Soubi from Loveless, Solo ActionWord Count:
Language, references to underage sexual (though consensual) activity, BDSM, kink, D/s Relationships, etc.Spoilers:
Agatsuma Soubi from Loveless reflects on his life and upon an invitation he received to attend a Gala at the Uchiha Manor...A/N
: EGADS! Sorry, guys, I really thought I'd posted this one, here. *hides face* I wrote this during the Prompt Fest over on my Y!Gallery account (which is really where all the actions happens, gang. I post *everything* on my Y!Gallery account and LJ gets second-tier posting). I wrote it for Oni, who, very cleverly, asked to see more of Soubi in Monoshizukanohi. This story is a sort of prologue for what happens in Part II of the story, "The Gala."
Please be to reading this one along with "The Tower" for full effect. They're both short ("The Tower" is only 500 words).
OH! And because peoples have asked, the only stories featuring Pein/Nagato at the moment are R&B (he has a cameo in the early chapters as he put Gaara through the paces at Haze), "Knight of Swords", "The Tower", and, well, here in "Ghosts."
I ADORE my version of Nagato, however... so there is always the hope of more...
Thank you so much for the interest. *SQUEEZES THE LOT OF YOU*
Hope you enjoy, and thank you for reading!
The Monoshizuanohi University Library was eight floors of computers, stacks, tiles, and cubicles. There was a Starbucks on the second level, a grand mosaic on the first espousing the creed of MU, and hundreds of small rooms for rent by the hour. For studies, of course; not for the make-out sessions or random blow jobs that unofficially happened in the darkened nooks.
Soubi sat on the fifth floor in a reading carrel, chin in his palm, glasses sliding down his nose, and ponytail disheveled. A chilly, misty rain fell from the low sky that Soubi could watch through the solid bank of windows on his right. Shelves holding tomes about religion stood to his left in ominous, poorly-lit rows, and Soubi enjoyed the sanctuary of a section rarely frequented by anyone other than grad students. His laptop screen had long since shut itself off, his paper for Art History 301 was done save for editing, but it was another document that stayed lodged in his mind, shoving out all else.
Lying next to the number pad on the desk was a ripped envelope and an invitation to the Uchiha Gala. The card was eight-by-ten, the inscription silver on the deepest maroon, and the language reeked of formality and protocol.
Your presence is desired on the eighteenth... at the home of Lord Itachi Uchiha and his beloved partners...
Soubi traced the "p" and supposed it had been only a matter of time. He'd met Itachi at Haze several years ago, when Itachi's patience with Pein's game had been growing thin. Though, Soubi mused, it'd really been Itachi's own devices that had held the mysterious man in agony for so long. Itachi had been good to Soubi, though. Spoke to Soubi of death, grieving, and helped Soubi cope using the burn of knives' edges when nothing else could blot out the misery.
Were it not for Pein's Martyr, actually, Soubi might be a wrecked man whoring in slums or shooting up in abandoned buildings or lying with maggots in his eye sockets in a shallow grave. Soubi had loved once long ago, and everyone told him it'd been wrong. His partner in the quiet crimes had said never to speak of their actions. Any soul Soubi encountered and confided in after he and his love had parted ways said it was abuse to love one so young. That Soubi was a victim. Helpless. Blameless. And he should be in therapy, appalled and outraged and trying to heal from the ordeal.
Soubi didn't know how to say that an older man's love when Soubi's age was barely in the double digits had healed him more than any shrink's leather couch, and that the sundering of such a joining and the subsequent tainting of the memories had ruined Soubi on affection forever. Soubi's parents were gone, and Mr. Minami's touches during recess had proven to Soubi that he wasn't dead, too.
Itachi was the first person in Soubi's history whose expression had never wavered when Soubi told his tale. Itachi had smiled, sadly, and said that love found anywhere was sacred were it true. Soubi had loved Itachi, then. Had loved Itachi even more when Soubi spoke of the next man -- Seimei, the younger, abusive, arrogant boyfriend who had used Soubi's tattered state to stroke ego and build false idols to confidence. Soubi would have done anything for Seimei, anything not to feel the gaping chasm within himself that Soubi couldn't fill.
Soubi had fallen into Itachi's arms and onto Itachi's torture tables when Itachi had merely stroked the scars that ringed Soubi's throat. Soubi had finished his story, shown Itachi the forever reminder of the last painful words Soubi and Seimei had exchanged before the motorcycle hit a wall going one-hundred-and-three:
"Please don't go."
"Stop being such a fucking needy-ass."
"I'm not needy. I'm just... I'd be lost without you."
"Too fuckin' late."
"Let go of me. You don't get it, do you? You're without. You're, like, the opposite of fucking love. Not hate, not even a decent slut, just fucking nothing."
After the funeral, Soubi had tried to reach out to Seimei's younger brother, but the kid didn't want Soubi's words of comfort or explanation. Soubi had gone home, found a razor, but instead of slitting wrists, he'd carved a verdict in his own flesh.
Now here it was, years later, and Itachi, who had vanished, was sending Soubi an invitation. To a party. Thrown by Itachi and the Uchiha's... partners. Soubi didn't miss the plural. He wondered who in the hell they could be. He'd been out of Scene and the loop and scar-deep in school and minimum-wage for too long. He had no idea who was serving, who was fucking, who was dying for a turn beneath Pein's whip now that the Martyr was out of hiding and no doubt wallowing in happiness.
Soubi didn't begrudge the man who'd helped him, but the invitation stirred the shoddy planks and threadbare rug he'd thrown over the hole still gaping in his metaphysical self. He'd go, he knew he would, but for now, all he wanted to do was watch the rain.
Footsteps that fell with an odd tread stirred Soubi sometime later. The strike of heel, the hit of metal, the drag of lame limb. Soubi looked around, saw no one, and frowned. He sighed and smelled woodsmoke and amber. It was familiar the way events that happened while you were drunk and retold from a witness were recognizable: acceptable but confusing. Soubi thought he heard a book slide from its filed location, suspected he imagined the low, tuneless hum, and strained to hear the invisible man's retreat.
Soubi didn't relax from rigid for several ticks of the minute hand. He touched the scarf around his neck, brushed a fingertip across his lips, and wished he had someone to kiss. The need was inexplicable, and Soubi pushed it aside, gathering his things to head home in the mist.~*~
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