De-anon Fic: Corruption (1/2)
Title: Corruption 1 | 2
Rating: NC-17 overall; M for this chapter
Pairing(s): fem!Kurogane/Kurogane, also strongly implied fem!KuroFai, also male!KuroFai if you squint really hard
Warnings: Genderbender self-cest = double Kurogane, sex, language, Infinity angst, uncharted characterizations ahoy,
Setting: Infinity
Spoilers: Minor hints to events up to Infinity
Summary: In a world of infinite corruptions and uncertainties, two people find unlikely solace in each
other in more ways than one. Yet all is not as it seems.
Note: I’ve seen this request over at the clampkink for a while, and just recently it wouldn’t leave me alone so I decided to work with it until I was satisfied. I mostly wanted to play with how much turmoil is really going on in male!Kurogane’s mind in Infinity because honestly the man’s going through A LOT dealing with the dysfunctional family in that world - yet interestingly NOT from his POV. But hey, clampkink is a good place to experiment with all sorts of things.
There’s something unsettling about this world and I never liked it one bit, even though I have been here for quite a while. Infinity is the name and there are certainly many infinite things about this place, but among those that truly stand out are the shadowy elements that permeate the entire land, infesting local areas and alleyways even in the daytime. People who have lived here far longer than I have had said that this modernistic world wasn’t always like this - that there used to be security and the well-being of safety. Until illegal activities became the norms rather than being kept in the undergrounds that was. They say that the Mafia operates Infinity on many levels, even deep into the recesses of private homes and establishments, which I personally loathe for many reasons. Corruption, oh how I even hate that word in itself. I see it everywhere in all facets of Infinity. Crimes are on the rise and greed for money and power is affecting all sectors of the corporate world. So too have police brutality been corrupt because of these mechanisms in society. Nothing makes my blood boil more than innocent people being committed of wrongdoing or getting caught in the schemes of the real evil masterminds, and if it weren’t for my duties that chain me to where I am now and what I must do, I would personally beat the shit out of those bastards if it means more people could be spared from the tortures of running away from everything they have got going in their lives, because god knows I have known and witness so many cases.
Including my partner who feels the same just as much as I do, who had fled our place one day without my knowledge or goddamn permission (not that I would ever give it) for fear of the local authorities. Idiot. I know it is so otherwise - being completely innocent that is - and now I’m on the prowl to get my partner back and knock some sense once and for all.
I’m finally able to deal with the corruption going on in Infinity with all the twisted and pervasive tactics being employed on the mass without caving in to personal hell. I can and have and am still. But when my partner left me with only one note that said, “Because I can’t bring harm to you or anyone else anymore,” that was the last straw. The one person, the one thing in my entire life I thought I had something to hold onto in spite of the state of the world is now outside of my protection and control, and even though I swear I will never give up on searching, I have begun to feel myself getting lost and trapped in the spiral of corruption and despair. No, I didn’t turn to violence or crime or something equally ludicrous and one I absolutely loathe in the first place. Instead I have been turning to my new best friend by its familiar name of alcohol, with all its sharp and sweet, bitter and comforting tastes and mind numbing qualities. It’s stupid of me and I am aware of it, but I still drink moderately as to not get completely drunk and so numb to the point I lose grip on reality and everything I seek out to do and promises to keep.
But tonight, I seek drinks at the local bar instead of the confinements of the place I’m currently living in with the others. I’m already bored with the contents we have among out stock, and besides, I wanted to get away from the dreadful place. It has been getting uncomfortable with the growing tension, especially since my partner had decided to flat out leave on me and everyone else with that fucking note and no other information whatsoever indicating a return someday or just something. No, I will just blend in with the crowd in the dim of the lights where I can think more clearly and formulate what I should do next in order to find that idiot, my idiot I should say. Right now I am sitting on the counter with a hand clasped over my bottle of simple beer. I intend to start the late evening slowly before getting into harder drinks as well as remain to myself. Unlike my idiotic partner, I rarely feel the need to actually strike a conversation with a stranger. Besides, it’s easier that way not to make a complete ass of yourself in front if you don’t communicate at all.
Just then, someone had the gall to sit down right next to me, and so I cannot help but cast my eyes sideway to see who the hell is trying to ruin my own personal space. But instead of seeing another youngster or someone who’s dressed up in a ridiculous get up, it is a man dressed in simple black attire. With his black hair spiked up and his eyes strikingly crimson red, even in the dimness of the bar, I couldn’t help but be struck by his presence. We have never met before and yet I feel something strange coming off of him.
It just so happens then that he turns to face me in the eyes and give me a scowl. Normally I would get outraged over such foolish hostility directed at me, but instead I just smile in return.
“What?” he brashly says. His voice is deep, sharp and distinct, but there is something very intoxicating about it even though I have only just heard one word from him. For a minute, I let my mind wander astray and wonder how my partner would react to this man if she’s sitting here with me right now. But just thinking about that irritates me and all I want to do is shove it away, so shove it away I do. Just focus on addressing him.
“Nothing much,” I say back. “Just, you look like someone who won’t give me any further headaches tonight.” He’s frowning and I figure he’s debating if what I had just said is a compliment or an insult. In actuality, it’s both, but more on the “compliment” spectrum. At least, I hope he won’t give me as much a hassle. Besides, even if he does, he’ll be sorry he ever tried to hit on me. I know my self-defenses really well.
“Tch, last thing I need is more headaches from other morons as well,” he replies, and I can hear such a sharp note of bitterness in it, which I can completely sympathize with.
Taking another quick sip from my bottle, I then tell him, “Rest assured, I am not a moron.”
The stranger harrumphs but nonetheless smirks. He is pleased. “Good.”
“Oi, at least have some decency to talk back. I don’t get in a lot of conversations so the fact that I’m actually trying says a lot, ya know,” I fire back at him. I’m not sure why I’m irritated at how terse this guy is, but I am. This isn’t something I’m completely used to in the first place.
“What the hell?!” As expected, I figure he wouldn’t take my brashness so easily, even for a brash person himself. He starts playing with whatever he has over his hair. “I didn’t really come here to talk in the first place for crying out loud.” Ah, so he isn’t much of a sociable talker like me, how interesting.
But soon enough, as he keeps tugging at the thing on his head I am now able to see what it is, and it makes my blood boil. He’s wearing a red tight band with the insignia of the fucking Mafia on it. And he’s also wearing a similar band over his forearm. Without knowing it, I am gripping my bottle tighter with my fist and my chest hurts and I’m struggling to breathe properly. What if he knows where she is? What if I had just run into a member of the organization responsible for poisoning this world and as a result my partner had run off in irrational fear? I had to know.
“You…” I accuse, and I could care less how alert and shocked he is to my sudden anger. “You’re one of them. ”
“Them?” He waits for me to elaborate, but I’m too angry, too speechless to even properly single him out as a member of the Mafia, too furious to even leave my stool and leave before I could get myself into further trouble. But he doesn’t have to wait, because to my utter surprise, he figures it out.
“The local Mafia?!” he says incredulously and his face is coloring. “Don’t get any wrong ideas here, but I’m far from a member. I don’t just serve anyone.”
I find myself wanting to believe in his words but at the same time if what he insists is true, then why is he wearing those in the first place? Not unless…he’s a participant in that dangerous “game” the Mafia has been running lately. I then wonder if he recently started because from what I see he looks amazingly well in one piece or if he is just a really good player and lasting out for quite a while. “Tell me that you’re in that reckless tournament and that’s why you’re wearing those, those…”
Take deep breaths, take deep breaths, and do not break down now, especially not in front of this stranger, especially since those memories will come back.
“Yes,” he answers rather calmly, and miraculously, yet slowly, I find myself coming back to grips with reality. “I am, so don’t assume any more bullshit, you hear me?”
“Gladly,” I dully tell him and resume drinking some more beer that is now really lukewarm. Out of the corner of my eyes, I notice he is silently removing off those offensive articles and tucking them away, and I couldn’t be more grateful. He notices without even asking, without even apologizing, how much those things upset me. So there is someone else who’s not only pretty perceptive, but very understanding and honestly it’s a relief. But I didn’t outright thank or even acknowledge him for his gesture because for an inexplicable reason I know it’s unneeded and something this man wouldn’t take so well, even though there is clearly more to him than meets the eyes.
“I like you,” I let him know. He blinks, but then his face begins to color again and there’s no hell in way I’m going to let him stutter. “But not in that way,” I add in for emphasis. There’s only one person I could ever truly like, no…even more than like. But again, that isn’t something I need or want to think about now. And yet here I am at the bar trying to be by myself and now I’m actually striking a conversation and am actually intrigued by this person. At the very least, nothing wrong could go on here.
He is relieved and I can’t help but smirk. I then observe how he’s quickly running over his left wrist over and over, but as soon as he notices that I’m watching, he stops and casually puts it away so I can’t see it. Although he isn’t that fast because I catch the sign of a scar on it and from what I saw it looks fresh. It’s not red and raw, but it’s still dark pink and I can’t help but wince seeing it, but not because I am highly sensitive and squeamish to wounds. Besides I have seen worse. It’s more so that there’s something about it that seems painful beyond physical wounds, and yet I cannot fully explain it.
“Tournament?” I ask him in the most casual way I could, wondering if he received his slight injury as a result of being in the highly dangerous game. Personally I highly frown at the tournament, but all the same if he chose to participate I won’t judge him favorably less now that it was established he had no deep connections to the Mafia whatsoever.
“No,” he automatically responds and subtly shifts his eyes away from it and definitely away from me. It’s something he doesn’t want to talk about, that much I am guessing.
“Don’t think that I’m assuming that you did it to yourself,” I find myself saying.
He scowls. “I didn’t ask to be asked about this.”
“Hey, at least I wasn’t accusing you of self-injury,” I shoot back. “Besides, if you were, you would hide it, which you really aren’t.” Until now, that was, but it isn’t because he’s hiding it because of self-infliction causes.
“But…” He didn’t say I couldn’t say something like this. “You’re here because of however the hell you got that wound, aren’t you.”
I am right, I know I am dead on right the way he looks at me so venomously with those red eyes of his, but he can’t intimidate me. Being called out stings, that I know very well, because when I do the same to her, she recoils very much like how this man is doing right now. But he’s not like that idiot, my idiot, far from it. I take the opportunity to finish the remaining content in my bottle now.
“Also because of this idiot…”
I swallow too soon and go in a huge coughing fit.
“Oi!” he bellows as loud as he could in this bar setting and begins slapping my back repetitively in a very awkward way. “What the hell happened?”
It’s as if he had just read my mind or something, which makes no sense considering I haven’t revealed anything on my end except for how much I hate the Mafia. “I didn’t expect you to admit anything so candid. That’s all.”
He opens his mouth and scrambles to say something in a collective manner, which he is failing at. “Well-I…”
“Didn’t expect to tell someone you had barely just met something so openly?” I finish for him after I manage to pull myself together. I know I’m right again because of the way he scrunches his face. “So there’s this idiot who’s giving you a headache. No wonder you don’t need any more morons in your life right now. Hell-” I couldn’t stop myself, “it’s also the story of my life.”
“Now you’re being open to a stranger here,” he observes.
I ignore that statement for the most part. “And you have not gotten anything to drink yet.” How he hasn’t ordered anything yet is mystifying. Is it because we had gotten into this conversation, although a quite unusual one?
“I know,” he says. “I was letting some earlier drinks settle in before ordering my first one here tonight, that’s all.”
“Something heavy, I’m guessing?” Which is precisely what I am going to do now that I’m finished with this easy bottle. “I’m actually about to do that now.”
“Is that the smartest idea?” he asks me. There’s a large hint of disapproval in his voice. I hate that.
“Don’t you do that to me, too,” I hiss. “You’re not chauvinistic, but you’re patronizing, and frankly, that’s just as annoying. I may be a woman, but I can tolerate a lot.”
In response, he snorts, but at least he has the notion to respect my words. “Let’s do this then. Take several shots of something really hard.”
I still don’t take it easily yet. “You better not be kidding here and making fun of me because of my sex. Otherwise I will hit you for good measures outside.”
The man smirks, but there’s serious intent in his eyes. “I always say what I mean,” he tells me, and I get the sudden feeling that those are probably the most important words he will say for the rest of the evening, if we do stay together as merely drinking companions for the night.
I smirk back at him. “We have a deal then.”
He went right to business as soon as a bartender finally pays attention that this customer never got anything yet. After consultation, the bartender provides us with two shot glasses and a bottle of gold rum. He pours the first fill for each of us and tells us that the tab will be billed accordingly to how much we consume. Fair enough. Right after the bartender leaves us to fulfill another request, my new drinking companion and I each pick up a shot glass. I look at him square in the eyes and raise my glass.
“To the idiots that won’t leave us alone,” are the words that tumble out of my mouth unwittingly.
He rolls his eyes, but I am pretty sure that he agrees with my unusual choices for who or what to toast to. “Yeah,” he just says and raises his glass too. We clink them together and raise them to our own lips.
First shot.
The first thing we talk about is who we simply are in this deranged land of Infinity. Apparently he and the group he’s with have been here for nearly two month. He also says something about being a traveler, but won’t give me specific details, which frankly I don’t give a damn or feel hurt if he doesn’t want to give me all of them. So if they all travel frequently, it makes me wonder how long they have to stay in this sorry state of place. Well, if I can’t really leave this place at all for a while, then I can only hope they get to leave as soon as they can and be off to whatever or wherever they really need to go.
In return, I tell him that I (and technically my partner, but I don’t feel like bringing her up right now) have been here for nearly a year. A year may not seem too long, but considering how much corruption I had already seen, it’s dreadfully long and brutally painful. In truth, if I could pick a job, I would be an agent, or an undercover cop who isn’t affiliated with the mass police academy that is rumored to be superseded by the Mafia too in order to wring out the unjust in this place. But no, my job and field of work doesn’t entail that at all in particular. Instead, I am just a low lying…detective if you will, but far from a high profile investigator who has permission to even crack down on the crimes that I seriously would like to work on. For the sake of my partner, I promised that I wouldn’t get into those serious matters. But what’s the point then if she had fled in fear of bringing harm to us all? Harming me and others, my ass. She’s got it all wrong.
Not that I have told him about the complications regarding my missing partner. But in terms the job I have, he did say it’s still a gutsy work field considering all he knows about Infinity so far.
Second shot.
And now the ball of the conversation rolls into the organization I hate and make my blood boils and punches my gut in so many ways. Without still going into far more personal details, I explain about the true grips the Mafia has over businesses and even private residences. As usual, he’s listening to what I have to say on these issues carefully and with clear intent on understanding how I feel about them. There’s only so much I could handle without caving into my anger and frustration and hatred to them all. But for sure, the alcohol is kicking in just as I expected (and needed) and so I manage to talk about this without feeling like I want to stop or having difficulty breathing out of sheer anger and pain.
He then talks about being a participant in the dangerous tournament run and operated by the Mafia with his traveling group and how he is always on his toes whenever they are not on the battlefield arena back in their flat. His words are still careful and he’s not spilling out words without any careless thoughts or lack of coherency, and yet I can tell he is the one that acts and serves as the watcher and protector over his group. Such a task and sense of responsibility is rare to come by, and in my private thoughts, tinged with the small buzzing sensation of alcohol, I commend him. According to his observations, he feels that the Mafia is certainly watching over him and his group and so he feels uneasy.
I tell him that that it’s good he feels that way and warn him to continue keeping all of his senses intact and aware of his surroundings for the sake of everyone.
Third shot.
…We decide to just take another shot…
Fourth shot.
Somehow we start to get into the people we’re associated with, having already touched upon ourselves as simple individuals and then the nature of the Mafia in Infinity. At his urge, I go first, as he says everything about his group is “fucking complicated”, so I just take his words and accept with a nod and go on along. A large part of me still refuse to lay down a mention of her, but the gold rum by now is kicking in and I can feel it seeping in my blood. My drinking companion has no rosy complexion and he of course didn’t lie about being a strong drinker, and I seriously think I don’t have any glow on my cheeks. At least, I hope not. But anyways, I delve into how I just live with other people - not really people I have known for a long time. They just happen to take me and my partner in when we first arrived here and settled in before getting to really know how god awful this place really is. They could care less that I am out here drinking away.
He, on the other hand, says that he had to ensure that all of his group members were well asleep and taken care of (and by the sound of it, taking care of them is far from easy, and he is instinctively clutching his left wrist where the scar is again) before he decided to head over here to be alone in the company of better drinks. At this moment, there are things that are less painful from my end, yet things from him that stand out in sharp fragments that come to me where I just want to put them together to form a better cohesive image of who he really is and what he really is going through in his and his group’s adventure. Ordinarily I don’t get invested in putting together puzzle pieces for someone’s personal life, and the only exceptions are when it involves my work. Or for her, but hell, she’s still difficult for me to crack into, even though I have known her for, what, more than two years now?
But when the effects of this smooth and heavy gold rum is even getting the better of him, he makes his way from talking about his group in general to narrowing down to this one, particular person. Maybe this person is that “idiot” he complains about, the one that has some sort of connection to his fresh scar on his left wrist that I still catch him (or, at least I think he is) rubbing lightly. Something tells me that it’s alright for me not to get involved with his personal affairs with this person, this “idiot” of his that he seems to never fully get, yet seems to persistently keep an eye out for. Maybe, a nagging voice rings in my head, he cares for this person deep down, like how you still care for…
It’s a wonder I manage to strangle away that voice despite my inebriation. So what if I find myself having more things in common with him than I initially thought the first time he sat down next to me tonight? I could be wrong for all I know, and besides I don’t want to think about her even more so now, not when I’m, admittedly, getting lightly inebriated for that purpose...I think.
“Oi,” he says. “You ought to tell me about this ‘idiot’.”
How is it that he always comes to this point of matter just as I’m thinking about that idiot, my idiot?
I suck in my breath. “First, another shot.”
Fifth shot.
I think I should tell him now. Something tells me that he’s all got his ears open. She and I are still just strangers to him, so what the hell does it matter now?
“Well,” I say, wondering how on earth I can say this to the best clarity I could muster. “This ‘idiot’ is my partner.”
“As in lover?” he asks me, and my heart thuds achingly in my chest. Loving - maybe, goddamn it, maybe I do love her - is one thing, but whether she feels the same or not is not as clear cut.
“Tch, lover? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I don’t think it fits now considering my partner left without any notice.”
He whistles. In sympathy, in shock, in outrage, who knows? Fact is, he just whistled. “Just like that?”
The music is pulsing in the background and it’s not helping with my growing headache. Headache from five shots of gold rum or headache from going into this damn subject matter, I have no idea. “Nah, more like with a note that said some shit about not wanting to risk harming me and the others. Thinking the Mafia will leave us alone if partner’s out. Such an idiot, I know innocence when there’s one.”
It’s funny, one would think I would start bawling at this moment, but it takes a lot for me to even shed some tears. But I feel a bit fine now after having some good shots, talking to him about her. “So…I’m still on the hunt to find said idiot,” I finish at last. He doesn’t say anything.
“So then,” I resume, letting go of the shot glass in my hand and still going at it squeezing my fist open and close, “what about this ‘idiot’ in your group?”
I don’t even have to look at him in his eyes, let alone just look at him. I can just tell that this is something he won’t be perfectly willing to just talk about from the get go. Hell to that. If I just drop the bomb about my missing partner (not lover, maybe once lover, but not lover now) he should do the same.
“Fine,” he says so sharply. “It used to be that the idiot was the only one I was highly looking out for. Now hell has broken loose for the rest, but that idiot is still an idiot out of them all.” He’s still touching his left wrist, and I think he’s been doing that even more without hiding the fact he’s doing that ever since we started this bottle of gold rum.
“What you said about yours fleeing because of not wanting to hurt you and the others you live with…you could say it’s the same for the one I’m…close with.”
“Hold it there,” I interrupt. Close, he said close. I think I’m getting it. He pretty much cares for (love, I have no freaking idea, but caring is still strong enough) this person. “You said ‘close’…but you seemed hesitant about it.”
There’s silence, and maybe it’s just my overextended imagination, but I hear a light choke coming from his throat before he forces it down. For once this night, I am patient and let him be, let him gain is composure as he needs be. Not because I completely understand the pain of talking about a particular idiot…or perhaps it is because of that.
“Because it’s something I know the idiot wants to avoid - being close,” he finally answers, letting me sufficiently know that he feels close, wants to be close to that person, but his said idiot doesn’t want to.
“But not a runaway, I’m guessing?” I ask, instantly feeling the bitterness of my wounds leaking into the question.
He shakes his head, but then sourly adds, “Emotionally though. Making all efforts to put up a distance with a huge wall, if you can call it that.”
“Well…that’s just as awful as my situation then!” I boldly declare. “And you’ve been trying to deal with it, to even nudge otherwise?”
His hand flinches and once again he’s going back to that goddamn scar that’s now irritating me so much, even though the poor man can’t help it, really.
“Yes…” But then something is ticking him off. I can feel it, am more aware of these in my current state of mind. “Fuck,” he blurts out, “no, I… I didn’t ask for any of this, even though I chose to. What the hell am I thinking?!”
I don’t know why, but I’m feeling hurt. I can feel his pain so well, so vividly and tangibly. And I know why, because his pain is what I’m feeling too and it fucking hurts so much. He’s so angry, and I know how that feels, to be angry and frustrated and not wanting to feel helpless at all but when in cold reality you are helpless.
“I think we should leave,” I suggest, rationality still there in my head and fighting to get away from the urge to round up more shots in order to avoid any of us getting considerably worse. He doesn’t say anything else, so I assume he will not fight back. I then quickly hail over a bartender and he fires up a tab for me, which I state will be under me. My drinking companion seems to understand, for when I go over to him to get him up as well, he doesn’t hold back at all. Sure, maybe I stumble a bit (while he doesn’t), but we make it out of the bar and out into the open space. As soon as we leave the door, we head out to the adjacent parking lot.
Just then, I feel a smack on my back and I nearly topple over, but manage to catch myself. Self-defense kicking in, I spin around and aim to hit him back. He blocks it automatically. It pains me to feel that I couldn’t even rely on him now, not even after everything I think I had said to him deals with the things I never wanted to talk or even think about in the very first place.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, bastard?!” I scream at him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yells back at me, letting go of my arm. “Forget about what I told you all those rounds of drinks. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t come here to talk at all.”
“I remember that, idiot!” Faintly though.
“Then why did we leave?”
Because he and I are going nowhere? Because something told me if we didn’t leave soon we’d end up wrecking the bar up? Well, he was the one that insisted on ordering a heavy drink to share. I could have avoided drinking this heavily in the first place. No, what am I talking about? I did want to. I can’t think straight and my head is buzzing, but something snaps into pieces and I know this is what I need to say for good measures. So I just stare at him in the eyes, even though he’s a good head taller than me.
“You know, for someone who’s complaining about this ‘idiot’ running away emotionally, you’re just as guilty right now.”
It could be the trick of the dim light glowing on and off along the brick wall, but his face seems to pale just for a moment. But then he looks at me sharply, so offended at what I had just said to tell him off. I know it doesn’t help matters much, considering the inebriated and hostile conditions we’re in. But it’s very well damn true and I know he knows it.
He’s just like me, wanting to go to the bar in the first place to foremost drink and not think, even forget about the shit we’re faced with our respective idiots in our lives, who we are angry at yet angry because we hurt and we just want to care (and maybe in my case, love, but no, she doesn’t know what the hell love is because she left me) for them.
“You too,” he accuses, and I do very well know it is the cold, harsh truth and something I am equally ashamed of. Still, it doesn’t mean he had the direct authority to tell me off for that. I bite my tongue, feeling just as much as offended and wanting to slap him across the cheek. Or yell at him or even go for a fist fight, for him for having to make me fully bring back all the feelings I’d rather not let bother me.
But instead, I find myself inching myself closer towards this obstinate, foul mouthed, bad tempered, yet good intentioned man to kiss him.
And I swear he also leaned down closer towards me the same time in order to kiss me.
Rating: NC-17 overall; M for this chapter
Pairing(s): fem!Kurogane/Kurogane, also strongly implied fem!KuroFai, also male!KuroFai if you squint really hard
Warnings: Genderbender self-cest = double Kurogane, sex, language, Infinity angst, uncharted characterizations ahoy,
Setting: Infinity
Spoilers: Minor hints to events up to Infinity
Summary: In a world of infinite corruptions and uncertainties, two people find unlikely solace in each
other in more ways than one. Yet all is not as it seems.
Note: I’ve seen this request over at the clampkink for a while, and just recently it wouldn’t leave me alone so I decided to work with it until I was satisfied. I mostly wanted to play with how much turmoil is really going on in male!Kurogane’s mind in Infinity because honestly the man’s going through A LOT dealing with the dysfunctional family in that world - yet interestingly NOT from his POV. But hey, clampkink is a good place to experiment with all sorts of things.
There’s something unsettling about this world and I never liked it one bit, even though I have been here for quite a while. Infinity is the name and there are certainly many infinite things about this place, but among those that truly stand out are the shadowy elements that permeate the entire land, infesting local areas and alleyways even in the daytime. People who have lived here far longer than I have had said that this modernistic world wasn’t always like this - that there used to be security and the well-being of safety. Until illegal activities became the norms rather than being kept in the undergrounds that was. They say that the Mafia operates Infinity on many levels, even deep into the recesses of private homes and establishments, which I personally loathe for many reasons. Corruption, oh how I even hate that word in itself. I see it everywhere in all facets of Infinity. Crimes are on the rise and greed for money and power is affecting all sectors of the corporate world. So too have police brutality been corrupt because of these mechanisms in society. Nothing makes my blood boil more than innocent people being committed of wrongdoing or getting caught in the schemes of the real evil masterminds, and if it weren’t for my duties that chain me to where I am now and what I must do, I would personally beat the shit out of those bastards if it means more people could be spared from the tortures of running away from everything they have got going in their lives, because god knows I have known and witness so many cases.
Including my partner who feels the same just as much as I do, who had fled our place one day without my knowledge or goddamn permission (not that I would ever give it) for fear of the local authorities. Idiot. I know it is so otherwise - being completely innocent that is - and now I’m on the prowl to get my partner back and knock some sense once and for all.
I’m finally able to deal with the corruption going on in Infinity with all the twisted and pervasive tactics being employed on the mass without caving in to personal hell. I can and have and am still. But when my partner left me with only one note that said, “Because I can’t bring harm to you or anyone else anymore,” that was the last straw. The one person, the one thing in my entire life I thought I had something to hold onto in spite of the state of the world is now outside of my protection and control, and even though I swear I will never give up on searching, I have begun to feel myself getting lost and trapped in the spiral of corruption and despair. No, I didn’t turn to violence or crime or something equally ludicrous and one I absolutely loathe in the first place. Instead I have been turning to my new best friend by its familiar name of alcohol, with all its sharp and sweet, bitter and comforting tastes and mind numbing qualities. It’s stupid of me and I am aware of it, but I still drink moderately as to not get completely drunk and so numb to the point I lose grip on reality and everything I seek out to do and promises to keep.
But tonight, I seek drinks at the local bar instead of the confinements of the place I’m currently living in with the others. I’m already bored with the contents we have among out stock, and besides, I wanted to get away from the dreadful place. It has been getting uncomfortable with the growing tension, especially since my partner had decided to flat out leave on me and everyone else with that fucking note and no other information whatsoever indicating a return someday or just something. No, I will just blend in with the crowd in the dim of the lights where I can think more clearly and formulate what I should do next in order to find that idiot, my idiot I should say. Right now I am sitting on the counter with a hand clasped over my bottle of simple beer. I intend to start the late evening slowly before getting into harder drinks as well as remain to myself. Unlike my idiotic partner, I rarely feel the need to actually strike a conversation with a stranger. Besides, it’s easier that way not to make a complete ass of yourself in front if you don’t communicate at all.
Just then, someone had the gall to sit down right next to me, and so I cannot help but cast my eyes sideway to see who the hell is trying to ruin my own personal space. But instead of seeing another youngster or someone who’s dressed up in a ridiculous get up, it is a man dressed in simple black attire. With his black hair spiked up and his eyes strikingly crimson red, even in the dimness of the bar, I couldn’t help but be struck by his presence. We have never met before and yet I feel something strange coming off of him.
It just so happens then that he turns to face me in the eyes and give me a scowl. Normally I would get outraged over such foolish hostility directed at me, but instead I just smile in return.
“What?” he brashly says. His voice is deep, sharp and distinct, but there is something very intoxicating about it even though I have only just heard one word from him. For a minute, I let my mind wander astray and wonder how my partner would react to this man if she’s sitting here with me right now. But just thinking about that irritates me and all I want to do is shove it away, so shove it away I do. Just focus on addressing him.
“Nothing much,” I say back. “Just, you look like someone who won’t give me any further headaches tonight.” He’s frowning and I figure he’s debating if what I had just said is a compliment or an insult. In actuality, it’s both, but more on the “compliment” spectrum. At least, I hope he won’t give me as much a hassle. Besides, even if he does, he’ll be sorry he ever tried to hit on me. I know my self-defenses really well.
“Tch, last thing I need is more headaches from other morons as well,” he replies, and I can hear such a sharp note of bitterness in it, which I can completely sympathize with.
Taking another quick sip from my bottle, I then tell him, “Rest assured, I am not a moron.”
The stranger harrumphs but nonetheless smirks. He is pleased. “Good.”
“Oi, at least have some decency to talk back. I don’t get in a lot of conversations so the fact that I’m actually trying says a lot, ya know,” I fire back at him. I’m not sure why I’m irritated at how terse this guy is, but I am. This isn’t something I’m completely used to in the first place.
“What the hell?!” As expected, I figure he wouldn’t take my brashness so easily, even for a brash person himself. He starts playing with whatever he has over his hair. “I didn’t really come here to talk in the first place for crying out loud.” Ah, so he isn’t much of a sociable talker like me, how interesting.
But soon enough, as he keeps tugging at the thing on his head I am now able to see what it is, and it makes my blood boil. He’s wearing a red tight band with the insignia of the fucking Mafia on it. And he’s also wearing a similar band over his forearm. Without knowing it, I am gripping my bottle tighter with my fist and my chest hurts and I’m struggling to breathe properly. What if he knows where she is? What if I had just run into a member of the organization responsible for poisoning this world and as a result my partner had run off in irrational fear? I had to know.
“You…” I accuse, and I could care less how alert and shocked he is to my sudden anger. “You’re one of them. ”
“Them?” He waits for me to elaborate, but I’m too angry, too speechless to even properly single him out as a member of the Mafia, too furious to even leave my stool and leave before I could get myself into further trouble. But he doesn’t have to wait, because to my utter surprise, he figures it out.
“The local Mafia?!” he says incredulously and his face is coloring. “Don’t get any wrong ideas here, but I’m far from a member. I don’t just serve anyone.”
I find myself wanting to believe in his words but at the same time if what he insists is true, then why is he wearing those in the first place? Not unless…he’s a participant in that dangerous “game” the Mafia has been running lately. I then wonder if he recently started because from what I see he looks amazingly well in one piece or if he is just a really good player and lasting out for quite a while. “Tell me that you’re in that reckless tournament and that’s why you’re wearing those, those…”
Take deep breaths, take deep breaths, and do not break down now, especially not in front of this stranger, especially since those memories will come back.
“Yes,” he answers rather calmly, and miraculously, yet slowly, I find myself coming back to grips with reality. “I am, so don’t assume any more bullshit, you hear me?”
“Gladly,” I dully tell him and resume drinking some more beer that is now really lukewarm. Out of the corner of my eyes, I notice he is silently removing off those offensive articles and tucking them away, and I couldn’t be more grateful. He notices without even asking, without even apologizing, how much those things upset me. So there is someone else who’s not only pretty perceptive, but very understanding and honestly it’s a relief. But I didn’t outright thank or even acknowledge him for his gesture because for an inexplicable reason I know it’s unneeded and something this man wouldn’t take so well, even though there is clearly more to him than meets the eyes.
“I like you,” I let him know. He blinks, but then his face begins to color again and there’s no hell in way I’m going to let him stutter. “But not in that way,” I add in for emphasis. There’s only one person I could ever truly like, no…even more than like. But again, that isn’t something I need or want to think about now. And yet here I am at the bar trying to be by myself and now I’m actually striking a conversation and am actually intrigued by this person. At the very least, nothing wrong could go on here.
He is relieved and I can’t help but smirk. I then observe how he’s quickly running over his left wrist over and over, but as soon as he notices that I’m watching, he stops and casually puts it away so I can’t see it. Although he isn’t that fast because I catch the sign of a scar on it and from what I saw it looks fresh. It’s not red and raw, but it’s still dark pink and I can’t help but wince seeing it, but not because I am highly sensitive and squeamish to wounds. Besides I have seen worse. It’s more so that there’s something about it that seems painful beyond physical wounds, and yet I cannot fully explain it.
“Tournament?” I ask him in the most casual way I could, wondering if he received his slight injury as a result of being in the highly dangerous game. Personally I highly frown at the tournament, but all the same if he chose to participate I won’t judge him favorably less now that it was established he had no deep connections to the Mafia whatsoever.
“No,” he automatically responds and subtly shifts his eyes away from it and definitely away from me. It’s something he doesn’t want to talk about, that much I am guessing.
“Don’t think that I’m assuming that you did it to yourself,” I find myself saying.
He scowls. “I didn’t ask to be asked about this.”
“Hey, at least I wasn’t accusing you of self-injury,” I shoot back. “Besides, if you were, you would hide it, which you really aren’t.” Until now, that was, but it isn’t because he’s hiding it because of self-infliction causes.
“But…” He didn’t say I couldn’t say something like this. “You’re here because of however the hell you got that wound, aren’t you.”
I am right, I know I am dead on right the way he looks at me so venomously with those red eyes of his, but he can’t intimidate me. Being called out stings, that I know very well, because when I do the same to her, she recoils very much like how this man is doing right now. But he’s not like that idiot, my idiot, far from it. I take the opportunity to finish the remaining content in my bottle now.
“Also because of this idiot…”
I swallow too soon and go in a huge coughing fit.
“Oi!” he bellows as loud as he could in this bar setting and begins slapping my back repetitively in a very awkward way. “What the hell happened?”
It’s as if he had just read my mind or something, which makes no sense considering I haven’t revealed anything on my end except for how much I hate the Mafia. “I didn’t expect you to admit anything so candid. That’s all.”
He opens his mouth and scrambles to say something in a collective manner, which he is failing at. “Well-I…”
“Didn’t expect to tell someone you had barely just met something so openly?” I finish for him after I manage to pull myself together. I know I’m right again because of the way he scrunches his face. “So there’s this idiot who’s giving you a headache. No wonder you don’t need any more morons in your life right now. Hell-” I couldn’t stop myself, “it’s also the story of my life.”
“Now you’re being open to a stranger here,” he observes.
I ignore that statement for the most part. “And you have not gotten anything to drink yet.” How he hasn’t ordered anything yet is mystifying. Is it because we had gotten into this conversation, although a quite unusual one?
“I know,” he says. “I was letting some earlier drinks settle in before ordering my first one here tonight, that’s all.”
“Something heavy, I’m guessing?” Which is precisely what I am going to do now that I’m finished with this easy bottle. “I’m actually about to do that now.”
“Is that the smartest idea?” he asks me. There’s a large hint of disapproval in his voice. I hate that.
“Don’t you do that to me, too,” I hiss. “You’re not chauvinistic, but you’re patronizing, and frankly, that’s just as annoying. I may be a woman, but I can tolerate a lot.”
In response, he snorts, but at least he has the notion to respect my words. “Let’s do this then. Take several shots of something really hard.”
I still don’t take it easily yet. “You better not be kidding here and making fun of me because of my sex. Otherwise I will hit you for good measures outside.”
The man smirks, but there’s serious intent in his eyes. “I always say what I mean,” he tells me, and I get the sudden feeling that those are probably the most important words he will say for the rest of the evening, if we do stay together as merely drinking companions for the night.
I smirk back at him. “We have a deal then.”
He went right to business as soon as a bartender finally pays attention that this customer never got anything yet. After consultation, the bartender provides us with two shot glasses and a bottle of gold rum. He pours the first fill for each of us and tells us that the tab will be billed accordingly to how much we consume. Fair enough. Right after the bartender leaves us to fulfill another request, my new drinking companion and I each pick up a shot glass. I look at him square in the eyes and raise my glass.
“To the idiots that won’t leave us alone,” are the words that tumble out of my mouth unwittingly.
He rolls his eyes, but I am pretty sure that he agrees with my unusual choices for who or what to toast to. “Yeah,” he just says and raises his glass too. We clink them together and raise them to our own lips.
First shot.
The first thing we talk about is who we simply are in this deranged land of Infinity. Apparently he and the group he’s with have been here for nearly two month. He also says something about being a traveler, but won’t give me specific details, which frankly I don’t give a damn or feel hurt if he doesn’t want to give me all of them. So if they all travel frequently, it makes me wonder how long they have to stay in this sorry state of place. Well, if I can’t really leave this place at all for a while, then I can only hope they get to leave as soon as they can and be off to whatever or wherever they really need to go.
In return, I tell him that I (and technically my partner, but I don’t feel like bringing her up right now) have been here for nearly a year. A year may not seem too long, but considering how much corruption I had already seen, it’s dreadfully long and brutally painful. In truth, if I could pick a job, I would be an agent, or an undercover cop who isn’t affiliated with the mass police academy that is rumored to be superseded by the Mafia too in order to wring out the unjust in this place. But no, my job and field of work doesn’t entail that at all in particular. Instead, I am just a low lying…detective if you will, but far from a high profile investigator who has permission to even crack down on the crimes that I seriously would like to work on. For the sake of my partner, I promised that I wouldn’t get into those serious matters. But what’s the point then if she had fled in fear of bringing harm to us all? Harming me and others, my ass. She’s got it all wrong.
Not that I have told him about the complications regarding my missing partner. But in terms the job I have, he did say it’s still a gutsy work field considering all he knows about Infinity so far.
Second shot.
And now the ball of the conversation rolls into the organization I hate and make my blood boils and punches my gut in so many ways. Without still going into far more personal details, I explain about the true grips the Mafia has over businesses and even private residences. As usual, he’s listening to what I have to say on these issues carefully and with clear intent on understanding how I feel about them. There’s only so much I could handle without caving into my anger and frustration and hatred to them all. But for sure, the alcohol is kicking in just as I expected (and needed) and so I manage to talk about this without feeling like I want to stop or having difficulty breathing out of sheer anger and pain.
He then talks about being a participant in the dangerous tournament run and operated by the Mafia with his traveling group and how he is always on his toes whenever they are not on the battlefield arena back in their flat. His words are still careful and he’s not spilling out words without any careless thoughts or lack of coherency, and yet I can tell he is the one that acts and serves as the watcher and protector over his group. Such a task and sense of responsibility is rare to come by, and in my private thoughts, tinged with the small buzzing sensation of alcohol, I commend him. According to his observations, he feels that the Mafia is certainly watching over him and his group and so he feels uneasy.
I tell him that that it’s good he feels that way and warn him to continue keeping all of his senses intact and aware of his surroundings for the sake of everyone.
Third shot.
…We decide to just take another shot…
Fourth shot.
Somehow we start to get into the people we’re associated with, having already touched upon ourselves as simple individuals and then the nature of the Mafia in Infinity. At his urge, I go first, as he says everything about his group is “fucking complicated”, so I just take his words and accept with a nod and go on along. A large part of me still refuse to lay down a mention of her, but the gold rum by now is kicking in and I can feel it seeping in my blood. My drinking companion has no rosy complexion and he of course didn’t lie about being a strong drinker, and I seriously think I don’t have any glow on my cheeks. At least, I hope not. But anyways, I delve into how I just live with other people - not really people I have known for a long time. They just happen to take me and my partner in when we first arrived here and settled in before getting to really know how god awful this place really is. They could care less that I am out here drinking away.
He, on the other hand, says that he had to ensure that all of his group members were well asleep and taken care of (and by the sound of it, taking care of them is far from easy, and he is instinctively clutching his left wrist where the scar is again) before he decided to head over here to be alone in the company of better drinks. At this moment, there are things that are less painful from my end, yet things from him that stand out in sharp fragments that come to me where I just want to put them together to form a better cohesive image of who he really is and what he really is going through in his and his group’s adventure. Ordinarily I don’t get invested in putting together puzzle pieces for someone’s personal life, and the only exceptions are when it involves my work. Or for her, but hell, she’s still difficult for me to crack into, even though I have known her for, what, more than two years now?
But when the effects of this smooth and heavy gold rum is even getting the better of him, he makes his way from talking about his group in general to narrowing down to this one, particular person. Maybe this person is that “idiot” he complains about, the one that has some sort of connection to his fresh scar on his left wrist that I still catch him (or, at least I think he is) rubbing lightly. Something tells me that it’s alright for me not to get involved with his personal affairs with this person, this “idiot” of his that he seems to never fully get, yet seems to persistently keep an eye out for. Maybe, a nagging voice rings in my head, he cares for this person deep down, like how you still care for…
It’s a wonder I manage to strangle away that voice despite my inebriation. So what if I find myself having more things in common with him than I initially thought the first time he sat down next to me tonight? I could be wrong for all I know, and besides I don’t want to think about her even more so now, not when I’m, admittedly, getting lightly inebriated for that purpose...I think.
“Oi,” he says. “You ought to tell me about this ‘idiot’.”
How is it that he always comes to this point of matter just as I’m thinking about that idiot, my idiot?
I suck in my breath. “First, another shot.”
Fifth shot.
I think I should tell him now. Something tells me that he’s all got his ears open. She and I are still just strangers to him, so what the hell does it matter now?
“Well,” I say, wondering how on earth I can say this to the best clarity I could muster. “This ‘idiot’ is my partner.”
“As in lover?” he asks me, and my heart thuds achingly in my chest. Loving - maybe, goddamn it, maybe I do love her - is one thing, but whether she feels the same or not is not as clear cut.
“Tch, lover? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I don’t think it fits now considering my partner left without any notice.”
He whistles. In sympathy, in shock, in outrage, who knows? Fact is, he just whistled. “Just like that?”
The music is pulsing in the background and it’s not helping with my growing headache. Headache from five shots of gold rum or headache from going into this damn subject matter, I have no idea. “Nah, more like with a note that said some shit about not wanting to risk harming me and the others. Thinking the Mafia will leave us alone if partner’s out. Such an idiot, I know innocence when there’s one.”
It’s funny, one would think I would start bawling at this moment, but it takes a lot for me to even shed some tears. But I feel a bit fine now after having some good shots, talking to him about her. “So…I’m still on the hunt to find said idiot,” I finish at last. He doesn’t say anything.
“So then,” I resume, letting go of the shot glass in my hand and still going at it squeezing my fist open and close, “what about this ‘idiot’ in your group?”
I don’t even have to look at him in his eyes, let alone just look at him. I can just tell that this is something he won’t be perfectly willing to just talk about from the get go. Hell to that. If I just drop the bomb about my missing partner (not lover, maybe once lover, but not lover now) he should do the same.
“Fine,” he says so sharply. “It used to be that the idiot was the only one I was highly looking out for. Now hell has broken loose for the rest, but that idiot is still an idiot out of them all.” He’s still touching his left wrist, and I think he’s been doing that even more without hiding the fact he’s doing that ever since we started this bottle of gold rum.
“What you said about yours fleeing because of not wanting to hurt you and the others you live with…you could say it’s the same for the one I’m…close with.”
“Hold it there,” I interrupt. Close, he said close. I think I’m getting it. He pretty much cares for (love, I have no freaking idea, but caring is still strong enough) this person. “You said ‘close’…but you seemed hesitant about it.”
There’s silence, and maybe it’s just my overextended imagination, but I hear a light choke coming from his throat before he forces it down. For once this night, I am patient and let him be, let him gain is composure as he needs be. Not because I completely understand the pain of talking about a particular idiot…or perhaps it is because of that.
“Because it’s something I know the idiot wants to avoid - being close,” he finally answers, letting me sufficiently know that he feels close, wants to be close to that person, but his said idiot doesn’t want to.
“But not a runaway, I’m guessing?” I ask, instantly feeling the bitterness of my wounds leaking into the question.
He shakes his head, but then sourly adds, “Emotionally though. Making all efforts to put up a distance with a huge wall, if you can call it that.”
“Well…that’s just as awful as my situation then!” I boldly declare. “And you’ve been trying to deal with it, to even nudge otherwise?”
His hand flinches and once again he’s going back to that goddamn scar that’s now irritating me so much, even though the poor man can’t help it, really.
“Yes…” But then something is ticking him off. I can feel it, am more aware of these in my current state of mind. “Fuck,” he blurts out, “no, I… I didn’t ask for any of this, even though I chose to. What the hell am I thinking?!”
I don’t know why, but I’m feeling hurt. I can feel his pain so well, so vividly and tangibly. And I know why, because his pain is what I’m feeling too and it fucking hurts so much. He’s so angry, and I know how that feels, to be angry and frustrated and not wanting to feel helpless at all but when in cold reality you are helpless.
“I think we should leave,” I suggest, rationality still there in my head and fighting to get away from the urge to round up more shots in order to avoid any of us getting considerably worse. He doesn’t say anything else, so I assume he will not fight back. I then quickly hail over a bartender and he fires up a tab for me, which I state will be under me. My drinking companion seems to understand, for when I go over to him to get him up as well, he doesn’t hold back at all. Sure, maybe I stumble a bit (while he doesn’t), but we make it out of the bar and out into the open space. As soon as we leave the door, we head out to the adjacent parking lot.
Just then, I feel a smack on my back and I nearly topple over, but manage to catch myself. Self-defense kicking in, I spin around and aim to hit him back. He blocks it automatically. It pains me to feel that I couldn’t even rely on him now, not even after everything I think I had said to him deals with the things I never wanted to talk or even think about in the very first place.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, bastard?!” I scream at him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yells back at me, letting go of my arm. “Forget about what I told you all those rounds of drinks. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t come here to talk at all.”
“I remember that, idiot!” Faintly though.
“Then why did we leave?”
Because he and I are going nowhere? Because something told me if we didn’t leave soon we’d end up wrecking the bar up? Well, he was the one that insisted on ordering a heavy drink to share. I could have avoided drinking this heavily in the first place. No, what am I talking about? I did want to. I can’t think straight and my head is buzzing, but something snaps into pieces and I know this is what I need to say for good measures. So I just stare at him in the eyes, even though he’s a good head taller than me.
“You know, for someone who’s complaining about this ‘idiot’ running away emotionally, you’re just as guilty right now.”
It could be the trick of the dim light glowing on and off along the brick wall, but his face seems to pale just for a moment. But then he looks at me sharply, so offended at what I had just said to tell him off. I know it doesn’t help matters much, considering the inebriated and hostile conditions we’re in. But it’s very well damn true and I know he knows it.
He’s just like me, wanting to go to the bar in the first place to foremost drink and not think, even forget about the shit we’re faced with our respective idiots in our lives, who we are angry at yet angry because we hurt and we just want to care (and maybe in my case, love, but no, she doesn’t know what the hell love is because she left me) for them.
“You too,” he accuses, and I do very well know it is the cold, harsh truth and something I am equally ashamed of. Still, it doesn’t mean he had the direct authority to tell me off for that. I bite my tongue, feeling just as much as offended and wanting to slap him across the cheek. Or yell at him or even go for a fist fight, for him for having to make me fully bring back all the feelings I’d rather not let bother me.
But instead, I find myself inching myself closer towards this obstinate, foul mouthed, bad tempered, yet good intentioned man to kiss him.
And I swear he also leaned down closer towards me the same time in order to kiss me.