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sevenswellsTitle: Hoshi no Suna
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sevenswells
Rating: PG 13
(One True) Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Not safe for work, yaoi, angst, alternate universe.
Word Count: 1 973 w.
Comments: Dedicated to my beta,kamexkame, and my LJ crew of exceptionnal people: supacat, thin_lipid, mattiezumi (hey, you still haven't told me when is your birthday!), velvetgunfire, diac, ayuzak. You're all loved, you know.
Also, I intend to finish this fic before the end of the year: my present from me to you ^____~ Next year, we start over and a new fic is up baby: Gackt and Miyavi posing as yakuzas! Wheeee! \o/
Time was getting stuck. One party succeeded another, one drug another: everything was going too fast and I wasn't budging an inch. I made satisfying progress with the guitar, but not nearly enough so that I could consider myself a musician. Come rain or shine, the concerts followed on and I found out I really liked being onstage.
However, the time I spent there always seemed too short to me, and to be getting shorter and shorter. Because outside the stage interviews were waiting, and more parties, and more drugs. And Kamui.
On his side, time was mastered: he hadn't wasted any of it, not even one second. Voluntarily obliterating the ruckus caused by the official anouncement of Malice Mizer's disbanding, he got directly down to work to prepare his first solo album. New faces started to come up in his immediate surroundings, surreal beings just like him, who distinguished themselves from ordinary mortals through their special aspect and their exceptional skills.
Because, according to him no true anthem could be conceived without violin, Kamui wanted a violinist no matter what. Amongst many handpicked candidates, it was a young man named You who emerged from the pack, not without reason: in addition to his undeniable artistic qualities, he also resembled Kamui like a brother. I had been the only person outside the band who had witnessed his job interview, which had been downed to one sole question:
-What's your blood type?
-A, answered You with a very soft voice.
And, on the basis of only one letter from the alphabet, he was recruited. Kamui let everybody in his perimeter know that You was his childhood friend.
You's taciturn behaviour, not to mention this unsettling resemblance to Kamui, made me very uneasy and made me avoid his presence every time I could. I preferred another musician's company, a super queer guitarist nicknamed Chachamaru. He seemed to like me back and tried to teach me a few guitar playing tips. No use; I didn't possess his talent. I was grateful for the few interactions this character had with me, though.
Because Kamui had entered on a journey to another world, where all that mattered was music -- his music, and his musicians.
The decision was finally unveiled, without a second's warning, that my first photoshoot should take place in Paris, "for the glamor and to prepare an opening for an international career". Crystal clear: Kamui didn't want me in his way anymore.
I landed at Charles de Gaulle airport with the worst hangover ever. It had been the first time in my life that I ever took a plane and left my country: I had downed litres of vodka to forget about my terror, inside this impossible machine that couldn't have been conceived to fly but somehow managed to anyway.
Once safe on earth, letting the staff deal with customs, I dived into the first taxi I could reach, slipped a piece of paper with the address of the hotel written in romaji on it to the driver without saying a word and then arranged myself in order to sleep with more or less comfort on the backseat.
-Where the fuck are we? I grumbled in English when the driver woke me up and I tossed a look out the window.
-Barbès, he replied laconically.
Not the kind of quarter they'd want to put up in the touristic brochures, but considering the mood I was in, founding myself inside a postcard would have pissed me off if anything.
My hotel room was small and poorly laid out; the bed ate most of the space up, and one couldn't circulate unless they went along its sides like a crab. There was just a wee bit of free space near the bathroom door, in order to get it open.
Still dripping from the cold shower I had taken to wake me up, I stretched naked across the bed to reach for my backpack. I took out another piece of paper from it, where I had scribbled down a number: my sister's cellphone's. She had given it to me in the reply to the e-mail where I told her about my coming to Paris.
It was 6 p.m. and the photoshoot was due the following day.
I would call her up and we'd meet and we'd eat something near that very famous church, Dame something. I'd ask her if she was doing alright, with her studies at the Sorbonne and stuff, if the Parisian boys left her be, because otherwise I'd go and smash their face. In return, she would ask about Japan and family. If I was okay, because she'd think I looked a little pale.
I remained seated on a corner of the bed for an infinite amount of time, staring at the piece of paper between my fingers until I realised that my hands were trembling and that my migraine had gotten worse. Swearing out loud, I searched my boots looking for my shit: a sheet of aluminium foil, a pipe, a lighter, and my fairy dust.
I spent the first half of the evening chasing the dragon, and the rest getting high as a kite, lying on my bed, laughing at the ceiling. I must have been sleeping at some point because it was during my sleep that the bad trip hit. I dreamed that I was dead in my hotel room in Barbès and that nobody missed me. Worse: nobody had realised, so my body was slowly rotting away, forgotten.
I couldn't find my sister's phone number again in the morning: I couldn't remember what I did with that piece of paper for the life of me.
The photoshoot that followed during the day taught a few things to me:
1. The Hanajima haircut was a scream, no matter what angle and despite my corpse-like face covered up by make-up
2. I was good at this. Better at it than anything in my life.
Oh, and by the way, 3: my old pal Daigo "Elvis" Stardust really was a welcome visitor anywhere he went.
I almost hadn't recognized him with his plain white shirt and his well-cut trousers. He had patiently waited for the end of the shoot, then had moved forward, removing his sunglasses with an elegant gesture.
-You didn't call me back. Naughty, naughty.
After having overcome the initial shock of having him suddenly drop in on me out of nowhere when I had almost completely forgotten about him, I smiled a huge smile, unable to stop myself.
-Looks to me like it's no use trying to shun you, anyway. Glad to see you man! What are you doing here in Paris? Don't tell me you're...
-If your question is: did I come especially to see you, let's say the answer is half yes. I have to round up some details about my concert in Germany and I knew you'd be here, so I made a little detour.
-Germany, heh? You don't say!
-Yeah, they're crazy about jrock over there, you can't imagine. Are you free for dinner tonight?
I turned back towards the staff, pretending I was pondering the answer.
-Dunno, yeah...
I shrugged with fake nonchalance.
"I might be."
He had had me good, with his choir boy looks; his taste for flamboyant kitsch perspired through the place where he took me to dinner: on the Champs-Élysées, nothing less, in a trendy bar that, using projectors pointed at the walls, put on Hokuto no Ken episodes with the soundtrack remixed to techno music. As soon as we sat down in a V.I.P. boudoir with uncomfortable but elaborate seats, he launched an almost immediate attack:
-So I heard Camui's showed you the door, huh?
-You're one direct motherfucker. No greetings, no emotional bullshit, I can tell you're the type to go straight at it with your hand wrapped in sandpaper and no lube. I mean, where's the love, man? Show me some love!
-Is that a yes?
-Whatever you please, you're the one paying. This said, prepare to cough it up.
-One peach-flavored kir royal and one sambuca, he told the busboy suited up in neon colours.
-One "kir royal" are you serious?! Get out of here, I don't want a pussy's drink.
-The kir's for me.
-But you still ordered something for me without letting me choose.
He smiled.
-You looked like the sambuca type. We can always change it up, if you prefer...
-No way, I hate fickle guys. You took a decision, now take responsibilty for it. Try to act like a man, for a change. Visualist fag.
He started to laugh candidly.
Many sambucas later, I wasn't so much of a hotshot anymore, slumped all over Daigo and talking nonsense:
-Talk about a screwball, seriously. And why was I supposed to let myself get strangled, huh? I'm serious, man, next time I'ma do his fucking head in. Fuck. Fucks me over, that kind of shit, y'know? You know what I'm sayin', right?
-Completely. But enough with him. Let's talk about your career: how's that coming up, huh?
-Yeah, great. Sometimes I says to myself... I says, y'know... I don't know why the fuck he chose me. He's not the kind of guy whose throat you can force things down, y'know, so when yours truly strolls in and asks to be made a visual kei artist, fuck me, right? Shoulda kicked my ass and told me to go to sleep. He couldn't be bothered. So, I don't understand. It must mean he chose me, right? But why? And why's he' just tossing me away now like... Like I ain't shit? Fuck. I'm not even a musician.
-I do understand.
He looked me straight in the eye, caressing my cheek. It shut me up on the spot.
"I like your style. I think I know what it is that Camui saw in you. He just doesn't know how to make good use of it. What you did to Hyde's concert... You do have something about you, something nobody's ever seen before. You're so much fresher, so much younger, so much more spontaneous than him. You scare him. You'll surpass him."
I couldn't go on anymore. I took away his hand from my cheek with a little laugh that was supposed to be light.
-Cut the bullshit, Yoda. Him, scared? Of me? Stop it right there, come on.
-I'm extremely serious. What do you think of bailing out of this lame-ass photoshoot and coming with me to Germany tomorrow? I can introduce you to a few people, you can play at my concert if you want. Camui's going downhill, you know that. His popularity can never reach beyond the bounds of Japan, especially if he's going on a solo career: he just doesn't cut it. Malice Mizer was his only chance. That's why he's counting on you now. But his ego is blinding him, and now he's trying to smother you.
-Hold it, hold it, this is getting way out of control... with all your bar-room psychology and plot theories, I mean... I can see you're very pleased with that stuff, good for you, but leave me out of it, baby.
-You and I are young, Miyavi, therein lies the difference. Together we can shake up the fossilized world of visual kei, bring something truly different. Don't you think it's worth a try? Come and play for me, if only for one concert, and then you can decide for yourself.
I sobered up immediatly. I suddenly got up, knocking my knees against the elaborate table, which produced a very dramatic tinkling of glasses.
-I'm sorry, pal, I muttered, shaking my head. But I... Now I, I can't follow, it's just... It's not possible.
And I ran out of the bar as if I had the devil on my tail.
Author:
sevenswells Rating: PG 13
(One True) Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Not safe for work, yaoi, angst, alternate universe.
Word Count: 1 973 w.
Comments: Dedicated to my beta,
kamexkame, and my LJ crew of exceptionnal people: supacat, thin_lipid, mattiezumi (hey, you still haven't told me when is your birthday!), velvetgunfire, diac, ayuzak. You're all loved, you know.Also, I intend to finish this fic before the end of the year: my present from me to you ^____~ Next year, we start over and a new fic is up baby: Gackt and Miyavi posing as yakuzas! Wheeee! \o/
Time was getting stuck. One party succeeded another, one drug another: everything was going too fast and I wasn't budging an inch. I made satisfying progress with the guitar, but not nearly enough so that I could consider myself a musician. Come rain or shine, the concerts followed on and I found out I really liked being onstage.
However, the time I spent there always seemed too short to me, and to be getting shorter and shorter. Because outside the stage interviews were waiting, and more parties, and more drugs. And Kamui.
On his side, time was mastered: he hadn't wasted any of it, not even one second. Voluntarily obliterating the ruckus caused by the official anouncement of Malice Mizer's disbanding, he got directly down to work to prepare his first solo album. New faces started to come up in his immediate surroundings, surreal beings just like him, who distinguished themselves from ordinary mortals through their special aspect and their exceptional skills.
Because, according to him no true anthem could be conceived without violin, Kamui wanted a violinist no matter what. Amongst many handpicked candidates, it was a young man named You who emerged from the pack, not without reason: in addition to his undeniable artistic qualities, he also resembled Kamui like a brother. I had been the only person outside the band who had witnessed his job interview, which had been downed to one sole question:
-What's your blood type?
-A, answered You with a very soft voice.
And, on the basis of only one letter from the alphabet, he was recruited. Kamui let everybody in his perimeter know that You was his childhood friend.
You's taciturn behaviour, not to mention this unsettling resemblance to Kamui, made me very uneasy and made me avoid his presence every time I could. I preferred another musician's company, a super queer guitarist nicknamed Chachamaru. He seemed to like me back and tried to teach me a few guitar playing tips. No use; I didn't possess his talent. I was grateful for the few interactions this character had with me, though.
Because Kamui had entered on a journey to another world, where all that mattered was music -- his music, and his musicians.
The decision was finally unveiled, without a second's warning, that my first photoshoot should take place in Paris, "for the glamor and to prepare an opening for an international career". Crystal clear: Kamui didn't want me in his way anymore.
I landed at Charles de Gaulle airport with the worst hangover ever. It had been the first time in my life that I ever took a plane and left my country: I had downed litres of vodka to forget about my terror, inside this impossible machine that couldn't have been conceived to fly but somehow managed to anyway.
Once safe on earth, letting the staff deal with customs, I dived into the first taxi I could reach, slipped a piece of paper with the address of the hotel written in romaji on it to the driver without saying a word and then arranged myself in order to sleep with more or less comfort on the backseat.
-Where the fuck are we? I grumbled in English when the driver woke me up and I tossed a look out the window.
-Barbès, he replied laconically.
Not the kind of quarter they'd want to put up in the touristic brochures, but considering the mood I was in, founding myself inside a postcard would have pissed me off if anything.
My hotel room was small and poorly laid out; the bed ate most of the space up, and one couldn't circulate unless they went along its sides like a crab. There was just a wee bit of free space near the bathroom door, in order to get it open.
Still dripping from the cold shower I had taken to wake me up, I stretched naked across the bed to reach for my backpack. I took out another piece of paper from it, where I had scribbled down a number: my sister's cellphone's. She had given it to me in the reply to the e-mail where I told her about my coming to Paris.
It was 6 p.m. and the photoshoot was due the following day.
I would call her up and we'd meet and we'd eat something near that very famous church, Dame something. I'd ask her if she was doing alright, with her studies at the Sorbonne and stuff, if the Parisian boys left her be, because otherwise I'd go and smash their face. In return, she would ask about Japan and family. If I was okay, because she'd think I looked a little pale.
I remained seated on a corner of the bed for an infinite amount of time, staring at the piece of paper between my fingers until I realised that my hands were trembling and that my migraine had gotten worse. Swearing out loud, I searched my boots looking for my shit: a sheet of aluminium foil, a pipe, a lighter, and my fairy dust.
I spent the first half of the evening chasing the dragon, and the rest getting high as a kite, lying on my bed, laughing at the ceiling. I must have been sleeping at some point because it was during my sleep that the bad trip hit. I dreamed that I was dead in my hotel room in Barbès and that nobody missed me. Worse: nobody had realised, so my body was slowly rotting away, forgotten.
I couldn't find my sister's phone number again in the morning: I couldn't remember what I did with that piece of paper for the life of me.
The photoshoot that followed during the day taught a few things to me:
1. The Hanajima haircut was a scream, no matter what angle and despite my corpse-like face covered up by make-up
2. I was good at this. Better at it than anything in my life.
Oh, and by the way, 3: my old pal Daigo "Elvis" Stardust really was a welcome visitor anywhere he went.
I almost hadn't recognized him with his plain white shirt and his well-cut trousers. He had patiently waited for the end of the shoot, then had moved forward, removing his sunglasses with an elegant gesture.
-You didn't call me back. Naughty, naughty.
After having overcome the initial shock of having him suddenly drop in on me out of nowhere when I had almost completely forgotten about him, I smiled a huge smile, unable to stop myself.
-Looks to me like it's no use trying to shun you, anyway. Glad to see you man! What are you doing here in Paris? Don't tell me you're...
-If your question is: did I come especially to see you, let's say the answer is half yes. I have to round up some details about my concert in Germany and I knew you'd be here, so I made a little detour.
-Germany, heh? You don't say!
-Yeah, they're crazy about jrock over there, you can't imagine. Are you free for dinner tonight?
I turned back towards the staff, pretending I was pondering the answer.
-Dunno, yeah...
I shrugged with fake nonchalance.
"I might be."
He had had me good, with his choir boy looks; his taste for flamboyant kitsch perspired through the place where he took me to dinner: on the Champs-Élysées, nothing less, in a trendy bar that, using projectors pointed at the walls, put on Hokuto no Ken episodes with the soundtrack remixed to techno music. As soon as we sat down in a V.I.P. boudoir with uncomfortable but elaborate seats, he launched an almost immediate attack:
-So I heard Camui's showed you the door, huh?
-You're one direct motherfucker. No greetings, no emotional bullshit, I can tell you're the type to go straight at it with your hand wrapped in sandpaper and no lube. I mean, where's the love, man? Show me some love!
-Is that a yes?
-Whatever you please, you're the one paying. This said, prepare to cough it up.
-One peach-flavored kir royal and one sambuca, he told the busboy suited up in neon colours.
-One "kir royal" are you serious?! Get out of here, I don't want a pussy's drink.
-The kir's for me.
-But you still ordered something for me without letting me choose.
He smiled.
-You looked like the sambuca type. We can always change it up, if you prefer...
-No way, I hate fickle guys. You took a decision, now take responsibilty for it. Try to act like a man, for a change. Visualist fag.
He started to laugh candidly.
Many sambucas later, I wasn't so much of a hotshot anymore, slumped all over Daigo and talking nonsense:
-Talk about a screwball, seriously. And why was I supposed to let myself get strangled, huh? I'm serious, man, next time I'ma do his fucking head in. Fuck. Fucks me over, that kind of shit, y'know? You know what I'm sayin', right?
-Completely. But enough with him. Let's talk about your career: how's that coming up, huh?
-Yeah, great. Sometimes I says to myself... I says, y'know... I don't know why the fuck he chose me. He's not the kind of guy whose throat you can force things down, y'know, so when yours truly strolls in and asks to be made a visual kei artist, fuck me, right? Shoulda kicked my ass and told me to go to sleep. He couldn't be bothered. So, I don't understand. It must mean he chose me, right? But why? And why's he' just tossing me away now like... Like I ain't shit? Fuck. I'm not even a musician.
-I do understand.
He looked me straight in the eye, caressing my cheek. It shut me up on the spot.
"I like your style. I think I know what it is that Camui saw in you. He just doesn't know how to make good use of it. What you did to Hyde's concert... You do have something about you, something nobody's ever seen before. You're so much fresher, so much younger, so much more spontaneous than him. You scare him. You'll surpass him."
I couldn't go on anymore. I took away his hand from my cheek with a little laugh that was supposed to be light.
-Cut the bullshit, Yoda. Him, scared? Of me? Stop it right there, come on.
-I'm extremely serious. What do you think of bailing out of this lame-ass photoshoot and coming with me to Germany tomorrow? I can introduce you to a few people, you can play at my concert if you want. Camui's going downhill, you know that. His popularity can never reach beyond the bounds of Japan, especially if he's going on a solo career: he just doesn't cut it. Malice Mizer was his only chance. That's why he's counting on you now. But his ego is blinding him, and now he's trying to smother you.
-Hold it, hold it, this is getting way out of control... with all your bar-room psychology and plot theories, I mean... I can see you're very pleased with that stuff, good for you, but leave me out of it, baby.
-You and I are young, Miyavi, therein lies the difference. Together we can shake up the fossilized world of visual kei, bring something truly different. Don't you think it's worth a try? Come and play for me, if only for one concert, and then you can decide for yourself.
I sobered up immediatly. I suddenly got up, knocking my knees against the elaborate table, which produced a very dramatic tinkling of glasses.
-I'm sorry, pal, I muttered, shaking my head. But I... Now I, I can't follow, it's just... It's not possible.
And I ran out of the bar as if I had the devil on my tail.
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no subject
Date: 2008-12-18 09:19 pm (UTC)