Chapter Text
God, the rain sucked, especially this time of year. Not cold enough to be snow but still fucking freezing. And he's ended up out in it.
How fucking exhausting...
Paresse flinched as someone said his name. S'too goddamn cold in this rain for anyone who knew who he was. He glanced up in annoyance, spotting Fusataro there, holding an umbrella and heading over.
Paresse had to fight a groan and weighed the exhaustion of dealing with the producer versus the exhaustion of walking away from him.
"What're you doing out in this shit without an umbrella, idiot?" The wrath master sounded annoyed.
…why?
Paresse gave him a suspicious expression, "It's not your problem."
Fusataro drew a breath and let it out as a frustrated huff, "Ain't we supposed to bros? Allies? Shut up." He lifted the umbrella to cover them both when he was close enough.
Paresse felt something strange roll across his sphere. He'd never really seen the wrath master up close like this before. The little creases in his face in his scowl, what his eyes looked like behind his shades, how the curls of his hair framed his cheekbones.
…what the fuck was happening in his head?
It's by some grace that Paresse is a robot and all of these thoughts and observations happen in a fraction of a second. He wished he'd walked away. Thinking too hard about this was so exhausting.
Fusataro looked him over, "Your wrappings and uniform are going to be ruined like this. You're lucky douji don't get sick. Let's get you somewhere warm. My studio is just around the corner–"
"I don't have the energy." Paresse turned his eyes away from the man.
"You'll have more energy if you're somewhere warm and dry. That or you stay out in the cold and wet and struggle to get any energy out in this shit. It's supposed to last through the night tonight. Why are you even out here? Did Mizho kick you out or something?"
"Or something." Paresse replied with no lack of snark, but kept his eyes well averted still. Fussa laughed at that. It's a subtle, breathy chuckle. Not the big, fake laugh he made around the others. It's not a show.
"Come on. It's not that far away, I promise."
Paresse isn't sure why he follows, but he does. Fusataro slows his steps to keep him under the umbrella. There weren't many people in the building. Fusataro uses his own key to let them in and shakes off the umbrella before shutting it.
Normally, Paresse would have just sat right inside the door and not budged for a few hours.
… but for some reason he waits for the other. He follows when he's motioned to follow. His eyes stay focused on the man as he's directed into the elevator. He doesn't try to make conversation. He doesn't pull out the eccentric, boisterous producer personality. As he leans against the side of the elevator, Paresse finds his eyes back on the man's face. As he pulls out a cigarette and puts it between his lips to light it.
Something around his sphere feels so fucking strange as his eyes linger there, on his lips. He can't figure out why it's happening. Smoke flows out of them with a slow exhale.
"Got something on my face?"
Paresse snaps his eyes away and mumbles an apology. Fusataro just laughs again. That same quiet sound that makes it feel like something was being pulled out of place in his chest.
"It's fine, I know I'm gorgeous." It's a bullshit statement, laced with the exaggerated confidence the producer pulled out regularly.
'If only you knew.' The thought rolled across Paresse's brain unbidden. Realization clicked in his brain as the elevator doors opened. He followed Fusataro a bit slower than before, staring at his back. Oh; he was attracted to the man. It wasn't a big realization, just a new fact to be filed amongst others. A little bit interesting, he hadn't really been attracted to many over his hundred or so years. A few, but not many.
As he was led into the studio, he was a little surprised. The actual recording part was off to one side, through another door. The rest appeared to be something more like a lounge of sorts. Tacky western 80s shit decorated most of it. What stood out most was a few records hung on one wall with a guitar in the middle of them.
"Here." A towel was tossed in his direction, "Put this down before you sit anywhere. And take off your shirt and those wraps at least. I don't keep spare pants here, but I might have a jacket you can use."
Paresse caught the towel with less than grace, but did as he was told, setting it over a plush chair before collapsing at last. It took a moment for him to work up the energy to start unbuttoning the front of his blazer, tossing it carelessly to the ground. The cotton of the bandages around his body were already loose from the rain. Still, he hesitated before starting on them. He hated this human form; he hated it more than anything. He loathed the idea of being exposed, especially with someone else nearby. Something was suddenly dropped beside him onto the arm of the chair.
"Here. Once you get undressed you can put this on. Didn't ever fit me right anyways, too big."
Paresse looked over at it. An oversized sweater, just a plain blue one, similar to the one Fusataro wore tied around his shoulders.
"I've got to work on a few things. Stay as long as you need."
He looked up and saw he was being smiled at before the man took another drag off his cigarette and headed into the recording room to do just what he said he was going to. It made him relax a little, knowing someone else wasn't going to be staring at him. Slowly, he unraveled the bandages from one arm, and then the other. His head, and his torso was last. He took it painfully slow, his directives complaining at every unnecessary movement, his joints protesting every twist.
He pulled the sweater over his head and settled into it, pulling the collar up to cover half his face. Probably the first shirt he'd had that actually covered his wrists, even parts of his hands... it smelled like cigarette smoke and some kind of hairspray... Ugh, of course it did. He kicked off his shoes–vaguely begrudging himself for not having taken them off at the door–before pulling his knees up and closing his eyes. He tried to make his brain empty. Usually this was easy. Just shutting off a switch.
… but the quick little clicks of a keyboard and the faint hum of music played in headphones drew his eyes slowly open. Over to the half open door of the recording studio. Little sounds that would be indiscernible to a human ear. Instead of going empty, his mind mulled over how easily he'd been pulled along by the producer after getting close to him. Part of him found it funny that Fusataro was flirting with the half of the sloth pair that wasn't interested in him. The other parts of him resigned to knowing that Fusataro wouldn't look twice at him if she was around.
His pants were still damp, but he set his forehead on his knees and sighed. He hoped it would fade quickly, this was exhausting. He couldn't waste energy just trailing after someone who'd shown him a small bit of kindness… who had really soft looking hair and had a soft, subtle chuckle and really, really pretty brown eyes.
God, he's so fucked.
Silence… the soft sound of thunder and rain outside, the sounds of keys typing every now and then, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights, his own breathing. Time passed and his mind finally emptied. The closest he could get to sleep, just a thoughtless, quiet limbo.
He didn't process the sounds stopping, or a chair squeaking softly, until the producer's voice rung out.
"Hey, you want something to drink?"