Garbage [Minamimoto/777, R]
Title: Garbage
Pairing: Minamimoto/777
Rating/Type: R, porn/lol/angst/fluff (just sort of everything)
Word Count: 4,435
Warning: zetta spoilers.
"...So, you think he's got a chance?"
Tenho leaned back against the railing on the stage and sighed. "Look, the guy's a loose cannon but he's not gonna off one of his own Reapers. Not for something as dumb as a mic."
There was a silence.
"...Are you calling our microphone dumb?"
"Well-"
"Because I thought I heard you say 'that dumb mic', which seems to me to say-"
"Hey, that's not what I-"
"Hey." BJ frowned and scratched at his chin, which was getting a little stubbly. He needed to remember to shave before his hot date. "Wasn't it your fault that the mic got stolen in the first place?"
"..." Tenho half-glared, half-pouted at him. "...Yeah, so what."
"...So shouldn't it be you beggin' the King of the Hill on all fours?"
The wall reaper rolled his eyes. "I wasn't the one who wanted to be lead singer just because of a girl-"
"Don't, shh, shhhhut up!" BJ waved a hand frantically, then yanked down on Tenho's cap. "Man, can't you keep a damn secret?"
"No." Tenho pushed the brim back up and leveled his glare at his friend again. "Look, don't ask me. Spikes was the one who wanted to go get it back; and who am I to tell him no?"
{ + }
To Minamimoto's credit, he didn't seem too surprised when 777 arrived. He was sitting on the windowsill, one foot propped up, the other dangling out over the window ledge and out into the open air. It was a nice night, full of stars, and he was watching the last few players sleeping in little lumps on the scramble crossing. He wondered what they would look like all piled on top of each other, willy-nilly, with the Composer sitting on top, like a snotty little blue flag.
At any rate, though his mind was clearly elsewhere, he didn't jump when the elevator door slid open and 777 walked through, his big shoes making stomping sounds on the concrete. "What do you want, Reaper," he drawled, fingering the edge of his favorite hat.
"You know damn well." His hood was down as usual, showing off the sharp blond spikes that made an otherwise pretty face look dangerous. Minamimoto wasn't watching.
"Enlighten me." He chewed on the edge of his wristband, just wanting the singer to get to the damn point already.
"The microphone." 777 sidled closer, and with a sideways glance Minamimoto noticed that his pants were slung rather low on his hips, and maybe it was the latest Harrier fashion, but no one ever noticed because of their bulky sweatshirts. "Where is it?"
"What are you talking about?" He finally extricated himself from the window. Summer nights were hot in Tokyo. He leaned against the sill, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, and fixed 777 with a steady, piercing stare.
The blond didn't seem too fazed by the intensity, or maybe it was the reason he drew closer, clicking his teeth and fingering the hem of his pants. "Look. You have something of mine. I have something of yours. It's in our best interests to return both of them."
"Is it?" Minamimoto frowned and rubbed at the tattoos on his cheek. "I don't know, I thought it was a fair trade."
777's eyes shot open and he pointed, rather overdramatically. "See! You did take it!"
"Trade!" Minamimoto mirrored the stance, though he shifted his weight back and cocked his wrist at a sharper angle. "No trade-backs. My word is final!!"
"Your word is garbage," 777 snarled back at him, in what was likely an attempt at being coy.
"...Zetta true." He subsided, looking thoughtful. He bit at his wristband again, eyes wandering off to the left. "But, I am Game Master. What I say goes."
"Tch, some shitty Game Master you are. I heard you haven't even been giving out missions."
"WHAT'S IT TO YOU?" Minamimoto liked shouting. Shouting was good for the soul, and from up here, it echoed out the open window into the sin-soaked Shibuya back streets.
"I'M BORED." Well, it wasn't for nothing that 777 was a singer - he had the lungs to prove it. Then, remembering that he was still holding Minamimoto's megaphone, he brought it up for extra dramatic effect. "WHERE'S MY MICROPHONE?"
"Temper, temper." Minamimoto leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the megaphone, then tugged it forward, with 777 still attached. "I could erase you in t = .05s."
The singer didn't seem threatened, and his only reaction was to lean even closer. "...They always say that you don't play well with others, well, I guess you could say I'm the exact opposite."
"You never play well at all?" Minamimoto smirked.
"Har har." He let go of the megaphone, and it clattered to the floor. "I don't play well alone. That mic is part of the band."
"Cooperation is garbage." The game master leaned back, his spine arching in a wide parabola. "Coincidentally, so is your mic."
"You say everything's garbage." They were close, now, legs almost touching, and the fingers at 777's pants hem were sliding with a little more subtext. "Is there anything you really like, at all?"
A smirk was all the answer he gave to that one. "Zetta slow. You should be shirtless by now."
777 rolled his pale shoulders, and the sweatshirt went sliding off them like butter. "I know you know more than you let on. Tell me what you know."
"The length of an arc of the curve y = (1/6) x^3 + (1/2) x^-1 from-"
"NOT about math. C'mon, man, I don't spit out music terms every other word." Sliding out of his shirt was a little more difficult, but only because it was a helluva tight shirt. Minamimoto watched, and 777 could see that he was having an effect, from the way his eyes wandered. "Tell me what I need to know."
Minamimoto smiled. "I like your nipple shinies."
"That doesn't answer my question." The problem with being pale as fuck was that there was no way to hide a blush, and though 777 wasn't easy to fluster, it was easy to tell when it worked.
"Did it hurt?" He leaned forward, reached out one black-tattooed hand and-
The Reaper pushed the hand away, his blush getting worse. "Listen, I didn't come here to seduce you, I just wanted to-"
"You didn't?" Minamimoto's smile grew into a smirk, and there was arrogance in every line of his body, from the jut of his hips to the arc of his jaw. "Zetta shucks."
"...Tell me what you did with my mic."
Minamimoto was watching the play of expressions over the singer's face - the moment he thought he was winning, the blush, the trepidation as he realized he may actually have to go through with the trap he'd begun to set. It was like watching a tiny kitten wiggling its butt before pouncing. Zetta cute. "Come here. I want to play with your nipples."
"No. No touchie." Curse, curse, CURSE his blush. It was like a neon arrow to all his sensitivities. 777's fingers fumbled on the button of his pants, stalled for time. He really didn't want to take his pants off. Well... he wanted to take his pants off, but he really didn't want to want to take his pants off.
Minamimoto crooked a finger, and the reaper stepped forward, before he really thought about what he was doing. His hand reached out, and 777 tensed everywhere - but the hand wasn't going for his chest, it slid around his waist instead, and pulled him in close.
"Your pants," he growled in 777's ear, "are an unnecessary factor in this equation."
Oh. Okay. Pants, yeah, who needs pants? The singer found his throat running dry at the unexpectedly husky tone in the other's voice, and his fingers popped the button and slid the zipper down.
He was about to make another protest, when Minamimoto's teeth closed around the skin of his earlobe. That was it. Coherency officially lost. His knees liquefied and he moaned, hands coming up to fist in the material of Minamimoto's jacket. Jacket? Not cool. So not cool.
'An unnecessary factor', as a matter of fact.
He worked the Game Master out of his jacket and pessed him up against a wall, his pants sliding low on skinny hips now that they were undone. He'd gotten his ear away from Minamimoto's questing teeth, only to have those teeth relocate to the base of his neck, which really wasn't much better for his brain cells. But they were chest to chest now, and he could feel the heady thrumming of other man's heart under a tan chest, rough with wind and hard work. His own was pasty pale, skinny, and soft as a kitty's belly from a life - and afterlife - of underexposure.
Minamimoto grinned. He slid his tattooed hand under the hem of 777's pants and boxers, drinking in the pleasured gasp as he deliberately allowed his nails to graze the tender skin. He knew how the other would like it, hard and rough and overdramatic, with all of Shibuya nightlife spread out below him.
He whimpered. Minamimoto's other hand had found his nipples, and thus, the ultra-turn-on he'd been desperately trying to avoid. If he hadn't been interested before, he certainly was now, and the rough motion was pulling a harsh, desperate sound from his throat, unwillingly. He reached up and knocked off Minamimoto's hat, then scrabbled for purchase at the back of his head as the torture continued, painful and sensual and overbearing.
The game master gasped, the first sound of the sort he'd made yet, and 777 blinked in surprise. That's right. Hair. He smirked, and the hand up behind the other's head deftly slid off his red kerchief, wound in the longish hair there - and tightened into a fist, pulling it back slowly.
Minamimoto melted back against the wall, and moaned.
"Your pants," 777 whispered, his voice thick and hot and heady, "are an unnecessary factor in this equation."
{ + }
"...1000 yen says they do it."
"What?!" BJ exclaimed, looking up from the book he was reading, its cover carefully folded back. "Dude, you can't be serious."
Tenho shrugged, flicking another old CD off into the 'Useless Crap' pile. "I'm serious. You don't know Spikey. I do."
The Harrier snorted in disbelief, shaking his head and going back to his romance n- I mean, intelligent and well written nonfiction book. However, he couldn't've read more than two paragraphs before looking up again. "...What, are you saying he's gay?"
Tenho just looked at BJ. Really. Because really. REALLY. "...Spikey's a queerfag, BJ."
"Oh." He looked a little... put out, for lack of a better word. "Man, that is so not fair."
"What, the gay guy gets all the chicks? Call it a cruel irony." He shook his head and tossed another CD over, making a sharp plastic-y clatter.
"...Yeah, but the Game Master ain't gay."
Tenho snorted with laughter. "Right, and I'm a chocobo."
"Come on! That's way too much gay, man. I can't handle that." He slouched down further in his armchair. "And besides, who'd want to sleep with a loser like Spikes." Nope, he wasn't bitter at all.
Tenho just smirked. "...So you'll take the bet."
"No way!" BJ scowled over the top of his novel.
"...How's what's-his-name, Feliciano? Did he rescue Lady Isabella yet?"
"Not ye-!!!!!" BJ caught himself, and shot up in his chair in that special affronted rage of the sinfully embarrassed. "Fine. I'll take your damn bet. You just shut up, and leave me to my SUPER EXTRA MANLY book."
Tenho severely resisted the urge to snicker. "...Right. I'll do that."
{ + }
He cried out his name when he came, like a big stupid loser. Well, he'd known this would happen all along, on some subconscious level, it was why he'd wanted to duke it out over a stupid piece of equipment in the first place.
Sho Minamimoto. 777's first drummer.
They'd been 18, young and rebellious and ready to make it big. The world is garbage, their posters read, and it was the night after their first concert - an opening gig, sure, but they'd had the whole crowd cheering their names.
I'm nothing without you, he screamed, hands clenched in the bloody gravel at the side of the flaming wreck. He'd been called a different name, then, and his hair was an inch-long blond fuzz.
A little too much partying. A little too much to drink.
It can't, it can't end like this, he told himself over and over as the ambulance sirens wailed, almost drowning out the anguish in his heart. Almost.
And for all that, it wasn't their fault. No-fault accident, that's how the cops put it, but maybe if they hadn't been drinking, they could have gotten out of the way.
I can't do this alone.
Cooperation is garbage. That's what he'd said, laughingly, even as he went out of his way to help unpack the guitars on moving day. Afterwards, he stacked the boxes and the bags and broken strings, fussed with everything until it was 'zetta perfect', heaped in a pile in the middle of the parking lot. The blond singer popped open a beer and watched him with lazy eyes, fond affection for his partner's quirks. That night they sat on top of the wall in the Udagawa Back Streets and wrote music about life, banged wooden spoons on trash can lids and recorded the sounds of bottles breaking.
The music died, for him, with Sho Minamimoto. Life became an empty, hollow shell - work, bills, drinking, meaningless sex with meaningless guys. He forgot about things like style and music and life, he forgot that he was in Shibuya, the heart of change. It wasn't life anymore.
He was twenty when everything turned upside-down. It had only been two years, but it felt like two hundred.
He was sitting down at the ramen shop on the Dogenzaka. He didn't usually stay, but he couldn't seem to find the strength to leave.
And in walked Sho.
{ + }
"...You know Spikes pretty well, huh?" BJ fidgeted, it was different reading crappy girl books when the other person in the room knew what he was doing.
"I guess." Tenho shrugged. "You would, too, if you paid any attention."
"Tch, I don't wanna know. Guy's a weirdass." He tugged on the strings of his sweatshirt. "I mean, he puts up with us, but his heart's not in it, y'know? I mean, most people are happy when they sing. But Spikes... man." BJ shook his head, slowly. "It's like he's singing out his demons, or something. Like he's tryin' to purge himself."
Tenho raised an eyebrow, though it was hard to see in the shadow of his brim. "And you never wondered why?"
{ + }
"...Sho, no more games." He was tucked in the space under Minamimoto's chin, their bodies pressed together from throat to thigh. "What'd you do with my mic?"
"...Why did you start Def Märch." It was overly blunt, harsh and to the point. 777 winced.
There was a pause before he answered, both of them taut with tension. "You played the Game, didn't you? When you died?"
"Sure." Minamimoto could not see where he was going with this. "Zetta shitty game. Me 'n Megs cleaned up."
"Well..." He frowned. "...Let's just say I learned a few things."
{ + }
He shouted, and his voice expanded, bounced and echoed off the walls, only to rebound and slam into the surrounding Noise like a tidal wave. He could feel the connection, feel his partner slam against the barrier between their worlds, passing back their bubble of glowing gold light.
He took a deep breath -
and sang, and while the shout was great, this time his voice had power. He was in control, he was the master of the tune, skipping up a third and down a fifth, weaving chords to reinforce himself. He wasn't too great at any of the other psychs, to be honest. But this, he could do this. He could do whatever he wanted.
{ + }
"You know we were partners," Tenho said, flipping a case open to turn the CD cover right side out. "That's how we met. He didn't tell me anything outright, but I got the feeling that he'd been trying to run away from his voice for a long time."
BJ's puzzled frown softened to a half-smile. "...Well, the Noise have a way of making us face up to ourselves when we least expect it."
"Heh. Couldn't've put it better myself." Tenho smirked. "Well, we lost that game. Shitty game. Joined the Reapers and met your sorry ass..."
{ + }
".....Never?!"
"Never." The Conductor smirked at him, his brown hair tousled and unruly. "Sorry, that's the rules. You lost; you lose your entry fee. So sad. I'm crying." His voice was light, mocking.
777 sat down on the concrete of the scramble crossing, next to Tenho's limp, unconscious body. It had been a hard seven days. It had been a long time since he'd had to put his trust in anyone, but out here there were two choices; trust, or die.
When asked for his name, he opened his mouth and found that no sound came out. Well, that was one way for them to take it. And, on instinct, he said the first thing that came to mind - the name of his first band.
777, he'd said. I'm Triple-Seven.
The word burned like poison in his ears for seven days, and now he would never be rid of it.
{ + }
"...So that's why," Minamimoto said, the words more a vibration at his throat than a true sound. "I couldn't remember your name, and I thought I was going crazy."
777 sighed. "...And you can't think of it? Even now?"
A silence, as Minamimoto tried. "...Sorry. No luck." He was rubbing 777's forehead, though it was his hair he was supposed to be rubbing. Couldn't, now. Too much spiking glue.
"...What about you?" He tried to move, his words were muffled by the other's skin; but all his muscles had gone on strike. "What was your entry fee?"
Sho chuckled, and 777 could feel the smirk growing on his face. "Haven't you guessed?"
The singer shook his head, slowly.
"...My entry fee was you."
{ + }
"There is a way."
Sho Minamimoto, recently deceased, looked up from a tearful scene - his best friend, screaming at the ground, while his beloved car and only-slightly-more-beloved body burned. "What is it that I have to do," he whispered, his voice cracking halfway through.
The man was suddenly in front of him - tall, willowy, wearing blue and white and holding up a single pin, balanced between his fingers. "Play the Reaper's Game. Seven days, and if you win..." he trailed off for dramatic effect, as a slow smile crept onto his pretty face. "...You will come back to life, as if you'd never been gone."
Sho's eyes were wide in his face, jaw hanging slightly open. "You can... do that?"
The man chuckled. "Not me, of course - that's the Composer's privilege. But here." He held out the pin, and Sho, zombielike, took it from him. "That's your Player pin. You can use it to read the thoughts of those alive in the Realground, and to find Noise. Both essential abilities for completing your tasks."
"Tasks... so..." He was starting to get acclimated. "I have to complete tasks, and survive for seven days? I can do that."
"Hm, well, you'll be needing a partner... you can't fight the Noise alone, you see." The smirk widened as Sho's face fell. How could he partner with anyone else?! "Ah... and there is still the matter of your entry fee."
"Entry fee?!" Woah woah woah, talk about the fine print.
"Why yes. Only the thing you hold most dear - all will be returned, should you succeed."
"But what if I don't?!" he shouted, gripping the Player Pin tight in his hands.
"Hee hee." The Conductor waved a hand dismissively. "You do want to come back to life, don't you?"
Minamimoto subsided. "Yes..."
"Then all you have to do is win." The Conductor snapped his fingers, and as Sho watched, the body of his best friend began to fade from sight.
"No... wait! You can't take him! He's alive, he's got nothing to do with this, don't, don't... don't..."
He crumpled to the ground, his face clenched in his hands.
"Hee hee. Composer's orders." That smirk could have enraged the Devil himself. "Run along like a good boy, now, and find yourself a partner - it wouldn't do to have you erased on the first day, now would it?"
Minamimoto felt his blood boil. Who created this stupid game, anyway?! Who gave people a chance at forever, then stripped them of everything that made life worth living!?
Oh, he'd find a partner. He'd find a partner, and fight the Noise, and win the Game, and when he'd won, he'd find the Composer and sock him in the teeth.
{ + }
777 raised an eyebrow. "How did that work?"
"Well, you were alive - they couldn't interfere with you directly, so they took the next best thing - my ability to see you."
He sucked in a sudden breath. "You..."
Minamimoto winced. "I didn't win the Game. We lost. But we both stayed on as Reapers. I couldn't watch you. I didn't even know that you'd died."
His eyes were filled with remorse, now, and sorrow. "Sho..."
"...And then I heard Def Märch. I knew it was you - I saw the shape of the gossip that flowed, about the zetta sexy 777..."
"...and you were jealous." He could see it now. He understood, he understood everything. He'd tried so hard, but he couldn't communicate with the Harrier he'd seen in the ramen shop. No one could say his name, and Sho couldn't see him. He'd started Def Märch because he couldn't be silent any longer - and maybe, just maybe, he could draw Minamimoto back.
Sho pressed his black hand against his face, and though he was smiling, there were tears in his eyes. "I thought you'd forgotten me."
"I could never forget."
{ + }
"...How stupid could you be?"
"Megs, Megs." Minamimoto tilted his head back, winced as the other pulled a little hard in his bandaging. "How was I supposed to know? You never told me - ah! - what the Composer was like. You never told me anything at all."
"I told you to be careful." Megumi shook his head, and pinned the end of the bandage down. Knowing Sho, it would be loose in no time. "You never listen."
"Why should I?!" He sprang from the chair the second the bandaging process was done, as predicted, and threw his coat back on. "You're full of garbage. There's nothing worth listening to around here."
Megumi facepalmed, though there was a smile under it. "You never change, do you?"
"Tch." He threw his headscarf on and tied it with ruthless efficiency. "Change is garbage."
"...Precisely."
Minamimoto stopped, a hand reaching out for his hat. There was a Tone in his old partner's voice, one of those Tones that merits an explanation. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Change." Megumi took a seat, and crossed his legs. "Change is what ruins the pattern of life. Change is the epitome of death, and the fight against death is a fight to revert back to the old and the familiar. By taking away a crucial element - the heartstring, so to speak - it puts a person in a position to feel an acute loss, a definitive and disagreeable change. Thus, the impetus is created, to restore what once was."
Right, whatever. Minamimoto had better things to do, but for some reason, it didn't just seem like one of Megumi's pontifications. "...Yeah?"
With one hand, he reached up and plucked the definitive sunglasses off of his face. It wasn't like Sho had never seen him without them, but it was a rare enough occurrence to lend a heavy clout to his next sentence.
"The Composer wants to destroy Shibuya."
The Composer. The very thought of the phrase made Minamimoto's blood boil. Oh, he'd put the figures together, all right. Because no one had thought that the slim, pretty Conductor of a few years ago might just not have been erased. "...And you're going to stop him."
"Indeed." Megumi steepled his fingers and leaned forward on his elbows. "That, I am capable of. What's interesting about this situation for you, however... is that during the course of this next Game, the Composer shall be... absent."
Sho kind of gave him him a quizzical look. "Absent like how, absent like, gone to Kyoto for lunch? Gone out to space? Teleported to an alternate universe where everyone is obsessed with Tin Pin?"
Megumi laughed at that, and Minamimoto chuckled a bit himself. Really, the things he said sometimes, so ridiculous. "...I wish. No, he'll still be here in Shibuya... but only in the RG."
"Ah! That's why he was at Udagawa." Sho thought this through. "...Does that mean... that you're in charge?"
Megumi slipped the shades back on. "For the most part, yes, I am. And I thought that, well, as a gesture of good friendship, and in the interest of earning your continued support..." He paused, that smile still hovering around his face. "...I thought you might like a return on your entry fee."
{ + }
"...What are you gonna do now?"
They lack on their backs, on the roof of the Pork City building. Neither had bothered to put any clothes back on, when one or the other had suggested a change of location.
"Heh." Minamimoto grinned. "What do you think? Factoring hectopascal. I'm going to become the Composer, and end this Game once and for all."
{ + }
The next morning, BJ heaved a sigh, and fished in his pin case for a 1000 yen pin.
It was pretty hard to deny what happened, you see, when the person in question returned home without first remembering to don their clothes.
Pairing: Minamimoto/777
Rating/Type: R, porn/lol/angst/fluff (just sort of everything)
Word Count: 4,435
Warning: zetta spoilers.
"...So, you think he's got a chance?"
Tenho leaned back against the railing on the stage and sighed. "Look, the guy's a loose cannon but he's not gonna off one of his own Reapers. Not for something as dumb as a mic."
There was a silence.
"...Are you calling our microphone dumb?"
"Well-"
"Because I thought I heard you say 'that dumb mic', which seems to me to say-"
"Hey, that's not what I-"
"Hey." BJ frowned and scratched at his chin, which was getting a little stubbly. He needed to remember to shave before his hot date. "Wasn't it your fault that the mic got stolen in the first place?"
"..." Tenho half-glared, half-pouted at him. "...Yeah, so what."
"...So shouldn't it be you beggin' the King of the Hill on all fours?"
The wall reaper rolled his eyes. "I wasn't the one who wanted to be lead singer just because of a girl-"
"Don't, shh, shhhhut up!" BJ waved a hand frantically, then yanked down on Tenho's cap. "Man, can't you keep a damn secret?"
"No." Tenho pushed the brim back up and leveled his glare at his friend again. "Look, don't ask me. Spikes was the one who wanted to go get it back; and who am I to tell him no?"
{ + }
To Minamimoto's credit, he didn't seem too surprised when 777 arrived. He was sitting on the windowsill, one foot propped up, the other dangling out over the window ledge and out into the open air. It was a nice night, full of stars, and he was watching the last few players sleeping in little lumps on the scramble crossing. He wondered what they would look like all piled on top of each other, willy-nilly, with the Composer sitting on top, like a snotty little blue flag.
At any rate, though his mind was clearly elsewhere, he didn't jump when the elevator door slid open and 777 walked through, his big shoes making stomping sounds on the concrete. "What do you want, Reaper," he drawled, fingering the edge of his favorite hat.
"You know damn well." His hood was down as usual, showing off the sharp blond spikes that made an otherwise pretty face look dangerous. Minamimoto wasn't watching.
"Enlighten me." He chewed on the edge of his wristband, just wanting the singer to get to the damn point already.
"The microphone." 777 sidled closer, and with a sideways glance Minamimoto noticed that his pants were slung rather low on his hips, and maybe it was the latest Harrier fashion, but no one ever noticed because of their bulky sweatshirts. "Where is it?"
"What are you talking about?" He finally extricated himself from the window. Summer nights were hot in Tokyo. He leaned against the sill, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, and fixed 777 with a steady, piercing stare.
The blond didn't seem too fazed by the intensity, or maybe it was the reason he drew closer, clicking his teeth and fingering the hem of his pants. "Look. You have something of mine. I have something of yours. It's in our best interests to return both of them."
"Is it?" Minamimoto frowned and rubbed at the tattoos on his cheek. "I don't know, I thought it was a fair trade."
777's eyes shot open and he pointed, rather overdramatically. "See! You did take it!"
"Trade!" Minamimoto mirrored the stance, though he shifted his weight back and cocked his wrist at a sharper angle. "No trade-backs. My word is final!!"
"Your word is garbage," 777 snarled back at him, in what was likely an attempt at being coy.
"...Zetta true." He subsided, looking thoughtful. He bit at his wristband again, eyes wandering off to the left. "But, I am Game Master. What I say goes."
"Tch, some shitty Game Master you are. I heard you haven't even been giving out missions."
"WHAT'S IT TO YOU?" Minamimoto liked shouting. Shouting was good for the soul, and from up here, it echoed out the open window into the sin-soaked Shibuya back streets.
"I'M BORED." Well, it wasn't for nothing that 777 was a singer - he had the lungs to prove it. Then, remembering that he was still holding Minamimoto's megaphone, he brought it up for extra dramatic effect. "WHERE'S MY MICROPHONE?"
"Temper, temper." Minamimoto leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the megaphone, then tugged it forward, with 777 still attached. "I could erase you in t = .05s."
The singer didn't seem threatened, and his only reaction was to lean even closer. "...They always say that you don't play well with others, well, I guess you could say I'm the exact opposite."
"You never play well at all?" Minamimoto smirked.
"Har har." He let go of the megaphone, and it clattered to the floor. "I don't play well alone. That mic is part of the band."
"Cooperation is garbage." The game master leaned back, his spine arching in a wide parabola. "Coincidentally, so is your mic."
"You say everything's garbage." They were close, now, legs almost touching, and the fingers at 777's pants hem were sliding with a little more subtext. "Is there anything you really like, at all?"
A smirk was all the answer he gave to that one. "Zetta slow. You should be shirtless by now."
777 rolled his pale shoulders, and the sweatshirt went sliding off them like butter. "I know you know more than you let on. Tell me what you know."
"The length of an arc of the curve y = (1/6) x^3 + (1/2) x^-1 from-"
"NOT about math. C'mon, man, I don't spit out music terms every other word." Sliding out of his shirt was a little more difficult, but only because it was a helluva tight shirt. Minamimoto watched, and 777 could see that he was having an effect, from the way his eyes wandered. "Tell me what I need to know."
Minamimoto smiled. "I like your nipple shinies."
"That doesn't answer my question." The problem with being pale as fuck was that there was no way to hide a blush, and though 777 wasn't easy to fluster, it was easy to tell when it worked.
"Did it hurt?" He leaned forward, reached out one black-tattooed hand and-
The Reaper pushed the hand away, his blush getting worse. "Listen, I didn't come here to seduce you, I just wanted to-"
"You didn't?" Minamimoto's smile grew into a smirk, and there was arrogance in every line of his body, from the jut of his hips to the arc of his jaw. "Zetta shucks."
"...Tell me what you did with my mic."
Minamimoto was watching the play of expressions over the singer's face - the moment he thought he was winning, the blush, the trepidation as he realized he may actually have to go through with the trap he'd begun to set. It was like watching a tiny kitten wiggling its butt before pouncing. Zetta cute. "Come here. I want to play with your nipples."
"No. No touchie." Curse, curse, CURSE his blush. It was like a neon arrow to all his sensitivities. 777's fingers fumbled on the button of his pants, stalled for time. He really didn't want to take his pants off. Well... he wanted to take his pants off, but he really didn't want to want to take his pants off.
Minamimoto crooked a finger, and the reaper stepped forward, before he really thought about what he was doing. His hand reached out, and 777 tensed everywhere - but the hand wasn't going for his chest, it slid around his waist instead, and pulled him in close.
"Your pants," he growled in 777's ear, "are an unnecessary factor in this equation."
Oh. Okay. Pants, yeah, who needs pants? The singer found his throat running dry at the unexpectedly husky tone in the other's voice, and his fingers popped the button and slid the zipper down.
He was about to make another protest, when Minamimoto's teeth closed around the skin of his earlobe. That was it. Coherency officially lost. His knees liquefied and he moaned, hands coming up to fist in the material of Minamimoto's jacket. Jacket? Not cool. So not cool.
'An unnecessary factor', as a matter of fact.
He worked the Game Master out of his jacket and pessed him up against a wall, his pants sliding low on skinny hips now that they were undone. He'd gotten his ear away from Minamimoto's questing teeth, only to have those teeth relocate to the base of his neck, which really wasn't much better for his brain cells. But they were chest to chest now, and he could feel the heady thrumming of other man's heart under a tan chest, rough with wind and hard work. His own was pasty pale, skinny, and soft as a kitty's belly from a life - and afterlife - of underexposure.
Minamimoto grinned. He slid his tattooed hand under the hem of 777's pants and boxers, drinking in the pleasured gasp as he deliberately allowed his nails to graze the tender skin. He knew how the other would like it, hard and rough and overdramatic, with all of Shibuya nightlife spread out below him.
He whimpered. Minamimoto's other hand had found his nipples, and thus, the ultra-turn-on he'd been desperately trying to avoid. If he hadn't been interested before, he certainly was now, and the rough motion was pulling a harsh, desperate sound from his throat, unwillingly. He reached up and knocked off Minamimoto's hat, then scrabbled for purchase at the back of his head as the torture continued, painful and sensual and overbearing.
The game master gasped, the first sound of the sort he'd made yet, and 777 blinked in surprise. That's right. Hair. He smirked, and the hand up behind the other's head deftly slid off his red kerchief, wound in the longish hair there - and tightened into a fist, pulling it back slowly.
Minamimoto melted back against the wall, and moaned.
"Your pants," 777 whispered, his voice thick and hot and heady, "are an unnecessary factor in this equation."
{ + }
"...1000 yen says they do it."
"What?!" BJ exclaimed, looking up from the book he was reading, its cover carefully folded back. "Dude, you can't be serious."
Tenho shrugged, flicking another old CD off into the 'Useless Crap' pile. "I'm serious. You don't know Spikey. I do."
The Harrier snorted in disbelief, shaking his head and going back to his romance n- I mean, intelligent and well written nonfiction book. However, he couldn't've read more than two paragraphs before looking up again. "...What, are you saying he's gay?"
Tenho just looked at BJ. Really. Because really. REALLY. "...Spikey's a queerfag, BJ."
"Oh." He looked a little... put out, for lack of a better word. "Man, that is so not fair."
"What, the gay guy gets all the chicks? Call it a cruel irony." He shook his head and tossed another CD over, making a sharp plastic-y clatter.
"...Yeah, but the Game Master ain't gay."
Tenho snorted with laughter. "Right, and I'm a chocobo."
"Come on! That's way too much gay, man. I can't handle that." He slouched down further in his armchair. "And besides, who'd want to sleep with a loser like Spikes." Nope, he wasn't bitter at all.
Tenho just smirked. "...So you'll take the bet."
"No way!" BJ scowled over the top of his novel.
"...How's what's-his-name, Feliciano? Did he rescue Lady Isabella yet?"
"Not ye-!!!!!" BJ caught himself, and shot up in his chair in that special affronted rage of the sinfully embarrassed. "Fine. I'll take your damn bet. You just shut up, and leave me to my SUPER EXTRA MANLY book."
Tenho severely resisted the urge to snicker. "...Right. I'll do that."
{ + }
He cried out his name when he came, like a big stupid loser. Well, he'd known this would happen all along, on some subconscious level, it was why he'd wanted to duke it out over a stupid piece of equipment in the first place.
Sho Minamimoto. 777's first drummer.
They'd been 18, young and rebellious and ready to make it big. The world is garbage, their posters read, and it was the night after their first concert - an opening gig, sure, but they'd had the whole crowd cheering their names.
I'm nothing without you, he screamed, hands clenched in the bloody gravel at the side of the flaming wreck. He'd been called a different name, then, and his hair was an inch-long blond fuzz.
A little too much partying. A little too much to drink.
It can't, it can't end like this, he told himself over and over as the ambulance sirens wailed, almost drowning out the anguish in his heart. Almost.
And for all that, it wasn't their fault. No-fault accident, that's how the cops put it, but maybe if they hadn't been drinking, they could have gotten out of the way.
I can't do this alone.
Cooperation is garbage. That's what he'd said, laughingly, even as he went out of his way to help unpack the guitars on moving day. Afterwards, he stacked the boxes and the bags and broken strings, fussed with everything until it was 'zetta perfect', heaped in a pile in the middle of the parking lot. The blond singer popped open a beer and watched him with lazy eyes, fond affection for his partner's quirks. That night they sat on top of the wall in the Udagawa Back Streets and wrote music about life, banged wooden spoons on trash can lids and recorded the sounds of bottles breaking.
The music died, for him, with Sho Minamimoto. Life became an empty, hollow shell - work, bills, drinking, meaningless sex with meaningless guys. He forgot about things like style and music and life, he forgot that he was in Shibuya, the heart of change. It wasn't life anymore.
He was twenty when everything turned upside-down. It had only been two years, but it felt like two hundred.
He was sitting down at the ramen shop on the Dogenzaka. He didn't usually stay, but he couldn't seem to find the strength to leave.
And in walked Sho.
{ + }
"...You know Spikes pretty well, huh?" BJ fidgeted, it was different reading crappy girl books when the other person in the room knew what he was doing.
"I guess." Tenho shrugged. "You would, too, if you paid any attention."
"Tch, I don't wanna know. Guy's a weirdass." He tugged on the strings of his sweatshirt. "I mean, he puts up with us, but his heart's not in it, y'know? I mean, most people are happy when they sing. But Spikes... man." BJ shook his head, slowly. "It's like he's singing out his demons, or something. Like he's tryin' to purge himself."
Tenho raised an eyebrow, though it was hard to see in the shadow of his brim. "And you never wondered why?"
{ + }
"...Sho, no more games." He was tucked in the space under Minamimoto's chin, their bodies pressed together from throat to thigh. "What'd you do with my mic?"
"...Why did you start Def Märch." It was overly blunt, harsh and to the point. 777 winced.
There was a pause before he answered, both of them taut with tension. "You played the Game, didn't you? When you died?"
"Sure." Minamimoto could not see where he was going with this. "Zetta shitty game. Me 'n Megs cleaned up."
"Well..." He frowned. "...Let's just say I learned a few things."
{ + }
He shouted, and his voice expanded, bounced and echoed off the walls, only to rebound and slam into the surrounding Noise like a tidal wave. He could feel the connection, feel his partner slam against the barrier between their worlds, passing back their bubble of glowing gold light.
He took a deep breath -
and sang, and while the shout was great, this time his voice had power. He was in control, he was the master of the tune, skipping up a third and down a fifth, weaving chords to reinforce himself. He wasn't too great at any of the other psychs, to be honest. But this, he could do this. He could do whatever he wanted.
{ + }
"You know we were partners," Tenho said, flipping a case open to turn the CD cover right side out. "That's how we met. He didn't tell me anything outright, but I got the feeling that he'd been trying to run away from his voice for a long time."
BJ's puzzled frown softened to a half-smile. "...Well, the Noise have a way of making us face up to ourselves when we least expect it."
"Heh. Couldn't've put it better myself." Tenho smirked. "Well, we lost that game. Shitty game. Joined the Reapers and met your sorry ass..."
{ + }
".....Never?!"
"Never." The Conductor smirked at him, his brown hair tousled and unruly. "Sorry, that's the rules. You lost; you lose your entry fee. So sad. I'm crying." His voice was light, mocking.
777 sat down on the concrete of the scramble crossing, next to Tenho's limp, unconscious body. It had been a hard seven days. It had been a long time since he'd had to put his trust in anyone, but out here there were two choices; trust, or die.
When asked for his name, he opened his mouth and found that no sound came out. Well, that was one way for them to take it. And, on instinct, he said the first thing that came to mind - the name of his first band.
777, he'd said. I'm Triple-Seven.
The word burned like poison in his ears for seven days, and now he would never be rid of it.
{ + }
"...So that's why," Minamimoto said, the words more a vibration at his throat than a true sound. "I couldn't remember your name, and I thought I was going crazy."
777 sighed. "...And you can't think of it? Even now?"
A silence, as Minamimoto tried. "...Sorry. No luck." He was rubbing 777's forehead, though it was his hair he was supposed to be rubbing. Couldn't, now. Too much spiking glue.
"...What about you?" He tried to move, his words were muffled by the other's skin; but all his muscles had gone on strike. "What was your entry fee?"
Sho chuckled, and 777 could feel the smirk growing on his face. "Haven't you guessed?"
The singer shook his head, slowly.
"...My entry fee was you."
{ + }
"There is a way."
Sho Minamimoto, recently deceased, looked up from a tearful scene - his best friend, screaming at the ground, while his beloved car and only-slightly-more-beloved body burned. "What is it that I have to do," he whispered, his voice cracking halfway through.
The man was suddenly in front of him - tall, willowy, wearing blue and white and holding up a single pin, balanced between his fingers. "Play the Reaper's Game. Seven days, and if you win..." he trailed off for dramatic effect, as a slow smile crept onto his pretty face. "...You will come back to life, as if you'd never been gone."
Sho's eyes were wide in his face, jaw hanging slightly open. "You can... do that?"
The man chuckled. "Not me, of course - that's the Composer's privilege. But here." He held out the pin, and Sho, zombielike, took it from him. "That's your Player pin. You can use it to read the thoughts of those alive in the Realground, and to find Noise. Both essential abilities for completing your tasks."
"Tasks... so..." He was starting to get acclimated. "I have to complete tasks, and survive for seven days? I can do that."
"Hm, well, you'll be needing a partner... you can't fight the Noise alone, you see." The smirk widened as Sho's face fell. How could he partner with anyone else?! "Ah... and there is still the matter of your entry fee."
"Entry fee?!" Woah woah woah, talk about the fine print.
"Why yes. Only the thing you hold most dear - all will be returned, should you succeed."
"But what if I don't?!" he shouted, gripping the Player Pin tight in his hands.
"Hee hee." The Conductor waved a hand dismissively. "You do want to come back to life, don't you?"
Minamimoto subsided. "Yes..."
"Then all you have to do is win." The Conductor snapped his fingers, and as Sho watched, the body of his best friend began to fade from sight.
"No... wait! You can't take him! He's alive, he's got nothing to do with this, don't, don't... don't..."
He crumpled to the ground, his face clenched in his hands.
"Hee hee. Composer's orders." That smirk could have enraged the Devil himself. "Run along like a good boy, now, and find yourself a partner - it wouldn't do to have you erased on the first day, now would it?"
Minamimoto felt his blood boil. Who created this stupid game, anyway?! Who gave people a chance at forever, then stripped them of everything that made life worth living!?
Oh, he'd find a partner. He'd find a partner, and fight the Noise, and win the Game, and when he'd won, he'd find the Composer and sock him in the teeth.
{ + }
777 raised an eyebrow. "How did that work?"
"Well, you were alive - they couldn't interfere with you directly, so they took the next best thing - my ability to see you."
He sucked in a sudden breath. "You..."
Minamimoto winced. "I didn't win the Game. We lost. But we both stayed on as Reapers. I couldn't watch you. I didn't even know that you'd died."
His eyes were filled with remorse, now, and sorrow. "Sho..."
"...And then I heard Def Märch. I knew it was you - I saw the shape of the gossip that flowed, about the zetta sexy 777..."
"...and you were jealous." He could see it now. He understood, he understood everything. He'd tried so hard, but he couldn't communicate with the Harrier he'd seen in the ramen shop. No one could say his name, and Sho couldn't see him. He'd started Def Märch because he couldn't be silent any longer - and maybe, just maybe, he could draw Minamimoto back.
Sho pressed his black hand against his face, and though he was smiling, there were tears in his eyes. "I thought you'd forgotten me."
"I could never forget."
{ + }
"...How stupid could you be?"
"Megs, Megs." Minamimoto tilted his head back, winced as the other pulled a little hard in his bandaging. "How was I supposed to know? You never told me - ah! - what the Composer was like. You never told me anything at all."
"I told you to be careful." Megumi shook his head, and pinned the end of the bandage down. Knowing Sho, it would be loose in no time. "You never listen."
"Why should I?!" He sprang from the chair the second the bandaging process was done, as predicted, and threw his coat back on. "You're full of garbage. There's nothing worth listening to around here."
Megumi facepalmed, though there was a smile under it. "You never change, do you?"
"Tch." He threw his headscarf on and tied it with ruthless efficiency. "Change is garbage."
"...Precisely."
Minamimoto stopped, a hand reaching out for his hat. There was a Tone in his old partner's voice, one of those Tones that merits an explanation. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Change." Megumi took a seat, and crossed his legs. "Change is what ruins the pattern of life. Change is the epitome of death, and the fight against death is a fight to revert back to the old and the familiar. By taking away a crucial element - the heartstring, so to speak - it puts a person in a position to feel an acute loss, a definitive and disagreeable change. Thus, the impetus is created, to restore what once was."
Right, whatever. Minamimoto had better things to do, but for some reason, it didn't just seem like one of Megumi's pontifications. "...Yeah?"
With one hand, he reached up and plucked the definitive sunglasses off of his face. It wasn't like Sho had never seen him without them, but it was a rare enough occurrence to lend a heavy clout to his next sentence.
"The Composer wants to destroy Shibuya."
The Composer. The very thought of the phrase made Minamimoto's blood boil. Oh, he'd put the figures together, all right. Because no one had thought that the slim, pretty Conductor of a few years ago might just not have been erased. "...And you're going to stop him."
"Indeed." Megumi steepled his fingers and leaned forward on his elbows. "That, I am capable of. What's interesting about this situation for you, however... is that during the course of this next Game, the Composer shall be... absent."
Sho kind of gave him him a quizzical look. "Absent like how, absent like, gone to Kyoto for lunch? Gone out to space? Teleported to an alternate universe where everyone is obsessed with Tin Pin?"
Megumi laughed at that, and Minamimoto chuckled a bit himself. Really, the things he said sometimes, so ridiculous. "...I wish. No, he'll still be here in Shibuya... but only in the RG."
"Ah! That's why he was at Udagawa." Sho thought this through. "...Does that mean... that you're in charge?"
Megumi slipped the shades back on. "For the most part, yes, I am. And I thought that, well, as a gesture of good friendship, and in the interest of earning your continued support..." He paused, that smile still hovering around his face. "...I thought you might like a return on your entry fee."
{ + }
"...What are you gonna do now?"
They lack on their backs, on the roof of the Pork City building. Neither had bothered to put any clothes back on, when one or the other had suggested a change of location.
"Heh." Minamimoto grinned. "What do you think? Factoring hectopascal. I'm going to become the Composer, and end this Game once and for all."
{ + }
The next morning, BJ heaved a sigh, and fished in his pin case for a 1000 yen pin.
It was pretty hard to deny what happened, you see, when the person in question returned home without first remembering to don their clothes.