A/N: I've sort of decided to try and focus on Compelled a bit more than Impulse and Unveiled because Compelled should honestly have been finished before I'd even started Unveiled. And because there are a lot of things that happen in Compelled that without them being written, there's no way for me to write the next chapters with Seishiro and Subaru in Impulse. It would be like writing the ending before I figured what exactly happened in the middle.
On the other hand, StarkBlack has another "Memories" one shot out, and has actually said that the sequel is approaching (along with Law/Kidd) and although most of you make no sense of this whatsoever, I just thought I'd report that because this is and "Memories" is a mighty piece of fanfic.
I also hope that I made it clear enough (but also vague enough) what Seishiro exactly did to Subaru.
Chapter Twenty-Four: Reciprocal
Smoke and the darkness. It seemed that whenever there was something wrong in Seishiro's life, he always ended up smoking weed in the dark. The weed to make whatever was wrong seem as though it wasn't as fucked up as it really was and the darkness so Seishiro wouldn't have to see anything—to see was to believe, and if he couldn't see the furniture around him, the ceiling, anything that rooted him to reality, it somehow made it better.
In this fucked up fucking currently, the weed was masking the shock, completely burying it and preventing Seishiro from literally destroying something or killing himself from the realization of what he'd just done. The darkness was because he didn't want to see the pale, broken, bruised, scratched, scarred, limp naked body lying on his floor, curled up and somewhat bleeding. He didn't want to see the small drops of blood, fused with splatters of yellowish white. He didn't want to see Subaru's empty, half-open eyes, dead and emotionless.
All he needed now were some earplugs or stronger weed so he wouldn't have to hear the soft uneven, labored breaths coming from the pale and prone body lying on the floor.
But even the darkness and smoke couldn't mask everything—he could still hear as Subaru eventually, somehow miraculously, struggled slowly to his feet. He could still make out the shape of the trumpeter limping step by step, arms wrapped around himself as though trying to keep the pieces together, towards the bathroom.
As soon as he heard the lock click into place, he stood up and turned on the lights, just enough so he could see the kitchen. Seishiro crossed over to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of whiskey, preparing to drink both of them clean before tonight ended. He also opened the drawers for more weed.
Subaru understood.
The trumpeter knew he couldn't stand long enough to take a shower—it'd taken all the strength he had left to walk to the bathroom without crying out or stumbling and collapsing back to the ground. He slowly, so slowly, and carefully sat himself on the cold stone of the bathtub and turned on the water, laying his head back against the wall, arms still hugging himself tightly.
His cheeks were wet, but only because Seishiro had felt so angry. If it was the conductor, Subaru had always been able to feel what he was feeling whenever they had sex. And lately, all Subaru had felt from the way the conductor had pounded, more or less throwing himself into Subaru, was frustration and irritation—Seishiro, especially tonight, was beside himself. The trumpeter had never seen him angrier.
It was a deathly, cold, silent kind of furious—dangerous because it was Seishiro, and volatile because of how delicate everything had been lately.
But what Seishiro had done to him tonight—Subaru understood. He didn't mind. He wasn't angry, wasn't sad, wasn't anything. He might not know exactly how it felt to be the Maestro—to have to take care of things of this great magnitude, to have to tell all those people that one of their own, someone special and gifted and perfect had died.
Because perfection was supposed to last forever.
He might not know, but he understood. He understood that Seishiro probably felt suffocated, tired, fed up with how Ashura and Yuui and Fai were acting, fed up with how they were acting as though no one existed or mattered except for each other and not caring that there were others that cared and worried for them as well even if those others might not be aware of their full situation.
Subaru had always known that there was something Yuui and Fai weren't telling him—he'd always known that everyone else seemed to know except for Subaru, and he understood that they didn't want to tell him. It'd bothered him at first, but as he'd accepted that Seishiro wanted special and intriguing like Yuui and Fai and Kamui, he'd also accepted that he just wasn't to know some secrets. That it was their secret and they shouldn't have to tell him.
He understood that Seishiro had to vent everything out some way and if he wanted to vent it on Subaru like this, then Subaru would let him. Subaru didn't mind—if it helped Seishiro, Subaru was even glad. After all, doing this was less than the least Subaru could do after Mioru and Doumeki. He wasn't quite sure why Seishiro was so upset about that if the conductor never really cared who Subaru did on the side, but he didn't want Seishiro to be upset.
Subaru didn't know any way other than doing whatever Seishiro wanted in order to let the conductor know that the trumpeter didn't want Mioru or Doumeki—that he'd rather have Seishiro hurt him a thousand times over for one day, than be happy with Mioru or Doumeki forever.
The trumpeter shut his eyes, letting the hot liquid stain his cheeks again, dripping down into the warm water that was slowly filling the tub. He yawned, and let his eyes droop gradually. It had to be at least past midnight, and he had to find some way to get home before Kamui started throwing another fit and bothered Seishiro again.
Seishiro was halfway through the second bottle of whiskey when he went to get more weed from the kitchen and stepped in a puddle of water on the way. His first thought was that the weed and alcohol and formed together into some sort of hallucinogen or the stress was literally warping his senses and his perspective on his surroundings.
His second thought, which wasn't much more coherent than the first due to all the smoking and drinking, was that the puddle of water was drifting in one long stream from beneath the bathroom door and Subaru was behind that bathroom door. An afterthought followed that and that was wondering why he could think so thoroughly after he'd drunk his way through a bottle and half of whiskey and probably smoked half a pound of weed in less than two hours.
The conductor took off his now-soaked socks and kicked them aside. He stepped slowly through the growing pond in his living room, trying to keep steady despite the fact that he suspected he was hallucinating about all of this water in the first place because stress, guilt, shock, partial-trauma, alcohol, and weed did that to a person.
Seishiro stretched his arm as high as it would go and skimmed the tiny ledge of the top of the doorframe for the key to the locked door. He flicked the metal stick down and caught it, placing it into the hole and turning. He replaced it back onto the ledge and wrapped his hand around the doorknob, turned, and then pulled it open.
When the wave of hot water dashed at his knees and down, he was certain that this wasn't a hallucination and that was really it. That was the last coherent, sensible, reasonable thought he had and everything that came afterward was just a jumble of sights and smells and touches and noises.
The entire bathroom was flooded with water that had overflowed from the bathtub left running. Seishiro slipped and slid over the tiles and gripped onto the sink, switching off the bathtub faucet. It was clear water outside the bathroom, but as it got closer to the bathtub, the water was tinged with pink, and as Seishiro's eyes traveled to the water in the bathtub, his fuddled mind realized that the water was a bright, scarlet red.
And Subaru was lying in it, eyes closed and body unmoving.
There was a brief second where simply the sight of it and what it could be first taken as made Seishiro's heart stop, literally, stop, perhaps even skip a beat, but then he took in Subaru's chest, heaving up and down just barely. The conductor fell onto his knees, uncaring about the water, and splashed toward the bathtub, immediately wrapping his arms around Subaru and bringing the trumpeter against the edge of the tub, close to Seishiro's body.
Holding Subaru unconscious, a tiny voice spoke up impishly and horrifically in the Maestro's mind—
What if he'd slipped into the water completely?
By now…there was no way even if Seishiro had found him an hour ago…if he'd fallen completely into the water, if Subaru hadn't woken up and Seishiro hadn't found him—if, just if, all it took was that if, and Subaru hadn't been supported by his arms resting on the ledge…
The entirety of Seishiro's body shook, and it felt as though something ugly and black wanted to climb its way up Seishiro's throat.
The state of the Maestro's mind right now was unbelievable—there was terror and there was shock and there was little of anything else other than the instinct to keep breathing.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be alone with Subaru any more. He needed someone else. But when his mind raced through all the possible names, there was only one possibility that came up, and it wasn't a possibility that Seishiro welcomed—it was someone that Seishiro had to choose because there was no one else.
With his dry hand, the conductor rummaged in his pockets for his phone and texted as quickly as he could with one hand, shaking. He tucked his cell back into his pocket and then turned back to the body in his arms. Stretching his arm as deep and far as he could, he reached into the water and felt around for the plug, yanking it firmly when his fingers wrapped around the metal.
He held Subaru tighter, lifting him into a straighter sitting position as the water drained. He had to wake the trumpeter. Seishiro could only imagine the repercussions being unconscious from whatever had made Subaru unconscious would cause. Even if Subaru was just sleeping, he'd probably catch cold if Seishiro didn't wake him up.
The conductor lightly shook the trumpeter, fingers carefully squeezing Subaru's shoulders. "Subaru," he said softly—saying his name made the Maestro's chest clench, made it feel as though his lungs were collapsing. "Subaru, can you hear me? Wake up."
Thankfully, fortunately, luckily, thank God, Subaru's eyes fluttered.
The trumpeter's eyes remained half-lidded, sleepy and disoriented. His gaze slowly rose to Seishiro's face, surprise registering in his tired face. "Seishiro…?" Subaru whispered, confused. He attempted to sit up straighter, to remove himself out of Seishiro's arms, but the Maestro was too far gone to feel or do anything except for what his instincts were driving him to—his arms had locked Subaru in because he wasn't fucking letting go.
Seishiro's throat was tight, veins popping. "I'm taking you to the hospital, Subaru. I'm going to wash you down and then Fuuma is driving us to see Satsuki."
Subaru looked around, eyes slowly becoming more alert. "Wait…Seishiro…why…why is there water all-? And why are you wet? Did you drain the tub—wait—"
"Please don't talk, Subaru," Seishiro said quietly, his heart in flames and his mind spiraling into blackness. "Fuuma's driving us to the hospital and Satsuki's going to look at you, okay?"
Subaru was starting to worry. Seishiro was holding him so close to the Maestro's own body that the trumpeter literally had to keep his hands on the conductor's chest to keep himself from being completely suffocated against Seishiro's shoulder. And Seishiro was drenched wet from his shoulders down, sitting in the ocean of water that flooded the entire bathroom floor as though it was perfectly warm and dry.
"Does it hurt there?" Seishiro asked so softly that Subaru had to strain to hear, even as close as they were. "I have to wash off the blood if there's any, but I don't know how I'll stop it. There was blood in the water and I wasn't sure if that was because it'd traveled or because you kept bleeding and—"
"Seishiro," Subaru interrupted hesitantly. "I'm fine—I'm okay. It's okay." And it was mostly true. Although his body was cold and aching, the bruises starting to gain their signature purplish color, the fresh cuts stinging in the icy air, and the tearing sensation intensely burning between his legs, Subaru was fine. He was fine, and even if he wasn't, Seishiro couldn't know that. But for some reason, when he had said those words, reassuring the conductor that he wasn't hurt, hot, liquid tears began to pool in his eyes.
And Seishiro could see it. Subaru didn't have the faintest clue about what Seishiro might be feeling to be acting this strangely, or perhaps it really was the stress getting to the conductor's head, but whatever it was, Seishiro's eyes seemed to glaze over at the sight of tears streaking down the trumpeter's cheeks.
Wordlessly, Seishiro let go of Subaru, taking the trumpeter's arms and putting them around the conductor's neck. Seishiro leaned down and slipped one arm under Subaru's knees and the other around Subaru's waist and lifted him out of the bathtub. "Seishiro…?" Subaru couldn't clearly see the Maestro's expression through the relentless stream of tears that the trumpeter couldn't explain.
Seishiro wasn't speaking. He continued in methodic silence, standing up, grabbing a towel and slopping through the flooded bathroom, through the doorway and steadily toward the Maestro's bedroom. He flicked on a light, barely illuminating the room, and set Subaru gently—so softly—onto the bed, wet and naked and bleeding and bruised.
The Maestro didn't trust himself to talk—if he opened his mouth, he knew he'd vomit. He was certain.
He shook out the towel, and began to dry Subaru—rubbing the cloth over the slender arms and trying to take his mind off of the idea of hanging himself when he saw the purple bruises blooming against the pale skin; toweling the trumpeter's thin thighs and legs, careful with the pressure, again because of the cuts and bruises lining up and down Subaru's skin. Seishiro had never realized that whenever he'd slammed Subaru against something, whether it was the kitchen counter that still held silverware or the table covered with sharp-edged paper, it would form all of these wounds.
He definitely hadn't thought it when he'd slammed and pushed Subaru against the wall, the trumpeter's stomach and chest colliding with the pointed edge of a metal picture frame, all those months ago, the first day all of this had started. He hadn't thought about it because if he had, he would never have done it, not if he'd known that the scar it would leave was what he saw before his eyes right now—stretching from Subaru's left shoulder all the way across his body to the right side of his waist.
An old scar compared to the little ones sprinkled fresh and new, but not so old when compared to Fai's scars.
"Lie down on your stomach," Seishiro said quietly.
Subaru stretched out on the bed, head pillowed gingerly in his bruised arms. The Maestro placed both hands on each of the trumpeter's thighs, trying to convey that he wasn't going to hurt Subaru—he was going to check. "I don't…" Subaru whispered. "I don't think you should see."
Seishiro ignored those words. He gently, carefully, parted Subaru's thighs, pushing them apart softly, and looked.
The bile rose up his throat.
He could literally taste the bitterness on his tongue as he forced it back down. If he actually threw up, Subaru would take it the wrong way—the trumpeter in all of his ridiculous selfless glory would think that Seishiro was disgusted by the blood, by how beaten and broken Subaru was, by what was between Subaru's thighs. Subaru would never believe the Maestro at this point if Seishiro were to tell him that he wanted to vomit because of the realization, the striking realization that Seishiro had done this—Seishiro had done this with his own hands, with his own body. He had turned sex into something ugly and painful and disgusting and frightening—
Just like Kyle had.
Satsuki was going to murder him.
"Seishiro?" Subaru asked, and Seishiro fell back into place, realizing that he must've been still and silent for a moment too long. He cupped the trumpeter's cheek briefly, and Subaru's eyes followed him confusedly. Seishiro stood up and crossed over to his closet, taking out a towel for himself and dry clothes for both of them.
He had to work fast before Fuuma arrived.
He couldn't let his younger brother see the extent of the damage—not because he was afraid his brother would judge him, because everyone, including Fuuma, already knew that Seishiro was a bastard (everyone but Subaru). He didn't want Fuuma to see because Fuuma was his brother, and even though he was a bastard, Seishiro didn't want to ruin what Fuuma had with Kamui. He didn't want to make his brother's life fucked up just because his was.
The conductor turned back to Subaru, tossing onto the bed a long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants that were bound to be two sizes too large for the trumpeter because they were Seishiro's clothes. Seishiro himself changed into jeans and a sweatshirt—very rare attire for a socialite, but thoughts of clothing not even crossing the farthest recesses of his mind. He was more interested in a way to stop the way his heart was beating against his chest—loud and throbbing and painful, punching and burning him with every beat.
"No underwear for now, all right?" Seishiro said quietly, using the towel Subaru had been lying on to dry the trumpeter up one more time, before taking the clothes and shaking them out. Subaru still looked confused, unsure of what to do until the conductor pulled the trumpeter's arms into the air and pulled the shirt over his head. Then Seishiro pushed Subaru back down and gently lifted the pale legs into the air, slipping his feet through the sweatpants and holding up the small of Subaru's back as the conductor pulled the waistband to the trumpeter's small, bruised hips.
The sleeves fell past Subaru's hands and the tired green eyes were searching Seishiro's face. "I don't need the hospital," the trumpeter said softly, fingers gripping the hems of the sleeves. "You can stop."
He didn't know what made him do it, but for the first time, for the first time in nearly a year, but what felt like the first time in many years, Seishiro found himself leaning in with one knee on the bed, hands holding Subaru's face, and kissed him. Their mouths didn't open, their tongues didn't invade—it was simply lips to lips, soft and gentle, careful and almost hesitant like the violent opposite of everything he'd done to Subaru this year.
At the distance their faces were at from each other, Seishiro could see drop by drop the tears starting to glide down the bridge of Subaru's nose. The trumpeter met Seishiro's gaze, and the green eyes were filled with a thousand kinds of heartbreaking confusion, torn between how Seishiro was holding him now and how Seishiro had hurt him just hours before.
Seishiro would never again be able to be the one that made those green eyes bright with soft laughter or clouded with gentle lust. He'd never again be able to have them looking up at him with trust and certainty. He'd never be able to have those eyes let him cover that pale body with feather light touches because this entire year he'd trained it to only know bruise-deep fingers.
"Why—" Subaru whispered, eyes hurriedly running all over Seishiro's face.
The Maestro took the small cold hands into his own and said quietly, forcing a Fluorite smile onto his face, "Fuuma's brought a driver to bring us to the hospital—they'll probably be downstairs right now, so I'll have to carry you, all right?"
"I can—"
"No you can't," Seishiro cut off, his voice coming out sharper and shakier than he had intended. "If you even try to walk, I will hit something, Subaru." He felt the tension through the trumpeter's hands and he didn't dare to look into those eyes. "Please—I told you not to talk, remember?"
The trumpeter broke the gaze, eyes towards the ground and lips mouthing, "Sorry", before taking his hands out of Seishiro's.
Many had said that the Maestro couldn't possibly have a heart, and Seishiro had always agreed because he honestly didn't want a heart—there was nothing a heart was good for and it wasn't like it would make him money—but if he didn't have a heart, than he wondered what was tightening and splintering off into pieces in his chest right now.
However the unspeakable piercing that was engulfing his chest wasn't something that Seishiro didn't know how to stop—he knew how, it was just that the way to put the agony at bay wasn't something he could do with himself, and he'd thought that by now he should stop taking advantage of Subaru just to ease the feeling of his chest being stuffed with needles.
But now the pain was so unbearable that Seishiro found himself grabbing Subaru's hands back into his own, holding on tightly despite the surprise that jolted through the trumpeter's eyes. The pain in his chest was clouding his judgment, and that, the conductor felt, was the only way he would ever want to explain the words that flew out of his mouth next. "If I said that I was sorry, what would you think?" he asked in a quiet voice.
The tears couldn't be held back any longer.
Subaru's shoulders started to shake violently and he bit his lip in an attempt to silence the sobbing, but that just made his entire body tremble from the force of his uneven, ragged breathing. Seishiro's expression was utterly dumbfounded, but Subaru, for once, knew the reason why his tears refused to be kept back anymore.
Seishiro was acting like he loved Subaru—Seishiro was kind.
Seishiro was touching him gently.
Seishiro had kissed him.
Seishiro wanted to apologize?
For what?
It was too much.
Subaru didn't know what he was supposed to think—he had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to act, and he didn't have a clue about what was going on. All he knew was that Seishiro was holding him softly, caring for him, talking to him in a low and quiet voice, and Subaru didn't ever want it to stop. If he could freeze time, he'd freeze it right now. If Subaru had to endure beatings until he bled and broke to have Seishiro gentle and kind like this, then Subaru would—he'd endure twice, three times, four times as much. It didn't matter.
He just wanted Seishiro to love him back.
He'd never wanted anything more.