Title: Unreal

By: AtobeLover

Summary: It was wrong, oh, it was wrong. But Aya couldn't bring himself to care. He would love Ryou, and pine away in silence.

Rated: T

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own Penguin Revolution.

Author's Note: This fic here is for my First Internet Friend—Kurai Minoru! *cheers* hope you like it! I wrote it on my birthday, eh, so anyway. Please review if you like it.

Happy Birthday to me!

(read this with Enrique Iglesias's Addicted in the background)

Oh and to another FFn user: I told you I don't have time, well, I literally don't, but please don't think I'm lying to you. I already feel guilty enough.

It wasn't right, of course.

Aya knew what he was doing wasn't considered "appropriate" in the eyes of the public. He wasn't technically doing anything; being in love wasn't actually an action but Aya did not care much about precise language anymore.

It wasn't fair, the way Ryou and Yukari made Aya look like a sick third wheel in a crazy loving caring desperate three-way relationship.

There was that great couple, Ryou and Yukari, and then there was Aya and his unrequited love.

He took out another long-sleeved t-shirt for the day; it was dark blue. His denim jeans were the same colour.

Ryou loved dark blue.

Ryou loved the feel of denim against his skin.

Ryou loved Yukari.

Aya replaced the t-shirt and brought out a generic white one. He also put back the jeans, choosing black ones instead.

Pulling it on, he ran his fingers through his hair, not really trying to fix the messy state it was in, and looked at himself in the mirror and beseeched the reflection to tell him what he lacked that Yukari possessed.

He knew being this much in love was possibly the unhealthiest thing that could happen to him, but the way Aya reacted to it was like an addict to his heroin; he knew it destroyed him from the inside but he couldn't really care, because he wanted it.

Ryou was pain. Yukari was a blade. When they came together, the blood that flowed was Aya.

'Good morning, Ayaori-san.'

Aya blinked. 'Oh. Good morning, Fujimaru-san.' He ambled over to the breakfast table. Yukari frowned. Aya wasn't sleeping properly. Something was wrong. She looked at Ryou, sitting at the table, picking apart the eggs she had scrambled for him. Ryou wasn't looking at her; she sighed and turned back to buttering the toast.

Ryou was busy making tiny scraps of his breakfast. He was constantly looking for ways to pass the time; in this tense "household" where all Aya could do was mourn over something yet unknown to Ryou and where Yukari was the head of PEACOCK and had so much work to do that she had no time to goof around like they used to; and anyway he could see just how much of a problem Aya had with it, with Ryou having fun with Yukari.

Ryou glanced to the side, where Aya was sitting beside him. He saw Aya covering his face with his hands, tears streaming down the backs of his hands, silently weeping. He didn't jump up in shock and demand an explanation; he didn't want Yukari to know of this; of one of the rare times when Aya was weak and lost control.

He got up, grabbed Aya's wrist and dragged him over to Ryou's bedroom. 'Fuji, I'm going to get some more sleep. Holiday, after all.'

'Oh, okay, Ryou.' Yukari didn't look up. She knew when she wasn't wanted in the scene.

Ayaori sat down on the bed, trembling. His hands grasped at the sheets; he hung his head and closed his eyes.

It was poison, the way Yukari could understand everything that Ryou said, or didn't say.

'Aya, look at me.'

He didn't. A hand came up under his chin, and the bed sagged a bit beside him, and an arm wrapped him in a loose hug and Aya tried and succeeded in regaining self-control. The hand under his chin tilted his face up and Ayaori had never felt so much younger and inferior to Ryou as he did now.

'What's wrong?'

Aya numbly shook his head. 'Nothing.'

'Tell me, please.'

'Nothing's wrong. It's just the stress of work, you know. Number one in PEACOCK and all. Bound to get to you sometime.'

Ryou's eyes gazed into Aya's, and Aya leisurely—yet with the hopelessness of a thirsty man who knows his resolve won't make the mirage turn real—admired the golden.

'Yukari,' he whispered despondently.

Sometimes your best friend can be your worst enemy.

Ryou closed his lips over Ayaori's.

Slowly, Ayaori kissed back. Disbelief tinged the kiss, and also wonder. Ryou pondered what it would feel like to be able to kiss him like this forever. He parted his lips—Ayaori followed—and kissed him again.

And again.

Ayaori pulled back. Ryou opened his eyes in discontent. 'What's the matter?'

'Yukari,' Ayaori repeated.

'She's—I—we're not together, Aya,' Ryou said, reaching for Ayaori. 'That's why you've been so melancholy. Please, Aya.' He kissed him again.

Ryou now knew what it felt like to have someone devoted to you. How it felt to have hands not your own threading through your hair. How it felt to have someone say your name slowly, looking into your eyes, lips brushing against yours.

And Ayaori tried not to drown in this newfound, unreal joy.