Notes: I think I've bastardized Kurogane and Fye - Kuro is eccentric and violent and brusque and Fye is calculating and he seems really angsty. There are at least two music references in this chapter. One is vague (the title).
Summary: This is AU. Kurogane and Fye meet at college. Kurogane wonders what the hell he did to deserve this. Let the stalking commence.
Pairings: Slight Kurogane and Fye.
Rating: T, for language, violence and Elastaboy.
Disclaimer: God made me do it.
Stalk Me Not
2
Go Home And Multiply
Chasing Fye had been like chasing after his Royal Elastaboy Majesty himself (with a lot more swish and a lot less stretch); the utter bizarreness with which he armed himself while in the midst of running from my violence bent self was so blatant and downright scary I nearly stopped, stared, and let him get away.
Thankfully I had the presence of mind to ignore that certain aspect of him at the moment (shift it to the side, store it, think about it later - and don't forget to gape) and continue tearing up the sidewalk behind him (ten feet away, close, not close enough, just frustrating and serving to feed my anger bits and pieces of Napalm). They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but that's only because you realize what an flaming idiot you were after you got tossed into the AIDS Memorial Pond near the front entrance, courtesy of an abrupt stop of the one and only mental case with a fake smile and an ass load of rumors whizzing around campus like metal slugs on the beaches of Normandy.
When we collided, it was like a brief pause when we suddenly became one thing (more limbs than I'd care to count, and no poise to speak of whatsoever) but then it was over and we broke the surface of the pond, falling fast and as deep as was possible, separating sometime while under the water; I emerged first, taking a breath and taking a moment to shove my bangs out of my way before clumsily and slowly trudging to the edge and hoisting myself back onto dry land. Fye came up a second or three later, still smiling even as he mimicked my earlier actions and pulled back his own bangs while filling his lungs with previously deprived air.
He, however, remained stationary, watching me and smiling at me, before also getting out of the water (it fairly gushed from his pants and onto the grass beneath his feet), shaking a leg distractedly to rid it of excess water.
Fye is a skinny little fuck who runs too fast, I decided as I vainly attempted to wring the water out of my clothing, all the while staring morosely at my papers; they were fairly swimming with the gods-be-damned liquid. I scowled, then, and my grip on my shirt tightened stiffly. I looked up, over, at Fye as he laid himself out (almost languid, right then) on a sun-soaked bench to my right, smiling, and I glared viciously.
He didn't know it, but I was plotting my revenge. (... Then again, maybe he did.)
I contemplated him for a moment, taking in everything: his wet hair, plastered to the stone beneath him, his closed eyes, his smile and his clothes (sucking against his body and revealing just how thin he was; just how much of him was legs and arms) and his boneless way of covering the entire bench. I looked at his feet (white and gray sneakers with mismatched laces, one lime green and the other dark blue - I almost laughed, then, but I was still angry). I looked at his hands (one was on his chest and the other was curled, knuckles brushing against the ground as the arm hung over the edge of the bench). I watched, motionless, as the sun almost reflected off his skin and into my face, and I watched his mouth, watched as the corners stayed upturned so consistently, like it was hardly any effort at all to smile.
No effort at all.
Which...
Which meant the bastard was entirely too pleased with the outcome of recent events (the chase, the crash, the fall).
Which...
Which meant I was going to have to smack tha' smile off the foo'.
Before I could take a step in his direction, though, he opened his eyes (sleepy and lazy and all but precise and smirking), murmuring, "Don't you have a class to get to?"
And I knew that the expression on my face was something I would not be proud of later, when it was brought up again, but at that very moment, I couldn't give a shit. With less grace than I would have liked (and more alacrity on Fye's part than I deemed necessary), I scrambled to snatch up my still dripping papers (pointedly ignoring how fucking wet they were) and turned abruptly, ready to shoot off across the campus in an attempt to catch the last of my lecture.
"Hey!" He called from behind me before I could get far at all, and I paused, glancing back in time to pivot and catch the object that was unceremoniously lobbed at me. I looked at him and he smirked, saying, "Have some jelly beans."
I looked down at what I held in my fist and sure enough the fuckers that started this were there, the bag crinkled and... wet; my eyes darted back up to him and I glowered.
I wanted to slap him. I think he knew it, too, because his smirk turned into this horrible smile that showed a little teeth (but this time I think I saw his eyes brighten for a moment or two, so maybe it wasn't that awful) that gave me the feeling that I was just some great game of his.
"Stay here," I spat out and I started off at a much more sedated pace than before, "I'll kill you when I get back."
And I meant it.
I really, really meant it.
And he probably knew that, too; I was beginning to think he knew everything.
--smn--
I had a headache.
I'd been able to slip into the back of the lecture hall almost unnoticed (a few people stared at me until I pointed a nicely formed "Fuck OFF" glare at them) and pushed all thoughts (very angry, very bloody, very my-fist-in-his-gut thoughts) of Fye away, paying attention to Professor Lumbrinch and trying to commit everything to memory, as I had no dry paper on which I could take notes. After an excruciatingly long expanse of time, there I was, making my way to the front of the room to talk to the Professor, and I had a headache that could rear back and stomp down on Texas.
He saw me approaching and waited at his desk, shifting through papers, and he looked a bit resigned. After a thought, I wouldn't blame him - I probably looked like I was up to no good (I was wet, scowling, and more than six feet tall; at the very least, I was intimidating). I cleared my throat and stopped half a foot to the left of him, not sure how I was going to go about this.
It would take tact. It would take glib skill. It would take-
"Some asshole dunked me in the AIDS Memorial Pond at the front entrance and fucked up my work," I lifted my arm, dangling the sorry looking aforementioned papers (it was more like mulch, now, and completely beyond useless), "Is it at all possible to get an extension on them? Even a day would work."
Yeah, or not. (Good going, me; thought about improving your already superb communicative skill lately?)
Lumbrinch blinked owlishly at me, then slid his gaze down, all the way to the soggy mess in my hand. I adopted a stricken expression and decided to NOT look at him or open my mouth again until I could keep myself from saying such mutinous bullshit. I stared at the wall, past him, but I could feel it as he looked back up at me.
He then looked back down at the ruined papers, and it was all I could do not to affect one of those "What the fuck is he doing?" faces.
After a long pause (moments piled upon moments of awkward silence and awkward, nervous movements) he nodded minutely and said, "Okay. I'll give you two extra days. Hand it in at the beginning of class on Friday."
I blinked. (Score.)
I nodded. (All in all, that went better than I had thought it would.)
I said thank you and turned to leave. (And then I fucked up again.)
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go kill someone."
I froze, and he froze, and a chunk of near-melted paper detached itself from the mother ship and plopped on the floor with an odd squishing noise. I rotated, slowly, on one foot, and stared at him, blankly, while my brain thought of something to say, and my mouth jumped the gun once more, alternatively saving me and really pissing me off.
"I meant kiss."
He smiled, and it looked partly nervous, partly amused, and somewhat condescending, but I took what I could get and hightailed it out of there.
It was the first time in my entire life that I really wanted to sock myself in the mouth.
--smn--
I almost didn't go back to the bench - I didn't actually think Fye would heed me and stay when it was clear that as soon as I got back, I was going to bash his face in. No one sane would, anyway.
But I did, and when I saw him there, curled up on his chosen throne of sun-warmed stone, I had irrevocable proof that the guy had gone one too many times around the block without the proper headgear.
I paused, considered my options, and reveled in the intense desire to simply walk up to the sleeping blond and kick in his rib cage. (Then a small part of me suggested this scene to be a trap, and all thoughts of mutilation were put on the back burner for the moment.)
I approached him cautiously, keeping my eyes carefully trained on Fye's prone body, occasionally darting around to check for signs of ambush.
When I made it to his side without event, I experienced another all consuming urge to just punch myself. (When had I ever been so damn paranoid?) Then I felt like punching Fye. (It was all his fault anyway, damnit.) I settled for punching no one (but I did glare at a few passing students, who seemed to quicken their pace and avert their gaze) and was decidedly at a bit of a loss as to what to do.
Fye was, as observed previously, sleeping.
That wasn't allowed, though - not when I was supposed to beat him into the ground (and hopefully to within an inch of his life - or maybe within centimeters).
So I scowled at him, unhappy, and willed him awake.
The jerk slept on, obliviously, and happily, and it was really pissing me off. I was very tempted to push the fucker off the bench, but I refrained (for the moment) and sat heavily on the ground with both Fye and the bench at my back. I scowled and rubbed at my temple, right where my headache was kicking my ass like Jet Li against a mob of angry ninjas.
See me sit. See me brood. Brood, me, brood! FUCK.
The sun was shining (it was saying 'fuck you') and the grass was a vibrant shade of green (it was laughing at me) and I... I was not a happy camper.
I was not ...a happy camper.
I...
"Hello."
...Was ambushed by the high priest Cthulhu.
Before I had time to defend myself, a long arm draped itself over my shoulder and down my chest, boneless and careless, and somewhat girly. It was also rather damp.
Fye had awoken.
...Good. Now I could beat the snot out of him. All honorable-like.
However, before I could do just that, he spoke again, close to my ear, and quiet.
"Are you hungry?"
Who the fucking what? How did that have anything to do with my fist versus his face?
His hand curled and scratched my abdomen (just before my ribcage ended and through my shirt that was quickly drying in the relative heat) to get my attention.
I blinked and angled my face to look at him. "What?"
The fuck?
"Are you hungry," he repeated, then pushed on, explaining, "It's just about noon, I think; if we hurry we can beat the crowds."
Once more, the fuck?
And then my expression (generally a lost on at that moment, I think) clued him in that I had no idea what he was referring to. And the bastard smiled.
"I'm going to buy you lunch."
I don't think so, you jerk.
"No." My hardest glare, my firmest voice, my darkest tone.
"Yes." His smile, his clouded eyes, his amused inflection.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
For a moment, there was no response, though he was still smiling.
And I thought I had won (and could therefore continue onto my original plan of thrashing the fuck out of him).
Ha. I reign supreme--
"Yes." He moved, sliding down, swinging, aiming for...
My lap.
"Geh!" I made an odd and muffled and indistinct noise as I pried him off of me and stood abruptly, tripping over the bench that I had forgotten about. I landed on the other side, my back making a hollow thud as it hit the ground. Fye wasn't far behind, peering over the stone seat and at me, and I knew he wasn't above 'kicking a man while he's down' (that is, sitting on me or something equally undesirable) so I rolled and made to get up - Fye was quick, though, and had his arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
"I'm going to buy you lunch!" He tugged me back, towards him.
"No you're not, you freak!" I clawed in an almost desperate manner at his arms.
"Yes I am!"
"No you are not, goddamnit. Now let go of me." As much as I fought against his grip, though, he refused to relent.
"I am not letting go of you until you agree to let me buy you lunch!" And as he held fast and as he said that, I was ready to rebuke him once more.
And he was ready to hang on for dear life.
The entire time, we steadfastly ignored the people that shot us odd looks as they passed by.
--smn--
Sitting across from Fye in a booth as we waited for our orders, I could only think, "I reign supreme" - ha, right; in my own damn mind.
Fye, for his part, smiled, and I knew he was pleased, and I knew he knew I was irritated (but resigned) and, above all this, I knew he was amused by that. It was all there, on his face, if one knew where and how to look, but it seemed to me no one did.
The more I got to know Fye, the less he seemed to be as clean and cut as 'a druggy with a past.' The more I saw, the less I liked. The more he said, the less I trusted him. It was to the point where I didn't know if he was playing me, or if he was playing everyone else.
Or even worse.
What if he was playing himself?
Someone stopped at our table, called my name. I blinked, and looked up, and a girl from class was there (someone whom I could honestly say I liked, if nothing else), looking at me, an eyebrow raised. I was afflicted with a blank resent at that moment, though, so when she asked me what I was doing, and who Fye was, I had little (and less) to say; Fye, however, had no such problem, and answered for me.
"We're on a date." And he was smiling in a beguiling manner, and the girl was wide eyed and skeptical, and I had my hand around my glass of water, and I did what came natural in that moment.
I reached over and dumped its entire contents over Fye's head (which had completely dried only fifteen minutes beforehand).
My classmate gaped and Fye continued to smile, unperturbed, and I glared (and wondered just what was wrong in Fye's head). Then, without missing a beat, in that gratingly fake little bright tone of voice.
"Sharing is caring!"
Caring is creepy.
-Go Home And Multiply-
-END-
1. I want a Beta. Beta Beta Beta. You only need to know two things; past and past perfect tense. But you have to know them WELL.
2. So, any catch those music references?