Forgotten
Chapter One: In My Best Interests

"What are you doing on the floor, brat?"

That didn't make sense. He wasn't on the floor, was he?

He moved and pain shot up his back. Oh yeah. He was on the floor.

"Get up." That voice was so gruff it hurt his ears. Something in his brain clicked and something in his heart stopped at the same moment. Shuichi opened his eyes, found himself level with the dark hardwood of Eiri's living room floor, and saw a pair of shoes not two inches from his face.

"Are you listening? Get up off my floor."

"Shut up." Shuichi snapped. Something in the back of his brain was screaming that he was being mean, that he shouldn't have said that, but whatever had clicked in his thoughts moments ago was silencing that part of himself.

"Excuse me?"

"I said shut up." Shuichi raised his upper body off the floor, his head felt heavy and his back and chest were stiff and painful. He put his hands to his face and held his tongue before he said something else he'd regret later. Everything felt so wrong. He couldn't remember why he was on the floor; he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there or what he'd been doing the night before.

There were quiet footsteps treading down the hall. Shuichi watched the backs of Eiri's legs walk away, feeling a bitter pain in his stomach rising, rising.

He hurled. There wasn't much in his stomach to give, and the bile burned his throat. Eiri came stomping back, his expression irritated, but not quite angry.

"You couldn't move your ass away from my floor before you barfed on it?"

Shuichi wiped his lips on his arm, shaking, wanting nothing more than to lie down, but the only place to lie was in his own bile. His chest clenched and he felt like, if he'd been strong enough to attempt it, he would have loved to punch Eiri at that moment. The thought shocked him. He stared at the contents of his stomach with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Get the fuck up. Go take a shower." Eiri growled, trying to grab Shuichi's arm and yank him to a standing position. Shuichi felt his body being lifted, but his stomach threatened to heave.

Eiri cradled him in his arms, striding down the hall to the master bath. As they crossed the bedroom, Shuichi caught sight of the large suitcase and suddenly everything came back. His blurry awakening, the frantic search, the disbelief, the darkness. Eiri set him down outside the bathroom door.

"If you need to hurl, do it in here."

Shuichi leaned against the doorway, trying not to fall. He heard clanking in the other room, the sounds and smells of Eiri cleaning the room with harsh chemicals. Shuichi curved around to the tub and turned on the water as hot as he could stand. He didn't feel like he could stand for even a moment longer than necessary.

The tub filled with water, steam rolling off it in waves until the room was muggy and the mirror was fogged over. Shuichi peeled his clothes off; they were stuck to him, the marks of their fabric imprinted in his skin like temporary bruises. He dipped into the water slowly, feeling the heat. It almost burned, but it felt good.

There were more clattering sounds, angry hisses that sounded like cursing, a strong stench of floor cleaner wafting in from the front room. Shuichi took his favorite bottle of shampoo and opened it, pouring out too much into his hand and lathering it into his hair and on his shoulders and face, trying to drown out the smell of puke and chemicals and sweat.

He'd spent a few minutes watching bubbles dissolve from his skin into the water when a sudden voice made him jump.

"When I left you were in bed."

He turned and glared at Eiri. "I woke up."

"More like sleep walking." Eiri replied harshly, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes. "Moron."

"Why did you come back?"

"Seguchi called one hundred times too many. When I finally picked up he said you hadn't shown for work and wanted to know why the hell no one was answering the phone at home."

"What time is it?"

"Seven p.m."

Shuichi looked at the water, face flushing. When had he woken up the night before? Four in the morning? He'd laid on the ground unconscious for over twelve hours. "So you came back to check if I was alive?"

"I came back to check if you were dead."

Shuichi put his head underwater, trying not to let Eiri see the pain on his face. Something inside was breaking. Snapping in two. That was so agonizing to hear out of Eiri's mouth. It didn't matter if he was kidding or not. It didn't matter if he'd regret it later on, or apologize in a few hours. Shuichi popped up out of the soapy water, and then with a lunge of his right arm, sprayed a wave of hot water out of the tub, directly at Eiri.

His mark was hit. Eiri spluttered and gasped, shock and anger evident in his posture and on his face. Expecting an explosion, Shuichi heaved himself out of the tub, his body still dreadfully weak, but the muscles weren't so tense now that he'd had a moment to relax.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and pushed past Eiri without incident. The author's bewildered expression and eyes told Shuichi that he still hadn't processed what had just happened.

Shuichi crossed the carpet to the closet, still empty on Eiri's side. He grabbed the nearest shirt he could find and tossed a pair of cargo pants next to it and then stumbled to the bureau for his undergarments. He was feeling hurt and stress, and grief and sorrow and pain, something in his heart ached and something in his mind screamed for it to stop.

He didn't know what was going on anymore.

"Shuichi." Normally the use of his first name by his lover would have sent Shuichi into bounding, leaping, electric happiness. However, the cold tone and hate and danger behind the name made him cringe.

"What, Eiri?"

That stopped the novelist dead, for about a second. Never had Shuichi used his lovers true name, never had he even seemed to acknowledge that there was any other name for him, other than 'Yuki'. There was a moment of rigid stillness.

Eiri was the first to break it. "You just ruined a five-hundred dollar Armani silk shirt." His tone was scarily conversational and quiet.

"If you're worried about your clothes being ruined, maybe you shouldn't buy five-hundred dollar shirts."

"What the fuck is with you?"

"I'm sick, Eiri!" Shuichi screamed, throwing on his clothes and then collapsing on the bed, his energy for standing long spent. "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. I woke up in a panic because you left and I didn't know where the hell you'd gone, and then I woke up on your floor feeling like shit, and all you have to say to me is 'I came back to see whether or not you were dead'."

Eiri wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Shuichi so angry in the two years they'd known each other. "It's the truth."

"It fucking hurts!" In a split second his expression turned bewildred. "I... I don't feel good," he whispered.

Eiri quietly stripped off his ruined shirt and his pants and dug through his suitcase to find another outfit.

Eiri was shuffling through the closet. Shuichi felt his eyse close. He was tired again. His head hurt horibbly. The sound of the zipper on the suitcase was too loud. The thump of clothes faling to the hardwood floor was screaming inside his eardrums.

"I think it's in my best interests if you leave right now." Eiri said, his voice leveling just above a hiss. Shuichi didn't say anything. His eyes closed in silent defeat. "Get out." Eiri muttered when he recieved no response. "If you're so fucking sick you can get better at that faggot Nakano's house. Do whatever the fuck you want there." He gathered up his clothes out of the suitcase, shoved Shuichi's things in, and latching it shut again he said, "You can even die, if you want, but get out of my house first."

Shuichi's eyes spilled over with tears. Eiri was grabbing him up again, cradling him in his arms, forcing a jacket and a phone into his lap as he carried Shuichi and the suitcase out of the building. The singer's body met cold cement and his feeble strength left him helpless, even though he wanted nothing more than to fight back, to hold onto the warm arms that were leaving him helpless. His fingers grasped the fabric of Eiri's shirt, and he held on as he tried to say no, to refuse, to fight back, to do anything but accept what was happening.

Cold fingers were prying his grip loose. The front door snapped shut with more force than was really necessary. Shuichi fumbled for his phone, pushed speed dial two, and cried as he waited for Hiro to answer.

End-2