Pizza | Author:
Triana | Fandom:
w-inds./GacktJOB | Rating:
PG | Summary:
I'm too sleepy to summarize. Just read it. | Warnings:
Not beta'ed. Crack. Pure, undiluted, undistilled crack. See part 0 for explanation of sorts. | Disclaimer: The disclaimer is here
Keita danced around his apartment even though he wasn't playing any music. He was randomly tossing objects into the myriad of boxes he'd plopped down on top of his bed while he considered the things that had happened to him in the past couple of months: he'd applied for the position of Second Banana to The Magnum, passed all the interviews and tests that had been thrown at him (!), had met The Magnum (!!) and been officially told he'd won the position (!!!), and was now about to move into The Magnum's house. The Magnum's
house. He was about to move into
The Magnum's house. As in, live there. For always. With The Magnum!
And one hell of a house it was, too.
Wait. No. Not The Magnum. With Gackt. Gackt Camui. Who was The Magnum. Who had told Keita to just call him Gackt. But who was The Magnum. Gackt. The--aw, crap.
No dancing now, with or without music. Keita's thinking had gone on a rather twisted course and left him confused as anything. He flopped down onto the floor with a sigh, rolling over to lie on his stomach and stare at the television and never mind that it wasn't actually on. He still had to figure out exactly what he was going to do with the old thing. It had served him faithfully while he'd had it but his suite--not room, but suite!--at the Manor was already outfitted with a television and killer stereo system, DVD player, the works. He didn't really need this one anymore.
"Maybe Ryohei can take it, I know his telly's been acting wonky lately," he mused aloud. He nodded to himself and reached to grab the phone. He dialed his way through half of his friend's phone number when he stopped short. "Nope, can't call him. Can't see him yet either. He's going to ask, I know he will, he saw me bringing an armload of boxes in here, and what the hell am I supposed to say? 'Sorry, mate, I'm moving out of the building, yes, I got a better deal on a place on the east side, no, I'm sorry, I can't tell you where I'm moving to'? Please. He'd never quit bugging me about it, at work or wherever. And how am I supposed to tell him I'm moving into the Manor? Even if I could get him to believe me I couldn't tell him just why I'm moving there, or why I get to live there when Gackt's so freaking weird hardly anybody ever even sees
him, much less gets on the Manor grounds or inside the mansion. And I'm moving into that place. Oh, boy."
He turned over and stared at the ceiling without really seeing it. His mind was replaying the scene in the Manor not two days ago, where he'd been told that he'd be living there—that he pretty much had
to live there. Which made sense, really. He wouldn't be much good as a partner if he couldn't go out when The Magnum--Gackt--oh, whoever--did. He knew that, understood that. Gackt was right about that. Didn't make it easy, though, no joke. Gackt hadn't bothered to tell Keita what to say to the people in his life about this change, he'd left it entirely up to Keita. Again, it made sense. Keita knew his friends better than Gackt did, but still. "He could've offered some suggestions or something," Keita groused. "But no, all he said was to be at the Manor at two PM tomorrow for the first of my costume fittings."
Ah well. He shoved himself up and, clicking on the stereo, ran through the radio stations. Settling on one that seemed to be playing a block of nothing but SMAP songs, he returned to his packing and tried to stop thinking for just a few minutes about the major things that lay before him and instead ponder on easier and thus more pleasant subjects, like what to eat for dinner. Pizza, naturally. Deep dish. With pepperoni and mushrooms and extra cheese, lots of extra cheese. Enough extra cheese to choke a horse. He grinned and dove again for the phone.
A call to his favorite pizza place was made, his order easily and quickly taken--they knew him down there, quite nice really, they knew his usual order--and fifteen minutes later his doorbell was ringing. Happily bouncing toward the sound he opened the door with his money in hand, anticipating the delivery driver.
"Hi, wow, you got here quickly--whoa. You're, um. Not who I was expecting." Keita blushed faintly.
"I can see that," Gackt said, his tone betraying his amusement. "May I come in?"
"Oh! Sure, come on in," Keita said in a rush, stepping to the side so Gackt could enter. "You hungry? I just ordered a pizza."
"No, thank you. I've already eaten." Gackt carefully picked his way across Keita's cluttered floor, sitting down in the only chair in the apartment. He rested his hands on the arm rests and seemed to be about to say something else, but just then Keita's doorbell rang again though the door remained open.
"Hi, here, thanks, no, keep it," Keita said quickly, for this time it actually was the delivery driver. He turned around, box in hand, and used his hip to bump the door closed. "You sure you don't want any? It's pretty good. My favorite kind."
Keita shrugged and put the box on his tiny table. "A drink, then? Soda, juice, water?" He crossed the room to the refrigerator and extracted a half-liter bottle of Coke, holding it out like a sacrificial offering to a god, almost. Which was what Gackt was to him. Almost.
"If you insist," Gackt replied with a small smile.
Keita nearly fell over. He'd never seen Gackt smile before, ever. He composed himself quickly and sat down on the floor in front of his little table. He grabbed a slice of pizza from the box in front of him, cheese stringing everywhere, and took a gloppy bite. "So," he asked around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, "what brings you here?"