Routine Matters
(1) Disclaimer: Not mine, not purported to be mine. Just borrowing.
(2) Summary: Fluff. Dash of angst. Um. Otherwise, I'm not so sure yet.
(3) Warning: Umm ... probably rated M? I don't know. Nothing graphic. Yuki/Shuichi pairing. Unbeta'd, and I hate spell check, but anyway ...
(4) I adore feedback, both critical or gushing. I don't know this fandom at all--but since I started this, I have now found bits of the manga online, and liked the fandom better before. So I am cheerfully ignoring large sections of manga canon, including most of Volume 2, because I have issues with it and it disturbs me. In any event, I know I've been reckless in posting, so will appreciate honest criticism--this scene got stuck in my head, and I felt obliged to dash it off to make it go away. In any event, I had fun writing it, and hope you'll have fun reading it--does fic always need to be any more than that?
It had been two years.
It had been two years, but he still hated walking home by himself. Sheer stubborness, however, kept him from admitting it, kept him from using a car service, even though he could well afford it, and Yuki's nervousness kept him from driving himself. He hated driving anyway, even in the very pretty pink car the label had gotten him. He grinned. They wanted him to maintain a certain image, and he kept messing it up.
So he still walked home—with Hiro when he could, part way with Suguru when it was convenient, and otherwise ... he walked alone. He'd always been independent, and he hadn't been about to let anything change that. Never had.
He'd screamed it at Yuki, once, when the blond was being unreasonable. He couldn't live in a bubble just because everything made Yuki anxious. He just ... he couldn't.
And it had been two years, anyway.
It was raining, a little, that night. They'd practiced late, and not because of K—but because he'd insisted, because he'd wanted this last song, which he'd been working on for weeks—to sound just right, to sound just so. It was about Yuki—of course it was about Yuki—but this one ... this one had to be done just right. His bandmates teased him, telling him he said that about all the songs he wrote, but they were wrong—this one was different.
They were all different, though, each of them, and they all had to be done right.
So he'd pushed them, and they had practiced, long into the night, until his voice rasped, until his throat had become so sore that K had finally shut them down, threatening to shoot anyone or anything that stayed past another ten minutes.
They'd cleared out, all of them leaving with alacrity. He'd been the last one left, but a glare from K had motivated him and so he'd ... he'd started walking home.
He should never have cut through the alley, even though he'd always done it, even though he'd done it for a lot longer than two years. The neighbourhood here had changed over the years, and now ... even though it was only three blocks from the apartment he now shared with Yuki, even though he had a cell phone in his pocket and wasn't as defenceless as he looked ... even though all of these things were true, it didn't matter.
He was cornered. There were two men, both much larger than he, and he ... he was frozen.
One of them held a gun.
They only wanted to rob him, in the end. Make him give them his wallet, and his watch, and his rings. Make him give them his fancy shoes, his designer leather belt, his cell phone and his MP3 player.
He was too frozen to move, and they were impatient. More impatient than Yuki at his worst, nervous and desperate and angry, and so when he continued to stand there, not making any move to give them what they wanted, not answering their questions or demands, one of them hit him. On the head, with the butt of the gun, over one eye, leaving a bleeding gash on Shuichi's forehead; making him stumble, slipping on the slick wet surface; making him fall, hard to the ground, nothing to break his fall but bones and concrete. They held him down, then, in a shallow dirty puddle filled with cigarette butts and half eaten pocky and empty candy wrappers, and he would have screamed, except, except, he wasn't allowed to, they'd hurt Yuki if he screamed, and so he had to let them, had to ...
He fought them anyway, because he couldn't help, suddenly, couldn't force himself not to—white panic across his vision, through his brain, screaming in his head so loud he couldn't hear anything else, but not aloud, can't make a sound, as they reached for him—but they only put their hands in his pocket for his wallet, didn't touch the buttons of his jeans; only held his ankle still to remove the shoes, didn't pull on the denim; only held his arm still long enough to strip off his watch. His rings they left alone, including the one Yuki had given him, his flailing arms a deterrent—thank the gods, thank the gods, because if he'd lost it, Yuki would have seen, Yuki would have known, and how could he explain this, any of this, to Yuki, who must never know?—their voices disgusted, remarking on how this was too much work, stupid little girly boy, why couldn't this be as easy as it used to be, why hadn't they just found an actual girl, too much attention, just leave it, this had already taken too long ... they kicked him as they left, twice and hard, steel-toed leather boots easily finding soft flesh and brittle bone which all too easily gave way to the onslaught.
And then they were gone, and there was only the silence of Tokyo at 2 a.m. at night, which wasn't very silent at all, but much, much better than the screaming. And Shuichi lay there, rolled into a ball, reminding himself of who and where he was—trying to focus, and wondering if he could move. They'd robbed him. This wasn't ... and he wasn't ... He couldn't think straight, everything was blurry, and he was pretty sure he had a broken rib, maybe two, but ... He really, really wanted to go home.
The entire interruption to his walk home had taken no more than ten minutes, he was pretty sure, even if he couldn't check his watch. Not that Yuki was waiting, but if Yuki had called K, precipitating the manager ending their rehearsal—and sometimes he did--he wouldn't even be that late.
But Yuki trusted him, and he would not have minded, not have worried if Shuichi had wanted to stop for a drink after, or if he'd gone to a club for a bit. If Yuki had wanted anything, he'd have called Shuichi on the cell phone he no longer had.
Shuichi gritted his teeth, and pulled himself up, palm flat, nails clawing at the rough brick of the wall beside him. He was wet, and cold, and shivering. The pain he wouldn't think about, although his vision blurred; made it hard to see, hard to walk. He emerged onto the street, and the bright lights made him nauseous, made him dizzy. After three steps, he couldn't control it, and threw up all over the tarmac, thankful that no one was around, knowing that anyone that was would attribute his behaviour to too much drink, too much partying. It was, after all, almost 3 a.m. on a Saturday night, and he was Shindou Shuichi—young, good-looking, rich and famous rock star, what else did he have to do with his time?
He kept walking.
He thought, briefly, about calling someone to come get him—Hiro, maybe, but he didn't want Hiro, not right now, and he had no money, and no cell. He thought that there must be something else he could do, but he couldn't think of what that could be. He supposed maybe he should go to the hospital—that would be the smart, responsible thing to do, but Yuki had never accused him of being smart and responsible, and they'd want to touch him and ask questions and demand answers, and he couldn't take very much right now.
It took a long, long time to get home.
The doorman's eyes widened when he saw him. "Shindou-san!" he exclaimed, horrified, "would you like me to ... "
But Shuichi just walked past him. If he stopped now, he wouldn't be able to start again; the doorman should have been used to him returning late by now, and the elevator was just so close ...
The doors were miraculously open and the elevator empty and he got in, nearly fell in, and couldn't remember, suddenly, what floor he was on, and he wanted to cry. He ... it came back to him then, and he pushed the button, and felt the elevator move.
He was sick again in the elevator, but didn't care. Yuki had lived here for a long time, and he'd never been sick in the common areas, ever, and neither had Shuichi since he'd come. Despite his reputation—rock star, pop star, glamourous late nights and parties. So unlike the truth. In any case, they could bill him, and he was sure they would.
The apartment, when he entered--fumbling with the entry code, hand moving automatically over the numbers--was warm and dark and quiet. It was home, and just entering made him feel so, so much better.
Safe.
He guessed that Yuki was sleeping. It was late, and Yuki had been working hard on his latest novel—a sequel, which Yuki hated, because he had gotten roped in somehow even though he'd always said he would never write one, and the deadline was looming and making him anxious. Shuichi just hoped Yuki had remembered to eat something before he'd slept.
So he lay down on the couch, even though over the years, he'd taken to sneaking into Yuki's bed even late at night, whenever he wanted, and even though over the days and months, Yuki had stopped minding and started smiling when he did that, even in his sleep.
But tonight he couldn't bear to be touched, and everything hurt and he didn't think he had the energy to take any more steps than he needed to right then. Even to Yuki. Even by Yuki.
What he really wanted was a bath, really very badly, but the sound of the shower and the disruption to the usual routine would alarm Yuki, and Shuichi couldn't bear questions, couldn't bear anything but to sleep and wake up and have everything be ok in the morning.
He'd take a shower, then, before Yuki woke up, and everything would be ok.
Everything would be ok.
Yuki's voice was saying something.
He couldn't figure out what Yuki's voice was saying, and tried to turn away from the sound, but was prevented by a firm hand. Was he late for work? And why was it so bright in here?
He opened his eyes, and saw Yuki's face blurring before him, along with the face of Tohma and someone else he didn't know.
"Shuichi?" Yuki's eyes were dark and anxious and concerned, and Shuichi tried to reach out toward him, but was stopped by a stab of pain so intense it made him cry out. The Yuki-blur moved away.
"Can I move him?" Shuichi heard in Yuki's voice, and a voice he didn't recognize, saying, "No, better not, not before I examine him." The face of the man he didn't know drifted into view again, along with Yuki's behind him. "Shindou-san, I don't think you're feeling very well. Could you tell us what happened?"
"Nothing," Shuichi tried to say, but his voice was no stronger than a whisper, and immediately he saw Yuki start to glare angrily at him. But he really couldn't remember how he came here, and what was happening—he just wanted to go back to sleep. He was so tired. Surely it mustn't be that late, what day was it, anyway?
"Am I late for work already?"
Yuki's face came back into view, his features still set into the lines of a scowl, and while his voice was harsh, the words were not angry. "No, no brat. You rest for now, I already called K. Let the doctor look at you, while I go talk to Tohma, ok?"
He nodded, wanting to please Yuki, but not really sure he wanted the doctor touching him either. He just wanted to sleep.
What he wanted never mattered that much, most of the time, though.
A/N: More fluff in Chapter 2!