Born to be Broken.

Disclaimer: Don't own it and I never will. I think I have to go and cry now.

Note: Uh, probably some warnings need to be in place for this chapter. Mildly citrusy, in the totally bizarre sense. You'll see what I mean. Um... implied sorta violation of a child, kinda hints to masturbation... not very good at this am I? Oh well, it'll make sense as you read I'm sure. And for the record, readers I'd just like to say something: Now I must admit when I see a fic that says 'Contains an OC pairing' I run for my life. Usually OC's are Mary Sue self-insertations of the author herself. (See also: Tohru.) This fic does have an OC and I know that scares people and puts them off. I'm the same mostly. But let me say something before you hit the 'Back' icon. First off; not a Mary Sue character. Very flawed, very imperfect, very MALE and very 'Not me.' I'm not a man for one thing and the thought of inserting myself into a Fruits Basket fic of my own is horrible to behold. This story just calls for an OC but understand that this character is not a representation of myself or anyone I know in any way shape or form. No Mary-Sueing her tonight ladies and gents. Just give it a shot and don't be put off by my OC. Try and enjoy the fic for what I've made it. Did I mention the character's MALE and therefore not one of those evil female Mary Sue's? Yes? Well that's good. Anyhoo... with that out of the way, read on!

"There is a good way to die, and a right time to do it. An odd thought for this time of year -- this is the point where the world has meandered back into spring, back into life. The sun is pulling fresh green from the ground again. An odd time to think about death, but as good time as ever to die."
- James Lileks, columnist

How many family masters had slept in that very room, had been disturbed by it and had never asked to have the problem rectified?

Akito knew it shouldn't have bothered him as much as it should. After all, what was a squeaky floorboard in light of other things? But it did bother him, though he couldn't quite pinpoint why. He himself must have walked over it a thousand and one times on his way to the window, creating the friction that pulsed a creak throughout the floor. Yet now of all times, it was bugging him.

He gazed down at the patch of floor before him, cocking his head. His un-brushed hair swayed to one side of his face, framing his chin almost immaculately. He felt like one of those old fashioned Sheriff's from a cowboy movie, weighing up an opponent with nary a movement other than that of his head and eyes. You make your move partner and I'll make mine. Squeak in my presence, will ya? Your funeral, buckaroo.

Akito's fist tightened around the knarled handle of his staff, fingernails scratching against the wood. There was blood under his nails, lining the cuticle like a thin pencil line. Akito knew he would have to scrub deep to remove it, that or cut his nails off.

He would try scrubbing first.

The family master purposefully traced around the floorboard, examining it with his never wavering expression of distrust. It was a piece of wood, yet he felt as though it were mocking him somehow. He raised his foot and gently pressed it down over the panel, adding the weight of his body behind it. He felt the subtle pressure as it sunk down even with the other floorboards, creaking as the fine cut lines scraped against each other. Akito examined it, picking out minute details.

It was a different color. Old... no doubt the wood was older than he was. Though... perhaps not as old as the other floorboards... they were eternally brown, so dark that they were almost black. Yet this board had a tinge of yellow to it. Youth still lingered within it. Age had not had its way with it.

What caused floorboards to squeak? Akito wondered, as he pulled his foot away, causing yet another creak as the panel raised again to its stubborn position. Sometimes it was due to wood shrinking. That could happen with age couldn't it? But this floorboard was newer than the others, of that he was sure. Had someone replaced a collapsing board with this one and made it too large? It didn't feel stable when he trod on it. The floor held him up faithfully, but this one sank beneath him as though it was too thin or too weak to support him. Its cry was very loud and definitive. Akito couldn't help but think that he had been drawn to notice it for a reason. Nineteen years in this room and now did this inconsequential little thing become such a besetment to him.

He would get someone to repair it.

... Was there really any point? Were the dead bothered by floorboards and squeaks when they had passed on? Perhaps that would be the one good deed he would be remembered for. Getting the floorboard fixed. The next family master would stand in that very room, gazing out the window like he had done a thousand and one times and never be bothered by a tiresome creak as he or she made their way back over to the bed to lay their head down to sleep. They would be unaware that it was the one who came before them, a boy named Akito Sohma, who had ensured that they could live their short, pointless little life without the added annoyance of one squeaky floorboard. But there in itself would be the sweet truth and he would have done that. Him.

It would be his mark left in this world, as proof of his presence once here before his memory was swept aside into oblivion as were those who came before him.

Akito considered. He stepped on the board. It squeaked.

Perhaps... this was someone's mark? A mark of one who came before him? Yes that may just be! Maybe years before in this room, a previous Sohma master knelt on the floor and with some tool in hand had pried an old floorboard away and replaced it. Perhaps he or she had made it too large; to serve that it might cry when it was stepped on. A different color so that it would stand out. And he or she would have stood back, wiped their arm on their too long sleeve and congratulated themselves on leaving this tiny, subtle mark behind so that they might never be forgotten.

If so, then what is your name? Akito asked this faceless person with more than a little bitterness in his thoughts. Here is your mark, but where are you? Those who plant the tree do not remain to see it grow now do they? I read that in a book once. It was Irish. It makes perfect sense if you ask me, you stupid fool. If this is indeed your mark, then why do I not know your name? Why are you gone without any proof that you were ever here other than this creaky, trivial floorboard? Why am I here alone with no evidence that I ever came into this world from a family of mothers and fathers, grandparents and ancestors that came before me?

WHY AM I HERE ALONE?!!

Though he was angry, there was some small comfort in his pointless pondering. If indeed a previous Sohma master had done this, then it was some small scrap of safety. Safety... comfort... and simply because it made him feel as though he was not the only one who had ever felt this way. Who beat their family members, those they was supposed to love not hate, who was not even allowed the small privilege of understanding, of human compassion.

They had all stood alone in this room. They had all gazed out that window, at the cherry blossom tree and resented life for going by without them.

But... had they all lost themselves, as he just had?

Akito didn't want to think about it. He couldn't really. There wasn't much to draw upon and his memory of the event that had occurred outside in the hallway was veiled by that part of his mind that did not belong to him. He hated it. He hated that presence inside of his head that had at some point wormed it's way in and thrown a thin blanket over what parts it wished to hide from Akito. That would tease and taunt him with tantalizing glances every once in a while, before cruelly hiding them again.

He remembered beating Kureno. That, he had done out of his own crazed incentive. Something he was not proud of, but something he had done to reestablish control when he felt it being pried from his own ever-loosening fingers. Something he needed to prove. To them? To himself? Who knew really. That was a matter of opinion.

But what had happened before he had lashed out? Akito knew he should remember, but he didn't. And that was what really bothered him.

He didn't like being jerked around. It really made him kind of mad.

Akito moved around to the bed and picked up the picture frame that he had left there. The glass was slightly smeared with tears and he wiped them away in disgust. He hated crying. That too pissed him off. It was a sign of weakness, of a helpless emotion people elicited when they were unable to train their feelings to within the confines of their ability to cope. At this point in his life, Akito thought he had himself pretty well trained. But... when Shigure had thrown him inside of his room, he felt such overwhelming emotions wash throughout him that his own barriers had been unable to hold them back. How could you deal with that? With being alone, always? Forever?

Only... Always...

... Where did that come from? Those weren't his thoughts, Akito was sure. It sounded like a saying. He must have read it once.

He looked at the picture inside the grasp of the frame and cleaned the glass with his sleeve, drying it. It wasn't a very good picture; an old newspaper clipping that had been yellowed around the edges. But it was the only picture he had of his mother. The only one.

The idea of the tragic Sohma family master had been overdone to death, Akito knew. And he wasn't trying to prove that fact to anyone, but occasionally he couldn't help but feel sorry for the whole sordid situation. Not only for himself; it sucked for those before him and those that would come after him too.

Family Master's were not allowed to reflect on the past, therefore their parents photo's were burned and all their personal defects destroyed. Akito couldn't even remember the way his mother looked from memory alone and his only reminder was this one newspaper article he had been able to save before it's destruction. He couldn't even remember what the column had been about, but he had been told by the family elders that his mother had been a songwriter and though she never actually sang any of her own songs, (outside out of the house that is) she was secured an infamous reputation. This perhaps had been the outline of the article. Akito only knew her name, because it was mentioned in the caption beneath the photo.

Tamiko. Tamiko Sohma.

As much as he was ashamed of crying before, Akito wasn't ashamed of the need for his mother. He had an image of her in his head, the way he wanted to preserve her existence. Tamiko was a beautiful woman; the picture only enhancing the natural elegance and poise of her, though not capturing nearly enough of it to do her credit. She had been no more than 17 when the photo had been taken, waist length straight black hair and eyes of the same color. Unsmiling, but not unkind. Her eyes, though mostly obscured beneath her long bangs, seemed to contain a hidden sadness as though her thoughts were meandering outward into her physical appearance. Akito recognized her posture and expression, because the woman was uncanny in appearance to he. The photo had been taken from side on, her face not turning to face the camera as though the photographer had been unworthy of her attention. She appeared haughty, aloof, but beautifully so. Akito found that he himself was often perceived this way; that his calm countenance was mistaken at times for a true nature of gentleness. What hurt so much was that he knew that a part of him was indeed gentle; that if his life had been different, circumstances different, than he would be a kind, gentle person. But it was too late now. There was nowhere to go, no way of changing the thing that he had become. ... He didn't know how.

Tamiko Sohma... his mother; was like he. He knew this. Could interpret that cool, careless expression and read the underlying message that she concealed so effortlessly in her dignity and poise. In fact, he wondered whether or not she had inflicted some sort of dire harm to the photographer after he had snapped the picture. The thought warmed him, though it wasn't warmth that came from misguided affection at the thought of violence. It was love for a woman that he'd never even had the chance to know. A family he had never been allowed to grow within.

Akito didn't know exactly when Tamiko had passed away. How could he? He was probably only learning his first word at the time. And though he had never really grieved for her, he cried that day when at the age of 7 he asked the family elders if they might show him some pictures of his mother and father. That's when he learnt but one of the horrible, awful secrets behind the Sohma family master:

They would not... be... remembered.

He had been taught. 'The body is but a vessel for the soul, Akito' they had told him in the darkness whilst he knelt before them with tiny trembling hands clutched feebly together. 'And as in most symbiotic relationships, the soul is nothing without the protection of the body. But they are not one in the same, my child. Because of these two essences united, a person is precious and is thus able to survive and maintain their life in this world. But... we are different. The Sohma's, the cursed are different. They are three. Body, human soul and evil spirits. All compressed to within the area to which only two should belong. Life in this form cannot occupy the same place at the same time without devouring each other. Souls devour and murder men; the body feeds on the flesh of others and is saturated by the evil of the zodiac that whelms within them. Our curse is our suffering and it has been maintained for generations though one would think it could not. So now you must understand why. Why you fall ill so often, why you are weak and tired from a very footstep or why your stomach churns in the night and you fear the darkness of each shadow. Of all the animals, there is none of a more perfect design than the spider. Though you are not cursed with any spirit of the zodiac yours is, none the less, the heaviest burden to carry. Around you the web shall be weaved; you shall tangle the threads, and wrap up the cursed in your cocoons. You are most precious, because you are the family master and the zodiac cannot live without you, because you are the one who holds the hunger of the soul at bay. 'Therefore must the soul deceive, despise and murder men.' – A.J. Durai.' At this point, the elders had kissed the tips of their fingers as though baptizing the definition. The words that followed this would remain with Akito for the rest of his days. 'The evil spirits hunger to devour the humanity they are imprisoned within. The soul, the body... all until only they remain. The curse kills and we cannot end it by letting death come to those cursed. The evil spirits feed off of the soul of humanity and if not appeased turn their appetite to the innocent.' Akito's eyes still widened at the memory of those words. That awful comprehension flooding his senses as he came to know. Ignorance is bliss. And he was so blissful, before he truly knew just what he was. What he had been cursed to be. 'Innocence is neither good nor bad, Akito.' They had said. 'And your family is so innocent, so easily corrupted by evil. You are the spider, the overseer of all who hang in your web. For them, you must take this burden, as did your mother before you and her father before her. For them, you must be no more of individual soul. You belong to the curse and are thus an empty vessel. You will bend to the power of the spirit and lo, you will die for the cursed. They will be able to live, because even now as we speak you, our darling child, are being consumed by the spirits. The soul that would devour them devours you. You, are their sacrifice. Our sacrifice. Our hope.'

You never even gave me a choice. I was a child. I was innocent. And if what you said was true than you took innocence in purity and tainted it, corrupted it. Made me what I am.

Why wasn't I given a choice? Why do I have to die for your curse?

'You are the Sohma's hope, Akito. And until the day of your death you must never relent in the task that is set out before you. Be for us, what your mother was. What your Grandfather was and all those we proceeded you. But you must understand; though you are the master of this family you are the vessel in which the evil spirits find their nourishment. Your suffering must never influence whoever follows you, for them the slate must be clean. When a spider lays it's eggs, it dies after completing it's task. And thus the children are born, to fly into the passing breeze with nary an idea of how they came to be or fear of what to expect. Spiders are fearless, regret nothing and live by instinct. Not based on the proceedings of the spider before them and so on. That's why we cannot show you any pictures of your mother, do you see? That's why her letters, and her diary, and everything she owned have been incinerated by fire. You must not live your life on a basis of how she did. We fashion you. We are your teachers. And when you die, you too will be forgotten. You shall be swept aside into the waves of history as though you never were at all. But do not bemoan your fate. Try not to be sad. Easier said than done, we know but this is the reality of it, child. Though you might spread your arms wide and declare with all the might of your voice that you do exist, you shall die and your body shall crumble to dust beneath the feet of those walking behind you. They will go on and not even remember you. Memories too, can be taken from the mind if we so wish it. Do not struggle in your web, my dear. Shout all you want, but this web was woven long before you came kicking and screaming into this world and it will not yield to the insignificant power of the Vessel.'

They had told him to go to sleep after that. And despite what dreams may come he was to sleep. Never mind that fear that stilled his limbs, making him shiver and curl up under the sheets, watching the branches of the cherry blossom tree silhouetted against the moon outside. The branch bobbed before the glass, like a clawed hand preparing at any second to shatter through and tear his heart from his chest. He had cried. He had called for his mother. His mother that would never come.

Akito glanced over the picture once more before placing it back inside the drawer, hidden beneath the boxer shorts and other small items of personal value. At times, Akito felt like keeping a diary just to write down what he was feeling. To erase it from his mind and onto paper. He could hide it, keep it from their sight so that someday maybe someone would find it and know his story. And his name.

But the rational part of him knew that nothing could be hidden from the elders. They would tear apart his room once he had vacated it, ripping open drawers and emptying out his cupboards if only to destroy a few meager pieces of paper or a photograph or two. Whilst they were conducting their search, they would find one picture frame with a newspaper clipping of a woman inside. A beautiful woman with long black hair, eyes of the same color and an aloof expression.

Akito tried to visualize her prying up a floorboard and replacing it with another. His chest swelled with pride at the thought. It was something of a subtle spit in the face of those self-righteous elders, who hovered in the background tugging the invisible strings. Though everything she was had been destroyed, in the end she found a way to leave her mark.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps he was merely clutching at straws.

Akito examined his nails and picked at the drying clumps of blood beneath them. He felt awful about what he had done to Kureno. Even if the boy was only a servant he still felt like he was his only friend in the world and this was how he sought to repay him? With violence?

He would apologize. Make things right between them, even if it took vocalization to do it. He was death on legs anyway, so what the Hell was a little dignity between family masters and chicken slaves?

Later though. Always time later.

Right now, he needed a shower. He felt unclean.

Kureno nursed the icepack over his swollen eye, registering the cold blister that seeped through his skin. He was sitting in his room, on the crest of his bed facing out towards the window. The room itself was typically devoid of characterization, so much so that you might almost mistake it for a spare room that no one used. Almost. There was a pile of papers on the cabinet in the corner of the room, with various sketches and paintings adorning them. On the bedside table sat a plain picture frame with a photo of a girl glaring out at him, her expression challenging even frozen as it was. She was around 17 years of age, pretty but sober looking with blonde hair that reached to the curve of her shoulder blades and bangs that concealed one eye from sight. She wore neither makeup nor earrings, and was dressed in a blue school uniform. Uo always told him she could have given him a better picture, one with her wearing a nice dress and makeup, but Kureno fondly replied that he liked that one. There were no falsities about it. With Arisa Uotani, what you see is what you get and that photo showed exactly who she was.

Uo apparently was Tohru Honda's friend, and whilst Kureno had never had the pleasure of meeting the charming young lady renowned among the Sohma household he heard enough about her, and her mother, from Uo.

Kureno lay back on the bed. He was never quite sure how to class his and Uo's... relationship. They had met at a grocery store whilst he had been stocking up on supplies for the Main House. He enjoyed his shopping trips, being mildly agoraphobic meant that there weren't many places he could go that wouldn't result in panic attacks but the grocery store was one of those safe places. Kureno had been browsing the fruit and vegetable section when he had spotted her. She was tall, though not nearly as tall as he. But tall for a girl her age nonetheless. To his eyes she was positively stunning and he had felt a dull throb of unfamiliar emotions swelling within him at the very sight of her. It was these feelings that caused him to, somewhat embarrassingly, drop his groceries. Fruit and veggies everywhere. She had laughed and those slight lines that curled up to frame the corners of her mouth seemed to only highlight her features. Give her an edge. She was wild and carefree. Mocking of the world. A Yin to his Yang you might say. Self confident and proud, whilst he was more humble and conservative. Respectful. She had been a breath of fresh air and he had breathed it in as eagerly as he could. They had even gone to lunch together, and he had not panicked whilst being in a new place which was a major deal for him. Then... he had almost kissed her.

He wondered if things would be different if he had kissed her that day. Even though he knew it was pointless to reflect on the past, sometimes he couldn't stop from dwelling on his own personal issues like this. But he had seen what had happened to Hatori and Kana and he would not risk the same harm coming to Uo, because of Akito's possessive personality. Kureno wished they could be like two teenage lovers; he creeping out of his window in the dead of the night and walking to her place in the dark. To stand below her room before her house and throw stones gently against her windowpane until she awoke. She would shimmy down the drainpipe, take his hand and together they could run away together, away from the turmoil's that encased everything around them. He wanted to be someone that she could depend on. Someone... someone she could trust.

But Kureno wasn't that someone. He was too fearful... too selfishly fearful. Plus his phobia made running away kind of difficult. He was sure Uo only thought of him as a friend anyway. Well... at least she had. Now who knew? Her last words to him had been; "Yeah?! Well screw you too, buddy!!" and then she had stormed away from him, hair tossed in the breeze like a care free hand had just reached down and tousled it. In anger, she was so beautiful and he hadn't wanted to hurt her. Not ever. But when you were one of the Sohma's, cursed, it really was inevitable.

Kureno sighed and lay back against the pillows, absently running one hand over the scar on his left hip. The scar tissue had healed long ago, but the particulars of that wound were still fresh in his mind.

Memories... his memories remained, whilst so many within the clan had been destroyed by The Touch of the Dragon. Yet he went on, living each day with the key to so many secrets buried in his mind. And nobody knew. Nobody.

The rooster transferred the hand from his skin to deep within the confines of his pocket. From within the fabric he withdrew a plaited leather cord, withered a bit by age and mildew. Nothing a good wash couldn't clean, he figured. He held the cord up and examined the central piece. A wooden carving about as thick as a match box with irregular holes peppered down along the front of it. The designer had fashioned the wood into a fine angel carving, with delicately crafted wings done in the minutest detail. Each feather had been individually chiseled and the wings arched high above the tiny face chipped in at the top. The angels eyes were closed as though he or she (it did not appear gender direct) were deep in contemplation and it's two tiny hands were folded up tight against it's little wooden chest. But even this extraordinary detail was not alone what made the piece so breathtaking. In the clasp of the angels hands, sat a fine red jewel, untainted by age. A garnet. It flickered in the light like a winking eye, shining as perfectly as if he had just had it polished. Yet he had done no such thing. This had been the treasure Kureno had taken from beneath the floorboards and it had been the jewel that had attracted him. What a marvelous trinket! And to think, it had been lying abandoned beneath the floorboards in the old prayer room! Whoever had misplaced this must have fretted dreadfully over the loss of such a fine piece of jewelry when they found the cord not slung securely knotted around his or her neck. And by some grim chance of luck it had come to be in Kureno's hand. He felt satisfied with himself. It reminded him of being a little boy again, how the discovery of something lost by another was a huge adventure. Only this wasn't a stray coin or pencil he had stumbled across, oh no. This was much more exciting.

Kureno turned it idly in his hand, examining it from all sides. It seemed to be in extremely good condition, if you didn't count the dirt that had seeped in between all the cracks and curves. He abandoned his ice pack for a moment and used the sleeve on his opposing arm to lightly rub at the jewel, seeing if he could make it gleam even more. As Kureno pulled away he did a sudden double take, hoping he had imagined what he thought had just happened.

Surely... the angels' eyes didn't open?

Were they closed before? He was sure they were. But now, the lids were wide set with two tiny eyes gazing out, painted in with a minute little brush. But the strokes were done so perfectly. Too perfectly. It looked real, like real tiny eyes. He stared down into them, noting that they were green with a lighter tone for the pupil and that they weren't focused on him. He wasn't sure why he expected them to be, but he was more frightened by the fact that they seemed to be gazing off into the hallway to his left. Kureno turned to look and he felt a sudden coldness pressing down on him. Terrible sadness and something like... triumph. Freedom after long entombment. He tried to turn his head, to twist it away as cold fingers brushed up his cheek and rested on the crest of his ear. Breaths fell on him though there was no one there besides him to draw breath. Coldness... the fingers traced trails across his cheeks and fingered his hair. A burst of courage, or perhaps fear raced through him and Kureno turned to look. But of course, there was no one there.

Only shadows, slipping silently up the hallway towards the upper area of the Main House.

"It... it can't be..." Kureno croaked.

The angel closed its eyes.

It didn't long for Akito to determine the root of his unclean feeling.

He prepared for his shower in a ritualistic fashion; long robes falling to the floor around his slim form as he shrugged them from the upward rise of his shoulders. The material slithered off of him like snakeskin being shed, rippling in brief poetic patterns as they fell around his feet. He removed his boxer shorts and threw them aside, running his hand through his hair as he reached out to twist the hot tap on. The water fizzled out; cold at first than gradually increasing to a whiter heat infused fluid that drizzled down in tempo. Akito watched the process, before turning on the cold tap. He adjusted each one until the water was a perfect heat and then he delicately stepped in, cane resting up against the wall in exchange for the safety rail within the shower stall. Akito sighed as the water rushed over him, the heat wonderfully scalding. A fine water temperature for him was boiling and as a result, the bathroom got quite steamed up. Already a thin trail of condensation was starting to form on the glass.

Akito's bathing habits were wide open to speculation amongst the Sohma clan. A bath was all well and good, but sometimes Akito preferred to shower. It was a habit of his that caused raised eyebrows amongst the other family members, but nothing they cared to object to. Let Akito do as he wanted. He'd be dead soon anyway.

He didn't care if they couldn't bring themselves to understand. He sometimes found it a little embarrassing to admit it even to himself.

It was so simple. Such a simple thing was all it took to make him feel human. Such a sexual thing, showering. The reddening of the skin similar to the flushing of the body that would occur during love making, or so he had read. The water cascading over every narrow arch and sliding down between milk white thighs to caress him in a way that no other person ever would. Akito tilted back his head, exposing the delicate breadth of his chest to the pounding water. He shook his head, sending water spinning out from each wet strand, eyes closed to savour the stimulation.

All his troubles were washing away. Washing away down the drain along with the dirt from his skin. Washing away the past...

Akito clasped a hold of the sponge on the shower tray and scrubbed it across his body, leaning down to stroke the entire length of his legs. Despite his sheltered existence, he was nonetheless quite flexible and was able to brush the sponge down to the tips of his toes without even bending his knees. It was an exquisite feeling this freedom, whatever you might call it and Akito relished it. He wanted nothing more than to preserve these emotions forever and carry them with him through every endeavor of his life. But it wasn't that easy. Human's, he knew were purely sexual creature's, driven by the fire of their loins wanting nothing more than to quench the heat of their own whorish bodies. Nowadays sex was nary alone a tool for reproduction, oh no. It was satisfying, rich, like hot water dripping from naked limbs and barely parted lips. Akito had been taught by the Elder's that sex was a tool of the God's, that human's must do his will with their desire but only so to reproduce. He was taught the importance of this and as such had never skirted their expectations of him. Not even with the truth.

But they had figured it out anyway. Hadn't they.

Akito felt his body tremble, even beneath the heat. I am a vessel for the children; he recited wordlessly, though his lips mouthed each letter independently. Make me fruitful, that I might bear an heir before my death and thus the cycle continues. My life is theirs, may I give them the next life to make also theirs. Make my loins heat too, when it is asked of me.

The recital didn't calm him down. It made him ill. He wasn't just an empty vessel, Goddammit! He was human!! He reasserted this by stroking his hand down his body and resting it on his inside thigh, a blasphemous defiant move. His fingers wrapped around the inert shaft and he stroked, feeling the reaction creeping through his body. He needed this... to reassert his life. To reassert himself more than anything. But even this simple pleasure couldn't draw his mind away from those stubborn thoughts. For nineteen years I have been alone whilst all those around me found warmth in the arms and beds of others! There has been no one for me to hold close and to love! No one to touch me and place their hands on my body in the manner of a lover. No one to say, 'I love—' no, no there is no love for the cursed now is there? Only this barely restrained lust that swells within me that I am unable to quell...'

"He'll never be able to give us child. He is one of the Impure."

He had been twelve. Walking up the hallway of the main house when he had heard the man speak from inside one of the dark rooms. Akito had tiptoed up to the door and pressed his eye against it, listening to the conversation that he was obviously intended not to hear.

"How can you know this for sure?" The woman had questioned. She was one of Akito's teachers. The man, the family doctor before Hatori obviously. But not his father.

"I know." Had been the spiteful reply, as if the words were formed with acidic spittle. "I look at him, and I know. He'll turn out to be nothing more than a filthy, God shamed faggot. I can see it. He will not be able to give us an heir, if his orientation lies in the wrong direction."

"He could still impregnate a woman. Do not jump to conclusions my friend, for even if he is... impure he can still fill a woman's womb."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You know we can not take chances with the bloodline or allow it free reign of it's manipulative games. I came to you today to request permission alone."

"Permission for what, might I ask?"

Couldn't think about it anymore. Akito pressed his face against the tiles of the shower, groaning and near sobbing at the indignation of his memories, his hand releasing his thickening desire and leaving it hot and unfulfilled. All the while he had been scrubbing his body, scrubbing in a way that could only be compared to the intense salvaging of his skin seven years ago... The white was now red raw. Akito clasped his petite shoulders with his hands, trying to close himself off as though someone was reaching out for him again. His chin tucked in tight against his chest. He coughed, water trickling down his face in eternal streams, washing down the drain, washing away the dirt.

But the past was still there.

The horror of that night, seven years ago. Waking up with the doctor on top of him. He moved to cry out but the other man had placed his hand over his mouth and pinched his nose shut. A murmur was all that escaped, then a muffled scream as the syringe came into view, the sharp point then driven into the mass of muscle where his neck met the shoulders. Akito had bucked, squirmed and cried as the doctor pushed the plunger home and some foul fluid had been injected into his bloodstream.

Scrub. Just keep scrubbing.

The drug soon accomplished it's task and his movements had slowed completely to an extinction, so that he just lay there, mouth agape and useless as the hand moved away. Not a twitch was to his control. Akito lay there, exposed, helpless. The dreaded needle came out and the Doctor, he was nothing else to Akito, set it on the bedside table and picked up one of those twist cap little jars, like you might use for a urine sample.

Scrub. Make it go away. Just... keep... scrubbing...

He had pulled the sheets down and lifted Akito's kimono to waist height, no more. Just enough to slip his hand under. Just enough...

And then...

...And then...

Akito gave a hoarse cry and threw the sponge to the shower floor, pressing his face hard into the tile and repeatedly knocking it with his skull. He wanted to scrub his body until his epidermis came off and all that was left was gleaming wet muscle, protruding bone and bitter hated memories. He wanted to run far, far away without the aid of his cane. It didn't matter that the doctor had spared him the horror of being fucked. He wasn't interested in anything like that and somehow, this made it worse than if it had been rape.

"Permission to extract the seed from the boy, so that in the future if all else fails we can still artificially inseminate."

A vessel. His seed. Extract his seed. The whole thing sounded ludicrous, so much so that he had stifled a giggle outside the door at the time. And just how will you 'extract the seed?' he had smartly thought. 'Just how?'

How indeed.

"He won't let you."

"He will have no say in the matter. This is an affair of the Sohma clan. This is more important than rights, dignity, innocence. This must be done."

And it had been. Akito didn't even think that a twelve-year old could be fertile. But apparently he had been, because the doctor left him lying there, kimono hitched up, drugged, humiliated and frightened, whilst he casually left the room, screwing the cap on the jar now filled with the 'seed.' The white, life giving seed that he had been violated for all because of an assumption of his sexuality. It might not have been true, if they had been willing to wait it out rather than-

Well what did it matter? It was true after all. He was an 'impure' that which was shunned by the Elder's as being fruitless bastard children who were slaves to their sexual drive, rather than the other way around. They were willing to give their body up for a worthless cause. Blasphemous, naive bastard children.

Akito had become so angry every time they ranted on with the subject, making their derogative, opprobrious comments. He'd wanted to jump up and scream; 'It's not my fault! Do you understand me?! We don't ask to be this way! I can't help the way I am!!" He'd been taught that you could help the way you were. People only chose to be gay, to be rebellious or to spit in the God's face. It was trendy nowadays and people were too self-absorbed to resist the twisted pit of intrigue and evil. Akito didn't understand. It wasn't fair that so many others could like the correct people, marry and be with whom they wanted, but not only was he supposed to marry and impregnate a woman chosen for him by the Elder's he wasn't even allowed to embrace his own sexuality. He wasn't supposed to like... boys. He couldn't be one of the impure. He just couldn't be.

But he was.

'He'll turn out to be nothing more than a filthy, God shamed faggot.'

Akito hung his head, water dripping from the tips of his bangs. 'Why...?' He thought. 'Why do I prove you right? Why couldn't I prove you wrong?'

His thoughts were deterred by an unusual squeaking sound. Akito looked up a little, searching for the source of the disturbance. It was unusually loud, even over the sound of the pounding water. His eyes picked up nothing at first, though they raked each and every surface of the bathroom unwaveringly. A moment passed and he was about to turn his attention toward the task of washing his hair and nails when a shadow passed over the doorway. The movement was so quick that Akito barely had time to look to it before he was struck from behind. 'Struck' is perhaps an incorrect reconstruction of the action. The force, though indeed powerful, was not cruel. It was faster than it was violent and it thrust Akito into the corner of the shower stall, slotting him into place like a jigsaw piece. Akito grunted in surprise and then pain as his nose and cheeks pressed up against the inclining tiles, forcing him to tilt his head upwards to keep from getting crushed. He tried to turn his eyes to see what was attacking him but there was nothing to see, even from the corner of his sight. The shower was empty. Yet that force was still there. That essence... it was still pressed against him!

Akito felt terror flush through him, the heat of his body dominant now he had been moved from beneath the stream of the water. He struggled, trying to get away from whatever it was that held him there but it was a futile effort. He was simply too weak. Besides... how do you fight something that is completely intangible? There was no ankle to kick no solar plexus to grind the bony part of his elbow into. There was nothing!

Nothing... yet, there was undeniably something. Akito gasped as a pressure kneaded into the flesh of his long back, tracing the indent of his spine up from the crease of his buttocks. It felt like... a finger. An invisible finger. Akito tried to escape the touch by stretching up as far as he could on his tippy toes, grimacing as the touch moved with him. It reached his neck and another sensation took his place. A hot one, unfamiliar in context to him but not wholly undesirable. A sharp pain, teeth scraping his skin, biting and sucking. Nipping. Akito groaned despite his fear, his hands squelching and sliding against the wet tiles as he searched for anything to grasp a hold of. The invisible finger was trailing patterns along his back; sharp pain coming into his skin as if a fingernail were carving symbols into his skin. An additional touch; a second hand rubbing at his neck and then moving onto his chest, sliding across already hardening nipples and moving down the slim chest towards the pelvis. A little cry escaped Akito's lips and he was instantly ashamed. Not so much for breaking his vow of silence, but because of the sound itself. It was a pleasurable sound, a sexual sound. He'd never been touched like this before, not ever and it didn't seem to matter the particulars of it. That the thumb tracing the triangular shape of his pubic area and the hand carving down his soft white thigh was not even there didn't matter. An invisible person was doing this. No... that wasn't logical.

He almost giggled. He lived in a family where people turned into animals if hugged by a member of the opposite sex and now he was deciding what was logical and what was not? What a hilarious thought.

There was only one alternative. Insanity had finally taken hold completely. It was a much more feasible thought than that of the Invisible Man swooping into his shower to give him a bit of loving. He'd finally lost the plot. That had to be it. This wasn't really happening, no way. It was all in his mind.

For once, my mind's not a bad place to be Akito thought as both hands scratched his body and the feeling of the kiss on his neck moved to beneath his chin. He whimpered, scared but comforted somewhat by the thought that this was just another illusion. For all he knew, he was still dreaming.

Wakey, wakey Akito... Wakey, wakey...

One of those hands that was there, but not really there, found Akito's as they squeaked against the wet tiles and twisted them up above his head, lifting him up even higher on the brink's of his toes. Akito whimpered as the other hand slid down his back like a kid on a slippery dip and caressed his soft buttocks. The hair on the back of Akito's neck rose as a cold sad breath blew against it... and... he heard it. The sound of a breath being sucked it and deposited into the steam about him. His eyes teared, as coldness seemed to batter at his mind, vast emotions superior to his own that blocked his mouth and nose and choked him. He felt fear now... his own mostly, but there was something else weighing in on him and now instead of embracing the hold that he lay down to insanity, he twisted against it, crying wordless screams. The tight fists didn't lessen their grip and so horribly he thought back seven years ago to the doctor... oh God, no... The doctor was dead now... this couldn't be...

"Let me go..." He sobbed and hated himself so much for speaking.

Denial. Somehow he got the impression that someone was standing right behind him, shaking its' head and pressing in even closer. The breath was inside of him, teeth biting and fingernails raking his reddened skin as if to lay some branded claim to him. Akito pressed himself into the corner as far as he could go, fear finally taking hold. This wasn't an illusion. This was real. There was something else in there with him. He didn't know what to do to escape this ... thing, whatever it was. Should he pray? Should he fight some more? Or simply let it have its way?

"Stop..." He gasped, scrunching his eyes shut and trying to pull his hands down. Inexplicably they were released and he bundled them in tight to his chest, rubbing at the red marks encircling his wrists. Pressure around his center, the thing holding him tight. Embracing him.

Forgive me. Don't fear, don't fear.

A cold breeze in amidst the heat and a voice that used feelings instead of words speaking to him, within his own unreliable head.

Sugar-Skin... you are so sad. So very sad. I only wanted to give you something to smile about... no fear did I intend for you. No tears...

The pressure lifted and Akito started as the shadow caused by the line of the sink in the sun suddenly stretched across the room, gathering other shadows to it before disappearing under the door. The shadows that were eradicated soon reappeared in the light, as if the presence had only borrowed them for a split second. Akito could not move for the terror that stilled his entire body.

Forgive me. No fear, no tears, my little one. No tears.

For a moment, he stood there, frozen to the spot by terror. Then adrenaline took over and he plunged back into the shower stream, scalding himself as the temperature had been upped for some reason. Akito didn't care. He slipped and nearly fell flat on his face but was able to steady himself on the bar in the shower just in time. It was then that he realized he was panting erratically, breaths tearing out of him defiantly and he placed a hand over his chest as though this would distinguish control. He also had an erection.

What shame.

He leant there and hung his head, panting and damning himself. He prayed to whomever cared that whatever had happened was just an illusion. A concoction of his elaborately fucked up mind. But somehow... he didn't believe this. Like that figure he had seen in the woods before, he could not simply swallow the deception he tried to force upon himself.

This had happened. It had been real.

Were the two events connected?

Akito closed his eyes and bit his lip. "Who are you?" He hissed. His voice still sounded eerily alien to himself after being silent for so long. A moment passed and then there was a loud squeaking noise, just like the one he had heard before he had been attacked. Akito looked up and opened his eyes, each one widening as he saw the source of the sound.

The mirror dripped with condensation, but a series of lines were cut through it, the kind you would do with your finger on the foggy window of car. There was kanji there, one that had been there longer, indicated by the long trails of water that had stripped away from it. They were both quite vivid though, and their message disturbingly clear.

The older one said; "Creak, creak, creak."

The newer one read, "Lucky."

Akito fainted.

Author's note: Well what can I say? I do love my wankst. No Aya and Shigure in this chapter, but don't worry they get the next one all to themselves so no stressing out you mad Aya/Gure fans you! Interested in opinions, mostly of the positive and constructive persuasion and preferably no flames so if you want to offer any of the prior two might I draw your attention to the handy dandy little rectangle shaped bar on the left of your screen. Hope you all enjoyed, next chapter coming soon!