Monochromatic Whispers ~ Simple
Disclaimers: Not mine, seriously.
Author: Avium
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Crawford x Ken
Fic length: 2/5
Timeline: Indefinite
Author's note: If you're looking for a humour fic, you won't find it here. Trust me on that.
Written in Ken's 2nd person POV.
-@-@-@-@-
Anger doesn't even begin to describe your feelings, does it? It's sort of a slow burn – the kind the insistently chews you from inside out… No, that doesn't quite hit the mark.
Let's try using a phrase to identify your rage: how about 'FUCKING MAD'?
Ah, well. Close enough for you, I guess. To explain the surge of emotions swirling around in you will require one to descend to the deepest chasms where dead, long-forgotten words are buried. And you must excuse me for not wanting to go down to that place – I may get mugged by a Choler or an Umbrage. And I may not even find the word to begin describing your rage.
The cause for your anger is nothing new to you. This is because it's not the first time that you've set out to meet him for such an encounter. In fact, you even consider it to be a ritual of some sort: go to the room, wait for his precognition to kick in, get fucked and then having to wake up to face his empty half of the bed afterwards. They have a term for such events, Ken.
It's called 'routine'.
He is gone by the time you stir. It's nothing unexpected to you – you had walked into this room knowing full well the sequence of events to take place. Perhaps you can find comfort within the predictability of these matings; perhaps that is why you return to this place again and again, always fully aware of what is to follow.
It is puzzling that you actually derive comfort from routines. In your daily life you can hardly bear to live within the confines of Weiß and under the thumb of Kritiker. Flowers, mission briefings, murders; flowers, mission briefings, murders…
There is a song in there… somewhere.
Or maybe… it isn't the routine but rather, something else that you find pleasurable?
You don't want to think too much about this – you will be wanted back at the shop soon enough. So you prop your elbows up under yourself to hoist your body out of bed, only to have your gaze settling over the thin sheet of paper on the pillow beside you.
Steady fingers reach over for the note, retrieving it from the cold fabric. Involuntarily you shiver as your skin registers for the first time the temperature in the room. The blanket was pulled over you while you were sleeping had been a substantial buffer against the cold, although you cannot for the life of you remember how it came to cover you in the first place…
… No, you decided – it isn't like him to do such a thing. As far as you are concerned, he is only in it for the sex. Didn't he tell you that the first time he took you for his own? You have no reasons to think that he may have changed his mind afterwards.
You turn your thoughts away from the memories – they are too laughable to have you waste time pondering over. As your fists start to ball the dry crinkle of the paper draws your attention back to it. Pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, you bring the note before you to scan its contents, fingers smoothing over its surface as you read its contents in silence. There are but two neat rows of black inked words. Maybe they are just a grouping of letters, or maybe they mean more. You don't know, and you don't really want to care either.
Is that why you look away as you crush the note into a tiny ball within your fist?
A tight pressing of your lips together as you finger the little paper ball absentmindedly, then a 3-point toss into the wastepaper basket near the entrance to the washroom. You look away as soon as the paper ball disappears among the small pile of tissues. In fact, you never once cast your eyes towards the note as you enter and exit the washroom, determinedly holding your gaze fast ahead of you. You are resolved to not remember his callous attitude.
But still you look back once – just once – as you close the door to the room. You stop somewhat apprehensively, head turning around slowly and uncertainly as turquoises return to look at the wicket-woven wastepaper basket. A low sign escapes you, your expression resembling that of a man hoping against reality for the note to speak. But eventually logic overrides desire and you pull yourself forcefully away from the ever-silent abode.
There are no spoken words to be had from a handwritten note.
-@-@-@-@-
You are attending to the potted plates with the red-handled clipper as usual, trimming off dead buds and dried leaves. You pause to pick up the fallen pieces between each swish of the blades, performing your task in silence. The lunchtime crowd is disappearing fast, making it easier for you to pick up snatches of words here and there. Around you the store buzzes with drifts of conversations – each sentence seeming to float off into Neverland halfway through. None of them make sense to you. At least, not when you are trying to concentrate on your work.
They know better than to disturb you when you are welding the clippers. Even Aya glares seem softer whenever he sees you so absorbed in your work. Before the team settled into comfortable familiarity, once too often have they tried to engage you in simple banter while you are busy. It usually resulted in you giving them a look of bewilderment while uttering a characteristic "huh?", and then they will slap their foreheads theatrically while bemoaning your lack of attentiveness (Aya will settle for a disgruntled snort before walking away). Either that, or you quite literally drop what you were doing and end up with a typical Hidaka mess. With time came the illusion that a working Hidaka Ken shall not be disturbed, lest he makes another dramatic display of clumsiness.
You used to ponder over the significance being labelled a klutz, but after a while the label no longer bothers you. After all, they never seem to consider the possibility that you are really trying to do some serious thinking when you are attending to the plants; it's been much easier for you to do that once the shop tasks settled into mechanical motions. Being rudely jerked out of your thoughts usually resulted in the abovementioned blunders. But to try and convince them of your cerebrally inclined pastime may earn you a bout of rude, disbelieving staring. No, thanks. Everyone needs a little quiet time, even you. And you especially relish the silence that follows you as you perform your duties.
You'll enjoy it for as long as it lasts.
"You're kidding – 77 roses at this time of the year? Where did this jerk go during Valentine's Day?" You don't even have to turn around to imagine the raised eyebrows on the tall blonde's face. There goes the silence that you so crave.
Fuck Yohji.
Secretly, you wonder what is the huge fuss over an order of roses. The thought of a shortage crosses your mind briefly, but you recall seeing to a new shipment of those red blossoms yesterday…
"What is the ruckus about, Yohji? Did the customer forget to pay?" You hear Aya's voice cutting into the rapidly dispersing hush. Quietly, you remain crouching over the drooping pot of geraniums, fingers slowly trailing along the sad-looking petals. With your train of thought so abruptly derailed, you find yourself now filled with a strange curiosity to know how the rest of this exchange will play out. But you don't want them to think that you are eavesdropping either.
The slow but sure mutilation of the geranium ensures as your fingers squeeze a little too hard on the delicate petals.
"Oh yes, the customer paid alright. It's just that it's strange to order so many roses without including a card with the bouquet. He even made a request to leave the stupid thorns on… wait – there's a name on the payment receipt. Actually, it's an initial. Want to put a complimentary note card in there since this is a large order?"
77 roses and not even an uttering of the customer's name? Another one of the odd Romeo-wannabe types, you figure. But this one… he sounds shady. You've never been very good at picking up vibes from around you, especially not from an unseen face, but this customer intrigues you – a lot.
Silently, you rise to your feet and turn to face them, your expression revealing that you have a good idea of what the entire conversation is about – a careless dropping of the unconcerned mask that you wore only moments ago. Yohji seems rather stunned by the fact that you have been listening to them all along, but he offers a kind smile while gesturing you over. Automatically, your feet carry you over to the two tall florists.
Mustering up the tone of someone who is both confused and curious, you utter the first question that comes to mind - "When did the order come in?"
In reply, the blonde fishes into his apron pocket, rooting out two slightly crumpled sheets before handing it over to you. "Just about 30 minutes ago by fax. The confirmation receipt for the bank transfer came right after that. Man, what a big spender. I wonder who the lucky girl is…" Yohji grins while looking at you. But you don't return his gaze – you are too busy reading through the printouts. On the payment transfer receipt you find the information that you so seek.
Your heart skips a beat when you mentally read aloud the customer's initials.
How many people are there in Japan with such a unique initial? Your mind keeps going back to a certain pair of molten ambers, but at the same time the rational part of you is just screaming, "He's not going to be stupid enough to order flowers from YOUR workplace!"
Your fingers press harder into the paper, causing small fingernail marks to be impressed into the white surface…
"No," Aya's voice cuts through your thoughts, "If he didn't ask for a card; don't be a busybody by including one. Just get the order packed up and delivered… did he say when and where?"
Yohji reaches over to take the paper from you, tugging at it with little force. At first you resist his attempts almost unconsciously, hands clamping down over the sheets mechanically while still looking down at the black fonts. But none of the words are being absorbed right now – the sea of questions forming within you is threatening to wipe out your line of physical vision. You are seeing the words, but they appear to be blurry and untouchable as if in a dream.
"Oi, Ken. Let go of the paper. I'll give you more carbon to inhale later if you like, okay?" The teasing tone reaches you at last, and with a slight flush over your cheeks you relinquish your hold over the paper. To be caught daydreaming over pieces of paper is not going to sit well with Aya.
The blonde lifts the paper up to Aya, pointing at a set of neatly typed-out words on the order form.
"It's this hotel about 6 stations from here. It's got to be there by 5 o'clock today, but I don't know if Omi will be back with the scooter by then…" Yohji doesn't look exactly thrilled with the prospects of making a delivery with his set of wheels.
You lean over to look at the address being pointed out; causing Aya to shift slightly to one side to accommodate your slow but sure advances into his personal space. But you are not aware that you are invading his personal space, are you? You just want to look at what is on the paper.
A sudden dryness rises and smashes hard against your throat once you register the address. The dull thudding of your heart seems to jump a beat as you re-read the address. Then you close your eyes, counting slowly to 5 before opening them to re-read it – almost as if you expect the words to morph into something else in the meantime. To change into anything but the address you *think* you are seeing now…
Okay, maybe it skips six beats instead as turquoise pools carefully assess the fax in silent denial. But there is no hiding of the shock written across your features. A slight shifting of Aya's body slaps you back to reality – you have no reasons to be gawking at an order in such a manner. It'll only make the rest of the team suspicious.
"Erm, very… large order? I'll deliver it later, okay, guys?" By this time, your body is no longer listening to your head – they are working on their own accord: as your tongue proves in a very 'duh' moment. Inwardly you pray for any God out there to show some compassion and have Aya insist on Yohji doing the delivery instead, but…
"That'd be swell, Ken, thanks! I have a date at 5.30 and I don't want to be late…" Aya frowns at this point, but his annoyance goes unacknowledged by Yohji as the blonde loops an arm around your shoulders – "So come help me prepare the bouquet, will you?"
You soon find yourself being half-dragged, half-pushed towards the backroom – not quite resisting the gentle pressure against your back in your half-dazed state. Abruptly, you plant your feet firmly against the ground, causing Yohji to bump into your back awkwardly. You ignore his indignant pout as you direct a question to the retreating redhead.
"What do 77 roses mean, Aya?"
He pauses in mid-step, amethysts turning to stare back at you in his usual feline manner. Only one words leaves his lips before he tears his gaze away:
"Destiny."
-@-@-@-@-
You remind yourself that you don't believe in this 'destiny' bullshit; it is just a make-believe concept that people come up with to explain why they have to deal with the world thrusting crazy things at them.
Or as Yohji once so eloquently put it – "Karma giving you the shaft with a flagpole".
You leave your motorcycle outside the hotel, and at your usual parking spot no less. Untying the huge bouquet from the lashings around your seat, you are hit by the sheer surrealistic nature of the moment.
Your delivery is destined for the room that belongs to him. Your delivery is destined for the room that belongs to you. Your delivery is destined for the room that you two *share*. And you don't have an inkling of an idea to explain this strange turn of events.
You swallow as if nervous, or unsure. But why should you be? You know this place almost as well as your own room; you probably have the room's blueprint imprinted in your mind. Is it the lack of understanding of situation at hand that is causing you such unease? Or are you more concerned with the possibility of finding someone else in that room?
Shaking your head you decided – no, you don't want to think about it. You just want to go into the room, get the delivery signed for and then leave as soon as you arrive. You assure yourself that it is all you will do, that you won't let him play his meaningless games with your head.
Steeling yourself through a visible flexing of your arms, you hold the bouquet in front of you like a shield as you walk past the entrance. The receptionist lifts her head, her eyes betraying surprise at your arrival. You never expect her to question you when you arrive – she used to cast only a fleeting glance at you whenever you come by. But today she stares at you, holding you involuntarily to the spot before requesting in a clear voice the purpose of your visit.
"Bouquet delivery," you mumble, not quite meeting her questioning look. Her mouth takes the shape of a soundless 'O' before she waves you on your way.
You take the elevator today, oddly enough. You used to take the stairs up to the room in the past, but now you just want to get the delivery done and over with. As you arrive at the door, you automatically reach for the key you constantly keep in your pocket, but you halt in your movements the moment your fingers close over the cold metal as your lowered gaze notices the now-ajar door.
You look up, and there he is holding the door open.
Automatically you become defensive – turquoises harden with rage as they meet cool ambers. Indifference towards your anger is evident in his movements as he reaches for the delivery receipt sticking out of your pocket, withdraws it and pens his signature over the dotted line before folding it back up nicely to hand it over to you. With practiced familiarity you hand him the bouquet. He receives it wordlessly and turns to set it down on the bed. You seize the chance to steal a peek into the room, your heart thudding loudly against your ribcage as your eyes scan for signs of the bouquet's recipient.
The next thing you know he is standing before you, obstructing your view completely. How in the world does he move that fast?
He seizes the hand that you have against the doorframe, peeling your grip away easily. Your instinct is to fight back, but before you can react he moves again. His other hand reaches over to catch you around the waist and thrust you against himself. Hard flesh contacts harder flesh.
In that instant the victor is determined.
The door slams shut; a click as the automatic lock activates. But you only remember hearing the sound of his breathing – hot puffs of air against your lips before they shove against yours in a hungry kiss. You can barely recount the dizziness you feel as he lifts you off the ground and crushes you against the wall. You only remember the heat of the slowly grinding hips and your hands cupping his cheeks to pull his eating mouth closer – if it is possible to close the already non-existent distance between the two of you.
He is the first to break the intimacy, as always – jerking his head backwards to leave your kiss-bruised lips still aching and wanting. He avoids your attempt at pulling him back towards yourself, instead gripping you by your wrists. He then casts a smirk at you before spinning you down onto the bouquet-occupied bed.
The rose thorns make their presence known to your back immediately, and you try to pull yourself away from the cutting thorns as your weight crushes the ribbon against the stalks – it slices the ribbon neatly into two, fanning the roses out along the mattress. There is no place free from agony to lie on now, and you make a desperate attempt to lift yourself away from the prickling flowers. But he is on you before you know it – firmly holding you down to give your skin sufficient time to blossom with tiny red flowers. All this while he keeps one hand busy with the task of shedding you of your clothes before he turns the attention upon his own suit.
Once naked, the thorns mark you harder and quicker. You can feel the sharp points sliding around your skin, jamming against your flesh before your mortality gives itself away. Your wounded body registers the thorns puncturing your skin to drink at the fluids within; perhaps you can even hear the low "pop" signalling the roses' triumph over you. However you are only concerned with the man lording over you – the one putting you under such torment in the first place.
You know that it will be useless to plead with him. Inwardly you try to come up with a reason so that he may consider changing the location of the mating for once. You decide to point out to him that you are crushing the flowers that he had paid a small fortune for.
Then you realise that it isn't the flowers that he paid for.
Brad Crawford had paid for your arrival; he had paid for your body's services today.
Suddenly, you feel cheap. Like a whore.
You dully feel him shoving into you. You remember more the shame and disgust you experience at his trickery, although he soon cleans the anger in your mind away in a meticulously timed nip against your neck. You surrender to the swirling pool of brief pleasure in pain.
He is careful to avoid the biting flowers by pressing against your wrists as he claims you for his own. You wind up suffering the cuts in his place.
His mouth works on your shoulder for a second too long and draws your attention towards his ministering. As soon as you turn to face him he descends his mouth against yours yet again. You find yourself tasting your own blood on his tongue. How strange it is to know yourself through another…
It ends as abruptly as the event began – the warmth flooding you from the inside while your own heat splashes against his torso as you moan into the halted kiss. His tongue flicks against yours only after the pulsing between your thighs subsides; only after when he is able to concentrate on something else besides the euphoria of the mating. Breathing harshly through his mouth he pulls back to look down at you – your trembling, flushed form – before he turns to the task of making the bed somewhat more comfortable for you. Bruised and naked roses drift to the carpeted floor with each sweep of his hand.
You suddenly decide that something will change today.
Instead of lying back down against the now-cleared mattress, you sit at the edge of the bed facing away from him. The sensation of a pair of eyes burning into your back is almost too much to bear, but you resist the desire to turn around to face them. Because you know your resolve will crumble once he glares at you in his superior manner.
Silence reigns in the room for perhaps five minutes, or maybe fifteen minutes… or maybe even an hour. You're not sure, because you don't have your watch with you. At length a low, steady breathing catches your attention. Turning around, you come to face the sight of him sleeping on his side of the bed.
Strangely enough, you feel comfortable seeing him at ease…
No, you remind yourself – there is something that you have to do. You scan the room for some writing paper, but only manage to locate the same notepad that he used to address you with the last time. Then you remember keeping some old grocery receipts in your wallet – so you reach for the leather billfold and extract from it a slightly faded stub of reasonable size. Supporting the paper against your cuts-marked palm, you wince as you bring his fountain pen to the white surface. So you write large and fast.
The note prepared, you perform a quick cleanup with a nearby towel before clothing yourself to leave. Before you go you pause to take a look at him. It is so strange to see him sleeping so comfortably after what he had done. Has he no guilt? Does he have no concern at all for you?
You bite your lip, forcing yourself to look away. Of course he has no concern for you – you both know it from the start. You tug your gaze away in time with the shutting door.
It will be a few hours later before he wakes up to find your note.
"Why do you want me so much?"
~ End chapter 2
-@-@-@-@-
Author's note: The meaning of the 77 roses may have a more local context (Singapore), but I think it works well in this fic. The 'destiny' represented by the gift of 77 roses has a romance implication i.e. 'our fated love', but Crawford is taking it at a literal, impersonal level i.e. 'your fate'. So don't think too much over this.