Along with my 100 CLAMP drabbles, I am also doing 100 07-Ghost drabbles, to try and fill the fandom up a little better. Please enjoy.
Prompt: #17: Bloody
Characters/Pairings: Teito, implied (or maybe a little more than that) Mikage/Teito
Summary: He pricks his lip and smears the blood across his mouth like rouge, painting his cheeks like the face of a whore to gain some semblance of color. The blood is warm on his face and when he licks his lips he can taste metal. Dark themes, implied rape of a minor, implied consensual sex.
He is pale, paper-white from the lack of sunlight and proper nutrition. He is healthy enough to fight, he is in peak physical condition, but inside he is hollow and destroyed. His stomach no longer cries for more food, despite how empty it is. A starving person becomes nothing more than a hungry stomach, but a starving person who no longer feels hunger becomes less than a person.
What is his name?
The noises outside of his room—cell—are muffled and the words are strange to his ears. He does not understand them. Language is something they have not bothered to teach him. He knows orders— complete the mission, kill them—but beyond their most basic meaning he does not truly comprehend them. The bodies are cleanly sliced through by the blades on his arms—he does not know what the red liquid that splatters on him is called but it is the warmest thing he has ever felt.
He is afraid to wash it away and loose that warmth.
The tray is set before him and slowly he eats, the tasteless porridge sliding down his throat. The vitamins are next and they are washed down with a thick, bland malt that he knows is filled with protein—the stuff in meat, in red liquid he has learned to call 'blood'. There is always water in a clear glass. It is the only thing he has ever tasted besides his own blood and even then they taste no different. Bitter and metallic, slimy as he swallows. He does not protest. He has no words to complain.
His voice is hoarse as he screams.
The stitches are ghastly and black, a stark contrast against his white skin. He can see blue veins running through his arms and traces them, imagining the blood inside of them. He wishes he could feel the warmth in his fingertips but he can barely even feel the palms on his chest, sliding upwards and caressing his neck before travelling down, down, down…and though he cannot feel a thing he knows that he is screaming. There is something wet on his cheeks and it gets into his mouth. It tastes sour and dry, and later he learns that it is saline. Saline is in tears.
He bleeds and cries but his stomach does not growl and his body feels nothing.
He cannot taste the food that they bring him. There is an odd mashed thing that feels light in his mouth. A type of bean that squishes when he bites but has no flavor. They have brought him something red and tough, it has been cooked and it is still slightly warm. It has a taste that is familiar, like the water. As he chews he realizes it looks like the people he has killed, their bodies sliced open to reveal muscle and bone. He does not feel ill. He finishes his plate and lies down in the corner, biting his tongue and shutting his eyes as bitter metal fills his mouth and spills across his lips. It is warm. It is the only thing he has ever tasted.
He understand more of the language now that he has gotten bigger—no longer does his head reach only hip-high of the men who guard him—he does not need to lean down as they shove him forward, forcing hisfacetowards—he is now the height of their chests, close to their hearts that he can hear beating inside of them so steadily. He imagines that their blood is cold as they hold him down and speak to him in low voices, laughing and groaning as his body emptily reacts. He sees the hands on his wrists but he cannot feel them.
He can feel the bruises though, and relishes in the stinging ache he receives as he presses the dark purple marks on his neck.
He hears them say he is beautiful and thinks of the pretty women that watch him with cold faces from behind the glass, painted smiles that hold only vicious glee at the dead bodies he leaves in piles. He does not understand why they would compare him to them. Beauty is not the women who gaze with empty eyes, hanging off the arms of ugly men that hide in lavish clothes. Is beauty the blood smeared on pale skin when they are done with him, leaving him on the floor as his vision goes black? Is it his screaming voice that sounds like it is coming from someone else? Is it his cold body that is flushed with warmth that he can't feel?
Beauty, he thinks, is the smell of blood as it washes over his body, erasing the bittersweet scent of the soap they had scrubbed him with.
He does not regret biting his tongue so hard that he nearly bled to death. The punishment he received for nearly killing himself felt like nothing compared to the euphoria that rushed through him as his vision turned white. There was the sound of wings and he desperately reached for them, only to be thrust back into his body. It was the first time he had felt true pleasure and disappointment, but now he fully understands pain and as they rip his body apart he can feel each vicious blow and has trouble suppressing his cries.
The academy is no different from the sklave compound. He eats bland vitamins and thick tasteless malt. He understands every word; he has mastered the vocabulary of this language and is praised for his intelligence by the leering teachers who touch a little too frequently, a little too softly. The insults from the other students roll off his back and he thinks there is nothing more hurtful than being called beautiful by someone who truly means it. The boy named Mikage has a smile that burns his eyes and makes something within him ache, and when he practices that same expression in the privacy of the bathroom he cannot recreate the feeling that blooms inside of him.
The last time he is pinned to the wall they are not tearing at his clothes but they are throwing fists and violent words. He understands that he can fight back now and does so with ease, knocking them all to the ground before righting his uniform and leaving the battered students behind. Mikage is singing his praises and complaining about being too late to help—he is just glad that someone had thought to help him at all.
He knows his name is Teito Klein and he whispers it to Mikage one dark night, when they are softly touching on Mikage's bed and creating a warmth that makes Teito feel like flying. Mikage laughs and brushes his hair from his eyes, saying that of course it is, he has known that all along and isn't it strange that Teito would choose to mention it now? Teito smiles, the one that Mikage had taught him, the one that he shares only with Mikage.
But sometimes, when they are sparring in the courtyard, he forgets that he is Teito and becomes him once again, and it is hard to become Teito when he feels nothing but adrenaline pumping through his body.
When Mikage has gone to sleep, one arm wrapped around Teito's middle, he can hear the thump of the other boy's heart and presses his ear against Mikage's chest. There is warmth there that makes him feel melancholy and quietly he slides out of Mikage's bunk to their small shared bathroom. He pricks his lip and smears the blood across his mouth like rouge, painting his cheeks like the face of a whore to gain some semblance of color. The blood is warm on his face and when he licks his lips he tastes metal.
He forgets that he is Teito sometimes.