Author’s Note: I have an exam on the history of art from 28,000 BC to the 13th century AD tomorrow, though for some reason I thought writing a fic would be a better way to occupy my time than studying. And of course, not even one of the many fics that I owe people, but a completely random one that just entered my head. Oh well; enjoy.
Deadlines
There are several parts of Eiri’s deadlines that Shuichi strongly dislikes. First of all, there is the fact that the author is prone to many sleepless nights, the majority of which tend to be consecutive. That, in addition to the fact that the singer knows that Eiri tends to forget to eat (sometimes Shuichi wonders if Eiri thinks his amazing looks make him exempt from basic human needs), is enough for him to worry and fuss whenever the other decides to unlock his office door.
Second of all, Shuichi, because he’s usually on the recieving end of it, notices the novelist’s increased irritability, and while he can usually understand it and let it go, he knows that it affects the amount of time his lover spends with him. Deadlines mean that sex, though as frequent as ever, is a rushed affair, and that any unnecessary affection goes forgotten until after Eiri has turned in his manuscript.
The third and last issue that Shuichi has with deadlines is slightly more shallow. Despite the fact that Eiri will still remember to shower regularly, he develops a bad habit of not shaving. While the singer is generally too distracted to complain at the time, he finds it somewhat unpleasant to kiss someone with stubble-- particularly after not being used to it’s presence. The somewhat harsh feel of it against his skin will cause a creeping up his spine, and though he’ll remind himself to go and tell Eiri to shave later on, Shuichi’s entire thought process scrambles a few minutes later when the other delves a hand down his unzipped pants.
One day though, Shuichi happens to remember Eiri’s bothersome habit, and starts with small hints around the apartment. He leaves magazines open to razor advertisements in the living room and the kitchen, though after a week that plan falls through. Hardly discouraged, Shuichi moves on to the bathroom, leaving shaving cream and a fresh razor on the sink, only to result in finding both items stowed away in the mirror cabinet, unused.
When Eiri finds that his cigarettes are not cigarettes at all, but simply a box filled with shaving cream, he gets the idea (even though he thinks Shuichi has the worst tact in the world). He rolls his eyes and goes into the living room, where the brat is watching some music special with his knees drawn to his chin. Eiri tosses the cigarette box at him and Shuichi falls off the couch in trying to avoid getting hit by it as though he knows what’s inside. Glare meets glare as the shaving cream leaks out unnoticed onto the couch.
“Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted me to shave?”
At that, Shuichi just stood, somewhat sheepishly. “Well...”
Eiri raised a brow.
“I... don’t know actually.”
Eiri paused and considered him for a few moments. “... So what did you do with my cigarettes?”
“Uhm. I think I threw them out.”
Ignoring apologetic protests from Shuichi, Eiri put on his jacket and left to buy another pack of cigarettes-- without shaving. |