? Had they really been the only ones to touch his hair in months?
The sound of running water was deafening as he turned the tap. Cupping his hands, Kame splashed his face, feeling the droplets stick to his eyelashes like beads of sweat. He shook his head and wiped his face, slapping colour into his pasty cheeks.
It helped, but nothing could fix the look in his eyes.
His hand shook as he reached for the dark glasses he'd so carelessly dropped when he'd first walked in. They were in the bottom of the sink, one arm open and prodding at the drain as if to see if it would fit down there. Disappearing into a dark hole where Kame couldn't follow. Picking them up, Kame let out an uneven breath and brushed them off like one would lint on the shoulder of someone's suit.
Eyes flicking up to the mirror, Kame licked his lips once and smiled as he slipped the glasses over his cheeks and into the mess of his hair. Those dark circles and heavy bags disappeared and the patchiness of his skin seemed to fade out and blend like airbrushing.
They reminded him of Jin. The other man always had a thing for wearing big, dark sunglasses that pretty much exclaimed 'fuck off' to everyone who looked at him. Kame had never understood that. They were idols; they were meant to be seen and showy and open and inviting; not parading around like American rockstars on an acid trip.
But now he got it. Now he understood and despite the fact that Jin was older, Kame still couldn't help but wonder how the other man had got to that point of realisation so many years before him. Kame had always been the one to see the trees for the forest. There was a whole and it meant the world, but it was the little things, the shrubs and weeds, that made up that whole and in the world of entertainment, those weeds were stepping stones and the shrubs were broken ladders to climb. One thing after another. Challenge after challenge and performance after performance. Step after step.
Day after fucking day and that, he reminded himself, was all this was. Just another day in a string of countless.
Composed, Kame pushed the glasses flush to his face and crossed the bathroom without another look at that mocking mirror. He tried not to think of anything as he opened the door, tired not to let his mind wander to the feeling of sinking, to the feeling of losing his head and his senses in a sea of moving lights and grating bodies.
Wordless. He followed the crew member through the passageways and kept his eyes down when he joined the rest of the band. Behind a screen he could see shapes and figures and as the curtain was pulled back in preparation, Kame's eyes closed behind his glasses.
Cameras flashed and Kame saw the bright lights of the clubs. People talked and chattered, the roar before the calm and all Kame could hear was the throbbing bass line of a song long forgotten. He moved his hand to his temple, trying to block out the assault of sensations and for the briefest of moments, his fingers weren't his own.
Kame shivered and let his hand drop to his side. Off to his left their manager talked furiously with the sound crew and security and before he knew it, arms were flailing at him to move.
He lead the procession. Up the six stairs to the platform stage, lit and heated by the glow of spotlights and flash catchers. When he walked onto the stage, leather jacket zipped up and sunglasses hiding the bags under his eyes, Kame looked every bit like a rockstar. The chequered scarf around his neck hid his small frame and his hair, wild and messy, made him look like the hungover look was intentional.
These things were always the same. Nothing new and no surprises. It wasn't like guesting on a tv show where you never knew what to expect or what they would ask. You couldn't prepare for that sort of stuff, but these press conferences were a piece of cake. Everything was scripted, everything rehearsed and if a reporter asked something they didn't like then it was easy enough to ignore it and move onto the next question.
Easy, mind numbingly boring and always exactly the same.
Except this time there was only five seats behind the skirted table instead of six and for a moment that threw Kame off his game. He knew there was only five - that was the point of this entire ordeal after all - but seeing them, counting from one to five with his eyes skimming over each place hammered everything home.
This was real and this was the end. Maybe not of them and maybe not of the group, but this moment would forever be set in stone and would cement all the rumours travelling around.
Third seat. That was his and Kame walked towards it excreting all the confidence in the world. The other four followed him, filing in to stand behind their respective spots and as one, they all bowed to the gathered press. The sound of metal chair legs scraping against wood filled the room as they all sat.
And then Kame took the plunge. It was like a band aid, or hopping into cold water. It was quicker and easier to just do something then and there and fucking fast then it was to beat around the bush waiting for something to give.
“I know the rumours have already started but this is not a break up so don’t worry,” the words came easier than he ever thought they would. They just slipped out, so well rehearsed in front of the mirror and apparently there was some part of his mind that was sober enough to take over. A hand movement, a flick of his fringe and a half smile gave him an appeal that no other boy band members had. Snobby and pompous; he made it apparent that he was a god and that those in the press with their cameras and microphones wanted to hang on his every word.
It was a trick he'd learnt from studying Jin time and time again. Confident and cocky and self assured got you everywhere in a world where appearance was everything.
“Making KAT-TUN grow stronger is our mission and our dream. Akanishi managed to succeed in his solo concert so the five of us need to make sure our concerts succeed too. I want to treat this like a new start,” Kame continued.
Cameras flashed and Kame saw Womb's massive disco ball turning. He took a sip of water that burnt like tequila, licked his lips, and then drank some more; eager and insatiable and when he put the glass down he could taste the faint lingering of nicotine on his lips.
On the lips of someone else. The scent left on large hands and fingers calloused by guitar strings.
“He’s doing what he wants to do,” Kame continued, his throat constricting slightly as he struggled to swallow. “We can’t ignore that and tell him to stop it and come work with us.”
A question was asked and Kame didn't hear; didn't want to hear it. He had said his bit. The rest was up to the other four. Practised and rehearsed, his speech had been perfect through delivery but that didn't mean that he trusted himself to comment on anything spontaneous.
Time passed and voices echoed and Kame didn't hear a thing.
Not until the room went quiet and Kame was forced to look up. The room was still, one woman in a grey skirt suit standing in the middle with her microphone held forward and an expectant look on her hard face.
Kame blinked behind his glasses and somehow the reporter got the hint. With a subtle smirk, the woman spoke slowly and clearly, repeating the question.
“Kamenashi-san is close with Akanishi-san, correct?” It wasn't a question; everyone knew the answer to that. They had been inseparable both before and after the night a single cigarette changed their lives. Akame; Johnny had even marketed them as a pair, appealing to the weak side of Fujoshi girls and raiding their seemingly never ending wallets and store cards.
There was no question so Kame gave no answer.
“Sources say that Akanishi-san was seen in Roppongi last night, marking his return to Japan,” the reporter said and Kame just knew that the woman's eyes flicked knowingly to his dark sunglasses. “Were you aware of that? And if so, shouldn't he be here for this announcement?”
Cornered and Kame tried to force his composure.
“I haven’t heard from him,” Kame said with a small smile and something about it reminded him of nights drowning in music and alcohol and cigarette smoke coiling with dark, dark hair and obscuring wild eyes.
The room stopped, the press of questions halting as the reporters hurriedly scratched down those words. It wasn't world war and it wasn't important politics, but in the jumble of Japan's entertainment industry, the idea of Kamenashi Kazuya and Akanishi Jin not talking was enough to stop the printing presses.
It was a shock, a slap in the face to their fans and Kame knew that Johnny would probably be pissed about this later.
But it was easier this way.
Because Jin was like a drug. He came on slow; a glance; a smirk; a wink and then he fucking burnt when he took over, leaving scars and cracks in all that Kame had once been.
He turned you into a junkie; someone hooked and needy and desperate for everything he did. Jin messed your mind around, taking balance and thought away with every look and every sound, every exhale of cigarette smoke and every sly upward curl of those lips.
Addiction.
Then he would be gone. The bright lights of the club would still be flashing, the bass making the walls tremble and his scent still lingering on Kame's skin. But he would be no where to be seen. He took what he wanted and occasionally pity-gifted something back, all the while knowing exactly - exactly - what sort of effect he had on Kame.
Control.
After that there was nothing but emptiness left in his wake and a craving for another fix. The next day, the next night; again and again. Against the wall; in the shadows of a private booth; the back seat of a taxi; a darkened alley.
Need. Constant.
But then the nights stopped coming with oceans between. The cycle broke and Kame smashed back down to the ground and hit reality with a thud. He couldn't move, couldn't think, breathe or swallow.
The come down. Withdrawals. The shakes. The feeling of crawling skin. Blackened veins and nostrils rubbed raw. Cotton mouth and Kame would be on the floor of his shower, scrubbing at imaginary scent and turning fanciful bruises into welts.
So it was easier this way, because Jin wasn't like a drug; he was the drug. Kame's weakness and vice. The thing that he would always go back to if offered the chance. Destruction and Kame couldn't keep going there, couldn't keep reaching those highs and then falling so far. Maybe once more and he would be fine, twice more if lucky; three times and then that would be it. Kame would fall too far, the preluding high dizzying to the point where he wouldn't see the ground when he crashed and somehow he knew that he would fall through, losing all that he had been while staring up at all that he could be.
So it was cold turkey.
Because it had been two months since Jin had set off back across that large expanse of water and it had been three weeks, four days and seventeen hours since Kame had last crashed against those white tiles with the water pounding down on his head.
Three weeks, four days and seventeen hours and maybe Kame was crazy and maybe he was throwing away something that he shouldn't. Maybe Jin was the only one who would ever compliment him - the yin to his yang - but those three weeks, four days and seventeen hours had been the hardest of his life.
Self enforced rehab and Kame knew that he had to quit all together. Quit while there was enough of his mind left to force his arms and legs to scramble and claw his way out of this self destructive cycle.
And then his mouth opened, words forming and a part of Kame died, right then and there on stage just as another part kicked and stirred back into life. The reporters face blurred and through those dark sunglasses, Kame was looking at a filled syringe, glowing and reflecting back a wild smile as Kame's hands itched to roll up his sleeve and flick a vein.
“Is he in Japan?”
*****
Authors Notes:
- Oh my god, can you tell I miss Tokyo night life??! Writing this was fun, but fuck, I need to go out and party!!! *curses the need to save and credit card bills*
- No, I am not saying that they do hard drugs. In fact, I don't think that the muses are on anything here, even with all of Kame's withdrawal issues and thoughts. It is just how their relationship is; demanding and dominating and needy and all consuming. But either way, it makes for great analogy ficlets and meh, popstars on drugs. PARTY!
- Also, I had no intention of having my Jin muse as such a motherfucking cunt but he just came out that way and damnit, but I love him. Must get over this bad boy thing.
- The end took me forever to write. I just couldn't finish it at all. For those that don't know, I NEVER to rewrites. What you get is what came out the first time, just proof read and yet with this I had to copy and paste and click and drag and delete and start again so many times. Originally I had it that Kame did give up and it was going to be an inspiring ending of overcoming all that shit but I couldn't get an ending sentence to just click into place. And then I changed some of the press conference so I could drag that last direct quote down to the end which gives the fic a whole new meaning. It gives the news report I based this off a whole new meaning as well; I always saw it as a harsh, snappy thing that Kame said, but now... well, maybe it wasn't. What do you think?
- I think I have a weird thing for bathrooms. I only just realised this, but every fandom I have ever been in has somehow had a bathroom scene one shot. Four Brothers had a drug come down scene in a shower, Jrock had Ruki sitting in the bathtub in the middle of the night, fully dressed and contemplating his hands. Now there is this where Kame pretty much has a melt down in front of a bathroom mirror... anyone else see this as kinda odd.
- 1582 is the BEST song to write weird, fucked up drug fics to.
- I am pretty proud of this odd, disconnected little fic, especially since it was written in a day while being pretty damn hungover.
So, as always, comments and thoughts are love and will be used to bribe my muses into pole-dancing for everyone's amusement.
Cheers.