sevenswells | [FIC] Hoshi no Suna chapter 10/14: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger (ENG)

Title: Hoshi no Suna
Author:

sevenswells
Rating: NC-17 more or less
(One True) Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Not safe for work, yaoi, angst, alternate universe.
Word Count: 1 968 w.
Comments: I know, I'm very late. I mean, I try not to let whole months go by in between my updates, but this end of year proves itself to be... loaded, with all kind of stuff. It's like everything is happening at the same time, extremely positive things, extremely negative things and, for the two neuronal connections in my brain, it's way too much to bear, liek, too much information overload.
But do believe I'm really sorry, and try to stick with me plz. ^^

This chapter is dedicated only to my beta,

kamexkame, because she said it was one of her favourites. ^^

By the way, it's my birthday today, heheh! (^_______^)v

It's like in that Blink 182 song: "nobody likes you when you're tweeenty-threeeeee..."

   I was on top, backwards. His hand rested upon the small of my back: it followed my movements. I would rather have seen his face, but I understood that he liked this position best. The other guy had done me doggy-style against a dressing table; except that his face had reflected in the mirror, and that I had chosen to shut my eyes.

-Keep going .

    I had slowed down, had almost stopped: Kamui had called me to order. The sound of his voice startled me a bit.
I picked the rhythm up again, but maybe the angle had changed, because I couldn't feel pleasure anymore. Panic took over me and I sped up further, forcing cries out of my throat. I knew I could be convincing. The other guy had totally fallen for it.
Kamui, who only was half lying under me, suddenly sat up and stilled me by the hips. I felt his teeth sinking in the flesh of my nape: calm. The fuck. Down.
    I stayed submissive, not even batting an eyelash. He gently rubbed my crotch. I moaned and arched my back; he bit me again, closing his jaws harder still, as his hand wrapped around me. By reflex, I wanted to bend my head back. His biting prevented my doing so; I had no other choice but to submit to him and whimper. My docility seemed to satisfy him because he stopped masturbating and biting me to fall back on the pillows. He seized me by the hips again and gave a violent thrust which made me breathless. Others followed, burying deeper and deeper, until Kamui pressed my butt to his pelvis to come inside me.

That night, I dreamt that I was him. In the morning, no precise memory remained, only the impression that I had experienced omnipotence and perfection. During my dream, I had known no frustration. Obstacles moved themselves out of my way. Everything, around me, clicked like a well-oiled clockwork: the world fitted me like a glove.

    After that, I started to observe him.

    Every morning without exception, he woke up at 4.00 a.m sharp, to practice martial arts, until 7.00: an hour of warm-up, an hour and a half of actual practice and a half hour of stretching. Even with combat sports, he invented trends: after full contact, he got a kick out of viet vo dao. However, he only moved on to another discipline when he considered he had already mastered the previous.
Once the exercices in his doujo had been carried out, he gave himself one hour to shower and get dressed.
At 8.00 o'clock, he had western-style breakfast served, the menu of which remained invariable: a slice of wholemeal toast, dry, juice made from freshly squeezed spanish oranges and some kind of gross organic muesli that was served in a bowl of lukewarm milk and tasted like sawdust.

    At half past eight breakfast was over: if he wasn't preparing a tour or an album, he devoted his morning to music practice. Piano had his preference, but on Thursdays and Saturdays, he alternated between electric guitar and drums. On Sundays, if he felt like it, he sometimes played shamisen, because according to him Sundays were best for that.

    On Wednesdays, the day of water, which was the element of his astrological sign, his Chinese fortune teller, Chang O, came to visit. She was a cold beauty, tall and flat, with high cheekbones and tightly slanted eyes. Her clothes attested of her perfect taste and she never wore make-up nor jewels: perhaps Kamui couldn't have tolerated the opposite.
    He had refused me access to their private sessions.
I might have got the idea that they were sleeping together, but it didn't fit either one of them, and the mere idea of them going at it felt nauseating, for some reason. Kamui didn't look like someone that would be superstitious, either: God isn't a believer. However, this weekly appointment had never been missed.
    I suspected it was all an act. Kamui constantly created his own legend, this I understood as I progressed in my investigations. The fortune teller was part and parcel of the accessories to the egomaniac idol, and as thus, she was crucial. He couldn't afford leaving the superfluous to chance. Or maybe his desire for immortality really was his unique flaw. It would have explained why he kept control non-stop on the pettiest things and Chang-O was, in essence, a means for him to control the uncontrollable.
    The more I thought about it, the less sense it made ; I ended up thinking that all my theories were merely the fruit of one more manipulation: the age-fearing idol, how common and cliché. It was underestimation to the point that it transformed him into pure contradiction. So I chose to put these considerations aside and to stick to facts.

    In the beginning of the evenings, following a method that was only his, Kamui used to read. Daily, Sachiko brought him a fresh cargo of magazines, books, reviews, newspapers, flyers, pamphlets, brochures, catalogues, in any language he could speak or some of which he only got a few words of, about any subject. He skimmed through it all, only taking in an article, a word, a sentence, an image on his way, and at the end, the apparent chaos with which he focused his attention on each object of reading finally appeared like it had a strange internal logic to it. Sometimes he'd use colored stickers to mark some of the pages, then he'd let the stuff lug around for ages without ever opening it again.
The only magazine he would read from back to cover, from the credits to the ads, with an almost papal seriousness, was the Shounen Monthly. And when he'd finished it, he would make a great fuss of storing it in a book case that was exclusively constituted of it.
    There was one time, one and only time, during one of his reading sessions: I saw him making a gesture he never had before, a give-away gesture, of weakness: in the space of a few seconds, he had brought the nail of his thumb to his mouth and bitten it, very briefly. Next thing I knew, everything was back in order, as if nothing had happened. The incident had occurred as he was almost by the end of the magazine, and that gesture could only have been linked to one of the two series that occupied these last pages.
    I had checked it out as soon as possible the following morning, while he was in his shower: one talked about a fisherman, the other about a magician. It had been impossible for me to detect, in any of those two badly drawn and terribly common series - even for Jump - any kind of element that might have caused such an upheavel in him. Or perhaps... anything was possible.

    It was usually only after the reading sessions that I could join him in his activities, because then came the slot to watch TV. It was some kind of magic power he possessed: each session's end coincided precisely with the beginning of prime time on the national channels. He would look at any kind of broadcast, impassive, without making the least comment.
    He didn't seem to really care about any of it either. Once, out of provocation, in the middle of a mostly crappy show of "nostalgic" songs for old farts, I begged him to change the channel if he didn't want to see me die of boredom: he granted my wish with disconcerting ease, as if he had planned on doing it from the beginning. The more the evening fell, the more his attention was drawn away from the TV to attach itself to me, until he finally shut the set down and his stare remained definitely fixed onto me. Then we would go take a long bath. He might screw me during the bath, or settle at first for fondling, or sometimes he might do absolutely nothing and content himself with just observing me and letting the tension build up with an obvious delight. But play time was over as soon as we got to bed: he only left me alone when his time to sleep came, generally around 2 a.m..

    That was the reason why, completely exhausted, I could only wake up after 11 a.m., to gulp down a bowl of cereals made of pure refined sugar instead of his own revolting organic muesli. After my shower, it was generally lunchtime and I couldn't eat much. I nibbled on bits and pieces, and then I went to practice on my guitar in a far corner of the house, most of the time in the gardens. I really wanted to get better, in order not to re-live a concert like the one before, so my practice hours lasted as long as his.
    In the end of the afternoons, sometimes I would go play football with some of his bodyguards and servants during what was their breaktime.
    Around concert times or in phases of album making, everything changed.
    I never saw him in the daytime and some nights he spent at the hotel in order to optimize time. He then came back at the early hours of day, he woke me up and his assaults always revealed themselves more brutal and hurried than usual. I always let him do, without balking.

    On the day I had decided to start my investigations, I had had to accomplish a monstrous effort to get up at the same time he had. My hours of sleep had been few and trying to register what he did during the day proved to be extremely difficult.
On the other hand, he, that day, had seemed to acknowledge my incongruous presence only at the breakfast table: he had lifted his eyes up, and had looked sincerely stunned to find me there. But he had said nothing, and had continued what he had to do without taking it into account.

-"But do tell us how Hyde's lips taste like...

-Like strawberries."

Laughs.

-"Eeeeh? What do you mean, strawberries?

-I swear! But I think it's because of his lip gloss. I believe it's flavoured."

Laughs.

"Wouldn't you like to know how mine taste?"

Laughs.

-"I must admit I'm tempted, but I'm a married man!

-Ah! My favourite type."

Laughs.

-"More seriously, do you plan to go and kiss the entire planet, like that?

-Why not? I think I was endowed with a divine mission. There is not enough love in this world: I'm volunteering to give it to you all."

Cries.

-"A beautiful ideal indeed! And in the midst of it, you're also preparing an album?

-Exactly; it's gonna be out next month. The concept will be the same: universal love."

Not one note had been recorded by then.

-"Everybody can admire the heart sutra on your back - are you a believer?

-I believe in myself.

-Come on, you know what I mean.

-Oh but you know what I mean."

Laughs.

-"You didn't have this lip piercing during Hyde's concert, though.

-Didn't I?"

Kamui had pierced it himself, a few days before this show, with a golden needle.

-"Is that a concept too? Say, are you going to add more all over your body?

-Well, I'm in constant evolution, so... maybe I'll never stop."

I got closer to the mic.

"I'll never stop."

    Kamui was waiting for me outside the studio. When I caught up with him, he handed me the cigarette he was smoking. I took a drag from it, and, through the smoke, I saw a smile stretching the corners of his mouth. It was directed at nobody but me.

    I knew I had been perfect.