Literary Insanity

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 6

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 09:25:07 GMT

6.

Contrary to what Jim thought as a kid, the horizon doesn't stretch on forever. In fact, from the height of an average human being, you can't even see a full two miles.

It's pretty symbolic, in an ironic way: by and large, freedom is just an illusion.

In the end, he doesn't go very far at all, just to the next town over. He doesn't really know why he stays in the area, but he's lost all the direction he used to have; wherever you go it's all the same old bullshit anyway, so may as well stick with the bullshit you know best rather than risk being disappointed.

It's only about an hour's drive away from Riverside. Far enough to escape the constant reminders of everything he'd rather forget; not quite far enough to escape being George Kirk's son, although Jim's not entirely sure that anywhere on the planet would be far enough for that.

It's definitely not far enough away for Mom not to hear about it, although Jim doesn't answer her calls. Sam apparently finds out too, somewhere along the grapevine; maybe he's talking to Mom again, now Frank's not there. Who knows, but the letters pile up— they have return addresses these days, for somewhere in Chicago— and Jim doesn't read any of them.

It's not that he loves them any less; it's not even that there isn't a part of him that wants to reach out to them and get his family back. He's just so angry, so bitter and resentful. It's not their fault— Mom's made some poor life choices, but it's nothing Jim can't understand given that he seems to make them all the time, and he doesn't blame Sam for anything, not really. If anything Sam should be blaming him. Jim's not angry at them; he doesn't know what he's angry at. Life. The universe.

He thinks most of all he's probably angry at himself.

Either way, there's no going back. Even with Frank gone, things have changed. Jim has changed.

Still, he gets by. Life's not exactly the thrilling adventure he'd always dreamed of, but Jim's learned the hard way that hopes and expectations get you exactly nowhere in this world without luck, and he was born under what has to be one of the unluckiest stars in the universe. He's resigned to taking things as they come and making the best of what he's got, which is why... well, it may not be the life he'd have chosen, but it's okay. He's smart enough and talented enough to find work to support him, and he doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. Mostly he works as a mechanic with odd jobs on the side and, when he is (looks) old enough, starts moonlighting at the local pub.

It's not exactly exciting or intellectually challenging, but it's enough. There are moments of enjoyment even in </span>the mundane; Jim's life is tolerable, if not fulfilling.

Days melt into weeks and months and years, and Jim can't imagine living like this for the rest of his life, but so long as he doesn't think too hard about the future it's okay. Time goes by largely unmarked, and Jim's just fine with that.

Jim likes working with machines, but in a small country town— even one this close to the shipyard— any work they get tends to be routine repairs, so the best part of his day tends to be working at the pub, where there are far more interesting ways to spend his time.

“Oi, kid, stop fleecing the customers and get back to work.”

Jim looks up from the poker game to meet the disapproving scowl of his boss with a cheeky grin.

“Aw, come on, Paul,” he says innocently. “I'm winning fair and square!”

Paul's scowl deepens. “You're countin' cards, is what you're doing,” he mutters. “No one's gonna want to come to my bar if you keep taking all their goddamn credits.”

Jim shrugs, but tosses his cards on the table. “Okay, ladies and gents, looks like I'm out of this round, you heard the boss-man,” he says easily, and gets to his feet, turning his winning smirk on Paul behind the bar. “Anyway, you say that like I'm not one of the main attractions around this place.”

They both know he's not talking about playing cards, and Paul snorts, rolling his eyes as he thumps a newly-cleaned glass on the bar.

“Your charms don't work on me, boy,” he says dryly. “Now get your ass back here, I'm not payin' you to flirt with the clientele.”

Jim laughs. It's all just jest; Paul's a good guy.

Not everyone's like Paul, though, and on his way back towards the bar, he overhears one of the local men mutter under his breath:

First whore I ever met who takes it for free.

For a split second Jim's blood chills, and then it's boiling in his veins, rage washing over him so violently that for a moment he can't even see straight. He's not capable of stopping himself to think; the words are barely out before Jim swings around and smashes his fist into the ugly face of the man who'd said it. The guy goes down like a sack of lead and Jim tries to follow, but the asshole's mate has Jim's wrists in a vice grip, squeezing so tight that the bones grind together and pain shrieks up his arms. Jim snarls, struggling and thrashing to get free, his whole body a weapon gone berserk. There's no way this is going to end well— asshole number one is starting to stumble to his feet again with a mean look in his piggy eyes. There's at least two of them and one of Jim, and they're big, beefy men who look a lot like truckers or maybe thugs for hire.

Jim squeezes his eyes shut when the first guy grabs a fistful of his shirt and jerks him up on his toes, expecting his face to explode in pain at any second.

“Alright, you sons of bitches, that's enough!” someone yells loudly, cutting across all the noise in the bar. “Stop fightin' in my goddamn bar or I swear on my best brandy that someone is gonna get fucking stunned!”

Everything freezes. Jim opens his eyes to see Paul holding the phaser he keeps under the bar in case of emergencies trained on the guy Jim punched, whose hand is still fisted in Jim's t-shirt in the universal signal to get ready to encounter a world of hurt.

Getting hit by a phaser is never exactly a picnic, even one set to stun, and Asshole A lowers Jim to the floor and takes a grudging step back.

“This little shit threw the first punch,” he says spitefully, and Jim sneers back at him, sees the answering glint in Asshole's eyes that says his fist is itching to meet Jim's nose.

“Yeah, well, I've got a rule, and that's no slagging off the staff,” Paul says with cold finality, before Jim's idiot mouth can get him into even more trouble. “Now get outta here before I call the cops.”

The men grumble under their breath, bitter diatribes about how they don't want to stay in this shithole anyway, small town fucking whackjobs, and shoot nasty dark looks back at the bar that let Jim know it's a good idea to make sure he hangs around until he knows for sure that they're long gone.

“Thanks, Paul,” he says sheepishly, and Paul turns that furious glare on him.

“Don't you even start with me,” he hisses, waving his finger under Jim's nose. “You gotta learn to keep a lid on it, Jimmy! God knows you're good at what you do and I sure as hell don't wanna have to fire you, but you can't keep flying off the handle at every little thing!”

“Yeah, Paul, I know,” Jim mumbles, and starts wiping down the bar so at least he looks busy and maybe people will stop staring. “Sorry.”

Paul grumbles some more, but the heat's gone out of it and soon enough he leaves Jim be and gets back to serving drinks. It's not really the end of it, even if Paul is willing to let Jim off the hook this time, because he's right. Jim's always getting into trouble, thanks to a disastrous combination of anger management issues and a huge problem with authority that has him smirking and making smart-ass remarks to the kind of people likely to smack him in the face for it. Adding the odd person who takes exception to Jim's blatant flirting— often a boyfriend, sometimes a girlfriend and occasionally the person he's actually trying to hit on— Jim gets into a lot of fights.

Paul's been good to him for reasons Jim's not entirely clear on, possibly involving some kind of loyalty to his father's memory. It's way more than Jim's ever deserved, and he repays it by making a mess, upsetting the patrons and causing property damage. They joke about how Jim brings in business with his charming flirtatious smiles and mean game of poker, but they both know he costs Paul far more money than he attracts.

Jim tells himself he can't change, which he knows deep down is a lie, but the fact remains that he doesn't want to, and until something inspires the motivation within him to try, Jim knows he's no real use to Paul at all.

The thing is, Jim is good at poker. He's spent a lifetime perfecting the art of bluffing, of lying with a straight face. For years he's shown people exactly what he wants them to see, no matter what's going on below the surface. He's grinned his way through a broken arm with no one the wiser. Jim was made for this game.

This worked quite well as a money-earner for a while at first, until some asshole accused him of cheating because he kept cleaning up too big and no one likes a guy who wins too much.

(On that note, Jim does count cards, but that was totally not the point.)

That was before he started working for Paul; different bar, same old shit. Jim didn't stop playing, of course, but he applied what he learned in school and was smart about it. Calculated his wins and losses, threw games he didn't need. He doesn't care about getting into fights, but if word got around that he always wins, only idiots and compulsive gamblers would keep playing him and he needs the money.

The first time Jim goes to Paul's bar, he doesn't really notice the guy behind the counter when he gets his drinks. He watches Jim play cards with a weighing look on his face, but a lot of people look at Jim like that for all number of reasons, so he doesn't pay much attention.

The second time Jim goes to Paul's bar, he gets into a fight with a guy who doesn't know the meaning of the word “no”. Not that it's Jim's favorite word either, in any other context, but manhandling is definitely only hot if it's consensual. Plus, Jim's a little insulted by the guy's attitude that of course Jim would sleep with him; Jim knows he's pretty easy, but he does have some standards.

Anyway, the fight's one-on-one and the guy's only human, so Jim manages to knock him out, though it costs him bruised knuckles, a black eye and a broken nose to do it. The broken nose, especially, is going to be a bitch to set, and Jim's wincing at the thought when the bartender hands him an icepack with that same considering look in his eyes.

“You're the Kirk boy,” he says, with no preamble, and Jim scowls.

“Yeah, so what?” he mumbles defensively, because with that kind of auspicious beginning, that generally means the conversation is going to go one of two ways: either Jim's about to be compared to his father, or his reputation precedes him.

The bartender shrugs. “You're pretty good with people, leastways when you're not punchin' 'em in the face,” he says, which is unexpected enough that Jim pries his swollen eye open enough to squint at him. “How are you with mixing drinks?”

“I could learn,” Jim says warily, and the other guy grins and slaps him once on the back.

“Good, then you've got a job,” he announces. “I'm Paul, this is my bar, and you can start on Monday.”

Jim stares at him.

“Huh?” he says eventually, but Paul's already walking off, ignoring him. Jim could use the extra cash, though, and it's good to have a regular second job that doesn't clash with his hours at the mechanic shop, so he goes with it.

Jim never really knows why Paul offered him a job out of the blue like that. He doesn't even really know if Paul was hiring before Jim walked in and turned everything upside down, or if he just decided on the spot to get a second bartender. Paul's like that; he's difficult to read, even for Jim, who likes to think he's pretty good at seeing what makes people tick.

Paul is in his forties, maybe his fifties; about Mom's age, give or take. He has long hair, ginger fading to ash, that's always tied back with a plain hair-band, and his flint-gray eyes have a perpetual wry glint to them. There's something reassuringly solid about him, about his dry sense of humor and the quick efficiency of how he dries the glasses with the dishcloth he always keeps tucked in the band of his jeans, the sinews standing out in his wiry arms. He's a decent guy; a bit rough around the edges and awkward with sentimentality, but he's always kind to Jim in his own gruff way, and Jim genuinely likes him. He hates to think he's a burden.

He doesn't like to accept charity, but he is grateful to Paul, and he works to earn the opportunity he's been given. Most of the time, he knows, he does a good job; the most important part of tending a bar in a small town like this is being friendly and making people feel at ease, and Jim's good at that. He's good at being charming, good with people most of the time, and he's proud of that.

He's just not good with people who look down on him, the people who sneer and try to tell him what he can and can't do, who he can and can't be. That kind of asshole immediately brings out the insolent, provocative little shit in him, the one who'd taunt Frank knowing that it would only get him a bloody mouth, and it inevitably ends up breaking out into the kind of knock-down brawl that has the patrons clearing out and chairs being hurled all over the room.

Jim doesn't accept charity, but he feels certain that Paul's just too nice to fire him, and that rankles his pride and makes him feel guilty all at the same time.

Jim flirts a lot with the customers when he's serving, especially the hot ones and the interesting ones who are funny or smart or have a nice smile. It's not just about attraction; he really enjoys talking to people, loves the sense of connection. If he ends up going home with someone more often than not when his shift ends... well, where's the harm in that?

Tonight he's chatted a few people up, having fun but nothing serious, when a gorgeous blonde girl with perfect curves and a cute upturned nose comes in and flashes him a smile that's a little too bright, just a little off.

“A cosmopolitan, thanks,” she tells him, and when Jim passes her the change he can see the way the smile doesn't reach her tired, empty eyes. It's easy enough to recognize; he's seen it before enough times when Mom was telling him how much he looked like Dad, whenever he'd looked Sam in the face, when he held Callum's hair back over the toilet. He'd seen it in the mirror, every so often, though most days his eyes reflected back at him were angry rather than hopeless.

“Here's your drink,” he says, and her fingers brush against his accidentally-on-purpose, lingering as she smiles up at him from beneath her lashes. Jim swallows, snatching his hand back just a little too fast.

“I’m Melinda,” she tells him, not breaking her gaze. “Do you work here full time?”

“Nah, just filling in,” he lies, taking a step backwards and fumbling with the ties of his apron. “Sorry, I’m overtime for my break, but you have a good night, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and hightails it out of there to hole up in the kitchen. It’s not cowardice, he tells himself; it’s common sense. You don’t hang around in a situation with nothing to gain and everything to lose if you don’t have to.

He pours himself a generous shot of scotch with trembling hands, and he’s sitting at the table in the corner with the cold glass pressed to his forehead when the door flaps open and shut behind him.

“Pretty blonde out there who's all over you, and I find you hiding in here and turning to drink?” Paul's incredulous voice greets him. “You feelin' all right, Jim?”

“Fine,” he says shortly. “She’s just not my type.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Paul raise an eyebrow, obviously not buying that for a second. “You have a type, now? And here was me thinking it was anyone sentient, legal and willing.”

Jim shrugs, taking a big gulp of the amber-colored liquid just to feel the burn down his throat.

“Guess there's an exception to every rule,” he says, and Paul either doesn't notice or doesn't comment on the way Jim's whitened knuckles belie the casual tone of his voice.

“Well, whatever,” is all he says in response, after a moment of silence. “Just don't let me catch you slackin' off back here too long, or you'll regret it.”

Jim waves him off, not looking up from his intense study of the drink in his hand. A moment later the kitchen door flaps open and closed, and Jim is left once more in blessed solitude.

Not his type. Pretty, vulnerable, broken and hurting inside... just like Callum. Exactly the kind of individual, regardless of gender or species, that Jim Kirk's always been drawn towards like a moth to a naked flame. Exactly the kind of person he could fall in love with; the kind of person who could break his heart without a moment's notice.

If Jim has a type, that girl fits it to a T, and that's exactly what makes her not his type at all.

Even working two jobs, Jim doesn’t make a whole lot of money. He’s not starving or homeless or anything like that, but he’s not exactly living in the lap of luxury, either. For the past few years he’s been renting a slightly grubby, aging single-room apartment above the repairs shop where he works during the day.

It’s not glamorous, but it has its own tiny bathroom and kitchen and Jim doesn’t really need much more than that. He never had the toys and gadgets other kids did anyway, and you can read a book just as well on a mattress on the floor as you can on a couch or a bed.

Sometimes it’d be nice to have some real furniture or a proper meal—not that Jim’s had many of them since Grandma died anyway, but at least when he had to cook for himself at home he could afford better ingredients. Like meat. But even then, Jim doesn’t regret anything he’s chosen. Not much; not really.

He doesn’t really spend much time here anyway, because most nights he goes home with someone and he doesn’t like bringing them back to his place. He prefers to have a place he can retreat to, a place that doesn’t look or smell like anyone else, but more than that, he hates being judged. Most people who see where he lives look at him differently afterwards: pity, contempt, condescension.

The pity is the worst. He can ignore the people who belittle or look down on him. It makes him mad, sure—it triggers off his anger problems when people act like they’re better than him, but he knows they’re wrong, he can prove they’re wrong.

The pity, though… the pity burns like bile rising in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want charity. He doesn’t want something “permanent”. He doesn’t want to go out to dinner and let them pay; he doesn’t want to move in.

No one seems to get that Jim doesn’t want to change. They talk about settling down, having a serious relationship, never mind that he tried that and it sucked. They think there’s something wrong with him, something fucked up about the way he goes home with someone different every night, and maybe they’re right, but who asked them anyway? It works for him. He doesn’t want serious. He doesn’t want all the drama and heartache and loss that it brings. He just wants to have fun, to connect with another person briefly before they go their separate ways, and if that means people call him a slut, well, fuck them. What do they know; there’s nothing wrong with how Jim lives his life.

But he’s not a whore, and he refuses to be treated like one.

Jim’s been working for Paul for three years when he decides that things just can’t go on like the way they’ve been going.

The latest fight had been caused by Jim’s smart-ass mouth and inability to follow the maxim that the customer is always right or at least be more polite about disagreeing—because Jim sure as shit did not shortchange that guy, and he’s not going to stand around letting his math skills get dissed by some dickhead who looks like he can’t even add one and one to get two. He probably should have kept that last part to himself, though, because the ensuing brawl leaves the bar a total mess, scaring away all the other patrons and causing hell before Paul could shut it down.

It’s one of the worse fights Jim’s got into, but by no means the worst, and that’s actually precisely what makes him realize he has to stop right now. It’s not the first, it’s not the worst, and it’s certainly not the last. He’s not going to miraculously learn self-control and stop pissing people off or throwing punches at people who piss him off. Staying here longer is just going to make things worse, and he can’t do that to Paul.

They’ve started cleaning everything up, so the chairs have all been set right and most of the broken glass swept up, but there’s a lot of sticky surfaces and a jar of toothpicks that got knocked over and spilled all over the floor. It’ll take a while to fix up, and when Jim sits back on his heels and looks around at all the mess he’s caused, dishcloth in hand, he can feel his resolve firming. He pushes to his feet and makes his way over to the bar where Paul is sitting on one of the stools and watching him with this silent, non-judgmental look that makes Jim feel like Paul already knows what he’s going to say.

Jim clears his throat.

“We can’t keep doing this, Paul,” he says awkwardly. “You and I both know that it’s costing you too much to keep me. You don’t even really need a second bartender.”

Paul doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at Jim with that level stare.

“I really… you’ve been great,” Jim adds, with this nervous need to fill the silence with something, anything. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I mean that. But… I can’t keep working here.”

For a long moment Paul continues to watch Jim, tilting his head slightly like he’s trying to work out a puzzle, and then he sighs. “Guess there’s no changing your mind, then?”

Jim shrugs uncomfortably. “Hey, I’ll get by,” he says, with forced lightness. “I’ve got my other job, and poker’s always a good earner.”

Paul nods, slowly, and then a small wry smirk picks up the corner of his mouth. “That’s as may be,” he says agreeably. “But tonight you’re still working for me, so you can help clean up after yourself, y’hear?”

He slaps Jim on the back and Jim winces a bit, because he’s still a bit tender from the bashing he took in the fight earlier, but he grins back and holds up his dishcloth.

“Yeah, Paul,” he says, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. “When I’m done, it’ll be better than new.”

After Jim quits his night job, he finds himself at a bit of a loss. Like every other choice he’s made, he doesn’t regret it, not really—it was the right thing to do—but he does kind of miss it. Miss Paul. He still goes out to bars to pick up and get drunk a lot, but he’s not working behind the counter anymore and he makes sure it’s never Paul’s bar, because it would kind of defeat the point of quitting if he kept starting fights and messing Paul’s business up anyway.

He’s drifting, stuck in a rut, doing absolutely nothing and going nowhere and he knows it. Truth be told, he’s been drifting for years now, maybe since he left home and ran out of purpose. After he’d graduated high school and got his revenge on Frank, he’d gone off the script, lost his drive. Any plans for the future he’d had when he was younger had been discarded with ruthless ambivalence. At 22, he’s spent his life since the age of 16 drifting aimlessly with no ambition or goals to achieve. He never wanted to spend the rest of his life like this, but he can feel himself reaching the point where it’s not even enough to get him through the day. He’s bored, restless; he needs something more, but he doesn’t know what.

He’s restless, and he struggles with the thought of calling Mom, getting in contact with Sam, though he does neither. It’s been years since he’s seen either of them, and suddenly he misses them both with such ferocity that his chest aches. He’s still got all the letters Sam’s sent him, on proper paper because he remembers how Jim loves old books; the slightly ragged, smudged ones kept safe since Jim ran away from the wreckage of his life all those years ago, and the newer ones, still sealed in their envelopes because Jim couldn’t… he just couldn’t.

The anger’s still there, but it’s muted, pushed down by the abrupt surge of yearning and loneliness and something that’s almost like homesickness, although it’s got nothing to do with Riverside.

He can’t bring himself to call them, but nor can he help himself from ripping the envelopes, tearing his way through years of one-sided attempts at dialogue. Heard what happened to Frank… Are you okay?... Finally spoke to Mom… Why don’t you answer, Jimmy?... I’m thinking of asking Aurelan to marry me, but I’m not sure…Still haven’t asked, I don’t want to get married without you there… Mom’s worried about you, so am I…

We miss you

We love you

Please respond.

By the end it’s hard to read the words because his eyes are burning and blurring with tears, but when he’s done, Jim squeezes his eyes shut and places the letters back in their shoebox, safe and sound.

It’s not the life he would’ve chosen, but it’s the life he’s got, and he’s determined to learn to live with that.

The night that Jim's life, such as it is, is drastically thrown in another direction (or perhaps, more accurately, shoved in a direction, full stop) is pretty much par for the course right up until Captain Pike comes into it. It's not even the first time he'd been to that bar; hell, there aren't enough watering holes in his corner of Iowa that it would be remotely the first time he'd been to any of them.

That bar, though, that bar is a favorite for people making trips to or from the shipyard, especially Starfleet cadets, and that's why he likes it. Some of them are total arrogant douchebags, of course, but Jim finds that this tends to be a pretty fair description of society as a whole, and it means a constant stream of new and moderately interesting people, sometimes aliens. In a small country town where Jim's slept, fought or played enough cards to be accused of either cheating or having the devil’s own luck with most of the bar-going locals, this is an invaluable source of entertainment to distract him from his restlessness.

Tonight there’s a whole bunch of cadets in their showy red uniforms, and Jim zeroes in on the girl at the bar because he can tell in a single glance that she's hot, self-assured and taking no shit. He's sure she can handle herself, an impression only reaffirmed when he tries to strike up a conversation with her. She's exactly what Jim's looking for, because she's not the kind of girl he's going to fall in love with.

Jim’s been there, he’s done that, and he knows now how dangerous they are, the broken, vulnerable ones, the ones with the jagged edges that slice against his own just to leave them both bleeding. Callum was the first and the most serious, but not the only one; Jim has made the same mistake a few times since then before he’d learned better. There was a human girl, and an Andorian of a gender with no human equivalent— he couldn't seem to help it. Everyone says that opposites attract and Jim knows all about reverse polarity, but he seems to be drawn like a magnet to the ones who are just as damaged as he is. He’s smart enough now to know that any romance like that is condemned from the start to fail: every time was just as doomed as the last and they'd only end up hurting each other until it fell apart and left Jim heartbroken. After being burned enough times, he’d decided that it’s better to simply steer clear of the complications and go for the strong, ambitious, self-reliant types who he could have fun with and then it would be over the next day for both of them, no strings attached.

Uhura is exactly that kind of girl, which is what makes her safe. She's smart and she's sexy, which are both big turn-ons, but she's not going to leave Jim pining or trying to save her.

Of course, unfortunately sometimes these self-same qualities mean that Jim gets totally shot down. He can take a philosophical approach to that; you win some, you lose some. Jim wins far more than he loses.

Anyway, he still maintains that Uhura totally would have gone for it eventually if Cupcake hadn't interrupted. The xenolinguistics thing was gold, and Jim totally wouldn’t have been averse to playing a little less dumb than usual if it would've gotten him laid.

Of course, Cupcake does butt his ugly nose in, which leads to the other kind of typical evening for Jim; the ones which end in a barroom brawl. These tend to fall into two categories: the ones where Jim owns everyone, and the ones where he pretty much gets ground into the dust. Not that he's a bad fighter, okay? He's a fucking awesome fighter. Just, when it involves him being outnumbered by oafs who are a lot bigger than him with no Paul to pull a phaser on them, things can (and have) definitely turned nasty.

The bit where things go somewhat off script is when Pike sweeps in to put a halt to the fighting and stop Jim from getting his face pulverized. Irrationally, Jim's a bit irked by that; he doesn't need help, he makes his choices and when that leads to getting lynched by psycho Starfleet cadets who are built like gorillas, well, he rolls with it.

Pike's not like all the other officers Jim's met, though; he’s not one of those arrogant pigs who rap out orders to their wayward cadets and then just pass their eye over Jim with a sneer that tells him how little of their time he's worth. (Sometimes it's not even for getting into fights. Once he'd been making out with a cadet and having a generally awesome time when some lieutenant had busted them and given Jim that same gutter-trash look.)

Pike's different, and maybe it's just because Jim had the dumb luck to be the kid of George Kirk, maybe he hates it just as much when people look at him and expect things just because of who his father was as when they look at him and expect nothing at all, but...

But Pike's different, and beneath the words of challenge on his bruised and bloodied lips and the distrustful, mocking look in his eyes, Jim actually finds the time to listen for a change.

After the captain leaves, Jim goes home to the garage to finish fixing himself up, because he was inches away from getting his face permanently rearranged by Cupcake back there and he could use a bit more than Pike's idea of first aid. Thank god for modern medicine, that's all Jim can say.

Getting the shit beaten out of him wasn't really the stand-out part of Jim's evening, though, because sad as it is to say, it's kind of a regular occurrence for him. That, wild sex, copious amounts of alcohol or some combination of the three have basically accounted for all his nights out for longer than he cares to remember, which sometimes he’s nihilistically proud of but tonight... well, tonight he got his face bashed in and didn't score, so in that sense, at least, it was kind of a write-off, but like he said: par for the course.

Starfleet captains waltzing in and trying to recruit him, though, that is new. Hell, the only other Starfleet officer he's ever had a meaningful conversation with spent his entire childhood trying to stop him from even thinking about touching a starship with a ten-foot pole, so it's different, if nothing else.

Different, and ironic, considering that he spent so much of his childhood thinking if he just worked hard enough, wanted it desperately enough, he could get the fuck off this rock— and yet here he is ten years later, a total deadbeat who stopped giving a shit years ago, and now some hot-shot Starfleet captain is offering him a place on a silver platter just for getting bashed up in the right place at the right time by the right people. (And on that note, it’s beginning to form a bit of a disturbing trend: Jim gets into a fight, some guy makes him an offer too good to refuse. In fact, most of the best things in Jim’s life have come to him by getting into fights, which is positive reinforcement for something he’s pretty sure shouldn’t be reinforced, but he’s hardly going to complain about it.)

It's laughable. It's absurd. And Jim was all set to say hell no, because who the fuck do Starfleet think they are, anyway, and why would Jim want to go back to constantly living in the shadow of his father? He had enough of that growing up, and he got sick of it. He might be doing jack all with his life right now, but at least it's his life. At least he built it up by himself; at least no one here really knows or gives a damn who George Kirk is.

But at the same time, despite that Jim at twenty-two is kind of jaded and cynical and made of sharp, jagged edges, he's also still who he is. That drive to get out of here, get free, see the world— it's been buried by angry hopelessness, but it's never really gone away. Riverside has always been too small, even if Jim has chained himself here willingly since he left home.

Besides, Pike dared him. Jim's a lot of things, but he has never been a coward, and the day James Tiberius Kirk turns down a dare is the day that the universe is over. Really, in the end the answer is simple; Jim's going to go, he's going to prove himself better, he's going to earn his freedom from the goddamn specter of his father's memory and he's going to do it in style.

But before he does that, there’s one more thing he has to do. Something he should have done years ago, but which, he can admit to himself now, he was too chicken to work up the guts to do.

It’s too late for Mom to be awake now, assuming she’s even planet-side, and Jim knows it’s kind of a cop-out to leave a message instead of calling when he knows she’ll be there, but the first step is the hardest and he knows he needs to do this now, before he goes, or he’ll never stop finding excuses to put it off.

When the recording starts he freezes for a moment, mind a roaring blank. He hasn’t seen his mother in eight or nine years; he has no idea what to say, and the temptation to disconnect and give up threatens to overwhelm him, but he’s determined to see this through, so he steels his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“Hey Mom,” he says, with a shaky grin that takes all his courage to muster. “Long time no see. I just… wanted to say sorry, and… tell you… Aw, hell. I’m joining Starfleet, okay? And I know you don’t like it, but I hope you can be happy for me, because I think I’m finally doing something right. I… I miss you too. Tell Sam—tell him I’ll call when I’m in San Fran. Tell him I want to meet Aurelan. Tell him I’m sorry I didn’t write. And tell him… tell him I love you both and I swear I’ll keep in contact this time.”

Jim stops, closes his eyes for a moment and takes another deep breath. He’s exhausted from a speech that took all of a minute to say, maybe two at most with the stammers, but he feels curiously light like he hasn’t in longer than he can recall, like a weight that’s been crushing him has suddenly lifted off his chest.

With a smile that comes to his lips without effort, Jim says, “See you later, Mom,” and hits the ‘send’ button before he can change his mind and delete the whole thing.

He wasn’t lying, when he said he thought he was finally doing something right. He can feel the sense of purpose beating in his veins, driving him on; he can hear the call of freedom beckoning to him.

Stuffing Sam’s letters in the pockets of his leather jacket, Jim laughs out loud, jumps on his bike and rides without a second thought towards the shipyard, because after twenty-two years of captivity he is finally getting the hell out of this shithole.

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 5

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 09:23:11 GMT

5.

After Sam leaves, Jim hardens up, closes off. He's learned a fundamental truth of reality: from now on, it's him against the rest of the world. There's no one in his corner to protect him anymore, so he's got to learn to look after himself. He's got to be quick-witted and strong-willed enough to stop anyone getting too close, smart enough to never be too smart. The best way to protect himself from Frank is to be where Frank isn't, and when he can't manage that, to at least try not to draw attention to himself.

Jim joins a lot of clubs when he starts high school: science, linguistics, chess, sports of all kinds imaginable. He stays at school until late on weekdays and goes out again on weekends, but he can't avoid Frank all the time, and he's not very good at blending into the background. He can't learn to hold the sharp edge of his tongue still, and it's hard to pretend he's part of the furniture when he can always feel the burn of Frank's stare following him around the room.

Frank broke something inside of Sam, and Jim doesn't want to let the bastard do the same to him, doesn't want to give him the satisfaction; he won't let Sam's sacrifices be for nothing. He's older now, and he's so much smarter than Frank, so much more mature than his years. He locks himself in a spiky defensive shell and learns to ignore the pain, fights back every time fierce and feral. Frank's taken a lot of things from Jim, but he won't take this. He won't take Jim's defiance.

At school, meanwhile, Jim feels the distance from everyone surrounding him like a chasm. Riverside is small enough that the class is pretty much made up of the same kids the whole way through from kindy to senior year so mostly everyone's stopped ribbing him about his age, but all the same, the gap just seems to widen as Jim gets older. His classmates are all entering puberty while physically he's still just a kid even if sometimes on the inside he feels about a hundred. Sam isn't there to act as a bridge between Jim and the rest of their year anymore, and besides, none of them are really capable of understanding the world Jim lives in. He's friendly with a lot of people— teachers say on his report cards that he's got a “mischievous type of charisma” and that he's “good with people”— but he doesn't have any friends. That's okay, though; Jim doesn't want to let anybody that close anyway. He can't afford the weakness.

It's a lot like living in a bubble, walking through life like it's a movie and it's not really happening, not to you. Whenever he's at school Jim feels almost removed from his own body, a passive audience watching from behind his own eyes. It's a weird feeling; everything around Jim is so normal that it doesn't feel real. All these teenagers living their normal lives with their normal angst about grades and dating and parents... it's so distant from Jim's life. They all seem so young and naive to him, even though they're all older, and he can't connect with any of them.

It's lonely, but that's nothing new. There's a simplicity to school that makes it a perfect refuge, even if Jim is a piece from the wrong puzzle that just doesn't click in with the rest of it.

On the other hand, home is much more complicated, a mess with no solution. There's Frank, of course— the one unfortunate constant of Jim's existence, these days— but the real issue is Mom.

She hadn't found out about what happened until she came home for shore leave to find Sam and the car both gone and Jim sporting a good behavior bond and a court order to attend regular therapy sessions, and it would be somewhat of an understatement to say that she hadn't taken it well, not that he can blame her.

Of course it had been a shock; Jim's pretty sure she didn't know where to start when she'd got the whole story dumped on her at once, but the first thing out of her mouth was all the questions and recriminations: how could you do that, why would you do it, you could have died, what were you thinking?

Disappointment always hurts more than anger, and Jim flinches from the look in her eyes, but he doesn't tell her Frank was going to sell the car. This time he's the one who isn't sure if she'd believe him, and even if she did, he doubts it'd even really matter because she wouldn't understand. She might get a little mad at Frank for trying to sell Dad's car without even telling her, but Jim's overheard enough fights to know they're tight for cash; it wouldn't take long for her to forgive Frank for that much. She wouldn't be able to comprehend why Jim had to go pull some dumbass stunt like driving it off a cliff and being lucky to just get arrested instead of killed. Typical James Kirk all over, everyone says, reckless and out of control, do you remember when he fell out of that tree? When he crashed the car the other time? That kid's got problems, he's acting out, he's only getting worse as he gets older...

Jim's afraid Mom's thinking the same thing, and he doesn't want to know about it if she is, so he holds his tongue.

The tears that came when she found out about Sam, though, had been much harder to endure. How Sam could do this to them? she kept saying. How he could run away like this without even giving her a word of goodbye?

Jim has always loved his mother, and he has always tried not to blame her for any of the messed up things in his life through some combination of love and guilt, but not this time. This time is not so easily forgiven, because this time she's driven Sam away and she doesn't even seem to get that, and so there's a cold, vindictive part of Jim that takes pleasure in her pain.

Sam's not here to get angry at Mom anymore and in a very real way she's the one to blame for that, and so now Jim's mad on Sam's behalf instead. It's all your fault, he wants to tell her. You never paid enough attention to him, you married that asshole, you abandoned us to run off to space and never even noticed what your jerk of a husband was doing to us. You couldn't even see that anything was wrong because you were never here.

But he never says any of it out loud, because even amidst the burn of bitterness and resentment, Jim still loves his mother. And he knows, with the heavy weight of responsibility, that this love means he won't ever be able to leave like Sam did. It would be one betrayal, one loss too many: Dad, Grandma, now Sam. If Jim left she'd have lost everything tying her to her old life, and Jim knows Mom well enough to know that it would be the final straw to break her, so even though she's never there and Jim sees her maybe two months out of twelve on a good year, he's chained to Iowa, chained to Riverside, chained to a house which used to be home and to the man who torments him. Mom's been leaving him behind to run off and hide on the other side of space almost since he was born, but Jim is more trapped than ever, and though the hypocrisy of it tastes like bile at the back of his throat he stays for the simple reason that he still loves his mother more than he could ever hate her.

The first letter arrives about three months after Sam left.

Dear Jim, it starts (they all start like that);

Hitch-hiked my way across state lines. Finally getting settled. Got a job scrubbing dishes. Pay's crap but at least they don't ask questions. Hope you're okay. Don't take Frank's crap, okay? Stay safe, kiddo.

Love, Sam

There's no return address, so Jim can't write back. He knows why; any mail address would tell Frank where Sam was living, and Jim tries to get to the post first but there's never any guarantee Frank won't read his mail before he does. Neither of them have access to a comm link.

The letters slowly build up over time, and Jim keeps them in a shoe-box under his bed. The paper goes soft and grimy and the edges a little ragged from being handled so often— Jim pulls them out every now and then to read them and remind himself that Sam's out there somewhere doing okay.

He doesn't show them to Mom. They're his secret; the only part of himself safely kept where no-one else can touch.

As Jim gets older, very little changes except for his continued progression through the school system and the escalation of Frank's violence.

Jim's read enough books to know that that's what people like Frank do: they just keep getting worse until they're stopped or someone dies or something. Jim only makes it worse when he fights back, refuses to submit, because it just provokes Frank to ever greater rage. Sometimes he can get in a few good hits and bites and scratches, but Frank is bigger and stronger than he is and Jim hasn't won a fight yet. It hasn't stopped him trying. He's still growing, after all, and one day he might get lucky. That's Jim's motto: never say die. He refuses to stop believing he can find a way out of this, because the alternative is unthinkable.

For the meantime, though, Jim is becoming a regular at the local hospital. They've got a crappy old dermal regenerator at home that helps a bit, but when Frank's really drunk he's got no sense of control over his anger or strength and it's not unusual for the injuries to get a little more serious; concussions, fractured arms, broken noses.

Obviously any kid going to hospital that much is bound to raise red flags, but Jim's far from stupid, even concussed, and he'd perfected the art of lying with a straight face years ago.

(Mom was right: learning poker was a valuable life skill, and he's not talking about the rules.)

Jim's eleven and a half, and he's spent most of the last year or so in and out of this place. The staff all recognize him by face, and the doctor on call today sighs as soon as he walks in and sees Jim cradling his newly healed and still tender wrist.

“Mr. Kirk,” he says wearily, “this is the third time in less than seven weeks I've seen you in here, and I have to admit I'm concerned.”

Jim shrugs, not really sure what the doctor wants him to say here. Sorry?

There's an awkward pause where the doctor simply looks at him with this serious expression and Jim has the sinking feeling that he knows where this is going.

“If someone were hurting you,” the doctor starts slowly, carefully, “you would tell someone, wouldn't you?”

“Of course,” Jim lies glibly, without a flicker across his face. “You know me, Doc, I can't help being reckless. Like I'd let anyone push me 'round, anyway.”

“Hmm,” the doctor says, but it's not the first time Jim's fielded this question and it sure as hell won't be the last, so he holds his gaze steady until the older man looks away. “Well, I hope you'll be more careful in future, lad. Modern medicine can't fix everything, after all, and just because we can knit your bones back together doesn't mean it's good for them to be put through that stress all the time, you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Jim says obediently.

“Good. Well, I suppose that's all. Just try to take it easy on that wrist for the next few days, since it'll be a bit tender and you're allergic to anything I could prescribe, and hopefully I won't be seeing you again anytime soon.”

That last bit holds a hint of warning, and Jim meets it with a big grin.

“Roger that, Doc,” he says, knowing it's a promise he can only keep so long as Frank's mood holds out, and he hops up off the bed, keen to get out of there. He's spent enough time in hospitals to learn to really hate them.

The doctor watches him with a slightly penetrative, evaluating look in his eyes like he knows Jim's hiding something, but doesn't try to stop him when he leaves, which is a relief. Sometimes when they get suspicious they try sending Jim to talk to a child psychologist, and that's the bit that sucks the most because there's nothing Jim hates the way he hates being scrutinized. They ask their probing questions again and again around in circles and he just smiles back and lies through gritted teeth, telling them exactly what they want to hear. Yes, he's fine; yeah, Frank's okay; yeah, he misses his Mom and his brother. No, he doesn't know why Sam left. School's a little lonely, but mostly life's just peachy. It's easy to fake his way through all the personality tests and meaningful conversations they throw at him, and in the end they always have no choice but to conclude that he's just starved of affection and acting out for attention or something.

Of course, the first thing anyone would ask if they found out would be why, why go so far to lie about it. He's stopped caring enough to be afraid of Frank, after all. If that's what this was about he'd tell the truth in an instant.

He's not protecting Frank, though. Maybe that's an unintentional side-effect, but really Jim's only looking out for himself, because he knows exactly what would happen if he told the truth: Frank would be charged, everyone would find out, and it'd go on Jim's medical file, a stain he could never erase. It'd haunt him for the rest of his life, follow him around as the albatross around his neck that anyone could find out about if they just had clearance or good enough hacking skills. In fact, they wouldn't even need to go that far; all they'd have to do is pay a visit to Riverside and ask around, because in a small town everyone knows everyone's business and no one ever forgets.

There's no way he wants shit like that on his permanent records, and so he keeps his peace. It's a cold and ruthless equation, but it only makes sense: one day he'll make Frank pay, but not like that.

In the meantime Jim's careful not to give anything away, only letting doctors see injuries that are easily explained. Fell out of another tree, slipped when he was climbing on the roof, got into a fight, broke it in a footy match... It's kind of insulting how easily people believe him, but he's got a rep around town as a wild child, so he supposes he can't blame them.

Mom's eyes are always tired and helpless when she calls him, like she doesn't know what to do with him, and Jim just wants to scream look at me, look what you're doing to me until she listens, until she comes home, but he doesn't. He doesn't want Mom involved in this. It's his mess to deal with, not hers, and she doesn't need to know about this. He doesn't think she'd cope very well with it, and Jim doesn't need anyone else's protection.

He can look after himself.

Dear Jim,

Got promoted to waiting tables. People are assholes (old news) but at least it pays a bit better. I miss you.

Love, Sam

For all his alcoholism and anger issues, Frank can be weirdly gentle and considerate when it comes to Mom. They fight, sure, but not all the time, and it's pretty mundane and ordinary when they do, yelling at each other across the kitchen about the bills, Jim's behavioral issues, the fact that Winona's never there. Nobody throws anything; there's no threats or real verbal abuse. In fact, if it were anyone but Frank, Jim would feel sorry for him, because what the hell is he getting out of this marriage, really? An absentee wife, a kid whose not his and who he obviously loathes, endless struggles trying to keep the farm out of debt. It's pretty shitty when you look at it from that angle, and as much as Jim doesn't want to empathies he can't understand why Frank stays. The only thing he can think of is that Frank must actually love Mom, which sucks for him, because her true loves will always be Dad and the cosmos.

Frank has only ever hit Mom once.

It had happened when Jim was twelve and already notorious as the only genius-level repeat offender in the Mid-West, a tag he's perversely proud of. They'd been arguing about Jim, of course— it's always in those fights that Frank is at his angriest, and usually pretty pissed off his face to boot if he lets the topic come up in the first place. They'd been yelling and screaming and as usual Jim had been trying to zone out in the next room, block out all the snatches of “you never disciplined him properly” and “what do you expect from him!” that filter through the walls. Their voices had kept ratcheting up, louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore them, and just when Jim had started to get a little worried, a loud smack sounded and Mom cried out, breaking off mid-rant.

Jim had dropped everything and dashed to the doorway of the kitchen, widening his eyes at the scene in front of him. Mom was cradling her reddened, tear-stained cheek with one hand and staring at Frank with pure shock tinted by accusation. Frank was staring back at her, breathing hard and clearly stunned by what he'd just done, anger draining away.

Still frozen in the doorway, Jim had somehow simultaneously been both shocked and yet totally unsurprised, because Frank was drunk and angry and Jim knows all too well what he's really like, but at the same time... he's never hit Mom before. Never, no matter how mad she must make him, and maybe part of that's because she's not here frequently enough, but subconsciously Jim still never expected this to happen.

When the first moment of disbelief wore off, Mom had gone into hysterics, telling him to get out, get out, don't come near her while he babbled a string of apologies. Mom stayed up late cradling Jim close to her, pressing salty tear-damp kisses into his hair, and Frank spent that night in the barn.

The next day, though, Frank was still apologizing and Mom had calmed down. In the end she forgave him, and Jim's not entirely sure how she rationalized it to herself but he thinks he can guess: it was just stress and the heat of the moment, he hadn't done it before, it wasn't like it was a pattern, she didn't think he'd do it again, Jim's uncontrollable behavior is just making this a stressful time for all of them.

Whatever her reasons are, she seems to all but forget about the incident, and it hasn't happened again. Jim's afraid, though, that if Frank could hit Mom once, he could do it again. It had started that way with him and Sam, after all; maybe Frank really does love her, but that's obviously not enough by itself. They've fought since then and Frank hasn't lashed out, but Jim worries that maybe if he weren't here for Frank to focus on Frank might start hurting Mom instead.

It's kind of a stupid fear because Mom's not even here most of the time and Jim's never known anyone more independent or impossible to tie down than her so surely she'd just pick up and leave if it ever got bad, but the fear is still there, even if it's irrational, and it becomes another reason weighing Jim down, tying him to this life and stopping him from escaping like Sam did.

It's not actually like Frank is angry all the time, but Jim kind of wishes he were, because he hates, hates, hates Frank's good moods. It sounds perverse, but he'd rather Frank smash his face in, break his wrist again, twist his arm until it's on the verge of dislocation than have Frank be “nice”. Frank in a foul mood is a lot simpler to deal with, and so Jim fights him every step of the way, even though he knows that (in one sense, at least) it would all go much easier on him if he just played along.

Even if the end result is the same, give or take the swelling and the bruises, Jim's pride is the only thing he's got left and he'll fight to the bitter end to keep it.

(Sometimes he thinks maybe he even understands Frank, a little, and that's the worst part, because Jim doesn't want to understand Frank. He doesn't want to empathies with him. And most of all, Jim doesn't want to have to worry that maybe one day he'll be Frank, which is the scariest thought of all.)

Dear Jim,

I met this girl- Aurelan. She's real sweet, I think you'd like her. She's just so refreshingly normal... somehow she makes everything seem okay. I wish you could meet her.

Love, Sam

Jim's life from the ages of ten to thirteen blurs together a bit. Mostly it's the same old thing day after day, and he could probably pick out memories and assign a vague timestamp to them if he wanted to, but he really doesn't. There's nothing much worth remembering, so he doesn't try.

From about halfway through sophomore year, though, everything is clear and distinct, picked out in technicolor and impossible to forget, because that's the year that Callum's family moves to Riverside.

Callum is the year below Jim in school and two years above him in age, and he sticks out almost as much as Jim does— transfer students are rare enough without coming in halfway through the semester, but beyond that Callum is just different. He doesn't fit in. He's a misfit, a freak. He's like Jim, and Jim knows the first time he sees Callum sitting alone in the cafeteria at lunch that he's special.

Even in a single glance it's obvious Callum isn't like the other kids. His eyes are heavily blacked with eyeliner and he wears a dark long-sleeved hooded jersey even though it's still hot out. He's got headphones shoved down over his ears and a scowl on his face that radiates an aura of anti-social prickliness, and the other kids don't even attempt to pierce his wide bubble of personal space, just sit around staring and whispering loudly. It's not at all subtle, and there's no way the new guy can have failed to notice, even if he can't hear them.

Jim cuts straight through the whole atmosphere to dump his tray on the table next to Callum and offer a cocky grin.

“Hi,” he says loudly. “I'm Jim. You're Callum, right?”

Callum glances briefly at him and then away, crossing his arms over his chest defensively but otherwise ignoring Jim entirely. Callum's a mystery all over, and he obviously doesn't want Jim figuring him out.

That's okay, though. Jim likes challenges.

“Why are you following me?” Callum demands after Jim's been semi-stalking him for about a week. Jim's a little surprised it took that long, but Callum's been trying to pretend he's not there, so he must have just reached the point where he can't take it anymore.

Jim shrugs. “I dunno,” he says. “You looked interesting?”

Callum just stares at him for a moment, apparently not sure what to say to that. “How old are you, anyway?” he asks eventually.

“I'm a sophomore,” Jim tells him. It's not a lie, simply a misleading omission. Callum gives him a dubious look, because Jim's small even for a thirteen-year-old and definitely doesn't look fifteen, but he lets it go, maybe because he already knows Jim's not a freshman like him and that doesn't really leave any other options.

Callum sighs.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Do what you want, s'not like I care.”

Jim beams. “Cool,” he says, cheerful in the face of the other boy's apathy. “So where're you from, anyway?”

Callum gives him a half-hearted glare, but Jim just grins obnoxiously back, not deterred in the slightest, and keeps repeating the question until Callum gives in.

“Colorado, for fuck's sake,” he snaps, with a look on his face like he's already regretting talking to Jim or maybe he's thinking about where he'll hide the body.

“I don't think you could get away with homicide just yet,” Jim says, just in case. “I mean, you haven't really been here long enough to have found any really good hiding places, y'know?”

Callum wrinkles his nose.

“You're weird,” he says.

“Yep. It's my best feature,” Jim agrees, and Callum shakes his head with a slight upward quirk to his lips, which is the first time Jim's seen him smile since he started here.

“Sure it is,” he says dryly, and Jim is sure from that moment that this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship, even if Callum doesn't know that yet.

Several days later, Callum has apparently heard enough of the gossip to know who Jim is, because the first thing he does when he sees Jim at lunch period on Friday is blurt out, “You're thirteen!”

Jim blinks at him. “Uh, yeah,” he says, a little warily. “Why, is that a problem?”

Callum flicks a quick glance in Jim's direction. “You're younger than me,” he says instead of answering, carefully blank in a way that suggests he's checking for landmines or something, and Jim rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I am,” he answers, with a hint of steel. “Are you gonna be an asshole about it?”

“I dunno,” Callum mumbles, shoving his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie awkwardly. “I mean, no, I guess. Just, you were the one who wanted to be friends or whatever. How come you lied?”

“Until today you were the only person in the whole school who didn't know how much of a freak I am,” Jim points out. “I was enjoying the novelty. Anyway, evading's not lying.”

That startles a short huff of laughter out of Callum, and Jim smirks, proud of his accomplishment.

“It kind of is,” Callum says. “But whatever, I get your point. You're not the only freak 'round here.”

“See, that's what I've been telling you,” Jim says earnestly. “We should hang out together and be freaks together.”

Callum scoffs. “Yeah, right. Won't that just make us doubly freaky?”

Jim shrugs. “So?”

Callum stares at him for a moment and then his mouth twitches again. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he says, sounding mildly amused. “Fuck 'em, anyway.”

Jim knew they were going to be great together, and he's always right. Well, except for when he's spectacularly, catastrophically wrong, but who's counting, really.

The thing is: Callum is fifteen, the new kid in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and the product of a messy divorce. It's screwed him up a lot; he cuts class, he talks back to teachers, he smokes.
He goes through fits of depression and sometimes he drinks so much he passes out draped over the toilet bowl. He's maybe even more screwed up than Jim, except he's never hotwired anything or hacked the school network or driven a car off a cliff, so maybe not.

But whatever, the point is that Callum is a teenage boy with a lot of his own issues to obsess over, which means that he's kind of self-absorbed. Not in a bad way; just, he's too caught up in his problems to really notice anyone else's, so he never asks about why Jim doesn't talk about his family or invite Calllum over or notice when Jim's in a weird mood.

It sounds like an uneven and pretty unsatisfying friendship if you put it like that, but Jim's happy to listen to Callum's issues. It means something that Callum trusts him enough to confide in him, and Jim doesn't want to talk about his own problems. He hates the feeling of being under scrutiny, of people probing into the dark corners of his life; he'd rather not think about any of that at all unless he has to, so in a weird way the thing Callum and Jim have going works for them. Even with all the days where Callum's in a downswing mood and Jim has to try and deal with the fallout, it gives him a single spot of brightness, something to look forward to every day.

It takes about a year of their strange friendship for Jim to admit to himself that he's possibly a tiny bit in love with Callum. If by “a tiny bit in love” one actually means “desperately, obsessively infatuated”.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious. If Sam had still been around, or if Mom had been home for more than relatively brief snatches of shore leave, they would have spotted it from twenty paces. Jim doesn't have any friends other than Callum, but if he did, he would have spent at least 80% of his time talking about the other boy: Callum said this, Callum thinks that, Callum and I did that together... As it is he has to bottle it all up inside, but all that means is Jim thinks about him all the time, missing him, wondering where he is or what he's doing and thinking while they're apart.

Really, Jim's been about as subtle as a ten-foot neon sign— he's just lucky Callum's so oblivious. Actually, he's kind of disgusted with himself for taking so many months to figure himself out, but at the same time he wishes he could go back to being in denial, because the whole thing terrifies him. Not because Callum is a boy: Jim has gradually come to terms with the idea that things like sex or race or even species aren't really such an important deciding factor in who he finds attractive.

The problem is that Callum is real, and right here, and he's turning Jim into a total lovesick idiot. He could deal with just thinking Callum was cute and moving on, but it's everything about him, and it's destroying Jim's focus and his composure and his life because he can't stop obsessing over it. He's scared of messing up, scared of ruining their friendship, feels like he's going crazy because he wants Callum so bad and he doesn't know how long he can keep it bottled up—

Most of all Jim is petrified because he's got every reason in the world not to want to fall in love, because he's seen what it's done to Mom and he can feel what it's doing to him and keeping it inside is going to tear him to pieces if he doesn't give himself away and get his heart broken first. A lot of shitty things have happened to Jim in his thirteen years, and yet somehow this manages to be one of the worst. He wants all these feelings to just go away, but it doesn't work like that.

He definitely had it right when he was seven; love sucks.

Unfortunately, now Jim knows, it's like he's opened Pandora's box. He can't just go back to blissful ignorance, and it makes him stilted and awkward around Callum, not sure what to say or do. Even Callum isn't oblivious enough to miss that, and he keeps giving Jim these piercing looks until finally cornering him one day to ask why he's being so weird.

Jim opens his mouth to lie, which is what he's really good at, but somehow he freezes up, brain coming up completely blank for the first time he can recall.

“I like you,” he blurts, before his self-preservation instincts can reassert themselves, and instantly wishes he could sink through the ground and die.

Callum frowns.

“So?” he says, clearly not getting it, and this would be the perfect time to backtrack and come up with some kind of excuse, but now Jim's said it he'll be damned if he wimps out again.

“I'm telling you I like you, you moron!” he says, frustrated, and lunges forward to press his mouth to Callum's in what ends up as a rather painful smush of lips against teeth.

It is terrifyingly likely that he has just fucked up their entire friendship, but Jim never does things by half measures.

He pulls back and Callum is frozen, staring at him with wide eyes that look so lost and unsure.

“Sorry,” Jim says hurriedly. “Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I just... Callum?”

“I,” Callum starts, visibly shaken. “I didn't know, I didn't...”

Jim's throat feels too tight to even swallow, let alone talk, so he just nods.

“You're my best friend, Jim,” Callum tells him, not meeting his eyes. “I don't want to hurt you. But... I don't know. I'm not even sure if it's a good idea for me to get into that kind of relationship right now, with how messed up I am.”

Jim forces down the warring dread and terrible hope fluttering in his chest.

“Could we at least try?” he asks— pleads, really. He hates the vulnerability threading through his own voice. James Tiberius Kirk gave up long ago on wanting things or caring what anyone else thinks, but he let his guard down with Callum and now he's paying for it.

Callum hesitates before he finally looks back at Jim.

“If it's just a trial,” he says slowly. “I can't promise anything. Are you really okay with that?”

Relief bubbled up in Jim's body, overwhelming the whispering voice of common sense trying to point out how this was going to change everything and shouldn't he and Callum think about this more before they go jumping into anything?

“Sure,” he says, smiling a little shyly at Callum as he catches the other boy's hand. “I can do a trial.”

This is going to be awesome.

For about the first three weeks, everything is pretty awesome. Floating on clouds, giddiness, random inexplicable busts of happiness, the whole shebang, and for the first time in his life Jim gets why people would want to be in love.

By the fourth week, he realizes that the whole experience is a lot more like being on a really violent rollercoaster than on a gentle floating cloud and is ready to take back the whole awesome statement.

If he'd thought about problems at all before they started this thing, he would have assumed it would be Callum having second thoughts, but that would have been a fatal miscalculation because Jim forgot to take his own issues into account. He's still so in love with Callum that it practically hurts sometimes, but he's feeling almost bipolar the way his feelings keep soaring and crashing from one extreme to the next. He hadn't thought about how hard it would be to go from being at home with Frank to hanging out with Callum, the difficulty of all the sneaking around and trying to find places where they can be alone together, the strain of dealing with Callum's issues on top of his own. He'd thought it would be fine because it wasn't like he didn't already know about how messed up Callum is, but it's a whole new ballgame when they're together.

The worst thing is, in some ways Jim feels like by gaining a boyfriend he's lost a friend, because they don't just hang out having fun anymore. All they seem to do these days is make out, which is Jim's fault because he's always the one who starts it, but he can't seem to help himself, even when he doesn't really feel like it.

He resolves to just spend time with Callum hanging out like they used to before they started dating, but he can't seem to stop himself messing up. It's like there's this air of expectation every time they're alone together, even when they're not doing anything— even when Callum's not in the mood and won't let Jim kiss him, because then things get all strained and awkward even though Jim secretly sometimes feels relieved about it.

He just can't help it, and then he always goes and makes things worse when he tries to go too fast and freaks Callum out.

“I'm just, doesn't it make you nervous at all?” Callum demands one time after shoving Jim away, knees hugged defensively to his chest. “It's normal, isn't it?”

Jim shrugs, because how should he know? He's not normal.

“I dunno,” he mutters, hating Frank, hating Callum, hating himself most of all. “Never mind, just forget it.”

Callum bites his lip. “Sorry,” he offers, and Jim sighs, deflating.

“Don't be, it's not your fault,” he says. “I'm the one who should be sorry.”

If there's one thing Jim knows about this stuff, it's that only assholes push.

Really, he thinks, his biggest mistake was falling in love in the first place. It's ruined their entire friendship.

Jim's feeling trapped and he doesn't even know why. He still wants to be with Callum, but at the same time sometimes thinking about the future makes his throat almost close up with panic in a weird kind of metaphorical claustrophobia. Most people start a relationship first and fall in love later, but they're doing it all backwards and that's terrifying, because there's only two ways this can go— breaking up or spending the rest of their lives together— and both of those prospects scare the shit out of him. He wants to go back to how things used to be, but he can't. It's too late. Breaking up will fuck everything up and hurt like hell, and they can't just take everything back like Jim never confessed. Even if they did, he'd still be sitting around pining and he remembers how that felt enough to know that he couldn't have just continued on like that forever.

So the one thing that's absolutely clear: there's no way back, only forwards, and even that's in question because Jim has no idea where to go from here. He can't bear the thought of life without Callum, or even the idea of trying to go back to “just friends”, but at the same time he's falling apart under the strain of the relationship. He's not the only one, either. Callum's binge drinking has just been getting worse since they started dating, and Jim's not even really sure why. He has no idea what's going through Callum's head when it comes to him, or them together; Jim has tried to talk about it, but Callum never tells him when he's doing something wrong and he's not a goddamned mind-reader. It's been months and he doesn't even know if Callum's sure yet, which makes him feel twice as insecure, waiting for the other shoe to drop while in the meantime he holds Callum's hair back when he pukes and tries to keep everything together.

They're too fucked up between them for this to ever be healthy for either of them. They're like two shards of broken glass, all jagged edges that don't line up right and just slice each other up when they try. Jim knows deep down, even if he doesn't want to admit it to himself, that this is never going to work out. They can't keep going like this forever; one or both of them is going to have a breakdown at this rate.

That doesn't mean Jim is ready or willing to give up yet, though.

(He's not sure he ever will be, at least not until the inevitable happens and maybe not even then.)

For as long as Jim can remember, the farm has been struggling with ever-increasing debt.

He hasn't been at home much over the past few months, spending most of his time staying over at Callum's place, and even when he's there he's been too caught up in his relationship dramas to pay much attention beyond the requisite attempts at staying out of Frank's way, so it had taken Jim quite some time to notice that all the debts have somehow just vanished while he wasn't looking.

In fact, it's not just that the debt notices stop coming; when Jim stops and takes notice he sees all these new tools and gadgets piling up around the place, like Frank's got cash to burn all of a sudden.

Jim knows something's up. Money doesn't just appear out of nowhere or grow on trees or whatever, after all, and he certainly hasn't seen any great influx of work lately. He might not have been around much, but Jim's pretty sure that any legitimate business that had them this flush with funds would be hard to miss.

It's certainly enough to twig his suspicions, so Jim does a little digging— all those hacking skills come in pretty handy when you're trying to trace someone else's credit flow— and he's not at all surprised to discover that Frank's gotten himself involved in some serious off-planet smuggling. Frank's always been the kind of guy who'd use any means to get what he wants, and he's none too bright, either.

Jim files this discovery away for the moment, certain it'll come in handy later. He's still got too many other things weighing on his mind to deal with it now, and even if he were inclined to do anything about it he still doesn't have any proof that doesn't also implicate him for hacking into secure bank accounts. He's far from forgotten about it, though; Jim's simply biding his time.

Any good game player, be it cards or chess, knows that it's all about timing: you never show your hand too early.

Jim realizes it's over for good a few days after Callum almost dies.

He'd known it was coming; of course he'd known. He'd just been so desperate to cling on, so desperately optimistic that if he wanted it enough, if they wanted it enough, they'd be able to pull through, and he'd ignored all the danger signs telling him to end it before it blew up in his face.

The thing was, he knew Callum had problems. Callum missed his Mom, he missed Colorado, he was depressed and he drank too much. He evaded talking about his problems as if dating suddenly meant he couldn't talk to Jim anymore, and most of the time Jim had no idea what Callum was thinking or feeling towards him. This thing they had was broken; Jim knew that, even if he didn't want to admit it. He couldn't fix Callum no matter how hard he tried, and Callum didn't even know that Jim needed fixing.

It was fucked up, and it was only making them both worse, but Jim had shut his eyes to it right up until the moment he found himself in the emergency room gripping Callum's hand in a tight, white-knuckled squeeze as the other boy's stomach was pumped of enough alcohol to kill him.

(To be honest, Jim had known then in that moment that they were over, even if he kept on denying it right until the end.)

It had seemed like any other night at first— Jim didn't like it, but it was pretty normal for Callum to drink so much he spewed or passed out. Except this time he just kept drinking and drinking, and he was so ill and Jim didn't know what to do, Callum just kept vomiting and he wasn't breathing right and Jim was freaking out—

So he'd panicked and called 911 and ridden with Callum to the ER where the doctor on duty had taken one look at his face and said, “Jim Kirk, having not seen you for a few months I'd hoped you'd grown out of getting yourself into trouble—” and Jim had blurted over the top of him, “It's not me, it's Callum, he's, I think he's really sick—”

Which is how Jim ended up here, sitting next to Callum's hospital bed listening white-faced as words like “moving back” and “living with Mom” and “Dad's going too” spill out of Callum's mouth in that raw, hoarse voice that still hasn't quite recovered yet.

“But you said no, right?” Jim says numbly when Callum stops talking, even though he already knows the answer. “You won't... you're not leaving, are you? We're... we could run away together somewhere, get away from all this bullshit, it'll be fine, it'll be...”

But Callum just stares silently back at him with those hollow, bruised-looking eyes, and he doesn't have to say anything at all for Jim to know that this is it. This is the end, this is where it's all over. Callum's going; he's not looking back or asking Jim to go with him. He doesn't want to hold on: he's looking for a clean break. He's looking for his old pre-Jim life back.

It's selfish when Callum's the one lying in the hospital bed, but Jim's eyes prickle with heat and he can't stay there, not another moment, so he jumps to his feet and runs from the room, hard uncomfortable hospital chair clattering across the floor with the sudden force of his movement. He runs and runs until his lungs burn and his legs ache and his vision is blurred with tears until he stumbles to a stop in his own front hallway, panting for breath and doubled over with his sweaty palms pressed against his trembling thighs.

“What's your problem, kid?”

Jim's heart falters over a beat, and his head shoots up for him to find Frank standing at the other end of the corridor, sneering. Jim is swamped by a red hot tidal wave of hate and all he wants to do is smack that look right off Frank's face, but it's not worth it and Jim knows it. He's better off channeling his energy into getting real revenge, not by getting into a losing fight where Frank would probably have him charged for assault even if he did manage to land in a few good blows. He's not going to give Frank that satisfaction.

Callum's leaving and it's not okay and Jim's not entirely sure it's going to be okay, either, but he's not thinking about that. Not now, not ever; he's boxing it up and shoving it to a corner of his mind where it can gather dust, never to see the light of day again. Now Jim lives for his revenge: he still doesn't quite have all the incriminating evidence he needs, but he's getting there. It should coincide nicely with the end of his senior year.

Jim straightens his back, swipes a hand across his eyes and gives Frank a cocky smirk as on the inside, his broken heart turns to ice.

“Nothing I'd tell you, Frank,” he says, and holds his head high with defiance when he passes him by.

Dear Jim,

How are you? I hope everything's okay. I think I'm finally starting to pull things together. Aurelan's helping me get my high-school diploma so I can go to college. I think... I'm happy now. I think maybe Aurelan's the one.

You were right, Jimmy; there's so much more to life than Riverside. You should get out here.

Love, Sam

The day he finally graduates, Jim skips the ceremony— he'd lied and told the school he couldn't make it, out of town that day, and picked the certificate up from the office about a week before. When he'd gone home, the house was empty. Middle of the day; Frank was at work at the shipyard, no doubt engaged in something less than legal.

It had taken time, but Jim had gathered all the evidence he needed and it couldn't even be traced back to him. He hadn't needed to plant anything; Frank was just stupid. He's always been scared of how much smarter than him Jim is, and it turns out with good reason, because he's been trafficking smuggled parts from off-planet to make a quick buck and Jim's going to make sure he gets put away for a very long time.

With his revenge in the palm of one hand and his diploma in the other, the last threads holding Jim down in this barren place snap. It's finally time.

He wonders, as he makes the call to the police and then heads off to get rip-roaringly drunk, if Sam would be proud.

Frank's arrest is the talk of the town. Maybe it's even made state-wide news; Jim neither knows or cares. He hasn't had to see the asshole since he phoned in the anonymous tip nor gone anywhere where people might recognize him (i.e., anywhere), and that's how he likes it.

While the rest of his class are getting tipsy off a champagne breakfast, Jim is cleaning up the remainders of his old life, getting ready to clear off. Frank's gone and he doesn't really have a plan beyond going. Somewhere; anywhere. It doesn't really matter where, just anywhere but here, because Frank's gone but the memories aren't and Jim's spent long enough as a prisoner in this house.

He leaves a note for Mom on the kitchen table, explaining... not everything. Enough. The fact that Frank's in jail for his involvement in a smuggling racket. The fact that Jim's going. That he loves her, hopes she's well.

Most of it she'll probably hear through the grapevine before she's even made it as far as the house, but he figures she deserves at least that much after Sam.

Think of it like I'm going to college, he writes. It's not that unusual for kids to move out when they finish high school, right?

He's not sure how much consolation that'll be, but he can't stay in this house anymore, not even for her sake.

The last thing Jim does before he leaves is to gather together all his things, everything he's not taking— which is most of it— into a pile in the yard and throw a match at it. He stands there for what must be an hour, watching it burn, feeling the heat on his face and the sting in his eyes from the glow and the smoke, and he feels absolutely nothing, just numb. He'd have razed the house down to the ground and all the years of misery with it, but he couldn't do that to Mom.

On top of the pile, his high school diploma curls and blackens in the flames. It makes for nice symbolism; all his childish hopes and naive dreams burning away to ashes. Grandma always told him that if he worked hard enough he could do whatever he wanted, but it was all just bullshit, because where the hell did studying ever get him? He's had enough trying, and he doesn't plan on needing any certificates where he's going. He and Sam promised they'd go up into space and explore the universe one day, but Sam's not here and Jim's given up on dreams anyway. Reality doesn't work like that, and he's sick of living in the shadow of his dead father.

When all that remains is a black, smoldering mess of charred paper and melted plastic, Jim takes the bike from the garage and drives off without a second look back.

Next

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 4

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:39:40 GMT

4.

Lately, ever since Jim crashed the car, Mom and Frank have been fighting a lot. They try to hide it from him and Sam, but sometimes the sharp comments spill over into casual conversation and once or twice Jim has heard shouting from their bedroom. They act like nothing's going on most of the time, but the atmosphere in the house hums with tension these days, a rubber band pulled so tight it feels like it could snap at any moment.

Jim's picked up enough of the undercurrents to know what they're fighting about: Mom's talking about maybe going off-planet again. He's reluctant to admit it even to himself, but Jim actually kind of agrees with Frank on this one— why should he have to hang around and take care of Mom's kids for her while she buggers off to a whole 'nother planet? Jim's pretty sure that wasn't what Frank was signing up for when he married Mom, after all.

The biggest fight happens a few nights after Jim and Mom finish repairing the car. It's late— Jim just happens to be sneaking down to the kitchen for a midnight snack when he hears the sound of arguing from inside.

“... work,” Mom's saying at Frank, voice starting to rise, and Jim stops dead outside door. It's open just a chink, just enough to see slices of their faces and angry hand gestures and hear what they're saying. “There's not enough jobs at the shipyard, Frank, I told you—”

“Bullshit!” Frank yells, and there's a harsh noise as he slaps his hand down on the bench. “You don't have to go off-planet and you know it! Hell, we could move to San Fran if that's what this was really about, but you're just being fucking selfish!”

“You knew it was going to be like this!” Mom yells back. “You knew when you married me, I told you—”

“You didn't tell me shit, Winona,” Frank interrupts, but Mom just keeps talking over the top of him.

“—I've already got the orders! What do you expect me to do, tell them I refuse?”

Jim doesn't stay to hear the rest, just creeps quietly back to his room. He doesn't need to stay; he knows what they're fighting about. He knows what happens now.

Sure enough, the next day Mom tells him that she's been assigned a job off-planet and she'll be gone, just for a few weeks— you'll be good for Frank, won't you? Try to keep Sammy from picking fights, okay, sweetie?

“Okay, Mom,” Jim says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He won't ask her not to go, just like he never did when he was little and standing on the porch with Grandma and Sam watching her walk away. Maybe she'd stay a little longer if he or Sam asked, but he knows better than Frank that they can't really stop her from going, not forever, not when she isn't really here in the first place.

Mom has never dealt well with cages; Jim always knew she'd fly away again one day. The only thing that surprises him is that it took this long.

After Mom leaves, everything at home kind of sucks. Mom and Frank made up before she'd gone, but he's still obviously not happy about it and it shows. He's drinking even more heavily than usual and he's temper's just gotten fouler. Sam's angry being left alone with Frank, and Jim misses Mom and feels a tiny bit betrayed that she'd abandon them like this. Most of him understands and just wants Mom to be okay, but a small bitter part whispers that he feels trapped, too, so how come she gets to run off into the stars whenever it gets too much and he's still just stuck here, anchored to the ground?

Things just seem to settle into a steady downward slide, getting worse as they go. Jim mostly tries to stay out of Frank's way, because he's mean when he's drunk, and he's drunk all the time since Mom left. Mostly it's just words, cruel sneers and jabs and putting him and Sam down— more Jim than Sam, because Frank seems to hate Jim for some reason even though Sam's the one who goes out of his way to piss Frank off. Sam just gets caught in the crossfire when he tries to stick up for Jim or picks a fight with Frank first.

The problem is that Frank's got a pretty nasty temper, especially when he's been drinking, and sometimes Jim can't keep his stupid mouth shut, because he's had a rule of never giving into bullies ever since that first fight he and Sam got into back in elementary school. He knows it's dumb, but sometimes he finds himself retorting before he even thinks about it, like when Frank says, “No wonder Winona never sticks around when she's got a freak kid like you.”

The words are already out of Jim's mouth before he has time to reconsider: “Yeah, well, obviously you're not a good enough reason to stay either, hey, Frank—”

He comes to expect the sharp crack across his mouth that sends him tumbling to the ground, but on some level it's always a shock when the pain hits.

Eventually, Jim doesn't even have to talk back to make Frank mad. He just has to get in the way of the TV, or look at him wrong, or simply exist in the same room.

Sam takes the brunt of it, though, because he gets in the way when Frank tries to hit Jim, starts fights on purpose, does everything he can to distract Frank and make him mad at Sam instead. Jim feels bad about Sam trying to protect him— he got a pretty bad head wound once when Frank knocked him into a table— but when he pleads with Sam to stop it, stop making Frank mad, Sam says it's his right as the older brother and Jim can do it when he's older.

“That doesn't even make sense, you moron!” Jim yells at him, stamping his foot, but Sam just ignores him and keeps on fighting with Frank.

Mom comes back after what Jim thinks has to be the worst six weeks of his life. Sam has a black eye, but when Mom asks him about it he lies and tells her he got into a fight at school when another kid made fun of Jim.

It's close enough to the truth that she believes it, just sighs and cups his cheek. “You know I'm always proud when you stick up for your brother, Sammy, but fighting's not the answer, okay?” she says. “You're going to start getting into trouble even more than Jimmy does at this rate. I hope you were at least good for Frank?”

“Yeah,” Sam mumbles, and escapes as soon as she'll let him go. Jim tries to ask him why he didn't tell her it was Frank's fault, but Sam brushes him off, tells him to just leave it alone.

Jim doesn't want to, but in the end he doesn't say anything to Mom either, because Sam asked him not to and they're in this together. Jim isn't sure if Sam thinks Mom won't believe him or will say it's his own fault or maybe he's just scared of what Frank will do if he does, but he's got his reasons and Jim respects that, so for now at least he lets it go.

When Mom's around, Frank doesn't drink so much, and he's not so mean or violent. He still watches Jim a lot, though, eyes tracking him around the room, and it makes Jim feel nervous, like if he puts a foot wrong asshole Frank will come back. He tries to avoid Frank and spend as much time with Mom and Sam as he can; he's not sure if she notices at all that anything's wrong, but maybe from the outside it doesn't look so different from before.

It feels different, though. Frank could be a jerk sometimes, but Jim never used to hate or fear him like he does now. He's dreading what will happen when Mom leaves them alone with him again, and he knows it'll happen sooner or later. Now that she's gone on one mission, there'll be more to follow.

Several weeks later, Jim's fears are proven true: Mom's going on a mission again, for two months this time, and he knows she's sliding back into her habits from before Grandma died. Soon enough Jim will be lucky to see her for more than a few weeks out of the entire year.

So Mom comes and she goes, and they settle into this kind of weird cycle where they all pretend everything's normal while she's there and go back to all the drinking and yelling and hitting and vicious remarks the rest of the time. Jim imagines it must be a little like what living in a warzone would be like. Every so often there's a ceasefire and nothing blows up and nobody dies, but underneath that the fear and violence are lurking.

The thing is, even when Mom's off-planet, it's not like Frank is nasty all the time. It doesn't make much sense, but Jim actually hates that most of all. He hates the unpredictability; he hates not knowing from one moment to the next whether Frank will smile at him and ruffle his hair or if he'll make some cruel remark and cuff Jim on the head so hard his vision blurs. He hates that part of him is still desperately seeking Frank's love and approval, that wonders what's wrong with him that Frank hates him so much. Sam tells him all the time it's not him that's wrong, it's Frank, and Jim knows that, but it's a lot easier to remember when Frank's hurting them than when he's being nice.

Today, it seems, is one of the nice days. Jim is doing homework in the kitchen when Frank comes home, and usually Frank would make some sarcastic comment about that— just like all the kids at school he finds it freakish and weird that Jim's too smart for his own good and it tends to be one of the things that'll set him off, so Jim tries to avoid doing anything to call attention to it, but sometimes it's unavoidable.

Right now, though, there's no name-calling or verbal attacks; Frank's whistling almost cheerfully, and all he says is, “Working hard, Jim-boy?”

He lifts his hand and Jim flinches away, but Frank just gives a wry laugh and pats him on the head, letting his hand slide down to cup the back of Jim's neck.

Jim squirms in his chair, uncomfortable and awkward. He never knows how to deal with nice Frank. He's too nice, too much smiling and too much attention and affection. It makes Jim feel weird, and he's not sure why, exactly. It's not so different to when Mom ruffles his hair or Sam grabs him in a headlock, really, but something about the way Frank does it sets him on edge. Maybe it's 'cause he's afraid of Frank. Either way, somehow it makes him more nervous when Frank just chucks him under the chin than when Frank smacks him across the face.

Before Jim can do or say anything in response, there's the bang on the front door and Sam's calling, “I'm home!” down the hall.

Even though they have classes together, Sam has a lot of after school activities, so he usually gets home later than Jim. Most days Jim's in the house alone until Sam comes home, but Frank's early today, and Sam stops short in the doorway to the kitchen with a glare— Frank is obviously an unwelcome surprise. Jim can't see Frank's face, but he's probably smirking or something, because Sam's scowl darkens. Jim feels Frank's hand lift from the back of his neck and, a second later, hears what sounds like him walking over to the fridge. Jim's still watching Sam, and doesn't turn around to check.

“Welcome home, Sam,” Frank says. “Want me to get you a glass of water or something?”

His voice is almost weirdly casual, and Jim wonders if he's missing something, because Sam's hands tighten into fists.

“Shouldn't you be at work?” he says frostily, totally ignoring what Frank had said first. He must not expect an answer, though, because he doesn't wait for one before he turns back to Jim. “Poker, Jimmy? I still think you cheated last time, I want a rematch.”

“Did not!” Jim objects indignantly. He didn't. He's just lucky and he doesn't need to cheat to beat Sam. And Sam would never find out if he did, either, so there.

Sam just shrugs. “Prove it,” he says.

Jim thinks about protesting that he hasn't finished his homework yet and it's due tomorrow (because he still always leaves it until the last moment, unlike Sam). He doesn't really want to stay in the kitchen with Frank either, though, and after a moment of glancing at Sam and down at his homework and very quickly back at Frank, he throws the data padd down on the table and says, “Okay.”

He thinks he can almost feel Frank's stare at the back of his head when he leaves the kitchen, but he's probably just imagining it.

The first time Jim really notices something is wrong is when he realizes Sam doesn't fight with Frank the way he used to. He still yells and gets in the way of Frank's fists more often than not, but sometime over the past year or so since the first time, Sam has stopped starting the fights. He doesn't rise to the bait when Frank's being a jerk, doesn't get all up in Frank's face and give as good as he gets; he only fights back when Frank throws the first punch, or, more often, to defend Jim. Jim hates how Sam keeps getting hurt because of him— Frank even broke Sam's arm once, when he was really spitting mad— but Sam never listens when Jim tells him to stop fighting Jim's fights for him, just says he's the older brother so Jim has to listen to him. He's in charge when Mom's away.

At least when Frank's in one of his nice moods no one's getting hurt, but everything is too stilted and creepy-wrong. Sam is too quiet and stiff and doesn't fight Frank on anything, just gives in and does as he's told and doesn't shove Frank's hand away when Frank puts it on his shoulder. He's not the Sam Jim knows, and Jim doesn't like it at all, even if he can't explain it.

Jim used to try and fade into the background and let Sam stand up for both of them against Frank because he was scared of making Frank mad, but he reminds himself now that that's not what Kirks do. Jimmy's no chicken. He's fought bullies before, and none of them were as big as Frank, sure, but that's not what matters. He climbed the tree at school because he refused to give in to fear. Kirks, Jim is sure, stand up for themselves, even when they're scared. If Sam's too worn down to do it anymore, that means it's Jim's turn. He's had enough of backing down to Frank.

The next time Frank comes home early and Jim's doing homework, he's not in the nice mood. He takes one look at Jim's scribbled math notes and sneers.

“Little freak,” he says nastily. “Weirdo freaks of nature like you should be locked up somewhere so you can't bother the rest of us normal people.”

There's still a slight sting to that, because Jim's being called a lot of names in his life and that's the one he's heard the most, but he lifts his chin and meets Frank's stare head-on. He doesn't care what an idiot like Frank thinks.

“Why, Frank, do I make you nervous?” he says, mockingly. “You don't like how a kid like me is that much smarter than you, is that it?”

He doesn't say that this doesn't really mean much since there are dung beetles smarter than Frank, but he thinks it's pretty obvious from his tone.

Frank's face darkens with something vicious and ugly. “You little shit,” he snarls, lunging forward, but Jim holds his ground, 'cause he's not going to let himself be afraid of an asshole like Frank. Frank's hands are digging into his upper arms, pinning him down in the chair. “You think you're so clever, don't you? Well let me tell you something, kid, brats like you don't last in the real world. Maybe in a few years you'll thank me for teaching you what real life is like.”

“I can take it,” Jim asserts, even though his arms hurts from how tightly Frank is squeezing them, but then there's the thump of a schoolbag hitting the floor and Sam says, “Jimmy, go to your room.”

He looks really grim, almost angry, and Jim's never heard him sound so serious. Frank lets go of Jim, nasty smirk fixed on Sam now, and Jim stumbles up to his feet without thinking.

“But Sam—”

“I mean it, Jim. Go to your room and stay there until it's time for dinner or I'll tell Mom when she calls not to get you any off-planet souvenirs this time.”

Jim scowls. He's not some kind of baby who needs his older brother to protect him from Frank. He's already nine and he's finishing elementary school in just a few months, which means he can totally take care of himself.

He can tell that argument won't work on Sam when he's in this kind of mood, though, so he stomps out of the kitchen to go sulk in his room like Sam told him.

A few minutes later Jim can hear yelling and the sound of violence from down the corridor, but he knows better than to interrupt. It'd just make Sam mad. He'd told Jim to stay out of it, after all, and Jim's old enough to know that nobody wants their kid brother sticking up for them in a fight.

Sam never calls him for dinner that night, but Jim knows better than to ignore him and venture into the kitchen anyway. Sam wouldn't forget; if he hasn't come to tell Jim it's okay to come out, there's a reason for it, so Jim stays in his room reading a book under his covers and in the meantime goes hungry.

Sam comes into his room a little past midnight. Even though it's late, Jim's not asleep yet, and Sam hovers awkwardly in the doorway for a minute or so before he clears his throat and says, softly, “Can I come in?”

It's been a while since they've done this. Jim used to crawl into Sam's bed all the time when they were younger, but as they get bigger it happens less and less. Sam's thirteen now, and Jim had wondered if being a teenager meant Sam would have grown out of this or something, but apparently not. Jim flips up the covers in silent invitation.

Sam crawls into bed next to him, fitting himself around Jim's smaller, skinnier body. His skin is flushed and his hair damp; he must have had a shower before changing into his pajamas.

They lie there still and quiet for a few moments, and Jim is sleepy because it's late and Sam's warm and it's cozy and comforting in the safety of his own blankets, but gradually he becomes aware of the fact that Sam is shaking slightly and he frowns, blinking his heavy eyes.

“Sam?” he whispers, voice high and uncertain. Sam doesn't answer, so Jim tries to sit up, but Sam doesn't let him. “Sam, are you okay?”

Jim can't really see Sam's face in the gloom of night, but he can make out the faint gleam of Sam's eyes looking back at him. There's something empty and lifeless about them, and Jim doesn't think it's a trick of the light. He can see the faint shadows of bruising around Sam's eye, ringing his throat and the wrist next to Jim's face on the pillow.

“I'm fine,” Sam says, a little hoarsely. He's obviously lying, but if he doesn't want to talk about it, Jim won't make him. Instead he winds his arms around his brother in a hug, offering silent support as best he can.

One day, Jim vows to himself, Frank is going to pay for all this.

Jim's tenth birthday falls right in the middle of one of Mom's longer missions, which means it's just like any other day living with Frank. On the one hand, that's pretty crappy because any day living with Frank is pretty crappy, but on the other hand Jim often would rather not be reminded about his birthday. It has never exactly been his favorite day of the year, and in some ways it's a lot better that it just go unremarked. Nobody has ever been able to enjoy Jim's birthday with the shadow of Dad's death hanging over it. Sam is less obvious about it now he's older, but Jim has grown up knowing that the 22nd of March is not really a day for celebration, even if they try to pretend it is.

The two years after Grandma died are the only birthdays Jim can ever remember Mom being home for his birthday. It wasn't like she hadn't tried, but it'll always be the day her husband died first to her and Jim's birthday second, and in the end she'd spent the entire time crying both years. Overall he'd rather have an ordinary day where everyone forgets and does the same thing they always do, even if it's an ordinary day living with Frank.

Anyway, Jim's heard that ten is supposed to be a special birthday because it's the first year you hit double digits— all his classmates had been excited about their birthdays back in fifth grade. They all had parties and stacks of presents and their parents taking them somewhere special to celebrate. On Jim's tenth birthday, he wakes up, gets yelled at for spilling juice on the table, goes to school and does nothing special at all. Mom will bring him a present when she comes home eventually; Sam remembered to say happy birthday, but Frank never gives them pocket money so he doesn't give Jim anything. It's on his birthdays now that Jim misses Grandma the most; he'd never looked forward to it at the time, but he gets wistful now when he looks back. Every year Grandma would bake his favorite kind of cake, and things wouldn't seem so bad anymore.

So far being ten is no different from any other year. Half the time he forgets he's even any older than before, but then he'll be reminded— it's been a whole decade since the day he was born, now— and he'll suddenly feel old. He can look back at when Mom married Frank, when they fixed the car together, when he fell out of the tree and got into a fight with Sam and played chess with Grandma, and then he'll realize that that was three, four, five years ago. It feels like a lot and not that long at all at the same time. It's a weird feeling.

Most of all it just makes him remember how much he and Sam have changed since they were younger. How they were before Grandma died is very different to living alone with Mom, different to after Mom got married, different to life with Frank. At the time Jim had been so lonely and bored most of the time, but now when he thinks about it that time of his life seems so easy and simple. Growing up just complicates everything.

Jim misses when Grandma was alive. He misses when Mom used to stay at home all the time. But most of all, he misses the Sam he remembers from before, because now he looks at Sam and some days it's like his brother isn't even really there anymore, like behind those flat brown eyes he's dead or gone somewhere so far away that Jim can never reach him.

Today Jim is ten, but all he wants is to be five again.

Jim finds out that Sam's leaving the same day he overhears Frank talk on the phone about selling Dad's car. Jim doesn't think the two things are really connected— Sam could never really have cared less about it, after all. He only went on those drives with Mom and Jim when they were younger as an excuse to avoid being left alone with their stepdad.

Sam deciding to leave might not have anything to do with the Corvette, but it has everything to do with Frank. One by one, Frank is taking everything away from Jim; soon he'll have nothing left. The Corvette has always been a symbol to him, has always meant hope and freedom. Finding out Frank is selling it feels like having his last hopes for the future snatched away from him. It's the final nail in the coffin of the gaping hole that Sam leaving is going to tear in his chest.

For a moment Jim seriously thinks about what it would be like to run away, considers begging Sam to take him too. They could take the car, go somewhere far away where Frank would never find them.

It's only a moment, though, and then Jim lets it go, because he may only be 10 but he's already graduated from junior high and he's far from stupid. The car is far too recognizable. Frank could use it to track them and then he'd probably press charges, the bastard. Either way he'd drag them back, Jim and Sam and Dad's car too, and it would all be for nothing.

Even without factoring the car in, though, it's a pointless dream. Jim knows that brains aside, his age makes him a liability. Sam could probably scrape over the line as old enough for a job at a place without enough ethics to really care and eke out a living for himself, but he couldn't support Jim and there's no way anyone would be dumb enough to actually hire Jim when he hasn't even hit his growth spurt yet.

Then, beneath all the logic, there's the real reason Jim has to let Sam go by himself: Sam has always come through for him. Sam's tried to protect him from bullies, from Frank, from life, even though maybe if not for Jim he'd still have a father and a mother who was there for him and no abusive asshole of an alcoholic step-dad.

Sam's given Jim everything he has, and now it's Jim's turn to repay the favor, because deep down he knows what Sam needs is a clean break, a whole new life without his kid brother there to weigh him down and remind him of everything he's trying to leave behind.

So instead of asking Sam to take him along, Jim says, “D'you want me to help you pack?”

Sam stills for a moment and looks up. “Jim,” he starts, and Jim can hear the uncertainty in his voice and knows he's going to ask Jim to come too, even though they both know it's a bad idea. Jim's not sure he's strong enough to say no so he says, “Come on, you want to get going before Frank comes back, don't you?” before Sam can finish his sentence.

Sam doesn't answer for a second, just meets Jim's eyes with a gaze that says everything for him, and then he says, “Thanks, Jim.” Just two little monosyllabic words, but they're weighed down with so many layers of meaning. In the end, that's what it all comes down to.

Jim shrugs.

“What're brothers for,” he manages around the lump in throat, and turns before Sam can see his eyes are damp. “C'mon, let's get this show on the road.”

Jim helps Sam collect all his things together, stuff as much as he can into a hiking pack. There's not really all that much that Sam really wants to take with him, and it's weird to think that almost fourteen years can boil down to the contents of a single bag.

So now they're standing on the porch facing each other, Sam with all his worldly possessions strapped to his back and Frank likely to return at any moment. This is it; this is where everything changes. Sam is going to leave, and the one constant in Jim's life will be gone.

“Jimmy,” Sam says, a little desperately. “Jimmy—”

“It's okay,” Jim interrupts quickly, because he's not strong enough to hear the rest of whatever Sam's going to say. “It's cool, Sam.”

Sam looks into Jim's eyes silently for a moment, and then he's flinging his arms around Jim in a hug, squeezing him so tight Jim feels like he's about to be crushed.

“I'll write,” Sam promises into Jim's ear, soft and rushed. “I'll write, Jimmy, I swear I will.”

Jim swallows hard against the hot prickle of his eyes. “Yeah,” he manages, voice sounding funny to his own ears, and he buries his face in Sam's shoulder and lets the reassuring comfort of his brother's arms wash over him for a moment before he takes a deep breath and pushes Sam away with a gentle shove. “Go on, Sam, you gotta go before Frank gets back.”

Sam's face hardens. “Yeah,” he says. “Don't wanna miss the bus, after all.”

He turns and he walks a few steps before he stops, hesitating with his back to Jim.

“Jimmy, you know I love you, right?” he says, awkward and unsteady, and Jim gives a small smile that Sam can't see.

“Yeah, Sam, I know,” Jim tells him softly. Sam's never actually said the words before, but even if they've had their differences at times and he knows Sam has every reason in the world to resent him, Jim would have to be stupid not to get it after everything his brother has done for him. Sam's always been better with actions than words. “Me, too.”

Sam nods.

“I know,” he says, and walks away without looking back again. Jim stands and watches him go, Sam's back growing steadily smaller in the heat haze, and he grits his teeth and scrubs his arm across his eyes just once, vicious, smearing the sweat and dust, because he refuses to cry. He's stronger than that; he has to be, for him and for Sam, and Jim knows, he owes his brother that much.

He watches for ten minutes or so until Sam's figure is no more than a tiny spot on the horizon, and then he shakes himself out of it briskly and goes over to the shed out the back. Sam's safely gone, now, but there's still the car to deal with. Like hell Jim's letting Frank get his hands on Dad's car, the car he and Mom put so much sweat and hard work into together. If Jim can't have it, he's definitely not letting anyone take it from him.

The solution is obvious, and Jim's reaching for the keys almost before he's finished thinking through to the conclusion.

Do I know how much money it's worth? Jim thinks with grim satisfaction as he revs the engine, remembering the words Frank had yelled at him when he'd crashed it that first time. Well, gee, Frank, why don't you tell me? I'm sure you'll be able to get a whole lot for it when it's a flaming wreck.

He's driven the car a few times in secret since that first disastrous attempt, enough to have a reasonable idea of how to make it go. He's still a little short to reach the pedals comfortably, but it's still an improvement on his first attempt. This time when Jim wipes out, it's not going to be an accident.

He thinks of leaving Frank a note to make sure he gets the message, but he's pretty sure Frank will get it loud and clear when he finds the shed doors wide open and both Jim and the car missing, so he shifts the car into gear and takes off for the gorge he and Mom had driven to all those years ago. Jim drives for about half an hour to get there, reveling in the familiar rush. The speakers blare Dad's old rock music out at top volume, and when he releases the canvas top he can feel the sun beating down and the wind tearing through his hair and Jim laughs because he could live like this forever. It's a reckless kind of freedom where he knows that life still sucks and there are going to be all kinds of consequences waiting for him back in the real world but he doesn't care because he's living in this one perfect moment—

He zooms past Johnny from school, ignores it when Frank cusses him out through the communicator Mom had hooked into the car, brushes off the cop chasing after him (Frank's doing?). Jim's made up his mind; nothing is going to stop him now.

The car hurtles straight towards the edge of the cliff, Jim unflinchingly determined behind the wheel. It's going down, beyond any possible salvage: he's going to make sure that there's nothing left for Frank to take. He's going to send the corvette over the edge and see it smashed to smithereens even if it's the last thing he does, for him, for Sam, for Dad, for Mom too even though he doubts she'll see it that way when she finds out.

Part of Jim is tempted to go with it, a blaze of glory, one moment of perfect freefall that would take him away from all this, but at the back of his mind he's calculating trajectories, and at the last possible moment the survival instincts so deeply ingrained into what makes up Jim Kirk kick in and he flings himself from the car, skidding and rolling his way across the hard painful dirt to just catch himself before he can go over, scraping his palms raw and bloody on the sharp rock.

That leaves him to face the full force of the law, but as Jim scrambles to his feet and the robo-cop asks for his name, he finds he's not scared. He feels invincible, untouchable; he doesn't care what anyone does to him now.

“James Tiberius Kirk,” Jim says, proud in a way he's never been before, because that's right. That's him. He's Jim Kirk, genius trouble-maker extraordinaire, survivor of the Kelvin from the day he was born and despite all the other crap life has kept on throwing his way, he's still here. Whatever they dish out, he can take: Jim is done with rolling over and saying die.

Don't worry, Sam, Jim thinks, standing his ground with a cheeky grin as he thumbs the dirt from his nose. I can totally take Frank.

Next

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 3

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:39:14 GMT

3.

Mom hasn't left Riverside since Grandma's funeral. It's been six months, and that's the longest by about three and a half months that she's hung around in one stretch since Jim learned to walk.

It's nice to have Mom home all the time, but Jim really wishes Grandma were still here. Grandma was strict and Jim never really knew how to talk to her, but he finds he misses having someone tell him to do his homework and go to bed and clean his room. No one plays chess with him anymore.

Mom is doing her best to look after him and Sam, but it doesn't always work out so well. Sometimes it's almost like she's finally got everything together; sometimes she forgets to pick them up from school or doesn't get out of bed in the morning to make their lunches.

Jim loves Mom and he wants to be selfish and keep her by his side, especially now she and Sam are all he's got, but he doesn't want her to be sad and nothing has really changed: Earth will never be home. She'll never be happy here, and Jim knows when it comes down to it that it's only him and Sam keeping her stuck here on the ground in flat, dusty Iowa.

Privately he doesn't see why any of them have to stay, but Mom is still afraid to let him or Sam anywhere near space and she has some strange loyalty to her hometown that stops her moving them to another town or state or country, even though she hates it here and there's nothing for any of them.

Mom has good days and bad days, and it seems today is one of the good ones. She is up early and even hums to herself while she cooks breakfast and puts lunches together for Jim and Sam to take to school. Jim's still sitting at the kitchen table trying to finish his homework in a hasty last minute scrawl while she wraps the sandwiches and packs them into lunchboxes.

“You'll be late for school if you don't hurry, baby,” she tells him after she's done, and leans across the table to kiss his cheek. She tries to do the same to Sam, but apparently he's too old for that or something, 'cause he ducks away and scowls.

“Mooom!” he whines, stretching it out into several syllables, and rubs at his cheek with the back of his hand in disgust. Mom rolls her eyes.

“Sorry, Sammy, I won't do it again. I wouldn't want to forget and embarrass you in front of your friends,” she says, making a face at Jim behind Sam's back, and Jim stifles a giggle. “Now both of you get going, and don't be late after school today, okay? There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

“But I was gonna go play football with my friends today!” Sam objects.

“Come on, Sammy, do it for me?” Mom pleads, and he sighs and mutters, “Fine, whatever,” and stomps out the front door to wait for the bus on the porch.

Mom doesn't try to stop him, just stands there facing the way he left, but she looks sad again, so Jim wraps his arms tight around her waist and buries his face in her stomach.

“You're a good boy, Jimmy,” she tells him softly, running her fingers through his hair the way he likes. “You'll come straight home, won't you?”

“Yes, Mom,” Jim agrees obediently, even though he's worried about Sam's reaction and a little bit wary about who this surprise person could be, since Mom isn't really close to anyone in the neighborhood. Maybe one of her Starfleet friends?

“Good boy,” she says again, and squeezes her arms tight around his shoulders for a few seconds before she pulls back and gives him a little shove towards the door. “Now go on, mister, or you'll be late and the teacher will yell at you again.”

Jim thinks the teacher is unfairly singling him and Sam out for some personal grudge, 'cause he's always getting on their case about something, but before he can complain the bus horn blares from outside and there's no time to do anything except grab his bag from the bench, kiss Mom goodbye and make a run for it.

Sam sulks and stares out the window with his arms crossed the whole way, sliding so far down the seat that he's got his feet braced against the back of the seat in front. He doesn't say a single word between when they get on the bus and when they arrive at school, and it's almost like the beginning of fourth grade again except that this time it's not him Sam's mad at.

Jim's not mad, just curious. He wasn't doing anything after school today anyway, and he wants to find out who Mom's mystery visitor is. He's distracted all day thinking about it, and the teacher obviously notices 'cause he calls Jim to the board to answer a question and he only ever does that when he doesn't think Jim's listening. Luckily it's math, though, and so Jim can work it out for himself. If it'd been history, where it's all facts instead of formulas, he might have been in trouble.

Whoever this guest is, Jim thinks, Mom must be pretty excited about it, because she'd seemed pretty happy this morning. She's had a lot of good days recently, actually. He'd been wondering why, but maybe this explained it?

If Mom's that excited, it must be someone really interesting, Jim decides, and that makes him feel pretty excited too. By the end of school he can barely contain himself, leaping out of his seat as soon as the bell goes to run outside and wait for Mom. Sam trudges out behind him, making no secret of his feelings on the matter. He's been like this all day— it felt like sitting next to a thundercloud in class. His bad mood is only highlighted by Jim's good one, and it seems like the more hyped up Jim gets, the grouchier Sam becomes.

“What are you so happy about?” Sam mutters sourly, scuffing at the ground, and Jim tilts his head to peer into Sam's face.

“Aren't you curious at all?” he asks, but Sam snorts.

“I bet it's just her boyfriend,” he says dismissively. Jim blinks, confused— Mom has a boyfriend?— but before he can reply Mom pulls up and gets out of the hovercar with this big, kind of scruffy-looking guy.

“Boys,” she says, “I'd like you to say hi to Mommy's friend.”

And that's the first time Jim meets Frank.

After that, Frank starts coming around to their house more and more often. Mom starts to smile again, even if it still doesn't quite reach all the way to her eyes, and she settles a little more. There are less days spent crying and wandering around aimlessly, less days where she forgets things and just stands there staring at the walls, and more days where she laughs and sings and reads old books to Jim out loud. She even starts to tinker with Dad's old corvette again, the one that for so many years she couldn't even look at without her face crumpling into tears.

It's pretty ancient— “An antique,” Mom tells him— and nobody has touched it in ages, so it's also pretty broken down and rusty, but Mom throws herself into fixing it up, humming old rock songs out loud as she works. Jim likes to sit outside on the porch and watch her, and eventually she starts teaching him how it all goes together, lecturing him about the mechanics behind it and showing him what to do until he can do it for himself. He learns the words to the songs at the same time, and he and Mom sing to each other in harmony while they work.

“We can go for a drive when it's finished,” she promises him one day. “Maybe when you're older I'll even show you how to drive it, okay?”

Jim and Mom spend a lot of time working on the car, but Sam never joins in, not even to watch like when Jim used to play chess with Grandma. Jim asks Sam why he doesn't come work on the car too, but Sam just shrugs and says it's not really his thing anyway. He's never really been that into the mechanics of things.

Despite the way Jim sometimes feels like he and Sam are growing apart these days and the way there's still a little bit of a hole where Grandma used to be, the time spent working on the car is about the happiest he's ever been. For as long as he can remember part of Mom has always been locked away too far to reach even when she was physically there, but these days he feels like he finally has a Mom just like the other kids— only cooler, because other kids' moms aren't Starfleet engineers and can't hotwire antique cars.

It's not like everything's perfect. School's okay but not great, Sam's drifting away and Mom's better but she's not fixed. She's still got jagged edges of unhappiness hiding beneath her smiles; she still sometimes gets that look of restlessness in her eyes that lets Jim know she's dreaming of the stars. Overall, though, things are pretty good.

Jim doesn't know what to make of Frank. He hangs around quite a lot these days, but Jim still doesn't really know very much about him other than that he works down at the shipyard. Sam hates him. Jim thinks he mostly seems like alright, but he's a big, strong-looking guy and Jim's a little bit scared of him. Sometimes he smells like alcohol, which makes Jim wrinkle his nose in disgust. Grandma didn't drink, so he's not used to it and he doesn't think he likes it.

When he asks Mom about Frank, though, she puts her spanner down and meets his eyes with a serious expression.

“I'll always love your dad, baby,” she tells him. “And I'll always miss him. Some things never really stop hurting no matter how old you get. But... I think maybe I'm ready to move on. I think maybe Frank can remind me what it's like to live for now, instead of in the past.”

She smiles at him and ruffles his hair, and Jim decides that anyone who makes Mom happy like that can't be all bad. Frank must be an okay guy after all, whatever Sam thinks.

The day Mom decides the car is ready to go is clear and sunny but still not too hot, only just edging into summer. She's been in a good mood all day, and she's smiling wide when she wipes the motor oil off her hands and says, “Why don't we take this baby for a spin, Jimbo?”

Jim leaps at the chance, barely able to contain his excitement, but Sam refuses point blank. Jim doesn't get why Sam's so against anything to do with the car, but then again Jim loves things that are fast and shiny and dangerous and Sam doesn't tend to feel the same way.

Mom shrugs it off, though, apparently not about to let a little thing like that ruin her day. “Your loss, Sammy,” is all she says, and herds Jim back outside. “Come on, Jim, you hop into the front seat.”

Driving in a classic car is a lot different to being in a hovercar; more exciting, somehow, like an adventure. Jim can feel the rocky uneven ground jolting beneath the wheels, the vibration of the engine that makes the whole car hum beneath and around him. He knows being closer to the ground makes it seem like they're going faster, scenery whizzing by in a blur, but he's also pretty sure they're going a lot faster than the speed limit. Grandma always used to say he got his reckless streak from Mom. Mom laughs, bright and free in a way Jim can't ever remember her doing before, and he knows she feels it too, the bubbling excitement of speed and freedom and endless possibility.

“Whoooo!” she yells out loud, and grins at him. “You try too, Jimmy, it feels good!”

So Jim laughs and screams, throws his hands back in the air and feels the wind tear at his clothes, rake through his hair, sting at his face and make his eyes water. He's grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, and for a moment nothing in the world matters. This moment, right now, is perfect, weightless, carefree: it's like flying. Jim wants to live in it forever.

They drive and they drive so far that Jim thinks they're not going to stop until they reach the horizon. After a while the initial exhilaration starts to settle down, and Jim stops paying attention to the scrubby landscape blurring by outside the car and turns his curiosity instead to what Mom's doing. He watches her closely, cataloguing every move she makes. He thinks it doesn't look so hard, if only he were just a bit taller.

“Look, Jimmy, it's even got a player for all those old CDs your Dad left,” she tells him when she notices, and reaches out to flip a switch on the panel to the right of the wheel, sitting at leg height beneath the dash between the two of them.

A tinny guitar riff starts belting out of the speakers, and after a few seconds in, when the singer kicks off, Jim recognizes it as one of the songs Mom had taught him while they'd been working on the car.

“Your Dad loved this kind of music,” she says dreamily, and Jim watches her hair stream out in the wind, glinting brightly in the sunlight, and thinks about how beautiful she is like this.

They drive until the only thing surrounding them is flat dirt and rocky cliffs, as though they're the only people left in the world. Mom pulls the car into a sudden stop, sending a cloud of dust spraying out from the back wheels, and the breath whooshes out of Jim's lungs as he jerks into the belt across his chest and back against the seat. Mom unbuckles herself and gets out of the car, stretching her limbs out wide. She curls her hands back over the curve of the hood from the driver's side and leans her hips against it so she's almost sitting on it, just watching him for a moment.

“You getting out, baby?” she asks, lips quirking with amusement. Her sunglasses have been pushed up on top of her head and forgotten about, serving as a makeshift headband to keep her hair off her face, and Jim can see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose in the bright light.

He tilts his head, then unsnaps his seatbelt and jumps out of the car to join her, sliding up beside her. The sun beats down on them and the metal is just this side of too hot. Mom leans back, arching her spine against the hood of the car and stretching her arms out above her head. Her hair fans out beneath her, catching the light like a thick blonde halo, and Jim sits next to her and feels something catch in his throat. He's too old to believe in things like angels, but Mom really looks like one.

When he relaxes back against the car, he can feel the heat seeping into his body wherever he's pressed to it, on the bare skin of his arms and knees and along his back and thighs through the fabric of his clothes. It makes him drowsy, and his eyes slide shut, half asleep as he lets the music from the car stereo flow over him. It's weirdly soothing.

“Hey, Jimmy,” Mom says after a while, and Jim blinks his eyes open, turning his head to the side to meet her solemn gaze.

“Yeah, Mom?” he responds, a sleepy mumble.

“Would you be okay with it if I married Frank?”

She's still looking at him with that seriousness in her eyes, and it takes a second for the question to filter its way through into meaningful words. Jim blinks slowly, considering. He's not sure how he feels about the idea of Frank moving in with them, of being his new dad, and he knows that Sam will hate it. But at the same time, Frank makes Mom happy, and she wouldn't be asking if she didn't really want this.

“Sure,” he says finally. Mom smiled at him and reached out to catch his fingers in his, and they lie on the warm metal of the car listening to ancient rock music together until the sun goes down.

When they finally set off back towards home it's dusk, and it's like they're riding off into the sunset like the ending of those really old Western vids Jim likes, except in their case it's the opposite way around. They've already spent several hours driving away from reality; now it's time to go back.

The sky is turning purple by the time they get back, and Jim can see the first few stars twinkling above. Sam is waiting for them, sitting on the edge of the porch in his t-shirt and shorts. The heat of day is still lingering a little in the air, but a cool breeze is starting to set in and Jim shivers at the contrast, a wave of goose pimples breaking out on his arms.

Jim jumps out of the car, runs across the yard and up the short weather-worn wooden steps (1-2-3) to bowl Sam over in a tackle-hug that's all elbows and knees and pent-up adrenalin.

“Owww!” Sam complains nasally, cupping a hand over his nose where Jim accidentally whacked him, but Jim just beams down at him from his triumphant perch on Sam's chest.

“You should've come, Sam, it was awesome,” he enthuses. “It was almost as good as flying!”

Sam rolls his eyes, not looking overly impressed, and shoves at Jim in a half-hearted way. “Geddoff, you're heavy,” he says sourly. Jim just gives him an unrepentant grin in return.

“Am not,” he retorts, but he clambers off to the side anyway. “But anyway, it was so cool! We went really fast and drove for ages and Mom's gonna teach me to drive too when I'm older!”

Sam's older brother indifference changes instantly to an insultingly horrified expression. “You'll kill yourself,” he says, almost a moan. “And I bet you'll make me go with you and kill me too.”

“It'll be practice for when we go into space together,” Jim says cheerfully, not at all deterred by Sam's pessimism. “C'mon, don't be a wet blanket.”

“Much as I hate to interrupt, boys,” Mom says, coming up to the house, “I'm going to have to point out it's going to be a long time before I even think of letting either one of you behind a wheel, so the whole thing is moot anyway.”

Jim notices she doesn't say anything at all about the whole going to space thing. The silence speaks for itself— she'll never be happy about the idea of him or Sam setting foot on a starship and Jim knows it. There's no point in arguing, at least not until he and Sam are old enough to do something about it.

“No fair,” he protests instead, because he knows deep in his soul that he'd be great at it just given the chance, but Mom is unmoved.

“You couldn't even reach the pedals yet, munchkin,” she teases, and ruffles his hair when he pouts. “Now go on inside, okay? I need to talk to your brother about something.”

Jim knows she means the Frank thing. He also knows that Sam's not going to like it. Sam'll have to find out about it sooner or later, though, and sooner at least gives him more time to get used to it, so Jim throws a single troubled look in his brother's direction before he climbs to his feet and goes inside to give them privacy.

From the kitchen, he can't see or hear the conversation, but he can tell it went pretty much how he thought it would a few minutes later when Sam's voice raises and then there's the sound of the front door and Sam's bedroom door slamming in quick succession.

After a moment or so, Mom comes into the kitchen and sighs.

“He'll get over it,” she says, like she's trying to convince herself.

Jim's not so sure, but he hopes so. He doesn't like it when Mom and Sam fight. He wants them both to be happy.

“Yeah,” he says, a bit dubiously, but Mom just smiles at him wryly.

“What do you want for dinner?” she asks, and for now, that's the end of it.

The wedding is a few months later, when the leaves on the trees are just beginning to turn golden-pink with fall. The ceremony is pretty small and held in their yard, because Winona just has Sam and Jim and Frank hasn't really got much family either. Besides, she explains to them both, she's already done the big white wedding thing. She's not really interested in doing it again; apparently it's pretty stressful. In the end it's basically just Jim and Sam and a few of Mom's friends from Starfleet and Frank's workmates from the shipyard in the audience.

Even small weddings are plenty boring enough and Jim feels itchy and constricted in the suit he's been stuffed into for the day. All the former Kelvin crew members there keep coming up and talking to him like they know all about him, which is really awkward because at most he's seen a handful of them maybe once since he was about four and he has no idea who any of them are. They all comment on how much like his father he looks. The only saving grace of the whole thing is the cake. After a while, when Jim decides he's had enough, he grabs a big slice of it and sneaks off hide on the front porch with Sam, who's been sulking for the whole thing. He'd sat through the ceremony itself, but only just— as soon as the formal part was over, he'd disappeared.

Jim and Sam sit together on the porch for a while, but Sam maintains his stony silence and it isn't that much better than if Jim had just stayed at the party. At least Sam doesn't think he's some kind of miniature version of Dad, though. Actually, that's probably one of the reasons Sam's hanging out back here, to avoid being told the same thing Jim's been getting.

“D'you reckon we should go back?” Jim asks eventually, starting to feel kind of guilty for skiving off Mom's wedding, but Sam just gives a moody shrug.

“Whatever,” he mutters.

Jim sighs.

“I'm gonna go get some juice,” he tells Sam, because the cake was good but it was really sugary and now he's thirsty. “You want anything?”

Jim waits, but Sam doesn't say anything, so after a moment he gives up and goes in the front door. He still feels a little bad about skipping out on the party, but not enough to actually want to go back out there, so he heads for the kitchen instead.

The downstairs bathroom opens onto the main corridor on the way. It's not like that's exactly a big deal and Jim usually just walks right past it with a second thought, but this time he stops dead outside the door, because he can hear someone sobbing. It sounds familiar.

“Mom?” he says uncertainly, and tries the door. It's unlocked, so he pushes it open slightly and peeks in. Mom's sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, nice dress creased and rumpled and her beautifully styled hair in disarray. She's crying into her hands, and when she lifts her face to look at Jim he can see she's a mess, face streaked with tears and running eye makeup.

“Mom?” he says again, alarmed now, and rushes to her side, going down on his knees on the cold tiles next to the toilet so he can wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in her side. “Mommy? What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, baby,” she whispers hoarsely, giving a little hiccup, and he can feel her shaky hand stroke his hair. “Mommy's such a screw up. I can't do anything right, can I?”

Jim shakes his head against her stomach, tightening his arms and clinging like it'll make sure she stays here with him and doesn't get lost in her own head again. He can feel Mom's breath whoosh out of her body when she sighs, and a second later she's curling over him in a hug.

“I wish Ma was still here,” she says quietly. It's the first time she's really talked about it, even though it's been almost two years now, and Jim lifts his head to look up at her.

“Mama?” he says, in a voice that sounds small even to his own ears.

“It's pretty stupid, huh?” Mom says, and she's trying to make light of it but there's still a tremble in her voice. “Crying at your own wedding.”

There's nothing much to say to that, so Jim just stays where he is, hugging Mom and trying to be as comforting as he can. She's calming down, hitching breaths smoothing out until they're deep and even. He listens to the slow in and out of it as he feels the rise and fall under his cheek and Mom's fingers comb through his hair. It's soothing, like a form of meditation.

“Frank's a good man,” she says after a few minutes of quiet. Jim looks up again when she lifts her hand from his head. She wipes the back of it across her eyes, but only succeeds in smudging the black more. “I'm lucky to have married a man like him.”

At eight, Jim's old enough now to read between the lines. He knows why Mom's crying; it's pretty obvious she still misses Dad. Even though she's remarried now, she hasn't even changed her last name.

They both fall into silence once more, but Jim stays on the floor with his head on Mom's leg, listening to the soothing thud of her pulse as he thinks about her and Dad. He's certain that what they had must have been the kind of true destined love you read about in stories, the kind that never ends, that overcomes time and distance and even death.

The stories make that kind of thing sound noble and beautiful, but they never really talk about what happens after. Jim knows, though. He's grown up watching Mom go on living like she's only got half a soul, and he knows that she's a victim, that she'll never recover from what love tore away from her. It scares him.

If there's anything he knows, it's that he never wants to fall in love.

For the first time in Jim's life, he has two parents around to look after him and pay attention to him, and for the first few months, everything is pretty good. Jim's never had a father figure around before, and Frank seems cool, at least at first. He doesn't try to make Jim do his homework or go to bed or eat his veggies or anything, but sometimes he invites Jim and Sam to sit on the couch with him when he watches sport. Sam always refuses— living in the same house, if anything, has only increased his hatred of Frank— but Jim thrives on the attention. Frank explains the rules of whatever game they're watching and wraps an arm around Jim's shoulders, tucking him against his side. It feels a bit weird because Frank always smells of beer and Jim's not used to anyone except Sam and Mom being that close, but Frank's sort of meant to be family now too so Jim guesses it's okay.

It never ends up being for that long, though, because for some reason Sam always comes looking for him sooner or later and drags him off to go ride on their bikes or play board games or any excuse at all. He even offers to play chess one time, and it doesn't take Jim long to get suspicious, because Sam's never wanted to spend that much time with him except for the weeks after he fell out of the tree in fourth grade.

He's not sure what Sam's problem is, but when he gets frustrated and asks, Sam just says, “Quit hanging out with Frank so much, Jimmy, he's a creep and he stinks of alcohol all the time,” really pissily. He'd never dare say that kind of thing in front of Mom or to Frank's face, but Jim's heard Sam slag off their step-dad heaps of times so it's not exactly news. He's still not sure what it's got to do with him, but he figures it's some kind of brother solidarity thing and Sam wants Jim to back him up on his anti-Frank campaign.

Still...

“It's not like we can just avoid him forever,” Jim points out. “He lives in the same house.”

“Whatever,” Sam mutters. “You don't have to hang out with him that much.”

“I guess,” Jim says reluctantly, because it's kind of true that he jumps at the chance whenever Frank invites him anywhere. He's always envied the kids at school having a dad around, and he'd been excited by the idea that he'd finally have someone to do all that dad-stuff with.

If it upsets Sam that much, though, Jim won't argue. He and Sam grew apart after Grandma died, but since Sam's started dragging Jim away all the time to spend time with him instead of Frank they're getting back to the way they used to be. Sam's always been the most important person in Jim's life; if it comes down to a choice between the possibility of a replacement father figure and the very real relationship he has with Sam, Jim doesn't have to think twice to know which way he'd go.

“So anyway,” Sam says, after an awkward pause. “Monopoly?”

Jim groans. “Monopoly is lame.”

“What do you want to play, then?” Sam says, exasperated, and Jim crosses his arms.

“Chess,” he says. Nobody ever plays with him anymore. Sometimes he slides pieces around the board by himself when he gets bored, but it's not much fun without someone else to play with.

Sam scowls. “No way,” he says, just like Jim knew he would.

“You just don't wanna play chess 'cause you always lose!” Jim complains.

“Do not,” Sam lies sullenly. “Anyway, s'not my fault you're a freak.”

“I am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Boys!” Mom interrupts loudly, as she comes into the room. “What's all the fighting about?”

“Sam called me a freak,” Jim tells her.

“He's trying to make me play chess with him!” Sam says accusingly.

“Only 'cause you tried to make me play monopoly first,” Jim points out.

“Okay, kids, calm down,” Mom says soothingly. “Why don't you just play something else which you both like?”

“Like what?” Jim asks dubiously, and Sam adds, “We've run out of other games.”

“Hmm,” Mom says, then she smiles and crouches down on the floor between them. “Why don't I teach you boys a card game? It'll be a valuable life skill, promise.”

Jim and Sam exchange glances. Sam shrugs.

“Sure,” he says, and that's how Jim ends up learning to play poker.

Life settles into a pattern of predictability. Jim goes to school, does his homework, hangs out with Frank. Mom goes to do work on base at the shipyard most days, and Frank does whatever it is that Frank does when he's not watching their ancient TV from the couch. It's refreshingly mundane, and Jim imagines it must be what life is like for other kids growing up with normal families.

One day, though, Mom decides to go for another drive.

“Hey, Jimmy, I'm gonna take the car out for a spin,” she announces out of the blue, twirling the keys around one finger. “You wanna come?”

Jim doesn't really need to answer— of course he wants to go, the only thing cooler would be if Mom let him drive (or let him go on a starship, but like that'd ever happen)— but he jumps up in hurried excitement and exclaims, “Yeah!”

“I wanna go too,” Sam says all of a sudden, despite the total lack of interest he's showed in the car before now. Jim stares at him.

“But you don't even like the car,” he points out, puzzled. Sam doesn't back down, though.

“Well maybe I changed my mind,” he says stubbornly, and turns to Mom. “It's cool, right?”

Mom raises her eyebrows at him, but all she says is, “Sure thing, Sammy,” and tells him to go hop in the back.

“Frank, honey!” she hollers out to the shed in the yard, once Sam's gone, “I'm just taking the kids out for a drive— we'll be back for dinner, mind the house!”

Oh, Jim thinks, that's why Sam wants to come, but he doesn't get much time to dwell on it because Mom's ushering out the front door and into the car without waiting for an answer.

When she's in the driver's seat she smiles at them in the rear-view mirror and says, “Okay, buckle up, kids, time to go!” and revs the engine.

Sam shrieks and grips at the door handle when the car jolts up to 80 miles while Jim and Mom laugh with delight, and it's even better than the last time.

Jim loves the Corvette.

As it turns out, that's just a first in what gradually starts to turn into a new habit until Mom's taking them out for drives that get longer and longer every weekend. In retrospect, Jim thinks, that was probably the first sign things were starting to go wrong again. Obviously he didn't think it was a problem at the time, not at first— he loves the 'vette, loves how he can feel the world expanding out around him with freedom and possibility.

But the thing is, it means the same thing to Mom, and Jim is slowly starting to realize that the more she wants to go out driving, the more trapped she's beginning to feel.

Really, he thinks later, he always knew somewhere deep down that this was never going to last. It was never going to be enough for her— he should have known after what happened at the wedding that Mom wasn't really fixed, just temporarily patched up. Underneath it all, she's still the same as ever, still aching around the hole Dad made in her life and still yearning for something different. She could never stand to be chained down to one place, and she's holding out as long as she can, but Jim's pretty sure that even her love for him and Sam or whatever her feelings for Frank are won't be able to keep her here forever.

Actually, now that Frank is around to look after them, it probably means Mom has an excuse to take off back into space where she really wants to be.

So she gets restless again, and things start to change, fizzing up and reacting like the baking soda the teacher poured into a beaker of water in chemistry class. Things start to get tense. Mom stops smiling so much and is more like how she used to be before, and Frank smells of alcohol more.

Then his temper starts to surface.

It's not that bad, at least not at first. He's yelled at Jim once or twice and it had been enough of a shock that Jim had been a little frightened when it happened, but he'd kind of deserved it and he figures that's probably just what fathers are like. Once in the supermarket Frank smacks Jim across the face hard enough to knock out one of his last baby teeth for mouthing off, but it was just that one time and he'd probably had a bad day or something.

Afterwards, Frank tells Mom Jim knocked his tooth loose falling down and Jim doesn't correct him. It doesn't really matter and he doesn't want to start a fight. Sam takes this as proof that he was right about Frank being a total douchebag and he's all set to go off and kick up a fuss about it, but Jim persuades him to calm down. It's not worth it, and it was just an accident anyway. It's not like Frank meant to hit him that hard.

Despite the universe's best efforts to spite him, Jim is an optimist at heart. Things might not be as great as they were, but they could definitely be worse, he reasons, and tells Sam the same thing. Sam tells Jim he's jinxing himself when he says things like that.

Jim is forced to concede that Sam might have a point.

About three months after the first drive with Mom and Sam, Jim decides he's going to take the car out by himself.

There's no real reason. Nobody dares him. He's not mad or trying to prove anything to anyone. It's just an ordinary day. He's bored; Mom's at work, Sam's busy with homework, and Jim's just feeling a little fed up with everything. He's even more awkwardly out of place at junior high than he was in primary school, Sam gets into fights with Frank all the time, and Mom's head is already back in the stars even if physically she's still here. Her restlessness is contagious, and Jim can feel it twitching under his skin, this slow-burning need to get out that smolders and grows and itches at him until one day, he takes the keys down from the hook in the shed, slides into the driver's seat and tries to turn the engine on.

It doesn't go exactly how he'd planned. He's still way too short, and can barely see over the dash or reach the pedals. It's also a lot harder than he thought it would be. Jim's used to being able to pick up things quickly just by seeing them once or twice, and Mom makes it look easy, but now he's faced by all these pedals and gearsticks and things on the display and he doesn't know what any of them do or mean. When he turns the key, all the car does is make a horrible gagging noise, and for one of the first times Jim can remember he's a little at a loss for what to do.

He remembers belatedly that Mom always presses her foot down on left-most pedal when she turns the car on, so he presses his left foot down on it and tries again, with much more success this time. He doesn't remember which of the other pedals is which, though, and when he lifts his left foot up again the car makes another nasty noise and turns off.

Clearly, Jim figures, the only way to get anywhere is by trial and error, so he presses his left foot back down on the first pedal, turns the car back on and carefully lowers his right foot down on one of the other pedals.

Nothing happens. Jim frowns, and presses his foot down slightly more firmly. Nothing. Chewing on his lower lip, he tries stepping on the other one. This turns out to be a mistake when the car suddenly gives another sickly-sounding roar, much louder than the first two. Jim jolts at the noise, his feet lifting slightly off the pedals in the process, and then all of a sudden the car lurches forward. Jim gives a short shriek and stamps down instinctively on the middle pedal, realizing it must be the brake, and the car jolts to an abrupt stop with an unhappy noise.

Jim takes a moment to regroup. The gas is on the right. The brake is in the middle; the clutch is on the left. Pushing down too hard on any of them is a bad idea, and you can't floor the clutch and the gas at the same time but the car stalls if you take your foot off the clutch entirely.

With this in mind, he cautiously adds pressure to the foot resting on the right-hand pedal while slowly lifting his left foot off the clutch. The car starts rolling forwards slowly. Jim's hands are sweaty and he can feel his heart thudding hard against his ribcage, but he can totally do this if he focuses hard enough.

Emboldened by his slight success, Jim increases the pressure on the accelerator. The car picks up speed until it's doing 20 miles, which is really slow but somehow feels scarily fast when Jim's the one driving. The ground is uneven; it's disconcerting the way the car bumps up and down beneath him, and Jim's having trouble steering in a straight line. The wheel feels awkwardly big and whenever he tries to turn it to fix the angle he ends up yanking it off-course the other way instead. It feels wobbly and unsafe and terrifying, but at the same time kind of exciting, and even though he's not as good at it as Mom and the car is making another one of those noises that probably means Jim's in the wrong gear, he's still doing it, he's really driving the car. He can't wait to tell Sam, even if he doesn't think Sam will be as impressed as it deserves.

Jim feels like he's really starting to get the hang of it when he sees the tree, and he's not going that fast so there's plenty of time to turn, but he slows down when he tries to turn and it doesn't turn enough and he's heading towards the tree and Jim's starting to panic now so he gives into his instinctive urge to just stamp his foot down on the other pedal and—

BANG.

The car hurls into the tree with a shudder, throwing Jim painfully forward against his seatbelt and jerking him back against his seat so hard and fast his head spins, because he'd forgotten when he'd freaked out that he'd already had his foot on the brakes, and he'd accidentally slammed on the accelerator instead.

And that is how Jim ends up crashing Dad's antique 250-year-old car into a tree.

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, Jim doesn't have the chance to try getting out of the car himself, because he hadn't been that far from the house and everyone comes running at the noise. Mom is half-hysterical, telling him over again not to move, don't move, baby, I'll call the ambulance, and Jim tries to keep still, which is hard because Sam is pale and wide-eyed and Mom's shaking and Jim really wants to hug them both and tell them he's okay, but he doesn't want to upset Mom any more so he does his best to do as he's told for a change.

The paramedics get there and so do the police. They lecture Jim for a while about breaking the law and driving without a license and joyriding and all this stuff, but it's mostly aimed at Mom because Jim's still young enough to not really be held accountable for much. The paramedics are really careful lifting him out of the car— Jim doesn't feel that hurt, just a little banged up, and he told them that but they probably want to be sure.

The official verdict from the tricorder is whiplash, jarred wrists and a lot of bruising across his chest and hips from the seatbelt, but nothing broken. The car is dinted, but not beyond repair. The whole thing could have been a lot worse.

Nobody else seems to feel that way about it, though.

“Do you have any idea how much money that car is worth?” Frank demands when they get home, in the kind of way that lets Jim know in no uncertain terms that that's the only thing he's concerned about. “You're lucky you didn't wipe out worse than you did, kid.”

“Sorry,” Jim mumbles, and looks to Mom for back-up.

Mom apparently hears that differently, though, 'cause she says, “He's right, Jimmy, you could have been really badly hurt.”

She has tears in her eyes, and Jim looks away, not able to look her in the face.

“Why you always gotta get yourself into trouble, Jimmy?” she asks, sounding like she's reached the end of her rope.

Jim feels bad, worse than when Frank yelled at him, but he can't find any way to say that he can't help it. Sometimes he just gets these crazy urges to do stupid things that he can't contain. He thinks Mom of all people should understand what it's like to feel confined, like the world is too small, but there's no way to put it into words and that frustrates him even more.

Meanwhile, Sam is just as mad as he was after the tree thing, which Jim thinks is kind of unfair. Nobody had told him not to this time, after all, and it had actually seemed like a good idea at the time.

“It was harder than it looked,” Jim tries to explain to him later. Sam isn't impressed.

“You're a dumbass,” is what he says, a little scathingly, but then he rolls his eyes and cuffs Jim over the head and says, “Come on, are we going to the pool or not?”, so Jim figures they're cool.

He doesn't tell Sam he could totally drive the car right next time if he got another shot, though. He doesn't think Sam would appreciate it very much.

It takes a few weeks to fix the car up. Jim helps Mom, same as he did when they fixed it up the first time, and this time Sam hangs around to watch. Somehow it's not the same this time, though, not as fun. Mom doesn't hum while she works, doesn't smile or laugh much anymore. She seems subdued, muted, more like the Mom from when Grandma had died. The restlessness grows daily.

When they're about half done with the repairs, Mom stops to wipe the sweat and grime from her face with her equally sweaty, grimy arm and grabs two sodas from the minifridge in the shed, tossing one to Jim. Sam's in his room doing homework; Jim's putting off doing his until the last minute just like always.

Mom sighs, leaning back against the car and holding the can against her forehead. Jim's is cold in his hand, slippery and wet from the condensation.

“Hey Jimbo,” she says wearily, sudden and startling in the silence. “You ever think about what you want to be when you grow up?”

The truth is, Jim thinks about it all the time. He and Sam are going to become space pirates or enter Starfleet like Mom and Dad or something, and they're going to cross the universe. They'll see all kinds of awesome people and places, visit aliens on exotic faraway planets; they're going to leave dusty little Riverside behind and never look back.

He doesn't tell Mom that, because it always makes her worry when he talks about going into space. He doesn't know how she can expect him to say anything else, though, because it's in his genes. Even now she's staring longingly up at the sky, not over at him. Jim's smart enough to know what's wrong with Mom lately— the urge to run is starting to get to her again.

It's mostly his fault, Jim thinks. He crashed the car, and now Mom doesn't have any escape at all, like a bird trapped in a cage.

He shrugs. “I dunno,” he mumbles.

Mom gives him a wry smile, ruffles his dirt-streaked hair. “Never mind, baby, you've got plenty of time to decide. I bet you could do anything you set your mind on,” she says, sounding faintly proud, but then the smile fades. “You get more like your Dad every day.”

Those are the words Jim hates more than anything, because Mom always looks sad when she says it, like it hurts her to look at him. She hasn't said it for a while now, and it's like a lead weight in his stomach, a sinking feeling that nothing's changed, nothing'll ever really change.

“Okay, let's get cracking,” Mom announces after a heavy silence, tossing back the last of her soda in a big gulp before dropping the can on the workbench with a hollow metallic sound. “The car won't fix itself, after all!”

So far in his eight years of life, Jim has found that very few things do.

Next

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 2

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:34:53 GMT

2.

The academic year ends about two months after Jim's birthday, and school calls them up at home and ask to speak to Jim's mother. When it becomes clear that this isn't really going to happen, since they haven't even had any contact from Mom for the last few days let alone word on when she might be back in the solar system, they ask Grandma to come in to speak to the principal in Mom's place as his current guardian.

Jim is quietly freaking out about the whole thing, which is so not helped by Sam asking him, wide-eyed, “What did you even do, Jim?”

Jim hasn't got a clue, but he's afraid it must be something bad, because he's never been called to the office before and it must be a big deal if they're making this much fuss about talking to a parent or caretaker.

Strangely, Grandma doesn't seem that concerned. At first when she sees him stiffen in nervous terror, she asks him sternly if he's done anything wrong or if he's in trouble at school. He still can't think of anything, so he yelps, “No!”, desperately willing Grandma to believe him.

Grandma sometimes seems to have some super radar instinct for knowing when Jim's lying, and apparently she's satisfied he's not, because she smiles slightly and says, “You're a good boy when you put your mind to it, James,” and after that seems to be perfectly at ease. Jim doesn't get how she can be so calm about the whole thing, 'cause even if he doesn't know what he's done he's still been called to see the principal which can't be good, but there's a lot of things he doesn't get about Grandma so most of the time he doesn't even try.

When they get to the Principal's office Grandma just sails right on in without a care in the world while Jim shuffles reluctantly behind her, trying not to let himself be overcome by the creeping dread of the unknown.

“I'm here about James Kirk,” Grandma says briskly. “We have an appointment.”

The man sitting at the desk glances down at the book open in front of him for a moment before he nods and taps the com.

“Ms. Petrovski? Your 4.30's here,” he says, and waits for a moment as the woman on the other end responds. A few seconds later he turns his attention back to Jim and Grandma and then tells them, with perfect politeness, “Go right on through, she's expecting you.”

Grandma cross the room to rap smartly against the heavy wooden door, and the woman who opens it smiles warmly at them in greeting. Jim doesn't really know what he'd thought the principal would be like, but she's a lot less scary than he'd been expecting.

“Hello, you must be James,” she says. “And you would be his...?”

“Grandmother,” Grandma supplies serenely.

“I see,” the woman says diplomatically, smiling again. “Well, come right on in, both of you. Take a seat. My name is Ms. Petrovski, I'm the principal of Riverside Elementary.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Grandma answers, taking the hand offered in a firm shake.

“Now, I'm sure you must be aware of what a special boy James is,” Ms. Petrovski begins, and she doesn't sound mad, but Jim grips at the edge of his seat, fingers curling underneath and knuckles white with tension. “I suspect you may have an idea of why I've called you here.”

“I believe I do, yes,” Grandma says carefully. “Although my grandson seems to a bit apprehensive that he may be in trouble for some unknown misdeed.”

Ms. Petrovski laughs, high and tinkling. “Trouble? Oh, no, not at all. Quite the opposite, I assure you.”

Huh?

“You're a very bright young man, James,” she tells him, leaning forward in her chair to meet his eyes with an intent gaze. “You've already started school a year before your peers, and yet you've still maintained incredible results. All your teachers comment on the fact that you pick the lessons up the first time they're introduced and spend most of your time in class bored and under stimulated.”

“Um,” Jim says, not quite sure where this is going.

“Quite frankly, we believe it would be a waste of your potential for you to remain in your current year level,” the principal sums up, and turns back to Grandma. “With your permission, Ma'am, we'd like to bump James up to the fourth grade next year. I'm aware that it's unusual for a child to skip two grades at the same time, but his aptitude tests show that it would be more suited to his level of ability.”

“I agree,” Grandma says, perfectly calm like she'd been expecting something like this to happen. “Thank you for taking the time to look into James' circumstances. It was very considerate of you.”

“Oh, not at all, it's our job,” the principal starts, and she's still talking but Jim's stopped listening, because he's still stuck on the last part. He stares at Ms. Petrovski, then at Grandma, then back at the Ms. Petrovski again. It's not that he didn't understand what she was talking about— she used a lot of big words and he did have to think some of them over once or twice, but Grandma gives Jim a lot of books to read so he's pretty good with vocabulary. He just doesn't get what she's saying.

“Skip two grades?” he echoes dumbly, but nobody is paying attention to him, too busy going through all those polite grown-up formalities, and then Grandma is herding him out the door before he can protest. He's too confused to even figure out what to ask, so he stews over it in silence.

In the car on the way home, when he still doesn't say anything, Grandma tells him, “You have a very precious gift, James, and that makes you a lucky boy. You mustn't waste it.”

Jim thinks privately that he could do without this kind of gift, not if it means skipping any more grades. It's already bad enough being younger than the other kids in his year; they don't like it, and they don't like him, and he doesn't have any friends who aren't his brother. He can only assume it'll get worse if he gets bumped up another two years. School is boring and unengaging and not challenging at all, and that sucks, but he doesn't really think this will do much to change that, or, more to the point, he thinks that sticking with what he's got now would at least suck less in terms of the other kids. He doesn't want to be a “genius”; he wants to fit in and have friends like Sam does.

Of course if he skips to fourth grade, he'll be in the same class as Sam, but some younger brother instinct tells Jim that's not actually a good thing. Sam's friends don't want to hang out with him and Sam sometimes ignores him to go play with them. Jim doesn't think Sam's going to be that happy to have Jim there all the time.

He's pretty sure this whole thing is just going to suck from start to finish, but he's also pretty sure that Grandma wouldn't understand even if he tried to explain, so he stays quiet and stares moodily out the window for the whole drive. He can tell Grandma isn't pleased by his attitude, but he doesn't feel like pretending to be happy or grateful or whatever he's meant to be.

Jim's sick of being good, anyway; no matter how hard he tries, it's never actually given him anything he wants and he's just about stopped hoping it ever will.

Sam is even less pleased by the news than Jim had thought he would be. Jim had expected that Sam would resent being expected to look out for Jim at school and that maybe Sam would get annoyed at him for always hanging around once classes started, but he's not pleased for Jim at all, not like Grandma or like Mom when he talks to her long-distance. Jim doesn't really want to be congratulated because he didn't even want to skip any grades in the first place, but he still doesn't get why Sam seems to be so angry at him. He's not sure what he did, but Sam stomps around the suddenly too-small house sniping at him and deliberately not talking to him by turns and goes out with his friends all the time. Jim gets sick of trying to behave; Sam's bad mood and the stifling atmosphere on the farm get under his skin, make it hard for him to control himself. He throws temper tantrums where he sweeps all the pieces from the chess board and slams the door when he storms out of the room, doesn't come back to the house when he's called, gets all scraped up and dirty from riding his bike too hard and too far when Grandma tells him not to. Grandma yells at him and Sam a lot over those holidays. Mom doesn't come home at all— she hasn't been home since before Sam's birthday.

It's one of the longest summers of Jim's life.

Nevertheless, he's not looking forward to when it’s over, because the end of the summer holidays means the start of the new school year and Jim can think of nothing worse. Even if the summer seems to last forever, though, the days are still creeping forwards. Eventually the holidays will pass, and all Jim has to look forward to then is grade four with his brother still mad at him and the other kids bound to make fun of him.

When the last day of freedom (such as it is) seeps away like grains of sand through clenched fists, reality lives very disappointingly up to these expectations. The atmosphere in the house as Grandma hands them their lunches and gives them the usual lecture about not forgetting anything, not getting into any fights, respecting their teachers, paying attention in class, etcetera is very tense and frigid, as both Sam and Jim are sullenly quiet and speak only a few words to Grandma where required and none at all to each other. Sam at least sits next to him on the hoverbus, but he completely ignores Jim and spends the entire trip hanging over the back of the seat in front to talk with his friends. Jim may as well not exist, and he hunches against the side of the bus to make himself as small as possible and stares out the window in miserable silence wishing he were anywhere else.

It only gets worse once they actually arrive at school. Everyone in the class knows each other except for him, and Sam sits in a row with his friends in a way that makes it clear there's no space for Jim there. He sits right at the back of the room and slides down in his chair and tries to make himself invisible, which might have worked better if the teacher hadn't walked into the room and, after welcoming back his students from the year before, announced they had a new student and asked Sam's younger brother to introduce himself.

Jim can feel the heat of all the stares on him and he tries to get away with just mumbling his name and keeping his eyes fixed on the desk, but the teacher makes him stand up and say hi properly so 'everyone knows who you are'.

“Jim,” he says a bit louder, stiff with defensiveness and still staring determinedly down at the ground. “Kirk.”

“Tell us a little about yourself, Jim. How old are you now?”

A little bit of Jim's soul dies at that question, and he thinks bitterly that he hopes this teacher suffers for this someday. “Six,” he mumbles. The room full of eight- and nine-year-olds look at him like he's a Klingon or something and whisper loudly.

“And what kind of things do you like to do?”

Jim's got the preservation instincts to know that things can only get worse if he says chess or reading, so he shrugs and says, “I dunno.”

The teacher sighs a little, obviously expecting something a little more helpful. “Okay, thank you, Jim,” he says, and the smile he manages is friendly if maybe a little fake but Jim's not ready now or ever to forgive being humiliated like that and just glowers back. “You can sit down now.”

Jim's already sitting before the words are halfway out of the man's mouth, relieved to be off the hook, but the damage is already done. The boy next to him whose face is squashed and unpleasant like a big red toad hisses, “Freak,” as soon as the teacher's back is turned and it's loud enough that several students look back at him, although the teacher doesn't seem to hear. Sam meets Jim's eyes for a moment and hesitates, like he's thinking about saying something, but in the end his mouth tightens and he looks back down at his textbook without a word.

Jim didn't really think Sam would stick up for him but it still hurts when it actually happens, and he can feel his eyes stinging hot as he bites down hard on his lower lip and clenches his fist around his stylus, willing himself not to let it show. He has the sinking fear that the whole school year is going to end up being like this, and every year after for the rest of elementary and maybe middle school, too. He's not sure he can bear that thought, and if something doesn't give, he thinks he might have to run away and hitchhike his way out of Iowa somehow. It'd serve Sam right if Grandma got mad at him. He probably wouldn't even care if Jim went missing.

Jim hates school. Right now, he kind of hates Sam too. </span>

The school week limps its way through to the weekend with no sign of improvement. Jim's always found it hard to wake early, but lately he doesn't even want to try. Grandma has to force him up with threats and bribes. On the weekend he considers not getting up at all, but Grandma will have none of it, so Jim drags himself out of bed just so he can mope his way around the house and stare blankly at his homework while Sam ignores him some more. Jim kind of hopes, against all reason, that Monday will never come, but of course it does, both far quicker and far more slowly than it has any right to do.

Monday and Tuesday pass in much the same way as the previous week, with the usual jeers and taunts of his classmates growing increasingly in volume and more and more difficult to ignore. So far Jim has taken the bait exactly once; the teacher hadn't seen the start of the fight and had yelled at Jim and threatened to send a notice to his grandmother, which had proved to Jim how futile and unfair the whole thing is. Since then he's been doing his best not to react, but it's hard.

On Wednesday of the second week, a group of boys come up to Jim on the playground, led by toad-face. Toad-face calls Jim a freak again and twists his arm behind his back so it hurts, but before he can reply or try to work himself free, Sam yells, “Leave my brother alone!” and punches the other boy in the face.

Jim stumbles back when his arm is released and stands there staring for a few seconds. Last thing he knew Sam still wasn't talking to him, but now he's getting into a fistfight on Jim's behalf, which takes a moment to process. Jim had resigned himself to the fact that Sam wasn't going to be sticking up for him anytime soon, except now he is. Once the initial shock wears off, though, Jim's moving before he even thinks about it, throwing his small body into the fray at Sam's side in a windmill of kicking and biting and scratching and squirming out of headlocks. All the good reasons for keeping his temper had flown out the window the moment Sam threw the first punch— maybe they're outnumbered and the other boys are all bigger and older and stronger than Jim, but he's no coward, and if Sam's gonna get into trouble, Jim may as well get into it with him. Brothers stick together, and Jim's gotta watch Sam's back, especially since he got into this fight for Jim's sake in the first place.

In the end all those other disadvantages don't matter, 'cause Jim may be short but he's smart and he's vicious and he's cunning, and more than anything, he and Sam are Kirks. If there's anything Jim's learned from his father it's that Kirks go down fighting or not at all, and him and Sam give it all they've got. They would totally have won if the teachers hadn't come in and broken up the fight halfway through, too, and Jim's wrist is red where the boy grabbed him earlier and there are red scratches flaring on his skin and his lip is split and he hurts in all kinds of places, especially his face and left side, but he feels like laughing, like he's never been more alive. Sam's black eye and swollen, bloody nose look pretty painful, but he grins at Jim when their eyes meet.

They get sent to the principal's office and lectured for what feels like eternity but is actually only about twenty minutes while they wait for Grandma to come pick them up. Jim wriggles in his seat, bored and antsy and still humming with energy, impatient to leave already. Beside him, Sam is drumming his heels against the chair.

Finally they get let off with a warning and a detention, because Grandma has arrived to pick them up. She greets them with a pinched look of disapproval and says, “I'm very disappointed in you, boys,” which Jim translates as meaning they're about to get yet another lecture. He even feels a little guilty.

When Sam leans over and whispers, “I'd do it again,” in his ear, though, Jim grins from ear to ear despite the stinging of his split lip and knows that the whole thing was completely worth it.

Sam and Jim are suspended for the rest of the school week, during which Grandma makes them do lots of chores as punishment and all the school work they're missing by staying at home. Even so, it's not enough to destroy Jim's good mood now that Sam is talking to him again. That's all it takes to suddenly make the world a much brighter place.

Back at school, their teacher reassigns seating arrangements because no one thinks it's a good idea for Jim and toad-face to sit next to each other anymore. Jim doesn't think it was ever a good idea for him to be sitting next to toad-face, but he's not going to argue about it now, especially not when he's been moved to sit next to Sam. Sam's friends are a little weird about it at first but Sam says he doesn't mind. The other kids lay off a little, maybe because they've got a bit more respect for him now, but more likely it's because they think he and Sam are crazy and don't wanna mess with them. Jim doesn't really care why; he's just glad he's not being bullied anymore.

In the end it's not so bad, maybe better than before he skipped two grades. School's still pretty boring compared to his mom's old math and science textbooks that Grandma lets him read, although he kind of likes xenocultural studies and their language classes, but he's started to learn the art of fitting in and making people like him. He finds that if he smiles and laughs and acts friendly but not too smart, other kids in his class want to hang out with him. None of them are really friends, but it's good enough for Jim. Sam's his best friend anyway.

It doesn't work on everyone. Sam gives him a weird look whenever he pretends not to know the answer to something, and trying to charm his way out of trouble with Grandma just means he doesn't get any dessert.

Actually, more often than not adults seem suspicious that he's up to something, although, to be fair, that might be because a lot of the time he is— there's a running pranks competition going on amongst the fourth grade, and Jim and Sam are currently in the lead, because Jim has discovered a previously unknown talent for it. He's creative and Sam's good at planning and neither of them are afraid of taking risks, so a lot of the best pranks (like the time all the lesson plans got swapped for badly written Andorian romance novels) are thanks to them. The teachers know it's them but can't prove it, so they assign detention for really stupid things they can prove instead. Jim argues the first time, 'cause it's not fair, but he just gets given another detention and Sam says, “Told you so” at him, so he knows better next time. He learns pretty quickly that it's easier and more effective to get revenge by coming up with a bigger and better prank next time.

Depending on your point of view, the system of daring that runs alongside and crosses over with the pranks doesn't turn out quite so well. Sometimes they get pretty stupidly dangerous, but a lot of the time kids go through with it anyway because nobody wants to get called chicken. Jim is learning that the key to being popular is to be funny and confident, but not too smart, and most of all, to not show fear. Which is why so far, he has yet to turn down a dare, even the pretty stupid ones.

So far this is the most stupid, though.

“No,” Sam says immediately, crossing his arms. “Jim's not doing that.”

Jim hesitates, because even dares have their limits and there's no way trying to climb onto the school roof from the big old pine would end well. In fact, he's pretty sure that it's not even physically possible when you factor in his weight and gravity and the angles involved and stuff. But at the same time, it's not that easy to say no, and Sam's not making it any better.

“What, d'you need your big brother to protect you?” Sam's friend Derek jeers. “C'mon, Jim, I double-dog dare you!”

“Jim, don't, it's dumb,” Sam tells him, and Jim looks between them, torn. He knows Sam's right, but it's easy for him. He doesn't have to try to fit in, he doesn't know what it's like to stick out like that. Part of Jim's already talking himself into it: sure, it's stupid, it's probably not even possible, but maybe it is, and wouldn't it be awesome if he actually did it? And even if he missed, well, it'd still be pretty impressive. Plus, you didn't turn down a double-dog dare if you didn't want to be called chicken.

Jim's no chicken.

“Okay,” he says.

“Jim,” Sam exclaims, and grabs for his arm when he starts to walk around to the back of the school yard where the tree stands, just outside the fence. “Are you nuts? What if you fall?”

“I won't,” Jim tells him, far more confidently than he actually feels, and yanks free. “Keep a look out.”

Derek watches on, obviously waiting to see if Jim will go through with it. Sam looks torn but after a moment he nods reluctantly. In theory there's always supposed to be a teacher on duty at lunch, but most of the time whoever's in charge just comes out once or twice and doesn't really check the back. If Jim's lucky, he won't get caught. (Or at least, not until he falls. If he's really lucky, he'll make it to the roof without either of those things happening.)

“You're really gonna do it?” Derek asks, disbelieving, and Jim swipes the back of his wrist across his nose and gives a determined grin.

“Sure I am,” he declares, and before anyone can try to talk him out of it again, he tightens his fingers around the wire mesh of the fence and starts to haul himself up.

This part's easy. Jim's skinny and wiry and likes playing sports, so climbing a fence like this with lots of easy hand and foot-holds is nothing he hasn't done a million times before. It gets harder when he pulls himself up over the top and has to try and stand up on the metal bar, because it's not very wide and it curves, but he's got pretty good balance and when he takes it slow and holds his hands out to the side he manages to steady himself with just a little bit of wobbling.

His heart is hammering in his chest and he can feel his hands growing sweaty. He wipes them off on his pants before he reaches for the branch that hangs over the fence, about a foot above his head.

“He's really doing it!” he hears Derek yell in the background, while he tries to pull himself up towards the branch and his feet scrabble uselessly at the air. “Come see, Jim's climbing the tree!”

His arms burn with the strain of holding his weight, and they're starting to tremble a little by the time he manages to hook his leg over the branch and hug his arms and legs tight around it like a koala bear, desperately clinging. He scratches his ankle and the soft skin of his arm on the rough bark and it stings really badly, but he doesn't have time to worry about that right now. Instead he concentrates on inching his way down the branch towards the trunk so that he has something to push against and give him the boost he needs to flip the right way up.

By the time he twists himself upright to sit in the curve where the branch starts, his arms ache and throb and he can hear the rush of blood roaring in his ears. The ground seems a long way down, although it's really only about twelve feet. A small group of kids from his class have gathered to watch and they're cheering him on. Sam's face looks almost white.

Jim takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says— to himself, since he doesn't think anyone on the ground could hear him anyway— and cautiously rises to his feet, back braced against the trunk of the tree. The harsh grooves of the bark scratch through the thin material of his shirt and he takes a deep breath to center himself before he reaches for the next branch up, the one that overhangs the roof of the science block. He's not tall enough; his fingers barely brush at it. Jim frowns.

A little further around to the right there's another branch sticking out, about a foot or two higher up. He knows he can reach it, and that he's more likely to be able to reach the branch he's aiming for from there than from here. But at the same time, leaning at an angle like that's going to mean less support and more risk of falling.

He's not about to back down now, though, so he hoists himself up onto the closer branch with his hands and knees and shifts round so he's facing back towards the school. The distance between this branch and the next one up seems a lot further from here, and he's suddenly not so certain he wants to do this anymore, but he's already come this far and he's not sure he could climb back down even if he wanted to, let alone what the other boys would say if he wimped out now, so he doesn't have a lot of choice.

Jim clings to the trunk to stop himself from plunging forwards when he leans across to the other branch, but he can tell straight away that it's just a little too far to reach without jumping. It's hard, but it's not impossible, and he's almost weak with terror but at the same time it's exciting in a way that he reads about a lot in the stories but which never happens in his own life. Everyone is watching him, like he's some kind of superhero.

He jumps.

If this were a comic book or one of the stories Jim loves, it would have been an amazing, incredible leap and he'd make it against all odds and everyone would cheer. However, because reality is not quite that kind, he scrapes his hands when he clips the branch but doesn't manage to catch a proper hold of it. Everything moves too fast to process— the shriek of terror that bubbles up in his throat, the sounds of kids yelling from below, the sick swoop of his stomach as he drops...

By some miracle of survival instinct and reflexes that are faster than thought, he manages to snag the branch below when he falls, and it feels as though his arm just yanked out of its socket. Jim holds on through the pain with grim determination while his feet kick uselessly at the air, but the branch shudders violently up and down from the force of breaking his fall and cracks loudly in two. The ground is once more rushing up towards him before he can even think to try and save himself.

“JIM!” he hears Sam scream, and that's the last thing he remembers before it all goes black.

Later, when Jim wakes up, the doctors tell him he's lucky that he didn't fall the whole way, that he didn't hit the fence, that he didn't land on his head, that it's the 23rd century and his brother called for help. Jim supposes they're right, but he doesn't feel very lucky. Bone-knitters and dermal regenerators can only do so much, and he still hurts all over.

He feels even less lucky when he complains about it and the doctor gives him a hypo for the pain that just ends up causing a whole lot more when he has an allergic reaction.

“It serves you right,” Sam tells him meanly, once the machines have stopped beeping and the nurses have stopped panicking and everything's calmed down. “For being an idiot.”

Sam hasn't forgiven him for falling out of the tree, yet.

“It wasn't that bad,” Jim argues sullenly, still feeling swollen and prickly all over from the allergic reaction, which he thinks was worse than falling out of the tree, but apparently Sam doesn't agree, because he yells, “I thought you were dead, stupid!” and pounds his fists down on Jim's bed.

Oh.

“I didn't mean to,” Jim offers after a moment, a little guiltily.

“You knew it was dumb,” Sam says grudgingly, although Jim can tell he's halfway forgiven already. “I told you it was, you knew.”

It's true; he did.

“I could've done it if the branch didn't break,” he insists, without much conviction, and ignores the way Sam rolls his eyes. “Where's Grandma, anyway?”

“Talking to the doctors,” Sam says, resting his chin on his hands. “You're gonna have to stay in bed for two weeks to make sure you heal okay. They fixed most of it but you were hurt pretty bad when you fell, plus you reacted to the meds and stuff, so they wanna make sure.”

Jim sighs, already imagining the boredom ahead of him. “Great,” he mutters.

Sam shrugs. “I told you not to,” he points out again, and Jim bets he's going to be saying that for the rest of their lives.

“Life sucks,” Jim says miserably, and Sam starts to look just a little sympathetic.

“Mom's sending you a bunch of paperbacks,” he says. “And Grandma's kind of mad, but she'll get over it.”

“Thanks,” he says, and hesitates before asking, “And... the guys from class?”

“They all think you're some kind of hero,” Sam says in disgust. “Cause they're too dumb to know better.”

Jim snickers at that, but it trails off into a sigh.

“Sorry, Sam,” he says quietly, and Sam scowls, not looking at him.

“You better be,” he mutters, but he doesn't leave.

They let Jim go home a few hours after he wakes up when all the paperwork is signed, but Grandma makes him go straight to bed, just like Sam had warned. Jim's already sick of lying around like that, but he's feeling too meek to argue for fear of upsetting Grandma even more. She'd been so sharp and angry, but more than that, for just a moment back at the hospital she'd looked old, like she'd suddenly aged a whole lot. Grandma's face is lined and her hands are leathery and her hair is an iron gray, but Jim's never actually really thought that she looks old before. It scares him into behaving, even if it's just for now. He's not sure how long it'll last, but he's pretty certain that being cooped up in his room for two weeks will send him crazy.

Mom contacts them from the planet she's currently on the day after Jim comes home. Sam talks to her first; Jim can hear the sound of their voices from the next room, although he can't make out the words until Sam yells, “You promised!” and a door slams. He can't hear Mom's reply, but Grandma says something and then she's calling him out of his room to say hi.

“Oh, my baby,” Mom says, as soon as he comes near the vidscreen. “I'm so glad you're okay. Don't scare me like that!”

She looks tired and washed out and a little tearful when she smiles at him, and Jim feels another pang of guilt. It's starting to become his constant companion. He doesn't set out to be bad, but he can't seem to help himself.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and he is. He's sorry for making everyone worry. He's just not entirely sorry for climbing the tree.

“You've gotta be more careful, Jimmy,” Mom tells him gently. “Think of your Grandma's heart, hearing you'd gone and fallen out of a tree. Think of me, okay? I was so worried when I heard you'd got yourself injured like that and I couldn't even be there.”

“Okay, Mom,” Jim promises, a bit subdued. He's not really sure how long he can keep it for, but it makes him feel bad the way Mom and Grandma and Sam are all so upset because of him, so he'll try. “When're you coming home?”

Mom hesitates.

“I'm sorry, baby,” she says after a moment, awkwardly. “I wanted to come home soon as I heard, but it's too far. I can't get there until Thanksgiving. I got my friend to send you some old books, though, to keep you company while you're recovering.”

Jim loves books. Real books, not the data books they use in class. Reading stuff off a screen is okay and all, but nothing beats the slightly rough feel of paper under his fingers or the musty smell of old book or the weight of it in his hands. He likes being able to flip the pages and slide a bookmark between them. He likes the way that sometimes when Mom's home she'll hold him in her lap with a book in her hands and read to him in her soft, soothing voice.

Books still aren't really a substitute for Mom, though.

“You said you'd come home for Sam's birthday,” Jim says, a little accusatory, and he knows that must have been what Sam was yelling about earlier.

“I know, sweetie,” Mom says, pleading for forgiveness with her eyes. “I'll make it up to you both next time, I swear.”

“Sure, Mom,” Jim agrees, resigned. It's Sam's birthday she's missing, anyway; it was a promise to Sam that she's breaking, so Sam's the one who gets to be mad. Yelling or crying won't make a difference anyway: Mom can't break the laws of physics just 'cause he throws a tantrum.

“You're a good boy, Jimmy,” she says wearily. “Now, you've gotta make sure you get lots of rest, so back to bed, little man.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jim sighs, and trudges back out of the sitting room in the direction of his bedroom, but he stops in the corridor with the door still open a crack when he hears Mom speak again, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Ma, are you sure you're okay?” she asks. “You're looking a little gray in the face.”

“I'm fine, Winona,” Grandma snaps. “If you've got energy to be worrying about me you should spend it worrying about your boys.”

“I do,” Mom tells her, and even if Jim hadn't seen it in her eyes he'd know how tired she is just from her voice. “I'm sorry, Ma.”

“You're always sorry, girl,” Grandma retorts, but she sounds resigned, not angry. “I don't know what you hope you'll find if you keep running like this.”

“I wish I knew,” Mom says, and Jim closes the door quietly and goes back to bed.

In the end being stuck in bed is not as boring as Jim feared it might be, but that's not really saying much, because his expectations were pretty low and it's only just interesting enough to be bearable. Sam spends a lot of time sitting on the end of the bed playing ancient board games that have been in the house at least since Grandma was a kid with him. In general they're falling apart and missing their instructions and about half the pieces, but Sam and Jim end up making up their own rules that turn into new games entirely most of the time.

The worst is when Sam goes to school without him and Jim's stuck by himself. He's got the books that Mom sent, and sometimes Grandma will come in and read to him— he can read them himself but he still likes having them read aloud, even if Grandma's old dry voice isn't as soothing as Mom's smoother tones and it's not quite the same. Grandma doesn't always have time, though, and Jim ends up with a lot of time on his hands to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling counting cracks and thinking about ways he could have avoided this situation. Maybe, he muses, he could have been more careful climbing the tree so he didn't fall, although it doesn't really matter now.

Sam's birthday is nine days after Jim's accident. Jim is still bed-ridden, so it's pretty quiet. Grandma bakes a cake like she always does— carrot cake, Sam's favorite. She makes a special batch for Jim, because he's allergic to the icing.

Mom calls, but Sam refuses to speak to her. Jim thinks it's pretty stupid because it's not like Mom can call them that often and he bets Sam will regret it later, but it's not like he doesn't get it. He'd be pretty mad too, if he were Sam. As it is, he's used to the idea that Mom will never be there for his birthday and it doesn't bother him so much anymore, or at least he likes to tell himself it doesn't.

They spend most of the day in the sitting room, because Jim can't go out and play and Sam didn't feel like inviting his friends over. It's definitely not the best birthday Sam's ever had.

“Sorry,” Jim says, feeling a little bit to blame, but Sam shrugs.

“S'not your fault,” he says, and then takes another look at Jim and wrinkles his nose, obviously thinking about the tree. “Okay, maybe a little,” he amends, because he still hasn't totally forgiven Jim for that. “But not really.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Jim tells his brother, because he's not sure he'd be so nice about it if it were him. Lately he's feeling sullen and grumpy about everything, and it's only partly restlessness from being shut up all the time. “Does it feel any different, being ten?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno,” he says. “Not really. D'you wanna play Monopoly now?”

“Monopoly sucks,” Jim says dismissively, because he always gets bored long before the end of the game. “Let's play checkers instead.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees, and goes to get the board.

It's probably the most interesting part of the whole day, after the cake.

Eventually Jim's allowed to go back to school. He hasn't really missed much— Sam brought all the work home with him for Jim to do while he was stuck in bed, and it's all pretty much the same as always anyway. He's greeted like a returning war hero by the class, like Sam had told him, and Jim grins and basks in the attention at first but under the surface it makes him feel a little uncomfortable, especially since he knows it bugs Sam to see Jim being congratulated for doing it.

They settle back into the dull normality of everyday routine, except that Grandma doesn't play chess or nag about homework as often as she used to.

“D'you think she's okay?” Jim asks Sam, 'cause somehow Grandma doesn't seem as tall or strong or imposing as Jim always used to think she was. Sam frowns, and Jim thinks he's noticed it too, but all he says is, “Maybe she's just busy?” even though he doesn't sound that convinced himself.

Otherwise, though, all is as usual, and the days crawl slowly towards the Thanksgiving holidays, when Mom will be home again to visit for the first time in more than a year. Jim is so impatient for the day to come that he almost can't stand it, and by the time he's within a week of Mom's arrival he's sure he'll burst from all the waiting.

“You reckon Mom got any presents this time?” he asks Sam while they clean the house on Grandma's orders, ready for Mom to come home. He's not sure why it matters, because it's Mom's house too and it's not like she'd care that much or probably even notice if everything weren't perfect and dust free, but Jim didn't complain too much about it since it gives him something to do to pass the time before Thanksgiving.

“She hasn't been home in ages,” Sam reasons. “Plus she went pretty far this time, so I bet she did.”

“I hope it's something cool and alien,” Jim decides, but that's when Grandma comes down the stairs from the loft where Mom's room is, breathing really hard and clutching at her chest.

Jim and Sam glance at each other, a little scared, and Sam says, “Grandma, are you okay?”

“The stairs,” Grandma gasps out. “Getting... too old. I'll... be fine. Just... need a drink... water.”

“I'll get it,” Jim says, and runs to the kitchen to fill a glass from the tap. He's carrying it back to the sitting room, careful not to spill it, when he hears a loud thump and Sam screams. The sound of it is sudden and jarring and the glass slips from Jim's grasp to smash on the tiles and spill all over the floor. He doesn't spare it more than a second thought when he bolts back to the other room to find Grandma collapsed on the floor and Sam kneeling over her, eyes filled with terrified tears and face almost as stark white as Grandma's own.

“Call an ambulance!” he screams, while Jim stands there frozen in helpless shock and thinks, It's all my fault, I wasn't a good boy and I made Grandma get sick, before his feet unstick from the floor and he can run for the vidphone.

The emergency number is pre-programmed in; the operator can barely understand Jim through the hysteria, but he somehow manages to force himself slow down and untangle his tongue long enough to make himself understood and the person on the other end of the line tells him, “We'll be there right away, just stay with her, try to perform CPR if you know how—”

But Jim's six and Sam's only just turned ten and between them they know what CPR is in theory but don't have the first clue how to perform it, and by the time the paramedics arrive, it's already too late.

Grandma is gone, and all the medicine in the world won't bring her back.

The day they say goodbye to Grandma is windy, the slight bite of fall chill in the air. If this were one of Jim's books it'd be raining, but Iowa in the 23rd century is arid and those kinds of coincidences don't happen in real life. The sky is blue, not a cloud in sight.

Jim is wearing a black suit with a tie that feels like it might strangle him. Next to him Sam's face is pale and his eyes are big and dark and so shut off. Jim holds onto his hand, both of them squeezing tight, and concentrates on not crying, because if he starts he thinks he'll probably never stop. He and Sam have to be strong for Mom. Grandma would say that big boys don't cry.

Grandma's not here, but Jim's trying not to think about that. It still doesn't feel real.

“My mother,” Mom is saying from the front, halting and uneven, and Jim knows she's trying not to cry too. “M-my mother was al... always strong. She supported me when I couldn't support myself, and she never complained about the many hardships in her life. Her capacity for love was— was—”

She falters, struggling for control until the sadness overwhelms her and she breaks down in the middle of her sentence. Jim stands there frozen while Mom dissolves into a flood of tears in front of everyone, no longer able to keep talking, but then Sam tugs on his wrist and he can't hold himself back.

“Mom,” he cries out, feeling his own tears start to overflow. “Mommy!”

He bowls into her and buries his face in her waist, feels Sam do the same from her other side. They both cling close to her black dress, and she crouches down to put her arms around them and press her damp cheeks to the tops of their heads, pressing fierce kisses to both of their foreheads before she stands up straight, arms still around their shoulders, and takes a deep, hiccupping breath.

“Her capacity for love,” Mom continues, shaky and a little thick but still clear, “was beyond compare. She always put her family before everything else, and cared deeply for us all despite our faults. She forgave the weaknesses and mistakes of others, and always did what she felt was right, no matter how hard it might have been. She was a wonderful woman, and she will be sorely missed.”

She pauses, and lifts her chin, back straightening.

“I love you, Ma,” she says, and her fingers tightening around Jim's shoulders, but when he peeks up at her face she looks almost calm. “Rest in peace.”

The sparks from the fire spiral away in the wind. Jim watches them, clinging to his mother's skirts, and feels more alone than he ever has before.

Next

[Star Trek Reboot] Hold Me Down (This Starless City): Part 1

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:33:44 GMT

Title: Hold Me Down (This Starless City)
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairings: None. Well, Jim Kirk/OMC for part of it, but really not the point. It... it's not even pre-slash. I feel faint.
Genre: Serious
Word Count: 44,437
Notes: Written for startrekbigbang, 2009. Enormous thanks to my wonderful fanartist renquise and fanmixer thebunnyknows, and to corialis, littledust, lazulisong and beckerbell for helping out with beta-type things and putting up with my endless whinging. :D Title is taken from Tiffany Blews by Fallout Boy (dear gravity, you held me down in this starless city). In my head, this is part one of a trilogy which will ultimately be Kirk/Spock, but it stands alone and any sequels will be at least a few months in coming.
Warnings: minor character death, non-graphic reference to child abuse and mental health issues
Art: here
Mix: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=PAMR4LJ0
Summary: Iowa is a cage with invisible chains, and Jim is living in captivity. (Or, The Epic Tale of James Tiberius Kirk, from the ages of 5 to 22.)

1.

The part of Iowa where Jim lives is flat and hot and dusty, stretching out for miles and miles of scrubby grass and sparse, broken down farmsteads and not a whole lot else. The earth is hard and cracked and burns the soles of his bare feet when the sun beats down on it in summer, orange stretching out forever under the endlessly blue sky. Sometimes Jim feels like he could see the edges of the world from here if he squinted hard enough, it's so flat.

Of course he knows he can't really. Jim's five, but he's not stupid. For a start, the Earth is round.

“Hey Sam, how far away d'you think the horizon is?” he asks idly from his perch on top of the gate when he hears his older brother coming out on the porch.

“I dunno,” Sam says, sounding a little grumpy and sullen like he does whenever it's hot and their grandmother makes him run errands. “Grandma says you have to come in now or you'll get sunburnt.”

Jim pouts, kicking his legs so the mesh of the fence rattles. “Don't wanna,” he declares rebelliously. If he goes inside he'll have to do homework. There's not that much to do in the front yard, either, but at least it feels a little like what freedom must be like with all that sky around him.

“Don't be a brat,” Sam tells him. He's only three and a half years older than Jim, but he likes to act all superior. “Mom's not coming back 'til tomorrow.”

Jim shrugs. He knows that; it wasn't like he was really waiting, anyway.

“Grandma'll be mad if you don't do what she says,” Sam says shortly. The porch door clatters in its frame when he slams it shut behind him, and Jim sighs, climbing reluctantly back down to the ground. The metal is searing hot from the glare of the sun and he yanks his palms away before they can get burnt, jumping most of the distance. He stumbles the landing a bit and skins his knees on the sharp rocky ground. It stings a lot but he bites his lip, determined not to cry. Jim has a lot of practice falling over, so he's getting better at being a big boy and not acting like a baby about it.

He doesn't really want to go inside. It always feels so small and stifling, like he has to be careful not to breathe too hard. If he doesn't go, though, Grandma will yell at him, and Jim's a little scared of being scolded by her. She's not mean, exactly, but she's pretty strict. Some of the other kids at school have grandmothers who bake them cookies and buy them lots of stuffed toys. Jim's Grandma's not like that. She's tall and thin and stern and always cooks healthy food and makes Jim study and read lots of books. She's teaching him to play chess. It's not that Jim doesn't like books or chess, but sometimes he feels trapped in his own body and he just wants to run and yell and ride his bike forever until he reaches the edge of the horizon. Grandma doesn't like rowdy, active children, but he finds it really hard to contain himself.

For a place with so much sky, Iowa feels pretty cramped to Jim. He imagines that he can feel the gravity holding him down. He doesn't really know that much about gravity yet, but he thinks he doesn't like it.

What Jim really wants is to go out into space and be surrounded by all that limitless night sky, inky black and sprinkled with brightly shining stars. Jim knows from school that the universe is infinite, which means it never ends. You could fly forever and just keep on going. Jim likes that idea, longs for all that freedom.

Jim and Sam aren't allowed off-planet, though, even though their mom spends almost all her time a few galaxies away. Jim's never even been outside Iowa since he was born, no matter how much he yearns for something bigger and better. He's jealous of Mom, who can just fly off whenever she feels trapped and never takes them with her. When Jim feels trapped, he's still just stuck in Iowa.

“How come Sam and I can't go off-planet too?” he complains loudly as he thumps his way into their small weatherboard farmhouse, banging the door shut more forcefully than Sam had a few minutes before him. “It's not fair.”

He's treated to his grandmother's tight-lipped frown, and he feels a bit bad for a moment. He knows why he's not allowed; he's had tantrums about it before, and everything always gets tense and awkward whenever he brings it up again. He doesn't want to make Grandma unhappy, exactly, but sometimes he just feels so antsy and irritable in his own skin that he's ready to burst from it and he doesn't want to be good.

“James Tiberius Kirk,” Grandma begins sternly, “I don't remember raising you to be such an ungrateful boy. You stay at home because it's safe here and your mother trusts me to take care of you while she's working.”

Jim knows he should just say sorry, but he's sick of behaving himself, just like he's sick of Iowa. “If it's so dangerous out there how come it's okay for Mom?” he demands, and Sam hisses, “Shut up, idiot!” from the doorway of the kitchen.

Grandma draws herself up to her full height, cold and distant and gaunt-faced in her anger. “Your mother is an adult,” she says, in a voice that brooks no argument. “She goes off-planet for her work, which she does so she has enough money for you and Samuel, and I would thank you not to forget that.”

“No she doesn't,” Jim says stubbornly, crossing his arms and ignoring Sam's glare. “No one else's parents have to do that. There's lots of jobs in Iowa. She just wants to.”

Grandma's expression sours, as though she'd bitten into a lemon or something. “Go do your homework, James, or I'll revoke your television privileges,” she says instead of arguing with him, and Jim bets that means she actually agrees with him and just doesn't want to say so. He doesn't want to be banned from watching television, though; it's an antique and it's practically falling to bits but he doesn't have a holo-center like all the kids in his class because his grandmother thinks they rot brains and television can be pretty fun too, so rather than answering back he trudges off to the kitchen to do his work.

Jim kind of gets sick of doing homework all the time. He likes learning things, but he gets bored having to sit still and write down all this repetitive stuff he already knows he can do instead of learning something new or going out and seeing all these things for himself. Homework never seems to end and he's fairly sure he studies way more than the other kids in his class, even though they're all a year older than him, but Grandma says he's gotta use what God gave him. Jim isn't really sure about where God figures into this whole thing since nobody but his grandmother seems to believe in religion anymore, but Grandma says if he studies hard then one day he'll be able to do and be whatever he wants. Jim figures that means that if he ever wants to be able to get out of Iowa and explore the universe, he's gotta work hard, no matter how boring it is.

He finally gets reprieve when it's time for dinner and Grandma tells him and Sam to clear and set the table.

“Pack up your books, James,” she says, apparently forgiving him for his earlier misbehavior. “We can play chess after dinner, since you've been good.”

This is intended as a treat, and in some ways it is. There are a lot of things Jim likes doing better than playing chess, but he thinks he's getting better at it and it's pretty fun sometimes. He knows it's really another kind of lesson— his grandmother doesn't really believe in non-educational forms of entertainment— but it's a lot more exciting than writing out answers to obvious questions. Jim already knows the names of all the Federation planets; he'd rather go and see them than write them in a list. Chess is always different, though, and he has to think about what he's doing, which makes it exciting, kind of like having a fight with your brain instead of your fists.

It's a lot harder than anything he does in school, and he hasn't actually managed to win yet, but he thinks he's getting closer. Tonight he manages to chase Grandma into check three times before she traps him into checkmate, and she even smiles at him and calls him a clever boy. Jim's pretty proud of himself, even though he lost.

“You're a freak,” Sam tells him afterwards while they clean up, although not meanly. “Normal kids aren't that good at chess.”

“Maybe Grandma's going easy on me?” Jim suggests, tipping the chess pieces off the board into their container. “Or maybe she's just not that good?”

“Grandma has prizes for that stuff, dumbo,” Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he doesn't sound that annoyed. “You're just weird.”

“Oh,” Jim says. “Is that bad?”

Sam shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “It's just you.”

Sam says he doesn't like chess much, but he always watches when Jim and their grandmother play. Jim wonders why Sam watches them playing if he doesn't enjoy it, but he generally doesn't point it out because then Sam might stop. The one time he asked, Sam said that sometimes you could enjoy watching something without wanting to do it yourself, like sports. Jim doesn't really get it— for a start, he always wants to try out anything he sees someone else doing if it looks interesting— but chess is more fun when Sam's there too, even if Grandma won't let him help because she says it's cheating, so he accepts it.

“Don't forget Mom's coming home tomorrow,” Sam says after a moment, even though they both know there's no way Jim ever would. “You should go to bed, you don't wanna be too tired in the morning.”

“It's not that late yet,” Jim objects, even though technically it's past his bedtime. Bedtime exists more in theory than in practice for him; Grandma tries to enforce it but Jim hates going to bed and always finds ways to wheedle his way out of it or sneak out of his room or read under the covers using an old-fashioned pen-light. Sam's always ratting him out, and it makes Jim mad 'cause it's not like Sam's that much older than him, so how come it's okay for him to stay up?

“Is too,” Sam says, and crosses his arms. “If you go to bed it'll be tomorrow sooner and Mom'll be here.”

“Getting up early won't make Mom get here sooner,” Jim argues. “I'm not even tired.”

“That's not the point.” Sam glares at him. Jim glares back. “You're meant to go to bed at 8.30. That's almost an hour ago.”

“You go to bed too, then,” Jim says, crossing his arms to mirror his brother, and Sam scowls. “Or I'm not either.”

“You're not old enough,” Sam says snottily, like the fact he's turning nine in a few weeks makes him that much better. Before Jim can come up with retort to that, though, their grandmother comes back into the room and she must have looked at the clock, because she says, “It's time for both of you to go to bed, go on.”

Jim still doesn't really want to go, but he decides it counts as winning 'cause Sam has to go too and sticks his tongue out when Grandma isn't looking. Sam smacks him hard on the arm, which hurts a bit, but not so much that he doesn't feel a little guilty when Grandma snaps, “Samuel, if you don't behave yourself you certainly won't be going out with your friends on this weekend!” and Sam sulks off to his room.

Jim didn't mean to get Sam in trouble, not really. Sometimes he can't help being bad and he ends up upsetting everyone. He knows Sam will have forgiven him by tomorrow, though; he always does.

Besides, Mom is coming.

James Tiberius Kirk was born aboard Medical Shuttle 37 of the Kelvin in March 2233 to Winona and George Kirk (deceased) on the same date that his father took over as captain of the starship and died to save 800 people, including his wife and newly born baby.

This is the immutable underlying truth of Jim's existence. For as long as he can remember, he has been aware of this unavoidable fact shaping everything around him, like a gaping black hole that sucks everything in. Sam was only three and a half when Mom came home with a new baby brother and no Dad, so he doesn't remember much, and Grandma doesn't like to talk about it, but Jim's picked up things here and there from what Sam's told him and what he overhears. In a small country town like Riverside, everyone knows everyone else's business, and adults tend to think that Jim can't understand what they're saying just because he's a kid.

What he's heard is this: Winona Kirk's body came back from the Kelvin to her family farm where her mother was taking care of George Jr with her new-born baby, but her spirit stayed off somewhere in space. For months and months, Sam says, she was always crying. She'd ignore one son and almost smother the other with too-tight hugs, until her mood would change and she'd yell and curse and cry some more and couldn't bear to look at either one of them. She'd even tried to drown Jim in the bathtub once when she was supposed to be giving him a bath, and she'd only stopped when Sam had beaten at her with his little fists and screamed until their grandmother had come running and pulled her away.

The adults talk in hushed tones about something they call “post-natal depression”; Jim knows this has something to do with having a baby, but he thinks it's got a lot more to do with Dad dying and leaving them alone. He'd be sad too, if he'd been old enough to remember.

That's what Jim has heard. What he knows is this: Mom is never really there, even when she is. She's spent almost all of her time since Jim was old enough not to need to be breast-fed anymore somewhere off in space, traveling through all that wide-open emptiness and visiting all those far-off planets that Jim can only dream of. When she comes home, she's always sad and distant and not quite right. Jim can't ever remember seeing her smile like she's really happy. He thinks she loves him, and she tells him so whenever she calls and holds him close when she comes home, so warm and sweet-smelling and fragile, but he can see in her eyes that it hurts when she looks at him.

Mom doesn't come home very often, and when she does she never stays for long, usually a few weeks at most. Jim can tell she doesn't really like coming back to Riverside, even if she honestly does care about him and Sam. She always looks trapped, just like Jim feels, except unlike Jim she can fly off again whenever it gets too much. Jim thinks that when she leaves it's never really so much about where she's going as it is about getting out of here.

Grandma says it's complicated. Adults say that a lot, Jim finds.

But today it doesn't matter, because today Mom is coming home, and he and Sam have been hanging out by the gate all morning hoping to get a glimpse of her hovercar in the distance. Jim bets you could see it half an hour before it'd reach the farm, but Sam doesn't believe him.

In the end Sam's right, but it's probably just 'cause hovercars are so much faster than land cars, or something. If it'd been Dad's old corvette, Jim totally would've won. As it is, he first spots the tiny form of the hovercar on the horizon only a few minutes before it arrives. The heat haze turns it into an unidentifiable blur, and Jim has to squint and shade his eyes from the sun to really make it out. By the time he's sure it really is the hovercar, it's practically there already and Sam is yelling and waving his arms, calling out. Jim jumps down from his favorite perch on the gate, knees still stinging a little from yesterday's half-scabbed scrapes, and runs after his brother. His feet send little clouds of red dirt in their wake, ratty sneakers thumping hard against the ground as he sprints to catch up, and his voice rises over Sam's when he hollers Mom's name.

Mom looks cool and refreshed as she gets out of the car, so out of place in the hot, dry dustiness of Riverside, and Jim's sure that there isn't a more beautiful lady in the whole universe.

“Hey, little men,” she greets them, kneeling down to catch them both in her arms and stroke her fingers through their messy blond hair. “How are my boys?”

She smiles, small and understated and a bit wistful, but still genuine. Jim beams back at her with a gap-toothed grin (he's lost some of his baby teeth since the last time she came home), determined to smile wide enough for both of them.

“Grandma's teaching me to play chess,” he says proudly. “Sam says I'm good at it!”

Mom's hand tightens slightly in his hair and she looks sad again for a moment before she covers it up, acting like nothing happened even though Jim can see her eyes are a little dimmer. “That's great, baby,” she says. “Is that right, Sammy?”

Sam shrugs, a little awkwardly. Sometimes he seems like he doesn't know how to act around their mother. “He's pretty good,” he mumbles. “He almost beat Grandma last night.”

“You're Mommy's little genius, aren't you?” Mom says, and when other people say that kind of thing they say it like it's a good thing, but Mom squeezes him a little too hard when she presses a kiss to his cheek and he feels uneasy, wondering if he's upset her again somehow. “How about you, Sammy? How's school?”

“'s okay,” he says, still stiff and uncomfortable. “Everything's okay.”

“That's good, sweetie,” Mom says, but it sounds distracted, like she's just saying it on auto-pilot and hasn't really noticed the way Sam is holding himself back. She lets them both go and stands up, and Jim thinks about reaching out to take her hand but doesn't, just stays still beside Sam as Mom places a hand on each of their heads and ruffles their hair before she starts walking towards the house. Grandma must have heard all the yelling, because she's standing on the porch waiting with her back perfectly straight and her hands folded in front of her like always.

“I'm home, Ma,” Mom says, already looking a bit weary. “Just for a week this time, we're flying out again soon.”

Grandma's lips thin, but all she says is, “How was your trip?”, distant and formal. Jim thinks maybe Grandma doesn't get Mom, even though they're mother and daughter.

“Not too bad,” Mom answers, shrugging. “The drive was pretty smooth— flat land is better for the hovercar. You know what they say, Iowa's real flyover country.”

“Winona!” Grandma says sharply, but Mom just sighs and says, “Give it a rest, Ma,” brushing past her into the house without apologizing.

“I don't get it,” Jim whispers to Sam. Sam shrugs.

“Mom doesn't like Iowa,” he concludes. Sam probably doesn't really know what Mom said to annoy Grandma either, but they both know Mom hates it here.

“Me either,” Jim says, and grabs Sam's sweaty palm in his smaller fist. “Hey, Sam, d'you reckon we'll ever get to go with Mom?”

Mom always says when you're older, but Sam's older than Jim and he's never even been outside Riverside.

“Maybe,” Sam says, though they both know he really means no. Mom's afraid they're gonna die in space like Dad. It doesn't stop her going, but maybe she's not scared of dying when it's her.

“When we're bigger we should go by ourselves,” Jim decides, squeezing Sam's hand. If he studies hard enough, he and Sam can go wherever they like and see the universe too. “Like Grandma said.”

“Sure, Jimmy,” Sam promises, and squeezes Jim's hand back. Jim wonders why Sam sounds a little sad, but he's probably just imagining it anyway.

“Maybe Grandma can come too,” he suggests, head filled with a future where him and Sam travel through space together and maybe go visit Mom sometimes, but Sam makes a face at him.

“Don't be dumb, Grandma hates space,” he says dismissively, and tugs on Jim's hand. “C'mon, let's go inside, Grandma's probably cooking lunch already.”

“Okay,” Jim agrees, and follows Sam obediently back inside the house where Mom is waiting.

Whenever Mom comes home, she always tries hard to be an ordinary mother just like all the other kids' moms. Generally she keeps it up for a week or so before the strain gets to her; Jim sometimes wishes he had a mom just like everyone else, but he changes his mind when he gets one. The Mom who cooks and cleans and offers to help with homework and tries to smile all the time isn't really Mom at all, and Jim doesn't like it. He and Sam have never really talked about it before so he doesn't know how Sam feels about it, but he probably agrees. Usually they do.

This time, they only make it through three days of stilted domesticity before her composure cracks. Jim had thought she'd been doing okay this time, if a bit brittle— she'd packed him and Sam lunches in the morning and picked them up from school in the hovercar and hadn't even fought with Grandma at dinner— but maybe that's because she was trying too hard to be normal and had tired herself out. She'd just been washing the dishes while Jim did his math homework at the table and everything had been fine, but then there's the sudden loud sound of crockery breaking and Jim's head jerks up in shock.

He doesn't know whether she dropped it by accident or on purpose, but there's soap suds and shards of plate scattered on the ground and Mom just stands there staring at her hands for a moment before she starts to cry, little hiccups that soon grow to loud wracking sobs that make her shoulders shudder and tears spill down her cheeks.

“Mommy?” Jim says, childish and scared, because it's not even close to the first time he's seen her like this but he never knows what to say or do. “Mommy, what's wrong?”

Mom kneels down and tries frantically to sweep the pieces together with her bare shaking hands, but she just makes the mess worse when a sharp edge cuts her palm and the dishwater on the floor turns a thin pink with her diluted blood. She cries out in frustration and dumps the bits of broken china roughly back to the ground, scrubbing her wrist angrily against her wet eyes. Jim stares at her helplessly, torn between going to her and calling for Grandma or Sam, but after a moment he slides out of his chair and crawls over to her, tugging at her sleeve. Mom sniffles and pulls him into her lap, wrapping her arms around him so tightly it's a little hard to breathe.

“I'm sorry, baby,” she whispers, rocking him slightly as she peppers tiny kisses all over his cheeks and nose and eyelids, and he can feel the hot splash of her tears and thick stickiness of her blood against his face. “Mommy's so sorry.”

“It's okay, Mommy,” Jim tells her, even though it's kind of not, because Dad's dead and Mom's sad and Jim can't make any of it better.

They're still sitting like that five minutes later when Sam comes into the kitchen to get something, Jim clinging to Mom while she whispers a litany of sorry into his hair like some kind of prayer until her voice is hoarse and half-gone.

“Mom?” Sam says uncertainly, stopping short in the doorway with wide eyes as he takes in the scene. His gaze locks with Jim's, and maybe he finds some kind of answer there because a second later he's running off down the corridor screaming for Grandma.

“So sorry, Jimmy,” Mom's still whispering, cheek pressed fiercely to the top of Jim's head. “So sorry, I'm so sorry I can't be a good mother. My beautiful baby, so beautiful, just like your father...”

Sometimes Jim hates the way Mom looks at him like she's staring right through him, like he's not even there, like he's just a stand-in for Dad. I'm not him, he wants to tell her; I'm not him, Mommy, I'm just me.

The words always stick in his mouth like toffee, though, and he doesn't say anything at all until Grandma is there, pulling him carefully from Mom's arms and ordering Sam to take him to his room. Mom's a mess and so is Jim, and he can hear Grandma trying to calm her down as Sam leads him out of the kitchen.

“I didn't do anything!” he tells Sam, a little hysterically, because he's afraid he did, somehow. “It wasn't me, I swear!”

“Mom's just having a bad day,” Sam tries to comfort him, but he's just a scared kid too and Jim can hear the false bravado in his voice, knows that Sam doesn't really believe that either. “It'll be okay tomorrow, you'll see.”

Jim doesn't answer, just sticks close to Sam's side and curls his bony little fingers in the hem of Sam's t-shirt, grateful to have his big brother beside him. Sam's always there for him, so even when Mom's not around, Jim is never really alone.

It's okay, he thinks, so long as they've got each other.

Mom isn't better tomorrow, or the day after that. Jim isn't really surprised. Usually when Mom gets like this, she stays that way until the next time she comes home and she's back to acting normal until it happens again. Then she leaves again, and eventually comes back, and the whole thing repeats. Jim can remember enough of Mom's visits to be able to spot the pattern.

The pretence at functionality has been abandoned. Mom seems like she's too tired to try to smile now; the blue of her eyes looks somehow faded and washed out, and she spends most of her time sitting by the window staring blankly out at the cloudless sky, ignoring Grandma when she tries to lecture her. Sometimes Jim crawls into her lap, but Sam tends to hover awkwardly at the other side of the room even when Jim calls out to him.

“You know, Jimmy,” she says on the fifth afternoon she's there, resting her cheek lightly against his but still staring blankly out the window, “it used to rain in Iowa.”

Jim twists in her lap to try and look at her, even though she's not looking at him. “When you were a kid?”

“Not really,” she murmurs, stroking her long elegant fingers absently through his hair. “Even before Grandma was born and the world got hotter.”

Jim's learned about that in school, sort of, although he doesn't fully understand why it happened. Sometimes even teachers act like kids aren't smart enough to understand, so they just tell them a bunch of facts and don't even try to explain what they mean.

Jim's seen rain before, but not that often. He wishes it would rain now. Maybe Mom would like that. It doesn't rain in space.

It doesn't really rain much in Iowa, either. That's probably not why Mom hates it here, but Jim thinks it probably doesn't help.

“Where's Sammy?” she asks after a moment of silence, and Jim sighs, a little forlorn.

“Out,” he mumbles. “At the pool. With his friends.”

Sam's old enough to go out by himself, according to Grandma, so long as he doesn't go too far. Sometimes he takes Jim with him, but a lot of the time he hangs out with kids from his year at school and most eight-year-olds don't want to play with a five-year-old like Jim. Jim is jealous that Sam can go out and leave the stifling confines of the house without him; he's jealous of the other kids who take his big brother away from him. It's worse when Mom isn't here and it's just Jim and Grandma in the house, because it's not that Jim doesn't love Grandma but aside from the occasional chess game she never wants to play, just tells him to do chores or finish his homework.

Mom hums in acknowledgement and looks like she's thinking for a moment.

“Go and get your chessboard, Jimmy,” she says finally. “Show me how good you're getting.”

Jim squirms out of Mom's lap and runs to get the board and the container with all the pieces in it, not needing to be told twice. Mom has never asked him that before, and he's anxious to please her so maybe she'll do it again next time. She doesn't want to play, though— instead she asks him to show her his last game with Grandma.

Jim wrinkles his nose a little because he's never done that before, but if he concentrates it's not so hard. I did this, he thinks, moving the pieces, and then Grandma did that, and then...

He looks up, and Mom is watching him intently. The smile she gives him is wan and paper-thin, but it's the first he's seen since her break-down two days ago. “You're so smart, baby,” she tells him, a little wistfully. “So smart, just like Daddy.”

Jim doesn't really know what to say to that, but he's saved from answering when the front door bangs open and Sam yells, “I'm home!”

A moment later he comes to the sitting room where Mom and Jim are, and he stops in the doorway, eyes flicking between them and the chessboard. An odd look crosses his face and Jim wonders what he's thinking.

“Hi,” he says, after a beat.

“Aren't you going to come give me a hug, Sammy?” Mom asks, but the attempt to be casual sounds stilted, a little too serious for what should be a joke. Sam hesitates for a moment before he says, “Sure,” and crosses the room to wrap his arms around her shoulders.

Jim kind of wishes he could get a hug too, but Sam isn't really that into hugging and Jim is old enough to feel uncomfortable about asking, so he doesn't.

“Mom wanted to see me and Grandma's game,” he says instead, when Sam extracts himself from Mom's arms. He figures Sam is probably curious, since he'd scrunched his face up a bit when he'd glanced down at the board again.

“Cool,” Sam says, but he doesn't sound that enthusiastic. Maybe it's because he doesn't like playing chess; maybe it's not that interesting looking at old games that have already happened.

For a moment Jim isn't sure what he's meant to do now, somehow a little bit lost even though he's still right there in the middle of the sitting room. He's not used to feeling like this— Sam's his best friend. Jim always knows exactly what Sam's thinking 'cause he's thinking the same thing, but this time Jim thinks he's missed something somewhere.

“I remember when your father used to play chess with Ma,” Mom says, half to herself as if she hasn't even noticed the awkward silence.

“Mom?” Sam says tentatively, and Mom sighs.

“Mommy's tired now, boys,” she tells them wearily, sinking back into her chair and retreating back inside herself. “Why don't you go play together, okay?”

Sam and Jim look at each other, silent communication with no need for words.

“Okay, Mom,” Sam agrees, and takes Jim's hand when they leave the room, which means everything's okay, even though it's not.

“I hope Mom feels better soon,” Jim tells Sam when they're in the hallway, voice small, and Sam's hand tightens around his.

“Yeah, me too,” he says quietly, and Jim thinks that as much as he doesn't really want Mom to go away again, he sort of does at the same time, because maybe that way she won't be so sad anymore and then Sam and Grandma would be happy, too.

Mom leaves on the morning of the eighth day, according to plan. She packs all her things into the hovercar with Grandma's help while Sam and Jim watch from the porch, and she's crying when she kisses them both goodbye and tells them how much she'll miss them, but Jim can see how relieved she is to be leaving. He doesn't blame her; he thinks Mom doesn't do too well with all that gravity on Earth. Iowa weighs her down and makes her sad, and that makes Jim sad too.

As Grandma helps Mom carry the last of her bags out to the car, she stops to catch her breath, hand pressed against her chest, and Mom frowns, reaching out to her.

“Ma, you know what the doctor said, you shouldn't overdo it.”

“It's just heartburn, Winona, quit your fussing,” Grandma says, smacking her hand away irritably. “I do exactly as much as needs doing, and you'd do well to remember that.”

Jim's not exactly sure what Grandma means by that, except Mom flinches and opens her mouth like she wants to say something before she hesitates and then just sighs.

“You boys be good for your Gran, you hear?” is all she says before she hugs them fiercely and gets in the car, and Jim nods, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. He thinks if he tries to say anything he'll start bawling, and that'll make Mom feel bad so he bites down hard on his lower lip and keeps it in.

“Winona,” Grandma says, holding herself back in a way that makes her look stiff and pinched and Jim really thinks for the first time that it must be pretty hard for Grandma, too. “I suppose we won't be seeing you again for some time?”

“Sorry, Ma,” Mom apologizes, not looking her in the eye. “I don't know when I'll have shore leave again. We're scheduled to make a delivery in a pretty distant quadrant on this run, so it'll probably be a while.”

Grandma's face tightens, but all she says is, “I'm not the one you need to be apologizing to.”

Mom looks really guilty when she bends down to give Sam an extra hug. “I'm sorry I won't be here for your birthday, sweetie,” she says. “I'll get you a super special present while I'm gone, okay?”

Sam just nods. He'd probably never expected Mom to be there anyway— it's pretty hard to get shore leave to match up with specific dates like that. She's only managed to make it for one of Sam's birthdays since she started going off-planet again, and this'll be the fourth one he's had. Mom hasn't come home for any of Jim's birthdays, but they never talk about that.

Mom straightens up and offers them an attempt at a smile, ruffling their hair one more time before she gets into the hovercar. Grandma comes up behind Jim and Sam and puts a comforting hand on each of their shoulders, drawing them close.

“I love you both so much,” Mom says, from the driver's seat. “Take care of them for me, Ma.”

“Bye, Mom,” Sam says. Jim clings to Grandma's leg and buries his face in her side, still not trusting himself to speak even though he wants to tell her he loves her too.

“Goodbye, Winona,” Grandma says formally, and the three of them watch as the hovercar speeds away and turns into a speck on the horizon, leaving only a cloud of red dust in its wake.

The weeks and months following Mom's visit pass with the treacle-slow creep of mundanity. To Jim the days stretch out to eternity and a week seems endless; school never teaches him anything interesting and Sam's busy with his friends a lot, and sometimes Jim is so bored he feels like he could die from it. Eventually, though, time does creep forward; the dry crackling heat of summer drought mellows to the golden glow of fall, Sam's ninth birthday coming and going along with it, and then comes the freezing cold dreary gray of winter. Before Jim knows it it's already going into spring again and he's faced by the surprise of it almost being his birthday. The time had seemed to pass so slowly that part of him felt like it wasn't moving at all and so it's a bit of a shock to realize that soon he'll be another year older.

It's not really the excited anticipation other kids seem to feel about their birthdays. Jim's never really had much cause to think of it as being that special. He's never had a party, since he doesn't really have any friends at school and Grandma would probably find it too much to deal with, and while he does get presents, they're just small things. There's no talk of Mom being there for it; it's Jim's birthday, but it's also the anniversary of Dad's death, and that's a cloud that hangs over them all every year. It's the last time she'd ever want to come home.

There's still the promise of becoming a year older and being able to say he's six now, though, and sometimes Jim wants so badly to be grown up that he can taste it, so he waits for the day to come with an odd combination of impatience and dread.

When the day finally dawns there's a subdued mood settling over the house like a heavy cloud. Grandma makes bacon and eggs for breakfast instead of porridge, but Sam is quiet and sullen. Jim spends most of the day trailing Sam around the house 'cause they don't have school and Grandma said Sam's not allowed to go out with his friends and Jim kind of hopes that means Sam will play with him instead, but Sam just keeps ignoring him and eventually gets mad when Jim follows him into his room.

“Quit following me!” Sam snaps, and tries to shove him back out into the corridor. Jim can feel his lower lip sticking out in a pout and trembling a little when he tries not to cry.

“I just want you to play with me,” he complains, his voice scaling up in pitch and volume without him really meaning to. “You don't have to be so mean, Sam!”

“You don't have to be so annoying! Go play chess with Grandma or something and leave me alone!”

“Boys, what's all this noise about?” their grandmother says severely, coming up the hall from the kitchen, but they both ignore her, too caught up in their fight.

“You always just ignore me for your friends!” Jim yells, stomping his foot.

“Yeah, well it's your fault Dad died and Mom's never here!” Sam yells back, and he and Jim are both shocked when their grandmother slaps Sam hard across the face, lips pursed so tightly they're turning white. There's the red imprint of her palm on Sam's cheek, and he stares at her in wide-eyed betrayal. Grandma has always been really strict but she's never hit either of them like that before, not even when Jim's being really bad.

For a moment Jim is actually scared, even though it's not him she's angry at.

“George Samuel Kirk,” she says, almost a hiss. “You take that back and apologi</span>ze to your brother right now!”

Sam can't meet her eyes and doesn't look at Jim either, just stares sullenly down at the floor. “Sorry,” he said grudgingly, and Grandma still doesn't look happy about it but Jim just nods. Even if Grandma says that, Sam's kind of right; it is Jim's fault, sort of. He thinks if he were Sam he'd be pretty mad at him for messing up their family too, but Jim's got no one to blame so he just has to live with it.

“'s okay,” he says, and blinks back the burning prickle in his eyes. He's not going to cry. Only babies cry at things like that, and Jim's six now.

“Would you like to have your cake now, James?” his grandmother asks, changing the subject awkwardly, and Jim nods again, because he doesn't get cake often and it's the only really good part about his birthday.

“Please,” he adds, conscious of not wanting to make Grandma mad again, and she gives him a small smile in reward.

“Good boy,” she praises him, and goes to the kitchen to take it out of the oven. Sam still is refusing to look at him, and Jim scuffs his shoe against the floorboards and tries to convince himself that he doesn't care. Sam's always weird on his birthday; it'll be okay again tomorrow, he thinks.

“You should come too,” Jim tells his brother tentatively. “Or else you might not get any.”

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters, and things still aren't right but at least he follows Jim into the kitchen.

Later that night Sam comes into his room when Jim's pretending to sleep and crawls into bed with him, wrapping his arms around Jim's smaller body and hugging him close.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” he whispers into Jim's hair, and Jim feels warm and sheltered. “I'm sorry. I didn't really mean it. It's not your fault, okay?”

“Okay,” Jim mumbles against Sam's shirt, and snuggles into his brother, because Sam isn't usually very tactile and that makes it a treat when he is. Jim's pretty sure Sam did mean it, at least when he said it, but it doesn't matter. It wasn't anything Jim didn't already know, and they can all just go back to not talking about it once his birthday's over.

Next

[Star Trek Reboot] Wrote the Book

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 17:14:50 GMT

Title: Wrote the Book
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot
Pairings: Some vague Spock/Kirk and reference to past Spock/Uhura, but the real OTP of this fic is Kirk/Inappropriateness.
Genre: Humour, of the NOTHING IS SACRED variety.
Word Count: 3,235
Notes: You know, this is the first fic I've actually finished for a year and one month? BB!X doesn't count because I've only finished installments, not the whole thing. Anyway, be warned that there is a lot of Kirk being a cheerful asshole and making jokes about serious issues of workplace harassment. Basically warning for Reboot!Kirk, really. XD The idea came from an episode of NCIS. Oh yeah, also, I made a conscious decision to use American spelling because it's an American show and you can hear the differences with words like 'mom' and 'ass' and if I was going to change those two it'd look weird leaving all my Australian "ou"s and "ise"s in. ... Also, I want a nu!Trek icon.
Summary: The crew of the Enterprise is subjected to a compulsory seminar on Inappropriate Workplace Behavior, and Jim Kirk finds this to be particularly challenging.

Jim will never, never understand the need for these bullshit seminars that every workplace in the history of Earth seems to insist upon. All the team unity and “synergy” exercises in the universe aren’t going to build real trust or strong relationships amongst a crew—he knows better than anyone, you have to really work at that shit—and political correctness is really just everyone being stiffly polite and keeping all their opinions to themselves while the resentment and disdain continue to simmer inside. So far as Jim’s concerned, it’s less to do with actual mutual respect and understanding than it is about the look of the thing and everyone being able to pat themselves on the back about how progressive they are. It’s kind of condescending. He bets Spock would approve.

As much as Jim thinks the whole thing is bullshit, though, being captain of his own goddamn starship is apparently not enough to get him (or his crew) out of them. Which is why command are all sitting in this tiny stuffy room waiting to be bored out of their minds by a lecture on Inappropriate Workplace Behavior. Like, seriously? Appropriate workplaces are boring. And Jim knows for a fact that he and his crew fucking kick ass and totally don’t need to be lectured about this shit, but whatever, rules are rules and Jim doesn’t really want to get his ass busted by higher ups for flying out when the Enterprise is scheduled for a compulsory seminar. It’s a lot harder to say “fuck the man” when you are the man, he’s finding.

So he’s already heard the jokes from his crew—mostly Bones, but Sulu and Uhura had joined in too—about how he pretty much wrote the book on inappropriate, and hey, whatever, he can’t help being awesome, can he? (Bones had threatened him with a hypospray when Jim had smirked and said, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, bitch,” but he was just jealous, Jim totally knew it.) But he knows for sure that this is going to suck balls when this uptight middle-aged woman stomps into the room, takes one look at him and just spears him with this look, like he’s worse than cockroach guts squashed on the sole of her shoe. It’s more denigrating than even Uhura’s most disparaging glares (possibly excluding the first night they’d met), and if looks could kill, Jim’s pretty sure he wouldn’t even be a greasy smoking smear on the ground.

Well, this will be fun.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins, although from her expression Jim is pretty sure she queries the application of either of those labels to him—and hey, what about species without gender, Ms. Politically Correct? Not that there are any on the Enterprise yet, but it’s the principle of the thing. “You are here today to discuss the importance of appropriateness in the workplace and the sorts of behavior that is considered inappropriate.”

She clicks a device in her hand; a hologram springs up in the center of the room, and Jim thinks, fuck, there’s going to be slides.

He fucking hates slides. They’re like a guarantee that anything boring will automatically become that much more mind-numbingly dull, and yet for some reason Starfleet seems to get all orgasmic over the prospect. The more slides, the better. You can never have too many slides, apparently.

She begins, “The Federation seeks to guarantee that no sentient being shall be treated as lesser because of their race, species, gender or sexual practices, or for any other reason,” and clicks the device again. Sure enough, there are slides; the hologram shifts, dissolving into another image, and Jim barely manages to suppress a groan. “It is therefore important to ensure that all persons, regardless of their individual background, feel safe and comfortable in their working environment. This lecture is intended to address the kinds of—Mr. Kirk, am I boring you?”

Jim almost chokes on his yawn at the sharp tone of her voice, and tries desperately not to meet Sulu’s amused look behind the woman’s back because he knows he’ll crack up if he does.

“No mam,” he says sincerely, and gives her his best bedroom eyes, because very few people are immune to the magic of the Kirk Charm. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than right here listening to your soothing voice.”

Uhura’s making a gagging motion, Spock looks disgusted (as much as Spock ever looks anything, really) and Chekov is trying to smother a giggle, but the woman just gives him a really hard ball-breaking stare and tells him, “Then try to pay attention, Mr. Kirk, because I believe you could use the instruction.”

Ouch, tough crowd.

“As I was saying,” she goes on, “this lecture is intended to address the kinds of behavior that can create a hostile work environment and lead to individuals feeling threatened or objectified by the actions of their peers and superiors, regardless of whether such actions are conscious or intentional. Hopefully you will all pay attention and in future will be able to apply this knowledge in order to be more aware of the impact of your words and actions on others around you.”

She’s addressing the whole room, but with the way she’s staring him down, Jim feels like she expects some kind of response from him specifically.

“I’m all ears, I swear,” he promises. “Totally ready to learn all about how to be, you know, appropriate.”

He doesn’t even mean for that to come out sounding like a come-on, and yet it kind of somehow does. He has to try hard not to let his face settle into a leer, and he knows that that was totally Bones snorting with disbelief in the background, the bastard. Never mind that Jim is lying through his teeth; his best friend could at least fake being supportive.

Ice-bitch obviously doesn’t buy it either, from the withering look of disgust she bestows on him. Jim winces and has to fight the urge to cross his legs. “Flirting with crewmembers, especially those lower-ranking than yourself, is inappropriate,” she continues, with an extra special frown in Jim’s direction. Everybody else pointedly doesn’t look at him, except Bones, who’s smirking.

“Your mom is inappropriate,” Jim says, but under his breath, because he’s pretty sure that “your mom” jokes are not acceptable either and he doesn’t want to get reamed out for that one, too.

“This extends to sexual and inappropriate remarks and language,” the woman informs them. Her hard stare doesn’t waver and he’s pretty sure she didn’t actually hear him, but she probably didn’t even need to by this point; she seems to think she has him pegged.

To be fair, she’s not exactly wrong, per se.

“This means there is to be no reference to your own body or the bodies of others in anything other than clinical capacity—“

“You mean, like, you’re so hot you need a doctor to take your temperature?” Jim interrupts, in a fit of uncontrollable foot-in-mouth disease, and Uhura gives him what he had long since dubbed the ‘oh my god, can you be any more of a skeezeball’ look. It pales in comparison to the lecturer’s glower, though. And it’s not even like he’d ever seriously use a line quite that bad, he just… couldn’t help himself.

There’s a reason Bones always accuses him of having the self-restraint of a toddler.

“Right, no flirting,” he says weakly. “Got it.”

“I certainly hope so,” the lecturer says frostily, and turns her attention back to the presentation. “This means there is to be no discussion of personal and especially sexual lives or inquiry into the personal lives of others. Both the content and language of communications is to be kept polite and professional at all times.”

Jim is pretty sure she just told them not to use the word "fuck". It’s kind of like being in grade school again, and he feels vaguely like he’s being oppressed (seriously, what the fuck is this, It’s Not Okay To Be James Kirk day?), but he’s not stupid enough to say that out loud this time.

“You must also abstain from looking or touching another person in a way that could make them uncomfortable. This means that eye contact should be professional and impersonal and not sought with individuals who find it discomforting for personal or cultural reasons, and should be avoided where unnecessary.”

“So what, I can’t even look at people now?” Kirk demands, unable to help himself, and he doesn’t even mean it like that, but the lecturer gives him her best lemon face and Uhura rolls her eyes at him.

“Are you trying to break every taboo there is, or are you just naturally unfit for polite society?” she asks sweetly.

“Look, unlike half the crew I’m not the one who keeps ruffling Chekov’s hair, okay,” Jim feels compelled to point out, because hello, hypocrisy much? “In fact, I even tried ordering you guys to quit it, which I distinctly remember being ignored. He’s not a puppy, you know.”

“Thank you, Keptin,” Chekov says gratefully, and hey, at least someone appreciates him.

“Physical contact between crewmembers,” the woman goes on in a thundering voice of disapproval, “is to be restricted. In a workplace environment you must refrain from casually touching others, as they may feel uncomfortable. This is especially so in the case of Vulcans, as physical contact implies a much higher level of intimacy in their culture and uninvited touch may be tantamount to sexual harassment.”

This time Jim can feel the stares being leveled at him from all sides of the room.

“Spock, do I make you feel uncomfortable when I pat you on the back?” he asks, actually slightly worried this time.

Spock’s expression is complicated. Well, okay, it’s Vulcan, but his eyebrows move slightly in a way that Jim knows means he’s not quite sure how to respond to that.

“No, Captain,” he answers finally.

“You’d tell me if you felt sexually harassed, right?” Jim presses, although he’s pretty sure Spock would punch him if he were actually overstepping any serious boundaries. Guy’s got a pretty nasty temper for a Vulcan.

“I have no objection to your touching me, Captain,” Spock clarifies, and Jim sinks down in his chair because maybe Spock doesn’t know what that sounds like, but Bones is mumbling about bleaching his mind of the trauma and someone (Scotty?) is sniggering and Uhura is giving them this really speculative look that may or may not be a threat to Jim’s continued personal well-being.

Then again, maybe Spock does know what that sounds like, because Jim could swear the asshole is smirking on the inside and he’s getting pretty good at reading those non-expressions.

Of course, Spock doesn’t get yelled at because this woman obviously doesn’t know shit about Vulcan humor and probably thinks they are all logical little bastions of appropriateness, which is such bull. If Jim had said that he’d be getting his ass chewed out right now and not in a fun way, but Spock gets away with it because he’s got such an iron-cast deadpan expression and nobody would ever believe that he’d be anything less than perfect, the bastard.

Jim gets his revenge sooner than he’d expected, however, when the lecturer decides to ignore them to go on with her speech and says, “Public displays of affection are inappropriate under any circumstances.”

“Yeah, Spock,” he says smugly, because finally it’s someone else’s turn to take the rap, and it makes it just that much sweeter that it’s Spock and Uhura, of all people. It doesn’t matter that it only happened once; it still happened, and he was there, and he will never, ever let them live it down, even though they had an ‘amicable parting of ways’ or whatever the fuck several months ago.

Spock flushes a faint apple green and Uhura gives him a death glare. Jim is willing to call that a win, even if Bones kind of ruins it by adding, “Of course, Jim, you do realize that it applies doubly to public sex, right?”

Whatever, they all just wish they could be as awesome as he is.

“Furthermore,” the woman in the center of the room says loudly over the top of any retort Jim might have made, “over-sexualized body language should be avoided as it can create a hostile working environment.”

Everyone looks at Jim yet again, and honestly, they may as well just not bother even looking away in the first place at this rate. He’s just sitting there in his habitual slouch, his spine curved so his hips tilt up and his legs sprawl outwards like always, because that’s how he sits because it’s comfortable, so it’s not like he’s even doing anything, but the woman giving the lecture is frowning again. “What?” he demands.

“Jim can’t help who he is,” Bones says, shaking his head.

“It would be illogical to expect the captain to change his nature in such a way,” Spock agrees.

“Your face is illogical,” Jim retorts, then, “Wait, did you just call me a slut?”

Spock simply gives an enigmatic almost-smile, which probably means yes. Goddammit.

“Everyone’s picking on me,” he complains, which is totally the logical response, fuck you too, Spock. “You’re all just haters.”

“Don’t you be worrying, Cap’n, we love you just the way you are,” Scotty says loyally.

“Thank you, Scotty,” Jim says snidely, and flips Spock off, which gets him another one of those thin-lipped lemon looks from the lecturer.

“Mr. Kirk,” she snaps. “Putting aside your frankly unacceptable use of vulgar gestures—” Is there an acceptable use, he wonders? Would it be acceptable if it wasn’t him, perhaps? “—your treatment of Mr. Spock this afternoon has been continually offensive and insensitive to his cultural heritage. Discrimination against another being purely on the basis of their ethnicity is considered a very grave offence, regardless—no, especially given your high rank!”

“Hey, it’s got nothing to do with him being Vulcan,” Jim objects, actually kind of offended that someone would make that kind of accusation against him. “It’s because he’s being a bitch and he’s totally doing it on purpose. Honestly, some of my best friends are Vulcans.”

Spock raises a very expressive eyebrow. “Really, Captain.”

“Well, like you,” Jim explains. “When you’re not being a bitch. And… other you. You know.”

“I see,” Spock says, in that clinical tone of voice he has that doesn’t really tell you anything and makes Jim wonder what, precisely, he is seeing.

“Mr. Kirk,” the woman says sharply, interrupting what is possibly a Moment, and Jim sits up in his chair so he can look properly wronged and wounded.

“No, but seriously, I would never discriminate against anyone for their species or whatever,” he says earnestly, although that might be kind of a lie, because he’s not the universe’s biggest fan of Romulans or Klingons. Otherwise, though, it’s pretty accurate; he’s all about the equal opportunity, regardless of race, gender, or planetary origin.

“No one would ever accuse you of being discriminating, Jim,” Bones says dryly, and Jim scowls, because he was being serious (well, mostly) and Bones is having way too much fun over this whole stupid inappropriate workplace behavior thing.

“Would you all quit implying I’m some kind of intergalactic space slut?” he demands, and Bones raises an eyebrow in a passable imitation of Spock, obviously ready to hit back with another smartass remark. He’s beaten to the punch by Uhura, however.

“You’re the one who said it, Captain,” she tells him, with an arch smile like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and Jim only just refrains from sticking his tongue out at her, because that’s an invitation on a fair number of planets and something tells him that the woman giving the lecture, who has a stick up her ass that might even be worse than Spock’s when they first met, would not be amused.

Instead, he affects a wounded expression and turns on the appeal. “They can’t say things like that about me, right?” he says, giving her his best sad and abused puppy eyes. “It’s damaging to my self-esteem and it makes me feel like no one respects me. As a sentient being.”

This is almost definitely overkill, especially considering he’s the captain around here and it’s partially his own fault for not commanding a more traditional hierarchy on his ship—if he really cared, he could assert his authority as head honcho and start making threats. Nevertheless, it hits the mark: the woman who has spent the entire afternoon frowning disapprovingly at him visibly melts before turning her stern tight-lipped glare on Bones, Uhura and Spock, and he thinks, Oh yeah, Jim Kirk’s still got it.

“There are to be no more personal remarks, insults or name-calling, particularly not regarding the sexual habits of another,” she says, like the wrath of an enraged Vulcan god, and Jim basks in the smugness while the three of them look suitably chastened. Or, okay, Uhura looks chastened and a bit sulky about it; Bones just kind of rolls his eyes grudgingly and Spock’s only reaction is a slight change to the angle of his eyebrows and shoulders, but it totally counts and Jim is willing to take whatever he can get.

“Anyhow, this concludes your compulsory seminar on appropriateness in the workplace,” the woman informs them after a deep fortifying breath to calm her rage at the victimization of Poor Little Jimmy. She even bestows a small, motherly smile on him before she gives Bones and Uhura another look best suited to child molesters, which, hah; payback is such a bitch. Jim Kirk loves being himself. “Hopefully you have all learned something valuable from today’s experience and I will not need to see any of you again for remedial classes. You’re dismissed—have a safe voyage.”

Several days later, when the Enterprise is just setting off on her next mission, over the course of a single shift Jim makes at least twelve lewd or otherwise blatantly inappropriate and/or suggestive remarks (not counting the unintentional ones), drapes himself over about half the consoles on the bridge and almost as many members of his crew, wolf-whistles Uhura’s new hair cut (she’d been in a rare good mood and had in fact repaid the compliment, since he was in plain clothes at the time and looking pretty damn fine if he did say so himself), and touches Spock in increasingly inappropriate ways throughout, since Spock had said he didn’t object and that was practically a free pass so far as Jim’s concerned.

As it turns out, he really didn’t mind, and Bones later walks in on them having sex in the captain’s chair, following which there is lots of screaming (Bones), laughing (Jim) and trauma (the entire crew, who have to hear about it) and Bones yells a lot about sanitation, green-blooded hobgoblins and Jim’s space crabs, complete lack of virtue and his future sterilization for the good of mankind, the galaxy, etcetera, all of which proves that basically nobody learned anything from that seminar and the Enterprise is set to continue being a seething hotbed of inappropriateness for the foreseeable future and probably so long as James Tiberius Kirk is her captain.

Jim knew his crew were awesome, dammit.

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 14:46:58 GMT

Title: All That Glitters
Fandom: X/TB
Pairings: Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, Sorata/Arashi, Yuuto/Karen, hints of other pairings.
Genre: MEGA AU. All the genres you can possibly think of! Okay, maybe not. But there is crack, and there is angst, and there is other stuff. Occasionally there are even makeouts.
Word Count: 5,914 for the chapter; 106,688 total.
Notes: OH MY GOD, THIS MONSTER FINALLY BROKE 100,000 WORDS. *HEADDESK* It's finally heading into the climax stage, although I won't say hold your breath because there's a good 4 or so more chapters to go. Probably the "or so" given how my writing always blows out. Meanwhile, props to _leareth for the usual soundboarding, this time including mutual fic planning sessions at absurd hours in the morning in the freezing downstairs of our hostel in Kyouto and letting me have totally inane half-hour long internet arguments with her over things like Karen's footwear which DIDN'T EVEN END UP MATTERING. Google research got pulled into it, I kid you not. Also, really this is all meant to be one chapter but LJ character limits haaate me. Oh well.
Summary: It's saved on my harddrive as "Boyband!X". I think that's really all you need to know. *cough*

~ Chapter 15 ~

While all this was happening on the lowest level of the club unbeknownst to Subaru, he was hiding out on the entrance level where there were less people, the deafeningly loud music was slightly less deafening, and the alcohol fumes weren't quite so strong this far from the bar. This didn't change the fact that the whole building was dark, crowded and absolutely permeated with the hazy mix of smoke from cigarettes and the special effects. Subaru could barely take a breath without choking on it. To say the least, he was absolutely miserable.

He didn't feel like he could leave though, because he felt like he owed it to Hokuto and Kamui to stay. Even if they'd been separated almost the moment they'd entered the club with Subaru not feeling comfortable about pushing people to get through, he'd still promised to hang around with Kamui for moral support, and Hokuto had been really insistent that he come. Besides, she'd probably look for him sooner or later and he'd feel really guilty if he left without telling her, particularly given he didn't think she'd notice her mobile phone in all this noise and crowding.

So here he was, huddling in a dark corner not too far from the exit that was as secluded as he'd been able to find while he waited for this ordeal to finish.

Somehow, when Seishirou showed up and the hiding place which had seemed so strategic before provided no alternative escape routes in a bizarre twist of déjà vu from the industry event five months ago, Subaru was barely even surprised. It just went to show that no matter how bad things seemed, they could always get worse, at least in Subaru's experience.

"Ah, Subaru-kun," Seishirou said conversationally. "I thought I'd find you here."

Subaru thought about the last time he'd encountered Seishirou in person on the set of the chat show, and wished firmly that he were anywhere else. And possibly dead.

"What do you want, Seishirou-san?" he said guardedly, and did not feel at all reassured by Seishirou's charming smile, especially not when Seishirou was moving forward into his personal space like that and there was nowhere left to retreat to without falling backwards over the rails. (Which was not completely without merit, but he was pretty sure Hokuto and Kamui would both disapprove of that plan.)

"Oh, just to talk," Seishirou said, which was such a blatant lie that Subaru could only manage an incredulous stare. "I bought you a drink, by the way."

Resting his free hand casually on the safety rail in a way that coincidentally hemmed Subaru in, Seishirou proffered the martini glass he held in his other hand. Subaru hadn't really registered it before, subconsciously filtering it away as unimportant, but now he stared at it as though it were a deadly snake liable to strike out at any second.

"No thank you, I don't drink alcohol," Subaru said, as resolutely as he could when Seishirou was trapping him against the rails like that. "... What is it, anyway?"

"A Cherry Blossom," Seishirou said, with the kind of calm matter-of-factness that Subaru knew concealed smugness beneath. "Cherry liqueur and tequila. It's not spiked, if that's what you're concerned about."

Subaru hadn't even thought of that, but he certainly was now. Then again, they both knew Seishirou wouldn't need to spike his drink; there was a reason Subaru didn't drink, namely that the mere whiff of alcohol made his head spin. As for poison, well, it had never been Seishirou's method of choice. If Seishirou wanted to kill him, Subaru was fairly certain the man would be a lot more violent about it.

"That's not the point," he argued, trying to turn his face away. Even the smell of the tequila was making him a little light-headed. "The point is that I don't drink, Seishirou-san, and I wouldn't accept a drink from you even if I did."

Particularly not one with a name like that, which was nothing if not purposefully pointed.

Seishirou was unfazed, however, and his lips simply tilted up in a mocking smirk. "How hurtful," he said. "But you know, I bought it especially for you, Subaru-kun. Don't you think it's a bit rude to reject such a gesture of good faith?"

"What good faith?" Subaru demanded, because the very concept had to be foreign to Seishirou, but it didn't stop the slow insidious spread of guilt. "You bought it knowing full well I wouldn't want it!"

Seishirou shrugged lightly. "Nevertheless, it's paid for now," he pointed out, with his usual infuriatingly irrefutable logic. "Surely you wouldn't let it go to waste, would you?"

Subaru was struck with rather outraged speechlessness at that, helplessly aware of the fact that the corner he'd been backed into wasn't just the literal, physical kind. Even knowing that Seishirou was playing him, even knowing that the man had set the whole thing up on purpose, he couldn't help the other side of his mind that was thinking, well, cocktails aren't cheap, are they, and he did buy it specifically for you, which is different to refusing an offer to buy a drink, really...

"I hate you," Subaru said dully, and hated him all the more for the polite smile that Subaru knew all too well was really a smirk, but not, perhaps, quite so much as he hated himself for accepting the glass from Seishirou's hand.

Just the first sip under Seishirou's watchful eyes was enough to make him feel dizzy, and really, Subaru didn't want to jinx himself by thinking it, but this time he honestly didn't see how this night could get any worse.

The fact that it could and would still failed to surprise him, however.

~

Yuuto could be a reasonable man, when he wanted to be. After all, it had been pretty blatantly obvious that Karen was running away from him after she'd caught his eyes and then immediately turned around and hurried off in the opposite direction, and he could have caught up to her before she'd secluded herself in the women's toilets, but he'd decided to be the bigger man and let her have some time to recollect herself before he confronted her.

This meant, of course, that for the past half hour or so he'd been standing around outside said women's toilets waiting for her to emerge. This had caused several people, including a security guard, to give him suspicious looks, but he amused himself and allayed concerns by telling them all earnestly about how he was waiting for his pregnant girlfriend who apparently wasn't feeling all that well.

Childish, perhaps, but definitely effective. Not only did no one arrest him or escort him off the premises, Karen stormed out about fifteen minutes after he'd first started telling sympathetic listeners about his poor girlfriend (whose Catholic mother had been very opposed to their relationship and had thrown her daughter out of the house), presumably to stop any further slander.

"What, precisely," Karen hissed, in a voice promising swift and terrible vengeance, "do you think you are doing?"

"Waiting for you, darling," Yuuto said sweetly, and Karen's expression darkened as one of the other girls who'd just exited the bathroom sighed in a love struck kind of way. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Seeing your face has just made me feel ten times worse," she said, with a withering look, and shook off the "concerned" hand he'd placed on her arm. "Why are you even here?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm here to support Satsuki-chan's DJing endeavours, obviously," he said airily, which was true as far as it went but fell far short of complete disclosure. He'd known perfectly well when Kusanagi brought the event up that most of Garden of Eden would be attending, Karen included; he'd had mixed feelings over whether going would be a good idea, but in the end he'd been decided by the fact that he refused to be more dysfunctional than Fuuma, of all people, and if Fuuma was man enough to try and fix things with Kamui, then Yuuto should at least make an attempt on his own behalf.

"God, I need a drink right now," Karen groaned, massaging her temples, and Yuuto smirked.

"But darling, wouldn't it be bad for the baby?" he said with the best fake sincerity he could muster, and a second later winced at the stabbing pain of a stiletto heel digging into his toes. He was willing to accept he'd deserved that. It was arguably worth it to watch Karen bristling like an angry cat, though. "Of course, if you really want one..."

"That was not an invitation," Karen told him icily. "Surely you must realise that I'd just throw it in your face even if you did buy me anything."

"Oh, naturally," Yuuto agreed sardonically, then held his hand out to her with a challenging smile. "This, however, is an invitation."

Karen eyed him warily. "What are you playing at?"

"Nothing," he said, this time with plain honesty. "I'm just asking you to dance. What do you have to lose, Karen?"

"My self respect," she muttered, but she took the hand he held out and let him pull her towards the stage. "What now, since you've apparently got it all planned?"

"You'll see," Yuuto said, because it wouldn't work if he told her first. "Stay here, I need to ask Satsuki-chan something."

Karen raised her chin. "What makes you think I won't leave the moment I'm out of your sight?"

"You have more pride than that," Yuuto countered, with absolute certainty. Whatever else lay between them, he knew Karen; she wouldn't run away from a challenge she'd accepted. She wasn't that weak.

Karen seemed to accept that answer, crossing her arms with a sigh. "Alright, then," she said. "I'll wait. But this had better be good, Yuuto."

~

As far as these things went, Satsuki had been having a much more entertaining evening than usual. From her vantage point up on the stage, she had a fairly clear view over the whole bottom level of the club, which meant she was in the prime position to view all the antics going on in the audience. For example, Kusanagi and Kakyou had spent the past ten minutes trying to push through the crowds looking extremely lost. She'd pointed that out to Yuzuriha, and the other girl had gone off guiltily to find them.

It may have been incredibly packed in the club, but when you knew what you were looking for, her idiot band members (or, for that matter, Yuzuriha's) weren't terribly hard to spot. They had a way of standing out, particularly when making spectacles of themselves. The display Fuuma and Kamui had been putting on over by the bar some five or ten minutes ago had given her particular cause to raise her eyebrows— while neither of them were exactly subtle about the sexual tension going on between them, she hadn't expected it to explode out like that. If anyone had recognised them, the press would have a field day and Yuuto would kill them both in their sleep, but at least their soap opera was never boring.

Speaking of Yuuto, he'd been loitering around outside the women's toilets for almost forty minutes, which probably would have gotten anyone less charming and skilful at lying ejected from the club a fair while ago. Satsuki had seen Karen dash inside probably about five minutes before Yuuto had made his way over there, so she could hazard a pretty good guess at what moronic thing Yuuto was up to if she cared to do so. It was something she preferred generally not to reflect upon, but in her younger and more foolish days she'd had what anyone else might call a crush on Yuuto and had followed his career somewhat obsessively. This had included Karen's own career by extension, and she'd swung between hateful envy for the so-called "girlfriend" of her idol and grudging admiration.

Of course, all that had ended when she'd actually met Yuuto (mostly ended, whatever), but nevertheless, she still had probably one of the clearer ideas of the history between Yuuto and Karen.

Which was why she watched with a fair amount of interest as Karen stormed out of the bathroom, body language initially radiating angry and stand-offish (expected) but soon melting into resigned wariness (not so expected). They were heading towards the stage when Yuuto said something to Karen— probably asking her to wait a moment, because she crossed her arms and stood there while he continued on towards Satsuki.

Hm, curiouser and curiouser.

"Satsuki-chan," Yuuto said, in his most sugar-coated voice. "I need a favour."

Satsuki gave him a considering look. Whatever this was about, she had a feeling she wouldn't be disappointed. "What do you want?"

"I need you to give me the mic," he said nonchalantly. "And play a particular song without the vocal track for me."

Satsuki smirked, suddenly knowing all too well where this was going. "Your funeral," she agreed. "Do you want me to introduce you?"

"No, that's okay," Yuuto said, giving her a rueful smile in return as he loosened his tie. "I think I'd prefer it to be a surprise. But if you could get people to clear the area in front of the stage, that would be appreciated."

Satsuki shrugged as Yuuto jumped down off the stage and switched on her headset.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said dryly, "we have a surprise live act, so if you could please clear the area in front of the stage. Thank you for your cooperation."

She waited a minute or two for people to start shuffling out of the way, and then she started the upbeat instrumental intro of the track playing. Yuuto really was going to be lucky if Karen didn't brutally murder him, Satsuki mused— the other woman had obviously recognised the song about 2 seconds in and froze, levelling a death glare towards rapidly opening space around Yuuto.

"I got chills, they're multiplying," Yuuto sang, stalking closer to Karen with no apparent regard for his future continued safety, "and I'm losing control, cause the power you're supplying, it's electrifying!"

There was a slight pause where Karen just glowered at him, and it would really be quite bad for Yuuto at this stage if she decided not to play along. Karen must have had more of a competitive streak than that, though, because to Satsuki's slight surprise she didn't back down, instead sliding into the act right down to the original choreography, pushing Yuuto back lightly as she strutted forwards, trailing her hand down his chest.

"You better shape up, cause I need a man, and my heart is set on you," she responded, with a challenging edge, and wound her arms around his neck. "You better shape up, you better understand— to my heart I must be true."

They sang and shimmied their way through the chorus, Karen alternatively pressing up against Yuuto and pushing him away, leading him by his tie like an obedient dog. By this time it was obvious to the club at large what was going on, excited whispers spreading amongst the people who were old enough to recognise the singers as well as the song. Obviously this included the few members of the two bands still hanging around on that floor, and they had all started heading towards the stage, perhaps to try and figure out what the hell was going on. Yuzuriha caught Satsuki's eye and gave her a confused look, but Satsuki just shrugged slightly to indicate that no, she didn't really know— beyond the obvious that Yuuto had developed a sudden death wish, anyway— but if the two of them wanted to be idiots in public, that was their business and she wasn't inclined to stop them.

Yuzuriha soon picked her way over to Satsuki with Kusanagi and Kakyou in tow, Kamui and Kotori not far behind.

"No, but seriously, that's it?" Kamui demanded when he joined them, apparently having already been informed of what the song was. "I mean, okay, I'll admit the dance is a little... suggestive, but this is tame compared to Fuu— " he stopped abruptly with a sort of strangled noise, flustered and derailed. "Er, that is... whatever, my point is, the way Sorata described it to me I was expecting it to be practically like something out of an adult novel!"

"Well," Kusanagi said tactfully, "you have to keep in mind this was ten years ago, and it wasn't just the dance or the song itself. It was more to do with the fact it was those two specifically, wearing those clothes—"

"Wait," Kamui interrupted, "What do you mean, those clothes?"

Kusanagi coughed. "That is," he said. "Er."

Satsuki, who had until that point been largely ignoring the conversation, gave an evil smirk. "He was wearing leather pants and a leather jacket over a t-shirt with a half-undone tie. As for her... Think school uniform. Only with a much shorter skirt and a blouse with only two buttons done up."

"Nguh," was Kamui's only response.

"She had a black lacy bra on underneath," Satsuki added, just to be helpful. "And very high heels."

Kamui gave a pitiful whimper.

"Some things," she said meditatively, "defy sexuality, don't you agree?"

It seemed Kamui couldn't muster a response to that. Given this right on the heels of what had just happened with Fuuma, Satsuki supposed she couldn't really blame him.

Meanwhile, back on the dance floor, the first chorus had come to an end and Karen shoved Yuuto down to his knees and rested one sharp stiletto heel against his shoulder, leaning forward to lift his chin with two fingers. The high slit of her cocktail dress parted to leave the long expanse of her shapely leg bare, and Satsuki was fairly sure you'd have a hard time daring anyone to say truthfully they didn't find that hot. Whatever else you had to say about it, no one could claim Karen didn't still have it.

"If you're filled with affection you're too shy to convey," Karen sang seductively, leaning closer to Yuuto so their faces were almost touching and curling her fingers around his tie to give him a gentle tug, "meditate in my direction— feel your way."

On the last line she guided Yuuto's hand, sliding it up along the length of her thigh.

"Are you sure it's okay to not try and stop them?" Kamui asked faintly, as Karen kicked Yuuto back to the floor and started to walk away.

Satsuki was about to point out that they were adults and could make their own informed and stupid decisions when Yuuto started crawling across the floor on all fours towards Karen (I better shape up, cause you need a man) and Kamui made a horrified noise of disgust.

"Oh ugh," he moaned, as Karen pulled Yuuto back up to his knees by his tie and sang that she needed a man who could keep her satisfied, sitting on his knee and crossing one leg over the other as she draped her arms around his neck. "I seriously just thought Kigai was hot for a moment! I'll never be clean again!"

"You should watch the video where he's ten years younger in skin-tight leather pants," Satsuki said blandly, thoroughly enjoying the way Kamui yelped and clutched at his head as if in pain. Really, he made it too easy.

She turned her attention back to the dancing for long enough to watch Karen gracefully uncross her legs to rise up again in a single liquid motion, Yuuto grabbing her and lifting her once she'd pulled him up to stand with her. Karen wrapped her legs around his hips and leaned backwards before Yuuto swung her back to her feet and spun her so her back was pressed against his chest. Satsuki had seen the video enough times to know that that marked the end of the most interesting part of the choreography and went back to tormenting Kamui, since that promised more immediate entertainment value.

"So," she said idly, "how are things with Monou, then? Better than they have been, I take it."

Kamui blanched, apparently realising for the first time exactly how good Satsuki's view of the bar was from here.

"I am not having this conversation," he said after a moment, carefully devoid of emotion. "In fact, you know what, I'm going home. Yuzu-chan! Yuzu-chan, can I borrow your keycard?"

"Huh?" Yuzuriha said, looking up from her conversation with Kotori and Kakyou. "Sure, I don't mind, but where were you, anyway? And where's Hokuto-chan, for that matter?"

"Looking for Subaru, we split up about five or ten minutes ago," Kamui answered, avoiding the first part of the question in a completely unsubtle way as he accepted the card. "Anyway, I'm going now, I'll see you later. Bye, guys!"

Yuzuriha watched him go, blinking slightly before she turned back to Satsuki and Kotori. "Is it just me, or does Kamui-chan look kind of... I don't know, dishevelled? What happened to him?"

"Um," Kotori said intelligently, just as Satsuki answered, "Monou."

"Oh," Yuzuriha said. "Er. Is he okay? Shouldn't one of us go with him, just in case?"

"He seemed to be enjoying himself just fine at the time, if that's what you're worried about," Satsuki pointed out, not as sensitive as she possibly could have been to Kotori's discomfort levels over the topic, but whatever. "If people are going to insist on making stupid decisions, that's their own fault."

Yuzuriha didn't seem terribly relieved by that response, for some reason, but when she gave a troubled glance in the way Kamui had left he was already out of sight. She turned back to Satsuki, looking like she was about to say something; Satsuki had no idea what Yuzuriha expected from her, sometimes. Before the other girl could put voice to whatever it was bothering her, though, they were both distracted by loud cheering and catcalls.

On the floor, Yuuto had dipped Karen backwards, her leg curled high over his hip like a professional tango dancer. That was, of course, part of the choreography, marking the end of the song. What was not part of the choreography was the bit where he swooped in and started kissing her like a man who was taking his last chance to prove something, or the way her hands flew to twist in his hair in evident shock.

"Hm," Satsuki said clinically as they broke apart from the kiss, still dipped, to stare at each other. "I suppose I should call security to make sure they can go out the back staff exit before they get mobbed. Assuming Kasumi doesn't kill him first, that is."

Since it seemed, amazingly enough, that Karen was not going to kill him, Satsuki tapped her headset to summon a security escort for the two of them, ignoring the strange and almost reproachful look Yuzuriha was still giving her.

"I may as well wind this up now, anyway," she added, once that was dealt with and Yuuto and Karen had slipped from view, safely in the hands of the club's staff. "We were due to finish around now either way, and that's probably the best note to end on."

Not to mention that she doubted anything else interesting was going to happen that night, with the prime trouble magnets gone. Whatever else she had to say about them, her co-workers were rarely boring.

"Well, we'll be heading back home now," Kusanagi said on behalf of he and Kakyou, who looked like he was half-asleep already. "Are you girls right to get home? If you're not careful, you'll miss the last train."

"I'll be okay, Onii-chan's place is only one stop away from here," Kotori reassured him, and Yuzuriha nodded.

"Yeah, our hotel apartment's about twenty minutes walk," she said, but Kusanagi frowned.

"Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself?" he pressed, obviously concerned. "It's dark and there are a lot of drunk people on the streets in Shibuya at this time of night..."

Yuzuriha tried to wave him off, claiming it was fine with no realistic regard for her safety. Satsuki rolled her eyes, wondering how Yuzuriha ever got to be eighteen years old with such a glaring lack of common sense or survival instincts.

"Don't be an idiot," she interrupted, as withering as she could possibly be. "You can stay the night at my place, it's closer."

Yuzuriha seemed as though she didn't know whether she should argue over that or not, but she must have decided against it because all she said, after a moment, was, "Are you sure you don't mind?" and then, when Satsuki levelled her with an are you stupid? look (because why would she ask, if it bothered her?), a rather meek, "Okay, thanks, Satsuki-chan."

Satsuki shrugged. "Sure, whatever," she said, and went to wrap things up for the night.

~

Subaru had no idea what he was doing. This was stupid. He knew this was stupid, and yet here he was, standing in the circle of Seishirou's arms and not making the slightest move to fight his way free.

"I don't want this," he insisted, trying to sound convincing, but it was a token protest, and Seishirou only tightened his arms, pulling Subaru flush against his chest. Subaru could feel Seishirou's lips curve into a smirk against his cheek.

"You always were an appalling liar, Subaru-kun," he murmured, and Subaru shivered involuntarily at the hot moisture against his ear, helpless to resist even while hating Seishirou for the responding chuckle.

He should have resisted more when Seishirou drew him out of the club and into a taxi, but even though he was perfectly aware of what a terrible idea this was and how much he was going to regret it in the morning, his traitorous body was undermining every weak objection he thought to make. He knew it was a terrible idea, but his head was spinning and Seishirou was far too close and every fibre of his nervous system was trying to convince him to say yes.

Experience should have told him that he was bad enough at resisting Seishirou's advances when he was sober; where he really went wrong was accepting the drink in the first place. He'd known that at the time, too, but Seishirou had always known which chords to strike to make Subaru follow his tune. He'd been completely unable to refuse, just like Seishirou had known he would be.

"Are you sure about this?" Yuuto asked as Karen slid into the passenger seat of his car, and she slammed the car door, staring resolutely through the windscreen.

"Just drive before I change my mind," she told him, and he glanced sharply at her as he started the engine but didn't say anything.

She wasn't at all sure about this. Common sense told her it was a monumentally bad idea; forget mornings after, they had barely even done anything yet and she was already regretting it. If she were in her right mind she would have hit Yuuto the moment they'd escaped the club, but instead she'd yanked him down for another kiss, curling her tongue around his languidly before shoving him backwards and informing him, "Your place, you drive."

The worst thing was, she couldn't even blame alcohol. There was no way of denying responsibility for this— there were no excuses, no way to deflect from the fact that she chose this, but the high from their duet was still rushing through her veins, making it impossible to forget what it was about Yuuto that had first attracted her all those years ago. She didn't care that it was probably going to end up being the second stupidest decision of her life; right now she wanted him, wanted this, wanted to be irresponsible for a change.

Seishirou told the driver the address of Subaru's hotel, and Subaru knew this was yet another thing he should be protesting, letting Seishirou into his sanctuary like that, bringing Seishirou home to his doorstep when he couldn't justify his actions to himself, let alone any of his band mates who lived with him, but he didn't say a word.

When they reached the suite Seishirou lead Subaru into his own room, locking the door and pushing him down onto the bed without even turning on the lights.

"Why are you doing this, Seishirou-san?" Subaru asked desperately, unable to stop his voice from shaking with need or his body from pushing up into Seishirou's touch. "What do you want from me?"

Seishirou didn't respond; Subaru had never really expected he would.

Karen pressed her back up against the door as soon as it was closed behind them, pulling Yuuto close by his tie in an unconscious echo of their dance to wind her arms around his neck.

"You remember the steps," he said, mouthing the words against her skin as though this were some form of proof, and Karen shook her head in denial.

"Shut up, Yuuto," she said viciously, arching her back and twining her legs around his waist with a gasp as he lifted her up against the door. "It doesn't— ah!— it doesn't mean anything."

"Then why are you here?" Yuuto asked her, lifting his lips from her throat to give her a piercing look. It was a good question, one that Karen couldn't answer, so instead she silenced him with a fierce, punishing kiss.

Part of Subaru wished he could see Seishirou, although the rest of him was glad for the shroud of darkness that meant he couldn't see Seishirou staring at him. It felt even harder than usual to tell what Seishirou was thinking, and the only sound in the oppressive cocoon of Subaru's bedroom was the little noises that he was struggling so hard to contain. Seishirou was taking Subaru's shields apart piece by piece, meticulously stripping him bare in every sense of the word, and Subaru had never felt so vulnerable.

Even though the room was warm Subaru felt cold, skin pebbling with goose bumps; every part of his body was over-sensitive to the touch. The sudden heat of Seishirou's mouth at the join of his hip and the dull scrape of teeth over the sharp jut of the bone threatened to overwhelm him, and he tried to stuff the back of his fist in his mouth to stifle the startled cry it tore out of him, but Seishirou grabbed his wrist in a painfully tight grip, pinning it mercilessly over his head.

They made it as far as the couch, Karen pulling Yuuto down on top of her in a graceless tangle of limbs as he unzipped the back of her dress and pushed the straps of her off her shoulders, hands gentle and reverent as they ran over the lacy fabric of her bra.

"Hurry up," she urged, because she didn't want time to think about this just in case she found she couldn't go through with it anymore.

"If you say so," Yuuto said, a dubious edge to his voice that made Karen wonder if he was going to argue, but his hands followed the curve of her body down to slide the dress up over her hips, steady and confident.

Subaru's world had narrowed down to the almost sickening spin of the room around him and the feel of Seishirou hands and mouth on his skin driving him out of whatever the alcohol had left of his mind. All he could see was the faint glitter of Seishirou's eyes in the dimness, and the lack of visual cues only served to disorientate him even more, a void consisting of nothing but physical sensation that left him no longer sure even of which way was up.

"Seishirou-san," he moaned, seeking assurance, any kind of verbal response at all to ground him, but Seishirou's only reply was to bite down mercilessly on the juncture of Subaru's neck and shoulder in a way that had to leave a mark.

Even through the haze of alcohol deadening his inhibitions, a large part of Subaru was still scared and nervous, his trembles as much from fear as from lust. These sensations were all terrifyingly new to him; too much, too fast, but he didn't want Seishirou to stop because then Seishirou would leave him here alone and right now, that thought scared him most, more daunting than the heat burning a trail through his body and so far removed from the threat of Seishirou killing him that that barely even seemed like a threat anymore.

The alcohol had unleashed all the neediness and insecurity Subaru had tried so hard to ignore in the past, made him crave Seishirou's touch, made him desperate for any kind of affection from the man even if it was only the empty, physical substitute of what he really wanted, and that was the scariest part of all.

The movement of Yuuto's body over hers was strong and sure, even as she tried to upset it and turn it into something hard and frantic.

"Faster," she demanded finally, voice breaking and stuttering over the single word, but his hands curled on her waist, holding her still.

"Sometimes," he breathed into her hair, long ago fallen from its elegant twist into a dishevelled halo pillowing her head, "Sometimes I think maybe you were the best thing I ever ruined," and her nails dug into his back when her fingers clenched.

"Stop talking," she told him unsteadily, tightening her thighs around his hips in a wordless decree. He paused for a moment, motionless until finally he responded sardonically, "Your wish is my command."

Those were the last words he spoke for a long time, and Karen told herself that that was how she preferred it, because it meant she didn't have to think about whether it was the words themselves or how much she wanted to believe them that disturbed her more.

~

Afterwards, when the sweat was cooling on Karen's skin and she was too exhausted to move, let alone push Yuuto away when he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, he murmured, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Karen lay still, breathing carefully in and out, and didn't examine her rationalisations for fear that they'd collapse the second she looked too closely. Yuuto didn't ask again, and soon enough his arm went limp and heavy over her body, indicating sleep.

Karen stared up at the ceiling, white glowing orange in the low lights of Yuuto's apartment, and ran her hand tentatively down his back, the first time she'd touched him gently all evening.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, knowing she was talking about more than what they'd just done, and closed her eyes.

~

Seishirou's hand lingered on Subaru's jaw for a moment, his gaze watchful but his face impassive. There was a chink of moonlight coming in through the curtains, just enough to illuminate the sweep of Subaru's eyelashes on his cheek.

Seishirou continued to hold silent vigil for a moment longer and then he rose, hands efficiently knotting his tie and collecting his shades from the bedside table, impenetrable image restored with not a hair out of place.

The door clicked shut behind him without a word or a letter to say goodbye.

Previous | Next

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 14:26:07 GMT

~ Chapter 14 ~

To be entirely honest, Karen's feelings on Yuzuriha's bright idea to drag the rest of the band along when she went to see Satsuki's gig at a Shibuya night club had been somewhat mixed at first. On the one hand, there was so very much potential for things to go wrong if she took her very famous and rather disaster-prone charges into a crowded club in one of the biggest nightlife hotspots of Tokyo. She couldn't even begin to imagine the ways in which it could blow up in their faces, partially because there were just so many options to choose from but also because the mere thought of all the possibilities sent a chill of dread down her spine and made her not want to contemplate the horror any further for fear of her sanity.

On the other hand, though, Sorata was— as he had publicly proclaimed loud and proud on numerous occasions, much to Arashi's embarrassment, although she seemed happy enough herself that Karen wasn't overly concerned— going on a date to Tokyo Tower. Not that Sorata set out to make trouble, but he did have an unfortunate tendency to get involved in misunderstandings, particularly when combined with Kamui. Sorata's absence almost halved the disaster potential. Plus, she had to admit that anything which got Subaru and Kamui out of the hotel at this point had undeniable benefits, so she'd ignored her misgivings and given the two sulking singers a firm shove out the door with the enthusiastic assistance of Hokuto and Kotori.

When Karen got her first glance at the seething mass of girls with their perfect hair and makeup and hipster boys with their chains and buckles and just as perfectly styled hair spilling out of the club onto the street, she began to reconsider the wisdom of this plan.

"This is a disaster waiting to happen," she murmured despairingly. "Kamui and Subaru-san are going to get eaten alive. Tell me again, why are we dragging them to a club instead of working our way up through a nice sedate café first?"

Hokuto, who was standing next to her and thus the only one close enough to hear, shot her a slightly rueful grin. "Shock therapy?" she suggested, sounding close enough to serious that Karen made a mental note never to get on her bad side. "Seriously, though, Subaru's a lot tougher than you'd think. He's still around after everything he's been through, isn't he? Besides, he's got me and Kamui-chan here. It'll be fine."

"Well, I suppose you're the one who'd know," Karen conceded, which was true, but more to the point, she knew how to be pragmatic when handed a situation. Either way it was too late to change their minds now, so they may as well just make the best of it.

Anyway, so long as Subaru had moral support, like Hokuto had pointed out, it would be good for him to be forced out of his shell for a change.

... Maybe.

"Although," Hokuto added thoughtfully, "if we spend the rest of the night out here waiting in line, it might be a moot point."

Of course, there was a high likelihood that they'd be able to cut to the front of the queue and be waved right through if they pulled the celebrity card, but they'd gone to a lot of trouble to afford Subaru and Kamui a reasonable level of anonymity through cunning use of caps, sunglasses and the proliferation of copycat fashion that made one Kamui look-alike blend in that much easier with the rest of them. Actually, Karen was mildly surprised that something so simple had worked, but she supposed it helped that Sorata and Arashi were missing and the public didn't know Hokuto or Kotori.

Either way, it was a blessing, because letting their identities slip in a crowd of pop-music inclined kids like this would be an invitation for mayhem. Even waiting outside all night would be preferable to the riot that could ensue.

However, before Karen could open her mouth to make some kind of statement to that effect, Yuzuriha came up from behind them and cheerfully interrupted.

"It's okay, I can get us in!"

"Yuzu-chan," Karen said warily, not really knowing what Yuzuriha was thinking of but cautious just on general principle, "I'm not sure—"

"No, really, don't worry!" Yuzuriha assured her, and before Karen could say another word, the younger girl was pushing her way to where the bouncers were standing, leaving the others to trail in her wake. Karen gave a helpless shrug and tagged along, figuring that if it did all go pear-shaped she'd be in a better position to try and fix it that way.

"Hi!" Yuzuriha said brightly when she reached the guy at the door. "My name is Nekoi Yuzuriha, I'm a friend of Yatouji Satsuki? She said she'd arrange something so that me and the people I'm with could go straight through."

The bouncer nodded at her a little dubiously and tapped his earpiece, but a second later he nodded again and smiled. "Certainly, Nekoi-sama, that's fine."

Behind Yuzuriha, Karen blinked, surprised and mildly suspicious at how easy that had been, but the guy was waving them through and Kotori and Hokuto were dragging Subaru and Kamui inside, so she shrugged and followed behind. After all, they weren't the only ones in sore need of a distraction; Karen fully intended to enjoy this night out even if it killed her.

~

Hokuto was, as far as these things went, having a fairly good evening. It was hot and crowded inside the club, a little sweaty after the slight chill of the autumn air outside, but not so much as to be unbearable, especially not when she'd decided to use the occasion to break out one of her cute tiny clubbing dresses. She hadn't been able to persuade Subaru or Kamui to let her dress them up, those spoilsports, but she'd been in a generous mood having managed to get them to agree to come at all and had let them be without too much nagging. Besides, the girls had given her plenty of opportunity to occupy herself with, mixing and matching her new designs with hair and makeup, which was one thing that had always been rather disappointing about Subaru as a model. (In theory she could put makeup on him— he was certainly pretty enough for it— but that was one place where he very firmly drew the line, and his hair was too short to be all that much fun to play with.)

She'd been particularly delighted at having the chance of going all out on Kotori, with her gorgeous clear skin and big pretty eyes and lovely long masses of caramel hair. It wasn't hard at all to see how she'd become such a popular idol; she looked almost like a fairy princess, especially by the time Hokuto was done with her and she was covered in glitter and dressed in a light fluttery Grecian style number with tiny strappy shoes and her hair pinned into elaborate curls. Hokuto was incredibly pleased with the overall effect, especially once they'd gotten into the club and the strobe lights started sparkling off Kotori's skin.

All in all, it reminded her that it had been far too long since she'd been able to take time out from work and stressing over her brother and being an all-around responsible adult to just have fun. She'd been starting to feel almost old, which she completely wasn't, dammit. She was young, hot, dressed to the nines and determined to get the most out of the night, which, given Subaru and Kamui were the only guys present, she felt could legitimately be counted as a girls' night out.

Not that she wasn't still worried about Subaru, of course— did she ever stop? — but she thought it was a good sign he'd even agreed to come out tonight, no matter how resigned he'd looked. Really, it was an enormous improvement from a mere few weeks ago when he'd been hiding out in her apartment, and Hokuto knew to take her wins where she could get them.

What was a little concerning was the fact that Subaru had managed to get separated from her in the crowds, but last she'd seen he was still with Kamui, and she was fairly certain he was alright. She was keeping a close eye on her mobile for emails or missed calls just in case, but she thought he was probably on one of the higher floors of the split-level club, as far from the basement level bar and loud music as he could get, or possibly sulking in the mens' bathroom, and he was probably happier that way than if he'd stuck with her. Barring someone figuring out his identity (which had hitherto proved unlikely, thanks entirely to his completely unassuming demeanour and utter lack of rock-star aura), she couldn't see him getting involved in anything particularly major. He'd never been the kind of person to get into trouble, excepting incidents involving Seishirou, and at this stage Hokuto wasn't in a position to reach him in any case, so for one night she decided that for a change she was going to sit back and let Kamui take care of her brother for her.

Retrospectively, of course, it occurred to her that this line of thought was probably about as wise as marching up to the gods of misfortune and demanding to know what could possibly go wrong, but, well, she'd always been a little over-optimistic for both of their own goods, and they did say that hindsight was 20/20.

Sometimes— not often, because it would take all the fun and surprise out of everything, but definitely sometimes— Hokuto wished she could see the future, because it would have saved her so much Seishirou-related grief on at least three occasions she could name off-hand, but for the moment, she was having fun hanging out and drinking fruity cocktails with the other girls, blissfully unaware of any messes her brother might be getting himself into.

At least they were good cocktails, though.

~

When Kusanagi had suggested turning Satsuki's routine gig into some kind of bonding experience, Kakyou had not been overly enthralled by the prospect. He was working his way painstakingly towards sobriety, which made it a lot harder to phase out the rather unpleasant crush of people that was inevitable in those kinds of situations. Kakyou might have been more aware of his surroundings now than he had been before and more appreciative of the company of others, but he would never enjoy the kind of large-scale thrumming mass of life that people like Hokuto seemed to thrive upon.

There was also the fact that a club wasn't really the best place for a recovering substance abuser, but Kusanagi had brought that up with him— which was slightly awkward, all told, but the thought counted— and Kakyou recognised that in an industry like theirs, there would never be any way of completely avoiding that kind of environment. Rather than trying to, he was better off learning how to deal with the temptation, just like he had to learn how to socialise with other people properly. In the interests of both those things, and since he was fairly sure he could trust at least Kusanagi to keep an eye on him, he'd reluctantly agreed with what he suspected was far less resistance than anyone had been prepared for.

None of which meant he actually had to enjoy this. Kakyou's first impression upon entry into the club was that it was exactly what he'd been expecting: far too stuffy and overheated after the cool night air, so packed with people that the only way to move anywhere was by shoving, loud, dark, smoky, and populated by under-dressed teenagers who probably cared more about looking good than about the music.

Joy.

Still, he'd decided he was going to stick this through, and flaking on his first major test of resolve now would hardly bode well for the overall success of his attempt at reform, so he gritted his teeth and trailed in Kusanagi's wake through the sweaty crush of milling humanity down five flights of stairs to reach the stage where they greeted Satsuki, what with her ostensibly being the entire reason they were there in the first place.

"Oh," she said, after Kusanagi had yelled out a greeting. "You came, then."

She sounded about as excited by the prospect as Kakyou felt.

"Yuzu-chan suggested it," Kusanagi explained, apparently feeling this required a response of some kind. Kakyou noticed Satsuki give a single rapid blink with an odd unreadable expression flickering across her face before it settled back into its usual impassive blankness, and he wondered vaguely what had caused it.

"Sure, whatever," she said blandly. "You might want to go back up to a higher level where it's less crowded, by the way."

Kusanagi glanced at Kakyou quickly— probably thinking about the bar; he tended to be fairly considerate like that, which Kakyou didn't always mind— before he nodded.

"Yeah, thanks, we might do that," he said, yelling a little to be heard over the bass. "Good luck with the show!"

Satsuki snorted lightly with a small ironic smile on her lips and pushed her headphones back on, a clear dismissal. Kusanagi turned to Kakyou with a faintly apologetic look.

"Do you want to go back up to the top level?" he asked.

Kakyou shrugged and opened his mouth to say he didn't particularly care either way when he caught sight of a familiar figure and blinked.

"It's Nekoi-san," he said instead, and Kusanagi looked at him with surprise for a moment before turning around and scanning the crowd until he obviously spotted the short figure Kakyou had pointed out and called out to her.

"Yuzu-chan!"

Yuzuriha stopped and turned her head, obviously trying to figure out if someone was trying to catch her attention and if so, who. Kusanagi shouted her name again, waving, and Kakyou could tell she must have spotted them from the way her face lit up. A moment later she was squeezing her way towards them, holding two drinks carefully above her head so they wouldn't spill.

"Hi!" she yelled cheerfully when she finally reached them, grin spreading infectiously across her face. "You made it!"

Kusanagi smiled back at her. "It's good to see you," he said warmly. "You look really nice."

"Thanks!" Yuzuriha glanced down at herself then back at Kusanagi, still beaming. "Actually, it's all Hokuto-chan, she's awesome at this kind of stuff."

Kakyou, who had been staring in vague boredom at the crowds around them, turned his gaze back to Yuzuriha. "Hokuto-san?"

Yuzuriha bobbed her head. "Yep, she helped me and Kotori-chan get ready tonight, it was heaps of fun," she said, by way of explanation. "Actually, the second drink is for her, I was just taking them back to our table. Do you guys want to sit with us?"

Kusanagi looked at Kakyou for confirmation, clearly mindful of the fact that agreeing would mean staying on the bar level. Kakyou weighed up his choices. It was packed on this level, sticky with spilled drinks and thick with the haze of cigarette smoke, not to mention the music was much louder this close to the stage. On the other hand, he somehow found he quite looked forward to talking to Hokuto and Kotori again; Kakyou had spent the better part of his life entirely removed from and disaffected by the world around him, but they'd been interesting.

He considered it.

"... Okay," he said eventually, and was rewarded by Yuzuriha's big beam and Kusanagi's much more understated but just as pleased smile.

"Great!" Yuzuriha said enthusiastically. "We're just over this way— I was going to go find Satsuki-chan to say hi, but I'll show you guys there and drop off Hokuto-chan's drink first."

"No, don't be silly, you should go talk to Yatouji-san," Kusanagi encouraged. "I can take the drink to Hokuto-san, and I'm sure we won't have too much of a problem finding the table ourselves. It was that way, right?"

"Right," she confirmed, but hesitated. "Are you sure it's okay? I don't mind..."

Kakyou thought about the unreadable flicker in Satsuki's eyes when Kusanagi had mentioned Yuzuriha to her earlier. "I think Yatouji-san would like to see you before the show," he said slowly on the tail-end of Kusanagi's reassurances, and Yuzuriha looked at him in surprise for a moment before she smiled again, a little shier than before.

"Thanks," she said honestly, passing one of the drinks to Kusanagi when he held his hand out. "Good luck finding the table— I'll see you guys later!"

"Have fun!" Kusanagi told her, and when it became difficult to see her through the tightly packed crowds, he turned to face Kakyou again. "Right. Shall we?"

For once, it wasn't a stretch to give a small smile in return.

~

Karen's evening so far had been going surprisingly well. A paranoid or pessimistic person may have considered this suspicious and ominous; Karen had been waiting for the other shoe to drop the entire half hour since they'd got into the club, and wondered when she'd become exactly that kind of paranoid pessimist.

They'd found a table with a remarkable lack of difficulty within the first ten minutes where they were nice and close but not to the point of being deafened by the speakers. They were also in reasonable proximity to the bar, which Karen knew from long experience was almost as important. She hadn't been clubbing in longer than she cared to remember, but that didn't mean she'd forgotten how irritating it was to have to shove your way through a crowded club simply to get a drink, particularly when all you wanted was a glass of water to hydrate yourself. Not to mention the further you had to go, the more likely it was that someone would bump you and spill their or your own drink down your very nice but not very easily washed dress. (It had only happened twice to her that Karen could recall, but nevertheless.)

So the location was rather fortuitous. On the not so bright side, Karen had yet to see Subaru and Kamui. Presumably they were together somewhere, but the question was where that somewhere might be. While Karen agreed with Hokuto and Kotori that barring unforeseen complications they'd be perfectly alright wherever they were, it would make her feel a lot better to make sure. This was a sentiment she didn't consider to be overly paranoid or pessimistic, since she'd been given ample cause for concern in the past.

With these concerns buzzing at the forefront of her mind, Karen decided the only way she was going to get any reassurance was to look for them herself and make sure everything was fine, so when Yuzuriha went for a round of drinks, Karen bowed out.

"I might go to the ladies' room," she said, not wanting to mar anyone else's fun with her unfounded worries. "Don't worry about me, I'll get something for myself on my way back."

"Okay, if you're sure," Yuzuriha agreed, giving a little wave before she weaved her way into the crowd. Hokuto was busy talking to Kotori, so Karen just caught her eye and gestured to show that she'd be back. Hokuto gave a distracted nod of acknowledgement, and Karen set off for the stairs with the intention of making a brief sweep of the club. Subaru and Kamui were most likely closer to the entrance on the highest level.

It was all very simple and straightforward in theory. In an ideal and blessedly normal world, Karen's sense of foreboding would have amounted to nothing more than an overactive imagination. Of course, in the world in which Karen actually lived, the threatened other shoe had just been biding its time before it came down hard and fast at the worst possible moment. That was probably the point where she ceased to wonder when she'd become a paranoid pessimist, because there existed in front of her, in the form of one Kigai Yuuto, concrete proof that it wasn't paranoia at all but rather a healthy dose of wary realism.

Karen stopped short, momentarily frozen with her hand clutching at the stair rail. It wasn't the most strategic place to be standing around in, given how narrow the stairs were and how many people were shoving to get by her in both directions, but her mind had been washed over by the static roar of a terrifying mental blank the moment she'd seen Yuuto's blond hair reflecting the strobe lights on the floor above her. He was probably on his way towards the bar, which meant he was on his way towards where Karen was currently standing, which meant she had to turn around right now because dealing with this mess festering between them was pretty much the last thing she felt like doing.

Unfortunately, she didn't manage to drag herself out of the shocked inertia until Yuuto had already spotted her. It was impossible to deny; Yuuto was reasonably tall and easily seen amongst the crowds, but Karen was pretty distinctive herself and she was wearing heels, and they weren't so far apart that she couldn't see the look of recognition cross his face when he turned in her direction. Their eyes locked for a brief second, and Karen held his gaze for a moment before she registered the determined set of his mouth that said he was fully intending to chase her down and force the confrontation between them. It was enough to jolt her into action, urgently pushing and squeezing her way back down the stairs in the futile hope that she could somehow lose him in the crowded club or, at the very least, hide in the women's toilets.

Unfortunately the shock of seeing Yuuto and the all-consuming impulse to get away completely drove away all thoughts of Subaru and Kamui, which was a pity, because otherwise it might have occurred to her that that situation had just potentially grown rather more dire.

As it was, however, Karen had enough problems of her own to be worrying about.

~

Kamui would freely admit that he sometimes had a tendency to be a bit anti-social and prickly. It wasn't that he didn't like people; he liked people just fine. Most of the time. It was just that large numbers of people impinging on his personal space tended to make him somewhat grumpy, which was one among many reasons of why Kamui's night had so far sucked a whole lot.

Another reason was that he'd managed to get himself separated from the group by dragging his feet too much when they'd entered the club; he hadn't shoved enough to stick straight behind the others in the crowds, and then he'd fallen further behind in the mass of people until he couldn't see them anymore which was all just incredibly annoying. He'd considered turning around and going home, but someone would probably kill him for it later if he did and he'd left his keycard back at the hotel anyway.

In any case, Kamui reasoned, the club may have been packed out, but it wasn't actually that big in terms of floor space, even if it was four levels down. If he headed towards the stage, he'd have to find them sooner or later. And in the meantime, he was going to get himself a drink, which would improve the evening automatically.

This was slightly easier said than done, since by this time the club was starting to get rather full and the lowest level was The Place To Be, what with the bar and the stage. If anyone were to ask Kamui, it was a stupid design; the two most important areas were located as far as possible from the door down a bunch of stairs, which was dangerous and obnoxious, and also rendered the higher levels fairly useless since you couldn't get a drink or even see the stage without going downstairs. He could accept that space limitations made stairs a more efficient use of the area, but still. He didn't think it was that unreasonable to expect to be able to get a drink without going to great lengths for it, but by the time he'd managed to push and shove his way all the way down to the bar the show had already started.

Nevertheless, he did eventually get there, even if it took like half an hour, so it wasn't a total wash. The bigger problem was that, faced by the list of cocktails the bar did, Kamui found himself at somewhat of a loss. He honestly didn't know all that much about alcoholic drinks; generally he just drank whatever his friends gave him. Some names sounded familiar, but he didn't actually remember which was which without some kind of description, which the bar's menu was distinctly lacking. He didn't actually like any of the less sweet-tasting drinks— he hated beer and brandy and barely tolerated rum. The only drink he knew for certain that he liked was Cosmopolitan, which Yuzuriha had mixed for them all on several occasions, but there was no way he'd order that for himself— one of the few things he did know about cocktails was that that was undisputedly a "girly" drink.

Kamui was still staring at the menu, wondering if he should take a punt on a different vodka mix or if he should just stick with rum and coke, when a voice behind him said, "Rum and coke for me, Sex On The Beach for him."

It was just as well Kamui hadn't ordered his drink yet, because inhaling wrong made him cough enough without any liquid entering into the equation. "What?" he croaked, and was turning around to confront the interloper when his brain caught up to his ears and reminded him a second too late just why that voice sounded so familiar. Face to face with the person he probably wanted to see least in the world right now, Kamui froze, his heart beating hard against his ribcage.

"What?" Fuuma said reasonably, sliding the pink-red drink across the bar towards Kamui. "It's sweet; I know you prefer it that way."

"I," Kamui started weakly, then shook his head, trying to force his mind blank. "I am not drinking... just. No."

Fuuma smirked, not the cruel mocking twist of the lips that Kamui had grown so used to over the past few months but a mischievous teasing grin. "What, not a big fan of sex on the beach?" he asked, as if this were a totally innocent question. "How can you be sure without trying it? You never know, Kamui, maybe you'll like it."

It was at that point that Kamui remembered why he'd been avoiding Fuuma this time— specifically, remembered the contents of Fuuma's last promo video— and felt his face flush with heat.

It was not often that Kamui found himself completely lost for words, but he did not, in fact, have a comeback for that.

Surprisingly, Fuuma took pity on him, grin gentling into a smile that made something in Kamui's chest hurt. "Sometimes," he said, a hint of ruefulness to his tone, "a drink is just a drink. Giving it a try isn't going to kill you."

Kamui stared at him, wondering if this drink could be called just anything, but when Fuuma's eyes met him, dark and steady, he took a deep breath and reached out to pick up the glass.

"If you say so," he said, with a hint of fatalism, and took a huge sip, feeling Fuuma's gaze on him the whole time.

Kamui suspected that this was going to be a long night.

~

Fuuma watched intently as Kamui knocked back a good portion of the drink in a single swallow and set the glass back down on the bar with a slightly forceful clink. "Well?" Fuuma prompted.

"It's good," Kamui answered, sounding surprised and a little suspicious, as though he'd expected the drink to leap up and bite him and was almost affronted when it hadn't.

Fuuma, on the other hand, was not surprised at all. Kamui may not have been drinking cocktails back when they were best friends, given he'd barely been 18 when Fuuma had left— and okay, he was still underage by several months even now, but that seemed almost irrelevant these days, what with the world they were living in— but that didn't mean Fuuma didn't have a better idea than anyone what Kamui liked. He'd always had a sweet tooth, much as he liked to pretend otherwise as he got older.

"I didn't order it just because of the outrageous name, you know," Fuuma informed him, although the name had definitely factored largely in the decision-making process. He saw Kamui flinch and thought maybe it had been a bad idea to bring that up again so soon when Kamui was still fairly skittish, but oh well, too late now.

Kamui didn't reply for a moment, just stared at his hands, awkward and nervous. "I didn't think I'd see you here," he said finally, not looking up. The fact that he wouldn't have come otherwise went unspoken; Fuuma's lips turned up in a faint self-deprecating smile.

"No," he agreed. "Although I was pretty sure I'd see you." Kamui's eyes flickered up for a second at that, registering confusion and surprise before they slid away again almost instantly. Fuuma rested his elbow on the bar, propping his cheek on his hand as he studied Kamui's profile. "It's been a while."

"I... yeah," Kamui said, body language still radiating uncomfortable and bewildered. "About a month."

"Kotori said you haven't been out much lately," Fuuma said, watching Kamui carefully. This time, Kamui looked up with a small frown.

"No," he said warily. "What do you want, Fuuma?"

There were so very many answers Fuuma could give to that, but instead, he ignored the question and asked one of his own. "Oh, nothing much. Although, I've been meaning to ask— what did you think of my latest single?"

Whatever Kamui had been expecting, that obviously wasn't it; he'd been halfway through taking a sip when Fuuma spoke and sprayed it rather spectacularly across the counter when he choked on it, face burning red right to the tips of his ears. As far as reactions went, it outstripped the coughing fit he'd had when Fuuma had first ordered the drink quite impressively.

Funny as it was, though, it had to be painful, and Fuuma winced in sympathy before moving over to thump Kamui on the back. "Sorry," he said when Kamui stopped coughing, not entirely unrepentant.

Kamui twisted around to face him, visibly faltering when it became apparent how close Fuuma had moved when he'd been choking. Fuuma himself hadn't really been thinking about it when he'd let his hands settle back on the edge of the bar, but he couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried; when Kamui turned around, Fuuma's hands ended up on either side of his hips, pinning him in so there was about an inch at most between their bodies and not much more between their faces.

"I," Kamui stammered, face turning even redder if that were possible. "I, um."

Fuuma let his gaze drift down to Kamui's mouth, a little red and swollen from his nervous habit of chewing on his lower lip, and then back up to meet Kamui's eyes, wide and confused.

"Let me ask you again," Fuuma said, voice dropping into low and husky without conscious thought. Kamui shivered, and even if it could just be an involuntary reaction to having someone focussed on him like this and nothing to do with Fuuma himself, Fuuma was going to take it as a positive sign. "What did you think of the song?"

"I don't," Kamui said, and swallowed hard, Fuuma following the bob of his throat. "I don't understand."

"What's to understand?" Fuuma countered, pressing the advantage and leaning closer until they were almost breathing the same air. Kamui flinched. "I thought I was being perfectly clear. I want you."

For once, Kamui held his ground, lifting his chin to search Fuuma's eyes for something. "Are you messing with me?" he asked, unsteady, uncertain, a little scared but determined, and really, Fuuma ought to have known; Kamui's paranoia would never be so easily allayed.

"Trust me, Kamui," he answered, with absolute sincerity, "I have never been more serious."

Kamui opened his mouth, although to say what Fuuma would never be sure, because he took the opportunity before his courage failed him to seal it shut with his own. Kamui started, hands flying up to curl in Fuuma's shirt with a whimper.

When Fuuma pulled away by the barest margin after a few seconds, he swallowed hard, trying to remember what self-control felt like. Kamui's breath was puffing against his lips in little gasps, eyes glazed and half-lidded when they raised to meet Fuuma's own; at some point without conscious thought, Fuuma's arms had shifted from the bar to wrap around Kamui's waist. Kamui's back was arched so far that he was practically sitting on the counter, hips canted up towards Fuuma's body.

This was not entirely how Fuuma had meant for this to go.

"Kamui," he said roughly, fully intending to be the mature and responsible adult here and stop this while he still could, but Kamui's leg hooked around the back of his thighs, pulling him close by the grasp he still had on Fuuma's collar.

"Fuuma," he murmured, sounding sex-drugged, and this time it was Fuuma whimpering, not strong enough to resist when Kamui caught him in another open-mouthed kiss, deeper and more urgent than the first. Fuuma slid his hands under the edge of Kamui's shirt, unable to stop himself from letting them skate across flushed sticky skin even while he thought about how he was totally going to hell for this. It wasn't until Kamui let out a startled moan into his mouth, jerking up against him, that Fuuma's common sense returned to him, dousing him like cold water.

He pushed himself away by sheer force of will, staring helplessly at Kamui, who looked totally wrecked and like someone had just debauched him, which made sense, because Fuuma just had. Against a bar, in public while Kamui was tipsy at the very least and they hadn't talked about anything properly, because Fuuma was a horrible person. They'd be lucky if no one recognised them and took photos with their phones, which would give Kamui even more reason to hate Fuuma for taking advantage of him than he already had.

"Fuuma?" Kamui said, slurred and bewildered, and Fuuma tore his gaze away before he did something even more inadvisable.

"I," he croaked, then cleared his throat, trying again. "I'm not doing this here," he said, with more conviction. "Not like this, not when I can't be sure it's what you want."

Kamui pushed himself up into a semi-upright position, apparently oblivious to the stares of the people around them that Fuuma felt like accusing pinpricks. "Fuuma?" he repeated, still sounding confused but a little more together.

"I need you to think about this when you're sober," Fuuma told him. "I need to know you're not going to regret it afterwards, Kamui."

"Fuuma—"

"I'm trying to be chivalrous here, stop ruining it," Fuuma complained, twisting his hand awkwardly in his hair and flicking a glance quickly at Kamui and just as quickly away, and took a step backwards. He was fully intending to go without another word (which wasn't running away, damn it, it was strategic retreat) when it occurred to him there was one more thing he needed to say before he could leave.

These were the words that were the hardest to say, and he stood there for a really long moment feeling like he'd just jumped out of a plane without a parachute while Kamui blinked at him before he managed to work up the courage to say the words Kamui needed and deserved to hear if they were ever going to fix this.

"I never actually stopped loving you, you know," he said finally, and turned around and walked away before his willpower totally failed him, feeling the heat of Kamui's shocked stare on his back long after he knew he was out of sight.

~

Kamui stayed there staring blankly in the direction Fuuma had disappeared off in for at least five minutes before absently fixing his rucked up shirt. He was aware on a distant level that people were staring, but he had more immediate concerns.

Namely, what the hell had just happened?

Nothing about that encounter had made the slightest bit of sense, not from the moment that Fuuma had ordered him the drink with that... name... and teased him gently instead of the expected mockery, but definitely not from the point where Fuuma had started kissing him. Kamui's mind was roaring white noise; he had no idea what was going on, let alone what to think.

And then Fuuma had said— but—

This had to be an elaborate prank, Kamui decided fuzzily. It was the only way anything fit together in his head.

He was aware that this probably qualified him for the label "paranoid", but given the past few months of their history he didn't think that was completely unreasonable. Fuuma must have found out about Kamui's feelings, and... well, okay, he'd thought that Fuuma had already figured out about his feelings back when everything went to shit, but maybe he was wrong about that, except... or maybe Fuuma had decided to see if Kamui still felt that way?

Unwillingly, Kamui remembered the way Fuuma had looked him straight in the eyes and promised he'd never been more serious; the pained look on his face when he stepped back and said he was trying to be chivalrous (and what did that mean?); the way he said that he still... that he...

None of this made sense.

Not to mention Fuuma's apparent belief that Kamui was fall-down drunk. He wasn't sure whether to be more confused or insulted by that, but he'd only had half a martini glass. Sure, it was probably a reasonably strong liqueur and he couldn't completely deny that he was kind of a lightweight, but he wasn't Subaru, for god's sake. He was barely even light-headed!

Or, well, he hadn't been before Fuuma kissed him, anyway.

The thing was, Kamui mused as he staggered to his feet and made his way slightly unsteadily towards the seating near the stage (more in an effort to relocate away from the alcohol and the people staring at him and the all too vivid memory of Fuuma— right, anyway— than with any actual destination in mind), Fuuma had very definitely not done that or anything remotely like it before, no matter how much Kamui had thought about it. In fact no one had, at least not to Kamui, although that was a lot less the point than it might have been.

The point was... the point was, Kamui didn't know what the point was, except that his universe was now a lot more surreal than it had been that morning.

He had just stopped to contemplate this, buffered by the crowds of people surrounding him— probably for the better, since he was weak-kneed enough that he might have fallen over otherwise— when someone yelled his name and grabbed his wrist.

"Huh?" Kamui said, and raised his eyes from the hand attached to his arm up to Kotori's face. "Kotori-chan?"

"I found you!" Kotori exclaimed, tugging him towards a table where Hokuto was sitting. "No one knew where you'd gone, we were starting to get worried! Everyone else has been splitting up and drifting off, Yuzu-chan has gone to sit with some other friends nearer to the stage and we haven't seen Karen in about an hour. What happened to you, anyway?"

"Uh," Kamui said, not entirely sure where to begin, since it would be pretty awkward to say something like "your brother was busy molesting me against the bar" but he didn't really know how much more tactfully he could put it when his brain was this fried. Stuck for an answer, he glanced at Hokuto for help only to stop and frown, entirely distracted from his previous predicament. "Hey, where's Subaru?"

Hokuto stared at him for a second and then frowned back, obviously perplexed. "I thought he was with you?"

Kamui felt a distinct sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. "But I thought he was with you!" he exclaimed, and then, as another thought struck him— "Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit!"

"What?" Kotori said, alarmed, as Hokuto shot to her feet and grabbed his arm, demanding, "Did something happen?"

"Fuuma," Kamui started shakily, "if Fuuma's here, then that means..."

That was all he needed to say before the blood was draining abruptly from Hokuto's face. "Sei-chan," she finished grimly. "I've got to find Subaru, you—" She stopped and looked at him, hard. "Actually, you look like you can barely stand up, you stay here with Kotori-chan."

She was off before he could even begin to formulate a response, shoving her way through the press of the crowds which seemed to be getting even worse by the minute and leaving him with Kotori, who was giving him a really funny look.

"What?" Kamui said uncomfortably.

"You saw Onii-chan?" she asked, an odd tone in her voice matching the weird expression still on her face.

"Uh," Kamui said, wondering if this was a trick question. "... Yes?"

"And that's...?" she started, before trailing off, looking really quite lost for words and a bit pinker in the cheeks than she had five minutes ago. "... Never mind."

Kamui stared at her in confusion, completely lost for what was up with her before it occurred to him what he'd been doing with Fuuma, and what he must look like.

"Um," he said stupidly, realising that this was just the kind of awkward he'd been trying to avoid before he'd been distracted by the absence of Subaru. "Okay. Can we... not talk about this and forget it ever happened, please?"

Kotori looked pretty dubious, but she nodded. "If you prefer, Kamui-chan."

They sat in relative silence that underscored the sudden rise in the ambient noise level. Kotori kept darting looks at him until she could apparently hold it in no more and said tentatively, "So, um... what's actually going on between you and Onii-chan?"

Kamui groaned, head sinking into his heads. "If I knew that," he said, muffled, "I'm pretty sure my head wouldn't be hurting so much right now."

Kotori patted him on the shoulder sympathetically, and Kamui was left to ponder the mystery of when exactly this had become his life and whether this constituted an improvement of the situation or made the whole thing worse.

Either way, though, it had definitely made everything more complicated, that was for sure.

Previous | Next

Sun, 14 Dec 2008 05:29:51 GMT

Title: All That Glitters
Fandom: X/TB
Pairings: ... so far, Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, Sorata/Arashi, Yuuto/Karen, hints of other pairings.
Genre: MEGA AU. All the genres you can possibly think of! Okay, maybe not. But there is crack, and there is angst, and there is other stuff. Although in this part, mostly angst.
Word Count: 6,092 for the chapter; 93,526 total.
Notes: BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR ME AND THE REST OF THE INTERNET, happy birthday me, and also thehoyden, _leareth and fahye. I'm in a hurry because I'm about to catch a plane. This is probably not the exciting chapter you were all hoping for but the next chapter will more than make up for that, if I ever get it written.
Summary: It's saved on my harddrive as "Boyband!X". I think that's really all you need to know. *cough*

PART VIII

~ Chapter 13 ~

As a general rule, Daisuke liked his job. Sure, most guys might aspire to something a little more ambitious than life as a personal assistant, but it meant he was able to work in the records industry— right in the thick of the Princess label, which was a chance a lot of people would kill for. He genuinely liked and respected Hinoto, his uncle always smiled at him proudly whenever he came into Hinoto's office, and Daisuke even enjoyed the work most days. It was soothingly rhythmic, occasionally exciting, and on slow days he could read a book.

Some days, however, the phone would not stop ringing, artists kept having crises, people were assholes and he basically just wanted to throw the switchboard at the wall and scream with primal rage.

Today was not one of those days. Today had, in fact, been very enjoyable, not too busy but peppered with interesting breaks in routine, right up until the point where a certain person had to ring and ruin his whole morning.

"Hello, Princess Records Head Office, this is Daisuke speaking," Daisuke rattled off smoothly without thought, not even pausing in his game of minesweeper. "How may I help you?"

"Aah, Daisuke-kun," a low silky voice purred. "It has been a while, hasn't it? You must have grown since I saw you last. You were such a cute little boy, too."

Daisuke did not groan out loud or immediately slam the receiver down on the hook, which he felt was an admirable exercise of restraint even if he did give into the urge to let his head thud onto the desk for a moment.

"Kanoe-sama," he said with plastic-fake cheery politeness. "What a pleasant surprise! What can I do for you today?"

"I think you know," Kanoe said smugly. "Put me through to my sister."

"Of course, Kanoe-sama," Daisuke lied with the polished air of practice. "I'll just check if she's available. Please hold."

As soon as the call was suspended, Daisuke buried his face in his hands and whimpered, taking a moment to gather his willpower together before he bit the bullet and dialled the internal line to Hinoto's room.

"Hello?" Hinoto answered after a few seconds, and Daisuke coughed uncomfortably.

"Hello, Hinoto-sama? I have your sister on line one," he said, knowing it was obvious from his flat voice exactly how much this fact enthralled him, but equally knowing that Hinoto was the last person who'd blame him for it. "Do you want me to put her through, or...?"

Hinoto's end of the line was silent for a moment.

"Tell her to leave a message," Hinoto said finally, and there was a click as the line went dead.

So, business as usual. Not that Kanoe rang very frequently— it was practically an annual event these days— but whenever she did, Hinoto always refused to talk to her. Then again, to be fair, Kanoe was usually ringing to gloat about something. Daisuke didn't know why she still bothered, but presumably she felt that the underlying message got through even though she didn't. If she was ringing at all, it was a sign of triumph.

Daisuke sighed and picked up line one again, knowing that as per always he was going to be the lucky guy who got to be on the receiving end of said gloating. He'd tried to console himself in the past with the thought that at least it was better than people yelling at him for things that weren't his fault or asking him questions he didn't know the answer to and getting mad at him when he had nothing to tell them, yet somehow, Kanoe's calls were still the most dreaded.

"Hello, Kanoe-sama? I'm sorry, Hinoto-sama is busy at the moment, but if you'd like me to take a message...?"

"If you insist," she said breezily, and Daisuke thought no, I really, really don't but kept that to himself. "I just thought my dearest sister might appreciate the rankings for this week's top tens and that I ought to enquire after news of her protégés, since I've heard so very little of late. You must know how concerned I was."

Daisuke gritted his teeth at Kanoe's poisonously sugary sweetness and reminded himself that professionals are never anything less than perfectly polite, no matter how much one might want to indulge in such childish behaviour as name-calling or hanging up on someone.

"Duly noted," he said, as brightly as he could manage. "Thank you for calling, Kanoe-sama, we appreciate your solicitousness. I'm sure Hinoto-sama will return your call as soon as possible."

"Oh, I'm sure," Kanoe agreed dryly, and gave a small, mocking laugh. "Goodbye, Daisuke-kun."

Really, Daisuke thought miserably after setting down the receiver, after a month of Angels of the Sepulchre's new single being at the top of the charts and complete radio silence from Garden of Eden, he should have realised this call was coming sooner or later. Still, it wasn't like he could do anything to prevent the woman, so maybe the fact he hadn't turned his mind to it until he'd heard her voice on the line was a case of ignorance being bliss.

It had been such a good morning up until then, too.

~

Arashi had a tendency, once she started something, to get absorbed in it and forget her surroundings until the job was completed. In some ways this was a positive trait; she was very diligent and always worked her hardest to fully achieve any job set before her. On the other hand, she had been told before that her perfectionism and the way she would concentrate on one thing to the complete exclusion of all else was unhealthy, and she knew herself that it could do as much damage as good at times.

Whether it could be considered good or bad, however, Arashi was who she was, and while she was peripherally aware that she had been in the recording studios for a long time without a break and that she should probably have eaten lunch at some point over the course of the day, this had yet to translate into an actual consciousness that she'd been working for five hours straight.

All in all, it was probably a good thing that someone interrupted her before she passed out from hunger, but she'd been concentrating so intensely on the sound mixing equipment that she hadn't even heard the door open. She startled so badly at the sudden sound of her name that she thought her heart would leap out of her chest, head jerking up to meet Aoki's concerned gaze.

"A... Aoki-san," she greeted weakly, dipping her head in belated acknowledgement. "I apologise, I didn't realise you were there."

"I'm sorry I startled you," Aoki said warmly. "It's unusual to see you here, though. Then again, I haven't seen Kamui-kun around here lately either. Are you working on a new song?"

What Aoki was very politely trying not to allude to was the very long spell of utter unproductiveness that had been plaguing Garden of Eden ever since Angel of the Sepulchre's last single. Kamui was their default songwriter, but he'd been suffering from a distant cousin of writer's block for about a month by this point, freezing up and practically hyperventilating whenever someone so much as mentioned the concept of songwriting in the same room as him— How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? he'd demanded, bristling with paranoia. I can't! Oh god, Fuuma's up to something and I have no idea what, AAAAAAH!

After that outburst, nobody had wanted to bring the issue up again, especially not with how twitchy and neurotic Kamui had been lately, muttering under his breath and jumping at physical contact like an over-anxious alley cat. He barely even left the apartment anymore; it was like he actually expected Fuuma or maybe a reporter to jump out from behind a corner and ambush him if he let his guard down.

As for Subaru, who had somehow half against his will become their backup writer, he hadn't been in a condition to be working on new material since even before the last Angels single. A month and a half may not have seemed like such a long time to go without releasing new material, especially given they'd put out two new songs fairly close together before that, but for a band which usually had such a high release rate and hadn't finished laying down all the album tracks yet, it was a concern, all the more so when there was already a built-up expectation of a response to anything the other band came out with.

When put in those terms, it was clear that someone in the band had to do something about the situation, but while Arashi was certainly conscious of this fact, it was definitely not the only thing motivating her.

She didn't tell Aoki this, however, too embarrassed to explain, and so she answered him with a simple, "Yes, that's right."

"Hm, I see," he said, and smiled. "This must be your first time using the new equipment, isn't it? How are you finding it? I recall Sorata-kun was very enamoured of it when it arrived."

"Sorata-san..." Arashi murmured instead of answering, half to herself, but she was uncomfortably aware of the way Aoki's eyes sharpened behind his glasses as though trying to read her. "Aoki-san... if it's possible, would you mind doing me a favour?"

"Of course not, Arashi-san," he said gently, still watching her carefully. "What seems to be the problem?"

Arashi hesitated for a moment before steeling her resolve. "Could you please not mention this to anyone else just yet?"

Aoki blinked in apparent surprise at her request, but nodded. "If that's what you'd like. May I ask why?"

Arashi bit her lip, hands twisting in her lap before she looked up again at the older man with determination. "There is something... I need to work through," she told him, a little haltingly. "But it has to be a surprise, otherwise I won't be able to do this properly."

Aoki continued to watch her steadily in silence for a few heartbeats and she wondered for a brief handful of seconds if he would press her for more details, but something in his gaze made her think he'd probably already guessed. "Alright," he said finally, and his smile softened. "You should do what you feel is right, Arashi-san. But don't forget to eat something— Karen-san asked me to look for you, she was worried when she hadn't seen you since breakfast."

"I will," she promised, and bowed her head again in honest gratitude for Aoki's understanding. "Thank you. Please tell Karen-san I apologise for worrying her and that there's nothing to be concerned about."

"Of course," Aoki said, and moved to leave the room before pausing in the doorway, hand resting lightly on the frame as he looked back over his shoulder. "Good luck," he added. "I'm sure it will be fine."

"Thank you," she said again, but her mind was already somewhere else by the time the door clicked shut.

Arashi would eat, but then she would go back to working on the song, because even if it was destined only to be an album track, she needed it to be perfect. Talking about her feelings was something she found very difficult; she could never say what she wanted face-to-face no matter how many times she rehearsed. She was too awkward, too reserved, too afraid of making mistakes that couldn't be erased or corrected. Music was the only way she knew how to express herself, and if she was going to do this she had to make sure that she did it right. Arashi was a perfectionist to the core, and on this of all things there was no room for anything less than one hundred percent.

Sorata deserved that much.

~

"Everyone's starting to drift away," Yuzuriha said, sighing as she stirred her milkshake with a straw. "I think maybe the band is going to split up soon. I guess I always knew it would happen eventually, but it just seems so soon."

Satsuki stood beside her on the bridge, leaning against the rail and skipping stones along the water with a disinterested expression. Inuki sat on Satsuki's other side, looking hopefully at the remnants of Satsuki's burger and whining for attention every so often; she was seemingly ignoring him, but every so often she'd sneak him a small piece of the burger.

"Why do you care?" Satsuki asked finally, like she'd realised that some kind of response was expected. She sounded honestly confused, as if she couldn't comprehend how someone could form an attachment to playing with a group of other people, and Yuzuriha turned to look at her, blinking with surprise.

"Huh? But they're my band. Of course I care!"

Satsuki shrugged. "They're going to leave sooner or later. Why does it matter?"

Yuzuriha stared at her, speechless for a moment. "They're my band," she repeated, unable to accept that Satsuki didn't understand why that was important. "We've been together for nearly a year, and they're almost like family to me. Don't you feel that way about your band?"

Satsuki snorted. "Family? My father had me chained to a recording deal where he got all the money since I started playing," she said flatly, eyes glinting sharply behind her glasses. "He was only interested in what I was worth financially. So I found a way to bankrupt him and get out as soon as I could."

Yuzuriha was struck by a rare moment of speechlessness as she stared at Satsuki's emotionless profile. For a second she could feel tears prickling at the edges of her eyes, feel a hollowness in her chest as though she'd taken on the pain Satsuki was numb to in her place. She'd known that Satsuki was prickly and difficult to get close to, but it made her feel indescribably sad to think that the other girl's life had been so cold and empty.

"There's got to be something you love," she insisted once she'd regained her footing, not wanting to give up so easily. "Like, I really love singing! I used to play flute, actually, and Inuki barks along too, but I just need to sing now." She paused. "I know they only asked me to join the band in the first place because Daddy is famous, but I don't mind, because I love singing and they let me do that."

Satsuki looked back at her with a completely unreadable gaze for a very long moment. "I hate singing," was all she said, when she finally responded.

Yuzuriha laughed self-consciously. "Okay, okay, but what about music? You love playing keyboard, don't you?"

After a long pause, Satsuki said, "I don't dislike it."

It was almost physically painful to hear Satsuki's toneless words and be faced with the blank mirror-like shield of her eyes. "Isn't there anything?" she asked in a small voice. "Isn't there anything that makes you happy to be alive?"

"Life doesn't need a reason," Satsuki said blandly, and the words that from some might sound like a blessing, validation, fell from her lips with brutal indifference. "It just is, until it isn't. If you've finished eating, Nekoi, let's go before it gets too late."

Satsuki started to walk away, impatiently beckoning for Yuzuriha to follow, and though she was only a few steps away it seemed like eternity.

Yuzuriha wanted to reach out, but sometimes Satsuki just felt so far away.

~

Kusanagi had been surprised when he almost literally ran into Nekoi Yuzuriha wandering around with her dog, but he'd been more surprised by the somewhat downtrodden expression on her face, given that every time he'd seen her before she'd always been wearing a smile.

"I'm very sorry," she'd said, rather more subdued than he'd come to expect from her. "That was my fault, I wasn't looking where I was—"

Yuzuriha had broken off mid-sentence as she'd lifted her head from an apologetic bow and blinked. "...Kusanagi-san?"

"Nekoi-san," he'd answered, mildly alarmed, "what on Earth is wrong?"

"It's... well, it's not nothing, but it's kind of silly, I guess," was what she'd said, rubbing at the back of her neck awkwardly. "Um... do you think you could call me Yuzu-chan instead?"

"If you want," Kusanagi had agreed, and, because he was still somewhat concerned, he'd offered to treat her to that ice-cream they'd never eaten so she could tell him about her problems, however silly. She'd thanked him and fallen into step beside him, an equally downtrodden Inuki trailing at her feet, which was how Kusanagi now found himself handing Yuzuriha an oversized double scoop ice-cream cone as he sat down next to her on the park bench.

"So," he said eventually, after an extended silence. Yuzuriha glanced in his direction, expression a little apprehensive. "Do you want to talk about it? We don't have to if you don't want to. We can just hang out with Inuki and talk about music, if you like."

She smiled at that, small but genuine. "Thank you," she said, looking down at the ground and scuffing the heel of her shoe against the pavement slightly. "It's just... it feels like everyone is moving so far away, and Satsuki-chan..."

Kusanagi waited patiently, sensing now was not the time to interrupt. Yuzuriha sighed.

"Sometimes I wonder what Satsuki-chan really thinks of me," she finished finally. "She's always so reserved, and she still calls me Nekoi like we're practically strangers. Does she even really consider us friends? I thought she did, but..."

"But?" Kusanagi prompted, gently as he could, and Yuzuriha cast her eyes down with a slight frown.

"But now I'm not sure anymore," she answered, sounding a little frustrated. "What if she only spends time with me for something to do, or because it's just easier than telling me to go away?"

Kusanagi couldn't help giving a rueful chuckle at that. "I don't think you need to worry about that, Yuzu-chan," he told her, laying a hand on her shoulder in an attempt at being reassuring. "Yatouji-san is a loner by nature. Having spent several months now in necessarily close living conditions, I can tell you that if she's killing time, she'd prefer to do it by herself. And believe me, Yatouji-san is not too polite to tell someone to leave her alone if they're annoying her."

"But..."

"She would only spend time with you if she really wanted to," he said with utter certainty. "It probably seems like she's cold and indifferent towards you, but that's just how she is. You have to give it time."

Yuzuriha's expression turned thoughtful, focussed absently on the icecream in her hands as though it held the key to the universe.

"Give it time," she said slowly. "Maybe you're right."

She looked up from the slowly melting icecream in her hands to meet his eyes for the first time and gave him a proper smile, restored to its usual sunniness.

"Thank you," she said sincerely. Kusanagi smiled back without needing to think about it.

"Any time," he promised, and Yuzuriha jumped up, grabbing his wrist with her own free hand to tug him to her feet as she caught the drops of icecream sliding down her cone before they could drip onto her skin.

"Since we've finally met up and all, it'd be a waste to just sit here moping," she said firmly. "Let's go to the park with Inuki, okay?"

So they did, playing fetch and talking about nothing in particular until it had started to get late and Yuzuriha had apologised and said she needed to go back to her hotel, waving him goodbye and thanking him again as she and Inuki ran off.

Yuzuriha had thanked him, but Kusanagi thought maybe he should be the one thanking her. The reason he hadn't wanted to join a prefabricated mainstream music label, the reason he'd said yes when Kanoe approached him, was because he believed in the integrity of music. Songs should be crafted from real emotion, not mass-produced for market popularity.

But for a song to have that depth it needed to be able to connect with other people, and somewhere along the line Kusanagi had forgotten that. His love of music had never wavered, but he'd grown cynical and disinterested, disaffected by human relationships. Yuzuriha's concerns had inadvertently reminded Kusanagi that Satsuki wasn't the only one who needed to learn how to reconnect— Kusanagi himself had gotten so used to cutting off from others that he barely even registered the fact he did it anymore.

Thanks to Yuzuriha, though, he could consciously recognise it in himself now, could identify it as unhealthy not only for him personally but also for his music. Of course, it was one thing to realise this, and another to act upon it; while the most logical first step would be reaching out to connect with his own band, it was easier said than done. His bandmates were completely closed off: they were a collection of isolates, shutting out everyone around them, each in their own small world, and none of them were exempt from that. He found it ironic, in a way, that it was this isolation that was the only thing that truly united them.

Fuuma was starting to open up with the help of his sister, but until he'd reconciled with Kamui there was no room for anyone else. If anyone was going to get through to Satsuki, it would be Yuzuriha. And Seishirou... well. Seishirou had tunnel vision, disregarding anyone but Subaru as irrelevant and unimportant, and any idiot could tell the man was more than content with this. Seishirou would never change; he would never want to.

Kakyou, on the other hand... until recently he'd shut everyone out, but Kusanagi didn't believe him completely beyond salvage. Yuuto usually assigned them to the same room on the grounds that at least Kusanagi could be trusted to call an ambulance if Kakyou overdosed on something (as much as both he and Yuuto would like to think that Kakyou wouldn't actually be stupid enough to overdose and that if he did the others would bother to call for help... well, they couldn't quite be sure), and as such, they had formed a certain degree of understanding between them. Kusanagi had gotten into the habit of looking out for him, and Kakyou was apathetic but not entirely impervious. Kusanagi was fairly sure that on some level, Kakyou must trust him.

In other words, Kakyou was not, despite what others may think, a completely lost cause. He'd been cutting down dramatically on the drugs since that conversation with Hokuto and Kotori, and Kusanagi thought that maybe between the three of them they were getting somewhere.

And maybe, Kusanagi mused, maybe he remembered what it meant to connect to someone after all.

~

Sorata had not seen Arashi at all for like, a week. It was a tragedy. A tragedy of epic proportions, because without Nee-chan there was no sunshine in his life, and also, he was kind of worried that she'd disappeared and no one was telling him where. Aoki had assured him that she was fine and she'd be back soon, so he obviously knew where she was, but he wouldn't say anything. When Sorata had tried to ask, he'd said something vague and unilluminating about a promise and changed the subject.

Sorata could not help it if that kind of brush off made him just a little paranoid. People were keeping secrets! Secrets about Nee-chan!

However, today Aoki had smiled at him a little indulgently, patted him on the shoulder and said, "Sorata-san, do you have a moment?" before informing him that Arashi had asked him to tell Sorata to go to the recording studios.

When he'd arrived, though, the room was empty, and Sorata looked around in bewilderment, trying to figure out what was going on. Arashi wasn't the kind of person to stand anyone up, especially not having specifically requested for him to be there, but it wasn't exactly an enormous room and it was pretty clear that she wasn't there.

Still, she had to have had a reason to ask him there, so he entered the room properly, keeping an eye out for anything unusual or out of place that might help explain what was going through Arashi's mind. His search didn't disappoint: there was a sticky note attached to the mixing equipment saying, To Sorata-san; the settings have been left on the new track for the album. Please listen to it. ~ Arashi.

This was certainly a clue, although it wasn't exactly illuminating as far as these things went, especially since Sorata had no idea what track she was even referring to. He wrinkled his nose, more mystified than ever by this unexpected turn of events, but shrugged and slipped the headphones on without hesitation. If Arashi wanted him to listen to something, it could be nails screeching down a blackboard and he'd still be more than happy to comply.

Not, of course, that he thought Arashi's song would sound like nails on a blackboard, mind you, he just meant that it wouldn't matter if it did and— and he was going to stop thinking now and listen to the song, he decided, sheepishly grateful for the fact that at least this time he'd managed to restrict the foot-in-mouth phenomenon to his own mind.

The song started without delay, no long instrumental lead-in before he could hear Arashi's voice in his ears, and while it was stupid to be surprised— because honestly, who did he think would be singing, when Arashi is the one who brought him here?— somehow, at the same time, he couldn't help it.

Arashi's voice was husky and a little unsure, and it was obviously a demo track that would need more work and input from the rest of the band before it was ready to be released on the album, but that didn't matter. That wasn't the point.

And oh, Sorata loved Arashi's voice, he could compose ballads to it without a single shred of irony, but that wasn't what had his hands closing so tightly around the headphones that they creaked. That wasn't what made his heart clench in his chest, pulse thudding viscerally against his throat.

"I had no choice but to hear you, you stated your case time and again; I thought about it," Arashi sang softly, and Sorata held his breath, because this couldn't be what he thought it was, but...

"You've already won me over in spite of me, and don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet, and don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are— I couldn't help it, it's all your fault."

Here were the words that Sorata would have died to hear from Arashi's lips, the words that he could scarcely dare to believe were real. He was an optimist— forward-thinking, never giving up, always willing to hope, but to actually think that he could achieve that unattainable goal... to be told that he was allowed to have that...

Well. There was a big difference between that and mere hope, and it was almost too big for him to take in all at once.

While Sorata's thoughts were stuck in a confused whirl of hope and disbelief, Arashi's recorded voice continued singing, and he let it wash over him, a trickling warmth that started from his chest and radiated out like thick syrup, like the late afternoon sun.

"You're so much braver than I gave you credit for— that's not lip service. You've already won me over, head over feet..."

This was Arashi. This was the girl that he'd locked eyes with and known, right from the minute that they'd met, that there would never be anyone else for him. This was the girl that he'd never doubted for a single second that he loved, and right now, right at this moment, nothing had ever felt more right to him.

"You are the bearer of unconditional things, you held your breath and the door for me; thanks for your patience," she told him, and Sorata had to close his eyes against the prickle because she had called him brave, but she was the bravest person he'd ever known.

He listened to the song all the way through without moving or making a sound, barely even breathing until the last notes had faded away, and his hand was hovering over the buttons about to press play and listen to it again (and again, and again) when something made him pause and he looked up instead.

Arashi was standing in the doorway watching him silently; she must have been there at least a minute or so by that point, but he hadn't noticed, too wrapped up in the song she'd left him. Her eyes rested on him in grave contemplation, as if awaiting judgement, and while outwardly she was as impassive as ever there was an air of nervousness about her, something skittish and maybe even a little scared.

"Nee-chan," Sorata breathed, hearing the reverence in his voice but not at all embarrassed by it, because this was Arashi, and he'd long proudly and publicly worshipped the ground beneath her feet. "Nee-chan, I..."

This song, this song that she'd written for him, was a gift more precious than he could ever have imagined. It was more than just the hard-won reciprocation of his feelings, though that alone would have been the greatest present he would ever receive; this kind of grand gesture was all the more meaningful for the fact that it was Arashi making it. Sorata would serenade the world with a fifteen verse ode to everything he loved about her without needing to give it a second thought. That kind of thing was easy for him— which wasn't to say he meant it any less, but it wasn't a sacrifice for him. For Arashi, though, quiet, reserved Arashi who hates to stand out almost as much as Subaru, who clearly finds it difficult and uncomfortable trying to express her emotions at all let alone with an audience... for Arashi to go to these lengths for him was worth the world.

Unable to contain the feelings bubbling and overflowing and threatening to spill out all over the place in a messy explosion of helpless, wild affection, Sorata crossed to the doorway in three large steps, sweeping Arashi into a fierce, desperate hug before the thought even had time to reach his brain. She stiffened instinctually in obvious shock; Sorata could feel the way she jerked in his arms, hear the sharp catch of her breath, and for a moment they stood in a frozen tableau, neither one speaking, both barely daring to breath, until Arashi slowly, cautiously starts to soften against him, the tension gradually melting out of her body.

Sorata's nose was pressed against the top of Arashi's head, inhaling the clean, somehow soothing scent of her shampoo, and he let the feeling wash over him, the cool silky slide of her hair on his face and the solid, softly curving warmth of her body relaxed into his. He let himself enjoy the moment, still not trusting himself to speak, and gave into the impulse to squeeze his arms tighter around her waist before reluctantly letting go, stepping back to clear his throat.

"Nee-chan," he said again, voice sounding funny to his own ears. "I just wanted you to know that... that I..."

Arashi lifted her head to meet his eyes, her own gaze almost serene now, as though she'd passed some kind of critical line. Sorata, on the other hand, was struggling with the words that wanted to make it out of his mouth but seemed to get mysteriously stuck on the way, perversely awkward and nerve-racking now of all times when there shouldn't be a single shred of self-doubt left in his mind.

"I love you," he blurted out suddenly, wincing a little at the utter lack of finesse, but really, it wasn't as though that was all that new for him. "I do, I love you so much, and I know I've said that before, and I meant it but I mean it now more than ever and I just. Please-go-out-with-me-please?"

He held his breath, wondering if he'd inadvertently blown it with his rushing, but Arashi smiled, small and shy, tentative but not unsure.

"Yes," she said, simply, and that was all, but it was the word Sorata had been waiting for all these months. The joy expanding inside of him felt like fireworks going off in his chest, brightly explosive warmth spreading out and burning its beautiful glow onto his retinas. When he leaned forward to brush his lips over hers, lightly at first and then more firmly as he gained confidence, this time she didn't flinch; when he slid his hand into hers and laced their fingers together, his palm slightly sweaty and hers a little cold, she didn't pull away.

And this, Sorata knew, this was what perfection meant, because there wasn't a single thing he'd change, not for all the money in the world.

~

There was very little that Seishirou did not see coming. He was, after all, a trained killer. Hokuto, however, occasionally managed to be the exception to this rule— which was fair enough, really, because she was a trained killer too and she was very motivated when it came to her brother.

So while Seishirou could say that he was not in any way surprised to be once more accosted by Hokuto on his way out of the studio, honesty would force him to admit that he didn't, as such, expect it.

"Hokuto-chan," he greeted her mildly. "What a pleasant surprise."

Hokuto snorted in a decidedly unladylike fashion, fixing him with an intense glare. "I'm sure it is," she said, obviously not even trying to mask her sarcasm. "And I'm also sure you have a fairly good idea why we need to have this little chat."

Seishirou idly contemplated feigning ignorance, just to rile her, but curiosity won out. "About Subaru-kun, I presume."

Hokuto gave him a withering look. "Duh," she said, and Seishirou let the faint mocking smile show on his lips. She crossed her arms and continued, "I think you can do better than that. Don't you, Sei-chan?"

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully, affecting an attitude of deep contemplation. "Do I? Perhaps I do. Could you be referring to the little incident last month, I wonder?"

"Yeah, just maybe," she said, her annoyed impatience turning her tone rather acidic. "If by 'little incident' you're referring to assaulting my brother in a semi-public place and traumatising him even more than you already have. That'd be grounds for getting a restraint order, you know."

Seishirou raised his eyebrows. "And will you?" By which he meant, and do you really think that would stop me?, and they both knew it.

Hokuto didn't reply immediately, gaze level and weighty. "You'd better watch how far you push Subaru," she said finally, not bothering to answer a question so obvious it may as well have been rhetorical. "You may want to treat him like your personal plaything, but something tells me you won't like it so much if he breaks, whatever you pretend."

The unspoken, underlying promise of retribution should this happen was so matter-of-course as to be a simple fact rather than a threat, rendered almost irrelevant to the conversation at hand.

Seishirou didn't frown, but Hokuto could probably sense his slight perturbment despite the lack of any outward sign. He wasn't entirely sure of what she was implying, but he didn't appreciate it; usually he enjoyed the verbal sparring with Hokuto and their games of hidden barbs and twisted maneuvers, but he was selfish by nature and he didn't like anything that could get in the way of what was rightfully his. Hokuto distracted Subaru from Seishirou, and sometimes he resented this interferement more than others.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said coolly as he walked past her, empty, non-committal words that held no truth or meaning. She didn't try to stop him, but her eyes were dark and narrowed as she watched him pass.

Seishirou neither sought nor required Hokuto's counsel, and she would not deter him from his path.

Previous | Next

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 14:24:03 GMT

Title: All That Glitters
Fandom: X/TB
Pairings: ... so far, Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, Sorata/Arashi, Yuuto/Karen, hints of other pairings.
Genre: MEGA AU. All the genres you can possibly think of! Okay, maybe not. But there is crack, and there is angst, and there is other stuff. Although in this part, mostly angst.
Word Count: 17,726 for the part; 87,435 total.
Notes: It's been too long, I actually almost typed Boyband!X as the title. *cough* Also, oh my GOD, I am so sorry for how delayed this is. Like, 10 months, what the hell, self? I've been working on it on and off for most of that time but I was just swamped by a tide of writers' block/laziness. You'd think living in Tokyo would HELP because I can totally go check out the places I'm writing about, but... apparently not? But now it's done! DONE! AND I STILL HAVE LIKE TWO PARTS AND AN EPILOGUE TO GO, BUT WHATEVER. *maniacal cackles*
Summary: It's saved on my harddrive as "Boyband!X". I think that's really all you need to know. *cough*

~ Chapter 12 ~

It was two weeks, one day and approximately seventeen hours since the encounter with Seishirou on live television, and Subaru was just as depressed and mortified now as he had been when it had happened.

Not that he was keeping track, or anything.

He knew that Hokuto was worried about him, that Kamui probably missed him, that he was letting his band down, and it wasn't that he didn't care about these things, precisely, but it was hard to focus on them when thoughts of what had happened kept intruding and making him long for a convenient hole to crawl into. It was a little melodramatic to wish he'd never been born, but he couldn't help but feel it would solve his problems for him. While he hadn't seen the footage of the show and Hokuto hadn't brought the subject up, he knew that at the very least the cameras had to have caught him yelling that he and Kamui weren't sleeping together and they'd definitely filmed his escape across the set.

All that would have been more than enough reason for him to want to curl up and hide in his room and never come out, because Subaru had always been easily embarrassed and this was nothing short of humiliating, but once Seishirou's role in the whole ordeal was factored in, it was a recipe for sheer disaster. Life would be so much easier if he could just force himself to move on and fall in love with someone who wasn't a sociopath playing around with his mind, but he'd tried that and it really hadn't worked. Seishirou was an addiction far more dangerous than drugs: Subaru knew he was going to get burned again, and yet he was helpless to turn around and walk away.

He still hadn't quite grasped the fact that even if he did want to escape this, Seishirou wouldn't let him; as much as Hokuto had tried to persuade him, he found it difficult to accept that Seishirou could be just as obsessed with him as he was with the older man. However, even if he wouldn't believe Seishirou was invested in this on any level deeper than pointless entertainment, he couldn't explain what had happened between he and Seishirou backstage. Just remembering Seishirou's words, that dark litany of possessiveness while Seishirou had held him trapped against the door, sent shivers down his spine. He knew Seishirou was merely toying with him, but thinking of the man's intensity, the overpowering nearness of his body and the look in his eyes still confused Subaru and made his head spin.

And then Seishirou had—

But he wouldn't even let himself think of that, because all it did was tangle him up in a jarring mess of hormones and bewilderment and mystification about Seishirou's possible motives that he had no idea how to deal with.

All of which had lead to about two weeks of secluding himself in his sister's guest room, locked up in his mind while he tried and failed miserably not to obsess over what had happened, what Seishirou had said, what he had— anyway. Obsessing over Seishirou. He couldn't stop doing it, and when he'd given up trying and attempted to figure out what Seishirou meant, what he was playing at, the only thing Subaru had achieved was flushed cheeks and even worse confusion than ever. It was a horrible vicious mental cycle and if he didn't find a way to break it soon, he was going to go completely insane.

Which was why, in that sense, it was probably a blessing that Kamui came when he did.

"Subaru? Are you there? Wait, no, stupid question, of course you are..." Subaru heard, then a series of muffled curses, then, "Um... could you maybe unlock the door? Please?"

Subaru blinked, momentarily startled out of his own self-pity. "... Kamui?" he said hesitantly, and there was an irritated huff from outside.

"No," the door said sarcastically, "Santa. Come on, Subaru, let me in? It's really hot out here!"

"I," Subaru said, a little baffled, then shook his head to clear it, making his way across the room. "Of course. Sorry. But," he added, when he'd unlocked the door and Kamui had barged into the air-conditioned apartment with a groan of sheer relief, "why are you here?"

Kamui made a face from where he'd sprawled himself over the arm of the couch. "Because you're my friend," he said, in an exasperated duh voice. "Because your sister is worried and I miss you and Fuuma is a jerk. Actually, forget that last one, Fuuma's always a jerk. But at this rate you're going to become a full-on recluse, and then I won't have a best friend and my life will suck more than it already does."

"I," Subaru said after a moment. "Um. Sorry?"

"Stop apologising," Kamui ordered, and sighed, sitting up properly. "Seriously, though, I know you. You're just obsessing over it and making things worse when what you really need is a distraction. Plus, I wasn't kidding when I said I miss you. We all do. The band, I mean. We need you, we can't do this without you."

The abstract guilt was beginning to feel a lot less abstract and a lot more difficult to ignore.

"Oh," he said awkwardly. "Is... is everything okay?"

Kamui's face twisted into several interesting shapes while he visibly considered the best way to answer that question, which did not inspire Subaru with as much confidence as he'd like. "It's not not okay?" Kamui hedged eventually, in a way that suggested this was perhaps not entirely accurate. "I mean, everyone's kind of down— well, I mean, except Sorata and maybe Yuzu-chan— and Kotori-chan accidentally said some stuff to the media about me and Fuuma..."

"Kotori-san?" Subaru interrupted without thinking, confused. "Is she... I mean, she's...?"

Kamui stopped, thrown momentarily off his train of thought. "You didn't know?" he said blankly. "I mean, I know it was after, but... Hokuto-san didn't tell you?"

"No?" Subaru said uncertainly. "I... but that's good, isn't it? She's okay, she..."

"Yeah," Kamui agreed, voice softening with affection. "Yeah, it's good. But it's still not the same without you, Subaru."

"I know," Subaru mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault Sakurazuka is a jerk," Kamui reassured him, but he was watching Subaru with a careful, measured gaze. "Are you going to come back?"

When put like that, Subaru knew there was really only one answer he could give. He couldn't abandon Kamui and his other bandmates so easily, not when Kamui asked him to his face, and moreover, he knew deep down that Kamui was right: he did need to get out of here and stop going in circles in his own mind, but he didn't have the strength of will to break the cycle for himself. Even if it made his stomach sink to think of going back out there and confronting the mess he'd left waiting for him, knowing that others were relying on him— that Kamui needed his support— gave him the force of purpose he lacked on his own.

Really, since the moment Kamui had shown up at the door, there'd only ever been one outcome.

"I'll pack my things," Subaru said with a sigh, and tried not to feel too horribly doomed about it when Kamui's face lit up and he jumped to his feet to help.

~

While Kamui was in another district of the city talking to Subaru, Karen was sitting in her office nursing a headache and an increasing sense of despair. One member of her band was completely AWOL after the nuclear disaster of the chatshow fiasco, another was on the verge of a nervous breakdown every time his name got linked in the media with that of Monou Fuuma— which was almost every day, lately— and Yuuto...

Well. The less said about that the better.

The most frustrating thing about yesterday's article was that it wasn't even inherently bad publicitiy. It was true, it didn't reflect negatively on Kamui, it was just a sensitive topic and there was nothing she could do to mitigate that. She felt like she should be able to do something about it, but at the same time she knew it was utterly futile. Added on top of what had happened between Subaru and Seishirou on national television— which was an enormous PR screwup and she knew she held a large share of the blame for not preventing a blowup like that from occurring— and the smouldering trainwreck that lay between her and Yuuto, who she couldn't avoid if she tried, who she just wanted to feel indifferent towards instead of a twisted up mix of wistful and hateful and all around complicated that was anything but... it was like a pile of failure upon failure, and the weight of it was bringing her to her knees. As much as Karen was usually a fairly determined and proactive person, it was times like these that made her want to give up and throw in the towel.

Tap tap.

Karen didn't lift her head. "Who is it?" she called dully.

"Mind if I come in?" came Aoki's mild, reassuring voice, and listening to it was almost enough alone to make Karen dissolve into tears.

"Aoki-san," she acknowledged, choking over his name slightly. "No, it's... come in."

Aoki tilted his head, studying her closely. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," she said wearily, and she almost laughed a little bitterly but nothing was really that funny. "Yeah, everything's fine. I'm fine. Just busy, that's all."

Aoki met her eyes, level and without judgement. She should have known better than to try and fool him; he always saw through her pretences.

"You don't look fine to me," he said gently, and for a moment instead of the confident manager in his thirties she saw at the kind young man just starting out in music industry who had comforted her and talked her through it when everything with Yuuto had crashed and burned, when she had no career and no prospects and no one to rely on and even her mother refused to look at her.

She could have fallen in love with him, she knew. It would have been easy, but he'd been devoted to his new wife and she'd still been smarting from the mess with Yuuto, and in the end it was better this way. Sometimes it made her a little wistful, but he was still so happy with his family, with his wife and the daughter they'd had together, and sometimes what she needed most was a friend who wasn't so complicated.

Karen had no illusions about her own ability to maintain a healthy relationship: if she'd touched this thing between her and Aoki, it would have crumbled like dust in her hands and she would have had to bear with the knowledge that she'd taken away his happiness, destroyed her own sanctuary.

"Am I ever fine?" she asked him rhetorically, mouth twisting in a weak imitation of a smile before she swallowed hard, painfully, and squeezed her eyes shut. "What am I doing, Aoki-san? What am I even doing here?"

"You're managing one of the most successful bands in Japan," Aoki told her calmly, and there was the rustle of clothes as he crossed the room, the sudden warmth and pressure when he laid his hand on her shoulder. "And you're doing a better job than anyone else could ever hope to."

Karen opened her eyes, letting him see the desperation and self-doubt she was drowning in. "Am I?" she asked hollowly. "Are you really so sure about that? Because I'm doing my best, but from where I'm standing now it seems to me that we're sinking faster than we can swim, Aoki-san. Kamui is cracking with all the strain from the media interest over his relationship with Monou-san. Subaru-san may well have left the band entirely. And I'm not sure I trust my own judgment to be objective anymore."

Aoki didn't flinch away. "I think Kamui-kun is stronger than you give him credit for, and that Subaru-san has a very ingrained sense of duty," he said steadily. "I also think you're underestimating yourself."

"Or maybe everyone else is overestimating me," she said flatly, and shook her head. "I can't do this. I'm not— this band needs all the protection it can get, and I'm distracted and I know it."

Aoki fell silent for a moment, searching for some kind of answer in her eyes. "Is this about Kigai-san?" he asked eventually, and Karen slumped over the desk, unable to lie to a man who could read her so well.

"In some ways it's so easy to hate him, but sometimes I look at him and I remember how it felt to love him," she admitted, voice soft and jagged. "I don't even know if he ever really felt the same way about me or if it was all just about the job, but every time when I think I'm over him, I'm past it, I see him again and nothing's better. Nothing ever gets better, Aoki-san. What am I even doing here? I'm not going anywhere. My mother hasn't talked to me in a decade, everything that happened with Yuuto is still haunting me after all this time and I'm stuck going around in circles in the same distorted little industry world I've been in since I was sixteen years old. I don't know what I'm doing with my life!"

By the end of her tirade she was in helpless tears of frustration and rage at herself, at Yuuto, at her mother, and she let Aoki pull her into a hug with only the slightest resistence. "What do you want, Karen-san?" he asked her seriously. "Where do you want to be, if it's not here?"

"I don't know," she sobbed, muffled against his shirt. "I don't know! Sometimes I just want to undo everything and start all over, but life doesn't work like that and I don't' know how to fix this. I can't fix this, I can't do anything! Everything all messed up, I've messed it up and I can't... I can't..."

Aoki didn't say anything, just let her cry herself out on his shoulder and rocked her slightly, rubbing her back like he had when everything had first fallen apart on her ten years ago, and if she were sensible, if life were fair and anything ever went the way it was supposed to, she would have fallen in love with a man like this and he would have loved her back.

Karen already had all the proof she needed, though, to know that life was never meant to be easy.

~

Being in Angels of the Sepulchre was, in some ways, like riding an emotional rollercoaster—more specifically, Fuuma's emotional rollercoaster. The tone of practices and concerts wildly differed depending on whether he was swaggering around with a self-satisfied smirk or stomping and scowling like a five year old throwing a tantrum, which depended on what Kamui had done lately.

Right now, by contrast, Fuuma seemed almost fiendishly motivated, which wasn't an emotion any of them had encountered from him before. Gone was the distracted skulking of the last practice; he had plans, and for once they seemed to be proactive and productive instead of solely aimed to hit Kamui below the belt, which, while it did count as a motivation of sorts, wasn't a particularly positive or admirable one.

The change was readily apparent in the atmosphere amongst the band. Kusanagi seemed relaxed and not at all irritated, Satsuki was actually properly practicing her part instead of mailing Yuzuriha or rolling her eyes, and even Seishirou seemed less broody than before, although to be honest that probably had far more to do with Subaru's re-emergence than Fuuma's moodswings.

For Kazuki Kakyou, however, there was absolutely no change whatsoever. Whether everyone else was fired up or moping, it didn't matter to him: he was just as apathetic and likely to be half-asleep or stoned either way.

When it came down to it, Kakyou really didn't care. He didn't care about fame or fortune or the band; he didn't even really care about music. He wasn't motivated by revenge, like Satsuki or Fuuma; he didn't have any particular agenda, unlike Seishirou. He was here because other people had brought him here, not because he particularly wanted to be. When Kanoe had recruited him to the band, he had been playing jazz bass in smoky basement bars and obeying his father's every whim. Theoretically he could have left— it wasn't as though his father kept him chained to the wall, after all— but realistically his father had controlled all the income from Kakyou's playing, meaning that as a general rule he'd barely even had the money for a train fare 'and even that was only what his father allowed him). Escape was hardly impossible, but it would have involved a lot of suffering and hard work and planning and when it came down to it, Kakyou was just too unmotivated to bother.

He'd still been harbouring enough lingering resentment amidst all the apathy, though, that when Kanoe had offered him a chance to get out, he'd taken it. It didn't really matter to him very much where he was or what he was doing; it was all the same, in the end. It was less a matter of being here than not being there, and that was good enough. Kakyou had spent long enough under his father's control without the room for his own ambitions that he didn't want anything out of life, not even in the basic sense of life itself. Existence was somewhat of a chore, but so was killing himself, and in the end it was just easier to go with the flow. Drugs, he'd discovered, only facilitated that goal, leaving everything hazy and dream-like and smoothing out the passage of time so it didn't crawl by so tediously.

It occurred to Kakyou, in passing, that perhaps that was the reason his father was an alcoholic, but when he'd considered it it didn't seem all that likely. The only thing his father had ever really been interested in was money.

Either way, the upshot of all this was that Kakyou was here in this recording studio with the strangers he called his bandmates and various other personnel, watching them bustle around with purpose and varying degrees of enthusiasm while he vaguely longed for sleep or maybe the pleasant haze of a drug trip. Fuuma could be as motivated as he liked, but it wasn't going to change the fact that Kakyou was as moved by it as a lump of rock.

"You know," someone said from behind when he gave a vaguely dispirited sigh, "you could at least try to enjoy yourself."

Kakyou blinked, mildly startled. Aside from Kusanagi, the others had mostly given up speaking to him directly; he was hardly a stimulating conversationalist, when the bulk of his reponses tended towards non-committal grunts.

A moment later, Hokuto appeared in his vision, holding out a bottle of green tea in offering. "Here," she said cheerfully, and bumped it lightly against his forehead. The condensation beading on the plastic surface was cool and wet against his skin. "You look like you could use it."

Kakyou stared at her with a blank expression, but she just stood there patiently, holding the bottle out to him, and eventually he reached out to accept it. "Thank you?" he said uncertainly, wondering why she was paying attention to him, and she grinned at him.

"You're welcome," she said, waving him off like it was nothing and this kind of thing happened all the time— which it didn't, at least not to Kakyou—and flopped down into the seat next to him. He fidgeted slightly with the bottle in his hands, waiting for her to say something that would explain her presence, but she simply sat there in peaceful silence, occasionally slanting thoughtful sideways glances at him.

"Um," he said eventually, feeling awkward and distinctly as though he were missing some kind of vital cue. "Is something... wrong...?"

"Nope," Hokuto replied breezily. "Sei-chan's no more of a jerk than usual, Subaru's moping has resumed normal operational levels, and there are no imminent wardrobe disasters for me to be seeing to. Same old."

"I... see," Kakyou managed, although he really didn't.

"I'm biding my time," she added, although he hadn't asked. "I do that sometimes."

"Okay?" he said, but Hokuto seemed completely unfazed by the baffled look he knew he was wearing.

"Yep. I'm letting Sei-chan stew before I give him The Talk," she told him matter-of-factly. Kakyou didn't care about his own dramas, let alone other people's, but for some reason he felt compelled to keep listening to her rather than tuning her out and ignoring her the way he usually did when people started talking to him like this. "For now, I'm an observer. I've decided it'll be more effective that way."

"Oh," Kakyou said, even though he still didn't really have a clue what she was talking about, other than it involving Seishirou and possibly Subaru.

"Which is why I'm here," she concluded. "Because what I'm observing is that you are in some serious need of a special Hokuto-guaranteed inspirational speech!"

"Inspirational speech?" Kakyou echoed, feeling faint in the face of Hokuto's vigour. He was pretty sure that was the last thing he needed, but he couldn't figure out how to say that and he didn't think she'd listen anyway. He tended to phase out most things that happened around him, but it would have been impossible to miss the way their wardrobe manager cheerfully bulldozed over everyone and everything, even Fuuma in one of his moods.

"That's right!" Hokuto said, pinning him with a determined glare. "Usually I've got my hands full with Subaru and Sei-chan, but I've been meaning to have a talk with you, buster."

"I," Kakyou said helplessly. "What?"

"Life is precious, you know!" she scolded him, slapping her palm down on the bench loudly with righteous fervour. "It's filled with so many wonderful things and opportunities if you just look, instead of shutting it all out. Which is why you should try to enjoy it, rather than sitting around passively enduring—"

"Kotori!" Fuuma's loud exclamation interrupted her, and Hokuto cut herself off, twisting around to look over her shoulder and gesture madly at the girl who'd just walked in with a huge basket of food.

"Kotori-chan!" she squealed, beaming brightly. "You came!"

"I brought food, since everyone's working so hard," Kotori announced, happily pushing the basket into Fuuma's waiting hands. "Here you go, Nii-chan!"

"Thanks," Fuuma said, with an uncharacteristically genuine smile. "We're working on the new song at the moment, but we'll break soon for lunch."

"Okay," Kotori agreed, and turned back to where Hokuto and Kakyou were sitting, waving back. "Hi, Hokuto-chan! How are you?"

"Insanely curious," Hokuto answered, with her usual near maniacal cheeriness. "Your brother is up to something, but he won't let anyone in on it. He's keeping the lyrics to himself, so all I know is that the music sounds a lot more upbeat than his usual fare. You don't have any idea what's going on, do you?"

"I think it's because of something I said to Nii-chan about Kamui-chan the other day," Kotori admitted. "But other than that, you probably know more than I do."

Kakyou was very, very confused.

"Hi, by the way!" Kotori added, when she noticed him next to Hokuto. "I'm Monou Kotori, nice to meet you!"

She smiled at him, and Kakyou found himself smiling hesitantly back before he could stop himself.

"You should smile more often," Hokuto remarked. "It suits you."

Kakyou turned faintly red and flustered, but the irrepressible woman beside him had already turned her attentions back to Kotori. "Sit," she ordered, tangling her fingers around Kotori's and tugging to draw the blonde down on her other side. "I'm giving Kakyou-chan the Fucking Up Your Life With Drugs Is Bad speech, you should help!"

"But..." Kakyou said weakly, not quite finding the energy it would take to try and derail Hokuto by pointing out that this was somewhat of a tortology.

"Hokuto-chan is right, though," Kotori said earnestly, leaning around her to stare at him in wide-eyed, puppy-like appeal. "Even if it seems like a good way of avoiding problems, you have to learn to be brave enough to deal with them yourself or otherwise everything gets worse and you won't just hurt yourself. That's why Nii-chan quit, you know."

"Sei-chan's never been on drugs," Hokuto butted in helpfully. "But he is an expert at not dealing with things properly and fucking up lives. You should learn from their examples! What not to do!"

When he'd dragged himself out of bed this morning, Kakyou had not anticipated his day would lead him to the most surreal after school special he'd ever heard of.

"Really?" Kotori was asking Hokuto curiously. "But isn't it just Sakurazuka-san's way of dealing with things that's the problem?"

"That's not dealing with things, that's being a self-delusional moron," Hokuto scoffed, glaring at Seishirou's back on the other side of the room like she hoped he could hear her. "Anyway! Running away from things is bad, is what we're saying! And so are drugs. Okay?"

"Okay?" Kakyou said uncertainly, and then, with the unaccustomed stir of mild curiosity: "Monou was on drugs?"

"They made him impatient and aggressive," Kotori said, soft and gentle. "He yelled at Kamui-chan a lot, and he hurt me without meaning to. So it's not the same, you're not hurting people the same way Nii-chan did... but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt people when you pull away, and it hurts you most of all."

Kakyou had no idea how to respond to that, but he was saved from answering when Fuuma said loudly, "Okay, I'm starving, where'd the picnic basket go?" and Kotori jumped to her feet, pulling an unresisting Hokuto with her.

"Here, Nii-chan!" she called out, waving at the basket on the floor next to her, and then she blushed lightly when she noticed that she'd yanked Hokuto up too when she'd forgotten their hands were still linked. "Oops, sorry Hokuto-chan."

"Sorry nothing!" Hokuto said dismissively, draping over Kotori's back so her chin dug into the other girl's shoulder. "I'm coming too— like you're getting rid of me that easily. Ohohoho!"

"Oh, good," Kotori said, and then, "Bye, Kakyou-chan, it was nice to meet you!", as Hokuto started to drag her and the picnic basket in Fuuma's direction.

"Later, Kakyou-chan!" Hokuto added, wiggling her fingers over her shoulder. "Remember, drugs are bad!"

Kakyou stared after them, perplexed and stuck in contemplation of what they'd told him. In the past, every anti-drugs lecture everyone had ever given him had slid off him, never leaving a mark because he honestly didn't care about the things they said about how he was hurting himself, hurting his career, ruining his future. He'd had more than enough of the same spiel, and they all sounded the same, blurring together into meaningless empty "good intentions"; he'd been half-asleep or high for all of them, and yet he'd still heard them so many times he could have given a similar speech in his sleep.

(To be fair, Yuuto's speech had been more along the lines of "if you have to do it, at least try to have some sense of timing about it". Fuuma hadn't made any speeches, but he'd given Kakyou a long, unreadable look and said "whatever, it's your life" which made a lot more sense to him now than it had at the time.)

This time, though... this time he'd listened, because this time wasn't the same as all the times before. This time maybe, on some level, he was actually taking it to heart, because for some reason he couldn't quite understand, those girls had made an impact and he didn't want to let them down.

For the first time in years, Kakyou felt like maybe he wanted to change, and he didn't know how to feel about that.

"Is something wrong?" a concerned voice asked, and Kakyou glanced up, a little startled because he hadn't noticed Kusanagi was there and it was usually hard to miss the presence of someone who took up so much space.

"Not wrong, exactly," he said slowly, and made a half-hearted attempt at a reassuring smile. It was pretty pathetic, but it was a big step up from his usual listless indifference, and he could see Kusanagi looked pleasantly surprised.

Maybe, Kakyou thought. Maybe he could give it a try.

~

The thing was, if you considered it objectively, there was very little to complain about in Yuuto's life at the current moment. Angels of the Sepulchre were continuing to ride the wave of their popularity— it had been over a month since the release of their album, and it was still charting. There had been no damaging articles or negative press following the chat show debacle, and no one had had any restraining orders slapped on them yet, despite Seishirou proving on camera (well, off-screen, but in definite audio range) what a total asshole he could be when it was in his interests and Fuuma's borderline behaviour all throughout. In fact, their ratings had gone up, which just proved what a fickle mistress the entertainment industry could be; nine times out of ten the whiff of a scandal like this would tank your career in an instant, but lucky number ten would hit jackpot and become twice or three times as big as they otherwise ever could have.

Yuuto had very personal experience of what it was like to fall amongst one of the other nine times, so he knew what he was talking about.

Anyway, the point was that in terms of profit and press, the band had been on a cakewalk, which, all things considered, was quite frankly a miracle. On top of that, despite the dangerous turn the volatile moods and tempers of his charges had taken last month, lately there'd been nothing but improvement on all sides. He couldn't claim that he felt completely secure that Seishirou wasn't about to do something unpredictable and explosive, but the dust had settled after Subaru had emerged from hiding, and Fuuma was actually almost approaching the base level for sane and rational human being since he'd started working on the latest single. Suspiciously secretive and cheerful, but still much easier to deal with than bitter, unstable, teetering on the edge Fuuma, who Yuuto had really not enjoyed the pleasure of corralling. Even Kakyou seemed to be stoned less frequently than usual.

To put it simply, Yuuto had a lot to be thankful for. In fact, one might say he'd hit the peak of his career; he should have been finding it hard to keep a smirk off his face.

So it was hard to explain why he was in his office brooding over a barely touched shot of brandy and feeling vaguely like an ungrateful wretch rather than out enjoying his successes and planning his next move.

Yuuto had been off his game ever since the aftermath of the chatshow— or to be brutally honest, since the fight with Karen in the lead-up. The whole thing had been a debacle; that they'd come up smelling inexplicably of roses (or at least not coated in mud) didn't change the fact that he'd screwed up by letting Seishirou and Fuuma on national TV like that. He'd barely noticed Kotori's article, and he hadn't done anything about Fuuma and Seishirou's ill moods, which had been a situation that could easily have blown up in all their faces if it hadn't been defused by Kotori and Hokuto first.

It was pure blind luck that none of his screwups had caught up to him yet, which should have slapped the sense back into him, but for some reason he was still here, sitting in his dark office nursing a glass of strong liquor while he contemplated Karen and where they'd gone wrong.

Traditionally speaking, it wasn't as though they'd even been partners. They'd never really talked about their feelings on the matter, which in retrospect had probably been a mistake; they'd gone along with their publicity managers and then they'd mutually decided to break free of the control other people were exerting over every aspect of their lives (Karen's mother, Yuuto's label) without ever actually defining their relationship, and Yuuto couldn't help but think things would be a lot easier now if he had the slightest idea of how Karen had felt about him. He had a reasonably fair idea now, and it wasn't pretty, but he'd have a better idea if he knew where they were coming from in the first place.

What was indisputable was that Karen regretted what they'd done, and Yuuto didn't.

The label Yuuto had been recording under had pretty much owned him; he'd sold his soul to them before he'd been old enough to have any idea of the consequences or to even care beyond the seductive allure of opportunity. They'd dictated everything, from what he wore to who he spent time with to what he was allowed to say in public. It was like living in a construct reality— playing the role they cornered him into, parroting the words they wanted him to speak like an actor, except it was his entire life that was scripted, and the constraints had only tightened as he got more popular and more of what he did was in the public eye.

Even when he'd turned twenty, he still wasn't allowed to date or go out drinking, at least not where he had the remotest possibility of getting caught, and that had really pushed the limit of what he was willing to put up with. He'd spent half his childhood being controlled; it had been naïve to think he'd be allowed any more freedom just because he'd attained legal majority, but the thought of spending his foreseeable future in this stifling kind of lifestyle had turned his stomach. He'd wanted out, even if the only way to do it was to destroy his own career from the inside. Nothing was worth this.

And then there'd been Karen. Their situations weren't identical, but they were close enough: they had both debuted at a similar time, were a similar age, were both the new big thing. Were both, for that matter, living according to the script set by the dictators of their careers. And, according to their respective PR managers, it had apparently only made sense for them to be going out, or at least be seen to do so.

The official party line had been to neither confirm nor deny. The media and fans would assume what they wanted to, and speculation always drummed up more interest than outright statements.

Behind the scenes, it had been rather more complicated than that. It had all been arranged and faked for the press, so obviously they weren't really dating, but the spark had been there. Or it had been for Yuuto, at any rate; he'd assumed Karen felt a similar way about him, but it had been hard to ask. Ironically they'd been discouraged from actually dating, because emotions make everything sticky and a messy breakup could hurt one or both of their careers.

Keep it professional, kids.

It had, in a way, been the last straw. He couldn't date or do anything else with anyone else while he was publically linked with Karen, but in reality he wasn't allowed to have her either. He'd really started to like her during all the time they spent on their staged dates, because she wasn't just pretty and talented, she was smart and funny and fun to be around. She knew what it was like to live in a bubble. Even if his label had laid off and he could have dated anyone he'd wanted, he thought he would still have chosen Karen.

And yet, for all the time they spent "dating", he couldn't do anything about it, because they were both chaperoned and monitored so heavily that someone would have come down on him like a tonne of bricks before he even had a chance.

So eventually he'd just got sick of it, and one day when they'd been at a café together, he'd asked with frustration, "Don't you ever feel like you're suffocating?"

And she'd looked him straight in the eyes and told him, "Honestly? Most of the time."

So Yuuto had said hey, we don't have to put up with this, and she'd agreed. She could play the victim all she wanted, but Yuuto had never forgotten. Whatever regrets she had now, whatever her feelings towards him were or had been, he was at least sure of that: she'd wanted out just as much as he had.

So they'd worked out a song together, passing each other tapes of melodies and written lyrics and sketched out choreography because they were allowed to spend time together, but they couldn't have practised without someone noticing, so they'd worked on it in pieces by themselves in between meetings. It wasn't ideal, but they'd got there, and then on a scheduled television appearance where they'd been intended to sing a staid love duet that had been written before them, instead they'd performed the song they'd written themselves— which had been rather more sexually explicit, because what they'd wanted was an image change.

It had been somewhat of a miscalculation. There hadn't been any benders or public scenes or other scandalous incidents, but that one song had been enough to cause a backlash from their supposedly adoring public, and that had pretty much been that. Yuuto had been kicked out of the band and off his label by management, and Karen had been disowned by her mother, supposedly because someone as "disgraceful" as her was no longer welcome in her mother's house but more, Yuuto cynically believed, because the spiteful woman didn't want to support a daughter who couldn't sell records. He and Karen had had a blazing row— taking their frustrations out on each other, and it had been unfair of her to lay everything on him but he had to admit that he'd said a lot of things he shouldn't have too and was hardly without blame— and to say they had parted on bad terms was perhaps an understatement.

The other members of the band were banned from contacting him because it would make them look bad by association, so that was another thing he'd lost, but to be honest he'd never been as close to them as he might have liked. The label insisted on pushing him forward as the front man, focusing all the media attention on him as the symbol despite that the others did just as much as he did, and that kind of thing had a way of breeding resentment and distance. Of course it was strange to be by himself after years of living in each other's pockets like that, but he missed them no more or less than he did anything else. He'd do it all again if he were given the choice to change the past; no matter how much he'd lost, none of it outweighed the freedom he'd gained.

No, Yuuto didn't regret what they'd done. Most days he was satisfied with his life the way it was at the moment; less so recently, perhaps, and it was hardly that everything was perfect— there were things he wished he'd done differently, things he missed, things that made him feel hollow and bitter like the recrimination in Karen's eyes when she looked at him and blamed him for everything she'd lost— but it was his own life. He'd earned this. He'd worked hard, he'd been successful, and when it came right down to it he only answered to himself.

Unfortunately, part of being an independent and self-sufficient adult still meant doing things you didn't want to do because they had to be done. Regardless of his personal feelings, he still had responsibilities, and he didn't have the luxury to sit around moping into a drink when he had a job to do.

He just wished said job didn't involve dredging up his past with Karen quite so frequently, because if there was one thing Yuuto was crap at, it was dealing with his issues. But of course, he thought ironically as he swilled the last of the brandy and firmly shut the cupboard door on the bottle of brandy, it hardly mattered what he wished.

Nobody ever said life had to be fair, after all.

~

Kamui's reaction to Fuuma's new single, released after a period of super secretivity that had sent most of the Angels of the Sepulchre camp crazy with frustration (and had had Kamui wound tight with suspicious paranoia, ever since both Kotori and Hokuto had mentioned it off-hand), could be most expediently described as "shell-shocked".

Of course, just leaving the description there really wouldn't be doing justice to his comlex myriad of emotion. This shell-shocked condition was of a very composite nature, comprised of confusion, paranoia, panic, helpless muddled up lust and fear and hope in addition to the large helping of actual uncomplicated shock, all whirling around in his mind until he couldn't separate them out.

In short, he had absolutely no idea how to feel, and it had rendered him useless for anything except alternating between watching the promotion video on repeat and making a small keening noise and burying his head in the couch cushions, sometimes simultaneously.

When they'd first played the video, no one really had any idea what to expect. Kamui had heard enough from Kotori to be aware that it was probably something different from the usual fare of bitterness and poison barbs and that the style was much more upbeat, but other than that he'd been pretty much in the dark.

If he had been expecting anything, though, it certainly hadn't been what he got. Nothing he'd heard had prepared him for the cheerfully insistent beat or the infectious grin that spread its way across Fuuma's mouth, nothing like the viciously cruel smirks Kamui had become so resigned to but playful like the smiles Fuuma used to give, only with an extra hint of mischief.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for the words.

"Haha, well now, we call this the act of mating..." Fuuma started on screen in a slightly smug tone of voice, and Kamui's brain stuttered to a halt for a second before he said, "wait, what?"

The song started up, Fuuma tapping along to the catchy fast pace and still giving that slightly suggestive grin, and Kamui was just going to ignore it and erase it from his memory and pretend that never happened, except...

"Sweat, baby, sweat, baby, sex is a Texas drought you and me do the kind of things that only Prince would sing about—"

"Oh. My. God," Kamui said, dumbfounded. "He's not. He's seriously? Oh my god."

"— You've had enough of two hand touch, you want it rough, you're out of bounds, I want you smothered, want you covered, like my Waffle House hash browns..."

"Did... he just say hash browns?" Sorata asked weakly, looking a little traumatised. Kamui just gave a moan of hopeless despair and tried not to think about the way Fuuma used to look cooking breakfast, or Fuuma and maple syrup, or anything involving Fuuma whatsoever, which was hard when Fuuma was right there on screen grinning like that.

"You and me, baby, ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel..."

"You know what, I don't think I need to hear the rest of this song," Sorata said after a moment. "I don't think I'm old enough to hear the rest of this song."

"Don't abandon me!" Kamui said desperately, and then (love, the kind you clean up with a mop and bucket), with resigned futility, "No, on second thoughts, just leave me alone to my humiliation."

Sorata patted him sympathetically on the shoulder and fled the room, leaving Kamui and Subaru, reduced to a helpless trainwreck state from the camera flashes to Seishirou smirking during the instrumental bridges, to suffer on their own.

"So if I capsize on your thighs' high tide, B5, you've sunk my battleship, please turn me on, I'm Mr Coffee with an automatic drip—"

"Oh my god, this is the geekiest sex song I have ever heard," Kamui groaned, face bright red, although maybe not quite as red as Subaru's. "I'd forgotten how much of a dork Fuuma is. This isn't fair, how can he be such a dork and still be so sexy? Why is this my life?"

"— and then we'll do it doggie style so we can both watch X-files."

Reminded yet again of how they'd used to curl up on Fuuma's bed to watch the tv in his room, Kamui made a strangled dying noise and tried not to picture it without very much success, which was becoming an unfortunate running trend with this song.

On screen, Fuuma's grin grew more lascivious and he waggled his eyebrows as he sang the repeat line from the chorus. Kamui whimpered.

"It's not fair," he repeated miserably, cheeks flushing and eyes a little glazed. "He shouldn't be allowed to grin like that. Why does he have to be so hot and geeky at the same time? How am I supposed to stand up to that?"

If someone more in possession of their faculties were in the room, they may have pointed out that nothing Fuuma had done recently was even remotely acquainted with fair, but as it was Subaru just made an unhappy noise of suffering.

The song wound to an end. Instead of sighing with relief and moving immediately onto operation: repress and deny like his sanity was insisting he do, Kamui moved in a daze, half against his will, to hit replay.

"Do you have to keep replaying it?" Subaru asked pitifully after the third replay, muffled from behind the pillow he'd hidden his burning red face in.

"Gnaaargh," Kamui said, now reduced to something closely resembling primordial soup, and hit replay automatically for the fourth time, as though his brain was stuck in an abort/retry/fail loop of its own.

By this time Hokuto and Kotori had returned from the Angel of Sepulchre's studio and were standing around in the doorway, Kotori looking helpless and Hokuto looking like she couldn't figure out whether she should be annoyed or amused.

"I can't decide if we should try to snap them out of it or if it's a positive form of shock therapy," she said eventually. "Also, there are some things I just didn't want to know about your brother's love life."

"Nii-chan," Kotori wailed despairingly, and Hokuto patted her on the back.

"Think of it this way," she said, trying to be comforting. "At least it could be worse?"

Kotori just buried her face in her hands.

~

"Nii-chan," Kotori said, rather reproachfully. "Nii-chan, when I said you need to show Kamui-chan your feelings haven't changed, that was not what I meant."

"What?" said Fuuma, and the slightly guilty but self-satisfied way he said it put her in mind of a five year old covered in the crumbs of stolen cookies, more smug than defensive. "I'm sure he got the message."

"But," Kotori started, struggling to find an appropriate response to that. "But that's not... Nii-chan."

Fuuma grinned and linked his hands behind his head, entirely unrepentant. "Not what?"

"Not nice," she said exasperatedly for lack of a better word, hands on her hips. "I think you've broken poor Kamui-chan!"

"Really?" Fuuma asked hopefully. "So what did he think, then?"

Kotori recalled Kamui's glazed expression and whimpers of frustrated despair and turned faintly pink. "Um," she said coherently, then rallied with, "I'm not sure you really deserve to know, Nii-chan. You should ask him yourself."

If anything, Fuuma only brightened at that, obviously picking up the subtext that she hadn't managed to keep out of her answer. It was kind of cute, how gleefully pleased with himself he was; it kind of reminded her of the way he used to be, only more childish, and it was hard to remember that she was trying to scold him.

"Don't worry," he said cheerfully, "I fully intend to. In fact, I'm looking forward to it."

Which... was not terribly reassuring, actually.

"Please try not to break Kamui-chan's mind, Nii-chan," Kotori said, with a sense of hopeless futility that was not at all helped by Fuuma's jaunty whistling as he started to walk out of the room. "Nii-chan? Where are you— Nii-chan..."

She sighed, and tried not to think too hard about what Fuuma was planning next or the fact that she may have inadvertently created a monster. Which was still an improvement on the situation as it had been, to be fair, but nevertheless, Kamui was probably going to suffer some kind of nervous break in the meantime.

"Oh well," she said, a little guiltily. "I'm sure he'll thank me eventually."

Previous | Next

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 13:56:00 GMT

Title: All That Glitters
Fandom: X/TB
Pairings: ... so far, Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, Sorata/Arashi, Yuuto/Karen, hints of other pairings.
Genre: MEGA AU. All the genres you can possibly think of! Okay, maybe not. But there is crack, and there is angst, and there is other stuff. Although in this part, mostly angst.
Word Count: 17,726 for the part; 87,435 total.
Notes: It's been too long, I actually almost typed Boyband!X as the title. *cough* Also, oh my GOD, I am so sorry for how delayed this is. Like, 10 months, what the hell, self? I've been working on it on and off for most of that time but I was just swamped by a tide of writers' block/laziness. You'd think living in Tokyo would HELP because I can totally go check out the places I'm writing about, but... apparently not? But now it's done! DONE! AND I STILL HAVE LIKE TWO PARTS AND AN EPILOGUE TO GO, BUT WHATEVER. *maniacal cackles*
Summary: It's saved on my harddrive as "Boyband!X". I think that's really all you need to know. *cough*

PART VII

~ Chapter 11 ~

"Now, despite being born and growing up in Japan, you debuted in America," the interviewer for the magazine commented, idly clicking her pen as she smiled at Kotori. "How long has it been since you've been back in Japan?"

"Um, about a year and a half," Kotori said, after a quick mental calculation. "My first single came out in America about eight months ago... before that I was working odd jobs and competing in amateur competitions."

"I see," the interviewer said warmly. "It must have been very tough. But you have an older brother who still lives in Japan, don't you?"

"That's right," Kotori answered cheerfully. "Nii-chan is only just over a year ahead of me, but he took care of us after we were orphaned."

"Us?" the interviewer prompted, and her eyes sharpened behind her glasses, but Kotori didn't recognise the danger signal.

"Yes, that's right! Me and Kamui-chan," Kotori explained. "Nii-chan and I share the same parents, of course, but Kamui-chan is like a second brother to me."

"Now, by Kamui you mean Shirou Kamui, frontman of Garden of Eden and rival to your brother's band, Angels of the Sepulchre?"

Kotori began to sense that she may have just accidentally walked into a trap. "Um, yes," she said warily. "That's right, but..."

"So the three of you grew up together, then?" the interviewer asked innocently, and Kotori wondered where the trick was, but she'd essentially already said that, and, well... surely there couldn't be too much harm to talking about it, could there? From what she'd heard from Kamui the media had drawn a connection between Kamui and Fuuma anyway, and it wasn't like it was a big dark secret or anything. (So long as you forgot about the months towards the end, at any rate, and Kotori had absolutely no intention of talking about that.)

"That's right," Kotori confirmed. "Kamui-chan grew up with his mother, but when she passed away he moved in with Nii-chan and I."

"And then you say, after your parents died, your older brother took care of both you and Shirou-san? How did that go? He doesn't exactly have a reputation for being the mothering type," the interviewer said in a conspiratorial kind of way, and Kotori giggled before she could help it.

"No, he was very good at it!" she protested. "He always made breakfast and made sure we all got to school on time and scolded Kamui-chan when he didn't do his maths homework."

"Really? So what was the relationship between Shirou-san and your brother like back then?" the interviewer asked, and her tone was perfectly pleasant and casual but there was something sharklike about her smile.

"Um, they were best friends, of course," Kotori said hesitantly, wariness revived. "Although Kamui-chan was in the same grade as me at school, so they didn't have classes together."

"Ah, I see," the interviewer said. "And the three of you have all ended up as vocalists. Is that a coincidence, or were you all interested in music growing up?"

Kotori floundered a little about how to answer, not knowing how much Kamui and Fuuma had each said about their influences and motivations in previous interviews and not wanting to lie before helplessly deciding on the truth.

"All three of us loved music growing up," she admitted. "Nii-chan and Kamui-chan used to write songs together. They've both always been very talented."

"So they used to write songs together, then? Why did the three of you all end up in different places?"

There it was, the question she'd been dreading.

"For myself, I decided I needed to learn how to live independently, so I moved to America," she said, deflecting as best she could with a sweet smile. "I guess Kamui-chan and Nii-chan made similar decisions."

"Ah, I see," the interviewer said agreeably, although Kotori could tell she didn't believe a word of it. "Well, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to do this interview with us, Kotori-san, and best of luck on your release here in Japan!"

"Thank you very much," Kotori said politely, bowing her head, and wondered how much trouble she'd just gotten Fuuma and Kamui into.

Oops.

~

"Past connection between Garden of Eden and Angels of the Sepulchre frontmen, fully revealed!", the headline announced, with quotes from the interview with Kotori below.

"Fuck," Fuuma said, not feeling quite so sanguine about this revelation of his past as Seishirou apparently had, and Kotori winced.

"Sorry, Nii-chan," she said meekly. "Should I have told them something else?"

Fuuma sighed. "No, fuck it. They asked you directly, you could hardly lie. Anyway, they were going to find out sooner or later. It wasn't exactly a state secret. Frankly I'm surprised it took this long— that's pretty shitty investigative journalism skills, considering."

Kotori didn't say anything, just fiddled with the hem of her skirt in a way that suggested she was feeling guilty and awkward.

"On the bright side," Fuuma added after a moment, staring thoughtfully down at the page where Kotori made the offhand comment about how he used to make Kamui do his maths homework, "Kamui is probably chucking a mega hissy fit right now."

"Nii-chan! That is not a bright side!" Kotori exclaimed, stomping her foot in exasperation. "You'll never work things out with Kamui-chan if you keep saying things like that!"

"I never said I wanted to," Fuuma told her, but he was uncomfortably aware of the sullen edge to his tone. "Besides, he makes it too easy. I can't help provoking him when it's always so funny when he overreacts."

"Nii-chaaaaan," Kotori wailed, burying her face in her hands so it muffled her voice. "You always used to be so nice to Kamui-chan, why do you have to bully him now?"

There was an awkward silence, Fuuma tensing before he could help it at the reminder of the contrast between now and then and how his relationship with Kamui had soured. Kotori didn't call him on it, though, and after a moment he pushed himself up from the couch and said, "I'm getting a soda, do you want anything?"

He heard Kotori sigh, and then she said, "Could you get me one too, please?"

Fuuma walked into the kitchenette without a word, grabbing two bottles of coke and tossing one to his sister when he returned to the living room. "I've got to go to the studio to practice soon," he told her, breaking the seal of the bottle cap in one clean twist. "Do you want to come and watch, or would you rather stay here?"

Kotori bit her lip, rolling her own bottle slowly between her hands with her eyes fixed on it as though she was staring through it. "I think I might go see Kamui-chan," she said eventually, and Fuuma twitched.

"Fine," he said shortly, "whatever, have fun, the spare key is on the table if you want to come back in," and he'd grabbed his jacket and was halfway out the door when she called out to him.

"Nii-chan, wait!"

It seemed Fuuma's brotherly instincts were more ingrained than he'd thought, because he immediately stopped, even though his hand was already on the doorknob and he would've just ignored anyone else, even Kamui. Especially Kamui.

"What?" he asked, not as impatiently as he'd intended, and Kotori stood up, taking a few hesitant steps towards him.

"You never actually told me," she said, and her tone is nervous but determined. "How you feel about Kamui-chan now."

Fuuma froze, hand tightening around the doorknob. It was stupid, but he'd kind of hoped she wouldn't push it, wouldn't ask so directly.

"You say you don't want to work it out," she continued, when he didn't answer her. "But do you really mean that? Do you really hate him after all?"

Fuuma took a deep breath and closed his eyes, still facing the door.

"He left," he said flatly. "He left me, not the other way around. There's nothing to work out about that."

What he didn't say was: Yes. Yes, I really do hate him. Almost as much as I love him.

What he didn't say was that he'd rather keep provoking Kamui until Kamui hated him just as much than to smooth things over and let Kamui forget about him.

Maybe Kotori could hear it between the lines, and maybe she couldn't; either way, her response was not what he'd expected.

"Oh, Nii-chan," she said, in a voice filled with regret and frustration, and he could sense her coming closer but was still taken by surprise when she hugged him from behind, cheek pressing against his back. "This is about the offer from KG?"

Fuuma didn't reply, but his fist was clenched tight around the doorknob and he was sure she could feel the tension in his back.

"I knew he should have told you," she mumbled, exhaling hard. "But you've got it all wrong, Nii-chan."

"Got what wrong?" he said sharply, jerking his head to look back over his shoulder at her. "You've just admitted there was an offer, and he didn't tell me about it. I'd say that's pretty clear."

"That's not what I meant, though. You said he left you, but he was never going to take the offer," she said softly. "Even after I told him he should, he didn't want to, not without you. He just... didn't know how to tell you that, so he didn't tell you anything at all."

Fuuma's eyes widened, his mind totally refusing to process what Kotori had said as anything but meaningless words strung together until he'd run through it again, twice over. "You shouldn't lie," he said blankly. "Not even to make someone feel better. Isn't that what you always used to say?"

"I'm not," she insisted, small hands bunching slightly in his t-shirt. "Nii-chan, I'm not lying, you know I wouldn't lie to you, especially not about something as important as this."

"I don't... I don't believe you," he forced himself to say. "You don't have proof, how can..."

"Kamui-chan didn't take the offer," she said when he trailed off, much more fiercely than her usual placid tone. "He never took the offer, even when he had heaps of opportunities. He never took any offer at all, not until—"

She broke off suddenly, and Fuuma frowned before he realised what she was avoiding saying. Not until after he'd pushed her down the stairs.

Not until after he'd done the one thing Kamui could never forgive him for, maybe.

She was right, Fuuma realised, with a growing feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. There had to be something to argue against that, some kind of contradiction he could point to in bitter, double-edged vindication, but as he ran through the timeline in his head, he couldn't find any other way it made sense. If Kamui had been intending to take the offer to escape Fuuma, then why didn't he just do it? Even if he was afraid of Fuuma's reaction, he could easily have accepted after he'd left home, but he never did, and Fuuma knew perfectly well from what Kanoe had said when she'd signed him that it wasn't because it had been retracted.

Kamui had probably been living on the streets or in a youth hostel or something, and he still hadn't thought to take the deal.

The enormity of that hit Fuuma like a ton of bricks; he was dizzy and confused and wondering where the hell that left him, when so much of who he was, who he'd become over the last year, was based on an assumption that may have been all in his mind the whole time.

But even if Kamui hadn't been intending to take the offer, another whispered thought reminded him, what about the way he pulled away from you? The way he wouldn't talk to you or even go near you, even while he was still so close to Kotori? Maybe he wasn't going to take the offer, but it didn't mean he wasn't going to leave you behind.

He didn't know how to put it all together or what it meant, what this new information revealed about Kamui's motivations or, most of all, what he was supposed to do with any of it.

The one thing he was sure of was that he couldn't deal with this right now.

"I have to go to the studio," he said finally, voice rasping a little from the dryness in his mouth, and Kotori released him after a moment, clearly reluctant.

"Bye," she said, subdued and resigned, and took a step backwards. "Have fun."

"Yeah, bye," Fuuma responded, and then hesitated, before he added: "Tell me later about how epic Kamui's histrionics were, okay? It'd be a great way of cheering myself up," and even managed a laugh at her outraged cry of "Nii-chan!" as he closed the door behind him.

But the fact remained, he thought, letting his head thud back against the door while the smirk slid off his face, that with a few simple words Kotori had turned his entire world upside-down, and he had no idea what he was doing anymore.

~

Kotori sighed to herself after her brother left, pressing her fingertips lightly against the closed door. On the one hand she thought maybe she'd gotten through to him a little, maybe they were making progress— from what Kamui had told her, it seemed her presence alone had improved the situation— but on the other hand, he was so suspicious and wary of anything to do with Kamui. She'd known how deeply hurt and angry and bitter he was over it, but it still made her sad to see him flinch and scowl like that whenever she said Kamui's name when once talking about Kamui had never failed to make his face light up with the smile that Kamui had admitted used to make him weak at the knees.

If she could find a way to make him smile like that again, light up for Kamui just like he used to do, then she'd be happy and could leave both of them alone.

Most people would consider that a highly challenging task, if not outright impossible, but Kotori had always been an optimistic kind of person and had absolute faith that it would happen. Of course, until it did, she was fully determined to interfere and badger as much as she had to.

Meanwhile, though, she really did have to go see Kamui, whose temper was probably even fouler than Fuuma's right now. She had to concede that unfortunately, Fuuma's prediction of high drama and despair was almost certainly one hundred percent accurate. There was no way Kamui was going to be taking the article well, not with how touchy he was about his relationship with Fuuma being brought up by the media. Trying to talk sense to him about Fuuma was fairly futile even at the best of times, because he was direly certain that everything Fuuma did was aimed to mess with him and nothing else (and it was hard to argue that, because Fuuma was going out of his way to mess with Kamui and he'd made that abundantly clear), but it was even more guaranteed to end in failure on a day like today. He wasn't going to want to be cheered up. Kamui could be pretty determined in his abject misery when he wanted to be.

Still, that didn't mean Kotori wasn't going to try.

She grabbed her coat and bag from the couch, and picked the spare key up from the bench on the way past, because while she had a hotel to go back to, it was more fun to stay with her brother. Kamui and his bandmates were living almost permanently in their hotel in Shibuya, which was actually only about twenty minutes walk from Fuuma's apartment. Much like she hadn't questioned Kamui's instinctive knowledge of the location of the KG headquarters, she hadn't asked Fuuma why he'd decided to rent a place so nearby. To be fair, it was convenient to reach his recording studios, too.

Just not quite as close as Kamui, which she was sure he'd claim was a total coincidence, because, as he'd said to her when she'd asked whether he knew Kamui's room number the other day, unlike Sakurazuka, he was not a total stalker.

(Except she'd been able to tell from his slightly guilty and defensive expression that he actually did know it, so she wasn't sure how that counted as proof against being a stalker, but anyway.)

When she got there, the first thing to greet her was Karen opening the door with a really exasperated and slightly frazzled expression.

"Please, come in," she said wryly. "He might actually listen to you."

"Oh dear," Kotori sighed, because it wasn't like she'd been expecting Kamui to be in a particularly malleable mood, but that really wasn't an auspicious beginning. "Is he in his room, or...?"

"WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?" she heard a voice demand from the shared living space, effectively answering her question before she could finish it, and Karen groaned and slid a hand over her eyes.

"He's been like this all morning," she explained, half-heartedly waving her other hand in the direction Kamui's voice had come from. "And if you can calm him down, I'm going to recommend you for sainthood."

"Oh dear," Kotori said again, shaking her head, and followed Karen's indication to the next room, where Kamui was tragic in repose on the couch and Sorata was trying, very ineffectually, to cheer him up.

"But hey, it's not actually that bad!" the older boy was saying with false bravado. "I mean, it's not like they didn't already know you guys knew each other as kids, right? Just because they've found out you used to live together and write songs together— and they sort of already know that last part from what Monou said on that chat show, didn't they? Seriously, this so isn't as bad as the underwear thing!"

"Oh my god, Sorata, shut up, you are not helping!" Kamui moaned into the cushion his face was buried in, and Sorata laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head.

"Uh," he said, then noticed Kotori standing near the door and visibly lit up with relief. "Kotori-chan! Hi! I'll just leave you guys to have fun while I... um... go out and have parfait with Yuzu-chan!"

"You are a vile traitor," Kamui muttered disconsolately. "A vile treacherous traitor who is abandoning me in my time of need for sugary goods."

Sorata patted Kamui on the back, apparently not too perturbed by this imprecation. "I'll make sure I order an extra big one and eat enough for your share too," he said soothingly, and jumped out of the way when Kamui flailed a hand backwards in an attempt to hit him. "Okay, bye guys! Back later!"

With that, Sorata made his hasty departure, leaving Kotori and Kamui alone. Kotori stood still for a moment, blinking his his wake, before finally she shrugged and crossed over to sit next to the lump of Kamui curled up on the couch.

"Did you have to tell them about the maths thing?" Kamui mumbled indistinctly, and made a noise kind of like a dying seal against the cushion.

"I'm sorry, Kamui-chan," Kotori apologised contritely, clasping her hands in her lap. "I didn't mean to. I wasn't expecting them to ask about you or Nii-chan, and I forgot..."

The Kamui-lump exhaled heavily before pushing itself up into a sitting position, back to being a recognisable human being. Kamui had red lines on his face from pillow creases and his hair was sticking out in all kinds of strange and unruly directions, but Kotori didn't really feel much like laughing right now.

"It's not your fault," he told her, head dropping back against the couch. "It's just... everything, you know? Dealing with Fuuma is hard enough, but having to put up with the media on top of it... seriously, is this bad karma? What horrifically awful thing did I do in a past life to deserve this?"

Kotori didn't answer when Kamui stopped speaking, the only sound between them Kamui's soft huff of indignation when he finished, but after a moment she turned her head to look at him, searching his expression for some kind of answer.

"Ne, Kamui-chan," she said gently, "can I ask you something?"

"Huh? Sure, but...?"

Kamui was looking at her with puzzlement in his pretty violet eyes, and part of her wanted to glance away but she held his gaze. "Why does it bother you so much when the media talk about you and Nii-chan? They haven't said anything too bad or inaccurate, and it's not hurting the band..."

Kamui squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard like he was in pain.

"They... make it something it's not," he said, stilted and awkward. "They hear that Fuuma and I used to live together and they jump to the conclusion that we were lovers, even though we weren't... we never... and it just, it hurts. However much I wanted it to be, it's not true, and for them to go around splashing it in the tabloids feels like rubbing it in. And even if it were, it's not... it doesn't belong to them. No matter how screwed up it is, it's ours. It's sacred, it's not something that should be sensationalised, it... they're taking away what I still have left of Fuuma and making it public and it's not fair."

Kotori stayed silent during Kamui's halting tirade, but reached over to hold his hand, heart twinging at the genuine frustration and hurt and exhaustion he was radiating. His voice had started to rise towards the end of his rant, and at the end there was something near explosive about his anger, his fingers clenching around Kotori's almost painfully.

Now that she'd asked, she felt she finally understood why Kamui was taking this so hard. She'd known how messed up her brother was over the whole thing— and if it was sometimes difficult to predict whether he'd take something like this positively or like he had this morning, it was because he himself didn't know how he felt half the time. With Kamui, though, they'd all just taken it for granted: of course he was upset about the media attention on his relationship with Fuuma, why wouldn't he be?

But when she'd thought about it logically, Kotori had realised that there was something missing there. There wasn't anything inherently damaging about the speculation over he and Fuuma, and unlike Subaru Kamui wasn't an intensely private person by nature, so why did he always take it so hard?

Kamui had handed her the missing pieces, though. When she'd put it together with everything she'd already known it had been like a revelation, and she'd realised exactly what the underlying problem was.

"You know, even though Nii-chan has changed, he's still the same person."

Kamui jerked his head to stare at her in disbelief. "What about him is the same?" he demanded. "He's completely different!"

"He's not," Kotori disagreed firmly. "He still cares about you. I know it doesn't seem like it most of the time, but he's just angry."

"Angry?" Kamui echoed, totally mystified and still looking at her as though she'd suddenly grown another head. "I don't mean to smack you down, Kotori-chan, but seriously, I don't think he's just angry. I'm pretty sure he totally hates me."

"He doesn't, Kamui-chan, he's just hurt and lashing out," she insisted, but he was shaking his head before she'd even finished and she she should have known from the start that he was never going to listen.

"I know you want to think that you can fix this, but you can't," he said obstinately. "Fuuma really doesn't care. He knows how I feel about him, and he's just mocking me. That's all there is to it."

And this was why Kotori had come to the conclusion that Fuuma was going to have to be the one to take the first step in fixing this, because Kamui was oblivious as well as stubborn and it was a fatal combination. Without some kind of concrete proof, he would never believe that Fuuma held anything for him but contempt.

"If you say so, Kamui-chan," she sighed.

While she may have given up on convincing him for now, however, internally her mind continued to tick over with theories and plans of how to make both Fuuma and Kamui stop and actually listen to each other.

Maybe Kamui thought that what they had was broken beyond fixing, but thanks to his mulish refusal to accept what she was saying, he only had one side of the story. Kotori had two, and she knew better.

She was going to fix this, and no dumb boys or their crazy emotional hang-ups were going to stop her.

~

Given how his morning had started, Fuuma was really not having the best day ever. He wasn't sure whether to be vindictively glad or even more annoyed over the fact it seemed his band were being just as useless as him, though.

He'd gone to practice like he'd told Kotori, but really, with the way it was going, he might as well have not bothered. Kakyou was half-comatose on the benches at the edge of the room (stoned? Tired? Who knew), Satsuki looked bored and distracted and was paying more attention to texting someone on her phone than to the rest of them, and Kusanagi had gotten fed up with being the only one doing any work and gone for a lunch break.

What was particularly depressing about this was that, despite these respective flaws, they currently made up the relatively normal and productive section of the team. Yuuto was obviously in a funk about something, frowning to himself and totally off in his own head. He hadn't greeted Fuuma when Fuuma had come in, and, more to the point, he hadn't even said a word about Kotori's article. Usually he'd be chewing Fuuma out big-time over this, but it was like he hadn't even noticed Fuuma's presence. Fuuma was kind of wondering if he'd noticed the article's presence yet, when it came to that, which was almost a kind of blasphemy— Yuuto was good at his job, he'd never miss something like that— but, well, he was acting pretty weird and distracted and it was kind of hard not to reach that conclusion.

Seishirou was... okay, sometimes it was fun to mock the man, especially since it was so unusual for him to get riled about anything that making him give even the slightest twitch of irritation was an accomplishment, but seriously, that was one ticking time bomb that Fuuma didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pole. The older man had spent most of the day so far lurking around the walls chain-smoking with a broody frown and a really ominous aura; Fuuma got the distinct feeling that anyone who tried to mess with Seishirou today was just asking to get fucked up in some subtle but suitably horrific way, and he totally respected that.

Besides, he had his own problems to think about.

The article was enough by itself. Of course he wasn't happy about it; it was one thing to drop hints and start a frenzy over the possibility of some kind of illicit relationship between he and Kamui, and it was fun to see Kamui spazz out over it, but it was entirely different when they started circling around something real and concrete like this. Fuuma found it darkly amusing to toy with Kamui over the tension between them, but the fact remained he was still incredibly bitter and touchy about what had gone down in those months of degeneration and this hit far too close to the bone. The Fuuma who cooked breakfast and made Kamui get up in the morning should have nothing to do with the here and now.

Not to mention the fact that finding out he and Kamui used to live together only took those vultures one step closer to finding out about the Incident, and that really would be a PR disaster.

Even putting that aside, however, Fuuma was feeling moody and uneasy. Right now, while he was hanging around here sulking and wasting his time with his equally sullen and useless bandmates, Kotori was somewhere else in Shibuya hanging out with Kamui. He really did love his sister and things had been a lot better since she'd returned to Tokyo, but his instincts when it came to Kamui were so deeply ingrained that he honestly couldn't help the jealousy. While Fuuma could barely even go within five metres of Kamui, Kotori could spend time with him and talk with him as freely as she chose. It was hard for Fuuma not to resent that, especially when it was so unpleasantly reminiscent of another time Kamui would talk only to Kotori, never to him.

He was never going to take the offer, Kotori's voice whispered, an echo from earlier that morning, but Fuuma just shook his head with a mirthless grin. He couldn't say that it didn't change anything, because it did; it muddied all the water and confused everything and Fuuma no longer had even the slightest idea what was going on in Kamui's head.

What it didn't change was the fact that Kamui had told Kotori about the offer without breathing a single word of it to Fuuma.

He knew Kotori thought she could heal this rift and put everything back to how it used to be, but while he appreciated the sentiment, Fuuma thought her optimism was naïve. Whatever the tabloids would have people believe about the "sexual tension" between he and Kamui, he was personally fairly certain that any such tension was entirely one-sided. Kamui was confused and twisted up from Fuuma messing with him; that was all there was to it. Even if it wasn't, and even if Kamui didn't completely loathe Fuuma like Kotori insisted he didn't, he wasn't on the same emotional wavelength as Fuuma. Fuuma was smart enough to realise that he'd reached the point where just having Kamui's friendship back wasn't good enough: if he tried to force himself to accept "just friends", it was only going to lead them right back to the same place all over again. Kamui didn't want the same thing Fuuma did, and Kotori was better off giving up now instead of wasting her time.

However, right when Fuuma was in the middle of this train of thought— which, to be fair, he had been obsessing over for some time by this point—he suddenly felt something pulling on his wrist.

"Daddy?"

"... Huh?" he said, startled out of his gratuitous wallow in self-pity, and stared down at the small child. Usually by now someone would have kicked his arse to the kerb for being this out of it, but they were all just as bad as him right now and he really hadn't noticed the kid was there until she'd tugged on his sleeve.

"Are you my daddy?" the child asked him earnestly, and Fuuma stared at her, lost for words.

"Uh," he said intelligently, but could feel himself turning to goo despite himself. She was just so little and cute and god, Kamui would kill him for comparing him to what was probably a four or five-year-old girl, but her big, solemn eyes just reminded him of the other boy when he'd been that age. "No?"

The small child didn't seem bothered by this, though, just raised her arms and fixed him with a peremptory look. "Up," she demanded, and Fuuma couldn't help himself, found himself reaching down and swinging her up in his arms from some kind of terrible, irresistible instinct.

The moment she'd started ordering him around, it had just cemented the connection in his head: it was tiny Kamui. Resistence was futile.

"There's a child," Yuuto said, sounding incredibly confused, while Fuuma bounced her lightly on his hip and ignored the weird looks his bandmates were giving him. "Why is there a child? Where did it come from?"

"Kazuki!" a voice yelled from the hallway. "Kazuki, you little brat, if you disappear one more time I swear I'm going to tie you to a tree until granddad gets... back..."

The silver haired youth had stopped yelling as soon as he'd run into the studio and taken in the scene at hand. Fuuma thought he looked familiar; Kanoe's errand boy, maybe. Nataku, that was it.

"Nii-chan!" Kazuki said cheerfully, from her perch in Fuuma's arms. "Nii-chan, are you mad at Kazuki?"

"Oh my god," Nataku said hollowly, staring at Fuuma with wide, horrified eyes. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. I had to bring her into work because our grandfather is on a business trip, but I looked away for five seconds and..."

"Nah, it's okay," Fuuma said calmly, even feeling a twinge of regret when he handed the child— Kazuki— back to her brother. "I completely know how you're feeling. Kamui used to get lost all the time when we were kids."

"Thank you so much," Nataku said, pathetically grateful as he accepted Kazuki back. "Seriously, I'm so, so sorry about her interrupting your practice."

Fuuma waved him off. "We were taking a break anyway," he said breezily, which was a nice way of glossing over the fact they'd essentially been taking a break all morning and had yet to actually achieve anything. "Don't sweat it."

Fuuma watched Nataku tote Kazuki, now pestering him with a thousand and one why why why questions, out of the studio with an odd sense of lingering fondness until he felt the tingling itch of someone watching him and turned his head.

Yuuto was still staring at him.

"What?" Fuuma asked, slightly nonplussed, but Yuuto just shook his head, looking faintly perturbed.

"Nothing, it's just the first time I've seen you smile like that," he said, continuing to eye Fuuma like he expected him to suddenly explode or sprout flowers from his head or something, and Fuuma rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Yeah, whatever," he scoffed, brushing Yuuto off, but he still felt strangely buoyant, grin hovering at the corners of his lips and mood lifted, lightened since that morning like he'd finally taken a breath of fresh air. "Come on, you slackers, this is still practice time, let's move it and see if we can actually get some work done today!"

"Hey," Satsuki said mildly when he confiscated her mobile. "I was in the middle of replying to an email from Nekoi."

"It can wait," Fuuma said cheerfully. "Practice!"

It seemed that perhaps crazy optimism was catching, because part of him was starting to feel like maybe, just maybe, Kotori was right after all and fixing this wasn't the completely impossible and hopeless task he'd believed.

Just maybe, though.

~

"I'm going out, do you need me to get anything for you?" Hokuto asked from the doorway of the guest room, but Subaru, sitting by the window staring blankly outside, just shook his head.

"No," he said vaguely, without moving his eyes from his reflection, and she kind of wondered if he'd even registered the question or if he was just responding on auto-pilot.

Hokuto sighed. "Okay, see you later," she said, and closed the door, feeling a little despondent herself.

Obviously she was perfectly happy to let her brother stay with her and fuss over him, but it took the fun out of it somewhat when Subaru was so miserable and unmotivated. He'd never exactly been a bundle of optimism and joy after what had happened five years ago, but he'd been a lot better since joining Garden of Eden— despite himself, perhaps, because he really wasn't a fan of the spotlight and the situation with Angels of the Sepulchre and Seishirou resurfacing had been playing havoc on his emotions, but he'd been a lot more alive, and Hokuto thought that Kamui and his other bandmates had been really good for him.

And, much as she didn't like to admit it, maybe the effect Seishirou's presence was having on Subaru wasn't unmitigatedly bad.

The disaster of what had occurred between them on the chat show, however, was, and Subaru had been moping unhappily around Hokuto's apartment the whole two weeks since. She was kind of at a loss for what to do; this was not a situation where bullying Subaru into going outside and cheering up was going to work. She'd reached the point where she'd had to accept that even though she was Subaru's twin, even though up until now she'd always been the one who knew best when it came to her brother, this time she was going to have to ask for reinforcements.

Namely, Kamui.

If Hokuto couldn't get Subaru to snap out of his funk, that left one other possibility (well... two, but no way in hell was she going to ask Seishirou for help— that would just be stupid), which was why she was intending to go to Garden of Eden's hotel now and confer with Kamui, who probably wanted an update on Subaru's current status in any case. (Answer: unchanged.)

Of course, right now wasn't exactly the best time she could have chosen, but being unaware of the article that had been published that morning, Hokuto really wasn't to know that.

It was a little more obvious once she'd arrived, but, well, she'd wasted time and money and general energy on the train trip and walk from the station by that point, so like hell she was turning back now.

"Seriously," she said pointedly, when faced by the DO NOT DISTURB if you like, value your mortal soul/mental health/will to live! :D :D :D sign currently hanging on the door between Kamui's hotel suite and the shared penthouse space that joined all the rooms (provided by the hotel, hung by Kamui, cheerfully defaced by Sorata). "Do I even want to know?"

Sorata, who was sitting near the door to Kamui's room reading a manga, looked up and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Uh, probably not? But, you know, I guess you'll find out sooner or later, so you may as well just go in."

"Oh, really," Hokuto muttered to herself, then shrugged and flung the door open without bothering to knock, announcing as she did, "Okay, whatever you're doing, stop it! I've had enough of that from Subaru, and I'm officially declaring this an angst-free zone!"

"Um," the girl sitting perched on the end of the bed said, and Hokuto blinked.

"Okay, aside from the fact I'm pretty sure random gender swaps are still impossible," she said cautiously, "you don't look anything like Kamui-chan, so... what?"

"Hi?" the girl answered her, still sounding more than a little confused. "Um... Kamui-chan is in the shower. I'm Monou Kotori."

"Oh," Hokuto said blankly, then, "oh," as she realised who that would make this girl. "You're Monou's little sister! The one who went to America!"

"Yes, that's me," Kotori confirmed, bobbing her head in greeting. "You're... Hokuto-chan, aren't you? Pleased to meet you! I've heard a lot about you and Subaru-san."

Hokuto blew her fringe out of her eyes with an exasperated huff and moved over to sit next to Kotori on the bed, shaking her head. "Likewise, but it could have been better timed," she said wryly. "What's up with Kamui-chan? I actually came to ask for some help with Subaru, but according to Sora-chan Kamui-chan is glooming up his own cloud of misery in here."

Kotori sighed. "Um. That's kind of my fault," she admitted forlornly. "I did an interview where they asked about Kamui-chan and Nii-chan and he doesn't like it when the media talk about them together. I think he'll get over it soon... but he's not in a very good mood today."

"Aaaaugh," Hokuto groaned, burying her face in her hands for a few moments of well-deserved self-pity before she forcibly shook it off and gave Kotori a rueful grin instead. "It's hard," she said sympathetically, "but you'll get used to it." She paused, and then honesty forced her to add, "Most of the time, anyway."

"I'd just kind of hoped that Nii-chan and Kamui-chan might have worked things out by now," Kotori said helplessly. "But they're just making things worse. I think Nii-chan might be starting to listen, at least a little, but Kamui-chan is way too stubborn for his own good and won't believe for a moment that Nii-chan still feels anything for him."

"Is that so?" Hokuto said, narrowing her eyes curiously. It wasn't too hard to see how Kamui felt about the whole thing; he wore his heart on his sleeve and he and her brother had that whole empathy thing going on, after all. But even though she worked with Fuuma too, she hadn't really had a clue what was honestly going through his mind when it came to Kamui. She wasn't someone he confided in, and so far she'd only seen the flip, sarcastic insincerity he showed to the rest of the world. "So he's serious about Kamui-chan, then?"

"Of course! He always has been," Kotori explained, hands fluttering in emphatic gesture. "But Kamui-chan never realised before all this happened, and now he refuses to accept it."

"Hm," Hokuto said, and sighed. On the one hand, she was mildly envious of the fact that Fuuma at least didn't seem to be a total jerk, unlike Seishirou. On the other hand, it wouldn't exactly be fun to referee this kind of rift without being able to pick sides.

Either way, though, it didn't really help her with the Subaru issue. She'd been rather counting on Kamui's assistance, but if he was going to insist on moping around over Fuuma...

She had just opened her mouth to complain about this to Kotori when she was interrupted by the sudden reappearance of Kamui himself.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he called out as he emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed but still towelling his hair dry, and stopped short when he noticed Hokuto. "Ah! Hokuto-san!"

"Hiii, just thought I'd drop by," Hokuto said cheerfully, wriggling her fingers in greeting. "Don't worry, Kotori-chan and I were just having a nice girly chat."

"Uh... great," Kamui said, eyeing the two of them in a way that suggested that was exactly what he was worried about, and, she admitted to herself, probably with good cause. "Ah... but anyway, how's Subaru?"

"Actually, that's what I came to talk to you about," Hokuto said with a slight frown, seriousness restored by the reminder of her brother's current predicament. "Absolutely no improvement, and moping around in my apartment avoiding the world isn't helping. I think what he really needs is to move back into the hotel with you guys and hang out with you instead of locking himself alone in his room all the time. At the very least sympathising with you over Monou distracts him a bit from the fact Sei-chan is a monumental asshole."

"I... okay," Kamui said, concerned but a bit dubious-sounding. "If you really think it'll help, of course I'd be happy to do whatever you want me to, but do you really think Subaru will be that willing to move?"

Hokuto shrugged. "Just try," she said bluntly. "If you ask him, you've got the best chance of success. You know what he's like; he's ten times more likely to do something for someone else than he is for himself, so if it's what you want..."

"True," Kamui sighed. "Anyway, I'll talk to him. I've missed him— we all have— so it's not a lie to say I want him to move back here, just so long as you think that's what's best for him."

"Great," Hokuto said, with steely determination, and grabbed the wrist of a very surprised-looking Kotori. "Now that that's settled, Kotori-chan and I are going shopping! Bye!"

"Huh?" Kamui said, utterly bewildered, but that was all he got the chance for before Hokuto had shut the door in his face.

They walked through the corridor in silence for a moment, then Kotori said, tentatively, "It seems like Subaru-san and Kamui-chan have a positive effect on each other?"

"Yeah, they're good for each other," Hokuto replied, spring back in her step. "But don't bring it up with Sei-chan or your brother— for some reason they seem to get a teeny bit tetchy about Subaru and Kamui-chan's friendship."

She really did have faith in Kamui's impact on Subaru, and as Kotori stifled a giggle beside her, Hokuto grinned sharply, reflecting about how good it felt to be able to laugh at Seishirou again. Things were by no means better yet, but she was going to allow herself to feel the tiniest bit optimistic that they were on the rise.

And, once she didn't need to focus her attention so much on worrying about Subaru, Seishirou was not going to know what hit him.

~

As unexpected as it was, Kotori had found herself really enjoying Hokuto's impromptu shopping excursion. She loved her brother and Kamui a lot, but it was a pleasant change to be able to spend time with another girl just doing fun girly things, especially a girl like Hokuto who took such genuine delight in fashion. Even though Hokuto was treating her a little like a Barbie doll, it was hard to object when she was so enthusiastic about it, and while it wasn't as though Kotori wasn't used to being called pretty by fans or the media by now, it felt more like glowing praise when a smart, witty, stylish woman like Hokuto was saying it.

Plus, Hokuto probably had a better idea than anyone of the position Kotori had found herself in between her bonehead brother and childhood friend. It had been nice to finally spill the whole story and talk about it properly with someone not directly involved in the whole mess.

"Sei-chan shot me in the chest," Hokuto had said after Kotori had told her about Fuuma accidentally pushing her down the stairs, utterly flippant like this was no big deal. "But if he'd wanted me dead, I would be, so I suppose that counts for something."

In a way, it helped to know there was someone in a situation even remotely analogous to her own, and she'd had a lot of fun, right up until the point where she'd called Fuuma to tell him that she was about to leave. She'd told him about her morning with Kamui, about Hokuto, about going back to the hotel to eat dinner together, about how Kamui was going to Hokuto's apartment tomorrow, but Fuuma had grown weirdly quiet and distant over the phone, barely responding to anything she said, and he'd hung up without more than a handful of words.

Such an abrupt reminder of how messed up everything was had felt like being doused with a bucket of ice-cold water, and after that, it had been hard to be quite so carefree, so she'd said goodbye to Hokuto and a still quite confused Kamui and gone home as quickly as possible, worried that something had happened at practice or something. She knew this wasn't about that morning; Fuuma had been shaken, and he'd obviously needed some time to process what she'd told him, but she had instincts enough as his sister to know this was something else.

There was something bothering him, and she had no idea what it was.

The apartment was completely dark and silent when she got home and toed her shoes off in the entrance to the point where she was beginning to wonder if Fuuma was even there at all when she almost tripped over him. He was sitting on the polished wood floor of the corridor in the eerie shadows, slouched against the wall so his chin was practically level with his knees, arms braced against his thighs. The only light in the room was the blue-ish reflection of the moon through the uncovered windows.

"I'm home," Kotori said uncertainly, and it felt almost obsolete when she was standing right in front of him, but from his complete lack of reaction he may as well have not noticed she was there. "Nii-chan? What's wrong?"

"It's ridiculous, the way Kamui can make my mood swing so easily without even being anywhere near me," Fuuma said bitterly, half-ignoring her question. "One minute I'm being a total idiot because some kid reminds me a little of him, and the next it's back to square one. I don't need drugs— I'm fucked up in the head enough already. Kamui fucks me up."

"Nii-chan," Kotori started, definitely worried by this point, but he cut her off before she could ask what he was talking about.

"I'm not," he said roughly, scrubbing his hand across his face as though he was restraining himself from lashing out with it, "I can't, I just... why does it always have to be you?"

Fuuma's voice sounded raw, vulnerable like he hated himself for letting the words spill over but couldn't stop himself. Kotori stared at him with wide eyes, confused and a little bit frightened. "Nii-chan?"

"I was there too, so why did it have to be you?" he asked her, without raising his head from his arms. "I'm the one who fucking needs him this badly, so why did he have to choose you?"

Something clicked behind Kotori's eyes with horrible clarity, the one final clue to the puzzle that she'd never seen before. Kamui had never noticed, so of course he couldn't tell her, and it was the one thing Fuuma would never let her see before, this fierce burning jealousy that Kamui might love her in the way that Fuuma wanted for himself.

"But he didn't," Kotori protested, crouching down to curl her arms around his neck and press close in a hug that was the best comfort she could offer. "It's not like that, you've misunderstood..."

Fuuma snorted without humour, but he didn't shove her away. Even if it was only because he was afraid of hurting her again after what happened the last time he lost his temper when they were fighting about Kamui, she still intended to take advantage of it, clinging to her brother like if she only held on tight enough it'd be enough to save him.

"Misunderstood what?" he spat. "Misunderstood the fact that Kamui shoved me away? That he couldn't even stand to be in the same room as me, when he'd still happily spend all his time with you and talk to you? Misunderstood the fact that he obviously cares about you far more than he's ever cared about—"

"It's not like that!" Kotori cried, raising her voice to be heard over the top of him, almost begging for him to just listen. "It was never like that, Nii-chan! Kamui-chan and I are just friends!"

"How can you prove that?" Fuuma snapped back, and she could feel the tension in his arms, knew he was clenching his fists so hard it had to be painful for him to hold himself back. The situation almost mirrored the argument they'd had that morning, only multipled a thousandfold in intensity. "Even if I can trust you when you say that, how can you know that Kamui feels the same way? How do you know he's not—"

"Because he's in love with you, Nii-chan!" Kotori yelled at the top of her lungs, drowning him out in her desperation to be heard and not have to listen to the cutting double-edged words that were hurting him as much as her, and squeezed her eyes shut, tightening her arms around his neck. "And he always has been!"

There was a deathly silence.

After a moment, when Fuuma still hadn't said anything, Kotori blinked her eyes open, hesitantly pulling back to look at him. He'd turned white with shock, like all the blood had drained away from his face, and was staring blankly back at her with wide eyes.

"Nii-chan?" she whispered, and even the soft hiss of her voice sounded loud in the complete stillness.

"I don't," Fuuma breathed, shaking his head, "you're wrong, that's... there's no way..."

"He told me," Kotori said gently, sliding her hands from his neck to rest on his shoulders and hoping the touch would help ground him. "Then and now. That's why he avoided you, Nii-chan. He was afraid."

Fuuma's brow furrowed, like he still couldn't grasp what she was telling him. "But why...?"

"For the same reason you were," she told him, plain and simple, because between the three of them they'd tried everything else and the truth was the only thing that worked. "He thought you'd leave him. He was afraid of losing you."

And then, she could see her brother thinking as the crushing guilt dawned in his eyes, Kamui had lost him anyway, because Fuuma had gone off the rails and driven him to it.

It was a supreme form of irony, but she didn't think any of them were in a position to appreciate it.

"Even if he loved me then," Fuuma said once he'd seemingly digested the ramifications of this, hollow and somehow defeated, "he hates me now. I'm serious, Kotori. I know you want things to work out, but it's not that easy. I don't know if he's even capable of forgiving me anymore."

Kotori shook her head, curls falling in her face with the movement. "Didn't you listen? He told me then, but he's told me now, too," she reminded him, fingers digging into his arms a little. "He's hurt and angry, just like you, but he still loves you."

Fuuma visibly chewed this over, still frowning slightly. "What about Sumeragi?" he said grudgingly, and Kotori blinked, totally derailed.

"I... what?"

"He's going to see him tomorrow, isn't he?" Fuuma said, but there was something sullen about the way he was hunching over that reminded her of the kind of bratty teenager that Fuuma had never actually been. "If Kamui still loves me, what about Sumeragi?"

"Now you're just being silly," she told him reproachfully. "You're the only one Kamui-chan has ever looked twice at, Nii-chan, so please try to understand that and stop stalling over stupid objections."

Fuuma eyed her suspiciously. "Kamui calls him by his first name," he muttered, leaving it obviously implied that that was an intimacy Kamui used to only ever extend to him. "They spend all their time together. I don't see what's so silly about that."

"Because Subaru-san understands him!" Kotori exclaimed, frustrated by this point. Obviously she should have paid more attention when Hokuto had warned her how irrational Fuuma (and Seishirou) could be about Subaru and Kamui's friendship. "Because they both know what it's like to be in love with people who jerk them around and mess with their feelings! Which is why you've got to show Kamui-chan you're not!"

That caught Fuuma's attention. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that he thinks you hate him, Nii-chan," she said, sighing with exasperation. "Remember? It doesn't matter how many times I tell him otherwise, he won't believe it unless it comes straight from you. It's up to you— if you really want to fix this, you have to take the first step and make him realise that you're still the same person inside, even if parts of you are different."

"It's up to me, huh?" he said thoughtfully, sounding like maybe he got it this time, maybe he'd finally understood. "I've just got to show him I'm still the same?"

"Yes, Nii-chan," Kotori said, letting her body go limp with relief against his. "That's all. Just let Kamui-chan know your feelings for him haven't changed."

"I think I can do that," Fuuma agreed, and Kotori smiled, feeling for the first time like she could relax and that her older brother would take care of things again, just like he used to.

She was admittedly a little worried about the speculative way he'd said that last bit, but, well, if he was up to something she could hardly stop him now, so it was best not to worry about it and just let things take their course. She was fairly certain that whatever he had planned couldn't be too bad, since she knew he wanted Kamui back just as much as Kamui wanted him. She had faith that whatever he did, it would all work out.

...In the end, anyway.

Previous | Next

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:29:55 GMT

Title: (take it) slow
Fandom: Kamen Rider Kabuto
Pairings: Kagami/Tendou
Genre: Mood, kind of sappy
Word Count: 5,744
Notes: Whole season spoilers, although not in too much detail for after the mid-thirties. SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE, WATCH THIS SERIES SO I AM NOT ALONE. D:
Summary: Tendou takes Kagami to see Obaa-chan. Kagami is maybe a little bit slow to catch on.

Not even saving the world or taking a journey overseas to find himself (Tendou had never called it that, but that's pretty much what it was) had changed Tendou's habit of quoting incomprehensible statements his grandmother had apparently made to him, which was simultaneously part of his charm and one of the most obnoxious things about him. Despite Tendou's frequent references to said grandmother, though, and about two years of friendship, Kagami knew absolutely nothing about her aside from that she'd taken Tendou in and (judging by the sayings Tendou kept parroting) fostered his enormous ego.

He'd kind of assumed that this was going to be an unchanging state of affairs, until one completely unremarkable afternoon when Kagami was hanging out at Tendou's house. All he'd done was turn to Tendou and ask what was for dinner, but Tendou had given him this really serious, inscrutable look.

"Obaa-chan said..." he started, and Kagami fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Great, more of Tendou's grandmother's completely warped pearls of wisdom, he thought.

"... 'I want to meet the man called Kagami Arata, and you will bring him here.'"

"Uh huh, sure," Kagami said automatically. Several seconds later, his brain caught up to his ears and rewound what he'd just heard. "...Wait, what?"

"Obaa-chan told me to bring you to dinner tonight or else," Tendou said, with the exaggerated patience of someone explaining what should be an easy concept to someone intellectually challenged. "You said yes. Let's go."

"But that wasn't," Kagami half-protested, then stopped, because it was probably suicide to admit he hadn't really been listening. "... Or else what?"

Tendou shrugged. "I don't know," he said calmly. "I always do what Obaa-chan says, so I've never found out."

Somehow, Kagami was even more disturbed by the idea that there could be someone in this world who a guy like Tendou would obey without question. He guessed he wasn't all that surprised when he thought about it, but what kind of strong-willed lady must she be, to raise Tendou the way she had?

And, he realised, this was Tendou's grandmother. The really infamous grandmother, the one who gave Tendou all his weird sayings, the one shrouded in mystery. And she wanted to meet Kagami.

"Oh my god," he said weakly, but let Tendou shove him out the door.

~

"Where we actually going?" Kagami asked suspiciously when Tendou kicked the stand of his bike down and it occurred to him that among the many things he didn't know about Tendou's grandmother, this included where she lived.

"Southeast Kanagawa," Tendou said evenly, like it was completely reasonable to suddenly spring an hour or so long road trip on Kagami with absolutely no warning whatsoever. "Hurry up or we'll be late."

"Great," Kagami muttered, and then frowned suddenly when he realised they were going by bike, which meant no passengers. "Hey, what about your sisters?"

"Obaa-chan said not to bring Hiyori or Juka," Tendou told him casually. "Just you."

The vague ominous feeling that had been lurking at the edges of Kagami's consciousness since Tendou had first uttered the words she told me to bring you to dinner grew abruptly stronger.

"Isn't that kind of weird?" he said uneasily, but Tendou just shrugged.

"They saw her last weekend," he answered, like this was somehow the point, which it totally was not, and then gave Kagami an irritated look as if he were somehow the one at fault in this situation, which again: totally not. "Quit dawdling."

"Fine," Kagami huffed, throwing his leg over the back of Tendou's bike a little awkwardly. "And why are we both riding your bike, anyway? It'd only take ten minutes for me to pick up mine."

"You don't know the way," Tendou said, without looking back at him. "And it's a waste of petrol."

"I could follow you. Or we could always go by train and not spend almost two hours going numb from being squished up on a motorbike," Kagami said, a little sarcastically, "but whatever, I'm sure your way's better."

"I'm glad you agree," Tendou said amiably, and revved the engine. "You should probably hold on."

"This is so crazy," Kagami moaned, but obediently slid his arms around Tendou's waist, feeling a little weird about it and then feeling weird about feeling weird, because it wasn't like they hadn't been in each other's personal space a lot before, but. This was different, somehow. He couldn't explain it, it just was.

"Why does your grandmother want to meet me anyway?" he added after a moment, as they started to roll away from the kerb and Tendou kicked the bike into a higher gear. "How does she even know who I am?"

"You did help save the world," Tendou pointed out, which was kind of an answer but not really, and then said, "Stop asking stupid questions, I'm driving."

After that, Kagami subsided and stopped grilling Tendou, but it wasn't because Tendou told him to, no matter what that guy probably thought. It was just too loud with the wind, that was all.

~

Tendou's grandmother's house was enormous. It was like Tendou's place in Tokyo, only even more so. It reminded him of one of those huge traditional housing complexes you saw in Kyoto. It was very impressive and incredibly intimidating.

Kagami whimpered.

"Come on," Tendou said, paying no attention to Kagami's obvious fear. "Obaa-chan is waiting."

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of," Kagami mumbled under his breath, but he still followed Tendou into the house.

"Obaa-chan," Tendou called. "We're here."

Tendou's grandmother was a woman of small stature but immense presence. The kimono she wore was beautiful, intricate patterns swirling across the fine silk in muted blues and greens, and her hair was drawn tightly into an elegantly knotted bun at the back of her head, not a hair out of place. Her back was perfectly straight, and she held her chin high, dark eyes fixed directly upon them with calm inscrutability.

Kagami swallowed, instantly terrified.

"Welcome back," she greeted Tendou in a strong, almost imperial voice. "I've been expecting you."

"This is Kagami Arata," Tendou said, unusually respectful, and Kagami felt a shiver go down his spine.

"So I gathered," his grandmother said dryly, and then turned her attention from Tendou to Kagami, casting a sweeping look over him. "Aah, just as I had imagined."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" Kagami hissed desperately, as quietly as he could. Tendou ignored him.

"Welcome to the ancestral household of the Tendou family, boy," she said to him directly, and Kagami flinched.

"U-um, thank-you-for-inviting-me, nice-to-meet-you," he said in a nervous rush, ducking his head in a bow with almost a sense of relief to have some reprieve from meeting this formidable woman's gaze.

Tendou's grandmother smiled faintly. "My, how timid the God of Battle is," she commented, and Kagami turned red, feeling an intense urge to shuffle his feet. "But sometimes it is the cornered mouse that poses more danger than the complacent tiger."

So Tendou's grandmother really did say those things?

Kagami shot a panicked glance at Tendou, who looked really pleased with himself for some reason. I hate you, he thought firmly, willing Tendou to suddenly learn how to read minds. I hate you and this is all your fault.

Tendou's smirk grew. Kagami wondered if maybe it had actually worked, then realised Tendou could probably read it on his face, which meant Tendou's grandmother could too, and hastily tried to wipe his expression blank.

"Souji, you will help with the preparations for dinner," his grandmother said, in a way that showed she was used to being obeyed and there was no real question of anything else. "But first, let me show you to your room."

"We're staying the night?" Kagami said dumbly, and then, "Uh, I mean, thank you very much?"

"Quite," Tendou's grandmother answered, and gave him an inscrutable half-smile. "This way."

Kagami meekly followed her down the corridor, Tendou a few steps behind. The elderly woman slid open a shouji screen to a traditional Japanese-style room with two futons spread out side by side.

"I will be in the kitchen," she said, with a small graceful incline of her head, and shuffled out the door.

"Uh," Kagami said. "Tendou, why did she put us in the same room? Aren't there heaps of rooms in this place?"

It was a standard six tatami mat room, so it wasn't exactly small, especially since there wasn't much else in the room aside from a cupboard, but... well, it wasn't exactly enormous, either, and the futons had been spread so they were practically touching.

And seriously, weren't there heaps of rooms in this place?

Tendou smirked. "Obaa-chan said," he started, and Kagami groaned, giving the bastard the most disgusted look he could possibly manage.

"Shut up, Tendou," he said sourly, knowing that there was no way that sentence was ending in anything even remotely like an actual answer. "Just... go make dinner, or whatever."

"Okay," Tendou agreed serenely, apparently entirely unbothered about being cut off, and stopped in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the shouji screen. "Before you get all hung up over it, there's sleeping clothes in the cupboard that are specifically for guests. I'll be in the kitchen with Obaa-chan. Wash your face, and don't take too long."

"Hey, who gave you the right to order me around?" Kagami demanded, a little outraged by this point, but Tendou had already slid the door shut and if Kagami thought about it, he'd have to admit to himself that he already knew he was going to do as he was told.

Tendou had him completely whipped and it was the source of everything wrong in his life, he reflected morosely, before slinking off to the bathroom.

~

Dinner was... weird.

There was something incredibly disorienting about the familiar sight of Tendou preparing food in this alien setting, and Kagami wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't like he'd never seen Tendou cooking in all kinds of strange places before, but perhaps it was because he looked so at home here, so natural in his surroundings, while Kagami felt displaced and awkward. The lady of the house was supervising rather than involving herself directly, murmuring things to Tendou and gesturing with her fan. Kagami wondered if they always did this when Tendou was visiting, or if it had something to do with him being there.

Once the food was on the table, though, things only got weirder. Tendou was still wearing the same Japanese-style clothes he always wore at home, and he blended perfectly into this tranquil, heavy environment, the atmosphere of tradition almost as suffocating as it was beautiful. Kagami was struck dumb by how elegant and untouchable Tendou suddenly seemed. He'd always known that Tendou was graceful; he'd seen Kabuto fight, and he knew exactly how smoothly Tendou moved. But seeing him like this, in this timeless world, with his legs folded beneath him in seiza and his back perfectly straight, Kagami almost felt like he was in the presence of someone else entirely. God of the sun, he thought blankly. The man who will rule everything.

Kagami, by contrast, felt clumsy and displaced in his sloppy jeans and t-shirt, legs sprawled out to his side because he hadn't been able to maintain seiza for more than ten minutes before his ankles started aching to the point where it had become completely unbearable. Tendou's grandmother probably thought he was a mannerless, ill-cultured heathen, and that was depressing, because unlike Tendou, Kagami actually cared what other people thought about him.

And, well, it wasn't like he thought that after two years of friendship and everything they'd been through Tendou would suddenly decide Kagami wasn't worth his time anymore, but still. He didn't want to find out what would happen if Tendou's grandmother disapproved of him.

"So, Arata," she said suddenly, when they'd made their way halfway through the meal in silence, and Kagami startled so badly he almost dropped his chopsticks in his miso soup. "You will be the one to support Souji on his path to the heavens?"

Arata? Kagami thought, confused panic rising, and shot a desperate look at Tendou, but that useless jerk just smiled slightly and took a sip from his green tea.

"Uh," he said weakly, when he had no choice but to accept that he was completely on his own for this (thanks, Tendou), then realised that— completely aside from not knowing what it meant that Tendou's grandmother was calling him by just his first name— he had no idea what she was talking about. "Yes?"

"Very well," she said calmly, raising her cup to her lips before setting it gently down on the low-lying table with a small noise. "Would you lay down your life to protect him?

Why was Tendou's grandmother asking him these things? Kagami wondered helplessly, and glanced at Tendou again. Tendou wasn't smiling now, but there was no hint in his eyes, fixed intently on Kagami's face in a way that made Kagami's heart speed up in something close to terror.

"Yes?" he said uncertainly, not because he wouldn't do it an instant, but because he had absolutely no idea where this was going and was kind of freaked out. He knew enough to sense this was important, though, and he would, so after a moment he added, more firmly, "Yes. I would."

"I see," the woman said, penetrating gaze searing into him for a moment like she was looking through his soul, and then turned her head to face her grandson.

"So this is your choice, Souji?" she asked him gravely, mystifying Kagami worse than ever with her questions that sounded so weighed down with meaning and yet entirely devoid of any context that could explain them to him, but Tendou didn't waver at all.

"It is, Obaa-chan," he said, bowing his head respectfully, and his grandmother smiled.

"Good," she said. "Then you have my blessing. Thank you for the food."

"Thank you for the food," Tendou echoed gratefully, as she rocked to her feet in a smooth motion and started to collect the dishes.

"Huh?" said Kagami, any grasp he had on proper etiquette falling victim to his utter bewilderment. "Blessing?"

Tendou's grandmother smiled mysteriously. "Good night," she said, dipping her head briefly and not answering Kagami's question at all, which had to be where Tendou got it from. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Obaa-chan," Tendou answered, ignoring Kagami's confusion completely like the jerk he was, and dipped his head in return.

"Seriously," Kagami said when the Lady Tendou had departed the room. "Seriously, Tendou, what the hell?"

Tendou just smirked at him, seeming impossibly happy about something, and as obnoxious as he was currently being, Kagami couldn't help being a tiny bit glad to see that. "Come on," Tendou told him, holding out a hand. "Let's go. Bedtime."

"I really hate you sometimes, you know," Kagami complained bitterly, but took the hand offered and let Tendou pull him to his feet. "You have this really annoying habit of not telling people things before you go making your mind up about the important stuff."

"I can't always tell you everything, you know," Tendou said reasonably, which, coming from the man who hadn't said anything about Hiyori until it blew up in their faces, who had gone off to get himself killed without a word, who had almost destroyed their friendship and the whole damned world by not telling Kagami his suspicions about the necklaces, was complete crap, but try telling him that. "You have to figure some things out for yourself."

"You are so infuriating," Kagami told him, but followed without protest.

~

It felt a little strange wearing a traditional sleeping robe rather than his usual Western-style pyjamas, but no weirder than any other part of his day so far and a lot less weird than the feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the two futons still spread side by side on the tatami.

Tendou didn't seem at all bothered by their placement or inclined to move them, though, because he was already sliding beneath the sheets of the one on the right and giving Kagami a look like he was stupid.

"Do you intend to stand there all night?" he asked dryly, and Kagami scrubbed a hand through his hair, shifting his weight a little from foot to foot.

"I was just," he started, but shrugged awkwardly when he couldn't find words to explain. "Nothing. I'm going to go brush my teeth, I'll be back."

"Mm," Tendou hummed, linking his arms behind his head as he stared out the window. "Turn the light off while you're at it."

"Yeah, sure," Kagami told him, flicking the switch on his way out and leaving the room in shadow.

The bathroom was fairly small, compared to the rest of the house, and the electric light seemed harsh and overly artificial after walking through corridors illuminated only barely by the moon coming in through the windows. Kagami stared at himself in the mirror, washed out and pale, hair mussed and eyes a stark contrast against his skin.

It wasn't a lie that he needed to brush his teeth, but it was an excuse. He just stood there facing the mirror, looking but not seeing, and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He knew he was missing something, some way that this would all click together and make sense; he was a bit oblivious sometimes, but he wasn't completely stupid, and it didn't help that Tendou never told him anything.

Obviously something was going on. This impromptu trip to see Tendou's infamous grandmother had been surreal enough as a starting point, even if you disregarded everything that had followed. He had the feeling his future had been decided and no one had bothered to consult him about it, that Tendou's grandmother had pronounced some kind of verdict he didn't understand at all.

It made Kagami uneasy, nervous, to know that something so important had been concluded without his knowledge, but he remembered the happiness on Tendou's face when the elderly woman had given her blessing, couldn't help but think of how it had felt to watch Tendou slip away and lose his grasp on sanity when Hiyori had gone missing, and he knew that whatever he'd agreed to, it was worth it to keep that smile.

He hadn't lied when he said he'd die for Tendou, but he'd also live for Tendou, and that was far, far more important.

The moment that thought passed through his head, Kagami was stunned by a sudden jolt of recollection, his fingers tightening on the porcelain edge of the sink as his eyes widened in the mirror. Tendou had agreed to live for him, once; of course he remembered all the times that Tendou had been willing to die for him, but more than any of them, all of them together, he remembered the one time Tendou had lived for him. For the first time, Kagami almost felt like everything was on the verge of making sense, just one last tiny piece to the puzzle hovering at the tips of his fingers.

With that, he finally felt ready to return and face down this mystery, this ambiguity hovering so tangibly between them.

It took a few minutes for Kagami's eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he hovered in the doorway with uncertainty, his new found conviction faltering slightly when he was confronted by the still line of Tendou's body beneath the covers, just a silhouette outlined in blues and purples by the faint light from the window.

It was stupid to be unnerved, Kagami told himself, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. It was just Tendou.

Just Tendou, he thought, and there had been times when he'd been absolutely terrified of Tendou, so maybe that wasn't the best reassurance ever, but he'd never run away from it and he wasn't about to start now.

The sheets covering the futon were cool when he crawled beneath them, and Kagami shifted around agitatedly trying to get comfortable. Tendou didn't react to the sound or movement, though, and eventually Kagami settled, flat on his back with his hands laced over his chest and one leg curled under the other.

Everything was perfectly silent and motionless like a moment frozen in time, and it left Kagami hyper-aware, senses heightened in the still, quiet darkness. He could sense Tendou lying so close to him, could practically feel the heat radiating from Tendou's body; so near but at the same time so far away, and Kagami had the insane urge to try to reach out and grasp Tendou's hand, close the distance between them. He lay there staring blindly at the ceiling, feeling charged and restless and maybe a little bit reckless, and even if Tendou hadn't moved or spoken since Kagami had come back into the room, Kagami somehow knew he was still awake.

"Hey, Tendou," he whispered after a moment, breaking the fragile atmosphere surrounding them. "Why did you bring me to see your grandmother?"

For a moment there was no response and Kagami thought maybe he was wrong, maybe Tendou was asleep after all, but then there was the soft rustle of sheets as Tendou turned on his side to face him, his eyes gleaming in the shadows of the room.

"Why do you think?" he asked, like the sphinx posing its riddle. Kagami shifted his head to meet Tendou's gaze properly.

"You said she wanted to meet me," he said.

"Yes," Tendou murmured.

"Because you told her about me," Kagami continued, taking a small leap of faith, and there was a slight pause.

"Yes," Tendou answered after a moment.

Kagami fell silent, sensing that this was the crucial moment, the critical point which it all came down to. Tendou's eyes were large and solemn in the darkness.

"Because... you..." Kagami started hesitantly, and then, when words failed him, reached out to find Tendou's hand. Their futons were only an inch apart at most, but when their fingers brushed and tangled together lightly, it felt like bridging an ocean.

"Yes," Tendou said, and closed the gap to kiss him.

Kagami kissed back, feeling Tendou's weight on top of him, sensing Tendou yield to him, and he ran his free hand through Tendou's hair before pushing forward, rolling them and pressing Tendou down so he was lying on his back with his hair framing his face like a halo and his dark, glittering eyes fixed on Kagami's.

"Kagami," he said hoarsely, expression sombre and unsmiling, and Kagami swallowed, weighed down by the gravity of the situation. Their fingers were still laced together and he tightened his grip, squeezed, seeking and offering reassurance in one movement.

Tendou's cotton sleeping robe was in disarray, gaping at the neck to expose his collar bones and the graceful line of his neck sweeping down to his shoulders. Tendou was the strong one, the one who never bowed under pressure even if the entire world was his enemy, but right now, like this, he seemed almost vulnerable. For a moment Kagami experienced the dizzying sensation of double vision, this Tendou so unfamiliar from the one he knew, but then the two clicked together and it was just them, just he and Tendou.

"Tendou," he answered shakily, burying his face in the feverishly warm curve of Tendou's neck and breathing in his scent as Tendou slipped his hand free and wound his arms around Kagami's shoulders, pulling him closer.

They lay still like that for a few minutes, neither of them moving. Kagami could feel Tendou's ribcage rising and falling gently beneath his own.

"I didn't realise," Kagami mumbled against Tendou's collarbone, and Tendou gave a soft huff that stirred Kagami's hair.

"I know," he said, sounding a bit more like his usual dry self. "You're slow. It wasn't exactly subtle."

"I may have had a hint with the single bedroom thing," Kagami allowed. Tendou made a noise under his breath, and Kagami couldn't see his face but was pretty sure Tendou had just rolled his eyes at him.

"Because all the other hints weren't telling at all," Tendou muttered, and Kagami opened his eyes again.

"Huh?" he said, baffled. "What other hints?"

"... Never mind," Tendou told him. "Go to sleep."

Kagami let his eyelids flutter shut again, breathing in the comforting scent of Tendou and letting it envelope him with its warmth.

"Just so you know," he said drowsily, already drifting on the edge of consciousness, "me too. Even if it took me awhile to figure it out."

Tendou didn't respond, but Kagami could feel his breath catch, could hear the quickened beat of Tendou's heart, and he smiled, lips brushing Tendou's skin in the faintest of kisses as he slipped over the edge into sleep.

~

If anyone had asked Kagami, he really would not have guessed Tendou for being the physically affectionate type. He didn't tend to initiate contact, even with his sisters, and Kagami had seen him get agitated when people he didn't know tried to touch him.

Nevertheless, Tendou had been touching him almost constantly all morning, right from the moment when they'd first woken up.

When Kagami had first stirred to consciousness, he had still been sprawled half across Tendou with his right hand and Tendou's left clasped together. It had taken him a few minutes to remember where he was and why, but as soon his brain had started working again, Kagami had startled, pushing himself up on his elbows to take his weight off Tendou and stare down at him in shock only to find Tendou already awake and watching him curiously. Kagami had stuttered a good morning, not certain about how Tendou would react, but Tendou's face had broken out in a grin and Kagami had been kind of stunned. Of course he'd known Kabuto was god of the sun, and there were a lot of ways in which he'd always found that remarkably appropriate, but that was the first time Tendou's smile had actually dazzled him.

"Good morning," Tendou had answered, voice hoarse and rusty with sleep, and then he'd hooked his arm around Kagami's neck and pulled him back down into a kiss. Kagami had been too surprised to do anything but go down flailing, probably landing quite hard on Tendou, but Tendou hadn't broken the kiss, had just stretched languidly beneath him, fitting himself to the shape of Kagami's body.

They'd stayed like that for ten or twenty minutes before they'd finally managed to gather the motivation to roll out of bed and get dressed to go to breakfast, and the whole time, Tendou's sleepy, self-satisfied eyes had followed Kagami around the room, that small smile giving him a much softer glow than his usual sharply brilliant aura. He'd tangled their hands together again when he'd led Kagami back down the maze of corridors to the kitchen, matching their steps so he was never more than a hand-span of space from Kagami's side, and if Kagami had thought it was a temporary aberration that would wear off when Tendou had woken up properly or when they were no longer alone, he'd been wrong.

It was like something inside Tendou had shifted slightly, made him somehow more real and human. There had always been a part of him that had seemed so distant and untouchable before, but he was warm and tangible and smugly pleased with himself, and had spent the entire morning in Kagami's personal space, brushing against him like a cat marking territory.

Tendou's grandmother's eyes followed every touch, sharply assessing every inch of space that wasn't there, and at first Kagami was petrified that she would call them out on it, but she didn't say anything and Tendou didn't seem concerned at all, so Kagami had relaxed a little and eventually he'd remembered what she'd said last night, with the belated dawning of realisation.

Oh, right, he thought, feeling a little bit stupid. That's what she'd meant by giving them her blessing.

There was no way Tendou could have known what he was thinking, but he'd placed a hand on Kagami's shoulder and flicked a smile at him, and Kagami couldn't help the bizarre feeling that Tendou was pleased with him for finally working that out.

However, it wasn't until they were leaving and Kagami was sitting backwards on Tendou's bike idly tapping out a rhythm on the seat while he waited that it occurred to him that, for all that he'd never considered Tendou a particularly touchy-feely person, he had always touched Kagami a lot, even if it had never been quite this marked or extreme.

Kagami suddenly experienced the sensation of a clue hitting him very hard over the back of the head, and he froze, blinking several times.

"So how long have we been dating and you just haven't been telling me?" he asked finally, and Tendou shrugged, checking the straps of his bag.

"About two years, give or take," he said nonchalantly, and Kagami frowned.

"But we've only known each other for about two years," he pointed out, and Tendou smiled, ever so slightly.

"So we have," he said, his smile turning a little secretive and amused at Kagami's expense, and Kagami huffed, exasperated.

"This is why you need to start telling me about these things," he complained, but Tendou just laughed.

"Maybe," he said, not committing to anything, and then he slapped Kagami's leg. "Come on, it's time to go."

~

The drive home was silent but content, and as out of place as he'd felt in the traditional atmosphere of the Tendou family complex, Kagami couldn't help feeling a little regretful about leaving to return to the real world. Life had a way of interfering with things, and he suspected that as relaxed and free with his affection as Tendou had been while they were in his grandmother's house, it could be a different matter once they got back to reality. Tendou's grandmother had given her approval, but that didn't mean Tendou wanted everyone else to know.

Actually, Kagami was kind of worried about what they were supposed to tell Hiyori and especially Juka, because sure, Tendou cared about him and he was serious about this, but his protectiveness of his sisters had always been on a completely different level to everything else. He might not want them to know about this.

He'd still been caught up thinking about that when Tendou had pulled up outside of La Salle and said, "Come on."

"Huh?" Kagami responded intelligently, and Tendou had given him a look that was part fondness, part exasperated at Kagami's apparent stupidity.

"I've got something to do," he said, grabbing Kagami's arm. "Come on."

"Wait, what are you—" Kagami protested, but Tendou dragged him into the shop, not bothering with anything as apparently insignificant as personal space.

"We're back," he greeted Hiyori as he pulled Kagami through the door with him, and Kagami glanced at him, waiting for him to let go or take a step back, confused and a little lost when Tendou did nothing at all.

"Welcome home," Hiyori said, then looked up, clearly taking in the way they were far too involved in each other's personal space, and smiled slightly. "It worked, then?"

"Huh?" Kagami said again, utterly baffled.

"Yes," Tendou said, sounding impossibly smug. Kagami stared at him. "And Obaa-chan approves."

"Good," said Hiyori matter-of-factly, and Kagami turned his head to stare at her instead. "Finally. I'll call Juka, she's been on edge ever since you left yesterday."

It was around this point that it occurred to Kagami that Hiyori and Juka were not only going to be aware of his relationship with Tendou, but in fact already knew about it before it had even happened. Somehow, he felt like he'd just wasted a lot of worry for nothing.

"Okay, what?" he demanded when he'd had time to process this fact, a little indignant about being left out of the loop on his own life. "Did everybody know about this except me?"

"Yes," the siblings both said, almost at exactly the same time.

"But... but..."

"And since you're here," Hiyori added, like this was no big deal at all, "clean the tables."

"He really should be fired," Tendou commented, letting go of Kagami's arm to smirk at him, and Kagami scowled and said, "I don't even work here any more!"

"So?" Tendou asked, raising an eyebrow. "Obaa-chan said, once you accept something as your duty, that can't be undone. Take proper responsibility, Kagami."

Having met Tendou's grandmother, Kagami now had no doubt that she'd said those exact words.

He also didn't think they were just talking about the restaurant anymore, and yesterday he would have missed the underlying double meaning, but today he remembered the promises he'd made Tendou's grandmother, could finally understand what it meant when Tendou looked at him so intently.

"Yeah," he said, catching Tendou's wrist with a lopsided grin, taking joy in the way Tendou's eyes widened with surprise and a hint of vulnerability when Kagami tugged him forward into a soft kiss. "Guess I've got no choice, huh?"

"Nope," Hiyori agreed calmly. "Not unless you want to deal with Juka and I. She's been looking forward to gaining a new onii-chan."

Tendou cleared his throat, still looking dazed and like maybe he was a little flushed. "She's been waiting a while," he said pointedly. "Since someone took so long to figure things out."

"Well if someone had actually said anything about it," Kagami began, while Tendou and Hiyori smirked at him, and he thought, yeah, he could get used to this.

Because Tendou was a jerk sometimes, he was high-handed and infuriating and almost never consulted Kagami first when he made these huge life-altering decisions, but he was still Tendou. He was still the guy who'd come running to save Kagami's life over and over even while insisting they weren't friends; he was the guy who'd risen from the ashes to save the world together when Kagami had refused to give up hope; he was the guy who had promised to stay by Kagami's side forever.

Maybe Kagami was a little slow, but he'd gotten there in the end, and there was no place he'd rather be.

Tue, 03 Jun 2008 07:58:01 GMT

Title: Six people who aren't allowed to touch Kagami, and one who is
Fandom: Kamen Rider Kabuto
Pairings: Kagami/Tendou
Genre: Humour, mostly, except there's nothing funny about badtouch-san.
Word Count: 4314
Notes: Kamen Rider Kabuto just sideswiped me out of nowhere like being run over by a bus. << There needs to be more people in this fandom so I stop getting hit with bunnies for it! Spoilers up until the late 30s.
Summary: Tendou is not crazy, okay, he just doesn't like people touching his things. :<

0. Hiyori

Tendou never brings the topic of Kagami up with Hiyori. If that's who she wants, well, Tendou lives to ensure that Hiyori gets what Hiyori wants. If anything, it's Kagami who's not good enough for her.

He can't deny, though, that he's relieved when it becomes increasingly obvious how completely uninterested Hiyori is in Kagami that way.

1. Yaguruma

It wasn't so much about Kagami himself, really. He'd just... attached himself like an annoying limpet, and then kept getting himself into trouble so Tendou felt obliged to rescue him. He was an interesting guy; that was really the extent of it.

Nevertheless, he'd still attached himself to Tendou, which made him Tendou's responsibility, and Tendou's responsibilities belonged to him and him alone. Tendou Souji had never learned how to play nicely with other children. Sharing wasn't a skill his grandmother had deemed necessary to impart upon him, and he wasn't about to start now.

Basically, he just didn't like Yaguruma. He didn't trust ZECT, he didn't believe in "perfect harmony", he didn't like losing.

And he especially didn't like guys who tried to steal what was his.

~

"Stay away from Kagami," Tendou said flatly, and Yaguruma's eyebrows went up.

"Excuse me?" he said carefully. "Shouldn't that be Kagami-kun's choice?"

"You have your precious subordinates," Tendou told him, in a way that sounded a lot like a warning. "Kagami's mine. I don't share."

Yaguruma almost twitched. Really, he didn't think what had happened to Kageyama had been on purpose, but... well.

This was one more very good reason to consider Kabuto a threat to his perfect harmony.

~

"Kabuto is quite possessive, isn't he?" Yaguruma commented, and Kagami blinked at him.

"Huh?" he said blankly, not entirely sure what conversation they were having, but Yaguruma just laughed, a little rueful.

"Never mind," he said, patting Kagami on the shoulder. "I just think you ought to consider not getting too close to him in future, that's all."

"Uh, yeah," Kagami said, baffled, but then he decided to shrug it off as one of those ZECT versus Kabuto things and promptly forgot about it.

2. Kageyama

Kagami became TheBee. He was ecstatic. Tendou, to put it bluntly, was not.

Kagami was too short-sighted to think it through, but all his "promotion" meant was that ZECT was going to use him as a tool against Kabuto— against Tendou. He was going to get even more deeply entangled in their poisonous organisation. Of course Tendou wasn't happy about it. What was there to be happy about?

He also just didn't like Kagami's new position as another Rider, as a commander over his own troops. Petty? Maybe. But Tendou was the man who walked the path of heaven, who would rule everything. He was the one who would defeat the Worms and protect humanity. Now Kagami had his own underlings to protect, and their interests were at direct odds with Tendou's own.

Besides, Kageyama was a sneaky suck up. If he got his hooks into Kagami, it would be no better than Yaguruma's brainwashing "perfect harmony" drivel. Tendou had every reason in the world not to like him or want him near Kagami, and there was nothing irrational about it at all.

~

Kageyama walked around the corner only to encounter Kabuto, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, and promptly froze, remembering what happened last time. Ending up in hospital and losing a commanding officer he'd actually respected on some level; it hadn't been the most stellar experience.

"You have a reputation, you know," Kabuto greeted him, not so much as uncrossing his arms. "Of making your way through the ranks on your back."

Kageyama stiffened. "I don't talk to the enemy," he said, lifting his chin and tossing his hair, but his voice shook a little. All he was carrying was a handgun and he hadn't been out of hospital that long; he wouldn't have a prayer if Kabuto decided to attack again.

"You might want to rethink that habit," Kabuto continued, ignoring him. "Because if you try that on Kagami, you will regret it."

For a moment, Kageyama forgot to be scared, too taken aback by the complete surrealism of the situation. "Kagami-taichou?" he echoed, and Kabuto snorted.

"Try sleeping with that guy and it'll be the last thing you'll do," he promised pleasantly, and slung his leg over the saddle of his motorbike. "Have a nice day."

Kageyama was many things, but he wasn't stupid, and he knew when to leave well enough alone. Maybe some people would call him a coward, but he liked to think he was simply pragmatic. There were other ways of getting in Kagami's good graces, ways that wouldn't bring down Kabuto's wrath, and besides, Kagami seemed like the type that was too thick for seduction to work in any case.

The most disturbing thing, Kageyama thought with a shudder, was the calm, unbothered tone of voice Kabuto had spoken in, as if what he was saying was completely natural and sane.

~

"Taichou," Kageyama said before they went into battle, "Taichou, you have to defeat Kabuto before he does something crazy."

Kagami sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He really didn't want to fight Tendou, but what was he supposed to do? Orders were orders.

He wished Kageyama wouldn't rub it in, though, even if Tendou had kind of put him in hospital.

"Really, Taichou!" Kageyama insisted urgently. "He's a danger to you, you have to protect yourself!"

"Yeah, sure thing," Kagami muttered, and shook his head. Kageyama was so paranoid and weird, honestly.

3. Mishima

Tendou had come to accept that he was a little irrational and jealous when it came to Kagami's attention, and he didn't like other people touching him or getting too close to him. He was even willing to admit that he was perhaps a bit extreme about it.

But that was nothing, compared to this. Mishima was a slimy, creepy asshole who was going to deserve every last inch of pain he would eventually get served with when Tendou got his way, but for now, it was going to have to be enough to give him a warning.

"I know your type," Tendou said to Mishima, during one of their friendly discussions. "I've seen the way you touch your subordinates."

Mishima's eyes were unreadable behind his glasses. "Oh?"

"If you lay a single inappropriate finger on Kagami Arata," Tendou told him, almost conversationally, "I will feed you your own testes, stir-fried. And that will just be for starters."

"Really," Mishima said. "I see."

"Believe me, you won't even see the bullet coming," Tendou promised grimly, and Mishima sneered, but Tendou could see the resentful fear lurking in his eyes and was satisfied.

~

Mishima smacked Kagami Arata around a little bit, here and there, but every time he touched the little brat he'd kept it strictly impersonal.

That had surprisingly little to do with who his father was, and rather a lot more to do with the fact that Kabuto disturbed Mishima on a deep and primal level.

Not that he would ever admit that.

4. Kageyama, Pt II

"You know," Tendou said calmly when Kageyama speculatively eyed Kagami. "Sucking up to Kagami won't get you your zecter back."

Kageyama startled, practically plastering himself back against the wall in shock, obviously having not realised Tendou was standing behind him.

"Obaa-chan said, you might catch more flies with honey but you'll anger the bear," Tendou added. "Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago?"

Kageyama abruptly turned pale.

"Good," Tendou said, and went back to reading his newspaper with the reassuring feeling that balance had once more been restored to the world.

~

"That Tendou is completely psychotic," Kageyama hissed at Kagami urgently, catching his arm as he walked through the door of La Salle. "He's insane!"

"Haa?" Kagami said, totally bemused. "What the hell?"

"He needs professional help!" Kageyama said hysterically. "He's obsessive and weird and dangerous!"

"Yeah, like you're in a position to be saying that," Kagami snorted, shaking Kageyama off and rolling his eyes. Not that he wouldn't admit that lately Tendou was more than a few screws loose in the head, but why tell him about it?

5. Renge

Kagami Arata was cute, in a puppy-like way, but most of the time he just fumbled over his feet and mouth and was self-conscious and dorky. Tendou had been relying on that, to a certain extent, to ensure that nobody would get any inconvenient crushes on him.

Unfortunately, Kagami was also Gatack, and that meant along with his usual sweet awkwardness he also had moments of extreme competency where he would get this serious expression on his face, protect a busload of schoolgirls, beat up Worms and look very, very good while doing it.

Tendou was coming to grips with that and had stopping lying to himself so much about how obsessive he was over Kagami, which meant admitting to himself that he was more than a little appreciative himself of that side of the other Rider. He was not quite so appreciative of the way Renge had gone from disdain to hearts in her eyes in the speed of zero to sixty, however.

Tendou knew he shouldn't really blame Renge for swooning, but that didn't mean he wouldn't.

~

"Shishou," Renge said pitifully, after two weeks of suffering, "Shishou, are you mad at me?"

Tendou put his paper down, and his expression was completely bland, but Renge wasn't really reassured at all. "Not at all," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, lately you've been making me clean the toilet and run a lot more laps than usual," she said, twisting her hands awkwardly in her skirt. "I thought maybe I'd done something to annoy Shishou and this was punishment?"

"It's just training, Renge," Tendou said with a smile, and took a sip from his tea. "That's all."

Renge wasn't fully convinced by this reassurance, however, and after a while, it began to occur to her that these extra duties always coincided with hanging out with Kagami. She didn't understand why, but it became clearer and clearer that spending too much time with Kagami was a punishable offence.

Tendou probably had some reason. She didn't know what it was, but he was the teacher, after all. If he didn't want her to do something, then she wouldn't do it, and that was all there was to it.

Even if she couldn't, for the life of her, figure out why Tendou wouldn't want her near Kagami when he'd assigned them to work together in the first place.

~

Renge backed away a few steps, looking terrified, and Kagami frowned.

"Renge? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, sempai!" she said wretchedly, "but I can't! Shishou will be mad!"

She then turned around and ran off. Kagami stared in the direction that she'd escaped in and wondered if she'd gone even more crazy than usual.

Seriously, what the hell? Renge was so weird sometimes.

6. Tsurugi

On the one hand, you'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid to miss Tsurugi's crush on Misaki. On the other hand, his infatuation with his new "best friend" was hardly subtle either, and Tendou had heard about the bath incident. (Thankfully Kagami had been too caught up in recounting his tale of trauma to notice the way Tendou's fists clenched up in his jacket.)

Basically, Tendou just didn't trust Tsurugi within five feet of Kagami. His idea of friendship was just a little too overenthusiastic for Tendou's comfort, and Kagami was the only friend he had. He could very well start to mistake that friendship for something else, especially with the way Misaki kept putting him down. Even that idiot had to get the idea eventually, surely?

Tendou was simply going to make sure that when he did, Tsurugi didn't decide to transfer his excessive affections onto Kagami.

Really, just his friendship was more than bad enough.

~

"Quit hanging all over Kagami," Tendou said as a greeting, which was terribly rude of him and betrayed his obviously inadequate breeding. "It's annoying."

Of course Tsurugi was not going to stand for such a slight, especially where it concerned his best friend. He planted his hands on his hips and raised his chin proudly.

"Nonsense! I am the man who stands at the peak of friendship!" he declared. "KaGAmi and I shall devote our lives to each other and be best friends for everk!"

"You'll be the man who stands at the peak of castration if you don't back off," Tendou informed him, and he might have sounded fairly laid back on the surface, but Tsurugi's well-developed instincts were screaming alert! danger! danger!

He was not a man easily cowed and giving up was not a concept with which he was well-acquainted, but that was not a threat to be taken lightly, and he honestly believed Tendou meant it. Those were the eyes of a crazy man.

Not to mention the fact that the grip Tendou had on his neck ruff was making it difficult for him to breathe.

"I am the man who stands at the peak of backing off," Tsurugi croaked hastily, and Tendou let him go with a small smile.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said, almost agreeably. "Have a nice day."

Tsurugi watched as Tendou walked off with what appeared to be a cheerful spring to his step. That man was completely insane, he thought, still a little shaken. A menace to society, and more specifically to the continuation of the Discabil family lineage.

He would have to apologise sincerely to his dear friend, Kagami, but for the sake of his future happiness with Misaki-nu, it was clear that their friendship was not to be.

~

"Hey, Tendou, have you noticed that Tsurugi is acting really strange lately?" Kagami asked idly. Tendou had offered to cook, and only idiots turned down food made by Tendou Souji, so he was sitting on Tendou's couch flipping through a magazine while Tendou was in the kitchen cooking.

"Tsurugi always acts strange," Tendou said blandly, not even looking up from the stove. "So what?"

"Yeah, but this is different strange," Kagami told him, frowning slightly. "He keeps freaking out whenever he sees me and running away. Not that I care, exactly. I mean, it's a nice change not to have him dragging me into all kinds of ridiculous situations, but it's still weird."

"Mm," Tendou hummed, totally noncommittal, and stirred whatever was in the pan. "Why are you asking me?"

"I dunno, I just thought you might have some idea why," Kagami said, scratching his head. "Like, the other day I asked him if he'd seen you around and he totally flipped out on me and said something really random about eternal rivalries and friendships doomed by adversity before running off to chase Misaki-san around some more."

It had just been really bizarre. He'd barely mentioned Tendou's name and all the blood had drained from Tsurugi's face. It wasn't exaggerating to say he'd flipped out; he'd gotten all melodramatic and started wailing about unchivalrous guys who rudely interfered in the close friendships of others, and it seemed like he was trying to say that Tendou had threatened him or something, but why—

"Here," Tendou said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts by setting a very artistic bowl of chicken katsudon down in front of him, and Kagami forgot all about Tsurugi's weirdness, too distracted by Tendou's cooking to care.

7. Misaki

On some level, it deeply disturbed Tendou to find that Kagami was becoming as vital to him as his sisters were. He was the man who walked the path of heaven and would rule everything, and that meant he walked his path alone. He would protect the world so both his little sisters could smile. That was the only important thing; anything else was an unnecessary distraction.

Kagami was an enormous distraction, and Tendou sometimes found that a little concerning. Mostly, though, he was too busy making sure Kagami was safe and that there was no threat of anybody taking him away to care all that much.

And as with anything that mattered to Tendou, he took this job very, very seriously. Some might say obsessively, psychotically so; he preferred to think of it as being thorough.

Which meant that, while he knew Misaki and Kagami weren't actually dating (he wasn't always that good with parsing interpersonal relationships, but you'd have to be as thick as Tsurugi not to realise they were faking), he'd read enough of Juka's shoujo manga to know that situations like that lead to danger, no matter how improbable it might seem. He didn't really think that Misaki would ever consider Kagami in that light, but... well, you never knew.

Even if it could be considered crossing over the line into paranoia, Tendou knew that one should always attempt to be fully prepared for every contingency.

~

Misaki had been having a nice, surprisingly dull day, right up until the point where she decided to get lunch at La Salle. Tendou was there when she came in and sat down, which wasn't at all unusual; what did perturb her was when, halfway through her lunch, he suddenly started speaking out of nowhere.

"Even if it's just acting," he said, seemingly to the wall, "these things have a way of escalating. I like and respect you, but I would really feel better about it if you weren't pretending to date Kagami."

"Excuse me?" she said disbelievingly, not quite sure she'd heard correctly, but Tendou just sighed.

"Misaki," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I don't want to have to make you my enemy. Please find another way to deal with your issues with Tsurugi."

Misaki stared at him, chopsticks still halfway to her mouth. Tendou had the grace to look a little bit defensive, but if she'd been hoping he was joking, then, well. No such luck.

She would have given him a piece of her mind and made him regret threatening her, however obliquely, over something so patently ridiculous, but by the time she'd managed to get over her complete and utter incredulity, Tendou was already gone.

~

"Um, you know, Kagami-kun," Misaki said carefully to him while they were eating soba together, "Tendou-kun is..."

"Hmm?"

"Well. Tendou-kun is... how do you feel about him?"

"... Haaah?"

"Because he's quite territorial and irrational when it comes to you," she said, a little awkwardly. "I thought you should know, since it concerns you. Don't worry about the soba, my treat."

She slapped the money down on the counter and left.

"Wah?" Kagami said weakly. "Tendou is?"

This was, when he thought about it, not the first time anyone had tried to tell him he made Tendou crazy in the head, but every other time anyone had said anything he'd brushed them off and forgot about it. Mostly they didn't make much sense and looked slightly crazy themselves. It wasn't that he didn't think Tendou was crazy— as much as he cared about the guy, he was pretty much completely insane sometimes. But that was over Hiyori, not Kagami.

He respected Misaki and trusted her judgment, though. She wasn't psycho like Kageyama or weird like Renge. But what did she mean, territorial and irrational?

That Tendou. He didn't even have to be there and he still gave Kagami headaches.

8. Conclusion: NOBODY TOUCHES KAGAMI BUT TENDOU.

The thing was, it wasn't so much about Tendou touching Kagami as it was about other people not touching Kagami. Which was not to say that Tendou wasn't pathetically, hopelessly crushing on Kagami just a little, because he couldn't really deny that. But so long as nobody else was trying to take Kagami away or steal his attention, Tendou was reasonably content and had no plans of taking any actual action.

Aside from the fact Kagami might say no, it just didn't seem very necessary. Tendou was fairly content with the situation as it stood, after all; anything else was up to Kagami.

Unless he decided to try starting a relationship with another person, anyway, but whatever.

~

"So apparently the reason everyone has been acting weird and avoiding me is because they're scared of you," Kagami said, watching Tendou's expression go carefully blank.

"Really," he said blandly, and if Kagami hadn't gone around asking everyone who'd ever made incomprehensible comments at him about Tendou (including Yaguruma and Kageyama, who were a headache and a half when they got going with their forsaken hoppers of the damned spiel) what exactly they had meant, he seriously would have thought he was hallucinating the whole thing and Tendou had no idea what he was talking about.

"Yeah, really," he said, determined that Tendou wasn't going to weasel out of the conversation this time. "Because apparently you keep threatening them."

A quick look of somewhat defensive embarrassment flashed across Tendou's face, so fast that Kagami would have missed it if he hadn't been paying attention. Ah hah, he thought, but—

"That's ridiculous," Tendou scoffed, not quite looking at him, and Kagami resisted the strong urge to smack his head against the wall repeatedly.

"Yes, but I'm pretty sure five different people aren't just making things up," he said, frustrated by the way Tendou insisted on playing dumb. "Seriously, Tendou, why are you threatening my friends?"

Tendou crossed his arms, closed off body language matching the rather sullen scowl that had found its way to his face. "They're in the way," he muttered, his spine a tense line just daring Kagami to call him out on it.

"Bzuh?" Kagami said, and ran that back through his mind to see if it was just him, but no, that still made absolutely no sense whatsoever. "In the way of what?"

"They're not supposed to touch you," said Tendou, and it was the annoyed tone of aggrieved conviction that he'd used when he'd talked about how he was going to eliminate ZECT and all other Riders, that complete self-righteousness and sense of entitlement that said his world view was not to be questioned. Kagami stared at him.

"Wait," he said slowly. "So... let me get this straight. You've been spazzing out and threatening people like a psycho person over the idea of anyone touching me? For months? And not telling me?"

Tendou stubbornly didn't answer.

"Which means you don't want me being with other people," Kagami continued, the pieces slowly drawing together in his head. "But..."

"They should know better than to take something that belongs to me," Tendou said self-righteously, but there was still sullenness lurking at the edges and the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. Kagami's eyes widened.

"Are you... seriously?" he exclaimed, in a voice that was totally not a yelp. "But... but you haven't... I mean, it's been months! You haven't done anything!"

Tendou shrugged. "So?" he said, sounding completely serious. "That wasn't the point."

"Oh my god," Kagami groaned despairingly, letting his head fall into his hands. "What the hell, Tendou? You don't want me, you just don't want anyone else to have me either? What kind of insane crazy-person logic is that?"

"I didn't say that," Tendou said, in this entirely reasonable tone of voice that made Kagami itch to punch him. "I just said it wasn't the point."

The silence stretched out between them, Kagami staring at Tendou in disbelief while Tendou sat there with that air of total assurance in his own rightness until Kagami had had enough.

"Right," he growled, and yanked Tendou forward by his jacket into a kiss. Just because Tendou was crazy, it didn't mean Kagami wanted to be celibate forever.

Tendou made a muffled and vaguely panicked noise against Kagami's mouth, but he went without fighting, and after a moment he relaxed into the hold Kagami had on him and opened his own mouth, which was a clear sign of victory.

"Huh," he said fuzzily, when Kagami pulled away slightly. "Really?"

He had the nerve to look surprised, and Kagami was struck anew by how much Tendou didn't seem to get about this whole human relationships thing. His mind clearly didn't work like normal people's did; somewhere in his brain it apparently made more sense to stalk someone you liked and warn off anyone who tried to get near them than to just tell them you liked them, which made Kagami's brain hurt.

"From now on, you're not allowed to decide anything by yourself," he said firmly, because when Tendou made important life decisions on his own it never, ever ended well. "Do you realise that we could have been doing this for months if you had any concept of Earth logic?"

"It's not my fault you're slow," Tendou said with extreme dignity, and then, before Kagami could protest that it wasn't his fault Tendou was crazy, he narrowed his eyes and added, "Nobody else can touch you."

"Um, yeah," Kagami said, and rolled his eyes before saying, with extreme patience, "When two people are in a relationship, Tendou, generally that's what it means. It makes a lot more sense than going around randomly threatening people, and it usually works a lot better. You know. In the real world."

"Oh," Tendou said, then relaxed against him. "Well. Good."

Of course, Kagami knew Tendou well enough to know that the mere fact of being in a legitimate relationship would not actually stop him from threatening people in nasty ways if they so much as looked at Kagami twice, but at least it would make him seem a little less sociopathic and deranged when he did so.

("Are you sure I can't castrate Tsurugi? It would be for the good of humanity."

"Tendou.")

... Or not, but whatever, at least Kagami was happy.

Fri, 02 May 2008 15:18:49 GMT

Title: I Do
Fandom: Final Fantasy III (I... sense a trend?)
Pairings: Desch/Refia, background Luneth/Arc and Ingus/Sara
Genre: Oh my god, unrepentent sap. *flails*
Word Count: 3,706
Notes: Becky, it's your birthday! Happy birthday, Becky! Actually beckerbell's birthday was yesterday, but I'm still pretty impressed that I wrote this in one evening when my writing mojo has been so dead for so long. And diverted towards boyband!X for the rest of that time. XD
Summary: Ingus and Sara's engagement has got Desch thinking.

Desch had never really contemplated marriage before, too focussed on regaining his lost memories, but with his duty completed and Salina's expectations weighing heavily on his mind, it wasn't all that surprising that the news of Ingus and Sara's engagement had brought the issue to the forefront of his mind.

Thinking about it, however, had only led him to the inescapable conclusion that he had no idea whether it was what he wanted or not. He thought he probably loved Salina, but he wasn't entirely sure, and marriage was a terribly big commitment to make when you weren't certain.

The problem, he felt, was that he had no idea what love actually was, so how was he meant to know if he was in it? He couldn't ask Salina, because if nothing else he was certain he wasn't ready to broach the topic of marriage with her directly yet, but it had become increasingly obvious that he was going to have to ask someone, and anyone living in Canaan was immediately ruled out because he didn't want it getting back to Salina or her mother on the grapevine.

As luck would have, though, there was to be a banquet at Sasune Castle in honour of the betrothal of the happy couple, and Desch, as one of the five "hearts of light" that had been there at the end of the crystal incident, had been invited. There would definitely be someone there he could ask, and with that in mind, he'd sent mail via the mognet asking Luneth when he and Arc were leaving and whether they'd mind if he came to Ur to meet them first, since he'd never been to Sasune Castle before and would feel a little awkward if he arrived by himself.

Luneth had replied that they were leaving in a week, just before the banquet, and that sure, it'd be great to see him again, see him in a week's time.

Once he'd received Luneth's reply, Desch had made his preparations to leave for Ur— and he'd asked Cid if he wanted to accompany him, but Cid had said he still had work he needed to do and would be a little late, so Desch had shrugged and let him be. Salina couldn't come because her mother was ill in bed— and Desch felt terrible to feel relieved about that, but he was glad to have the space to consider the issue for himself and not worry about Salina overhearing when he broached the topic with anyone.

So, that all settled, Desch had set off on his own once again, relishing the reminiscent freedom of travel.

~

"Hey, long time no see," Luneth said casually, pushing away from the wall. "Arc's just making sure we've got everything packed, since he's the organised one. I always forget things if it's left to me. He should be back soon, though."

Desch laughed, clapping Luneth on the shoulder. "Good to see you again," he said, grinning widely. "It's been a while, hasn't it? I've missed adventuring with you all, it was fun."

"Yeah, Arc's always saying everyone needs to write more often, but not everyone's a bookworm like him," Luneth said lightly, fond expression taking any sting out of the words. "Refia will be really pleased to see you, though. It's good to have an excuse to catch up like this."

There was an odd sensation in the pit of his stomach at Refia's name, and Desch wasn't quite sure what to make of it. Now wasn't really the time to examine it, though, so he groped around for an appropriate response.

"I... yeah," he managed, still a little muddled by his own unexpected reaction. "I don't think I've spoken to her since you all left Canaan. It'll be good to see her again."

"Yeah, I haven't seen her that recently either, come to think of it," Luneth said thoughtfully. "Anyway, how are things in Canaan? You and, uh..."

"Salina."

"Um, yeah," Luneth said sheepishly. "You guys settling in okay?"

"It's fairly routine," Desch answered, because there really wasn't that much to say about life in a small town and he didn't really want to admit how much he missed travelling around on an adventure or how ominous the words settling in sounded. "Peaceful. I think Cid's working on a new airship. How about you? What are things like in Ur?"

"Oh man," Luneth said, rolling his eyes. "Where to begin? Okay, well, basically everyone's acting really crazy since we came back after the crystal thing..."

He then launched into a story with lots of big gestures and exaggerated faces about how all the kids who used to bully Arc had now formed some kind of hero worship and followed him everywhere and it was kind of hilarious but also kind of annoying.

Luneth was a gifted storyteller, and it was impossible not to find his evident disgust at Arc's new hangers-on funny. Desch laughed so hard that at one point he was almost crying.

"Seriously, though," Luneth finished, scowling a little. "If that one brat doesn't quit stalking Arc, he's going to have another thing coming."

Desch leaned against the wall, gathering his breath back as his laughter subsided and wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry to change the topic," he said after a moment, suddenly reminded of his own dilemma, "but I just remembered that there was something important that I wanted to ask."

Luneth gave him a slightly wary look but nodded. "Sure, shoot," he said. "What's up?"

"It probably sounds like a kind of weird question out of the blue like this, but I just wanted to ask— how do you think you'd know if you loved someone?"

"Love, huh?" Luneth said, and crossed his arms, staring up at the sky in contemplation. "I guess... isn't it the person you always want to be there for?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well... just say there's only one person you could protect," Luneth explained. "If you had to choose. Who would it be?"

Desch blinked at him. "Huh? I don't—"

Luneth sighed, giving him an exasperated look. "Everyone has lots of people they care about. Family, friends, whatever," he said, in a slightly impatient ‘stating the obvious' voice. "But if you could only choose one person, is there anyone you'd run to save? That's how you know you really love someone. For me, anyway, that's what I think."

Desch opened his mouth to answer this when it occurred to him that while there was someone he'd risk everything to protect, it wasn't Salina who floated immediately to his mind. He cared about her and he didn't want to see her hurt or make her cry, but when the chips were down, it was Refia who was first in his thoughts. When Doga had come to ask him for his aid, Desch had said yes without hesitation or a single thought for Salina or the danger he was once more throwing himself in the path of.

This was, perhaps, a lot more complicated than he was prepared to deal with.

"So is there someone like that for you?" Desch asked, to deflect the conversation away from himself and give him some room to think, and Luneth looked away, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well," he said a little awkwardly, brushing the question off. "I dunno, maybe. Come on, we promised we'd be at Sasune Castle for Sara and Ingus's engagement party, Arc's probably done by now and waiting for us."

But when they went to meet up at the edge of Ur, Desch saw Luneth's eyes soften when Arc waved, saw the teasing grin Luneth gave when he ruffled Arc's hair, and he thought, Oh.

Someone so precious to you that you'd do anything to keep them safe, Desch mused, and thought about Refia and Salina and all the uncertainty in his heart as he watched Luneth guard his best friend as naturally as breathing.

~

"We're not stopping in Kazus?" Desch asked, when he realised their trajectory had them headed straight for Sasune, and Arc shook his head.

"Refia is actually in Canaan at the moment helping Cid with upgrades to the airship," he said. "You probably just missed her when you left. Anyway, they'll come a little later."

"Ah," Desch said, and couldn't quite identify the strange swooping feeling his stomach made. Somewhere between relief and disappointment, perhaps.

The conversation fell into a short lull, and Desch walked quietly for a moment watching Luneth's confident footsteps a little way in front of he and Arc.

"Hey," he said idly after a moment, "how do you think you know whether you love someone, Arc?"

Even if he hadn't genuinely wanted to know the answer, it was worth asking the question for the way Arc stumbled over his feet and started to stutter.

"L-love?" he echoed, eyes wide and cheeks tinged faintly with pink as he carefully looked anywhere other than ahead of them. "How do you... know?"

"Yeah," Desch confirmed, nodding and casually looking away from Arc, who was already flustered enough without being scrutinised. "I just wanted to hear your opinion."

Arc walked quietly alongside him for a few minutes, but a sidelong glance confirmed that this was because he was deeply in thought.

"I guess," he said eventually, a contemplative expression on his face, "that you love someone when you always want to be by their side. Whenever they're there, it makes you feel happy inside, and when they're gone you think about them and look forward to seeing them again."

Arc had forgotten to keep being embarrassed, and by the time he'd finished talking his eyes had been drawn back to Luneth and a small smile was hovering on his lips. Desch remembered what Luneth had said earlier, thought about the way Arc would light up whenever Luneth was near and the way he never walked more than a few steps behind and couldn't help grinning himself.

Then he thought about the way he had left Salina without a word when he'd left the first time, the way he knows he'd do it again to travel with Refia, and the grin disappears from his face with a sigh.

Somehow, life had managed to turn out a lot more complicated than he'd ever expected.

~

Preparations were in full swing at the castle when the three of them arrived, castle staff bustling all over the place with food and decorations for the evening's banquet. Arc and Luneth had been whisked away by Sara's attendants almost the moment they'd arrived— as guests of honour, they too apparently had to handed over to the fashionable mercies of the maids.

Which left Desch alone with Ingus, who was standing in the middle of all the fuss looking awkward and bewildered, like maybe he felt like he should be helping but no one would let him do anything. Desch kind of sympathised.

"Hey," he said, coming to a stop next to Ingus. "Feeling nervous?"

Ingus glanced at him, offering a weak smile. "I'd obviously be lying if I said no," he admitted sheepishly, and Desch laughed lightly.

"Anyone would be at a time like this," he agreed, and Ingus nodded, smile growing more genuine as he curled his fingers around the pendant he always wore around his neck.

"It's the right decision, though," he said firmly. “I don’t regret it for a second.”

Desch glanced at him curiously, envious of his conviction. "How do you know?" he asked finally, because if there was anyone who he should be asking, it was the person getting married. "How can you be so sure Sara is the one you love?"

Ingus shuffled his feet a little uncomfortably. "Um," he mumbled, and cleared his throat. "When she smiles... it makes me want to smile too. It makes my heart fill full, like it's overflowing. To me, her smile the most precious treasure there is... I don't care about being king or owning lots of money. If I have her smile, that's enough."

Desch considered this. "So... to you, love is when their smile is the most valuable thing in your world?"

Ingus turned a little pink. "I suppose so, yes," he said, and he looked like maybe he was going to say something else when one of the castle guards came running up.

"Ingus-sama! His highness was calling for you!" the guard announced, and Ingus looked a little awkward at being referred to like that, but he nodded and cast a rueful look at Desch.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," he apologised, bowing his head in acknowledgement to the guard. "But Princess Sara is in her room until the start of the banquet and she said she was looking forward to meeting you again, so if you'd like to talk to her..."

"I think I'll do that, thanks," Desch said decisively. "And thanks for answering my question! Give my regards to his majesty!"

Ingus nodded, and Desch watched him go, waving until he was out of sight. When Ingus was gone, he stopped to think about what the other man had said; someone whose smile was the most precious treasure you owned?

Salina's smile was cute, there was no denying it, but mostly it just made him want to tug her braids or ruffle her hair. He liked it when she smiled, but it wasn't... it wasn't special, not the way Ingus had described it. All he felt for Salina's smile was fondness.

Refia's smile, on the other hand... there was something infectious about it, something that bubbled up in his chest like laughter, that felt almost like being filled with sunshine. It was hard to describe, but he was not as surprised as perhaps he should be to realise that there were a lot of things he'd do if it'd mean that smile was his reward.

Talking to Ingus had not cleared up his confusion, Desch realised. If anything, it had made it worse.

Maybe he should try asking Sara, then.

~

Sara was sitting at her dressing table brushing her hair when Desch entered the room, but as soon as she caught sight of him in the mirror she set the brush down on the table and turned to face him with a smile. Instead of her usual clothes she was wearing a white ball gown and a tiara, and she looked beautiful. Desch wondered if her betrothed had seen her yet, and grinned a little when he thought of what Ingus's reaction would look like if he hadn't.

"Desch! I'm so glad you could make it," Sara said happily, motioning for him to sit down in one of the chairs. "I enjoyed meeting you during the crystal incident, and everyone speaks so highly of you, I wanted to talk to you more. Thank you for coming."

Desch took a seat as bidden and waved dismissively. "No need to thank me, I'm happy to be here," he said frankly, settling himself down. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind, there was something I wanted to ask you."

Sara looked at him curiously, apparently sensing the sudden serious shift in his demeanour. "Of course, what is it?"

"I hope this doesn't seem to forward," Desch said carefully, "but I wanted to ask... how did you know you loved Ingus?"

Sara's smile grew, and her eyes dipped briefly to her hands clasped in her lap and the ring on her finger, unusually small and modest for a princess but beautiful in its simplicity. Desch thought she probably loved its resemblance to the man who gave it to her.

"I can feel it," she said, soft and tender. "There's no one else like him. He's special, the most unique and wonderful person I've ever known. And I want to be his most special person, too. I want him to look at me and feel the way I feel. That's how I know."

"I... see," Desch said slowly, although he wasn't entirely sure he did. Was Salina special to him? Certainly, there was no one else exactly like her, but to be pedantic about it there weren't really any two people in the world who were exactly alike.

Sara tilted her head to the side, studying him. "If you're not sure," she said finally, "ask yourself how you'd feel if they kissed someone else. How much would it hurt, to know there's someone more important to them than you are?"

Desch stared at her for a moment, and then he blinked, realisation dawning and clearing the confusion away. He cared about Salina a lot, maybe even loved her, but he wasn't in love with her. He could never marry her. She wasn't the one he'd risk everything to protect or the one whose side he always wanted to be by. He was fond of her, but her smile didn't make his heart beat. He cared, but she wasn't the one special, irreplaceable person in his life. If she kissed someone else, he knew now, the only thing he'd feel would be a guilty sense of relief.

He didn't love Salina. Which only left one thing to sort out, then, and one more person he needed to ask.

He just had to wait until she arrived.

~

Refia and Cid had the airship, so it was only a fairly short trip for them from Canaan to Sasune, but true to form they'd got too caught up in their work and only arrived once the party was in full swing. The castle attendants were obviously disgruntled at Refia's tardiness, but she just as obviously couldn't care less about having missed out on the experience of being pushed and pulled this way and that into beautiful make up and clothes, and ran straight over to where Ingus and Sara were to congratulate them whole-heartedly before saying hello to Arc and Luneth, who were sitting at the same table.

There was a place set for Refia, too, as the last guest of honour to arrive, and as she slid into it, still giggling and gesturing with her hands, Desch could feel the determination forming at the back of his mind.

He had been waiting a little anxiously for her arrival, but the moment she'd entered the room he'd felt his heart lighten, lips quirking up in response to her vivacious laughter, and without stopping to reconsider his plan, Desch immediately got to his feet and crossed the floor towards her table.

"Refia," he called out to her, and she looked up, startled, before her face broke out in an even sunnier smile than before.

"Desch!" she exclaimed, as he came to a stop in front of her chair. "I haven't seen you in ages! How's Salina?"

"She's..." Desch started, and shook his head. "Well, actually, that was part of what I wanted to talk to you about. I asked everyone else, so now I'm going to ask you: how do you know when you're in love with someone?"

Refia blinked at him, wide eyes meeting his for a moment before her gaze fluttered down and to the side. "I suppose... when you want their happiness more than your own," she said after a moment. "Desch? Is this about Salina, are you two...?"

"Then, to you, love means sacrificing what you want for what the other person wants?" he asked, purposefully ignoring her trailed off question, and she bit her lower lip, fingers twisting together in her lap.

"Well," Refia said nervously, "I guess... to me, if you really love someone, all you want in the end is for them to be happy. Even if they can't be happy with you or it means giving up something you really want, if they're happy, that's the most important thing."

"I see," Desch said, giving her a thoughtful look. "So to summarise the things everyone has told me, the person you love is the one you'd rush to protect, whose side you always want to be by, whose smile is always the most beautiful thing in the world to you, who you want to be special to, and whose happiness is more important than your own?"

"I... yes?" she said uncertainly. "Desch...?"

"Then in that case," Desch said firmly, "I'm in love with you. Will you dance with me?"

Refia gaped at him for a moment, opening her mouth and then closing it again like she was lost for words. "But," she stammered, "but you, I..."

"I'd risk my life for you," he told her, ticking it off on his fingers. "I think about you all the time and look forward to seeing you when you're not there. Seeing you smile makes me feel warm inside, and I'd do anything to make you happy. I want you to feel the same way about me that I feel about you. So if you're all right, and that's what love is, then it's irrefutable. I'm in love with you."

Refia's cheeks stained red, and she still wouldn't lift her chin to meet his eyes. "But... Salina-san... don't you two..."

"I care about her, but I don't love her," he said gently. "And you can never know for sure about another person's feelings... but although she certainly cares about me and thinks she loves me, I think maybe that's just because I was there. Salina has an ideal of me that isn't really who I am, and I think if I tell her clearly that I'm moving on rather than leaving ambiguously the way I did last time that she'll be able to do the same."

Refia swallowed. "So you... you're not..."

"I'm not going to marry Salina," he confirmed, and held his hand out to her. "I'm going to travel again, and I hope that you'll come with me. But for now, I'm going to ask you— do you want to dance with me?"

Refia finally looked up then, eyes young and unsure and a little bit scared when they met his own. He could see her hesitate, but then after a trembling second she smiled, small and tentative but genuine, and slipped her hand through his.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 10:58:24 GMT

Title: Trinity
Fandom: Final Fantasy IV (DS, for what minute difference that makes.)
Pairings: Cecil/Kain
Genre: Angst, sap... Kain being a drama queen...
Word Count: 13,421
Notes: Lookit, I wrote something! I wrote the majority of this several weeks ago, actually, but still feel absurdly pleased with myself despite only writing like two paragraphs today to finish it. XD I don't know if I LIKE it, but at least I finished it. The inherent problem with FFIV is that it just naturally leans to melodrama. I dunno, Cecil and Kain don't really go around cracking a lot of jokes.
Summary: Cecil is dense, Kain is emo and stupid, Rosa is the smart one.

VI. ROSA

If Rosa had honestly believed that her part was done when she'd spoken to Cecil about Kain and Golbez and it would all sort itself out after that, it seems that she was sadly mistaken. She had just been walking the castle grounds, minding her own business, when someone had reached out and grabbed her wrist from behind. She'd gasped and spun around, heart racing, but had been surprised to see Kain standing there in bare feet with an expression almost as startled as her own.

"Sorry," he'd said quickly, "I didn't mean to alarm you like that, I just..."

Rosa had just blinked at him for a moment, because Kain usually doesn't so much as remove his visor, let alone walk around without his armour and nothing on his feet or hands, but the thing that had really struck her was the lost and troubled expression on his face. He'd looked so vulnerable without his face hidden; Kain has so many issues with personal boundaries that even she sometimes thinks she'll forget what his face looks like. It has to be uncomfortable for him to be walking around so exposed, and she couldn't think there was any way that he would be here that way by choice.

"No, it's okay," she'd said slowly, and then, struck into inanity by the oddness of the whole situation, "Kain, your hair..."

He'd raised his hand self-consciously to his damp hair before letting it drop again, blinking back at her with eyes that she always forgets are as pretty as they are. "I need to talk to you," he'd said after a moment, not so subtly evading her implied question. "Please."

Which is how they'd ended up where they are now, sitting side by side on the thick castle balustrades.

"So you just left without even waiting to put any shoes on?" Rosa asks when Kain finishes, and he nods miserably. It explains a lot; of course the only reason Kain would leave his room in this state of undress would be to avoid a more imminent threat of conflict.

"He wasn't going to give up," Kain says, a little defensively, but he's staring resolutely down at the ground instead of looking at her. "He wouldn't go, so I left instead."

Rosa sighs, stretching her legs out in front of her. "I didn't tell him to hurt you, Kain," she tells him gently, and he flinches slightly. "Cecil just wants to help. You should talk to him."

Kain is shaking his head before the words have even properly left her mouth.

"He's the last person I wanted to see me like this," he says, a low note of desperate pleading threading through his voice. "Rosa, I can't."

They sit there together in a long moment of silence as Rosa contemplates what to say next. She wants to reach over and put her arms around him, but Kain's shoulders radiate tension and everything about his body language is screaming how much he doesn't want to be touched right now.

"Whatever you blame yourself for," she says eventually, with incredible care, "Cecil isn't upset about that. He's not going to turn his back on you or get disgusted. He's angry for you, not at you."

Kain doesn't respond, but there's something about the slight shift in his posture that makes her think he's waiting, listening.

"You're hurting, Kain," Rosa whispers, turning her head to stare off blindly at the horizon. "I know you want us to think everything's okay, but you're only making it worse by trying to pretend there's nothing wrong. I hate watching you suffer like this. I'm supposed to be a healer, but there's no physical injury for me to heal and there's nothing I can do to help you. It makes me feel so helpless."

Beside her, Kain shifts awkwardly, and Rosa glances at him, a quick flicker of the eyes before she continues.

"I can't help—I'm not the one who can make this better. I told Cecil because he's the only one whose words will make a difference now. Even if you don't like to admit it, he's the one whose opinion matters to you. He's the one who you rely on. He's the one you need, Kain, so please, talk to him. For me, if you can't do it for him and won't do it for yourself."

Rosa knows she's won even before Kain says anything from the way his shoulders drop as he lets his breath escape in a sigh. Maybe it was unfair of her to add that last part; Kain may not love her the way he professed to, but they're still childhood friends and she knows he cares about her. It's for his own good, though, so even if it was a little underhanded she can't find it within herself to regret that.

"I only wish I had half the faith that you seem to," he mutters, sounding a little defeated as he climbs to his feet, and Rosa smiles a little ruefully.

"All the prayer in the world would get me nowhere if I didn't have any conviction in it," she tells him. "One of us has to believe in something. You've got enough scepticism and pessimism for both of us, after all."

Kain snorts lightly as his feet touch down on the pebbled floor of the parapet. "Someone has to balance out Cecil's naïve idealism," he says, and hesitates for a moment. "I won't try to completely block him out the next time he brings it up. Other than that, I can't guarantee anything," he adds, and his lips quirk in a bitter smile that hurts her to look at. "I'd rather not break any more promises I can't keep."

"Kain..."

He shakes his head, and anything she might have said dies on her lips half-formed.

"Sorry for bothering you," he says, with a finality that lets her know this conversation is over. "Even if I'd rather you hadn't told Cecil, I appreciate that you're worried about me. Thank you."

With that, he turns and walks away, bare feet barely making any noise on the cold stone, and Rosa watches him go, hoping that she hasn't made a mistake.

VII. KAIN

It's not like Kain is denying that he'd promised Rosa he wouldn't avoid or ignore Cecil the next time Cecil tried to corner him. It wasn't like he'd thought when he'd said that that Cecil would give up, either, because Cecil is nothing if not persistent. Kain had accepted that he'd have to endure the Talk sooner or later.

He just hadn't expected it to be quite this soon.

When he'd headed back towards his room, he'd intended to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head and deal with all his problems some other day. He had not expected to find Cecil still there waiting for him, and with Kain standing frozen in the doorway to his room with his eyes wide with shock and Cecil himself sitting on the bed, turning Kain's helm over in his hands, it's like some kind of weird role reversal from their encounter several hours earlier.

Any thought of quietly turning around and sneaking away dies when Cecil's head jerks up, pinning him with a single look. "I thought you'd be back eventually," he says, and his tone is almost conversational, but Kain has seen that steely look of determination in Cecil's eyes before and it doesn't bode well for him.

It occurs to him at that moment that if he wanted to avoid this conversation, he'd probably have to disappear again, and even then Cecil would probably hunt him down and tie him to a chair until he listened. Not that that's an option, since it'd fly completely in the face of what he'd told Rosa.

Kain's not quite sure whether he regrets that promise or not, now.

"Yes," he says cautiously, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm back. And you're still here. Shouldn't you have better things to do... your Majesty?"

Cecil doesn't rise to the bait, just holds Kain's gaze as he sets the helm down on the bed beside him. "You're my best friend," he says calmly. "Even if you keep trying to push me away, I'm not going to give up on you that easily, Kain."

Kain swallows around the lump he can feel in his throat. There's something incredibly bittersweet about hearing Cecil say something like that in that earnest, sincere way he has, and Kain has no choice but to turn his eyes away.

"Why are you here, Cecil?" he says, the internal conflict between his emotions making his voice come out sharper than he'd intended, and in the corner of his vision he sees Cecil's head jerk up, eyes darkening. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to talk to me," Cecil retorts, and his voice is low and level but there's a hint of an edge there, the slow smoulder that lets Kain hear how frustrated his best friend is getting with him. "I need you to talk to me. Please."

"Talk?" Kain echoes, and scoffs, wrapping his standoffish attitude around himself like a protective cloak. "About what, precisely?"

"Rosa said that Nii-san... that Golbez... that he..." Cecil trails off, the composure he'd been maintaining scattering to pieces as he trips and falls over the awkward ugliness hovering conspicuously between them, and Kain's mouth twists with a contempt aimed mostly inwards. Cecil's discomfort is almost palpable, and something inside of Kain boils over, guilt and shame and frustration and utter helplessness to remove himself from this situation twisting up inside him in a roiling contradiction of defensiveness and self-loathing. He knows that rationally speaking any censure he reads from Cecil is likely nothing more than projection, but rationality has very little to do with this mess.

Cecil says he wants to talk about it, but he can't even say the words, and that feels a lot like condemnation from where Kain is standing.

"That he touched me? Is that what you're trying to say?" Kain spits when it's clear that Cecil isn't going to finish what he'd started, and stalks towards the bed, tension thrumming through his body. Cecil climbs to his feet, perhaps subconsciously intimidated by the height disadvantage, and Kain hadn't meant for this to degenerate so quickly into confrontation, but he'd only promised Rosa that he wouldn't shut Cecil out or avoid him. He's living up to his end of that bargain.

Cecil's gaze falters slightly, but he still raises his chin. "Did he?"

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you it's not true, that Rosa made a mistake?" Kain demands, letting the viciousness he feels seep into his voice, using his words like sharp-edged weapons to wound. "Do you want me to lie to you, Cecil? Too bad, because I'm going to tell you anyway: yes, he touched me, and I let him. I liked it, I begged for it, I let him use me like a whore. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Cecil takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes. "Did he make you want it?" he asks hesitantly, voice cracking like it's breaking his heart to have to ask. Kain isn't sure which answer Cecil is more afraid of, that Kain honestly wanted to let another man do that to him, or that Cecil's brother could have forced his best friend against his will. "Did he... he didn't use his influence over you, did he?"

"That would be the convenient excuse, wouldn't it? Just blame everything on mind control," Kain says sardonically, but the rush of vitriolic anger has drained away now, just leaving hollow bitterness. "How much can you really attribute to the control he had over my thoughts? How much was Golbez and Zemus, and how much was my own natural susceptibility? I'm the only one who was affected, after all. Maybe I subconsciously wanted to do everything he made me do, and all he did was remove my inhibitions."

"Kain..." Cecil says unhappily, and reaches out to touch Kain's arm, presumably trying to offer some kind of support, but Kain reacts automatically to the invasion of his personal space, flinching from the touch as his arm flies up to smack Cecil's hand away before conscious thought can stop him. For a moment the two of them freeze in place, staring at each other with wide, horrified eyes.

"I... sorry," Kain says finally, feeling just as shocked as Cecil looks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean..."

Cecil swallows, a myriad of emotions Kain can't read flickering across his face. "No, I shouldn't have... I should go," he says faintly, and Kain cringes a little at the wide berth Cecil gives him when he walks around Kain, so careful not to brush against him accidentally. He pauses for a moment at the doorway, hand resting on the frame as he half turns to give Kain a searching look. Kain shifts uncomfortably, not sure what Cecil is looking for.

"What?" he says awkwardly, and Cecil shakes his head, expression inscrutable.

"Nothing, never mind. I'm sorry for bothering you so late, Kain. I'll let you sleep now."

"Wait," Kain finds himself saying when Cecil is about to open the door, and Cecil stops again, blinking at him.

Realising that Cecil is waiting, a little uncertainly, for him to say something, Kain starts to speak, a little haltingly.

"You know, when he wasn't wearing all that armour, he looked a lot like you. I noticed that even at the time," he says, watching the way Cecil's eyes widen slightly, wondering if he's saying too much, letting too much show, but unable to stop himself. "Not just that, either. Something about his aura reminded me of you. You both have the same odd gravitational charisma, like being pulled into orbit. I wasn't really surprised that he turned out to be your brother— I think on some level I already suspected it."

"Kain...?"

"I'm tired," Kain tells him, letting Cecil hear the ring of finality in his voice. "Good night, Cecil."

Cecil hovers in the doorway for a moment like he hasn't quite made up his mind whether to leave or whether he should stay and push it further, but then he sighs, shoulders dropping as he opens the door.

"Good night, Kain," he answers quietly, and the door gives a soft snick when he pulls it closed behind him.

Kain sits down on the edge of the bed, hunching over to tangle his fingers in his still-drying hair, and wonders what the hell he's doing with his life.

VIII. CECIL

For days after his fight with Kain Ceil is distracted, dwelling obsessively over every aspect of their conflict. He sits on his throne and hums vaguely whenever his advisors try to ask his opinion on land taxes, too caught up replaying Kain's words and gestures in his mind to pay attention. Thank heavens Rosa is such a pragmatic queen, or Baron might be getting itself into some real trouble.

Cecil has to admit, this was probably not what the King had in mind when he'd raised Cecil as his foster child.

Even being aware of his own neglect of duty, though, he can't help himself. Trying to force himself to focus is useless; instead he just finds his mind straying off on a tangent without him even noticing until whoever is talking to him suddenly breaks into his thoughts to ask if something's wrong, sire? Why are you gritting your teeth like that? at which point he realises that for the past five, ten, fifteen minutes he's been stewing over the issue all over again.

I let him touch me.

There are so many things wrong that Cecil can barely separate them out, but one of the things that disturbs him the most is his own reaction, this flare of irrational rage that he can't seem to tamp down on. He's furious that Kain's autonomy was violated like that, of course he is, and that's only natural... but just the thought of them together, the mental image of Kain letting Golbez touch him, is enough to make Cecil's nails dig into his palm with a flash of simmering anger. He's a little scared by it, because he's not as certain as he'd like to be that the anger he feels is entirely on Kain's behalf. Part of him wants to believe that Kain wouldn't have let it happen had he been in his right mind, and what does that say about him?

Shouldn't it be easier to think that Kain made that choice from his own free will?

Cecil doesn't believe that such a thing as informed consent can exist where one "both) of the people involved is having their thoughts twisted like that, though, and whether or not Kain really wanted it at the time or if he was just being made to think he did, he's obviously screwed up about it now. It shouldn't have happened.

But that doesn't change the fact that thinking of Golbez touching Kain like that makes a sick feeling that tastes a lot like jealousy rise in the back of his throat, and Cecil has no idea what to do with it. He was never the kind of child who had trouble sharing or begrudged his friends other people in their lives, so he has no idea where this possessive urge is coming from or how to deal with it.

Even beyond the internal moral crisis he's suffering, there's one thing that scares Cecil more than his own anger, and that is the look on Kain's face after he'd smacked Cecil's hand away.

If he'd thought for a moment that Kain was just irritated with him, it wouldn't have bothered him, but he knows with perfect clarity what he saw. Kain wasn't just angry; he'd flinched when Cecil had tried to touch him. His reaction after it had happened proved all too clearly that he hadn't intended it, hadn't seen it coming any more than Cecil had, and the shock in Kain's eyes is burned into Cecil's memory. It was a reflex action, and that one moment had betrayed so clearly everything Kain had been trying to conceal about how badly affected he was.

He obviously couldn't stand to be touched in such a familiar way without his armour as a buffer, and Cecil can't even begin to figure out how that makes him feel. Their friendship had never been particularly kinetic, but to know that Kain will shy away from even such minor contact... to know that Kain doesn't want Cecil to touch him hurts in an odd, sharp way that can't be quantified or defined.

And then, in amongst all the anger and confusion and hurt, there is the weird, unidentifiable feeling curling around the pit of his stomach, stirred up by Kain's parting shot, words echoing insidiously at the back of his mind. He can't bring himself to think about them too closely, perhaps afraid to contemplate what they might mean.

He looked a lot like you.

So, between the anger, the guilt, the hurt and the weirdness, Cecil is too distracted to do any good to anyone, but too tangled up to face Kain again— and he probably would have continued that way for the foreseeable future if Rosa hadn't decided to intervene on the fourth night since it had happened.

"I take it you talked to Kain," she says, with no preamble at all, and the uncharacteristic bluntness startles Cecil out of his thoughts long enough to actually engage in the conversation.

"I... pardon?" he responds blankly, and Rosa sighs.

"I haven't seen Kain in several days," she says, and there's no hint of accusation in her voice, nothing but slightly exasperated patience, but Cecil still feels a sharp pang of guilt. "And you've clearly got your head lost in the clouds, so I drew the natural conclusion."

Even if he were inclined to protest, it's essentially true. Rosa has always been the smart and insightful one out of the three of them. Since there's not much he can say to refute the basic facts, he says nothing at all, just waits for her to continue instead.

She studies him carefully, pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear with a thoughtful expression.

"Something he said upset you, didn't it?" she ventures after a moment, her eyes searching his for answers. "Something he said... or something he did. You're confused."

Kain's hair, sticking damply to his flushed skin. Kain's deep voice, hoarse and gravelled with exhaustion and anger as it laid out the merciless truth (I let him touch me). Kain flinching away from him, the sharp slap of Kain knocking his hand away, the shocked look in Kain's eyes.

Cecil can't help the small noise that escapes his throat, and from the way Rosa's gaze sharpens, it's all the confirmation she needs.

"You need to talk about it," Rosa tells him, in a tone that brooks no argument. "Obviously something is preying on your mind, Cecil, and if you can't figure out what's going on in your own heart, how can you help Kain?"

That comment hits a little too close to the bone, and Cecil winces. She's right; in his current state, he's worse than useless to Kain.

"If you don't tell me what's wrong," she adds gently, "I can't help you fix it. Please."

Cecil hesitates a moment longer, because he doesn't even understand what he's feeling, so how is he supposed to articulate it? Trying to communicate it ineffectually is still better than bottling it up, though, and after a few seconds elapse he starts to talk, haltingly at first but with increasing confidence as he goes on.

"It... makes me angry. Not just... it makes me angry that Golbez hurt him, but even... just that he... with Kain... I..." Cecil swallows. "I'm angry for Kain, but I'm angry for me, too, and I don't even know why. It's like he took something away from me, but how can I feel like that? That's Kain's right, not mine. If I don't understand myself, how can I expect Kain to rely on me?"

He stops, takes a deep breath before he continues.

"I... tried to reach out, I just wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, but he wasn't expecting it, and he... flinched, he shied away, and it made me realise how much effort he's been putting into pretending he's okay. We're supposed to be best friends, but he'd rather keep something like this to himself and suffer alone than trust me with it. He's always been there, but now there's all this distance and it's like there's an ocean between us. Like I can't reach him, and he's not even trying to reach me."

Rosa doesn't try to interrupt, just listens to the words as they trip and then flow out of his mouth. Cecil falls silent for a moment, staring down at his hands in his lap as he replays the argument in his mind.

"I'd forgotten how narrow his wrists are," he says abruptly, choking a little over it. It sounds like a total non-sequitur, but he'd flashed back on the almost jarring surprise of seeing Kain out of his armour for the first time in months, and the thought had suddenly struck him. Kain is strong and he could easily match Cecil in a fight— for a start, he has both the height and speed advantages— so sometimes it's easy to forget how much lighter his build is. "I... Nii-san was so much bigger than him. Kain's the one who's always protected me, he was always stronger than me when we were kids, it just... it didn't occur to me, that maybe Kain is the one who needed my protection."

It wasn't as though the muscle strength in Kain's arms and legs had been any less plainly visible, and yet he'd looked so vulnerable without all his metal encasings protecting him that Cecil had been shaken.

"I feel like I failed him," Cecil finishes, sighing. "I feel like I could have done something, maybe... I don't know. I feel helpless that I can't make it better, angry that Kain was treated like that, frustrated and upset that he won't talk to me... and all of that makes sense, but there's also this weird hurt, this anger that he'd let someone... that someone took him away like that. I feel like a spoilt brat screaming when someone else touches their favourite toy, like I have some kind of right of ownership, and I don't understand why."

"I... see," Rosa says slowly, nodding. "So even if Kain wasn't under mind control, you'd be upset about Golbez touching him like that?"

"... Essentially," Cecil admits, a little reluctantly. "Yes."

"Hm," she hums to herself, and then, suddenly: "Does the thought of Kain letting another man touch him like that disgust you?"

"Huh?" Cecil says, startled, and flushes red as he's assaulted by another mental image, this one of Kain writhing and moaning under decidedly masculine hands that look an awful lot like Cecil's own. "N-no, not exactly... I..."

"So it's not the fact that Golbez is another man that disturbs you," Rosa concludes, narrowing her eyes in a look that sees right through him and makes Cecil's mouth turn dry with nervousness. "You just don't like him touching Kain."

Cecil doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just chews on his lower lip in helpless indecision. Rosa shakes her head, smiling ruefully.

"Let me ask you something. If I told you I was in love with Edward, how would you react?"

Cecil frowns a little at the apparent change in topics, but doesn't question it. "I don't know," he says honestly. "I suppose... it's your choice, I have no right to stop you. Just so long as you were happy..."

"And if Kain kissed Edge?" she continues calmly, and Cecil stares at her, brain refusing to process this.

"W-what? But Edge would never... Kain wouldn't..."

"But if he did? Or let's say it was Golbez. How would you feel if Kain had decided to go with Golbez back to the Moon? If they'd kissed goodbye?"

The mental image springs unbidden to his mind and for a moment Cecil's vision almost goes red, fists clenching and teeth gritting down hard. "I don't care if he's my brother," he says heatedly, and even though he never saw them together, never even saw his brother without full armour, it's all too easy to imagine. "He can't— I won't let him— I..."

Rosa says nothing, just watches him with solemn, knowing eyes, and Cecil trails off, rage draining away into a sheepish bewilderment.

"It's just. He doesn't have the right, not after what happened," he mutters, but even he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice and from Rosa's pitying expression, she's less convinced than he is.

"And if it were me?" she prompts him. "Rydia? Someone else, touching Kain?"

"I... don't want that," Cecil says slowly, revelation dawning over him. "I don't want people touching him."

"Because you're jealous, Cecil," she tells him gently. "Do you see now? You love me and you want me to be happy, but it's entirely different to the way you feel about Kain. If I fell in love with someone else you'd give me your blessing, but if Kain did the same thing you'd be hurt and angry, because you don't like the idea of him being with someone else. You want him to be happy too, of course you do, but you want him to be happy with you."

Cecil stares at her with wide eyes, feeling like the foundations of his world view are crumbling under his feet.

"But I," he says weakly, "but Kain—"

"Cecil, you're the one person on this planet for whom Kain would do anything. He may have tried to delude himself into thinking he was in love with me, but that was just his way of protecting himself— I was the ‘safe' option. He could bear rejection by me with no more than a little wounded pride, but if you'd rejected him, or worse, abandoned him... that would have crushed him, Cecil. You're everything to him."

He looked a lot like you, Kain's voice whispers in his ears again, and Cecil's eyes widen. Is that what...? But did he really...?

"Rosa..." he starts, but Rosa's smile, wistful but strong, stops him in his tracks.

"No, let me finish," she says. "You're everything to him, and he's everything to you. Don't let him down."

"But what about you?" he asks hopelessly. "What about us? Everything we've been through together? I always thought... I love you, isn't that how it's supposed to be?"

"I love you too, Cecil, and that'll never change," Rosa says, blinking away the suspicious glitter on her lashes. "But there's more than one way to love somebody. We don't have to be together to care about each. I love you— both of you, so I want you to be happy."

Cecil is struck anew by Rosa's strength, awed all over again by her courage and compassion. She's so beautiful, head held high and proud, and Cecil feels a wave of affection wash over him. His pretty, perfect queen, so smart and giving and determined.

And in that moment, overwhelmed by tenderness for her, he realises with absolute clarity that she's right: he loves her and he always will, but it's not the kind of love that he thought it was.

"And Baron?" he asks, voice hoarse and eyes prickling. "What about Baron?"

"I don't see why there should be any change," Rosa answers, fingers curling lightly in her dress as she glances down, breaking his gaze for the first time. "It's not like this has changed how we feel about each other, not really. I still love you, and I still respect you. If Troia can manage to be ruled by a council of eight, I'm sure we can manage with two."

"Rosa... I..."

"Don't worry about me, or Baron, or any of that. Kain needs you, and you have my blessing," she tells him, catching his hand lightly. "Now go to him."

"No one could ever be good enough for you, but I hope you find someone who makes you happy," Cecil says unsteadily, love and sincerity and deep gratitude filling him as he leans over to kiss her on the cheek. "Thank you. I don't deserve you."

"Go," Rosa repeats softly, releasing his hand, and Cecil goes.

IX. KAIN

Kain has had several days now to regret letting his frustration get the better of him. He'd intended to keep Cecil as far from his own mess as he could, but in the end he'd lost his temper and done the exact opposite. Cecil knows, now, in far more detail than the vague hints Rosa would have given him, what Kain had let Golbez do to him.

What's worse is the way he'd kept going, even after the anger had drained away and left him tired. It was like some kind of compulsion, an irresistible urge to tell Cecil, make him understand, push him away, something, while at the same time it's the last thing he'd ever wanted Cecil to know. Once the words had been said, though, it was already too late; things said cannot be unsaid, and Kain knows that yet again, he's changed their relationship irrevocably. Cecil can be pretty oblivious, but he's not stupid. Even he can figure out the implications of what Kain told him.

(He looked like you. Something about his aura reminded me of you.)

Kain's attraction towards him is something Cecil was never supposed to know about, the secret Kain had held closer than any other and would have taken to his grave. It's the secret that was so dangerous Kain had tried to conceal it even from himself; the secret that had the power to destroy everything between them. Kain wants more, maybe even needs more, but he would never have done anything about it, because he's not strong enough to take that kind of gamble. He would never risk losing Cecil's friendship on the small chance of gaining something more.

But now, thanks to his own self-sabotaging stupidity, that choice has been taken out of his hands.

Kain still isn't sure how to act around Cecil after that slip, not least because he has no idea about Cecil's own reaction once he'd put the pieces together. It hasn't exactly been hard to avoid him, and on the one hand that's something of a blessing, because it's given Kain a temporary reprieve without needing to go to the extreme of disappearing again (he had been tempted, but he'd promised Rosa). On the other hand, Cecil isn't trying to seek him out, and Kain had no idea what that means, but he thinks there's a high likelihood that it's nothing good.

All in all, though, when he returns to his room from the barrack showers to find Cecil already waiting, illuminated by the moonlight falling in through the window he's standing by, Kain thinks maybe he'd preferred the uncertainty.

"Twice is starting to form a habit," he says, as impassively as he can. "Shouldn't you be busy running the country? Your Majesty."

"It's the only place I know you'll end up coming sooner or later," Cecil tells him, and there's something deliberate about the way he doesn't add so long as you don't run away again, like maybe saying it would make the possibility more real. "And Rosa and I agree there's no need for both of us to be there all the time. Sometimes she goes to visit her mother while I take over."

"I... see," Kain says, although he really doesn't. It seems a strange way for a King and Queen to govern, but the former King had never married, so he doesn't really have much of a point of reference to judge from.

There's a stretch of silence where Kain stares at Cecil with expectant nervousness and Cecil's expression shifts like he's struggling to say something but can't find the words, and after a moment Kain sighs, realising that if he doesn't say anything they'll be trapped in stalemate.

"Why are you here?" he asks reluctantly, and watches as Cecil's eyes flicker away to the side, a childhood nervous trait he'd never grown out of.

"I... need to know," Cecil says haltingly, and Kain had already been fairly certain that this would be another conversation he didn't want to have, but now he knows that there's no way this can end well. "You said that Golbez... Nii-san... was like me, but..."

Kain wonders if he can just turn around and walk away now, before Cecil says any more and they have to acknowledge anything ever happened, but when he takes a step away Cecil catches his wrist, almost painfully tight. It seems Cecil's discovered a talent for finding him at his most vulnerable, when they're alone and there's no armour to hide behind. Maybe Cecil knew he'd gone to have a shower and had timed it like this on purpose.

"I need to know," Cecil repeats, with more conviction. "How you feel about me."

"Cecil..." Kain says, voice cracking a little, and stops, swallowing hard as he feels Cecil's forehead press between his shoulders, his head leaning against the back of Kain's neck. It's the middle of the night and his room feels cold and eerie, all deep gloomy shadows and blue highlights.

"I love Rosa," Cecil says softly, and Kain flinches before he can help himself, knowing Cecil can feel it but unable to stop himself from reacting. He makes a weak, aborted attempt to pull away, but Cecil's grip only tightens.

"I love Rosa," he says again, and Kain shivers, distracted by the moist warmth of Cecil's breath against his skin. "But she made me realise that I need you."

Kain's eyes widen, body stiffening with shock and confusion. In every possible scenario he'd envisioned, this had never occurred to him. He'd never dared imagine that Cecil would say something like that, and now he has no idea how to react to something so completely unexpected.

"I want to be the one you rely on," Cecil continues, low and desperate, and his fingers unwrap slowly from Kain's wrist, leaving stark white imprints behind as he slides his hand down to tangle with Kain's instead. "I want to be the one who can make this better. I don't want to live my life without you, or let anyone else be with you. I want to know you'll always be by my side, and I want to be able to reach out and touch you. So I need to know, Kain: how do you feel about me?"

Cecil's lips graze his neck and Kain lets out a small noise, more of a gasp than a whimper. Cecil's fingers squeeze around Kain's, his free hand curling around Kain's hip, and Kain reflexively relaxes back against him.

"Tell me you want this," Cecil says quietly, sounding just as unsure and edgy as Kain feels. "Tell me it was because you want me, and not just because you wanted to get back at me or because of coincidence. I need to hear you say it."

Kain opens his mouth in automatic denial, but the lie catches in his throat when he realises there's no need. He blinks, eyes falling briefly shut as he starts to speak, and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can think about them, for once not taking care to censor himself.

"He looked like you," he says unsteadily, the tips of his fingers curling into Cecil's, subconsciously seeking reassurance. "His hair and eyes... the atmosphere around him, it was almost like being near you. But he didn't have your smile, he was so much bigger than you... he wasn't you. I knew that, but there were parts of him that reminded me— and he wanted me. Even if it was just to use me, he wanted me and you didn't. I thought it wouldn't matter that it wasn't you, if he was almost... but it did, and I can't even decide if it's worse thinking that maybe he controlled me, or knowing that even if he did that part of me must have wanted it for it to work."

There's a frozen second of tense stillness, and Kain's heart almost stops when he feels Cecil stepping away. Cecil doesn't let go of his hand, though, his right hand still linked with Kain's left behind Kain's back; instead he tugs, gentle but insistent, guiding Kain around to face him.

Cecil isn't pulling hard and Kain could resist without much effort, but his natural instinct is to follow where Cecil leads, and he lets himself be turned around. They face each other with less than a foot between them, Cecil slowly releasing Kain's hand with a grave, unreadable expression. Kain wants to look away, but Cecil's eyes hold his with irresistible gravity.

"I was jealous," he admits softly, moving forward so they're breathing the same air, tilting his head up so his lips almost brush Kain's when he speaks, and Kain stays frozen, pinned and almost hypnotised by Cecil's gaze. "That you'd let him touch you like that. That you'd choose him over me."

"Cecil—" Kain starts, but breaks off, anything he might have said forgotten when Cecil reaches up, tangling his hands in the loose strands of Kain's hair to hold him in place as he leans up to press their mouths together, at first hesitant but with growing confidence. It's completely different to when Golbez had kissed him, gentle instead of demanding, and although Kain can feel the strength in Cecil's body like he could from Golbez, Cecil is a few inches shorter than him where Golbez had towered.

Even though the kiss had started slowly, it gains momentum, underscored by a hint of desperation and almost pleading. Cecil's centre of balance is tilted forward, his heels lifting slightly off the ground to make up the height difference, and, perhaps without realising it, the energy of the kiss and his weight combined are pushing Kain backwards. Kain lets himself stumble back a few steps without fighting, yielding like the tide drawn by the phases of the moon.

When the back of Kain's knees hits the edge of the mattress and buckle, breaking the kiss, it's Cecil who wavers, standing between Kain's legs and looking down at Kain uncertainly from his reversed height advantage. There's something troubled in his eyes, and Kain doesn't know whether Cecil is undecided of his own feelings or if it's Kain he's worried about, but when his hands slowly drop away from Kain's face like he's about to step away, Kain realises with sudden clarity that it's his turn to take the leap of faith. Cecil is the one who brought them here, but he can't carry this by himself; for once in his life, Kain has to act, not just react.

"Stay," he tells Cecil hoarsely, and catches his hand. "It doesn't have to be anything else, just... stay. Please."

Cecil hesitates, eyes wide and uncertain, but Kain doesn't look away and after a moment Cecil laces their fingers together once more and smiles, the same gorgeous, tender smile Kain had first become infatuated with as an awkward teenager.

"For as long as you'll let me," he agrees, and sinks down onto the bed with Kain, curled around him and over him like a blanket of warmth. His face is buried against Kain's neck, his breath hot against Kain's collarbone. Cecil's weight pins him down into the mattress, secure and real, and for the first time in years, Kain doesn't feel alone.

Staring out the window at the night sky, the moon for once somehow seems beautiful and filled with promise rather than cold and far away.

X. ROSA

When Rosa still hasn't seen Cecil or Kain by the next morning, she's concerned enough to pay a visit first to Cecil's royal chambers and then to Kain's quarters to find out what had happened after she'd spoken to Cecil the day before. It's not that she doesn't accept that they have their own lives or trust them to sort things out for themselves—

Well, actually, she has to admit it's a lot like that, but they're her childhood friends and they have a tendency to overcomplicate things. She can't be blamed for worrying.

Cecil's room had been empty, but the reason for that becomes very apparent when she goes to find Kain. She's quiet entering the room, but it's still enough to disturb Kain into alertness, and from the way his eyes snap open and his body vibrates with tension, she's certain he would have rolled out of bed and had a weapon in hand by now if not for Cecil's dead weight pinning him to the bed.

In a total reverse of the way Kain had sprung awake at the mere hint of another presence, Cecil is still asleep. Rosa is fairly certain that if there were an actual threat he'd have reacted, but it's still surprising for a trained warrior to be so trusting. On reflection, though, she supposes that Kain has more than enough paranoid instincts for both of them anyway.

Rosa and Kain both remain perfectly frozen after the initial shock, Kain's wariness quickly fading away to a nervous awkwardness that makes her think his default impulse is still to roll off the bed, although probably to hide rather than reach for a weapon.

"Rosa," he starts, in what sounds like it might be a this isn't what it looks like tone of voice, but then he stops with an expression like someone who can't swim floundering around in a carp pool. (This isn't mere speculation. It's the exact same expression of bewildered and confused panic that Cecil had had when Kain had pushed him into the fish pond in Baron when they were children before he'd realised how shallow it was.)

Rosa covers her smile with her hand, taking brief guilty amusement in the usually stoic man she grew up with flailing around desperately for something to say before she takes pity and waves him off.

"It's okay," she says, as soothing as she can. "I just wanted to make sure, that's all."

Kain looks a little less panicked, but possibly even more confused. "Of what?" he asks suspiciously, and Rosa shakes her head, feeling her curls sway heavily against her back.

"That you worked it out," she tells him, walking quietly over to the bed to sit down on the edge next to him. "That you didn't let your stubborn pride get in the way and ruin things."

Kain frowns lightly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he retorts, and he's using his stiff, formal brush off but Rosa has known him longer than anyone and she can hear the undertone of sullenness lurking beneath. She gives him a reproachful look and he flushes slightly, looking down at Cecil's tousled hair to avoid her gaze.

"All I want," she says, "is to know that you're happy. And that everything is okay now."

"I..." Kain starts, and hesitates, evidently searching for the right words. She doesn't really need to hear his answer to know the truth, though; the two of them almost glow in the morning light, a perfectly balanced silver and gold yin-yang. Rosa can feel her heart swell with the rightness of them together, her beautiful boys, and the lingering sadness of letting go is all but washed away by a tide of conviction.

"It will be," he finishes eventually, and she has to lean over and hug him, then, sliding her arms around his neck over Cecil's head. Cecil has always been a silent, ghost-like presence between them, distancing them from each other like an invisible barrier without ever even being there, but now he's reassuringly tangible and real, warm and solid like a bridge binding them all together instead of pushing them further apart.

"I'm glad," she whispers, burying her face in the curve of Kain's shoulder, and she can feel Kain's lips move in a smile brushing the side of her face; she can feel the slow rise and fall of Cecil's body against her chest, can feel the warmth of sunlight and their combined body heat against her skin, and Rosa is suddenly certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that everything is going to be okay.

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 08:54:33 GMT

I. ROSA

Kain disappearing before the coronation was not the first hint Rosa had of something wrong. He'd been acting slightly off since... well, in some ways since some time before any of this had started, but there has been something pervasively and critically unbalanced ever since they'd gotten him back from Golbez the first time, even if it's subtle enough that the others had remained mostly unaware of how deep the problem lay.

Cecil, god love him, is a very direct and caring person, but he is also incredibly dense about some things. He takes things at face-value, and this naivety is one of his charms, but it also makes him oblivious. Rosa is fairly certain he hadn't had a clue that there was anything seriously wrong with Kain, and now, after the ceremony when Kain still hasn't shown up, he's starting to panic. He'd been quite matter-of-fact about it up until now, but she suspects that's only because he hadn't considered the possibility that Kain really wouldn't just show up at the last moment.

The thing is, everyone has been assuming that it's only natural that Kain is a bit out of sorts and that everything is really okay. After all, after having his mind and willpower violated like that, after everything they've all been through, it's no surprise that Kain is falling to pieces. They all understand that; the others think that if they give him time, if they give him space, he'll get better, but they weren't there. They don't understand how serious the problem is. They don't know what happened.

No one but Rosa seems to realise how much they should be worrying for Kain.

It's not as clear cut and simple as everyone else seems to think it is. Rosa knows Kain— and Cecil knows Kain too, but Kain is pretty good at fooling Cecil into thinking he's fine when he has to, and Cecil is not perceptive enough to look deeper when he doesn't realise there's a problem. Rosa does look deeper, though, and she knows there's a problem. She even thinks she knows what has caused it, but for a long time she hasn't known what to do or say that could make it better, so she's held her tongue and kept an eye on him, hoping that she's wrong and that it's something he can work through for himself.

Rosa waited, and all the waiting achieved was that it became clearer and clearer to her that the problem isn't going away. It may be subtle, but once she'd noticed it she'd realised the pervasive wrongness is eating away at Kain and making him act weird, awkward. It's just the tiny tells that clued her in; the way he wouldn't meet her eyes or Cecil's, the way he'd sometimes stiffen slightly if anyone touched him unexpectedly, the tinge of bitterness and wistfulness and self-recrimination in his eyes and voice and smile... it's not like he'd been overt about it, at least not until he pulled his disappearing act, but to someone who knows him and is paying attention, his body language screams that something is wrong.

Kain is one of her best friends. They've known each other longer than Cecil's known either of them, practically since they were babies. She cares about Kain, and nothing is going to change that.

But she knows that even if Kain were to come back right now, she's not the one who can fix this.

She loves Kain, in her own way, and that's why it hurts so much that she can't support him through this, but everything has gotten too complicated. Between Kain professing romantic feelings for her and everything that happened with Golbez, her being witness to Kain's submission to Golbez and the tangled up mess of confused emotions that lay between the two of them that she suspects are as much jealousy over Cecil's time and attention as they are anything else... she can't be the one to talk to him.

It has to be Cecil. For Kain, it always has to be Cecil, and she thinks that somewhere subconsciously she'd accepted that a long time ago. She loves Cecil, but Kain needs him, needs Cecil the way he needs oxygen.

Rosa isn't perfect, but as a healer it's not in her nature to deprive someone else of something they can't live without, even if sometimes she has to make personal sacrifices to give it to them, and that goes doubly so for those she loves. She's willing to give Cecil up, because that's the only way any of them will be happy; Kain is miserable without Cecil, Cecil will be unhappy so long as Kain is, and she can't smile either while the two people she loves most in the world are suffering.

Rosa is strong enough to live with her choices. Kain is a warrior and he can hold his own in a fight, but emotionally he's a lot more fragile than she is and she knows that this is the right thing to do. Of course the final choice rests with Cecil, but Rosa is fairly certain that once Cecil catches a clue, once he is made aware of what is at stake here, there will be no contest. Cecil loves her, but not with the fiercely protective passion he reserves for Kain, even if he himself hasn't realised that yet.

The only problem is that she wasn't sure how much she should tell him. It's a delicate area; some of the more personal and emotional problems are things Cecil should be working out for himself, and as for the issue of Golbez...

How could she tell Cecil that she thinks his brother— that she thinks Zemus had used Cecil's brother to control Kain and violate his autonomy in more ways than Cecil might have thought? And how could she do it in a way that wouldn't make Kain hate her forever?

She hadn't been able to answer that question, so she'd held her tongue and Kain had disappeared, leaving Cecil confused and irate. Now she's starting to believe that staying silent had been a mistake; it's an issue that the two of them have to deal with, regardless of how painful that might be.

Kain disappearing wasn't the first hint, no, but it was the moment she realised that the problem wasn't going to go away.

II. CECIL

Eventually, of course, Kain returns, as suddenly and with as complete a lack of warning as he'd left in the first place.

While Cecil hadn't given up on the idea that either one of his search parties would find Kain or that Kain would voluntarily come back, he had reached the point where he was starting to feel a little disheartened. It's not as though Kain had just gone training for a week and forgotten to tell anyone; he'd seemingly vanished off the planet for a good three months, and Cecil can admittedly be naïve at times, but even he isn't stupid enough to believe that the total lack of hints as to Kain's whereabouts was anything but deliberate.

And somehow, Kain still has the nerve to act as though nothing had happened. Three months of nothing, and then one day he's just waltzing into the throne room, greeting Cecil casually like he'd never left.

Cecil has never been the kind of person to anger easily, but for the man who is supposedly his best friend to disappear without a word, nothing to say that he was okay or that he was coming back, and to come back acting like it was nothing, like there was no reason for Cecil to be worried or upset... well. He feels he's perfectly justified in the anger that swamps him, momentarily overshadowing the relief that Kain is here, that he's alive, and in a rare fit of temper, before anyone can say anything, Cecil surges up from his throne and grabs Kain's arm, dragging him out of the room past the shocked faces of friends and advisors alike.

When Cecil shoves him into an empty room and glares at him ferociously, shoulders rising and falling with outraged pants, Kain seems almost as surprised as everyone else had been, and that only serves to anger Cecil more.

"You left," he hisses, his normally soft voice sharp and harsh with his fury. "For all I knew you were dead, and you don't even have the decency to tell me where you've been or why? I was worried! Rosa was worried, we were all worried, you disappeared for months without letting anyone know you were okay..."

After three months of fear and resentment with no outlet, Cecil has a lot of bottled up frustration to unleash on Kain, and he continues along the same vein for a good five minutes or so, growing louder and louder until he's yelling at the top of his lungs. Kain just stands there patiently while Cecil rants at him, not trying to interrupt or move away, and that only aggravates Cecil more in a vicious cycle until he's yelled himself hoarse and the lack of response weighs him down. He stops yelling abruptly, and the silence that follows is jarring, the only sound the uneven rasp of Cecil's breath.

Kain simply stares at him silently for a moment before he nods and reaches out to pat Cecil on the back. "I apologise," he says, with a calm sincerity that's about as substantial as mist, and Cecil can see the meaningless, placating smile on his lips beneath the visor of his dragoon helm. "It won't happen again."

Kain's humouring him, Cecil realises. Like it's no big deal, it's not worth fighting over, it doesn't matter.

He's still angry, but the urge to yell drains away, replaced by a horrible, hollow sense of futility. He can yell all he wants, but it won't change anything: he's fighting at Kain, not with him. Kain is just going to keep smiling and apologising until Cecil gives up or loses his voice completely, and he isn't going to yell back or tell Cecil anything real or meaningful. It's like beating his fists against inches thick glass.

This fight is going nowhere. It's not as though Cecil has much experience arguing with people anyway, but this is making him discover just how impossible it is to fight with someone who won't fight back. He can't even see Kain's eyes; with all the reaction he's getting, it's like yelling at a wall.

"Fine," he says finally, tired and disheartened and ready to admit defeat. "Fine, just... be that way, whatever."

He turns and walks away, and Kain makes no attempt to stop him.

III. ROSA

While it's a good thing that Kain has come back, it doesn't change the fact that if anything he's getting worse, not better. He won't talk about anything even remotely sensitive or personal at all; Kain had never been the kind to easily discuss his feelings, but right now he's got all the emotional accessibility of a lump of rock.

"He just keeps apologising," Cecil had told Rosa not long after Kain had come back, utterly frustrated. "That's all he'll say, sorry. He won't tell me where he went, or why, or what's wrong, he just... smiles like it's no big deal and brushes me off."

In conclusion, Kain is totally stone-walling Cecil. Well, he's doing it to all of them, really, but it's most obvious with Cecil and Cecil is the one most affected by it. He's confused and hurt that his best friend is shutting him out like this, and for all that Kain is acting perfectly calm and composed there's still something broken inside that's only getting more damaged. Rosa is worried that if something doesn't happen soon Kain is going to take off again and next time he won't come back.

She has to tell Cecil: she can't let it go on like this any further.

Of course, coming to such a momentous decision like that and following through on it were two entirely different things; they were both difficult, but it takes her about another week before she built up the courage to pull Cecil aside and not just open her mouth only to close it again or say something entirely trivial and unrelated to what she'd been intending to say. (That had happened a number of times, over the past few days, and she thinks perhaps he'd noticed, because every so often he'd given her a strange look.)

"Cecil," she says, rubbing her palms shakily against her thighs. "Cecil, I think there's something you should know."

"What?" he says, looking mildly and not unexpectedly alarmed. "Why, is something—"

"It's about Kain," she continues, cutting him off in her nervousness. "It's about... I think I know why..."

Cecil goes perfectly, unnaturally still. "You know what's wrong with him," he says, eerily calm, and she closes her eyes for a moment, needing to centre herself before she can continue.

"He... he didn't want me to tell you," she finally says, and she'd tried to speak evenly but it comes out rushed. "Well, he didn't exactly say that, we never talked about it, but I could tell he didn't want anyone to know, and I... I didn't want to betray that confidence, even if it was unwillingly given in the first place, but he won't tell you himself and you're the only one..."

"Rosa," Cecil says, and she knows it's not aimed at her, but the hint of steel in his voice still sense a shiver down her spine. "Rosa, tell me."

"It was only a kiss," she tells him, because it's the best she can manage when her voice doesn't want to work. "It was only a kiss, and the way he'd touch him, but he wasn't really in control of his own actions and I think maybe that's part of what is unbalancing him so much, and I... I just..."

"Rosa, what are you talking about."

She takes a deep breath.

"Golbez kissed Kain," she says simply. "Once. While I was a hostage. While Kain was... not himself. That's all, or at least... that's all I saw, but the way Golbez would touch him... I'm not sure. Kain was so submissive."

Rosa has never really seen Cecil's eyes darken like that before, and it almost scares her. She'd known, on some level, that Cecil would go to extreme lengths to protect her or Kain, but knowing it and seeing it firsthand are two completely different things. Right now she thinks that Cecil would kill in cold blood if there were anyone left to blame, and it's the first time she's ever been remotely frightened of him.

"Nii-san," he says, something blank and unreadable in his expression. "He... did that... to Kain...?"

"He was being controlled too," she reminds him uncertainly. "Cecil..."

"No," he says. "No, I know," and he sounds collected enough, but she can still see his eyes and still hear the creak of leather as his hands tighten into fists around the edge of his armlets.

"Tell me what you think is going on," he says, after a moment, and Rosa sighs, wishing this conversation could just be over already.

"You know how much Kain hates not being in control of a situation," she says quietly. "That kind of thing... not being in charge, not only of your own body, but your own mind... it's the worst violation there is. To make it worse, I witnessed it— and to Kain, who hates relying on anyone or letting them see his weaknesses, that could only be considered humiliating. When you add that to all the other confusion and guilt and issues he's struggling with, I think he's sinking faster than he can swim and he'll drown if you don't help him."

Cecil doesn't say anything; he just flinches, gaze flickering away to the side like it's painful to meet her eyes.

"I think he'd rather die than for you to know, Cecil," Rosa finishes, when it's clear that he isn't going to respond. "But I also think you're the only one that can help him through this, so I had to tell you. Just be careful what you say to him. Please."

Cecil bites his lower lip, and then, finally, he says, "Okay."

And with that, Rosa knows, it is out of her hands. She just prays she's done the right thing.

IV. CECIL

It doesn't exactly take a genius to figure out that Kain has changed since the crystal debacle. Cecil is Kain's best friend; even when he didn't know why, he could feel the distance stretching between them. Kain was always there for him until suddenly he wasn't, and even though physically Kain is back now, it still feels like they're on different planets

It's not the first time Kain has changed. He used to be so different as a child, so much more forceful, but as he'd grown up, he'd also grown... passive? Cecil's not exactly sure that's the right word, but it's the closest he can get. When they were younger Kain was bossy and had to have his own way all the time and would pick fights a lot— Cecil was timid and easily bullied into doing things Kain's way back then, but Rosa would always stand up to him and yell at him until he'd give in and mutter a sulky apology— but when they were teenagers, Kain had gradually become a lot calmer and more collected.

He'd stopped picking the fights, he deferred to Cecil more often than not... in a way it was like he'd matured, but that wasn't entirely it, either, because in place of his overt in-your-face arguments, Kain had become the most passive-aggressive human being Cecil had ever known. He wouldn't say anything, he wouldn't even really do anything— he'd just act slightly off, slightly colder, like he expected you to figure out what was wrong for yourself and if you didn't, then obviously that was your fault for not knowing him well enough.

For Cecil, a generally straightforward person who did not often lose his patience and would just try to talk about it rationally if something was bugging him, sometimes it could be very hard to deal with, not knowing exactly where he stood.

Mostly where he stood, though, was with Kain at his side. Even though Kain would get all passive-aggressive towards him at times for no reason that Cecil could work out, he'd still always had Cecil's back. Kain has always been there and supported him when Cecil needed it.

Or at least, he had until this whole crystal mess began.

Cecil is beginning to think he should have seen the signs that Kain was irritated with him before Mist, because he's pretty sure that if he'd been paying more attention they would have been there, but he'd been distracted by the more immediate problems of the King's personality shift and his own increasing moral dilemma as the commander of the Red Wings, inattention which he's now kicking himself for. Of course he knows that Golbez was using mind control over Kain, but he's also fairly certain there had to be more to it than that. Kain would never do those things unless someone was making him, but there had to be some kind of emotion for Golbez to latch onto that would make Kain easy to control in the first place, some kind of simmering anger or resentment that Cecil knows is probably all his fault for being too self-absorbed and not a good enough friend.

Either way, the way Kain is now is different from the way he was before all the problems with Golbez and Zemus occurred. He's changed again, only this time the difference is more subtle and Cecil isn't exactly sure what to do about it. Kain is still acting kind of like before, acting kind of weird and not telling anyone what he's thinking or feeling, but he's not the same; he's not cold or passive-aggressive, and he's not angry. He's still smiling, but the smile is all wrong and this time he doesn't want or expect Cecil to figure it out. He's a million miles away behind a wall of glass, and something is wrong, but instead of relying on his best friend he's just pushing Cecil further and further away.

Angry or falling to pieces, it seems that Kain is just not that good at expressing his emotions.

Rosa's carefully worded confession about what she saw and the implications of what she didn't see make a few things fall into place— and Cecil doesn't have to like it, but they make a kind of sense he wishes he could erase.

He still doesn't have the whole picture, though, and as much as he dreads the thought he knows he's going to have to have a Talk with Kain. Cecil isn't good with words; he prefers to let his actions do the talking for him. Worse, this is such a sensitive issue that he's not even supposed to know about it, so any conversation will be like picking his way blind through a room of fatal pitfalls, trying to avoid blundering into saying something that will cause Kain to just shut down on him and make it even worse.

Unfortunately, while trying to talk to Kain might result in it all blowing up in his face, in the situation they're in this time not talking is absolutely guaranteed to end in disaster. He can feel Kain pulling away from him, from all of them, and letting it go is just not an option.

Which is why Cecil has ended up here, standing in Kain's doorway feeling awkward and nervous while Kain sits on the bed in the thin undershirt and leggings he wears under his armour, blinking at Cecil and frozen halfway through taking his boots off.

Cecil can't decide if the fact Kain has already removed his helm makes this easier or harder.

"Um," he says intelligently, when Kain continues to stare at him with a slightly baffled yet expectant expression, and Kain slowly finishes taking his boot off and sets it down on the floor.

"Is there a problem?" he asks cautiously— reasonable enough, since Cecil doesn't often come all the way to his room. Actually, it's a little strange seeing Kain without his helm for a change; they may be best friends, but lately Kain seems to wear it all the time whenever he's around anyone else, like some kind of mask shielding his expression.

"No, no," Cecil quickly assures him, and then thinks about what he's saying. "Well, yes. Not exactly. Sort of?"

"I... see," Kain says, in the kind of tone that makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't see anything at all. "So what is this not exactly sort of problem, then?"

Cecil opens his mouth and hesitates, suddenly realising that he has no idea what to say to that. He can't exactly say "you", even if it's sort of true.

"You haven't..." he says uncertainly, and stops with a sigh, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him so he has something to take his weight for him. Kain is starting to look less politely expectant and more suspicious, like he's just realised he's not going to like this conversation. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Kain says, clipped but even. "Why would there be?"

Oh, great. He'd known this wasn't going to be easy.

"You've been acting..." weird "... a little distant," Cecil says, choosing his words with extreme care. "And Rosa said..."

Kain's eyes flicker before turning hard and unreadable, and Cecil loses track of his sentence, letting it trail off into uncomfortable silence.

"Yes? Rosa said what?" Kain prompts him, and his voice is bland and conversational but there's a hint of an edge to it.

Cecil meets his stare head-on, one of them still seated on the bed and the other leaning back against the door as silence stretches between them. Kain's shoulders have shifted so his posture is perfectly straight, no longer hunched over his knees, and his chin is tilted up in challenge. Cecil feels like he's trying to lay siege to an unassailable fortress.

He realises, with sudden, perfect clarity that the only way to get through this is to stop dancing around and lay his cards on the table.

"It's like you're only half here," he says finally, pushing away from the door and taking a few steps forward to stop in the centre of the room. "You disappeared and came back without saying anything to anyone. What happens next time, Kain?"

What he's thinking, but can't quite bring himself to say, is: I'm losing you and it scares me.

Maybe Kain can't hear that, though, because he holds Cecil's gaze without flinching. "Is that what Rosa said?"

No, he wants to say, That's what I'm saying, but the words won't come and he knows the chance is lost as soon as Kain stands, barefoot, and pads across the cold stone floor until he's standing less than a foot away.

"Kain..."

Kain lays his hand on Cecil's upper arm and turns his head to the left so they're, lips quirking in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You're imagining things," he says, and claps Cecil on the shoulder, quick and sharp, before walking past him and out the door.

Obviously, Cecil thinks unhappily, it had been a mistake to move away from the door and leave the exit clear. He can still feel the warm imprint of Kain's palm over his collarbone, a fleeting and increasingly rare moment of connection between them before he was once more out of reach. These days, more and more, catching hold of Kain is becoming as difficult as keeping water from slipping between his fingers.

Cecil tried to talk to Kain, but he hadn't even managed to get as far as Golbez's name, which leaves him to wonder— now what does he do?

He hopes Rosa knows, because lord knows he certainly doesn't have a clue.

V. KAIN

After the mildly disastrous conversation he'd had with Cecil, Kain had escaped the barracks to sit alone on the parapet. It's quite inconvenient, because he's wearing short sleeves and nothing on his feet and the chill of the stone walls and floor are biting into his skin, but he has no idea how long Cecil intends to wait in his room or if the other man will try to search for him, so for now he's effectively trapped.

Rosa said...

Did she really? The words had been enough to send a shiver down his spine. He'd prayed that either she would have let what she'd seen go as unimportant or that she wouldn't tell. The former was highly unlikely; to assume that she hadn't noticed anything would be to grossly underestimate Rosa's powers of intuition. The latter, however... Well. He'd hoped. She's not the kind of woman to indulge in idle or malicious gossip. If she'd told anyone, it was because she thought it was the right thing to do.

He knows that, and he doesn't blame her; he's sure she was only trying to help. But he and Rosa had been the only people left on the planet who'd known about it, with Zemus dead and Golbez gone, and that was the way he was hoping it would stay. It was something he'd prefer to be forgotten, and Cecil is the last person Kain had wanted to know about it.

The worst part of the whole thing was how it had been against his will and yet not, all at the same time. He shudders to think of it now, the memory twisting sick and sour alongside the feeling of guilty betrayal in the pit of his stomach, but at the time, he had accepted it, with a level of passive indifference that in hindsight is actually rather chilling. In that sense, it sounds almost as simple as an ill-advised and regrettable one-night-stand. Free of mind control, however, he is painfully aware of the choice that had been stripped from him. Both physically and mentally he'd been perfectly compliant, but the ability to consent, to think for himself... that had been taken from him.

And yet: it's his own fault, isn't it? It was his own weakness that had played him right into Golbez's hands, his own stupid resentment and denial and confused tangle of emotions that he had allowed to overcome him instead of dealing with like a rational, responsible adult. In a sense he had allowed Golbez to control him— had allowed himself to be used like that by not being strong enough or trying hard enough to free himself.

He knows that Rosa and Cecil both would refute this line of thinking as ridiculous and try to absolve him of all blame, but he is also aware that it's not as easy as that. At least some of the fault is his own to bear. After all, he was the only one to get possessed. He was the only one who let his mind and body be used by the enemy.

He was the only one who slept with Cecil's older brother, and it's strange and almost absurd how that, of all the things he's done, is one of the things that most makes him want to throw up. That he'd submitted to being touched so intimately by the enemy; worse, that it was Cecil's own brother he slept with... he's not sure he has the right to look Cecil in the eye anymore. It feels like the worst kind of betrayal, and that, finally, had been what forced him to confront his own denial.

The fact that he let Golbez fuck him while he was under that mental influence should be minor compared to all the other things he did, and if anything, it should be Rosa who he feels he'd betrayed... but it isn't. It's Cecil, Cecil who had no idea and supposedly no claim over him. It's Cecil who Kain couldn't face after sleeping with another man, and it was the strangeness of that which had awoken him to the cold hard truth like a slap to the face and caused him to re-evaluate his true feelings.

Subconsciously, he'd known. He'd known he was trying to fool himself, trying to subvert his feelings for Cecil to a more acceptable target, but it was so much easier and less painful, tricking himself into aiming for something that he still couldn't attain but didn't really want anyway. He loves Rosa, yes, but as a childhood friend; he has no choice but to accept that now.

In the end, the whole thing had only served to make Kain's carefully constructed denial crumble like a house of cards, and he had been left with the pieces of a puzzle that had never really fit because he'd tried to force them together the wrong way. Everything that had happened came down, sooner or later, to Cecil.

Kain knows he doesn't deserve what he's got— he'd forfeited any right to Cecil's friendship when he'd allowed Golbez to twist his will and use him to hurt his own so-called best friend. Kain doesn't deserve the time of day from Cecil, let alone his trust and affection, but knowing that doesn't stop him from wanting even more than he's already been given.

He also knows that his refusal to explain and his evasions are causing Cecil even more problems, but this is a small measure of selfishness that he has to allow himself, because the topics Cecil is pressing on are all delicate and painful, dangerous like a field of landmines. It's a vicious cycle, because knowing he's hurting Cecil again makes him hate himself even more, but Kain doesn't even want to think about Golbez or his feelings for Cecil in the privacy of his own mind. He'd rather die than discuss either of these things with Cecil himself.

Cecil had never been suited to the darkness, and he'd left it behind a long time ago. Kain doesn't want to pollute the shining hero with his own tarnish, and there's only the smallest amount of bitter irony to that thought. Kain is always unintentionally complicating Cecil's life and dragging him down, but Cecil deserves better than that, and whatever else he was, Golbez was Cecil's brother. Kain's mistakes and problems are his own responsibility, his own cross to bear; it makes him sick to think of Cecil getting caught up in Kain's mess.

Most of Kain's thoughts and worries swirl around Cecil like moths drawn irresistibly to a naked flame, but sometimes, not often, he allows himself the luxury of feeling sick on his own behalf, and will stand under the scalding hot spray of the shower for twenty minutes in the darkness, shuddering at the feeling of phantom hands trailing his body.

The easiest way to get through this is to let it go, push it away, move from day to day and don't think don't think never think, but Cecil trying to bring it up with him has made it impossible for him to forget, and Kain is left standing in the darkness of the deserted barrack showers with his hair plastered over his eyes, fingers leaving imprints where they clutch too tightly at his crawling skin.

The guilt and shame never wash away, and the last thing Kain wants is for their stain to touch Cecil.

Mon, 18 Feb 2008 16:20:53 GMT

Title: Complicated
Fandom: Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney
Pairings: Edgeworth/Phoenix
Genre: Short & sweet
Word Count: 220
Notes: Christmas fics are kind of stalled at the moment, sorry. ;__; Unfortunately, writer's block is TOTALLY the boss of me. But... I've started playing Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney because you bastards all kept talking about gay lawyers, and how the hell was I supposed to resist THAT, so... have a random snippet. Connects onto something Edgeworth says at the end of episode 3 (Turnabout Samurai); this may end up being part of something of a more reasonable length, but I never know with me and I'd have to get further in the game first anyway, so I thought I'd just post this in case it was all that ever occurred.
Summary: Edgeworth objects to having "emotions".

"You always have to inspire such complicated feelings, don't you Wright?" Edgeworth said, sounding somewhere between exasperated and irritated, and Phoenix wrinkled his nose.

"Complicated... is that a step up from unnecessary, or is it a demotion?" he demanded suspiciously, and Edgeworth sighed, giving Phoenix a withering look.

"Must you always ask such stupid, pointless questions?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "It's what I find so obnoxious about appearing against you in court, you know."

"Hey!"

"Something unnecessary is something you don't need, Wright," he said, with exaggerated patience. "Something complicated is neither inherently good nor bad. That's precisely what makes it complicated. Try using your brains every once in a while. Honestly, it's a miracle you made it through law school."

"Well excuse me for breathing," Phoenix yelled back as Edgeworth walked out the door. "Before you go getting all high and mighty on me, jerkface, just remember that only one of us here has never lost a case, and--!"

By the time Phoenix had actually realised what Edgeworth had just admitted, amongst all the insults, the other man was long gone and he was left mid-rant, mouth open as he blinked dumbly into empty space and wondered what just happened.

It seemed that even when he lost, Edgeworth somehow always managed to get the last word in.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 15:09:13 GMT

Title: (Let's Talk About) Sex, Baby
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairings: None, really. Canon level fliration between Rose, Jack and the Doctor.
Genre: Humour
Word Count: 1,731
Notes: Drat, I can't call them January fics anymore. Whatever, this is the seventh one, and it's for littledust. <3
Summary: They've been stuck in a pocket of timelessness for about the equivalent of a week, now.

The TARDIS had gotten temporarily stranded in a pocket of nothingness left over from the Time War, which meant that, for an indeterminate amount of time that would equate to about a week on Earth if there any real concept of time actually existed in the nothingness—and that was an interesting question, wasn’t it? Was it possible for a human being to exist out of time, or did they bring it where they went? It was like an inverse of the age-old problem of the tree falling in the wood! Fascinating.

Well, to the Doctor, anyway. Not so much to Rose or Jack, which lead him back to his point: they’d been stuck on the TARDIS for a sort-of week, and Rose and Jack were bored, which was never a good thing. Rose had gotten sick of trying to understand the no time paradox on the first day, and Jack had apparently run out of annoying, innuendo-laden comments and questions to interrupt him with; the two of them were behaving like children on a long car trip. The Doctor hardly enjoyed being chained to one place either, but there were plenty of interesting things to do in the TARDIS and it was hardly like they were staring forever in the face. These silly hairless apes, they had no patience whatsoever.

The Doctor was the first to admit—when he was in a good mood—that this was part of their charm, but it got more than a little wearing at times like this.

“No, we are not there yet,” he said a little sharply when Rose opened her mouth. “And I have no idea when we will be, so stop asking.”

“I was just going to ask Jack something,” she protested, sounding a little stung. “No need to be all snippy about it, sheesh.”

He could have pointed out that she’d asked if they were almost there yet about ten times in the last three hours and any snippiness on his part was thus entirely justified, but he was determined to be the better man—higher life form?—in all of this, so he restrained himself to martyred silence.

“You know,” Jack said idly, when Rose didn’t say anything else, combating the Doctor with her own sullen silence. “I can think of something fun to do, if anyone’s interested.”

The Doctor doesn’t need to see Jack’s speculative grin to know exactly what he’s thinking. “Too bad we’re not,” he said firmly, because that way madness led. There would be no orgies on the TARDIS on his watch, thank you very much.

“Oi, have you forgotten I’m right here?” Rose interjected, self-indignant. “I think I can answer on my own behalf, you know!”

“Not in my spaceship, you can’t,” the Doctor told her darkly. “Honestly, do you humans ever think about anything else?”

“Hey, I was just suggesting we play some Scrabble,” Jack said innocently, though the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away. “Why, what did you think I was suggesting, Doctor?”

“Hmph,” muttered the Doctor, who was not born yesterday whatever measurement of time you followed.

“Me and mom always used to play Pictionary,” Rose contributed, ignoring Jack’s innuendoes. “I don’t suppose you have any paper lying around? Actually, never mind, the two of you would probably just draw things I’ve never heard of and think it was funny.”

The Doctor was a bit stuck on the mental image of Jackie’s drawing prowess—thank god she wasn’t confined on the TARDIS with them, that would really be asking for trouble—to respond at first. “You’ve heard of Daleks,” he pointed out after a moment, although he had to admit he probably would do that given half the chance, and from Jack’s grin, he definitely would. “Though I can’t promise that anything I draw will look at all like them.”

Rose sighed. “There’s no point if you tell me first, is there?” she told him exasperatedly, and the Doctor shrugged.

“I didn’t say I would draw a Dalek,” he said. “Just that if I did, you’d have heard of it.”

“Well, thanks, that’s very helpful,” she answered back, rolling her eyes, and then there was a long, awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Rose kicking her heels arrhythmically against the ledge she was sitting on.

“Are you sure we’re not almost—”

“No,” the Doctor snapped. This, he thought, this was precisely what he hated about domesticity. All those periods where you just sat around doing nothing. Being the last Time Lord should mean never having to take car trips with five year olds, but look where that’d gotten him. “Can’t you just talk?”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth and Jack lit up with the kind of grin that usually heralded the imminent removal of clothing. “Well,” he started, and the Doctor revised that last thought. Twelve year olds. Messy thing, puberty.

“Keep it clean,” he warned, giving Jack a Look. “I don’t want any tales about your various sexual exploits across the galaxy, if you don’t mind.”

“Spoil sport,” Jack teased, stretching his arms back behind his head so his back arched in what was probably a very deliberate move to show off the line of his body. “I bet I could keep us occupied until we get out of here.”

“You must have other stories you could tell, though, right Jack?” Rose asked eagerly. “Like about what you were doing before we met you?”

“I did tell you about how I lost two years of my memory, right?”

“I hardly think two years out of your life would prevent you from having any interesting stores to tell,” she pointed out, and then, with a mischievous smirk, “besides, how do you know you didn’t just get really drunk and spend the entire time shagging?”

“For two years?”

“From what I’ve been led to believe,” she said archly, “it’s still entirely within the realms of possibility.”

“Okay, good point.”

“Or maybe,” the Doctor cut in, “you stole some state secrets. I wouldn’t put it past you to do that kind of thing, you know.”

“What, like that the Time Agency is actually a front for an intergalactic, inter-epochal—”

“That’s not a word,” the Doctor pointed out.

“—drug ring,” Jack finished. “Oh, come on, like you’ve got a better word.”

“I might,” the Doctor said, more for the sake of argument than because he actually did.

“Ooh, really?” Rose said curiously, ignoring the lexical argument, and Jack shrugged, drawn back to the conversation at hand.

“Hey, could be,” he mused. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t remember if it was.”

“Wouldn’t it be fantastic, though?” the Doctor breathed, beaming all over his face. “Just think of all the mischief it’d cause!”

“Enough to be worth erasing two years of Jack’s memory, apparently,” Rose said. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about something like that, Doctor?”

“Probably,” the Doctor admitted candidly. “But the fact is that if you’re going to run an intergalactic, inter-epochal—”

“Hah!” Jack interjected.

“—operation— shut up, Jack—it would be a bit hard to hide it from a Time Lord, so it’s all academic.”

“Gotta be something else, then,” Rose said thoughtfully. “Like maybe the emperor’s huge ego is to compensate for his tiny…”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows.

“… brain,” Rose finished lamely, after a rather noticeable pause. “What did you think I was going to say? You have a very dirty mind, Doctor!”

Raslon save him from Rose and Jack’s bored and overactive imaginations.

Jack laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Although, again: two years?”

“Maybe they hadn’t perfected the process and they took more than they meant to,” Rose said. “Or maybe you really did spend the whole time shagging.”

“Shame I can’t remember it,” Jack mused. “It’d certainly be an experience.”

“I’m going to put the two of you in time out soon,” the Doctor warned them sourly. Rose opened her mouth, presumably to object to this, but before she could say anything the TARDIS lurched, knocking Rose flat on her back and jerking Jack out of his comfortable artful sprawl to crash to the floor, swearing loudly, and the Doctor, who had braced himself against the console and was still perfectly upright, checked the TARDIS’s display and laughed.

Jack and Rose stared at him, evidently not seeing the joke.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Rose accused, and he gave her a wide grin that spread all over his face. He hadn’t had anything to do with it, actually, but it wouldn’t hurt to take the credit.

“Ow,” Jack added pointedly, and then, as the thought occurred to him— “Hey, are we there now?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said smugly, stepping over the pair of them to fling the doors of the TARDIS open on sweet, blessed freedom. “As a matter of fact, we are.”

“Oh good,” Rose said. “Er. Where is there?”

Jack had climbed by his feet by this time, and pulled Rose up as he walked towards the doors of the TARDIS. “Al-right,” he said, smirking in a way that showed all his impossibly white teeth. “Las Vegas galaxies, the universal home of sex, drugs and gambolling!”

“Oh, you have got to be joking,” the Doctor said. “Jack! Jack, get back on this ship right now or we’ll leave without you—”

“Ooh, d’you think they’ve got Blackjack?” Rose interrupted him and Jack’s smirk grew even impossibly wider.

“You kidding me? They’ve got everything,” he said, taking her arm. “You never know, we might even find something that’ll trigger my memories!”

“Are either of you listening to a word I’m saying?” the Doctor demanded. “The answer is no. No, no, no, get back here, both of you—”

“Oh, come on, Doctor, it’ll be fun,” Rose said over her shoulder as she started to jog after Jack. “Don’t be a wet blanket!”

The Doctor groaned, rubbing the balls of his palms hard into his eyes. Las Vegas galaxies with Rose and Jack. If it’d been up to him, he would’ve stepped straight back onboard the TARDIS and found somewhere else to go, but he could hardly just leave Rose and Jack to their own devices, especially not here of all places. Just imagining the havoc they could wreak made him shudder.

He almost, almost wished they’d stayed stuck.

Almost.

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 10:10:04 GMT

Title: The not so quick and easy guide to parenting
Fandom: TB/X (CCS!X)
Pairings: Background Seishirou/Subaru, not the point
Genre: Disgustingly cute?
Word Count: 3,355
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for sakanagi. Sixth fic. Again with the fic of fic. Although, this one actually slots into the canon, sort of as a prequel. A large part of the second scene was in the first part of the main story.
Summary: Subaru knows that essentially adopting three small children is a terrible idea, but somehow he's never managed to master the art of saying no to Seishirou.

"Seishirou-san," Subaru said helplessly when Seishirou returned from the guest bedroom, "Seishirou-san, please tell me you aren't serious."

"But I am, Subaru-kun," Seishirou told him serenely. "They've just been orphaned. Surely you wouldn't have them sent to a state institution and bounced from one foster home to the next?"

"Well no, of course not," Subaru said, a little wretchedly. "But I really don't think I can handle this. I'm only 19, Seishirou-san! I can't even look after one child, let alone— actually, weren't there only two Monou children? Why did you bring home three?"

Subaru couldn't help feeling a bit apprehensive when this occurred to him. Please don't have stolen someone else's child, he thought despairingly. It wasn't exactly that he thought Seishirou would do something like that, so much as... well, okay, maybe Seishirou would do something like that. Subaru didn't think he had, but the mere possibility was frightening enough.

"Kamui-kun's mother isn't around," Seishirou answered, rather vaguely. "He's a childhood friend and has basically been living with Fuuma-kun and Kotori-chan for the past few years."

"What about his father?" Subaru asked, but Seishirou just shrugged. Oh well, Subaru thought ruefully. At least Seishirou hadn't abducted Kamui.

Probably.

"But I mean it, Seishirou-san," Subaru continued, resuming his previous line of argument. "I can't take care of three kids! I don't even know how to take care of one."

"I'm sure we'll work it out," Seishirou said, cheerfully and yet not at all reassuringly. "And at least they're not babies, that would be much harder."

"'It could be worse' is hardly the most convincing argument you've ever come up with," Subaru sighed, but he already knew he was going to lose this argument. It wasn't that Seishirou had the stronger side, because he really didn't; this was possibly the worst idea he'd ever come up with, which, considering some of the things he and Hokuto had cooked up together, was a pretty big call to make. Subaru was just terrible at saying no to him.

He wasn't quite ready to give in yet, though, because there was still one very practical issue here that hopefully even Seishirou couldn't ignore.

"Besides," he said, as firmly as he could, "we don't have room. They can't all stay in the guest room, and the rest of the apartment is hardly big enough to cope with three kids either!"

Seishirou, however, did not seem fazed in the face of such logic.

"Well, I was going to wait until our anniversary to tell you this," he began, and Subaru stared at him with the dawnings of terrible suspicion.

"Seishirou-san," he said cautiously, "what have you done?"

Seishirou beamed, obviously very pleased with himself. "I bought us a house!" he announced proudly. "We'll have plenty of room, Subaru-kun! Aren't you glad?"

"Oh my god," Subaru said faintly. "But you... what... how?"

"Investments," Seishirou said off-handedly, as if this was any kind of explanation whatsoever. There was no way you'd usually be able to afford an actual house, in Tokyo, let alone one with plenty of room for a family of five, on a veterinary surgeon's salary, but Subaru just couldn't bring himself to ask right now.

"Oh my god," he repeated instead. "You bought us a house? You bought us a house and adopted us children?"

"Technically, we haven't adopted them yet," Seishirou said helpfully. "But essentially yes. Why? Would you like a dog as well?"

"No, I," Subaru started, and stopped, floundering as he tried to come up with an appropriate response. "Oh my god," he said again. "We're married? We’re married and you didn’t tell me?“

"Well, yes," Seishirou said, a little indignantly. "I would have thought that was obvious by now, Subaru-kun."

"Oh my god," Subaru said weakly, because really, there was nothing else to say.

~

The next day, Subaru had had a little more time to regroup for round two.

“Seishirou-san, remind me again why we’re adopting small children.”

“Don’t you want children, Subaru-kun? You’d make such a good parent!” Seishirou told him, despite all evidence to the contrary and everything Subaru had said only yesterday.

“No I wouldn’t! I have so much work, I’d never be there, and what if I got hurt? That wouldn’t be fair on a child. And you…”

“Yes?”

Subaru had to admit that Seishirou would actually be the kind of father most children would adore, if a little lacking in common sense and sanity. “It wouldn’t be a stable home environment,” he said lamely, since all arguments about his age and capacity as a parent had been disregarded and the issue of space had already been taken neatly out of his hands. “Neither of us is responsible enough. I doubt you’d be any better at disciplining a child than I would.”

“But aren’t they cute? They’re orphans, surely you’re not suggesting we let them fend for themselves. They’re so young!”

“… Well…”

“I know you’ve always wanted children, and you’re so good with them…”

“But…” not yet, I can’t do this yet, Subaru wanted to object, but somehow the words wouldn’t form.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Most people seem to, after all.”

“Well… I suppose… how did you know these children again, Seishirou-san?”

“Their parents were friends of a friend.”

Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Subaru sighed. “I guess they do need someone to look after them.”

Seishirou beamed happily. “I’ve always wanted a daughter. Let’s call her Sakura!”

“… Seishirou-san. That would make her name Sakurazuka Sakura.”

“Yes?”

“NO. Look, she’s already got a name, and it’s a perfectly good one!”

“Well, if you really insist, Subaru-kun.”

“Believe me, I do,” Subaru said, mildly relieved before it occurred to him to be wary of Seishirou’s conciliatory response. He eyed Seishirou suspiciously, not liking the rather manic and vaguely smug grin Seishirou wore. “And we’re not calling Fuuma Sakura, either,” Subaru added, with a hint of warning.

“Subaru-kun, how could you suggest such a thing?”

“Thank god.”

“We should call him Pochi instead.”

“SEISHIROU-SAN!” Subaru yelled, and realised in that instant that he’d already caved on adopting the children.

Not on the name thing, though. There would be no changing of anyone’s names going on in this household, no matter how much wheedling Seishirou tried to do.

~

Subaru had never had any younger siblings or cousins. He had never babysat. He had never really had much to do with children at all, aside from the occasional job involving them, and he was, he felt, spectacularly inadequately prepared to be a parent.

In fact, when it came right down to it, he didn’t even really remember his own parents, and as much as he respected his grandmother, he didn’t think she was the best role model ever for how to raise young children.

Subaru wasn’t sure whether it made it better or worse that Seishirou seemed completely at ease with the situation. There was him being nervous and without a clue how he was supposed to act, and meanwhile Seishirou was laughing and joking and, and going on picnics. On the one hand it was good that at least one of them seemed to know what he was doing, but on the other hand it made Subaru feel even more awkward when he saw the contrast.

Seishirou hadn’t magically acquired an ability to make packed lunches, though. That was still Subaru’s job, and he was pathetically grateful to be at least a little useful.

Mostly he’d been trying to avoid being left alone with the kids, though, and mostly that had been successful. When Seishirou wasn’t around, Subaru just had to make sure he was doing his work in a place where he could keep an eye out to make sure nothing catastrophic had occurred without really being involved.

When he came home one day from a job to find the kitchen an enormous mess with Kotori wide-eyed and teary while Kamui looked guilty and defensively miserable and Fuuma had this frazzled, worried expression like he was trying to be the adult and it wasn’t quite working, however, Subaru suffered a moment of disconnect and wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. Should he yell? Is that what parents did? Maybe he should ground them?

And where was Seishirou when Subaru needed him, for that matter?

“We were making cookies,“ Kotori explained pititfully, and sniffled. “But the bowl s-slipped and made a mess but we were gonna clean it up after we finished but then the oven tray wouldn’t come out and Nii-chan b-burned his hands!“

“What?“ Subaru demanded, all thoughts of mess and grounding flying out of his head as he quickly crossed the kitchen to kneel in front of Fuuma who, now he looked closer, was very pale and tense. “Fuuma. Show me your hands.“

Fuuma bit his lip and turned his palms up for inspection. The skin was seared red, and while it wasn’t serious enough to require proper medical attention, they had to be hurting a lot. Any normal child would be screaming and wailing and making a fuss, and probably some adults, too, but Fuuma was just standing there, perfectly still and quiet and forcing himself to bear with it.

Subaru was too preoccupied to be thinking about what he should and shouldn’t do or worry about not knowing how to raise a child; rather, he let his well-ingrained instincts of caring for others take over, trying to soothe Kotori and Kamui (who’d started sniffling too, though he was trying to hide it) while he ran Fuuma’s hands under cold water.

“Don’t worry about the mess,“ he said, as he rubbed salve onto Fuuma’s hands and bandaged them. “I’ll clean it up this time. But don’t do it again, okay? Next time you want cookies, ask me and I’ll help you.“

Kotori and Kamui, huddled up on either side of Fuuma like sad little puppies as though they were frightened he might disappear if they didn’t stick to him like glue, nodded with wide, grateful eyes.

“Thank you,“ Fuuma added, and managed a small smile even though his hands were undoubtedly still throbbing like crazy. Subaru smiled back, ruffling his hair with one hand and Kamui’s with the other, and thought for the first time that maybe this parenting thing was doable after all.

~

The next hurdle was something Subaru probably should have expected but, well, didn’t: forms of address.

It could be a sticky enough issue as it was, when you weren’t throwing adoptive and/or foster families into the mix. When you had two children whose parents had died adopted by a same sex couple and another one being raised in the same household—

(“We can’t adopt Kamui-kun,“ Seishirou had said, in a rare flash of common sense. “We can act as his guardians, but there’s no official record of what happened to his parents. They may still be alive, after all.“

“I suppose so,“ Subaru had conceded reluctantly. He still wasn’t absolutely one hundred percent convinced that Seishirou hadn’t abducted Kamui somehow, but all the documentation was really vague and insubstantial— no record of what had happened to his mother, no father recorded on the birth certificate— so in the end he’d decided to give up and just trust Seishirou.

“Besides,“ Seishiou had added, “if we adopted them both, Fuuma-kun and Kamui-kun would be brothers. We can’t have that.“

Subaru didn’t ask. Sometimes it was better not to.)

— the mess became even stickier.

Fuuma was an accomodating child and was happy to call each of them what they preferred to be called— which was “Dad“ in Seishirou’s case, and his own name in Subaru’s. Kamui, when he addressed them at all, had apparently settled on simply calling both Seishirou and Subaru by their names. It was the easiest solution, and it was what he seemed most comfortable with. He’d already had parents (or a mother, at least), and he’d also already had an “aunty“ and “uncle“ in Sayuri and Kyougo. Besides, Subaru was a little young to be properly considered anyone’s parent, and considering how reserved Kamui was in his own way, it was hardly surprising.

Kotori, on the other hand, was a very openly affectionate child and had found a her own solution. She already had one set of parents, but that apparently didn’t mean she couldn’t have another.

“Mummy and Daddy were Kotori-chan’s parents,“ she explained, “But so is Papa. Papa is okay, isn’t it?“

“Of course!“ Seishirou enthused, overzealously pleased at the idea. “But what does that make Subaru-kun, Kotori-chan?“

And there was the true problem, because Subaru refused to be called “Mama“ by anyone, no matter how cute and affectionate they were. He’d been fairly relieved when Kamui and Fuuma had just decided to call him by his name, although Seishirou had been crushed by Kamui’s refusal to call him anything even remotely connected to daddy— enough so that Subaru was starting to be a little concerned that maybe Seishirou sometimes forgot that Kamui was a boy, not another daughter, and that he couldn’t make him wear frilly dresses or expect him to call Seishirou Papa like Kotori did.

Back to their actual daughter, however, it seemed that in her eyes, age and gender were not such insurmountable hurdles after all.

“Can I call you Mama?“ she’d asked sincerely, and all Subaru could do was stare in horror while Kamui stifled his sniggers in the background and Seishirou beamed like he was enjoying this, the bastard.

“No!“ he exclaimed, as soon as he was able to do more than sputter indignantly. “Definitely not! Isn’t just Subaru okay?“

Kotori had wilted at this like a flower in the desert. “Sumi?” she said pathetically, and Subaru blinked.

“Huh?”

“Is Sumi okay?” she asked, small, childish voice taking on a hopeful cast. “It’s like Mummy and Subaru together!”

Subaru still sort of wanted to say no, because it was still kind of demeaning and Seishirou was still enjoying this far too much, but… he just couldn’t do it. Not when she was being so earnest about it. He’d feel awful if he made her cry; it’d be worse than saying no to Seishirou. At least Sumi only had gender connotations once you knew where it came from, and if it would make her happy…

Ah, Subaru thought. So this was the true meaning of being a parent.

“Yes,” he sighed resignedly. “Yes, Sumi is okay.”

“Yay!” Kotori exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sumi!”

And, well, maybe he didn’t mind the name as much as he thought he would.

~

Out of the three of them, Kamui was the hardest child to deal with. Fuuma was mature for his age and very conscientious, going out of his way to try and make everyone happy; Kotori was open and affectionate and genuinely happy to be there.

Kamui, by contrast, was withdrawn and sullen and very mistrustful. He seemed completely impervious to Seishirou’s attention, and responded to offers to go to the zoo or to the movies by clinging to Fuuma’s hand and hiding behind him with a scowl. He didn’t seem to actively dislike Subaru the way he apparently did Seishirou, but Subaru didn’t think Kamui really trusted him, either, and he barely ever said more than a handful of words to anyone other than Fuuma or Kotori.

Obviously they were going to have to do something, and since Seishirou apparently had absolutely no clue how to handle Kamui, the someone who had to do something was going to have to be Subaru.

“Fuuma, can you take Kotori-chan out to the park, please?” Subaru said calmly, when he’d decided on his plan of attack. “Not you, Kamui, I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Fuuma agreed obediently, because he trusted adults to know what was best, unlike certain other nameless little boys, but he was prevented from carrying out these orders by Kamui’s death grip on his hand.

“Don’t wanna!” Kamui burst out, and Subaru sighed.

“Please let go of Fuuma, Kamui,” he asked gently. “You’ll hurt him if you hold on too tightly. You’re not in trouble, and I promise this won’t take long, so please…?”

Kamui bit his lower lip and his hold maybe loosened a little, but he didn’t let go until Fuuma whispered something in his ear.

“Kay, fine,” he muttered, but in that way where there was an implicit but I don’t have to LIKE it tacked on to the end.

Subaru waited until Fuuma and Kotori had safely gone, and then he’d led Kamui into the living room and sat him down on the couch.

“Okay,” he said, “I know you’re not happy here, but could you tell me what’s wrong so maybe we can fix it? You like living with Fuuma and Kotori-chan, don’t you?”

Kamui shrugged. “’es,” he mumbled indistinctly.

“Have Seishirou-san or I done something to upset you?” Subaru prompted him, and Kamui’s scowl darkened.

“We don’t need parents,” he said sulkily, still not looking up from his feet.

“You don’t have to think of us as parents if you don’t want to,” Subaru said gently. “We can just be friends who help look after you.”

“Fuuma takes care of me ‘n Kotori-chan. We don’t need anyone else,” Kamui insisted stubbornly, but Subaru could see when he ducked his head to try and catch Kamui’s expression that his eyes were shining wetly. “You’ll just leave anyway, so what’s it matter?”

“Kamui…?”

“Everybody leaves,” Kamui said, voice wobbling a little. “Kaa-san went away, and aunty and uncle died. Adults all leave!”

Something in Subaru’s chest ached sharply at that, and he couldn’t help but lace his fingers through Kamui’s and squeeze his hand.

“I know it hurts,” he said softly. “I know it hurts, Kamui. My sister and I lost our parents when we were little, too. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to die soon or leave you.”

“Yes they are,” Kamui argued, only it was more of a hiccupping wail because he’d started crying in earnest now, scrubbing desperately at his face with the backs of his hands in a futile effort to stem the hot flow of tears. “My dad didn’t even want me! No one ever wants to s-stay but F-Fuuma!’

There was no trace left of the sullen, hard-eyed child who has been living in their house for the past few months, just a scared, lonely little boy whose small body was shaking with the force of his tears, and Subaru could feel his heart breaking.

“Shh,” he soothed, pulling Kamui into his lap so Kamui could cry into his shirt, stroking a hand through Kamui’s hair. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay now. Everyone’s staying. Fuuma and Kotori-chan and I are all staying, Kamui, no one’s leaving, I promise…”

They stayed like that for what seemed like hours until Kamui had cried himself out and fallen asleep on Subaru’s shoulder, and Subaru continued to sit there, rubbing Kamui’s back gently and feeling a little overwhelmed by the chaotic mix of fierce protectiveness and tenderness swamping him. This is my kid, he thought, almost surprised. These are my kids.

Maybe he was only nineteen. Maybe he didn’t have any experience at being a parent and Seishirou was far more natural at it than he was.

But he could still do this. He still wanted to do this. And there were things that Seishirou couldn’t do, like cook proper meals or remember to buy school supplies or get Kamui to open up and talk about what was bothering him that Subaru could.

After all, most people managed, and Subaru was starting to think that maybe he wasn’t doing so badly.

~

The next morning, Kotori said, “Good morning, Sumi!” and threw herself at him in a hug as soon as he walked into the kitchen. Kamui said, “I want pancakes, Subaru! Make pancakes! Please?” and tugged on his hand, and across the table, Fuuma was smiling.

“See, I told you you’d be a wonderful parent, Subaru-kun,” Seishirou murmured, and Subaru realised that he wouldn’t trade this family for anything in the world.

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 14:32:08 GMT

Title: Five things Moist really WISHES hadn't happened (at least not to him)
Fandom: Discworld (Going Postal)
Pairings: None, except some background Moist/Miss Dearheart
Genre: Mostly humour
Word Count: 2,593
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for minkhollow. Fifth fic? I think? Eh, whatev.
Summary: Moist's life, so hard.

1. That time he’d thought it was a good idea to bring out a stamp set of the Gods, and it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.

They were always coming out with new stamp sets, because that was what they did. A lot of them were designed by Stanley these days, but Moist always had a hand in the more special stamp sets, and he’d been particularly pleased with himself when he’d come up with god stamps. There were stamps for every country, and now there’d be stamps for every (major) religion! Everyone could address mail to the god of their choice using one of that god’s own stamps!

Yes, he’d been very pleased with himself at the time. It wasn’t until after they’d begun selling like hotcakes that he started to regret it.

At least twenty small gods had come to complain about not being included in the stamp set, and while they all agreed with Moist’s argument that there were thousands of gods out there and he could hardly include all of them (particularly given many of them had no actual form), they all seemed to think that surely it shouldn’t apply to them. The Omnians had complained that the cartoon-style depiction of a tortoise meant to represent Om was demeaning and oppressive. A wizard had been by to bemoan the fact that the gods got a special stamp set and the wizards didn’t, while the wizards did a damn sight more for people than the gods ever did. Moist had considered pointing out that this apparently amounted to bugger all, but he didn’t quite like to. It would only start a fight, and besides, the gods did just as little. Instead he’d pointed out that no one would buy wizard stamps except wizards, who don’t use post in any case because they could just use magic. That argument hadn’t gone down very well, unsurprisingly.

In future, Moist decided, any further special stamp sets should be limited to the dead. Then again, they might just send Mrs Cake to complain on their behalf and that would be even worse.

Really he ought to just stick to cabbages, he thought morosely. One should never meddle in magic or religion, and they should definitely never meddle when it came to Mrs Cake. You only had to look at the walls of the Post Office to remember that.

2. That time someone tried to post a cat and mayhem ruled the coach yard.

Having reconstructed the event from eyewitness accounts, what had happened, it seemed, was this:

“There was this package, you know, in the coach, and it was wriggling, see, so Bob here picked it up and shook it, right, and it made this noise, so we thought, hold on a minute, that’s a bit odd, innit? So we opened it, right, and there was this— it was like a little demon, I swear, you know, eyes like gimlets…”

“What, you mean that dwarf?”

“Yeah, him. So anyway, this cat, right, this bloody cat springs out…”

… and chaos had been unleashed in its full glory. Moist had heard several accounts of how the cat had leapt onto the back of the horse that was supposed to be drawing the carriage, how the horse had panicked and they couldn’t calm it down before it bolted (carriage still attached) across the very crowded coach yard. Thankfully there’d been no one in the coach at the time, because it had overbalanced and crashed into another coach, and by this time all the horses were rearing and rolling their eyes and breaking lose and that damned cat was still there, hissing and spitting and clawing people’s legs as it darted through, strewing havoc in its wake.

This was the part where it ceased to be conjecture and Moist himself could unfortunately personally recall the events that followed.

He’d been perfectly content, sitting in his office with a nice cup of tea while he read the morning news, when the cacophonous sounds emanating from the direction of the coach yard had reached his ears. His head had shot up, a look of dread stealing over his face, and, banging down his paper and cup on the table with a rustle and a clatter, immediately stood up dashed towards the source of the noise.

“What the hell,” he’d said loudly when he got there, so as to be heard over all the yowling and crashing and neighing and panic, “is going on?”

“Er,” one of the coachmen began. “There was this cat, see…”

Which was exactly when the cat jumped out of nowhere and landed on Moist’s back with its claws extended. There had been a lot of fuss and trauma and the cat had knocked his hat off so it could cling very painfully to the top of his head, which had caused Moist to swear and knock over a stack of materials left lying out for repairs, which had caused even more screaming and trauma and panic and mess to be cleaned up.

It had taken most of the afternoon to explain everything that had happened and the whole day to fix it, and by the time he’d slunk back to his office he had a headache the size of Klatch and throbbing pain all over his body from where the cat had scratched him.

Moist sighed and rubbed his eyes, and on his desk, the minute hand of the clock ticked over.

Bing!

He absently got up and opened the door and Tiddles, wonderful, sedate old Tiddles, walked in and lay down with absolutely no fuss or noise or excitement whatsoever.

There was something to be said, perhaps, for boring old routines and the cats that followed them.

3. When the Post Office suffered sudden expansion of the not-so-voluntary kind.

“Ah, Moist,” Vetinari greeted him, after the usual nameless threats had been made to pry Moist out of his office with absolutely no warning at all. “How nice to see you. I’ve been expecting you.”

Oh… kay. That didn’t bode well.

“Your Lordship,” Moist said weakly. “I wasn’t aware we, er, had an appointment.”

“How remiss of you,” Vetinari said, smiling coolly. “You should take more care of your schedule, Mister Lipwig. I assume you know why you’re here?”

“…No?” Moist hazarded. This kind of ‘appointment’ always left him scrabbling frantically through his mind for anything that could possibly have gone wrong at the post office recently. “This isn’t about the new stamp set, is it?”

“Oh, no.”

“If it’s about the, um, incident with the coaches—”

“No, no.”

Moist was running out of things that could have annoyed Vetinari about the Post Office lately. Aside from some moderate discontent about the god stamps—and really, from an objective perspective it has only been a minor administrative issue; it hadn’t upset the running of the post, it had just annoyed Moist because they’d all come to complain to him personally and he really quite hated administration—nothing much had gone wrong since the last one of these little appointments.

“Gladys?” he ventured tentatively, and it was quite possibly the first time he’d seen Vetinari respond with a genuinely blank expression.

“Pardon?”

“Er, never mind,” Moist said quickly, because explaining Gladys to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was a task for a man much braver (and/or stupider) than he was.

“Hm,” said Vetinari, watching him carefully. “Quite. Regardless, I called you here today to discuss the matter of Uberwald with you.”

“Er?”

“More specifically, the matter of post runs to Uberwald,” Vetinari continued, smooth as silk. “I recall you initially promised to deliver to anywhere on the Disc, but I have yet to notice a mail run to your own country of birth. Which is a pity, as there are some things I would like to have delivered there by, oh, early next week.”

“… Ah,” Moist said, not entirely happily. “The delivery to Uberwald. We were… just about to announce that?”

“How convenient,” Vetinari replied, smiling ever so slightly. “I look forward to it.”

“Yes,” Moist said weakly. “Convenient.”

The kind of convenient where he had to find someone willing to drive a coach all the way to Uberwald. Someone willing to brave the possibility of death by werewolf. Someone who would, Moist suspected, inevitably turn out to be him, on the first run, and “government business” was always free delivery, which cast a pall of gloom over his opportunistic, money-grubbing little soul.

Oh well, could be worse. At least Uberwald was on the same continent as Ankh-Morpork.

“We can always discuss Fourecks and Counterweight later,” Vetinari added, and Moist very barely managed to restrain his groan.

4. That time the mail room almost exploded. Literally.

Moist had just been doing his job, surveying all that he was master of and revelling in the bustling success that he had created, when he had, perhaps stupidly, poked one of the packages out for sorting and it exploded.

Well, okay, perhaps that was somewhat of an exaggeration. It was more accurate to say it gave off a quick short burst of flame and fizzled. Still, it was lucky that the only damage was scorch marks on the table and slight burns to Moist. His eyebrows particularly had fallen victim, which aside from being painful gave him a singed and rather odd appearance. He didn’t appreciate having a distinguishing mark that couldn’t be taken on and off like his suit. He supposed, though, that at least they’d grow back, sooner or later.

What concerned him was not the actual damage, but rather the cause. It was clearly the contents of the package itself that had exploded. There was no other possible cause. Moist had a nasty suspicious mind, so he’d immediately started flashing on reasons someone might’ve left such a thing. He flashed back on the time the Post Office had half burned down— it could so easily have turned out like that again, and with all those people this time it would’ve been slaughter, with everyone trapped like sardines. But what was the purpose? The assassination attempts on Moist had died out once the mess with the Gilt and the Clacks was sorted out. Could it be aimed indirectly at Vetinari? At the city? Just a general desire to create terror? Because it had certainly achieved that, whatever else it was meant to do.

Moist wasn’t surprised at all when he got dragged into Vetinari’s office for another one of those surprise appointments. The tyrant of Ankh-Morpork was damn good at what he did, which meant his mind was just as nasty and cynical as Moist’s own.

Unlike Moist, though, Vetinari held all the cards, and knew exactly who was behind the apparent bombing attempt.

“A hapless alchemist, it seems,” Vetinari informed him, steepling his fingers in front of his nose. “He intended to send some materials to a colleague and packed them together without considering the way they would react to each other. This carelessness is, I presume, the reason that the Alchemist’s Guild so frequently requires rebuilding.”

“Oh,” Moist said, but Vetinari was still giving him that look, and even without that he didn’t feel particularly relieved. The incident was nothing more than an accident, but that wasn’t the end of it by far.

No. Moist knew the criminal mind. His was the criminal mind. Give people a new and exciting way to break the law, and others would follow. He wouldn’t have done it himself— he’d never liked violent crimes— but he still recognised that others would. Whether this had been an accident or not, it proved that you could blow up the Post Office by concealing the explosives in a letter, which meant that others would try it, for real, unless they did something to counteract that. Just banning people from sending volatile substances wasn’t going to help if they were too stupid to realise or, more worryingly, if they were doing it on purpose.

This time was an accident, and the chemical reaction had only had the chance to scorch the sorting table it was on and singe off Moist’s eyebrows. But next time…

Well. Moist was determined to make sure there wasn’t going to be a next time.

5. Hogswatch. Just… Hogswatch.

Back before he’d died and essentially sold his soul to Vetinari, Moist had always been rather fond of Hogswatch. It was a time of cheer, of goodwill, of cheating and slander and lots of embezzlement. People got especially greedy around Hogswatch, especially stupid and naïve. It was as if something in their hindbrain told them that okay, maybe you think this whole season of giving thing is bullocks, but that guy promising you a good deal on a genuine diamond ring because he needs the money to buy gifts for his family? Well, he seems to believe in it, doesn’t he?

Yes, some of his best swindling had been done around Hogswatch; it was a time of great cheer indeed if you were Moist von Lipwig, or whoever he was at the particular time.

This year, however, he had made the grave mistake, when Sacharissa had asked him how he felt about the Hogswatch season with her pen hovering over her pad like an eagle waiting to swoop upon a hapless turtle, of letting himself be swept up in another of those moments of lunacy where his mouth ran away from his brain.

“Really,” he’d said, as the idea unfolded in his mind, “really, the Hogfather is just another kind of postman, isn’t he? We don’t promise to deliver down chimneys, but we will get your Hogswatch presents there right on time if you make the right delivery! Sto Lat Hogswatch delivery will be leaving on Hogswatch Eve!”

And of course now everyone wanted to send a Hogswatch card (or worse, present) to their dear old Auntie, and because of Moist’s temporary but increasingly frequent leave of sanity, it was not only enough to get them there: he had to get them there on time. Exactly time. Not even early would do. And they would all have to work on Hogswatch.

It was just as well, he thought morosely, that only crazy people worked at the Post Office, people indoctrinated and fiercely loyal to the post, because otherwise he’d have a mutiny on his hands.

Mutiny or not, though, it didn’t change the fact that the Post Office was insanely busy, so busy that Moist couldn’t even wade to the front door through all the customers in his way and streaming down the street. He didn’t see how they could possibly get all the Ankh-Morpork deliveries done, let alone the foreign ones. He’d gone and promised the impossible again, and now he was stuck with it.

So he did the only thing he could do in this situation.

He asked Miss Dearheart out to dinner. There was a regrettable lack of audience this time, but she hadn’t definitely refused to marry him, so he felt he had momentum and possibly the season of good tidings on his side.

“I hate Hogswatch,” she pointed out.

“So do I,” he said cheerfully. “Dinner, Miss Dearheart?”

Spike stared at him for a very long moment before saying, “I suppose. But you’re paying.” as if there’d ever been any doubt, and Moist grinned.

He could feel the fizz of the challenge running through his veins, the one he always got when things got interesting. Moist had promised the impossible, but he would deliver. Moist always delivered.

He was the Postmaster General, after all.

Sat, 19 Jan 2008 10:32:09 GMT

Title: Counterpoint
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Pairings: Schuldig/Nagi, Schuldig/Farfarello, Schuldig/Youji, Schuldig->Crawford
Genre: Fucked up?
Word Count: 2,774
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for sylveraven. Fourth fic. Whatever, it is STILL JANUARY. I don't even know how to tag this. *gives up even trying*
Summary: Schuldig likes to share his issues around.

The problem with Schuldig— one of the many, many problems with Schuldig— was that he was a wildcard. His problem with authority was infamous, because it wasn’t just rebellion. It was total disregard for anything.

He always did exactly what he wanted, damn the consequences, not because he was incapable of understanding them but because he just didn’t care. Someone who was simply stupid and thoughtless could eventually learn through painful negative reinforcement, but Schuldig… Schuldig just took the punishment and laughed. Any physical retribution had no effect other than to encourage him, and it was impossible to confine him. He had nothing else to take away, no freedom to restrict, no treasured possessions, nothing he cared about. He respected nothing and no one, and he was perfectly capable of getting everything he wanted through a combination of sex and tricks and abuse of his powers.

Only someone who truly understood power imbalance knew that you could destroy someone’s hold over you by being on the bottom when you let them fuck you. The best way to undermine authority was to debase it; anyone trying to exert control over Schuldig lost the moment they gave into the temptation Schuldig always made sure to provide.

Crawford, though, Crawford just gave him this withering look, like he knew exactly what Schuldig was doing and had no intention of allowing it, and that was different. That was new, a twisted new game that piqued Schuldig’s interest. He kept trying, and Crawford kept casually rebuffing him.

Schuldig still hadn’t completely given up trying, although he wasn’t sure he expected to succeed anymore. Crawford with his continuous refusals had managed what no one else had, though, and had secured Schuldig’s nominal obedience and something that was almost like respect. When Crawford said jump, Schuldig would ask where to just so he could deliberately jump the opposite direction, but at least he jumped.

Sometimes Schuldig would take a deliberate step out of line now and then just to stir things up, but for the most part, he obeyed. He’d do things Crawford’s way for now, at least until he got bored again.

~

(Sex is a weapon.

The question is: who is that weapon pointing towards? Sometimes it can be a double-edged sword, which is exactly the way Schuldig likes it. He’s always been as much a masochist as he is a sadist, after all.

So far, Crawford is the only one to have turned him down.)

~

“No,” said Nagi.

Schuldig could use his powers to make Nagi cave to his will, but instead he chose to exercise his persuasive skills by annoying Nagi into saying yes. It might be a bizarre form of respect for the members of his team. It might be for some obscure reason that made sense only to him. Alternatively, it could be for no reason at all.

“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun,” he wheedled, spinning around on his wheelie chair.

“No,” Nagi repeated, a little more firmly. In his head, Tot was dying. “Go find someone else to annoy.”

“But I want to annoy you,” Schuldig said, mock earnestly like this was supposed to be a compliment. “You should just say yes, since I’m not going to get bored until you give in.”

“That,” Nagi answered, flatly, “would be a stupid reason to agree to sleep with you.”

Schuldig shrugged. “So?”

Nagi sighed. “So,” he said, pushing himself away from the desk where he’d been trying to do homework, “I’m going to go make dinner. You can stay here if you like.”

When Nagi stood and moved to walk to the door, Schuldig hooked his leg around Nagi’s ankles and yanked, tripping him painfully to the floor. Nagi winced briefly, but then he just looked resigned, sighing as Schuldig slid off the desk chair to straddle his hips and pin his wrists. It looked like he’d expected it.

“You’re not going to give up until I say yes, are you?” he asked ruefully.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Schuldig purred, and nipped sharply at Nagi’s neck, grinning viciously at the way the younger boy flinched. “I’ll make it good for you, you know.”

It was no idle boast. Schuldig knew he was good— he’d had a lot of practice, after all. Nagi should be grateful for his generous tuition.

Oh, Schuldig made it good, all right, but he didn't make it special. It was something sordid and base, on the hard wooden floor with no flowery words, no gestures with any meaning beyond empty lust. This was just sex, which was exactly how it ought to be. Nagi was an assassin; cold, harsh reality was something he should be used to by now.

Afterwards, when they were lying on the floor and Schuldig was staring at the ceiling blankly, Nagi kept watching him, sitting next to him utterly debauched and still half dressed.

“What?” Schuldig snapped eventually, when it got annoying. “Stop staring, brat.”

“Why?” Nagi asked him quietly, ignoring his irritation. “Crawford will kill us both if he finds out.”

Schuldig’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. “Because I could," he said, voice sardonic and flip on the surface but so hollow beneath, and he pushed to his feet, grabbing the clothes strewn around the floor without bothering to put them on and ignoring the worry tinging Nagi’s thoughts and eyes.

Kid was stupid; Schuldig did this shit because he wanted to, nothing else.

~

(A kid like Nagi has already seen and done more than most adults, has already been corrupted almost completely by their lifestyle. As the episode with Tot proved, however, there’s still a part of his childhood that remains, and Schuldig wants to tarnish those last shreds of innocence, wants to smear his dirty handprints all over so there’s nothing left untainted. Nagi’s a minor, whichever way you view it, and mature as he is in a lot of ways, he isn’t really that kind of mature.

Schuldig wants to drag Nagi down to his level, not so pure but very simple.

Sex is a tool, but when you use it to get what you want, often you’re the one who ends up feeling used. Schuldig wants to make Nagi feel like that; wants him to be haunted by the lingering phantom of touch crawling over his skin, the sickly sweet stench of sex that chokes him and never quite goes away.

A part of you never washes yourself clean, and Schuldig knows that better than anyone.)

~

On occasion, it seemed, Schuldig and Youji frequented the same bars, perhaps by coincidence, perhaps by design.

“Fine,” Youji said carelessly when Schuldig crowded him up against the wall of the alley with a smile filled with sharp-edged knives. “I’m up for it if you are.”

“How do you know?” Schuldig challenged him. “I could make you think you wanted it and it’d all be the same to you, you know.”

Youji shrugged. “Would it matter?”

Schuldig eyed him curiously. Youji was thinking that it didn’t really seem like Schuldig’s modus operandi to make people want him. He was right; Schuldig had tried it a few times, but it was boring, no fun at all, no challenge. It was more fun to make them wonder if what they were doing was really their own free will.

“Not really,” he said, and then he smirked nastily. “Besides,” he added, only it wasn’t Schuldig’s voice speaking anymore. “If I’m going to violate you, there are so much better ways I could do it.”

Youji’s eyes widened, but it wasn’t Schuldig he was staring at, not really. It wasn’t Schuldig he was seeing. “Asuka?” he said uncertainly, and Schuldig laughed.

“Who else?” he said mockingly, and yanked Youji’s head close for a savage kiss.

By the time he let go of the twisted illusions he’d planted in Youji’s mind to make him see and think what Schuldig wanted him to, it was already far, far too late. The damage was done; their bodies were already sticky with a mess of body fluids, and Schuldig had committed the ultimate betrayal of consent.

Youji’s eyes went wide with shock the moment his mind was released, reality rushing back in and retrospectivity tainting the picture.

“You…” he said, voice and body both trembling with rage. “How could you…”

“I told you,” Schuldig said smugly. “I can violate you in ways that are so much more interesting than simple rape.”

Schuldig was laughing when Youji’s fist smacked into his face, and he could have avoided it, he could have stopped it, but he didn’t try, relishing the pain, the backlash of the damage he’d caused.

The funniest thing was that when Youji’s rage finally ran out, when Schuldig was swollen and bleeding but still laughing and Youji was too exhausted to hit him anymore, when Youji slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands and started to cry, Schuldig could hear his thoughts and knew that he wasn’t crying for Asuka. What hurt was that he didn’t hurt; it seemed that even the deepest scars had a limit on how long they could keep aching for, and all Youji could feel when the initial rage ran out was apathy and self-loathing for his inability to care.

Schuldig had let Youji beat him up pretty badly, but he was still able to stagger to his feet, leaving Youji all alone with his ghosts and misery in the alley.

Nagi’s eyes were wide and confused when Schuldig came home, wide smile across his bruised and bloodied mouth with contusions and the red and purple marks of violence evident all over his body. Crawford frowned, but didn’t say anything, not yet.

It was Schuldig’s personal game of self-destruction, and he wasn’t going to let anyone interfere when he was only just getting started.

~

(Schuldig was taught how to be someone he’s not to please another long before he ever learned how to use his powers. The only difference is that now he’s more convincing, and the other party no longer has to be a willing accomplice to his pretence. Fear and suffering are a much more satisfying currency, even if in the end they leave him empty and craving more just as much as any drug.

He’s the perfect chameleon, and he’s honed it into a weapon of terror.

Of course, like any of Schuldig’s weapons it is just as dangerous to the one wielding it. The bitterness of being the eternal understudy, only good as someone else, is insidious; on bad days, the lines blur between self and other to the point where he’s not quite sure in all the cacophony what is him and what isn’t. His ability to make others see what he wants them to see has the power to render the existence of “Schuldig” near invisible, and he contemplates the possibility that if he has no sense of identity and nobody can see him, it’s the same as disappearing. One day, he might not even exist at all.

Part of him wonders if that would really be such a bad thing.)

~

Aya already hated himself. He lived for duty and did what had to be done. His mind was a litany of monotonous depression and self-recrimination. Twisting his mind with sexual images of Aya-chan and endless mockery could keep Schuldig entertained for only so long, and there was no fun in forcing Aya to fuck around with him. Considering the effort it would involve, the payoff was negligible; Aya had repressing down to a fine art and would forcibly shove away anything that was done to him. The only way to get to him was through his sister.

Schuldig supposed he could always fuck Aya-chan instead, but he didn’t really feel like it and it was more amusing to simply taunt Aya with the possibility that he had.

Aya was boring, so after a while Schuldig decided to find something better to play with.

~

(It’s an interesting question, what it says about Schuldig that he is so bored by Aya. If it was just a matter of sadism, you’d think Aya would be the perfect candidate; his buttons are so obvious, so easy to hit.

It’s not that simple, however. Schuldig likes to mess with people in a way that reflects his own issues. In a sense, he’s messing with himself at the same time. Aya’s too locked up in himself to hold any real interest for Schuldig.

The only thing Aya reflects is the chronic boredom that twines its way through Schuldig’s thoughts like a disease, and Schuldig has always preferred the sharp bright slice of pain over the slow seeping death of being totally numb.)

~

He really didn’t need to try very hard to start something with Farfarello. Farfarello was a thrumming ball of violence, driven by animal instincts; all Schuldig had to do was start a fight, shoving and biting, and the knives and fucking followed shortly after.

The pleasure to be had in messing around with Farfarello was purely masochistic— it was impossible to hurt someone who didn’t feel pain and was already too screwed up in the head for even a psychological attack to have any effect— but oh, what an ultimate form of masochism it was. It wasn’t simply the slice of Farfarello’s sharp blades into his skin; Farfarello’s mind was so tortured, curled in and around itself like an Escher painted in blood and gore, that the pure insanity cut through Schuldig’s own thoughts like barbed wire, rasping and catching and twitching in a sweet agony that couldn’t be paralleled by any mere physical pain.

Schuldig lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling, laughing manically and not caring as he completely lost his mind to the screaming madness in Farfarello’s head while he bled out slowly on the floor.

~

(In a way, Schuldig is more dangerous than Farfarello. Farfarello is fairly simple; he’s a psychopath who likes knives, who creates messy bloodbaths, whose trigger is Catholicism. He’s easy to manage, once you know how.

Schuldig, on the other hand, seems marginally safer at face value. He’s a sadist, but he doesn’t create sprees of massacre the way Farfarello can. He’s capable of rational thought, and he doesn’t have any automatic switch that will flip him into insanity.

That is precisely what makes him so much worse than Farfarello. He creates uncontrolled, unpredictable mayhem simply because he feels like it, with no discernible motive or objective other than to cause chaos. Farfarello’s mind is a twisted maze, but there’s an overall pattern to it, warped as that may be. Schuldig’s is a whirlwind, spreading its devastation indiscriminately and tearing apart even itself.

Schuldig is delighting in obliterating himself in a blaze of fucked up destructive glory, and the only thing that slows him down is seeing how much he can take down with him.)

~

When Schuldig woke up, there was white, white, a sea of white walls and white ceiling and white sheets. Amongst all the oppressive lack of colour there were tubes and machines that beeped, and when he looked, he saw Crawford leaning in the door with crossed arms and a stern expression and Nagi sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the room looking miserable.

“You’re awake,” Nagi said after a moment. “I thought… we weren’t sure.”

Schuldig rolled his eyes. It was probably the only movement where it didn’t hurt to do so. “Yeah, I’m awake,” he rasped sarcastically. “And?”

“And,” Crawford said, cutting in sharply, “that was stupid and irresponsible and endangered our plans.”

Schuldig stared at him, but Crawford’s eyes and mind were both blank slates, giving nothing away. Maybe this time, he mused, maybe now was a good time to strike… or maybe he’d get knocked back on his arse just as forcefully as always.

“Sure thing, bossman,” he said airily, and watched the tension deflate from Nagi’s stiff shoulders and Crawford’s complete lack of external reaction with mild interest. “So, how about a get-well kiss, huh?”

“I’ve got better things to do,” Crawford informed him, “than taste your blood. Don’t waste too much time convalescing, I expect you to recover quickly. Nagi, we’re going.”

And with that, he was gone, Nagi trailing in his wake with reluctant backward glances and Schuldig staring after them both, uncharacteristically contemplative. His whole existence was about the inevitable spiral into oblivion, but, he thought, it was okay to let them stall him, just for now. Just until he got bored again.

For just a little while longer, Schuldig would stick around.

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 16:11:03 GMT

Title: Take the Rain
Fandom: X (or rather... boyband!X)
Pairings: Fuuma/Kamui
Genre: Angst-ish
Word Count: 1,997
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for polari_86. Third fic. So much for daily-- it was done already, but I felt guilty posting it without finishing the one I was working on first. Maybe I should call them January fics. Also, this is boyband!X-verse. Oh my god, I'm writing fanfic of my fanfic.
Summary: Kamui knows he'll get sick, but sometimes it's hard to care.

The thing is, he’s probably going to get a cold or influenza or something, and become all nasal and sore-throaty and raspy from coughing and just… sick. Sick people can’t sing. Even if they ignore the physical pain and misery and force themselves to try, they still just sound like crap. Worse, if it’s laryngitis, there’s the possibility that you’ll fuck up your voice permanently. If Kamui gets sick, it will completely screw up their recording schedule and they’d probably have to cancel some live performances. He has a responsibility to at least try to stay healthy and not mess this up for everyone, and not do stupid shit that’s more likely than not to get him in trouble.

Kamui knows that. He does, and he usually tries to live up to it, eating healthy, regular meals even when he’s not hungry, going to bed at a reasonable time even though he’s a night person (except when he has the kind of inspiration he really can’t let go; some things never change, and he assuages his guilt by telling himself at least it’s work, not video games). He tries, because this is important, it’s serious. It’s his life, their lives; it’s not a game.

He knows that, but he’s still standing outside in the rain, not even trying to make a dash for cover. His hair is plastered to his face in dripping curls, and it’s raining hard enough that his clothes are completely soaked through to the skin. He’s cold, and he should have looked for somewhere to take shelter or called a taxi or something at the first sign of stormy weather— hell, he should have brought an umbrella, the sky was already overcast and darkening from bleak grey to threatening black when he left— but some part of him couldn’t be bothered. Didn’t want to, maybe. Somewhere between apathy and passive aggression.

It’s not like he hates his life or anything. Kamui can be melodramatic at times, sure, but he’s not about to throw himself off Tokyo Tower. It’s just… sometimes everything seems so detached, grey and bleak like the clouds overhead, and nothing feels worth it anymore. Most of the time Kamui’s a total drama queen, but when this mood hits him he can’t help feeling flat and lifeless, without any kind of use or purpose.

In this mood, he misses Fuuma so much it hurts.

He knows it’s not entirely rational. If he were smart, he’d just accept that he and Fuuma are different people now and move on, but emotions don’t work that way. Kamui couldn’t forget about Fuuma or get over him even when he hadn’t seen him for a year; it's hopeless to think he can do so now when Fuuma is right there and impossible to avoid. He should feel better with Kotori back, and he does, he doesn’t regret it for a moment, but in some ways, it just makes it harder when her presence only serves to underscore Fuuma’s absence.

Kamui has a lot of things to be thankful for, a lot of people who he cares about and who care about him. He realises that. It just… doesn’t seem to help, sometimes. Sometimes he just ends up standing outside in the rain, freezing cold and soaking wet, wallowing in his own misery and desperate desire to just escape from his own head for a little while. It’s easier not to think when his entire body is starting to go numb, somehow.

This may be why he doesn’t notice that there’s anyone standing right behind him until they speak.

“Hey,” the other person says, and their voice is quiet, but the shock of it is enough to startle Kamui out of his reverie, head jerking up only to find himself meeting Fuuma’s eyes.

This is probably the last place he’d expect to see Fuuma, and this is the second time Kamui has been so caught up thinking about Fuuma that he has completely failed to notice that Fuuma himself is there until it’s already too late. Twice is turning a coincidence into a bad habit. For once, however, Fuuma’s expression isn’t mocking; there’s no smile on his lips, and his eyes are completely unreadable.

“You’re going to get sick,” he continues, and Kamui just stares at him, struck speechless.

Fuuma’s standing in front of him, umbrella resting on his shoulder and gaze trained steadily on Kamui. He’s wearing jeans, and he’s not smirking. It’s almost like the last year and a half never happened, like it’s the old Fuuma there and not the lead singer of Angels of the Sepulchre. The one who cares, not the one who hates him.

Kamui suddenly feels tired, not up to this encounter. He’s never prepared when he has a run-in with Fuuma, but right now he can’t even muster the energy to fight.

“Yeah,” he says instead, sighing. “Probably. What are you doing here?”

“Kotori was worried when she heard you weren’t home,” Fuuma tells him. It’s not exactly an answer, but it’s enough of one. “I thought you might be here.”

Kamui doesn’t have a response to that, so he just blinks, wet eyelashes clumping together in a way that is mildly uncomfortable. Fuuma keeps watching him, still perfectly steady and inscrutable, and then he extends the umbrella so it covers both of them. Rolling his eyes is a little beyond Kamui right now in terms of effort, but he gives Fuuma a disbelieving look to make up for it.

“You shouldn’t be out in the rain without at least more than a light jacket,” Fuuma says calmly, and Kamui snorts.

“Believe it or not,” he says, “I am actually already too wet for that to make any difference whatsoever, so just… don’t bother. Seriously.”

“Hm,” Fuuma says, and looks at him, really looks at him in a way that makes Kamui’s stomach do queasy somersaults. “Yeah, guess not.”

Kamui isn’t sure what he expects Fuuma to do after that— call him an idiot, maybe, walk away and leave him there in the rain like some kind of stupid metaphor— but definitely not what actually happens. Fuuma closes the umbrella, tossing it to the side so it lands with a clatter on the pavement.

“What are you doing?” Kamui demands, unable to help the slight edge of nervousness. This isn’t… this is off the map for them. Ever since this whole thing with rival bands had started, Fuuma had been fairly predictable, in a way that was a little too depressing to be reassuring but had still been a cold comfort of sorts. Since Kotori has come back, though, he’s been erratic, capricious. Kamui doesn’t know how to deal with him now that the rules have apparently changed without notice, and it scares him a little, even though this Fuuma is a little calmer, not so cruel or sharp at the edges.

“You’re already wet,” Fuuma tells him, like this is an obvious answer, and… okay, yeah, what he just said is obvious, but it’s not the natural conclusion to the question Kamui asked. Kamui opens his mouth to point this out, but Fuuma continues, “It’s too late to keep you dry, so we may as well just get wet together.”

Anything Kamui was going to say crumbles to dust, words dying in his throat. He knows the look in his eyes is wide, hurt, like maybe he’s something fragile that will break if it’s touched, china with cracks running all across the surface. Nothing Fuuma is doing or saying is making any sense; it’s almost like white noise, the words not making any sense when they’re connected in that pattern.

“You’ll get sick,” Kamui says stupidly, when he can talk again. He’s experiencing a weird sort of disconnect between his brain and his mouth, where his mouth is moving by itself to fill the silence since his brain is apparently unable to cope with the situation. “You… your voice, you won’t be able to sing.”

Fuuma shrugs, as though this is no big deal, as if Kamui’s the irrational one.

“Neither will you,” he says, like somehow this is the whole point, even though that doesn’t answer anything and Kamui is just as confused as ever. Fuuma reaches out, wraps his fingers around Kamui’s bare wrist, and Kamui doesn’t resist, just watches him with slightly wary eyes. “God, you’re freezing. Why didn’t you try to find somewhere warm to go dry off?”

“I don’t know,” Kamui mumbles, completely exhausted. “I don’t know, I’m just. Tired.”

He’s not making much more sense than Fuuma is, but that doesn’t seem to bother Fuuma at all. He tugs on Kamui’s wrist and Kamui goes, stumbling slightly until Fuuma catches him. Fuuma’s quite damp by now— especially his hair, all the gel’s washed out and it’s lost the ability to defy gravity— but he’s nowhere near as wet as Kamui. It’s got to feel more than a bit gross and probably cold, but Fuuma doesn’t object, just pulls Kamui into a hug with his arms wrapped around Kamui’s back.

It’s not exactly comfortable, because Kamui’s clothes are waterlogged and squelchy and starting to chafe, and their combined body heat is giving off waves of humidity that make Kamui turn pink and feel a little dizzy.

Fuuma’s still warm, though, and despite all the discomfort, it feels so good to be warm again after an hour of standing outside in the rain, of the chill sinking right through his skin until he felt like a block of ice. Fuuma’s warmth is seeping through his whole body, like watercolours spreading across a blank page, and Kamui slowly relaxes into him, bone-deep weariness draining away. Kamui has lost count of how long it’s been since Fuuma last held him like this, but it feels like coming home.

They stay there in silence for a minute or so, Kamui’s face pressed into Fuuma’s neck and Fuuma’s breath ruffling Kamui’s hair with every light exhale. Fuuma sighs, shifting Kamui a little in his arms before he turns his head, and Kamui can’t tell if the brush of lips against his cheek is deliberate or not. “You shouldn’t stay out here any longer, or you really will get pneumonia,” he murmurs against the side of Kamui’s face. “Come on, I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

“Yeah,” Kamui says, and his chest feels tight, because he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t want to think about tomorrow, when he’ll be sick and Fuuma will hate him again. He isn’t naïve enough to think that this one surreal interlude is going to be enough to upset the status quo. “Yeah, okay.”

When they pull back, Fuuma is giving him an assessing look, like he heard something off in Kamui’s voice. Like he knows something’s wrong. It shouldn’t be a surprise; nobody reads Kamui the way Fuuma can, even now, but sometimes Kamui hates to be so open, so vulnerable.

Fuuma doesn’t say anything, though. He doesn’t take the opportunity for a hurtful jibe the way he probably would have before Kotori came, doesn’t try to pour salt on the wound. He just reaches out and grabs Kamui’s hands, wet, slippery skin sliding against each other until he tangles their fingers together.

“You forgot your umbrella,” Kamui says awkwardly when Fuuma starts walking, drawing him along behind. “On the sidewalk.”

Fuuma glances at him, and there’s a faint smile hovering on his lips— not a smirk, but something real, genuine, something Kamui hasn’t seen in a long, long time. Kamui’s heart flutters, skipping a beat.

“That’s okay,“ Fuuma tells him, fingers tightening around Kamui’s in a way that is more reassuring than painful. “I don’t need it anyway.”

And Kamui smiles back, just a little, because maybe nothing’s perfect, maybe this is only a temporary truce and they haven’t really sorted out anything at all, but somehow, right now, it’s easy to believe that one day they can.

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 04:11:49 GMT

Title: Progression
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Pairings: Er... okay. Jack/Doctor, Jack/Rose, Jack/Estelle, Jack/Ianto, Gwen->Jack, Owen/Gwen, Jack/Jack, Jack/Martha.
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 3,542
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for kurushi. Second fic.
Summary: Jack knows a lot about loving and losing, but maybe not as much as he thinks.

(Jack be nimble, Jack be quick—)

Jack is a con artist. He skips through life with charming, empty smiles, cheating people out of their money and valuables and skipping town (galaxy, era) before they have a chance to catch on. Before this lifestyle, there was only duty, and then there was life on the run. He doesn’t fall in love and he doesn’t let anyone close, just lets it all slide off him like a perfect Teflon wall.

It wasn’t exactly fulfilling, but it worked out well enough for him right up until the moment a blonde girl out of her time and out of her depth fell into his arms and turned everything upside down on him.

He can never quite decide if it’s the best thing that ever happened to him, or if it had ruined his life. On the one hand, he wasn’t exactly doing anything with himself, just floating around aimlessly, and it had brought him Rose, brought him the Doctor, and taught him how to love. On the other hand, it had left him abandoned and incapable of dying and taught him how to love.

150 years is a long time to live. What’s perhaps more surprising is that even after all that time, love still hurts. Unfortunately for Jack, when you’ve already learned how to fall in love once, it isn’t something you can easily unlearn, and he still hasn’t figured out how.

(—Jack got burned by the candlestick.)

~

Even though it’s the Doctor who Jack is waiting for, it’s Rose he loved first, and he’s never forgotten that. It took a long time before she was born, but it was worth waiting to watch her grow up, watch her beautiful smile from a distance as she turns into the Rose he’d known. He watches over her until she and the Doctor meet for the first time, and he sees her twice more after that. He feels it like a stab to the heart when he sees them together holding hands, so familiar but unapproachable, a Rose and Doctor from before his timeline ever crossed with theirs.

The next news he hears of her is the list of the dead from Canary Wharf, and Jack closes his eyes, the paper crumpling in his hands. It’s been several lifetimes over since he’s done more than watch over Rose from a distance and they hadn’t been together that long before the Gamestation, but a part of him still loves her. Maybe not quite as much as he still loves the Doctor—that’s refined itself to an obsessive art form, over the years—but love, nevertheless.

He wonders how old she was when she died. Linear time is irrelevant to people like them, but he doesn’t think it was very long after he’d last seen her, probably a year or two at most. Rose wouldn’t have left her mother for longer than that if she could avoid it, after all.

(Another love lost, he thinks. It never gets any easier.)

~

Jack loved Rose first and she died first, but in the middle—before she was born, but after he already loved her—he fell in love with Estelle.

Estelle, Estelle, so sweet and pretty and open-minded and quaint. Jack tries to keep his distance these days; hell, he’s always been like that. You don’t want to get too close to someone you’re trying to con, after all.

Unfortunately for him, though, Rose and the Doctor messed that up for him, because he used to be a lot better at it. Now he’s just as charming and walled off as ever, but people still reach him, even though they don’t really know him. Despite that he never commits himself, Jack still falls in love easily, which is not a good condition for someone who is never going to grow old and never going to die, doomed to watch the many people he loves die around him, forever at arm’s length.

He tries to do the smart (cowardly) thing and leave before he gets in too deep. It doesn’t work, of course: by the time it occurs to him to get free, it’s already too late. All it achieves is loneliness, a wistfulness when he sees Estelle again and calls himself his own son, and finally the same old loss when she, too, dies and leaves him for good.

Jack always tries to be the first to go, but somehow that never stops it from hurting.

~

There’s more than one kind of love. It took Jack a long time to understand that—his biological family are nothing more than a distant memory, left behind when he’d joined the Time Agency, and it had been a long time before he’d felt any kind of love at all. Platonic love, love without the frisson of lust to tie you together, the physical closeness as a natural consequence, is something new and foreign to him, so he still isn’t quite sure how to approach the protective impulse he has whenever he’s around Toshiko.

Jack never had a younger sister, but somehow that’s what Tosh feels like to him. He doesn’t want to kiss her or flirt with her; he just wants to hug her when everything’s screwed up and tease her to make her smile or roll her eyes. It’s a feeling he’s not quite sure what to do with, because this kind of love is almost more dependent on trust and closeness than the kind he’s used to, in a way, and it’s not something he’s good at. Jack doesn’t know how to be there for someone, and as a result Tosh has no idea of her own worth to him.

In the end, he suspects his attempts to protect her will just cause her more pain when he inevitably disappears, and it seems that being loved by Jack Harkness is more a curse than a blessing.

~

Gwen thinks Jack would probably sleep with her, if she pushed the issue. This isn’t really flattering herself; the way Jack himself tells it, he’d sleep with anything with a pulse and maybe even that is nothing more than a guideline.

She’s not stupid, though. She’d let herself think maybe, at first, but it had become clearer and clearer that Jack is never there, not really. He’s all smoke and mirrors, charming smiles and flirtatious words, but if you try to hold onto him, she’s got no doubt he’d fade away like morning mist. He’s not investing himself; she knows that he could vanish at any moment.

Owen might be a narky little bastard, but he’s actually here, now, with her and not in the past or the future or a million light years away. He’s real. He’s alive, not just marking time. Gwen could fall in love with Jack, but it would be like falling in love with a house of cards, forever waiting for it to collapse or blow away in the wind.

Besides, she tells herself, she still loves Rhys. Owen is her mistake to make, but it’s about sex; it’s about not being alone. If she started something with Jack, she’d never walk away, not intact.

In a way, she thinks, she’s lucky that she never fell into the trap of believing Jack would ever let himself get caught. He’s a much better mentor than lover, because that way it hurts so much less when he finally abandons you.

~

The desire to monopolise was never really an issue in an era where monogamy was a completely outmoded concept. It wasn’t as though people never felt like that, but it wasn’t a matter of course, and you had to care before you could feel jealous. Jack had never cared before he met Rose and the Doctor, and he’d never expected to own either of them. Rose was clearly the Doctor’s, first and foremost, and the Doctor belonged to nobody but himself. If he was anyone’s at all, he was Rose’s. Jack loved them both; that was enough.

Since then, he’d never stuck around long enough to form that kind of attachment to anybody, but somehow, amidst the anger, the disbelief, the feelings of betrayal, the self-reprisal for not paying closer attention, there’s something strangely jealous, bitterly resentful. Part of it is the way Ianto could dedicate himself so wholly to one person, commit himself to Lisa and love her and stay by her side through all the pain it caused him, because it’s something Jack knows all too well that he doesn’t have the strength for.

That’s not the only reason, though. Ianto was one of Jack’s team, and he’d taken that for granted, but it rankles to know that Ianto is so devoted to someone else without Jack even knowing about it. He wants that devotion for himself; god knows he hasn’t done anything to deserve it, and yet he craves it.

Jack has a lot of charisma, and that combined with his determination will usually win half the battle for him. Ianto’s not as loyal to him as he was to Lisa, perhaps, but he’s still dedicated to Jack, and Lisa’s not alive to compete with. Ianto is faithful to him now, is his, but the problem is that nothing is ever that simple. Whenever you let yourself get too entangled with the life of another human being, complications arise, and something like this isn’t a one-way street, especially not when Jack put as much as he did into gaining Ianto’s trust after what had happened to Lisa.

Ianto’s no longer just the tea boy—not least because he makes damn fine coffee and resents tea’s status as the national drink of England—but Jack hasn’t quite figured out what he is yet.

“Sir,” Ianto says, voice quiet and sleep-roughened and maybe a little peevish at being woken up. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Late,” Jack answers cheerfully. “Make me some coffee?”

“You hardly need any more caffeine at this time of night,” Ianto says sourly, but he still goes and makes coffee, and it’s still fantastic, even though Ianto is still half-asleep.

“You are a god among baristas, Ianto,” Jack tells him sincerely, savouring it. “You’ve spoiled me for all other coffee.”

“I was trying to sleep, Jack,” Ianto complains, but he goes easily when Jack tugs him, submits to the kiss with no more than a muffled snort.

“Sleep here, then,” Jack murmurs against his mouth, and Ianto sighs.

“If you wake me up again before it’s time for work I swear I’ll shoot you,” he says grumpily, crawling into Jack’s bed. “I don’t care if it doesn’t take, it’s the principle of the thing.”

“I’m pretty sure that’d be insubordination, so I’ll try not to tempt you,” Jack says, totally flippantly. It shouldn’t be a joke when Ianto’s already tried to do exactly that, but things change.

“Good, don’t,” Ianto mumbles, on the verge of sleep, and then, so indistinct Jack barely catches it: “I never know whether you’re going to stay or not, Jack.”

“Yeah,” Jack says when he’s sure Ianto’s asleep, and he’s not grinning anymore. “Neither am I.”

He’s going to leave eventually, one way or another, but even he is not entirely sure he knows what he’s doing anymore.

~

When Jack walks through the time rift with Tosh, it’s the third time he’s been alive in 1943, and it’s like something keeps bringing him back here, the lynchpin in a cycle he can’t break. It seems he can’t escape from this time; everything important seems to happen in this year, spaced to reoccur a hundred years and then another fifty later over and again. 1943 is where he stole the name he has carried for a hundred and fifty years, where he met Rose and the Doctor, where he danced with Estelle, where he finally met the man whose identity he subsumed.

1943 is where he fell in love once, twice, three times. In the grand scheme of his overlong life, his time with Rose and the Doctor and even his time with Estelle was not very long at all, but it was long enough to create an emotion that lasted. He only spent an evening with the real Captain Jack Harkness, but it was all he needed to know that he could love this man, just as surely as he’d loved others in his life; he was already halfway there, and Jack could tell it would be the kind of love that lasted like a scar, seared painfully into his soul like an invisible brand.

If they’d had longer, Jack would have loved, and then he would have lost, and it would have hurt. Instead he leaves, not soon enough to prevent the loss and pain, but the easy alternative to risking everything only to achieve the same thing in the end.

He could have given himself reasons, and he did: he had a responsibility, to his team, to the world. He couldn’t stay in the 1940s, because there were already two more of him running around in different parts of the world and because he already knew he wouldn’t find the Doctor that way. He couldn’t take the real Jack with him, because the man had to stay and do his part, or else history would be disrupted. Jack’s own history would be disrupted.

He tells himself retrospectively that he did the right thing. He saved the world and found the Doctor again, neither of which would have been possible if he hadn’t returned with Tosh, at least not without living out another fifty years, and maybe not even then if he didn’t manage to be in the right place at exactly the right time.

There were reasons. They were good reasons. Jack can’t help wonder, though, if the true reason he was able to do what was right instead of taking the gambol was precisely because he knew he could fall in love with the real Jack Harkness, given half the chance, and he didn’t trust himself with that chance.

Jack takes a lot of risks, but he knows better than anyone that he’s a coward when it comes to emotions.

~

When Martha and Jack slept together, it was for fun. They both want someone they can’t really have, but they’re both adult enough to take enjoyment in what they can have, not that they’d had a lot of spare time on their hands

Afterwards, Martha had asked Jack about himself—she knew a bit after eavesdropping on his conversation with the Doctor, of course, but it didn’t hurt to get a bit more information. It’s Jack, ultimately, who leads her to her decision to separate from the Doctor when everything is over. The story about her friend was true, of course, but what made her remember it was Jack, Jack who can’t die, Jack who waited desperately for 150 years just to see the Doctor again after he’d been abandoned by the two people he loved most.

Martha’s not going to live long enough to wait that long, and she doesn’t have that kind of time to waste. She’s not going to be like Jack; she’s not going to be like Charlene. She’s going to get out, because she’s never been stupid, and she knows better than that.

She made her decision first and long before Jack, but the world had ended before she had time to do anything about it. In the end, Jack beats her to it, if only just, but she’s glad in a way that she was there to see it. She’s happy for him, that he’s found something else to live for after so long waiting. It hurts to leave the Doctor all alone, but she and Jack both know that he’ll be okay. They can’t afford to be his crutches anymore, no matter how much they love him.

Besides, he’s got a phone. He can call her if he needs anything, and she can call him, too.

(So can Jack, if he wants to, but she gets the feeling he’ll be fine from now on.)

~

During the Year That Isn’t, Jack has a lot of time to think in-between dying.

What he’s thinking is that he misses Cardiff, misses Torchwood, misses his team most of all.

Of course, this could just be because he’s currently being tortured, repeatedly, to death; he’s not exactly going anywhere exciting right now and he isn’t even really seeing the Doctor at all. And yet, he doesn’t think that’s it. In fact, it’s part of the genuine reasoning behind this conclusion. He’s being tortured and he’s barely seen the Doctor at all over the past year, and yet what he thinks about most of the time is his team. Whether they’re still alive; whether they’ve still got any hope left; whether they miss him or blame him or are hoping he’ll come back for them. Whether he’ll ever see them again.

It’s a revelation, of sorts. Actually, it’s a fairly big epiphany. Jack loves easily, but he loves with caveats: he loves at a distance, and only while he’s waiting for the Doctor to come back to him. The Doctor will always come first.

But now the Doctor has come back, and Jack is still thinking about his team, each of whom he loves in a different way. (Yes, even Owen, even though he can be a right little sod most of the time.) Somehow they snuck under the radar. He’s pretty sure that once this is all over—and it will be over; he has to believe that, because he has faith in Martha, and he has faith in the Doctor, and he can’t let himself believe anything else, not when the Earth has turned into burning hell and his team is probably all dead—the Doctor would let him stay. He can’t be entirely certain, because the Doctor is never predictable and he did call Jack’s immutability wrong, but Jack has a feeling, and his feelings are generally pretty accurate.

Then it is over, finally, and Jack’s feeling was right, but his resolve hasn’t changed. The Doctor would let him stay, maybe even wants him to, the one Companion who will never grow old or die, but that’s not what Jack wants anymore, and he understands that now.

“You don’t ever grow out of the Doctor,” he tells Martha ruefully, when they’re back in the TARDIS together for the first time in a year (or in three days, maybe, since the year has been reversed) and the Doctor is busy cooing over the newly restored console. “You don’t ever really get over him or leave him behind. Trust me, I know. But I think maybe I’m finally ready to move on, if you get what I mean.”

“Yeah? You’re not going to stay with him, then?” Martha asks, surprised, and Jack grins.

“Hey, you know, I’ve got places to be, things to do, minions to whip into shape, you know the drill,” he says lightly. “You don’t know my team. If I don’t watch them, they’ll destroy the world and maybe the universe sooner rather than later.”

Martha raises her eyebrow. “Really,” she says, in that cough up, mister, I’m not buying it tone she’s so good at, and Jack shrugs a little sheepishly.

“Okay, I miss my team,” he admits. “I still love him. I’ll always love him, that’s not something you recover from, but I don’t need to be with him anymore.”

“Good for you,” Martha tells him, and yeah. Yeah, maybe it is.

~

It’s different to how he loved Estelle, how he loved others in the 150 years between Rose and the Doctor and now. He could leave Estelle—he did leave Estelle. It hurt, but he did it, because she was going to die. Because the Doctor could come back at any time, and Jack would leave. Because she was going to age and he wasn’t, and nothing stayed the same forever except for him. It was easier to let her go sooner rather than later, so he’d run away.

His team are going to die too, and their work means that on a day-to-day basis, they’re in far more danger than Estelle had been. They could die at any moment. Jack is still immortal; they still aren’t. What’s more, the Doctor did come back, and Jack left. He could go anywhere in the universe, but he’s coming back. He’s choosing them over the Doctor, over intergalactic time travel and excitement and the alien he’s been waiting to see again for over a century, because he wants to be their leader. Because right now he’d rather be back home in Cardiff with them than anywhere in the universe with the Doctor, and that means something. Because he still loves the Doctor, but he loves his team just as much, maybe even more. Because they’re his team. Because they need him, and he’s ready to need them too.

Rose and the Doctor taught how to fall in love, but Torchwood 3 in the 21st century are the ones who taught him how to hang around and live with it.

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 02:24:06 GMT

Title: Photo Negative
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts/Gundam Wing
Pairings: Hints of Roxas/Axel, not really the point.
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 2,734
Notes: Christmas/New year/hey, Siobhan's going to Japan this year!/whatever fic for beckerbell. I'm posting them one by one and this is the first one.
Summary: Once upon a time, Larxene was called Relena.

They’re losing.

Relena is sick of war, and so very sick of fighting. Their world has been through so much and she’s strong, she knows she is, but she’s fought so hard for peace only to be confronted by an enemy they can’t win against. All the negotiation in the world does no good in the face of a force that won’t, can’t listen, and an elite force of Gundams is useless when the stream of Heartless is endless and none of their attacks have any effect.

Heero, she knows, is already… dead? Certainly gone. This is nothing more than a last stand.

The point of a last stand is that you won’t go down without fighting, even though you know you won’t win. It takes strength and determination and stubbornness and the kind of desperate optimism where deep down, even in such a futile situation, a part of you never stops hoping for an eleventh hour miracle.

This time, there’s no miracle. Their world is swallowed by the darkness and so is Relena’s heart, but she’s still making her last stand. She won’t surrender so easily: she’s too strong-willed to ever lay down and call it quits. Somewhere, her heart has become part of the teeming darkness, mindless, soulless, driven by nothing but hunger and hatred like the millions of other people who lost their hearts when their world was consumed.

Somewhere else, however, whatever else is left of her refuses to give in. No heart, no feelings, no mercy: a cold, hard shell filled with nothing but the determination to succeed.

Somewhere else, Larxene is born.

~

Relena had been famous for her pacifistic ideals. She had been kind and gentle and always advocated peaceful negotiation over warfare. Of course she wasn’t perfect; she’d made mistakes, some really catastrophic ones, but at least she’d always tried to do the right thing.

That wasn’t to say she never got angry, never hated anyone or wanted to lash out and hurt someone. She did; she was human. Sometimes it was hard in the heat of the moment, having an army at her beck and call and having to remind herself, no. You wanted to prevent this kind of thing, not cause it.

Larxene is the embodiment of all that repressed violence, with none of Relena’s ideals or kindness. She’s got Relena’s strength, but the only thing she combines it with is ambition and sadistic cruelty and that makes her more dangerous than ever.

Larxene remembers being Relena, and sneers at what she used to be. She’d been weak and naïve, and she’d lost. She could have done so much, she could have conquered everything, but instead she’d simpered about peace and harmony, puke, and then she’d been defeated by something stronger, something to which her compassion and principles meant nothing.

The only thing that matters is power.

~

“Won’t that be nice, Namine? Your prince is going to come and save you,” Larxene says mockingly, and smiles, vicious and victorious. “Don’t you feel bad for tricking him?”

Namine’s eyes are filled with misery and guilt, but she doesn’t respond, just bends her head over her sketchbook so her hair falls across her face like a shield.

Namine, poor little princess imprisoned in a tower as bait, pretty little bird stuck in a cage and manipulated into singing for her captors’ gain. Relena would feel sympathy, empathy, two girls forced and imprisoned in the mould of the plots and aspirations of those who surround them.

Larxene finds Namine’s pain amusing, and taunts her cruelly with every opportunity she gets.

~

Kairi has always been outgoing, bubbly and bright. She draws people to her like moths to a flame, fascinated by the light of her heart. She’s the only person as important to Sora and Riku as they are to each other, and she’s the only person who ever could be. She’s happy, well-adjusted, surrounded by friends: her existence, she knows, is something blessed.

Sometimes, though, she used to feel left out. Sora and Riku never meant to, but sometimes, even when they were competing against each other, even when they were fighting over her (or really, when Riku was letting Sora fight over her), part of her felt like they were an unbreakable pair and she was somehow separate. Intruding.

She’d shoved that away, though, and never let it get to her, just like she never let her fear or simmering feelings of helpless futility get to her. She’s strong, just like Relena was strong. She fights even when she can’t win because it’s better than giving in.

Namine is weak, though. Namine is the little girl inside of Kairi who always felt scared and alone and trapped. Kairi would smile and push it away, chase after Sora and Riku whenever they threatened to leave her behind and reach for her own freedom, but Namine does as she’s told, locked in a gilded cage she never tries to escape from until Sora comes to help her. Where Kairi will fight to save herself, Namine will remain the princess trapped in the tower, waiting for rescue.

Kairi doesn’t let herself be left alone, but all Namine has is her loneliness.

~

Axel’s edges are sharp and bright like the jagged edges of broken glass, slicing your palms when you hold it wrong. Relena had a gift for getting through to people, though; even if she’d been wary of him at first, once she’d learned how to see through him and had understood him, she’d have been moved by his desperate devotion to Roxas.

Larxene is everything Relena isn’t, and she hates him, hates his careless laughter and mockery and hates, more than anything, the way he feels about their newest member. Roxas. Number 13. They don’t have hearts, they’re not supposed to be capable of love or emotion, but Axel wears his non-existent heart on his sleeve and she hates it, hates him, hates them for feeling anything and she wants nothing more than to rip what they’ve got apart and destroy it.

“You’re not going to let any pesky personal attachments get in the way of your duty, are you?” she asks slyly when they get ordered to the Castle Oblivion, and slides her nails across his scalp, catching at his hair in a way that could be affectionate if it were anyone else but coming from her is a clear implicit threat. “You do seem awfully fond of Number 13, you know.”

“As if,” he scoffs, and rolls his eyes, but there’s a flash of fear and she catches it, cherishes it, revelling in the feel of sticking the knife where it hurts and twisting. “We’re Nobodies, moron. We don’t have hearts.”

“It’s good you don’t feel anything then, isn’t it?” she purrs, and laughs, childish and cruel, as her fingers tangle painfully in his hair with a sharp tug. “The thing about weaknesses is that they can be exploited.”

She laughs as she walks off, high and childish and cruel as Axel glares daggers at her back but can’t do anything about it. Not now, not yet, not ever (she thinks).

Relena knew how powerful a motivator love can be. Larxene doesn’t care, and doesn’t pay any attention to the dark, calculating look in Axel’s eyes.

She’s orchestrating her own downfall.

~

The man Axel had been was serious, quiet and dutiful.

Everyone had trusted him and relied on him and he’d always come through, but he never smiled, and he never let anyone close enough to make an imprint on him.

Axel takes nothing seriously, mocks everything, laughs at the universe like he’s the only one who gets the joke. He never takes on any responsibility he doesn’t have to, and he doesn’t care about anything or anyone.

Except for Roxas, that is.

It’s ironic, really, that it took losing his heart for Axel to ever learn how to give it away.

~

Demyx reminds her of Duo, sort of. Just a little, just his good-natured smile and the way he tries to make people laugh and plays the clown; that’s where the resemblance ends. Duo may have goofed around a lot, but he was never a coward, and he had never been a child, even when he was one. Demyx, on the other hand, is still like a little boy, naive and easily scared.

“Aw, poor widdle baby,” she coos, mock pouting as she tosses the broken remains of his sitar at his feet. “You shouldn’t leave these things lying around! Accidents happen, you know.”

Technically he’s her senior, number 9, but he doesn’t have the guts to stand up to her.

He stares at her for a moment, with wide, hurt eyes, and then deflates. “Aw, man,” he whines, “That was my favourite.”

“Do you want me to make it up to you? Do you want to play, Demyx?” she asks sweetly, with the glint of steel as she fans her knives between her fingers, and Demyx turns pale, shaking his head and backing away.

“N-no, that’s cool, I’ll just… um… never mind!”

Being mean to Demyx is like kicking a puppy. Larxene crushes him beneath her metaphorical heel and laughs.

~

When Demyx was Somebody, his world had been suffering under the rule of a despot who stifled all opposition and executed those who dared to defy him. He had been the leader of the rebellion, famous for his bravery and willpower, never bowing from his principles despite the odds against him.

On the inside, though, he’d been terrified, knowing in all likelihood he would die the painful death of a martyr. He wasn’t stupid; of course he’d been afraid, but he’d suppressed it, refused to let it show or control his actions, because he couldn’t afford the weakness and he was determined to do what he thought was right.

In the end he’d been betrayed by one of his most closely trusted generals, and had been among the first sacrificed to the Heartless.

He stood up for his beliefs, and it got him killed.

Demyx does what he’s told. It gets him killed anyway.

~

Roxas, on the other hand, almost reminds her of the way Heero was when she first met him. He’s silent, locked within himself, fully focused on completing his missions, and he treats connections with others as unimportant, irrelevant.

That doesn’t seem to put Axel off, though, because he’s nothing if not obnoxiously persistent— and, for that matter, persistently obnoxious. Roxas tolerates him, though which is more than he does for most people, so who knows? Maybe one day all that hard work being a nuisance will pay off and Roxas will let Axel in. (She’s not going to be there to see it when it does.)

Honestly, Larxene doesn’t care. Relena would have been drawn to him, to his mystery and cold, empty unhappiness, to his missing past and his inability to connect with others. She would have wanted to help, would have wanted to understand. He holds no interest for Larxene, however; whatever his weaknesses are he holds them close, armoured like the Samurai Nobodies he commands, and there’s no soft underbelly for her to slice at. Annoying him too much just leads to a fight, and his keyblades hurt— Larxene isn’t interested in a fight she can’t win.

Roxas is boring, really. Sora is far more fun to play with.

~

Sora throws himself into things whole-heartedly, without thought or fear for consequence, and he does this with love the same way he does it with everything else. He ignores the part of him that got hurt when Riku betrayed him, when Kairi disappeared. There was a niggling voice at the back of his mind reminding him that trusting someone, loving them that much, only leads to pain, but Sora has always gambolled on blind faith, and he didn’t listen to it: he knew that one day he’d get Kairi and Riku back, and he was right.

Sora refuses to close his heart off, and keeps giving himself and his affection away easily, but Roxas is the part of him that got burned, that didn’t want to trust too much or too easily. He doesn’t remember the feelings of loss, but the wariness is there, a constant hum of tension and suspicion holding him apart from everyone.

By the time Roxas has started to learn slowly how to let others in, his time is already up: they’ve travelled full circle and he’s Sora all over again.

~

Relena never sought power; it just happened to her, not entirely with her consent. In the start, she hadn’t even wanted it, and in the end, it was something she took on not for herself but in order to achieve peace.

Relena was an idealist.

Larxene, on the other hand, is ambitious, ruthless, and power mad. She doesn’t want peace or order or control; she wants to crush them all, she wants anarchy controlled by her, she wants to rule the universe with an iron fist.

She’s going to use Marluxia and Sora to stab Xemnas in the back, and she’s going to reign supreme over a tyranny of fire.

“You will go to the Castle Oblivion,” Xemnas orders her. “Number 11 will be in charge.”

“Yes, master,” she tells Xemnas, while on the inside, she’s already planning his demise.

Larxene is no pacifist. Might means right, so far as she’s concerned, and in her eyes she’s stronger and more cunning than all of them.

Xemnas is not deserving of her subservience. No one is; she was born to be queen of the world.

~

Most of the Nobodies who retained human form were greatly altered from their Somebody, both physically and in personality.

The first six threw away their hearts wilfully, however, purposefully forging themselves anew into Nobodies. When Xehanort became Xemnas, he was still the same person, only magnified, stripped away, until nothing but the hubris and obsessive need to be recognised by his former master remained.

Xehanort was warped by arrogance and dangerous, childlike resentment, killing off who he had been for the sake of his own pride.

When Xemnas dies, the real Ansem has already fallen and will never acknowledge him the way he so desperately craves. He dies with nothing, shunned by the master he once so greatly admired and with the remnants of his aspirations lying in tatters at his feet.

Xehanort died for his ambitions, dies for them again as Xemnas, but it brings him nothing but ruin.

~

She laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Pathetic. They’re all pathetic, chained by slavish affection, by fear, by resentments over their former lives they can’t let go or a driving need to know who they were, as if it matters. She’s not like that. She’s strong, and she doesn’t need love or security or revenge or a sense of belonging. All she needs is power.

~

In the end, it’s not Roxas’s Somebody and his keyblade that finish her. She thought for a moment there it might be; he’s not bad. Not quite a match for her yet, but with his little friends and his ridiculous passion for Namine, the girl he doesn’t know but oh, how he loves her (how he’s been tricked into thinking he loves her— Larxene laughs, Larxene always laughs) might have given him the extra edge he’d needed, if she’d let herself get careless.

She didn’t let herself get careless, of course. She’d had he and Namine cornered, taunting them both, but then Axel had been more than happy to strike the finishing blow, to take out the traitor to their cause.

So often in tragedies, misfortune is the result of one’s own innate faults, driving home the moral of the story. The blame for Larxene’s death certainly lies ultimately with her, whichever thread you follow back to its source.

It’s not a tragedy if no one will mourn, though.

~

Relena died for her people, a people who loved her. She died an unhappy death, losing everything that had been dear to her, but she’d lived first. She died for those she cared about, for her cause, a martyr, for her country. She’d been somebody, somebody real, somebody who mattered.

Larxene is everything Relena never let herself be, and when she dies, she dies for no one, for nothing, a traitor, alone.

Nobody.