Chapter Eight: You For You

To say the least, Kurogane sort of wanted to wring Mioru into little bits of flesh before skinning those bits of flesh and then sew them together to make a skin quilt that Kurogane would incinerate by slowly roasting over a barbeque pit. Of course, currently at nine p.m., he was in no place to do so, because even though a weary-looking Mioru had just walked in, accompanied by Senryuu, Kurogane was still at Seishiro's home, and therefore, if any act resembling murder occurred at the martial artist's current location, there would probably be another murder shortly after and it would probably end with Kurogane's corpse on the shores of Ellis Island.

Besides, it wasn't like Kurogane had been waiting for Mioru since four in the afternoon just to yell at him for missing his first day of off-season training, even though the martial artist had no association with the national Japanese team at all. But since Kurogane was here and had been here for the previous five hours, so adamant on staying to the point where Fai got bored and skipped away with Mokona, he might as well get some yelling in, right?

As Mioru threw his suit jacket and his mask onto the sofa where Kurogane sat at the other end of, the martial artist caught the shadows under the soccer player's eyes, his rumpled hair, and how his steps seemed to drag. Subaru was with Kamui at the hotel that the writer and Fuuma were staying at, while Fuuma himself had decided to join in on the weight training with the other soccer players even though it wasn't his off-season and this wasn't his team. This meant that it was just Seishiro left to stand between Kurogane and pummeling both Mioru and the creepy kid who used to be in Kurogane's martial arts class—the one who used to have a creepy crush on Mioru.

The shout and yell within Kurogane were ready to come out, he had stinging remarks, and angry scolds prepared to aim at Mioru, but for some reason, when he stood up and Mioru turned his head to look up at him with resigned, tired eyes, all that came out of Kurogane's mouth was, "Where were you?"

"He was at Senryuu's," Seishiro said before Mioru could reply. Taking advantage of the Maestro's inability to keep his mouth fucking closed, the soccer player continued past Kurogane, Senryuu, and the conductor, and went to get a water bottle from the refrigerator. "And predictably, paparazzi closed in on them, and now Yuuto Kigai is on my ass because the New York media has already started throwing water balloons about this to the Japanese media." To punctuate this statement and the apparent tragedy of getting one's ass bothered by Yuuto Kigai, Seishiro threw a Look at Senryuu, who was standing perfectly still and creepily as one of those British soldiers with caterpillars for hats.

"I fucking know that," Kurogane snapped. What he didn't know and was afraid to know was why Mioru wanted to avoid him so badly that the soccer player would just go ahead and have sex with some random (creepy) guy that he'd only known for about three days. But this wasn't exactly something he wanted to ask in front of the aforementioned random (creepy) guy, the Maestro, and Mioru himself. Especially not when Mioru looked so worn out and ready to lash out at the first thing that moved to close to him.

And apparently, even though Kurogane was meters away from him, Mioru still wanted to lash out at the martial artist, because as the soccer player screwed the water bottle cap closed, he said scathingly, "Then what do you want to know, Kurogane?"

"Maybe why you decided to risk your whole fucking career in one night because you were too much of a pussy to fucking talk to me."

The expression that slapped onto Mioru's face was couldn't be described in words.

Kurogane swore that half of that sentence hadn't even come out the way he wanted it to, while the other half wasn't supposed to have come out at all. In the corner of his eye, he saw Seishiro close his eyes and sigh. It would've irritated him more were he given the time, but right after saying that goddamn sentence, he suddenly heard—

"Wouldn't a pussy be someone who attacks a person who's exhausted from hiding out for an entire day and hasn't slept for over twelve hours?"

His fist was aching to punch something, but he was aching more to spit at Senryuu how he'd been creeping over Mioru since they were in high school, and it was probably all of the stupid creeper's fucking wet dreams come true to finally be able to sex Mioru up like that. "This is none of your business," Kurogane ground out.

"I had sex with him, didn't I?" Senryuu continued calmly in a manner that made it too obvious how he was probably the only person who had enough mental defiance to withstand being Seishiro's business partner.

Kurogane's eyes narrowed at Senryuu, but he slid his gaze back toward Mioru, who was still frozen against the kitchen countertop. The soccer player's eyes were averted, aimed downward and away from Kurogane—his fingers were tightly clasped against the granite surface, knuckles starting to white.

Still Senryuu went on, "Leave him alone."

"That's enough Senryuu," Seishiro said dangerously. The Maestro met eyes with Kurogane. "You should go. Talk to Mioru later."

Kurogane was Kurogane. And there were few things and even fewer people who could make him do something that was out of his intentions. Senryuu and Seishiro weren't one of those few people. However, the one whom sienna golden eyes belonged to, eyes that belied ten-thousand apologies and confusions as they met Kurogane's, the one whom those eyes belonged to was

.

Some might call this a fustercluck, but on the Upper East Side, we call it Sunday afternoon.

-Gossip Girl from "The Wild Brunch"

Mioru once again didn't quite know what the hell he was doing or what the hell he should have done or even what the hell he was supposed to be doing. He just knew that his chest had started contracting, and there were threads as sharp as steel being whipped around his heart, digging into the flesh and bleeding it dry drop by drop.

All he knew was that he'd just watched Kurogane throw him a betrayed expression that was all-too familiar than Mioru would have ever wanted it to be. But nothing hurt more than the sound of the elevator doors closing as Kurogane left once again because Mioru couldn't ever not be an asshole—because Mioru spoke before he thought, and rather than letting words come out of his mouth, he let the frustration built from the paparazzi come out instead.

Quietly, Seishiro said, as he started to head downstairs, "I have to pick up Subaru. Senryuu, lock my study up and spot check all the weight rooms before you go." After receiving his assistant's nod of affirmation, the conductor jogged down the stairs.

The athlete looked at Senryuu. "Thanks for trying to make me seem like less of a jackass in front of Kurogane. I'm sorry he dumped my shit on you."

Senryuu's eyebrows creased and he crossed the living room in a few strides, coming to stand and rest his elbows on the opposite side of the countertop, watching Mioru's expression intently. "You give yourself too much credit."

"For what?" Mioru's eyes tightened in confusion.

"Being a jackass," Senryuu answered simply. "Or an asshole, or whatever you like to call yourself."

The frustration and irritation that had developed from being rubbed the wrong way by the paparazzi and morning tabloids was starting to resurface and bubble dangerously. "I don't like to be a jackass and an asshole," Mioru said, eyes narrowing. "I don't know if you've noticed, but after you get out of high school, it's not so hot to be known as a prick, who doesn't do anything except fuck things up."

"I never said you did." Senryuu's voice was still completely quiet—soft. "I meant that you seem to believe you're a jackass because Kurogane makes you out as one."

For some reason, this made Mioru furious. He didn't know if it was exhaustion or lack of sleep or just the trying day in general, but Senryuu speaking as though he knew even a quarter of what bullshit Mioru had put Kurogane through during the years that Kurogane was supposed to have enjoyed, playing the field without any care for relationships—for some reason, this made Mioru lose whatever ounce of self-control he had left.

"I let you fuck me for a day and you fucking think you can fucking cut into my fucking life by making the fucking person I love fucking hate me even more!" Mioru screamed.

Senryuu's face remained expressionless—not a single crease between his eyebrows, not a single spark of irritation or anger in his eyes.

The lack of reaction just fed the fire. It fed the fire that had already been licking dangerously at the surface anyhow, and now that it was being fed, the fire was too big, too hot, was too far widespread, and then Mioru was rounding the countertop to punch Senryuu in the stomach.

Mioru had expected Senryuu to easily block the punch, or dodge, or at least punch back—after the mock-wrestling they'd done at the associate's apartment, Mioru knew Senryuu was strong, stronger than Mioru himself and taller, more muscular, too. But Mioru hadn't expected, hadn't prepared, for Senryuu simply staggering a bit before looking at the athlete through his bangs.

Senryuu was no longer expressionless, but with the expression on his face, Mioru would have rather he remained emotionless. The assistant had this sort of soft determination written his eyes—determination to do what, Mioru wasn't sure of, but it looked like it had something to do with withstanding Mioru's jackass-ness, and Mioru didn't want anyone to ever have to bother trying to be around the soccer player.

"Are we friends?" Senryuu asked quietly, kindly.

Mioru collapsed to the ground and had his forehead against his knees before he'd realized that he'd burst into frustrated tears. It was everything that had been culminating this summer, and this summer was a culmination itself of avoiding Kurogane for the past few years, and tonight was the breaking point—Mioru couldn't pull through any further by just dragging the shoddily hastily-glued pieces. In his heart he knew that it was time he took the pieces apart and glued them together with something that would keep them together permanently.

"I really love him," Mioru said into his knees, voice suffocating and thick with huffing breaths. "And I want to stop."

Wordlessly, Senryuu sat down beside him. He didn't touch Mioru, didn't question Mioru. He simply started to speak, almost as if he was speaking to himself. "In high school, I liked this boy. He was a year older than me, so I don't think he ever knew me, and I didn't really know him. I don't think we ever even talked."

Mioru hiccupped once and swiped at his tears with an arm.

"And this boy had a boyfriend," Senryuu continued. "And his boyfriend did the same sport as I did, so we did know each other. His boyfriend didn't like me, and I don't think I liked him either. Maybe because I was jealous, maybe because I just didn't like him—I don't know. But this boy and his boyfriend were equal amounts happy and equal amounts fighting all the time. The boyfriend would be stomping into practice yelling and screaming one day, and he'd be completely horny and fine the next. And whether it was before, after, or sometimes even during practice, this boy would always be there, waiting.

"He was so," Senryuu paused. By this time, Mioru had closed his eyes to listen, focusing on evening his breaths to the calm pace of Senryuu's soft voice. "He was so alive—he was a jerk sometimes, I admit, but he was so loud, always swearing and jumping around—jumping on his boyfriend, running around and laughing. He was always moving—he was just really alive, and a lot of things that I wasn't."

Mioru knew how the story went. It was how all these stories went. "But he didn't love you back—he didn't even know you. So what, drugs?"

"Sex," Senryuu's smile was almost sheepish. "I did it with…well, I wasn't a whole fan of doing it with any breathing organism within reach, so I did it with one person—you know, as friends."

Mioru snorted a bit. "Like what we're going to do?"

"You could say that."

"It sucks though, doesn't it?" The athlete ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. "At least the boyfriend of this kid was a bastard—that way at least you didn't have to deal with seeing them happy together. Without you."

Senryuu tilted his head back thoughtfully. "Is it really better, though? Really? Seeing them happy hurt, but seeing them fight made it hurt more for me—knowing that if he was with me, if he'd just picked me, I could give him so much better."

"But he didn't know you," Mioru pressed. "If someone doesn't know you, you don't have a fucking chance because you didn't give them a chance. If he'd known you, I bet he would have loved you."

The associate looked amused now, eyes sad, but face amused. He bumped his shoulder into Mioru's gently. "Maybe."

"Do you know where they are now? Or if they're even still together?"

"I definitely know they're not together. As for where they are," Senryuu tossed his bangs out of his eyes. "They're around, I guess."

Mioru wrinkled his nose. "That's vague and unnecessary. If you don't want to tell me, don't. I've got enough fucking drama as it is. Although I can't say that I'm surprised—everyone who's got anything to do with the Maestro always ends up being fucked up one way or another. And if they're not, they will be." A thought formed in Mioru's head, and his eyebrows puckered slightly. He looked up at Senryuu. "Speaking of which, it's obvious you really don't like Seishiro, so how come you work for him?"

Senryuu smiled faintly. "You're not going to ask why I don't like him? That's usually how it goes in conversations."

"I already know why," Mioru said. "It's Seishiro. Isn't that already a reason?"

The assistant threw back his head and grinned, kicking the athlete's leg. "Go get some sleep. Seishiro's going to hang you from the rafters if you don't start training seriously tomorrow."

"Bright and fucking early," Mioru sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He watched Senryuu stand up and said, "Thanks for listening to me whine for the like the fifth time today. It feels like all I've done in front of you since I met you is cry—and bitch. Lots."

Senryuu shrugged. "Your job reflects who you are—and I'm an associate, an assistant, what have you. So it's what I do. Listening to you is ten times better than following Seishiro around with a shitload of papers and a pen."

Mioru squinted. "It's because you get to fuck me, isn't it?"

Senryuu laughed. "Yeah. That's it."

Senryuu's fingers lingered on the lock to the second to last weight room—the lower body room. One of his hands was in his pocket. It'd only been a crush—an obsessive crush, but just a crush. His parents hadn't been anything but life supporters and he hadn't felt like bothering to make an effort to make friends. So it'd only been a crush, because like Mioru had said, if you had never talked to the person, there was nothing to like about them after face value.

So it'd just been a crush, and now it was probably budding friendship.

After Mioru had trotted off to his room, Senryuu had commenced the chore of checking up all the weight and training rooms and securing them with locks from Seishiro's master box of locks—all of which were numbered and had their combinations recorded in Seishiro's master book of lock combinations. And both of these master objects were kept by Senryuu because Seishiro neither had the time nor apparently the patience to deal with anything outside of Subaru.

Literally.

But in all honesty, Senryuu respected Seishiro to a certain degree—just not enough to work for the Maestro. The reason that backed up the respect, the reason that Senryuu did work for the Maestro resided in Subaru. Senryuu had always found it beyond curious and immensely intriguing that Subaru could love Seishiro after all Seishiro had done to the trumpeter. Although Senryuu knew that he wasn't the only one who wondered even to this day, definitely, but he felt like he might be one of the only ones who gave credit rather than incredulousness in Subaru's regard.

Senryuu picked up the box of locks and walked down to the next door—the final weight room, the upper body room.

He pulled the handle open and was preparing to peer through the darkness for the light switch, but the lights were already on. Not only were they on, there was someone still in this room, and this someone was working out—quite vigorously, too.

If Senryuu remembered right, this young man had been in the same year as Mioru, and a year older than Senryuu. The young man had sweat beading his face and his shirtless body, soaking his hair to his forehead. He was facing the door, and the moment that Senryuu let the door snap to a close behind him, the young man reached into the pocket of his mesh shorts and pulled out a pair of glasses, pushing them briskly onto his face.

The young man was about the same stature type as Mioru—same muscle-type, too. They were both lean and wiry, the kind of muscles that Senryuu remembered were labeled almost feminine with high school sports. Not that Senryuu didn't know that soccer players didn't have to look like they were on steroids and that Mioru was quite strong with his body. The young man was pale, though, and his abs were even slenderer than Mioru's, delicate-looking shoulders and waist slightly curved—his waist was so thin that the shorts looked like a single movement would shimmy them off.

The young man spoke first, smiling. "Good evening."

"'Evening," Senryuu replied reflexively.

"Sorry about this," the athlete gestured around at the room. "I'll be out as soon as I pack up."

Senryuu leaned against the wall. "That's okay. I'm not in a hurry."

The young man smiled again, one eyebrow going up. "Really? I would think you'd be eager to get home and go to bed. With the day you've had?"

The assistant blinked. "What day did I have?"

"A busy one, right? What with having my captain in your bed all night and all day, and then having that heartfelt talk with him just now? Is your stomach all right by the way? He's no match for a martial artist, but Mioru's pretty strong as it is, isn't he?" The young man's smile was slightly frightening now—but dangerously intriguing.

Or perhaps Senryuu simply found it frightening and intriguing because he'd always found socialites like this young man frightening and intriguing—the way they seemed to know everything without having to see anything. "Mioru came to me," he said quietly. "At the party."

The athlete dabbed at his perspiring forehead with the towel hanging around his neck. "I know. Everyone knows. What about it?"

The assistant felt a prickle of humiliation—the kind that wasn't unfamiliar because it seemed that no matter how close his origin was to them, Senryuu never fit in with socialites and irritation, misery, and humiliation were always the three primary feelings that engulfed him whenever he was around them.

He'd never been able to figure out why, but a great part of him suspected that it was because socialites were either trained or simply inherited the gift of being well versed in word play that could end someone's life—or make someone want to end their life his or herself. And even though he was a socialite by blood, he'd never been able to master that—he couldn't even speak well in normal terms.

So he tried not to speak much at all.

Senryuu shook his head, eyes directed at the floor. "Nothing."

The young man was pulling a shirt over his body and folding his towel and work-out gloves into the duffel bag. He shuffled his hand around in his damp hair, getting the bangs out of his eyes and crossed through the room to stand squarely in front of Senryuu. The top of the athlete's head went to just below Senryuu's chin. "Be careful," the young man said softly. He brushed past Senryuu and the door snapped shut after him.

Senryuu flicked off the lights.

I hear that W is getting bitchier and bitchier these days, and I don't think it's because D's stamina has improved. And maybe bitchier isn't even the right way to describe it—maybe W is growing up. Maybe he's already grown up.

Maybe the Maestro should give a little thought about following suit.

After all, there's only so many decades you can go, dragging on the sexy immature act as your style before it gets old and the people around you get tired of putting up with it.

And about M hooking up with the Maestro's water boy—

Um…

So?

High school and college weren't that long ago, babes. And in those days, M hooking up with some no-namer would've been equivalent to another scorching afternoon in Egypt. It happened every day back then, so I personally don't see the excitement in it happening now. And if any of you, my butterflies, out there do happen to see what's so invigorating about this news, please don't bother to try explaining it to me.

It'd be like trying to explain why you want your bullets to be faster than your opponent's.

-bWitch

A/N: Um...when I was little, and I got a new toy, I'd always put all my attention on it and take it everywhere and play with (only) it all the time. But then after the new-ness wore off, I played with it like any other of my toys. Just because I played with it more at first didn't mean I loved my other toys (Compelled, Impulse ;_;) any less or that I forgot about them. Unveiled is just new, and so are Mioru and Senryuu and the other two are at the stage where I have to really be thinking when I'm writing them because of lots of plot maneuvering. So whenever you see your email light up and the update is Unveiled (yet again), I hope you don't ever get the inkling that I won't finish two of the most pivotal parts of the series. ;_;