fic: Restless Spirit & Stable Boy (1/2)
Fear rushes over you. Your lungs feel frozen and god, it’s painful but you have to keep running, you have to.
You’re so tired of it and you can’t help but stumble and shake in fear as you try to escape from the silhouette coming from behind. Everything feels like it’s crashing down and you truly and honestly fear for your precious, little life. Fear so much that all the coherent thoughts have left your head.
Away. Away. You need to get away and that is the only chant you’re able to hear. The only lifeless, repetitive word your numbing brain manages to sort out as you run.
Scrapes in your arms and face, leaves in your hair and boots stained in mud, you crash from the depths of the woods to a gravel road.
Someone cries out. You hear the sounds of hooves hitting the ground fast and harsh, the sand flies around and a horse shrieks helplessly.
Your brains are in a haze as you take cover, unable to move your legs. They never hit you.
You’re afraid the shadows will snatch you away as you remain on spot.
A horse stumbles and falls and it all happens so painfully slowly. You see the pain you create, feel it in your every fibre and get the chills. The boy flies from his saddle, thankfully not being crushed under the lily-white horse. Arabian with majestic bone structure and wide, wondering, panic-filled eyes.
The boy has no helmet. He hits a tree and there’s a loud and disgusting crack that makes you sick to your gut.
Then everything stills.
It’s just your panic-filled heartbeats, the shrieking of the horse and the silence of the autumn forest. Leaves tickle your ankles. Your hands have never shaken so badly.
Your knees give up from under you and you hit the gravel, your body a mass of violently shaking limbs. It doesn’t feel like oxygen fully makes its way into your lungs.
You don’t call the ambulance. Someone obviously does because it arrives in some time - the papers later will say a quarter of an hour since the call. You never made the call.
Your shadow must’ve. And nothing can ever scare you more badly because it really means that the shadow was real.
After that they finally believe you but it’s too late.
You have ruined someone’s future, you hear.
--
2 years later
--
Life certainly feels surrealistic when you’re drunk. It’s not always a bad thing, really. Surrealistic can be awfully cool once you hit it in your zonked state, laugh and feel the weird waves inside of you, hear the sound of the music and just simply fucking feel the bass.
Bass is your favourite, has always been. The way it makes you want to sing your heart out with a raspy, throaty voice, the way it makes you want to grin to yourself and move your body accordingly to the instructions given by bodily sensations.
You get lost in the crowd moving their sweaty bodies on the dance floor under the colourful lights and enjoy it. Enjoy being glanced at from here and there, enjoy watching people and biting your lip as some make you shiver in anticipation.
There’s some angry yelling and you furrow your brow, displeased with the apparent bar fight. Then someone crashes at you through a mass of people and manages to stop his flight by grasping your hip with his arm, fingers sinking in your red square-patterned shirt. He tugs you and you stumble a few steps back, slowly getting alerted because obviously the fight is coming at your direction and in drunken states such explanations as I have nothing to do with this weren’t really taken as an excuse when someone’s opponent was apparently pretty intimately hugging your hips.
The young man stumbles on his feet, a prickle of sweat sliding down from his temple, hair slightly messed and the look in his eyes maybe a bit panicky but certainly pissed.
You catch a better look at his face and everything freezes for you. You grasp his shirt almost as if in a fit and stare in his deep brown eyes lined by short, dark eyelashes.
And then someone’s throwing a punch at you two and you both fall.
Balance was never really your thing when drunk.
Your instincts kick in and knowing who you have under you you just have to keep him safe. It’s a necessity, it’s explainable, yes, but for him it must’ve felt freaky, you later think. But in a drunken state in the middle of a bar fight you hardly really think.
People kick you but you keep covering him with your broader body, you curl around him and take the blows. It’s not like it really hurts that much when you’re drunk. Maybe you’ll regret tomorrow, maybe you won’t. Most likely you won’t. You deserve all the pain you can get from his part.
Someone pulls the men away from you and people help you to their feet and the two of you get dragged to the doors - and thrown out.
You curse and the younger man brushes his hair back, gently examining a bruise on his swollen cheek.
“Hi handsome,” he greets you with a grin and starts fixing your hair. Your mouth feels dry when you listen to his drunkenly slurred speech and almost-maniac laughter.
You want to leave but you can’t leave him like that, you know it.
You know his condition, as much as it pains you.
“Y’know, t’was kinda hot what you did there,” he keeps slurring insistently, wrapping one sweaty palm at your nape and caressing one side of your face with the other. You gulp and shake under his touch, watch him as he stops to think, brow furrowed.
“Uhm, your place,” he states, eyes closed and expression frustrated. “I’m too drunk to remember where I came from, okay? C’mon, take me home,” he murmurs, rising on his toes to nib at your chin. “Don’t leave me out here.”
You can’t take him home, you don’t know if they’ve moved. Everything can happen in two years and after what happened… you wouldn’t wonder. So with how much choice were you left with, really?
The fresh air does nothing to clear his mind and he’s so dead drunk that he crashes through your door and falls to the ground right on the doorstep, breathing heavily and whimpering something quietly in pain, a hand covering his mouth. You lock the door and check it twice before you help him back on his feet and to the bathroom.
You watch his broken form as he sits on his knees on your light blue tiled bathroom floor, one hand taking support from the floor and one from the toilet seat as he leans to it quietly, eyes closed in nausea. And you fucking hate the sight and can’t help but wonder if it was your fault.
“I’ll get you some fresh water,” you offer with a strained voice and bring him a half-filled glass. He merely shakes his head and breathes heavily, mouth hanging open.
“Come on, it’ll help,” you insist and crouch down on your knees as well, gently guiding him against you for support as you help the water down his throat. He buries his forehead in your chest and sighs, voice shaking.
“God, I’m drunk,” he giggles weakly half to himself as he slides down your chest, face ending up lying on your lap. “How embarrassing. This is so not entertaining to you.”
He does sound a bit more sober when talking and you caress his hair gently and comfortingly, hoping it’s not a thing that makes him feel worse. With Pi it helps, with Ryo it’s the gesture that will most likely get vomit on your jeans.
Thank god Kame doesn’t seem to follow Ryo’s footsteps.
“Alright, come on, you need to sleep that off,” you insist and help him on his feet. He looks too nauseated to sleep but you help him to the bed nonetheless and set a bucket with a bit of water on the bottom by his bedside.
“Aim here if it comes out, will you?” you plead him as you strip his jeans off. He grunts and covers his eyes with his hands and you feel like slapping yourself for what you’ve said. And it’s so fucking sad already that he doesn’t realise your mistake at all.
You pick his phone from his back pocket and cover him with a duvet as you sit by the bed and go through the list of contacts.
Dad. Mum. Grandma. Brother Yuichiro, Brother Koji, Brother Yuya, a long list of different names. Friend Koki, Friend Ueda, Doctor. Everything made easy if possible.
You flip through the notes. General information, name, address, age, social security number, blood type. Another one - a to-do list when lost and panicked without any idea what to do or where to go.
You skim through it and he sets a hand on your thigh, grunting. You tear your eyes away from the mobile and look at him, guilt covering your eyes.
“I feel sober enough for a quickie if you want,” he murmurs tiredly. “So you didn’t take me home for nothing.”
“It’s okay,” you insist and try to smile as you brush his hair from his face. “Just sleep, will you?”
He jolts violently and throws up in the bucket when a violent wave of nausea hits him. You grimace.
It’s a long night. You don’t really sleep much.
--
You wake up to find him awkwardly lying beside you and staring at the ceiling with hollow and uneasy eyes. You brush your eyes briefly and sit up. He studies your dressed form as if to wonder what the hell was going on and if it was alright to state that he really didn’t know a fuck.
He grunts and sighs and his breath still reeks strongly of alcohol and vomit.
“You have a memory disorder,” you tell him and he looks up at you, studies you in a melancholic way. Your throat feels dry and voice comes out as a raspy croak. “You’ll forget about everything within about an hour. We met at the bar last night. I’ll call one of your friends to pick you up, alright?”
“…Alright,” he answers as he gets up and starts rubbing his temples, the look on his face pained. “…I think I’m hangover.”
You snort and help him up, handing him his jeans from last night. He pulls them on and you both go to get painkillers and a few glasses of fresh water. You instruct him with the coffee machine and go to dispose of the contents of the vomit bucket. It’s the least you can do, really.
You call one of the people dubbed as a “friend”, Ueda, from Kamenashi’s mobile and briefly fill him in the situation and address. He promises to arrive soon. You thank him and wish he never catches your name. In case he would be one to remember.
When you come back to the kitchen Kame’s munching a slice of bread and looks up at you with swollen eyes.
“You look like shit,” you note him. He snorts back.
“Likewise.”
You want to smile, you really do. But all you get is a little tucking at the corner of your lip. You can’t really smile around him.
“We didn’t even have sex, huh,” Kame tries to pick a conversation as you two lean against the counter and wait for the coffee to brew. “Too drunk?”
“You were totally wasted,” you note and nudge him awkwardly. “Just forget about it.”
He grabs a hold of your hair from each side of your head and guides you down slowly to press a gentle but firm kiss on your lips, to nib, wet and crush them, a tongue brushing your teeth gently. You sink your fingers in his hips and break the kiss, foreheads pressed together.
“…If you’re going to tell me now that you were so drunk you didn’t even realise I was a man and this was all just a big mistake and misunderstanding I’m not going to wait for my friend to arrive,” he grumbles, removing his hands. “Did I just embarrass myself?”
“No,” you insist and withdraw better, taking two coffee mugs from the shelf and pouring them half full. “It’s just… us, no. Nah. Just forget about it.”
“There’s something familiar about you,” Kame insists. “Do I end up in here a lot? Do you have feelings for me? What’s going on, I can’t remember so you need to tell me.”
You almost drop your mug on your way to the fridge to get milk. Your hands shake violently as you try your best to suppress the memory.
“You got in a bar fight and we were thrown out. You were wasted and didn’t know where you came from so I took you home, that’s it,” you insist and pour milk in your coffee, extending your arm to offer the carton to him. “Let’s just move on a-and never see each other again, okay?”
“…Fine,” he rolls his eyes as he takes the milk from you and pours some in his milk too, setting the carton on the counter. “It isn’t like I was asking for anything from you. I just thought you looked familiar. But since I can’t really remember I guess I don’t really know you. I mean, I remember some faces,” he shrugs. “Family and friends. So you can’t be that significant.”
“I’m not,” you answer with a croak and look out of the window to the sunrise. There’s a heavy feeling in your chest.
You aren’t really, not on a personal level. Not really.
But you are.
You’re the fucking significant thing that ruined his life.
“…You don’t really look fine,” he notes worriedly and takes a sip from his coffee. You hold your own mug in your hands and look at him and it feels as if you were millions of light years away from everything around you. As if all the speeches would come from so afar that they only quietly ring in your ears.
“I’ll be,” you try to smile at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
He sits on the counter and you study his confident but insecure form as you drink your coffees in silence, waiting for the disturbing doorbell. When it finally comes you set your mugs on the table and you hand him over his mobile phone as you make your way over to the door.
“Hi. I’m Ueda,” the short man behind the door greets and nods approvingly. “Hi Kame. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” Kame smiles and steps out of the door. You stand by the doorframe and watch them awkwardly.
“…Bye then,” you gulp and watch him, watch him as his eyes shine beside Ueda. Maybe he recognizes him. Maybe he doesn’t. You wouldn’t know.
“Bye… umm…” he mumbles and dodges to see the nametag on your door. “Akanishi. Bye Akanishi.”
“Bye,” you croak again. Ueda waves his hand too in a silent goodbye. He doesn’t seem too pissed at you. Maybe he doesn’t recognize your name. You sure hope he doesn’t. His family would, no doubt.
You close the door and lean against it, listening to the disappearing footsteps. And then it all just crashes you again and you slide to the ground, breaking into helpless tears.
It doesn’t really matter that it isn’t really your fault. That it was just an accident, wrong place at a wrong time. It doesn’t lessen the guilt.
You hate being forced to face your guilt. The pain that follows just isn’t worth it.
--
There’s a knock on your door a week later and you go to open the door. When you peek cautiously through the peeking slot you see his nervous and fidgeting form.
For a while you wonder if you should pretend no one’s home but he insistently keeps ringing the doorbell. And you wonder how the fuck did he even find you.
Finally you open the door and face his smile and awkward laughter as he greets you with a wave of the hand.
“Umm, what was I… Oh yeah,” he laughs and hands you over a letter that you take awkwardly from his extended hands. “I wrote that for you. And then I was supposed to check that you’re alright and take you out for coffee. Come out for coffee? I also know that you’ll be resisting,” he insists with a smirk and tilts his head endearingly. “But please come?”
“…What is this?” you ask him about the letter and he shrugs, scratching his neck.
“I can’t remember,” he answers truthfully. “I also know that you know about my memory condition.”
You nod and hesitantly let him in. He kicks off his brown boots and walks in confidently, looking around and taking in his surroundings.
“So. Are you fine?” he asks you chattily and you can’t help but wonder why the hell he’s there. You squeeze the letter in your hand and gulp.
“…Let’s go in a bit,” you grimace. “Toilet,” you excuse yourself and rush out of the room. Kame rubs his hands together and leans against the wall, attractive in his jean jacket and brown fedora. And you wonder what a beautiful thing it is that you have ruined. Broken like a doll.
You lock yourself in the bathroom and rummage through the pill containers in search for the ones that help you goddamn fucking relax. You gulp down two and rinse your face, breathing in slowly to fight the anxiety away. You can’t be a fucking tense mess. It’s painful.
You sit down to the floor and open the envelope, fighting with your trembling fingers to open the letter without ripping it. You set the paper down on the floor to make anything out of the shaking blur of letters.
I’m worried, I hope you don’t mind. You didn’t really seem okay and I was just wondering if you had anyone to look after you.
I can’t really say that I can’t get you out of my mind, can I? Because obviously that’s not how it is. But I can say that I don’t want to get you out of my mind and that’s my best offer.
If you want to get rid of me just tell me to delete the note about you from my mobile phone and that’s it. I made my offer.
- Kamenashi Kazuya
You stare at the letter and sniff, still in the process of calming down. And he’s such a fucking nice and gentle idiot and you deserve none of it. And it’s really painful to see what exactly have you ruined.
You stuff the letter in your pocket, flush the toilet and wash your hands to keep up your charade before joining him in the hall. He smiles at you and raises his hand in a meeting again.
“Hi. Again,” he greets. “So coffee or not? And you really do look like shit.”
“Shut up,” you mutter as you pull on your ecru coloured boots and fix the collar of your red shirt with square pattern. He licks his lips nervously and smiles in anticipation as he opens the front door. You follow him. It’s the least you can do.
In the end you don’t ask him to delete the note. You don’t have the heart.
If he likes you then he likes you. Obviously no one has fully accepted him because of his disability. There’s no other way he’d be a single still otherwise. Just no. He’s a fucking lady-magnet.
The disability is your fault. It’s all your fault. So if he likes you, who are you to tell him off?
He really does smile a lot around you. He smiles as he feeds you strawberries as you roam around the town after your little three-hour stay at the café. You realise that you like him and you hate it, it makes you so sad and guilty. Because you know you’ve taken almost everything away from him.
You end what feels like a date with some quiet kissing at the bus stop. And you accept him, disabled as he is. If someone doesn’t have the right to complain then it’s you. He doesn’t need to know it.
He smells like a stable and dresses like a fashionable country boy. And he’s so very endearing.
“Um, what was your name again?” he murmurs in your arms as the bus drives closer. You bite your lip and rub circles in his lower back with your thumb.
“Jin.”
“Sorry. Fuck, I can’t remember my own boy friend’s name,” he laughs and your muscles strain. He looks up at you sharply, eyes narrowing.
“…Don’t tell me we aren’t dating and I just embarrassed myself,” he mumbles quickly with a glare. You can’t help but sneer a bit.
“…We aren’t. What’s our relation?” he mumbles, cheeks rosy as he backs away a bit. You gulp and shrug. Not like you’d know.
Sometimes it’s hard to realise how quickly he forgets everything and builds up assumptions judged by what’s going on. And it had felt like a date for quite some time. You can’t really blame him for the misassumption.
“…Are you interested in dating me?” he keeps going on, trying to sort things out as he waves his hand to the bus. The look in his eyes is pleading. “Or are we just some random people who met at the streets with no plans of seeing each other again?”
He does have your address in his mobile that he’ll probably check as soon as he sits down comfortably on his seat in the bus so you don’t really bother lying. And you don’t really want a big LIAR written after your name in his mobile.
“…I don’t know if I am,” you answer truthfully and he looks at you just a bit heartbroken. And it really stings. “It’s just that I’m not really worthy of you.”
“Fucking idiot. Then we’ll date for now and when I feel like dumping you I will,” he answers as the bus stops. “Call me.”
You don’t bother telling him that you don’t really have his number as he gets on the bus, pays for his ticket and finds a window seat on the side of the bus where he can see you. He smiles at you and waves, an assuring smile on his lips.
And god there are things he doesn’t know.
You try to smile as you wave back. The bus drives off.
You get the chills when you walk in the crowd and keep glancing behind your back. You feel nauseous as you break into a run and decide to just crash Pi’s place since he lives in the middle of the town with lots of people around unlike you.
“Jin?” he asks worriedly as you crash in with a spare key and shake uncontrollably, locking the door and crashing in his arms. You don’t even really properly realise he has his girlfriend over and she’s looking at you with a confused expression.
You cry in his shoulder as he helps you to the couch and makes you a cup of tea. His girlfriend watches you two quietly. You’ve ruined their date but you’re too scared to care. Scared of what’s maybe waiting for you outside.
“Don’t worry, Jin,” he tells you and soothes your hair as he helps you drink some herbal tea. “Don’t worry. It’s alright.”
But he’s out there and thus it is not.
--
Part 2