Without Redemption.

The inspiration for this came from the thought of all the conferences that Seto and Duke most likely go to, and all the different hotel rooms they've been in as a result. How that turned into a rather twisted piece about two twisted characters in a twisted relationship, I don't think I'll ever know.

Messy little piece, and really more of an experiment than anything else.

Without Redemption

It is always the same.

Red carpet. Blue carpet. White walls. Cream walls. Somewhere between lost and simple insanity. The colours change and the quality of the room service varies, but the plot is painfully predictable.

And yet, no less enjoyable.

Calloused hands run over slim shoulders, disregarding of the fabric that offers an illusionistic barrier. Calloused hands run over muscles tight from many hours at work that even the most skilful masseurs would not be able to relax.

Calloused hands. It is all that they physically have in common, the one sign that they are alike even though one is flamboyantly air and the other is reserved ice.

He doesn’t look into empty blue as he allows for his shirt to say its final farewell to his skin, and those blue in turn fail to search out an emerald that has faded closer to jaded. Boredom. Lust. Egotistical desire for someone who is on the same physical and intellectual level as oneself. So many reasonable explanations for something that has become staple.

Sometimes, you have to lose yourself in another to regain yourself.

He regains himself, here. Far from the world he submerges in, further still from rational thought. The arms that are gripping his hips are hardly gentle, yet his own fingers are unbuttoning the CEO’s shirt with violent impatience. Neither complain. It is rare that either of them can throw off their masks with such abandon, to shatter the situation with intelligent thought will damage them both.

He knows why Seto indulges in this, as he snakes one hand down into the other boy’s pants, smirking slightly at the groan that is forced out between clenched teeth. This Seto does not have to be restrained in any form, he can take exactly what he wants without having to deal with consequences. Seto can fuck, make love, be cold, be passionate. He can feel, but more importantly he can feel whatever he wants, and not what is expected of the usually impassive.

Art Deco. Shabby Chick. Modern. Classical. Far too expensive considering the trashy going-ons that always takes place, regardless of style or faux-period. Neither cares for the contemporary/modern/flowers in a vase art that are so proudly displayed on the walls. Neither cares for the array of fruit that is always so ‘deliciously’ placed on the tables.

He finds that the tables are more enticing when they are the ones displayed on it.

His own reasons are a reflection of Seto’s, but only because a reflection shows everything backwards and slightly twisted. This is the life people always say that Otogi Ryuuji lives, one filled with sex and abandon and lust and home-work and sleepless nights and a dream that is dying in the arms of disinterest and a fear of taking a chance on a young businessman and an insane father and painworryhurttearsloneliness -

Well, the first part applies, anyway. The bit about sex and lust and carnal desires. He supposes they think HE gets turned on by the thought of being their wet dreams, and then they get even more turned on by the thought that he might find them anything other than repulsive.

As those same calloused fingers determining work on his zipper, he allows a vicious smirk. This is the life they talk about behind disapproving hands that are altogether more supportive when jacking off to those same thoughts. This is the life they say would ruin their businesses if they were to take him under their wing, yet they would willingly take him to their beds.

It is a life that doesn’t include ANY of them. That is where his utter victory lays.

Here, he regains himself. In a life that was forced upon him even when he was not living it, and now sets him free when he does. There is no worry or pain or hurt over their damnable lies, anymore. They are, after all, no longer lies. The only emotion that remains is satisfaction for having beaten them at their own game.

Walls. Corridors. Beds. Tables. Carpets that bruise further than the flesh. There really is no preferred place for their moments of sinful, pleasurable passion. Revenge. Self-discovery. Escape. He supposes that any of those words would be a suitable substitute.

But it is a white/blue/green/pale peach wall he is forced against, tonight. Somehow, he finds it appropriate – the pair of them are all about walls and fighting against them, after all. This way simply involves sex.

Rather obviously, this way is also much more fun.

He groans, appropriately, then moans, appropriately. The near squeal that is then dragged from him has no hint of appropriateness to it at all, and signifies the falling of the last, figurative wall. The literal one will hopefully remain standing for at least tonight.

It ends up being fast. Rough. Seto is obviously in one of those moods tonight. He hardly cares, he is not trying to make a point to the CEO, but to some indefinable aspect of himself. There is no ending point to their act, no conclusion.

No redemption.

They are sated, but without completion. There is no defining chapter or epilogue, simply a plot that continues on and on twisting deeper and darker into itself, making less sense the further it develops.

It is all the more enjoyable because of it.

And yet, they are still no less damned.

Red carpet. Blue carpet. White walls. Cream walls. Somewhere between existing and learning to take your very first breath on your own. The colours change and the quality of the room service varies, but the ending is forever left unwritten.

It is always the same.

FIN

All thoughts and reviews welcome. This is actually my first attempt at writing Seto x Ryuuji. I really need to write more on this pair.

Cairnsy.