Gaining Your Love: a Heisei Kumi fanfic (11/14)
Author: ryosukekoibito
Pairing: Ariyama
Rating: PG-13
Genre:Romance
Disclaimer: I do not own anyone, c'mon guys.
Summary:Long before the Heisei Kumi knew Keito Daiki makes it his mission to make the stunning Yamada Ryosuke fall in love with him, and it's going to be much harder than Daiki expected. So! For anyone who read my Heisei Kumi fic, this is the Ariyama spinoff I said I'd write! And if you didn't read it, please go check it out. The first chapter can be found here.
A/N: So my next update is going to be a bit late. I'm going out of town and I will not have access to the internet, or the document I have this fic stored on in my computer, so...Have a Merry Christmas! I love you all.
Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
Daiki woke to Inoo's face peering down at him, concern in his best friend's eyes.
"You didn't come back for a long time last night. Yamada said he was going to wait up for you, but he didn't see you come in." Daiki sat up, his body sore from sleeping on the floor, and he pretended to stretch, swallowing the lump in his throat, forcing himself to attempt a facade of normalcy.
"Oh, you worry too much." He grumbled, and Inoo sighed, grudgingly letting the matter drop.
"Are you coming down for breakfast?" At the question Daiki froze for a moment, the thought of having to go down and face everyone sending waves of dread down his spine.
"Nah, I'm not hungry. You go on without me." He busied himself with picking up the clothes he had strewn across the floor the night before, so that he wouldn't have to look at Inoo's face. Once the sound of the door clicking shut signaled his friends exit however, he slumped, looking down at the clothing in his hands. They were disgusting, dried blood and sweat and grime mashed into the fabric at the seams. Just looking at them made his skin crawl, and that soiled, dirty, disgusting feeling washed over him once more. Daiki wanted to burn them. He just threw them under his bed. He'd deal with them later. Clean. He wanted to be clean. To feel clean more than anything else. He stood up, and still only in his boxers, he padded down to the bathroom, locking the door, turning on the shower to its hottest temperature, and removing his underwear. He stared at himself in the mirror. Waves of disgust washed over him, and he was overpowered by self loathing.
He hated everything reflected back at him. The black mop of hair, matted with sweat. The chubby cheeks. The cold eyes. The raw muscular arms. The defined chest that held too many scars for a boy of sixteen. He wanted to destroy it. To attack it, as if his reflection was an adversary he could destroy with his own fists, leaving it bathing in its own blood, as if doing that would make this burning, disgusting hatred die in his chest. Unable to wash the feeling down, he simply pulled his gaze away, stepping into the boiling hot shower, the water hitting his skin and making him hiss in surprise and pain. He took a deep breath and willed himself not to jump out or pull the temperature down to his usual level. He found the soap sitting in the corner of the bottom of the shower, and quickly got to work scrubbing himself, trying to wash the crawling, dirty feeling from his skin. He scrubbed, and rinsed, and scrubbed and rinsed again. He kept the assault on his skin until he was raw and tender, and even then he felt soiled and unclean, his soul disfigured and ugly inside of his chest. Numb, he stepped out, defeated by the monster. He avoided his reflection, quickly wrapping himself in towels, the rough fabric irritating his raw skin. He forced himself not to think, returning back to his bedroom and slipping on the first the he grabbed out of his dresser. He was slipping his belt through the loops of his jeans when there was a knock on the door. He froze, finding his voice in the back of his throat and taking a moment to pull it forward.
"Yeah?" He tried to sound normal, but the word still came out strangled. There was the sound of the doorknob clicking as it turned, and he looked over as Hikaru stepped in.
"The Kumi-cho wants you to come by his office." The words sounded normal, but Hikaru had this strange expression on his face that was similar to one of grief. One of regret. Was it pity? Perhaps.
"Sure." Daiki slipped a shirt on hastily, not liking how Hikaru was looking at him, hoping he would get the hint to leave. The older boy just stood in the doorway, silent, and Daiki made to squeeze by him when Hikaru's hand caught the crook of his elbow, making him freeze.
"Look, if you ever want to talk...I'm usually the one that takes care of...things like...like that, and..." Hikaru looked over at him, that same look in his eyes, and Daiki pulled away, pushing the stifling dirty feeling down his throat and pretending to ignore Hikaru's words, trudging down the stairs and making a beeline for Chinen's office, not giving anyone the chance to talk to him, hoping they wouldn't even notice him go by. He slipped into the room, finding Chinen already at his desk. The young boy looked up at him with those intelligent eyes, motioning for him to sit down. Daiki did, and as he did he announced
"The...problem. It was eliminated, sir." Chinen nodded smoothly, blinking at the slight hesitation in Daiki's voice.
"I will clean the gun and return it to you immediately." Daiki added, internally begging the Kumi-cho to take it back. He hated the thing.
"No." That one word made his heart sink. "Keep it. It's yours now. Besides..." Chinen gave him a meaningful glance. "You might need it again." Disgusting slimy dread curled around his stomach at the short sentence.
"...Yes sir." He bowed in his chair, hands on his knees. Chinen tucked his legs under his slight frame, sitting up taller, and he looked down at Daiki, studying him.
"I won't need anything more from you, Daiki." The dismissal was obvious. Daiki stood, bowed, and exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He stood just outside it, leaning against the wall, his head lolled back against the doorframe. He didn't feel, didn't think, and it wasn't until he heard the creak of someone walking upstairs that he remembered that he wasn't technically alone, and he jumped at the sound, eyes darting frantically for a way to escape. He didn't want to interact, didn't want to have to try and figure out how to act normal. An escape. He needed an escape. His eyes caught on a little plastic tube sitting on the kitchen counter. A lighter. Perfect. He crossed the rooms, scooping it up and slipping it into his pants pocket. Wary, he snuck up the stairs, feet treading lightly on the beige carpet, and to his relief he ran into no one on his way back to the bedroom he shared with Inoo. He dropped to his hands and knees, crawling back under his bed and retrieving the clothes he had thrown there, the blood making them unpleasantly stiff in his hand. He would destroy those clothes. He stood, balling them up in his hand as he did so, trying to ignore the rust colored flakes that fell to the floor from the fabric. He had to get out of there. He pulled open the door, head peaking around the frame, his eyes darting about the hallway before he slipped out, tromping down the stairs without caution now, his main goal just reaching the other side of the front door. He wrenched it open, pulling it shut tight and looking up in shock when he found himself bathed in light.
Somehow the clear blue sky and the crisp autumn breeze seemed so contradictory. How could the world be so...calm...and beautiful, when such terrible things, and such terrible people, were in it? It didn't seem like something that should be possible. He leaned back against the side of the building, pondering this for a moment, struck, but the motion pressed the exterior of the wall into the lighter's plastic frame, and it in turn dug into his body, reinforcing the sense of urgency he'd held previously. He balled the clothes tighter, and with wide strides he took off, losing himself in the maze of empty buildings that stretched the span of space between the cheap apartments that the poor disjointed families lived in, and their Kumi's underlings main housing, searching. He wasn't sure what he was looking for until he had found it. The place was abandoned, decrepit, and old, and he walked up to it trying the knob on the front door. Locked. No matter. The window shattered easily, and he slipped through with caution, finding the place mostly empty, unremarkable, with some grayish-tan-white color painted on the walls and worn looking, creaking wooden boards covering the floor. He went from room to room until he found the kitchen. All of the cupboards were open, the laminate on the counter was peeling away in the corners and on the edges, and the sink was made of old white porcelain, dust covering everything. It was ugly, and it held an air of loneliness that mirrored some of the disgust in his heart. This place was fitting. He placed the balled up clothing in the dusty sink, and for a moment the image of the cashier's terrified face swam to the front of his mind, and he felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. He fought it down, flicking the lighter open and drawing a flame, he barred his teeth as he let the edge of his shirt catch fire, the flames licking up the fabric, quickly spreading and rising, and he watched as the evidence of his crime was consumed. He had hoped there would be some relief in the action, but he didn't feel any different. He still felt helpless, and tainted, and frustration overwhelmed him, and he aimed a punch at the wall, his fist breaking through and leaving a crater in its wake. Damn it.
The room quickly filled with smoke, and he soon found himself coughing roughly, his eyes burning and watering, and cursing his own stupidity he left the house in a rush, hoping no one would find the charred remains of his clothes. He contemplated going back home, but that would mean having to interact with the other occupants of the house, and he knew he wanted to avoid that. Instead he numbly wandered the streets, avoiding all human contact, choosing to spend the hours trying to figure out what he would say to them once he did have to talk to them. Eventually evening fell, and he was alerted of his own hunger by the growling in his stomach. As the sun began burying itself into the city he made it back to his own front door, opening it to find warmth, the sound of content chatter, and the smell of good food waiting for him. When he pulled it open he heard calls of "Welcome back!", and he swallowed the cowardice and stepped across the threshold to see all of his housemates sitting around the table, and he froze. He couldn't do this.
"C'mon Daiki, its nabe tonight." Hikaru announced, slipping his chopsticks into his mouth and chewing happily. Inoo patted the empty chair Daiki usually sat in. Daiki's mind whirred, flashes of blank nothingness leaving him feeling numb. Somehow, he found himself in the chair, and dinner recommenced. It was much the same as the night before, yet everything was different. Yesterday Daiki had found it easy to get swept up into the conversations and relax, but today he felt as if he was still covered in blood, his crime written all over his body, and he was removed, eating in silence, only nodding once or twice throughout the course of the meal. Once said meal was finished he made to escape to his room, but was stopped by a hand grabbing his own just as he was about to tear up the stairs, and he cursed inwardly, his eyes trailing down to the hand.
"Daiki." The sound of his name pulled his eyes to Yamada's face, and there was a hope in his eyes that pierced his chest as the younger boy asked
"Will you play chess with me for a while?" Oh the irony. Now, only once he's stripped of all sense of self indulgence, does he see that look, the one he's been hoping for and working to get for the past months. Only now, once he's finally destroyed any last shred of worthiness he'd had of standing by Yamada's side does Yamada give him that look. That angelic look full of pure caring and happiness, and hope, reserved just for that special someone. The one you care about more than anything else. Daiki takes a moment and he searches those eyes, and the smile slips a little from Yamadas face, before Daiki pulls away, and continues on his original path up the stairs to his room. Internally he's crying, and apologizing to Yamada for his actions, so contradictory; so out of place with how he had been acting for the past months. But on the outside he just stares at his wall, letting the emotions roll around inside of him, as long as they don't leak out.
He eventually finds that it's late enough to justify sleep, and he throws on his pajamas, crawling under his covers, and he wills himself not to think, already feeling drained, as he shuts his eyes. As soon as his eyelids flutter shut his mind reels the murder, like a short movie stuck on loop. The man’s scream, the way Daiki had run after him, trapped him like an animal, the blood. At some point his thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of the door opening, Inoo quickly preparing for bed. Daiki forced himself to be still the whole time, feigning sleep. At some point during the pretending he must fall asleep, because he finds himself back in the alley behind Hotel Charmed Mitsuko, the cool air biting at his fingertips as he leans against the back of the building, waiting. Dread fills him up like a bucket of rocks, but he watches himself, unable to stop as he kills the man once more. Just as he pulls the trigger, blood splattering his face, he jolts awake, eyes wide and chest heaving, and there are wretched sharp noises being sputtered out of his own mouth, and he realizes that he's crying.
Time goes by like this for twenty-one days.
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