Migraine Coma chapter 6: luciD Dreams 0.1
Title: Migraine Coma: "luciD Dreams 0.1"
Chapter: #6/#?
Author: rookie_cherii
Band/Pairing: Chiyu x Takeru (SuG)
Rating: PG
Warnings: none.
Summary: Chiyu has found a new path to follow and his life seems to be back on track. Then, an unexpected incident pulls him into the nights of Tokyo, and back to the blackest eyes of the boy he thought had forgotten about him.
Comments: OH MY GOD. WHAT IS THIS FAGGOTRY, I THOUGHT CHIYU WAS THE MAIN CHARACTER. Also, before you ask, ShikitoxChisa is one of my OTPs. Both are members of NEXX. 8| Also, please tell me if you have problems connecting the chapter names to the plot. I'll be happy to explain.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
I wanted you to embrace me.
Instead, you put me through all that pain and misery.
It's only natural to seek revenge, isn't it?
Yet, I'm supposedly crazy as I go for it.
Humans aren't supposed to take revenge in their own hands.
No, instead they're supposed to feel epicaricacy when the target of their hatred fails at a task or when life treats them bad; they're supposed to go through all the hardship without a word, not showing their emotions. At worst they're supposed to send hateful mail, nasty letters, or somehow ruin their enemy's chances to get that promotion. To send black roses, under the rose, anonymously, and then wait for the death watch beetle's ticking in the walls of their target.
I like to play that game differently.
I wanted you to come looking for me. Harder than you did.
I wanted to...
...Nevermind.
[cancel]
[save to drafts? → No]
***
He stirs, opens his eyes, shades them with his hand as the morning sun bursts in from between the shades. It's quiet, the world inside the room doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It's the same as always, with the same few possessions lying around him, the same piles of clothes folded here and there, the same half-empty bottle of spirit on the floor. Next to it lie a tipped-over plastic container of sleeping aids and a few screaming red painkiller capsules.
Judging by the sunlight it's late, but Takeru can't quite pinpoint the time nor tell exactly what happened last night. He slowly sits up, grimaces and clutches his chest, spurring into a coughing mess for a minute or two. Like an automatic reaction he brings his hand to his forehead. Light fever.
Whatever.
In the next room music is playing. Crap music, he thinks to himself, although in reality crap music didn't exist until about a year ago. Around then jazz, fusion and anything with a fat bass and an acoustic guitar or a piano became crap music. Indie bands that play their incomprehensible Coldplay-like versions of rock'n'roll are dead to him, and the ones that are still twitching need to be killed and soon. They're too painful to think of. Or rather, what they remind him of is too painful to think of. Therefore, by all logic, whatever reminds him of it must be punched in the face (or the fat, stupid contra bass if no face is available) to stop him from remembering. Simple. It doesn't stop the crap music from playing in the next room, though.
Trying to seal his ears from it the blackest eyes lower to look at his current gear. Thin pale legs and the trouserlegs of some basic boxers stick out from under the simple white T with some obscure woman's picture on the front. No socks. Feeling his hair with one hand Takeru can tell he probably looks like the mess he feels like. No blood anywhere; some more recent scars here and there - where'd that one come from? - and a dark bruise on one thigh, but nothing upsetting. Has he changed himself, or did someone help him out? It doesn't matter.
Cola.
Yes. Sounds good.
Getting on his feet, feeling a little dizzy in the head, the blonde boy begins to trot towards the door of the room. It's a little larger than his previous apartment (because there's no way that corner could've been called home, really), but nothing too complicated. Having to share with a couple of people isn't that bad in the end, as he gets his peace and quiet and doesn't need to shower in the weirdest of places. Of course his mother doesn't know about this. His parents don't need to know. Hell, wouldn't they be thrilled to know he's alive.
Opening the door he finds the music is a little louder than it had seemed at first. With a tiny frown upon his face the small boy slowly migrates towards the kitchen. There are three average-size rooms, bathroom and a kitchen; no official living room and only a very small entrance hall with just enough space for the shoes and coats by the wall. The first room is quite close to the door with the bathroom by its side; opposite to the bathroom is another room, with the third room next to it, opposite to the kitchen. Takeru's is the room opposite to the bathroom; the view is poor, but it's not exactly how he judges an apartment. It's located at the very end of the building, and therefore the kitchen also has a window: here the view is better, anyway, as one can see a small park and a basketball field. The door to the room next to his is shut, but judging by the music it's not hard to tell he's not alone. Besides, what else than hanging out at home would a student-slash-prostitue do on a day off at such a time, anyway? With a quick glance towards the entrance from the kitchen doorway he finds an extra pair of shoes neatly placed by the others. Hmmh, he thinks to himself, slipping into the kitchen. Naturally Chisa wouldn't be alone, eh. No sign of Hazuki, though, and now as he's gotten all the way to thinking about the third resident Takeru returns to the doorway, peeks again towards the entrance, and finds the stylish pointy boots missing.
He picks the 1,5 liter bottle of coke from the fridge and takes a sip straight from it without pouring it into a glass. There's heaps of dish in the sink and by its both sides and a non-transparent box of what probably was sushi, but later on transformed into a completely new life form in the fridge. Pouting, small wrinkles on the bridge of his nose, Takeru slides the fridge door shut. His toes are cold and he doesn't care. Turning to lean his back against the fridge he looks at the window. It needs a wash, but one can still see outside, so it's ok. There's an empty can of beer on the windowsill next to a room plant that's hardly blooming, but otherwise alive as Chisa seems to water it regularly. Hazuki's cigarettes and a box of matches also lie on the simple sill as the brunette has the habit of smoking by the tiny, openable window by the bigger one. Cramped in the kitchen next to the small square table is a foldable laundry rack with everything from underwear to a pair of short jean shorts drying on it. Judging from this all Takeru makes a simple assumption of the morning: sometime early enough Hazuki took off, and possibly at the same time Chisa came home; after some time the other tiny boy must've washed some of his clothes, gone to bed for an hour and a half, and gotten up when the laundry was done to hang it. Then, possibly after another hour or two of sleep he'd gotten up again to get the door for his visitor, a fairly quiet guy about the same height as Hazuki (from Takeru's point of view anyway), unevenly layered, partly dyed hair and a fashion sense that pretty much matched everyone else's out there and whom Chisa would refer to as a boyfriend with weight on boy rather than friend.
He drinks more cola and coughs again. The band switches to some obnoxious trance that sounds far better to the blonde's ears. He's sure he managed to catch some terribly revealing human sounds between the songs, but he's grown used to it. That's what you get, having a kid who fucks with guys all night long living next to you. Thank gods the only bothersome thing about Hazuki is how he smokes indoors. Even the fact that very regularly Yuuri spends half a month in every 30-day cycle living in his room isn't as bothersome.
He's managed to go about half an hour without thinking about anything specific until it hits him. The fact that as he can't remember the previous night he might have done something stupid and irreversible. (Not that he'd ever do anything like that sober.) Putting the cola bottle onto the table Takeru strides back into his room to pick up the pink clamshell phone from the floor. He checks the sent messages only to find things he remembers: a mail to Masato, sent yesterday, and some messages he's sent Hazuki. The call log also shows only things he vaguely remembers, such as a call to Hazuki and then to Yuuri a minute later as Hazuki didn't pick up. A received call from Hazuki. Apart from the call he made over 24 hours ago the list looks quite boring. In the drafts he does find something more preoccupying, and with the phone in one hand he returns to the kitchen. Kiss and music... resound the female voices from behind the closed door.
Takeru sits down by the table and spins the bottle cap off, taking a sip of the cool drink as he scrolls through the messages. Meet me begins one, and ends there; want to see you says the other one. 109 @ 6:00pm, I miss you, please hold me. Kiss me.
...your hands, your lips, love me... sing the girls.
"Shi~ki~ Ah!", goes the small blonde behind the door. Takeru grinches and shudders and turns his attention back to the phone.
The list is endless. It's like plunging into someone's diary: confessions, unfinished explanations and thoughts, typed in small font in the memory of the SIM card. Each is from various times during last night. A sane person would, at this point if not any earlier, consider whether it'd be high time to quit playing around. Takeru doesn't. He doesn't question his methods even if they feel a little unpleasant at this point. The more he thinks about it the more reasonable it feels. An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. A life for a life.
Broken bodies and lifeless puppets.
Broken bonds and useless emotions.
Why didn't you just say you were over me?
Why did you have to say you missed me?
You've confused me.
You've made my revenge feel cruel. Much more than it seemed at first.
You've reminded me I'm against a human being, not a machine. Not an empty shell like everyone else.
You've given me a heart. A heart I didn't want back, not yet. It doesn't suit the picture.
He takes another sip of cola and leans his head back a little. His neck aches from sleeping in bad positions for unreasonably long hours. Black eyes on the ceiling Takeru breathes slowly through his nose and coughs. He turns his head a little in attempt to stretch and looks at the calendar on the wall for a while. Today is circled with a red marker and the text Yuu's appointment reads all over the square. So that's why Hazuki ain't home, he's taken the redhead to see a shrink. A humph passes his lips and the boy turns his eyes back to the ceiling. It's grown familiar despite the darkness of it.
The song changes again. Takeru knows this one, too. He hums the melody quietly, mouths the lyrics. My darling, don't give up that precious little temper of yours.
He sits in the otherwise quiet kitchen, the phone open on the table, cola bottle next to it, also open, black eyes on the ceiling. Even though he's not really thinking about anything his subconsciousness is trying to work things into an explainable form, and although he's not exactly concentrating on any of the recent or less recent things they're on his mind. And then, although he hasn't really aimed that way with his unthought thoughts, the self-hatred and loathing step in, followed by the sick twisting in his stomach, and in split seconds Takeru is on his feet, dashing into the bathroom where he throws himself on his bare knees on the cold floor tiles, small body folding in two as he's once again unable to hold the gag reaction.
Taste of cola and spirit and something he must've eaten a good while ago remains in his mouth as he flushes the toilet, spits in the sink, and stands with his hands on the edges of it. He turns the water on and leans to take a mouthful, spitting it out nearly immediately to get the flavor off his tongue. The music comes to an end and he hears the sound of the door, chatter growing louder along with the tingly giggles. He wipes his lips on the back of his hand just as Chisa peeks into the bathroom. "Ah~ It's you~", the boy coos, then frowns a little. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." He doesn't turn to look at the boy. "I'm just fine."
"Okay..." The tone in Chisa's voice tells he isn't really buying it, but he seems to have learned at least one thing about Takeru: the less questions, the better. Takeru leaves the bathroom, slips from between the two guys into the kitchen and picks the cola bottle and his phone from the table before going back to his room. He hears the two of them continuing their little after-sex chat, the occasional giggles and comments like don't do that and pervert. Drinking a few gulps of cola Takeru picks up a pair of skinny jeans and a clean T, changes, and then takes a painkiller with the cola.
"You're not ok", says the boy in the mirror resting against the wall. There aren't many places on the walls for hanging things, and most of the available ones are occupied by clothes. Takeru shrugs a shoulder. "You're sick and you're pushing yourself. Shouldn't you take a day off?"
"My life is one big day off", he comments.
"You know what I mean."
"I know what you mean."
He wants to put on a pair of good sneakers and run through Tokyo to Roppongi, hurry up the stairs and ring the doorbell and jump into the arms of the brunette, cry his apologies and beg for Chiyu to forgive him. Claim it wasn't his idea or something as absurd. Please take me back. Please, miss me. Hold me. Love me. But he can't allow himself. No, doing that would show how weak he is; what would be so rewarding about that, in the end? Isn't it better to wait till the last minute so that the pleasure is better, the reward greater? So that Chiyu will feel just as broken, betrayed and lonely before getting to embrace him again.
"Blindly set your mind about it, haven't you", says the boy in the mirror again. Takeru gives him a glance that tells him to shut up. The boy looks back with a mock-up version of the frown.
There's a knock on his door, and the boy lets a grumble of sorts. Chisa opens the door a crack, plopping his head from the opening. "We're going to the shop. Do you need anything?"
"Cola." Takeru shrugs. "You're too young to buy anything else I need."
"Takeru-sa~n", the other boy says with a pout. "Hazuki told me to see that you'll eat something..."
"Then buy me something and make me eat it."
From the corridor outside Takeru can hear the other boy's voice ask, "Is he always that stubborn?"
Chisa disappears from sight. "Shikito...!"
Takeru picks up a knife from the floor and pulls the door open to find the taller boy only a few steps away from his doorway. He lunges forwards, ignores the shriek Chisa lets out, and stops as the blade comes to poke the taller dark-haired male's stomach ever so gently. Standing on his tiptoes, black eyes looking past Shikito's face Takeru breathes out, "Aren't kids supposed to show respect towards their seniors? Just so you know, my stubbornness doesn't know limits when I get on the right mood."
"Takeru...", Chisa whispers, wrapping his arms around Shikito's. The taller boy is still, stiff, breathing quietly through slightly parted lips. Takeru can imagine how the boy pictures his life passing by his eyes, all the mistakes he's made, how he wishes he could apologize for all he's done wrong and tell his family how he loves him. For a few seconds he puts more pressure on the blade, then falls back and lets his hand drop to his side, still clutching the small sharp knife. Black eyes are now on the boy like a cat which has found some food to toy with, but this keenness is only visible in the bottomless orbs. Otherwise his face lacks emotion. Chisa doesn't look at him, while Shikito stares right back at him, not daringly, but rather prepared, on his toes, ready for another surprise.
"And you", the blonde continues then, his voice a little rough. Chisa nods a little. "Teach your dog some manners. He's a guest in our house, after all, and though Hazuki might be the one playing tag with you I still believe I'm the one who makes the rules."
"Tag...?" Shikito turns his head, confused, looks down at Chisa who shakes his head ever so slightly, blonde strands of hair falling to cover his eyes. "What does he mean, Chisa?"
Takeru chuckles quietly, hearing the malevolence in his own voice, but he couldn't care less. What does it matter, in the end? "You're the one dating a kid who goes around Kabuki-cho for money like him. Shouldn't you know and accept it?"
"Shut up", Chisa mumbles. He pulls Shikito towards the door. At first the taller male seems unwilling to go, as if he had something he wanted to say to Takeru, but the words don't come out and he gives up, pushing his fingers through the platinum blonde locks of hair softly, soothingly. Takeru averts his eyes, leans against the wall and listens to them hurriedly pull on their shoes. The door opens and closes in silence.
His heart beats uncontrollably and his small frame trembles as Takeru finally moves back into his lair, carelessly tossing the knife on the floor amongst his other possessions. He drops on his knees on the floor, wraps his arms around himself, slowly rocking himself back and forth as the tears force their way through, running down his cheeks and chin, dripping on his jeans. He sniffles as his nose becomes runny, presses his eyes shut in hopes to stop the salty water from escaping its prison.
"I miss you... I need you... I need you to take away this pain..." The words leave his lips nearly voiceless, a few awkward hiccups accompanying them. Why can't this be a dream, just a lucid dream from which he could wake up from soon, now, at least a little later?
The door opens again and a I'm home resounds in the quiet apartment. Takeru doesn't answer it; rather, he concentrates on the wish to disappear, hoping that the harder he wants it the sooner it'll actually happen. Steps in the corridor; they pass by his room first, but then return, and with a quiet knock on the doorframe the door is pushed open.
"Go away", the blonde boy breathes out between the gasp-like inhales. His throat burns and he feels dizzy.
But Hazuki doesn't listen. He walks in, kneels on the floor beside the boy, wraps an arm around his shoulders and keeps Takeru still, ignoring the way the boy wiggles like a cat that doesn't want to be held. Another arm comes around him, and the brunette presses his chin on the top of the shorter one's head. "Easy... Easy... Relax."
Takeru doesn't stop wriggling for some minutes, and neither does Hazuki give up. They sit like this for a good while, the taller one showing his superior physical strength by holding the other and not letting him crawl away into some corner or under the bedcovers. Finally, after a long, silent battle that seems more mental than physical, in the end, Hazuki can feel the boy settling down, his breathes growing less intense, his pulse calming a beat at a time. Still, even when Takeru doesn't show more signs of going to escape, Hazuki doesn't let go.
"What happened?" asks the brunette finally, speaking quietly, forcing the other to concentrate on his voice. "I saw Chisa and Shikito outside."
"Nothing." Takeru doesn't rise his voice, either. This could be a lovely moment shared by two souls unless Takeru knew Hazuki only does this because he feels responsible. Still, maybe for a while it's all right to pretend the taller one truly cares.
"Someone said something, and...?" continues Hazuki, ignoring the statement. Takeru pulls his head from under Hazuki's and coughs.
"Mm."
"Hmm." The brunette nods. "Have you eaten?"
Takeru peeks up at his face, the oddly gentle orbs that never, in his opinion, quite fit the brunette's otherwise rough and tough looks. It's like the look in the eyes lack persistence while the rest of the air around Hazuki has plenty. It sort of makes it difficult to decide whether Hazuki is ever serious about things, and it makes Takeru unsure whether he can fully trust Hazuki. The brunette is looking around the room, the misplaced items like the bottle of alcohol and pills.
"No", admits Takeru in a know-it-all tone.
"You know", says Hazuki, and climbs to his feet, offering his hand to pull Takeru up. The boy refuses, remains seated, and looks a little up but not high enough to be looking at Hazuki's face. "Chisa respects you. Fears you."
"So?"
"So..." The taller one takes a few steps towards the door, turns to look at Takeru once more, and leaves the room. Annoyed, the blonde gets on his feet and roams after the other, finding him in the kitchen. "He does things for you, blindly, out of fear."
"What's that to me?" Takeru asks and slides to sit down in one of the chairs. Hazuki clears the mess around the sink a little, putting some dishes into the dishwashing machine. Picking a grand bag of rice from one of the cupboards he loads the rice cooker, gets a pan and some butter and turns the stove on.
"Just saying."
"Just saying... Hm." Takeru rolls his eyes, looks over his shoulder at Hazuki. "I don't care about people."
"I know." There's something about the way he says it that makes Takeru turn around in the chair. The black eyes inspect the other with a frown set on his face. He crosses his arms on the back of the chair, leans his chin against them, and follows the other male's movements carefully as Hazuki breaks some eggs on the pan and throws the neatly split shells into the trash.
"Explain", says Takeru, then, demanding.
Hazuki looks at him over his shoulder briefly, as if to make sure the other isn't loading a shotgun under the table. "I understand your point in this all, and I get why you're upset", begins Hazuki finally. He picks a black-and-metallic turner from the cupboard above the sink. "And I'm not trying to feed morals to you, but you got to stop pushing people away."
Takeru doesn't answer, doesn't move. Hazuki peeks over his shoulder again, but the blonde isn't sure if he's doing it meekly or just to make sure Takeru hasn't left the kitchen. The brunette flips the eggs and continues. "I said I'm not trying to feed morals to you. But we live together here, and Chisa's a nice kid. You could try to get along, you know. In a way that doesn't leave him crying in the stairways."
Lifting the pan off the heat Hazuki turns, crosses his arms, moving to lean against the sink and the cupboards below. He looks at Takeru, who doesn't look back at him. The blonde stares somewhere into the distance, at something that's not present. He lets his eyes slide shut as he bites his lower lip thoughtfully. What does it matter if he doesn't get along with the kid? He doesn't like people; he doesn't want people into his life; so what does it matter?
"What's it to you?" he asks finally. The rice cooker sings and Hazuki turns to pick a clean bowl from one of the cupboards. It has some typical cherry blossom print to it. Scooping rice to the bottom and setting one of the fried eggs on top the brunette places the bowl on the table along with a pair of chopsticks. He sits down opposite to Takeru, and the blonde turns around in the chair again, eyeing the food reluctantly for a moment. "You're worried because the more I tease him the less likely it is that he'll want to sleep with you again?"
"Oi." Hazuki doesn't show annoyance on his face, but Takeru knows he's hit a weaker spot. He doesn't push it, though, as he picks the chopsticks up and starts eating, stuffing the egg into his mouth on one go. "I paid for it, just like any customer would. It's not like it was a hobby or anything."
"The fact", Takeru mumbles between bites, watching Hazuki raise a brow as the other tries to figure what exactly is he saying, "that you paid for sleeping with an underaged kid who lives in the same apartment makes it even sicker."
Hazuki seems to consider for a while, probably to verify he's heard right, before saying, "I feel sorry for him for having to do that. But he wouldn't accept my help otherwise."
Takeru finishes the egg. "I know someone like that", he says quietly, going for the rice. Hazuki raises a brow, but doesn't ask questions.
"And try to think about it from my point of view", Hazuki says, a small grin creeping to his face. Takeru raises a brow, otherwise looking slightly uninterested. "He's cute, far cuter than you, anyway." Takeru rolls his eyes and stuffs his mouth. "Those petite boy curves, the fact that he doesn't slap you in the face when you offer something..."
"Ew." Takeru shudders. "I wish I'd known you're such a pervert when I first heard about you."
Hazuki laughs. "I'm joking."
"Pervert. Child-molester."
"I thought you didn't care about him."
"No, but if I have to work with you, it bothers me that you abuse kids."
"I don't abuse kids."
"Yeah, right." Although his tone remains humorless Takeru knows Hazuki doesn't take him seriously. He finishes the bowlful, pushes the empty piece of porcelain further away, leans back on the chair. Hazuki stands up and takes the bowl to the sink.
"What are you planning to do today?" the brunette asks finally.
Takeru shrugs. "We'll see." He gets up, roams to the window, and puts his hands into his pockets. Staring at the view blankly he spaces away, thinking about things that aren't here, that aren't now. Minutes pass quietly. He hears Hazuki leave the kitchen for a while and then return; the chair moves, and the brunette sits down, spreading the newspaper on the table. What is it about newspapers, why do people have the time and the interest to read them? What is it about all the negative news printed on thin pages that makes the world go round?
He shifts, and realizes his hand feels somewhat uncomfortable in his pocket. Pulling it out, the blonde eyes his thin fingers, then the jeans, and then his hand again. He lifts it in front of his eyes in the light. The bright early summer sun dyes the blood metallic red. It's thick, covering his middle and ring fingers completely, smudging his pinky and index finger, his palm unrecognizable and the back of his hand camouflaged. A few drops slowly run down over his wrist. "Hmmm."
"What?" asks Hazuki, but the brunette sounds absorbed in the newspaper.
"Nothing", says Takeru, and turns, walks past the other and over to the sink. Thrusting his hand under the running water he grimaces slightly as the colorless liquid laps the cut on his palm. It's deep and painful.
It doesn't take long before Hazuki hurries to his side, pulls the blonde's hand from under the water and by holding the slim wrist keeps the wound in his sight. "Where'd--"
Takeru shrugs and by using his free hand tries his blood-soaked jeans over the pocket. With a quiet, dry chuckle he answers, "Swiss knife."
"How did you manage to cut yourself on a pocket knife." It's not really a question. Hazuki drags the boy along to the bathroom where he sits Takeru down on the edge of the bathtub, opens the topmost cupboard over the sink, and pulls out a first-aid kit. In silence, with a zen-like calmness in his actions Hazuki starts cleaning the wound. The blonde grimaces and wiggles, loudly cries out and finally slips backwards into the empty tub with a light clunk as he bumps his head against the opposite edge.
There's a glass of juice on the table.
Light shines through the window, and as it hits the glass it reflects through the yellow liquid, casting a glimmering shadow on the table. The edge of the glass spreads a small rainbow on the wood.
Beside the glass there's a folded newspaper. There's a round, dark mark on one edge where a glass or a cup has been placed on it. Some ink has blurred into the damp line. The front page news article is about some domestic political issue. In the picture members of two different parties shake hands.
The table is wooden; the tabletop is thick and the legs square shape. There's nothing else on the top. The wooden chairs match the color, and are placed neatly by the table, one for each side. On the back of one chair there's a dark brown shirt, messily tossed there. Amongst the wrinkles it's possible to see some print, purposefully worn-out.
It's a kitchen. There's a fridge to the right from the table with memo pages stuck on the door. On the side table there's a few empty glasses and cans of beer. The color scheme is creamy with the cupboard doors matching the side table and sink system, the neutral colors of the walls completing the look. To the right of the table and the window there's a doorway; one can see a TV in front of the window in the next room.
There's no pain in his hands. His heart feels calm. Yet he feels like this will all break around him if he moves from where he is. There's no question, he knows this place - he knows this place so well no matter where he'd go, it would come back to him. How could he have forgotten about this for even a second? How did it ever come back so suddenly? It's all such a strange thing, and no matter how much he'd search his head there doesn't seem to be any explanation.
Lowering his eyes to the floor he listens to the sound of the TV, the sound of a cell phone ringing. The smooth voice answers soon enough, but the words are a blur. The clock on the wall is stuck to an incomprehensible time.
Why can't he let go of this?
Why does he come back here every time reality becomes only a fleeting moment, minutes that matter nothing? Why can't he forget again, leave it behind? His life won't matter, anyway.
He closes his eyes, and as he opens them again there's someone in front of him. His vision fails him, as everything about the person in the front of his eyes is but a messy, blurry mixture of colors and shadows while the room is still just as sharp and exact. Yet, it's not hard for him to tell who is this person, and the pain is back in his body in the matter of seconds. The immense, real pain. It's the sharpest in the back of his head, but his heart also aches.
"What makes you think you're any better than me? You're but a coward." The voice echoes, breaks at times, as if it was an old record played after many, many years. "You know how to run away, but not how to fight back."
"Fuck you!" yells another voice, a voice which he has no hard time recognizing, although hearing oneself on a tape is always just as odd. Slowly he brings his hands to his ears, as he knows how this conversation goes, and no matter how hard he'd wish it would stop, it won't. He's stuck in his own prison of memories, and he knows so well when an unpleasant memory comes to one's mind it won't leave. In the TV someone laughs, and the velvet voice laughs as well. But no matter how hard he presses his fingers on the tragi of his ears the sounds won't muffle.
"Do as I say! You're mine, and you do what I tell you to!" The words are accompanied by a flashing pain across his stomach. It's so real it makes him bend over, curl into a small ball on the floor. "All you do is swallow the pain. Coward."
With his voice breaking at the edges Takeru exhales, "I'm not--"
Hazuki raises a brow, reaches to brush the blonde hair off the boy's eyes. Takeru blinks, frowns, closes his eyes for a while as the light burns the black orbs. For a while he's utterly confused, the smell of disinfectant and fruity hand soap overwhelming his senses. He's still lying in the bathtub, the wall of it freezing his skin as the tumble has pulled his shirt up slightly on the back.
"You okay?" asks the brunette. Takeru opens one eye slightly. He looks around a little, finally coming to the conclusion that this must be "reality" opposed to how he feels.
"Mm."
"Did you hit your head?"
"No."
The brunette doesn't say anything, but Takeru knows Hazuki doesn't believe him. The taller male goes on cleaning the wound on his palm. Judging by this, Takeru assumes time hasn't passed.
After a while Hazuki moves on to tying up the wounded hand, his actions careful, learned, stable. Takeru watches quietly, although he doesn't feel quite there. He coughs quietly, remains silent for a moment, and then hurls into a coughing frenzy, his breath crackling and the coughs echoing not only in the bathroom but in his tiny body as well. It hurts his throat, but nothing but the taste of blood comes up.
This he doesn't mention aloud.
Hazuki waits till he's done coughing before getting up and offering a hand to pull the boy out of the tub. Takeru hesitates, then takes it, and cranks himself up. He eyes the jeans, frowns, and passes Hazuki by. Going to his room the boy kicks the jeans off, rummages through the misplaced things, and finding a clean pair turns to put them on only to find Hazuki standing in the doorway. Black eyes turn to the taller male, and they stare each other down for a good few minutes before Takeru turns to pull the jeans on.
"I'll buy you some cough medicine", says Hazuki finally, "when I go pick Yuuri up."
"It won't help", says Takeru, and starts to gather some things into a boston bag. Hazuki follows each step, not saying anything. The world seems to have stopped. As Takeru picks up a parka and a thick scarf and pulls them on Hazuki asks,
"Are you going somewhere?"
The black orbs visit him briefly. "No. I support the Indoors is Outdoors party. According to their philosophy it's healthier to wear outdoor gear indoors, and indoor gear outdoors no matter what the season." He rolls his eyes. "Of course I'm going. What kind of a question is that."
Hazuki chuckles. He moves out of the way, letting Takeru leave the room. The blonde pulls the door shut after himself, zips the parka up, and goes to the door. Hazuki slowly follows him, watches him pull on a pair of colorful sneakers. "Is there anything I should do?" the brunette asks then, his tone serious, as if to show he's thinking business instead of housekeeping. Takeru continues to pull on the shoes, bending over to tie the laces. He coughs again as he does this, thinking at the same time.
"I'll let you know." Picking up his bag the boy shrugs, turns to open the door, and without a further word slips out to the corridor.
He then stops, turns back, and catches Hazuki turning to go further into the apartment. "Actually."
"Yes?" asks Hazuki, stopping and turning to look back at him. Takeru thinks for a moment, one hand on the door handle, the other in the parka pocket.
"I want you to get hold of someone. Ask Yuuri to help if you want to."
"And when I get hold of this person?"
"Tell them I'm serious."
"Okay." Hazuki waits, doesn't voice the question. Takeru remains quiet for a while before mouthing the four-syllable name clearly and slowly. The taller one nods, mock-salutes, and Takeru rolls his eyes, disappearing from the doorway.
lucid dream lu·cid dream 【ˈluːsɪd dri:ms】(n) a dream in which the dreamer knows they are dreaming.
Chapter: #6/#?
Author: rookie_cherii
Band/Pairing: Chiyu x Takeru (SuG)
Rating: PG
Warnings: none.
Summary: Chiyu has found a new path to follow and his life seems to be back on track. Then, an unexpected incident pulls him into the nights of Tokyo, and back to the blackest eyes of the boy he thought had forgotten about him.
Comments: OH MY GOD. WHAT IS THIS FAGGOTRY, I THOUGHT CHIYU WAS THE MAIN CHARACTER. Also, before you ask, ShikitoxChisa is one of my OTPs. Both are members of NEXX. 8| Also, please tell me if you have problems connecting the chapter names to the plot. I'll be happy to explain.
Disclaimer: Don't own.
I wanted you to embrace me.
Instead, you put me through all that pain and misery.
It's only natural to seek revenge, isn't it?
Yet, I'm supposedly crazy as I go for it.
Humans aren't supposed to take revenge in their own hands.
No, instead they're supposed to feel epicaricacy when the target of their hatred fails at a task or when life treats them bad; they're supposed to go through all the hardship without a word, not showing their emotions. At worst they're supposed to send hateful mail, nasty letters, or somehow ruin their enemy's chances to get that promotion. To send black roses, under the rose, anonymously, and then wait for the death watch beetle's ticking in the walls of their target.
I like to play that game differently.
I wanted you to come looking for me. Harder than you did.
I wanted to...
...Nevermind.
[cancel]
[save to drafts? → No]
***
He stirs, opens his eyes, shades them with his hand as the morning sun bursts in from between the shades. It's quiet, the world inside the room doesn't seem to be going anywhere. It's the same as always, with the same few possessions lying around him, the same piles of clothes folded here and there, the same half-empty bottle of spirit on the floor. Next to it lie a tipped-over plastic container of sleeping aids and a few screaming red painkiller capsules.
Judging by the sunlight it's late, but Takeru can't quite pinpoint the time nor tell exactly what happened last night. He slowly sits up, grimaces and clutches his chest, spurring into a coughing mess for a minute or two. Like an automatic reaction he brings his hand to his forehead. Light fever.
Whatever.
In the next room music is playing. Crap music, he thinks to himself, although in reality crap music didn't exist until about a year ago. Around then jazz, fusion and anything with a fat bass and an acoustic guitar or a piano became crap music. Indie bands that play their incomprehensible Coldplay-like versions of rock'n'roll are dead to him, and the ones that are still twitching need to be killed and soon. They're too painful to think of. Or rather, what they remind him of is too painful to think of. Therefore, by all logic, whatever reminds him of it must be punched in the face (or the fat, stupid contra bass if no face is available) to stop him from remembering. Simple. It doesn't stop the crap music from playing in the next room, though.
Trying to seal his ears from it the blackest eyes lower to look at his current gear. Thin pale legs and the trouserlegs of some basic boxers stick out from under the simple white T with some obscure woman's picture on the front. No socks. Feeling his hair with one hand Takeru can tell he probably looks like the mess he feels like. No blood anywhere; some more recent scars here and there - where'd that one come from? - and a dark bruise on one thigh, but nothing upsetting. Has he changed himself, or did someone help him out? It doesn't matter.
Cola.
Yes. Sounds good.
Getting on his feet, feeling a little dizzy in the head, the blonde boy begins to trot towards the door of the room. It's a little larger than his previous apartment (because there's no way that corner could've been called home, really), but nothing too complicated. Having to share with a couple of people isn't that bad in the end, as he gets his peace and quiet and doesn't need to shower in the weirdest of places. Of course his mother doesn't know about this. His parents don't need to know. Hell, wouldn't they be thrilled to know he's alive.
Opening the door he finds the music is a little louder than it had seemed at first. With a tiny frown upon his face the small boy slowly migrates towards the kitchen. There are three average-size rooms, bathroom and a kitchen; no official living room and only a very small entrance hall with just enough space for the shoes and coats by the wall. The first room is quite close to the door with the bathroom by its side; opposite to the bathroom is another room, with the third room next to it, opposite to the kitchen. Takeru's is the room opposite to the bathroom; the view is poor, but it's not exactly how he judges an apartment. It's located at the very end of the building, and therefore the kitchen also has a window: here the view is better, anyway, as one can see a small park and a basketball field. The door to the room next to his is shut, but judging by the music it's not hard to tell he's not alone. Besides, what else than hanging out at home would a student-slash-prostitue do on a day off at such a time, anyway? With a quick glance towards the entrance from the kitchen doorway he finds an extra pair of shoes neatly placed by the others. Hmmh, he thinks to himself, slipping into the kitchen. Naturally Chisa wouldn't be alone, eh. No sign of Hazuki, though, and now as he's gotten all the way to thinking about the third resident Takeru returns to the doorway, peeks again towards the entrance, and finds the stylish pointy boots missing.
He picks the 1,5 liter bottle of coke from the fridge and takes a sip straight from it without pouring it into a glass. There's heaps of dish in the sink and by its both sides and a non-transparent box of what probably was sushi, but later on transformed into a completely new life form in the fridge. Pouting, small wrinkles on the bridge of his nose, Takeru slides the fridge door shut. His toes are cold and he doesn't care. Turning to lean his back against the fridge he looks at the window. It needs a wash, but one can still see outside, so it's ok. There's an empty can of beer on the windowsill next to a room plant that's hardly blooming, but otherwise alive as Chisa seems to water it regularly. Hazuki's cigarettes and a box of matches also lie on the simple sill as the brunette has the habit of smoking by the tiny, openable window by the bigger one. Cramped in the kitchen next to the small square table is a foldable laundry rack with everything from underwear to a pair of short jean shorts drying on it. Judging from this all Takeru makes a simple assumption of the morning: sometime early enough Hazuki took off, and possibly at the same time Chisa came home; after some time the other tiny boy must've washed some of his clothes, gone to bed for an hour and a half, and gotten up when the laundry was done to hang it. Then, possibly after another hour or two of sleep he'd gotten up again to get the door for his visitor, a fairly quiet guy about the same height as Hazuki (from Takeru's point of view anyway), unevenly layered, partly dyed hair and a fashion sense that pretty much matched everyone else's out there and whom Chisa would refer to as a boyfriend with weight on boy rather than friend.
He drinks more cola and coughs again. The band switches to some obnoxious trance that sounds far better to the blonde's ears. He's sure he managed to catch some terribly revealing human sounds between the songs, but he's grown used to it. That's what you get, having a kid who fucks with guys all night long living next to you. Thank gods the only bothersome thing about Hazuki is how he smokes indoors. Even the fact that very regularly Yuuri spends half a month in every 30-day cycle living in his room isn't as bothersome.
He's managed to go about half an hour without thinking about anything specific until it hits him. The fact that as he can't remember the previous night he might have done something stupid and irreversible. (Not that he'd ever do anything like that sober.) Putting the cola bottle onto the table Takeru strides back into his room to pick up the pink clamshell phone from the floor. He checks the sent messages only to find things he remembers: a mail to Masato, sent yesterday, and some messages he's sent Hazuki. The call log also shows only things he vaguely remembers, such as a call to Hazuki and then to Yuuri a minute later as Hazuki didn't pick up. A received call from Hazuki. Apart from the call he made over 24 hours ago the list looks quite boring. In the drafts he does find something more preoccupying, and with the phone in one hand he returns to the kitchen. Kiss and music... resound the female voices from behind the closed door.
Takeru sits down by the table and spins the bottle cap off, taking a sip of the cool drink as he scrolls through the messages. Meet me begins one, and ends there; want to see you says the other one. 109 @ 6:00pm, I miss you, please hold me. Kiss me.
...your hands, your lips, love me... sing the girls.
"Shi~ki~ Ah!", goes the small blonde behind the door. Takeru grinches and shudders and turns his attention back to the phone.
The list is endless. It's like plunging into someone's diary: confessions, unfinished explanations and thoughts, typed in small font in the memory of the SIM card. Each is from various times during last night. A sane person would, at this point if not any earlier, consider whether it'd be high time to quit playing around. Takeru doesn't. He doesn't question his methods even if they feel a little unpleasant at this point. The more he thinks about it the more reasonable it feels. An eye for an eye. A heart for a heart. A life for a life.
Broken bodies and lifeless puppets.
Broken bonds and useless emotions.
Why didn't you just say you were over me?
Why did you have to say you missed me?
You've confused me.
You've made my revenge feel cruel. Much more than it seemed at first.
You've reminded me I'm against a human being, not a machine. Not an empty shell like everyone else.
You've given me a heart. A heart I didn't want back, not yet. It doesn't suit the picture.
He takes another sip of cola and leans his head back a little. His neck aches from sleeping in bad positions for unreasonably long hours. Black eyes on the ceiling Takeru breathes slowly through his nose and coughs. He turns his head a little in attempt to stretch and looks at the calendar on the wall for a while. Today is circled with a red marker and the text Yuu's appointment reads all over the square. So that's why Hazuki ain't home, he's taken the redhead to see a shrink. A humph passes his lips and the boy turns his eyes back to the ceiling. It's grown familiar despite the darkness of it.
The song changes again. Takeru knows this one, too. He hums the melody quietly, mouths the lyrics. My darling, don't give up that precious little temper of yours.
He sits in the otherwise quiet kitchen, the phone open on the table, cola bottle next to it, also open, black eyes on the ceiling. Even though he's not really thinking about anything his subconsciousness is trying to work things into an explainable form, and although he's not exactly concentrating on any of the recent or less recent things they're on his mind. And then, although he hasn't really aimed that way with his unthought thoughts, the self-hatred and loathing step in, followed by the sick twisting in his stomach, and in split seconds Takeru is on his feet, dashing into the bathroom where he throws himself on his bare knees on the cold floor tiles, small body folding in two as he's once again unable to hold the gag reaction.
Taste of cola and spirit and something he must've eaten a good while ago remains in his mouth as he flushes the toilet, spits in the sink, and stands with his hands on the edges of it. He turns the water on and leans to take a mouthful, spitting it out nearly immediately to get the flavor off his tongue. The music comes to an end and he hears the sound of the door, chatter growing louder along with the tingly giggles. He wipes his lips on the back of his hand just as Chisa peeks into the bathroom. "Ah~ It's you~", the boy coos, then frowns a little. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah." He doesn't turn to look at the boy. "I'm just fine."
"Okay..." The tone in Chisa's voice tells he isn't really buying it, but he seems to have learned at least one thing about Takeru: the less questions, the better. Takeru leaves the bathroom, slips from between the two guys into the kitchen and picks the cola bottle and his phone from the table before going back to his room. He hears the two of them continuing their little after-sex chat, the occasional giggles and comments like don't do that and pervert. Drinking a few gulps of cola Takeru picks up a pair of skinny jeans and a clean T, changes, and then takes a painkiller with the cola.
"You're not ok", says the boy in the mirror resting against the wall. There aren't many places on the walls for hanging things, and most of the available ones are occupied by clothes. Takeru shrugs a shoulder. "You're sick and you're pushing yourself. Shouldn't you take a day off?"
"My life is one big day off", he comments.
"You know what I mean."
"I know what you mean."
He wants to put on a pair of good sneakers and run through Tokyo to Roppongi, hurry up the stairs and ring the doorbell and jump into the arms of the brunette, cry his apologies and beg for Chiyu to forgive him. Claim it wasn't his idea or something as absurd. Please take me back. Please, miss me. Hold me. Love me. But he can't allow himself. No, doing that would show how weak he is; what would be so rewarding about that, in the end? Isn't it better to wait till the last minute so that the pleasure is better, the reward greater? So that Chiyu will feel just as broken, betrayed and lonely before getting to embrace him again.
"Blindly set your mind about it, haven't you", says the boy in the mirror again. Takeru gives him a glance that tells him to shut up. The boy looks back with a mock-up version of the frown.
There's a knock on his door, and the boy lets a grumble of sorts. Chisa opens the door a crack, plopping his head from the opening. "We're going to the shop. Do you need anything?"
"Cola." Takeru shrugs. "You're too young to buy anything else I need."
"Takeru-sa~n", the other boy says with a pout. "Hazuki told me to see that you'll eat something..."
"Then buy me something and make me eat it."
From the corridor outside Takeru can hear the other boy's voice ask, "Is he always that stubborn?"
Chisa disappears from sight. "Shikito...!"
Takeru picks up a knife from the floor and pulls the door open to find the taller boy only a few steps away from his doorway. He lunges forwards, ignores the shriek Chisa lets out, and stops as the blade comes to poke the taller dark-haired male's stomach ever so gently. Standing on his tiptoes, black eyes looking past Shikito's face Takeru breathes out, "Aren't kids supposed to show respect towards their seniors? Just so you know, my stubbornness doesn't know limits when I get on the right mood."
"Takeru...", Chisa whispers, wrapping his arms around Shikito's. The taller boy is still, stiff, breathing quietly through slightly parted lips. Takeru can imagine how the boy pictures his life passing by his eyes, all the mistakes he's made, how he wishes he could apologize for all he's done wrong and tell his family how he loves him. For a few seconds he puts more pressure on the blade, then falls back and lets his hand drop to his side, still clutching the small sharp knife. Black eyes are now on the boy like a cat which has found some food to toy with, but this keenness is only visible in the bottomless orbs. Otherwise his face lacks emotion. Chisa doesn't look at him, while Shikito stares right back at him, not daringly, but rather prepared, on his toes, ready for another surprise.
"And you", the blonde continues then, his voice a little rough. Chisa nods a little. "Teach your dog some manners. He's a guest in our house, after all, and though Hazuki might be the one playing tag with you I still believe I'm the one who makes the rules."
"Tag...?" Shikito turns his head, confused, looks down at Chisa who shakes his head ever so slightly, blonde strands of hair falling to cover his eyes. "What does he mean, Chisa?"
Takeru chuckles quietly, hearing the malevolence in his own voice, but he couldn't care less. What does it matter, in the end? "You're the one dating a kid who goes around Kabuki-cho for money like him. Shouldn't you know and accept it?"
"Shut up", Chisa mumbles. He pulls Shikito towards the door. At first the taller male seems unwilling to go, as if he had something he wanted to say to Takeru, but the words don't come out and he gives up, pushing his fingers through the platinum blonde locks of hair softly, soothingly. Takeru averts his eyes, leans against the wall and listens to them hurriedly pull on their shoes. The door opens and closes in silence.
His heart beats uncontrollably and his small frame trembles as Takeru finally moves back into his lair, carelessly tossing the knife on the floor amongst his other possessions. He drops on his knees on the floor, wraps his arms around himself, slowly rocking himself back and forth as the tears force their way through, running down his cheeks and chin, dripping on his jeans. He sniffles as his nose becomes runny, presses his eyes shut in hopes to stop the salty water from escaping its prison.
"I miss you... I need you... I need you to take away this pain..." The words leave his lips nearly voiceless, a few awkward hiccups accompanying them. Why can't this be a dream, just a lucid dream from which he could wake up from soon, now, at least a little later?
The door opens again and a I'm home resounds in the quiet apartment. Takeru doesn't answer it; rather, he concentrates on the wish to disappear, hoping that the harder he wants it the sooner it'll actually happen. Steps in the corridor; they pass by his room first, but then return, and with a quiet knock on the doorframe the door is pushed open.
"Go away", the blonde boy breathes out between the gasp-like inhales. His throat burns and he feels dizzy.
But Hazuki doesn't listen. He walks in, kneels on the floor beside the boy, wraps an arm around his shoulders and keeps Takeru still, ignoring the way the boy wiggles like a cat that doesn't want to be held. Another arm comes around him, and the brunette presses his chin on the top of the shorter one's head. "Easy... Easy... Relax."
Takeru doesn't stop wriggling for some minutes, and neither does Hazuki give up. They sit like this for a good while, the taller one showing his superior physical strength by holding the other and not letting him crawl away into some corner or under the bedcovers. Finally, after a long, silent battle that seems more mental than physical, in the end, Hazuki can feel the boy settling down, his breathes growing less intense, his pulse calming a beat at a time. Still, even when Takeru doesn't show more signs of going to escape, Hazuki doesn't let go.
"What happened?" asks the brunette finally, speaking quietly, forcing the other to concentrate on his voice. "I saw Chisa and Shikito outside."
"Nothing." Takeru doesn't rise his voice, either. This could be a lovely moment shared by two souls unless Takeru knew Hazuki only does this because he feels responsible. Still, maybe for a while it's all right to pretend the taller one truly cares.
"Someone said something, and...?" continues Hazuki, ignoring the statement. Takeru pulls his head from under Hazuki's and coughs.
"Mm."
"Hmm." The brunette nods. "Have you eaten?"
Takeru peeks up at his face, the oddly gentle orbs that never, in his opinion, quite fit the brunette's otherwise rough and tough looks. It's like the look in the eyes lack persistence while the rest of the air around Hazuki has plenty. It sort of makes it difficult to decide whether Hazuki is ever serious about things, and it makes Takeru unsure whether he can fully trust Hazuki. The brunette is looking around the room, the misplaced items like the bottle of alcohol and pills.
"No", admits Takeru in a know-it-all tone.
"You know", says Hazuki, and climbs to his feet, offering his hand to pull Takeru up. The boy refuses, remains seated, and looks a little up but not high enough to be looking at Hazuki's face. "Chisa respects you. Fears you."
"So?"
"So..." The taller one takes a few steps towards the door, turns to look at Takeru once more, and leaves the room. Annoyed, the blonde gets on his feet and roams after the other, finding him in the kitchen. "He does things for you, blindly, out of fear."
"What's that to me?" Takeru asks and slides to sit down in one of the chairs. Hazuki clears the mess around the sink a little, putting some dishes into the dishwashing machine. Picking a grand bag of rice from one of the cupboards he loads the rice cooker, gets a pan and some butter and turns the stove on.
"Just saying."
"Just saying... Hm." Takeru rolls his eyes, looks over his shoulder at Hazuki. "I don't care about people."
"I know." There's something about the way he says it that makes Takeru turn around in the chair. The black eyes inspect the other with a frown set on his face. He crosses his arms on the back of the chair, leans his chin against them, and follows the other male's movements carefully as Hazuki breaks some eggs on the pan and throws the neatly split shells into the trash.
"Explain", says Takeru, then, demanding.
Hazuki looks at him over his shoulder briefly, as if to make sure the other isn't loading a shotgun under the table. "I understand your point in this all, and I get why you're upset", begins Hazuki finally. He picks a black-and-metallic turner from the cupboard above the sink. "And I'm not trying to feed morals to you, but you got to stop pushing people away."
Takeru doesn't answer, doesn't move. Hazuki peeks over his shoulder again, but the blonde isn't sure if he's doing it meekly or just to make sure Takeru hasn't left the kitchen. The brunette flips the eggs and continues. "I said I'm not trying to feed morals to you. But we live together here, and Chisa's a nice kid. You could try to get along, you know. In a way that doesn't leave him crying in the stairways."
Lifting the pan off the heat Hazuki turns, crosses his arms, moving to lean against the sink and the cupboards below. He looks at Takeru, who doesn't look back at him. The blonde stares somewhere into the distance, at something that's not present. He lets his eyes slide shut as he bites his lower lip thoughtfully. What does it matter if he doesn't get along with the kid? He doesn't like people; he doesn't want people into his life; so what does it matter?
"What's it to you?" he asks finally. The rice cooker sings and Hazuki turns to pick a clean bowl from one of the cupboards. It has some typical cherry blossom print to it. Scooping rice to the bottom and setting one of the fried eggs on top the brunette places the bowl on the table along with a pair of chopsticks. He sits down opposite to Takeru, and the blonde turns around in the chair again, eyeing the food reluctantly for a moment. "You're worried because the more I tease him the less likely it is that he'll want to sleep with you again?"
"Oi." Hazuki doesn't show annoyance on his face, but Takeru knows he's hit a weaker spot. He doesn't push it, though, as he picks the chopsticks up and starts eating, stuffing the egg into his mouth on one go. "I paid for it, just like any customer would. It's not like it was a hobby or anything."
"The fact", Takeru mumbles between bites, watching Hazuki raise a brow as the other tries to figure what exactly is he saying, "that you paid for sleeping with an underaged kid who lives in the same apartment makes it even sicker."
Hazuki seems to consider for a while, probably to verify he's heard right, before saying, "I feel sorry for him for having to do that. But he wouldn't accept my help otherwise."
Takeru finishes the egg. "I know someone like that", he says quietly, going for the rice. Hazuki raises a brow, but doesn't ask questions.
"And try to think about it from my point of view", Hazuki says, a small grin creeping to his face. Takeru raises a brow, otherwise looking slightly uninterested. "He's cute, far cuter than you, anyway." Takeru rolls his eyes and stuffs his mouth. "Those petite boy curves, the fact that he doesn't slap you in the face when you offer something..."
"Ew." Takeru shudders. "I wish I'd known you're such a pervert when I first heard about you."
Hazuki laughs. "I'm joking."
"Pervert. Child-molester."
"I thought you didn't care about him."
"No, but if I have to work with you, it bothers me that you abuse kids."
"I don't abuse kids."
"Yeah, right." Although his tone remains humorless Takeru knows Hazuki doesn't take him seriously. He finishes the bowlful, pushes the empty piece of porcelain further away, leans back on the chair. Hazuki stands up and takes the bowl to the sink.
"What are you planning to do today?" the brunette asks finally.
Takeru shrugs. "We'll see." He gets up, roams to the window, and puts his hands into his pockets. Staring at the view blankly he spaces away, thinking about things that aren't here, that aren't now. Minutes pass quietly. He hears Hazuki leave the kitchen for a while and then return; the chair moves, and the brunette sits down, spreading the newspaper on the table. What is it about newspapers, why do people have the time and the interest to read them? What is it about all the negative news printed on thin pages that makes the world go round?
He shifts, and realizes his hand feels somewhat uncomfortable in his pocket. Pulling it out, the blonde eyes his thin fingers, then the jeans, and then his hand again. He lifts it in front of his eyes in the light. The bright early summer sun dyes the blood metallic red. It's thick, covering his middle and ring fingers completely, smudging his pinky and index finger, his palm unrecognizable and the back of his hand camouflaged. A few drops slowly run down over his wrist. "Hmmm."
"What?" asks Hazuki, but the brunette sounds absorbed in the newspaper.
"Nothing", says Takeru, and turns, walks past the other and over to the sink. Thrusting his hand under the running water he grimaces slightly as the colorless liquid laps the cut on his palm. It's deep and painful.
It doesn't take long before Hazuki hurries to his side, pulls the blonde's hand from under the water and by holding the slim wrist keeps the wound in his sight. "Where'd--"
Takeru shrugs and by using his free hand tries his blood-soaked jeans over the pocket. With a quiet, dry chuckle he answers, "Swiss knife."
"How did you manage to cut yourself on a pocket knife." It's not really a question. Hazuki drags the boy along to the bathroom where he sits Takeru down on the edge of the bathtub, opens the topmost cupboard over the sink, and pulls out a first-aid kit. In silence, with a zen-like calmness in his actions Hazuki starts cleaning the wound. The blonde grimaces and wiggles, loudly cries out and finally slips backwards into the empty tub with a light clunk as he bumps his head against the opposite edge.
There's a glass of juice on the table.
Light shines through the window, and as it hits the glass it reflects through the yellow liquid, casting a glimmering shadow on the table. The edge of the glass spreads a small rainbow on the wood.
Beside the glass there's a folded newspaper. There's a round, dark mark on one edge where a glass or a cup has been placed on it. Some ink has blurred into the damp line. The front page news article is about some domestic political issue. In the picture members of two different parties shake hands.
The table is wooden; the tabletop is thick and the legs square shape. There's nothing else on the top. The wooden chairs match the color, and are placed neatly by the table, one for each side. On the back of one chair there's a dark brown shirt, messily tossed there. Amongst the wrinkles it's possible to see some print, purposefully worn-out.
It's a kitchen. There's a fridge to the right from the table with memo pages stuck on the door. On the side table there's a few empty glasses and cans of beer. The color scheme is creamy with the cupboard doors matching the side table and sink system, the neutral colors of the walls completing the look. To the right of the table and the window there's a doorway; one can see a TV in front of the window in the next room.
There's no pain in his hands. His heart feels calm. Yet he feels like this will all break around him if he moves from where he is. There's no question, he knows this place - he knows this place so well no matter where he'd go, it would come back to him. How could he have forgotten about this for even a second? How did it ever come back so suddenly? It's all such a strange thing, and no matter how much he'd search his head there doesn't seem to be any explanation.
Lowering his eyes to the floor he listens to the sound of the TV, the sound of a cell phone ringing. The smooth voice answers soon enough, but the words are a blur. The clock on the wall is stuck to an incomprehensible time.
Why can't he let go of this?
Why does he come back here every time reality becomes only a fleeting moment, minutes that matter nothing? Why can't he forget again, leave it behind? His life won't matter, anyway.
He closes his eyes, and as he opens them again there's someone in front of him. His vision fails him, as everything about the person in the front of his eyes is but a messy, blurry mixture of colors and shadows while the room is still just as sharp and exact. Yet, it's not hard for him to tell who is this person, and the pain is back in his body in the matter of seconds. The immense, real pain. It's the sharpest in the back of his head, but his heart also aches.
"What makes you think you're any better than me? You're but a coward." The voice echoes, breaks at times, as if it was an old record played after many, many years. "You know how to run away, but not how to fight back."
"Fuck you!" yells another voice, a voice which he has no hard time recognizing, although hearing oneself on a tape is always just as odd. Slowly he brings his hands to his ears, as he knows how this conversation goes, and no matter how hard he'd wish it would stop, it won't. He's stuck in his own prison of memories, and he knows so well when an unpleasant memory comes to one's mind it won't leave. In the TV someone laughs, and the velvet voice laughs as well. But no matter how hard he presses his fingers on the tragi of his ears the sounds won't muffle.
"Do as I say! You're mine, and you do what I tell you to!" The words are accompanied by a flashing pain across his stomach. It's so real it makes him bend over, curl into a small ball on the floor. "All you do is swallow the pain. Coward."
With his voice breaking at the edges Takeru exhales, "I'm not--"
Hazuki raises a brow, reaches to brush the blonde hair off the boy's eyes. Takeru blinks, frowns, closes his eyes for a while as the light burns the black orbs. For a while he's utterly confused, the smell of disinfectant and fruity hand soap overwhelming his senses. He's still lying in the bathtub, the wall of it freezing his skin as the tumble has pulled his shirt up slightly on the back.
"You okay?" asks the brunette. Takeru opens one eye slightly. He looks around a little, finally coming to the conclusion that this must be "reality" opposed to how he feels.
"Mm."
"Did you hit your head?"
"No."
The brunette doesn't say anything, but Takeru knows Hazuki doesn't believe him. The taller male goes on cleaning the wound on his palm. Judging by this, Takeru assumes time hasn't passed.
After a while Hazuki moves on to tying up the wounded hand, his actions careful, learned, stable. Takeru watches quietly, although he doesn't feel quite there. He coughs quietly, remains silent for a moment, and then hurls into a coughing frenzy, his breath crackling and the coughs echoing not only in the bathroom but in his tiny body as well. It hurts his throat, but nothing but the taste of blood comes up.
This he doesn't mention aloud.
Hazuki waits till he's done coughing before getting up and offering a hand to pull the boy out of the tub. Takeru hesitates, then takes it, and cranks himself up. He eyes the jeans, frowns, and passes Hazuki by. Going to his room the boy kicks the jeans off, rummages through the misplaced things, and finding a clean pair turns to put them on only to find Hazuki standing in the doorway. Black eyes turn to the taller male, and they stare each other down for a good few minutes before Takeru turns to pull the jeans on.
"I'll buy you some cough medicine", says Hazuki finally, "when I go pick Yuuri up."
"It won't help", says Takeru, and starts to gather some things into a boston bag. Hazuki follows each step, not saying anything. The world seems to have stopped. As Takeru picks up a parka and a thick scarf and pulls them on Hazuki asks,
"Are you going somewhere?"
The black orbs visit him briefly. "No. I support the Indoors is Outdoors party. According to their philosophy it's healthier to wear outdoor gear indoors, and indoor gear outdoors no matter what the season." He rolls his eyes. "Of course I'm going. What kind of a question is that."
Hazuki chuckles. He moves out of the way, letting Takeru leave the room. The blonde pulls the door shut after himself, zips the parka up, and goes to the door. Hazuki slowly follows him, watches him pull on a pair of colorful sneakers. "Is there anything I should do?" the brunette asks then, his tone serious, as if to show he's thinking business instead of housekeeping. Takeru continues to pull on the shoes, bending over to tie the laces. He coughs again as he does this, thinking at the same time.
"I'll let you know." Picking up his bag the boy shrugs, turns to open the door, and without a further word slips out to the corridor.
He then stops, turns back, and catches Hazuki turning to go further into the apartment. "Actually."
"Yes?" asks Hazuki, stopping and turning to look back at him. Takeru thinks for a moment, one hand on the door handle, the other in the parka pocket.
"I want you to get hold of someone. Ask Yuuri to help if you want to."
"And when I get hold of this person?"
"Tell them I'm serious."
"Okay." Hazuki waits, doesn't voice the question. Takeru remains quiet for a while before mouthing the four-syllable name clearly and slowly. The taller one nods, mock-salutes, and Takeru rolls his eyes, disappearing from the doorway.
lucid dream lu·cid dream 【ˈluːsɪd dri:ms】(n) a dream in which the dreamer knows they are dreaming.