Full Summary:He's normal, or at least trying to be within the city of Ikebukuro that is swarmed on a daily basis with rumors, fancy lies and gritty truths; what more could he ask for? Except his thick skin can't always save him from anything when everything goes awry the day he's pinned for a murder he didn't commit and his secret relationship with Shiki Haruya is on the rocks.
Sometimes it's okay to pretend that normality exists, but not for long. Secrets are piling, kisses are stolen and information is certainly being filed away for safe keeping. Why should any playful facade of normality exist anyway, especially in Ikebukuro, the commercial and entertainment district of all places?
A/N: That was the most terrible summary I have ever written in my life because it sounds more whimsical and fun than the shit I'm about to post. So the summary may or may not change at some point, but other than that, I want you guys to know that this story will feature many horrible topics such as domestic violence/partner abuse and even familial abuse as well as some cheating and such more! I'll let you guys know when such topics come up so always make sure to read any author note's that I may leave in the top of every chapter (like this one!). Anyways, enjoy reading!
Several months ago, he would have deliberately lied – a white-lie isn't harmful, not really, right? – and said that everything was fine. Nothing could hurt him, because hurting him was impossible, and that would be only at least half the truth. Nothing could hurt him, not when he had such a high pain tolerance and a childhood filled with broken bones, pudding cups, and sweet pastries. But that was only the physical aspect; never thinking about how malleable his perception of reality was or how easily he would succumb to emotional manipulation – who had time to think about that anyways when he could just beat the shit out of them in two seconds flat? Who the fuck gave a shit about that when it was basically second-nature for him to sniff out the slimy imposters and smarmy con-artists that festered in the city; and if they didn't come to him first, it was most likely him walking into them and doing the city a job by getting rid of 'em.
Several months ago, he would have deliberately evade every nosy poke and question that vaguely asked not enough but also too much, causing an alarm to go off inside his head saying "I think they know, but they can't know" like a mantra. Everything was perfect, he never asked for too much like a spoiled brat, and he always did his best to change what he could and minimize what he couldn't, so how did they get like this?
.
.
.
He comes to consciousness from the warmth of the bath water. His head tilts, resting against the side of the tub with his ears pressed against the porcelain that reverberates with the hum of the bathroom light and the constant dripping of the water faucet hitting the surface of the bath - how long has he been in here? The steam is still rising and the scalding sting of the heat mars his skin with blotchy patches of pink across his chest and thighs; it brings back a dull throb of pain in his hands that forces back the terrifying darkness of what could only be what happened before the blackout.
The staccato tapping of fingernails against plastic rouses him to open his eyes; freshly bruised and bloodied knuckles are the first thing he sees, the slight murk of the water with the feel of dirt and grit floats in the water, and the last that raises his attention to looking up is the obnoxiously loud snap of a finger. Lifting his head to turn his gaze to his left and he sees him; sitting there hunched towards him with a black cellular device clutched tightly in his hands, brows knitted together with a cold glare and a grimace pulling taut on his lips. Just seconds after blinking away the haze of the steam from his eyes does the man's voice spit out: "Well? How was it?"
The man gestures to the cell in his hands and thrusts it forward into his face with a thunderous expression and a challenge dripping like hot venom off his tongue. "Are you done making threats with these idiotic phone calls? Or should we do that again for real this time?" Fear ripples up his spine, rising the hair on the nape of his neck and the trepidation settles low in his stomach, gnawing on the inside of his gut as he shakes his head. The man takes the answer with silence, a nod of the head and shoves the phone back into the pocket of his pants. The man's eyes rake over his figure with disdain blooming on his expression and turns away to search for something.
Not once does speaking out loud come to mind as a way to respond – he won't speak, he can't speak. The inside of his throat burns raw just from breathing in the warm vapors of the bath and his fingers still shake with an onslaught of trembling from shock. A pulse pounds loud in his eardrums – he can't breathe . His lungs ache for cool air as his ribs constrict with a tightness that won't alleviate. Fingers dig into the sides of the bathtub as nausea begins to whirl in his stomach, his head feeling light and his own fast-paced breathing is blasted loud in his own ears like disjointed static.
The water is still warm to the touch but the palms of his hands and the tips of his fingers grow cold and the trepidation is beginning to swirl with apprehension tunneling his vision. He's trying to gulp in mouthfuls of air quietly but it's not enough; oh god, the slamming of his heart grows louder and the tightness in his chest is becoming unbearable – his heart and lungs are going to burst if he doesn't get the air he needs. Fighting to take in another swallow of oxygen, it's then that the – whatever it is, he doesn't know why it happened but the pain of an upcoming headache is starting to crawl into the back of his head like an unwelcomed guest.
In the midst of this all, the man doesn't seem to have noticed as he has his back turned to grab a bottle of men's hair shampoo and conditioner from the cabinet below the sink. When the man turns back around, he doesn't acknowledge the way of how the nude man resting in the bathtub has curled in on himself, his fingers with dirt underneath the nails digging into biceps and eyes shut tight.
The man rolls the sleeves of his black button-up shirt before dipping his fingers into the warm water of the bath, soaking his hands wet before pumping out several dollops of shampoo into his palm. He reaches for the nude male's dyed hair; his fingers are holding just merely breaths away from touching the man's scalp, yet the male flinches away from his touch like a child from a hot stove. With impatience and shallow pity adorning his face, the man only waits a minute for the nude male still sitting in a curled position - knees pressed to his chest and arms holding them close with hands holding a vice-like grip on his own forearms – to relax before trying again to scrub away the dirt and grime clinging to the man's dyed hair. It is only three minutes into the lathering and massaging of the shampoo that a throaty-almost-hoarse voice whimpers out.
"…I-I'm…I'm so-orry."
Silence lingers heavy in the air between the two before a disgruntled sigh slips from the other man. "If you weren't so stupid, I wouldn't have to do such things – wouldn't have to get physical all the time."
He yanks the hair, only to let go in a split second as if that harsh pull and the hitched breath of pain was an illusion.
"Stop crying," he huffs, fingers combing through the tangles of dirt, debris and minuscule wood chips that are caught in the man's dyed hair. "I can't stand your pathetic behavior— you're not even bleeding ."
He scrubs harder. It's hard to tell whether it's intentional or not with the way his face is pulled into an angry snarl - irritation and anger rattling in his every intake of breath - and with the way his eyes seem to glaze over as if his focus were placed elsewhere. Intentional on whether he means to scrub the man's hair so hard with blunts nails scraping against the scalp. After a few solid minutes, with sud and foam bubbles arising and covering his fingers, he nonchalantly yet almost acting as if disgusted or having his time wasted, flings the suds off of his fingers and then washes the remaining suds by dipping his hands into the bath water.
The man lets out a defeated sigh. "We used to be so happy…."
The water splashes and the lathering of shampoo is washed out with warm water from the hand-held shower nozzle, the suds quickly being washed out and into the bath water. Silence still lingers damp in the air between them both – much too heavy for one, and a comfortable silence for the other.
Thank you for reading!