Sleeping Beauty 8
"I don't know, Mr. Yuki," K said, his English rough, as if in his distress both English and Japanese had grown distant. "I don't know if he'll live or die, Mr. Yuki, or who to go after or how long it will take. So you have to stay here with him. It is your voice which will tie him here. Tell him a story, Mr. Yuki, so that he can't leave till he hears the end of it and I will bring the antidote back before you finish."
Yuki grabbed a fist full of his blond hair and stared desperately at Shuichi's manager. Tears should be in the eyes, not in the throat and discontentedly in the pit of the stomach, so far from any outlet of expression. "But you arrested the man that shot Shuichi!"
The last three hours had been the hardest of K's life. So much of his life was unraveling and the knot being untied most immediately was Shuichi's life. K laid his hand over his mouth and stared at the not quiet hysterical writer. When Shuichi had gone down in the airport, it had been Yuki Eiri's scream that had filled the terminal. Raw and excruciating, the scream had echoed off the windows and chilled K to the bone.
Tohma and Ryuichi had both arrived at the terminal then, running as if they could save the world with not the tiniest hint of childishness in either of them. Tohma had actually drawn a gun, just a small black automatic, but even he stood still, eyes wide as Yuki's second scream had torn the night. A wolf can't howl with such anguish, only a man can.
K had frozen there, his knee in the back of the man who'd shot Shuichi and Tohma had stood there blue eyes locked on Yuki Eiri, but it had been Ryuichi who crossed to them, singing when he got close enough for Yuki to hear him. Softly singing the song he'd sung with Shuichi, the first time Yuki had seen the pink haired singer on stage.
As K stared into Yuki's eyes now, his mind was back in the airport terminal when Ryuichi had locked eyes with Yuki as he'd lifted Shuichi's wrist, feeling for a pulse, then counting it off, a living rhythm with small nods of his head. "He's alive, Eiri," Ryuichi had said and Yuki had dropped to his knees, drawing his lover close into his arms, no tears, only a tight clutching of the sleeping singer to his chest.
Now they were at a friend's house, hiding at the edge of Tokyo, hiding from those that would try to help and those that weren't helpful. This was a place that K had come to only twice since he'd retired from the US intelligence service and both times he'd been close to death. The woman who owned the house was not a lover, had never been, so much as he could remember, but the energy lingered between them over the passing years. It had been in the most frantic need he'd stolen Shuichi and Yuki away from the others, away from the hospital that wouldn't have been able to help Shuichi and brought them here.
Now Shuichi lay on the huge four-poster bed, the black velvet coverlet making him look pale, his hair striking, his stage costume like something from a fairytale. He lay exactly where Yuki had lain him, hand fallen out, palm up, his breathing so shallow that K had to insist in his own mind that Shuichi lived.
"Mr. Yuki," K tried again, not knowing how to explain, how to apologize for this. "The best thing is for you to take care of Shuichi-san. I know this drug. I know it well, Mr. Yuki. Stay here, talk to him. He can hear you even though looks like he's in the deepest sleep," K lied with every bit of honesty in his heart. He could not let Yuki come with him. It wasn't all a lie. He did know this drug. He believed that Shuichi could hear them, he just didn't know it to be absolutely true.
"We need this antidote," Yuki said, face drawn, fists doubled, eyes cold and dangerous as winter moon, distant from everything civilized.
"We each need to do our jobs, Mr. Yuki. You stay and keep him here with us. I will go and find the people who did this and bring back the antidote. I wouldn't write novels. You don't shot people."
Yuki took a step back, turned half way to look at Shuichi. He'd shot people. He'd do it again to save Shuichi and all the peace he'd built shattered, leaving his soul the way the scream had left his lungs.
A small Chinese woman stepped into the room, her dark eyes making a log of every detail. "Yuki Eiri, the greatest loss in death is not the passing, but the destruction of those who remain. It is a grief to the souls that pass, so how much more must it grieve those who are not yet gone?"
Yuki glared at her, intruding on his self-hate and fury. "Shuichi is too alive to die," he snarled.
"Death visits all," she said, fastening the black cotton jacket, closing the little matte silk frog closure with small expert fingers. "If his life has touched you so deeply, then stay with him every moment of his life. Do not act where you cannot heal. Do as K asks, guide this singer's soul in the way of life, as he has guided you."
"Tell him a story, Mr. Yuki," K urged. "We will return before dawn. You can't leave him alone, stay and defend him. I will find the Kiss, the antidote."
Yuki turned to look at his lover, hesitating, even his anger beginning to fray under the memory of Shuichi's influence. If death did take Shuichi, he had a sudden image of the hole of despair he'd fall into. And suddenly, he'd never seen anything more beautiful than his still living lover. He knew, intellectually that if Shuichi were to open his eyes, and dancing violet were to be laughing with him, demanding to be dipped or taken to the beach, that would be infinitely more lovely, but right now, just knowing there was breath and perhaps thought in that sleeping for was more beautiful than Yuki felt he had any right to demand. "I'll keep him here. I'll tell him the story I wanted to write for him."
He didn't bother to turn back to look at K or the woman. They had a job to do, and he didn't know what he'd do to them or himself if they failed. A story. He could handle a story. The room even looked right for a fairytale, with thick velvet curtains and the huge four-poster, the oval mirror sitting in the corner. It caught his attention for a moment. How had he gotten such circles under his eyes in three hours? His hair stood on end a bit, a stress induced Mohawk. It wasn't the image of the fairytale prince, skinny blond in a rumpled suit with his hair standing on end.
Then his eyes fell to Shuichi, the stretch jeans still not zipped, the shirt askew, and somehow Shuichi's hair had managed to fall like pink silk around his face, fanning across the black velvet. Maybe it was because the wild little singer had washed it in the bathroom of the airport. That's the only way it would have been that wet, Yuki thought as he sat down on the bed beside him, long writer's fingers brushing through that hair. "You shouldn't wash your hair in the airport, Shu-chan. I told you that, right?"
He swallowed back those unvented tears and thought about where to start with this story. "I don't like you to hear my stories until I'm don with them. You know that, so don't think this is a new pattern." He toed off his shoes and bent one knee, settling down on the bed. "Can you here me, Shuichi? You're always talking to me and I don't always respond. You called me cold, like I'm sleeping when you talk, and sometimes, you're right, but I do hear you. I hope you're hearing me." He lifted limp fingers and spread them out over his hand, petting them softly, "I don't like you to be unresponsive, Shuichi. I don't like it at all."
"I don't know, Mr. Yuki," K said, his English rough, as if in his distress both English and Japanese had grown distant. "I don't know if he'll live or die, Mr. Yuki, or who to go after or how long it will take. So you have to stay here with him. It is your voice which will tie him here. Tell him a story, Mr. Yuki, so that he can't leave till he hears the end of it and I will bring the antidote back before you finish."
Yuki grabbed a fist full of his blond hair and stared desperately at Shuichi's manager. Tears should be in the eyes, not in the throat and discontentedly in the pit of the stomach, so far from any outlet of expression. "But you arrested the man that shot Shuichi!"
The last three hours had been the hardest of K's life. So much of his life was unraveling and the knot being untied most immediately was Shuichi's life. K laid his hand over his mouth and stared at the not quiet hysterical writer. When Shuichi had gone down in the airport, it had been Yuki Eiri's scream that had filled the terminal. Raw and excruciating, the scream had echoed off the windows and chilled K to the bone.
Tohma and Ryuichi had both arrived at the terminal then, running as if they could save the world with not the tiniest hint of childishness in either of them. Tohma had actually drawn a gun, just a small black automatic, but even he stood still, eyes wide as Yuki's second scream had torn the night. A wolf can't howl with such anguish, only a man can.
K had frozen there, his knee in the back of the man who'd shot Shuichi and Tohma had stood there blue eyes locked on Yuki Eiri, but it had been Ryuichi who crossed to them, singing when he got close enough for Yuki to hear him. Softly singing the song he'd sung with Shuichi, the first time Yuki had seen the pink haired singer on stage.
As K stared into Yuki's eyes now, his mind was back in the airport terminal when Ryuichi had locked eyes with Yuki as he'd lifted Shuichi's wrist, feeling for a pulse, then counting it off, a living rhythm with small nods of his head. "He's alive, Eiri," Ryuichi had said and Yuki had dropped to his knees, drawing his lover close into his arms, no tears, only a tight clutching of the sleeping singer to his chest.
Now they were at a friend's house, hiding at the edge of Tokyo, hiding from those that would try to help and those that weren't helpful. This was a place that K had come to only twice since he'd retired from the US intelligence service and both times he'd been close to death. The woman who owned the house was not a lover, had never been, so much as he could remember, but the energy lingered between them over the passing years. It had been in the most frantic need he'd stolen Shuichi and Yuki away from the others, away from the hospital that wouldn't have been able to help Shuichi and brought them here.
Now Shuichi lay on the huge four-poster bed, the black velvet coverlet making him look pale, his hair striking, his stage costume like something from a fairytale. He lay exactly where Yuki had lain him, hand fallen out, palm up, his breathing so shallow that K had to insist in his own mind that Shuichi lived.
"Mr. Yuki," K tried again, not knowing how to explain, how to apologize for this. "The best thing is for you to take care of Shuichi-san. I know this drug. I know it well, Mr. Yuki. Stay here, talk to him. He can hear you even though looks like he's in the deepest sleep," K lied with every bit of honesty in his heart. He could not let Yuki come with him. It wasn't all a lie. He did know this drug. He believed that Shuichi could hear them, he just didn't know it to be absolutely true.
"We need this antidote," Yuki said, face drawn, fists doubled, eyes cold and dangerous as winter moon, distant from everything civilized.
"We each need to do our jobs, Mr. Yuki. You stay and keep him here with us. I will go and find the people who did this and bring back the antidote. I wouldn't write novels. You don't shot people."
Yuki took a step back, turned half way to look at Shuichi. He'd shot people. He'd do it again to save Shuichi and all the peace he'd built shattered, leaving his soul the way the scream had left his lungs.
A small Chinese woman stepped into the room, her dark eyes making a log of every detail. "Yuki Eiri, the greatest loss in death is not the passing, but the destruction of those who remain. It is a grief to the souls that pass, so how much more must it grieve those who are not yet gone?"
Yuki glared at her, intruding on his self-hate and fury. "Shuichi is too alive to die," he snarled.
"Death visits all," she said, fastening the black cotton jacket, closing the little matte silk frog closure with small expert fingers. "If his life has touched you so deeply, then stay with him every moment of his life. Do not act where you cannot heal. Do as K asks, guide this singer's soul in the way of life, as he has guided you."
"Tell him a story, Mr. Yuki," K urged. "We will return before dawn. You can't leave him alone, stay and defend him. I will find the Kiss, the antidote."
Yuki turned to look at his lover, hesitating, even his anger beginning to fray under the memory of Shuichi's influence. If death did take Shuichi, he had a sudden image of the hole of despair he'd fall into. And suddenly, he'd never seen anything more beautiful than his still living lover. He knew, intellectually that if Shuichi were to open his eyes, and dancing violet were to be laughing with him, demanding to be dipped or taken to the beach, that would be infinitely more lovely, but right now, just knowing there was breath and perhaps thought in that sleeping for was more beautiful than Yuki felt he had any right to demand. "I'll keep him here. I'll tell him the story I wanted to write for him."
He didn't bother to turn back to look at K or the woman. They had a job to do, and he didn't know what he'd do to them or himself if they failed. A story. He could handle a story. The room even looked right for a fairytale, with thick velvet curtains and the huge four-poster, the oval mirror sitting in the corner. It caught his attention for a moment. How had he gotten such circles under his eyes in three hours? His hair stood on end a bit, a stress induced Mohawk. It wasn't the image of the fairytale prince, skinny blond in a rumpled suit with his hair standing on end.
Then his eyes fell to Shuichi, the stretch jeans still not zipped, the shirt askew, and somehow Shuichi's hair had managed to fall like pink silk around his face, fanning across the black velvet. Maybe it was because the wild little singer had washed it in the bathroom of the airport. That's the only way it would have been that wet, Yuki thought as he sat down on the bed beside him, long writer's fingers brushing through that hair. "You shouldn't wash your hair in the airport, Shu-chan. I told you that, right?"
He swallowed back those unvented tears and thought about where to start with this story. "I don't like you to hear my stories until I'm don with them. You know that, so don't think this is a new pattern." He toed off his shoes and bent one knee, settling down on the bed. "Can you here me, Shuichi? You're always talking to me and I don't always respond. You called me cold, like I'm sleeping when you talk, and sometimes, you're right, but I do hear you. I hope you're hearing me." He lifted limp fingers and spread them out over his hand, petting them softly, "I don't like you to be unresponsive, Shuichi. I don't like it at all."