[WIP] 'Shear Madness'

[colberry]

Title:  Shear Madness
Description:  In which Uruha is a beauty school dropout and Aoi is nonethewiser
Pairings:  Aoi/Uruha, Ruki/Reita
Genre:  Crack.  Oh, the crack.

Notes:  There's a million and two things I should be writing instead right now, but this nugget of joy just wouldn't leave my head.  I had to share its beginnings with all of you because I can't pass up a good pun (sheer and shear.  get it? XD)

Ruki was in the middle of turning the page of his magazine, pausing just so to admire those mauve pants on page three one last time, when the ever-living shit was knocked out of him. 

“Ruki!”, a desperate, barely contained glee-slathered hiss rushed into his left ear, “Ruki, Ruki there he is!”

Ruki would have loved to reply.  Maybe something poetically eloquent with a dash of metaphor – he was an artist after all – basically boiling down to:  I don’t fucking give a two-cent whore’s ass.  However, none of those Shakespearean-worthy allusions and metonymies would grace his lips since he currently had an Uruha slathered across his back, making his chest squeeze against the reception counter.

The overgrown tumor on his spine tightened its grip on his shoulders, “Christ, look at him.”

Ruki offered a venomous growl from below.  He could feel his coveted magazine creasing where his hands unconsciously tightened as he was bowled over.  Fuck.  Now he’ll never be able to read the serial number of those pants… 

Uruha was still whispering incoherent sweet-nothings in his ear and with the last breath still surviving in his lungs, the shorter man grumbled, “Uruha.  Move.”

The taller did just that, only to crouch beside his man-handled friend and poke his head discreetly above the desk.  Ignoring the way Ruki was gasping for air while he attempted to smooth out the ruined pages of his magazine, Uruha hummed with wonder, “That’s the sixth time he’s paused by our window this week.  It’s a sign.”

“Yeah, that we might have a stalker on our hands – again.”

Uruha rolled his eyes, “Miyavi was harmless.”

“He was psychotic.”

“He was passionate about hair dye – who can blame the guy?”

Ruki glared and opened his mouth to bite off another retort, but was distracted by the searing pain in his arm as Uruha suddenly seized it in a horrific death-grip.  “Oh my god, he’s coming in – fuck, Ruki!  I didn’t straighten my bangs today!” 

Through the haze of anguish – arm forever branded with a bruise of Uruha’s grip – Ruki peered at the elder’s reason of woe and silently agreed.  The humidity was doing nothing for the asymmetrical bang.  Ruki held back an unflattering grimace.  Not to mention the man’s roots were several miles long.  But Uruha didn’t need to know that – Ruki’s arm was in enough jeopardy.       

There was no time to appear less guilty – both hunched crookedly over the desk, eyes shiftily peering over the edge, Ruki’s face twisted in infuriated agony while Uruha’s entire expression was torn between mortified and perfectly gleeful – as the bells above the door jangled (a grating reminder of how Uruha hadn’t taken them down yet from Christmas…). 

Uruha’s perfectly groomed nails began to sink into Ruki’s flesh.  The object of the taller’s desire scanned the salon before hesitantly striding up to the desk, seeming a little cautious of the two men’s culpable position, and offered a gentle smile.  The pain in his arm began to retreat to the back of his mind, dulled for the moment, as Ruki couldn’t help but openly stare at the man’s choice of footwear. 

Orange Crocs.  With socks.   

Swallowing back the gag, Ruki forced his gaze upward.

And met a bedraggled poncho filled with deliberate moth holes. 

A haunting memory of Uruha’s penchant for baby blue loafers and capris smacked him in the face.

Ruki deemed the two a perfect match.

“Can we help you?”


TBC.

.:.:.:.

A/N:  8D