Author's Note: This is a departure from my usual style, so I'm not sure how it turned out. It was supposed to be a one shot, but I've never been good at keeping them to single chapters. The second will be up shortly, and for all intents and purposes, Taki's in a mental institution. Enjoy.

Warning: Hints of a past Tohma/Taki relationship.

Darkened Stars

When I'm onstage, I am God.

It's a simple fact, one I'm sure every artist who's worth anything is well acquainted with. There are no names to live up to, standing in front of a crowd that's screaming for you. There is only the microphone, innocent in the stage lights. Your control over the world.

And the world is the music. It gives birth, giving voices to the fans. But most importantly, me.

This is my world. My paradise. A three ring circus that I am the master of. A puppet whose strings are tied to my fingers alone.

My oasis of perfect memories, blemished by only one thing.

A god is only as powerful as his world, much like a king's power is measured by his kingdom. My world was passionate. Fast, moving at an accelerated speed I thought I could control.

I was reckless. I made mistakes. The speed slowed, my world slowed.

My kingdom fell apart and passed to another. A mere boy! I watched in anger as he destroyed my work. All of that hard earned dedication wasted!

It wasn't to be tolerated. I began rallying my forces. I had a plan. I would take my world back, piece by piece if I had to. I refused to give up.

The speed of my world increased again, but this time, I couldn't control it. It spun out of my grasp, screeching to a halt in a flash of headlights and a smile I can never forget.

I've tried, and every time, I wake up screaming.

They want me to get help, talk to someone. Bare my soul for their greedy eyes. But I won't, and they keep asking. All I can do is sit with a cigarette between my lips, poisoning my lungs and remembering my life, as it should have been. My life as God.

There are tapping sounds coming from outside my door. Shiny black shoes hitting shiny white tiles. Oh, I know what time it is, and I know what it means for people like me. Stars fallen from grace.

Another useless interrogation.

They won't get a thing out of me.

The door opens as it always does, with the soft whispers of well oiled hinges and a rush of bright, fluorescent lighting. The taps stop, but the door doesn't close.

Something is different.

"Aizawa-san?"

No answer. Silence is good.

"You have a visitor."

The cigarette butt finds itself squished in an ashtray. I light another.

Inhale. Exhale.

A stream of perfectly dreadful smoke.

A visitor, huh? Who would come to see me? I'm just an angel with broken wings, sent to this place for condemnation.

More taps. Footsteps recede. The door stays open. Light is blocked out. A shadow covers the floor.

My visitor has come.

"Aizawa-san."

I know that voice, and I recoil from it instinctively. I know what words that voice will say, and I will beat him to it.

I am already condemned.

A laugh, high and joyful. It doesn't belong here. Not with these darkened stars. That smile is not wanted.

"Come now, Aizawa-san. I won't hurt you."

But you already have. You clipped my wings. I can't fly anymore.

"Get out."

Is that really my voice? Rough and hoarse from my constant abuse?

No. That can't be me. I have the voice of an angel, and with it, I ruled the world.

"Hostility isn't necessary, Aizawa-san. I simply wish to talk."

I must be glaring, but I can't feel the scowl. I don't feel much anymore.

The door shuts. He's inside, and I'm trapped in a room with the devil that made me this way.

"Leave me alone," I croak. "You've done enough."

The cigarette burns down. Ashes drop to the floor.

Gloved hands touch my face. The cigarette rushes to join its ashes as I'm forced to look up.

Green eyes meet mine, and this time, there is no smile on his face. Thumbs encased in soft leather brush over my cheeks.

"You haven't been eating, Taki-kun."

This is just another of their tricks. I can't let it get to me. He is one of them.

"Stay away from me." I whisper, but neither of us moves.

For all the questions they ask, they never touch. I am deprived. I long to feel skin that is not my own.

He doesn't say a word. He just sits on the couch and pulls those gloves off. One finger. Two. Three.

The gloves come to rest next to my ashtray. A shoe with carefully tied laces puts out my last, dying cigarette.

Then he does what I now wish he wouldn't. His hands - the beautiful, long fingered hands that I hate - touch my face, and all of my defenses are useless against him.

"Tohma..."

He smiles, and my eyes sting. I can't do this. Not again. Our lives have changed, and I can't be his star.

"Quiet, Taki-kun..."

This man, my enemy, pulls me close. My face is buried in his neck. I cling to his jacket, and I cry.