From Twelve to ForeverChapter(s):
1/1Author: xxshamisen Genre:
Romance, AU? (not sure about this one)Rating:
Language, pretty muchPairing:
Everything written here came from my imagination. Plus I don't own any of the boys
though I wish I did xD
Apparently even the dirtiest of prostitutes can find love. (Somewhat Uru-centric)Comments:
Well somebody's been reading Eleven Minutes
Despite of being glorified in various stories and myths, people are right – there’s nothing special about prostitutes. They work to have something on their stomachs, a roof above their heads, simply to keep themselves alive throughout the day. Some just fall into this business without having any kind of choice, they must’ve been poor, or maybe they ran away from home and had nowhere else to go except for this black hole. Some simply are shameless nymphomaniacs, because this kind of trade couldn’t get them any more humiliated than they already are anyway. A/N:
Isn’t it the same for other people though? They work their asses off from nine to five to provide themselves with enough to survive and maybe a few for luxury, or get thrown into a world they didn’t want to venture in simply because their parents or society said so. And of course, even though the non-prostitutes won’t admit it, they do have animalistic sexual tendencies within them, though it is true that they don’t sell their flesh for it. Although it would’ve been better if they get paid just to feel good.
He fell on the third category. The one with the blond hair, deep set eyes, luscious lips, and long legs. Needless to say he was the most beautiful in that side of this rat hole, at least on the outside, but on the inside he was as rotten as they come. As a child he didn’t exactly have a bad experience; in fact, he was born to a middle class family, with parents providing enough for them, two older sisters and a little dog whose name he couldn’t even remember. It was just that one day the perfect life bored him. He wasn’t made for this – he was made for adventure, something that pumped his adrenaline, something exciting. At a young age he found out all the places in his body that felt good and played with it all the time. Oh, of course it’s perfectly normal, with the heaps of pornographic material lying around (not literally though; he had them stashed under his bed), television (one would’ve cringed at how obscene some daytime shows can get, even without getting physical), and the endless chitchat with his fellow young men who thought it was manly to talk about things like that (and did these boys talk). It really was normal. Until he asked people to give it up to him in the ass.
Rumors started to spread and his parents were getting ashamed of him, but of course, like the good (passive) parents that they were, they believed in the integrity of their only boy. Besides, if he was really embarrassed of what was going on in that town he could’ve moved to his aunt in Kansai and there he could build a new image or something. So the money for his travels had been given to him, his bags were packed already, and he was ready to go. But instead he set sail for Tokyo, without anybody knowing because really, this wasn’t worth talking about to anybody within his range. Plus if he did say it to anybody there’s a bigger chance he’ll run into one of these Kanagawa bastards in Tokyo and he didn’t want that. And his parents? Well right after he disappeared without a trace they had posters up, but eventually they gave up. He was a good-for-nothing fourteen year-old, anyway.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
He didn’t come to Tokyo looking for love (from the looks of things in the dramas he used to watch it was never a good thing) or money (perhaps partly, because how the hell would he be able to support himself anyway?), but for adventure. And not the normal kind of adventure too, such as getting famous or any of those delusive crap. Being simple-minded was bliss for him; he didn’t concern himself of anything except to fill his stomach, be safe, and please himself more than he pleases his clients. Now that really wasn’t a hard to get dream, was it?
He called himself Uruha. Actually he contemplated of using the name Kyouki for himself, remembering one customer who said that fucking him was like consuming ecstasy. There really was no need for him to take on any kind of name, but his pimp insisted, and because customers sometimes were nosy people who insisted in his name. He’d gotten away from it a couple of times, but he was getting annoyed anyway so using a name, even though it’s just fake, cut it for him. Uruha couldn’t understand why some still asked for his name, when all they were going to do was to screw around. They’ve probably mistaken him for somebody who’d talk or something after a good fuck, someone who’d care. And he didn’t. In any case, the name fit him perfectly – his beauty is impeccable and his skills ever so elegant.
Needless to say, in the long years that he has lived his life as a prostitute, Uruha came across so many interesting things, interesting techniques, but of course never interesting places, but that didn’t matter to him. Interesting people told him of supposedly interesting tales, and although he wasn't completely an airhead, he simply couldn't care less in hearing those kinds of stories. About how they were unhappy with their successful lives, how they loathe their beautiful wives and obedient children, how boring it was to travel to beautiful countries and all that. Uruha would speak out about how tired he was of hearing the same, ungrateful crap every time but he always forgot to, mainly because he's too exhausted being fucked.
His life revolved around sex. His happiness was sex. Thankfully not drugs as well; it would've been a shame to let such beauty wither, regardless of how dirty he was to society. That is, before he came along.
He was a simple artist. A starving artist, even. He came to Uruha one night and asked for his services, and since his rate wasn't all that high and it never was like him to turn down a customer (perhaps he did like interacting with different people, but hasn't realized it), the blond agreed. However, he simply asked Uruha to pose for him for a while and to keep quiet. Of course Uruha found it irritating that the man spoke to him with such audacity, and really, he could very well be getting screwed at that moment, but he never stood up from his position. Instead, he sat still in his seat, chin propped at the back of his hand, uncaring of the wisps of blond hair that covered his eyes.
The artist said nothing as he was drawn, concentrating greatly on his work with intensity that Uruha could never explain but definitely feel. It annoyed him that this man didn't even compliment his face or figure; that he wasn't even talking to him. Regardless, the blond found himself staring into those rapt, fathomless eyes that the man had, and for once in his life, tried so hard – desperately, even – to understand what emotion those raven windows could possibly convey. But whatever effort he exerted was simply wasted, for even until the other man had already fixed his canvas and brushes, Uruha still couldn't read him.
“Aren’t you going to thank me for this?” Uruha piped, shoving into his pocket the crunchy, newly-printed bills placed on the tabletop.
The dark haired man threw a puzzled look over his shoulder, as if he didn't expect the question at all. “I paid you.”
With that, the artist left, leaving behind a bewildered – and needless to say, insulted – young blond. And yet after the encounter, Uruha still desperately tried to grasp what lied in the depths of those black, black eyes as he had never before.
Resolved to his decision, Uruha once told himself that he would never leave that dingy city, and that he would spend everyday of his life striding along its dark and dangerous streets. Therefore it was no surprise as to why he would lurk around – it was his territory, after all. It wasn’t his. Every time he would see that artist’s lonely face among the crowd, politely asking giddy strangers if it was okay to have their portraits sketched (and of course they would agree), the deadpan expression that he had worked so hard to achieve for years would twist into something of emotion. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he frowned, but the point is that his mask of indifference shatters whenever he gets a glimpse of that man. He didn’t understand it, nor did he try to understand it. The blond had lived a life of simplicity, he always found simple answers for any question thrown at him, and there was no need for him to complicate anything anymore.
Still, he was a complication Uruha wanted to figure out.
The days passed by really slowly for Uruha, and although he never compromised his persistence for work, he always found his chocolate eyes staring at him, watching him draw others, order mocha latte from the coffee shop across the street, take a slow, careful gait in the plaza where he usually worked. And Aoi (Uruha learned of this when he stole a glance on one of the other man’s artworks) returned those observant looks with a blank expression – one that the blond had mastered for many years but has forgotten how to do so when looking at him. Never has Uruha been frustrated in his lifetime, more so frustrated with a man as simple as Aoi was. As much as he hated to admit it, there were nights that he would only stare at his ceiling, thinking about the man who never even seemed to really look at him save for the instance when he drew his portrait.
What frustrated the blond even more is that even if lately, he thought about this man more frequently than he thought of sex and keeping himself alive, he would never think of him in the same degree, at least, he’ll never know if he did.
But Uruha had always been an impulsive person. One lovely fall afternoon, he asked himself of what Aoi could possibly say to the millions of questions that he had for him.
“Why don’t we find out?” the blond said to himself with a smile.
With a cup of coffee in hand, Uruha nonchalantly approached the fountain from where the dark haired artist worked; failing to notice at once that he was actually painting the young lady beside him. He sat down beside him, careful about being noticed, and thankful that he wasn’t. At the corner of his eye he watched Aoi make his final touches on the drawing of the girl, who, for every five seconds, giggled and asked in feigned modesty why she, of all people, was the one he chose as a model. The blond saw a smile on the other’s lips, no doubt only being polite, and grew curious each second Aoi didn’t answer the question.
He said it was because her smile reminded him of a bright, spring morning, so young and refreshing that he had to recreate it with his own hands. Satisfied with the dark haired artist’s answer, the girl stood up and thanked Aoi after finishing, not even bothering to look at the actual work.
What bullshit, was all the blond could come up with.
As Uruha was about to leave, Aoi turned to his direction, with a pokerfaced expression on him. “I see you’ve been watching me.”
“Why me?” he managed to blurt out after a dramatically long pause, finally remembering why he approached the man in the first place. “And don’t give me crap about springs and flowers and shit, I only find those words amusing when I’m being fucked hard in the ass.”
Aoi laughed, much to the blond’s surprise, though he did get why the other burst out like that. Once the soft laughter had subsided, Aoi turned away and pulled a canvas from the pile by his foot. “I don’t know,” he answered thoughtfully, looking down on his portrait of the other through hooded eyes.
Brows furrowing, Uruha peered at his own portrait. Not bad, he had to admit, before he realized it odd for the other man to carry it around. In that case, did he –
“I don’t even know why I carry this around,” the artist interrupted his thoughts, and for a second there the blond wondered if he was also a mind reader.
A snicker found its way to Uruha’s plush lips, casually taking the canvas from the other’s large hands. “Stalker,” he joked as if they had been friends for a long time; expression turning into something contemplative right after. “Shouldn’t you be telling me how mesmerizing I was, or that you saw a certain light from my eyes, or even just because you pitied me or something? You can’t be serious that you don’t have a reason. There must be something.”
“There doesn’t have to be a reason for everything.”
Uruha smiled. And in that moment that their eyes met, he started to believe that those twelve minutes he so craved for every day could actually last a lifetime.
Oh goodness me, I had to finish this else I wouldn't be able to finish ANYTHING. It had been horrible trying to come up with fics, for the past week really, with me being busy with an RP board and stuff >>;; I'm really sorry! Dammit, I think I shouldn't be promising things I'm not sure I can do, but rest assured that I'm continuing The Smile~ and well, it's gonna be angsty as always xDD I'M REALLY SORRY YOU GUYS ;_; Forgive me? *offers cookies*
And why 'From Twelve to Forever,' you may ask? That's because when I searched in Google, twelve minutes is the average time a man can hold his erection.
EDIT: I forgot the last paragraph >>;; I added it now. ._.