Paradocs: Apologies all around, folks. This isn't the next chapter of Mind Crush; it's just a one-shot that has nothing to do with anything in particular.
Curse being left museless. -.-
So, as a warning:

Warning: The following story contains some yaoi, or references towards it, swearing, and the like. Nothing you guys aren't (or shouldn't be, by now) used to from me (except maybe that yaoi 0.o). Just so you know. Yep.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters used here. They belong to... someone else. Not me.

I hate him.

I can't help it. Everything about him goes against everything I was ever taught.

From across the table, I sit, hardly touching my food, watching him rip into a steak. He lets the meat's juices drip down him chin, caring only for the taste of flesh. All of his attention is focused on that chunk of beef.

It's disgusting. He eats like an animal; sometimes I wonder if he's even human at all.

I shudder; his eyes, dark and haunting, flick from his plate to my face almost immediately, as if he could sense my nausea. His eyes narrow into a sneer.

"Problem, Ryou?" He asks in that hateful voice.

I want to tell him yes. I want to tell him to stop eating like that, to get out of my kitchen, out of my house, out of my life.

But I know that there's a punishment for that. I can't answer him in such a way. He doesn't like it when I act like that. Not one bit.

So I lie. "No," I answer, without looking at him. I pick at my food, pushing it around my plate. I'm not very hungry these days. I feel like, if I eat anything, it won't stay down for very long. Tonight, it wouldn't stay down for even a minute, with his eating habits.

The room is silent now, or at least, wordless. He rips into the steak again; I don't bother looking up from my plate, but I can hear it, hear the fibers ripping apart and his growls as he tears it apart. My fork clinks against my plate, grating as I push my mashed potatoes around my own steak in an artistic manner I've only recently learned.

After a moment, the sounds of his battle against the steak cease, and he speaks.

"You aren't eating, Ryou."

Though I know it's stupid, futile, I glare at him with all my power. "No," I say levelly, still glaring. "I'm not."

He laughs, as if he finds me funny. As though I'm amusing. I hate the sound. "And why is that?" He asks, setting down the fork and the mutilated piece of meat still attached to it. He folds his hands together, looking like a diabolical teacher, waiting for me to answer. When I say nothing, the smile vanishes from his face, replaced by a look of anger.

"I asked you a question, yanushi," he says, drawing out the word with relish. Landlord. He knows I hate it when he calls me that. As if I've ever had any control over him! "Why aren't you eating your dinner?"

I have to answer him now. He only calls me 'landlord' when he wants me to answer, when the next step in making me answer involves not words, but fists. I look away from him now, afraid that, if he sees my face, my eyes, he'll detect my lies. "Not hungry," I mumble, pushing my plate away from me with one hand.

I feel pressure on my wrist. He's not satisfied with the answer. "You took such care making it, though," he says, feigning concern in his voice. He increases the force of his grip on my arm. I wince; he smiles coldly. "Why do that if you aren't going to touch it?"

I say nothing. It's not really a question, coming from him like that. I should answer him, but I can't. If I answer honestly, he'll punish me. But I'm tired of the lies, words spoken only to appease his temper.

I hear a chair slide against the floor, footsteps on the linoleum. He lets go of my wrist, and I let it lie there against the tabletop. I feel fingers on my chin, see his hand as he pushes my gaze upward, to meet his dark eyes with mine, barely a shade lighter than his.

He's smiling, but it's not a kind smile. It's the sort of sick, sadistic smile I've come to expect from him. It's a sneer, hinting at something horrible that has yet to come, that I've yet to see. He knows what to do with me, his insolent, lying hikari.

I can feel the fear welling up in my chest, evident on my face from the look on his. I don't want this. I don't want whatever twisted punishment he's concocted tonight. If I answered him now, it wouldn't change things, though. He was set on this idea, and nothing would get in his way.

With his other hand, he pulls his chair over, close to mine, and sits down, as though he's going to eat my food. I want flinch away from him, to get away, but I can't. He grabs my torso and pulls me on to his lap. I struggle, but he's stronger than I am, and we both know. He laughs, wrapping one arm around my chest and securing my arm beneath it. With his other, he picks up my fork, filling it with potatoes.

"I can't let you starve," he says, in a voice that from anyone else might have been caring; from him, it was mocking. "So it looks like I get to feed you now, huh?" He brings the fork to my mouth, but I keep my lips shut tightly, hoping fruitlessly that he'll give up if I don't open it.

All I'm rewarded with is his laughter. "It looks like your mouth's broken, yanushi," he chuckles, manuvering the hand on my chest so it pries my lips apart. "I can fix that, too. You see?" He pushes the food through the gap, forcing it off the fork by pushing it against my teeth. It hurts; I don't want to swallow the potatoes, for fear they might not go down, much less stay in my stomach. When I don't swallow, he rubs my throat with his hand, pressing against my trachea so I can barely breathe.

"You're so broken," he says with a chuckle. "You can't even swallow, little one. How will we fix that?" He puts his pale face next to mine, and I feel his breath stirring my hair. My cheeks flush, and I feel my pulse quicken. I open my mouth to protest, only to have a second forkful of mashed potatoes shoved in with the first. I start to choke; I can't hold much food in my mouth, and he's already filled its capacity. I swallow a few times, feeling a huge lump in my throat as I do. I don't want to die because I wouldn't swallow mashed potatoes forcefed to me by a madman. He chuckles again.

"There, see?" He pulls his face away from me and strokes my hair with the feeding hand, still holding the fork. "That's how you eat. Now, let's try some water." He places the fork back on the table and picks up the glass of water, bringing it to my lips. He pauses, then tips my head back so that I see his face, upside though it is. "Do you think you can drink by yourself, little one, or should I help you?"

Help. I want to laugh at that; he hasn't helped me in the slightest since the day we met. But I can't laugh, can't even speak, frozen as I am by his horrific gaze like a mouse in the eyes of a viper. He pushes my head, gently, forward, hardly waiting for a reply. My silence this time is answer enough for him. He pushes the glass to my lips, tilting it just enough that the water touches my lips. I don't open them; he keeps the glass like that for a moment more, then curses under his breath. With the hand on my chest, he pinches my throat with his fingernails.

I open my mouth to yelp, and the water floods in. I choke, pushing the glass away and putting both hands over my mouth to keep the water from coming out. He wouldn't like that, especially now, after I've disobeyed him so much. He's laughing again, setting the cup down on the table and petting my hair again, as if I'm a child in need of comfort from him. I can feel him unbuttoning my shirt with his other hand, swift and sly with the movements. Finally, I manage to swallow the water.

"S-stop it," I gasp. He laughs, as though I'm telling a funny joke, and continues to caress my head and play with my buttons. I try again. "Stop it, please." I sound whiny, like a child. He's still laughing, but stops touching my buttons. Not because I asked, though. He's unbuttoned the whole thing, and exposed my chest.

"You're so polite, yanushi," he says, running the back of one cold hand up my chest, my throat, and under my chin, stopping there; I shiver, not from the cold, but from his words. "You haven't eaten enough yet, though. I won't let you go to bed hungry." He tips my head back so that I can see his face. On anyone else's face, his expression would look kind, gentle, concerned even. But on his, it's mocking, filled with hints at darker things that I've yet to see.

"I... I'm full," I manage to mumble, trapped in the power of his stare. This time, he doesn't laugh, but shakes his head sadly from side to side, smiling darkly. Some of his hair brushes my face, making me twitch. My stomach chooses that moment to gurgle, earning a harsh laugh out of him and an urge to cry from me.

"Traitorous stomach, eh?" He says, rubbing my stomach with his icy hands. I want to shrink away from him but, at the same time, I want to just stay there a little longer, let him hold me and touch me. Instantly, I shove that last urge to the back of my mind.

"It's... just upset." I half-lie, knowing that I really would like some more food. Just not fed to me by him. He smirks, as if he doesn't quite believe me, and licks his lips. My heart races, afraid of what's next on his list. Kisses? Bites? More food?

He shoves me off his lap and onto my feet, and stands up. I look at him, wide-eyed and afraid. He turns half away from me, his expression suddenly unreadable.

"Go take a couple Alkaseltzer or Tums or whatever it is you take for that," he says, as though unconcerned. "Don't want you getting sick from some damned potatoes, little one." Then he turns his face back towards me and smiles.

"You really are broken, Ryou."

Paradocs: I just know someone's going to kill me for this. I just know it.