Fresh Wound
Disclaimer: Me no own.
A/N: I have been neglecting my civic duty. Check out GypsyxSilent's Guess the Author contest, which is co-written by various authors including myself and my epic sister Essence of Gold, and contains PxL to cure you from this, the last of my three fevered, gloomy oneshots.
'Pai.'
Kish's voice over the telephone, a human invention which is proving invaluable to Pai in his policy of avoidance, is steely and argumentative. It's clear he's not going to budge this time.
'Seriously, man. We're worried about you.'
'Don't be ridiculous, Kisshu. There is no cause for your concern. I'm fine.'
Kish snorts. 'Fine? Do you really expect me to believe that you're fine? You were in love with her, Pai, don't tell me I'm mistaken.' There's a pause, and then he continues in a softer tone. 'If it was me, I wouldn't be fine.'
Pai sighs. Maybe it's the time to strategically concede a little weakness. 'You're right,' he murmurs. 'I…it's been…difficult. I won't pretend I haven't been struggling. But I'm alright. I'm making real headway with my research at the moment. Honestly, I'm glad of some time to think.'
'Really?' Kish doesn't sound convinced.
'Yes,' Pai says. 'Listen, if it makes you feel any better you can come down and see me next weekend. I have the time to spare. And now you'll have to excuse me; the kettle's on.'
He hangs up the phone, just as a shrill whistling sounds from the other room.
He paces into the kitchenette of the shitty Tokyo apartment he's renting, and sure enough there's a kettle on the hob. It's an old-fashioned metal thing, with a whistle in the spout which the build-up of steam is causing to sound. He lets it bubble and shriek for a moment, and then reaches out and lifts it off the stove. A strong smell is rising from the brew inside: sweet, slightly astringent, and rather too syrupy for his taste. But that doesn't matter. This isn't about enjoyment.
He tugs off the purple guard on his left arm, turning the limb so that his palm is facing up. He stares down at his own hand, and keeps his gaze there while he presses the hot kettle to the pale inside of his forearm.
He doesn't flinch at the first touch, but as the pain builds his breath comes harder and his face twitches with the effort of enduring. He hasn't grown up as a soldier for nothing, though. He holds his arm to the searing metal until the burning fades away into numbness, then slowly pulls it away and surveys the damage.
There's an ugly red welt along his arm; nothing his guard won't cover. His skin is singing with relief at the removal of the source of pain, but at the same time it doesn't hurt enough. It never does.
He stares dispassionately at the burn for a moment, then slowly turns his arm over and pours the hot liquid in the kettle all over his forearm and the back of his hand. It isn't water, it's lime jelly, and it clings to his skin and burns and burns until he's half-blinded with the pain of it.
But not blind enough. He could pour molten jelly into his eyes, and it still wouldn't stop him from seeing her, crystal clear, every minute of every day.
Retasu…
Fin.
Pai seems to be encountering a lot of boiling stuff lately. Not that this is in any way chronological with Assault, even though it they're both products of the same night's plot-bunnying. Pai's murderous rampage on that occasion wasn't caused by Lettuce-angst.
Anyway, it's ten to midnight and I'm supposed to be recovering from a cold, so I'll say goodnight now.
True