Disclaimer: I do not own Wild Adapter or the characters mentioned hereafter. I did not make a profit off of the production of this fanfiction. I do not claim continuity to the storyline, though I have attempted to keep with it.

Warnings: The rating is what it is because, guess what, it has yaoi, cursing, cigarettes and a few other things normal people might object to. Wouldn't want to get any right-wing or humanitarian knickers in a twist. Got a problem? Eat me.

Author's Notes: Wrote this about the same time I wrote my other story 'The Umbrella'. Obviously I am a fan of Minekura. Obviously there is no actual point to this story. Kubota's perspective, late at night.

And yes, storing cigarettes in the freezer is done. At least my mother does it. It supposedly helps them keep longer. With as much as Kubota smokes, how can one not expect him to stock up on them?

Yes, this is a one-shot. Don't bother asking for a second chapter.

Yes, I am now in college, so my posting might be a bit more sporadic, seeing as I actually have other things taking up my life (homework, clubs, reading a book a week for my literature class, keeping up the legacy of being the hall's leper, etc.).

Beta? What beta? (glares at useless corpse)

Anyway, please enjoy the fic. If you like it, it takes pretty much no thought to voice it in a review. If you liked it an don't review, I know who you are. I will hunt you down. I will go Annie Wilkes on your ass. (If you don't know who that is, research Stephen King)

Tokito

He dreams his bad dreams almost every night. For months he's muttered the same names, begged some faceless ghost not to hurt him, fingers clutching to anything solid, as if that would keep him from falling entirely into those nightmares.

Who is Akira-san? Who hurt him so? Who would chain and collar him, like a dog? Who does he see in that single memory, the only one he has before time started with me?

If he ever got his memory back, who would my Tokito be? Some shell-shocked child, ready for the next slap; flinching every time I spoke?

He sweats when he remembers those horrible things, and the air of the room gives him a chill. He shivers and clings closer to me, an arm wrapping over my waist, fisting my shirt against the small of my back. I allow this; hold him closer, as if I could make the shaking stop. He cries out again and tries to push away, but I don't let him. A sob wheezes out of him as I crush him against my chest, force his face into my shoulder.

Every night, I watch his soul break. Every night, I shake him out of his dreams. Every night, I try to remind him that the past doesn't matter, that he lives in the now, and that he is safe. Every night.

His eyes are preternaturally wide in the darkness of the room, the slats of neon light filtered through the blinds tear across his face when he sits up and looks around, as if he is somehow lost. I lie still, waiting, and hold his hand, my thumb stroking the soft fur. His fingers are so thin, so graceful. The fur there is soft as down. He shudders again, pulling the hand out of my grip. He is more careful now, aware how easily he can break me.

Either that, or he doesn't want to do dishes for another three months. He didn't like waiting on me, lazy thing.

He turns then, looks down at me and breathes a soft sigh. Perhaps he thought that I wouldn't be there, it's the same kind of quiet surprise that I felt the first year, coming home and seeing that he hadn't left. I see him relax, the minimal slouch coming back into his shoulders, and feel it's time to move, to have a cigarette, maybe a glass of water.

The sheets are soaked. My shirt is damp enough to remind me that it's winter. I peel it off and toss it toward the hamper, and flip the switch for the heater with my toe as I get up to raid the freezer. He's a step behind me, keeping close as always, feet silent as they pad through the apartment.

"You want some water?" I ask, digging a fresh pack out of the frost and peeling off the wrapper. I fill a glass with ice and set it by the sink as I shake a cigarette out of the pack and slip it between my lips, lighting up to the first acrid breath. Even without my glasses, I can see his nose wrinkle; he still hates my smoking. I fill the glass with water from the tap and pass it to him, then lean back against the counter and try to remember if there are any clean sheets.

The neighbors think we're sex addicts with how often I set the sheets out to dry. I hear them stage-whisper as we pass, I feel their looks on my neck.

He sniffs once at the glass, a habit he's never managed to drop. Perhaps he derives something from the scent, something less human in him, since he only has two years of knowledge in his head, which makes his senses stronger. It's just a suspicion, and I am distracted by the smoke in my lungs, held for a half second too long. I cough softly into my wrist as he drinks. His hands are still shaking, the long nails of his right hand scratching quietly against the glass. He finishes it in five huge gulps and sighs.

"Kubota," he says, his voice so soft I can barely hear it. He's looking down into his glass, dark hair in his face. I reach out to brush it away, and he turns his cheek into my touch, a cat rubbing scent glands over my fingers, claiming me. Moments like these I wonder who exactly is in charge here, the answer never comes to me.

He moves forward, pressing his face into my chest, skin and hair soft against me, his heat warding away the cold. I let him, my fingers twisting the short hairs at the base of his skull. I finish my cigarette, crush it out in a dirty plate beside the sink. He's still shaking, must be cold. I rub his arms, as if that might have some effect.

"Let's go change the sheets and get back to sleep, Tokito," I murmur, carefully urging him toward the bedroom. There is no resistance, there never is these days. He trusts me; I can't help thinking that's a mistake.

"I think I know what I dreamed," he whispers against my skin. I stop, blink down at the top of his head, a moment of fear thrilling through me. This is his doing, the fear. Before him it hadn't existed. Before him there was nothing inside me; the sensation makes me feel a little sick.

"There were cages," he continues, his voice still soft, barely more than the press of lips moving against my chest. I'm sure he can feel my heart skip one horrified beat. "Chains. The rest is gone…I wish I knew what happened to me."

I pull away then; bend down to strip the bed. The motions are so natural now, so many nights' practice. I drop the balled up sheets into the hamper and pick a fresh set out of the linen closet, colored blue. He steps in to help me then, pushing pillows into cases, stretching the elastic edges of the bottom sheet around the corner of our futon. He untangles the blankets while I straighten the flat sheet and tuck it into place. Like as not I'll be changing the sheets again tomorrow, but I do like doing a good job. I snap the blankets out and let them float down into place, one after another. Neither one of us likes to be cold, and our little heater's on its last legs of life. I should go buy a new one.

"Maybe it's better if you don't remember. Maybe it was just a bad dream and not the past," I suggest. I long for another cigarette, but I left the pack in the kitchen. With a sigh, I crawl between the sheets and tug the blankets over my naked shoulder; I wish he'd come back to bed.

He picks through the dresser drawers, looking for a fresh shirt, but gives up with a soft curse. His clothes stick to his skin as he peels them off, drops them on the floor as he crawls into bed beside me, curling around my body. He presses his nose into my hair and sighs, smelling the tobacco, so strong he can probably taste it.

"I want to know anyway," he replies, belatedly. Fingers tilt my chin up and he presses lips against mine, tongue probing over my teeth. I sleepily kiss him back, eyes half-open to watch him in the dark. We pull away, slowly, then kiss again, a chaste, closed-mouth kiss. Sometimes the kissing is better than the sex. He's gotten better at it in the past year, learned what we both like.

I feel his hands wandering down my chest, sliding under the waistband of my pants, and I pull away sharply, a shaky sigh ghosting past my lips. He nips at my throat, cupping between my legs, the feel of fur there feels both immoral and exquisite. He's pressing his own erection against my leg, and I fumble between us to tease fingers over the skin.

We're quiet tonight, both of us still half-asleep. Hands sliding over flesh, gripping when it feels so good it can't be expressed in human sounds. I arch, he leans into me, soaking up my gasps and moans. I'm sure he's purring, his hips thrusting into my hand, the tip of his dripping member still rubbing against my thigh. It doesn't take us long to finish, both of us hissing softly under our breath.

I can feel him kissing my face, but I feel distant from my own body. I kick off my dirtied pants and wipe up as much of the mess as possible before tossing them away.

We curl on our sides, his back pressed against my chest, my forehead resting in the crook of his shoulder and neck. His fingers trace the outline of mine on his stomach, and I find myself uncomfortable with this normalcy, this closeness. The moment stretches between us like an open void, though I cling tighter.

He doesn't seem to notice, probably fallen asleep by now. I count his breaths, press my ear against his back and listen to his heartbeat slow before unwinding myself and sliding back out of bed. I tug on a bathrobe and shuffle back to the kitchen, pick up my abandoned pack and light a fresh cigarette.

I look around the apartment, spacious and cluttered; can see into the bedroom from here, see him asleep in my bed. Sated, resting in the knowledge that he's safe here, for the moment. The lights outside our window make his skin look deathly pale. I can see through the slats of the blinds that it's snowing.

I don't want him to remember a time before we existed like this. I don't want him to ever know anything but this comfort. He might no longer need to depend on me; he might no longer want me around. What would I do then, without my cat to feed every day? Would I fade away at last, a ghost? Would my life return to the way it was, without purpose?

From the kitchen I can hear him mutter in his sleep, I see him turn over onto his back and lie still. No bad dreams yet, I have time for one last smoke before bed. I go to sit on the side of our futon, my foot pressed against the dilapidated heater, watching his face and wondering what he sees this time.

I don't believe in God, but I send a prayer up anyway, curling with the smoke of my cigarette.

Don't let him remember. I need my Tokito.

Fin Tokito

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