Warnings: Gratuitious smut. This might be the one piece of smut in the entire fic that serves no purpose whatsoever, except that it makes the chapter long enough to post.
Chapter Seventeen: Hobbies
Much to Fuuma’s surprise, Seishirou wasn’t there when he got home from his daily wanderings. He had considered dropping by to see Kamui, until he realized that he didn’t technically know where the younger boy lived. So he trudged home instead, and flopped down on the sofa to watch television when he realized that Seishirou wasn’t there.
Seishirou came in about a half an hour later, carrying a few boxes.
“What’s that?” Fuuma asked curiously, as Seishirou set the boxes on the table in front of him.
“Decided to do you a little favor,” Seishirou said, nodding at the boxes. “They’re yours. I went and got your things from where you were staying before what happened.”
“Really?” Fuuma dug into the boxes eagerly. “Where had I been staying, anyway?”
“Underneath City Hall,” Seishirou said. “It’s kind of a long story, and one I don’t feel like relating. The first two are clothes; the third holds some other things.”
Fuuma riffled through the clothes; they didn’t hold much interest other than that they matched the fashion sense he now had. The third box was what he really wanted to see. The top layers were some manga and American comics, haphazardly translated into kanji in the margins. Underneath that were a few pairs of glasses, both sunglasses and regular glasses. Fuuma picked a pair of the regular glasses up and slid them onto his face, realizing that they were made so they wouldn’t distort his vision.
“They look cute,” Seishirou said with a smirk. “I always did like them.”
Fuuma continued to look through the box. There was a Discman and some scattered CDs, a lone textbook that looked like it had never been open, and a huge stack of photographs.
“Wow . . .” he said, lifting the stack out. “There must be hundreds . . . maybe even thousands . . . why the hell do I have all these?”
“I don’t know,” Seishirou replied. “I do remember that you seemed to have a fondness for taking pictures.”
Fuuma looked through the stack and sorted them into piles. There were easily hundreds of Kamui alone, sometimes alone and sometimes with the other Seals. He was followed, though not closely, by a long-haired blonde. “Who’s this?” Fuuma asked, when he was done sorting.
“That’s Kakyou,” Seishirou remarked. “Only you could manage to take photographs in a Dreamscape,” he added, sounding amused.
The next largest pile was an androgynous person with a strange design on his forehead. “And this?” Fuuma asked.
“Nataku. Another one of the Angels. He took quite a shine to you, as far as I recall. He seemed to think of you like a father.” Seishirou caught Fuuma’s glance. “Don’t look at me. I never pretended to understand it.”
The rest of the pictures were somewhat scattered; Fuuma asked for a few more people to be identifed, but on the whole, ignored them until he got to the end. At that point, he found a picture of Subaru. “Why the hell did I take this?” he asked Seishirou.
Seishirou examined it. “I think it must be after I was in the coma,” he said finally. “As to why you would have been taking it, that’s something only Subaru might know.”
Fuuma looked through the piles again. “There are none of you,” he finally said.
“I know,” Seishirou replied. “And I’ll admit that I’m bewildered. Not that I’m so conceited I can’t figure out why you wouldn’t take pictures of me, but I know for a fact you did. I remember it happening on quite a few occasions. But as to what happened to them, I’ll admit there that I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“I think I took a lot of these when the other person wasn’t looking,” Fuuma mused. “Especially the ones of Kamui. Just to judge by the distance from which they were taken.” He put the photos down, then picked up one of Kakyou and studied it. “I don’t remember,” he said after a moment. “I don’t remember any of them.”
Seishirou said nothing, waiting.
“I think . . . the reason I took them . . . was because I knew I was going to die,” Fuuma finally said. “And I wanted to leave something behind. To prove that I had existed. With Kotori and Dad both dead . . . it was like there was no evidence of me at all.” He stared at the picture for a long minute, then closed his eyes and let it fall from his hands. “It was . . .”
Seishirou watched in concern as Fuuma’s whole body trembled. “Relax,” he said quietly. “Your memory is trying to come back, I think. Don’t fight it.”
Fuuma shuddered. “No . . . it’s gone. For a minute I thought I had it, but . . .”
“It probably shouldn’t return,” Seishirou said, his voice a bit dark. “I think you’re not supposed to have it.”
Fuuma made a tiny frustrated noise. “You don’t understand how annoying it is.”
“No, but I may someday,” Seishirou said gloomily. “Since Subaru-kun is refusing to stop controlling my memory.”
“Really?” Fuuma looked startled. “Why?”
“Because he thinks I’m only trying to get myself killed,” Seishirou said.
Fuuma gave him a close look. “Are you?”
“No!” Seishirou snapped. “I’ll admit I wouldn’t mind if it happened, but it wasn’t my intention at the moment. Subaru-kun’s just being a brat, and won’t admit that he didn’t do the spell correctly.”
Fuuma paused to give this due consideration. “Wow,” he finally said. “That sucks.”
“Thanks for the newflash,” Seishirou grumbled.
Fuuma sighed.
“So what are you going to do with those?” Seishirou asked, nodding at the stacks of photographs.
“I dunno,” Fuuma said. “I think I know what to do with some of them, though. And while I’m on the subject, can I have the number of your old apartment? I need to call Kamui.”
Seishirou gave him a suspicious look. “What are you doing to that poor kid?”
Fuuma shrugged. “Nothing. We just talk.”
Seishirou looked even more suspicious, but gave him the number.
Fuuma grinned. “Thanks.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Fuuma just gave him a look.
~~~~
“You know, I’ll admit that I didn’t expect you’d actually give me the address and let me come over,” Fuuma admitted, toeing off his shoes and following Kamui into the apartment. “I really only called on a whim.”
“Well, you said you had something for me,” Kamui said. “I thought it would be rude to make you meet me somewhere.” He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Sure.”
Kamui brought out a little tray with two mugs of tea and a stack of cookies. He put it on the table and sank down onto the couch, picking up his own mug and holding it tightly between his hands. “So what did you have for me?”
Fuuma handed over a stack of photographs, then picked up his own tea.
Kamui began to look through them. “Are these all of me?” he asked, surprised.
“Yeah. I left the others at home. Didn’t figure you’d want them; none of them were of people you knew.”
“Where’d you get them?”
“They were with my old things,” Fuuma answered. “Seishirou got them for me. There were a ton of the things. I guess I must’ve taken them all before I lost my memory. Most of them were of you, but there were a lot of Kakyou and Nataku. None of Seishirou, though, which was weird.”
Kamui went very still. “No. Way.”
Fuuma blinked. “No way what?”
“I had wondered where he got them all,” Kamui mused. “Guess this explains it.”
“Explains what?” Fuuma asked.
Kamui coughed a little. “Subaru has, shall we say, a very large collection of photographs of Seishirou. Most of them were recent, and I didn’t have any idea where he’d gotten them. You must have given them to him.”
“Hm.” Fuuma paused. “Wonder why I did that.”
“Offhand, I’d guess because you’re a prick and you like to fuck with people’s heads,” Kamui said. “You were trying to get Subaru on your side; maybe you were trying to bribe him. We’ll never know without asking Subaru, and that would probably be a very bad idea.”
“Yeah, most likely.” Fuuma sighed. “Well, you can have those. I don’t really need them, and I thought you might want them. Or you can burn them. Whatever you want.”
Kamui put the stack back on the table. “Thanks.”
Fuuma leaned back in his chair and glanced around. “Pretty nice setup you’ve got here.”
“Well, it was Seishirou’s,” Kamui said with a sigh. “Nothing but the best for him.”
“So how are things with Subaru?”
Kamui coughed slightly. “Good.”
“I heard about your little misadventure with Seishirou’s phone call,” Fuuma said with a smirk.
“Oh, he told you?” Kamui surmised. “I thought he might.”
“I actually walked in while it was happening,” Fuuma said. “I got to make fun of him for being a masochist. It was interesting.”
“I’m sure it was,” Kamui said dryly.
Fuuma opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the door walked open and Subaru came in. He stopped at the sight of them and looked faintly confused. “You’re here again.”
“Yeah, I invited him,” Kamui said casually. “He had something to give me.” He caught sight of Subaru’s look and added, “Hey, don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking.”
Subaru said nothing; he simply turned away and vanished into the kitchen.
“What’s he thinking?” Fuuma murmured in a low voice.
“That I might want to be with you again,” Kamui replied softly. “It was bothering him the other night. I cleared it up, but he’s a bit, shall we say, insecure.”
Fuuma rolled his eyes, but shut up, as Subaru came in and sat down on the couch next to Kamui. He put a proprietary arm around Kamui’s shoulders and gave Fuuma a look through narrowed eyes. “So how are you alive again?” he asked, giving every indication that he might be trying to remedy that situation if Fuuma didn’t watch his step.
Fuuma told him the story of waking up underneath Tokyo Tower and the medics finding him. “I was in the hospital for a couple days, then I ran into Kamui here a little later.”
Kamui realized, with a sudden shock, that Subaru didn’t know that Seishirou was living with Fuuma. He hoped to hell that Fuuma was smart enough to not mention it.
“And that’s just about it,” Fuuma concluded with a smile.
Subaru straightened up suddenly. “Kamui, I forgot to get the mail on the way in . . . do you think you could run downstairs and get it for me?”
Kamui didn’t bother to ask why Subaru couldn’t go get it himself; he simply got up and went.
“Eager to please, isn’t he,” Fuuma remarked dryly.
Subaru said nothing for a long minute. Then he glared coldly at Fuuma. “I’d like to know your intentions.”
“My intentions?” Fuuma laughed, leaning back in his chair. “I could easily ask the same of you. I had him first, you know.”
Subaru glared daggers at him.
“I don’t have any intention of stealing Kamui back from you, Subaru,” Fuuma said with a smirk. “Though he’s definitely a cute kid and I like him a lot. But that’s not the reason I came. I’ve actually got my eye on someone very different.”
Subaru glanced at him. “Oh?”
“If there’s one thing I like, it’s a challenge,” Fuuma said with a nod.
Subaru gave him a cold look. “You’d better not mean what I think you do.”
“I do,” Fuuma said, leaning closer to Subaru. “Because you’re forgetting one thing, Subaru . . . I can see what you Wish for.”
“Oh?” Subaru asked. “And what do I Wish for?”
“That’s going to be my little secret,” Fuuma said with a chuckle, not backing away the slightest bit. “But I’ll tell you one thing -- you’re kidding yourself by trying to be happy with Kamui. It’s never going to happen.”
“And what makes you say that?” Subaru asked.
Fuuma shrugged. “You’ll find out, if I give you enough time.” He pulled away as the door opened and Kamui came back in.
“I’m going to leave it over here, okay?” he called, putting the mail on the kitchen table.
“I’ll take it.” Subaru stood up, took the mail from Kamui’s hands, and disappeared into the bedroom.
“What’d he threaten you with?” Kamui asked, flopping back onto the sofa.
“Oh, the usual. Death. Castration by cheese grater.”
Kamui winced. “Ouch. Ouch, ouch, and also, ouch.”
“I explained to him that while I still might have interest in getting into your pants, he doesn’t need to worry about it ever actually happening.”
Kamui sighed. “Good to know.”
“Hey, if I didn’t have any interest in getting into your pants, it would mean that you were no longer attractive, which you are,” Fuuma said.
“Also good to know.” Kamui rolled his eyes.
“But I won’t try,” Fuuma said with a shrug. “Honestly. And Subaru seems to believe me, so it’s all good.”
“Right.” Kamui sighed. “I just wish I believed that.”
~~~~
“Say cheese.”
Seishirou turned and had enough time to school his expression into total blankness before Fuuma took the picture.
“Oh, thanks,” Fuuma said, giving him a half-annoyed, half-amused look. “You couldn’t smile for the camera?”
“Sorry,” Seishirou replied, not sounding remorseful in the slightest. “I don’t take well to having my picture taken without warning.”
“I gave you warning,” Fuuma protested. “I said ‘say cheese.’”
Seishirou just gave him a disgusted look.
“Come on, I had a great idea,” Fuuma said, taking Seishirou by the sleeve. “We never go out in the evenings. Let’s go out.”
Seishirou raised an eyebrow, looking extremely amused. “Are you asking me out on a date, Fuuma-kun?”
Fuuma rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. C’mon . . . we can go clubbing. Do you know the meaning of the word ‘fun’, Seishirou?”
“I’m sure it’s in my vocabulary somewhere,” Seishirou said. “Unfortunately, I doubt I have anything fit to wear to the clubs you’d like to attend.”
“And that’s why I bought your outfit,” Fuuma said with a nod. “Come on. Into the bedroom with you.”
They emerged from the bedroom a little over an hour later (having gotten distracted while getting dressed). Fuuma was dressed in leather pants so tight that Seishirou had remarked it look like he’d been sewn into them. With that he was wearing a sleeveless black shirt made of some shimmery material that was see-through if one looked close enough. There were silver threads running through it that reflected the light when he moved.
Seishirou couldn’t help but give him an admiring glance. He felt he looked ridiculous in his own outfit, though Fuuma seemed to think differently. Fortunately for Seishirou, his pants weren’t leather, nor were they particularly tight. They did, however, have any number of zippers that Seishirou couldn’t really figure out the purpose of. Fuuma had explained them away with a wink and the words ‘easy access,’ but Seishirou didn’t agree. The zippers didn’t seem to actually give access to much of anything.
Aside from that, Fuuma had given him a black T-shirt that was about three sizes smaller than Seishirou would have liked it to be. He refused to wear just that, so with a pout, Fuuma allowed him to wear one of his button down shirts with it. The conditions, naturally, were that it had to be one of the silk ones, and it had to remain entirely unbuttoned at all times.
“I look ridiculous,” Seishirou muttered.
Fuuma perched his sunglasses on the tip of his nose. “Hardly. You look good enough to eat.”
“Again?” Seishirou remarked dryly, sliding on his shoes and heading for the front door.
~~~~
That was the great thing about the world, really. There were so many pretty colors in it. Pink and green and orange and they all swirled together. It was fun to watch the colors swirl. One big blurry mass that constituted reality.
It amazed Seishirou how flimsy reality really was.
Add a few chemicals and it could change into something entirely different.
“Life is just our perception of what is,” he declared.
“Uh huh.” Fuuma sounded unenthused. Then again, Fuuma was practically carrying Seishirou. “Remind me to never take you anywhere. Ever.”
Seishirou laughed, leaning heavily on the younger man. “I was proving that I know how to have fun.”
Fuuma rolled his eyes. “No, Seishirou, you were proving that alcohol makes you much more pleasant, but only for about the first two hours. You’re fun drunk, but at this point, your brain is marinating. Mind supporting your own weight?”
Seishirou considered that for a few minutes. Then he considered a few minutes more. Then he forgot what he’d been considering. “Not sure it was the alcohol,” he finally said.
Fuuma nearly fell over. “You took something else?”
“Mm. I asked someone for a smoke.” Seishirou laughed again. The world really was much nicer when it was all fuzzy. “Don’t think he gave me a cigarette.”
“Great. You’re drunk and high.” Fuuma muttered imprecations in the back of his throat. “Which might be fun, if I personally wasn’t stone cold sober.”
“Now that isn’t my fault,” Seishirou said, weaving back and forth and nearly treading on Fuuma’s toes.
“Yes it is,” Fuuma retorted. “I was drinking before you started binging. Then I decided that one of us had better stay sober so we’d get home all right, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.”
Seishirou giggled, honest to God giggled, which was probably among the scariest things Fuuma had ever witnessed. “Since when are you the responsible one?” he asked.
“Since you lost your mind,” Fuuma replied. “Why did I ever think this was a good idea?”
“We had fun,” Seishirou reminded him. “Dancing and drinking . . . and then drinking more . . .”
“Thanks for reminding me,” Fuuma said with a sigh. He finally managed to get Seishirou to his car. “Gimme your keys.”
“D’you know how to drive?” Seishirou asked, wavering dizzily and pulling his keys out of the many zippered pockets on his pants.
“Of course I know how to -- get in the damned car, Seishirou.”
Seishirou managed to find his way into the car, staring blankly into space, or perhaps at something that only he could see. Fuuma got into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. Seishirou lost his balance and flumped -- no better word for it -- over into Fuuma’s lap.
Fuuma glared at him threateningly. “If you pass out,” he said, “I swear to God you will wake up with tattoos on every inch of your body.”
“Not gonna,” Seishirou said, and laughed again. “You don’t appreciate me being down here?”
Fuuma looked down. “You’re not doing anything.”
“That’s because I’m trying not to be sick,” Seishirou replied.
“I swear to God if you puke in my lap -- ” Fuuma began.
Seishirou looked up, smirking. “Kidding,” he reassured Fuuma, playing with the button of Fuuma’s pants. “Of course, the odds that I can get these undone . . . what the hell are you doing?”
Fuuma had started the car. “I’m going to a place a little less occupied,” he said. “Being an exhibitionist is one thing, but we’ll get arrested if we try this here.”
“Can you drive while I’m down here?” Seishirou asked, sounding terribly amused by the whole things, his fingers dipping down into Fuuma’s pants.
Fuuma closed his eyes for a brief second. “I’m a man of many talents,” he finally said, and pulled out of the parking space.
“I’m impressed,” Seishirou purred, speaking right into Fuuma’s pants.
“You just can’t get up,” Fuuma replied.
“Damn straight,” Seishirou mumbled.
Fuuma stopped at a red light. “Okay . . .” he said, trying to keep his voice in the proper octave as Seishirou undid the zipper of his pants. “You have to wait until I’ve parked, or we’ll get into an accident.”
“You said you could drive,” Seishirou replied, wrapping his hand around Fuuma’s length and drawing it out of his pants.
The light turned green. Fuuma fought to keep his eyes on the road, applying the gas pedal. He jumped a little as Seishirou’s lips replaced his hand. “This is a bad idea,” he managed to say.
“Mm hmm,” Seishirou said, but that certainly didn’t distract him any from what he was doing.
“If we crash -- ”
“You’re threatening me quite a bit tonight, Fuuma-kun,” Seishirou said, pulling away enough to speak and chuckling lightly. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?”
“Nnn.” Fuuma started scanning for a parking space. “No.”
“That’s what I thought.” Seishirou’s fingers stroked him lightly, almost tickling. His tongue joined them at random intervals, never there for more than a few seconds.
“Oh God.” Weren’t there any parking spaces in this damned city?
“This is payback for the hospital,” Seishirou said, though Fuuma couldn’t understand a damn word he said, as he didn’t bother to move away before he spoke. He was too impatient to bother wasting further time; he simply drew Fuuma into his mouth and sucked hard.
The next thing he knew, there had been a resounding crash and he had nearly rolled off Fuuma’s lap and onto the floor of the car. “What happened?” he asked dazedly.
Fuuma was breathing hard. “Telephone pole.”
“A telephone pole happened?” Seishirou asked, confused.
“Yes. And it happened to your car.”
“Oh . . . dear.” With those words in mind, Seishirou passed out.
~~~~
Okay... again, I claim no excuse, other than that my credo seems to be “when in doubt, write pointless smut.” And oh, yeah, if you're wondering what the hell Fuuma is doing? You'll find out soon enough.
Chapter Eighteen
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