LEGAL DRUG (GOHOU DRUG) FANFIC

Title: Sanguine

Written By: RinoaDestiny (Ann Koo)

CHAPTER 12

There were some good days and there were some bad days, and this was one of them. "Kakei-san said that you only have two weeks left," he mentioned, sitting down on his bed. "We can remove the sling and splints, then." Rikuo murmurs something but it's not for him to hear and the boy curls on the comforter, focus directed inward. His shirt is green, matching the hue of his eyes, and the sleeves are rolled down to cover the scars. The stone-washed jeans hang off his hips and are entirely too big for him, but his roommate doesn't seem to mind. The bowl of applesauce he brought with him is untouched, lying abandoned on the nightstand.

"Rikuo, does it still hurt?"

The other boy barely nods; barely moves. Kazahaya sighed. Only last night did Saiga-san carry Rikuo back to his bed, placing the other psychic gently down before smoothing back his hair. Rikuo hadn't responded to that touch, eerily passive and when Saiga-san told him to be patient; he realized just how bad it was. He thought he understood some semblance of the abuse after being exposed to those photographs but the episode was too bizarre. It left Rikuo pale and drained, in immeasurable pain – imagined or real – and silent.

"Rikuo," he managed to say, fiddling with his fingers, "no one's here to hurt you."

The younger man faintly smiles but it's like all the others and his eyes are dead. Kazahaya wants nothing more than to touch him; yet, he holds back. He's not sure if the re-experienced trauma was the same as the previous one, namely because of how awkward the situation was. What had started out with Rikuo screaming ended with intervals of silence and whimpers; and several times, he heard the words "I didn't" squeeze out of the boy's throat. He's not sure if the perpetrator is Yoshiro or Toshiya, but it's nothing like the repulsive acts in the pictures.

Still, Rikuo's passivity towards the end of that episode bothered him. Perhaps that was due in part to a few of those pictures. Saiga-san had already thoroughly destroyed them – ripped, shredded, and burned them as Kakei-san and he watched, but the damage was done. It was valuable information in piecing his clues together; yet, the cost to his mentality and the bile it induced wasn't much of a proper payoff. It only left him knowing that the psychic organization was on the move, that many were responsible for Rikuo's physical condition, and that Toshiya and his group were utterly sick in the head.

"No." The other boy said, not looking at him. "But they will."

It's another statement of defeat. He can kind of understand why. The photographs showed the level of pain the others dealt him; they also showed, terribly, how Rikuo dealt with it when the attacks got out of hand, resulting in massive injuries. Some of the assailants were unspeakably brutal and Rikuo was glutted upon so sadistically that Kazahaya noticed, thinking back, at how he shut down in those images. Rikuo convulses in one, screaming; Rikuo staring emptily ahead, letting the other take him; Rikuo, unable to fight back, closing his eyes and biting his lip bloody. It's the only way Rikuo learned to survive in those circumstances, in order to live another day.

He wonders, though, how much that survival cost Rikuo. To see his rapists daily, to be beaten within an inch of his life, to be passed around from man to man, and to know that escape was only in his head and never a possibility. To force himself to shut down, to zone out, just so that time flies and he doesn't know how long each torture session takes. To allow the others to touch him, mangle him, and ruin him in multiple ways just so that the violence won't kill him. He wonders what goes through Rikuo's mind when the door opens, when the footsteps hit the floor, when someone grabs him and assaults him; and when he can't run and he can't fight, and in his world of unremitting agony, he knows tomorrow and the day after and the day after that brings the same.

Kazahaya thinks about the pictures and the awful truths they bring. He gazes at the still form lying atop the bed, fingers wrapped around the bedspread, and meets Rikuo's shallow stare head on. He sees a young man on the brink of adulthood, hurting and silent and then sees in his mind's eye the same youth, hurting and silent because it's the only way to endure. He compares the two and there's no difference. Enduring the aftermath seems to be just as difficult, if not more so. The physical pain might be gone but the emotional ones exist as readily as his scars.

He moves from his bed over to where Rikuo's lying, remote and haunted, and takes his hand into his own. It's commonplace for him to do that now; it's also the only real gesture that Rikuo allows him to make. Rikuo's hand is cold, his grip lax, and oddly, it feels like as if Rikuo's letting him hold him; letting him do whatever he wants to him. But he's not Toshiya and he's not one of the captors who destroyed him, body and soul, and he releases him because he's starting to feel uncomfortable.

The cost, he decides, was everything that made Rikuo "Rikuo".

A series of images, like soiled pearls on a rotting thread, invade his mind. It's the same ones from three nights ago. He wonders what Rikuo's thinking when he shuts down, when he gives in not because he wants to but because he has to, when he sees the faces of his attackers, when he watches listlessly his own rape, and when he's finally alone, wounded so grievously that he's crippled, crying silent tears. He wonders if that's what truly shattered him; if the surrender of everything he was – strength, ego, will – and seeing how he was undone undid all his limited choices.

Rikuo had told him Eichiro cared; yet, Eichiro was handicapped in assisting him.

So then, Rikuo had to submit, second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, and week after week. Rikuo had been missing for about a month – around five weeks – and that was a calculable amount of time and a lot of it. It's hard to believe – to fathom – how Rikuo lived through it all. Out of 840 hours, which was equivalent to 50,400 minutes and seconds, how much of that time was spent with him unwillingly, passively letting the others use him? How much of that time did he get to sleep or stay unconscious? And how much of that time was turned against him through punches and kicks, restraints and arm-twisting, and savagely enforced rapes when he resisted?

The troubling question was how much of that remaining time did Rikuo spend in suicidal thoughts, through living in utter fear, and hoping that the next time a beating occurred that it would be his last? Yoshiro and his men were nearly non-entities, factoring little in the mess of his fellow psychic's flashbacks and nightmares. Another frightening question arose, so dark and sick that he could barely shape it. How much of that time did Toshiya spend alone with Rikuo, and if he did, what exactly happened within the span of those total hours?

It didn't bear thinking upon.

His hair was in his eyes and Kazahaya swept it aside, attempting to mask his thoughts. It wouldn't do for Rikuo to read the expression on his face and know that he knew too much. The younger man's gaze was intensely green, murky verdigris, detached and fixed, only interrupted by involuntary blinks that obscured irises and pupils. He hadn't said a word since the last sentence had dissipated in silence.

"No," Kazahaya said, linking response to response and bridging the stillness, "they won't."

Rikuo blinks beside him, shifting a moss-colored sleeve. It's the first real reaction he's gotten out of him, surprisingly enough, and he didn't even say much. "Kazahaya?"

"Yeah?"

"What…" the other male said, hesitantly; voice resonating fear. "What would you say if someone accused you of something you didn't do?"

The question floors him and while it's not the most Rikuo's ever said, he has a gut feeling that it leads into the "why" of Rikuo's latest episode. "I'd say that I didn't do anything."

"What if they don't believe you?"

Oh man, this was leading somewhere. He didn't understand to what but that question was loaded if he ever knew one. Time to tread on uneasy ground – to walk the thin line. "Why wouldn't they believe you? I don't know many people that'd disbelieve if you're honest."

"They might, if they're convinced you're lying."

Something clicks unnervingly in his mind, weaving a rope out of his many strands of conjectures and thoughts. He doesn't enjoy the sensation it creates in him. He can't put his finger on it but something's wrong. Perhaps it's the implication the statement leaves behind. Either way, Kazahaya's sure that this is all the beginning of an incident that went horribly awry. So he pounces on the first notion that comes to mind, throwing a loose card into the small pile of possibilities. "Rikuo, it sounds like you've been interrogated."

Jade tightens and black dilates, widening those eyes, and he knows he's correct. The knowledge is bitter, clenching his heart. "Yes," Rikuo replies softly, his tone circumspect. "Yes, I was."

"Who did it to you? Was it Yoshiro and his men?"

Blood drains from Rikuo's face, whitening his complexion. It's a scary thought but he almost wishes he's right again. Somehow, because Yoshiro in the memories seemed less sadistic and more conforming to the rules, he's willing to believe that Rikuo would suffer less. Vice versa Yoshiro with Toshiya and the insanity of how far the latter would go to extract information scares him to the bone. He sincerely hopes that he's correct on his second guess.

Rikuo pauses, looks him in the eye, and everything crashes down. His body language is apparent that he's wrong – that it was Toshiya and his gang doing the questioning. Feeling slightly queasy, he inhales, unable to shove those horrid images out of his mind. Most interrogators used sleep deprivation, water torture, cutting off fingers, or ripping out toenails to harvest answers – gruesome bits of knowledge that he knew, thanks to Kakei-san and Saiga-san's colorful commentary several months back. It's not that he wants that to happen to Rikuo; it's not that he wants him maimed but he knows what tools Toshiya uses.

What Toshiya does is suitable for intensive torture and since the pictures don't lie, it's abundantly clear that what he does to Rikuo does cripple him to the point where he needs to crawl. He can only imagine – vehemently cursing the bastard the whole time – how Toshiya would extract his answers. The process could take a long time, would be maliciously drawn out, and if Rikuo didn't speak or couldn't talk, the injury inflicted would increase in severity. If all his lackeys were behind it, the accumulated pain would be staggering.

Now, he really needs to know.

"Was it Toshiya and his 'friends'?"

Rikuo stares at him, swallows, and doesn't say a word. It's confirmation of the highest degree; suddenly, Kazahaya's apprehensive. Brushing the lint off the comforter, he distracts himself with trivialities and skirts the issues bubbling within his brain. It couldn't have been them, he denies, because nothing adds up to a correct sum when he factors in Rikuo's behavior. The episode itself was strange through and through. None of Rikuo's body language hinted towards sexual assault and the screams did die down into whimpers. He wants to believe that Yoshiro was behind it – that the coldly formal, if not elusive man was in charge of Rikuo's interrogation. Wants to believe it wholeheartedly and can't. Looking at it another way, the figures do add up and the sum of all the signs shown point directly at Toshiya.

He sighs, heavy-hearted and in disbelief. "It was, wasn't it?"

Rikuo's voice drops, deep and barely a whisper. "Yes, it was."

"Why?" It's not an easy question to ask; he dreads the answer. "Why would they do that?"

"I…I don't know." Suddenly, Rikuo's gaze is withdrawn, not directed at him and he knows, with that piercingly dark clarity, that something's dreadfully wrong. He's seen this before – the detachment; the way how Rikuo speaks, as if talking beyond himself; the flatness of his voice, masking pain. Whatever had happened during that interrogation was something Rikuo was distancing himself from. Whatever it was, Rikuo was shutting himself down again, lost in a memory that brought nothing but anguish. "I think…I think it's all a game to him."

"Rikuo," he asks and he's stepping on eggshells here, trying to be delicate with the next question screaming in his mind. "Did they hurt you?"

There's no perceptible sign that Rikuo heard him. He wonders just how bad it was for that to happen. Helpless, unable to do anything but look and talk – not desiring at all to lay his hand on Rikuo at the moment – Kazahaya waited, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs.

When Rikuo does speak, the words are faint. "Yes. Yes, he did."

He? Only he – meaning Toshiya? What the…?

"You mean Toshiya? It was only him? No one else was there?"

"It was just him," the younger psychic barely forces out, the words strained. "He didn't need anyone else to get the answers for him."

"How…?" He leaves the question unasked, unfinished.

Rikuo's still not looking at him and the comforter crushes in his fingers. "You don't want to know." The words are quiet, calmly said but there are tinges of pain and shame behind them. "You don't want to know," Rikuo repeats, as if he didn't hear it the first time. "Kazahaya, I can't."

He only has one last card to throw into the deck. He tosses it carefully, watching Rikuo's expression. "Did he rape you?" Asking that question is enough to churn his upset stomach; the word tastes vile on his tongue. It's not exactly politic; yet, he needs to understand, however scantly, the extent of the interrogation method. He needs to measure it, scale it against everything he currently knows.

It's the only reason why he asks.

He doesn't get an answer. Rikuo doesn't shake his head – nothing. "Don't," the boy said, and that was that. Kazahaya backs off, seeing the end of the line and not wishing to throw himself off the cliff, retreats. It eases Rikuo a little but not by much. The lines of the younger man's body are rigid, taut and near to bursting with tension. His expression's vague, nearly blank and his fingers snag folds of bedspread and comforter, as if holding on for life. When he touches his shoulder, the wasted muscle ripples beneath his fingertips but Rikuo doesn't bat him away.

This was really, really bad.

He knows why Kakei-san and Saiga-san were alarmed by Rikuo's initial passivity shortly after the botched shower and clean-up. This frightens him. There's no definite answer on what Toshiya did to Rikuo but the fact that Rikuo became submissive – removed; almost a stranger – told him that the harm inflicted must've been immense. It couldn't have surpassed the torture in the photos, surely? And if it wasn't rape, what was it?

Reflecting on when the episode occurred, Kazahaya's unsure of what the trigger was that set Rikuo off. It happened in the kitchen – that's the only detail he knows; otherwise, he's in the dark about everything else.

Out of 840 hours – five weeks' worth of time – how much of it was used by Toshiya to mistreat Rikuo? He doesn't even know how long the interrogation took, let alone the method employed to force Rikuo to speak. Even more confusing, what was the questioning about? Why was it even put into practice on a starving, battered, and brutally injured boy? Rikuo said something about it being "all a game" to the man; picking through that, it only reinforces the sadistic tendencies of that low-life bastard.

However, questions weren't asked unless there were reasons for it.

Unless…

He follows that train of thought, blown away by the inkling of truth that he snatches. Questions weren't asked unless there were reasons for it. But that wasn't always true. Unless the reasons were void and null and the questions asked only to gather a response. If there was no real reason for the asking, and it indeed was a game, cruelly played to provoke fear. Throw in physical punishment for questions unanswered or insufficiently covered, and the interrogation isn't an interrogation anymore.

It becomes one sick, twisted game. The questions might not even have proper answers but because the questioner holds control and power, the assailed doesn't know what's right or what's wrong. There's no escape until the game ends, and there's no telling when the light is seen at the end of the tunnel. Depending on the severity of the chastisement, someone might give in simply to lessen the pain, to satisfy the questioner's anger. That easily explains why someone would shut down.

It explains why Rikuo did shut down, now and back then when it all occurred.

He squeezes Rikuo's shoulder gently, letting him know he's still around, and watches as the younger man visibly trembles. He's afraid, he reminds himself, but when one's passive, they suppress that fear. It isn't hard to imagine – because he knows – how Rikuo chews his lip raw so that he won't scream when the torture starts. Or how he allows the others to touch him, to make him something less than human through their acts, while the muscles in his body tense and twitch. Or how he looks into the faces of his attackers while the crime is committed and fights not to buckle at their every movement. He doesn't know how Rikuo reacts when Toshiya's with him – whether or not the pattern is the same.

He only knows that Toshiya left him ruined beyond what the group combined does.

That's a scary thought.

"Rikuo," he said, vocalizing his concern, "can you eat?" The chipped ceramic bowl is blue, filled to the brim with applesauce, and it appears as lonely as the boy lying motionless on the bed. He's just glad that Rikuo's capable of handling something more than juice and water now. Starvation must've been one of the additional cruelties he'd suffered, since regaining all of that muscle would take a while. Little wonder he was defenseless against so many.

"Not now." He sounds so tired that it breaks his heart. "Maybe later."

"Okay," Kazahaya replied, standing to go into the kitchen and grab a spoon. He's hungry too, despite his lunch. It's been a couple hours since noon and staying with Rikuo was becoming his other full-time job. Not that he minds, that is. "Do you want some water?"

Dark lashes flickered as Rikuo's eyes closed. "Yes."

He leaves then, glancing back and notices how Rikuo's right arm swings around to cover his head. He's not sure if the boy's crying or not, but some emotion stirs in him. He can't name it. Padding his way softly into the kitchen, he yanks a cabinet door open, pulls out a plastic jar filled with equally synthetic dinnerware, and chooses a spoon. Plunking the container back, he makes his way for another drawer where the dry snacks are kept. He has his own stash of favorites and he digs a pack of seaweed-wrapped rice crackers out. Only then does he grab a glass, fill it with running tap water – he isn't giving Rikuo anything lukewarm – and juggling the other items in his free hand, sweeps back into the room with a dramatic curtain entrance.

Okay, maybe not. He nearly lost the spoon, after all.

Placing the glass on the nightstand, he sits down on his bed and rips into his snack. It tastes great as usual but he's automatic in how he's eating it. His breath stops in his lungs as Rikuo moves, slowly shifting forward, and reaches a shaky hand out for the glass. Not enough distance has been covered and as Rikuo drags himself towards the nightstand, Kazahaya can hear every wince that passes through his teeth. He wonders how badly it hurts.

After what seems like an agonizing minute, Rikuo's finally close enough and his thumb, index and middle finger wrap around the glass. Through the reflected surface, he can see Rikuo's splinted fingers refracted through liquid. Two weeks isn't long – two weeks isn't long at all. He's simply eager to see Rikuo's hand and arm working again, properly and without the fractures that disabled him. Also, if Rikuo wanted to help out in Green Drugstore – like before his disappearance and subsequent torment – he's sure Kakei-san and Saiga-san wouldn't mind.

He ponders, though, if Rikuo would mind.

After all, getting back to normal wasn't so easy. Rikuo also seemed convinced that recovery was impossible for him; hence, the hellish first few days. Kazahaya thought he understood him initially from the memories; now, he regards those moments as foolish. Two memories were scarcely enough to glean information, let alone the wide cluster of emotions that Rikuo felt. Hell, even seeing those disgusting photographs weren't enough. Rikuo had experienced even more than that.

In a way, he's similar to Rikuo. He's also helpless.

He's helpless in some aspects of giving him the aid and care that he needs – that he deserves. He doesn't know all of the answers and has too many questions. Some of those questions hurt Rikuo more than help him, when he should be reaffirming Rikuo's right to live. It's not that he's not living now; oh yeah, he's breathing and moving and all but something in him still lies dead. His partner was afraid to live in all dimensions of living: returning to normality, expressing his emotions, speaking his mind, claiming who he was and is, and not being chained by five weeks' worth of harsh violence that literally drained his soul dry. The sad thing was, until he gained more knowledge of "why", "how", "where", and "when", Kazahaya sees himself as little more than a friend, trying to console someone he no longer knows.

The glass thuds on the nightstand, splashing water, and he watches as Rikuo's arm slumps over the edge of the bed in defeat. His fingertips drip water, his shirt is wet, and as he walks over, he notices the loss deep in Rikuo's eyes. Rikuo stares up at him; face devoid of hope and his lips are barely wet. There's no frustration in his face, only a keen sense of failure. Rikuo still can't manage to drink on his own – not with those broken fingers. He can only surmise how wretched the other boy feels.

It's not an easy emotion to bear – not when self-directed.

He ignores the discarded glass, turns his attention to Rikuo, and squeezes his hand, telling him "it's okay" through the simple gesture. Rikuo doesn't respond and he realizes sadly that the psychic's shutting down for a different reason now. Sometimes, enduring so much can also be devastating. It was probably true back then and it's likely to be true now, when Rikuo sees nothing worth saving reflected in Toshiya's eyes and currently, his.

So he sits on Rikuo's bed, grasping Rikuo's hand – feeling soft unblemished skin where the bandages and splints don't cover it – and squeezes his palm once in a while, letting him know and understand that his promise holds true. He doesn't leave Rikuo's side even when the younger man doesn't react and he lets the applesauce sit as the time passes by. Rikuo blinks, filling that lonely green gaze with tears; eventually, they slip, disappearing into the layers of fabric beneath. But that's the only sign he gets, for Rikuo never returns his grip with one of his own.

He sits and he tries to understand the depths of those eyes; tries to understand Rikuo; tries to understand himself and the "where", the "how", the "what", and the "why" that makes him, Kazahaya "Kazahaya". The "where" was always consistent: Green Drugstore. It's the latter that changes. The "how" becomes complicated: how he changed, how he matured, and how he faces this emotional wall without breaking down. The "what" is different, too: what causes him to stick by Rikuo's side, what lessons he's learned in the midst of this, and what else could he be, so that Rikuo won't be alone. It's the "why" primarily that shapes him: why his heart pains him when he sees Rikuo like this, why he can't stand to leave him – in spite of many other duties that may need to be done, and why he squeezes the other's hand, desperately hoping for a reciprocal gesture when none may be coming.

He pries deeper, confronting those "whys" and stumbles across a startling fact.

It's not something he would've expected months ago. It's not something he was expecting at all, supposedly. Yet, it's there. He can't deny it, and the fact is buried in those "whys". It's that nameless emotion that now has a name. He's simply never experienced it before – not like this. Never like this.

Kazahaya squeezes Rikuo's hand, trying to fathom that broken gaze, and thinks he understands now what it means to love. He thinks he knows and so he sits, fulfilling his promise. It's the most he can do for now.