LEGAL DRUG (GOHOU DRUG) FANFIC

Title: Sanguine

Written By: RinoaDestiny (Ann Koo)

CHAPTER 5

As it turned out, he really needed that extended holiday.

Bringing Rikuo out from whatever brink he'd fallen into was only going to get tougher, Kazahaya thought as he plunged his hand into the rice pot, swirling the grains to rid them of their powdery coating. The circles of water turned and dipped in on itself, echoing the turmoil within his head. The first time Rikuo brought him back, his introduction to the art of cooking rice was anything but smooth. It had taken some threatening and a bat to scare him into becoming a proper cook. Now, he was able to prepare stuff for both of them, and it tasted pretty good, too. There was only one problem.

Rikuo refused to eat.

The day he'd gotten the note from his boss was also the day when he started realizing just how deeply Rikuo's fear ran. The dinner table was always missing one person, and the dishes were sparse as if to accentuate his lonely meal. Normally, Rikuo's hulking presence, hunched over with newspaper in hand, irritated him. He would give anything – well, short of his virginity – to have Rikuo reading the morning news again, face set in a satisfied smirk while he ranted on about how much of a jackass he was. At least it was noisy. At least it was loud.

Not like this unnatural quiet.

Draining the cloudy water, the lime-eyed psychic shoved the stray grains back into the pot. Kazahaya frowned. Rikuo simply wasn't eating. There were so many signs of trauma; of the inner cracks within his psyche that he didn't know where to begin to start the healing process. Rikuo shied from his touch – gloved, of course to prevent transfer of memories – and had other strange behaviors. The smell of antiseptic startled him. The sound of breaking glass frightened him. Two days ago, while washing dishes, Kazahaya remembered hearing a sound coming from Rikuo's bedroom.

He'd walked in; heart ground to dust when he saw the shaking form huddled at the corner of the bed.

All that because of a broken glass.

He measured three units of water, placed the setting to 'cook,' and sighed. It had been two days since he'd cried over Rikuo's condition, and since then, the nightmares had gotten worse. With his voice back, Rikuo's screams ripped into his dreams, shocking him awake. He'd barely slept himself, having spent most of his nights pacing the room, wringing his hands. Talking to the younger man hadn't helped. Calling on Kakei-san and Saiga-san for assistance created an even bigger uproar.

There was a bruise healing on Kakei-san's cheek at the moment.

He sighed again. "What did I forget? Oh yeah, eggs." He wasn't hungry but cooking gave his hands work to do, and his mind some other preoccupation. Rikuo said disturbing things last night that he'd wished he'll forget. Not likely, he thought. The boy's frantic screams broke down into sobs, and in between, his ragged voice babbled on about glass, knives, blood, and Tsukiko. None of it was coherent. None of it made much sense. But what bothered Kazahaya the most about the illogical raving was the terror in Rikuo's drawn face, the shattered expression behind those glazed eyes, and the sickly silence that lingered after the boy collapsed, exhausted. None of them dared say a word, although every one of them stared at the prone figure of the young psychic they thought they once knew. Between his illness, his slow recovery from his broken bones, his many wounds, and his nocturnal outbursts, Rikuo was proving to be quite a trial.

Crack. Yellow yolk slipped into a bowl, dripping with egg whites.

Not only was his body broken, but his mind as well. That was the only conclusion Kazahaya found himself at. Rikuo looked so young now, as if he'd regressed back into a child. His eyes, however, revealed his eighteen years, laden as they were with chronic distress. Dark and fogged with anguish, they looked out at him, as if begging for release. He dared not think about the ramifications of that; if it was euthanasia, he would never agree with it.

Neither would his bosses.

Picking a slender pair of chopsticks from the kitchen drawer, he began to beat the mixture inside the bowl. The slight clinking of plastic and ceramic reminded him of miniature wind chimes. It reminded him of when he used to live with Kei, ignorant of the outside world.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

Rikuo's voice was rough, hoarse and weary. He'd been surprised to hear it at all, considering the other's reticence since his discovery. Raising a hand, Kazahaya wiped away a tear. Furiously, he beat the eggs until the froth rose to the surface, swimming on top of a sea of bright yellow. Rikuo had spoken, and he couldn't puzzle out the jumbled mess. Something with glass splintering away like cracked light, blood so red that the image stuck in his head forever, the cruel gleam of a brandished blade, and choked words about a woman with hair like smoke, painted crimson.

The last time he'd seen Tsukiko covered with blood was during the cinema job. Was this simply a recurring image – a symbol of his partner's worst fear manifest through his breakdown? Or did it mean something more ominous than anything he could ever dream of?

That, too, was not an encouraging development.

As he poured the contents of the bowl into the heated pan, Kazahaya bit his lip. Here he was, preparing lunch for two, and his mind wouldn't clamp down on the slivers of information he'd been given. Somehow, the vision about the torn note niggled at him, refusing to remain quiet. If only he could figure out why Rikuo ran in the first place, and for what reason, then perhaps he could slot in the other parts of the puzzle. At the moment, the knife, glass, blood, and Tsukiko lay around him, disconnected and haphazard.

Rikuo had all of his barriers down, too.

No. Not yet. If he were to intrude into his mind in an attempt to extract information, the damage would be too great. He could seriously end up throwing both of them into an eternal coma. That was a risk that he couldn't afford, nor inflict on the one he so unwittingly cared for.

He allowed himself a rare smile. Kakei-san, you're always right.

The smell of scrambled eggs flipped his stomach; despite his denial, he was hungry. This, of course, brought him back to the reason why he'd started cooking in the first place. He had to convince Rikuo to eat. With most of his muscle mass lost, coupled with dehydration and starvation, the taller male seemed to wither as the days passed. Whether it was a silent attempt at suicide or something more, Kazahaya couldn't stand it much longer. He wasn't going to lose Rikuo now. Not after finding him after wondering where the hell he'd vanished to. He remembered feeling down because there wasn't even a note to tell him "good-bye."

Rikuo had torn that note up, meaning it was personal.

He'll let the rice cook – no use serving up soggy rice that looked more like porridge than the first bowl of heaven he'd tasted all those winters back. Scrambled eggs, with all of its colorful fluff, looked more appetizing. Certainly, it would be easier on Rikuo's throat and better for his stomach as well. Whenever he visited Rikuo, his gut twisted, knotted as it was with apprehension. Seeing Rikuo in an inferior position was uncommon to the point of being eerie.

He should've been the one on the bed. It was the only concession to Rikuo's past remarks that he'd agreed with. He didn't like having their roles reversed.

A shining fork, gleaming like mirrors. On second thought, maybe not. Kazahaya dug through an old set of plastic cutlery, remembering in time what Rikuo sobbed out the night before. A knife that shone, all too ready to cut and maim. It wouldn't do to set off a trigger when Rikuo was high-strung, alert to any sounds or sights that recalled an intensely hellish period of his life that was now unforgettable. He winced at how that sounded in his head, and laid the benign utensil beside the eggs.

Steeling himself, Kazahaya strode forward, plate in hand, and pulled aside the curtain.

Hollow eyes, reflecting his all-too-serious face, glanced up at him and froze in place. His cheekbones were too tight – that was the problem. Rikuo had a slender face, but Kazahaya never pinpointed a time when that was bad altogether. This…this, however, was another matter.

He didn't like how sunken his cheeks were.

"I made some eggs for lunch," he explained, hoping that his voice didn't tremble. Truth be told, he was as nervous as Rikuo. "You haven't eaten for days. I was hoping that you'll share some with me."

That gaze jerkily pulled away. "No."

Rikuo's voice was so quiet that Kazahaya thought he was going deaf. "You can't continue to do this to yourself. You have to eat something, Rikuo."

Green eyes looked elsewhere. It hurt, seeing that. "I don't want any."

"Rikuo…" He let his sentence trail off, unfinished. What could he say to help him? The only trace left of the old Rikuo was his stubbornness, and it wasn't enough. He felt the threatening sting of tears. Dammit. Not now. "Why did you say my name? Why did you ask me to stay with you that night?"

Nothing. The other psychic's breathing was the only sound in the entire room.

Kazahaya stepped towards the chair, dragging it in the direction facing the bed. At his move, bedspread and coverlet shifted in valleys and waves, inexorably pulled inward by Rikuo's shuffle towards the wall. That hurt as well. All of the trust and recognition faded in that single action, leaving him heartbroken. If told a few years ago that Rikuo Himura would be the one crushing his heart to pieces, he would've laughed. Laughter was absent, forbidden as he gazed back into those wary depths. His vision misted, flooding over with tears, and he couldn't bite back the thin sob that escaped his constricted throat. He couldn't remember when the plate disappeared from his hand – placed on the nightstand, no doubt – and both hands met his face, fingers laced to hold back the hot streaks slipping down his cheeks.

"I wanted…" A soft, deep voice that grated, unconditionally sad. "I wanted to see someone…before I died."

Startled, Kazahaya flung his head up, meeting Rikuo's shallow expression with disbelief. "What?"

A slight shake sent black threads into clouded viridian. "I'm dying."

He couldn't be hearing this. Not from Rikuo. Not from… "No. I don't believe you. You're safe. You're healing." He had to be, or else this whole conversation was inane. Rikuo couldn't be…. He swallowed, aware of the other boy's attention. "You're not."

"I am."

No. No. "If you're dying, it's because you're not eating. You're starving yourself right in front of me, and you dare to tell me that you're dying?" The tears drying on his face left behind the taste of salt on his lips. He licked them, uncertain where to proceed on this new footing that Rikuo suddenly presented to him. "There's nothing that bad that would force you to kill yourself, Rikuo."

Conviction. It wavered, slipping as silence pended approval from its next speaker.

A bitter chuckle. The smile never reached those dead eyes. "How would you know, Kazahaya?" His name twisted within that question, leaving him without a reply. Rikuo's voice dropped, sinking to a new low. When he next spoke, the words rasped out in a dry whisper. "Since when did you care?"

Kazahaya trembled. Rikuo did not just say that.

"Why do you care about what happened," a cough interrupted that ghastly monotone, "to someone you've been calling a bastard for years?" Green eyes stared straight into him, yet didn't. It was frightening to behold. "You must've been happy when I left. Finally, you could be by yourself."

This wasn't right. "Rikuo, stop."

Another miserable cough, punctuated by the alarming addition of restrained sobs. "I remembered your face, your voice. I remembered everything about you, and it was the only thing that kept me from…" A hand cradled that contorted face, shielding it from view. Rikuo's other arm, bound in a sling, lay like dead weight against a chest that barely moved. "I have nothing left, Kazahaya."

Premonition flickered within him like shades of scarlet and night-drenched blacks. He moved quickly, afraid that if he reacted any slower, he was going to suffer a tremendous loss. That, if Rikuo was right, he would die. They'd talked about Rikuo dying from the inside where the scars writhed and reopened, bleeding; unwilling to be closed. His fingers nearly brushed against the boy's shoulder, only to skitter into the wall and open air.

"Don't!" The gasping scream hauntingly lingered. Rikuo, bound arm, free hand, legs and all recoiled from his touch, scrunching into as small an area as possible. His eyes were sealed shut, swelling wet beneath the lids. "Don't touch me."

What the hell was with that outburst? "Rikuo."

Silence. A closer study of his long-time roommate brought to his attention sweaty hair, the liquid sheen of skin, shuddering that set his entire body to shaking, and clenched white-knuckled fists. Oh no. This wasn't good. Under the white shirt turned translucent by sweat, Kazahaya saw tension along the bandaged chest. Rikuo was hyperventilating. He was panicking. He was living through a nightmare right here, right now.

And it was only in the afternoon, not even midnight.

Part of Kazahaya wanted to sprint downstairs at a breakneck pace, to throw open the break room door, and cry out for Kakei-san and Saiga-san. Another side of him stood and watched as Rikuo's breathing quickened, whistling out of him as his lungs sought air. Rikuo wasn't lying when he said that he was on the verge of death. Who would've thought that an innocent, well-meaning touch would be the fatal trigger of this nervous reaction?

Images from several nights ago drifted into his mind. Rikuo got angry easily whenever he got hurt during one of Kakei-san's job excursions. He'd always snapped back, wondering what fuse he'd blown this time. He'd never bothered to ask, relegating it to Rikuo's anger management issues or snippy attitude. Yet, staring in dry-mouthed terror as he watched the person who was supposed to protect him, to be the one guiding him experience a vicious bout of panic attack, the fear dissipated into a temporary cloud of red.

Kazahaya knew he had changed.

There was no going back.

Whoever did this to you is going to pay. I can't stand seeing you like this, Rikuo.

He wasn't going to lay a hand on him. Discretion told him to move back, to give Rikuo some space. What did Rikuo mean by that statement of overwhelming loss? Something clicked in his mind; Kazahaya groaned aloud. It all had something to do with Tsukiko, didn't it? He didn't like where his mind was going with this. He hoped – he so seriously hoped that his conjecture was deadly wrong.

Because if it wasn't, it would take one hell of a year to try to haul Rikuo from his depression. Never mind that – it was going to take a lifetime.

I have nothing left, Kazahaya. Words leeched of hope, as bland as the voice speaking them. Whatever he'd been through, Rikuo was seeing the world as empty, barren, and a dull place to continue living. Had he forgotten that in his note, he'd struggled over two people? That if one was gone; the other could try to fill that void? Hadn't he been doing that for Rikuo since he'd first met him?

So, he did the only thing he could. Still sitting, watching as the light from outside played shadows and colors on that huddled form, he spoke. Gently, softly, as if soothing him with words instead of his hand. "Rikuo, you told me that remembering me helped you. You haven't lost everything, Rikuo." Repetition of that name flowed from his tongue, tasting of salt. "I'm still here, Rikuo. I'm still here to help you."

An arm shifted, letting light in on glossy eyes. Thankfully, the moans ceased. Kazahaya braced himself. What he'd witnessed was scary. If he could avoid seeing its like again, he'll be grateful.

"You…"

He leaned forward, unable to keep that quiet thrill back. "Yeah, Rikuo?"

"You…standing between us and them."

"Them?" Okay. He had another lead, however tiny it may be. Whoever had clobbered his friend to this crazed point wasn't just one person. It sounded more like an organization – more like some kind of shady operation. He had to report this to Kakei-san. Perhaps his boss would know where to start looking for clues; for whomever had Rikuo's life written in blood on their hands. It had been a lot of blood. Kazahaya shivered, feeling the hairs rising on his neck.

"Almost gone." Rikuo's tone was listless; a mere reciting of memory that kept him grounded. "Chains breaking…glass all around…snow. Saw you there before the end."

Goddamn. This was scary. "I was there that night when we found you," he pointed out, conscious of the tremor in his voice. "You saw us."

"No. Before that…you…holding back the pain."

Kazahaya shook his head, bewildered. Had Rikuo gone completely insane? "I wasn't there, Rikuo. We don't even know why you took off."

"You were." Insistent. Soft. Listening to Rikuo talk was going to be the death of him. They were wandering around in circles in this conversation, with no end in sight. He decided to lay the hammer down. Something inside of him churned, puzzlement and sickness rolled into one.

He needed to unwind later.

"Okay, so I was there. Rikuo, listen to me." Scraping the chair forward by a tad, he stopped as soon as he read agitation in that verdant gaze. He sighed for the third time today. "I know you're dying in there. I can see it. You can't die, though. I'm still here – I'll always be here for you. Promise me you won't think about killing yourself."

A blank stare. "I can't promise anything, Kazahaya."

"We'll start slow, then. Can you promise me that you'll eat at least?"

"I can't."

Of all the boneheaded…. Kazahaya cut that thought short. It wasn't Rikuo's fault. "I'll need to tell my bosses about your condition, Rikuo. I think you might need another change of wrappings, too."

Black dilated into emerald, shockingly fast. "Don't touch me."

There it was again – fear of contact so severe that it baffled him. Understanding this hypervigilant and edgy Rikuo was like trying to figure out the Rubix cube. He still didn't get how that worked, and Rikuo was flesh and blood, not a toy. The beginnings of a headache throbbed near his eye. How great, he mused sourly. Kakei-san would not only hear about the criminal organization, but also a request for another extended holiday.

They were going to need it.

"I cooked some eggs earlier, and it's right there," he indicated with a finger. It was probably cool by now, having sat on the nightstand while he pondered and dug through the mess of the discussion he'd somehow mangled during its delivery. No wonder Rikuo used to call him "stupid." The yellow clumps didn't look appealing, but still…it was edible. "I'll just leave it right there. If you're hungry, just help yourself. I'll be right back."

Rikuo's vapid stare followed him on the way out.

Explaining to Kakei-san about what he'd learned furrowed an elegant brow. The fact that Rikuo spoke to him at all was another mystery, especially when the delusional aspect of his presence was brought forward. His brown-haired manager chewed his lip at that, glancing towards Saiga-san who lingered quietly nearby. A subtle shake of another dark-haired head that reminded him too much of another, and both bespectacled men looked away.

In the end, the extra holiday was granted.

Kazahaya looked down at the syringes, bottles, and the bag of supplies he'd been given. Apparently, if Rikuo trusted him enough to talk, perhaps he'll also acquiesce to an injection. He didn't think so. If the emotional outburst was any indication, Rikuo was far from reacquainting himself with simple actions like a light pat on the back. He could only imagine what the glimmer of sharp steel would do.

Someone had severely devastated Rikuo to the point of no return.

He intended on bringing him back.

The door opened with a slight click, sliding shut with as little noise as he could manage. Dumping the bag on the dinner table, he grimaced as he looked at the rice cooker. Steam greeted him as the lid sprang open, showing a beautiful circle of white. He wasn't hungry, yet. Had it really been three hours since he'd checked on it?

A fourth sigh. Kazahaya rolled his eyes. He'll be winning the Tokyo lottery if he tallied the number of times he'd immersed himself into a regular cycle of gloominess. Oh hell, he'll be rich, then.

Like money would do any good to heal Rikuo's inner scars.

A cursory glance around said occupant's room ground his steps to a halt. Nothing looked out of the norm – plastic alarm clock with its bold red display, the lamp that bowed its head to await nightfall, the curled length of white shirt, black hair, and bandages. Wait. There was something that caught his eye. Padding lightly forward, the older boy stared straight at the plate on the nightstand.

A section of the eggs was gone. It was very little – almost miniscule – but it was gone.

Lying next to it was the fork, snapped cleanly in two.