Studio

Wasn't sure I'd get this finished before going out of town until the new year, but here it is! Chapter 2 of "Studio!"

Title: Studio
Author: T.S. Jackal-Bright
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter [citrusy, with no pay-off]
Warnings: AU [reincarnation being the main cliché], Angst, Yaoi, Lime/Lemon
Pairings: SasuNaruSasu, KakaIruKaka, one-sided ItaNaru, one-sided GaaNaru, implied past ItaTsu, implied past YondaimeTsu, possibly [probably] others
Summary: No matter how much things change, so much remains the same.

A/N: Sorry, just wanted to mention two new names real quick and, to be kind and helpful, here’s the name list again:

*new* Michael Halliday - Yondaime
*new* Trixie/Trix Brown - Sakura
Dympna/Dee Redd - Naruto
Colin Halliday - Iruka
Uriel/Uri Halliday [nee - Uriel Beckmann] - Kakashi
Yoshitomo Ufan - Sasuke
Takashi Ufan - Itachi
Sara Mad Walker - Tsunade


I don’t own Naruto. Or Microsoft. Or Djarum. Or any other corporation/product named by name.

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Chapter Two
“Gathering”

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“I had another one of those dreams last night,” Dee commented, conversationally. “A weird one again.”

Sara snorted, her eyes staying on the open ledger before her. An old-fashioned girl, Dee could not persuade her to switch to QuickBooks to manage Punk’s accounts. He also couldn’t convince her to listen too closely to a word he said at that moment, but that had nothing to do with her techno-phobia.

“Don’t you want to hear it?” he tried again. “Dreams are supposed to mean stuff, you know. Especially to your people, you old hag!”

Setting down her pencil, Sara carefully removed her reading glasses and glared. If she didn’t love this child...

“One,” she began, ticking her points off on her fingers, ”dreams are just the nastiness your brain regurgitates when it doesn’t know to leave well enough alone. Two, I should beat some respect into you for a heritage we both share, what with that ‘your people’ remark. And three, show some respect for your elders and betters for once, you little shit.”

Dee only laughed, waving a hand as if to dispel her rant-funk.

“You know I only say that stuff to see what you’ll do,” he grinned, hopping down from his place on the desk and taking a pile of receipts with him. “As for respect, learn some first before you try share it.

“Besides,” he added, with only a hint of bitterness that Sara knew where to find, while picking up the mess he made, “I’m only a halfer and its not like Colin follows any family traditions. And he’s the only blood I know, you know?”

“Your father wasn’t very big on traditions either,” Sara answered, purposefully distracted. She didn’t want to talk about this, not now. Not ever, if she could manage it. Michael Halliday was a “sore subject,” as Takashi always politely put it, not to mention one for everyone in their whole, damn family-of-sorts. For the country, even.

Thankfully, Dee let it go, giving Sara a few minutes of relative silence. He hummed tunelessly and rustled papers as loud as humanly possible, but without malicious intent. Dee, quite simply, lacked the ability to do anything without making some amount of noise; Colin said he couldn’t even sleep quietly, mumbling about this or that and holding perfect conversations while completely passed out.

Their father, Sara remembered without really wanting to, had the same habit when they were young. They would sneak out from the reservation at night, stupid teenagers looking to raise some hell, end up too drunk or too stoned or too whatever to return home, and they’d sleep it off where ever they could find sanctuary. Well, Michael would sleep and Sara would doze, unable to block out whatever nonsense he muttered and mumbled on any particular night.

Not like their families noticed or cared, either. The Mad Walkers were down to
Grandmother, Sara’s little brother, and herself by the time she turned five, a number that dwindled down to one before she even came of age. Michael, on the other hand, had been raised by his mother’s cousin and her family. He changed his name when they finally left for good and although Sara couldn’t bring herself to, since she promised baby brother she would keep it before he passed, she Anglicized it and moved on.

Angry at herself for remember dead-and-gone days, Sara shoved herself away from her desk and stood. Bopping Dee on the head as she passed, Sara dug around the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet, surfacing with a bottle and a glass. Dee scowled but didn’t say anything, placing the receipts on the desk again and finding a new perch on the recently deserted cabinet. The empty chair beside it seemed to grumble at being blatantly ignored, but it would get over it, eventually.

“Seriously, though, you want to hear my dream?” Dee asked. Sara didn’t, not particularly.

Without waiting for an answer, he launched into his story. Sara only caught snatches, choosing to focus on her full glass and unbalanced books. A giant snake here, a blood-red moon there, some rambling narrative about how Dee was looking for something and a bunch of other Dees that looked like him, but not, kept trying to stop him, and so on and so forth. It seemed like standard dream-gibberish to Sara, except for the abrupt and crudely-worded ending.

“Holy fuck and a half! Why didn’t you tell me it was six o’clock already?!”

Hardly wanting or waiting for a reply, Dee grabbed his satchel from its place under her feet (how it got there she couldn’t recall,) planted a wet lick on her cheek (his disgusting preference over the normal kiss good-bye, which she promptly wiped off with a tissue,) and shouted something about Colin murdering him for being late and liquorless. Unfazed, Sara let the storm before murmuring to herself a comment only for her benefit.

“Because it wasn’t my job to, you brat.”

* * * * *

Pushing open the door to the gallery, Yoshitomo found himself almost taken out by a bleached-blonde mess. Scowling in response to the young man’s apologies and thanks for holding the door, he noted the boy’s attractiveness and proceeded to forget him entirely.

The work that filled the gallery should have shocked him, but it didn’t, sadly. Large, vinyl letters stuck to the wall proclaimed everything as “Creature Feature: The Works of Dympna Redd.” The twenty-some-odd canvases, each surrounded by thick, ridiculously over-gilded frames, ranged in size from six inches by six inches to seven feet by twelve feet. Each portrayed a specimen bottle, the whole collection housing a myriad of humorous and often-times horrific creatures. Photorealistic and well-executed, Yoshitomo begrudgingly admitted, they repelled him as much as they intrigued him.

Not what he expected, exactly, but still a far cry from fine art.

Not even bothering to find the artist’s statement, Yoshitomo felt he knew enough already. He knew this boy (he had conveniently forgotten how close they were in age) and himself would clash something fierce. He didn’t even need to go to the party, to meet Dympna face to face, to know this. And yet he still planned on going.

Odd.

The studio space. Worth putting up with quite a bit, Yoshitomo felt hard-pressed to let such a find go. He even found himself stretching his two-inch tolerance for other human beings for this space.

All for this studio.

Of course.

Making another circuit of the floor, Yoshitomo surprised himself again. Edgy after the long day and annoyed that he still intended to drop in on a social function, he desperately wanted some sort of confrontation with the MIA Miss Sara Mad Walker. Bitching someone out always soothed his nerves so nicely. The woman had to be here somewhere since she managed her own place alone, last he heard. A controlling, tight-fisted, art tyrant, the rumors and his brother’s recollections said. A cranky, old bitch who didn’t know when to let go of the...

“May I help you?”

Yoshitomo jumped inside, surprised by the smoker-rough voice that cut through his inner mono-rant. Setting his face to Disaffected, he turned to find exactly who he wanted to see, standing right behind him. Although older and shorter than he remembered, naturally, she looked virtually the same as she did nearly twenty years ago. He steeled himself against pleasant, hazy-dream memories, reminding himself of realities. Sara Mad Walker was no friend of the Ufans, not anymore.

“I was simply curious,” he dead-panned. “I had heard the standards of Lucky Punk dropped considerably this past season and I wanted to see for myself.”

He caught a flash of pure anger in her eyes but little changed in her smile.

“As you can see, I continue to show quality work; unfortunately, it seems to draw a tasteless crowd this evening.”

Yoshitomo graciously conceded the point.

“Perhaps, but one can hardly argue the distance between the talent of this Dympna Redd and the talent of, say, Ufan Takashi.”

At this comment the woman had the audacity to laugh, a round sound full of mirth and only barely edged with bitterness.

“Its hard to argue an opinion such as that! Takashi has yet to aquire an equal, even though he’s given everyone plenty of chances with his self-imposed exile. Not even his little brother can catch up to him. Or to Dympna, if you ask me.”

“Oh?” Yoshitomo returned, less than pleased with the blatant insult. He would never admit it out loud, but he prided himself on his super-star status on the east side; how dare such a powerful dealer not know his face? How could she have forgotten him?

“No one that cold and alone could possibly speak to the masses, not for long. Takashi had his demons do the talking and his angst-loving audiences ate that shit up. Dee’s appeal for compassion and acceptance echoes that of his patrons, of the general populace. As for Yoshitomo Ufan, I’ve never felt more isolated and ignored in my life than when I stood in front of his work.”

“Perhaps that is his point,” Yoshitomo returned, desperate to regain some ground with this woman and angry that he even cared what she thought. “Perhaps his ability to cause such a reaction is such a strength that it out-strips this inane dribble.”

“Perhaps,” she dimpled coyly. “Or perhaps Yoshitomo’s just a broken, lonely little boy, still hiding under the stairs until the shouting stops. Maybe he needs to come out and shout back, for once.”

Stopped in mid-chew, thumbnail pinned between his teeth, Yoshitomo paled; when the hell did he start in on his nervous habit during the conversation? Dropping his hand to his side, Yoshitomo readied to fight, cornered and made rabid by his old fears. He stared at Sara, trying to steady himself in the sight of her face. She was just a woman, after all. Just one woman. He could take her.

At least he could of, until her sure-fire grin melted into a mess of seriousness and regret.

“Takashi did a poor job in raising his brother; I’m ashamed of the part I played in that. I only hope he can transcend our sins, for his sake. Yoshitomo was such a beautiful child.”

At that, Yoshitomo fled. Slowly, with his head held obstinantly high and at a pace that, to all appearances, looked like an easy, unaffected stride, but he knew he couldn’t fool her.

Not for a moment.

* * * * *

Colin’s boys were late.

Drastically late.

Terribly, horribly, oh-my-god-what-the-hell-were-they-thinking late.

They were also lucky. Colin handled himself well in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds and managed to cook, clean, and prepare everything necessary for the evening. Uri, of course, would hardly call planning and putting on a cocktail party for thirty-plus “insurmountable,” but Colin still loved him.

Everything finally found its place for the party, nearly ten hours after Colin began, and he could breathe. Somewhat. He had hoped Uri and Dee would have gotten here when they promised, thus cutting the time down significantly, but Colin guessed that was too much to ask for. Trying to fight off his fury, Colin popped open a beer and took a few slow slugs. It didn’t cool his temper but it did give him a chance to formulate a plan. He knew, first and foremost, he should try to find his missing men. Searching and at last discovering the cordless in the fridge, probably thanks to Dee’s spaciness and voracious appetite combined, Colin rang the store.

“Halliday Market, how may I help you?” the syrup-sweet voice chirped on the other end of the line.

“Hey Trix, its Colin. Can I speak to Dee?”

“He cut out early, said he had to help Miss Mad Walker with something.”

“He did?” Colin asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He said he’d stay at the store all day. Promised, actually, since I wouldn’t be in and it was only you, him, and the new kid on the schedule.”

“Sorry hon, its my fault. I let him go when he insisted it was really important. I figured parole for good behavior was under the jurisdiction of the store manager, and since that’s me...”

Colin ground his teeth, noting the grin in Trixie Brown’s voice. He could picture it too, all teeth in a predatory way. Sass and gin that caught Dee’s eye when she first started a few years back; she saved that for the others at first, lavishing Colin with “sirs” and other social niceties, but Trix grew out of that real fast. She was a smart girl, too. Really smart. As in only a semester short of her doctorate in rocket science smart. Knowing this, Colin had a hard time figuring out why such an intelligent, young woman could do something as stupid as letting Dee run loose on such an important day. Remaining calm, he wrapped up the conversation.

“Thanks ever so much, Trix. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your bonus got lost in the mail; they had a cheeky monkey infestation at the post office. Heard it from the post-master myself. Sorry hon.”

“Whatever, Colin,” she laughed. Then, remembering something, she caught Colin before he hung up. “Oh yeah! Don’t try Dee’s cell. He forgot it at the store again. I’ll bring it tonight, promise.”

“Thanks again. See you tonight.”

The front door slammed shut just as Colin thumbed the “Talk” button. Peering out from the kitchen, Colin sighed. At least Uri made it home. Stepping out into the entryway, Colin greeted him with a glare; Uri tried to counter it, swooping in for a kiss, but found himself blocked at the last moment.

“Don’t, honey. I’m getting a cold.”

“Bullshit. The only chilly thing you’ve got is a cold shoulder and I hardly feel I deserve it. I have a legitimate reason for being late, although you’ll hardly believe it.”

“Really. You don’t say,” Colin said, unconvinced. He moved into the living room, conveniently placing both space and large pieces of furniture between them. “Try me. Please.”

“Guess who wasted my entire afternoon searching for the perfect single studio space, turning down everything and leaving flaming wreckage in our wake, only to end up most interested in shacking up with our little Dee, so to speak?”

“I’ll bite. Who?”

“Yoshitomo Ufan,” Uri grinned, virtually squirming with joy at the new rumor he had the pleasure to start. Uri was right. Colin didn’t believe him.

“Takashi’s little brother? Jesus, that’s got to be one messed-up young man; I don’t think he should hang around Dee. It wouldn’t be healthy.”

“Relax, Mother. Dee is twenty-two, remember. Besides, maybe he’s not all that bad; you’ve never met him, right? How can you judge a man’s character from a few bare-bone profiles in a handful of magazines?”

“Well,” Colin gestured aimlessly, trying to form his sentence while keeping a fair distance between him and his steady-approaching husband, “you met him. What do you think?”

“What I think doesn’t matter really, but in all honesty?”

“In all honesty.”

“Uber-prick. The most gorgeous waste of flesh and bone I’ve ever met. He would destroy Dee the instant he met him. Which he might, since I invited him here tonight!”

Squawking, Colin found himself pinned to the rug and barely able to fight off the neck-love Uri planted on him immediately. Struggling to get away, to stop Uri, and to form coherent sentences (since it had been a while since they were last intimate,) Colin grabbed a handful of pale hair and pulled, effectively tearing the other away from him for at least a moment.

“I can’t believe you invited Yoshitomo Ufan to the party! Are you stupid?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Uri mumbled against Colin’s cheek, regaining some lost distance. “He wanted to meet Dee. To decide on renting the studio or not.”

“But Sara’s going to be here tonig-mmph!”

Colin lost his grip on Uri and the situation, his words swallowed by greedy man-lips that pressed and pursed and pulled against his own. Still irked at him, Colin allowed the kiss to continue, enjoying the taste and tongue of his man while he plotted for retaliation; they would have to breathe some time.

And then the hands started.

Strong and insistent, Uri’s long fingers wasted no time finding flesh under Colin’s shirt. Needing his attention, needing his touch, they traipsed across warm skin and fuzz and oh geez, that was his nipple, too impatient to linger anywhere long. Colin groaned, sliding his own hands under Uri’s waistband, cupping his rear and urging the slow thrusts he had hardly noticed had begun to get faster, please. Uri’s breath, rough and hot and all ragged around the edges, filled his ear as Uri focused on the point where Colin’s ear met jaw.

Mmm, his favorite spot.

Shit... What the hell was he going to say now? It was really important...

Before Colin had a chance to ask for more, dammit, the front door opened and closed again, followed by a pained squeak. Whipping his hands out of Uri’s pants, Colin shoved at him, trying to get him to stop; Uri wasn’t having any of it, even when Dee began to rant, raging about coming home to see nasty-nast on the rug, no place in the apartment will ever be clean to him again, something about his virgin eyes, and so on and so for.

With a mighty roll, Colin fought his way to the top and free of Uri’s dastardly grip. Straightening himself, Colin caught his breath and tried to say hello to his brother, but the young man had escaped to the kitchen, still rambling and at too loud a volume to hear anything else.

Uri laughed, hopped up, and strode into the kitchen before Colin could completely collect himself. He heard him calming Dee down before eagerly sharing the news about the potential new party guest. This set Dee off once more and all Colin could do was reach for his beer, which had miraculously made it to a safe place before the glomp-attack. Draining it in one go, Colin swallowed and groaned, this time with less pleasure or excitement.

It was going to be one hell of an evening.

* * * * *

“Stop staring at the door.”

Dee blinked, turning to see that Sara, with an extra drink in hand, had joined him on the balcony. A straight shot through the apartment, Dee could see everyone who came and went from where he stood. Pretending that he couldn’t, Dee took a deep drag from his kretek and turned to stare out over the city. Sara poked him in the arm, sloshing a bit of the gin and tonic on his skin; the chill liquid made him shiver despite the warm evening. Grabbing the drink, Dee purposefully exhaled in her face. She only breathed deep and grinned big.

“I wasn’t doing anything of the sort,” he snarked, taking a sip.

“Of course you were, brat. And don’t try any of that shit on me again. I was smoking Djarums before your brother even thought about twinkling in your papa’s eye.”

“You just come out here to harass me or what, hag?” Dee grumbled, not in the mood. After hearing about the whole Yoshitomo business, minus all the family past-nast Colin refused to elaborate on, Dee couldn’t keep his head above his neck all night. He knew this guy’s reputation, read his reviews, saw his work, and Dee couldn’t lie. Yoshitomo Ufan scared the shit out of him. He couldn’t decided what he wanted more: for the guy to show up or not.

“Well, I came out here mostly because your hand looked lonely without a drink to hold, so you could at least be somewhat grateful.”

Dee snorted and raised his glass in a mock-toast. Sara returned the gesture and took a sip of her own before continuing to speak.

“I also wanted to talk to you about Yoshitomo.”

At this Dee sighed. Every time he ran into Uri or Colin tonight, that was all they wanted to talk about. Gossip and goading, warnings and worries... Just because Dee couldn’t stop thinking about a guy he never met didn’t mean he wanted to talk about him all night.

“Let me guess,” he drawled, trying to screw in some light-hearted good-cheer. “You came out here to tell me to watch my step, to keep my distance, to stay away, right? Hell, none of this matters if the guy never shows, you know.”

“Actually,” she smiled, one of those flat, dismal things Dee hated so much, “I wanted to tell you that if he comes around, you work your ass off to keep him around. That kid, we hurt him bad, both Takashi and I, although what Takashi did to him after we split I don’t know nor care to know.

“He came into the gallery tonight, all empty pomp and circumstance and pain. I’ve never seen a man so desperate for someone or something in my life, and I’ve known my share of empty men. Besides,” she added with a genuine grin, “he said some not-so-nice things about your work. Real fighting words. I think you should kick his ass.”

“Can’t kick an absent ass, dumb hag.”

“But you can certainly kick a present one,” she said, pointing one blood-red nail-tipped finger at the door. Dee whipped around and almost lost his drink, his cigarette, and his lunch, all in one go.

Oh shit.

Yoshitomo Ufan had arrived.

-tbc-

A/N 2: Sob! I hate having to cut the chapter off before I’m ready, but I’ll be unable to update until the new year so I wanted to leave ya’ll with something. And its seriously under-edited, might I add... Ah well, hope ya’ll enjoy it, regardless.

Also, thanks to everyone who’s taken the time to review! Much love for ya'll, even the haters. ^_^