Living Tortured

Dedicated to Aika-chan (FrozenBlueRose), who told me "Sometimes, living tortured is worse than dying." i love her so much.

Warnings:
1) Lunacy.
2) Nightmares.
3) Something so close to incest you can taste your mother's tongue, but not incest.
4) Crack-pairing. (One of those "What are you smoking and where can i get some?" pairings.)
5) Sexual implications.
6) No shounen ai. (GASP!)

Genre: Mystery, drama, tidbit of horror.

Author's Notes: Aika told me to do something that messed around with time, so i suggested this pairing and she agreed. Yayness, 'cause i'm actually sort of fond of this freaky-ass pairing. Amazing as it is, this pairing is not shounen ai. Though, people that are sensitive to things incestuous or thereupon may want to skip this chapter. Remember, i warned you...

A shuddering breath preceded a sharp sensation within him, something extreme and potent, like the thrust of a knife into his chest, but nowhere near as painful. This was akin to violent pain, something just as ripe and awakening, but far from the same sensation. Perhaps it was more like a drug, the illegal kind especially. Not like alcohol or cigarettes, but like heroin or cocaine, that euphoric feeling that fluttered through the system like a butterfly, as each individual flap of its wings caused a typhoon halfway across the world. And he felt a flood of this through his body, like a thousand, no, a million monarch butterflies dancing through his body and causing typhoons of feeling inside. And it all struck him at once, with the finale of a series of repetative movements.

Perspiration was trickling down all over his body, his breaths were harsh and exhausted, he was spent of his energy and wanted dearly to sleep. And soon he would, after this paradise of feeling had wandered away.

If he felt so good, why were there tears running down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow below his head? What pillow? He was hovering over another, wasn't he? Was he? Tears and tears and tears fell from his crystaline orbs, supporting that agony inside that this was so wrong, but it couldn't be changed. That this ecstacy was tainted and foul.

The shroud of euphoria fell away, leaving behind only the tears. A short sniff was followed quickly by bitten lips, a barrier to force down the wail that was soon to rise. What was happening to his dreams, his memories, his past and his present? Why were these visions of physical "love" and familiar eyes coming to him, so brimming with that same ecstacy that he had felt? That very same ecstacy that left a sticky mess in his pajama pants. And why couldn't he place the face with those eyes? He knew the eyes so extensively, so thoroughly, but he couldn't recognized them as he felt his dream's lips fall on those that went these eyes. He could only be grateful that the other had been willing, otherwise he'd feel guilt in that semi-conscious daze that didn't allow for his conscious restrictions of human feeling. His self-made barriers against such hindrances were shattered in that dream state, leaving him open for the onslaught of tears that were now drifting down his face.

Throwing away the covers, he rose from bed and went to take a shower to clean himself of the mess in his pants. He despised this sticky feeling. He had for as long as he could remember. Normally, the mess went into another's crevice, in lieu of on his front.

The bathroom door opened up and immediately a mirror was set before his eyes, along with a digital clock-radio that others would listen to while bathing. Shortly before dawn, no one else awake, he could sit in the stream of water for hours and no one would know, he could wander outside, inside, through doors and in windows, past homes and people, by cars and storefronts. No one would know. Ever. He could—

Shaking his head, he tried to toss away the reflexes he naturally had from his living as a thief. His mind always automatically analyzed situations and advantages, choices and routes. And he couldn't suppress it, like he couldn't suppress the dreams.

A face devoid of its normal color faced him from the mirror, two emeralds embedded in it, framed by millions of threads of scarlet silk. So strong that face normally looked, so determined its eyes, so bold its frown, so graceful its smile, so full of life. And here it looked cadaverous because of a simple dream causing disturbing images that shouldn't have been at all disquieting. Those experiences had been quotidian enough, so he should have been accustomed to the concept. But there was something so wrong, something that tried to break free, into his memory, within that dream.

The door was shut and the stream of shower water began. It warmed quickly, so he stepped inside, not bothering to remove his pants as they needed to be cleansed as well. It was unorthodox in the human realm, but since when was he one to obey human customs?

Always the same eyes stared back at him, warm chocolate eyes, like steaming hot cocoa, minus the typical white film covering the surface. A fair complexion around those eyes, but then his vision was cut short and the eyes disappeared as his own closed with the rush of drug-like euphoria. It had washed over him like the spray of water was now, rushing throughout his body like a bursting dam. And those eyes had vanished.

The vital piece to the puzzle, what would bring all those dreams into perspective and reveal the memory, was the realization of the face with those eyes, the person who had that face, and knowing who exactly he'd found himself with that night and why he felt such a disrupting feeling now, of all times. The identity of that one-time lover was so necessary, yet so far from his reach that he felt subsufficient. Normally he could come to a conclusion where these thing were concerned, but he was genuinely lost.

The warmth of the water soaked into his pants and his hair, the soothing temperature made hotter simply because it was wet. The thought led to another and another, reminding him of so many experiences, too many to count. It reminded him of his childhood, playing in a friend's pool while adults watched from a short distance away. He remembered observing as others attempted to bathe a cat, though he knew that it wasn't an intelligence thing to do and had stood back as the others got attacked. He remembered the first time his mother had bathed him after they returned from the hospital. His mother had stroked fingers through the peach fuzz on his head and whispered words of astonishment, of how his hair was so unique and it must have been his father's doing. He'd been confused about that, but had left the statement to die from his memory. He remembered floating in the warm womb before birth, how he'd emerged and the first time he opened his eyes fully, he found himself staring at eyes that looked like hot cocoa.

With wide eyes, he found his mind wandering over so many experiences that some got confused with the others. But a single idea was coursing over his immediate consciousness. His eyes and his hair color. They weren't normal for his nationality. Meaning there was intervention in his genetic makeup. It all made sense. It all made horrific, terrible sense.

In the instances of some demonic reproduction, there is no dominant or recessive genes. The genes mix and match to form different DNA entirely. The natural colors blend as if they were wet paint on paper. Red and blue make purple, yellow and purple make brown; manipulation of melding two colors may eventually create red, and two other colors could create green. So, the dead man cremated and dubbed his genetic father was not his genetic father. His genetic father was a pile of bones in the demon realm, once a fantastic thief, now in the half-human body of his own son.

The dreams were of himself lying in bed with the one that would become his mother, wholly by accident. The dreams were that lost memory resurfacing. The dreams finally ceased as he sat by the window for years afterwards, watching the hapless landscape of human realm industrialization from inside a psychiatric institution.

That didn't turn out quite as planned, but i don't think it's too bad. i still like this pairing, though, so i'm satisfied. i also love the idea of Kurama being his own father. i come up with the oddest ideas, ne?

Okay, no, it's not incest, 'cause Youko Kurama wasn't related to Shiori when this happened. Not incest. But damn close...damn close.

Thanks! Mana (HalfMetal Homunculus), miyako14, Nyte Kit, and taku-chans. Yayness for you.

Seems like i should change this fic's title to Variations of Kurama Torture. 'Cause most people seem to be asking for versions on how to torture the fox. O.o

10:45 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time. U.S. Wednesday, October 19, 2005.

Owakare.

Chiisai Mu.
Little Nothing.