Addictive Blur
The Weaver Atropos
((Time Frame)): November 4 (11:48)--November 5, 2004 (8:45--11:03)
((Warnings)) RanKen, Monologue, some graphic descriptions
((Comments)) Wrote this during my Morality class when we were supposed to be researching on Bio-Ethics. The format's relatively easy to follow. The italicized headings are a bit of a play on the 'stages of addiction.' They don't have any real pattern, and pertain to the story only symbolically. The ending deviated a bit from what I originally intended, but...
P.S. yes…this is another break from IFO.
Addictive Blur
Addiction
He was tired. Dead tired, actually. And, on account of that, he found it difficult to focus on the papers currently scattered in front of him. Damn him and his ever decreasing eyesight.
He should've gotten glasses. Common sense told him he should've visited a doctor two years ago when things had only just started to blur. Ever since then, his eyes couldn't adjust to the bright lights of the Koneko anymore; yet, he could scarcely see a foot in front of him without them.
But then, it was ironic.
His vision never faltered at night.
He never failed to hit a target—if led only by his sense of smell. His nostrils would guide him towards the evil…and his bloodlust would guide his katana to make the cleanest of cuts. And all with the utmost clarity.
He wondered if he should be scared of what he was becoming.
Two years ago, when he'd first arrived at the Koneko, a battered and broken eighteen-year-old, the sheer idea of murdering someone—in cold blood and premeditation, nonetheless—had chilled him to the point of silence…which, considering his already silent nature, had been unperceivable to everyone.
Well, almost everyone…
That damned brunette had noticed.
Initially, Ran hadn't really been that interested in the other youth. He had no life in his eyes—his expression was dead, dim…lifeless. And yet…whenever he looked in his direction, there was a spark in that gaze; and he seemed almost amused.
That notion irritated Ran beyond belief.
He didn't, and had never been, anyone's comic relief. But, that gaze was intriguing—if not intimidating—and Ran had a certain idea that the brunette wasn't as innocent and idealistic as he was making him out to be. He had been there longer than he had, after all—and…well, Ran had already been briefed on what was expected of him and what he was going to shortly be doing, so he understood what the brunette was going through.
He understood and sympathized as to why those eyes were dead.
And…at the same time, he wondered what could have pushed the young man to join the 'Weiss.' He'd certainly had reasons to warrant his incorporation into the group. On that note, he couldn't help but wonder what had tweaked the other to join.
And then, of course, there were the others. The tall lanky blond that left every night at twelve, and showed up the very next morning—smelling of sex and alcohol, just as lifeless as the others. And there was the youngest one—seventeen Ran believed—who smiled with almost painful realism…and perhaps—on account of it—his happiness was a method for obtaining it, for, hadn't one said that achieving happiness was just a matter of pretending to be happy? It's eventual arrival would be inevitable.
But these didn't interest him as much as he did.
It was the brunette that captured his attention—his curiosity.
And, well along that path, it was only a matter of time before he came to realize he had the same effect on him. The brunette had, as he had noticed on that very same day, been seemingly revived by his attentions. His gaze was sharper, his moods stronger, and his temper strangely flaring. It was almost as though he wanted to prove he was alive—if not to him, than to himself.
Denial
Did he admit to himself that, somehow, between the blur that had become his nightly missions, and the clarity that had become death, he had found a certain solace? No. He couldn't believe in anything of the sort…His only consolation was the vengeance he would exact on Takatori.
He needed to avenge himself of it, before he could ever begin to heal…and he was almost too scarred, to be healed. It was a sad reality.
But Ken believed he could be saved.
And he found the strangest comfort in the knowledge of the fact.
Because he felt he could save him, too.
Withdrawal
His first mission had been nothing short of perfect, yet disastrous in its very flawlessness. He had met up with the target as accorded, hesitating only a millisecond before self-preservation and survival set in…And, in the thirty seconds it had taken Ken to catch up to his longer strides, the target lay dead in a growing pool of crimson red.
It had been funny how Ken had remarked its strange similarity to Ran's own hair.
It had been strangely poetic…
And infinitely more disturbing.
It had been Ken who was supposed to have disposed of the target. It had been the brunette's mission that night. Kritiker—who had, at that point, been known to him as only 'the K'—hadn't thought it wise to entrust a mission to an amateur, much less one who had never been in the field.
And he had surprised them all—if not by his success without injury, then certainly by the sheer precision of his kill. Ran hadn't known why he'd gone ahead, taking advantage of the younger man's smaller limbs to pass him on the stairs, only to come face to face with his would-be victim…but he had a feeling it had something to do with Ken's weapon of choice.
Bugnuks. They weren't and had never seemed like the most appealing of weapon choices. And…perhaps…seeing Ken testing the blades in the car—watching him tighten his fist, and then relax it habitually—had ground his nerves to absolute nothingness.
He could only imagine how much blood would fly in each and every direction with each of Ken's kills.
The two others…their weapons weren't as physically involved. Wire and darts. One hardly had to maintain close range to use them. But a katana and a bugnuk…It was almost impossible not to touch the victim.
And Ran had a rather vivid imagination. Almost too vivid. So much so that he could almost hear the screams of Ken's future victims. The sounds and accompanying images were almost too realistic to leave him at rest. He couldn't stand the image of Ken…the energetic young man who had only just started to relax in his presence—who had only just yesterday flicked on the television set and become absorbed in a mediocre soccer match…he couldn't bear the image of that same boy murdering someone, of staining his hands all the more.
And maybe that was why he'd rushed ahead. His hands were yet to be stained, and while there was no return afterwards, Ken's had been marred enough already.
When had he stopped caring only for himself and begun to consider the possibilities of new life amidst the death that was his profession?
Things only seemed to blur the more he thought of them.
Addicted
He remembered the afterglow of that mission, as well. The way they had all stumbled in afterwards; Ken's bloodstained front, Youji's sweat-encrusted forehead, and Omi's dirt ridden jeans, and his own soaked tee. It stuck to his chest, making him shiver on the silent ride back to the Koneko…and how detached he'd felt. He remembered watching the trees go by without any thought—he was just looking…feeling strangely empty.
How strange it felt to kill.
He understood Ken all the more on account of it.
The brunette had sat beside him on the way back. And, while the atmosphere had been taut and unnerving, the company had been almost welcome. He had felt so cold then, and the body heat the other radiated had helped to warm him—if only by so much.
He had never really comprehended the allure of bloodlust until then, and Ken took care that he never succumb to it that night. The crimson-haired youth had wondered how exactly Ken—the least eloquent of them all, by far, had been chosen as the lesson bearer. Then, he considered the fact that Youji was hardly the type for serious conversation, and Omi too ashamed to even look him in the face, and realized that the headstrong brunette seemed the only appropriate choice.
He hadn't cornered him into submission, but rather, as they'd all piled out of the black, plate-less van, hung back while the others moved dazedly to their rooms, the sound of running water discernable amongst the silence of the house for the next few hours.
They were washing themselves…ridding their bodies of the evidence of their vocation, and trying to wipe the sin from their souls.
Ken taught him the importance of that, too.
He had been clutching his katana almost robotically since they'd arrived, mindful of the caked blood that was smeared on the entire expanse of the sword—from its sharp point, all the way to the leather-bounded grip. Ran had winced internally at the thought that he was gripping on someone else's blood, and a myriad of public service announcements ran through his head, all warning of the dangers of blood-to-blood contact.
He had been eased from his thoughts when—among the stark quiet of the Koneko—nimble fingertips curled about his own, and eased the sword from his cramping fingers, struggling slightly when they realized Ran's hands were almost glued in place.
He hadn't even realized he'd been holding the sword so rigidly.
He supposed he should have been startled, irritated even, but a sweep of lavender upwards only revealed Ken—looking strangely concentrated and solemn—shifting the weight of the katana in his hands. His hands were just as soaked as Ran's…all the more, even, and the taller man could see the residue of slick red—still moist—that ran up the entire expanse of the chocolate-haired boy's forearm. His stomach twisted.
Ken seemed to key in to his thoughts just as soon as they'd left his mind, and in a heartbeat he had eased open the door to the bathroom of the Koneko, kneeling beside him as he vomited with more fervor than he ever remembered.
It was a horrible feeling, but one that was incomparable to the guilt that was slowly seeping into his mindset at the recognition of what he'd done.
Once he was done, Ken backed away considerably, moving towards the sink, picking up the katana he'd discarded to tend to Ran on the way there. "You should go wash up," he'd said, his voice soft and hoarse, his entire manner forced and awkward, "hot water works best."
Ran had weighed the words, but remained rooted to the spot. His eyes seemed to ask a silent question. Ken complied. "It's happened to us all," he began in that same breathless tone, "it's overpowering. You'll be sick all night. You'll be sick on the next few missions. It'll only stop when you get used to the adrenaline rush. It's one of the nasty after-effects."
Ran nodded once more, and turned to leave when he realized the brunette was still holding his katana—albeit somewhat clumsily—in his hands. Lilac eyes scanned the other youth closely for the first time that night, and took in the small cut near his lips, the way the sweat and mud clung to Ken's long bangs, and the strange pinkness that filtered into his face.
And all over him was the blood.
His bugnuks were tucked into his right pocket, where a smudge of scarlet was beginning to pool, so that it looked as though the youth were mortally wounded. Ran wondered if Ken were planning on ever wearing those same jeans again. He had a strange desire to burn his. "And the katana?"
"I'll take care of it."
There's no need for you to think things over anymore than you already have…
Ran nodded and went back to his room.
He scrubbed at his body roughly, wishing to wipe the smell of dirt and grease from his persona, wincing internally as the burgundy of the shower curtain cast shadows of red and crimson within the stall…startled even as the bloodred of his own hair came into vision…and he never really felt quite clean.
He scrubbed at himself, and the water ran cold.
He saw Ken the next morning, as refreshed and energetic as his recuperating guise permitted, and took in the white, immaculate binding that was wrapped around his wrist.
He'd cut himself washing Ran's weapon.
Ran couldn't help but wonder how accidental that had truly been.
His left eye was bruised.
He hadn't looked at him all that week.
Rehabilitation
The next time they'd had a mission, Ken had cleaned his weapon again, but there had been no bandages on his hands afterwards.
Ran had killed the man's target again, and he wondered if cleaning his katana was Ken's tacit way of showing his thanks for the fact.
Remission
And Ken had been right, hot showers worked best to ease the ache from his body, and the lucidity from his mind. He stopped thinking once he was inside the stall and under the blistering drops of near-evaporating water. Somehow, the high temperature of his bath served as a vengeful reminder of what he had done.
But at least he wasn't as cold.
Ran couldn't actually remember when he'd traversed into the land of masochism. He supposed it was a sanctum all killers visited, though, referring to himself as such was still somewhat difficult concept for him to follow.
But surely, revisiting the image of his murders was certainly some form of psychological rendition.
Relapse
He was sick all that week, just as the brunette had said. His vision blurred with the slightest of movements, and any immediate gradient of red struck an uneasy cord in his stomach. At least his methods of extraordinary rendition served to pay him some sort of penance, however abstract that notion might be.
The others were never sick…but then again, they'd been around considerably longer. They were used to the psychological remnants of murder, despite the utter unlikelihood of ever surpassing those repercussions. But they were normal…normal in the aprons they put on for work, the smiles and nods they surreptitiously passed each other, and normal in their utmost desire for salvation.
Ran wondered if it was even possible.
Ken had killed the two targets that night.
A pair of bugnuks and bloodied jeans had been left at his door that night.
Dosage
He had forgotten to pour enough detergent into the machine.
The blood had remained caked on Ken's jeans and shirt, so that—when he wore them a few days later, the faint outline of a globular smear lingered. But the young man didn't seem to notice, choosing instead to wear his shirt inside out, so that the mar of the blood lay instead on his naked chest, a few millimeters from his beating heart.
How paradoxical that the blood of the murderer almost intermix with the blood of the victim.
That night, when Youji and Omi had been sent on a reconnaissance mission, the two had stayed behind, relatively useless for the scouting—Ran with his ever blurring eyesight, and Ken with his sheer inability to sit still—and stared quietly at each other, chocolate fading rhythmically into violet.
He hadn't even known there was a spectrum between brown and amethyst.
But perhaps he should have. There was scarcely a difference between an experienced mercenary and a naïve young killer. It just so happened that the former felt more for his victims.
He wondered if they could be any more beautiful in their absolute blasphemy to Creation.
His question was answered only when the chocolate-haired youth sought solace in his arms, amidst biting kisses, longing caresses, and illicit touches.
He lost himself almost entirely to the seductive blur of his companion's dark, mahogany hair, seeking vengeance on the other, biting and suckling delicate flesh…hating the brunette for all he'd done for him thus far…hating and feeling a strange prickling at his heart.
And, for a minute, as the lights flicked off, and the loud creak of the mattress filled his ears, Ran couldn't quite see where he was going anymore, and he found that he rightly quite didn't care.
((Owari))
XD I hope you guys like. It's a bit short and not my usual...but it's close to my heart, soI hope you can enjoy it, too. Now go on...review!