My theory on self

Post Reply New Topic

Hello, wonderful readers

Hello, wonderful readers. This is a oneshot and is due to a request from the lovely, one and only Orange-Maple. I hope I don’t let you down!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything, save the plot. I’m so bad.

Pairing: KxHiro…Kiro?

Warnings: None.

A note on the gifts: The inscription on one of the items of the first gift is real; in fact, I own those same guitar picks.

Sugar, Sugar?

By Cory

February First: Saturday

“K, you idiot!”

Blond hair whipped around, revealing a flushed, somewhat sheepish face. “What?” he asked innocently. He straightened his white shirt testily. “I’ll have you know that I was busy.”

Suguru snarled. “We missed a shot at being on Hits Television because you weren’t there!” He slammed his fist into the table. Shuichi, who had drooling mid-slumber on the break room table, jerked awake, his hand slapping against the rim of Hiroshi’s teacup, sending it skidding across the table.

K glanced at the cup, and Hiroshi—who was glaring daggers at Shuichi while mopping up the spill with a sopping napkin—then back at Suguru. “Look, I know that I’m late. But what I was doing will really bring the band together soon.”

Suguru just shoved back from the table angrily. “Well, can you at least keep these things in mind from now on? Who knows when we’ll get a chance like that again!” he gnashed, prowling from the room moodily.

“Sorry about the tea, Hiro,” Shuichi yawned as he wiped the trail of dribble stretching from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.

Hiro grunted, his way of saying that he was vaguely annoyed, but was too tired to pursue the grievance, allowing Shuichi to walk free of reprimand. “Can we go now?” he asked of Sakano, who had been hovering fretfully in the background for the entirety of the rant. “I think we’ve recorded enough for this week.

Sakano straightened his tie nervously as he tipped a stylus to his handheld organizer. “Well—” he began, sounding unsure.

“Great,” Shuichi mumbled sleepily, rising. “Can you take me home, Hiro? I think I’ll fall asleep on the road.”

Hiro sighed. “Fine, so long as we don’t have a repeat of last week.”

“Hey! That was not my fault! Who knew that ice cream was that sticky on a motorcycle jacket?”

“Everyone but you.” Hiro rose, tossing the tattered, drenched napkins in a trash can as he passed.

“See you Monday!” K called, waving jauntily. He seemed awfully happy for some reason.

Upon Hiro’s return to his condominium—after surrendering a snoring Shuichi to a smoking, detached Yuki—he found a package awaiting him patiently just in front of his room’s door.

He looked at it suspiciously. For all he knew, it could have been from an obsessive fangirl or a disease-distributing radical.

It looked innocent enough—just a rectangular package swathed in shimmery, sky-blue wrapping paper with a deep green ribbon of velvet lying across it. It was nestled comfortably, invitingly, in the hallway’s trodden tan carpet.

With some apprehension that he brushed off, he unlocked his door and picked it up in one hand, nudging the door closed with his heel after he entered his pad. He dropped it on the kitchen table and retrieved the kitchen scissors, then returned and inspected the package.

There was no addresses set upon it, only the name Nakano Hiroshi printed on the top with black marker. He untied the ribbon and ripped the thing open, wanting to get this over with and get a shower.

He blanched when the smallish, rectangular box was free of its binding. It was a case of gorgeous guitar picks. With slightly wide, speculative eyes, he lifted it and shredded open the package with the equivalent ferocity of a tiger tearing open a prey’s carcass.

There were four in all. One was styled pitch black with the gold inscription in English for Existence’s Bane; another was deep, shiny blood red with black stripes racing across; another was deep gold one moment then a rich butterscotch the next, depending on how the light hit it; but the best was silver with many facets that made it seem like it had beaten by a hammer into its shape, and it had a sheen like broken glass. Hiro let out a low whistle and stared at them all, then glanced at the box; the print was in English. He bounced them experimentally in his palm. They were perfect: just the right weight, and a little artsy edge didn’t hurt. His fingers got that instinctual, familiar itch to test them out on his guitar.

A note was taped to the side of the remains of the box. Hiro glanced from the note to the picks, internally debating whether to see who had sent them or to trial his unexpected present. Did he even want to know who the giver was? Curiosity got the best of him, as well a sense of gratefulness. He snatched it up and read in the waning light drifting from his overhead light.

Dear Hiro,

Just thought that these would help you. You’ve needed something special recently—you’ve been worn thin, no?

So, today’s February first. And this is your first present. Expect thirteen more!

Yours truly and forever,

Someone who’s thinking of you

Hiro blinked. Thirteen more—so, until Valentine’s Day? Then what? And who was this from? It sounded so cryptic. He attempted to squish the warmth of pleased, flattered surprise in his chest, instead trying to fill it with doubt and wariness that should have come incontrovertibly with the gift from someone he didn’t know the identity.

February Second: Sunday

Sunday was a lazy day for Hiroshi. He had absolutely no plans, so the majority of that day was spent sleeping in until one o’clock in the afternoon, heating some sloppy ramen, playing video games, and watching old films while he tossed popcorn into his mouth.

He had tested his new guitar picks, and had convinced himself that he had fallen in love with them. His guitars were very happy campers, or so he had decided. As he shoveled some rice from a quick bento into his mouth, there came a knock on his door.

He scooped up the remaining rice and gobbled it up sloppily before answering the door, his bare feet pressing lightly into the carpet. There was no one there: just the shuddering, creamy light of the ceiling lights in the hallway and the generically patterned, grayish wallpaper. He glanced down reflexively, and saw another package.

This one had no ribbon, but was painstakingly enfolded in glossy, blood red wrapping paper. He picked it up—again gazing at it for any sign of the nonexistent addresses—and carried it inside, the smooth wrapping slipping in his suddenly perspiring hands. He noted that this one was larger than the last.

He barely managed to lie to himself and say that he wasn’t excited or curious. He managed to slip in the shower for a good twenty minutes before bolting for it on the kitchen table.

Fingers formed unforgiving claws as Hiro shredded through the shimmering packaging, sending it airborne to every corner of his spacious, sparsely-decorated kitchen. Inside was a set of American and British CDs. He glanced curiously at the covers, knowing enough English from high school to read of some of he bands’ names: Rage Against the Machine, Led Zeppelin, Godsmack, Nine Inch Nails, Pink Floyd, Yes, The Medic Droid Suicidal Tendencies, U2, were a few.

He thoughtfully considered these, and his fingers scraped lightly against a note taped to the back of the bottom CD. He ripped it off and read it quickly, eyes blurring with his speed reading.

Dear Hiro,

Music is a major part of your life, and I hope it will always be, because I’ll get to be there.

Yours truly,

A man with a music collection that recently decreased

February Third: Monday

“So, it’s a man,” Shuichi muttered around his French fry.

“Could be a transie,” Hiro noted dully, leaning back in the restaurant’s expansive booth. “And this is a five star restaurant, and you decided to get fries?”

“Of course! What else?” Shuichi demanded.

Hiroshi rolled his eyes. “Nevermind.”

“So…guitar picks and Western music. So this person is at least close enough to you to know your tastes.”

“Exactly; a stalker.”

“That’s not very nice,” Shuichi noted around the rim of his crystal flute as he sipped bubbly champagne. “I don’t think you’re right.”

Hiroshi jerked his head up to look at his friend so quickly that his neck cricked. “So you know,” he accused in a hiss.

Shuichi laughed. “Mm-hmm. And I’m not gonna tell!”

Hiro pouted at him. “Man-bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

“Yuki’s, anyway. You want to know?” Shuichi taunted as he waggled a French fry in his friend’s face.

Hiro snapped his head out and stole the French fry. “Not really,” he told him honestly around the food.

Shuichi blanched. “Why not? Most people would be really happy, you know.”

Hiroshi shrugged. “There isn’t enough time; we’ve got the new CD to work on, and recording is starting tomorrow, not to mention all the legal crap and merchandising and getting the word out.” He waved a hand through the air as if to whap a hornet. “No, thank you very much. I have no time to have a lover right now, boy or girl.”

Shuichi looked helplessly at him for a moment, then looked back down at his plate, as if let down by his friend.

Just then a waiter in pressed, spotless tuxedo look-alike swept up beside their table. “Sir,” he rumbled in a deep voice to Hiroshi, “there was a package left at the front for you.” He was balancing a package in his hand. It was a large box this time, similar to the one used for clothing. A foreign, expensive-looking insignia was stamped on the top of the crisp, white box. A subtle grey bow was lightly drawn taut on the side.

Hiro exchanged glances with Shuichi. While the singer looked ecstatic and excited, the guitarist looked shocked.

“Th-thanks,” he muttered and took the package into his lap.

Shuichi was springing in his chair as Hiro still stared at the box. “What are you waiting for? Open it, open it, open it, op—”

“Now?!”

“Yes!”

Hiroshi gulped and turned his eyes back to the present. He lifted the top off lightly to reveal some inviting, wispy gauze which he pressed back like water. Inside was a gorgeous coat, one that even Hiro had only dreamed of owning that he’d seen occasionally on the very elite, like Ryuichi Sakuma.

He stood to reveal it fully, and the box thudded to the carpet as both boys gasped.

It was beautiful; made of silky (so silky he wondered briefly if he hands were deceiving him) fur of a dappled gray-brown-red-white. The inside was satin of a deep, somehow smug red-brown. It seemed long, like it would stretch to Hiro’s knees if he donned it. He pressed it too his face and nearly staggered at the sheer softness of the fur. It smelled like fur—not the stiff faux found in the bottom of department store shelves.

“Well, put it on!” Shuichi pressed breathlessly.

Hiro gulped. He had the sudden, absurd notion that he would rip it by touching it a moment longer. “But—”

“Come on, Hiro, it’s begging you!”

And indeed it was. With a sigh, Hiro shouldered it on carefully and tugged it into place with the buttons that were lined firmly along the front.

“Ooh,” Shuichi and Hiro whispered at the same time.

Hiro looked like a supermodel. Like a supermodel that knew how to dress. It fitted him beyond perfectly. It was close-fitting and flattering; it clung to his torso, hips and even waist subtly, accentuating his slim frame and sending it to new heights. It came to an end at his knees, letting it rest straight around his thighs.

“Aww, Hiro,” Shuichi moaned. “Your fans are going to love you.”