....... finally, this fic is done. now I can sleep. sleep the sleep of the black-hearted.
Title: Across the Lamplight
Pairing: Sengoku + Kirihara
Notes: Wrote this just because I felt like writing the pairing for some reason and couldn't summon up a nice pirate dream, so I borrowed jazzband!Rikkai instead. Whee? For tongari who seems the most thrilled with these two boyz. ^.~ On the plus side, I think maybe this jogged some other muses loose.
Other Notes: No editing what-so-ever. I kept losing my muse's thread in this one, so it rambles, it peters, it drives it's writer crazy until she just gave up and tossed it onto her livejournal for the laughing entertainment of others. The end product is certainly not what I had in mind at the beginning.
When Kirihara played, the world ceased to exist. There was only the music that spun like threads of spider-silk and soul from his finger and his throat. There was only the sound that sunk as stones into the shallow waters of the club. There was only the one moment in which he was buoyed, caressed, contained, in the brightness and dimness of the spinning instant that thought became song. For Kirihara, there was only himself and his saxophone and there was no need for anything else.
Because of this he didn't know when he stopped playing for the music, all he knew was the slowly building realization that someone was watching him. A flicker of a frown passed across his face as it occurred that someone wasn't just watching him -- who wouldn't be watching the band, after all? -- no, someone was engrossed in him ... just him. His eyes opened lazily as he looked around the room.
There was darkness beyond the raised alcove they played in. It took Kirihara a long moments of adjustment before he noticed the man sitting just outside the band's lighting, sprawled with boneless grace at one of the tables. The white coat, draped loosely over the dark clothes, finally drew him ghost-like out of the blackness. Even the man's wild orange hair bled into the darkness like a flickering flame, lost among the sparkling array of the table lamps. Long moments spiraled away in a symphony of sound as they stared at one another. Kirihara's head tilted to the side as his watcher lifted a drink to take a lazy sip. It wasn't until then that he had noticed the green eyes. He was surprised, for they glittered gem-like in the dark, an emerald glimmer that flickered as mercurially as a will'o'wisp, leading the unwary astray. In such fashion, they faded into the dim murk of obscurity as though they had never been, leaving him feeling as though he had tripped and fallen into dark water,
Kirihara was distracted now. The music played on, unbidden and uncalled, spilling from his fingers and his throat, swelling with all it's power from the funnel of his saxophone. The notes found themselves, his part fell smoothly into place, but his mind no longer guided it. He was locked onto the target of glittering green that played hide and seek with him in the dark. Time had ceased to exist beyond the motion of his fingers across the keys. Was he playing for himself now, he thought, unable to look away. Or was he playing for the stranger who held him pinned like a butterfly to the golden glow of his saxophone?
The watcher looked away from him, gaze wandering across the band in a strange sharp spike of interest, and part of Kirihara wailed in fury, pouring protest into the only sound his lips could make. Stop looking at them! The eyes never wavered, fixed upon the silver sweet voice that was Yanagi and the icicle spill of keys that was Yukimura's fingers across the piano. Stop it! Stop it! For now Kirihara couldn't help but watch as the stranger watched, transfixed by the dance of chords that can only be love and closeness, the thrum of energy that warms those within and freezes those without. Stop! Please stop! The fury became agony, splintering across the gag that was his golden tongue, fracturing for a moment that perfect melody ...
... and the stranger's eyes turned back to him, filled with something deep and sad and unfathomable. Kirihara raged against it, his music a strident cord of anger at the presumption to pity his pain. The green never wavered, immune to the sounding waters that crashed so wildly across the beach of it. The rage faded away, burned into nothingness at the eternity that drank it up and let none of it return to him, the green whirlpool that consumed him until there was nothing left. He sighed as the music whistled into the highest notes of the cord and he knew then that it was not pity. It was sympathy, and it was strange how easily it soothed the lingering ache away.
The stranger raised his glass to Kirihara in salute as the final note finally hung laden in the air and fell away, allowing the soft buzzing silence of the club to slide back into it's rightful place. Kirihara turned away to gather his things up, falling into the rhythm of packing their instruments and carting them away, and when he turned back the stranger was gone, shuffled away with all the rest of their sparse audience as the club closed for the night.
His fellow band members yawned and grumbled and clapped each other on the shoulder as they were each inclined to do. They had escaped the club and faded into the dark by the time Kirihara stepped out into the night, saxophone case slung over one shoulder. He paused as the white-coated figure of his stranger seemed to melt into view from against the dark of the opposite alley wall. Used to this odd illusionary appearing act of his watcher, Kirihara did not step back. Instead, he stood there defiantly as the man tipped his head and finally spoke, "You play well."
There should be some reply for that except stepping forward and asking, "Who are you?" but Kirihara couldn't fathom what it could be. Something scathing he was sure.
The stranger stepped forward as well and offered his hand, smiling at Kirihara easily, "Sengoku Kiyosumi, nice to meet you."
He clasped the hand in return, replying automatically, "Kirihara Akaya, likewise." Fingers slid away from his, thin and warm and bone dry, laced with calluses that pressed into the smooth spaces between his own. "You have a musician's hands," he added suddenly before narrowing his eyes in suspicion, "Are you with another band?"
Sengoku blinked at him before shaking his head, smiling changing to one of amusement, "A surgeon's hands, not a musician's," he replied, tugging lightly on the thin white coat as if to draw Kirihara's attention to it. Kirihara felt himself flush lightly as he finally realized that it was a doctor's lab coat.
Kirihara frowned, looking up into the green eyes that had watched him so intently the entire evening, "Why were you watching me?"
Sengoku looked away, "Will you be playing here again?"
"Maybe, are -- " Kirihara was cut off as Sengoku abruptly turned and began to walk away, calling back to him over a shoulder, "Guess I'll see you around then."
"Hey, don't walk away when I'm talking to you, you fucking stalker!" he exclaimed, chasing after Sengoku and jerking him to a halt by grabbing his arm.
Sengoku turned and their eyes caught, green against green, "I'm a regular here, Kirihara. It really doesn't have anything to do with you."
"You haven't been here all week," Kirihara shot back, "Not much of a regular, are you?"
"I'm a surgeon. I've been on call. I don't exactly make trips to clubs to drink alcohol when I might get called to cut on someone!" Kirihara stepped back at the sudden vehemence in Sengoku's voice, but didn't let go, still gripping the other man's arm tightly. Sengoku looked away again, "Sorry."
"Why were you watching me?" Kirihara asked again, quieter now in the wake of emotion, feeling as though part of the anger that Sengoku had siphoned from him as he played had been returned to him, purified somehow and made easier to bear.
There was silence and Sengoku's hand lifted and froze in the space between them, poised for a long moment before it touched down gently against Kirihara's cheek. It lingered there for a long moment, a brand against his skin, before Sengoku spoke, "I guess I thought you looked sad."
"What?" It was nothing more than a whisper.
"Sad ... " The other arm freed itself from Kirihara's grasp more smoothly than he could have expected, lifting to join the first. Between them, they cupped his face, tilting it upwards as Sengoku's bent to press warm lips to his forehead, "Don't be ... " Sengoku murmured against his skin.
"I'm not -- " Kirihara snapped in reflex, trying to pull away. His face was released, but only to let a finger rest against his lips, silencing him. Sengoku gave him a shrug, as if this was all there was to it. He snarled around the finger and tried again, snapping at the offending appendage viciously, "I'm not -- "
The entire hand covered his mouth this time, silencing him more effectively than the finger, "Stop worrying about it, neh? Just live for the moment ... you'll forget about that thing that hurts you soon enough. Just like you'll forget this conversation ... " The hand lifted and Sengoku smiled at him, pale in the darkness. He turned and began to walk away, calling over his shoulder once more, "See you around, Kirihara."
Kirihara just stared after him, rooted to the spot. That was ... Sengoku was ... "I don't think I'll be forgetting you ... " ... insane. Kirihara smiled suddenly. He guessed that would give him good reason to watch for Sengoku, then. A perfectly good reason. Still smiling, he turned and also departed into the night.
Pairing: Sengoku + Kirihara
Notes: Wrote this just because I felt like writing the pairing for some reason and couldn't summon up a nice pirate dream, so I borrowed jazzband!Rikkai instead. Whee? For tongari who seems the most thrilled with these two boyz. ^.~ On the plus side, I think maybe this jogged some other muses loose.
Other Notes: No editing what-so-ever. I kept losing my muse's thread in this one, so it rambles, it peters, it drives it's writer crazy until she just gave up and tossed it onto her livejournal for the laughing entertainment of others. The end product is certainly not what I had in mind at the beginning.
When Kirihara played, the world ceased to exist. There was only the music that spun like threads of spider-silk and soul from his finger and his throat. There was only the sound that sunk as stones into the shallow waters of the club. There was only the one moment in which he was buoyed, caressed, contained, in the brightness and dimness of the spinning instant that thought became song. For Kirihara, there was only himself and his saxophone and there was no need for anything else.
Because of this he didn't know when he stopped playing for the music, all he knew was the slowly building realization that someone was watching him. A flicker of a frown passed across his face as it occurred that someone wasn't just watching him -- who wouldn't be watching the band, after all? -- no, someone was engrossed in him ... just him. His eyes opened lazily as he looked around the room.
There was darkness beyond the raised alcove they played in. It took Kirihara a long moments of adjustment before he noticed the man sitting just outside the band's lighting, sprawled with boneless grace at one of the tables. The white coat, draped loosely over the dark clothes, finally drew him ghost-like out of the blackness. Even the man's wild orange hair bled into the darkness like a flickering flame, lost among the sparkling array of the table lamps. Long moments spiraled away in a symphony of sound as they stared at one another. Kirihara's head tilted to the side as his watcher lifted a drink to take a lazy sip. It wasn't until then that he had noticed the green eyes. He was surprised, for they glittered gem-like in the dark, an emerald glimmer that flickered as mercurially as a will'o'wisp, leading the unwary astray. In such fashion, they faded into the dim murk of obscurity as though they had never been, leaving him feeling as though he had tripped and fallen into dark water,
Kirihara was distracted now. The music played on, unbidden and uncalled, spilling from his fingers and his throat, swelling with all it's power from the funnel of his saxophone. The notes found themselves, his part fell smoothly into place, but his mind no longer guided it. He was locked onto the target of glittering green that played hide and seek with him in the dark. Time had ceased to exist beyond the motion of his fingers across the keys. Was he playing for himself now, he thought, unable to look away. Or was he playing for the stranger who held him pinned like a butterfly to the golden glow of his saxophone?
The watcher looked away from him, gaze wandering across the band in a strange sharp spike of interest, and part of Kirihara wailed in fury, pouring protest into the only sound his lips could make. Stop looking at them! The eyes never wavered, fixed upon the silver sweet voice that was Yanagi and the icicle spill of keys that was Yukimura's fingers across the piano. Stop it! Stop it! For now Kirihara couldn't help but watch as the stranger watched, transfixed by the dance of chords that can only be love and closeness, the thrum of energy that warms those within and freezes those without. Stop! Please stop! The fury became agony, splintering across the gag that was his golden tongue, fracturing for a moment that perfect melody ...
... and the stranger's eyes turned back to him, filled with something deep and sad and unfathomable. Kirihara raged against it, his music a strident cord of anger at the presumption to pity his pain. The green never wavered, immune to the sounding waters that crashed so wildly across the beach of it. The rage faded away, burned into nothingness at the eternity that drank it up and let none of it return to him, the green whirlpool that consumed him until there was nothing left. He sighed as the music whistled into the highest notes of the cord and he knew then that it was not pity. It was sympathy, and it was strange how easily it soothed the lingering ache away.
The stranger raised his glass to Kirihara in salute as the final note finally hung laden in the air and fell away, allowing the soft buzzing silence of the club to slide back into it's rightful place. Kirihara turned away to gather his things up, falling into the rhythm of packing their instruments and carting them away, and when he turned back the stranger was gone, shuffled away with all the rest of their sparse audience as the club closed for the night.
His fellow band members yawned and grumbled and clapped each other on the shoulder as they were each inclined to do. They had escaped the club and faded into the dark by the time Kirihara stepped out into the night, saxophone case slung over one shoulder. He paused as the white-coated figure of his stranger seemed to melt into view from against the dark of the opposite alley wall. Used to this odd illusionary appearing act of his watcher, Kirihara did not step back. Instead, he stood there defiantly as the man tipped his head and finally spoke, "You play well."
There should be some reply for that except stepping forward and asking, "Who are you?" but Kirihara couldn't fathom what it could be. Something scathing he was sure.
The stranger stepped forward as well and offered his hand, smiling at Kirihara easily, "Sengoku Kiyosumi, nice to meet you."
He clasped the hand in return, replying automatically, "Kirihara Akaya, likewise." Fingers slid away from his, thin and warm and bone dry, laced with calluses that pressed into the smooth spaces between his own. "You have a musician's hands," he added suddenly before narrowing his eyes in suspicion, "Are you with another band?"
Sengoku blinked at him before shaking his head, smiling changing to one of amusement, "A surgeon's hands, not a musician's," he replied, tugging lightly on the thin white coat as if to draw Kirihara's attention to it. Kirihara felt himself flush lightly as he finally realized that it was a doctor's lab coat.
Kirihara frowned, looking up into the green eyes that had watched him so intently the entire evening, "Why were you watching me?"
Sengoku looked away, "Will you be playing here again?"
"Maybe, are -- " Kirihara was cut off as Sengoku abruptly turned and began to walk away, calling back to him over a shoulder, "Guess I'll see you around then."
"Hey, don't walk away when I'm talking to you, you fucking stalker!" he exclaimed, chasing after Sengoku and jerking him to a halt by grabbing his arm.
Sengoku turned and their eyes caught, green against green, "I'm a regular here, Kirihara. It really doesn't have anything to do with you."
"You haven't been here all week," Kirihara shot back, "Not much of a regular, are you?"
"I'm a surgeon. I've been on call. I don't exactly make trips to clubs to drink alcohol when I might get called to cut on someone!" Kirihara stepped back at the sudden vehemence in Sengoku's voice, but didn't let go, still gripping the other man's arm tightly. Sengoku looked away again, "Sorry."
"Why were you watching me?" Kirihara asked again, quieter now in the wake of emotion, feeling as though part of the anger that Sengoku had siphoned from him as he played had been returned to him, purified somehow and made easier to bear.
There was silence and Sengoku's hand lifted and froze in the space between them, poised for a long moment before it touched down gently against Kirihara's cheek. It lingered there for a long moment, a brand against his skin, before Sengoku spoke, "I guess I thought you looked sad."
"What?" It was nothing more than a whisper.
"Sad ... " The other arm freed itself from Kirihara's grasp more smoothly than he could have expected, lifting to join the first. Between them, they cupped his face, tilting it upwards as Sengoku's bent to press warm lips to his forehead, "Don't be ... " Sengoku murmured against his skin.
"I'm not -- " Kirihara snapped in reflex, trying to pull away. His face was released, but only to let a finger rest against his lips, silencing him. Sengoku gave him a shrug, as if this was all there was to it. He snarled around the finger and tried again, snapping at the offending appendage viciously, "I'm not -- "
The entire hand covered his mouth this time, silencing him more effectively than the finger, "Stop worrying about it, neh? Just live for the moment ... you'll forget about that thing that hurts you soon enough. Just like you'll forget this conversation ... " The hand lifted and Sengoku smiled at him, pale in the darkness. He turned and began to walk away, calling over his shoulder once more, "See you around, Kirihara."
Kirihara just stared after him, rooted to the spot. That was ... Sengoku was ... "I don't think I'll be forgetting you ... " ... insane. Kirihara smiled suddenly. He guessed that would give him good reason to watch for Sengoku, then. A perfectly good reason. Still smiling, he turned and also departed into the night.