Ch. 12: Quid Pro Quo

"'Shadow-like magic," Madam Aena from the Council reads from the daily paper, providing a gracious screen between her and me, "and an unauthorized trespasser detected in a private area'!"

If anyone, the latter had to be Daryk. I'll proudly admit to the magic exposure, and I'll proudly admit to assault charges. But had I not casted any spells, I wouldn't have been caught. Knitting my brows together, I lift my chin to her, almost relishing in her distress. Or in my own ability to rampage and make life hell for anyone at will. The paper is slammed down on the mahogany desk, rattling it. I feign a startled jolt and trade my expression to a more passive one. Her face is red, its own pit of explosive lava headed straight for my face. Avoiding her glare, I dart my eyes down to my folded hands.

"This is unacceptable!" I shut my eyes at her raised voice, searching for patience. "Your recklessness could have hurt a lot of people! You could have cost your master billions in repair, had you even cracked the concrete!"

As she spits at me, I groan internally and glare at her. "Well, if you'd let me explain—"

"Silence!" Because she's part of the Magic Council and because I don't want to get Sting in trouble, I bite the inside of my cheek, sampling iron in seconds. My jaw clenches with unsaid, valid words, but I look away to calm myself. "You don't seem to understand the weight of your actions, Cheney! So, you don't get to explain anything!"

I cross my arms and listen, staring straight into her eyes now.

"You used your magic, without permission, in a restricted area in the middle of the night, against two mages of this land—"

I blink slowly. "Actually, there were three..."

"I said silence! So, be quiet!"

"Because you're getting upset or because you don't care for what actually happened?" I bark a gasp of laughter, sarcastically. "I mean, seriously."

"Don't give me that."

"Do I have to spell it out for you? I didn'tdo anything wrong!" There's a twinge of bitterness in my tone. "Perhaps you should gather the facts before you come over here berating me." I'm not one to resort to arguing, but I know I can have a temper when I've been pried enough, just like anyone else. And frankly, I never enjoyed her presence to begin with. Knowing this all too well, Sting shoots me a look—not in a checking sort of way, but of caution. I swallow and frown at my feet. "I was outnumbered and I was attacked first. More of a reason why you should consider hollering at someone else."

Aena snaps back, "Understand what you are and the strength of your claimed opponents! Remember the Reassurance Act, and—"

I stalk towards her. "So, you expect me to let them lay me out just because of differences in magic? What sense does that make if they were the ones who attacked first?"

"You are a dragon-slayer!"

"So, I should be a normal's punching bag? Take my place and you tell me how fair that is!"

"You should be considerate of who you are, where you are, and what you were doing! Unless it is a time of need, you absolutely cannot perform any spells in an area of residency or any public service properties!" Slowly, though I hate to admit it, the words she speaks in that annoying mousey voice start to form perfect sense. Common sense that, to me, wasn't so common at the moment. All I knew was I had to defend myself—or did I just want to defend the truth about Finn? I tightened my scowl. "You're lucky you left when you did, otherwise you would have found yourself on death row again!"

"I understand what you're saying," I confess, looking her straight in the eye. "But you have to hear my side, too. I didn't start anything."

"But you still engaged more violently than necessary!"

"They almost threw me off the dam!"

"They would not realistically be able to do that! What nonsense—"

"—Anyone in the right mind would defend themselves at that point."

"But with magic when there was no need?!"

"No need?!" I gape at her. "They tried to throw me off the dam! What other need is there to fight back?!" I'm blinded as if a screen of hate and anger has been dragged over my eyes. A material so thick and sturdy that I can't see anything else. "Oh, my God…" The resentment towards those three has changed me, my thought process, and my will to withhold the uglier side of me. The real, unashamed, bloody me. It's a forced relapse I never suspected, a rubbery coat draped over my body, consuming me.

I'm not the same Rogue Cheney I was yesterday. I'm bitterer. Unforgiving, though my conscience screams for me not to be. I'm supposed to shake it off, just like all those years of bullying and abuse.

But…I just can't do that now. Is it because now I can't find my façade in these dark, modest clothes? Is that bitter glare in the mirror fitting for who everyone thinks I am—some fragile, kind, pathetic man-child misfortunate enough to have darkness imbedded in his anatomy? I'm not sure; but I need to relearn how to keep my mouth shut. I'm afraid of what might come out because I know it'll be something vicious and repugnant, like stomach acid. But I'll do that later.

Madam Aena gets in my face, and I curl up my nose at the stench of stale coffee and figs in her breath. "Do you have anything else to say for yourself?!"

I grit my teeth, daring her to keep demeaning me. Other than being dangled over the dam, I don't recall what happened next. I was being held there by Daryk, freed myself by kicking him, and then next thing I knew I was in bed while Sting was talking my ear off about one of our ghost show recordings. Growling, I have to close my eyes to calm my temper. A short, necessary break from her infuriating face. I sigh as the rehearsed words roll out my mouth: "I will accept any punishment you see fit."

I slide my eyes to Sting, too ashamed to meet him face-to-face. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyebrows are knitted all the way down in a wicked arch. It takes an arm and a leg, but I ease it out a bit.

"Oh, you will." She pries at my patience. "Master Sting, you'd better keep a closer eye on this one. I trust you can do that much!"

I cut in as my brother opens his mouth, "This is about me, not him."

"All right, then." She scoffs through her nose.

"All right, then, what?"

"Sit."

"I'm not sitting so you can scold me like a child."

"Sit down, now!" She's getting tomato-faced; but because Sting's here and I'd only be making more trouble for him, I gnash down my pride and pull the mahogany chair over to plop in. We stare darts into each other's eyes. Her brown eyes are stone, as if the shit hue had been worn out by years of hosing a cynical attitude. A distinguishably austere woman with an invariably puritanical air about her. And then me and my unbefitting stubbornness.

I know if I tell her the truth, one of two things will happen. I'll be arrested for murder and Sting will know about Finn. Or I'll be arrested for my incompetence to manage my own magic. And that'd put Sting at risk, too. But if I don't say anything, the situation will only get worse. And when the truth does emerge, it'll be even more repulsive that I kept my mouth shut for this long. Whether I'm assuming or mistrustful is in the hands of the future.

I catch Sting's gaze when I snap out of this trance. Completely over this entire coercion, he nods me towards the old hag. "What'd you say?"

"You weren't listening?" Her voice is gravid of I-told-you-so. Sting and I always roll our eyes behind her back when she does maintenance checks on the guilds. "Too caught up in searching for another lie?"

I shake my head, nonchalantly. "No. I'm not lying."

She heaves a long, exasperated sigh. "Explain to me why your so-called attackers pursued you." My jaw clenches when I dismiss the chance of telling her the truth. Instead I stare at her in silence, a scowl on my face. She leans in closer. "Nothing?" I crane my neck away from her breath. "Do tell me, tell us, why your magic was detected in a forbidden area. Illegally 300 feet from a residential place, might I add! Explain that to me, Cheney! Better yet, explain that to your master!" She points violently at Sting.

All I can really think to say is: get out of my face. But I won't. Irritation buzzes in the veins surrounding my eyes, so I close them before anyone can think I'm crying or on drugs.

"You're risking not only your guild's safety and credibility with your unstable magic, seeing as you failed to control yourself. You are risking the Magic Council getting involved with the guild's daily affairs!" She reads the apprehension in the enlargement of my eyes. "Does that honestly shock you?!"

We'll be here for hours if she keeps talking. As much as I dislike her, her words are true. I drain the emotion from my voice and bring my hands to settle on my lap. "No." I meet Sting's eyes. "I apologize for my recklessness. I will ensure this never happens again."

"You'd better. You're already testing the patience of the Magic Council with that stunt you pulled at Fairy Tail!" I wince and dodge Sting's eyes. I don't even want to see his face right now. I'd rather stare at the dirt stain on my shoe. "You must stop this childish behavior, stop this pointless fighting, and stop losing control of your magic!" She brings her face close to mine again, hissing at me. "If you can't do that, see to it you are separated from everyone else, unless you're so intent on wreaking havoc about the land." Sting shifts in his throne, aching to say something. But a guildmaster's words are like gusts of wind to a council rep. "You are very fortunate your master is so smooth with his words." Of course, she's stating this in a patronizing tone.

"You're right. I am lucky." I'm too lucky to have him. I don't deserve him, don't deserve to love him, call him my brother. And how do I express such gratitude? I kill one of our guildmates and nearly kill a friend—his only family—from an allied guild. I jerk my head to the side swiftly in pain when I hear my shadow's voice cackling, cursing, screaming, demanding, and roaring. I close my eyes to avoid seeing it in my reflection, but a choked wince escapes me when it thrashes. It shoots through my temples, then my neck, down my spine. It's trying to take control again. I glance at my hand, at the fingers I know are already blackened by this onslaught, and ones of the recent past. Under the white sleeve of my shirt, I can see the black markings rise toward my wrists. "Are we done here?" I ask, crossing my arms.

"You are not to engage in any combat or take up any job until you are out of whatever destructive mood you're in. Master Sting." She turns to him. "I entrust you'll think of a punishment suitable for him." My fists squeeze until it hurts; humiliation plucks at the hair on the back of my neck. I burst out of the chair loudly and start storming out just as she snaps, "dismissed!"

For the first time in my years at Sabertooth, I slam the grand door on my way out, using my full body's worth of strength. The slam quakes the windows down the entire hall, reverberating off marble floor and stone walls. I let out a single, infuriated growl and rake my fingers through my hair. I've never considered a tantrum until now, but I'm too damn old to act like a child.

But at the same time, I really, really don't give a shit.

Right now, though, isolation is top priority. At least until I can hear something other than, ~Kill this bitch.~ As I hurry down the hall towards the poorly-lit back entrance, the flames are swept from the wick of the mounted lanterns. It becomes colder, denser. I hear cackles at the nape of my neck.

That's when I start running.

##

The human mind is often, and I think it is far the most part, in a state neither of pain nor pleasure, which I call a state of indifference. When I am carried from this state into a state of actual pleasure, it does not appear necessary that I should pass through the medium of any sort of pain. If in such a state of indifference, or ease, or tranquility, or call it what you please—

"This seat taken?" I look up from my two-Bible-sized book and into the assertive, deep eyes of Lady Minerva. I lift my Beats from my head and pull out the chair for her, shaking my head. Her hair is curled up in a twisted bun, held together by a jasmine green clip. Her manicured nails tap the wood of the table by my book. "What's that?"

"Edmund Burke," I answer, simply. "A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and the Beautiful. For Theories & Crit." I haven't spoken to anyone this casually since the funeral. Not even Sting or Yukino or Frosch. They've had an entire night to think about how I—a nearly 400-year-old man—couldn't get ahold of himself. Even Finn's parents refrained from bawling on the floor. If they knew, they would understand why I was floundering as if 'guilty' was scribbled across my forehead. I shift a bit in my seat, keeping my eyes on the fine print. Pretending to be focused on a simple poem.

Lady Minerva hums after skimming through a paragraph. "Interesting." She crosses her legs, revealing freshly shaven skin and well-defined muscle from the high part of her fitting dress. My eyes drift down to her heels and how they trigger a firm muscle to pop from her calf.

"Mm-hm." My entire body prickles with heat, so I focus back on the poem and clear my throat.

She stares at me for a long time, studying me until I tense up. "Your ears are pink."

I shudder and refuse to look at her. "O-oh, uh—"

"You still flustered from your meeting with the Councilwoman? Everyone heard how angry she was with you."

"No…yeah," I lie. "Maybe a bit. It's nothing."

"You better be careful talking to her. She's of the Council, and your temper might get you in more trouble." She smiles tauntingly at me, her cheek nestled gently in her palm. Her eyes are sunken with soft bags.

"Milady, you look tired."

"Do I really?" She closes her eyes, turning her face from me. I bow my head, but keep my eyes on her. "I haven't been able to sleep with Orga's drunken rampages at midnight."

"For the last week. I know." She chuckles slightly. To be honest, I've never really sat down and talked to Lady Minerva like this before. Sitting back and minding my own is my forte—sadly I've become Sting's burden, and he's usually left to put on a show to make up for my cowardice.

Just as I open my mouth to spew nonsense disguised as conversation, she speaks: "What you did for Yukino was really something." I meet her eyes. "Sneaking out was reckless, especially while you're recovering." I duck at the lecture, groaning dreadfully. "Reckless and stupid…but pretty brave." I become nauseous, undeserving of her approving smile. Her words are kind, but untrue. I'm not brave. I couldn't admit that I killed Finn. I couldn't even admit it… Not even to Sting.

"That's just what—"

"Family does."

I nod.

"So, is it true?" When I bring my attention to her again, she's staring right into my eyes. A demand for my response through just the glean of her meticulous gray eyes. I blink, dumbfounded. "You were attacked last night, weren't you?"

"Well," I pause, squinting. "Wait, how did you know about that? All everyone's talking about is my magic being detected. How'd you know there were others?"

"Because you don't attack unless there's a reason. So, who did it?"

As if summoned, Daryk's scent slips between us and there's a wide hand on my shoulder. I nearly spring from the chair, but rather I keep my composure and glare at him. His eyes are different than they were at the dam. Where I saw indifference, there's now sympathy. In place of disdain, there's regret. He's no longer a stranger, but I cannot trust him. Not after what he's done to me. I refuse to fool myself and say this is my fault, that I could have done something to prevent them from ganging up on me. I refuse to take the blame for people like them. I'm done excusing. "Rogue, I'm…" Daryk stops, biting his lip.

Lady Minerva falls silent behind me as I wordlessly grimace at him. I want to say so much to him, ask him so many questions. I want to force him to relive every moment of his betrayal. Besides only one single act, there's nothing else that I will do to or for him.

Under his eye is a broken bruise from where I kicked him. His arm is wrapped from the landing after my shadows lifted him off the ground. He's patched up, but with dried blood peeking through the gauze. I'm out of sympathy and forgiveness, though. Out of the will to try and understand his standing. Tired of letting people harm me, convincing myself that I deserve it. "I'm so sorry, Rogue."

There's an edge to his voice that tugs at my heart. This was once a good friend as well. Was. Once.

"I was stressed and…and Grigia and Adelphi came at a moment of weakness. I just… You know I would never really try to hurt you like that." His stress-induced actions almost caused me a world of agony.

My heart speeds at the infuriating sound of his voice, his poor excuses. Red sneaks in the corners of my vision the more I inhale his scent. My fists ball.

"Rogue?"

I almost say that I forgive him because it's what I would usually do—perhaps that's what I should do. But who's to say he won't try again? I'm through being betrayed, sick of clinging onto deceiving people just so I won't be alone. I'm through fooling myself into finding the good in people that realistically isn't there. If he's got a problem with me, so be it.

"Don't go quiet. Please." Daryk touches my shoulder as I, indecisive, stare angrily at him and his vile hand. "C'mon," he begs. "Say something."

I take a long breath and thrust the words out: "You ever come near me again," my tone is frightening, "I won't hesitate." He stares at me, in my piercing eyes that hide the pain my voice can't. "I trusted you. You're a coward." After watching my face for any hints of my old self, he leaves the dining hall, disappointed. I watch him the entire time.

"Whoa," Lady Minerva says. I eye her from the side and slowly unclench my fists. I release a calming breath. "So, it was Daryk, then."

"He was my friend."

"Well, if he's willing to try and hurt you, he's nowhere near a friend. If it's like that," she says, frowning, "he shouldn't be welcomed here."

"Milady, it's fine. No need to cast anyone out."

"Choose your companions better, Rogue. Especially after what happened in Magnolia."

"No kidding."

"We're here for you, if you'd let us be." She stands and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder, replacing the traces of pain Daryk left behind with security. "You'll be okay." I nod as she leaves. To think that's the same Lady Minerva who's Jiemma's daughter, who tortured Lucy and stabbed my girlfriend, and who terrorized us in her own ways behind the guild walls. I smile at her, and she smiles back. I need to match her maturity. "And Rogue."

"Yes?"

"Your magic. Is…everything all right?"

A stake is driven through my center. Gulping, I mask my voice. "Yes." She slowly nods before disappearing in the halls. I gather my books, marking my page with the notebook full of scribbled notes, and leave the dining room before I have to talk to anyone else. Before I have to pretend like I'm okay, like I'm not seething with rage, lost in betrayal and disappointment. It's ironic how the person who craved so desperately for friends is the one who got screwed, who now seeks solitude.

But distance has served me well before. It's never failed me when I yearn for it. My mind and desires are misaligned; last night was too close. I almost lost myself again. I can't let there be another incident like what happened with Lucy. I'm terrified of silence, but that might be what I need. And if it's not…as routine, I'll make sure the locks are secured before anything.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I find my last statement to be false when I rip it out. Instead of the screen reading 'T' or 'Yuki,' it's just an email from the clothes store about some rip-off sale. As if shopping ever solves anything.

Strangely enough, as half of me wants to go seek out Sting, the other half is tempted to call Gajeel. There's something about his rough attitude and crude demeanor that I miss. I want his death glare to mar me where I stand, to hear him call me pipsqueak, to snap at him for calling me my birth name. Maybe, as much as it bites at me to admit it, I could still be a bit starry-eyed from our battle of painful, bruising solace. I want to get mad and claim to hate him just like I always have since we parted. And I don't want any more surprises. Or maybe I want to get him back for the black eye. Or it could be that I just…really want to be near a blood relative, especially in this state of bereavement.

Maybe this whole emotional train wreck is because I haven't been able to spend as much time with Sting as I used to. I could just be lonely, deep down, and expecting Gajeel to fill in Sting's place in my heart. I've grown too dependent on my Twin. If that's the reason why I want something that cannot be, then that's just sad. I can't lie to myself and blame such irrational behavior on Finn's death. What kind of friend would I be if I did? Hell, what kind of friend was I in his final hour?

I twist the knob on my door and turn to shut it, leaning my forehead against the wood and closing my eyes. Exhaustion is evident on my face, more so than the ache of the black eye. A prolonged sigh relaxes my sore muscles that tense back up when my girlfriend's cherry scent reaches me. An automatic smile surrounds my face but when I focus in on her, I can smell sweat and pine. And I scowl in newfound irritation. "That from around here?" I place my books on the desk and go to the mirrored wall of my closet, sliding the door open. Not at all looking at her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kagura squints, stretching across my bed, watching me shed my shirt to trade in for a jacket. The heater's been acting up since I got out of Arian's prison. I cast an unsatisfied look with a cocked brow at her, nowhere near in the mood for a pointless back and forth. She reads it and slumps her shoulders. She catches my eyes on the foreign hickey on her neck. "You said you were fine with this." I snort, facing away from her and yank the zipper to the middle of my chest. Showing a little more skin than I usually do, but I did come up here for privacy. Since she's here and frowning at me, I guess taking a nap is out of the picture, too. "Don't you dare say you didn't."

I meet her eyes through the mirror. "Never said I was okay with it. I said the exact opposite, but that I wouldn't fight you if it made you happy," I explain. "Even though it obviously does, I'm beginning to regret those words."

"Great. You're PMS-ing."

"What, am I wrong to feel this way?"

"You're the one who can't figure things out."

"Here we go," I growl.

"'Here we go,' what?" she asks, unblinking.

"Here we go with the constant accusing," I deadpan, facing her, "and the constant excuses, and the constant defensive shit that, really, never gets us anywhere near the root of every single problem we have as a couple." She cranes her neck slowly at me, waiting for me to continue. I chuckle sarcastically and roll my eyes. "That's what I mean by 'here we go,' again."

"I swear your attitude's going to kill me one day." She sighs heavily, blowing at her straight bangs. "Okay, so what're you saying?"

I watch her for a moment as she studies the plaid design of my comforter. Should I say it? Should I lie? Her eyes flick up to me, and the distance existing between her and me—us—calms me with something close to dread. But I say something, just something, "I want you to myself."

Her brows scrunch down and her nose crinkles, eyes squinting as if I just told her to bathe in pickle juice. But because she's my girlfriend, because we're already fighting, I swallow my hesitation and shove down the urge to shut up.

And I go to her, standing between her legs, and caress the hair from her face. "I want you to myself, and I want to be all you'll ever need. I don't want anyone else coming in the picture."

"Jealous, Cheney?"

"I'm not playing around. I'm serious."

Her hands climb up my chest from my hips. "You helped me get ready for my date with Rufus last month without a problem." Those eyes flick up to me again, dimmed with a screen of desire in the irises. "Didn't you?"

She reaches under my shirt. Her fingers, one at a time, run down my chest, tracing the muscles of my abdomen, creeping around my hips. "Yeah."

"And you want to make me happy," she leads on, her voice weighed down in the sexiest way, "don't you, babe?" Her fingers stroke the skin of my pelvis, sending excited shocks through my legs at her will. She's trying to distract me, to win this war by her own means, by dominating me into the same nonconfrontational, compliant brood she can toy with. I know this, but…

"Yes." But I just want to sex her all over the guild. I want to shove her to the bed, to make the walls shake, to force her to scream. I want to be irresponsible just one more time. That's all. She raises her brows at me, demanding to hear me submit again. Her fingers caress my collarbones to further the persuasion, and I'm just about ready to floor her. "Yes. I want to make you happy."

"Yes, you do," she coos, moving her hands down to my waistband. "Now, since you're in a fussy mood…" I shiver at her suggestive tone. "Why don't you lose the clothes," her fingers slip between the elastic and my skin, "bend on over, and beg me to punish you, like a good boy?" My pants and boxers inch down during the pause, and she bites her bottom lip. "But be warned. You know I never go easy on you."

Excitement, and humiliation, rush through me—wanting her, detested by her—and I snatch her hands, holding her wrists. "No, no." She stares at me, at her captured wrists, in confusion and annoyance. "That's not— Look, I wanted to just talk to you. Nothing else. Can we do that?"

"Talk about what?" I let go of her, and shove my hands in my pockets after fixing my clothes. She crosses her legs. "How you're suddenly being inflexible?"

"Inflexible?" I ask, tragically. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look it up, Mr. Author."

"Can you just—"

"I swear you just love complaining and bitching about random shit!" Kagura accuses, shoving me once. I sigh, but say nothing. "One day, you're fine with me going around. The next, you whine about me and Rufus being too loud; or that you don't want me to go anywhere, but you don't want to do anything but sit around, sulking!"

I growl, "Is that so terrible, to do anything else other than sex?"

"Again. Complaining."

"When do I ever complain, and to you?"

"You do it all the time. Sometimes, it's on your face or in your tone, or you just stare at me like…"

"Name one time that I bitched about something stupid."

"Don't play this game."

"Name one time."

"No!"

"Did I say anything when you were checking out Sting in front of me? Or when you tried to kiss him?" My tone rises in acidity, increases slightly in volume. "Or when you dragged him up here and tried to lay him right in front of me?!"

Kagura's annoyance lifts to horror, and she gapes at me, shooting her arms out. "You said nothing! Not a damn thing, Rogue!"

"He's my brother!" I snap. "He's my brother, and you're my girlfriend!" She shakes her head and crosses her arms again, shooting death glares at the wall, at the pictures of my family, of her and me, and at the taped-up notes from my classes. A pointless silence divides us; she clicks her tongue and picks at her nails, and I, standing there, aimlessly knock the ball of my foot to the carpet. Staring at my foot, I look up at the green notecard on my wall that reads metatarsus. My attention switches to the yellow cards, skimming over the labels of Romanticism and determinism. Next, the purple ones with Mandarin characters in flowing succession and red-marked Latin continuants in the alphabet. "Why are we like this?" Kagura looks at me first, watching me, carefully. It's not every day that I allow my words to be heard like this. I meet her eyes. "Why do we do this?"

As predicted, she leans on her arm and retaliates, "Well, why do you start it?"

"No. Why do you do all of this?"

"Don't talk to me like that. Don't talk like you're the victim."

"I can only play the fool so many times, even if I'm right. Right now, though, I know I'm in the right to be upset."

"No. You like being upset."

"—got me out here, looking stupid…"

"—Don't talk like I'm the problem here."

"Am I that dull that my girlfriend needs more men to feel satisfied? Is it so demanding to want you to be in my bed to see me and not because some other man tired you out?"

She gives small attempt to shove away to no avail. "Stop being so dramatic!"

"I'm asking a question."

"Jesus!"

"Have you ever thought that maybe I would like to be the one you run to? Have you ever once tried to consider how I felt?" I wait for her to speak, to say all the right words, to even try to appease me. But she shakes her head, completely at a loss for words. "Right," I say, sharply. "That's what I thought."

Her yellow eyes dart between mine rapidly.

Faster, and with distressed short blinks when I grab her hands. "Tell me the truth: is it me that's doing this to us? Am I the one who's pushing you away?" I feel like I'm losing my mind—and I'm seeking two warm hands to reconstruct it. But I'm not getting them.

Her lips part in a wordless gape, and anger stirs my thoughts, dismissing them for only actions.

I shake her enough to get a gasp out of her. "Answer me, Kagura!"

"Stop yelling at me! You're freaking me out!" Kagura recoils, fighting my unyielding grip. She's afraid. She's afraid of me. I'm not even using my magic and she's afraid of me. What have I done? Why am I doing this? What is wrong with me?!

I grasp my hair at the roots and fight the temptation to tear it out. "I'm sorry." I sit beside her, rubbing the bases of my palms to my eyes. She inches her legs together, pulling down her skirt with white-knuckled hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

But I did.

"I didn't want to—"

But I did. I sigh.

"I just really want to talk to you."

I jerk my head up when I feel her skinny hands gingerly take my wrists and push them down. "We can talk about it, then. Spit it out."

"I feel like I have reasonable complaints. I've been very patient."

"So have I."

"Bullshit."

"What, just because you're not satisfied with my answer?" Instead of the empathy I crave, her thin eyebrows draw further down in aggravation. I know what she's going to say before the words bleed from her lips. "Don't think I don't know about you and that Fairy girl. Not to mention, you were mumbling your little so-called angelic guildmate's name the other night."

Oh, come on… I groan quietly and deflect, "Don't bring them into this."

"Like you did during the last joint mission? I saw you checking Yukino out in the kitchen."

"So, what you're saying is that you can complain when I look around—"

"Look around? You were looking at her! Directly!"

"—but I can't say a damn word when you disappear for days. Or is it when you bed-jump three times a night?"

Her jaw drops in horror. "You never judged me before! Don't start now—"

I roll my eyes. "It makes perfect sense when you're high."

"Rogue, stop it." She snatches my face and stares at me with fire in her eyes. "Those were different times."

"Different. Right." My eyes drift over her head, unable to even look at her, as rage refills my veins. I focus on the notes from physio taped on the wall. "I've never agreed with this one-way open relationship. Ever. I just want to see you happy."

"Don't say it like it's so disgusting." Kagura sighs heavily, like I'm being so unreasonable. "It's not cheating. If you wanted more attention, you could have just said so instead of walking around, pissed off at me for no reason."

"You said you'd listen."

"You know, you're being a hypocrite. I saw you undressing her with your eyes."

"Kagura—"

"I saw you! You're making me out to be a cheater when you—"

"Just stop. All right?" I take a moment, taking a breath. "Look, sitting here berating each other isn't helping—"

She slams her lips to mine. Her tongue swirls around mine, stroking the inside of my cheek. She bites down hard on my lip on the way out. So, like always, I surrender the reigns and let her have her way. My hands hold her hips; right then, she grasps a handful of my clothes and pushes on the mattress, climbing on top of me. "You make me sick sometimes, Rogue Cheney."

"Good." I sigh. "'Cause you're irritating the hell out of me." She pushes my wrists into the bedspread, sinking. Restraining me as we stare with resentful, lustful eyes at each other.

Breathlessly, she hisses in my ear, "Promiscuous jerk."

"Ironic you're saying that," I return, pleasure-filled and hard as she strips and tears my clothes off. I toss my head back as she starts to grind on me, stranded by the seductive motion of her hips. I thrust up in anticipation of the collision and cause her to moan, a hot blush sparking in her cheeks. "Where were you?"

"I've been here," she moans. "You could have used your smell to find me."

I grit my teeth and arch my back when our teasing rhythm becomes intoxicating. When this starvation becomes nearly unbearable. "That's not what I'm talking about. I needed you. I still need you." When she pulls at my hips, I navigate my way in. She screams.

Her chin touches her chest, hair raining down on my stomach, as we grind. She glares at me, skin shining with sweat. "I was in the courtroom." I take in her scent, loving it, falling prisoner to it. Despising it. I'm livid at her. I flip her on her back and grind against her slim body. I want her, I loathe her, I crave her body, and I want her gone. Our rollercoaster love isn't healthy, but it sustains us somehow. I've contemplated leaving, but what halted me—I can't truly have anyone else. "I was there."

MJ…she's too damn good for me. She's too perfect, too beautiful, so suitable for someone with a better reputation. A queen waiting for the king I could only wish I could be. I have to let go. I can love her all I want. It doesn't matter; how could I ever have her?

And it heightens the rage I feel towards Kagura. "I was there."

I fling her on her stomach and yank her ass up by the hips, making the springs groan. She gasps and yelps when I collide into her. "You barely said a damn thing when they tried to kill me." When she bucks, back and forth, she remains there with her mouth agape in arousal. A scream is stuck like a fist in her chest.

"Go to hell..!"

"Make me." A hard, potent thrust makes her nose nearly ram into the headboard. I suck in some air when her canal contracts and she moans louder and louder, clawing at the sheets. She clenches harder; the pain is addicting.

"F—!" She squeezes the edge of the mattress and pulls herself up. I watch the muscles in her back contract, how the movement magnifies the curve of her hips. She's trying to run away from me, eyeing me to chase her.

Quickly, I snatch her hips, drag her back, and smack her ass with a heavy hand. Her back arches, a scream trapped in her throat, as I study the roundness of her mouth, shaped perfectly for me. My body temperature accelerates beyond comprehension, beyond my control. I feel along each curve and dip of her body as I reenter her, holding her still like a captive. From the corners of her mouth leaks hot drool that spreads in a dark circle on the bedsheet. Her voice cracks with every thrust, and I have to bite my lip to keep just enough control to avoid tearing her apart.

The metallic scent of blood contaminates the room, dancing with the other scents of her, of me, of her and me. I stop.

She flips around, kicking her legs over my head, and forces me against the headboard with a bang. My steaming skin against the cold, polished wood sends an electric shock through me, more so when she takes my person in her hand and strokes the thin, pumping veins with her long nails. I bump my head on the board and close my eyes to catch my breath. "I think I'm done talking about this," I blurt out.

"Me, too. But let me say this." She kisses it, relishing how I toss my head back against her tease. "This is the best fight we've ever had." She opens wide, meeting my eyes, and takes me in. Again, my head bangs against the wood as I fall victim to the addictive sensation of her lips on my leg.

We meet eyes one more time, and the swimming sensation of ambiguity nauseates me. I snatch her hair, pulling it just enough to sustain her as she works. Loving her has caused me so much pain. And she never sees it, but I'm sure the feeling is mutual. I never meant to hurt her, only to give her a fraction of the agony I'm crippled by every time she sleeps around. So why apologize, I wonder, if I was just doing what I had to do, given our strange relationship? An eye for an eye.

But what I never understand is that the sword always finds a way back to my chest. I alone always feel the pain. And I always have an excuse for it.

Just as I'm hypnotized by her full lips, just as everything's sweet and serene, I'm paralyzed by a jumble of agony and excitement when she digs her nails into my inner thigh. I audibly cringe and fall silent, submitting to her completely. "Talk to me that way again," the hiss of her voice is like acid on my skin, but I crave more, "and I'll unman you."

I tangle my fingers in her hair again and pull her up. She straddles my hips, arms wrapped around my head with her fingers stroking my neck and shoulders, and brings her face to mine.

With a loud moan, her eyes close as I tug her hair back, her neck an offering. I kiss and suck her throat before entering her again. "Watch yourself." She gasps again and sinks into me, whispering words of lust in my ear. Words my body wants, but not my heart.

I never meant to hurt you.

I never meant to break us.

Can we start over?

Words I can only wish she'd say.

I…love her. I gave her my heart, tired and perhaps desperate, only to have it broken one good time—and then stomped, trampled, and kicked a thousand other times. But is it all my fault? From the start, I was unsure about her. I couldn't trust her after what she did to get me to sleep with her. But then I fell in love with her. Soon enough, I was being labeled a cheater. But didn't she do the same? When have I ever complained?

She cringes in pain in the aftermath of being in another man's arms nights before. And I bite down all my anger and questions, waiting to implode. I threatened to break up months ago for reasons and feelings like these. I was tired. Her answer? She wanted to see my face when the next girl I meet breaks my heart, the way I did her. We both knew another would never love me the way I wished, and that made the jab ever more severe. An eye for an arm. All those words and you'd think I would leave her immediately to prove her wrong. But I didn't.

Who else could I have? Who else do I deserve?

I wish I listened to her every word. I wish I understood her cravings to prevent this constant battle between us. Now I'm just confused, paralyzed, trapped in a storm. Continually losing. Where did we go wrong? The night we first laid together morphed into a merciless clash of egos or stamina, seeing who could take the most, who could muster up the heaviest grudge, and we call it love. We fight constantly, we yell constantly, we sex constantly—and all for what? Is this the point of love, to give and give until there's nothing left but a bitter taste? Is it all my fault? It might just be. I rationalized our relationship as a means of making her happy for the sole purpose that she's mortal. I'm not. If this makes her feel her life is meaningful, then fine.

My rhythm dies down gradually as she comes, giving it all up because of me. Kagura brings her head back and stares into my eyes. Her hands clasp my face as she comes closer. Hope that sparked in this moment dies when she tilts my head to the side and proceeds by sucking and kissing on my neck. I wrap my arms securely around her body and pull her close. A simple embrace that means the world. I put my nose to her shoulder and close my eyes. "This is the last time."

There's a light knock on the door and a small, happy-go-lucky voice I can easily identify anywhere. "Rogue~!" I rip away from Kagura and grab my clothes to throw on—despite the ache in my groin—before he speaks again. "Let me in, please~! You're in there, right?"

Kagura holds the sheets to her chest. Making sure we're both presentable, I check the mirror before opening the door. "Sorry, buddy." I reach over and pick him up. "I didn't remember to unlock it."

"It's okay." He has his usual smile on and stares up at me with wanting eyes. "Are you busy?"

"No." Kagura grunts and fixes her hair before tracing the ends of her lips with her thumb.

"Rogue, you smell funny."

"U-uh, how about a walk later? Does that sound like fun?"

"Okay!" Frosch plants his paws on my chest, tail rising high. "Can we go by the bridge?"

I smile. "Sure. Kagura—" When I turn, she's fast asleep under the covers. Hair spread out across the pillow in a fan of brown silk. My eyes trace the curves of her hips and the mountain of her breasts, satisfied with what I'd just done to her, how exhausted she is because of me. I hold my finger to my lips at Frosch and make my way out, shutting the door. "I guess I'll talk to her later."

"Fro thinks so, too."

"Shower?"

"Aye!"

He follows me, every one of my steps about five for him, to the bathroom where I grab two towels and pick the shower head in the back corner of the room. Thank God no one else is here. I've grown accustomed to showering around others, but it's never a desirable thing to do. Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if people—Sting—didn't point out the birthmark on my ass and refrain from whipping me incessantly with towels. I don't freak out over that stuff anymore; I just try to ignore them or occasionally drop a joke of my own to change the subject.

Frosch watches me cautiously as I lift my shirt over my head, shrinking in size when I turn the nozzle and water bangs against the tile. Those huge black eyes enlarge when I turn to him, shrugging off my jacket. "Yes, you too." He whimpers outwardly and draws back, smile dropping to an unwilling gape. "Frosch," I say, sternly. "Come on. I let you sit in that suit for two days now." It's entirely my fault. I've been so caught up in Arian and all the damage he's caused and my crazy girlfriend to make time for him.

"But…"

I kneel down and reach behind for the zipper, catching him with a hand when he makes for the door. "It won't be that bad. The water's warm." He steps one foot at a time out of the pink suit and shakes out the mats of his fur. When I turn back after shedding my pants, my heart drops at the look he has on. A pout with downcast eyes, ears folded back, paws kept securely at his sides. The same look he has on whenever I catch him eating sugar passed dinnertime. "Come on, buddy. It'll be okay."

"Fro thinks so, too…"

I pick him up and walk to the racing water. His soft fur thickens in defense when the sprinkles of water bounces from my back to his face. I always make sure to start with my body first so that he can be slowly eased into the stream. It's less stressful for him that way. "I promise, you'll feel better when you're clean."

His ears flicker up when he rattles from side to side, making a flapping noise. "It's so warm!" The wide smile and wide eyes return. I place him on the floor, grab my shampoo, and kneel down in front of him, humming in agreement. I catch myself frowning when Grigia and the others enter my mind, and staring profusely when Finn joins in. I don't realize that I'm already finished washing Frosch. The room is a cloud of apple-scented gray. I don't remember the last time I took a shower this hot. And long. "Rogue!" I'm yanked from my trance and gaze at Frosch, emerald fur darkened to a seaweed color. "Are you gonna wash your hair, too?"

"Mm-hm." It doesn't take a dragon-slayer's nose to know I just got laid. Or that I just climaxed down the drain. Hurriedly, I pick up Frosch and place him far away from all that mess, ears burning.

When I reach for the bottle, though, the tile and water morphs to a familiar sight. A place I wish I could forget. My arm is still held before me, hand still outstretched for the shampoo. But instead of grasping plastic, my fingers wrap around cold iron bars. The cold iron bars of a bed frame. A handcuff fetters my wrist to it. Around are about twenty small, sleeping bodies. Facing the same imprisonment. I sit up on my knees and feel the sheets. Cotton brushes against my palm. I can feel the springs in the mattress on my legs and the cold of the snow outside. To my right comes the patter of heels striking the floor, I can see a two-legged shadow under the door in white light and hear the groan of the door hinges in movement.

I'm forced back to the shower where I'm heaving for breath. Choking. My head's stuck in the downpour, my hands jammed in the wall for balance. The waves of my hair stick to my face as warm water runs down my back. "Roro." It's Sting. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I say. Frosch puts his paws on my leg when I put my forehead to the wall and close my eyes. I need to relax. Old memories that don't belong always find ways back into my mind. "You mad at me?"

"No."

"Yes, you are." I sigh. "It makes sense that you would be. You are master. I keep causing you trouble." He's quiet, so I know I'm right. "I know, I need to be more careful and I should have seen it coming." I open an eye and look over my shoulder at where he would be standing outside the curtain. "You were going to say that, weren't you, T-bear?" Silence. "T?" I peek out the curtain—it's not him, standing there.

It's me.

Hair mingling with the shadows erupting from every pore, eyes glowing a bright red, stuck in Dragon Force. I'm not smiling like the last time, instead a certain distance in my eyes that leads me to believe this is how I gaze upon others in this form. Empty, possessed, set on killing whatever lays before me. He—or I tilt my head to the side and from my mouth emerges Sting's voice. "What's wrong, Ro? What's with the face? You look so pale, man." As my brother's scratchy voice shifts to a demonic bass in a sinister chuckle, I hit my back to the wall as if the running water can fend that thing off. In that tragic choir, my own voice comes through, but it sounds nothing like me.

I cover my face, shielding off all contact to it, bashing the bases of my palms into my eyes. I do this until it hurts, but I dare not look. Something blasts me to hit my back to the wall, but I end up shooting through it completely. The cackling fades to a reverberating echo; on the cold, hard ground, I slowly peek out between my fingers and screens of black hair, struggling to catch my breath. Water invades my sight, rendering it blurry. To my left is left spilling in from an open door. I stand in the puddle my body made on the floor, covering myself with my hands, and approach it slowly. Not exactly wanting to be seen like this, but curious enough to put the thought aside. The closer I get, the louder another distinguished voice becomes.

That voice of Madam V. "Proceed," she says. I inch closer to peek around the door.

There I am, again, physically no more than about six. A loaded handgun in my hands. My chest rises once in a collective breath before I lift the nose…to a blindfolded criminal's head. My training. I stare into my own eyes to discover how soulless the irises are, sunken to a tint too close to black. We both flinch at the pop, and the man falls back. I'm teary-eyed, fixed on the blood spreading on the floor when Madam V comes to my side and whispers praise in my ear. I remember at that moment that what scared me most was that my tears were not only for the man and what I'd done. I envied him.

When I turn away, the figure I saw in the shower is right in my face and so close that I'm expecting to feel its breath on my face. There's nothing but the chill of the shadows dancing off its body. I can't hold back a gasp and, in my fast recoil, bang my head against the stone wall. Pain sears through my skull, making my hands close around the edges of pasted stone. I squeeze so hard that they disappear and my nails are cutting into my palms.

An arrow of agony shoots through my healing arm, then directly to my bruised ribs. And it's that unbearable sensation that snaps me back to reality. I'm wet and on the lukewarm tile floor of the bathroom again. Blood slithers down the drain. Rufus and Frosch are over me, both soaked to the bone. Frosch is crying, holding my arm as it rattles off the floor in a spasm. I spasm I can't feel. Rufus' voice swims from one side of my head to the other and back, never quite reaching my eardrums. His hand is gripping my face at the jaw, patting my cheek to get a reaction. His lips form my name over and over again. And for whatever reason, I can't respond. I can't think. I'm so tired.

Rufus' eyes widen in shock and he starts yelling over his shoulder, his words muffled. I turn my head to the side. The last thing I see is my shadow slipping into the cracks of the wall, never breaking its stinging gaze or faltering its baleful sneer. Then, I hear nothing, but discordant ringing. I see nothing, but the red slithering down the drain. I am nothing, but crippled in pain.

Once again, I'm…helpless.