The Hollow: Chapter 2
Title: The Hollow
Author: Toryavi (one half of it)
Pairing: Tora/Miyavi (to be)
Rating: PG-13. (R in the future)
Warnings: Psychological disorders and institutions, a itty bit of blood.
Disclaimer: The people belong to themselves, the story and plot belongs to me.
Summary: Sometimes, everyone needs a little crazy in their life.
Note: So since my spring break is coming up, I'm going to be gone from the 7th to the 17th so I won't be able to update until after I get back, sorry!
[Prologue] [Chapter 1]
The week dragged by almost painfully slow. There were rules to memorize, people to meet, schedules to adhere to, forced interactions and movements that just irritated Tora. More than once, he found himself driving a fist into a wall or a foot into the nearest inanimate object. The nurses called it a phase, the other boys called it adjustment.
But once that week passed by, things began to settle and while they were still irritating, Tora found himself getting used to it. He quickly found that mornings and late nights were his favorite times in this place.
There was rarely anyone awake at the early hours of dawn and while there were more than a few during the later hours at night since the floor was chock full of insomniacs, they all tended to wander or gather in another’s room for company. Company Tora never cared for.
So he’d sit in the living room and smoke cigarettes and sometimes read some books or stare blankly at the TV and watch late night dramas. But usually, Tora just sat there and counted ceiling tiles. And when he ran out of ceiling tiles, he began to count the cracks. And as content as he was to do that, sometimes he’d have company and this type of company, he didn’t mind as much.
Miyavi was almost always awake almost all the time. According to Uruha, Miyavi could live off of two or three hours a night during his manic weeks and he’d end up bouncing around the halls all day and night, talking to himself or the walls or anyone that would listen. Tora found that with Miyavi, he didn’t have to talk or even listen. He could sit there and just count ceiling cracks or mindlessly stare at the TV and Miyavi would just chatter away about everything and nothing.
Once, he painted Tora’s nails. Another time, he started reciting some sort of Buddhist passage off the top of his head. Last night, Miyavi danced around the room and as ridiculous as he looked, Tora thought he had a touch of grace when he twirled and spun and was a blur of colors. There was something almost magical about Miyavi.
When the clock struck 11:00 PM, without question everyone filed into their rooms and crawled into bed and pretended to sleep for the first two hours. Sometimes Tora would wander out of his room after the final bed check and sometimes, Tora actually slept. Tonight, he slept. And tonight, he dreamt.
He was sitting on the couch, a guitar on his lap, laughing and playing and being normal. A normal afternoon of an impromptu practice session that never failed to make him smile and feel relaxed. Fingers pressed against steel strings, his calloused fingertips could barely feel the pressure of those strings biting into his skin anymore. Quietly, he plucked a few strings and hummed a tune.
And then there.
A shadow. In the corner of his vision.
Setting his guitar down, he ignores the calls of his friends and wanders into the dining room where he swears he saw the shadow pass through. Peeking in, Tora can’t help but let out a strangled scream at the sight.
Bloodied. Mangled. A body on the floor, crawling its way towards him, blood drenched hands reaching out towards him in a silent plea for help. And Tora can’t do anything but stare in silent horror as a familiar face tilts up to face him.
Shinji, Shinji, help me.
Tora tries to force his body to move, but he’s frozen and he can’t even pull away when bloodied hands grasp at his jean legs.
Shinji, help me, help me, I can’t…I can’t…
And then suddenly, his mother’s right next to him, screaming, crying, clutching at her son, shaking him as best as she can.
Why won’t you help him, Shinji? Why?! How can you just let him die?
Help me, help me.
Why won’t you do anything?! You’re killing him, you’ve killed him!
Shinji, please!
You’re a murderer, MURDERER
NII-CHAN
And Tora’s jerking awake, a strangled, choked scream caught in his throat, his pillow clutched to his chest. He realizes a moment too late that the surface is slightly damp and there’s still wetness clinging to the corner of his eyes and cheeks.
Flinging himself off the bed, it takes Tora another long moment to realize, he’s not home. It’s only a dream, only a dream. Clenching his eyes shut, he grabs at his hair and yanks hard, to make sure he’s awake. The only sounds Tora can hear in his room is his own short breathes and his heart beat pounding rapidly in his ears.
Slowly, second by second, he forces himself to relax and he opens his eyes again. Running his hand through his hair again, he smoothes it down, craving a cigarette so badly his hands are shaking.
Murderer
Hearing that whisper of a voice in his head, Tora turns around and punches the nearest thing he can, which thankfully, is his mattress. Standing abruptly, Tora slips on a baggy t-shirt over his draw-string pants and quietly pads out of his room and towards the living room area.
Almost immediately Tora feels some sort of comfort in the fact that he’s not wandering down his dining hall and therefore can’t see that bloodied, mangled body again. He doesn’t even want to think about it anymore. All he wants is a goddamn cigarette.
Turning the corner, he finally reaches the living room and isn’t surprised by the fact that the lights are on or that Miyavi’s already there.
What does surprise Tora though is the fact that Miyavi’s sitting on top of the table, legs crossed and eyes closed, with a guitar cradled in his lap. With his head bend, Miyavi’s fingers never stop moving, never stop plucking and Tora’s forcibly reminded of his dream again and he has to stop himself from turning around and just bolting out of the room.
Instead, he clenches his fist hard enough for the nails to bite into his skin and makes himself think rationally. Not a dream. No dead bodies gonna creep out at you.
Instead, he focuses on Miyavi and his guitar. It’s an acoustic that shines proudly in the dim light of the living room area. Tora can tell it’s an expensive brand from the small insignia on the top of the tuning pegs and from the way Miyavi’s playing and softly mouthing words to himself, Tora can tell he at least knows what he’s doing.
“Are you just going to stand there all night or do you want something?”
Miyavi’s eyes are open now, shining with a hint of amusement, fingers continuing to shift and produce soft, calming music. Tora just sits himself down on the armchair closest to Miyavi, watching him like he always does, brushing off those blunt words because that’s how Miyavi is.
Closing his eyes again, Miyavi suddenly plays a few loud notes, changing mid-song and diving into something new, something fast and different that involves a technique that Tora would never have thought of. When Miyavi’s fingers draw to a stop and his eyes open again, Tora’s struck by how calm and clear they look tonight.
In fact, everything about Miyavi seems calmer tonight. He’s not fidgeting or talking rapid fire or chain smoking. Tonight, Miyavi almost looks normal.
It makes Tora uncomfortable.
“Did you want something?”
Miyavi looks at him again as he flicks his hair over a shoulder. Today it’s piled up in a messy ponytail and he sets his guitar down.
“Cigarettes.”
“I don’t have any one me right now. They’re in my room.”
Tora’s not quite sure if it’s a dismissal or an invitation, but then Miyavi is shifting off the table in one fluid movement and he’s got a smirk tugging on his lips. It’s the kind that clearly asks, ‘are you coming or not?’
That smirk makes Tora look twice. This Miyavi’s different, a little more sly and a little more intelligent, like he knows something no one else does. Tora’s almost wary when he follows Miyavi into his room, not quite sure what to expect out of Miyavi’s room and what will happen in it.
But to his surprise, it’s cleaner than he would’ve thought it to be. Books upon books are piled up in a small bookcase, some even on the floor. There’s a small stack of notebooks on the desk and next to that what looks like a large sketchbook and some well used charcoals. Guitar set on its stand, Miyavi fishes into a drawer and takes out a new pack, one not even opened yet.
Tapping it against his palm, he sprawls out on his bed, taking one out for Tora and not bothering to take one himself. Inhaling the much needed nicotine, Tora feels still slightly anxious, because with this new Miyavi he doesn’t know what to do or say.
With a sigh, Miyavi rolls onto his stomach, arms pillowing his chin as he studies Tora. “Don’t be so nervous, it’s still me. It’s just a different me, one coming down from a manic phase and as hard as it is to swallow, I’m not always bouncing off the walls and thinking I can fly, this is the normal me.”
With a shrug, Miyavi rolls over again on to his back, head hanging over the edge of the bed and long hair trailing over the floor. Stretching his arms over his head and pressing his palms down on the floor, Miyavi looks like he’s performing some sort of acrobatic trick. “I guess I’m kinda boring without being manic, huh?”
Righting himself up again, Tora’s surprised when Miyavi decides to sit on his lap and steal a drag from the cigarette Tora has between his fingers. Thin arms curling around Tora’s neck, Miyavi presses close, exhaling smoke away from them both and affording Tora a look at the long column of Miyavi’s throat. “You have nightmares, don’t you?”
The pad of Miyavi’s thumb gently glides over Tora’s cheek, following the curve of his cheek and stopping at the corner of his mouth. “Because of something that happened a long time ago. And it still bothers you.”
Tora’s tempted to lie and say Miyavi’s wrong and to just shove him off his lap, but for some reason, Tora’s frozen again and all he can do is watch as Miyavi takes Tora’s cigarettes between his own fingers for another drag.
“How’re you so sure?”
Miyavi exhales smoke again, moving away from Tora, but tugging him onto the bed so that the both of them are lying against it, arm touching arm and hip touching hip. “You’ve live here as long as I have, babe, and you learn enough psycho-babble shit to put you through grad school.”
“So let’s say you’re right, then what?”
“Then you’re probably here for something that isn’t really your fault and should stop beating yourself over.”
Tora just stares at Miyavi, watches him smoke, all calm and content and never has Tora wanted to hit someone more in his life. Miyavi’s lazy gaze turns to Tora’s, a smirk sliding onto his face again, the same one from before, the one that told Tora that Miyavi knew more than everyone else thought.
Miyavi offers him his cigarette back, Tora just glares.
“I’m going to guess you lost someone you loved very much. You think you’re to blame, huh?”
Tora’s fist slammed into the wall next to Miyavi’s head. Miyavi didn’t even blink and just takes another drag from the shared cigarette. “Emotional withdrawal. Lack of interpersonal relationships. Aggression. Nightmares. I’m going to guess Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“Shut your fucking mouth and stop talking like you know what its like. At least I’m not fucking crazy like everyone else here.” Like you.
“What’s so wrong with being crazy? Its fun, isn’t it?”
Rolling off of his bed, Miyavi stubs the cigarette against the window frame. Tora sits up, suddenly finding that he wants to leave and stop talking to Miyavi and just go back to his own room where it’s nice and quiet and no one bothers him about exactly what he doesn’t want to talk about.
“I’m going to bed.”
A hand on his wrist forces him to turn back around and before he can even register what’s happening, Miyavi’s kissing him on the lips, his hands firmly cupping Tora’s cheeks. Tora can’t help but notice that Miyavi’s lips are slightly chapped, but they’re still soft and warm against his. The taste of cigarette smoke lingers on Miyavi’s lips and Tora’s sure that his own lips taste the same. And that’s when Tora realizes that instead of pushing Miyavi back and away, he’s actually got his eyes closed and he’s returning the kiss and it actually feels nice to have Miyavi’s tongue lazily brushing against his like that.
And when Miyavi finally breaks the kiss, he’s still got his eyes closed and he simply rests his forehead against Tora’s. Miyavi still has his hands on Tora’s face and the calloused pads of his fingertips are ghosting over his skin. Their breaths mingle as one and as Tora inhales, so does Miyavi.
“It isn’t your fault.”
And then Tora leaves. Because he’s heard those words over and over again and he always brushed them off, but the way Miyavi said them, so soft and gentle and intimate, he almost believed him. And Tora knew that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
When he’s finally in the safety of his own bedroom again and the door’s closed behind him, Tora just climbs into bed and hides under the blankets. Because he doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t help thinking about it now, because all he could hear were Miyavi’s words echoing in his head and it’s seriously beginning to drive him…
This place really was making him crazier.
Author: Toryavi (one half of it)
Pairing: Tora/Miyavi (to be)
Rating: PG-13. (R in the future)
Warnings: Psychological disorders and institutions, a itty bit of blood.
Disclaimer: The people belong to themselves, the story and plot belongs to me.
Summary: Sometimes, everyone needs a little crazy in their life.
Note: So since my spring break is coming up, I'm going to be gone from the 7th to the 17th so I won't be able to update until after I get back, sorry!
[Prologue] [Chapter 1]
The week dragged by almost painfully slow. There were rules to memorize, people to meet, schedules to adhere to, forced interactions and movements that just irritated Tora. More than once, he found himself driving a fist into a wall or a foot into the nearest inanimate object. The nurses called it a phase, the other boys called it adjustment.
But once that week passed by, things began to settle and while they were still irritating, Tora found himself getting used to it. He quickly found that mornings and late nights were his favorite times in this place.
There was rarely anyone awake at the early hours of dawn and while there were more than a few during the later hours at night since the floor was chock full of insomniacs, they all tended to wander or gather in another’s room for company. Company Tora never cared for.
So he’d sit in the living room and smoke cigarettes and sometimes read some books or stare blankly at the TV and watch late night dramas. But usually, Tora just sat there and counted ceiling tiles. And when he ran out of ceiling tiles, he began to count the cracks. And as content as he was to do that, sometimes he’d have company and this type of company, he didn’t mind as much.
Miyavi was almost always awake almost all the time. According to Uruha, Miyavi could live off of two or three hours a night during his manic weeks and he’d end up bouncing around the halls all day and night, talking to himself or the walls or anyone that would listen. Tora found that with Miyavi, he didn’t have to talk or even listen. He could sit there and just count ceiling cracks or mindlessly stare at the TV and Miyavi would just chatter away about everything and nothing.
Once, he painted Tora’s nails. Another time, he started reciting some sort of Buddhist passage off the top of his head. Last night, Miyavi danced around the room and as ridiculous as he looked, Tora thought he had a touch of grace when he twirled and spun and was a blur of colors. There was something almost magical about Miyavi.
When the clock struck 11:00 PM, without question everyone filed into their rooms and crawled into bed and pretended to sleep for the first two hours. Sometimes Tora would wander out of his room after the final bed check and sometimes, Tora actually slept. Tonight, he slept. And tonight, he dreamt.
He was sitting on the couch, a guitar on his lap, laughing and playing and being normal. A normal afternoon of an impromptu practice session that never failed to make him smile and feel relaxed. Fingers pressed against steel strings, his calloused fingertips could barely feel the pressure of those strings biting into his skin anymore. Quietly, he plucked a few strings and hummed a tune.
And then there.
A shadow. In the corner of his vision.
Setting his guitar down, he ignores the calls of his friends and wanders into the dining room where he swears he saw the shadow pass through. Peeking in, Tora can’t help but let out a strangled scream at the sight.
Bloodied. Mangled. A body on the floor, crawling its way towards him, blood drenched hands reaching out towards him in a silent plea for help. And Tora can’t do anything but stare in silent horror as a familiar face tilts up to face him.
Shinji, Shinji, help me.
Tora tries to force his body to move, but he’s frozen and he can’t even pull away when bloodied hands grasp at his jean legs.
Shinji, help me, help me, I can’t…I can’t…
And then suddenly, his mother’s right next to him, screaming, crying, clutching at her son, shaking him as best as she can.
Why won’t you help him, Shinji? Why?! How can you just let him die?
Help me, help me.
Why won’t you do anything?! You’re killing him, you’ve killed him!
Shinji, please!
You’re a murderer, MURDERER
NII-CHAN
And Tora’s jerking awake, a strangled, choked scream caught in his throat, his pillow clutched to his chest. He realizes a moment too late that the surface is slightly damp and there’s still wetness clinging to the corner of his eyes and cheeks.
Flinging himself off the bed, it takes Tora another long moment to realize, he’s not home. It’s only a dream, only a dream. Clenching his eyes shut, he grabs at his hair and yanks hard, to make sure he’s awake. The only sounds Tora can hear in his room is his own short breathes and his heart beat pounding rapidly in his ears.
Slowly, second by second, he forces himself to relax and he opens his eyes again. Running his hand through his hair again, he smoothes it down, craving a cigarette so badly his hands are shaking.
Murderer
Hearing that whisper of a voice in his head, Tora turns around and punches the nearest thing he can, which thankfully, is his mattress. Standing abruptly, Tora slips on a baggy t-shirt over his draw-string pants and quietly pads out of his room and towards the living room area.
Almost immediately Tora feels some sort of comfort in the fact that he’s not wandering down his dining hall and therefore can’t see that bloodied, mangled body again. He doesn’t even want to think about it anymore. All he wants is a goddamn cigarette.
Turning the corner, he finally reaches the living room and isn’t surprised by the fact that the lights are on or that Miyavi’s already there.
What does surprise Tora though is the fact that Miyavi’s sitting on top of the table, legs crossed and eyes closed, with a guitar cradled in his lap. With his head bend, Miyavi’s fingers never stop moving, never stop plucking and Tora’s forcibly reminded of his dream again and he has to stop himself from turning around and just bolting out of the room.
Instead, he clenches his fist hard enough for the nails to bite into his skin and makes himself think rationally. Not a dream. No dead bodies gonna creep out at you.
Instead, he focuses on Miyavi and his guitar. It’s an acoustic that shines proudly in the dim light of the living room area. Tora can tell it’s an expensive brand from the small insignia on the top of the tuning pegs and from the way Miyavi’s playing and softly mouthing words to himself, Tora can tell he at least knows what he’s doing.
“Are you just going to stand there all night or do you want something?”
Miyavi’s eyes are open now, shining with a hint of amusement, fingers continuing to shift and produce soft, calming music. Tora just sits himself down on the armchair closest to Miyavi, watching him like he always does, brushing off those blunt words because that’s how Miyavi is.
Closing his eyes again, Miyavi suddenly plays a few loud notes, changing mid-song and diving into something new, something fast and different that involves a technique that Tora would never have thought of. When Miyavi’s fingers draw to a stop and his eyes open again, Tora’s struck by how calm and clear they look tonight.
In fact, everything about Miyavi seems calmer tonight. He’s not fidgeting or talking rapid fire or chain smoking. Tonight, Miyavi almost looks normal.
It makes Tora uncomfortable.
“Did you want something?”
Miyavi looks at him again as he flicks his hair over a shoulder. Today it’s piled up in a messy ponytail and he sets his guitar down.
“Cigarettes.”
“I don’t have any one me right now. They’re in my room.”
Tora’s not quite sure if it’s a dismissal or an invitation, but then Miyavi is shifting off the table in one fluid movement and he’s got a smirk tugging on his lips. It’s the kind that clearly asks, ‘are you coming or not?’
That smirk makes Tora look twice. This Miyavi’s different, a little more sly and a little more intelligent, like he knows something no one else does. Tora’s almost wary when he follows Miyavi into his room, not quite sure what to expect out of Miyavi’s room and what will happen in it.
But to his surprise, it’s cleaner than he would’ve thought it to be. Books upon books are piled up in a small bookcase, some even on the floor. There’s a small stack of notebooks on the desk and next to that what looks like a large sketchbook and some well used charcoals. Guitar set on its stand, Miyavi fishes into a drawer and takes out a new pack, one not even opened yet.
Tapping it against his palm, he sprawls out on his bed, taking one out for Tora and not bothering to take one himself. Inhaling the much needed nicotine, Tora feels still slightly anxious, because with this new Miyavi he doesn’t know what to do or say.
With a sigh, Miyavi rolls onto his stomach, arms pillowing his chin as he studies Tora. “Don’t be so nervous, it’s still me. It’s just a different me, one coming down from a manic phase and as hard as it is to swallow, I’m not always bouncing off the walls and thinking I can fly, this is the normal me.”
With a shrug, Miyavi rolls over again on to his back, head hanging over the edge of the bed and long hair trailing over the floor. Stretching his arms over his head and pressing his palms down on the floor, Miyavi looks like he’s performing some sort of acrobatic trick. “I guess I’m kinda boring without being manic, huh?”
Righting himself up again, Tora’s surprised when Miyavi decides to sit on his lap and steal a drag from the cigarette Tora has between his fingers. Thin arms curling around Tora’s neck, Miyavi presses close, exhaling smoke away from them both and affording Tora a look at the long column of Miyavi’s throat. “You have nightmares, don’t you?”
The pad of Miyavi’s thumb gently glides over Tora’s cheek, following the curve of his cheek and stopping at the corner of his mouth. “Because of something that happened a long time ago. And it still bothers you.”
Tora’s tempted to lie and say Miyavi’s wrong and to just shove him off his lap, but for some reason, Tora’s frozen again and all he can do is watch as Miyavi takes Tora’s cigarettes between his own fingers for another drag.
“How’re you so sure?”
Miyavi exhales smoke again, moving away from Tora, but tugging him onto the bed so that the both of them are lying against it, arm touching arm and hip touching hip. “You’ve live here as long as I have, babe, and you learn enough psycho-babble shit to put you through grad school.”
“So let’s say you’re right, then what?”
“Then you’re probably here for something that isn’t really your fault and should stop beating yourself over.”
Tora just stares at Miyavi, watches him smoke, all calm and content and never has Tora wanted to hit someone more in his life. Miyavi’s lazy gaze turns to Tora’s, a smirk sliding onto his face again, the same one from before, the one that told Tora that Miyavi knew more than everyone else thought.
Miyavi offers him his cigarette back, Tora just glares.
“I’m going to guess you lost someone you loved very much. You think you’re to blame, huh?”
Tora’s fist slammed into the wall next to Miyavi’s head. Miyavi didn’t even blink and just takes another drag from the shared cigarette. “Emotional withdrawal. Lack of interpersonal relationships. Aggression. Nightmares. I’m going to guess Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.”
“Shut your fucking mouth and stop talking like you know what its like. At least I’m not fucking crazy like everyone else here.” Like you.
“What’s so wrong with being crazy? Its fun, isn’t it?”
Rolling off of his bed, Miyavi stubs the cigarette against the window frame. Tora sits up, suddenly finding that he wants to leave and stop talking to Miyavi and just go back to his own room where it’s nice and quiet and no one bothers him about exactly what he doesn’t want to talk about.
“I’m going to bed.”
A hand on his wrist forces him to turn back around and before he can even register what’s happening, Miyavi’s kissing him on the lips, his hands firmly cupping Tora’s cheeks. Tora can’t help but notice that Miyavi’s lips are slightly chapped, but they’re still soft and warm against his. The taste of cigarette smoke lingers on Miyavi’s lips and Tora’s sure that his own lips taste the same. And that’s when Tora realizes that instead of pushing Miyavi back and away, he’s actually got his eyes closed and he’s returning the kiss and it actually feels nice to have Miyavi’s tongue lazily brushing against his like that.
And when Miyavi finally breaks the kiss, he’s still got his eyes closed and he simply rests his forehead against Tora’s. Miyavi still has his hands on Tora’s face and the calloused pads of his fingertips are ghosting over his skin. Their breaths mingle as one and as Tora inhales, so does Miyavi.
“It isn’t your fault.”
And then Tora leaves. Because he’s heard those words over and over again and he always brushed them off, but the way Miyavi said them, so soft and gentle and intimate, he almost believed him. And Tora knew that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
When he’s finally in the safety of his own bedroom again and the door’s closed behind him, Tora just climbs into bed and hides under the blankets. Because he doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t help thinking about it now, because all he could hear were Miyavi’s words echoing in his head and it’s seriously beginning to drive him…
This place really was making him crazier.