Warnings: AU yet bloody again, angst,slash yaoi, sexual hints but luckily for you all, I can't write a lemon even if my life depended on it. Er...does unbeta's count too?
Disclaimer: Me? Own KKM? You kiddin' me, right? If I owned that show, I don't think NHK would be able to air it even IF it comes on at midnight! (>>; Only people who know about the NHK channel should get this...harr.)
A/N: I so know I've still got my other story to finish, but this plot bunny snuck up and attacked my with a pitch fork. (Sadly, I've even got another one roiling around in my head. I blame being cooped up in this house due to rain and lack of money.) Anyway, this was something to help me pass the time (and get the annoyance off my back for not doing anything) and...cha. This may be upsetting to readers, I'm aware, and perhaps OOC to a high point but in a way that's the beauty of an AU (also the HORRIBLE UGLINESS because I'm ruining a perfect show BUUUUT I can't help myself! Someone, stop my ego!) Buuut...anyway, yes. This is what happened and...I'm probably going to continue it just the same as my other one - only when I bloody feel like it. So, hopefully, a few of you will enjoy it for the AU angst-fest it is.
The Simple Things: Chapter 1
The room was out of focus at first - everything so blurred and hazy. Why, for the many seconds it took until things righted itself again, eluded me. I couldn't tell if it was because sleep still clouded my eyes, or if the dream I can no longer recall haunted me enough that I might've been shedding tears in my sleep. Or perhaps it was simply this: it was not yet daylight.
I groan – I really have no business being up this early. True, school was not to start for at least another week. But I don't want to be up right now – I don't want to be aware of where I am. I don't want to be so acutely aware of the fact that it's two a.m., that I've woken from a nightmare, that it's cold under this single blanket of mine, and that I am once again utterly alone in this house.
I roll over, burying my head in my pillow and inhale, finding more things I'd rather not. It smells of sweat, of long shed tears and of sex. I am acutely reminded of my job when my brothers are out – of my career out on the street and my last customer. The hairy one with the large nose and disgusting, lecherous curl to his lips and who's face lighted up like road kill and who's body was so disproportional that I could only bite my tongue and force the bile down.
I roll over again, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving and trying – just trying to forget that part of me. I don't want to think of last evening, I don't want to think of other evenings, and I most certainly didn't want to think of myself. But the longer I lingered half naked in this flimsy bed of mine, with the curtains only half-drawn and the smog tapping at my window, the more it hurls at me. I can't stand my room any more – it's old and it's peeling and it's suffocating, like watching an old man make his way through a park.
I pull myself up, swing my legs over the side of the low bed and force myself out of bed. It's not that there's much a difference between the morning air and between my sheets – it's the simple fact that moving reminds myself of the aches I subject myself to, and that's a hard fact to face. I take a quick inventory about my squalid little hellhole – the walls are bare, my clothes in slight disarray. It's folded, neatly so, but they just lie there on the ground, as though I don't care about them. I guess I don't really. There is a dresser – a wooden one, in fact, and its handles are metal with a European design. It's got claws, I mean, and intricate curls and swirls on it for nothing more than decoration, and it's useless really because the brass has dulled and faded by now.
Above it is a vanity mirror – rather feminine but I guess my mother had expected a girl after two boys, and I've never bothered to really care much about it any more. There is my bed, with its wooden frame that creaks especially when one of my older, heavier customers crawl into it, and the mattress has long been flattened with so many heavy people on it, the plaid red and white sheets crumpled and wrinkled. The same goes for my covers – what used to be a fluffy, warm sheet of plain white is now riddled with so many unseen stains and washed so many times to hide who I am on lonely nights that it's gone flat like old soda. The blue rug beneath my feet is scratchy and almost feels grimy beneath my feet.
There's not much else in my room – save a closet, where I stash away special things. Things I don't touch any more, because I'm too old for them any more, or because I'm afraid of looking at them again. I know, somewhere, in a box is a picture of my family. It's probably dusty by now, and it's old and warped and maybe even fading. But I know it's there, somewhere, because I can remember putting it there and telling myself I'd keep it forever. My fingers twitch at the memory – a part of me wants to run back to that time and find that picture and cling to it like it was hope itself, and a part of me wants me to smash into pieces and scream.
I choose neither, because the room is coming in on me again and I can't stand it any longer. I'm sure if I stand there in my underwear any longer, my head will explode from my own complications and when they come home, it won't be a pretty sight. I bend and grab the closest thing to me off the floor – it's an old old-sleeved shirt of mine with a picture of a silly bear and a pot of honey. I think my mother bought it for me on one of her trips to New Jersey – I can't remember, it's been so long since I last saw her. But I toss it on anyway out of convenience, and fish around for some pants. I come upon a pair of jeans that have holes at the knees – did I do those, or was it out of purpose? I can't recall.
The house is closing in on me again, and I have to hurry. Slipping them on, I open a drawer and reach beneath the pile of socks inside to get my keys before rushing out. I don't want to linger there any longer. I flee into the halls – small and narrow and wooden and am reminded of how different Japan is from the other places I lived. Everything is so tiny here – and though I'm considered short for my age – I still can't help but wonder how it's possible to make it through such tiny streets. Or stand back and look at the houses – our house is considered large by the neighbors but we barely have a yard or a garage at that, and I can still see all the other houses crowding in close, like people packing into the trains at rush hour. Or sardines in the last can.
I find myself out the door faster than I thought and am right at the door. All the shoes are gone – showing everyone's trusted I'm grown up and too old for them any more and I guess they're right. But I can't help but feel resentment that they've all gone and left and here I am in the house that we've all dared to call home for over nine years and yet it's me and usually only me who stays here. As a last minute thought, I grab up my hat and tug it over my head because I know it'll be cold out, even if it's summer. It's still dark out, and I know how the weather is by now. It likes to drop at night, where it can chill the bones but rack it up into the triple digits by mid-noon.
My hat is simple – it's something my brother made me years ago. It's made of yarn and brown in color, with little tails going down the side to keep my ears warm. Its got its own set of ears too – little bear one right on the top, and I've been stopped many times before and asked where I got it from. Mostly from giggling school girls to fawn over it then fawn over my foreign looks and I smile at them and shake my head, telling them they'd never find it at a store. Then they go down the street, whispering to each other, remarking how my speech was nearly flawless and that hardly detected an accent and how strange it was for a foreigner to speak their language and I pretend not to notice.
I have to fake I don't hear them when I'm on the streets, and I frown as I lock the door knowing the prejudices I face when I step out this door. Everyone here has black hair or a rich brown color, with dark eyes. They all have a creamy kind of colored skin – skin that turns brown in the sun. Compared to the Japanese, I look like a white sheep in a flock of black. They act as though I don't know that my skin is pink, that my hair is blonde and that my eyes a large, striking green with nearly no pupils. They act as though I don't know there's a feminine tilt to my jaw, that my nose is pointed rather than round and flat, and that my lips aren't as ridiculously thick as theirs. I know that I'm European, and I don't think the others have the right to whisper loudly to each other, "Oh, look at him, he's not Japanese! He must be American – let's watch him carefully! I bet he doesn't know how to use chopsticks, ha ha ha!"
Those aren't the only comments I get. But I try not to think any the others.
I push myself away from the neighborhood – it's no longer safe there. It feels like the air has turned into quick sand, all thick and suffocating and it makes it hard to stand let alone breathe. With old white shoes speckled in gray city smudges, I make my way down the residential road, head turned down. I know the way by now to the main city road, I know which turns to make and what I'll see if I lift my eyes just a bit. Nothing changes here – it's not city enough to. It's not complete country either – it's just not the heart of Tokyo for anyone to care to keep up with things, not that I care much. I know how far I have to go down the always busy main street, which crosswalk to go across, which lamp post to duck under, and which cigarette vending machine I have to get around before I get to the convenience store.
I go there, most of the times when the house gets that sickly. The owner recognizes my face by now, but he never talks to me or asks me "hey kid, what's with the long face?" and I think that's why I enjoy coming here so much. There's always just a nod for me and a familiar face and I know he'll never make me face the shame I do when I look in my vanity mirror. He knows that sometimes, I come here with no money or reason, and I'd just wander the store poking at a few things or reading the instructions on the back of a few instant made foods, and he doesn't say a word. He knows I've got money in my pocket and three out of four times, ends up spending it on something even if I don't want it. It's a kind of "thanks for listening" you could say, even if I haven't breathed a word.
Tonight, when I push open the door to the shop, there's the man behind the counter and reading the news. He's a middle-aged man, balding a little but with a rustic smile that always makes me think he shouldn't really be here. But he's friendly enough, and his hands are burly enough that I'm sure he could knock the guns from city slicker's hands if need be. He hardly looks up from his paper because I'm sure he's used to the squeak my shoes make on his floor, and knows it's just me and only me. I do my usual thing of wandering the candy aisle, brushing fingers along crinkled plastic, frowning slightly at myself.
I'm too old for these.
So I decide to head over to the instant meal place, to see if there's perhaps a ramen flavor I haven't tried yet, or maybe some yakisoba, or just anything. Not to my surprise, there's hardly anything left by now and I'm sure if I had come an hour later, there'd be more things on the shelf because it hasn't been restocked yet. I curse, moving on.
There's some tea in the fridge near the frozen area, and a bag of instant gyouza. I grab that, figuring I'd probably eat this for a few days until at least Conrad comes back, and heft the largest bottle of tea in hand as well. Turning on my heel I make my way to the counter where I pay for it in blue bills. It's more than enough, but I don't have any smaller cash on me, and the change he provides me with should give me enough to buy a condom for tomorrow night.
That was certainly a cheer killer, and I know the cashier notices it because he frowns too. I see his mouth falling open and I want him to shut up before he says anything, so I snort and close my eyes, tossing my head into the air and sniffing disdainfully. This usually puts off anyone, this arrogant part of me, and I know there'll be no questions asked tonight. He hands me my things, I take it and I push my way almost brutally out of the store, shoes stomping slightly at the ground as I make my way back home.
Damn those condoms. Forget tomorrow night – I just won't work. It's not like they'll miss me – there's plenty of females for those bastards. What's one little boy refusing to beckon them over gonna do? I've got better use for my money – like a bottle of pills to help me sleep and forget the smell of my room and the smell of alcohol breath, the taste of hard-working, cheating lips and the air of a house too small but too big.
But I'm not looking where I'm going, and before I know it I've hit someone. I know it was a someone because there was another voice going "ouch!" besides mine but from the sound of it, only I was the one who fell. I take a moment to blink in an almost stunned fashion I suppose, holding the bag of merchandise close to my chest. I expect a sorry and a quick pass-by, or maybe a loathsome snort and a shake of the head. But when I finally lift my eyes, already feeling a glare come to my face, I'm shocked with what I see.
He's probably my age – maybe younger? – And he's looking down at me. It's not pity I see in his eyes, but it looks like he's truly concerned over the fact I've just been knocked onto my backside. He's bent over slightly, one hand on his knee. His hair is an inky black mess, part of it falling over one of his eyes, the other bigger and rounder than most, but so clear and dark. He's got a scarf around his neck and a long overcoat of black and brown threads, with what are probably school uniform pants.
He's not an astoundingly beautiful boy – but he's not so ordinarily plain that you could easily by-pass him. He's got the face of someone utterly innocent, the hair of a boy who's not entirely too concerned about fitting in, and such expressive eyes that I can't tear my own away from them. I know if I look hard enough, I'd see myself like a mirror, and I wonder for a moment if I'd still feel that same shame – or will it be much worse?
"Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I really must watch where I was going! I didn't see you until the last minute, I really should've caught you earlier, here, please, let me help you up!"
He sure rambles a lot, and quickly too. Like he doesn't know when to turn off his mouth.
But his hand is reaching out to me, and I noticed they're tan and callused, as though he spends time with them. Like there's more to his life than schoolwork and video games and sex, and suddenly, I know that this is my life savor.
I feel my face heat up – is it because its summer? I blame it on that immediately – it must be the creeping summer heat, the fickle air that decides to switch oh so quickly and I take the hand even if I'm still frowning. I'm frustrated with myself because I can feel how my cheeks and the bridge of my nose are burning, and I don't want them to be especially in front of this stranger, and I don't want him to be so nice and friendly to me!
But time is molasses and as he tugs me back to my feet and helps to brush my shoulder off, I notice it. Everything is slow and compressing again, and it's hard to breathe but it's not like before. Before was a crushing sort of feel, like slowly being stoned to death. I could feel my ribs shake and collapse under a weight, bending inwards and puncturing my lungs, filling my body with a sort of clotted blood. But this type of thing was as though I were emerging from deep inside a pool or like I'd just stuck my hand into a vat of honey, and was watching long golden tendrils ooze down from between my fingers. Like I was watching time and particles drift and sifting away, and if I stuck my tongue out right now, it'd taste sweet and sugary.
He's close now, fingers brushing over my cheek. He seems caught up a little in this flow of honey, because his eyes are wide and he's blushing too.
"You're a foreigner," he states, like everyone else and I get mad before I can think.
"Of course I'm a foreigner, dimwit. No Japanese has blonde hair like I do." I snap at him and shift the groceries in my arms, and he finally takes a step back as though he'd just realized the ambrosia was binding us. He smells like sweat – like he was running earlier, and I suddenly want to be close again and smell his neck because his sweat is so different from the one on my pillow.
It'd a good change.
But he smiles a little and rubs the neck I had thought of earlier, even through the scarf, and it's the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I want to see it again and again and again, but I've already bit at him and I know I won't be seeing it for long, so I just snort in reply. He's sheepish and I expect him to weave around me by now. But instead, he just says:
"I guess you're right. It's weird though, hearing a foreigner speak Japanese so well. Have you been taking lessons long? It's flawless too, perhaps you've lived here a while?"
I don't want to talk about myself – I'm not used to it. Sure, I've snapped out my opinions or demand material things, but I've never truly talked about myself for this to be comfortable. After all, most of the people who get close I don't want to get attached to, and those that I am are never exactly around. I can't just up and open myself up, can I?
"It's only obvious. My speech is far too impeccable to be that of someone merely taking lessons, don't you think Einstein?"
I can't keep the sarcasm from my words, and I'm sure he notices. This boy, this stranger, this foreigner to his own land blinks at me with those large clear eyes, and I have to avert my own to keep myself from seeing the hurt I'm sure is there. I decide it's me who should make the first move to leaving, otherwise the two of us would be forced to stand there and converse and I'll only make myself worse. I take a step to the side, move the bag up into my chest a little more, and am prepared to take the first few steps that will lead me to the rest of my life.
"You're pretty," he says suddenly, almost fiercely, and I stop.
I've been told that many times before. From my brothers, from my mother, from my customers, and from random girls an even boys, but this one was different. He doesn't say it with the raw husky tones like the males, for the squeals of shallow females, he doesn't say it like it was a testimony to his genes like my mother, or as just something to pacify my temper like my brothers. He says it in a hushed tone, an insistent one, like a breathed whisper of awe. He says it like he truly, truly means it, and merely wishes for me to acknowledge that fact alone and perhaps be proud that I am.
My face heats up again and I turn my head away from him. "It's forward and rude of you to say. Where's your manners, Japanese boy?"
But he smiles a little shyly in reply. "I can't help it – you are, and it just slipped out."
I make a noise in the back of my throat, and he seems disappointed at my lack of interest in anything he has to offer. I figure by now that he's willing to let me walk away, that I can do the one thing that I've been dying to do since I left the house.
But I realize, in order to do so, I'd need to take this distraction with me.
"Carry my groceries."
He seems surprised by the demand I make. "Excuse me…?"
"You want to make up for knocking me over, right? It doesn't hurt – but I'd like a more sincere apology than just a 'sorry.' You can make it up to me by carrying my bags."
And without giving him time to protest, I turn around and dump the bags on him, and he carries them even if he seems slightly surprised, slightly irritated, and finally happy. There's a smile tugging at his lips – I can see it from the corner of my eyes and I can't help but return it with a little smirk of my own.
He's the first one I've ever taken home with no intent on sleeping with him and he comments about our house. He doesn't seem impressed that it's bigger than most – he is more surprised with the amount of foreign objects and the swords we keep hanging on our wall. He sets the groceries on the table and sets about removing his shoes and setting them neatly whereas I just kick them off and leave them as they lay. I can hear him fixing up the mess as I take up my purchases and set about putting the only two items I have away, and his footsteps are quiet as they come around the kitchen, towards the open counter.
"There's no one here." He whispers it softly, as if afraid of someone hearing.
"It's just me." I don't want to talk about it, and I'm thankful that he seems to sense that, and drops the matter there.
"Well, I should get going, neh? It's late and all…"
I shrug in response, despite the feeling of the place creeping up on my like a black panther, readying to pounce. As a final act, I turn on my heel and open the fridge again, and take out a small bottle of water. This I hand to the boy, the boy whose eyes and hair are so dark in this light that it's like shadow.
"Take this. As thanks."
"But…I thought…"
"Just do it!"
And he smiles faintly, this I can see, and he takes the bottle, our fingers brushing. I shiver, and it's not because it's cold, but I can't possibly fathom why and I don't think I want to think on it. He doesn't budge despite his words, he just stands there shifting from foot to foot, and looking uneasy for a moment as we're both quiet. And when he finally does speak, it's soft as his smiles but I can hear him anyway.
"My name is…Shibuya Yuuri. Nice to meet you."
I snort in reply, which I think he knows to take as a "likewise." It's rude to with hold my name, I know, but it's hard to finally tell someone that it's as if I'm coughing around an old, dusty book and it's arcane words are making me hack.
"Wolfram."
He blinks at the foreign name and his tongue stumbles around the syllables like a child running through lumpy grounds and I sigh.
"Vo-ru-fu-ra-mu." I say this slowly and strangely, so that he may follow along, which he does. It still sounds funny, and to some point it does irritate me, but somehow, it sounds more endearing when it comes from this Yuuri.
"Vorufuramu," he murmurs, and I fight back this urge to smile. His smile comes naturally though. "It's so long – can I call you Vorufu for short?"
And it makes me flush again, because no one but my mother calls me that. And I have no intention on letting this boy get so close to me so quickly, because it's unnatural and it's too fast and I'm so very afraid on the inside now, because this boy is too beautiful to break. But as I open my mouth to tell him he could never, ever, ever call me that, I find myself agreeing.
"Only if we're alone."
He nods solemnly, and I sigh at myself. But Yuuri seems happy to be endowed this privilege as if he knew what I was risking by having him here and so close and dammit, I didn't want him to go. But he finally moves now, when I don't want him to, and goes back to his shoes and begins to slip them on. I remain in the kitchen, listening to him, my hands moving to support myself on the counter because I feel so weak now, and this house will eat me alive.
He's got his shoes on, I can hear him tapping the toes on the ground and I wait for the door to open.
"Vorufu?"
It sounds so sweet and confused, so much that I want to strangle him now but I won't. The nickname is already such a cute sound, and it sounds like salvation, like a lifeline and I want to grasp at it.
"What do you want, you…"
I don't know what to finish that with. I know I want it to be an insult, but I can't think of one right now and he cuts me off anyway.
"I'm free tomorrow. If you want, I can come visit you again. I'd like to see those swords."
I can hear the blush in his voice and if I close my eyes, I can see it on that face of his. His offer already sounds like a promise, and I realize with a slow sort of wonder that I'm happy to receive it, yet am afraid of it being broken.
"Do what you want. I've got no where to be."
"Great! I'll come by tomorrow then – promise you'll be home?"
I feel a bitter laugh bubbling up my throat. As though I've got anywhere else to go, but I find myself haughtily scoffing at him. "We'll see."
And then he was gone, taking with him the oppressing feel of home. It suddenly felt like the malicious shadows had been chased away when the door clicked shut behind Yuuri, as though he'd gone on hands and knees and cleaned every corner of this place and made it new. It still looked the same – there was plenty of dust and grime left behind old vases and fake flowers, but that didn't matter because this house was different now.
And there was a tomorrow to look forward to.
