I'm already writing chapter three and it's all just- ugh. If your looking for happy then I would suggest leaving.

Pairings: Are screwed up and insane. But at this point I can safely say Seiichi/Syusuke is one of them. The rest are blegh.

Warnings: Sex. Incest. Self-harm. Language. That last one isn't going to be changing any time soon. All of them have potty mouths. Except Atobe because he's prissy.

Note: Next up is Oshitari.

"He tells me its going to be okay until all the words blur together into a hum that makes me close my eyes and I start to go away and five, ten, fifteen minutes later, I'm aware of my hand sliding down his lap and then nothingness and then the gentle sensation of his index finger pressing into my open palm and then his hand is at my face, running his fingers across my skin and I'm so awake."

"You're late."

Ryoma pursed his lips, only flinching slightly when the make-up girl dusted some toner across his face with a deliberately rough hand. Bitch. The assistant sound guy adjusted his microphone just right under his shirt and there -done. He turned to Tezuka, smiling his patented Noah smile.

"I wasn't late. Everyone else was just early."

He heard a snort but ignored it. Tezuka did not look taken with his charm. Then again, the director of photography never looked anything, really. "We're rolling in two."

There was a light brush against his arm. He glanced beside him to a jumpy Eiji. The redhead was sitting casually on the bed where they would be talking to each other about their mutual feelings for the same person. Ryoma hated his character- Noah- but thought Max, Eiji's gentle, sweet character, was the perfect representation of his cast mate.

Eiji's voice was chipper but understanding. He was so understanding. It was disgusting. "Late night?"

All nights were late nights. All nights were quiet screams and broken glass. He shrugged, more for something to do than anything. "Where's everybody?"

"It's Niou's day off. Everybody else is here."

Which meant seeing Atobe. He grimaced then walked over to the bed when someone called for ten seconds more. Eiji smiled softly. "Ready?"

"Always."

Ryoma slammed the door so hard it shook. Sighing, he leaned against the bathroom door. "Why the fuck am I on this shitty as fuck show, anyway?"

"Eloquent as always, Ryoma."

The drawling, taunting voice of his nightmares crawled towards him as he narrowed his eyes. He could hear the sound of coughing in one of the stalls, a murmured sound of soothing. And there the king was- fixing his hair.

"Go fuck yourself." He snapped and smirked when Keigo paused. "Or did Tezuka already do that for you?"

The stall shuttered open with a loud click. Fuji sauntered out, flashing blue eyes daring them to comment as he pulled Yukimura along by the hand. Ryoma could smell the sharp smell of vomit and wondered- in a minute of pure callousness- which one had caused it.

"Would you guys be quiet? Seiichi doesn't feel well."

He ignored the warning flick of Atobe's hand, studying Yukimura's unsteady frame, hazy expression. "Alcohol does that to you."

Fuji didn't falter in his quick departure, but he saw the tightening of his lips and accepted the guilt he felt for it. At least, it was something. Atobe faced him, oh-so careful not to touch anything because he was so much better then the daily-cleaned studio bathrooms.

"Haven't cut yourself today?"

Ryoma hated him. He'd never hated a person so much before. Though, in his own fucked up way, this was Atobe expressing concern. This was him worried. It twisted a knob somewhere. The world blurred together and he needed to be alone. "Leave."

"You can't just-" Midnight blue weaved through him. They saw. He was the only one who ever saw.

"My trailer has a better bathroom, anyway."

It wasn't until the man's footsteps faded away that he locked himself in the big stall. The floor was too cold. He shivered, bunching into himself for warmth. Fingers were interesting substitutes for knives and he pressed his nails against his wrist, deep enough to scrape some skin. Satisfying. Pain made you proud.

He knew, in awhile, he'd have to go home. There was nothing left to film, know one to talk to. But it was nice-just then. Easy.

Actually, hands were better knives, Ryoma found out. His brother was running them all over his body. Pulling off his clothes. The dark mocked him with its veil of privacy. Everything awful was hidden by the dark. He moaned when his thighs were planted with seeds of kisses.

Once, he'd told Ryoga he didn't want to have sex anymore and his brother had been stocked full of disbelief. "You love me. Why wouldn't you want to?"

Why, Ryoma? Why?

His body set itself on fire, slowly kicking into a generator of flames. His body encouraged the kisses. His body begged for it as his hands unconsciously slipped inside a field of hair so dark and straight- much like his own.

But his mind cried wrong. It whispered static words that his signal couldn't always pick up. Brothers. Lovers. No. Wrong. Love. He waited for his brother's breathing to even out before he put himself together again.

"You know why?" He carved a kiss inside of Ryoga's wrist. It tasted of salty regret. "Because you don't love me."

Scene (Just because I was bored. It's not the real one.):

Max cleared his throat. He was fiddling with his hands. The light filtering out of the window was bright in a way that showcased the clarity of his eyes. "I like Alexander."

"Oh," Noah blinked, surprised by the revelation. "Oh."

"Yeah."

It was silent. Noah stared at the ceiling. Said, "It's okay. I like him too."

They turned to each other and then looked away. Max bit his lip. "He likes girls."

"Yeah."

"It sucks."

"Yeah." Noah repeated. He bounced lightly, one, twice, three times. Max's mouth curved into a grin. For that moment, they were kids. Shiny, new. Alright.

"Want to go play video games?"

"Yeah."

And both of them sprinted down the stairs, laughing along the way.