InsaneJournal

[Love Mode] No Rest
fandom Love Mode
characters Seiichi


When Seiichi returns to work, everybody is kind to him, almost cautious, even, as if afraid that one wrong word will break him. Kashima drops by his room as he’s settling in -- “Just to see how you are,” he says with that impenetrable smile -- and Seiichi is sure that Kashima will report to the owner that he has dark shadows under his eyes and he’s lost weight, but otherwise he’s ready to work again.

The only person who isn’t kind or cautious, who doesn’t consider every word before saying it, is Jin, and somehow Seiichi knew that this would be the case even before Jin knocks on his door with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a smirk on his face.

They share the alcohol between them, drinking straight from the bottle, and just as the room begins to spin and Seiichi realises that this probably wasn’t such a good idea, Jin says to him in his usual, careless drawl, “So I hear your prince has gone home.”

Seiichi freezes, his breath catching in his throat, and he stares at Jin a little wildly, a little blurrily; the laughter that suddenly bursts out of his mouth is more surprising to him than it is to Jin. He laughs, and laughs, and when he finally dozes off in his chair, his face is wet with tears.

In the morning, Jin is gone, and Seiichi is summoned to see the owner about his first assignment; he has a skull-splitting headache, and the shadows around his eyes are darker than ever.

***

He flies to Paris with a wealthy businessman who showers him with gifts, Armani suits and a Bulgari watch and heavy gold jewellery; he’s older than Seiichi prefers, but all of his clients will be, from now on.

He wanders through the narrow lanes of Montmartre while the client is busy with meetings, and spends hours in the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. The client’s business affairs are concluded by the third day, and they idle away their last afternoon together at a café on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, watching the crowds of people pass by.

“The suit fits you well,” the client says suddenly, drawing Seiichi’s attention away from a nearby busker, a young man playing a guitar with slender, graceful hands.

“Sorry, what?” he says, then replies before the other man can repeat the question. “Oh, the suit... yes, I like it very much. Thank you again for the beautiful gifts, Kondou-san.” And they both know that his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re not wearing the ring I gave you?” the client asks, not unkindly. He glances at Seiichi’s hands, bare except for a simple silver band on the third finger of his right hand; Seiichi resists the urge to twist the ring around his finger, to hide his hand beneath the table, to clench his hands into fists until the metal cuts into his skin.

“I, uh,” he begins to say in excuse, then stops. A hundred lines flash through his mind, lines he’s used before on a hundred occasions with a hundred different clients, but for some reason he feels compelled to be honest, just this once. “This ring is... it was given to me by somebody who was very important to me.”

The client says nothing for a moment, and then he nods. They return to their hotel room soon after, and Seiichi follows the other man unresistingly to the bed; they have sex, again and again, until it’s night and they’re both exhausted. When Seiichi closes his eyes, he dreams of slender, graceful hands.

***

The last thing Tomoki ever said to him was: “I wonder if the laundry is dry yet?”

The last thing he ever said to Tomoki was: “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

***

He comes home to a dark, empty room, and he navigates around the distantly familiar furniture with only the faint light shining through the windows to guide him. His suitcase, filled with so many expensive gifts, is tossed onto the sofa on his way to the bathroom; he took a shower before leaving the hotel in Paris, but he imagines that he can still smell the client on himself, and he scrubs at his skin until it’s raw.

Walking out of the bathroom naked and still wet, he’s tempted to reach for the bottle of vodka that Jin had left on the table, but he doesn’t; it seems like the easy way out, somehow, and nothing about this should be easy.

He lies down on the bed, dripping water onto the cold sheets, and he stares up at the ceiling through the darkness. Sleep doesn’t come until dawn.


.fin


A/N: Originally written in 2nd-person POV, but translated to 3rd-person when I realised just how often I write LM fics in 2nd-person. Variety is spicy, and all that.