Part 3

Sure enough, Ken showed up mid-afternoon with Kurumi in tow.

Michel really didn't see her all that often any more; she was busy with college and a part-time job at a neighborhood bookstore. She saw Yuki and Haku on campus and Ken went to visit her a lot; sometimes Chloé and even Aya went with him. Michel could have visited her, if he wanted to, but he never really wanted to. It was easy to come up with excuses; his life was hectic enough that he could always make something up -work, therapy, vet appointments for the cat, errands, chores- that wouldn't leave Ken wondering if he was just making an excuse.

She had always been closest with Ken, anyway, and Michel wondered sometimes if they didn't have a little something going on between them. She was pretty and cheerful and seemed like Ken's type, not that Michel really knew Ken's preferences all that well.

"Hi, Michel!" Kurumi smiled at him, her brown eyes sparkling. She had let her hair grow out again; it hung in two loose braids falling just down past her shoulders. She was dressed for the weather in a knee-length, flouncy skirt and a lacy little tank top, a pair of bamboo-and-satin flip-flops on her feet. She wore makeup now, sometimes, and there was no doubting she was a pretty girl, but…

Michel just didn't look at girls that way.

He didn't understand all the fuss over girls. They were loud and chattery and intimidating. They wore clothes that emphasized parts of the female body he never wanted to see (What was one supposed to do with a girl's breasts, anyway?), talked about things he never wanted to know about (Like PMS…The very initials made him shudder), and giggled over everything. Sure, they bought plenty of flowers, but they were strange, frightening beings and Michel couldn't picture a situation where he'd ever want to be with one.

Plus, they always squealed over how cute he was and speculated about his sexuality. Was he or wasn't he? That seemed to be the hot gossip topic lately; all the girls who came in whispered about him. He could always feel their eyes on him when he was working and he could hear their not-so-hushed whispers as they argued over whether he and Free were together or just very close friends. One of them had even tried to set him up with her friend, which had left him rather flustered as he attempted to explain that, while he was flattered, he certainly wasn't interested.

Kurumi had been no exception, once she got used to life in London. After her initial shyness wore off, she was always chattering, always laughing, always…being a girl. She loved shopping and once she had pieced together that Michel was oh so very gay (how it took her so long to figure out, he was never quite sure), she was always asking him to go shopping with her. Chloé would go, of course, but Michel was closer to her age and she seemed to be under the impression that he would be much more fun to shop with.

Michel liked shopping, but not with Kurumi. What did he want to look at girls' clothes for? His clothes were decidedly more male now, ever since Chloé had forced him into that skirt for that mission. He didn't even wear his kilts very much any more, even though Free liked them, because they just reminded him too much of that stupid skirt. Kurumi liked to look at pretty, lacy things in bright colors and bold patterns. She favored skirts over pants and almost always looked like a proper young lady and shopping with her was not something Michel found particularly enjoyable.

But she meant well, and he felt slightly guilty always telling her no.

"Hullo, Kurumi." He offered her a polite smile, "How are you?" In spite of the things about her that annoyed him, Michel did like Kurumi very much. She was sweet and caring and an over-all good person. It wasn't her fault she'd been born a girl and he certainly wouldn't hold it against her, even though she was still a bit of a mystery to him.

"I'm fine!" She beamed, "I'm real busy at the book store. We've had a lot of people in buying things this summer. Fall classes are starting soon though, so I'll have to cut back on my hours." Her hands fluttered excitedly as she spoke, arms waving for emphasis.

Michel watched, nodding periodically, as she rambled. He had been like that, once. He remembered still when he had been so exuberant in everything he did, but now it just seemed like a waste of energy. He knew he didn't have a lot of energy because he didn't eat well, so he didn't want to waste what he had on being overly-cheerful. Besides, there was no point in pretending he was happy all the time and that everything was hunky-dory when every one damn well knew it wasn't.

"When Ken-kun invited me for dinner, I knew there was no way I could refuse." She was still prattling, "Every one knows he cooks the best, after all. And we haven't had a dinner all together in so long! I hope he makes yakisoba chicken; I like that best."

The little blond fought an urge to wrinkle his nose. He had never really gotten into all Ken's Asian cooking. It had a bit too much flavor for him. He liked things that were more plain; things he could identify as he ate them. Ken was a good cook and everything always smelled so good, but it had a lot of oil in it, and tofu, and Michel could never bring himself to eat more than a few bites before he couldn't eat any more. "Free and I are going out tonight." He informed her softly.

For a split second, she looked positively crushed. Then her face lit up. "You're going on a date!" She exclaimed, "That's so cute!"

"No." He blinked at her, "It's not a date. It's just out." It seemed so silly that any one would think of it as a date. He and Free didn't date. Dating was for people who weren't so tangled up in one another. Chloé dated casually, occasionally. Yuki and Haku used to date, but after four years, they were beyond that stage. Michel had never once been on a date, but he didn't think it was any great loss.

"Just 'out'?" Kurumi planted her hands on her hips, "Where are you going?"

It was funny how they had switched places like this. Three years ago, Michel would have been the nosy, obnoxious one and Kurumi would have been quiet and blushing and flustered. The role reversal had been a slow one; as Michel matured and Kurumi grew more used to her new life, they had seemed to grow into each other's old personalities until Michel was the quiet, thoughtful one and Kurumi was as outgoing as he used to be.

"We're getting dinner." Why couldn't she just leave him alone? "I'm in the mood for French and Ken doesn't like French and therefore will not cook it for me."

"Dinner is a date!" She insisted, "You're going to eat. Together. And you're a couple. That's a date."

Michel shook his head. "We don't 'date,' Kurumi." A soft frown crossed his face, "It's not like that at all…Dating is for people who haven't been together so long; who have nothing better to do with their time than take complete strangers to dinner and make fools of themselves."

"Michel!" She all but stamped a foot, "How are you possibly so unromantic?"

He shrugged, scrawny shoulders lifting slightly. "I've loved Free since I was six. That's twelve years, more than half of my life. It was romantic when we were trying to hide... But now…" He trailed off, unsure what he meant to say. He didn't care for romance or any of that sappy, syrupy stuff and he couldn't picture Free being particularly romantic, anyway. They loved one another and that was that. What was the point of romance?

It had startled him, realizing that he had indeed loved Free since the night they first crossed paths. As angry and upset as he had been when he found out that Free had not only rescued him, but caused his need for rescue as well, the fond feelings he had retained for the man far outweighed the anger. He could have died that night, for no reason at all…Yet he was still alive. Sure, his entire family could have survived, had Side A not killed them, but for how long? There had been so much death and destruction around him when he was small…He didn't think they would have lasted much longer. If they had to die when he was small, it was better that it happened the way it had happened. He didn't think he would have been able to forgive any one else -only Free- and he probably would have simply become an angry, confused person.

"You are impossible!" Kurumi huffed, "Hopeless." She pursed her lips, looking as if she were about to say something else, when Yuki burst into the room, Haku on his heels.

"Michel! Shit, Michel, have you seen this!" He was waving something around, his hair in his eyes and his usual dower scowl absent from his face. He looked fairly excited instead, as if something wonderful had happened. When he stopped moving long enough for Michel to catch sight of what he was holding, he realized it was a newspaper. "Read it; Oh-my-God, you need to read it!" One of Yuki's fingers was jabbing at whatever it was Michel needed to read.

He took it from Yuki; unfolding, spreading it over the coffee table that Ken liked to put his feet on. The world seemed to stop as the words of the title Yuki had been pointing at leapt from the page and his heart leapt into his throat. The letters seemed blood-red and glaring, even though they were black-on-newsprint. Arrested. Rape. THOMAS.

The name stood out from the article; it was almost as if it shouting at him. His heart pounded painfully at the sight of that hated name. Thomas Kenyon, clear as day. It was there, spattered across the page. Community Leader's Son Arrested for Rape. Thomas. In jail. Michel's head swam. Thousands of tiny words were crammed onto the page, all of them melding together in to one. The article jumbled through his mind. Nineteen year old college student Thomas Kenyon, son of the illustrious Alfred Kenyon and his socialite wife, Marian, was arrested late last night for the statutory rape and of a sixteen year old boy. Pictures of the victim, one Philip Campbell, brown-haired, tall, stringy. Not at all like Michel, except for his eyes. Broken. He kept saying I was a fag and he was going to prove it.

Michel didn't realize he was tearing the paper into little shreds until Yuki caught his arm. The American's mouth was moving, but the blood was rushing so fast that it was all Michel could hear. Strips of newspaper rained through the room as he jerked out of Yuki's grasp and as his hands rose, clamping over his ears, trying to block out the sound of his own memories. You like it rough…You know you want it…Bet I could force him to give me a blowjob too…The world blurred out of focus as hot tears pooled and streamed down his face, rolling off his lips and into his mouth. The taste of salt stung bitter on his tongue; he cried almost everyday, why was this so different?

The picture of Philip Campbell kept appearing behind his eyes.

He saw his own face in that picture.

Some one must have gone to find Free. Michel struggled when strong arms wrapped around him; trapping him in place and keeping him from escaping. His heart was trying to break through his chest; it was attempting to pound its way out. He wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Just like that night. His mind registered that it was Free holding him, trying to calm him down, but his body wouldn't let him stop fighting and just be still. There was a hand stroking his shoulder, an arm wrapped around his middle. Safe spots. Places he wouldn't freak when he was touched. His breathing and his heart began to slow; murmuring voices were having a conversation over his head.

He inhaled deeply, letting it all out in a shaky breath. The world came back into focus; Free's pale, muscular arms around him. Yuki standing a few paces away, saying something. Haku and Kurumi together in the doorway, both looking aghast. He bet both of them had scoffed when Yuki and Ken, respectively, had told them he was capable of such outbursts. He wondered if he had scared them. Yuki didn't look at all upset; it was a common enough occurrence for him to be used to it.

He tried to apologize for the outburst, but Yuki beat him to it. "I'm sorry, Michel. I should have thought about it first…It didn't cross my mind that you might be anything but excited to see him arrested." He reached behind him for Haku's hand, pulling his lover close and stroking his side reassuringly. Haku hated loud arguments and always got nervous when people around him had breakdowns or fights.

Kurumi stood woodenly in the doorway, eyes wide and round.

It's okay. Michel tried to answer, but a hiccupping sob slipped through his lips instead. Free's rough fingers brushed tears from his cheeks and he heaved a sigh, leaning against the older man and trying to soak up his strength. He was sagging, a tree laden with too much snow, and needed his companion to hold him up, lest he go crashing to the ground. "Thomas is in jail." He finally managed, fingers tightening around whatever was closest, which happened to be the belt loop of Free's well-worn jeans.

"Ja." Dark eyes peered down at him, studying. "How does that make you feel?" They had all learned to ask questions and allow Michel to validate and explain his feelings. Free took this job, as he took any, very seriously. He cradled the small body against his own, protective, and wished Yuki would get every one else out of the room.

"Upset. Relieved. Angry." Michel's words matched his tone, "I want to hurt him for what he did to that boy; for what he did to me. It's not fair that it took so long for him to be arrested. That he had to hurt God-only-knows how many other boys before any one took notice. He won't go to jail. The only justice that exists is the kind we make for ourselves." He heaved a great sigh, "Why did I manage to escape being raped? It could have been my name in that article. Maybe that boy wouldn't have had to suffer if Thomas had taken me instead. Did I let more lives be destroyed by not standing up for myself?"

Free's arms tightened. He hated thinking about everything Michel had gone through. It was like a blow to the heart, knowing they hadn't protected him as well as they could have; knowing that if they had all just paid a little more attention…He still hadn't totally gotten over his own failure in that aspect; even after he knew, he hadn't been sure how to help the boy. And thoughts of that night at the café…It made the blood boil in his veins and he wanted to hurt some one whenever it was mentioned. He should have killed the bastard when he'd first had the chance.

"He's going to court, Michel." Yuki spoke up softly, "They're trying him for what he did to that kid. You could speak up. Hell, I could speak up. With Krypton backing us, there's no way he could get off. You could help yourself and that Philip kid and any one not brave enough to come forward."

Speak up. Yuki was suggesting he speak. In front of a lot of people. He could feel his throat closing up already. He pressed back against Free, shaking his head. "I'll think about it." Would they believe him, after four years? He had never gone to the police, but Krypton and Doctor Schulz both knew what had happened, as well as every one here at home. Did he dare come forward? He didn't want to put his ugly little self, pathetic and unable to fight back, in front of a bunch of strangers.

He pulled away from Free silently. It was like a dream as he stumbled out of the room, past Kurumi, and up the steps. His fingers were itching to be brown-streaked; he wanted his pastels. Free trailed him like a shadow as he stopped, first in the spacious room with the white sheets, the room of no-dreams and happy nights, then the bathroom, and finally his own room, gathering things at each stop. Cigar box full of pastels and charcoals from Free's closet, Q-tips from the bathroom's medicine cabinet, sketch pad from beneath his own bed.

The branches sprung to life of their own accord, dirt brown and muddy, streaked with green and orange. Fingers reaching towards the sky; gnarled and bony. Leaves hanging over, spilling back towards the ground, a pale, grey-green waterfall. Same color as Michel's eyes. Free watched from the doorway as the little blond worked. Brown-on-brown; his sketch pad had several different colors of paper. Pale blue sky, not a single cloud. His fingers rubbed through the oily mess, blending and spreading, Q-tips for the small places his nimble fingers couldn't quite fit. The trunk spread down, melding into the ground, spelling a single root-word: Pain. And from it sprung beauty as the magnificent Weeping Willow began to take a recognizable form.

Half an hour later, the best -and last- tree Michel would ever draw sprawled -completed- across the tan paper. He sat back on his heals, looking at it, and whispered. "It's finished."

Free knew he didn't mean the tree.

He crossed the room to the smaller man, stooping to lift him up. Michel still weighed next to nothing and still fit nicely in his arms. He pulled the blond up, up, up into his embrace, unmindful of the oily, smudgy mess, holding him close and kissing his hair. Michel wrapped slender limbs around him, burying his face in Free's shoulder and inhaling; safe and warm. They didn't need to say anything; there were no words to exchange. They just held one another, fear and pain draining slowly away to be replaced with other things, long-forgotten feelings of hope and contentment.

After a moment or two that could have gone on for an eternity, Michel pulled his face back to look up at Free.

And smiled.

It was a real smile, one that went all the way up and lit his eyes, causing them to shine jade-green. His face looked younger that way, which was a strange thing to think because he was so young. He had such an old soul; it was easy to forget he was only eighteen. Free stared at him for a moment; it had been a long time since he'd last seen that smile. He tugged the boy closer, his own thin, quirky half-smile crossing his face as he coaxed Michel's chin up for a kiss, tasting that smile and liking it.

Michel was definitely a much better kisser than he had been the first clumsy time he tried to kiss Free. He had learned when to open up, when to yield and when to take. Kissing was an art form, something which had to be learned and mastered. The little blond had learned well and Free found his kissing positively intoxicating. He usually tasted like fruit, mostly strawberries, or sometimes honey; sweet things, but natural. And Free liked natural things, not the sugary stuff Michel used to taste like.

The little blond pulled back to look Free in the eye. He lifted a hand, rubbing the back of it along one striped cheek, fond and affectionate. Free nipped at one of his fingers, then kissed his palm softly and he giggled, scrawny legs wrapping tighter around the other man's waist. "I don't want to go out any more." He snuggled close, "Let's just stay here." He suddenly wanted to be very close to the people who had helped him all those years. "I can picture it now…Ken will make something I don't like and you'll spend the whole meal scowling because I've not eaten enough. Yuki will eat everything put before him, then look for a snack. Kurumi will talk too much, Haku will talk too little and Chloé will flirt with Aya, who'll only glare at him. Just like always." He rested his head on Free's shoulder, "And I think I need that now."

"All right." It didn't matter to Free if they stayed in or went out, as long as Michel was content. The little blond's happiness was his first priority, always. It had always been that way; when Michel was happy, Free was happy.

"I can move on now." Michel smiled up at him, expression soft, "We can move on. Together." Hope was a feeling he hadn't experienced very often, but when he felt it, it felt good. He knew -he just knew- that they could be happy now, because he could lay everything to rest. Finally.

"I like the sound of that." Free's smile wasn't a smile, really. His smiles rarely were. But Michel could recognize them for what they were. Free had made peace with himself, for the most part, and his smiles came easier, but most of the time, they still weren't what the average person would consider to be a true smile.

"Let me down." Michel half-slid from the older man's arms, "I need to wash my hands and change my shirt before dinner." He pulled away, hands lingering momentarily, their fingers curled together. He turned to go, but Free pulled him back again, tipping his face up for another kiss. Michel stared up at him as they broke apart, cheeks flushed, then grinned and snuggled close again. "Pick out a shirt for me, okay?"

"Ja." Free brushed back his hair, planting another kiss on his forehead, "You go wash up."

-----

"Do you understand now?"

"Hmm?" Michel lifted his head, hair falling in his eyes. He was curled against Free's side, head resting on his chest, listening to the other man's heartbeat. Free's calloused fingers were stroking lightly over a scar on Michel's hip, periodically dipping down to trace over the tattoo on his lower back.

"Do you understand?"

The little blond burrowed closer, yawning cutely. "Understand…?" He didn't think he was capable of understanding a thing; there wasn't a clear thought in his mind. It was always that way after; his brain always seemed to melt.

"…How beautiful you are." Free rumbled, kissing his hair, "Do you understand?" His fingers continued caressing pale skin, causing the tiny body nestled at his side to shiver. He had yet to come down from that euphoric high, but –unlike Michel- he was capable of thinking through the haze wrought of their passion.

"If I say no," Michel giggled, "Will there be many more nights like this?" He turned on his stomach to smile up at Free, one pale thin arm draped across Free's broad chest. He had always been particularly fond of seeing his lover in the moonlight; Free's sweat dampened hair shone silver, his dark eyes glittered like coals. They were both so pale that they seemed to glow in moonlight. Michel couldn't help reflecting that they were like something out of a fairy story; himself, the little Celtic imp, his lover, the quiet, elfish man shrouded in mystery.

Free arched a brow, a half smile on his face. "I would have to prove it to you somehow, wouldn't I?" He rolled over onto his side, snuggling Michel –who squeaked in surprise- in his arms. Even with the two inches he had grown, the younger man still fit perfectly into the curve of Free's body; it was as if they were created to complete one another like that. "Since you do not listen when I tell you, I have to be…creative."

"And it's such a terrible burden for you." Michel nuzzled at his jaw, teasing, "It's a hassle for you, carting me off to bed and striping me naked. You hate burying yourself in me; hate hearing me cry your name. You hate the feel of—"

Here he was silenced by a firm kiss, the force of which left Michel breathless. Free's laugh at the look on his face was a deep rumble; he pressed a softer kiss to the teen's forehead, holding him close. "I am not quite sure I approve of the things coming out of your little mouth."

"You only have yourself to blame." The little blond recovered enough to make a saucy reply, green eyes sparkling. "I was perfectly innocent until you."

Free snorted. "You may be able to fool every one else, but you cannot fool me." He purred, a hand resuming its stroking, wandering dangerously close to Michel's bottom. "I know just how innocent you really are."

"Again, your fault." Michel yawned, suddenly very tired. He had come crashing down from the euphoric high of afterglow and was now more than ready for sleep.

Free pulled a snowy white sheet up over them, knowing that the yawn signaled the little blond's coming down. It always took him a while to unwind after sex, but when he started yawning, it was the beginning of the end. It was only a matter of time before the younger man would be asleep. He stopped teasing; cuddling Michel close and dropping another light kiss on his curls. "Go to sleep" He murmured against the top of Michel's head, "I know you are tired."

"S'your fault…" Michel yawned again, burrowing close and nuzzling against Free's neck, eyes slowly drifting shut. He could feel calloused fingers stroking his side soothingly, could feel the beat of Free's heart against his own chest. It was almost as if their hearts had synced up and beat in perfect time; after so many years, that didn't surprise him. "Stay with me," He mumbled, half expecting the answer to be no, "in the morning?"

"Ja; I will stay." Free's expression softened at the neediness in his tiny lover's voice. While the almost-four years since that great period of self-hatred had helped rebuild his self-esteem, Michel was still so vulnerable. He needed to be reminded –and he needed to be reminded often- how special he was, or he began to doubt himself all over again. "I still have to prove to you that you are beautiful, after all."

"Mm…I look forward to it." The younger man smiled against Free's skin, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone, "I may have to start complaining that I'm ugly more often. It got nice-" Another yawn broke up the sentence, "-results."

"Go to sleep, little imp, or you will be too tired for anything in the morning." Free held Michel close to his heart, petting down his back and nuzzling his hair. "And to hell with Doctor Schulz…Tomorrow, we are breaking routine."

"Can we go out?" Michel snuggled closer and let his eyes slide shut. Saturday was the one day they both consistently had time off together and he liked the make the best of those days. Free always knew the most interesting places to go, the smallest, least crowded places to eat and the best spots in the park for them to just be alone together.

"Out where?" Free's hands continued stroking the smooth skin of Michel's back. That was his favorite spot on the young man's body, where there wasn't a single imperfection in the pale flesh. He wasn't ashamed on Michel's behalf; the scars were simply a part of their life. But those scars -reminders of all those years of pain- only served to make him sad. The tiny blond was beautiful irregardless, but sometimes he liked to forget the grief; to remember only the happiness in both of their lives.

"Doesn't matter where." The younger man murmured, "As long as we're together." He was practically purring at the feel of fingers caressing his tattoo and running up his spine and another yawn slipped through his lips. "You think of someplace."

"I will." Free ran fingers through those blond curls, pressing soft kisses to Michel's brow. "You sleep." His lover's tiny body was starting to feel cold to the touch, something which happened enough to not worry him, but which caused him to fret over the boy. He pulled the sheet around them more securely, reaching across Michel to pull a second blanket over him.

It was only a matter of seconds before the sound of slightly-raspy, shallow breathing filled the room. Ever since that awful bout of pneumonia he'd had in the winter, Michel's breathing had been kind of choked while he slept. It had taken him a long time to make a full recovery, and that was putting it kindly. He was by no means recovered in the true sense of the word; the chest rattle was still there and probably wouldn't go away. His doctors had tsk-tsked over his low body weight, saying that was why he was susceptible to illnesses like pneumonia, and telling him to eat more. Free still remembered those nightmarish days; the deathlike pallor of Michel's skin, the slow, slow rise and fall of his chest during his labored breathing, the intravenous drip snaking into one slender wrist. The coughing had been so bad one day that Michel had been bringing up blood.

For the first time in a very long time, as he had looked down at the still, fragile form of the sick young man while he slept, Free had been scared. People did die from pneumonia and Michel was already so frail because he was so underweight. He had stayed at the hospital nearly twenty-four hours a day, sleeping only when staying awake became too difficult, helping Michel sit up during coughing fits, holding his clammy hand and watching him sleep, hoping -hoping- he would be okay.

He still watched Michel sleep, almost every night.

Free didn't get much sleep, nor did he require much sleep. Most of his nights were spent keeping watch over the small blond angel nestled at his side, making sure Michel was warm enough and that his breathing didn't become too uneven. He would die if anything further ever happened to Michel; life without him was simply not something Free wished to experience ever again.

So he kept vigil, nuzzling the thin curls, stroking soft skin and more often then not finding himself loving the boy even more. He had never known it was possible to feel so strongly for one person; never knew it would be so incredibly easy to become so emotionally attached to another person. It frightened him at times -What would he do if Michel decided he wanted some one his own age? When would he stop worrying after his little lover? When had his life ceased to be his own?- but he knew he wouldn't change it for anything.

Who else would have them, if they didn't have one another? They were the broken; the walking wounded. Years of pain and killing had left them damaged; both of their souls were hurt too much. The small injuries would heal, but the big ones would never really knit themselves back together. Michel's guilt and anxiety -all his small idiosyncrasies- left him unfit for a normal relationship and Free couldn't remember a time he had ever loved or wanted any one more than Michel. They had been part of each other's breaking; it made sense that they helped piece each other back together as well. Together, even with the past that was so hard to forget, they were whole.

And Free wouldn't change that for the world.