sevenswells | [FIC] Hoshi no Suna chapter 1/14: La Salade (ENG)

So! Here they are, the first two chapters of Hoshi no Suna translated from French to English! (translation's been a bitch, but I survived, thanks to the most wonderful beta in the whole wide world, mucho lurve to her)
I hope you won't be disappointed, I feel extremely shy right now because... well because of. Things.

Title: Hoshi no Suna
Author:

sevenswells hiding under a rock
Rating: NC-17
Band/Pairing: Gackt/Miyavi
Warnings: Totally Not Safe For Work, yaoi, angst, kink (I guess?), and most of all, ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, people. Though I speak about Japan and Tokyo and Hokkaido, I've never been there, I know almost nothing about it; I respected the elements of Gackt's and Miyavi's respective biographies only when it suited me, I've futzed with the timeline, and I'm really sorry about all that, but I swear I'm a true fan of both, I love them to death.
Word Count: 2 004 w.
Comments: Dedicated to my one and only beta,

kamexkame . Thank you SO MOISCHE, I can't kiss your lovely feet enough for helping me with my crappy english.
Also dedicated to

supacat and

thin_lipid cos your awesomeness has just no end.

Ma soeur est née dans une salade
Mon père cultive la panade
Moi je grandis en m’énervant
Les genoux niqués évidemment

Mais comprenne qui voudra, manger, je ne digère pas
Vois ce qu’ils me servent

Vois ce qu’ils me servent

Je ne veux plus rentrer chez moi
Si on me retient, je ne reviens pas, et toi ?
Je ne veux plus rentrer chez moi
Je ne reviens pas, tu sais
Je ne reviens pas, mais [...]

Deportivo - La Salade

My sister was born in a lettuce
My father cultivates porridge
As for me, I'm growing up irritated
With fucked-up knees, of course

But whoever may understand, eating -- that, I can't stomach
Look at what they're serving me

Look at what they're serving me

I don't want to go back to my home anymore
If they keep me, I won't come back, what about you?
I don't want to go back to my home anymore
I'm not coming back, you know,
I'm not coming back, though [...]

-Really, the stuff they show on tv these days... Do you know that one?

-...I do. He's a, ah, trendy singer.

-Oh, of course, transvestites would be "trendy" nowadays... and at lunchtime, too... tsk, tsk...

I don't say anything. She hands me a fuming bowl: she's prepared katsudon for me. My favourite dish, and hers are especially tasty, not like the ones I used to eat in Tokyo, less rich in fat, more refined.

Eating it just now, though, it'll probably taste kind of weird. My eyes are glued to the screen.

-Itadakimasu.

-Itadakimasu. It's delicious, grandma.

Nah, tastes okay actually, same as during my teenage years. I'm starting to realise that it's only at my mother's that everything tastes festered and dead. Ever since I came back, that stench won't leave me.

-I've never agreed to pass the recipe on to your mother, her cooking is terrible. Can you imagine, if she made a mess of it and said while serving it that the recipe was originally mine? No, no. What did she say about your hair?

Now, that is her very own way to tell me she disapproves of my 'do. Hopefully the clothes I'm wearing also cover all of the tattoos all over my body.

-We don't speak to each other, grandma. But I'm pretty sure she disapproves.

-Ah.

If my mother disapproves, my grandmother feels compelled to approve, or to adopt a neutral stand, anyway. And if something clashes too much with her sense of values, she obliterates it -- it's as simple as that. It's easy for her, she's old, so she can blame some of her "lapses of memory" on age. Like the scandal involving Takeshi and I, for instance.

That's how things have always functionned with her: anything to go up against her daughter-in-law. Needless to say I'm her favourite grandchild.

-Though you will definitely get rid of this thing before going to work tomorrow, you little punk!

-Ouch!

With her bony fingers, she tugs affectionately at my lip piercing. It doesn't really hurt, I only say ouch to answer to her affection.

My lips were far more ill-treated when he used to pull at it, with his teeth, and the pain used to make me come.

Uh-oh. Forbidden thought.

-Mr Toshiro has taken you in only because he knows me well, and I'm also a good client of his; don't go ruining my reputation at his conbini by looking like you're about to rob the place!

-Okay, okay, grandma, look, it's off.

With the tip of my tongue, I prod at the empty hole. Though it's neither for my grandmother nor Mr Toshiro that I've removed it.

-The one on your eyebrow, too. Regarding those on your ears... I guess they're not as conspicuous, you may leave them on.

She doesn't want to appear too strict either. I finish up the rest of my meal and remove the piercing from my eyebrow. He was the one who pierced it. One mark less. I've also slashed the tattoo he'd done on the inside of my thigh: "Belong" he'd written, in English. Some kind of pun, I suppose. Asshole. It had hurt like hell. After each tattoo session, he used to suck me off, as a reward for not shouting out in pain. I had to be careful not to cut an artery open when I removed that retarded inscription using a razor blade. Now whenever I'm wearing jeans, the scab gets horribly itchy.

What was that about, that habit of his to mark me constantly as his property? When I was the one to give him head, he liked to smear his semen all over my face after he had come. Then he made me lick the tip of his fingers, and his index finger penetrated my mouth...

-...Miyabi?

I start. Shit! I made a promise to myself not to think about it again, and there I am, almost salivating at my grandmother's table. Pavlov's dogs, he used to say. Give it all to them, and then starve them, that's how you'll get to them. But be sure to make it so that they never lose hope; this is precisely what you need to cultivate within the fans. Throw some crumbs at them, from time to time. Let them constantly be on the watch for that moment you'll pull up you shirt or kiss your guitarist on the lips.

-What is it, grandma? I'm sorry, I was dreaming awake.

-I was just asking whether it was okay with you if I changed the channel. That singer is being a nuisance.

It's the video of a live concert where he rubs his crotch lasciviously, clad in a leather mini-short, against the amps. Hysterical fangirls start to howl for joy. I suppress a smile as soon as it threatens to stretch my lips. He's always had his way with the public. Pavlov's dogs. I think I was quite perfect too, in that genre. "Was".

-It's okay grandma, go ahead, I wasn't watching anyway. I think there's a go tournament on the second one. Here, let me take care of the dishes, you rest a little. The meal was excellent. Thank you.

I've never ever wanted to hurt my grandmother. Even though I know she uses as a weapon in this ongoing trench war with my mother, I love her. And I think she sincerely loves me back. She doesn't understand me at all, but she loves me.

My mother, well, that's a whole different ball game. When I was seventeen, I watched East of Eden, with Takeshi at my side. I instantly felt this kinship with Cal, the black sheep, the prodigal son. Of course, I was something of a romantic back then. Now I realise that the context was entirely different and that I had been pushing for similarities, but still, the accuracy with which his feelings were portrayed, Cal's anger, Cal's rejection, they made me cry. While the credits were rolling, Takeshi had given me a hand job to comfort me. He was a little aroused himself. Dear old Takeshi, bastard that he is, has always been a fan of James Dean.

I still remember the day when he was introduced into class during the first year of high school, my heart beat so fast it could have broken. At last, I said to myself. At last something is going to happen.

Actually, I didn't exactly tell myself that, I don't even think I put it into words at that moment, but I remember the feeling of sheer relief I felt then vividly. When I think back to who I was, or the one I was pretending to be anyway, compared to who I am now, my ancient self conjures up the impression of an angel. Funnily enough, my mother hadn't thought along those same lines, at that time, even sanctimonious as she was. I've always been a problem to her, from day one. I showed myself in prematurely in the middle of the night: they had to wake up the midwife, Mrs Aizawa, a good acquaintance of our family, and throughout the delivery, I made my honorable mother lose whole buckets of blood and suffer so much she passed out several times and had to be reanimated. The horrid story of my birth was told to me so many times that I'm able to affirm it now: I was there!

From then onwards, the charges against me just kept piling up: a few weeks after my third birthday, my father died of cancer. At five, while I was running around the house, I slipped and made the disgusting painted plaster statue of Virgin Mary fall over, neatly cutting off her ugly head. We managed to repair it with a bit of superglue that had belonged to my father, but the holy lady has kept a slighty twisted neck ever since. Now, when she stares coldly at me, her head bending to the side like an owl, I think that she looks like my mother.

As opposed to my sister, who was such a good sort, so passive when she was young, I used to fool around, used to wet my bed: obviously, I had to be the spawn of Satan. Not that I didn't try my hardest to prove that unmistakable truth wrong. Yes, that's how dumb I was.

At school, too, I did try. I even managed to get elected as a class representative once, in middle school. But my marks were obstinately average, sometimes I would get caught not listening and talking during class, and I just couldn't compete with my sister anyway, who was about to go study archaeology in Europe, after she had obtained a scholarship with top scores.

Thus, when Takeshi arrived in my sucky high school where I was literally dying of boredom, it was a Revolution. I totallly had to become his friend.

His uncle was an American, so Takeshi claimed to be American at heart. He was the one to initiate me to rock music and sex, which by now have come to be very alike to me. In the summer of my seventeenth year, I discovered Nirvana, the Guns N Roses, Queen, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I used to think Takeshi and I were the very kings of the dump we lived in, the spirit of rock'n'roll, debauchery incarnate. Takeshi was the coolest dude ever, he could blow rings of tobacco smoke, he didn't wear his uniform the proper way and, more importantly, his penis glans was pierced, he had gotten that done while paying a visit to his uncle in America. First, he told me about it, described it, the sensations he obtained from masturbation. I started to feel hot and bothered at night when I thought about Takeshi's cock. Finally, he showed it to me. We were at my place, in the middle of the afternoon. My mother was out and my sister was in Paris. Pretending I wanted to see it up close, I knelt in front of him. Takeshi's musky scent got up to my head. It left me wanting. Without thinking, I gave a little lick on his penis.

-Oi, said Takeshi as he tried, feebly, to push me back. What the hell are you up to, Miyabi?

I didn't answer and moved my tongue languidly from the shaft to the glans, teasing it with little flicks. This time Takeshi let me do it, exhaling a pleased sigh. I watched his cock harden and grow quite big, which always holds some kind of fascination, like those flower blooms in accelerated motion you can see sometimes on TV documentaries.

-Does that turn you on, Takeshi, I said, pausing. I looked at him with the most innocent face I could put on. I was feeling exhilarated, free of everything. All things considered, maybe the evangelist bullshit my mother spews all the time is true: rock music fucks up our youth.

-Shut up, he said in a low voice, grabbing the back of my head. And suck it.

Without further ado, he brutally pushed his cock in between my parted lips. His taste was resolutely salty. His piercing was scraping my palate. Despite the violence with which he thrusted in my mouth, I kept trying not to scratch him with my teeth: I was stretching my lips foward as far as I could and it was starting to heat up. Luckily he came fast enough, his semen poured in my throat and he drew back. A few more drops formed in beads on my upper lip and my nose. I swallowed quickly, trying not to give in the temptation of spitting in front of him, as he fell down on my bed, panting. He didn't seem to have a problem with what we'd done. His eyelids were half-mast, like a lazy cat. I could see the tacit agreement in the look he returned me. Finally, he caught up his breath. He leaned over and frenched me, tasting his own flavour.

The contract was sealed.