Who: Harada Asaki (Japanese name order), Tristan Norcross
What: In which Tristan, an English clothing designer, arrives in Japan and, at the place he's supposed to meet his current employer, he runs into Asaki sitting at the bar. A few angry words are exchanged between the two and Asaki leaves... though neither realize exactly what shall occur over the next few days.
Rating: PG-13 (mild language, smoking, and much yaoi-ness)
I didn't have to heart to color code all of this... if you'd like to, let me know, but I just...can't think of colors that would suit 'em.... ;;; Do we really need 'em? @_@
He once heard Tokyo described as the Jeweled Nexus of Japan, especially when Tokyo Tower was taken into account. He honestly didn't see why. It was a city, much like any other city with its tall buildings, clubs, and bright lights. It was just another city. Nothing really to get excited about.
Tristan hated it.
It wasn't that he didn't like Tokyo, exactly. It was a city, and he was used to cities. It wasn't that he didn't like the hotel he was staying at. It was a nice hotel, one of the upper class ones that he could easily afford. After all, sometimes it paid to be a well-known designer.
He just hated that he was hopelessly lost.
He pushed the brim of his hat further up on his head so he could see better, glancing at the printout map in his hands. Of course, it was easy to say that he was meeting the people who were giving him his next assignment at a bar called the Fedora. It was another matter entirely to find said place.
After a few moments, he finally found the place where he was supposed to be going. He made a mental note to yell at the idiot who had given him directions that had practically taken him all over Japan. Sighing, he stuffed the paper carelessly into his jacket pocket and stepped inside, noting how small it was. So where were the people he was supposed to meet, anyway?
With a soft groan of disgust, he crumpled up the napkin on which he had been idly, and unsuccessfully, writing lyrics. Just a few random words pieced together in the hopes of creating some huge revelation... as well as a hit song... That was all he wanted. But there was nothing worth keeping. It was obvious, even if only to him, that his inspiration was drained. While songs had usually come so easily to the Japanese performer, it had been months since he'd written and recorded anything new. He had hoped to have something for his next show, but that certainly
wasn't happening. The fans wouldn't care... just as long as he sang what had made them obsessed in the first place, and looked pretty while doing it.
Growing increasingly more frustrated with the idea, Asaki ran a hand mercilessly through his dyed blonde hair, cut short and styled shaggy. He ordered another of his usual drinks and abandoned his attempts to casually glance around the room instead. He liked it here. It was a small, dark bar, hidden away within the Shinjuku area. He'd been coming here for years. Once he grew tired of the clubs, he sought the unique sense of isolation this place provided. There was something reassuring in being left alone in a public place. No rabid fans, no managers, no tourists,
This silent musing was soon proved wrong however. From his perch on the stool beside the counter, he had an easy view of the front door, and the newest person to walk through it. A dark brow raising slightly, beneath the single patch of blue strands that fell over his left eye, he studied the character with an annoyed kind of interested. How could he have found this bar? He appeared lost and obviously wasn't Japanese... This wasn't a place you just stumbled into unaware. Maybe the foreigners were catching on... What a shame that would be. Turning back around to face the rows of bottles behind the counter, he murmured under his breath.
Tristan heard. He glanced over at the man, Japanese, of course. Obviously dyed blonde hair, obviously dyed strands of blue hair, as well. Pathetic choice of attire, though he seemed full of himself. HE should be the one requiring his services as a designer rather than whoever it was that he was supposed to be worrying about. Figured.
It didn't matter. After all, he was being paid to do this. He was being paid to be here and do his job. He was hardly some goddamn tourist. As far as Tristan was concerned, being called a tourist in his line of work was probably the most insulting thing anyone could call him. He had been called worse, of course, but those people were usually unimaginative as far as insulting went.
Tristan had been of the impression that he hadn't looked like a tourist at all. After all, not many tourists wore a suit and his personal favorite hat. Pity this gentleman seemed rather ill-informed.
"Are you referring to me, sir?" Tristan asked in flawless Japanese, crossing his arms over his chest.
Regardless of how brief, a certain degree of shock was felt. Not only had this newcomer overheard his murmur, but understood, and, more surprisingly, replied perfectly. Not only the words, but even his accent was dead on. Asaki hadn't expected that. A mixture of an exasperated sigh and a quiet chuckle escaped his lips as he slowly turned halfway. Sure enough, the foreigner was indeed awaiting an answer... So much for the time he intended to spend drinking in peace. His mood, between this and his own frustrations, was irrevocably ruined.
"Hai." He responded with the same breathless, bitter laugh. Shifting his slender weight, he rest his elbow on the counter and crossed his legs while he took more time to stare at the intrusive man. His expensive looking suit was unusual... as was that hat. Asaki couldn't help but shake his head and scoff.
"That's what you are, ne? Though I couldn't guess how you managed to get here. Interesting choice of wardrobe however... Wear a fedora to the bar of the same name... Only a tourist would do something as idiotic as that." Casually meeting his seemingly excessive politeness with insults, the Asian's unnatural blue eyes never left the other's.
"You're only blocking people's path standing there. Now that you've done the damage and found this place, either sit down or leave... Tourist." The word was quite obviously repeated... hissed with great pleasure, causing a full, devilish grin to form.
He's just trying to piss me off, isn't he? Tristan wondered, staring at him for a moment. He was resisting the urge to punch him at the moment (and, as a matter of fact, he was rather shocked at himself for coming up with such an idea).
"Someone looking as unbelievably tacky as you are has no right to address me as such," Tristan replied, digging a package of cigarettes out of his pocket and thumbing it open. He removed a cigarette from the pack and put it in his mouth, deftly lighting it with a lighter he had drawn from his other pocket. He tucked the lighter away, inhaling the smoke and removing the cigarette gracefully from his lips with one hand. He blew out a steady stream of smoke and turned to look at the man who had spoken to him.
"You look like you're in dire need of my services, sir, but I only work for paying customers."
So saying, he put the cigarette back into his mouth and headed over to an empty table. Better to leave someone that uncultured to his alcohol. After all, he obviously wasn't worth Tristan's time.
Asaki had absently hoped that the continued use of his complicated language would trip the other man up and prove that he had merely memorized a few key phrases to repeat. That wasn't happening. He must have studied Japanese inside and out, and had he been in any other mood, the Asian singer might have been impressed. Might have.
...Tacky? An eyebrow lifting again, he glared through dangerously narrow eyes, then briefly glanced down at his clothing. Sure, it wasn't anything impressive. He hadn't had a concert tonight or been out anywhere flashy, so his attire reflected that. It had been thrown together rather
carelessly as he hadn't expected, nor desired, to run into anyone he wished to impress.
Calmly he watched the man place the cigarette between his lips and light it, a gesture done so meticulously, gracefully, that it seemed like a small choreographed dance in itself. It almost reflected the man's attitude and, somehow, it only managed to irritate him further.
Then there was that curious sentence... What was with this guy?
Shortly after he took a seat at one of the tables... there weren't all that many... Asaki half sighed, half growled, as he pushed himself smoothly into a standing position. Crossing over to his table within a few strides, he pressed his palms to the surface from the opposite side and glared yet again. This fedora wearing man wasn't going to just leave it at that.
"Oi... and just what is that supposed to imply? You insult my choice of clothes then talk of services? If you're some kind of prostitute, that's the worst line I've ever heard."
Tristan simply laughed at him, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette, then blowing out a stream of smoke at his face. Yes, he was doing this to irritate him. And yes, he was completely being a bastard about it.
Did he care? Hell no.
"Me, a prostitute?" Tristan laughed in amusement. He leaned back in his chair, draping his arm around the back of it. "No, moron. I'm a designer."
Who did this man think he was, anyway? Talking to him like that. Where did he get off?
"Did you just come over here to harass me, or is there some reason for you to be standing here talking to me when I obviously dismissed you," Tristan snapped irritably. "If the former is the case, get out of my sight, little boy. I'm going to be conducting business and you would simply be in the way."
It was only natural to scrunch up his face slightly as he was hit directly with the thick cloud of smoke. Nevertheless, he kept his reaction as subtle as possible, for he was sure that the other was now trying to provoke. He refused to submit even though he was absolutely infuriated by this stuck up, foreign pretty boy.
Staying right where he was, leaning forward over the small table, Asaki kept his expression harsh, but otherwise perfectly neutral. This was especially hard to maintain considering the next few words that left the man's mouth.
...is there some reason for you to be standing here talking to me when I obviously dismissed you....little boy.
There were several things wrong there. One being that the man had a possibility of being younger than him, if not the very same age, but he certainly wasn't older. That's fine... he knew what he was doing.
And yet still...
It was difficult enough to suppress a shiver of rage, let alone the urge to simply reach across those few inches that separated them. Clearing his throat, he slowly straightened and tossed aside some annoying strands of blue-blonde with a gentle movement of his head.
"Hm. So desu ka..." Asaki hated to let the man think he'd won, but he also knew he couldn't stay here another minute. Ignoring him was out of the question. "Well, unlike some ignorant people, I wouldn't want to be an intrusion. You go ahead and conduct your "business"... Suddenly this place has lost all of it's charm." About to move away, he hesitated a moment to give one of his most misleading smiles. Leaning closer, he lowered his tone.
"Prostitute or designer... Either way I wouldn't want you." That said, before heading to the door, Asaki used two of his fingers to flick at the brim of that fedora, not enough to knock it off, just to tip it askew.
"Sumimasen, akachan (infant/baby)."
"Arigatou," Tristan sang out after him. "I needed it out of my eyes, anyway!"
It was far too easy to torment him, Tristan decided as a man and a woman entered the door right when the other man was about to leave. He recognized one of them; he had done business with him before. Noting the lack of an ashtray on the table, Tristan simply ground his cigarette on the tabletop and tossed the butt of it behind him. He stood and removed his hat, bowing to the two as they entered.
"Kurowa-san," Tristan announced, smiling. "A pleasure, as always."
"Norcross-san," the man he had addressed as Kurowa replied, offering his hand to the other man to shake it. Tristan always liked how his last name sounded when pronounced by the Japanese. Strange, yes, but somehow it sounded right that way. "This is Magira Yuka-san. I mentioned her to you over the telephone."
Tristan caught her hand in his and kissed the back of it, smiling. "A pleasure."
She smiled. "You English are always so formal..."
He laughed at that. "Now, I understand you're the reason I'm here this time, Magira-san?"
"Hai." Yuka took a seat then, the gentlemen following suit. "It's about a young man I happen to manage..."
It wasn't long before Asaki reached his apartment. Even if it was somewhat of a distance from the small bar he'd always gladly gone out of his way for, he knew which ways to travel... mostly secluded ways that kept him as far away from the busy streets of Tokyo, and potential crazed fans, as possible. Social interaction, as some knew better than others, was hardly his forte.
Pulling the key from the door, he slammed it behind him loudly and growled with the lingering frustration that had managed to follow him here. He wasn't quite drunk, so to speak, but perhaps it was the level of intoxication he was at that helped him to be so angered by this random encounter. He'd been in fights before... far worse ones, for far more significant reasons... Nevertheless, that arrogant, intrusive tourist was still on his mind, tormenting him even now. He still heard those last words he'd gotten in. Of course the man would make sure he got the last word in. He seemed the type.
"...Bastard." Asaki murmured, as if to conclude the meeting, that instant hatred he'd felt.
Still steaming, the keys slipped from his fingers to the long counter that separated the kitchen from the living room with a somewhat loud 'clang'. He then stepped around the separation to start brewing some much needed tea. The apartment was surprisingly spacious and well furnished. Asaki might not be a full fledged super star, but he wasn't too hard up on money either. He knew how to save and spend well, unlike some of the other performers he had seen come and go. Down a small hallway was where the individual doors that led to the bathroom and bedroom could be found. However, he living room was, by far, the largest and could easily allow a small, black piano to occupy it's space without appearing crowded. The back wall of this area was covered with a large window that looked out over the city from a considerable height. There was a definite Japanese atmosphere to the apartment, even while everything was modern, and, with the exception of the Fedora, there wasn't a place Asaki felt more comfortable in.
As he waited for the water to come to a boil, Asaki went straight for the piano. With all this pent up frustration and energy, he might as well put it to work on another song attempt... After all, there were only a few days left before his next concert.