Work Text:
It hasn't been that long since he started working under Kaneki Ken's supervision. And from the moment he first found out about it, he watched, he tracked, he...forever reshaped one's fate with just one action, pulling on metaphorical threads with an invisible hand- and its not even close to the end. Kaneki`s long-term ignorance is a bliss. Although...The boy is not an idiot. And very very soon, this gray-eyed boy will begin to find clues to his own tragedy.
Don't fuss. Don't talk too much. Don't look at him for more than six seconds. Oh, he deigned to pay attention to Furuta, looking up from under the glittering glasses, what a condescension! But why are you, my dear commader, so lifeless, so dull, almost impersonal, devoid of interest? Furuta doesn't like it. No one dares to consider him an uninteresting, occasionally annoying element of the interior, and, in particular, this gloomy likeness of Arima Kisho. Consider him an object that helpfully brings "so-so" instant coffee (well, you can thank me for not throwing broken glass in your precious cup), and handles documentation extremely conscientiously.
Day after day Furuta walks behind him, like a shadow bent over from excessive thinness, collecting the memory of bygone days, feasting on snatches of memories. One could look at this "friendly grin" and it became clear: Furuta is just waiting for the moment to cling more painfully, to snatch a piece from such a living (after all, Kaneki is still alive, right?), and absolutely sweet flesh, to get enough of the bitterness of someone else's suffering.
On one of those mind-numbingly boring working days, he decides to act, and instead of the usual cramped eatery on the opposite side of the street, he drags the dear commander into a comfortably furnished, clean coffee shop a few blocks from the headquarters. Kaneki doesn't resist. Generally. He is, in general, indifferent. They sit at a round, small table in the corner, under the bookshelves, and... that's it! Furuta tilts his head to the side like a bird, eagerly reading the reactions on the previously expressionless face. There it is. There's a glimmer of recognition in Kaneki's eyes. And not just a faint glimmer, his heart unmistakably recognized her, the waitress behind the counter, whose gentle gaze from under half-lowered eyelashes was given only to him, and the delicate smoothness of her cheeks, barely touched with blush. Touka.
Pain. He can't be with her. And hardly ever will be able to. To speak, to approach. And this thought tears a half-dead heart with red-hot needles. He stands up. Doesn't finish his meals. Pays without looking, just not to look, just leave. Furuta follows him to the door, feigning sincere bewilderment and splashing his hands, how about coffee? It's rude, Commander, and the break isn't over yet. What about me? By the way, I was thirsty too! But as soon as Kaneki turns away, quickly closing the distance to the office, the leering grin returns to its place.
Stop being so dead. And thank you for your pain.
***
The trick, ugly in its baseness, was a perfect success, which could not but delight Furuta. At least it distracted him from the permanent pain in bones. He was already over his twenties, for him, this age did not mean the same life span as for an ordinary person. There would be more to come.
Through the evening streets of Tokyo, shrouded in bluish twilight, he was heading along a route that he had done many times before, after leaving the shinkansen. People were scurrying back and forth, rushing past, some of them- from work, some, on the contrary, heading to one of the entertainment establishments. He didn`t bother himself to remember the names of those,what a nuisance. His legs carried him on their own. Step. One more step. When he reached the alley he needed, Furuta stopped at a massive door, listening for a moment, catching any sounds from the room with his keen ears. Having heard nothing that Furuta would consider an obstacle (although, would he? Who would believe it?), he insinuated this fancy, carved padlock three times, indicating his presence, and, without waiting for an invitation, stepped inside, taking off his shoes and throwing his uniform coat on the hanger by the door, without even looking. The owner of the studio could have long ago forbidden him to appear like this, violating the measured silence of the workflow, barging in without asking. Uta could have coldly and venomously besieged an impudent, shameless youth...But he didn't do it. Furuta...occupied him. Despite his flighty personality, and his seemingly panicked, theatrical fear of being ignored, he was a very catchy subject. His intelligence, the relentless change of faces, and the speed of information processing were amazing. Well, well...What kind of performance is in store for his eyes this time?
Furuta, to begin with, walked around the masked man sitting at the easel, frowning slightly, trying to make out the sketch for another work that had originated in the master's head.
"Are you working, Uta-san?" And, as always, it won't look like any of the ones already created, even a little bit?
"You didn't come here to talk about my work, did you?"
Grinning slightly and resting his chin on his graphite-stained fingers, Uta spoke slowly. "There's something else, and it's obvious.'
Nimura's thin eyebrows crept up, his doll-like dark eyes with thick eyelashes widened slightly, and he held out his hands in a gesture of casual awkwardness, as if to say: "Yes, yes, okay, you've got me figured out, Uta-san, I must admit I'm amazed!", an after that he habitually placed himself on Utas lap. At the same time, the maskmaker's hand rested on his ribs, that were easily felt under the thin fabric of young mans white shirt, weightlessly stroking, outlining. He listened to Nimura, listening for the umpteenth time, while the latter was speaking quickly, loudly, accentuating individual syllables.
"You should have seen his face at that moment, Uta-san...This is, oh, priceless! A change of expression from this numb detachment to the pain, to the oppressive, chest-constricting longing for the lost love!
He stopped in mid-sentence when Uta's hands picked up his thin body and moved it to a chair in the living room of the workshop, holding it uncompromisingly tightly. The maskmaker kept his gaze fixed, almost devouring, on Furuta's slightly astonished face. He tried to say something else, to keep control of what was happening, but changed his mind. His lips, dry and covered with small, bleeding cracks, covered the lips of others, drawing them into a kiss. Opening his shirt, which was so superfluous now, Uta pressed down on his chest, touching his nipples, which were sensitive to any touch, going down to his chiseled waist, and lower, to his hips. Pulling off Furuta`s trousers, he bit his own lips with anticipation until his fang bled. Uta wanted to bite into that thin, pale neck with a vibrant vein, biting through the skin and reaching the larynx. Furuta was breathing fast, almost painfully. Uta was surprisingly gracious today, so he bothered to apply lubricant to the tight passage that was trembling under his fingers...He immediately pushed halfway, releasing a loud, lingering moan. Furuta wanted to scratch,to bite, get impossibly closer.
Having changed the position of his body, he pulled himself up and dug into Uta's shoulders until some visible purple marks appeared. He hissed, lifting himself up and thrusting harder, deeper. They both loved it that way.
As soon as everything was over, as soon as they washed in the shower, overcoming the pleasant fatigue in their limbs, Furuta lay down naked in an armchair and curled up compactly, tucking his legs. He fell asleep before Uta covered him with a blanket smelling of oriental aromatic essences, fell asleep, for once, without disturbing flinches and nightmares. Uta was going to make coffee, to go back to work and continue it until the dead of the night.The maskmaker looked at the curled up form for another second. He didn't love Furuta the way one loves another person completely, and he knew it. But at the thought of little bastard`s potentially imminent death, something in his chest tightened viciously and painfully, and that something could not be hidden behind the mask.