Weird bored drabble is weird
Lol wut did I just write.
151, not femslash for once?!?!
The cashier runs the brightly decorated plastic bag through the scanner, the computer beeps up for 1 JUMBO HAPPY PUFF MALLO, $5.67. He inputs a quick code, changes the count to 13, and shoves the rest of the identical bags over to the redheaded bag boy with a chiding frown. The Italian can only smile with a playful guilt, and when he takes his change, his touch lingers in the other’s palm a bit longer than necessary. The skin turns warm. He is rewarded with a blush.
When he leaves the aisle, he smiles brightly at the bag boy who offers to help with his bags, declines.
“I can do it myself today I think, Shou-chan~”
On the way to his bus stop, because Byakuran no longer needs to take a car- why should he when it’s always such a beautiful day out, he smiles at everyone he passes by. Green eyes stare dully back at him, some hateful, some complacent, some pleading. The sun’s glow is soft and holy on his white visage, and the skies are a crisp Italian blue. The bus, when he gets on, is manned by a petite little thing in a starchy blue uniform- he winks at the redheaded girl, pays his fee, and sits across from Shou-chan. He talks about the weather, about his job, and then, about Shou-chan’s pet dog who is sitting next to him. It’s a cute thing, a girl, with red hair, thick spectacles, and unruly brown ears and a tail. She’s petite, fair skinned, rosy lipped. He tells Shou-chan he’s happy he’s got someone to relate to, to stay with. He never liked Shouichi being alone.
He tells him that his dog is pretty. And Shouichi blushes, staring at the immaculate white bus floor, while the humdrum of the engine serves as a backdrop to the curious stare of the dog, whose collar reads ‘Shou-chan’.
He carries his bags to his apartment, nods at the huffy, quick tempered super attendant who scowls at him as he cleans his black spectacles, his emerald eyes bright with faded patience and the reflection of the fluorescent bulbs.
He goes up the elevator to his floor, swinging his bags of store bought marshmallows as he hums, and once he gets to his room number he pauses. Next door, he can hear the handsome music of his neighbor. A handsome, scrawny boy who was quiet yet immensely captivating when he sang….a future musician indeed. Right now he’s practicing his latest song, about a lack of control. Byakuran knows because he’s broken into next door a few times. He never hides his tracks. He knows the local policemen. Everyone else knows he knows them too.
Once inside, he sits on his plush white couch, and cracks open the fresh bag of mallows. The sweet powdered smell pervades, and already sticky fingers seek out the remote. Onto the news. The newscaster, a serious yet pretty Japanese in a black suit with matching spectacles, begins to report the latest in technological advancements. Developments within the mosca labor force, in new medications for stomach ulcers and acne. Ways to improve muscle tone, to tame unruly auburn hair.
He looks very interested in it himself.
Byakuran has always known that the world runs off of knowledge and power. The knowledge for the know-how, and the power to enforce it. The wiles to convert people, and the strength to convince them.
Shou-chan was always so very smart. And Byakuran, now that he has the trinisette, he’s so very powerful. It’s a good match.
On his way to work, he comes across a woman with a baby stroller. His smile is knowing, her face is mortified. She stares at the ground and flushes, trembling, while he lets the tiny redheaded baby boy clasp his tiny hands around a pale finger.
“I’d love to meet the father,” he says, and he feels somewhat uplifted when she practically runs, the child squealing in excitement as the stroller goes fast, fast, fast down the street.
His secretary greets him with a cup of coffee, 5 creams, 6 sugars, a glob of mocha and whipped topping, and a shot of espresso. He peck the pale girl on the cheek, gives her suit clad arm an affectionate squeeze- she turns back to her computer poutily, and jams on thick headphones that blast the Blood + Peppers.
In his office, looking over forms for the world’s affairs, he thinks about how much he likes his secretary. She has a wonderful memory. Memories were the hardest thing about it all, he had had to pick and choose so carefully, had to make sure he used the right ones in the REM sleep cycle conditioning and the memory implanting.
Which memories were the ones that made Shouichi fall in love with him? He wished he could have asked the boy, but alas. The guesswork took years to perfect. But he thinks that secretary; she’s turned out very well.
He thinks about asking her out. Then he remembers the shy shuffle of the bag boy’s feet, and the way emeralds flickered nervously under auburn lashes, and thinks he’ll try him first.
So, if the world runs on knowledge and power, then all you need to run the world is knowledge and power. It’s simple reasoning, really, and it’s only two things. Byakuran used to imagine a kingdom where he and Shou ruled together over the lands. He would get strange looks from his wreaths, laughing and choking on his candies, as he pictures the beautiful redheaded Queen Shou I, all dolled up in proper British fashion. But then he realized that was all too dangerous, too prone to things like assassinations and dissents.
All the world needed to run was knowledge and power. Shouichi was the knowledge, and Byakuran was the power. So it only needed to be the two of them.
He’s fine with this, because really, out of everyone in that boring world, Shouichi was the best. The only one who could ever see through Byakuran’s web of lies, could rival him in CHOICE, could somehow still manage to catch him off guard yet be deliciously predictable. Indeed, Shouichi was his favorite player. So he knows in his perfect world, the redhead is key.
Byakuran eats lunch at an internet café, leers at the rows of computers occupied by redheads of varying ages. One looks elementary aged, keeps squirming in his seat, fiddling with his polo shirt, cleaning his glasses. He doesn’t like being looked at, which is why Byakuran stares at him the most.
On the way out, he gives the shy waiter his phone number and chuckles when fingers trembling with excitement slip it into the apron pocket, his stomach giving a low growl of anxiety.
He had remembered the way to make his sundae perfectly. A good copy, he thought. A success in memories. He hoped the one where Shou had fallen in love with him was in there.
Lying on his bed, body fresh and hot from his bath, he thinks the memory is the one where they had been in the dorm room together. Late at night, or maybe morning, both so tired they were falling asleep, but so desperate to finish that one last modification to CHOICE before hitting the hay. Byakuran had proposed ice-cream to help keep awake, and the usually anti-junk food Shouichi had surprisingly agreed. The look in his eyes when Byakuran had devoured his in 5 bites, the way he had just barely touched his own tongue to the vanilla coated spoon. Maybe it was there, he thought, that love had shone for the first time in those eyes. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the laptop’s glow on his glasses.
The redhead walks in out of the shower, hair dark and curling up delicately as it hits the air, a towel slung low around lithe hips. Byakuran tastes canned coffee and saltines on his mouth when they kiss, feels a hidden control behind the hands that push his milky thighs apart and up to his chest. It’s a good Shou, he thinks, the one who shoots those annoyed looks at him, who occasionally hits him with a folder or invoice stack held by heavy duty paperclips. He knows when Shouichi began to hate him, so he leaves out all memories of the Vongola, of the world’s destruction. But he leaves a few things, just because a Shou who can’t get mad at him isn’t a Shou at all.
He teases the redhead, makes him go rough, and his knees ache as they’re holding up his weight, hands bloodless as he’s rocked hard down against the mattress from behind. When Shou comes, he’s quiet and flushing, and his chapped lips press somehow gently to the back of Byakuran’s sweat coated body. It’s a good Shou, he thinks, collapsing in a heap of cum and sweat and knotted up bed sheets. He orgasms just like the real one.
The world runs on knowledge and power, and so the world really only needs Shouichi and Byakuran to run, he decided. Of course, you can’t make a society with only two people, and the world is just too large and beautiful to be neglected like that.
A perfect world has perfect people, and Shou’s as close to perfect as Byakuran feels he’ll get. But there’s just one glaring imperfection that keeps Byakuran from properly sleeping wrapped in Shouichi #245678’s arms.
He’s not the real one.
The cashier gives him a knowing look as he rings up the 1 JUMBO HAPPY PUFF MALLO and inputs the code to change the quantity to 15. Byakuran’s not looking at him; he’s looking at the bag boy. He’s about the right age, he thinks, the age Shouichi was when they first met. He wonders which school he goes to. Does he go to the B+P concerts? He thinks about asking him out, but the boy runs quickly to clean up a spill at his manager’s request. The timing is so inconvenient, but it’s just like Shou to narrowly escape. He smiles, and tries not to automatically glance around before he leaves to see if his Shou is around. He knows better. Shouichi isn’t foolish enough to go to the same grocery Byakuran shops at, not while he’s on the run.
When Byakuran walks out of the store, it’s another perfect day. Italian sky, dull sun, the smell of flowers. He meanders through the sea of redheads, a single achromatic difference, and wonders why love is so hateful and pounding and burning.
151, not femslash for once?!?!
The cashier runs the brightly decorated plastic bag through the scanner, the computer beeps up for 1 JUMBO HAPPY PUFF MALLO, $5.67. He inputs a quick code, changes the count to 13, and shoves the rest of the identical bags over to the redheaded bag boy with a chiding frown. The Italian can only smile with a playful guilt, and when he takes his change, his touch lingers in the other’s palm a bit longer than necessary. The skin turns warm. He is rewarded with a blush.
When he leaves the aisle, he smiles brightly at the bag boy who offers to help with his bags, declines.
“I can do it myself today I think, Shou-chan~”
On the way to his bus stop, because Byakuran no longer needs to take a car- why should he when it’s always such a beautiful day out, he smiles at everyone he passes by. Green eyes stare dully back at him, some hateful, some complacent, some pleading. The sun’s glow is soft and holy on his white visage, and the skies are a crisp Italian blue. The bus, when he gets on, is manned by a petite little thing in a starchy blue uniform- he winks at the redheaded girl, pays his fee, and sits across from Shou-chan. He talks about the weather, about his job, and then, about Shou-chan’s pet dog who is sitting next to him. It’s a cute thing, a girl, with red hair, thick spectacles, and unruly brown ears and a tail. She’s petite, fair skinned, rosy lipped. He tells Shou-chan he’s happy he’s got someone to relate to, to stay with. He never liked Shouichi being alone.
He tells him that his dog is pretty. And Shouichi blushes, staring at the immaculate white bus floor, while the humdrum of the engine serves as a backdrop to the curious stare of the dog, whose collar reads ‘Shou-chan’.
He carries his bags to his apartment, nods at the huffy, quick tempered super attendant who scowls at him as he cleans his black spectacles, his emerald eyes bright with faded patience and the reflection of the fluorescent bulbs.
He goes up the elevator to his floor, swinging his bags of store bought marshmallows as he hums, and once he gets to his room number he pauses. Next door, he can hear the handsome music of his neighbor. A handsome, scrawny boy who was quiet yet immensely captivating when he sang….a future musician indeed. Right now he’s practicing his latest song, about a lack of control. Byakuran knows because he’s broken into next door a few times. He never hides his tracks. He knows the local policemen. Everyone else knows he knows them too.
Once inside, he sits on his plush white couch, and cracks open the fresh bag of mallows. The sweet powdered smell pervades, and already sticky fingers seek out the remote. Onto the news. The newscaster, a serious yet pretty Japanese in a black suit with matching spectacles, begins to report the latest in technological advancements. Developments within the mosca labor force, in new medications for stomach ulcers and acne. Ways to improve muscle tone, to tame unruly auburn hair.
He looks very interested in it himself.
Byakuran has always known that the world runs off of knowledge and power. The knowledge for the know-how, and the power to enforce it. The wiles to convert people, and the strength to convince them.
Shou-chan was always so very smart. And Byakuran, now that he has the trinisette, he’s so very powerful. It’s a good match.
On his way to work, he comes across a woman with a baby stroller. His smile is knowing, her face is mortified. She stares at the ground and flushes, trembling, while he lets the tiny redheaded baby boy clasp his tiny hands around a pale finger.
“I’d love to meet the father,” he says, and he feels somewhat uplifted when she practically runs, the child squealing in excitement as the stroller goes fast, fast, fast down the street.
His secretary greets him with a cup of coffee, 5 creams, 6 sugars, a glob of mocha and whipped topping, and a shot of espresso. He peck the pale girl on the cheek, gives her suit clad arm an affectionate squeeze- she turns back to her computer poutily, and jams on thick headphones that blast the Blood + Peppers.
In his office, looking over forms for the world’s affairs, he thinks about how much he likes his secretary. She has a wonderful memory. Memories were the hardest thing about it all, he had had to pick and choose so carefully, had to make sure he used the right ones in the REM sleep cycle conditioning and the memory implanting.
Which memories were the ones that made Shouichi fall in love with him? He wished he could have asked the boy, but alas. The guesswork took years to perfect. But he thinks that secretary; she’s turned out very well.
He thinks about asking her out. Then he remembers the shy shuffle of the bag boy’s feet, and the way emeralds flickered nervously under auburn lashes, and thinks he’ll try him first.
So, if the world runs on knowledge and power, then all you need to run the world is knowledge and power. It’s simple reasoning, really, and it’s only two things. Byakuran used to imagine a kingdom where he and Shou ruled together over the lands. He would get strange looks from his wreaths, laughing and choking on his candies, as he pictures the beautiful redheaded Queen Shou I, all dolled up in proper British fashion. But then he realized that was all too dangerous, too prone to things like assassinations and dissents.
All the world needed to run was knowledge and power. Shouichi was the knowledge, and Byakuran was the power. So it only needed to be the two of them.
He’s fine with this, because really, out of everyone in that boring world, Shouichi was the best. The only one who could ever see through Byakuran’s web of lies, could rival him in CHOICE, could somehow still manage to catch him off guard yet be deliciously predictable. Indeed, Shouichi was his favorite player. So he knows in his perfect world, the redhead is key.
Byakuran eats lunch at an internet café, leers at the rows of computers occupied by redheads of varying ages. One looks elementary aged, keeps squirming in his seat, fiddling with his polo shirt, cleaning his glasses. He doesn’t like being looked at, which is why Byakuran stares at him the most.
On the way out, he gives the shy waiter his phone number and chuckles when fingers trembling with excitement slip it into the apron pocket, his stomach giving a low growl of anxiety.
He had remembered the way to make his sundae perfectly. A good copy, he thought. A success in memories. He hoped the one where Shou had fallen in love with him was in there.
Lying on his bed, body fresh and hot from his bath, he thinks the memory is the one where they had been in the dorm room together. Late at night, or maybe morning, both so tired they were falling asleep, but so desperate to finish that one last modification to CHOICE before hitting the hay. Byakuran had proposed ice-cream to help keep awake, and the usually anti-junk food Shouichi had surprisingly agreed. The look in his eyes when Byakuran had devoured his in 5 bites, the way he had just barely touched his own tongue to the vanilla coated spoon. Maybe it was there, he thought, that love had shone for the first time in those eyes. Or maybe it was just the reflection of the laptop’s glow on his glasses.
The redhead walks in out of the shower, hair dark and curling up delicately as it hits the air, a towel slung low around lithe hips. Byakuran tastes canned coffee and saltines on his mouth when they kiss, feels a hidden control behind the hands that push his milky thighs apart and up to his chest. It’s a good Shou, he thinks, the one who shoots those annoyed looks at him, who occasionally hits him with a folder or invoice stack held by heavy duty paperclips. He knows when Shouichi began to hate him, so he leaves out all memories of the Vongola, of the world’s destruction. But he leaves a few things, just because a Shou who can’t get mad at him isn’t a Shou at all.
He teases the redhead, makes him go rough, and his knees ache as they’re holding up his weight, hands bloodless as he’s rocked hard down against the mattress from behind. When Shou comes, he’s quiet and flushing, and his chapped lips press somehow gently to the back of Byakuran’s sweat coated body. It’s a good Shou, he thinks, collapsing in a heap of cum and sweat and knotted up bed sheets. He orgasms just like the real one.
The world runs on knowledge and power, and so the world really only needs Shouichi and Byakuran to run, he decided. Of course, you can’t make a society with only two people, and the world is just too large and beautiful to be neglected like that.
A perfect world has perfect people, and Shou’s as close to perfect as Byakuran feels he’ll get. But there’s just one glaring imperfection that keeps Byakuran from properly sleeping wrapped in Shouichi #245678’s arms.
He’s not the real one.
The cashier gives him a knowing look as he rings up the 1 JUMBO HAPPY PUFF MALLO and inputs the code to change the quantity to 15. Byakuran’s not looking at him; he’s looking at the bag boy. He’s about the right age, he thinks, the age Shouichi was when they first met. He wonders which school he goes to. Does he go to the B+P concerts? He thinks about asking him out, but the boy runs quickly to clean up a spill at his manager’s request. The timing is so inconvenient, but it’s just like Shou to narrowly escape. He smiles, and tries not to automatically glance around before he leaves to see if his Shou is around. He knows better. Shouichi isn’t foolish enough to go to the same grocery Byakuran shops at, not while he’s on the run.
When Byakuran walks out of the store, it’s another perfect day. Italian sky, dull sun, the smell of flowers. He meanders through the sea of redheads, a single achromatic difference, and wonders why love is so hateful and pounding and burning.