Title: Fallen 1/?

Author: Yukiko-neechan

Pairing: Taito/Yamachi

Warnings: non-consensual sex, Yamato/OC, yaoi

Summary: ... in which Yamato has made it big, is living it up, and begins his decent from grace.

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Yamato knew he was bingeing. It was the fourth debut party of the week, and it was only Thursday. This time it was the band producer that was throwing it, a slimeball of a man who walked around in leather pants far too tight for his chunky body and who was living it up to show Yamato how disgustingly decadent his life could be if he got with him. The waiters were circulating the floor with those champagne glasses, and Yamato was pretty sure his producer paid them extra to walk a few more rounds around Yamato to make sure his hand was never empty.

But fuck, Yamato really wasn't complaining. Drunk was a good state to be in. The first debut party for their very first single was fun, because he found out he could get laid by practically anyone he wanted, famous or not, and this was still a novel idea for him at the time. After that, he began to realize that these parties were just another place where he didn't know anybody and where the girls were too tacky and the boys too lame, and where he started to get sick of even his own music after they've played it a couple of billion times.

So he started to like showing up drunk, getting drunker, and taking some delectable piece of ass back to his glittering palace of a bachelor's pad and fucking them through the mattress until they both pass out. Most nights it was boy ass, but there were days when one of his bandmates had scored him some free X and he couldn't tell the difference between a dick and a cunt if his life depended on it. And it wasn't like he couldn't convince any girl to let him fuck them up the ass, and then he could pretend it was whoever the hell he wanted it to be.

If he was flying high enough, he would even let himself pretend it was Taichi. But then that would just be followed by another heavy bout of drinking and smoking and partying and fucking, just to get the fantastic image out of his head of himself fucking a sweaty groaning trembling Taichi with swollen lips open screaming his name.

Tonight, though, he hadn't gotten to that point yet, which meant his psyche was blissfully untainted by the image of Taichi because the haze of alcohol had just started to settle. A couple of barely-dressed blonde bitches were prattling on next to him about his soulful lyrics and unique sound. He wanted to tell them that a unique sound would be the sound of something half-ways intelligent flying out of their mouths, but checked himself because he might want to shag one of them later. He was never sure about these things until he couldn't stand up straight. Then he just wanted to shag all of them. And once he actually did.

Brought home a group of girls who were so made-up and whose hair was so dyed fake you couldn't tell what country they were from. He thought they said they were extras on one of this music videos.

He was living with one of his bandmates at the time, Toshi. And, fuck, the bassist was pissed off. Turns out the girls were actually Japanese, and everyone knows Japanese girls were extra loud in bed, never mind the fact that there were three of them.

Yamato didn't actually remember whether it was good to have three girls on him at the same time or not, since he was actually that high. But he figured it probably wasn't that great. He'd realized a long time ago that boobs weren't his thing.

Fading back into the conversation at hand, he realized that he didn't miss much. That they were now discussing the soulfulness of his eyes and the uniqueness of his hair, and one of them had hitched up her skirt so that you could see her leopard-print underwear underneath. She was apparently the smarter one out of all of them, because she let the other three do the talking, and almost imperceptibly winked at Yamato from below her bleached blonde bangs.

That was it, that was the last fucking straw, and Yamato was too fucking sober to contemplate fucking them right now, and he had to get somewhere else. So he got up from the too-expensive couch that he'd probably spilt champagne on in his hurry and pushed past some people to the bar in the back of the penthouse suite. Being so lucky, that was when his producer caught up to him.

"Hey, sexy. How're you enjoying the party so far?" A drink was bought and handed to him.

Taking a sip, then deciding to down the whole glass, Yamato didn't reply.

"I'd be fucking ecstatic if I were you. The new single's out and at the top of the charts." There was an undertone of anger, coated over by slimy sweetness, as if the producer douchebag knew that as much of a material girl everyone in this business was, Yamato wouldn't even fuck him for his money. Oh well, at least the slimeball hadn't started to push for changes to his sound yet… although Yamato wouldn't put it past the executives to try. The producer knew that as soon as he did, Yamato would be gone, and he'd lose one of his top-grossing artists, and with him, a good chunk of his money.

"Hn."

With that, Yamato started to leave, but as soon as he let go of the countertop, the world spun around him, the lights in the room becoming hazy and extra vibrant, as if he was in a carnival ride. His knees gave out under him and he remembered floatingly that there were these ridiculously orange stools and that he would probably fall into one and crack open his skull. He wondered where the waiters were with his champagne.

Vaguely, Yamato felt an arm catch the inside of his elbow, and wondered how long he had been falling towards the bright orange stools if his head was still in one piece. Then a bony—too-bony—hand was groping his crotch briefly before hooking under his knees, with another arms behind his head, and carrying him away from the sound.

Yamato couldn't keep his eyes open, but felt a puff of saccharine breath near his face, and the last thing he heard before succumbing to the deep pull of unconsciousness was, "Finally got you, you little bitch."

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When he slitted his eyes open against the sunlight hitting him directly in the face, Yamato could feel a stinging pain straight from between his eyes to the back of his skull.

/fuck. drank too much again./

But the next thing he noticed was that there was a new pain, one he didn't normally wake up with, a burning sensation of having been stretched too wide and handled too roughly, in his nether regions still hidden beneath maroon silk sheets that were not his own. That was when he started to remember snatches of the last night that the drugs were not letting him remember, that he was sure now he didn't even want to remember, but felt compelled to, so that he could grasp the reason for the new dirtiness he felt suddenly all over his skin and the bile trying to crawl up the back of his throat.

Resurface, a skinny black shadow standing over him against the backdrop of Tokyo's glittering lights, black out. Resurface, his wrists hurt and his underwear was around his ankles, black out. Resurface, a tongue laving the underside of his cock while beady black eyes reflected light at him from between his legs, black out. Resurface, his face repeatedly shoved into the mattress as something hard pounded into him from behind, black out. Resurface, skinny fingers and warm gooey lube pawing at his cock, black out. Resurface, he was hard, the fingers were still there, and he wanted to come. He was hard, he heard a groan from behind, and he was being filled with some stranger's dick and jizz, and the pressure around his cock tightened. He wanted to come, and there was no blacking out here, and he was hard from being raped and he wanted to, he wanted to, he was! He was coming he was coming hewascomingandcomingandcomingandcomingfrombeingraped.

Taichi's face floated before his hazy mind like it always did when he came, but this time it looked sad.

Black out.

A distant sound of a door opening pulled Yamato out of the images—/memories/—and back to the apartment that was not his. A wave of fear hit him so hard he almost blacked out, but he managed to stumble out of bed, and pull on his clothes that he found wadded up half underneath the bed. It was covered in come, and he wasn't sure if it was his own or not. Pulling them on anyway, he dazedly grabbed a half empty beer bottle from the nightstand and let his feet carry him toward the noise.

The bastard was putting away groceries of all things in the kitchen, and hadn't heard Yamato come up behind him, had probably assumed he would still be out cold from the drugs he'd been slipped. So when Yamato swung the bottle to crash against his spine, his back arched in an unnatural shape and he fell to the ground.

"Shit, fuck!" Bony hands—/they touched me/—came up to shield his face unsuccessfully. Yamato had dropped the broken bottle and now let his punches rain down onto wherever he could reach, all the while noticing that his face had become wet and his mind quiet. And it wasn't until the worm below him was crying out for mercy to stop please stop please he didn't mean to, that Yamato realized the face below his was a mess of gore and the breaths rattling with blood and that if he didn't stop soon, he would kill the bastard.

Yamato stood up. He wiped his face on the back of his bloody hands, and left the man on the kitchen floor to cradle his pathetic body to himself and whimper.

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The next hour found him on the promenade. He guessed he'd been walking. He remembered he had cleaned off his face and his hands in the washroom of the apartment before he left. He remembered having to clean his hand again because he smashed it into the mirror after catching a glimpse of himself.

So he guessed he'd been walking.

The hour after that found him underneath an overpass, the sun halfway to the horizon, and his muscles screaming at him from the abuse from before—/don't think about it/.

He guessed he hadn't stopped walking.

And when again his eyes found focus and his mind stopped shutting down, he was back in his apartment, hands fisted around his keys so tight he knew he had broken skin. There was a little voice in the back of his head nagging him to call Taichi, because when had Taichi failed to save him before?

It was irrational, he knew. Yamato was already broken, the deed already done. Why call Taichi now, especially after not having spoken for God knows how many years.

He shuffled his feet over to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of gin he usually kept there. The tiredness was finally starting to set in. So he dropped onto the couch in the living room, took a swig from the bottle, and not bothering to kick off his shoes, promptly passed into blessed oblivion.

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As always, Yamato got his month of due vacation time after the record came out. This was good, because it let him move through life as if nothing had changed, as if his whole world hadn't come crashing down, as if he was never raped by his own music producer.

For the first week, he tried to write. He got up at his usual 10am, showered and dressed, and filled sheets of paper with lyrics and compositions that were always garbage when he let himself look over them again. He tried to write with complete silence in the apartment, couldn't stand it, so turned on the television so that it blared meaningless white noise in the background. Then he turned on the stereo. There was still too much silence—/no, noises, noises, noisymemories, skinslappingagainstskinandthebedsqueakingunderneath/—in the apartment or in his own head, he didn't know.

When nothing was enough to chase away the quiet—/soundsLOUDsounds/—he stopped trying to write, and started to keep those bottles of gin real close, because it had been a good friend to him in the past. From the moment he got out of bed, he was either drinking or smoking himself into a stupor. When his gin ran out, he was happy to have found what remained of a stash of weed he had procured for last year's Christmas party. Between the two, the binge lasted about a week, when he knew neither of being awake or asleep, and passed between the two states in what was to him a blessed quiet haze.

It was a twilight when he first became sober enough to gauge the state he had been living in for the past week. Yamato woke up in his bathtub, with orange light slanting through the translucent window of the bathroom, populated by a million specks of dust. His clothes reeked of the sweat and grime of the past week, obviously not having found the presence of mind to shower in the middle of his drug binge. He was pretty sure there were spots of puke splattered at the bottom of his designer jeans. Upon inspecting the toilet, he found that he had missed the bowl several times when he threw up, and that explained the pants.

He didn't bother to look at himself in the mirror, which he realized was cracked anyway, on his way out of the bathroom. He passed into the living room, and stopped to take in the damage. His record collection was in pieces and scattered in one corner, all of his once treasured music broken in half down the middle and sometimes again into quarters. Papers with scratched out lyrics on them were littered all over the carpet, filling the space between the empty bottles of beer he had somehow managed to dig up in his delirium and the burnt roaches from all the joints he inhaled. He found his cell phone planted in the far wall, apparently having been thrown in a fit of energy, and it sat quietly and lifelessly, having run out of battery a long time ago. He was glad of his, since he was fairly sure somebody from the studio would've been assigned to check up on him during his vacation time as always, and he didn't want to find out who. The coffee table had been upended, the glass in the middle of it broken in the process. Yamato half-heartedly checked his hands and feet, and deduced from the scabbed over mess of them that he had both punched the bathroom mirror and kicked over the coffee table.

Yamato remembered none of this, of course. But it didn't come as much of a surprise to him, he realized with detachment, and when he finished going through the rest of his ruined apartment, he almost felt proud of himself, a wild sort of glee bubbling upwards from his stomach. It was all broken, but it seemed somehow cleaner that way.

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to be continued...