Disclaimer: I do not own Loveless, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to Yun Kouga
Notes: Two- shot. First ever piece of lemon [which will turn up in the next part. I am really worried about that bit :/] Hmm.. not too sure if I have written this that well, but never mind – it's been bugging me for a long time so I wrote it. Unbeta'd
Oh and in my mind Ritsuka is a lot older than 12, because he acts a lot older at times and that may have come across in the writing. I meant to keep him at that age, but I don't think he has –scans through – yup I have put in allusions to him being older. Sorry. xD
Media: Manga I guess.
Spoilers: None
Characters:SoubixRitsuka.
Rituska's Opinion: "I deserve to be punished."
"This is a sin for which I deserve to be punished." Ritsuka, Volume 1
Eating shouldn't be such a trial – and yet in the Aoyagi home, it is. The simplest things that most take for granted are all trials for the youngest Aoyagi, with his mother acting as judge, jury and executioner. And he has no saviour, not anymore. His father escapes at work, leaving before the others wake and returning once he knows they are asleep. His brother is dead, cruelly slain by assailants unknown – burnt and then abandoned in Ritsuka's own seat at school.
Seimei...
He just doesn't have the energy to be watchful tonight, but he will try. The boy looks over his food, narrowing his eyes. He tries to remember, tries to think about what that Ritsuka would've liked and what he would've hated. Sure, he doesn't mind the taste of shredded cabbage, but did that Ritsuka enjoy it? Would that Ritsuka have eaten it without hesitation or wrinkled his nose in disgust and surreptitiously swept it to the side?
Ritsuka eyes his mother, noting the testing gaze. She is watching. She is always watching, waiting for him to slip – anticipating it.
"Are you oaky, Ritsuka-kun? Don't you like it?" she asks. She sounds normal. She sounds motherly. If he chooses correctly, she will remain so. If not... Ritsuka doesn't let that thought continue. He will deal with that if it happens.
"I'm fine mother," he answers guardedly. He loves his mother – he knows he does. And he knows that he deserves the punishment he gets for not being her Ritsuka. If he was, perhaps everything would have been okay. If he had been her Ritsuka, maybe his father would show his face about the home a bit more, maybe Seimei wouldn't have been brutally murdered.
Maybe Ritsuka should never have been born.
The boy, after a glance at his mother, takes his chopsticks in hand. Luckily, being right- or left-handed is not something you can easily change. Even after the memory loss, using his right hand felt natural, easier. It's the only thing that hadn't changed.
Except his face.
Curse this damn face.
He doesn't want it. Not if it causes his mother so much pain. Cast it off and burn it, obliterate it in the same flames that consumed his brother.
It is a desire in vain. His face remains and his brothers' flames have long since burnt out.
He takes the cabbage with a heavy gaze. It's like a game of Russian Roulette –this cabbage the loaded gun with his mother acting as the bullet. It hovers in front of him. Would he have eaten this? With an odd sense of emptiness, Ritsuka opens his mouth and chews. He doesn't mind the taste, it's edible – faintly salty from the seasoning.
"Do you..." his mothers' voice cracks under the weight of her accusation. "Do you like that?" Ritsuka swallows his bite and puts his chopsticks down. He knows where this is going. He has chosen incorrectly – and he will pay the price willingly for his deception.
"It's okay..." he answers, eyes glancing up to meet his mother. Her hands slam onto the table. The crockery shakes with the force of it. He starts in spite of himself, eyes slamming shut for an instant before he wrenches them open.
He deserves to be punished.
"No... Ritsuka doesn't like cabbage." Her eyes flash wildly. "It makes him sick. He pushes it to the side." And she is standing, palms still pressed to the table. There is an echoing bang as her chair tumbles onto its back. Ritsuka doesn't feel the familiar grasping fingers of fear. He is too tired, too exhausted with everything to fear this anymore.
So when the harsh resounding smack and the explosion of reddened pain spreads across his cheek, Ritsuka doesn't even flinch. His head just snaps to the side and stays there, eyes downcast and ears drooping in acceptance. The tears are caused by the harsh stinging he tells himself, not the ache in his heart. He is accustomed to pain, more so then he cared to recognise.
He stands, eyes still focused on the floor. "I'm sorry," he whispers.
"Sorry? You're sorry?" she spits, hisses like snake. "You imposter!" her rough, clawing hands grasps his shoulders and shoves him back. He staggers against the weight, his body falling with no control – he slams into the chair and careens backwards. He's positioned awkwardly over the fallen chair, wincing. His hip burns with pain from being smashed at such a force into the hard floor. The back of his legs will be bruised in a long strip and his back aching in the morning.
"You disgust me!" She screams. The same words. More words. Hate. Loathing. Pain. They tear at his sanity, more bloodied lacerations to add to the delicate threads of his soul – damaging, scarring. Ritsuka pushes himself up into a sitting position, his wrist protesting in remainder of an injury only just healed. The long fingered hand once again collides with the sensitive flesh of his cheek and this time Ritsuka doesn't fall without a noise. A soft whimper, a barely noticeable noise tumbles from bloodied lips as he is thrown against the floor once more.
Agony implodes in his brain as his head bounces against the floor. His vision goes fuzzy for a moment and he blinks to clear it. "You are not my son," she whispers, voice broken and distraught. Her tears flood her cheeks, glistening crystal against the rage-red of her cheeks. "I want you out of my house! Get out! Get out!"
Ritsuka resists the urge to touch the corner of his mouth. "This is my home, mother. I'm not going to leave." The scream of frustration and anger fills the kitchen. "I'm sorry," Ritsuka continues, voice wavering as she scrambles away from the chair and struggles to stand. "I'm sorry."
She runs at him, grabbing by the front of his shirt. "If you don't leave," she hisses into his ear. "Then die." She slams his head into the kitchen counter. The boy criers out but doesn't make a move to fight back. He can apologise. He does apologise. But it doesn't change the fact he is not Ritsuka, not her son. He deserves this for the pain he brings her. He deserves this for being an imposter. "If you die, then Seimei and the real Ritsuka can come back! Don't you get it? You have to go!
Another brutal slam of his head to the counter and his vision starts to blacken around the edges. This is the third bump to the head he has had this evening. He can't blink away this darkness, instead it calls to him, whispers promises of nothingness and embraces him. It lulls him to sleep, coaxing him to join them in their dreamland, where nothing hurts, where Seimei is alive, where Ritsuka is the Ritsuka of a few years ago. This is where things are right. Things are as they should be.
The boy doesn't notice how he goes limp in his mothers restraining arms, nor how his mother drops him to the floor – overcome with grief and guilt. He doesn't notice the tears she weeps for him, for the boy she has abused, nor the tears she weeps for herself, a woman who cannot stop the pain. She is a mother, she should nurture not harm.
And yet she cannot control her rages, her anger. She wants to, by Christ she wants to. She touches her sons' hair, stroking it lovingly before she chokes on her sobs, a hand pressed against her mouth.
Oh God, what has she done? And she runs, runs from the body, from the evidence of her treachery, her insanity. She clambers up the stairs, staggering, stumbling and falling into her room. She slams the door shut to lock out the whispers, the memory of her hand as it slammed into her sons' face.
His cages her face in her hands and weeps.
And below in the kitchen, Ritsuka sleeps on – lost in a sea of memories.
He doesn't want to wake up; why would he want to leave here? Here, where everything is okay. Here, where Seimei can help him with his homework, can laugh with him at their TV shows, where Seimei can protect him from the nightmares that plague him.
But he can feel the tendrils of his blissful sleep start to loosen. Seimei becomes a little vague, distant and no matter how hard Ritsuka runs, his brother remains just out of reach. Seimei smiles, he stretches out a hand Ritsuka cannot take. He says words that Ritsuka cannot hear. His brother is fading, disappearing into the nothingness of his memory.
Ritsuka is losing him all over again.
And it hurts – his heart is aching with a love that can never be acknowledged again, with the pain of missing someone who can never come back.
Dead. Gone. He had once thought Seimei was immortal, forever, perpetual in the naivety of his youth. But he had been wrong – horribly wrong. Seimei was mortal like the rest of them. Seimei was dead like the rest of them will be.
Seimei...
It is the name on his lips as Ritsuka's eyes open reluctantly. The warmth of the dreams is ebbing into the chill of the kitchen. His head is pounding, throbbing. His eyes are hazy, sight blurred. He can't get his limbs to obey his orders. His fingers twitch. He feels queasy, like he is going to throw up – dizzy and disorientated.
How much time has passed?
Ritsuka grits his teeth, and forces himself into a sitting position. His head is in agony, his body is lead. His fingers grope along the counter and he uses the grip to haul himself upright. His world spins and lurches sickeningly; Ritsuka retches but doesn't vomit.
His feet shuffle forward on his command. He sways dangerously, but each movement is getting easier. His world isn't so turbulent. With each step he regains control, so by the time he gets out of the kitchen and at the base of the stairs Ritsuka is only a little shaky on his feet.
Ignoring his injuries, Ritsuka climbs the stairs, wincing at the twinge of his wrist when he leans a little too heavily on the banister for support. He grimaces and carries on. He pauses outside his mothers' room, pressing an ear to the door for any signs of life. His tail twitches as his ears flick. Just beyond the wooden door, he can detect the low breathing of a lumbering person.
His heart is a little less heavy. She is unharmed – that is all that matters. He limps away, quietly easing into his room and closing the door. He stays at his door for an instant, his palm pressed against the cool wood.
"Ritsuka." The boy tenses at the sound of the voice, a flare of annoyance and irritation sparks in his gut as well as a strange sense of relief. He relaxes, embracing the latter emotion, and glances over his shoulder. There, leaning against the frames of his French windows, is a tall, long haired blonde. His glasses glint in the dulling light of the evening sky and his hair is distilled by a stray breeze. The breeze caresses Ritsuka with the familiar smell of tobacco and whatever is used to wash those clothes.
"Soubi."
It is a smell of comfort. Ritsuka hides a small smile of happiness and keeps his position. He barely even flinches when he hears Soubi push away from the door jams and approach him. He doesn't move when arms slide around his waist in comfort, locking together at the front. There is a moment when neither moves, before Ritsuka sighs, and lets his head fall back onto the blondes' shoulder. For years this has been happening, Soubi sneaking in through his window – at first it had irritated him. But now Ritsuka can only sleep peacefully if the older man is with him. Somehow his presence keeps the nightmares at bay.
"I could stop it, Ritsuka," Soubi offers, his breath warm against Ritsuka's neck. The boy shivers. "Just give me the order..."
"No. I don't want that. It's not her fault." His own admission of guilt is silently tagged on the end, but Soubi either doesn't notice or just doesn't comment. Ritsuka suspects the latter.
"Let me take care of you then." Ritsuka goes to refuse, but relents, gently nodding his head. Soubi would do it anyway – he has a habit of disobeying or finding loopholes in Ritsuka's commands into order to satisfy what he wants to do. So the boy allows Soubi to take his hand and sit him on the bed. He allows himself to be tended to, to be cared for and to feel like he is loved – why he allows it when he usually rejects offers of friendship and care, he isn't sure. He doesn't care to know. All he needs to know is that Soubi is here now.
And Ritsuka finds he is content enough with the knowledge.
.
