Disclaimer: I don’t own Digimon. Shocked? You should be.
I was feeling done in,
I’d only ever kissed before.
I thought there’s no use getting,
Into heavy petting.
It only leads to trouble,
Things were quickly getting out of hand.
“Note-to-self,” Ken thought gravely, “Never, ever, ever confide in Inoue Miyako again.” He glanced down at the outfit lying on the bed in front of him before tacking on yet another, “Ever,” just for good measure.
“Are you dressed yet?”
Ken frowned at the impatience in Miyako’s voice, “No,” he answered tersely, “I’m not dressed yet. How could I possibly be dressed already?” After all, she had all but bodily shoved him into the bedroom not seconds earlier.
“Well hurry up,” she complained, “Daisuke’ll be home any second.” There was a short pause, just long enough for Ken to hope that she might have actually left, before she spoke again, “Do you need help?”
Ken kicked a house slipper at the closed door, but it landed with such a dull thud that he doubted she had even noticed. “No,” he spoke up before she took matters into her own hands and just walked in, “I think I can figure this out all on my lonesome,” he answered sarcastically, not that sarcasm worked with Miyako.
Not that sarcasm wasn’t the bane of his very existence.
“Alright,” she agreed, chuckling, “Just remember: pantyhose first.”
Ken sighed. He had always been a reasonable child, a calm, thoughtful child and, until earlier this week, he had thought that he had grown into a calm, thoughtful, reasonable man.
But reason, it seemed, had fled from what was quickly becoming the tattered shreds of the life he had worked so hard to develop for himself.
Had you spoken to him but one week earlier, Ken may very well have described his life as perfect.
He had a job he enjoyed, a home and, dare he say it, a man he loved more than life itself.
A man he loved more than reason, more than pride, honor, more than dignity.
And it was a good thing too, because before this day had ended, they would all be gone.
Long, long gone, he thought with a sigh.
Daisuke had better damned well love him forever.
Sarcasm had always been Ken’s greatest weakness. The peculiar form of mockery was his own, special forte. That was not to suggest, however, that it was in any way, shape or form under his control. Rather, the cut of Ken’s tongue often seemed to fly about on its own volition, taking no prisoners, uttering vicious words of cynicism unconcerned by whose ears or ego would soon find themselves thus assaulted.
I was feeling done in…
He had tried to stop himself, truly, he had.
Ken wanted only to protect Daisuke.
I’d only ever kissed befor-or-ore…
But of all the musicals, of all the songs, of all the parts…
You mean she? Uh-huh.
Ken was, after all, only a man--mere flesh and blood--ruled, as it were, by this strongest of all forces in his life.
I thought there’s no use getting, into heavy petting…
It only leads to trouble, and—
“And here I didn’t think you could teach screech owls to sing,” Ken cursed the monotonic drawl before it had even finished exiting his mouth. He could not help noticing Daisuke’s obvious shock at being thus discovered, quickly followed embarrassment, then hurt, before ending in stark indignation.
“I’ll have you know that that happens to be a very high part!” Hands on hips, feet shoulder width apart, them was fightin’ words.
“Hn,” the derisive snort escaped before Ken had a chance to stop it, “Would you believe, I’ve seen it.”
“You…” It was all Daisuke seemed capable of grinding out, a shaky finger almost poking Ken in the nose, “Don’t even…”
And then, as quickly as it had arrived, the storm passed and Ken was once more with face to face with the happy-go-lucky Daisuke he had come to love. Or so he thought.
“You’d better watch it,” Daisuke teased, “Sarcasm weakens the mind.”
They were the last words Ken would hear from the red-headed man for more than a week.
It had taken three days for Ken to come to terms with the fact that he was being actively ignored. Honestly, he had been much more willing to accept that Daisuke had suffered some unexplained hearing loss, or perhaps it was his voice that had lost its power.
But no, Daisuke certainly heard Miyako fine, and Miyako, Ken.
So the truth lay elsewhere.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Ken frowned at Miyako. “Think about it,” he insisted, “Daisuke,” he emphasized the name as if it’s very utterance held every answer, “is not talking to me.”
Miyako hmmed, considering the question for the umpteenth time. “I guess I can see what you mean,” she finally conceded, albeit grudgingly and obviously only with the intent of getting to whatever Ken’s next point happened to be. He graced her with a thin smile before getting up to answer the shrill whistle of the teapot, leaving Miyako to shake her head at his back with ill-disguised exasperation, “But I still don’t see what the problem is,” she muttered to his now empty chair.
“What?” Ken called from the kitchen. Miyako watched his precise little dance from her chair: to the stove to remove the whistling pot, to the cabinet for a pair of teacups, back to the stove as he remembered he needed to actually turn the heating element off, back to the cabinet where his hand hovered momentarily over the saucers before deciding to forgo the formality. After all, it was only Miyako.
She sighed, “Nevermind,” reaching for the cup he now held in her direction.
Miyako sniffed at the contents of the teacup before setting it on the table and sliding it just out of reach, “So.” She sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, and watched as Ken sipped at the steaming concoction. “I think you embarrassed him.”
Ken paused, teacup still held just at his lips, “And…” he questioned, very sure he did not want her answer.
“And,” Miyako wrinkled her nose as Ken took yet another sip of his tea, “What goes around comes around.”
Ken considered the age-old phrase for a long moment before pressing for more details, “What, exactly, are you trying to say?” Something about the way the edges of Miyako’s mouth curved upward ever so slightly made him feel decidedly ill at ease.
“Merely that Daisuke, like most humans, is petty and vindictive,” she spoke heavily, her tone belied by her sadistic smirk, “And as such, would like to seen done unto you what was done unto him.”
“That’s not the way that saying goes,” Ken informed.
Miyako gave a short laugh at his naivety, “It is in the real world.”
And so it had come to this…
Ken fingered the loose pile of netting lying on his bed. Would it be so bad if he just ignored this little tiff? Hm? It was a tried and true solution and its not as if the results had been that terrible the last time.
Digimon Kaiser, indeed.
He allowed himself another sigh as he shimmied out of his underwear. People act like being an evil dictator makes you a bad person. But they’re not necessarily one in the same.
Ken flinched at the scratchy feeling of fishnet hose on his otherwise nylon–naive legs.
But nylons were nothing compared to what lay in wait on his bed.
Where had that digivice gotten to?
Off came the white undershirt, and with it, his last bit of dignity. Ken reached for the stiff black bodice.
Love without sacrifice…
He sighed as he adjusted the costume as best he could to his entirely too linear form, pulling the lacing tight.
Ken studied himself in the dresser mirror.
And to think, they say I’m the sadist.
“Done yet?” Miyako was growing impatient.
“I think—“ The door flew open before he could finish his thought.
“I know—“ Ken began, only to be interrupted again.
“Your hair is all wrong.”
Miyako frowned, swooping in behind him, “Your hair.” She bodily turned him so that they could both watch her actions in the bedroom’s mirror, “It won’t work, unless we do something about that hair.”
“Oh no you’re not,” Ken did his best to squirm out of reach but Miyako’s grip was much too strong, “You aren’t touching my hair. Nobody touches my hair, except me.”
“I can tell,” she muttered, rolling her eyes before speaking up, “Look, do you want this to work or not?”
Ken sighed, gazing wistfully at the clothes he had been wearing only 15 minutes earlier, “I guess…”
“Good!” Miyako seemed to be enjoying her newfound power, “Sit down.” Ken did as he was told.
“Is Daisuke home yet?” he whimpered as she whipped out a curling iron and began looking about for an outlet.
“Um, yeah,” she was distracted by her search, “I told him you were at the library.” She pulled Ken’s favorite electric air-freshener from its spot with an, “Ah-ha!” and plugged in the curling iron, clicking it on to warm.
Love, love, love…
“What’s he doing?”
She shrugged, “Daisuke stuff.”
“Did he ask why you were here?”
Ken frowned at the short answer, “Why not?”
“Why?” Miyako licked a finger and touched the warming iron, letting out a frustrated, “Hmm,” when it failed to sizzle, “I need to get a new curling iron.”
“Why, why?” Ken queried in return, cringing as Miyako began the process of curling and teasing his hair despite the fact that the iron had yet to adequately warm, “Don’t you think it’s strange that he doesn’t wonder why you’re running around our apartment?”
She only shrugged, “Daisuke trusts me. After all, we’re friends.”
Hate, hate, hate…
Daisuke had damned well better love him forever.
“Hmm?” Daisuke glanced up from his work at the first heavy beat. He knew Miyako and Ken were up to something, the library having closed more than 45 minutes earlier, but no human experience heretofore imaginable could have possibly prepared him for the eyeful he received not seconds later.
It started simply enough, a delicately pale leg hung provocatively around the door jam, but quickly developed into something decidedly more unwholesome.
Ken hit his cue exactly, “How’d you do. I—“ he mouthed the words with an ease borne only of hours of practice, “—see you’ve met my… faithful… handyman.”
Daisuke bit his lip to keep from laughing.
“He’s a little brought down,
Because when you knocked,
He thought you were the candy-man.”
Ken scissor-walked his way across the room to where Daisuke now leaned against the edge of his desk, fingers curled over his mouth. The steps were just a bit too precise, too adept and Daisuke could not help sparing a few brain cells to wonder just when Ken had found the time necessary to rehearse his act.
“Don’t get strung out by the way I look,
Don’t judge a book by it’s co-uh-ver,
I’m not much of a man by the light of day,
But by night I’m one hell of a lov-ver.” He blew Daisuke a kiss.
“I'm just a sweet transvesti-i-te,
“Let me show you around,
Maybe play you a sound,
You look like you’re both pretty…groovy,
Or if you like something visual,
That’s not too abysmal,
We could take you in an old Steve Reeves movie.”
Ken allowed the other voices to speak their lines, the entire time performing a formidable impersonation of actually listening, and still managing to hit his cue with undue prowess.
“You got caught with a flat,
Well, how about that,
Well babies don’t you panic,
By the light of the night,
It’ll all seem alright,
I’ll get you a satanic mechanic.”
“I’m just a sweet transvestite,
From transsexual Transylvania!”
“Why don’t ‘cha stay for the night?”
“Or maybe a bite,” Ken snapped his teeth at Daisuke.
“I could show you my favorite…obsession.
I’ve been making a man, with blond hair and a tan,”
“And he’s good for reliving my,” Ken turned so that he could toss the last word over his shoulder, “tension.”
“I’m just a sweet transvestite,” Ken cocked his hands on his hips, shaking his rear,
”From trans-hmm-sexual Transylvania.”
“Heh! Heh!” he pumped his arms, “I’m just a sweet transvestite,
From transsexual Transylvania-ah-ah.”
Ken turned so that he faced Daisuke once more, begging him forward by curling his index finger.
“So come up to the lab,
And see what’s on the slab,”
Ken ran both hands down his front.
“I see you shiver with antici—“ he paused, “—pation.”
“But maybe the rain…isn’t really to blame,
So I’ll remove the cause,”
Another pause for a deep chuckle, “Hmm, hm, hm, hm, hm,”
“But not the symptom!”
A short brass fanfare and the room descended in to absolute silence, Ken watching Daisuke closely and Daisuke desperately fighting the urge to laugh. He failed when, barely two seconds later, the room was once more flooded with music, this time I Can Make You a Man, and, with an aggravated, “Crap!” a be-ringed hand reached around the corner of the door frame to slap the CD player off.
Ken quickly shoved the offending player out of the room, sliding the door shut in the process. He cleared his throat; leaning back against the wall in what he hoped was a casual stance. Casual as a man could be anyway, with his face redder than the drunkest drunk, nonchalantly crossed legs covered in fishnet stockings.
Daisuke allowed him a few long moments to stew before shaking his head slightly, covering his smile with a hand as he asked, “Ken? What do you think you’re doing?”
Ken ran a hand through his hair, desperately, and quite unsuccessfully trying to discretely smooth some of the snags, “Frank N. Furter?” he half stated, half questioned.
“Ahh…” Daisuke shook his head as if he did not quite understand. Ken took a few steps in his direction before pausing again.
“Rocky Horror Picture Show?” Ken tried to keep the fearful quake out of his voice. He failed. “You know what I’m talking about, Daisuke,” he half encouraged, if anything, his face burning even more red than before, “You were singing Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me just the other day. Remember?”
“Ken…” Daisuke began carefully, still shaking his head as if he were unsure as to what it was that Ken was talking about.
“Touch-a, touch-a, touch me, I want to be dir-ir-tee,” Ken sang the short line quickly, ducking his head in embarrassment.
“Oh!” The answer finally seemed to dawn on Daisuke, “That!”
“That?” Ken seemed dangerously close to panicking.
Daisuke, however, just shrugged, “I’ve never really seen the movie. In fact, I only really know that one song.” He offered Ken an apologetic smile, “But that was still…” he trailed off, motioning vaguely in the air.
“Great,” Ken concluded for himself when Daisuke failed to come to any further conclusion, “Just great.” He marched, backbone ramrod straight, to the door, “Now if you excuse me,” he begged forgiveness for his rudeness, “I have to go kill myself.” After a seconds more thought he tacked on, “And possibly Miyako.”
“Ken,” Daisuke sighed, biting his cheek to keep a straight face as he reached out to hug the taller man, “Don’t be that way. Really. It’s okay. Everything’s…okay.”
Ken could not deny his relief at hearing those words from Daisuke, but—
“Don’t worry,” Daisuke had long since come to know the ex-kaiser well enough to all but read his mind, “You’re secret is forever safe with me.” He coughed lightly as he inhaled a bit too much of Ken’s hairspray.
“Thanks Daisuke,” soft, so soft that Daisuke could barely hear him speak, “I’m sorry I made fun of your singing.”
Daisuke laughed, “I guess it was kind of funny,” he admitted, letting Ken go with a wink.
After all, Daisuke could afford to be magnanimous. He smiled at his still blushing lover.
There were a very few people, either in this world or any other, who could say that they had seen Ichijouji Ken in anything other than perfect form.
But Daisuke had…
And now, thanks to a quick heads-up from Miyako, he had the entire thing on tape.
Revenge was sweet.
Yes. Cheep, easily reproducible, digitally transferable tape.
Daisuke allowed himself a decidedly wicked grin.
I love you, Ken.