Writing Randomness

South Park fic - A Rich Man's Dust (chapter two)

2009-10-04T19:07:04Z

Discliamer: not ours.
Rating: PG-13
Chapter 1: here
Summary: AU. After losing a football scholarship due to an accident, Stanley Marsh accepts a job as a servant for the town's richest guy: Kyle Broflovski. Eventual Style, collab with eishi.

The night was a bit colder than usual, so the two friends decided to have their drinks inside, rather than on some bench near Stark's Pond. The pond was where underage teenagers used to gather and drink until they puked their soul out, but even though Kenny was already legal, they couldn't bring themselves to move their drinking meetings to another place. Tonight, however, as was mentioned above, it was a bit too cold for the pond.

Kenny's house was a wobbling shack. In their younger years, rats used to run all over the wooden floor and pester the McCormicks, but sometime during middle school welfare services managed to move them to another house. Still crappy, but at least in that one the roof only leaked during the early months of winter.

Stan sat on a torn and stained beanbag chair while Kenny sat on the bed, flipping idly through some racing magazine from two years ago. "So," he started, taking a long gulp from his dad's Carlsberg, "how’s the new job?”

Stan took a sip from his own can, feeling oddly miserable and happy at the same time. ”I’ve no idea,” he stated and returned to his drink. ”My new boss is some kind of a nutjob. I don’t know what to think of him.”

Kenny cocked his left eyebrow and played with his can of beer, making the liquid inside swish with a noise only he found pleasant. ”What do you mean?” he asked.

Tough question. Stan himself couldn’t put his finger on just what made Kyle Broflovski – he had repeated the name a dozen times this evening in his head, just so that he would remember it tomorrow morning and could greet the older man – short, cunningly smiling Kyle Broflovski so… so… so.

”I don’t know does he have a sense of humor at all, or is his humor something that I can’t understand.” Stan debated for a moment in his head if he should mention the thing or not. ”He offered me a maid’s dress as my work uniform.”

Kenny chuckled openly, not even trying to hide his gloating. ”Oh, I would have loved to see you in that one,” Kenny said and laughed, stopping just for another gulp of beer before continuing to laugh even louder than before.

That shook Stan off of his daze. ”Kenny! You’re sick, man!” He spilled some of the Carlsberg as he tried to hit the laughing Kenny in the face. He missed, and Kenny didn’t shut up.

”Oh man,” he said, his laughter now reducing to a mere chuckle. ”Your aim is shit, too. I don't think he was that far from the truth about you!”

”Shut it, Ken,” Stan muttered, his cheeks now noticeably redder. It was the alcohol, surely, that made him miss Kenny’s big fat ugly head. It was the alcohol that had made him mention the dress when he knew very, very well that Kenny, of all people, just wouldn’t let it slide.

Kenny’s walls were pale orange: the color reminded Stan the jacket Kenny had used when they were ten or so. In fact, everything in his wardrobe had been orange those days, excluding some band shirts. Orange. Stan stared at the color, the beer can trembling in his hands. It was strange: they were adults now, or at least trying to be, with varying results, and yet, nothing had changed. Kenny was still his best friend. They still spent every Friday night drinking their sorrows away and talking about nothing until dawn. He still couldn’t hit Kenny in the face. Kenny still had that obsession with racing cars and collected small Gundam models. Stan still played football.

His leg twitched unconsciously.

”Seriously, Kenny,” he sighed, ”it’s not funny. I mean, would you wear a girl’s dress for a job like that?”

Kenny seemed to ponder that for a second, then smiled and nodded vehemently. ”If he pays enough – and by enough I mean five bucks an hour – sure, I'd be willing to do that.” Stan frowned. After a short silence Kenny seemed to be struck with something. ”I think he's gay,” he said.

The sentence didn’t make Stan spit out the beer that was waltzing on his tongue, but it did make him stop drinking any more.

”What?” he asked, eyes wide. ”Of course he’s not! Don’t be stupid, Ken, he’s just… he just has an odd sense of humor!”

Kenny held his chin in thought, then shook his head. ”No, no, I'm sure he's gay. Why else would he offer you to wear a dress?” he asked, finished his can, and continued. ”How old did you say he is?”

”Thirty… something, I don’t know. Why does it matter?”

Kenny nodded to himself. ”He's not married, is he?”

”Um… I don’t know. I think not. I think he would’ve said if he had a wife hidden somewhere.” Stan narrowed his eyes. ”Kenny, stop making that face. It’s annoying. You… you’re doing it again, acting as if you know something I don’t and you’re not going to tell me what it is.” Stan dared to take a sip again. ”And he’s not gay. Just…kind of odd.”

Kenny shrugged, not seeming to believe his friend even a bit. ”If you say so… Say, he doesn't need another servant, does he?”

Stan broke into laughter, the first one in a while. ”You'd like that, wouldn't you? No, he doesn’t. Face it, Kenny, you’re still broke and owe me, like, sixty bucks.”

This time it was Kenny's turn to frown in annoyance. ”Oh, fuck you Stan,” he said, then thought for a second as the smirk returned to his face and he looked at Stan with an evil sparkle in his blue eyes. ”And the sooner your new boss takes care of that – the better!”

”Kenny,” Stan said coolly, ”shut. Up. He’s not gay, neither am I, and that’s the end of the story. It’s more like you’re the gay one here, with the way you seem so fixated on the idea!”

”I'm only realistic,” Kenny replied, enjoying messing with his best friend's mind. ”Are you willing to bet on it?” he asked, the chance of making easy money never escaping him.

”No,” Stan spat poisonously. Silence fell over them, the only awkward sound coming from the broken heater behind Kenny’s bed. Stan’s frown faded within few moments of silence. ”How would you even check if he’s… you know, you can’t just break into people’s bedrooms. Not even a pervert like you.”

Kenny's smile widened and his eyes gleamed dangerously. ”Oh, I have my ways, Stanley dearest,” he said, licking his lips as if to emphasize the point.

”That’s it. I’m going home.” Stan stood up fast – a little too fast indeed. Blood rushed to his head, making him wobbly and spill the remains of his drink all over Kenny’s dirty floor.

Kenny looked up at him, still highly amused. ”Hey Stan,” he said, causing the black-haired man to look at him curiously. ”You know who else can't hold their liquor?”

”Who?” Stan asked, too confused about which way was up to see the danger in Kenny’s rhetorical question.

”Girls,” Kenny said simply.

Stan tried to say something, probably something about wishing Kenny a happy trip to hell or how he was not a girl, but didn’t manage to say anything. He simply passed out at Kenny’s feet.

The roses seemed to be just as stunningly red as they had been yesterday, but the other flowers were a little down. Stan closed his eyes as he walked straight (or, in the name of honesty, tried to) and slowly towards the Broflovski estate. It was five minutes to nine in the morning, and Stan was not particularly enjoying it. Before going over to Kenny’s house yesterday evening, his mom had showed him everything everyone needed to know about cleaning and cooking. Mops, buckets, carrots, different types of macaroni and iron boards were rushing through his head. It was slowly dawning to him that he knew nothing about the things he had claimed to be so great at, and his new boss would find that out soon.

Also, it did not help that he was having a hangover.

Stan hesitated at the door. Should he ring the bell or should he just go in? He was, after all, an employee here in the main house, and he was about to move in here. He wasn't just some random gardener who came in a few times a week.

He took a deep breath, rang the bell and winced at the sound the moronic bell made. Why couldn’t everything just shut up right now and let him die in peace?

It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps and his new boss opened the door, a bit wider then yesterday. He stared at him curiously, examining him from top to bottom and causing him to feel uncomfortable. It’s like he’s undressing you with his eyes, Kenny would say. No, Stan wouldn’t think of the conversation they had yesterday right now.

Kyle was smiling the tiniest of smiles before he opened the door fully and invited his new employee in. ”Mi casa – su casa,” he said. ”You’re a bit early. I’m pleasantly surprised,” he added.

Stan smiled nervously. ”Good morning,” he said. ”I, uh, so, where do I start? Cleaning first?”

Kyle laughed heartily and patted Stan on his back, pointing at the suitcase at his feet. ”Why not start by getting adjusted to your new room?” he asked.

Stan twitched a bit under Kyle’s touch, but tried to mask it as an excitement. ”Well, alright.” He smiled widely, but the gesture seemed hollow even in his own head. ”My room was… uh… this way?” He pointed at the stairs, having already forgotten how wide they were.

Kyle nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. A few steps and a near, well-masked stumble later, Kyle asked, ”You were living with your parents, weren’t you? How did they accept your decision to move out?”

Over my dead body, Stanley Marsh! You’re disabled, for Christ’s sake! It is okay for you to earn your own living, but you’ll be safer here with us! What would your boss say if he knew that you’re hiding a football injury?

Yeah, his mom hadn’t taken it well, but Kyle didn’t need to know that.

”Pretty well,” he shrugged. ”Besides, I already moved out once. I lived at the dorm when I was in college.”

”That’s great to hear. It’s my first time hiring someone younger than me,” Kyle said, nodding to himself as if pleased with this prospect. Once they got to his new room, Kyle was still looking at him with that tiny smile.

”Tell you what,” he said as he turned to doorknob and opened the door. ”I still haven’t finished my breakfast, so I’ll get back to that. In the meanwhile, you’ll unpack and try to get used to this room. Meet me in my workroom when you’re done. Remember to knock first!” he warned before he turned around and left in the direction in which they came.

The door was slightly ajar, so Stan moved to close it. He looked around at his new room, the panicky state somewhat lessening. He actually liked the room, the soft light its windows gave and the meek colors of the walls.

He glanced at his suitcase. Maybe it was wise to leave it in its unpacked state for a while.

Kyle sighed heavily as he sat at his large desk, eyeing the piles (or towers, rather) of papers on top of it. Probably half of them only needed his signature, but those he hated the most – it meant he actually had to read through them. A brown file caught his eyes and he rubbed his temples tiredly. Even though it, too, dealt with a trial like the rest of the files in his room, it was somewhat different.

It dealt with his trial.

Kyle Broflovski was being sued. By Eric Cartman. About some fake claim regarding animal cruelty his trading company was involved in, or something. It was the third time in five years, and Kyle was getting tired of it, and he guessed the court was, too.

After all, Eric Cartman always lost.

He was about to go through the first pile of papers for the day when his cell-phone rung. Kyle fished it quickly out of his pocket and smiled. ”Token,” he greeted.

”Hey baby,” Token said with a low dark baritone. His voice was unique, dark and smooth, (like his body, Kyle noted) and it usually gave people chills – in a good way.

Kyle was not an exception.

”Hi,” he breathed into the phone, enjoying the reaction. ”You’re up early today. Couldn’t sleep because you can’t wait for tonight?” Kyle asked, his eyes skimming over the first page of some lawsuit he was the defense attorney for, but not really reading.

”Tonight?” Token breathed. ”Oh, yeah, The Dinner. Kyle, honey, have you hired a new butler? Please tell me you have. I really didn’t enjoy the food you made last time. No offense.”

Kyle pouted. It wasn’t his fault that he missed the second Sedder with his family and had to improvise something. He loved gefilte-fish, but for some reason, his tasted like a matzoball. Token seemed to think that, too, even though he refused to touch anything that looked like a carton-board and thus had no way of knowing. ”Oh, I did, don’t worry. Some college dropout,” he replied, picking some noises from the kitchen. ”He’s cleaning right now,” he said, proudly.

”College drop-out?” Token repeated, humor in his voice. ”Poor fella’. I hope you’re not paying him too well.” He chuckled. ”Actually, I’m glad we’re having dinner tonight. I get to see you”— Kyle got radiating by just hearing that—”and I get to check out your new servant. You know, to make sure he doesn’t try to steal away my property.”

”Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Kyle replied with a wave of his hand even though Token could not see it. ”You should have seen the face he made when I offered he’d wear a dress.” After a second of a thought, he added huskily, ”And I can’t wait to see you, too. Three days is a long time.”

Token hummed in agreement. ”I’ll call you later, honey. I’ve got a meeting to attend. Boring as fuck, but what can you do. Someone has to make the decisions.” His voice dropped. ”See you tonight.”

Kyle nodded in agreement to himself and was about to voice some cheesy parting words when the sound of breaking… things caught his ears. His green eyes widened.

”Yeah, around eight thirty like we discussed. Bye now!” he said quickly and ended the call, pushing himself up from his desk and running towards the kitchen. He held the door-frame and as he got there, his eyes roaming around in panic.

Stan was standing next to the counter with pieces of broken china at his feet. ”What’s going on here?” Kyle asked quietly, trying to digest the scene.

”I, uh…” Those two words seemed to be Stan’s motto. ”I’m so sorry! I tried to organize everything, so I sorted the plates according to their size, and then the biggest pile started to fall, so I dashed to catch it, and I did save it, but then another one started to… and I…” Stan stared at his feet, his face glowing with embarrassment. ”I’ll go pack my things now. I’m so sorry.”

Kyle blinked and made a step forward, looking around in silence. ”No, no… there’s not need for that…” he said quietly. ”Those were just plates, nothing too expensive. Just… clean that up and go buy new ones later today,” he said. ”You can use my Mercedes for that.” Then his eyes widened with realization. ”Oh, right, I totally forgot. Token’s coming over for dinner tonight,” he said, absolutely forgetting that Stan had no way of knowing who Token was.

Stan blinked, but didn’t show his confusion otherwise – he got to keep his job? Who was Token? He had to serve dinner for two? And wait, use someone’s Mercedes?

Maybe his boss was a bit cooler than he had originally thought.

”Thank you,” he quietly said. ”I, uh, I’m going to get… something… to clean this up.” He backed out of the kitchen, and repeated, ”Thank you.”

Kyle stared after his retreating form and shook his head slowly, not able to prevent a smile from forming on his lips. Then he remembered all the work he had left and frowned. ”Someone has to make decisions, huh…” he said quietly to himself, repeating Token’s words. Hopefully, I made the right ones…

Making dinner for two (or three, since Stan hadn’t eaten himself anything all day) was way more difficult than he had ever imagined it to be. Alright, maybe his mom’s demonstration on ”how to prepare and serve a fine dinner”, ten minutes in length, hadn’t taught him everything he needed to know. Stan had no idea what to do with all the food he had bought – tuna fish, meatballs, tenderloin of a calf, spaghetti, vegetables – and no idea what to do with all the knives and cups and salad plates. Throughout his high school, his mom had always cooked. Throughout his college year, he had eaten cup noodles or at the nearby McDonalds’s and college restaurants. Stan, as he now painfully realized, was not a very good cook.

So far, the day had not been a pleasant one. First and foremost, he was having a hangover. Second, he had broken a dozen of valuable plates he could never afford to refund. The only silver lining had been the fact that Kyle – bless that enigmatic man – had merely blinked at the catastrophe and handed him the keys to his silver Mercedes. In fact, it was a Mercedes-Benz CLS 55, and they only produced something like 1000 or the likes a year. Stan had been in heaven when he had driven the car. It moved so smoothly, so elegantly, and the looks on everyone’s faces! He had had a chance to pretend what it would be like to own a car that cost in minimum $90,000.

Then another disaster had struck. It hadn’t been his fault, though, that the parking lot of Target had been crowded, and as he was looking for a place to park (as close to the store as he could, obviously), some idiot had decided to test how fast his car could accelerate to 25 miles per hour. They had crashed, in a relatively low speed – the driver hadn’t gotten very far from his parking slot, so the crash had happened in the whopping speed of 6 miles per hour. Stan had panicked while the other driver had just flipped him off and left, without saying anything. Still in a panicky mode, Stan had rushed to the food section, bought everything his shaken mind could think of and paid with the credit card Kyle had given him. Then he had rushed off to the next section to buy some plates – he had chosen the first ones the employee recommended to him, and because they seemed pretty enough (blue flowers, birds and something else blue) to satisfy Kyle’s expensive taste.

But, when he had gotten back and confessed Kyle about the bump that now decorated his brand new Mercedes’ front door, Kyle had simply waved him off. ”It’s okay, my father bought it for me as a birthday present. I don’t even like it that much. Though,” he had added, just when Stan had sighed with relief and thought he was on the clear, ”if you had destroyed my Maserati, I would have crushed you.”

Stan hoped the smirk he had flashed was only a part of the joke.

Kyle had left Stan alone in the kitchen after that, and Stan had spent the first five minutes drinking two energy drinks and rummaging through cookbooks. He had settled for Spaghetti Bolognese – it was simple enough to make for many people, and plus, Stan figured even he couldn’t ruin a dish that easy.

He turned out to be wrong.

The spaghetti was cooking nicely (almost boiling over) and the minced meat was almost done (burned), when the doorbell rang. Stan put down the knife he had used for salad leafs – he vaguely remembered his mom saying something about washing them first, but he had forgotten to do so and went straight to the cutting part – and waited for a moment. He was a bit confused should or should he not go open the door, but when there were no footsteps of his new boss, Stan abandoned the boiling spaghetti and went to the door.

The doorbell rang again, this time much louder and in an irritating manner, which certainly didn’t improve Stan’s crushing hangover. Stan rolled his eyes. ”Yes?”

On the other side of the door stood a black man clad in a business suit, which looked as if it cost like Stan’s entire wardrobe. He was looking at his Rolex impatiently when Stan opened the door, and as the man looked up, his brown eyes narrowed. ”Hello,” he said coolly.

”Um, hello. You must be Token.” There was no reply, other than a cold, calculating look from the other man. Stan rushed on: ”Come on in. Kyle, uh, Mr. Broflovski must be in his study.”

”Well, obviously,” was the curt reply. The guest sniffed the air. ”What’s cooking?” he asked.

Stan resisted the urge to answer ’I wish I knew’. He had spent less than a minute in the company of this Token figure, and he already hated the guy.

”Just some Spaghetti Bolognese and a Greek salad,” he humbly replied. He hoped that Token got the stinging tone underneath all the politeness.

Token blanched. ”Spaghetti?” he asked. ”I haven’t eaten that dish since like… high school. Did Kyle tell you to make that?”

”No?” Stan tried. Not very assuring. ”He told me to cook whatever I felt like.” Time for the oldest excuse in the book. ”I left the kettle on, sorry!”

Token watched the hurriedly retreating figure with mild interest and a deep frown. As the new servant – who in his rudeness forgot to present himself – disappeared into the kitchen, Token set out to look for the Jewish man.

He didn’t knock – as he didn’t need to – and as expected, Kyle was sitting at his desk, reading glasses on, and going through some papers. Token liked the glasses. ”Hey, baby,” he said.

Kyle looked up and a huge grin crossed his face. ”Token,” he said quietly, allowing the man to bend down to kiss him quickly on the lips. ”It’s good to see you.”

”Good to see you too,” Token repeated and smiled. His smile was a darker version of Kyle’s crooked smirk – this one was a full smirk, with calculatingness written all over it. ”I saw your new servant. Not a very impressive one, I’d say. I liked the old lady better.”

Kyle sighed. ”Yeah, I know, but what can I do… this place was beginning to look like a dump. I gave him a trial period of a month, we’ll see how he manages.” He gathered all the papers into a single pile and rose from his seat. ”Think dinner’s ready?” he asked.

Token smiled evilly. ”I think so. Tell your butler to set up the table. I’m rather hungry.”

Kyle smiled back, kissed Token chastely on the lips and left the room with the black man in tow. ”Stan!” he called into the hallway.

A few steps down the hall, Stan shivered as he heard the call. He peeked into the hallway. ”Y-you called?”

”Yes, in fact, I did,” Kyle said as he approached him, a smirking Token behind. ”Is dinner ready? We’re hungry and I still have much work left to do.”

Stan would have openly glared at the guest’s face if he hadn’t been in such turmoil – broken plates, a crashed car, and now this. He smiled.

”Yes, it’s ready. I’ll go set the table.”

”You mean you haven’t yet?” Kyle asked with a slight frown on his face.

Stan panicked. Token hid a chuckle behind Kyle’s back. ”N-no, I, uh, forgot. I was so absorbed in making the food. I’m sorry, I’ll go do it right away!”

Kyle sighed and rubbed his temples tiredly. ”He’s just starting, Token,” he said, sensing the other man’s amusement.

Token shrugged and glanced at the kitchen door, which was now wildly waving after Stan’s speedy exit. ”Fine, but I think you’re being too nice to him. Do you know what he’s cooking?”

”No, I didn’t ask, I was too busy.”

Token chuckled again. ”Well, you’ll see. Maybe you’ll be harder on him next time.”

There were frantic voices coming from the large hall – apparently Stan was setting up the table. Token clicked his tongue. ”The next thing you know, he’ll break all your fine china.”

Kyle looked up at him, face marred with confusion. ”He already did. What did he make?” he asked as they started making their way towards the dining hall.

”You’ll see,” Token smiled sweetly. ”After you, my darling.” He held the door open for Kyle, and they entered the hall.

As much as Token had criticized Stan’s abilities, he had to admit that the table looked very nice. All forks and knives were in their place, there were flowers on the table and white-wine glasses with a white wine bottle placed on the side-table. Stan was nowhere to be seen – he had sneaked back to the kitchen, Token assumed.

Kyle, on the other hand, looked sick to his stomach as he stared at the plates. The blue, kitschy, my-grandma-wouldn’t-even-look-at-those plates. ”What… the fuck…” he breathed, but before he could complete a coherent sentence, Stan rushed in with the food cart.

”Here’s the salad, Greek salad with Bulgarian cheese,” he simply said as he put the foods on the table with a super speed. His panic had now resulted in a state where he did everything twice faster than normally, because he wanted the situation to end as soon as possible. Token and Kyle stared oddly at him. ”And here’s the main dish – Spaghetti Bolognese.” He smiled nervously. ”Please, take a seat.”

Token did, still smirking, godamnit, but Kyle remained standing, staring at the table, then at Stan, then at the table again. ”I… I can’t eat that,” he said quietly.

Stan blinked. It… it didn’t smell that horrible, did it? ”Um, pardon me?”

”It’s Passover,” Kyle spat. ”I can’t eat wheat! And even if it wasn’t, mixing dairy and meat? I don’t do that Stanley, and as we’re already on the matter, what in the name of God were you thinking when you bought this set of plates?”

Truth was, Stan hadn’t been thinking anything. He had just asked the shop employee what a multimillionaire would like in his estate. Damn it. Thinking back, the employee had surely recommended him the ones that cost most, or the ones no one else was stupid enough to buy.

Stan looked at the ground. There was nothing he could say. ”I’m sorry, I…” Wait, there was. ”I didn’t know it was… uh… Passover.”

”You didn’t,” Kyle said, more to himself than to anyone else. ”No, I guess you didn’t know. Well now you do, so… just… there’s a box of matzo in the cupboard above the fridge. Get me one of those and some cream cheese, I’ll manage. Oh, and… just… I don’t know, sale that… plates set on eBay or whatever, I don’t care, but I don’t want to see it again,” he said, his tone having a finality ring to it. Token was still chuckling to himself. It was getting on Stan’s nerves, and besides, he was now fuming inside because Token got to see him so humiliated.

Kyle’s look was stern though. Stan bowed as elegantly as he could – which was not much – and rushed away. Token took a seat. ”I hope you don’t mind, darling, but the meal looks delicious. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

”Yes,” Kyle replied quietly, his eyes staring somewhere far away. ”I’m sure,” he finished, sat down and filled his plate with the salad.

They ate in relative silence, occasionally commenting on their jobs, while Stan stood in the background (a white towel draped on his arm and all) and watched them silently. After what was probably half an hour or so (though to Stan it seemed like five) the two rose from their seats. ”I know you were expecting more...” Kyle said apolitically to his guest.

Token shook his head. ”Just consider what I said about your… servant. I’m heading to L.A. after this, anyway. I can eat on the plane.” He bent closer to Kyle. ”Besides, I got to see you.”

In the background, some kind of a muffled voice could be heard – Stan was blinking at the sight and didn’t know what to think. He decided yet to keep his innocent mindset. That was nothing. I’m just hearing things. Kenny’s not right about this thing. Not this one time.

”I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone,” Kyle said, eyes half-closed, chin up.

Token half-smirked, half-smiled. ”Oh, I bet you’ll be having lots of fun with your servant,” he whispered into Kyle’s ear. ”If he’s here the next time I’m coming for dinner, I’m taking my own butler with me.”

”Oh, are you now?” Kyle whispered back, tilting his head to the left just enough for their lips to brush.

...notseeingthisnotseeingthisnotseeingthis…

Token smirked again and bent down to kiss Kyle fully on the lips. Stan’s world shattered.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck! Kenny was right. Kenny was right! He’s gay! He’s GAY!

Just then Kyle remembered they weren’t alone and pulled back, hand caressing Token’s cheek quickly then letting go. ”Call me,” he said, walking the man to the front door.

Stan stayed behind, still dazed. He’s… gay? And that idiot’s dating him?

And the stupid thing was, despite everything, all he could see in his mind was how Token bent down and kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle. On the lips. Kissed Kyle…

”So,” Kenny started that night, a can of Budweiser in his hand. ”I was right, wasn’t I?”

Stan stared at his can, unable to say anything. ”He’s gay,” Stan muttered. ”He’s... gay.”

Well, except for that one line. It was the only thing Stan had been able to say for an hour.

To Be Continued…

(we'd like a review on ff.net and not here)

Freezing - Part II

2009-04-11T18:49:06Z

There was no answer from the other side when Akihiko knocked. He frowned, tried again, and then turned the doorknob. The door opened with ease and Akihiko entered slowly, hesitant.

"Hiroki?" he called, looking around. The hall was empty, and so were the kitchen and living room. Finally he spotted his friend in his bedroom, lying fully-clothed on the bed, hugging a pillow to his chest. Akihiko figured his friend was probably sleeping. A quick glance at his watch told him he had two more hours until he'd be able to visit Misaki, so he decided to stay around and wait for his friend to wake up. If he knew Hiroki as he claimed to, then his sleep was probably troubled.

He sat down next to the brown-haired man and watched as the frown on his face deepened as he mumbled incoherently. Akihiko smiled tenderly, noticing how sweat made his locks of hair to stick to his forehead. With his right hand he brushed them slowly, tucking them behind Hiroki's ear. When he was about to remove his hand, his friend's hand shot up quickly and caught it, holding it limply. "Nowaki…" his friend breathed slowly. "…nd…cold…"

Akihiko thought his heart broke.

A tear slipped from one of his friend's shut eyes, and he woke up with a start, head shooting up quickly to gaze with wide, hopeful eyes at his visitor. Akihiko watched sadly as the hazel eyes narrowed, mirroring unfathomable sadness as a dry sob escaped the assistant professor's lips. "You're not him…" he said quietly.

"Hiroki…" Akihiko whispered. He grabbed his friend's shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Hiroki tried to resist at first, trying to push the visitor away, but after a few minutes he calmed down, allowing hot tears to drop on Akihiko's blue shirt and stain it. Akihiko shushed him, patting his head slowly.

"He's gone," Hiroki choked out from between his sobs. "I-I never told him goodbye, I n-never told him s-so, so much, I-" but then he couldn't speak anymore, fingernails digging into Akihiko's back.

Akihiko kept on sitting there silently, hands running down Hiroki's back until the latter one fell asleep in his arms after what seemed like a very long time. Akihiko sighed deeply and laid the man down on the bed and straightened his hair. "…waki…" the man mumbled again. But this time he didn't wake up. Thin fingers brushed against is own and the brown-haired man breathed in deeply, shuddering. "Your hands… cold…"

Akihiko bit his lower lip. He turned his head to the side and noticed a crumpled photograph on the drawer. He picked it up and stared at it with interest. It was a picture of Kusama-kun, with his black hairs and blue eyes, smiling widely, and next to him there was a very flustered Hiroki. Akihiko wondered briefly where it was taken. Hiroki was never a fond of photographs. Something told him that it was probably the only picture of his lover that Hiroki had.

He sighed deeply and put it back down. "I'll be back," he said finally, turned around and left the apartment, heading towards the hospital.

Akihiko stood outside of the hospital, smoking slowly, waiting for the clock to strike two – the hour in which he'd be able to meet his beloved. Takahiro told him he won't be able to come today, and Akihiko was quite grateful for that, really, because he didn't know if he'd be able to stop himself from kissing Misaki right there on the spot.

Two cigarettes later Akihiko entered the huge building, hands tucked deep in his pockets, eyes hard. He passed the small, useless flower and chocolate shops in the entrance, turned right towards the elevators and up to the fifth floor.

A nurse at the counter directed him to the correct room. He walked slowly, watching as the numbers on the doors went up. Those were shared rooms, he figured, and he told himself to make sure to use some money and move his Misaki to someplace more private.

Room 523 was at the end of the hall, next to the emergency exit and the door to the large balcony. Akihiko entered, peeking from behind the curtains, disappointment falling over him whenever he saw patients he wasn't looking for.

Misaki's bed was at the end of the room, next to the window. Akihiko was thankful for that. He grabbed a plastic chair and sat down, staring intently at his beloved. So many tubes were coming out of him that it was almost scary, both of his hands were bandaged, his right leg was in cast, and when Akihiko looked closely he noticed blue marks on whatever piece of skin that was available to the eye.

Akihiko breathed in a shuddered breath and closed his eyes momentarily, taking in what he just saw. Takahiro told him it was pretty bad, that Misaki would probably take months to recover completely, but at least he was alive. There were at least one hundred people that weren't.

Kusama-san wasn't.

Akihiko felt bad about his Junai Egoist series then, and wondered if he should make sure it won't be on sale anymore.

He was shaken out of his daze when a low groan sounded from the direction of the bed. Akihiko stood up immediately and leaned down, staring intently at his lover as his eyes opened slowly.

Misaki blinked a few times, eyes half closed, and a tiny smile crossed his lips. "I's you…" he mumbled, his words jumbled. Akihiko smiled tenderly and brushed a few strands of hair from his beloved's face.

"Yes," he whispered. He wanted to say something more, but decided against it. Misaki should get his rest and not talk.

"You're 'live…" Misaki whispered then, voice barely audible. Akihiko was a bit taken aback by that, but before he could ask anything the happiness in Misaki's eyes changed suddenly into some sort of sadness. "No…" he breathed. "Not 'im… Usagi-sa…" then his eyes closed and he fell asleep again.

Akihiko sat there, dumbfounded, his eyes wide. What was that?

He remained in his place until visiting hours were over, hoping to see those lovely green eyes open again, but Misaki remained in his unconscious state for the remainder of Akihiko's visit.

When he stood up, preparing to leave, the doctor entered. He came to Misaki's bed first, and smiled widely when his eyes landed on Akihiko. "Ah, another visitor for the young man," he said. "I can tell he's quite likeable."

"Yes," Akihiko replied quietly. "I'm a friend of the family." That wasn't a complete lie.

The doctor chuckled and took the chart from the foot of the bed, scanning it quickly. "It may take some time," the doctor said as he put the chart back in place, "but he'll recover. We managed to take him out of the danger zone… it's quite fortunate, you know."

"Of course," Akihiko said, grabbing his wallet from where he put it on the drawer next to Misaki's bed.

"If that man wasn't there, this guy wouldn't have been here as well," the doctor said, scribbling something on the chart.

"Excuse me?" Akihiko asked.

The doctor looked up at him, blinked stupidly, and smiled. "Oh, I'm sorry. In the report we got it said that the man who was lying on top of him in the wreckage got most of the blow. He died, unfortunately, but he saved your friend. This young man here also, he seems to look for him whenever he wakes up. Well, if you'll excuse me, I have other patients to check up on. Have a nice day." And with that the doctor moved to next bed.

Akihiko remained standing there for some time more, but then the doctor gave him an angry look and motioned with his head towards the exit. Akihiko took the hint and left.

It was only a month after the accident that Misaki was able to stay awake for more than half a minute. The cast on his leg was removed, and so were some of the bandages, and his general appearance became much more appealing. The doctor said that in a couple of weeks he'd be able to leave the hospital.

Akihiko visited him everyday, with Takahiro and his family sometimes joining. Akihiko believed that they gave him strength.

It was in a Saturday evening when Misaki was finally able to speak coherently. He opened his eyes slowly and looked at Akihiko, and once again his eyes changed from happy to sad. "Usagi-san…" he whispered and coughed weakly. "Where… that man…" he said and coughed again.

"Which man, Misaki?" Akihiko asked, although he knew very well who his lover wanted to see.

"From the train…" the younger man replied. "He… he told me I'll live. I'm alive Usagi-san, but where…" tears slipped from his eyes slowly and Akihiko didn't know if they were tears of pain or sadness.

"He died," Akihiko answered simply, knowing that lying would not give good results. "But you're alive thanks to him, Misaki. He received most of the blow…"

"Ah," Misaki breathed, tears coming down faster. "I-I see…" he sniffled. "His name?"

Akihiko shook his head and Misaki released a dry sob and shut his eyes. "Like you…" Misaki said, voice cracking.

"Hm?" Akihiko asked, taking Misaki's hand in his own.

Misaki was panting in between words and Akihiko knew it was still hard for him to talk. "He looked… like you… blue eyes… his were… warmer… hands… big… black hair…"

"Shh, Misaki," Akihiko soothed, tightening his grip on Misaki's hand. "Don't talk too much yet."

Misaki shook his head weakly. "But… he saved… me... he's gone…"

Akihiko needed a smoke, but he used his last cigarette about an hour ago. "I'll be right back, Misaki," he said to the already falling asleep teen. "Rest well."

The automatic machines were on the first floor. Akihiko inserted a few coins and grabbed his reward quickly, intending or returning to the fifth floor immediately, but when he glanced outside he saw a gathering in the yard, with various staff members, some patients, and… was that Hiroki?

Curiosity got the better of him and he stepped outside. In the back of the crowd indeed stood Hiroki, dark sunglasses covering his eyes, hat covering his hairs and a large coat covering his body. It was mid-July, and Akihiko remembered with pain that about a week ago, when he met him at the bookstore and asked about his unusual winter gear, Hiroki told him that nowadays he was always cold. "It's so cold that sometimes I think I'm freezing to death," Hiroki had told him.

He stood behind him, looking at the center of the crowd where an old doctor was talking. Behind him there was a picture of Hiroki's dead lover.

A memorial service…

Hiroki's lover was beautiful, Akihiko concluded suddenly. Dark skin, deep blue eyes, black… hair… his eyes widened.

"Hiroki?" he whispered into his friend's ear.

The brown-haired man turned to look at him with surprise written all over his face. "Akihiko?" he asked. It pained Akihiko to listen to his friend lately. His voice was dead, empty, and so were his eyes.

So was his soul.

"What's going on?" Akihiko asked him, although to him it was quite obvious.

"A memorial service for No-" Hiroki lowered his head. "-for him…" he continued. "He used to work in this hospital…"

Akihiko nodded. "Say," he whispered when the doctor in the center finished talking. "My… roommate is hospitalized here… he was in that horrible train wreck, too, and I think… I think he might have met Kusa-"

Hiroki shot his hand up and shut Akihiko's mouth quickly. "I don't want to hear that name," he hissed.

Akihiko removed the hand forcefully. "He mentioned a blue-eyes man who saved him," he finished. Hiroki looked back up at him with big, disbelieving eyes. "Room 523," Akihiko mumbled quickly. "Come whenever you can."

It was nearing noon. Misaki was sitting up in his bed, eating the miso soup he was served slowly, wincing whenever he swallowed, as Akihiko watched over him from the side.

"The doctor said that in a few more days you'd be able to leave here, Misaki. Isn't it great news?" Akihiko asked, lying his hand on top of Misaki's covered body.

Misaki nodded slowly. "Yes. I feel a bit better now." He was speaking the truth, Akihiko thought, if his lack of panting was any indication to that. "I can't wait to be home again…"

Misaki looked up then and his eyes widened. Akihiko, worried at this, looked up too and smiled a bit when he saw Hiroki standing there, no sunglasses and no hat, just the coat, buttoned all the way up.

"K-Kamijou sensei?" Misaki breathed, soup spilling as he tried to move. Akihiko grabbed the tray quickly, preventing the rest from spilling. "W-what are you doing here?"

"You know him, Misaki?" Akihiko asked, surprised.

"I… took a course with him in my freshmen year," was the reply.

"Ah, right. Hiroki here, he's a childhood friend of mine."

"Hello," Hiroki said, voice dry. "How are you feeling?"

Misaki nodded dumbly. "Better, thanks…" he glanced at Akihiko worriedly, demanding for answers with his eyes.

"Actually, Misaki," Akihiko began, putting his hands in his lap. "Hiroki's… good friend died in the train accident," Misaki winced. Akihiko knew it was hard on him, but he wanted to help his friend, so he continued. "I… we think… the person that saved you… we think it might have been his friend."

Misaki looked up at Hiroki, shocked. "Eh…?" he breathed. Hiroki merely looked away, saying nothing. Instead, he pulled out a wallet from his pocket and gave it to Akihiko.

Akihiko opened the leather wallet and gave it for Misaki to see. The young man's eyes widened further and he looked up at Hiroki again, pale. "That man…. from the train…"

Hiroki stared back at him, just as shocked. "You've met him?" he asked quietly, voice somewhat cracking.

Misaki nodded quickly. "He… he pulled me back, when that train jumped… they… the doctors told me that he received the major blow… I was saved, thanks to him…" he bowed his head, nearly touching the covers with it. "Thank you very much!" he mumbled quickly.

"Nowa- this guy," Hiroki said quietly, hands shaking. "That saved you… did he… tell you something?"

Misaki nodded. "Yes, yes, when we finally stopped falling, it really felt like we were falling… he told me that I'll pull through. And then… towards the end… you know, he was looking at me but… he was someplace else, I'm sure. And he said… he said he knows…"

Hiroki gulped. "Knows what?" he asked.

"Just… that he knows."

Akihiko watched anxiously as Hiroki's hands shook harder and were lifted slowly to his hairs, pulling at them. His eyes were as wide as saucers and tears gathered at their corners. Without another word he turned around and ran out.

Akihiko panicked, grabbed the forgotten wallet from Misaki's grip and ran after him. When he saw the elevators doors closing after him he ran down the stairs, dodging dazed nurses and reprimanding doctors, until he finally caught up with his friend in the hospital yard. "Hiroki!" he cried. His friend kept on running, so Akihiko grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to turn around and face him. His eyes widened.

Hiroki was crying, he was certainly sobbing but… he was smiling. "H-here's your wallet," Akihiko said quietly and handed it to him.

Hiroki nodded, and Akihiko watched with mild surprise as he unbuttoned his coat, removed it, and threw it on his shoulder. "Thanks," he said.

"Aren't you… cold?" Akihiko asked him.

Hiroki shook his head slowly and sniffled. "No, no… actually… actually I'm… warm...."

Akihiko smiled, and not minding the crowd pulled his sobbing friend into a crushing hug.

End.

Junjou fanfic - Freezing

2009-04-11T18:47:28Z

Hello again and Happy Passover,

I decided to post this fic here first because I think it reminds my other Junjou fics too much, so I'd like your honest opinion on that. It reminded me a bit of Feverish, in which I'm kind of stuck, by the way.

Disclaimer: I don't own Junjou Romantica
Pairings: All, but mostly Romantica and Egoist.
Summary: Hiroki is so cold lately that it feels like he's about to freeze to death.
Genre: Drama.

Misaki liked the night trains, the last ones that ran before the clock struck midnight. They weren't as crowded, there was plenty of room to sit and breathe, and the ride was just more peaceful, with the nightlights whizzing by, creating a shining chain he could not tear his eyes from. That was, of course, until the train entered a tunnel again.

The train he boarded that night had no vacant sits though, so he opted, without much choice, to stand next to a very tall guy who looked very familiar, but as much as he tried, Misaki just couldn't put his finger on why. He felt embarrassed to always look up and think, and he was sure that at some point or another he would not be able to turn his head on time and the man will notice him staring at him like that.

He glanced at his watch. It was already past eleven, and he was beginning to feel the tiredness creeping, causing him to yawn and rub his left eye tiredly. He was used to juggling his studies and his part-time job, but sometimes he felt like it was taking too much out of him. Usagi-san would probably harass him once he'll step a foot into the apartment, and Misaki really, seriously, was not in the mood for that. He frowned at that thought.

The train jumped and he fell backwards, strong arms catching him before he managed to complete his fall. The tall man looked down kindly at him and helped him straighten up again. Misaki blushed and brushed invisible dirt off of his shirt, mumbling a quiet thank you. That scene looked awfully familiar, he decided. It was there, he could feel it, the answer to the riddle that bugged him since he boarded the train, and he was about to say something about it to the man when the train jumped again, or more like flew up. He yelped, the lights went out, and again just as he felt like he was falling somebody pulled him back, and they both stumbled. Sounds of crunching metals, screams, and the vague smell of smoke enveloped him. He felt around, trying to finds something to grab unto, but he and his catcher simply kept on sliding backwards, hitting everything that tried blocking their way.

Suddenly they stopped. Misaki dared not to breathe, absorbing the deathly silence that surrounded him. In a flash came the pain, sharp and vivid.

And then there were screams. Bloodcurdling, loud and high, sending shivers down his spine. It took him a moment to realize he was screaming as well.

He tried moving his hands, but found he couldn't. His left hand was stuck somewhere, and it felt as if his right hand wasn't even there, until he felt someone holding it. He fell silent and looked around, trying to adjust to the darkness, panic rising and causing his breath to come out in short puffs. "Shh…" someone whispered, the hold on his hand tightening.

A small flame illuminated the area, and as it grew bigger Misaki could make out a pair of blue eyes looking at him, piercing yet at the same time calming. He breathed in deeply, but it hurt and he cringed, his breathing becoming irregular. The man shushed him again, not removing his gaze. "You'll be alright," he said, massaging his aching hand slowly.

There was blood covering the man's face, Misaki realized. He could feel some of it dripping on his face, mixing with his own. "You'll pull through," the man said again, his voice quiet, but still Misaki could hear it clearly, even with all the screams around. "Just think of someone you’d like to see now," the man said then, lowering Misaki's hand to the floor. "Think of their smile," he said. And just like that the image of a smiling Usagi-san appeared in his mind, and it was so real Misaki could swear he could smell him. He coughed violently as smoke filled his lungs, panic returning in full force. Would he be burnt alive? What would Usagi-san say? What would he feel? Would he be lonely if Misaki died?

"Don't cry," the man said. Misaki didn't notice his own tears, he wasn't even sure he was crying. "I know," the man whispered.

And then it clicked.

The tall man that helped him twice to his feet, the man from the flower shop, was lying above him now, whispering calming words at him. "I know," he said again. Only then did Misaki realize that although the man's stare was fixed on him, his words weren't.

Then everything turned so black that even the fire around could not help him see.

The sun was beginning to disappear from behind the buildings and skyscrapers of Tokyo when Miyagi Yoh arrived to his destination – an apartment that belonged to his assistant.

In all honesty, he didn't want to be there right now. No, he would much rather be at his own apartment and eat one of Shinobu's burnt cabbage dishes. But the dean begged him to go, and when Miyagi thought about it, he realized he might be the best person for the job. Shinobu didn't want him to go to Kamijou's apartment alone, of course, and he followed him all the way to his car, but eventually Miyagi managed to convince him that he was not having any affair with his assistant and that he only went there because Kamijou was absent for the past few days and no one really knew why.

It wasn't a complete lie, really. Kamijou did disappear from campus, but the reason was known to everyone and anyone with a position.

Miyagi could feel cold sweat running down his face and wiped it quickly with his sleeve, straightened his tie, and knocked.

No answer.

He expected it and tried again, louder this time. "Kamijou?" he called. "Kmaijou, open up, I know you're there!" still no answer.

Miyagi sighed heavily and turned the doorknob slowly, his heart skipping a beat when the door opened with ease.

Just as he expected it.

"Kamijou?" he called again, tentatively and looked around the apartment. It didn't take a long time until he spotted his assitant lying on the couch, face pressed into the yellow cushions and hand dangling limply on the side. At first Miyagi thought the brown-haired man was sleeping until he heard a very soft, yet very harsh and audible "go away."

Miyagi's eyebrow twitched. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, but he had no intention of turning on his heels and walking away. He approached the couch slowly and sat next to where his assistant's head was. Miyagi wasn't sure what to think when Kamijou did not argue back or even rewarded him with a sharp glare.

"H…how are you feeling today, Kamijou?" he managed, voice a bit too high and cracking, and he wasn't even sure why. His assistant merely huffed in response.

Miyagi sighed once again and rubbed his temples, feeling a headache approaching. Maybe he shouldn't have come here, after all?

"Say, Kamijou," Miyagi started again, quietly. "Why don't I take out to drink? It'll be on me, so you can drink all you like…"

This time the brown-haired man did not huff even, simply remained lying there on the couch in his silence. "I'm sure Kusama-kun-"

This got something from Kamijou, alright. The man straightened up immediately and glared at his senior. Miyagi was a bit taken aback by what he saw; bloodshot eyes, from crying and probably lack of sleep, black bags beneath them, his hair was disheveled and he looked thinner than the last time Miyagi had seen him. "Don't-" Hiroki hissed, his voice full of pain, causing Miyagi to cringe slightly. "-ever, say that name again, professor Miyagi."

Well, at least he was still polite. In his own way.

"Don't say that, Kamijou, I'm sure Kusama-ku-"

"I don't want to hear it!" his assistant yelled, shutting his eyes tightly and covering his ears, shaking his head vigorously. "I don't want to hear that name!" his breathing became ragged and he curled into himself slowly, once again hiding his face from view.

Miyagi blinked, feeling something tug at his heart, pulling at it. It was not a pleasant feeling and it was like something he never felt before.

"Please," his assistant whispered, his voice cracking. "Just go away…"

Miyagi sighed. A part of him wanted to obey and leave quietly, but the other just wouldn't allow his legs to work. He rubbed his forehead. He was never good at consoling others, he was doing a terrible job when he was trying to console himself, but…

"You know, Kamijou," Miyagi started again, leaning on his hand. "It might come as a shock to you, but I do know how you're feeling." There was no response from his assistant, but Miyagi knew he was listening, so he continued. "When I was in high-school I was in love with my teacher. Well, maybe 'in love' is an understatement… we were together for a short time, too short if you ask me. She got sick, her body slowly deteriorated… Kamijou, I saw her dying slowly before my eyes until she finally slipped away."

"I honestly thought I could die," he continued. "For years after that I just couldn't get over it, I thought I'd never love again, but… time… it may not heal all of the wounds Kamijou, but time makes it easier to deal with them."

There was still no response from the figure on the couch, and Miyagi thought he got to him, perhaps, but then his assistant spoke in a voice so low Miyagi wasn’t' sure if he heard right. "Please, just go away…"

Miyagi sighed heavily, but figuring there was not much he could do anymore, got up. "Alright, if that's how you feel. But remember, if you ever feel it's too much… you can call me. You're still my friend." Miygai wasn't expecting a response, so he was not disappointed when none came. He turned around and left the apartment.

Akihiko felt like he was about to throw up, but whenever he went to the bathroom nothing came out, no matter how hard he tried and retched. The constant glances at the clock did not help matters any, but in the emptiness of his apartment he felt like there was nothing else he could do.

He already finished three packs o cigarettes today, and he was sure that if Misaki was there, he would have snatched those packs away. That thought brought a small smile to his lips, but it disappeared as soon as the following glance at the clock told him that only one minute passed from the previous once, and that he has three more hours to waste until he'd be able to see his beloved.

Misaki, his Misaki, was finally out of the ICU after two weeks. He was still pretty much unconscious most of the time, according to Takahiro, but Akihiko did not care. The staff at the hospital forbade him from seeing his roommate, saying only family members were allowed to do so. Takahiro's and his persistence that he was a family member did not help. Akihiko contemplated his possibilities, wondering if perhaps he should admit his relationship with Misaki to Takahiro and to the nurse, but he realized Misaki would not want that, and left it at that.

And today, finally, he'd be able to see him. Those past two weeks were harsh, beginning from when he heard the terrible news on TV, to the point where Misaki did not return home or answered his calls. A few hours and numerous calls to various hospitals later, he found the whereabouts of his lover. Life had been hell after that.

He was so afraid of losing Misaki, he couldn't sleep, couldn't eat… his apartment was a complete mess, and he was sure Misaki would reprimand him about it. He was tempted to leave it like that, then Misaki would return quicker so he could clean it up. He knew it could never happen, though…

He tried turning on his television, but nothing interesting enough was on, if even if something was, Akihiko was sure he would not pay it any attention. He won't succeed in writing, that was for sure. Aikawa told him he could take some time off after she heard about what happened, but she told him he should at least resume writing his columns. She was kind enough to postpone deadlines, too.

Akihiko sighed and took a final drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke swirling around him, creating various unrecognizable shapes.

Maybe he should read something? Yeah, reading could always take his mind off of things. He didn't have that much books around, at least to his opinion, and he did not feel like restarting a novel. It would be too long and pointless to do that now.

With a resolution in mind he grabbed his car keys and left his apartment, heading towards Mitsuhashi University, intending on seeing a certain friend of his.

It's been a long time since he'd been there last, so it took him awhile to find the correct department and the correct office. The students in the Literature department recognized him immediately, unfortunately, and some female students asked for his autograph. He wanted to refuse them, the need to get away growing bigger, but he smiled, nonetheless, and signed various notebooks.

He knocked lightly on the wooden door to Hiroki's office when all of the students finally left for class, but didn't wait for a reply and opened it, slipping inside and hurriedly shutting the door behind him. He glanced up, and to his disappointment Hiroki wasn't there. His senior was, though, and said man looked up confusedly from his laptop. "U-Usami-sensei?" he asked, unsure.

"Uh…. Yeah," Akihiko replied, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Is uh… is Hiroki around?" he asked.

The black-haired man smiled sadly and stood up, facing the visitor. "Unfortunately, Kamijou isn't here today. Would you like me to relay a message for him?"

Akihiko shook his head. "Uh… no, no, I just wanted to borrow some children's book I like, but if Hiroki's not around…"

The black-haired man's eyes widened then. "Are you close friends?" he asked. Akihiko blinked, and the professor paled and shook his hands in front of him, embarrassed. "Oh, I'm sorry, it's just that you refer to him by his first name so I thought… Kamijou mentioned knowing you a few times, but-"

"Yeah, we're childhood friends," Akihiko replied, cutting the professor off mid-sentence.

Professor Miyagi calmed down and smiled. "Well then, Usami-sensei, can I offer you a drink?"

Akihiko shook his head beginning to turn around. "No, there's no need. There's someplace I have to be, anyway… "

"No, wait!" Miyagi called as his visitor was about to step out, hand already on the doorknob. "Listen…" he continued quietly as the grey-haired man turned around to look at him with sharp eyes. "I may be rude for asking this, but if you're his friend… you… you know Hiroki was seeing someone, right?"

Akihiko cocked one eyebrow up in confusion. "Was? Did they break up?"

The other man chuckled, but there was no amusement in his voice. "No, no… you remember that train wreck a couple of weeks ago, right?" oh, did he remember alright… "well, Kamijou's... special someone was killed." He finished, his eyes softening. Akihiko wasn't sure what to think, his eyes widening. He… he never heard of any of that...

"Kamijou didn't show up for work since then," the professor continued. "I went to his place once, and he's a complete mess, I was wondering, if you two are friends… if you'd visit him? I think it might help him…"

Akihiko looked down, numerous thoughts running through his head. Hiroki always tried to act tough, but Akihiko knew that deep inside he was very sensitive, it was easy to bring him to a breakdown. If his lover indeed died, then Hiroki was probably…

"Yes," he said finally. "Thank you for telling me, professor Miyagi. I'll go pay him a visit right now."

Feverish - Chapter 2 (Junjou fic)

2009-03-14T14:58:59Z

I think it's too slow, and still not a clear goal in the horizion.

Misaki stirred in his sleep, frowning. His breathing became heavy and he coughed violently, the shake of his lungs causing him to wake up. He tried to breathe in deeply in order to calm down, but it didn't help. He felt the dinner he ate a few hours before going up his esophagus, and with no time to think he crawled to the side of the bed and threw up on the floor, his fever dizzying him. His hands searched around him for the familiar warmth of Usagi-san, but met only with a cold wall on one side and stuffed air on the other. He started choking on words he tried to say, whatever sounds that did manage to leave his mouth sounding incoherent and jumbled.

He heard muffled sounds around him and panicked. What was going on? Why wasn't Usagi-san there?

He thrashed around violently and stopped abruptly once a sharp pain shot up from his leg and he yelped. Someone held his shoulders in a death grip. Misaki tried to shake them off, but failed. More muffled talking sounded around him, and he felt something wet and hot slide down his cheeks. He started wheezing, still trying to fight against whoever held him while trying to ignore the pain in his left leg. What was going on?

Something metallic and cold came in touch with his lips, and Misaki shut them tight, refusing to allow whoever attacked him any access to his insides. He turned his head to the right and then to the left, the metallic thing following his movements. In an act of desperation he lifted his hand and smacked it away, his movement jerky. He was relieved when he heard the metallic object clatter on the floor. His relief was only momentarily, though, because moments later somebody forced his mouth open, long fingers pressing against his chin, and a short second later he felt warm lips on his own. His hand shot up automatically and his fingers came in contact with a broad shoulder. He sighed into the mouth that met his own, his eyes closing and his fingernails digging into the skin of his kisser.

Usagi-san…

A bitter liquid followed, and he swallowed by instinct, the lips leaving him once there was no drop left.

There were some more muffled talking around him, and through his panicked breaths and clammy skin Misaki could feel a big hand running through his hair. He calmed down slowly, his eyes opening. The room was too dark and his eyes were too unfocused for him to see anything. He tried to say something, to tell Usagi-san to stay by his side, but his words sounded foreign even to his own ears. He sighed heavily, his head sinking deeper into the pillow as his eyes closed, and soon he was engulfed by dreams again.

"-there was nothing else I could do, I couldn't just leave him there…"

"He has a home, why did you bring him here?"

"He's home alone, Hiro-san, you saw for yourself how he acted last night, just imagine what would have happened if we weren't there!"

Misaki's eyes opened slowly, his brain registering the conversation that was going on in another room. He blinked slowly, taking a moment to remember his position. His mouth felt bitter and dry, his sheets were crumpled beneath him, and his head pounded as if he emptied two bottles of strong liquor just the day before. He groaned.

"Don't even mention last night."

"Hiro-san! I had no choice!"

"You could have called an ambulance!"

"The paramedics would have done the same! I'm perfectly capable of handling the situation myself, you saw it with your own eyes!"

Misaki could feel a dull pain in his leg. He touched the sore spot, and was surprised to see it was no longer bandaged. A quick look around told him it didn't come off in his sleep, as the white material wasn't in his bed or on the floor.

"How long?"

"Until he gets better, I already told you that…"

A short silence followed. Misaki recognized one of the voices as Kusama-san's, and only then did he realize that they were talking about him.

"Hiro-san, if you're worried that because he's here we won't be able to have s-"

"Shut up! It's not what I'm worried about! I just don't like strangers in my house."

"Please, have a little compassion, Hiro-san. He's very sick…"

"Whatever, I'm going to see if there's anything valuable in that room that I should hide."

"Hiro-san!"

Misaki heard a chair being pulled backwards, wooden legs scraping against the floor. Then he heard footsteps approaching, and soon enough the door to his temporary room opened. Misaki blushed slightly and looked away in shame, knowing what the man came for.

"Good morning, kid," the man said, though to Misaki's ears it sounded more like a grunt.

"Ah!" A cheerful voice said from the door. Misaki looked up and was relieved to see Kusama-san standing there, a smile adorning his face. "I see you're awake. How are you feeling today?" Misaki nodded slowly, not sure how he was supposed to reply. Kusama-san came to his side and felt his forehead. "Still high, but less then last night," he commented, his hand moving to caress stray strands of hair on Misaki'is sweaty forehead.

A cough sounded from the direction of the drawers, and the hand left. "I'm sorry," Kusama-san said. Misaki wasn't sure who he was referring to. "There's a pill I want you to take, alright? It'll help your fever."

Misaki nodded again. "M-my leg…" he said quietly, still refusing to look directly at the black-haired man.

Kusama-san blinked at him. "Your leg? Does it hurt?"

Misaki shifted uncomfortably under the foreign gaze. "No, I mean… less but… where's the bandage?"

"Ah, I removed it last night. You were hurting so bad, I figured I should probably relieve the pressure."

"Hey, kid," both men turned to look at the man near the drawers. "There are some very valuable books here, I don't want you near them."

Kusama-san frowned. "Hiro-san, stop that. And don't call him 'kid' either, I'm sure he has a name-" then his blue eyes widened in realization, and he looked down at Misaki, his smile shy and embarrassed. "Oh, I am so deeply sorry. I forgot to ask for your name?"

"It's Misaki. Takahashi Misaki," he replied, finding the smile contagious.

"Misaki-kun, you seem young. Are you a student?" Kusama-san asked him, smiling gently.

"Yeah, an Economics student…"

"Really? That's sounds great, in which university?"

"Mi-Mitsuhashi…"

Kusama-san's eyes brightened, and from the corner of his eye Misaki could see the other man in the room stiffen. "Mitsuhashi!" Kusama-san exclaimed, sounding proud. "That's where Hiro-san teaches, but he's in the Literature department… oh, I'm sorry, I'm being rude again. This man here, he's Kamijou Hiroki-," Misaki's eyes widened, "-we live together and we're-"

"Nowaki!" Hiroki reprimanded, his back still turned to them.

Nowaki blushed. "Right, right, I'm sorry… would you like something to eat, Misaki-kun?"

Misaki shook his head. "No, I'm fine." The words were forced out of him as the realization hit him. He was in the same room with that wretched teacher, Kamijou-the-devil, the same man who was responsible for many blue marks on his forehead.

Kusama-san frowned at him. "Oh, I insist. I'll make something light, I'll be right back." He turned on his heels and left.

Kamijou-sensei was still in the room, checking the drawers, and Misaki could feel his discomfort growing. "Did you ever take any course in the Literature department, Takahashi-kun?" Misaki jumped slightly, startled, as he figured the man would not initiate a conversation with him. Kmaijou-sensei turned to look at him, frowning deeply.

"Uh, yeah… your course, actually..." to this day he had no idea why he chose it. But in his attempt to get closer to Usagi-san he failed to ask his fellow classmates about recommended teachers.

"Well then," Kamijou-san said, his tone concluding, balancing some of his belongings in his hands. "Hopefully that was the first and last time." He turned around and left.

Misaki looked down at his hands sadly, wondering what he did wrong. All of the people he met seemed to dislike him, and those that did like him only acted so because they were somehow after Usagi-san. Misaki sighed heavily as he thought about his landlord. Only now, when he was in some strange place did he really start to miss the man. He wished he could contact him somehow… Usagi-san will probably try to call him soon, and when there will be no answer he’ll come rushing back home to look for him.

Misaki only hoped the author was too busy promoting his book that calling him was the last thing on his mind.

Before he could dwell more on the subject Kusama-san entered to room, smiling widely, carrying a tray in his hands. "There you go, Misaki-kun. I made you some porridge, please eat it so you'll regain your strength. There's a pill for you to swallow once you finish, too." Kusama-san put the tray on the small counter next to his bed. "I'm going to the supermarket now, but Hiro-san is still here. I know he seems unkind, but he's a good person. Please tell him if there's anything wrong, and he'll contact me immediately, alright?" Misaki nodded, figuring there wasn't much else he could do. Kusama-san smiled kindly at him, patted his head, and left.

Those hands… they felt like Usagi-san's. Misaki held his face, breathing in shakily. The porridge's scent wafted to his nose and his stomach reminded him he had nothing to eat for long time. He took the porridge and started eating it slowly, thinking that at least Kusama-san's cooking skills were good. Indeed, if it were Usagi-san, Misaki would probably end up sicker.

Misaki woke up later that day. The clock on the wall told him it was late afternoon, and he watched with tired eyes as the rays of the setting sun danced on the wall. The house was quiet, and Misaki wondered if perhaps the two men left for work. He wondered briefly if they were brothers, refusing to think they were lovers. No, there's no way would he acknowledge the fact that all the people he met were homosexuals. His bladder told him it needed release. Misaki sighed, sat up slowly and put his feet on the cold floor. He stood up slowly, balancing himself on his right foot, and jumped towards the exit, noticing that his leg had been bandaged once again.

The house was big, he concluded. In his hurried search he found a work room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. The toilet came last.

When Misaki stepped out he felt drained. His fever weakened him, and the jumping didn't help. He sat on the couch in the living room, his head resting against the warm cushions. He barely had any strength left to lift himself up and jump to the guestroom he'd been offered. His green eyes noticed the huge bookshelf next to him, which was loaded with books. He gaped, realizing there were probably ten times more books than in their house.

Then he saw them. On the upper shelves, books by Usami Akihiko, three copies of each title. He frowned deeply, hoping Kusama-san didn't know he was living with the man and only took care of him as means to get closer to his landlord.

The sun set completely, leaving him in the dark. His eyes drooped as he neared sleep when suddenly the front door opened and a florescent light illuminated the room. Green eyes met frowning brown, and Misaki blushed.

Hiroki huffed, took down his scarf and threw it on a chair. "How are you feeling, Takahashi-kun?" he asked.

"Ah, good, thank you," he replied.

Kamijou-sensei looked suspiciously at him. "You look feverish to me. When was the last time you took your medicine?"

"In the morning…" came the weak answer.

"Then you should take it again. I think Nowaki left it around here somewhere…"

Misaki sat in silence as he watched the other man searching through the many cupboards in the kitchen, wondering if he had a change of heart. Otherwise, why would Kamijou-the-Devil be nice to him? "Nowaki won't be back by tomorrow, so you're stuck with me until then," the man said, and Misaki found it hard to tell if he was talking to him or just in general.

"I'm sorry if I'm being a burden…" Misaki said slowly, looking down at his feet. Kamijou-sensei didn't reply, and Misaki shifted in his seat in discomfort.

"Here," Misaki looked up and saw a hand with a pack of pills being handed to him. He took it in silence. "I'm afraid I'm not a good cook like Nowaki, but please bear with me. Would you like anything in particular?" he asked as he walked back to the kitchen.

"No…"

"Do you want me to help you get back to bed?"

Misaki shook his head and could feel the man frowning from behind him. "Alright then…" he said quietly. "Oh, right, I forgot. Nowaki told me to ask you if you have anywhere you need us to call, like a workplace or something…"

Misaki's eyes widened. "Oh, yeah, the coffee-shop where I work… I probably need to call in sick." A portable phone was handed to him quickly.

"What about your family?" Kamijou-sensei asked, looking at him quizzically.

Misaki sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, I can't recall any number… do you have a charger for Sharp, by any chance?"

Kamijou-sensei nodded. "Yeah, do you need one?"

Misaki brightened. "Yes, please! My battery died and I…"

Kmaijou-sensei nodded, disappeared for a short moment and then reappeared with the requested item. Misaki took it gratefully. "You need your cell too, don't you?" Misaki blushed in realization. The man sighed and went to the guestroom, returning only seconds later. Misaki thanked him quickly, plugged in the charger and felt a wave of relief washing over him as his phone came back to life. A few text messages from his friends, wondering how he was feeling, a message from Aikawa-san, some kind of complaint, a message from a co-worker…

He called the coffee-shop first, apologizing repetitively as the sounds of dinner being prepared sounded in the background. His boss told him to feel better, but warned he's not responsible for anything if it'd take more than a week.

Now… for the most awaited call.

Misaki felt his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for his landlord to pick up. He was about to hang up at some point when the deep, familiar voice boomed from the other side. "Misaki!" he said.

"Usagi-san," Misaki said back, feeling tears in his eyes just at the sound of the voice. He was already so engrossed in the conversation he didn't hear a glass from behind him falling down and breaking. "How are you?"

"I love you," was the reply.

Misaki blushed deeply. "That wasn't my question…"

"I don't care. How are you feeling? You sound a bit hoarse…"

Misaki wanted to tell him he was sick, wanted to say his leg hurt like hell and that he was in some strange house with another Usami-fan, but for some reason all he managed to say was "oh, yeah, I went to a karaoke with some friends last night…" he trailed off as he realized he was lying.

"I miss you."

"Don't worry, Usagi-san, it's just a few more weeks, I'm doing fine, really…"

"I wish you were here, then we could do things like-"

Misaki's blush deepened. "Usagi-san!" Some yelling sounded in the background.

"Ah, I'm sorry Misaki, I have to go, some stupid interview is supposed to start. I'll call you later."

Misaki nodded, even though he knew his landlord could not see. "Yeah, sure…"

One last 'I love you' was uttered quickly before the line was cut. Misaki pressed the 'end' button and stared at his phone which displayed the length of the conversation. He sighed deeply. He would never admit it, but he didn't want it to ever end. He never thought he'd miss Usagi-san so much.

His heart skipped a beat when he realized someone had been staring at him for a long time. He turned his head slowly and saw Kamijou-snsei looking at him, his eyes wide, holding a spoon in his right hand and ignoring an overflowing pot on the stove.

Misaki paled.

"You…" Kamijou-sensei started, his voice weak. "Usagi-san…" he chuckled. "There's only one person in the entire world I know by that name…" he shook his head, as if disbelieving. "And there's only one person… of course..." Kamijou-sensei held his head in his left hand, shaking. "Takahashi Misaki." Kamijou-sensei looked up again, an emotion Misaki could not identify flashing momentarily through his brown eyes. "I don't know why I didn't see the connection before," he said, his voice low. "You're Takahiro's brother."

Another Junjou fic - Feverish

2009-03-04T14:15:35Z

Again, some Nowaki/Misaki intercation (I have no idea who I'm telling this to, as most of you have no idea what I'm talking about).
It's not supposed to be Nowak+Misaki, but... we'll see :P
They're very similar, though! I have no idea why people rarely write about them...

Disclaimer: I do not own Junjou Romantica.

Misaki sighed heavily as he trudged down the busy street, dragging his feet tiredly on the sidewalk. People went past him, hurrying to their respective destinations, and he wasn't sure if he knew where he was going. All he knew was that he had the worst day ever known to the human race. He remembered thinking, when he was on the train with some friends, how all the people complaining on bad days could not amount to whatever happened to him. His bad day actually started the day before, he decided as he went past a ramen shop, the smells making him nauseous somewhat. Yesterday he went to a study group in preparation for the exam he had that morning. On the way back, however, he was caught in a heavy rain, without an umbrella, and was soaked to the bone as he got home.

That, of course, rewarded him with a high fever the following morning. That is how he went to the exam, feverish and disoriented, which in turn will probably make his final score lower than it should have been. Just as he was about to return home and have a good rest, his friends dragged him for a few drinks on the other side of the city in celebration of the end of midterms. He tried to refuse, he really did, but Misaki was never good with voicing his opinions. He managed to get away halfway through the party, his drunken friends not really noticing his disappearance, and thus was now looking for the way back to the train station.

He wished Usagi-san was there. He could have called him maybe, and the author would have come to pick him up. But the older man was currently touring Japan in a promotion campaign for his newest book. He tried to drag Misaki along too, of course, but the younger man refused vehemently, saying he had exams to study for and his work to go to. Usagi-san would be gone for about a month. That makes it… three and half weeks more.

Misaki sighed again. His head hurt and it became harder and harder to breathe as he kept on walking. He thought that the train station was about three blocks more, but as he kept on walking he began to doubt it. No, no way he'd find the train station… a day that started bad must end bad, as well. With that in mind he was about to cross the street, but he miscalculated his weight, height and the distance between the sidewalk and the road below, and as he put his left foot down it twisted painfully. He yelped in pain and sat down slowly, the pain numbing him for a second, causing his already unfocused green eyes to see stars. He breathed heavily, the memory of falling off the Usamis' window flashing through his mind momentarily, and he realized that due to that incident his foot must be a bit more sensitive. He held the painful spot, gritting his teeth. The people around him kept on coming and going, not paying him any heed.

Miskai tried to rise to his feet, but could barely straighten himself up before his nerve system cried out, and he had to sit down on the sidewalk again. He figured he'd have to stay like that for a few hours more, maybe find a bench and sit on it until he'd be able to catch a cab, when suddenly a pair of strong arms snaked under his armpits and pulled him up. For a second there Misaki thought it was Usagi-san, but immediately he remembered he was alone, and his heart clenched in his chest painfully at that realization. "Are you alright?" a pleasant voice asked.

"Y-yeah," Misaki managed to stutter and tried to wriggle himself free of the man's grip, but the arms tightened around him and pulled him to the safety of the bench in front of the Kinokuniya he passed earlier. Misaki breathed in relief as he sat down and closed his eyes, trying to focus on something else besides the pain.

"Did you twist your foot?" The man asked him.

Misaki barely nodded, his eyes still closed, and soon after the stranger's hands circled his painful ankle. He tried to withdraw his leg, but again the grip tightened and he cried out.

"Can you move it?" the man asked.

"Just barely," Misaki replied. "I tried to stand up earlier but couldn't…" Misaki opened his eyes and looked down at the kneeling man. All he could see was black hair. When he looked back up, his landlord's new book greeted his sight from the display window of the bookstore, and he bit his lip in frustration, feeling the loneliest he'd ever felt in a long time.

"It's not broken then, I'm glad," the man said and looked up at him, smiling tenderly. Misaki gasped in surprise when he looked back down; the man had blue eyes, kind of like Usagi-san's, only a bit darker. "Though it could be twisted pretty bad… what do you say?"

"I really don't know," Misaki said quietly. "Look, sir, thank you for helping me, but I think I can manage from here. I'll just rest here for a second and then I'll get home."

"Where do you live?" The man asked him, standing up and dusting his knees.

Misaki shifted uncomfortably in his sit, wondering if perhaps he was dealing with a stalker. "Just… Kodaira…" he said, knowing that saying the exact neighborhood may not be the safest thing. Usagi-san always told him to be careful, and as more and more people came to claim him, Misaki figured that maybe he should.

The man's eyes widened somewhat. "Kodaira? That's on the other side of the city! How will you get there?"

"A taxi or… I don't know," Misaki said, then slowly rose to his feet. He balanced himself on his right leg when a wave of dizziness washed over him and he fell back down tiredly with his eyes closed, his hand searching frantically for something to hold unto as he felt himself falling. His searching hands came in contact with the edge of the bench and he gripped it tightly, scared to let go in fear he might fall down. A short moment later Misaki opened his eyes again, only to see the stranger looking at him worriedly.

"I apologize," the man said, and before Misaki could utter another word an unfamiliar hand touched his forehead gently. "You're burning up!" the man said, his eyes wide. For a brief moment Misaki wondered in the man's hands were really that warm, or was it his fever that caused them to be so.

"Y-yeah…" Misaki replied, somewhat weakly. "Look, all I need is a nice nap, then I'm sure I'll get better…" he stood up again, balanced himself once more on his right foot, and ignoring his dizziness he managed to take a few limping steps towards the road before he could not go on and fell. Two strong arms caught him before he hit the ground, and when Misaki looked up he saw the man practically glaring at him.

"As a doctor, I cannot allow you to go all the way to Kodaira by yourself, you're in no condition to walk even a short few steps! Is there anyone waiting for you at home?" Through his haze Misaki admitted that no, he was by himself for the next three weeks, and immediately after scolded himself for telling the truth. Now that man was sure not to let him go. "Look," the man said, helping him up and again smiling kindly down at him. That was the first time Misaki noticed how tall the man was. In fact, the only time he saw someone this tall was… his eyes widened a bit in realization. That was the man who helped him on the train all those months ago.

"You're…" Misaki started, but as the man merely blinked stupidly at him Misaki realized he probably didn't remember.

"I live just around the corner. I'll help you walk. I promise I'm no one suspicious. You'll regain your strength and then I'll even pay for the taxi fee." Despite the kind smile, the hypnotizing eyes that resembled Usagi-san's, and the fact that the man was no longer a total stranger, Misaki thought that following him to his house may not be the best idea. He was about to voice his protest again when another wave of dizziness, the worst one yet, washed over him. He breathed heavily and held the man's shirt in a death grip, feeling like he was falling. He wanted to cry out for help and opened his eyes in fear, but before he could utter any sound the world around him merged into a single, black color. The last thing Misaki was aware of before he lost his conscious was that the man who held him cried out for him in alarm, but Misaki was no longer able to reply.

When Misaki opened his eyes he wasn't sure where he was. He blinked slowly, his surroundings coming in and out of focus, and when he finally regained his senses he sat up quickly in the bed he was lying on, a stunt which awarded him with an intense headache. He held his temples and groaned, breathing slowly. When the horrible poundings in his head stopped he was finally able to look around. He was in what looked like a western room; a western bed, a desk in the corner, and a blue curtain on the window which allowed the last rays of sunlight into the room. The clock on the wall told him it was nearing evening. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and he wasn't quite sure where he was and why, when the events of earlier that day slowly returned to him. He calmed down somewhat, realizing that the man probably took him to his house.

Misaki kept on sitting like that for a little while longer until the sun set completely and left him in the gradually darkening room. Misaki was lost in his somewhat pessimistic thoughts when the door opened. He jumped slightly, but this time he did not calm down even when he saw the man from earlier smiling kindly at him.

"You're awake," the man said, approaching him. "I'm glad."

"Where am I?" Misaki asked, trying to make his voice sound demanding, but all he managed was a pathetic squeak.

"My apartment. I took you here after you fainted on the street," the man explained, putting his hand on Misaki's forehead, much to the latter's dismay. "Ah, your fever went down a bit, but not enough, I'm afraid… I forced some medicine into you," Misaki paled, "I hope you don't mind."

"H-how?" The younger man asked, but the man merely smiled mysteriously in reply. "Why didn’t you take me to the hospital?"

The man chuckled. "I'm a pediatrician. Or at least, a student. There's no need to rush to the hospital over every little thing. I know what I'm doing, you just need to rest well a few days and then I'm sure you'll get better. I advise you not to move that much, as well, your leg is hurt pretty bad…" Misaki blinked, and the man's eyes widened somewhat. "Oh, I apologize. I looked at your injury while you were out, I wanted to make sure it was nothing serious…"

"Can you take me home?" Misaki asked, almost pleading.

The man looked down sadly at him. "I'm afraid that as a doctor I cannot do so. First, I have no car, and second, back on the street you said you're home alone. You're far from healthy and you need to be watched over." The phone rung from the other room, and the man excused himself hurriedly and went to pick it up.

Misaki felt weird. On the one hand he wanted to trust the man, who seemed trustful enough, but on the other… nothing good came out whenever he went with someone to their house, and he was afraid that this time it would be the same. He looked around once more, and was relieved to see his cell-phone next to him. He opened it quickly, intending to call someone, anyone, that would be able to help him get home when to his great dismay he found out that he had no battery left. He sighed heavily. A bad day indeed…

The man returned, carrying a bowl filled with water and a handkerchief. "Please lie down," he asked. "I'll put this on your forehead, it'll help your fever."

"I don't like this," Misaki said quietly. "Why do you want me here so bad?"

"I told you," the man said. "You're in no condition to be left by yourself." Then the man saw his cell-phone. "Oh, is that yours?" he asked. "Would you like to call someone and let them know you're here?"

"I have no battery left," Misaki said bitterly. "And I don't remember any number by heart…"

The man's eyes softened. "I'm sorry, my cell is of another brand, the charger won't fit…"

Misaki chuckled. "No, that's alright… it's… all of this is my fault, really," he felt so pathetic and vulnerable when he said those words that it almost brought tears to his eyes, but he held them back, vowing not to show any weakness.

"That's okay," the man said. "We all have days like that. Just don't let that worry you too much and rest as you should. I'm going to make some dinner for you, alright?" Misaki half nodded, half shook his head, and the man smiled in return and left to the kitchen.

To the clatter of pots and pans Misaki tried to get out of bed, intending to sneak out somehow, when all he could do was walk two steps forward before he fell. He cried out, his left leg protesting at any movement.

The man, of course, rushed back in, a worried look in his eyes. "Please, get back to bed!" he requested, or demanded, pulling Misaki up and leading his backwards. "I told you you're in no condition to move, why can't you believe me?"

The tears Misaki held back before slid down his cheeks now and he shivered against the man's touch. As he was tucked back in bed the man looked down sadly at him again. "I'm sorry it has to be like this… would it help if I told you my name?" he asked. Misaki made no reply, trying and failing to stop the tears he did not know why were falling and the shivers, which only worsened by the second. "I'm Nowaki," the man said, his long fingers brushing Misaki's hair in a soothing manner for a short moment, calming him down. "Kusama Nowaki."

Misaki's last thought before he closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless and painful sleep was that "Nowaki" was the strangest name he ever heard.

To Be Continued…

Common Ground - Junjo Romantica fic

2009-01-10T15:21:04Z

So if you're a shounen-ai fan and haven't watched/read this series, do it now.
I find Hiroki and Nowaki the best copule, as they're the most realistic one, and episode 6, which starred them, was the best shounen-ai I've ever seen.

I wrote this fic becuase HirokiNowaki are the most related to UsaMisa, and I think it would be intereting to have them meet and find out about each other. Then this was created.
I don't like it. I feel it lacks something, but I'm just not sure what. Maybe it's too rushed? It really feels like I didn't know how to end it and just kept on writing until I got an idea. I really thought it would be better, but once I finish a story I rarely rewrite it =/

Kusama Nowaki shared a living space with Kamijou Hiroki long enough to know all of his kinks, like how it took him forever to wake up, how cutely flustered he became when someone complemented him, or how he averted his gaze whenever he wanted to be held, and of course above all: how he always frowned.

Nowaki wasn't sure if Hiroki himself was aware of this problem. His brown eyebrows were always knitted together, as if he was born this way, with one eyebrow trying endlessly to touch the other. In fact, there were very few occasions when his boyfriend's eyebrows lifted: for example, when he was reading one of his favorite books. Nowaki could just sit there in front of him for hours and watch the tender smile which adorned his lover's face as he turned page after page, reading words he read so many times before. Or when Nowaki was kissing him long enough; in those times, if Hiroki was cooperative, of course, Nowaki could feel the always apparent frown being lifted. There were those countless of times too, just before he reached an orgasm, Hiroki would close his eyes and a look of pure pleasure would cross his face.

Then there were the times, much to Nowaki's dismay, when Hiroki returned from one of his meetings with Usami Akihiko. When Hiroki returned from one of those meetings, he would slowly open the door, looking down, as if embarrassed, a small smile tugging at his lips. Nowaki, having known Hiroki for years, immediately knew where he'd been. His heart always clenched a bit when he saw him like that, but nonetheless, Nowaki would greet him with a smile, something Hiroki rarely did for him.

"How was your meeting with Usami-san?" he would ask.

Hiroki would shrug. "T'was okay. You made dinner?"

"Yes, it's nearly ready. I cooked some rice and miso. Would you like anything more, Hiro-san?"

Hiroki would shrug again. "Nah, it's okay. I'm going to take a bath."

And Nowaki would nod, trying with all his might to ignore the guilt and slight amount of jealousy bubbling up inside of him when he saw how the smile never left his lover's face, or how his eyes danced happily, even though that meeting ended quite awhile ago.

Nowaki knew there was nothing going on between the two. Hiroki would never cheat on him, he will make sure to break up with him first before doing something so insolent. But there was this one time, back when they were still learning about each other, when Hiroki was half-drunk and blabbered out how Akihiko was his first love. Nowaki, although four years Hiroki's junior, knew a few things about life. One of them was that a first love is not easily forgotten. Having Usami-san come to him for advice made Hiroki glad, Nowaki knew, but he still wondered just why Hiroki reserved his smiles to when he returned from a meeting with Usami-san, but not for when he was on the way back from dinners with him.

Takahashi Misaki, although a university student, could not say he read much. Indeed, the only novels he read throughout his some twenty years of life were probably the ones school made him to, like Murasaki's Genji Monogatari, or some Russian classic. Even though his landlord (and boyfriend, apparently) was an award-winning novelist, Misaki was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he never read a book of his from start to end. Sometimes he thought to himself that maybe if Usagi-san would have written mangas he would gladly read them, as the shelves in his room were loaded with various shonen series, but then he corrected himself and scowled when he realized that if it were mangas, it would have probably been yaois. And Takahashi Misaki, although the other half of what you'd call a gay-relationship, still refused to even glance at that stuff.

His obvious lack of knowledge about anything regarding literature is probably the thing that prevented Usagi-san from ever consulting with him about anything regarding his books. There was a time when he was sure Aikawa-san was the one proof-reading his drafts, as she always nagged him about deadlines and oddities, but lately he came to realize that there was another person in the equitation. Whenever Usagi-san finished a book, or a BL, for that matter, he would leave with the papers (or electronic device) to go somewhere. When Misaki asked, his landlord usually said he was going to have his work proof-read. Then, somewhere along the way, he began saying that he was going to meet a friend. Being an Economics student, Misaki knew to put two and two together, and now, whenever his landlord left with the needed material, Misaki felt a pang of jealousy, which he tried to immediately deny, pulling at his heart.

Why couldn't Usagi-san come to him for advice? He may not read much (or at all), but there still must be some input he could give.

Misaki was cutting radish when Usagi-san came back from one of those meetings. "Welcome back, Usagi-san", Misaki greeted, smiling at the grey-haired man. Akihiko only nodded in return. "How was your meeting with your friend?"

"It was good. He gave some very interesting insight. Will dinner be ready soon?"

Misaki nodded. "Yeah, in half an hour or so. Is there anything you want in particular?"

Akihiko shook his head. "No, it's quite alright. I'll be upstairs, call me when it's done."

When he returned to cutting, Misaki realized that his landlord's eyes had the look they had whenever he was patting him on the head, and then there was that familiar jealousy again.

Dinner was ready some time later, and Misaki sat happily at the table, watching Usagi-san holding a bear with one hand and a fork with the other, looking at the food as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Umm… Usagi-san," the younger of the two started, averting his gaze. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," was the curt reply.

"This… friend of yours you meet sometime… who is he?"

Usagi-san looked up from the food for a fleeting moment, then lowered his head again. "A childhood friend. I've known him since elementary school."

Always old friends…

Misaki took a bite of the dinner he cooked, chewed it quickly and fired his next question before he swallowed it completely, feeling nervous. "What's his name?"

Usagi-san looked up at him again, this unreadable look in his eyes, causing a drop of sweat to form on Misaki's forehead. "Kamijou Hiroki," he answered.

Kamijou… he heard that name somewhere before.

"Why are you so interested in him?" Usagi-san asked him, causing his lover to jump slightly in his sit.

"I…err… no reason r-really. Has he read all of your books?"

Usagi-san nodded. "Even the unpublished ones," he answered.

Unpublished… Usagi-san had something like that? Misaki saw in his head mountains of notebooks filled with words no one but the author himself and Kamijou Hiroki will ever see, and a rare frown formed on his young face. "Unpublished?" he asked. "I'd like to see those sometimes."

"Never," Usagi-san told him, causing the frown to deepen.

"Aw, what's the big deal? After all you've done to me in… bed, I think I have the right to see something like that!" Misaki cried, a blush reddening his cheeks, making him feel hotter than he should be.

"I said never and I mean never," Usagi said, finishing his meal. "Besides, you haven't even read my published books. What good will it do to you to read the unpublished ones?"

Because we're together, Misaki wanted to say, but the words got stuck in his throat and he blushed when he realized what he was about to say. Then he bowed his head, surrendering, and kept on eating his meal quietly, trying to ignore a bored Usagi-san's foot which invaded into his private space.

Nowaki was browsing some medical sites on Hiroki's laptop when said boyfriend returned to their apartment from work. "I'm back", he declared, taking off his shoes and loosening his blue tie.

"Welcome back," Nowaki replied, smiling softly as his lover came into view. "I was just about to make myself a hot drink. Would you like anything, Hiro-san?"

"A coffee would be nice," Hiroki nodded, disappearing into their room, probably to change into something more comfortable.

Nowaki smiled to himself and went to the kitchen, preparing two cups and boiling the water. He would be leaving for his job at the hospital soon, and he hoped he would be able to share a nice conversation with his boyfriend before he'll have to leave.

But, of course, as he set the drinks on the table, Hiroki showed up in a sweatshirt and old jeans, taking his laptop from where it stood on the coffee table and put it down next to his cup of coffee.

"Are you writing a review?" Nowaki asked.

Hiroki glanced up for a fleeting second, then resumed his typing. "No, I'm making some hand-outs I'll distribute in class. Are you going to work soon?"

Nowaki nodded, even though Hiroki paid him no attention. "Yeah, I have the night shift. I should be back by morning. Then I'm going to work at the florist at noon." No reply from his counterpart. Nowaki's shoulders lowered in mock defeat. "Hiro-san," he tried calling his name. No reply. "Hiro-san?"

Hiroki didn't even look up this time. "Hm? What is it?"

"I was looking at some sites in English earlier," he said, taking a sip from his cup of tea. "Did you know gays can get married in America?"

"They can get married in Europe too, what it's got to do with us?" From his reply, Nowaki could tell he wasn't really listening. If he were, he would have blushed and told him to shut up.

"You think we would be able to ever get married?" Nowaki asked. "Will Japan allow it?"

"Ancient literature is filled with tales about Samurais and their gay lovers. Japan used to be open to that kind of stuff before the western influence. I think that if the government will allow gay marriage sometimes, no one will protest against it, but no one will like it either."

Nowaki nodded. "That's why it'll never happen. The government will want consensus."

"Exactly."

"Would you marry me if you could?" Nowaki asked. Hiroki did not reply, but this time Nowaki did not repeat himself. It was a stupid question anyway.

Would you have rather having Usami-sensei?

On his way back from university Misaki entered a bookstore in order to buy an Economics book he needed for one of his classes. Sumi-sempai told him the store on campus sold it for a higher price, and although he was sure Usagi-san will not protest, Misaki preferred to buy the book with his own money.

As he entered he noticed the shelves packed with the new best-seller. A closer look told him the new best-seller's author was his landlord. 300,000 copies on the first week, it said. Misaki didn't know Usagi-san was working on a new book. He always assumed he worked into the night in order to put together some article, or another BL based on him, but the thought of a normal book did not cross his mind. Even as he stood there, staring, a few shoppers took a copy for themselves. Maybe he should get one too?

Yeah, he probably should. Then he'll read it, and then maybe Usagi-san would come to him for advice regarding his books. But then again, they probably had a copy, if not a few, of this book in their apartment. And besides, he could try reading older stuff. No point in buying this book then.

But 300,000 copies. That's an amazing number. It will probably get to million sometime, maybe more. He should congratulate his landlord somehow. He was sure, and he blushed at the thought, that no matter what he did he would somehow be violated, but still, he wanted to make Usagi-san see he wasn't that aloof.

A visit to the flower shop will do, he decided, realizing flowers were the best congratulating award. They weren't expensive, they were pretty, and besides, Usagi-san already had everything he wanted. Including a toy he could do whatever he wanted with, Misaki noted sadly to himself.

Nowaki felt awfully tired after his night shift at the hospital, and he could feel his eyes watering as he tended the plants in the shop. He wanted to quit, he really did, but there was something calming in working as a florist. It gave him time to think, something he wasn't able to do when in the hospital. When he becomes a doctor, that's when he'll quit. That's what he decided a couple of months ago, after a minor fight with Hiro-san.

He was watering the tulips when a customer came in. He was a young man, probably around the age of twenty, and he looked like a student, with his bag hanging from his shoulder. "Welcome," Nowaki said, smiling. "How may I help you?"

"I'd like a bouquet of… roses, I think. Roses were good last time."

"Right away," Nowaki replied. "Which color would you like?"

"The… white ones, I think. Yeah, red or peach, those are for girls," the customer said.

"Aren't these for your girlfriend?" Nowaki asked him as he took out the flowers out of the black bucket and cut the stems.

The customer blushed beet red and Nowaki chuckled to himself. "I… you could say that, maybe…"

"Are you confessing?" Nowaki tried again, but his customer shook his head violently.

"No, these… these are a present for… a dear friend… who published a book lately, and it's doing well." the brown-haired youngster said, leaning on the counter.

Nowaki was tempted to ask for the author's name, but he assumed he wouldn't recognize it. Literature was Hiroki's field, not his. "I'm sure this person will love the flowers," he said, wrapping the bouquet in transparent nylon.

"I bought some roses here a few months ago, I think they did the job" the customer said, looking at Nowaki's hands as they worked.

"Have you read it?" Nowaki asked, cutting a colorful string to tie around the stems.

The customer sighed heavily then. "No, no I haven't. This… this person, he's done so much for me that sometimes I think I should, but I just can't sit down and read a book, I wonder if I'm doing the wrong thing… ah, I'm sorry, I shouldn't be bothering you with this!"

Nowaki laughed. "It's quite alright. May I ask for your name?"

The young man smiled. "Misaki. Takahashi Misaki."

"Well then, Misaki-san, do you think this person minds the fact you don't read whatever they write?" Nowaki asked, calculating the payment. "That would be 1250 yen, please."

Misaki pulled out his wallet, checking the bills while frowning deeply, probably realizing he'll have to use credit. "No, not really," he said. "But… sometimes I wish he would ask for my opinion. I know it's not worth much, but we… we live together and… and in the end, it's probably hurting me more… ah! Here I go again, talking nonsense again!" he said, blushing, and handed Nowaki the card.

"Don't worry about it," Nowaki said, handling the cash register. "Have you tried talking to them about it?"

"Yeah," Misaki replied. "But it didn't help. I think this person's right, he can always go to his childhood friend and ask him… I hear he teaches literature somewhere, obviously he knows more than I do. You know, I thought of taking a literature course, just so I could understand better, but the students say the teacher in the introduction course is like the devil!" Misaki said, letting it all out, finding the black-haired man's smile calming, inviting.

Nowaki laughed as he gave his customer his credit card back. "Maybe you should read one of the books this person had written and say what you think of it. I think this is the right way to handle this situation. I'm sure it will make that person happy."

Misaki looked down at his feet, shifting his weight. "Maybe you're right, mister. I know… I know this person… cherishes me, I know that in that person's eyes I'm important. But sometimes there's this doubt, you know? Sometimes… sometimes it seems like that friend of his holds a special place in his heart, one that I'll never have." Nowaki's eyes widened momentarily. "Oh, I'm sorry, I should probably go," Misaki finished quickly, putting his wallet back in his bag and taking the bouquet in his right hand. "Thank you," he said, then turned around to leave.

"Y-you know," Nowaki said, causing his customer to stop in his tracks and turn around to look at him, a questioning look in his eyes. "Maybe… maybe this person… maybe this person didn't have many friends. I… I never had that many friends myself, you know? Certainly not ones I've known for a long time. Friends take a special place in peoples' hearts, but… but it's no reason to be jealous. If this person loves you, and you love them back, I'm sure they know. I'm sure this person cherishes you dearly, as you say, but… sometimes a person needs friends to go to. Even if you're lovers… even if you're lovers, sometimes friends know much more about each other than lovers do, especially if they've been friends for a long time." Nowaki blinked rapidly, realizing what he just said, then smiled softly at the boy. "I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm saying and I'm probably holding you back. Please come again sometime, I was happy to be at your service."

Misaki smiled back at him and bowed lightly. "Thank you for your advice, I think you're right. I should stop being jealous… I have a friend too. This person I talked about is always jealous of this friend, but I know…I know I'm the first in this person's heart. It's selfish, being jealous, but sometimes I just can't help it…"

Nowaki's eyes widened a bit again. Now that he mentions it…

"Have a good day!" Misaki called as he turned around again and left.

Nowaki watched his retreating form and sighed heavily. Advice, huh? Maybe he should start following his own advice sometimes…

After all, his Hiro-san might meet with Usami-san every now and then, but he always returns to his arms. Usami-san may know how cute Hiro-san looks when reading a book, but he did not know how his frown disappeared just before he reached his orgasm, and he most certainly did not know how Hiro-san looked when you kissed him long enough. How he'll blush and hold you, breathe slowly, and give himself solely to you, forgetting any friends or unrequited loves he might have had.

Nowaki smiled to himself as another customer entered the shop. Friends may hold a special spot in the heart, but lovers… lovers held the entire soul.

Akihiko was home when Misaki returned, reading a book. "I'm home!" Misaki called from the entrance, and the sound of shoes hitting floor followed.

"Welcome back," Akihiko replied. "How was school?"

"It was okay," Miskai said, coming into view, his smile broadening as he saw Usagi-san frowning at the hand he hid behind his back. "I was at the bookstore and saw your new best-seller," he said. "I got you these," then he presented the flowers.

Akihiko smiled and took them, then patted him lightly on the head. "It's no big deal, you know," he said. "Most of my books are best-sellers."

"You're such a show-off, Usagi-san!" Misaki cried. Akihiko made no reply and put the flowers on the coffee table. "Shouldn't you put them in a vase?" Misaki asked.

"That can wait," Akihiko said. "Now I need to tend some other unattended flower," he said, cornering his flat-mate.

"Usagi-san!" Misaki tried to complain, but of course, it was of no use, and his landlord's lips were soon upon his.

After being violated yet again, Takahashi Misaki, disgruntled, sat on the couch and watched with a frown as Usagi-san lit himself a cigarette. "Usagi-san," he said, voice quiet. Said author looked at him, taking a whiff. "I… I'd like to read one of your books sometime."

Akihiko frowned. "Why?"

"Because I want to understand you better. I want you… I want you to come to me for help, too!"

Usagi-san chuckled. "You're doing enough," he said. "You're the best source of inspiration I ever had."

Misaki's eyes widened. "I am?" he asked.

Akihiko ruffled his hair affectionately. "Of course. Otherwise, how would my BLs be so successful?"

Misaki scowled. "What about Kamijou-san?" he asked.

Akihiko looked at him with questioning eyes. "Hiroki? What about him?"

"Isn't he better help?"

Akihiko sighed deeply and sat next to him. "Look here, Misaki. Hiroki read almost every book on the planet. I value his opinion about my writing above all else. But a book wouldn't be good whatsoever without a source of inspiration."

Misaki looked up at a smiling Usagi-san, hopeful. "You mean…?"

"Hiroki is a dear friend," Akihiko said. "But Misaki is the dearest."

Misaki blushed and looked down, happy, yet apprehensive as he felt an unwelcomed hand trying to get into his underwear again. His smile was embarrassed as a thought crossed his mind. Friends may hold a special spot in the heart, but lovers… lovers held the entire soul.

End.

Eight Presents

2008-12-19T19:14:28Z

A new fic by me!!!
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4726353/1/

I really thought I would never get my inspiration back. Strangely enough, the inspiration for this came from a movie poster. The movie is called שבעה (Shiva'h), and it's supposed to be about a family during the seven mourning days. So I thought about this fic, then connected it to Hannukah.
I don't know what I was trying to do with it, and it's very confusing. I don't know how good it is, either.

There are a few people I owe fics to, right? So this one's for sekrit_omg , who wanted SOMETHING. I hope she's happy with it, becuase I should be studying and not writing fanfics.

Happy Holidays!

A Rich Man's Dust - Chapter 1

2008-10-07T23:33:40Z

A collab with eishi!

Remember that Yaoi-Manga-Parody I told you we're planning? So this is the first chapter. I hope the characters aren't too OOC, and... I hope this came out good.
We're not sure yet if this will evolve to humor :O

Stanley Marsh had rarely felt so nervous as he did that very moment. Even if the temperature was barely fifty and the spring wind was a bit cooler than usually, he felt sweat drops running down his neck.

Alright, so maybe he wasn’t looking the best he could. Maybe he should’ve combed his hair and changed his old college sweater to something more professional before coming here. Maybe he should’ve even put on a dark suit – but he shook his head to this thought immediately, as his only suit had been ruined in the graduation party. Perhaps he should’ve changed his sneakers, at least...

Stan shook his head again and straightened his back. If he was going to see one of the richest people in South Park, in the richest area of town to do something as humiliating as to beg for a job, he should and would and could look poor. Pity points for him, perhaps? He took a deep breath and slowly opened the white, curly gate. It didn’t creak at all, as he had assumed it to, but then again, this was no old haunted house from a horror movie. He entered the garden timidly, and was at awe immediately.

The blood-red roses filled the left side of the path; even the grass in front of them was neatly grown, as if it had been cut with nail scissors. On the right side he saw an ocean of bright yellow flowers, slowly swaying with the wind.

He stared blankly at them, trying to recall the name. His ex-girlfriend had nagged him to buy flowers often, and he knew he should recognize this one... Deafmill? Daftdill? Or something like that.

Stan stopped for a moment to observe the house – or, more like mansion. It was a newly-built one, but made to look like it was much older with some clever tricks in the windowsills and corner decorations. Stan could hardly count the windows that filled the creamy white wall, and even if he normally didn’t care for one bit about something as trivial as stairs, he just had to admire the way the stone gleamed and how there was a handrail only on the left side.

He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

It seemed like an eternity before he heard footsteps approaching, but he wished that the door would never open. When it did, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing that he would disappear instantly.

“Yes?”

Stan slowly opened his eyes and saw a strikingly red-haired man eyeing him curiously and partly amusedly.

“I... um. Uh...” he gulped, but felt suddenly calmer when he noticed that the man wasn’t that much older than him; maybe in his early thirties? Feeling a rush of confidence, he decided to start over. “My name is Stan Marsh. I’ve... I’ve come to ask... if, um, there’s any job here I can take?”

The redhead cocked an eyebrow and his lips curved into the tiniest smile, but Stan found it hard to decipher the meaning behind this facial gesture. “A job?” the man asked, as if he had not heard the first time, door still only open halfway.

Had Stan already not been so humiliated, he might’ve felt a teeny weeny bit hurt. “Yeah, I...”

To hell with it, he thought, and continued: “I heard you needed a servant, and, well...” He smiled confidently, but was well aware of how his eyes gave away his true nervousness. “Here I am.”

The redhead chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing him with a little interest. “I see,” he said and nodded slightly, closing his eyes briefly and opening the door fully as he opened them again. “Well then. Come on in, and we’ll see if you’re qualified.”

Stan followed the man inside, observing his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that the hall was incredibly large and full of all kinds of small decorations, candles and flower arrangements, but still, it was very neat, everything almost shining. On his right was a huge staircase, build in the Victorian style (Stan assumed so, since he knew nothing of architecture) and made of dark oak. On the left side was a door, slightly ajar, and Stan could see that behind that there was a hallway. The red-head lead him to a huge living room, and the only word to describe it perfectly was, in Stan’s mind, a simple ‘whoa’. The room was lit by several chandeliers, made of crystal and gold (another ‘whoa’ entered Stan’s mind). This room was even more decorative than the hall: there were millions of small crystal animals arranged in a perfect line in the brown shelf that took most of the left side of the room; many strange-looking candlesticks; large paintings by some past masters (Stan even thought he recognized one as Monet’s); a sofa; an oval table and four chairs around it. The man sat down by the table and gestured Stan to do so as well. He hesitated a moment.

“Um, uh... I’d prefer to stand,” he finally blurted out, when the man’s gaze had turned to somewhat confused.

“O-kay,” the man stuttered, pursing his lips slightly. “So then, mister... what was your name again?”

Stan could have been offended: he had introduced himself already, but since he needed to make a good impression, he just smiled nervously. “Stan. Stan Marsh.”

Then man smiled. “Stan. That’s a nice name. Is that a short for Stanley?”

Stan cringed – he hated his real name, as his mother had always yelled that ominous “Stanley!” when he had done something wrong – but quickly masked his cringe as a smile. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir.”

The man nodded again at him and turned his look to the oval, dark table. He quickly pulled back a drawer and took out some papers, spreading them in front of him. “Alright then, Stanley.” Stan cringed. "Tell me a little bit about yourself."

“Um... okay...” Stan gulped under the red-head’s look, and continued: “Uh, what do you want to know, exactly?”

The redhead quirked an eyebrow, staring oddly at him. “Anything you believe will help me assert an opinion on you.”

“Oh, okay,” Stan said, feeling incredibly stupid. He had been here for only five minutes, and made a fool of himself already! “I’m twenty, finished my high school two years ago and... I need a job. I’m willing to do anything. Um, I mean, not that literally, but metaphorically, or something...”

The man chuckled softly. “I see. You said you finished high school. What about college?”

Stan frowned. He knew this would come up, but he really didn’t want to talk about his college experiences. On the other hand, lying wouldn’t do any good either. “Well, I got a scholarship there, but, uh... lost it after an accident. I was a member of the football team and hurt my leg, and I couldn’t play anymore. And, um...” He grew more and more uncomfortable under the man’s gaze, but bravely continued: “I can’t afford college, so I’ll have to wait for few years and gather money for that.”

Great, just put on a rag and start begging on money, Stan cynically thought to himself.

The man nodded again, then sighed softly. “I see. Well, I hope your little accident won’t bother your work here. That is, if I decide that you will do it.”

So he hadn’t noticed the limping yet. Stan decided to selfishly use that at his advantage. “N-no, it won’t. My leg’s completely healed, I just can’t play anything rough again.”

For a lifetime, he sighed in his mind, but said nothing aloud.

“That’s good then,” the redhead said, scribbled some things down, and turned the page. “So tell me, Stanley,” Stan cringed again. “Why do you think I should hire you or for the job?”

Oh, shit, Stan thought. He really hadn’t thought about that. “Well, I... I’m really handy at anything practical, like fixing stuff”—lie—“or cleaning”—another lie—“or cooking”—well, that was a half-truth—“and, uh, showing people out.”

Crap. No making jokes at first meeting, dumbass! Stan panicly thought.

The redhead blinked. “O-kay... hopefully, that last merit won’t be needed,” he said, marked something down and lifted his head up to stare up at him again.

“I'll be honest with you, Stanley.” Oh, nevermind. “I only need one servant. This house, though big, does not need two. My previous servant, a kind lady, had to quit a few days ago due to old age. As you can probably notice, the house is already beginning to mess. The job is mainly to keep the house clean and cook for me, as I don’t really have the time to do so myself. You will get one day off a week, mostly Monday, as this is the day in which I attend to business meetings in Denver. Payment is fair, I believe, and you will be allowed to live here. If I may say so myself, I think living here would be for the best, as the house needs frequent care. Any questions?”

Actually, there were millions of questions in Stan’s head, but he couldn’t say anything.

Only one servant in a mansion like this? Are you nuts?

What is your name, for god’s sake, I told you mine!

What’s the pay like?

Live here? With you? Oh, god, what will all my friends say!

Instead, and against a better judgment, he just said: “When do I start?”

The man smiled and put the papers down. “Whoever said you’re hired?”

Stan put a puppy look on his face: he was disgusted to use that weapon, as it was something he usually did to entertain his father and to beg something from his mother, but since the man hadn’t yet thrown him out, he might as well. “I make delicious pancakes.” (That wasn’t a lie, he had once gotten even his sister to grunt that they were good.)

The man laughed. “Alright, alright. Look, you seem like a trustworthy person, though I don't know about your ability to keep this mansion intact. Tell you what: I’ll let you work here for a month, a test period, if you will, and we’ll see from there, okay? Just to make things clear: I’m only hiring you because the only people who came by for that position were some blond girl who apparently thought she’ll get a shidduch”— what? — “out of it, and some guy who couldn’t even button his shirt right. Do you think you can start tomorrow?”

Stan smiled widely. “Sure!”

The man rose from the chair and smiled widely at him. “Okay, great. I’ll show you around, and you can come here tomorrow as early as possible.” He started going back in the direction they came, and then the man stopped abruptly and turned around to face him. “By the way, I seem to have forgot my manners. My name’s Kyle. Kyle Broflovski.”

Stan, wanting to make a good impression, plainly answered, “nice to meet you” and gave a polite smile to Kyle.

“...right. Follow me.”

They went back to the hall, and turned to the hallway that Stan had seen when he entered. There were four doors, each of them ajar. (This seemed to be typical in the Broflovski manor, Stan noticed.) Kyle opened the first room, not entering it.

“This is the kitchen,” he presented, gesturing Stan to come closer. Stan took a peek in the room: it was considerably small for such a big house, but it had everything a cook would need, starting from a high-tech oven to an induction stove. There were piles of dishes everywhere, half-eaten sandwiches on the counter, a cucumber on the cutting board and a tea pot filled with (probably cold) tea.

Kyle coughed softly into his right fist. “As you can see,” he started, moving slightly to the left in order to allow Stan to enter the room, “it’s a tad messy. I’d like you to clean around here first thing tomorrow morning.”

Stan smiled awkwardly, bad thoughts already starting to fill his mind. Even without the cucumber, or the tea pot, or the piles of dishes, the fact that one of the Teflon pans had been clearly misused and that the kitchen knives were in completely wrong places in their own, wooden rack was enough to make Stan doubt that this was the worst thing he’d see in this house. His new boss was obviously messy, not just “messy”.

Oh, and top of that, without any information of the real world. Stan cringed at the thought of him using a Teflon pan like that – his mother would’ve yelled for him for hours.

Aloud, he just said: “Sure.”

“Okay, great,” Kyle said and gestured for him to follow him farther down the hall. He opened a narrow door and switched on the light. “This is the storage room. You know, cans, drinks, various food items. I hope you will find it usable. Oh no, no need to enter,” he said as Stan tried to pass him into the room. “Just know it’s here. Now,” he continued, closing (not fully!) the door behind him. “Over here,” he pointed to the right, “is a room I think you’d find enjoyable. It has a pool-table, beer fridge, big screen TV... over there is my work room. Please, always make sure to knock before entering! Over there,” he said as he pointed at the last door in the hallway, “is a small lounge. I have a few books there, I hope you will enjoy them.”

Kyle put a finger to his chin then, thinking deeply. “Though I believe you will find most of them boring, as they deal with economics and the likes.” Stan frowned. Kyle apparently noticed it, as he waved his hand quickly and continued: “Not that I look down on you, I find them boring myself.”

Stan found himself suddenly smiling to this strange man, especially after this last line. Kyle nodded to himself as he made sure he covered all the rooms in the main hallway, and then turned around and walked back the way they came, gesturing Stan to follow. They returned to the hall in which Stan had been interviewed, and Kyle led them to a big glass door. He pressed a switch and the shade was pulled up, revealing a huge back yard. Kyle unlocked the door and led them out. “The gardener tends the front and back yards about three times a week. It’s a shame that the winter is nearing... As you can see, there’s a wooden sitting corner under that gazebo over there...”

Stan’s eyes widened as he admired the gaz-what-ever, never having seen one before. All the flowerbeds looked impossibly perfect, only completing the look of the smaller building. It was the color of cream, with a tad darker roof and white roses planted all around it. His instant reaction was: “Can I spend my breaks in there?”

Kyle laughed heartily. “You can spend your breaks however you’d like. Now, follow me.” Kyle led them to a long shade, where Stan’s eyes widened at the large, heated pool he saw there.

A “… can I live in there?” escaped Stan’s lips before he could even think, no dumbass, still no making jokes at first meeting.

Kyle laughed awkwardly at his statement. “No, no. Come on, let me show you to your room.”

They went back the same way, through the living room and hall, now only climbing up the stairs to the next level. There were too many rooms for Stan to count at one glance (all with their doors slightly open, except for two), but Kyle dismissed them and led him to the last door in the huge hallway. Stan briefly noted that all the doors had different kind of decorations on them and were made of different woods; the house was suddenly starting to look like an absurd collection of abandoned puzzle pieces.

Kyle opened the door and entered. “This is my room,” he said, pointing at a huge, oval bed next to the window. The room, though big, contained only a closet, a small vanity, and the bed. What seemed like a very expensive carpet covered the floor, and a small door at the side led to a private bathroom. “Off-limits, besides when you clean,” Kyle said firmly, stepped out and closed the door after him. “Now, to your room,” he said.

Stan’s soon-to-be-room was at the other end of the hallway. “I hope this serves your expectations,” Kyle said as he entered.

Stan felt a small pang of disappointment when he first looked at the room: compared to the earlier decorative halls and pool tables and heated pools, it looked quite simple. There was a bed in the left corner, a closet next to it (its door slightly ajar, naturally), a table beside the window, from which there was a clear view to the garden and the gazebo. On the right side of the room there was a small bookshelf that took only one third of the wall space, and a painting hanging next to it. Stan didn’t recognize the artist, but one thing he realized: it surely wasn’t as valuable as the ones he had seen in the living room or in the main hall.

“It looks nice,” he said, feeling actually satisfied after he’d observed it for a while.

“Great,” Kyle said and went to the closet, and Stan stared in confusion as he opened it and retrieved a black dress, French-Maid style. “Unfortunately,” Kyle said as he observed the dress, bemused, “I do not have an outfit ready for a male-servant. I do not assume that you’d like to wear this dress...”

“Huh? NO!” Then Stan caught himself, trying to mend his aggressive outburst: “Um, I mean, uh, that would be, kind of... you know... um...”

“Gay?” Kyle suggested, frowning.

“Um, that too,” Stan confusedly admitted, trying to come up with a better word, “but I mean... uh... awkward. It wouldn’t even fit me.”

Kyle stared at him for a few long seconds, then shook his head softly. He approached Stan and put a long, slender arm on his shoulder. “You’re cool,” he said simply and went out.

Stan blinked few times. What... just happened? he thought confusedly, not able to decide was his new boss a little strange, really cool or a nutjob. Finally, he just concluded that whatever the reason, Kyle seemed to like him, and that was what mattered most right now.

Kyle showed him to the front door and opened it with a smile. “Well then, Stan,” he said, and Stan breathed a sigh of relief as his new boss finally used a normal name. “It was nice meeting you, and I will see you tomorrow morning.” His cell-phone rang suddenly, and Kyle fished it out of his pocket, a huge smile spreading on his lips as he saw the caller ID.

“Token!” he said happily into the phone, then looked down at Stan with a confused look that said: are you still here?

Stan took the hint, smiled a bit and waved. Kyle didn’t answer to his gesture, but Stan hadn’t expected him to: after all, the door was already half-closed and he was talking to his cell enthusiastically.

As Stan stepped out of the large gate, he felt his own cell vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and answered quietly. “Hey mom,” he said. “Yeah, yeah, the... owner accepted me. No, not a waiter, I’m the uh... cleaning... guy. Yeah, I know, can you show me a bit how you’re cleaning? No, I’m not having a concussion, I need to learn how to do it for the job, okay? Yeah, see you soon. Bye.” He hung up, stared at the clouded sky and sighed heavily, wondering how to phrase his moving-out statement.

Stan pocketed his hands with a renewed confidence. Hey, at least he had a job now. Who cared about the fetishes or abnormalities of his boss, like inability to close doors or misusing pans, when he had a place to live and reasonable paycheck?

To Be Continued…

If you have anything to say about the fic itself, we'd thank you if you do that on FF.net. :)

SP fic - The Eternal Reason

2008-10-03T12:55:09Z

Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or its characters.

For nolly3.

When it came to sex, Stan figured, Kyle acted like a girl on her period. He'd be all cooperative during foreplay, giggling and moaning and kissing as if his life depended on it, but the moment Stan caressed his ass, Kyle would pale, pull away and then mumble something about a sudden headache.

Of course, it was okay for Kyle to caress Stan's ass. And do more to it, really.

See, bottoming did not bother Stan that much. It’s just that… Kyle sucked at topping. He'd do everything wrong, his penis would slide out waaaay too much, and frankly, neither of them got much satisfaction out of it. Usually they reached orgasm in mutual jack-off, and while porno was great fun an all, Stan hated finding himself in the same position as those poor actors.

Stan was seriously considering taking Kyle by force, but that cute face the redhead made during their foreplays always prevented him from doing so.

"Kyle," Stan panted one night when he was lying half naked above his boyfriend, his hands on said man's chest, drawing small circles slowly. "Kyle, let me top tonight," he breathed into the Jew's ear and felt him shudder beneath him.

Kyle began fidgeting suddenly. Stan was disappointed with himself at how this reaction kept on letting him down, even though he always expected it. "Maybe… maybe we should just go to sleep. I… I'm tired."

Stan sighed heavily. "I promise I'll be gentle," he said and stroked the redhead's cheek.

"I know you'll be," Kyle whispered. "But I… I'm tired, Stan. Honestly. I need to wake up early tomorrow."

"What for?" Stan asked, frowning, sick of the usual excuses. "It's Sunday!"

Beneath him, Kyle began to sweat. "Well… uh… see… this… paper I need to work on…"

"I thought you're done with this semester."

Kyle looked away. "No, uh… see…"

Stan gritted his teeth and slid off his boyfriend, holding his chin and forcing the Jewish man to look at him. "What the fuck, Kyle!" he cried, narrowing his eyes. "What is your problem with being bottom? God knows I've done it since we first started… you know… and I'm sure you're well aware of the fact you suck ass at topping!" he said, proud of himself that he managed to express himself so well after about a year of keeping it bottled up inside of him.

Kyle, however, simply stared at him oddly. "You should use different slang when you talk about our sex life, Stan."

Stan frowned, not fully comprehending, and then closed his eyes in frustration and rolled over, showing his back to Kyle. "Whatever," he muttered. "Good night."

Behind him, he could hear Kyle sighing. "Night…" he mumbled.

Not another word was uttered between the two until morning came.

A few (sexless) days later Stan was watching some boring reality show on TV when Kyle came back from work, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"Hey," Stan greeted, a small smile forming on his lips. "How was your day?" he asked.

Kyle shrugged. "Was okay. What are you watching?" he asked as he approached the brown, leather couch.

"Some stupid reality show. You know, the usual setting of stupid boys and girls and waiting so see who will fuck who first."

Kyle chuckled. "Ah," he replied.

"Come on, sit next to me," Stan said, looking up at the redhead with a silly smile. "You seem cold, I could warm you up."

Kyle chuckled again, but this time around it sounded awkward. "I uh… I want to go and take a shower first."

Stan nodded slowly, took the remote and turned off the television set, standing up and facing his boyfriend with a stupid smile. "I could use a shower too," he said with a wink.

In front of him, Kyle fidgeted uncomfortably. "Could you now," he said dryly, looking away.

Stan frowned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Kyle looked at him, surprised, as if caught off-guard, and then shook his head slowly. "No, no… I'm perfectly fine. I just wanna…. You know… take my shower."

"Well then, I could join you," Stan said, then edged closer and thrust lamely against his boyfriend. "It's been ages since we showered together."

Kyle sighed heavily and closed his eyes, surrendering. "Fine," he muttered, "but could I… you know… use the toilet by myself?"

Stan blinked stupidly. "Wha-? Oh… oh, yeah, sure, go on ahead. Just… call me when you're done."

Kyle's lips curved into a tiny smile and he pecked the black-haired man on the cheek. "No problem," he said and disappeared up the staircase.

Stan remained standing in their living-room on that ugly carpet he got from his mother, contemplating his next actions. He could hug Kyle in the shower, pin his hands to his sides and then violate him. But Kyle would probably act all sissy again, and really, Stan didn't want to be dumped because of attempted rape. Maybe he could enter Kyle quickly, without him noticing, and because it would feel so fucking good, Kyle would probably forgive him.

Yeah, he could try that.

With his mind resolved and his cock already twitching with anticipation, Stan skipped merrily down to hallway and came to a stop next to the bathroom door, deciding he would jump on his redhead as soon as the Jew will decide to come out. Stan leaned on the wall, tapping his foot and pursing his lips slightly as he waited. His ears perked when he heard a low moan and his foot came to a stop as he pressed his ear against the wooden surface of the door. Another moan followed and Stan frowned to himself, figuring his boyfriend was jerking off while he could just come out already and get the real deal! Then Stan could barely hear a sharp intake of breath and he huffed angrily, assuming the Jewish man came.

Stan was about the take the door down, or at least yell at his boyfriend from the other side, when he could distinguish between the low moans and deep breaths a small sniffle. Stan's eyes widened and he stood up straight, staring at the door.

What the hell was going on in there?

A few short moments later Stan could hear water flowing, and he forgot all about the assumed crying when he realized Kyle didn't bother to call him. He was about to knock angrily on the door when a yell from inside stopped him from doing so.

"Stan!" Kyle called, voice just slightly cracked, "I'm ready!"

Stan waited outside for a few short seconds before entering, frowning slightly as he spotted his boyfriend in the tub, wet from the waist below.

"You didn't call me," Stan said while he took off his shirt.

Kyle frowned. "No, I just did. This is why you came, right?"

"Oh, I came alright," Stan muttered angrily as he pulled down his pants. "I bet you did, too!"

"Stan, what the fuck?"

But Stan did not reply. He pulled down his boxers and joined his boyfriend in the tub, taking the showerhead from the redhead and wetting himself from head to toe, before turning the metallic instrument around and using it on the Jewish man, who turned around himself and did not find his black-haired friend to be amusing at all.

"I'll show you fuck," Stan said, hugging Kyle tightly from behind and grinding against him, trailing kisses down his neck and caressing his back.

"Stan-" Kyle tried, but stopped mid-sentence as he felt Stan's hand on his lower back.

"Jerking yourself off when I already suggested taking a shower with you…" Stan whispered against the Jew's shoulder blade, moving his hand to the white buttocks, ignoring the cringe it ensued from the redhead.

"Stan, please-" Kyle tried again, but his words were replaced with a small yelp as he felt curious fingers at his entrance.

"Stop being such a wuss, Kyle," Stan said, kissing Kyle's shoulder slowly. "It doesn't hurt when you get used to it, I promise."

"Stan, stop it already!" Kyle said and hissed as Stan fingered him slowly.

"It'll be better…" Stan said quietly, frowning slightly as something about Kyle's ass seemed odd to him. But, as he couldn't quite figure out what it was he inserted his finger deeper. Kyle yelped again, and instead of bending his back towards him, like Stan thought he'd do, he arched his back backwards, trying to get away. "Enough!" he cried, trying to pry Stan off of him.

"Come on, Kyle," Stan said, grabbing a hold of his boyfriend's hand. "Just this once, I promise I'll make you feel so good you'll never want to top again."

"No, Stan!" Kyle cried, turned off the water and stumbled out of the bathtub, limping slightly towards the towels.

Stan frowned deeply and got out as well, grabbing a hold of Kyle before he could grab his green towel from the rack.

"No!" Kyle cried. Stan was about to argue again, but then Kyle turned around to face him and the fear that planted itself in his eyes caused Stan to let go and stare at the redhead dumbly.

"Kyle…" he breathed and lifted his hand to stroke his pale cheek slowly. "What's going on?"

"Please stop this, Stan," Kyle said quietly, voice quivering slightly.

"Why are you so scared of it?" Stan asked. "Stop beating around the bush, why the fuck are you so afraid of me?"

Kyle gulped and looked away. "It's not you I'm afraid of…" he mumbled.

"What then!" Stan cried, taking his hands down.

"I-" Kyle started, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I… I have hemorrhoids, Stan," he finished in a low whisper.

"What?" Stan breathed, eyes widening. "I thought… I thought they went away when you were nine!"

Kyle shook his head and smiled pathetically. "Hemorrhoids never truly go away," he explained and sighed. "That's why I don't want… you know. I don' think it'll be wise. Especially not today. I can… fuck, Stan, I can't sit without cringing and you want to stick something up my ass?"

"I didn't know!" Stan said, quick to defend himself. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's too embarrassing, okay? I didn't think it is necessary for you to know…"

"Well, apparently it was!" Stan argued, shaking his head slowly. "Had I known, I wouldn’t have tried anything!"

Kyle said nothing in return. "I'm sorry," he muttered finally, looking down at his bare feet.

Stan sighed. "It's okay Kyle," he said, taking down a green towel from the rack and giving it to the redhead. "I'm not mad."

Kyle smiled up at him and dried himself slowly. "I know I can't top for life," Kyle said. "But I can't bottom either."

Stan felt as if someone punched him in the stomach, but smiled, nevertheless. "I-it's alright," he said, chuckling softly. "I can live with it…"

Kyle smiled, but a second later the smile fell and he sighed heavily. "No you can't," he said. "Look, Stan," Kyle said and gripped the other boy's shoulder weakly. "When I'll feel better, I'll try to bottom and we'll see if it works, alright?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah, sure," he said, then pursed his lips in thought. "So you didn't jerk off in there?"

"Hell no!"

"Well," Stan smiled slyly and caressed his boyfriend's stomach. "Do you want to, then?"

End.

OH GOD IT CAME OUT SO LAME I'M SORRY OMG.
No really, I think I lost it somewhere along the way :(

Hope you like it, still...

Lame fic lol

2008-09-11T20:41:08Z

I should post here more often...

I wrote this one when I was in a slump. It came out REALLY bad, so I didn't submit it to FF.net. I think I wrote that when I thought to myself that Kyle isn't necessarily a smart kid. I don't remember if I finsihed it, maybe there was suppsed to be more to this fic...

Anyhow, it's lame, and I post it here only because I feel like I should post SOMETHING.
So uh... yeah.

Grammar ir probably horrilbe, and there are some unfitting words I didn't feel like changing.

School sucked for many reasons. The building itself was colored a depressing gray, and the inside was colored a sickening, bright yellow. The students were complete assholes, most of them, at least, and the teachers didn't have the slightest clue about teaching. But what Kyle Broflovski hated the most about school, was the exams. Endless and tiring exams, and he had to score B or higher for his parents not to yell at him that he was slacking off. He was an average kid, not too smart and not too stupid. Since he wasn't too smart, he had to study really hard to get a good grade.

And he hated it.

It took most of his day. He wanted to watch TV, play video games, hang out with Stan… but most certainly not sit down and study.

He sighed. He had an English exam the day after, and studying the meaning of various poems wasn't really his idea of a good time. His mind wandered somewhere else as he drew lines and circles on a blank paper and yawned out of boredom. He would give anything, anything to not do the stupid exam on Friday. If only he were Stan…

Not that he was jealous of Stan in general, just on this particular day. His raven-haired best friend was currently lying in his bed with a burning forehead, caused by a bad case of flu. Kyle always thought that South Park residents were immune to flu, having living in the fucking cold for most days of the year, but apparently that wasn't true.

So Stan would do that exam on another time, while he'll have to do it tomorrow with most of the class… a thing which he really did not feel like doing.

An idea formed in his head. He should go to Stan, sit in his room and make the sick boy cough on him violently so he'd be able to get sick himself. He smirked to himself. He closed the book, put on his shoes quickly and grabbed his coat from the bed, where he threw it when he came back home from school. He grabbed his schoolbag and ran down the stairs, yelling to his younger brother, who was zoning out in front of this stupid reality show or another, that he was leaving and ran out, feeling free as the cold wind blew at his face. He smiled widely and made his way to Stan's house.

Stan's mother, Sharon, opened him the door and smiled as she saw him. He smiled back. He loved Sharon Marsh, she was very nice and accepting, and not stressing like his own mother. Plus, she was always kind to him. Of course, it could have been because Kyle was a mere guest in their house whenever he was there, and as a host she had to be nice, but still, Stan almost never complained about her. "Hello Mrs. Marsh!" he greeted, looking down since he got a bit taller than her.

"Oh, hello Kyle," she said back, but still didn't open the door fully for him to come in. "Stan's sick," she finished.

"Yeah, I know," he replied and pointed at his blue schoolbag, flashing her a row of white teeth. "I came to bring him some homework from the classes I have with him."

"Oh, you're so kind!" she said, but her smile fell. "But a flu is very contagious, I don't want you to get sick. Can you do it over the phone, maybe?"

He shook his head. "No, I have to explain him some stuff I think he'll have trouble figuring out on his own." She frowned, and he elaborated quickly. "I mean, he wasn't in the class when they were explained, so…"

"Well," she put her hand to her mouth. "I suppose you can see him for a few minutes…"

"Thanks!" he said and entered as Stan's mother stepped to the side and allowed him to set a foot on her carpet. He followed her up the stairs to his friend's room, wondering what would be Stan's reaction when his plan will unfold.

Stan's mother opened the door slowly, and signaled for Kyle to follow her quietly inside. Kyle's heart sunk when he saw Stan lying on his bed, sleeping. He was pale and sweat made his face shine. His mother put her hand on his forehead and sighed heavily. "It won't come down," she said with a frown. Then she shook him gently and called his name until he opened his eyes groggily with a groan. "Stan, honey?" she asked tentatively. "Kyle's here to see you."

Stan turned his head to look at Kyle, who was still standing by the door as if afraid to come any closer. "Hi," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. Kyle managed a smile back.

"I'm going to make you some tea," Stan's mom said and ran her hand through her son's black hair gently. He smiled at her as she turned around and left.

Kyle eyed the door for a minute, as if suspicious. "You look like shit, dude," he said as he turned his gaze back to his sick friend.

Stan chuckled. "Thanks," he replied. Kyle advanced towards his bed and threw his schoolbag on the floor. Stan's brow furrowed. "You didn't come here to bring me homework, did you?" he asked and coughed.

Kyle flinched at the sound and shook his head. "Hell no, you have enough troubles as it is." He waited for Stan's coughs to subdue before he continued. "I came to get sick myself."

Stan stared at him oddly. "What?" he asked.

"I came to get sick," Kyle repeated himself. "Remember the exam we have tomorrow?" Stan nodded. "Well, I don't wanna do it," he finished simply. Stan seemed puzzled, and Kyle sighed heavily. "I'm going to get your flu," he said and sat on the bed.

"You don't want it, dude," Stan said, chuckling again. "I feel like shit."

Kyle shrugged. "Believe me, I do. Very much."

"But you'll have to do that exam, anyway." Stan argued.

"Yeah, but not tomorrow. Come on, dude! I'm not asking for much." He put his hand on the other side of the bed, shifting his weight so now he was above Stan and could look straight into his eyes.

Stan's faced reddened. "W-what are you doing?" he asked.

"I would have asked you to cough into my mouth," Kyle said, "but I don't know if that would make me sick for sure. So I'd rather do it the hard way," and with a swift movement he leaned down and pressed his lips to Stan's, ignoring the muffled yelps of struggle that his best friend emitted. He let go abruptly and wiped his mouth, smiling at the distressed face that his friend made.

"You're crazy!" Stan said and Kyle laughed.

"Maybe, but I won't have to do that exam now, would I?"

"I don't see why I couldn't just cough!" Stan argued, wiping his mouth fiercely with his sleeve as if Kyle was the one with the contagious disease.

"Wouldn't have worked," Kyle said and got off the bed, picking up his schoolbag. "Thanks, Stan. Hopefully, I won't be there when you get back to school!" and without letting his friend say another word, Kyle left the room, leaving a dazed, sick person behind him.

Stan blinked and touched his lips, still shocked. He shivered suddenly, and figured it was because of the fever. Kyle's lips were warm, almost… nice. He'd dare say he even liked it.

But Kyle was still a jerk, and Stan would still have to pay him back for it. In his crave for revenge, he forgot that he didn't even feel sick at the kiss. His mother came in a moment later with a boiling cup of tea, and he was glad to get rid of the remains of Kyle's taste on his lips.

Nice and warm as his lips were, unwanted use of tongue is never appreciated.

War Sories (Part 2)

2008-07-11T13:10:38Z

The next fic I'l refer to is a Kyou Kara Maou one:

"And he went to the battle at sunrise,

And did not return for so many days,

And she knows that he will not return forever,

And still she prays that he simply forgot."

"On the Trail to the Pools"- Chava Alberstein

At eighteen, Shibuya Yuuri should have graduated high school with his friends, he should have been trying to get accepted into a university, he should have enjoyed a newfound freedom.

He definitely should have not led a war.

But, as the Maou, the king of Shin-Makoku, this was his current situation, as much as he hated it.

Even with all the alliances, the humans were still very untrusting. They started to move their troops and reinforce their walls. Yuuri didn't want that situation to escalate into a war, but unfortunately for him, it did. The humans refused to listen or to negotiate, and before long a few blasts tore Shin-Makoku's market and all hell broke loose.

The castle felt lonely with so many people fighting in the front lines. Gunter and Gwendal stayed in the castle to advise the king, who knew nothing of wars (having been raised in that peaceful country of his) while Conrad was fighting with his soldiers, including Yozak, in far-off lands.

Wolfram was there, too.

He wanted to fight, as well, but everyone were against it. "You'll just turn into your Maou state again and act recklessly, like you always do. And on such large-scale battles, that momentarily mode will only do damage," Murata told him. And so, he remained in the castle, doomed to restless nights and nerve-wrecking days.

Yuuri hated to admit it, but a little part of him hoped that Wolfram would be injured, badly even, but not fatally. Then he would return to the castle and stay there until the battles were over. Conrad was more experienced in battles, and he had Yozak with him. Wolfram… Wolfram was as much as an immature in fighting a war as Yuuri was in leading one, and every day he was worried and agitated, apprehensive when carrier pigeons came with long lists of the fallen. From a time to time he recognized a name from the list; this was a soldier he spoke to once, this was a soldier who used to guard him at this time or another, this was a soldier of whom he heard a lot about…

His heart clenched in his chest at every such a name, for even if he didn't get to know them as much as he'd like to, they were still his people. But the painful clench was always a short one that had to be ignored when Gwendal showered him with maps and Gunter suggested courses of action.

Yuuri tried to remember his History lessons, tried to remember an ingenious move this country made to win over another, but it was of no use. He felt like Gwendal, Murata and Gunter were leading that war. He couldn't help it, though! He wasn't the Great Sage, he knew almost nothing about this world! Gwendal was a very experienced soldier, and Gunter knew a lot about the states they were fighting against and was of great help, even if his sword was never stained with blood.

All Shibuya Yuuri could do, all the twenty-seventh Maou could do, was watch them quarrel over strategies and attacks and sign the commands and papers.

"I don't want anyone hurt!" he said during the first days of battle. He saw Gwendal's face twitching as he wanted to scream, but kept silent in the presence of the King. He saw Gunter's features darken, and he saw Murata's glasses fog up mysteriously as the three of them hid important information from him yet again..

"Shibuya," Murata said then, holding his shoulder firmly. "We have no choice… this is a war, Shibuya. A war. Even on Earth when there is a fight, there are dead."

"But this is not Earth!" he tried to argue. "This is Shin-Makoku, I make the decisions here, and I decided that I do not want anyone dead! Not for as long as I'm the king!"
"We'll do our best, your Majesty," Gunter said. "But please understand that there isn't much we can do. You saw it yourself; the humans refuse to negotiate. To try and talk to them now would be almost suicidal. Someone needs to gain the upper hand before we'd be able to do that."

"That's tight, Shibuya," Murata continued, his hold on his friend's shoulder tightening. "Even on Earth, when the UN decides on a truce, it takes awhile before it' takes effect."

Yuuri frowned, his teeth gritting. "Fine," he seethed, more angry at himself and his uselessness than at his advisors. "Do what you think is right, but do all that you can to avoid unnecessary killings!"

"Of course," Gwendal said, turning and walking away to resume planning their next course of action, closely followed by Gunter.

Murata stayed by his side a minute longer, giving his shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze before heading off in their direction as well.

"Do all that you can..." Yuuri murmured quietly to himself, his fist clenching and unclenching along with the gritting of his teeth. He did not doubt them, he knew that they will do all that in their power in order to end this crisis. That was one of the reasons they were still in the castle, after all.

Yet the bodies kept on piling…

For some reason, he thought that only Conrad and Yozak will go into battle, but was surprised to find himself one night waking up to the sight of Wolfram putting on a set of uniform that was very similar to the one he always wore, but less fancy.

"Where are you going?" Yuuri asked him then, lifting himself on the mattress with one arm, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "It's the middle of night, go back to bed. It's dangerous to walk outside these days…"

"Wimp," Wolfram replied, but the taunt sounded too forced. "I'm needed at the front. I must set out now, my troops are ready."

"What!" Yuuri exclaimed, now fully awake, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. "No! You can't go!" he said, tears of worry welling up in his eyes at the thought of putting Wolfram in danger along with Conrad and Yozak. "Conrad and Yozak can handle things!" he said in accord to that thought. "They always do! There is no need for you to go as well!"

Wolfram turned to face him, a small and sad smile forming on his lips. "With skirmishes they can. A war… this war… it cannot be fought only with the two of them," he replied bitterly, looking away.

"They have their troops!" Yuuri tried to argue, but his argument fell upon deaf, perhaps more experienced, ears, as Wolfram stood up and walked to his side of the bed. He pushed him down slowly until Yuuri was lying on his back and staring straight at his blond fiancé with wide eyes. "You can't go!" he tried again, his voice cracking as his resolve broke.

"I must," the blond replied, looking at him, his face mere inches from Yuuri's. He lowered his head a bit more, hesitantly, seeming to contemplate something, before closing his eyes briefly and sighing, a small, sad, smile playing on his lips.

"Wolf…ram?" Yuuri asked weakly, his eyes are yet to blink as his fists clenched the white sheets beneath him in fearful anticipation. Then Wolfram straightened up, leaving a puzzled and a bit shaken king on the bed.

"Goo- I'll see you later, wimp," he said quickly, trying to cover his small slip up, but Yuuri caught it.

"No!" he cried. "You can't leave! What will I… as you say, I'm a wimp! How can I lead the troops? Who will tell me what to do? I need you to stay!"

"That's why my brother and Gunter are staying behind. The Great Sage, too. I was not taught to give advices, Yuuri. I trained hard so I could fight the next war, and now it's here. I have a duty to protect this Kingdom and its king, and in order to do that, I have to go now." He turned around and started to walk in the direction of the door. His right hand was already on the doorknob when he felt his left wrist being held and pulled back.

"No!" Yuuri cried again, trying to pull him back to the safety of his bed, but Wolfram yanked his hand away, making his fiancé stumble backwards.

"Enough of that wimpy attitude!" Wolfram said, glaring at him. "Don't make it harder than it's already is…" he then said, lowering his voice and averting his gaze.

At a loss of words, all Yuuri could manage to utter was his fiancé's name before the door was opened quickly, said fiancé stepping out of the room. "Promise me you'll come back!"

Wolfram stopped dead in his tracks, his hand inches from the doorknob on the other side of the door. "You know I can't promise that…" he whispered bitterly.

"You have to!" Yuuri said. "Greta and Cheri-sama would be very sad if you died! You don't want to make your daughter cry, do you?" It was a futile attempt and he knew it.

He saw Wolfram's back tense and thought that maybe he got to the stubborn Mazoku's head, when the doorknob was gripped and the door slammed behind him, the echoing noise covering Wolfram's parting words.

And Yuuri was left standing there, dumbfounded and pale, the echo ricocheting from the walls to his ears. He tried to search for them with all his might, but no words were in it. Just the sound of violent departure.

"Shibuya!" To say that he woke up when Murata entered his room would be a lie. To say that he couldn't sleep in the first place would be an understatement.

"What's going on?" he asked, sitting up in his bed, looking tired. He didn't get an answer. Instead, Murata ran over and yanked him out of his bed. "Hey, wait a minute! Tell me what’s going on!" Yuuri pleaded, but received no answer as he ran, or rather, was dragged, after his friend down the hall.

They came out to the yard, where several guards surrounded something on the ground. Some of Gisela's apprentices were there, attending the wounded, as she herself moved from one battlefield to another.

"What's going on?" Yuuri tried again. The guards cleared the way for him as he approached, and he gasped and paled at what he saw.

Conrad was lying on the ground among other wounded soldiers, his face contorted in anguish. His uniform was scarcely recognizable and stained from blood in so many places…

"Conrad!" Yuuri screamed and fell to his knees next to his faithful guard and friend. "Are you alright?" he longed to touch him, to see for himself that he was in one piece, but kept his hands on the ground lest he'll worsen the wounds.

"It's alright, your Majesty," Conrad replied through gritted teeth, that one sentence seeming to take a lot from him.

"Stop calling me that, Conrad!" Yuuri said, then shook his head vigorously. "Never mind that now, save your strength!" He looked around frantically, searching for one of the more experienced doctors, but all of them were still beginners and non-experienced. He moaned in desperation, contemplating whether or not he should tear off his clothes and use them as bandages, when another doctor came and requested that the Captain shall be left alone so they could treat him. "Don't worry, your Majesty," they said. "He'll pull through."

Yuuri tried to protest when Murata pulled him up to his feet and started dragging him away. "Then why did you bring me here?" he asked, trying to dig his feet into the ground unsuccessfully.

"Just so you could see him," The Great Sage's reincarnation replied. "Don't worry, he'll be alright. Fortunately, he was fighting close enough to here so we could bring him over when he could fight no more."

"What do you mean?" Yuuri asked, paling. "What about those, who are fighting far away?"

"We have field hospitals in allied countries for that."

Yuuri tried to remember where Wolfram and Yozak were fighting, that distraction making it easier for his friend from Earth to drag him away.

Where Yozak would be taken to when hurt?

Where would Wolfram…?

When Conrad opened his eyes he was surrounded by his family and friends. Cheri looked at him with teary eyes while Gwendal leaned on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Yuuri was there, too, staring at him hopefully.

"Conrad…" Cheri said quietly, taking his hand in her own. "I'm so glad you're alright…"

"Mother…" he said, closing his fingers around hers.

"Conrad!" Yuuri said, leaning farther on the mattress the wounded soldier was lying on. "Was there anyone else?"

Conrad looked at him sadly. "Yozak is still there. I think I saw Dorcas among our troops…" he trailed off there, trying to remember anyone else.

"Wolfram!" Yuuri cried. "What about Wolfram? Did you see him?"

Conrad shook his head. "Wolfram is fighting with his troops someplace else, a sea away."

Cheri gasped and Yuuri paled, slumping backwards to his chair. "I won't allow anyone else to get hurt!" he cried. "Gwendal!" he turned his gaze to the older Mazoku, glowering at him. "You guys said that someone needs to gain the upper hand in order to start negotiations! It's been weeks! Isn't anyone gaining it already?"

Gwendal frowned, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. "No," he said. "We are still equal."

"I've had enough!" Yuuri exclaimed, rising to his feet. "I want to talk to the humans' leaders! This can't go on!

"They won't come even if you begged," Murata told him from his spot by the door. "We need to have an advantage over them, something that will make them come to you so they won't lose their country."

"And when is that going to happen?" The Maou asked, glaring at his friends.

"When you'll realize that there must be sacrifices," Murata said. When he saw that Yuuri was about to argue again, he continued: "Remember what it took for our country to become such a peace advocate."

"Wha-" Yuuri started, but stopped in mid-sentence and paled when the realization hit him.

"Rest well, Sir Weller," Murata said as he opened the door. "We don't want to see you hurting yourself any further." Then he left, and Yuuri wished that his final words would have went unheard by the occupants of the room when the door slammed shut, just like when Wolfram left.

"Peace cannot be gained peacefully, Shibuya…"

Wolfram was right all along. He was a mere wimp, he could not lead a country, especially during a war. People were dying around him, towns burned to the ground, suffering was upon all… and he could do nothing, could not bring himself to decide to crush this or that army.

Yozak was brought to the castle about a week after Conrad had, in a much worse shape. He, too, knew nothing of his fiancé. Yuuri couldn't even ask Wolfram's soldiers, for according to Murata, they were being treated in some field hospital far away.

Where was he…?

After many weeks of ceaseless fighting, the Humans were retreating slowly as the Mazoku and their allies gained the upper hand. Negotiations started, Gunter handling most of them.

"I really am a wimp," Yuuri muttered to him after one of those meetings where he, again, could contribute almost nothing to the conversation.

Gunter smiled reassuringly at him. "Nonsense, your Majesty. You're still young… and besides, your refusal to some ideas prevented the loss of life."

"Had I agreed," Yuuri replied, "The war would have ended already."

"But you didn't. And if you had, the humans would have probably started another war in a few years. They are moved easily by feelings of regret and shame, you know. A sort of a… tie is better than an overwhelming victory, in this case."

"It's not a tie, Gunter," Yuuri said. "They're here because we're winning. They're here because the loss is too great for them. No, it's not a tie. It's a war. Nobody wins a war. Everyone loses."

And it was all his fault.

The war ended about a month after that incident, final papers finally signed and new boundaries determined.

The troops were slowly returning. Yuuri spent hours each day by the windows, waiting for Wolfram's return along with his mother. Days passed, and still there was no sign of the blond.

"I saw him only once," one of his soldiers told them. "When he came to see us in the field hospital… I don't know if he was injured."

"I fought alongside him," another said. "But he disappeared from my sight… he moved forward… the enemy might have him."

Cheri fell ill with worry, but Yuuri couldn't allow himself such privileges. He had a country in crisis to lead, with towns and corps burnt to crisp and diseases from unburied bodies. He refused to believe that Wolfram was dead or being held in captivity, not after the way in which they parted ways, not when his adopted daughter was sad at his absence, after finding out about it when she returned from the safer countryside.

"It's all my fault," Yuuri said to Cheri during one of his visits to her bedside. "I could have ended it sooner, if only… then Wolfram would have been here."

"Don't blame yourself, your Majesty. You can't know for sure. You did what you thought was best, and I'm sure Wolfram fought knowing that in his heart. No one is blaming you," and seeing his dejected look, she continued: "Don't lose hope. He may still return… no, I'm sure he will." She caressed his cheek gently in a mother-like manner and smiled at him. He wanted to believe her, he truly did, but with each day that passed it became harder and harder.

He became insomniac, his nights filled with thoughts about his missing friend. Somehow, he knew that Wolfram was angry when he left. He had to make peace with him, he had to explain that he didn't mean whatever it was that he said.

"I'll do better next time, Wolfram. I promise," he said to no one in particular. "Now I know what I did wrong… I will be more decisive next time, I won't be a wimp. Just please, come back… your mother is sick with worry, and Greta… she cries everyday. Your brothers are worried, Gunter too..." tears welled up in his eyes at the whispered confession. "It's all because of me, because I couldn't end it sooner… they all suffer because you won't come back, because I didn't end it sooner…" he gripped the sheets, suddenly the image of Wolfram's face mere inches from his own invading his mind. "I'm so sorry, Wolfram…" he whispered, the tears no longer held back. "For whatever it is that I did to make you angry, I'm sorry, just please, please, come back…"

Could it be that Wolfram was alright, but chose not to return to his king? Could it be that he was so mad when they parted ways that he decided not to return? If only he could have heard his parting words, Yuuri thought. If only that door wasn't so damn heavy that its noise covered those last words… he could never forgive himself if Wolfram died without him knowing what his last words were. Where was he now? Was he holding up alright? He figured that Wolfram was never far away from home, and even when he was, Conrad was there, and Yozak, and Gwendal, and Gunter…

And him…

But now he disappeared for months, fought to protect what he held dear with no one but his troops and some allied armies that were unfamiliar to him to keep him company. Maybe he was injured somewhere, cold and shivering... or perhaps - and that particular thought made him blush with newfound anger - he fell in love with a soldier and they eloped.

How dare he? Throwing all those jealousy fits when Yuuri simply looked at another woman, and now he was probably being held by another man, whom Yuuri knew nothing of! Calling him a cheater when he was the one to blame! His grip on the sheets beneath him tightened and he gritted his teeth. "Is that how it is? Wolfram!" he was shouting now, tears of frustration streaming down his face. "Damn it…"

Conrad and Yozak got better by the day. They were still wrapped in bandages, Conrad still limped and Yozak still couldn't use his left arm, but they were able to walk and talk, and that's the most important. Fewer and fewer of Wolfram's soldiers returned, a few of them able to say that they saw the Mazoku prince, but only for a fleeting moment before he was swallowed by smoke. "Did he mention something about leaving the castle?" Yuuri asked them, hopeful and dreadful.

They frowned at him. "All he did was shouting commands, he never mentioned anything that was unrelated to battle. He's a great soldier, you know!"

Of course he knew. He also knew that Wolfram would never hesitate to throw himself at a grenade if he knew that it would save his King's life. That was why he was so worried, and there was no one, who could relieve his fears.

"Shibuya," Murata approached him one time during daylight. He couldn't tell anymore than that, for hours and minutes were long ago lost to him. "I think that… taking the current circumstances into consideration… that maybe you need to get used to the idea that Wolfram isn't coming back."

"What do you mean?" Yuuri asked, refusing to believe what he just heard.

"What I mean is that… anyone who's alive returned. It's been weeks since the war ended, Shibuya. If someone isn't back by now then-"

Yuuri shook his head furiously, throwing his hands to his ears. "I won't believe you!" he said. "I know he's alive, somewhere! No friend of mine died if I could help it!"

The sunlight reflected from the Great Sage's lenses, hiding his eyes from the Maou's. "But you couldn't…" he mumbled under his breath and turned around. "Try to get some sleep, Shibuya."

As much as Yuuri hated to admit it, his friend was right. In everything he said. He lied in his bed, the covers reaching up to his chin but not relieving the horrible shakes of his body. When it will be final, how would he be able to face Cheri? And Conrad, and Gwendal? He killed Wolfram! "I'm sorry," he whispered to the air for the millionth time. "I'm so sorry, Wolfram…"

It pained him to realize that had they parted like they should have, he wouldn't be hurting so much right now. Wolfram probably had the same thoughts in mind before he-

The sound of the door opening cut Yuuri's train of thought, that would have been cut anyway after the latest, incomplete one. He assumed it was his friend from Earth again, or Conrad maybe, or even one of the maids, so he didn't bother to turn his head and look. When the mattress suddenly sunk under new weight, he whipped his head to witness his fiancé unbuttoning a very dirty and torn shirt. His hair was disheveled, his shoulders slumped, and even from behind it looked like he somehow got much older in the past weeks.

Yuuri blinked, wondering whether he fell asleep and was dreaming, or was hallucinating. "Wolfram?" he asked, his tired voice barely reaching his own ears.

The Mazoku said nothing as he lied down, and that was when Yuuri got a good look at him. His face was drenched in sweat, dirty from mud and dried blood. His naked torso looked like someone punched it over and over again, and his arms were shaking lightly. His breathing was irregular, and when Wolfram turned to look at him it seemed like his eyes lost every spark of life that was ever within them.

That was when Yuuri broke. He lifted a horribly shaking hand to lay it on Wolfram's neck, sobs wrecking his boy. "Y-you didn't c-come b-back! I-I… I th-thought…"

The blond returned the gesture and held Yuuri's shoulder gently.

"Have you let anyone know of your return?" Yuuri asked when his sobs died down to mere sniffles.

"No. I'll see them in the morning." The blond replied, closing his eyes.

"You have to see them now! Greta and your mother… they're both sick with worry! Gwendal doesn't show it, but I know he's worried sick! Conrad, too…"

Suddenly the air felt heavy, like it had been before Wolfram's departure. Even in the dark Yuuri could see his fiancé's features darken. "And what about you?" he asked eventually.

"Huh?"

"How have you been holding up, Yuuri?"

"I was-" Yuuri started, his fingers burying themselves in the dirty hairs of his fiancé. The Mazoku opened his eyes again, and Yuuri couldn't tell if it was their blankness that caused him to break again, or that mixture of angry emotions that swam within them. The tears sled down silently from his black eyes and he struggled to say something, anything, but was left paralyzed in the emerald gaze.

That seemed to calm Wolfram down somewhat. He smiled that sad smile of his and rubbed the Maou's shoulder gently, his face was mere inches from his fiancé's, and again he seemed to have some kind of an inner argument with himself. Eventually, he settled for pecking Yuuri lightly on the forehead, squeezing his shoulder in the process. "It's okay. I know," he said, his breath warm and tickling, soothing the King's aching nerves.

"Welcome back," Yuuri managed to whisper back, shakily, before enveloping his arms around his fiancé's tired body, pulling him close and letting his tears fall freely on his naked shoulder.

"I'm home," came the muffled reply, before it, too, was overpowered by sobs.

End.

As you can probably see by the title, it's also referring to War issues. I don't know how many of you watch this Anime, but I'll ramble anyway.

This was written before the SP fic, because I knew I wanted to write something like this, and at that moment I ached to write a KKM fic. So this came out.

Personally, I find Yuuri's pacifism highly annoying, because where I come from, pacifism might be ideal but is so far from reality. Besides, he always seems to forget that Erath has its own cruel wars, too.

Writing a WolframYuuri fic is always tough, because Yuuri DOESN'T love Wolfram the same way Wolfram does Yuuri. And since I suck at long stories that show process (even in "The Chase" I cut it short), Yurri's feelings should always be subtle, hinted, and not blunt. Otherwise he'll be completely OOC.

The verse in the beggining is from an old Israeli song which I love very much.

It's funny, my KKM fics. I have only two, and in the first one I made Yuuri go, and in this one Wolfram went away. Heh, they traded places! :P

This is more of a war fic than "His Duty", but as you can probably guess, I feel more attached to the latter :)

That's it for now. Next Writing Post will be about "The Chase". Hopefully, it would be finished by then.

War Stories (Part 1)

2008-07-11T13:07:49Z

This is the first "about writing" post. Are you excited?? :D

I chose to talk about one story that is VERY close to my heart, and another one which is very similar, but one which I feel a bit less attached to.
So I'll start with what I know at least one of you read:

Kyle was always torn between his Jewish traditions and his will to be one of us.

Christmas time was always the toughest. I used to drag him with me to the mall so he could help me pick presents for my family, and he was good at hiding his discomfort behind fake smiles and forced laughter. I always saw through, though.

He used to come over to my house afterwards and help me and my older sister to decorate the tree. When we were done Shelly went upstairs to her room in order to avoid any further chores. I was about to grab Kyle and quickly disappear into my room, as well, but then I saw how he looked up at the tree, his eyes glazed, and hesitated. "Dude!" I said, "let's go before my mom makes us do some more shit!"

He held up his palm to signal for me to stop, his eyes never leaving the shining orbs which dangled from the branches and glowed dimly. "Just a minute," he whispered, his breathing slowing significantly. His left fist clenched at his side, his body language betraying the smile that found its way to his lips. He mumbled something then and shut his eyes, shivering.

At those moments all I wanted to do was approach him and hug him so tightly that he won't be able to breathe, but I never did that. All I've ever done was watch him fight the inner battles he had with himself. All I could do was wait.

The only reason he me with the decoration was so he would be able to join into our conversation the following day, in which Kenny would complain about their tottering plastic tree and Cartman would say how his tree was so much better than mine. Kyle then would be able to pipe in and say it's actually quite fun to decorate a Christmas tree, but his feeling of belonging would disappear as soon as it came at Cartman's comment on how Jews aren't allowed to come as close as three feet away from it.

Kyle argued with Cartman whenever the latter taunted him about his religion, but at those times, when he knew that there was a certain truth behind Cartman's words, he simply looked down at his feet, his fists clenching at his sides just as they did when he was at my house, his green eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Zip it, fatass," he hissed. I saw through his façade, though. I think Cartman did, too.

Our families used to hold gatherings, barbeques, whenever summer came. Us children always complained about it, saying we didn't want to see our asshole classmates outside of school, but, of course, our complaints fell upon deaf ears. At those gatherings, Cartman used to sneak a piece of ham in Kyle's bun, and when he found out about it, he merely frowned, told Cartman he was a stupid dick, and went to fetch something else to fill his stomach with. Sheila Broflovski never found out, and Kyle never dwelled on the matter. He never bothered to lift the upper half of the bread to check if his hamburger had been replaced, and was almost regularly surprised to find that it has. Kenny told him to check his bread next time, but Kyle refused to. When asked why, he didn't provide an answer, but I knew the reason behind it: it's not that he trusted Cartman. In fact, he knew when the ham was inserted even before he took a bite. He wanted to taste the ham, to see what it's like to be us. I looked on and saw how he savored the taste, rolling the chewed bite of meat in his mouth with his tongue, closing his eyes and shivering as if he felt God's wrath. But that moment never lasted and he was forced to open his eyes and spit it out, lest he'd feel completely tainted.

His difference was less noticeable when we were kids; we had to go to bed early back then, we never really hang out after dark. When we entered Junior High, the darkness didn't seem frightening anymore, and we went out to Starks Pond almost every weekend night with drinks that would make us dizzy and disoriented. Being his best friend, the only one he felt really close to, I was the one who always told him the designated time. We usually went out just before midnight, but at those rare nights we did so earlier, he begged me to give him more time so he could finish the big Friday dinner he had with his family. "I don't wanna skip it," he used to tell me when I asked him to. "And not because mom will throw a tantrum. I… this is an important dinner, Stan."

It was never hard to persuade Kenny to postpone our meeting, but Cartman was always a tough nut to crack. "We don't need the goddamned Jew! It's his problem if he can't make it!" he used to say at those rare times.

"Come on, fatass," I replied. "Kenny and I both have no problem with it. You know that you're the only one who does. If you wanna go it's fine by us, but take into account that you'll be alone." That usually ended that argument.

At that year Kyle celebrated his Bar-Mitzvah. His parents sent him to the Rabbi at the next town so he could learn how to read his Parasha correctly. Kyle was always the studious type, and as such, I wasn't surprised when he begun researching and studying about his religion and only assumed it was a phase he was going through. He used to come to meet me near our lockers at recesses, and he always had a new bit of information about his religion to share with me. He told me about commandments, about Kosher foods, about holidays, about the Bible, and so on. He was smiling widely, waving his arms frantically as he told tales of wonders and miracles, of prophets and of customs. He began studying spoken Hebrew in addition to the biblical one. He was blushing with a newfound sense of excitement and belonging, his eyes shone with happiness and were no longer brimming with tears. I wanted to caress his rosy cheek, to keep my palm there and forever engrave that image of Kyle in my mind. My fingers tingled and I had to breathe in deeply to calm my yearning nerves. I smiled at him and he smiled back, knowing that I could never understand what he talked about but grateful that I listened.

Cartman's taunts never ceased, of course, but Kyle fought back with even more confidence and vehemence than he have had before, never allowing Eric Cartman to put him down.

Sometimes he came to our Friday night meetings with a yarmulke on his head instead of his trademark green ushanka. "I forgot to take it off after dinner," he used to explain sheepishly.

"Dude," I said. "What does your Friday dinner has to do with it? I thought you use it only when you go with your dad to the synagogue."

"Yeah, but I keep it on for the Kiddush." He explained, waving the snickering Cartman aside. I nodded, staring in wonder at the knitted green strings which matched his eyes perfectly. Yet, in contradiction to his words, after that incident Kyle rarely came to our meetings with his ushanka atop of his head. Instead, the green yarmulke was almost always present between his red curls. He wore the ushanka only at school.

After his Bar-Mitzvah, he kindly refused to accompany me during my trips to the mall to find presents for various family members, and he didn't come to my house to help me and my older sister to decorate the tree anymore. He still hang out with us on Friday nights, but if we went to a party sometimes he refused to join, saying that he may have not gone completely religious yet, but still, if he could avoid doing something then he should.

That summer, the annual barbeque was held at my house. Out of habit, Kyle didn't lift the upper half of the bread to check if Cartman replaced his burger with a piece of ham yet again, and in a moment of distraction he took a bite and paled, spit it out, and stormed into my house to the sound of Cartman's high-pitched laughter. I called out his name and ran after him. He didn't savor the taste this time.

I found him at the bathroom, holding the toilet as if his life depended on it, his curls were the only visible part of his head, as the rest of it was hidden in the ceramic. It seemed like he was throwing up all the drinks he had ever since we started hanging out on Friday nights, and even as he was holding the toilet seat it looked like he was barely able to support himself. I kneeled down next to him, caressing his back in a soothing manner just as he had done for me whenever I was throwing up. When he was done he covered his face with the palms of his hands and sobbed, mumbling "it's a sin, it's a sin" all the while. I held him and rocked him back and forth as if he were a mere child, whispering words of consolation in his ear as he ruined my shirt with salted water.

At the following barbeques, Kyle only ate what his mother gave him.

Telling him that I love him was the hardest thing I've ever done. Telling me that he loves me back was the most frightening thing he has ever done. At seventeen he was still wearing his ushanka to school, and as I kissed him I slipped my hand under the hat and felt the yarmulke beneath. I gripped it as I deepened the kiss, and wondered why he didn't reject me and told me it was a sin to be gay. He pulled away and grabbed a hold of my hand, removing it from his head. "Don't touch it while you're kissing me," he said and I frowned.

"Then why are you even letting me kiss you?" I asked, now blushing from anger and embarrassment.

"I haven't gone completely orthodox yet," he replied. "And what good will it do me to hide from myself, anyway? I just don't want it to be-" he fixed the ushanka "-too… sinful."

He leaned in again, but I recoiled. "Stop being a fucking hypocrite, Kyle. If you see it as a sin then it's better if we go back to being best friends and nothing more!" I shouted at him, my blush deepening.

He sighed. "Just tell me one thing, Stan," he said, giving me one of those penetrating gazes of his, from the kind I couldn't hide from. "If I begged, would you agree to have sex in the middle of the church?"

"I-" I started, but found that I couldn’t lie. "Won’t…"

He smiled. "My point exactly." He resumed kissing me then, and I kissed him back with less fervor than before, his words lingering in my mind and preventing me from fully engrossing myself with his succulent lips and sin.

Kyle was always the smart one in our group. He could have easily got accepted into Harvard, Yale, or MIT even. Yet he never filled the necessary applications, and when I asked him about it, he smiled mysteriously and said that he was considering a different course of action. A part of me was happy to know that Kyle would stay with me in Colorado while I worked to earn the necessary amount of money for college, but another couldn't help but feel apprehensive.

Kyle and I rented an apartment together in a city about thirty miles away from South Park. I worked at the local Post Office while he stayed home, never telling or hinting what he was up to. I figured he hasn't decided what he wants to study yet, and so I let him be, only occasionally bringing up the subject.

One evening when I was making an omelette he approached me from behind and wrapped his arms around my torso, burying his head in the crook of my shoulder and trailing kisses along it. "I'm gonna miss you," he whispered and I dropped the wooden spoon, straightening my back.

"What?" I breathed. "Where are you going?"

"I'm joining the IDF," he said, and feeling my puzzlement he elaborated: "The Israeli Defense Forces."

I shook my head. "What! You've got to be kidding me, Kyle. This is not funny, you hear me? Not one bit!"

"I'm not kidding, Stan," he replied, his gaze unrelenting.

I breathed in and out slowly in a futile attempt to calm down. "Fuck, Kyle, this isn't funny! Why the hell would you wanna draft? You can barely speak their language!"

"Yes I can," he said, his voice still the same monotonous tone it was from the beginning of the conversation.

"Oh yeah? Well, how do you say… omelette!" I challenged.

"Khavita."

"How do you say…" my eyes searched for objects within the kitchen. "Wall!"

"Kir."

"Door!"

"Delet."

"Sink! Faucet!" My vision blurred suddenly.

"Kiyor, berez."

"Table! Chair!
"Shulkhan, kisse."

My face reddened considerably until they matched the tomatoes on the counter in color. I breathed heavily, wheezing, almost, but I refused to back down. "Say 'I'm lonely and I want to fuck my boyfriend up the ass."

"Stan, I really don't think-"

"Say it!!"

He sighed and closed his eyes, then spoke so quietly I had to strain my ears in order to hear him. "Ani boded Ve'Ani rotse…" there he frowned, as if he wasn't sure whether what he was about to say is correct or not. "La'asot La'Khaver sheli… ahava batakhat." He opened his eyes and looked up at me, his green orbs burning with determination.

There was no way of persuading him otherwise…

The tears could not be held back any longer and slid down my cheeks as my nostrils whiffed the smoke from my burning omelette, but did not acknowledge it. My entire body shook and he held me just as tightly as I held him when he threw up in my toilet a few years back. I ruined his shirt with salted water just as he has ruined mine. "W-when a-are you going?" I asked, my voice quivering.

"In a few days. I didn't want to say anything because it wasn't certain." He took a deep breath. "I'm going to stay at some relatives' place for a year so all the complicated bureaucracy could take place. Should take about a year or so… perhaps more. Then I'll be able to draft."

"These are my people, Stan," he said after a short silence, which followed. "It is my duty to help."

In about a week Kyle was on the plane to a different continent and I was left in our small apartment alone with my thoughts and fears, and the omelettes that for some reason could not stop burning.

Every few months Kyle flew back to Colorado for a few weeks. "Bureaucracy is slow," he told me. "It's going to take awhile before everything's ready."

We always screwed around like rabbits when he came. Regardless to his previous warnings, my fingers always searched his curls for the green yarmulke that he forgot to take off in the heat of the moment as he moaned quietly into my ear and thrust his hips faster. Yet, he always pulled my hands down and inserted his tongue deep into my mouth, as if trying to silence my wills along with my voice. He always came with a low moan and fell on top of me as my body shook with spasms. I held onto him, digging my fingernails into the skin of his back, wishing that we could stay like that forever.

But forever never came, and his flight back to the Middle East always seemed to come too quickly.

He wrote me on a regular basis; I received a letter once a week. He never shared much, just said he was doing fine, that he was meeting with doctors who were trying to determine whether he's eligible for military service, and once that they decided the he is, he said that he's taking some exams in order to get accepted into an intelligence unit, maybe. Said how much he misses me, how much he loves me and wishes for me to be there with him.

I always wondered why he never wished he could be here with me.

The mail arrived twice a day to the Post Office in a few large, white sacks. My job was to sort out the letters by the addresses according to certain areas of the city. Twice every day I buried my hands deep into the sack and pulled out random letters, searching frantically for the envelope that will contain his. Sometimes, by pure luck, I managed to pull out the right one. I held it to my nose and breathed in its scent slowly, trying to pick up the faint remains of the hand lotion he sometimes used. Most of the times, though, my searches proved to be futile and I had to sort out the letters carefully until I made it to the one which was addressed to me.

His last visit as a citizen ended a week before my twentieth birthday, the day of his draft. On the last night, we had sex. He moaned loudly into my mouth as my fingers searched his red curls for the yarmulke, grabbing a hold of it once they found it. With a final thrust he came inside me, shouting. With his sperm came my tears, and I didn't know whether my body shook from the orgasm that enveloped me seconds after his or the sobs that wrecked my body, and which were not silenced even as his tongue nearly caused me to choke.

I saw him off at the airport. All I did was hold him and breathe in his scent, trying to engrave it in my memory for I did not know when we would be able to meet again. He held me back, and as the time of his fight neared he pulled away, pecked me on my cheek and slipped a small piece of paper into the back pocket of my pants. I stared at him, puzzled, but he merely smiled and waved, disappearing among the endless sea of people. I took the paper out, frowning at the foreign words. The letters were English ones, no doubt, but the meaning was not.

Veshavu banim LiGvulam…

Although he managed at one time during his life to break half of the hospital room he was lying in with a single scream, I wouldn't say that Kyle held certain psychic powers. Yet, Kyle had the ability to sense, feel things that other people weren't able to. That is how he was able tell when the ham replaced the hamburger in his bread, that is how he knew that my hands through his hair had only one purpose, and it wasn't to stroke it.

That is how he knew that mere months after his draft, the biggest war the Middle East had ever seen would break out.

Kyle was diabetic. I'm sure that if he weren't, though, he would have gladly joined the infantry. Fortunately, if you ask me, that didn't happen. Instead, he was accepted as a medic at the infirmary of some base in the north of the country, after he didn't pass the exams to the intelligence unit.

His letters from that time were a bit longer, seeing that much more was happening in his life. He told me how nice the doctor is, that his fellow soldiers are a bit hard to get along with, but they're nice people. He told me about the funny things that soldiers do in order to gain a few days at home, like drinking a coke with cigarette ash to get high fever, or exaggerating even the slightest pain.

Told me that whenever he comes across a file of an asthmatic soldier, he thinks of me.

When the war broke out, he was stationed at some field hospital near the border, helping to take care of the wounded soldiers that arrived in helicopters. His letters became short; not more than a few lines, the first one always stating that he's okay. Sometimes, as I held the letter to my nose my eyes widened at the sight of blood smudges on the white, somewhat crumpled paper. It was as if he wrote those letters on small breaks he had between the arrivals of patients.

When it began, the war wasn't on such a large scale. But as the days wore on more countries joined the fighting, and I think the US sent some of its troops as well. Kyle's letters came few and far between, always too short and lacking. He never said so, but I don't think he was near the border anymore. If anything, he was beyond.

During those weeks CNN and CBS became my favorite networks, and every evening after work I found myself sitting on the blue couch in our living room, my nails half eaten, staring wide eyed at the television screen. The news only showed the speeches of the Prime Minister and of the commander in chief of the IDF. The reporters said a few short lines about the battles; where were they fought, who was winning, how many died… but they never said names.

I logged on to Kyle's laptop in order to get access to the Israeli sites he visited frequently. All I could do was stare at the red headlines and wonder what was written. Frustrated, I called Sheila and Gerald Broflovski at least three times a day, demanding to know in the army called with bad news. It unnerved them, worried them, and at some point or another they told me they'll let me know if and when it happens and stopped picking up the phone altogether. If I called from a co-worker's phone, they hang up as soon as they heard it was me.

Whenever my supervisor went on a break, I opened the mail sack and spilled out its contents. Envelopes and small packages were strewn all over the floor, and I picked up each and every one of them, sweating and paling as the letters became fewer and the hour that will signal the return of my supervisor closer.

On the desk in my room, the note I received from Kyle at the airport before he left mocked me with its foreign words that I was still unable to decipher, and his white yarmulke, the one he went to the synagogue with, as if mocked me with the same thing. Every night I tired to touch it, but as soon as my index finger came as close as half an inch from it, my hand clenched into a fist and I backed away, as if the piece of cloth was so sacred it would be a sin to taint it with my Christian hand.

One Friday night, after many months passed with no word from Kyle, I snatched the yarmulke from my desk, ignoring the odd tingling in my fingertips as I put it on, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was determined to get to the synagogue, to see for my own eyes what Kyle did there every Friday night, what caused him to so ridiculously leave me behind and go fight a war that wasn't even his.

The first thing I noticed as I entered was the fact that the women – unlike in the synagogue in South Park - sat separately from the men, in a small section upstairs, their heads buried deep within a book as the rocked back and forth and prayed.

The men were all wrapped with white prayer shawls and rocked silently, only once in a while speaking up a few lines in a strange harmony. The cantor stood on the podium, and was the only one speaking, or rather reading, from a long scroll. I chose a sit in the back row, staring in wonder at the plain walls and decorated Torah books in the closet behind the cantor. Everyone was deeply engrossed within their small books, even the younger ones, and from a time to time a silence befell the hall and sent shivers down my spine as I felt that as if God himself was in the room with us.

"And now," the cantor said at what I assumed was the ending, "as in every day for the past few weeks, let us say a few words for our brothers in the Middle East." The men voiced their agreements and closed their books. The cantor straightened and said, louder than before, what he already knew by heart.

…Ko amar adonai, mini'i kolekh mibkhi ve'eynaikh midima'a, ki yesh sakhar lepe'ulatekh ne'um adonai, veshavu me'eretz oyev. Veyesh tikva le'akharitekh, ne'um adonai, veshavu banim ligvulam.

I stood up abruptly, pale and shaking. "But what does it mean!" I shouted, my voice cracking as all eyes turned to stare at me.

"Quiet!" said the man who sat next to me. "Don't you know where you are?"

"Tell me!" I pleaded, but all I received was hushing noises and angry glares.

"Who are you, anyway?" the man asked. "Haven't seen you around here before…"

My entire body shook and I could feel myself fading away, losing focus as all the murmurs around me mixed into an endless shrilling noise. I gripped the bench in an attempt to steady myself and breathed in deeply, blinking rapidly. The yarmulke slipped from my head, but I never noticed. I turned around and left the building, relief washing over me once I felt far enough from God's wrath at my sinful act.

I never set a foot in there again.

The war ended two months before Kyle's expected release date. All the battle hungry desert countries collected the remaining pieces of their citizens' lives, and I still wasn't able to find mine. I called Sheila and Gerald again, but they only said they haven't heard a word from their son before hanging up promptly, leaving me with a dead line and desperation I haven't felt in a long time.

The last letter from Kyle arrived three weeks after the truce. I found it among bills and magazines delivered to my neighbors on the floor in the Post Office. I tear the envelope open, anxious to know when I should expect his return, how he was doing, why hasn't he let anyone know he was alive and well…

Veshavu banim LiGvulam.

That was it. Three, simple, still undecipherable words. Calling the Broflovskis again in order to ask them about it proved to be futile, and all I was able to do was to wait for a call or another letter from the boyfriend I haven't seen for a year and a half.

I wasn't able to sleep; thoughts ran wild through my head as I lay awake in bed, wondering where my curly, red-haired lover was. Nights and days mixed into a single unit, and I wasn't able to tell the dates or the hours apart. Instant food is all that I consumed, and I didn't go out of our apartment unless it was for work or shopping for groceries, so it shouldn't be surprising that when I walked out of the shower one evening with a towel wrapped around my torso to get some water to drink, the piece of fabric fell to the floor as I spotted one Kyle Broflovski sitting at our kitchen table, smiling widely at me. I gaped and rubbed my eyes, positive that I was imagining things due to my fragile state.

"You shouldn't walk around naked," he said.

"You're back…" I said back, but I don't know if he heard it. I could barely hear myself, keep myself standing even. He rose from his seat and approached me slowly, his hands and pale face filled with small cuts, his hair tousled and his eyes filled with unfathomable sadness. Only when I felt his arms around me, only when I was sure I wasn't dreaming did I allow my tears to break free and sobbed into his shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as I could, refusing to let him leave me even if for another second. He stroked my hair slowly, emitting soothing hushing noises.

"And sons returned to their border," he whispered into my ear.

My eyes widened and I choked on a sob, suddenly unable to breathe. I could feel him smiling, and the endless flow of tears resumed. "Veshavu banim ligvulam," I said, my voice quivering as the words slipped easily along my tongue, sounding so foreign yet so familiar, like the feel of his fingers through my hair or his unmistakable scent, telling me that it is indeed him standing there and hugging me, that he's safe and sound, back where he belongs.

And I'll be damned if I let him leave again…

End.

One of the reasons why I cherish this story is that I thought of my brother while writing it. My brother is 17, and although we lead a secular lifestyle, he suddenly discovered religion. So he puts the yarmulke on his head every Friday evening and goes to our town's synagogue. Lately, he started to kind of keep the commandment of the Shabbat. He even gave me some advice when I wasn't sure what is going on in a synagogue during prayer.

So when I was writing Kyle, I vaguely remembered my brother. In this story, as odd as it may sound, my brother is in the shadow of Kyle Broflovski (besides the gay part ^^;)

Another reason is the Israeli lifestyle. Some of you may know this, but every Israeli, boy or girl, when they reach 18, must draft. Let's forget the fact that a large percent of Israeli youth avoid service (girls by lying that they're religious, and boys by lying about mental problems and such) for a minute here and focus on our main idea.

I served, and so did my family members and my close friends. Luckily, even though I served during the Second Lebanon War (as it came to be named) back in 2006, none of my friends took part in it (the only one, who joined the infantry, was still in basic training), so I don't know how it feels like having someone close to you fighting a war; I can only guess. However, as you may have guessed already, war and army are a large part of the Israeli society.

At first, I thought I should maybe make Stan join the US army, just so the American readers (whom are my primary crowd) would feel more attached to the story. But then I realized the story is about Kyle finding his roots, and having him join the US army seemed odd to me. If suddenly he felt attached to his religion, wouldn't it be natural for him to join the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces)? Some Jewish Americans do just that, by the way.

The third reason connects to the second one: the 3 abducted Israeli soldiers. At first I wanted to dedicate this story to them, but somehow the thought that a story about homosexuality, in part, would be dedicated to them kind of disturbed me, so I opted against it. The repeated phrase, "Veshavu Banim LiGvulam" (and thy sons shall return to their border, ושבו בנים לגבולם), came to be the slogan in the campaign to free the abducted soldiers. It's a phrase from the Bible, by the way.

As some of you may have heard, 2 opf the 3 will be freed (although the nation is convinced that they're already dead). The last one, Gilad Shalit, who is most certainly alive, is still held in Gaza. I hope he will be freed soon! I feel some sort of a connection to him... maybe because of his geeky appearance? I don't know...

Lastly, I'm really proud in how this story turned out. I do believe it's very well-written, and it's rare that I come to this conclusion regarding things that I write.

As a side note: When I translated it to Hebrew, it was titled חזרה (Hazara, "return"). As in "returning to roots", returning to Colorado, and the phrase חזרה בתשובה (Hazara BeTshuva, "return in answer" in free translation) is used to refer to people who were secular and became religous.

Also, originally I planned it to include Kyle's letters, but as the story progressed I realized there's no need to do so. Well, that and the fact that the story was a bit long for a one-shot already, so I gave up ^^;

I felt that it would ruin the story's flow...