I was just brainstorming for another story of mine (practically human if anyone’s interested) when an inspiration snuck up on me. If you can guess who these people are than good. If not, that’s good too. I was trying hard to keep the writing very elemental, instead of my usual realistic writing style, so I’m afraid it might be a little confusing at times. The story is very AU, I was just writing, and not trying to be realistic with places, times, etc. The fic is meant to be enjoyed, not used as reference. Guess what? I actually did some research on this one too. You don’t think I know off hand that Barretta competition handguns have a double safety do you?
In this alternate reality, Omi knew all along that he was a Takatori.
Crit is very welcome.
“What could I have done? I couldn’t do anything, so I ran! I fucking ran!” Cried the boy, blinking fiercely to keep back the tears. “My dad probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone yet!” he paused, then grinned humorlessly. “My bothers probably miss their punching bag. I wonder who they’ll use now?” he asked the empty room, a hint of genuine concern tinting the question.
The boy wrapped his arms around himself and began rocking back and forth on the bed. “Ken… Aya, Youji… Ken!” he whispered. “They hated me! They hated me because of who I was!” he yelled, his abused throat causing his voice to break. “I could never tell them about who I really was… and now they’re dead. Or gone.” He said fiercely, “I don’t care!” he concluded, his voice rising into a howl of defiance, before ending in a rough cough. “No…No… that’s a lie.” He whimpered, “I loved you. I don’t know if you hated me, but… I loved you.”
For a moment the room was silent except for the boy’s labored breathing and the faint creaking of the cheap bed springs as he rocked back and forth, the tears flowing freely down his face, the boy wasn’t making any effort to hide them. He shuddered with grief, letting himself slide to the bed.
Another silence. The boy whimpered quietly, pulling weakly at the leather restraints binding his wrists to the edges of the bed.
A man dressed as an orderly watched the younger boy shivering on the bed. Without moving his eyes from the tiny, metal faceted window set in the door, he reached into the deep pocket of his uniform, reassuring himself that the pistol was still there.
He tried to locate the correct key on the ring that he had lifted from an unsuspecting government employee that had been sleeping at his post. His shaking hands made it an effort, but after a frustrating few seconds that seemed stretch into hours for the intruder, he pushed the key into the lock.
The light from the hallway outside shone blindingly into the boy’s eyes. All he saw was the silhouette standing in the doorway. He pulled as far as he could toward the corner of the bed, his fractured mind filling the unknown shadow with the ghosts of the past. One arm stretched out painfully in front of him, held fast by the taught leather strap, he whimpered as the shadow came closer, reaching out toward him.
He struggled as the arms grabbed him and enfolded him. Smothering him with their presence. Omi screamed… but there was something different, fighting for his attention. An unfamiliar feeling. Something he hadn’t felt for a long time. Contentment, an emotion now almost alien to him. His voice died away, though he could not quite suppress the whimper, that habit was now too deeply ingrained to give up easily. He listened to the soothing words his captor muttered as he was held.
The voice was so familiar. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, the shadows that taunted him constantly retreated, leaving his head quiet but for the soft crooning of the newcomer. The boy reached up and held the arms that had laid hold if him, clasping them closer to him.
The newcomer rocked the boy as he would a small child, trying to comfort him. The struggles subsided. The man stopped speaking as the boy in his arms said something quietly.
The soft voice again, repeating his name. The man sighed, it had been so hopeless before. There had been so little hope that the weapon resting, cold, against his thigh, had seemed the only option. But now, with the boy in his arms, resting quietly against him, things didn’t seem so bleak.
He shook his head. He brought himself back to what was currently considered reality. There was no hope, the boy had long ago parted with this world, exiled to a hell of his own creation, this short respite would not last long, as he had learned in the days before the boy had been snatched away from him to be ‘cared for’ in this government-funded hellhole. The man was hunted for the crimes he shuddered to think about. He had committed them, it wasn’t a mistake, but he deserved more punishment then the justice system would be prepared to give. There was only one judge he trusted, and the only way to reach him was resting in the man’s pocket.
But he had to ask. If the boy wanted to stay, he wouldn’t force him to come with him. The child deserved that much dignity, though everything else had been taken away.
The boy repeated the name. Over and over as if he could extend this moment forever by invoking the name of his rescuer. He stopped, the man’s question hung in the air. The question. It echoed through the newly discovered quiet if his mind.
“Yes.” He whispered deliberately, making a final decision. He sighed as one arm disengaged from him, disappearing from his field of view. It quickly returned, but not to it’s accustomed position. He relaxed totally into the older man’s presence, as he felt something brush his unkempt hair, and heard the double click of the safety, secure in the knowledge that he would soon be somewhere where the shadows couldn’t find him.
As the terrible sound died away, he cradled the limp boy in his arms. He only dully registered that his clothing was becoming soaked with blood. There wasn’t anymore choices to make. There was no more reason for him to be here, he had stayed only for the beautiful boy now in his arms. It was time for him to get what he deserved, face the judge, and finally be punished for his crimes. He raised the pistol to his own head, and gently squeezed the trigger.