Yugi lay on the couch that night, one image running through his mind over and over. He couldn't get it out of his head. That guy standing in the hall in only a bathrobe was the lead singer of that band, Sennen Rage.

But he didn't look the same: it was all there, yes, his face wasn't injured or anything, but his eyes looked so dull, and not the drunk kind of dull, either. The kind of dull that one had when they were in so much pain that they just wanted to give up. He looked like he truly wanted to die.

He was leaning over to one side, favoring his left leg, obviously in pain…what had happened to the guitarist with so much passion and energy up on stage?

It was late, and Yugi heard Anzu get up from their bedroom to walk to the bathroom. She slammed the door, and once again, all was silent. Yugi had decided to sleep on the couch that night; he wasn't sure if he was angry at Anzu or not. She had said a lot awful things, and what was uttered in the lobby wasn't even the half of it. The walk home was much, much worse. At this point, Yugi just wanted to be alone.

He didn't even bother to go to their room to get changed, and just grabbed a blanket and a pillow out of the closet, stripped out of his clothes down to his boxers, then slid into bed. He said goodnight to Anzu as she stalked to their room, but the girl didn't seem to hear.

Yugi supposed that this was Anzu's first time getting drunk; hopefully it would be her last as well. She probably wouldn't even remember what she had said and did come morning. All in all, Yugi was glad that he had to work on the weekends and on most Friday nights. He really didn't like clubbing too much.

The student cringed as he saw that face flash in his mind again. The man was so…beautiful. His face looked so flawless on stage, a perfect complexion, but in the hall he looked so defeated, so lost. Yugi blinked at the ceiling and sighed, rolling over to a more comfortable position.

Why couldn't he stop thinking about him? Did he feel guilty about not stopping for him? No…it wasn't guilt, Yugi couldn't have done anything to help him. He was probably just relating.

Yugi wasn't stupid, he knew what had happened to the crimson-eyed man. He couldn't know first hand, but he knew that his mom could. She couldn't anymore, though. Yugi's mother was dead.

The student cleared his throat and buried his head into the pillow; it smelled slightly musty. Yugi missed his mom; he had long since moved on with his life as she had died when he was 12, but every once in a while, like tonight, when things were just too real…

Yugi closed his eyes, and a tear fluttered down his face. Tonight he wasn't drowning in hours of homework, and he wasn't listening to rock music without a care in the world.

His girlfriend had gotten drunk and verbally assaulted him, and he saw a man that was probably no more than a couple of years his senior that was raped practically right out in the open. That, now that, was just too real.

Yugi drifted off into an uneasy sleep. At least his dreams weren't real anymore.


"Come on, get up. You can't sleep the day away, you know," A rather cold and loud voice told Yami, bringing him back from the darkness. But Yami wasn't sure if he could get up, and he knew for a fact that he wasn't sleeping. He wanted to keep his eyes closed; no, he just wanted to die. His entire body ached, and he wished that the force of it had blacked out his memory, but it didn't. It never did.

Yami blearily opened his beautiful crimson eyes and found himself sitting up in bed. He was still wearing only the terry robe, and the thought terrified the guitarist. As Yami usually lived alone in his apartment, it was rather small. But today, he wasn't alone. That morning and last night, Ryan was there. He never seemed to leave.

Yami didn't want to look at the man sitting on the side of his bed, the man that gave him so much, but then took it all back in a way that Yami had never dreamt of.

The guitarist weakly bit his lip as last night's events played before his eyes. He couldn't even escape it in his waking moments. Then again, why should he? His days were exactly the same as his nights in almost every way imaginable.


Yami hurried off stage, the applause and shouts for more music reaching deaf ears. He didn't mean to mess up, he had spent hours and days at a time practicing…he wouldn't mess up again, but the consequences kept running through his mind; he got nervous, and his fingers slipped.

Yami reached his room, hoping that maybe if he was able to get back and leave before Ryan caught him-

But Ryan always caught him in the end.

Just as Yami was stowing his black guitar into the red velvet lined case, he was grabbed around the shoulders and thrown into a wall. He tried not to scream, and was able to stand up just in time for Ryan to place his hands on either side of Yami's head, backing him into the wall, trapping him.

Yami tried not to look into Ryan's cold gray eyes, he tried not to remember how his callused hands felt running across his face, neck, back…everywhere, but Ryan's voice whispering in his ear brought it all back, "You can never seem to get that chord right…can you?"

Yami tried to repress a shiver, but could only manage not to fall on the ground as he said in little more than a whisper, "I'm sorry, I really did work on it…for days and days."

Ryan's breathing in Yami's ear got louder, and Yami could feel wet moisture in the canal. He cringed. "Obviously…not enough. I don't understand, Yami," He enunciated the last word, and the guitarist blinked as his name was called, "I've given you a job…a home, fame…" He smiled a little, "I've even given you a lover, yet you can't make it through one performance without SCREWING IT ALL UP!"

Yami closed his eyes, he didn't want to go through this again, "But nobody noticed this time…no one could tell…" His voice was breathless; Yami was so scared, he couldn't even begin to explain it.

"That is a lie. You noticed," Yami opened his eyes in shock as Ryan bit the just healed flesh on his neck, "And I noticed. You need to pay for your mistakes, Yami, or you'll never learn your lesson."

"Please…don't," Yami begged, his legs finally giving way as he slid to the floor with a thump. This wasn't how his life was supposed to be; he was supposed to play at this club…have fun…show off a little, even…but--

Ryan sat down on Yami's legs, anchoring him, then unzippered Yami's leather shirt from the back. He leaned in and kissed Yami painfully, while the guitarist closed his eyes once more, unable to block out what was going to happen.

--But things never turn out how they're supposed to.


Yami was brought back to the present as Ryan ran his callused thumb over Yami's skin. He never actually bruised or cut the guitarist's face; he found it far to alluring to subject it to that kind of torture. But Yami still flinched at the touch.

"You shouldn't have tried to get away, Yami," He said softly, as if a loud noise would hurt the other's ears, "You passed out almost as soon as you got out of the door. Did you really think that someone would believe you, Yami?" He frowned, "You were drunk…you always get drunk after performances."

Yami shook his head, "No, I don't." He didn't; Yami had never let alcohol pass his lips. Never. Ryan was the one that was drunk after performances, sometimes before them, too.

But not that first night, about three months ago, that Yami played at the night club, The Curse. The first time that Yami was raped, it was by a completely sober man. And after, Ryan had told anyone that asked, and a lot of the people that didn't, that Yami was a drunk; he spread rumors about Yami's sex life, that Yami hired prostitutes for after performances; the guitarist's reputation was down the tube before he could even build it up. His name was mud, yet he did nothing to make it that way.

There wasn't anything that Yami could do about it, either. Ryan gave him his job, owned the duplex where he lived; he knew everything about Yami: his credentials, his social security number…Yami couldn't get out of it. Ryan could take everything that he didn't already steal from Yami away, and nobody that he said anything to would believe him.

Everyone wanted to believe all of these things about Yami. If it gave them some gossip, then that was all that mattered. Yami sometimes asked himself whether or not his life even mattered. He had no family as they had disowned him years ago, and no friends. Even the two other members of the band believed Ryan's rumors. The guitarist had reason to believe that they were even afraid of him. Yami had no one, and the only thing that was keeping him alive was some foolish hope; hope that one day, someone would love him.

And he'd love them back.

Ryan slid off of Yami's bed and onto his feet after giving Yami a kiss on the forehead. The guitarist did his best to glare at him, but his efforts came up short, "See you later, beautiful. I just wanted to make sure that my lead guitarist and singer was okay. See you at rehearsal tomorrow." He left, closing the door behind him. After a minute, Yami heard his expensive car leave the area; Ryan was returning to his house elsewhere in the city.

Yami painfully shifted himself and lay down on his pillow. His right leg was throbbing painfully; he wasn't even sure if he could walk on it, so he laid on his left hip and curled as best he could into a ball.

Why is this happening to me? Yami asked himself, and only then, because he was alone, did he allow himself to cry.


Yugi woke up the next morning around noon. He sat up and pulled his blanket around his shoulders because, in his less-than-fully-clothed state, he was cold. He looked at the pile of leather and metal chains on the floor, then looked away, ignoring them.

The door to his and Anzu's room was open and the sounds of some talk show or another were leaking through the room. Yugi rolled his tired amethyst eyes; nothing like a talk show to bring someone out of a hangover, right?

He got up off of the beige couch and slipped inbetween the cushions and the opposite coffee table, wondering whether he was hungry or not. He really didn't feel like cooking, and apparently, Yugi thought as he began to walk to their room, neither did Anzu.

The student hoped that she was in a good mood as he walked through the door. He didn't look at the television screen as he went to the closet and pulled out a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt, not really caring about it, "Morning, Anzu…how're you feeling today?" He turned to his girlfriend, who was sitting up in bed, the blankets up to her waist. She looked irritable.

"Like I was hit by a truck," She answered, and Yugi couldn't tell if she was joking or not.

"Did you take some Advil?" He asked, remembering that his dad always had some pain killers somewhere for the morning after. His mom usually did, too.

"No, I didn't," She said sarcastically, and Yugi stopped his intended movement of sitting on the bed next to her.

"I don't think that we should go clubbing anymore, Anzu," Yugi tried while pulling a pair of boxers and socks out of a drawer. Maybe Anzu had learned her--

"Are you kidding? I had an awesome time last night!" The dancer exclaimed, forgetting her aches and pains in light of telling Yugi off for ruining her night. Yugi frowned --lesson. "Well," She paused, looking thoughtful, "Except for that guy. He looked so disgusting last night…I'm almost glad that you dragged me out."

Yugi sighed, recalling quite a few things that were disgusting last night, but he wasn't one of them. Which to contradict first? "Anzu," His own slight frustration at her could wait, "You do realize that that he didn't do anything…he was-"

Anzu rolled her eyes, "Yeah, Yugi," She looked back on the TV screen, "That was your first time there. You should have heard about all of the-"

"I'm going for a walk," Yugi said shortly, interrupting her with an assertiveness that he didn't know he possessed. He walked out of the room, oblivious to the look that Anzu was giving him.


Monday afternoon made itself known, and Yami walked down the street towards The Curse, his guitar in a bag slung over his shoulder. He was still limping slightly, and some people looked at him strangely. Yami wished that the looks were actually because of his limp. Yami guessed that about half of the club saw him on Saturday, and they all had bought Ryan's lies; they all thought him out to be some sick whore. Maybe Yami shouldn't have tried to get away, maybe he should've just submitted and pretended that it wasn't really happening

But that would've been like giving up. Yami would've lost either way.

Finally, the guitarist made it downstairs to the basement, where the bass player and drummer, Zach and Jullian, were waiting; Ryan wasn't there.

"Where's Ryan?" Yami asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence that had settled in the room. Zach was strumming on his guitar on a table near the stage, and only glanced at Yami before going back to his strings.

Jullian walked over to his drum set on the stage; he at least had the courtesy to answer the guitarist, even if he didn't look at him. "He's not coming today. He had some important thing to do."

Yami would've been happy about their manager skipping out, but he only felt depressed at the way the two boys were treating him. At this point, Yami wanted to quit. Hell, he would get a job at a gas station if it meant getting away. He'd give up his dream and move away if it meant freedom from prejudice. He'd do anything to just make his world stop spinning, but he couldn't. Ryan had him trapped in a corner. He'd track Yami down, find out where he was, and he'd make Yami pay.

The guitarist tried again, though his eyes dulled at the thought of being shunned, "What do you guys want to play today? I wrote a song yesterday...if you guys want to try it..."

This time neither of them answered, and Yami bit his lip, feeling a lump in his throat. He always wrote the songs for the group; he had plenty to go on, after all. As awful as Ryan was, he did run practices smoothly, and his presence urged Jullian and Zach to communicate with Yami. But without him...

Yami blinked, "You know, since Ryan's not here...I don't think that today'll be the best day to practice. I'm gonna go home. I'll see you guys on Wednesday." They totally ignored him, and Yami limped back up the stairs, still fighting the urge to cry.

The guitarist slowly walked the four blocks back home, his leg still throbbing, dropped his guitar on the coffee table, and slipped into his bed, his face buried in his pillow. He didn't even have the energy to get some Advil.

His breaths soon turned into sobs and sniffs as salty tears leaked down his face and hit the white pillow case, the droplets turning the thin fabric gray.

Gray...just like Yami's life.

To Be Continued


Author's Notes: This chapter was revised on 7-3-06.

Thanks to all reviewers, previous and new.

Please Review.