freezingrayne: (Suitengu)
[personal profile] freezingrayne
Title: The Clothes Make the Man
Fandom: Speed Grapher
Characters: Tsujido, Niihari, Makeba
Rating: Worksafe
Words: 400~
Teaser: Maybe the straps had been a little much, but it isn’t like he has anyone to impress. At least, not anyone who’ll care what he’s dressed like.

This show, it is eating my brain. And knowing this show, it is doing it while I am fully awake and tied naked to something metal and pointy.

For reference, Tsujido's clothes look like this

“Tsujido, what the fuck’s—. Whoa.”

Niihari blinks, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “What the shit’re you wearing, man?”

Tsujido looks down at himself, then back toward the mirror. Maybe the straps had been a little much, but it isn’t like he has anyone to impress. At least, not anyone who’ll care what he’s dressed like.

“Blue’s a good color for me, you think?” he asks Niihari’s reflection. The nosepiece makes his smile look thin and devious.

Niihari still looks like he’s taken a brick to the head. “Dude, that’s…that shit’s lacy.”

Tsujido shrugs. “Mr. Suitengu wears feathers.”

“Did—did the boss make you wear this?”

“He doesn’t make me do anything.”

Niihari looks like he’s trying to find a way to say something he thinks Tsujido won’t want to hear, and he smells worried.

“No, uh, no offense, man. But you look like a fuckin’ freak.”

Tsujido turns back to the mirror. He adjusts the nosepiece. “Perfect.”

“What d’you—.”

“I’ll be stared at wherever I go, Hari. No one will ever look at me without shock or sympathy again. What’s the point of trying to blend in?”

Niihari scratches his head. “Fuck, I dunno.” He smells embarrasses, with just a tinge of shit, I’m a jackass, aren’t I? “You’ve had it rough, kid.”

Tsujido looks at his reflection, at the clothes he’s wearing just because he can, the black nosepiece that’s beginning to fit his face better than his nose ever did. He can smell Makabe in the next room, almost picture the woman he’s thinking about. He can smell the businessmen in the floors below, reeking of greed and cruelty. There’s the slightest whiff of hopelessness—the owner’s daughter, dozens of floors above.

Drifting above all the rest is the scent he knows best, settling coppery and rich in the back of his throat. It’s fresh blood and carefully controlled rage, overlaid with the subtle spice of luxury tobacco. The Tennozu building smells more like Suitengu every day.

Tsujido adjusts his collar. “It’s all been worth it, in my opinion,” he says.

And now Niihari’s smelling really confused, but before he can do much more than splutter Makabe sticks his head round the door.

“Just got a call. Boss needs us.” If he notices Tsujido’s new wardrobe, he gives no sign.

Tsujido picks his phone up off the desk. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

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December 2011

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