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31_days2005-08-01 11:54 am
starlighter.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-08-01 11:54 am
[August 1st] [Viewfinder] Meet Half Way
Title: Meet Half Way
Day/Theme: August 1st/ Be indomitable, o my heart
Series: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami/Takaba
Rating: PG-13
August 1st - "Be indomitable, o my heart"
Meet Half Way
=====================
There is a Diet member across from him, his mistress draped artfully across his shoulder and making eyes at Asami, committing the social faux pas of pretending to have more money and bravado than he actually does and doing so badly. He is betrayed by the too-large gulps of expensive whiskey he downs, the quick brushes of his sweaty palms against his over-priced suit, the way he smiles - too wide and too bright - a liar's smile, glassy-eyed and fixed. He could have walked straight out of an election poster but for the fan of cards in his hand, the whiskey and cigarette in the other, the fall of obscenely expensive red designer silk over his shoulder. Takaba itches for a camera, a freeze frame, a heavy object to throw.
He glares at the mistress, then remembers himself and drops his gaze to the table instead, concentrates on turning his vodka in circles on the coaster, looking out across the pulse, the rise and ebb of the lesser mortals not invited to Asami's table in the recesses of the club beyond. He does not, after all, care who looks at Asami, or how. Asami notices; he can feel the small amused shift of Asami's thigh against his under the table, the more secure settling of his arm around his waist, a closer warning bind around his arms, a declaration. The eyes of the guests slide past Asami's arm, skim past Takaba as if neither of them exist, but later they will shake Takaba's hand warmly, slide a card into his hands, none of them, it seems, the least affected by his constant scowl or Asami's arm around his waist. Takaba has met all of them this way, business moguls and Diet members and scions of great families, and suffers them all the same; slowly, quietly dying for something, anything to record the moments. He is in the middle of it all, where everything happens, where deals are cut and people are made or destroyed. He stands suspended, inviolate, in the thick of the storm, but is powerless, with not even a stone to throw. Sometimes, it comes to him, this thick choking frustration, in the midst of Asami's fucking, possibly because they are much the same - the only difference being, as far as he can see, in his lack of clothing and, here, he can scream, stretched out and spread on Asami's sheets, under and over and always, always helpless, battered, clinging to the man with the desperation of the shipwrecked. Whenever he remembers, Takaba digs his nails into Asami's back and pulls, but Asami never seems to mind - only smiles and bends him further, fucks him harder, and it gets harder to remember.
Perhaps it should comfort him, knowing that Asami sits in the middle of it all, and even now is regarding the Diet member with the patience and predatory stillness of a hunter. Before the night is out, he will own the man; metaphorically, if not outright, depending on how far the fool decides to push his credit and his bluff. For Asami, there are always favours to call in, information to trade on; Takaba has seen it happen before. He even, under the right circumstances, has some leverage on Asami - this, he is learning, is how this game is played, how things are done between men and - he stumbles over the word but only briefly; it gets hard to maintain the semblance of delusion when he shares Asami's bed - their mistresses. A word in the right ear, gracefully conceding a smaller battle over cards to win a larger victory; it is all at his fingertips and it is tempting, too much so, for his comfort. For it is getting harder - harder to remember that he has not occupied Asami's couch for forever, only six months; that he is unused (no longer true) to expensive liquor and calfskin and the silk of Asami's bed that is so welcoming to the sprawl of tired limbs; that he has not always had an ever-growing pile of cards and a Rolodex, nor made small talk with celebrities and politicians, nor, most importantly, had the power to sway their decisions, under Asami's aegis. It is everything he has ever wanted, and nothing like it at all.
The Diet member ends up losing his shirt, and, unknowingly, a great deal more, to Asami, who graciously puts his debt on a tab and his name, Takaba knows, on a list. They decline another game and go home, Asami's car sliding silently through traffic as if it doesn't exist, and Takaba muses, intoxicated on more than just vodka, that, to him and men like him, it might not. He closes his eyes, leans against the windows, breathes in the dark smell of the leather upholstery.
In the dim light of their room, Asami, inexorable, undresses him, turning him this way and that, as if on a string. Takaba's limbs are heavy, weighted with soft lead; he merely stands and lets him, his eyelids falling. Asami pushes his shirt open, slides a hand over the middle of his chest and throat, fingers spread, the tips coming to rest just brushing Takaba's hair. "Ask me," he says, smiling, voice cool and remote and still somehow seductive, patient.
Takaba struggles hard to recall what, half an hour ago, was so important. "No," he replies uncertainly, and closes his mouth against anything more that might escape. No, don't ask me to; no, don't tell me; no, stop. Don't. Don't stop.
Asami laughs, low and delighted, and kisses him.
Day/Theme: August 1st/ Be indomitable, o my heart
Series: Viewfinder
Pairing: Asami/Takaba
Rating: PG-13
August 1st - "Be indomitable, o my heart"
Meet Half Way
=====================
There is a Diet member across from him, his mistress draped artfully across his shoulder and making eyes at Asami, committing the social faux pas of pretending to have more money and bravado than he actually does and doing so badly. He is betrayed by the too-large gulps of expensive whiskey he downs, the quick brushes of his sweaty palms against his over-priced suit, the way he smiles - too wide and too bright - a liar's smile, glassy-eyed and fixed. He could have walked straight out of an election poster but for the fan of cards in his hand, the whiskey and cigarette in the other, the fall of obscenely expensive red designer silk over his shoulder. Takaba itches for a camera, a freeze frame, a heavy object to throw.
He glares at the mistress, then remembers himself and drops his gaze to the table instead, concentrates on turning his vodka in circles on the coaster, looking out across the pulse, the rise and ebb of the lesser mortals not invited to Asami's table in the recesses of the club beyond. He does not, after all, care who looks at Asami, or how. Asami notices; he can feel the small amused shift of Asami's thigh against his under the table, the more secure settling of his arm around his waist, a closer warning bind around his arms, a declaration. The eyes of the guests slide past Asami's arm, skim past Takaba as if neither of them exist, but later they will shake Takaba's hand warmly, slide a card into his hands, none of them, it seems, the least affected by his constant scowl or Asami's arm around his waist. Takaba has met all of them this way, business moguls and Diet members and scions of great families, and suffers them all the same; slowly, quietly dying for something, anything to record the moments. He is in the middle of it all, where everything happens, where deals are cut and people are made or destroyed. He stands suspended, inviolate, in the thick of the storm, but is powerless, with not even a stone to throw. Sometimes, it comes to him, this thick choking frustration, in the midst of Asami's fucking, possibly because they are much the same - the only difference being, as far as he can see, in his lack of clothing and, here, he can scream, stretched out and spread on Asami's sheets, under and over and always, always helpless, battered, clinging to the man with the desperation of the shipwrecked. Whenever he remembers, Takaba digs his nails into Asami's back and pulls, but Asami never seems to mind - only smiles and bends him further, fucks him harder, and it gets harder to remember.
Perhaps it should comfort him, knowing that Asami sits in the middle of it all, and even now is regarding the Diet member with the patience and predatory stillness of a hunter. Before the night is out, he will own the man; metaphorically, if not outright, depending on how far the fool decides to push his credit and his bluff. For Asami, there are always favours to call in, information to trade on; Takaba has seen it happen before. He even, under the right circumstances, has some leverage on Asami - this, he is learning, is how this game is played, how things are done between men and - he stumbles over the word but only briefly; it gets hard to maintain the semblance of delusion when he shares Asami's bed - their mistresses. A word in the right ear, gracefully conceding a smaller battle over cards to win a larger victory; it is all at his fingertips and it is tempting, too much so, for his comfort. For it is getting harder - harder to remember that he has not occupied Asami's couch for forever, only six months; that he is unused (no longer true) to expensive liquor and calfskin and the silk of Asami's bed that is so welcoming to the sprawl of tired limbs; that he has not always had an ever-growing pile of cards and a Rolodex, nor made small talk with celebrities and politicians, nor, most importantly, had the power to sway their decisions, under Asami's aegis. It is everything he has ever wanted, and nothing like it at all.
The Diet member ends up losing his shirt, and, unknowingly, a great deal more, to Asami, who graciously puts his debt on a tab and his name, Takaba knows, on a list. They decline another game and go home, Asami's car sliding silently through traffic as if it doesn't exist, and Takaba muses, intoxicated on more than just vodka, that, to him and men like him, it might not. He closes his eyes, leans against the windows, breathes in the dark smell of the leather upholstery.
In the dim light of their room, Asami, inexorable, undresses him, turning him this way and that, as if on a string. Takaba's limbs are heavy, weighted with soft lead; he merely stands and lets him, his eyelids falling. Asami pushes his shirt open, slides a hand over the middle of his chest and throat, fingers spread, the tips coming to rest just brushing Takaba's hair. "Ask me," he says, smiling, voice cool and remote and still somehow seductive, patient.
Takaba struggles hard to recall what, half an hour ago, was so important. "No," he replies uncertainly, and closes his mouth against anything more that might escape. No, don't ask me to; no, don't tell me; no, stop. Don't. Don't stop.
Asami laughs, low and delighted, and kisses him.