They and I (ch. 6)

Title: They and I
Chapters: 6/?
Author: artshoey
Genre: drama/angst
Ratings: NC17
Pairings/Characters: AoixUruha AoixReita (brief)
Synopsis: Main character is Aoi. He and Uruha have a difficult relationship.
Comments: fic warnings for violence, sex, rape, and some language. Beware of LONG CHAPTER -_-;

Chapter 1 Chapter 4
Chapter 2 Chapter 5
Chapter 3



note: I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you a warning. So please review the warnings of this fic above. You might want to skip parts of this chapter. -_-;

one more thing! I have the coming week off from school. It’s our version of spring break, so I’ll be out of town for over a week and I don’t know when I’ll be able to post again.

If I was there, I can’t recall.
The course was set, or maybe wasn’t.
What I can touch is fuzzy soft.
Fuzzy permanence encased in glass
A sphere is infinite until it breaks.
It won’t. It probably won’t.
From inside is there really an outside?
All I see is fuzz.

Chapter 6

In addressing myself, I’m gushing with an assenting coconspirator, a giddy nonthinker who just talks. The thoughts flow intemperately. They spurt up and drain swirling away during the night, but I think it is true that if I were to rape him, he’d leave me alone. He wouldn’t act the way he does and neither would I. He’d be surprised by it all, the act and the results. Though pleasurable to consider, it could never work in actuality. Still my heart somehow carries a tenderness towards it. If it did happen, so much would take place. If it did happen, it would be purposeful but mean. I’d want him to feel useless against it. There, however, is no way I could bring myself to it. I’m a good person, and I’ve never believed that violence has true power. I’d only imagined it as brief and shallow in the scheme of life, a weak realization of will. Yet I still struggle against the effects of Uruha’s violence. I am a good person, but that alone is not satisfying; I’m not even the best of persons.

Without earnestness, I play out in my head how exactly I could hurt Uruha in exaggerated fantasy, blossoming wishful fallouts. I can’t sleep but add details and ideas which I find funny and a little hopeful. It’s not frightening, because perverse thoughts are normal and acceptable by measures. They’re reasonable on occasion, but living like this is not. Drying up and rotting under stupid fantasies like this and not working to fix my life is filthy at best. I do want to finally change things. I believe that good men too have punished others.

I wake up very early for our unusual practice time, as today is the first practice we’ll have at the stage, and this morning is the only time this week that we could reserve. I glimpse the clock and realize how little I actually slept. I take a quick shower, and under the running water I shut my eyes and remember what I’d been thinking over the night. “I’m a sick fuck,” I think to myself. I smile and wonder what made the idea appealing in the first place. I would never really do it.

Walking about my bedroom and going through my clothes to dress for work, I become suddenly quite grumpy. Today’s already lost its novelty. It’ll be a normal day after all, and I’ll be soon off to work. I remember chastising myself, and after that, all the thoughts I had the night before start streaming back, all the plans too, just in different orders.

I’m glad I had already packed my bag. I look through it once before I leave, and what I find in there is absurdly amusing. The spaces of my mind feel unconnected and random, but I want him to understand this anyway. I hope he’ll find some respect for me, but I’ll take whatever results come.

Backstage at the concert hall, I open the door to a dark room that holds various boxes, some miscellaneous equipment along with a table and scattered metal chairs. It seems relatively out of the way. I click on the light, see the space in its dim, warm color, click it off and leave, shutting the door behind me. I picture this room while on stage as others about me are chatting.

After we’re through for the day, I realize I have to be quick. I catch eyes with Uruha and motion for him to follow me. A building anticipation makes my steps soft and swift; I wonder if this strikes him as odd. We enter that dark room, and I shut the door behind us. I am disappointed but not surprised to see that there isn’t a lock. I haven’t seen anyone come in here, but it doesn’t mean they didn’t or that they won’t. I glance at Uruha who stands a few feet away and waits patiently for my attention. “Did you want to talk?” he asks.

I don’t care to reply. I step up to him, and his watching me makes my heart smack darkly, comfortlessly. Once at his side, I gesture for him to turn around. He does and glances over his shoulder at me. I run my hand down from the front of his forearm to his wrist. I open up my backpack with the other hand and find a roll of duct tape. Bringing both of Uruha’s hands behind him, I begin to tape them together. He lets me, so I imagine he knows what’s happening. With probably excessive amounts of tape, I wind his wrists together. We can hear noises out in the hallway, mostly people’s voices and feet, but the two of us are silent amidst the sounds ripping from the roll. I breathe fixedly and don’t look up from his hands until I’m finished with them. I then glance up to his face. I can’t see him well because of the angle, but he is stiffly motionless, gazing acceptingly ahead at the dull space before him.

My heart patters, and I’m not sure how I’m going to do this. I begin to feel as if I’m being timed, and I sequence my actions smoothly and without distraction. I push him forward toward the table. I lean into him and hastily drop kisses at his shoulder. It’s silent even on the opposite side of the door now, but excitement continues to race through me stressfully. I press closer to him and place my hands at his sides at the rims of his pants. I steal a look at him curiously a second time. Completely complacent. Honestly, he’s as I expected, but if he weren’t, if anything weren’t, I’d have had a heart attack.

I take my bag off my shoulder and set it on the table. I pull a microphone out of it. “Bend over,” I instruct him lowly. He turns his head to look at me; I can see one eye – mostly eyelashes, and parts of his nose. I doubt he can see me, but his expression is stoic. A vague urge to tell him not to worry passes over me, but I push my palm flat against his back, between his shoulder blades to hurry him. He bends over on top of the table.

I gaze down to see skin exposed below the hem of his shirt. I slip my fingers under the fabric and run them along the lanes of his back to calm my nerves with a couple smooth back-and-forth motions. I trace my hand around his side and down to the front of his pants. A hasty, fumbling anticipation tingles from my fingers and up my arm, but I quickly manage to undo his bottoms and push them low.

I glide my hand down his thigh, scooting his pants down further. I lean over him and tell him to open his mouth. He raises his head gently from the table, questioningly.

“Just open it.”

He slowly does so, and I show him the mic I have in my hand. I bring the narrow end of it close to his lips and press the heel of my palm down on his back as I stretch over him. I put the mic at his lips and try to move it into his mouth. He twitches his head to the left. “Don’t kill me,” he asks while he’s still capable.

I crisply blink off the words. He can’t think I plan to, otherwise he’d have resisted right away; it’s more of a deterrent, I imagine.

I squeeze the back of his arm tightly and let it travel up to his shoulder. In an urge to finish quickly, I remove my hand and shuffle it through my bag to find my favorite lubricant. Taking a generous amount of it, I wash it over my erection.

I lean over to peek at Uruha again, and I again brush the mic against his lips. He widens his mouth reluctantly, and I can move it in a little ways. I slide it in slowly to the point where it seems to become uncomfortable for him. There I hesitate briefly. I take the moment to push my erection into him. Afterwards, I move my hand to the back of his neck while the other urges the mic forward. It’s tough with his resisting, so I nudge it through with a bit of force. Uruha shivers violently, and I know it’s reached his throat. He tries turning his head from me, but I inch the mic in just a little more and allow it to recede not even that same distance.

His muscles rumbling rebelliously under mine make me uneasy. I tell him to stop and when he doesn’t, I very shortly but sharply thrust the mic in further to rebuke him. I know the unrounded edge of it must hurt him. He doesn’t like it and does lie still for a moment. I close my eyes firmly. I run my hand along his skin, pinching some of it between my fingers as I hump into him. I allow my hand to play along his shoulder. This moment lasts only a second, but it feels mildly like sex. Yet there’s a bad foreboding I can’t ignore.

Uruha begins to shake again and with noticeable distress. I breathe out with wide-eyed concentration. A fear only like abrupt and reckless acceleration jumps up into my throat. I don’t bother to threaten jabs from the mic. I don’t imagine it would calm him. My muscles strain and press him hard against the table and push my free hand down heavily on his back. As long as I keep the mic jammed down his throat, I’ll be okay. I hold steady.

A deep pang of pleasurable anxiety as he slumps and gives away, falling away. Somewhere afloat in my stirred up head, a thought of how Uruha said he couldn’t cum when he raped me. I pull the mic from Uruha, and it rolls to the floor while I do my best. I grit my teeth and hold my breath with a head full of visions. I move both hands to his sides and watch where my fingers clutch into the skin. I choke on my breath and manage it. After I cum, I curl my arms beneath his armpits and lower him gently to the floor. I lay him out on his stomach, and I kick him hard in the shoulder. I pant into the back of my hand as I stare at him. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have. My eyes flick worriedly to the door and keep doing so while I take my bag and sit beside him. I can’t immediately look at him. I take out wipes that I had brought along and clean off my messy member. I do so briskly and sloppily. Finishing, I tuck it away and refasten my pants. For Uruha, I can’t do anything but pull up his pants, but then he’s easily fully clothed. He lies coughing violently. I cut the duct tape and peel it from his skin. My spirits float up joyously, liberated now that I haven’t been caught, neither of us with our pants down anyway. I stuff my trash into a plastic sack, which I then toss into a nearby garbage bin.

I exhale airily as I crouch down in front of Uruha and look him in the face. I grimace to see that it’s very bloody and that he’s in fact bleeding all over the flat carpet. A lively panic slips through me and sets off an incessant hum. I hoist him up immediately and lean him against the wall. I blink trying to concentrate, and I pull out more wipes and napkins. This electric humming vibrates on, making my eyes wide and head hollow, as I scrub the stain from the carpet. I notice quickly that it’s not just blood but also a small bit of vomit. I can’t smell the blood so much as the bitterness. I hear Uruha still coughing and when I note this and glance back to him, I see him stretched out on his side, face towards the floor, hacking up another mess. “Uruha!” I yell at him, irritated. I immediately bite my lip and shut up. I tear both wipes and napkins to shredded pieces as I rub at the floor fiercely. Frustrated tears glaze my vision for a brief second and then scatter away. The stain doesn’t disappear, but as long as it’s not discernibly blood, I can be satisfied. I throw more trash into the bin and go back to Uruha.

My head is light and my heart apprehensive as I approach him. Standing above him and looking down, he seems far away. I feel like I’m falling to earth as I sit beside him. He continues to cough, and I let him bloody the carpet. I’ve burnt out of all my motivation.

I stretch out my legs and survey the room before me. I had wanted to see if the room was in fact plain, but I can’t notice anything but traces of us. I wish he’d disappear so that I could just get out of here. I wish I could burn him out of existence, bury him, anything. I glance at him lying there, his face hidden behind his arm, and I stretch out my fingers alongside his. His are not shaking, but mine are. I take his hand in mine and run my thumb across it, finding it smooth and not feverish. I don’t know why I imagined otherwise.

It may have been silent a long time, but it blossoms and bursts now. I run fingertips down the back of Uruha’s neck a couple times. It does feel warm. I sigh, and in an attempt to clear my thoughts, I shut my eyes. This is a stupid time for meditation. I have to get home. “It’s done though,” I think to myself, and I do feel better. I reopen my eyes and decide we should go right away.

When I can get Uruha to sit up, I see that there’s thankfully only a tiny area of blood on the floor, but there’s still blood boldly smeared across his face. With a napkin, I wipe some of it off him and then just pile a wad of napkins in his hand while I work a little on the floor. I clean it lightly as I’m in a hurry. Uruha’s still spitting blood into the napkins, but I give him a few more and pull up his hand to cover more of his face. Anyone would probably think it’s a bloody nose. He looks at me closely, but I blink it off and pull him to his feet.

When I get him into the car, the day seems especially nice and sunny. I catch a peacefully rising mood, like recovering after an illness. Uruha sits in the passenger seat, bent at the waist with his head nearly to his knees.

We eventually arrive at his place, and I pull into a parking space. As soon as the car stops, he opens his door and throws up onto the pavement.

“Get out!” I scream at him.

He has his head lowered and, I assume, feels awful. Grumbling to myself, I undo my seatbelt, get out of the car and walk to the passenger’s side. I see his vomit below the door. There’s some blood in it. “Get out, get out.” I grab Uruha by the forearm and pull him out of the car. It seems like all he wants to do is hesitate and rest. I prod him along impatiently and help him into the building. “You could do this yourself; you’re just being a baby,” I complain to him. When we reach his apartment, I take his keys from him and unlock it myself since he’s not rushing to do it.

I open the door, push him inside, shut the door and leave.

I go home and immediately take a shower and brush my teeth. I take my bag and throw all its contents away. I had planned to clean up the mic and to eventually return it, but the thought disturbs me, so I throw it out too. There’s just one exception: Uruha’s keys. Looking at them, they seem so dreamlike and personal. I hadn’t realized I’d taken them. I leave them on the table to return them later. I lay back onto my bed with a soft thud and gaze up at the ceiling. I wonder if I could take a nap. I should probably go return the keys now while I’m thinking about it.

I drive back over to his place with a blank curiosity and fear. I take the elevator, walk to his apartment and open the door without knocking. I take a couple shy steps before I actually see him. He’s lying on the floor and appears to be asleep. I drop his keys to the floor by my shoe, and say, “hey.”

He opens his eyes and blinks up at me drowsily.

“Tired?”

He nods.

“Your keys are on the floor.” And having finished my task, I turn and leave. I pace slowly toward the elevator, and as I wait for it, I cringe to realize that I’ll soon be alone in my apartment. Once I leave the building, I won’t be able to come back here without Uruha’s keys. I tap my foot and think about it, then retrace my steps to Uruha’s door. I gently push it open and peek in as if there honestly might have been a change. I shut the door behind me and move to Uruha’s small kitchen area to collect paper towels and wet them. After doing so, I lightly approach Uruha. I crouch down and ask him to sit up. He holds his arms around his stomach when he does, and along with his pained expression, he looks ill. I take the paper towels and clean the blood from his face. Much of it is dry, and fine, dusty flakes of it flutter to the floor. A lock of hair is stuck in the blood on the side of his cheek as well.

Uruha lightly grabs onto my left forearm near the wrist. I take it away from him, wipe up the blood from the floor and stand up. “Are you still bleeding?”

He nods.

“It must not be that bad if you didn’t choke to death during your nap. Say ‘a~’.”

He opens his mouth, and it’s difficult to see. I get him a cup of water and bring it back to him. “Rinse out.”

He takes a sip, swishes it around and spits back into the cup. The water might be tinted with blood, but if so just barely. “Not so bad,” I tell him. I leave the cup on a counter top, and he sinks back down on to the floor, looking like he wants to sleep. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I wish I knew. I haven’t the faintest idea as I watch him. He had touched my arm earlier, and I need to know what it meant, whether he wanted me to stay or to leave him alone. I can’t decide. “Uruha, your keys are in front of your door,” I tell him.

His eyelids and lips seem to move in acknowledgement. I approach him and kneel on the floor in front of him. He may be a shameful part of me, but he’s soft and pleasant to look at. I’d hate to leave him as he is. I’d hate to leave him as a mess. He’ll be mortified later. He is shameful to me, and I want to pretty it up a bit. I’m aware that it’s not only a lot of work but also it’s self-defeating. I’d be erasing his shame as well. I lean back and can’t remember the last time I spoke to him without sounding disdainful. I clear my throat and quietly remind him again that his keys are in front of the door. He nods in return. I rise slowly and leave.

It’s windy as I step outside, and I hurry to my car. I sit there and feel stupid for having left him. A few minutes pass, and I start on a cigarette. I pop open the car door and walk back to the building. I press the call button to Uruha’s apartment. I wait for him to answer me, but after some seconds, I gather that he might not. I buzz up again and expect an answer. I’m very disappointed when it doesn’t come, but even as I step away I expect to hear it.

I resettle into the driver’s seat and turn the mirror towards me. I look remarkably in tact. I place both hands on top of the steering wheel and drop my head atop them. I feel so different from this morning. I feel so infirm and watery. But really all it was was rough sex. He didn’t tell me not to, just not to kill him, but if I had talked to Uruha, he would have understood. Couldn’t I have made sense with just words? On second thought, I don’t think I could have. I’m that unreasonable. I wouldn’t have made any sense at all. I’m insane. I glance at my watch and still don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be alone anymore, but I start the car anyway.