Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Maki Murakami does.
Rating: M for implied rape, rape, suicide, dark themes, language, sexual situations, and fluff.
The window was open, for once. Eiri usually enjoyed suffocating in the smoke of cigarette, especially when he was in his study – a constant fog of nicotine kept his abused nerves soothed long enough to finish at least one chapter before another stick needed to be lit. And he particularly enjoyed it at night, when the dim lighting would give the smoke an eerie, almost depressingly morbid glow that would have appeared more at place in a graveyard. It was comforting in its sick, twisted way, and it kept his mind sane when he delved too deep into the happenings of his novels.
But now, he stood against the outline of the window, shivering slightly from the chill of the air as it sucked the smoke from his room. The blonde novelist watched as each cancerous strand of gray floated viciously by, each one a passing sliver of memory hissing profanities as it was ripped away from his sanctuary. The cigarette had long since been tossed out, and he had temporarily entertained the amusing thought of it landing on some poor old woman's hair. He hadn't ground it out first. But such amusing thoughts had been quickly dashed every time his eyes had darted back to the thick white packet on his desk.
An unpublished, unworthy novel. Dedication – Kitazawa Yuki, deceased by unsolved murder. Written exactly seven years ago by a tormented sixteen-year-old in the span of two months. Filled with violence, gore, blunt and vicious murder, suicide, and the ever-popular yaoi pairing. His fucking life story in the first half, his desperate wish in the last. Thrown to the side by a careless, spineless, judgmental editor, and with it his true writing.
(It's just not going to work)
"Shut the hell up," the twenty-three-year-old growled softly to the voice he knew only he could hear. With deft, shaking fingers he closed the window, latching it securely before turning back to the packet.
Neglected as the day Eiri had shoved it in the foot of his closet, in the darkest corner it had. Ripped and smudged and just as broken as the boy who had written its story. He loved it, and hated it. It haunted the depths of his nightmares and gave him the kindest of dreams, as cliché as that sounded. The novel had allowed him to do what many other people wished they could – lock away his demons, the poisoned part of himself, and be done with it.
"Damn it all, Akira! You cannot run from this!"
Miyazaki Akira. A small blonde teenager who was far too trusting and innocent to have been let out into the real world with a permanent body guard. Unable to defend himself not because he was inept, but because the betrayal had been too horrifying to be reality. His soul, that little one. Eiri had lived reality, fantasy, and death through the small fictional replica of himself. He had held nothing back with Akira – not his emotions, reactions, or experiences. The rape the lithe boy had been forced to endure had been every bit as painful and terrorizing as Yuki's attack on him. He had held nothing back.
Damn, but he thought those demons were gone.
"Please, Aki-koi," Toshiro whispered tenderly, the light of tears making his obsidian pools sparkle in pain. "Let me help you, be there for you. Whatever it is…"
Akira, however, kept silent. Inside, his soul raged to release the demons onto the taller boy. To bare his every vulnerability and take the offered help, if it still stood. But he could not … he refused to tarnish Toshiro, too.
How ironic it was that Shuichi had found the unpublished horror story. Ironic, since the moron was the reason his skeletons had begun reappearing in the first place. Everywhere he looked, all he could see was the innocent, trusting violet eyes that looked as his had looked once. All he heard was the vehement assurances of adoration and devotion, no matter the circumstances. The sworn loyalty, the undying, unconditional love. If Akira was Eiri, then Aino Toshiro was Shindou Shuichi.
(The subject matter is too sensitive for the general public.)
"I don't have time for this shit." He needed aspirin, or alcohol, or a cigarette … sex would be good … maybe. He could combine all four … no, wait. None of those mixed well. Damn it. Maybe he should just go to bed, and forget the whole day. And the damn novel that was the bane and pride of his miserable existence.
That didn't stop his hand from grazing across the pages as he left the study.
(I told you they wouldn't take a ... yaoi novel.)
It was dark in his apartment outside of the room – he could vaguely recall his lover's quiet goodnight through the door, a far cry from the singer's usual routine. Idiot probably thought he was in trouble again – that he was going to be kicked out, or tossed to the couch for the rest of the week. Those had all been ideas Eiri had favored for ten seconds, before his exhaustion had caught up with him. So he said nothing at the sight of the small form already under the dark sheets, far to the side and curled up as small as possible. He did not even bother to join the teen under the covers as well, simply allowing his body to fall forward onto his stomach, and his eyes to close.
(You're so special, Eiri. Worth more than all the gold in the world). Bright eyes shone with sincerity as the words were spoken, and Eiri preened under Yuki's gentle praise. (I wouldn't trade you for anything.)
'Damn it, no. Not now, here. Go away, Kitazawa.'
(Here's the ten dollars.)
(Move, Yuki! … Fuck, he's gorgeous). Pain, so much pain. Darkness – scenes he had blocked out.
'Please, Yuki. Just stay dead.'
(Eiri, don't!) Gunshots screaming, cutting through his tearful blindness. His throat raw from screaming, his body on fire. Those bright eyes now lifeless and staring at nothing. A ten dollar bill, coated red on a blood-stained floor.
(I love you, Eiri.)
"Yuki?" The writer jerked at the softly spoken name, and with a start he realized he was shaking so violently that the bed beneath him danced in his sorrow. There was a dampness on his cheeks, cool and fresh and painful – his eyes burned with tears that had not fallen in a long time. Hastily, he shot up, turning just enough so that his obviously awakened partner would not see him wiping them away.
"Nothing, brat," he snapped. "Go back to bed."
He should have known better than to try to sleep. He had barely been able to while writing that book, and not at all during the first few days. He should have known.
"Yuki, what is it? What's wrong?"
And he should have know better than to assume the stupid moron would listen.
Eiri tensed slightly as he felt small familiar fingers tentatively wrap around his shoulders, fighting the urge to shake them off and backhand his lover for daring to touch him in the first place.
"I'm sorry, Yuki," Shuichi muttered, and the gentle breath was like a refreshing breeze against his heated skin. "I'm sorry if I made you angry when I read your story. I didn't mean to pry, and I promise I didn't go around looking for it."
'I hate that fucking story. I should have burned the damn thing that night!' Jerking away from the grasp, away from the lithe body that offered his own comfort, he left the room. Head pounding, hands shaking. Like withdraw symptoms.
(I love you, Eiri.)
It was looking at him again. No, that was foolish. Personification … wonderful. His life wasn't a fucking book, he didn't need to personify anything.
It was laying there again, then. Right in front of him, drawing his eyes towards it like a temptress. It didn't want to be ignored—
Damn it! It couldn't want anything. Personification! With a growl, Eiri ripped his gaze from the novel to return them to his laptop, only to be meant with a blank, black screen. He hadn't even turned it on yet.
"Yuki?" Shuichi's voice again, timid since that night two days ago. He tossed his lover a small look as his fingers punched the power button defiantly, taking in the way the slight frame melded against the wood of the doorway perfectly. Like he was trying to push himself into it. He didn't acknowledge the use of his name, letting the silence engulf.
"Why are you running away from it, Yuki?" His fingers didn't even make it to the touch pad to open the word program when the question came. A snarl escaped his throat, and his eyes narrowed to a fierce glare.
"Are you afraid it will be rejected again, Yuki? Is that why you're running away from your story?" His hand tightened threateningly on the edge of his desk as the singer stepped into the room, ignoring his order.
"You shouldn't care, you know." The teen stopped just behind him, not reaching forward to touch him, as he normally would. Just stood there, forming a shadow over Eiri's form that chilled him deeply. "You normally wouldn't."
"It's not that simple!" He slammed his other fist down, causing his screen to blink and the novel to move. Both laughing at him. "Now get out!" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded horrific. The shadow behind him disappeared instantly – even he could sense the fear he brought out in his lover, wincing as he saw the blur of pink dash back to the door. Turning away as he noticed Shuichi pause, breathing deeply, trying to put it back.
"You just wrote it, Yuki." A soft voice, so defeated, hopeless. He clenched his eyes shut. "It drove you, it's personal to you, it's part of you. So what if other people don't enjoy it?" The last words were in a cry, hysterical, hurt, and the door slammed behind them, effectively leaving him in the solitude once again.
He opened his eyes, and turned them towards his story.
(The subject matter is too sensitive for the general public.)
He wrote it.
(You're so special, Eiri.)
It was … personal.
(But the public would not react well to a romance novel involving ... two men.)
(Here's the ten dollars.)
So cheap, so painful.
(You shouldn't care, you know. You normally wouldn't.)
No. He wouldn't.
(I love you, Eiri).
It was a part of him. Personification his ass.
(So what if other people don't enjoy it?)
Unconsciously, his fingers once again dragged across the old, beaten cover. Such personification.
"Do not ignore me, Akira! Hate me, want me dead, but do not ignore me!"
"Brat!" He called out, his voice oddly raspy. But the door squeaked slowly open a minute later, a pink head peaking cautiously through. "…Bring me the phone. And then come in here." Another glare at the blemished packet.
"I want it published."
"You always have, Eiri," Touma replied gently, eyeing the fresh, clean copy of his brother-in-law's first novel resting on his desk. Kami, he remembered this story far too well. "But you must have some idea of what a novel of the caliber could do to your career. Yuki Eiri is a romance novelist who allows happy endings. The chances that this could break you are extraordinary, Eiri." He frowned slightly as his brother shifted uneasily, uncharacteristic of him.
"…Shuichi… came up with the idea of another pen-name," he said softly after a moment. "We … settled on Uesugi Naru, for various reasons." A glimmer flashed in the normally cold amber eyes, and Touma winced, recognizing the name of Kitazawa's mother. "The guise of a female writer would make a connection between us fairly unlikely." Another glimmer, darker this time. "I…I want people to read it. I want … I need it … Touma." The desperate note was not missed, and the president of NG-Pro bowed his head. This was … he couldn't deny Eiri, not when he was like this. Sounding so … vulnerable.
"I understand. Consider it done, Eiri."
"I'm not mad at you," he whispered as they lay in bed, not opening his eyes even when he felt the younger male go tense beside him. He had debated saying this, explaining anything. But it was … he knew he owed it to Shuichi. And Eiri did not like owing anything.
"Yuki?" He sighed.
"I … didn't want to offer the book out again. I didn't want the rejection." He felt the nod, the hesitant, comforting fingers ghosting along his side. Fuck, he was going to have to blame all of this on the alcohol he had downed earlier. Hell, maybe that was the reason. He sighed. "The first half … the first half of that book … is based off my life."
The fingers stilled.
(I love you, Eiri).
And then they started again.
"Then I guess it's okay to tell you," Shuichi whispered, and once again the breeze of his breath was refreshing. "When I was reading … I … I would have done what Toshiro did, Yuki." The small form shifted closer. "I knew I would, if I were in his place. All of it. I would have done all of it."
"I can save you, Akira," Toshiro whispered desperately against a slim, shaking shoulder. He placed a soothing kiss on the cold skin before pulling the smaller boy under his chin, rocking him gently. "Please, just let me help you. Let me show you what it means to live again."
Without warning, he grasped the teen's body and flipped them over, pinning Shuichi to the bed with his arms above his head, feeling the rage and passion and lust flowing into his eyes until they burned. His life wasn't a fucking romance novel, and he wasn't going to spout "I love you" shit to his lover, but…
"Get emotional, and you're on the couch," he warned, waiting for the answering 'eep!' before grinding their hips together fiercely, teeth attacking the slim neck until the surprise became lust equal to his own.
In the living room, settled next to a childish mug, the black cover of Uesugi Naru's Aishiteru Blood gleamed in the moonlight.
And we have some OOC … but whatever. This was hard as anything to write. Took forever, too. :)
Let me know what you thought?