Shortish, Surprisingly Undepressed Texhnolyze Fic
Title: "Addiction to Hands and Feet"
Fandom: Texhnolyze
Words: about 600
Characters/Pairing: Ichise/Toyama
Rating/Warnings: PG, spoilers through the end; angst (it's Texhnolyze).
Summary: One evening, before things got really bad...
AN: Thanks to Regina Spektor for the slightly odd title.
Disclaimer: I do not own but enjoy.
"Addiction to Hands and Feet"
At the end of the day, when he was done enforcing, Ichise went home to his room to sleep. He did the same thing every day, and today, like any other, he turned away and started down the street...
"Ichise."
At the sound of his name, he looked back, apprehensive, as he always was, when something else was wanted.
Toyama caught up with him. "Listen, do you dance?"
Was this a poetic way of asking about sword fighting? "I have," he said warily. The answer was yes either way: he'd fought and he'd danced--well, sort of danced, undulated to loud music years ago as a teen before... before it stopped being something he did.
"Let's go hit a club; I feel like blowing off steam." Toyama had hold of his arm and was hauling him down a side street before Ichise could reply. He let himself be hauled because... well, that was the kind of thing he did.
They slipped in a crowded, red-lit place, blaring, anonymous. Only when Toyama pulled him out onto the dance floor did it click in that they weren't going to dance with women. Silly of Ichise to assume. Women weren't really Toyama's thing, were they? Men weren't really Ichise's thing, but with a mild surprise he found he didn't care. It had been a long time since he'd been attracted to anyone in more than a passing, weary way. And the club was dark, and no one would stop to stare.
He wasn't sure how to do it though, to dance anymore. The music was a percussive mash. He moved his feet a little; it didn't work. Toyama laughed at him--maybe; it was hard to tell in the din. He was sick of feeling like an idiot. People treated him like an idiot way too much, like a prop, like a doll, like a kid. Toyama put an arm around him and turned him a little, and somewhere in there, the music changed.
Suddenly Ichise could understand it. Sure, he couldn't make out the words, but the woman's voice was strong, swelling the melody and cooling and swelling. Bass came and went; the beat matched his heart. It was good. It had been a damn long time since Ichise had heard good music. He'd forgotten things like that could exist in Lux. It seemed to say, "I'm alive."
He had an arm around Toyama (his real arm), and they were swaying, pressed close, not really dancing, not really caring, Toyama's head against his cheek, arm around his back. It went on and on, this being alive.
The next song was a cut below, but its deep, varied beat carried on the mood, swinging them, walking them through the crowd to the corner. Toyama let Ichise back him up to the wall. Hands rubbed backs and arms and faces, Ichise's nose to Toyama's neck, lips over lips.
After a few minutes, a slow song came on, a sleepy song, and by some tacit agreement, they stopped, forehead to forehead, Toyama's hand on his shoulder. They were both tired of it, Ichise figured. He figured Toyama must be sick of being used by old men in much the way Ichise was sick of rich women. It didn't leave much of them left over. Toyama kissed him lightly and led him out a back exit.
"Early day tomorrow," he said and, with a wave, headed off toward his own digs.
With a stifled sigh, Ichise took off in the other direction.
***
Some days later, a few hours after he had cut off Toyama's head, Ichise reflected that that handful of minutes was the last time--and almost the first--he'd been happy.
Fandom: Texhnolyze
Words: about 600
Characters/Pairing: Ichise/Toyama
Rating/Warnings: PG, spoilers through the end; angst (it's Texhnolyze).
Summary: One evening, before things got really bad...
AN: Thanks to Regina Spektor for the slightly odd title.
Disclaimer: I do not own but enjoy.
"Addiction to Hands and Feet"
At the end of the day, when he was done enforcing, Ichise went home to his room to sleep. He did the same thing every day, and today, like any other, he turned away and started down the street...
"Ichise."
At the sound of his name, he looked back, apprehensive, as he always was, when something else was wanted.
Toyama caught up with him. "Listen, do you dance?"
Was this a poetic way of asking about sword fighting? "I have," he said warily. The answer was yes either way: he'd fought and he'd danced--well, sort of danced, undulated to loud music years ago as a teen before... before it stopped being something he did.
"Let's go hit a club; I feel like blowing off steam." Toyama had hold of his arm and was hauling him down a side street before Ichise could reply. He let himself be hauled because... well, that was the kind of thing he did.
They slipped in a crowded, red-lit place, blaring, anonymous. Only when Toyama pulled him out onto the dance floor did it click in that they weren't going to dance with women. Silly of Ichise to assume. Women weren't really Toyama's thing, were they? Men weren't really Ichise's thing, but with a mild surprise he found he didn't care. It had been a long time since he'd been attracted to anyone in more than a passing, weary way. And the club was dark, and no one would stop to stare.
He wasn't sure how to do it though, to dance anymore. The music was a percussive mash. He moved his feet a little; it didn't work. Toyama laughed at him--maybe; it was hard to tell in the din. He was sick of feeling like an idiot. People treated him like an idiot way too much, like a prop, like a doll, like a kid. Toyama put an arm around him and turned him a little, and somewhere in there, the music changed.
Suddenly Ichise could understand it. Sure, he couldn't make out the words, but the woman's voice was strong, swelling the melody and cooling and swelling. Bass came and went; the beat matched his heart. It was good. It had been a damn long time since Ichise had heard good music. He'd forgotten things like that could exist in Lux. It seemed to say, "I'm alive."
He had an arm around Toyama (his real arm), and they were swaying, pressed close, not really dancing, not really caring, Toyama's head against his cheek, arm around his back. It went on and on, this being alive.
The next song was a cut below, but its deep, varied beat carried on the mood, swinging them, walking them through the crowd to the corner. Toyama let Ichise back him up to the wall. Hands rubbed backs and arms and faces, Ichise's nose to Toyama's neck, lips over lips.
After a few minutes, a slow song came on, a sleepy song, and by some tacit agreement, they stopped, forehead to forehead, Toyama's hand on his shoulder. They were both tired of it, Ichise figured. He figured Toyama must be sick of being used by old men in much the way Ichise was sick of rich women. It didn't leave much of them left over. Toyama kissed him lightly and led him out a back exit.
"Early day tomorrow," he said and, with a wave, headed off toward his own digs.
With a stifled sigh, Ichise took off in the other direction.
***
Some days later, a few hours after he had cut off Toyama's head, Ichise reflected that that handful of minutes was the last time--and almost the first--he'd been happy.