Author note: For the sake of this story, which takes place roughly around 2001-02, I've had to assume the Gensoukai arc winds up with no dimensional paradox or major characters killed, so readers will have to pardon a lack of references to any resolution on that bit.

Damaged

"Love is a burning thing/ and it makes a fiery ring/ Bound by wild desire/ I fell into a ring of fire."

As S sang along with the words that were highlighted across the screen, his spirit and his body fell in stride with the melody. Tonight it really felt like the essence of Johnny Cash had come into him. He no longer needed the katakana above the English lyrics to guide him. He no longer sang these words with the clumsy pronunciation of a Japanese. He grasped the emotion, the twang. This was his song. It was only a shame his coworkers couldn't be here tonight to see his performance. That would have to wait until Thursday night, when they typically went out as a group. To his dismay, they didn't share his addiction for the drug that is karaoke.

His only companion tonight was the high school student who had approached him in the street. He watched S's performance attentively, tapping one foot to the music, occasionally sipping from a can of Kirin beer S had sneaked into the room under his jacket. S normally didn't go in for the hook-up scene out of a combination of distaste for it and a general hesitant fear; but something about this seventeen-year-old boy's manner had made his offer impossible to refuse. In fact, S almost felt as though he had been the one accosted, that the boy would pay him for his company at the end of the night instead of the other way around.

It was somewhat unnerving when he allowed himself to think about it too hard. Of course, S had always tried to avoid acknowledging, even to himself, that he had on several occasions caught himself watching young men on the train or in the crowd. Or that he had experienced physical attraction at those moments. Or that he felt the same way toward this boy's private school uniform as a lot of men his age seemed to toward seifuku. But this was the first time he actually acted on that attraction. He knew that the boy he was with could be expelled for the fiasco, no questions asked, and if caught it might even mean S's job. It wasn't like him to agree to something like this, yet he welcomed the adventure, the thrill that came with knowing he might get caught.

Still, even though the boy's narrow eyes seemed to promise things S only dreamed about, and the way his shapely mouth formed the words when it was his turn to sing did turn S on, it was not as though he expected any special favors from the boy. In that way he was safe, he kept reminding himself.

His voice, in a satisfactory imitation of Johnny Cash's, reverberated in the small space under the atmospheric lights as he sang: "I fell into a burning ring of fire/ I went down, down, down/ and the flames went higher . . .

"And it burns, burns, burns—" S loved the feel of the vibration in his throat as he slid perfectly into the low notes. "The ring of fire/ the ring of fire. . . ."

He closed his eyes as the song wrapped up, relishing that rush that came every time he finished a song well. For a moment, he could feel himself a star, before the shy exterior of his average salaryman persona closed back over him, like a case over a guitar. The boy beside him applauded and said something like "Wow, amazing," or some equally insincere thing. Which didn't bother S. He didn't agree to this arrangement out of a desire for sincerity.

When S's score came back, it was over ninety percent.

The boy whistled. "New high score! Man, I wish I could sing English like that."

"I just practice that number a lot. That's all." S sat down on the sofa beside his, feeling nervous again at the compliment.

And at the boy's gaze, which never seemed to leave some part of S's person or another. The boy practically purred as he said, "I'm no expert on country music, but that's got to be as good or better than the original. I bet you're the hit of all the office parties. You're an AB-type, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I can just tell. I'm one too."

There he went again. S could feel his cheeks burning. He wished the boy's selection would hurry up and begin, and he could go back to pretending he hadn't brought the kid here because S liked the way he looked.

As though reading his mind, a bold enka piece started up, filling the room with a loud brassy melody. Still the boy's eyes remained fixed on S.

Who forced a laugh. "You must have input the wrong number. This isn't your song, is it?"

The boy looked toward the screen as though just realizing where he was. "Oh yeah. That's mine."

But he didn't reach for the microphone, even though the intro was nearly over.

"You're joking, right? I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, but I didn't think a kid like you would like this kind of music."

"I like the sadness in it," the boy said to the screen as he stood, and S was momentarily taken aback. The melody sounded so good-natured, he thought—until he checked himself. As a country music fan himself, he should have known better.

The hand pushing against his shoulder startled him back to the present. S slouched back against the sofa, too stunned to protest right away when the boy straddled his thighs and leaned in close. He took the lapels of S's blazer in his hands and gazed down at S's face with a lazy smile on his lips—the kind of smile that reminded S of Donatello's David standing over Goliath's severed head. It was almost too good to be true: the boy's breath coming slow and heavy and lusty, the uniform hugging his narrow waist and thighs so perfectly, the weight of his body pressed so close to S. It was certainly more than S had bargained for.

"H-hold on!" he said. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Seducing you. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"But this wasn't part of the deal. I said I'd pay you to sing with me. This would be . . . This is going against the rules, isn't it?"

The boy snorted. "What rules?"

"Unspoken rules. . . . How should I know? I thought one of the conditions to these sorts of things was that there wouldn't be anything sexual."

The boy shrugged. "Sure, that's what everyone says. You don't really believe that, do you? Do you really expect me to believe you just brought me along to hear you sing? I know you're attracted to me." His lips brushed against S's neck, his waxing erection against S's stomach. And S had to admit, he was attracted. "Otherwise you wouldn't have hooked up with me."

"Still . . . I can't . . . You're not . . ."

"I'm seventeen. Besides, who's going to notice in a place like this?"

Probably no one. There was only one person at the front desk, and the private rooms were soundproofed. Inside, the music drowned out any noise they could make. But it was exactly that false sense of security that often led people headlong into trouble.

"Look, I'll give you the money now, okay?" S tried. "You don't have to stick around the whole three hours. Just . . . forget I ever asked you to come along."

He tried to push himself up, but the boy wouldn't let him.

"Come on. You think I want your money?" he chuckled in S's ear. "Nah . . . You want to get rid of me, you're gonna have to pay me with something a little more valuable. . . ."

Shit, S swore under his breath; he was getting mugged. Or worse, blackmailed. "I knew this was a bad idea—"

"Naa . . ." The boy lowered his voice; and his sudden seriousness made S pause. "Do you believe in monsters?"

It was such a random question, S noticed the unnatural chill on his breath too late.

A sharp, shooting pain in his right side stole the breath from his own lungs. He looked down to see the butt end of a metal instrument clutched in the boy's left hand. It took him another moment to realize the rest of it was inside him.

When he did, his survival instinct kicked in. Despite the pain in his side, he lashed out at the boy, who hissed and let go of the knife, apparently not expecting a fight. S tried to sit up. If he could just get to the door he could yell down the hall to the hostess. That might be all he needed to do to scare the boy off.

The boy's elbow in his throat prevented him, though, and he fell awkwardly across the sofa, coughing spasmodically.

His vision blurred. In a queer, disconnected way, S knew he was going into shock. The last thing he knew before blacking out was that lovely boy sitting on top of him, singing as he pulled out the scalpel, wet with S's blood—like an angel about to deal the merciful blow, gleefully warbling those grave lines that had been set to such an ironic rhythm:

". . . . And while praying for your happiness/ I get away each time/ The train of sorrow."

It seemed to S then like the most terrible thing he had ever heard.

It wasn't the gentle opening and closing of the front door that caused the man to stir but the loud, ungraceful thud that followed soon afterward. He got up and went to the darkened entryway, and saw the boy sitting on the landing, bracing himself with both hands and breathing hard. A plastic grocery bag was dumped unceremoniously beside him, and this was not wholly inconsistent with the blood that was smeared on his hands and uniform jacket, and now the hardwood.

"You're back early," the man said by way of observation.

As though for his sake, the boy gained control of his breathing. Then, after a moment, he calmly reached down to remove his shoes. "I'm hungry," he muttered. "And tired."

"Did you find what you needed?"

In response the boy merely pushed the bag toward the man's feet. With shaking limbs, he slowly raised himself to his own. "He took a piece of me with him this time, though," he said through a grim smile. He pushed up the cuff of his sleeve and revealed three jagged lines cut in the skin of his arm where his date's fingernails had raked him in a moment of panic. They oozed rather than bled freely, but were ugly and deep and red nonetheless.

The man adjusted his glasses, then took the boy's wrist in one hand and turned it toward the light to better examine it. Nor did the boy mind the way he was handled. He stared at the wounds with empty eyes while the other studied them with the thorough, scrutinizing gaze of a doctor of medicine. Gently the man probed the affected area, asking the boy, "Does this hurt?"

The boy shook his head slowly in response. Nor did the man expect him to answer in the affirmative.

He sighed. "You must learn to be more careful. You know your cells cannot heal like they used to. They are fighting as hard as they can to hold you together as it is. If you do anything to disrupt that delicate balance, I don't know how much I will be able to help you."

"I'm sorry, Sensei," the boy said, but a sarcastic edge had crept into his voice and narrow eyes.

But that was only what the man liked to see, that cynical spirit that reminded him so much of his own. That reminded him of his brother. He smiled as he tenderly tugged the cuff back into place. Then smoothed the collar of the rumpled uniform jacket. Then pushed back the hair that clung stubbornly to the side of the boy's face with a pale, slender finger. "Don't apologize to me, Fujisawa," he spoke softly to the boy. "Lord knows this new development may actually work to our advantage. Soon we shall see if these little performances of yours have won us the attention we require."

He leaned close and brushed his lips over the boy's crown, cupping the jaw that felt so inhumanly cold—as cold as a corpse—in the palm of his hand. And he murmured: "Won't we, my beautiful golem."

He could hear the smile in the boy's voice as he echoed: "Thank you, Muraki-sensei."