And you're not mine

Its always the same, this thing, nothing changes, only the time. Its always the same. The hurt, the rage, the guilt, the shame, nothing changes, only when, sometimes how. When we speak the words are cruel, harsh hating words designed to hurt, to cause the most damage. There are blows, bruises, scrapes, nothing anyone would question, but enough. It is a collision, this thing, two bodies clashing together without care or concern. I wish I didn't care, but I do, I wish I didn't have to see it, but I do, I wish I could make him understand, but I don't.

He's sleeping, a bruise rising in pink tender flesh on his arm where I bit him. Inside the pink there are a few teeth marks and a few white raised skin drags, and fewer spots of blood. I have done this to him. It is me that's marked him. It is me that watches him unable to control what he is, unable to stop myself. He wants it, he probably wants it more than me, but he hates himself for wanting it, for the betrayal that is implicit.

I try to understand him, but all he'll let me see is the cold.

He is driving me mad, and I want him to. If I was mad maybe I'd understand.

He doesn't see me, he never does. It doesn't matter to him who I am, only that I am there. I touch the split in my lip with my tongue gingerly, feeling the shock of pain. Anyone would do to him, but not to me. I would rather have him kill me than share him. If it would open him up in any way I would gladly have him kill me.

His eyes are dead. They open and they are blank, as if shocked to see me there, then he sighs and turns his back away again, and I can see him limned by the moonlight, his breath causing a chiaroscuro making the light play across his beauty. He is beautiful. If I tell him that he will turn away.

A poem has been stuck in my head for weeks, something Omi was studying and didn't understand that struck a chord within me.

I watch you stand at your window
the soft curves of your hair
against the square lines of the house
and you're not mine.

You pull your brush though long dark hair
singing some song he taught you
as you stare into the dank Tokyo night
and you're not mine

And when you are done, song finished, hair braided
you will turn to me, and you will smile
a soft fake smile, before climbing into bed
and you're not mine.

I pretended I didn't understand either. Despite how clever Omi is he can be gullible, if he wants to believe he will, either that or he's smart enough not to get involved.

He's playing his music now, he never uses headphones, or if he does he sings along so loudly he might as well not bother. It should say something that he doesn't wake.

Every time we do this
I fall for her
Wave after wave after wave
It's all for her

I should get up and tell him to turn it off. It won't wake him. He's taken two sleeping pills, nothing should wake him now before eight. I watch him, so soft and peaceful. When he sleeps the anger and the pain vanish from him and he looks boyish, his skin pale and lovely and his red hair not so much like a wound as when he is awake. He has enough admirers. Sometimes I wonder why he doesn't scare them the way that he scares me. He scares me, I admit it, I love him so much and all he does is hurt me, and all I do is hurt him, and he wants it that way.

If I thought for an instant it would help him I would kill him where he lay. If he would open up and tell me maybe I could help, but he'll never tell me. I know. It wasn't hard to find, but I want him to tell me.

"I know this can't be wrong" I say
(And I'll lie to keep her happy)
"As long as I know that you know
That today I belong right here with you"
Right here with you...

He's still bleeding, the mark on his bicep is starting to drool down his arm. I climb out of bed, ignoring the ache in my side where he punched me, and fetch some antiseptic cream and a band aid. His skin is hot to the touch when I tend him, and he opens his eyes and they are cold. As if I was unimportant, as if I didn't matter anymore. "Leave it," he says.

"It'll get infected," I tell him putting on the Band-Aid. "there," I say laying a single kiss on the cloth, "all better." He doesn't say anything else, just lies there in silence.

He never sleeps well, even when medicated. Too much on his mind, I know, but he'll never tell me.

And so we watch the sun come up
From the edge of the deep green sea
And she listens like her head's on fire
Like she wants to believe in me

Omi's song fills the room as if the band were here, some British band he likes this week, better that than Jpop, there is nothing worse than being on a downer when some sugary confection of a pop group is singing about some boy.

"So I try
Put your hands in the sky
Surrender
Remember
We'll be here forever
And we'll never say goodbye...

He seems to notice the music. I stand up again, "I'll tell him to turn it off." I say, but his hand around my wrist stops me. He pulls me back to the bed and holds me in a bear hug. Even in this there is no intimacy, there is no caring.

"I can't sleep," he says, "stay with me." And this is why I love him. When he is like this, he is charming and funny, and caring, not for me, never for me, but he is someone else. When he doesn't hate himself other people can only love him. I climb into his bed and he lies, hot against my back, and puts his arms around and like this I could die.

I've never been so
Colourfully-see-through-head before
I've never been so
Wonderfully-me-you-want-some-more

His hands are gentle where he hurt me, his fingers amiable but not determined. He touches me only because I am his, or he is mine, we've never really decided on the matter. It doesn't matter, we are each other's, but we have no space for love.

His head is on the curve on my neck, and I can feel his warm slow breaths against my skin and part of me wants to hold him so close I choke the life from him and the other part wants to cry. I love him so much and all he does is hurt himself. Never on his skin, that is for me to do, but in his head. He feels guilty for this, for wanting it, for enjoying it, and wants me to punish him, and then sometimes he is like this, calm and quiet, affectionate and soft and I love him so much I want to vomit.

We never say anything when we lie like this, I lie and listen to him breathe. Sometimes he will sleep, the drugs will drag him down kicking and screaming, sometimes. Other nights the drugs will make him slow.

And all I want is to keep it like this
You and me alone
A secret kiss
And don't go home
Don't go away
Don't let this end
Please stay...
Not just for today...

His hand is twitching against my chest and it's all I can do to choke back a sob. I want to turn to look at him, I want to shake him and tell him I know about his sister, and she'd want him to be happy, she wouldn't want him to do this. I wonder if he'd hit me for saying it, I wonder if I'd care. There is nothing inside him, nothing. He is a shell, and then sometimes he is like this. I go to get up, "I'll just tell him to turn it down," I don't want him to see me cry.

"No," he says, "its lovely," His voice is soft and breathy.

"Never never never never never let me go" she says
"Hold me like this for a hundred thousand million days"
But suddenly she slows
And looks down at my breaking face
"Why do you cry?
What did I say?"
"But it's just rain" I smile
Brushing my tears away...

I turn.

He can see how upset I am and kisses me softly, careful of the lip that he split, there is no desire in his kiss, only comfort. His hate and rage suppressed by the sleeping pills that aren't strong enough to make him sleep more than a few minutes. He puts his mouth against my ear, "you're hopeless," he murmurs softly and I think I'm going to break, to have him hold me and care. I think I would fly into pieces if he wasn't holding me so tight.

What seems like a world away the English man is singing

I wish I could just stop
I know another moment will break my heart
Too many tears
Too many times
Too many years I've cried over you

I want to get up, to make the song stop, to make it go away. Its too much. And knowing Omi he has the damn thing on repeat. What I wouldn't give for him to be playing a jpop confection right now just so the song wouldn't be so damn close to the mark. His hand is stroking my face, there is no anger, no rage, no pain, only comfort in his touch. "I'm sorry," he says, though I don't think he understands what's wrong, and his breath smells of bourbon. He doesn't drink often, but when he does…

He drives me mad. I want to kill him, and I don't want him dead. I want to swallow him up and take his pain within me so that all he ever is, is this. Is this kindness, this …

He kisses me again, there is nothing insistent in his kiss, nothing hateful, nothing hurtful. Sometimes he is like this. I want up, I don't want this, soon the hate will return and the cycle starts again. He won't let me go. His arms are like a vise, but he doesn't hurt me. Not now. Not like this.

How much more can we use it up?
Drink it dry?
Take this drug?
Looking for something forever gone
But something we will always want...

His kiss is searching, tending, caring. It makes me cry. I can't help it. His thumb is callused when he wipes away my tears. "You really are hopeless," he says and he is smiling. It just makes me cry harder. I can't help it.

"Why why why are you letting me go" she says
"I feel you pulling back
I feel you changing shape"
And just as I'm breaking free
She hangs herself in front of me
Slips her dress like a flag to the floor
And hands in the sky
Surrenders it all...

"I love you," I murmur into his chest.

"No, you don't." He says but he doesn't pull away, his hands don't become any less tender, his voice is even soft. He always says that. He doesn't want me to love him, he doesn't deserve my love.

"I want you to be happy." I tell him.

"I am content," he says, "like this with you." I know he means it. He chose me, not the other way around. I think sometimes I would have been happy just watching him from afar. He is so beautiful, but he doesn't want to be told that. Maybe when he is like this, when the light makes him blush and his skin isn't so white he might as well be dead.

I wish I could just stop
I know another moment will break my heart
Too many tears
Too many times
Too many years I've cried for you
It's always the same

Sometimes I wonder who he was before, whether I would have loved him so desperately, so painfully when he was…

He told me a joke once, it caught me so off guard I was stunned. It wasn't even funny. When he is like this I love him so much it hurts me. Then there is the other who hurts me. I love him too.

His kisses are getting more forceful. We have never, not like this, not without the rage. I don't know how. His hands are soft. This is not for him, I think, this is for me. He may not love me, he may not want to love me, but he can be kind. Sometimes his kindness hurts more than his hate.

I can't refuse him, if I try he might push me away and that is worse than this. I want it, I do, but we've never, not like this. I wonder if its the bourbon or the sleeping pills or if its another act. This is dangerous territory for him, he is so beautiful and fragile and so very very dangerous.

Wake up in the rain
Head in pain
Hung in shame
A different name
Same old game
Love in vain
And miles and miles and miles and miles and miles
Away from home again...

The mission tonight was terrible, it went exactly to plan and most of his rage was taken out on the target, if I hadn't seen what I'd seen I might have pitied the man. He looks very sexy in black, but I wouldn't tell him that. His katana like a line of light as he ran forward the point of the blade low before he split the man from left hip to right shoulder in a single motion that sprayed us both in blood. He would have attacked him again if I hadn't stopped him. Maybe I should have let him.

He cried in the shower, he didn't think that I had seen him, but I had. If I confronted him about it he would deny it. he doesn't cry, he isn't shy, he doesn't do jokes, but sometimes he lets the shields down and I see someone else in him, someone even more beautiful than the cold perfect statue that he shows most people, even more beautiful than the hateful cruel lover I know so well.

I initiated it tonight, I almost always do. I know he wants it, but the rage and the hurt are something else. The target deserved it, he deserved it a hundred times harder, if he had seen with my eyes he would have seen dead girls, not his sister. He killed the man as if he could bring his sister out of her coma, back to him, he would have killed him a thousand times over to do that.

Sometimes I wonder what it would mean if he did get her back. Would she accept him, was he always like this, or is he the warm and jovial man he is right now. His kisses are light and fluttering. His hands are in my hair, kissing my face, my cheekbones and my ear lobes. His hands move slightly. Is this how it is between normal people, I wonder. I can't help but kiss him back, even though it splits my lip again. He's growling at me, rolling me unto my back. He is determined, loving, gentle. The moon light is pure, more pure than we deserve, truth be told.

His blankets are warm and scratchy, but his skin is hot and slick. His touch burns like a fever. I want him so much it hurts me, but I don't know if I can do this, like this, with him so content.

He has lain down between my legs, this is not a determined motion, more like a way to keep me in place. "You make me so comfortable," he says laying down on my chest, "I might tie you down just so that I can come along and lie on you like this." His ear is against my heart, he can hear it thumping. Its a couple of seconds before I realise he is teasing me. My wrists are still chafed from the last time he tied me up. "I love listening to your heart beat, it reminds me that you're alive. You're as golden as the sun." His murmurs are meant to soothe me, to calm me down, his voice is slurring, the drugs and the liquor catching him up.

I put my arms around him. "Do you know how beautiful you are?"

He laughs, its a throaty sound and I've never heard it before, not in all the years I've known him I have ever heard him laugh. "You really are hopeless." I can hear his laughter in his voice.

"You are beautiful," I tell him, playing with the red hair at the back of his neck. "Why else would all those girls flock around you?"

"To get to you, gorgeous." Omi's changed the song, it's still loud, it's still in English, something heavier with clanging guitars, the man is shouting the words out and I can't make out a word he's saying. He laughed again, "I am going to tell him to turn that down."

"I thought you liked it." I can tease too.

"I liked the other song," he says, "but this is just noise."

"It could be worse," I say, I don't want him to get up, honestly, it feels so nice to have his head on my chest, and his weight upon me. He's as slim as a girl, but there is nothing there but muscle. His skin like silk stretched over his lean muscles.

"It could be jpop." He agrees. "Aya used to play that terrible music," he says fondly, "I swear it was half sugar and half amphetamine, but you couldn't stay angry at it, it was just too happy. She used to make me dance with her." I have seen his sister, lying there as if she was asleep. Her hair is as dark as Ken's, and she looks so peaceful. She only looks like him when he's sleeping. I try to imagine him dancing, and I can't, the image just doesn't work. I dance, and more than once, when he is in this mood, I have tried to make him dance with me. He never does. Then again I have never heard him laugh. "Kami-sama that music is terrible, and loud, I think its meant to be romantic."

"It helps him study." I say, "and if he's studying in that racket he's not asking us to do it for him."

"Interrupting us would be bad," he agrees with a smile, I can feel his lips twitch up in a smile, "but I don't know, he's small and cuddly. He'd probably snuggle right in between the two of us." He's teasing me again.

"Maybe," Omi is small and still round with puppy fat, he's adorable, as cute as a button, "but I can't help feeling he'll bully us into doing his algebra."

He laughs again, it rattles against his chest. "you make me laugh."

"I've never heard you laugh," I say.

"Doesn't mean you haven't made me laugh." He's slipping away now, despite the clanging roar of Omi's studying music. His eyes, which are normally so accusative, are heavy lidded and vacant, as if he is not really there any more. I have to drug him to make him sleep. He's pinned me to the bed. I don't want to move, I don't want him to move. I don't want us ever to move. "This doesn't mean I won't kill you in the morning."

I laugh, "I know, love, I know." Then he's asleep and I am content to just lie there and listen to him breathe. Its hot on my chest.

Across the hall Omi turns the music off. The silence is amazingly quick and the moon light makes his skin silvery. I have a quick sob, and then put my hands on his head. "I love you, you silly man," I tell him, "even if you never let me say it."

Omi woke us at late morning. He popped his head around the door, by this point both my legs were quite numb and I had terrible pins and needles in my left arm, but if someone suggested that I move him right now I would have taken their head off, literally. He was in that strange deep sleep that you only get when you've taken enough tranquillisers to kill an elephant. Omi went a little red, and his skinny little legs went a little weak at what he saw. He had seen other things in this room, normally it is Omi who mends us after this, but he has never seen something like this before. We've been intimate in the past, but so rarely its not really worth mentioning and never in front of Omi.

I've been awake some time and I watch him blush with some amusement, "pop the coffee on, chibi," I say, "I'd do it but." He laughs. "You were playing a song last night."

His big blue eyes go even bigger, "I'm sorry, was it too loud?"

"A little." I tell him, "but what was the name of that song, the one about loving her."

"I don't know, I was listening to the radio, I'll find out for you."

I smile at him, beaming, "thank you." I say, "some breakfast would be nice too."

"Talk about taking advantage." Aya murmurs against my chest, "how is a body meant to get some sleep?" he sits up, "morning," he says to Omi, he really couldn't care that he's being watched. He turns over and lies on his back. "Did someone say coffee?" He asks.

"Hai," Omi says dashing down the stairs.

Aya laughs again, "you make me laugh, Yoji" he says playing with my hair, "but he makes me howl."

"You can be cruel," I tell him, sitting up and running my fingers through my hair, "that boy has the most terrible crush on you."

"Now why would that be?" He says playing the coquette, there is a small smirk playing on the corner of his mouth.

"Because you're beautiful." I tell him, leaning down to kiss him on the mouth.

"I know." He says.

I wonder if the rage broke or its still the drugs, or if he will be the other man again by the time he goes down the stairs. I like this new him, but he's not mine.