The Poison Tree
Part 2
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow
I wait until Siberian has left the room before pulling myself to my feet. This is definitely not a good thing. It's almost as bad as Esset having me. I lie; it's just as bad as being found by Esset. Because if Siberian has me here, than Weiss knows I'm here. If Weiss knows I'm here, than Kritiker knows. What Kritiker knows, Esset knows. See where I'm going with this?
So why haven't they killed me yet? Esset must know I'm here. Are they playing with me? Waiting to see what I'll do next? God fucking damnit. It's hard enough to deal with Esset, and now I have Weiss to worry about as well.
But why am I at Siberian's apartment? Surely they would want to keep me somewhere a little more secure than this. Of course, with my powers out of commission, Siberian on his own is enough to keep me restrained. The rest of Weiss is probably lurking around here somewhere, though. Perhaps Esset is trying to lull me into a sense of security.
I need to get out of here. But Siberian was right; I need to piss. Badly. I'm also starving, but I'd rather not stick around and eat. Personal preference, really. I don't like to dine with people who are out to get me.
I take a few steps towards the doorway, leaning against the wall for support. The skin across my back hurts and feels strangely tight; I must have stitches there. My chest simply burns with pain, my head feels like it's full of cat litter, complete with little cat turds, and my arms and legs are heavy. I am more fucked up than a cheap hooker.
I reach the bathroom successfully and lock the door behind me. It's meticulously clean, and rather sterile. A white marble counter rests beneath a small mirror. The counter is bare; the only sign of life in the bathroom is the shower curtain, a bar of soap on the counter, and a small hand towel hanging in its rack next to the sink. Which is good. I'm feeling nauseous already. I bet that if I was to see any knick-knacks, like cute wooden duckies lined up in a row on the counter, or designer soap bars in the shape of smiling fish, I'd hurl.
I use the bathroom, feeling uncomfortable the whole time. Using other people's bathrooms is not something I've had a lot of experience doing, and I can't stand it. I can't even use public bathrooms. It's just…weird. If I didn't have to go so bad, I wouldn't be able to go at all.
I'm still in my work clothes. The faux-school uniform is torn and bloodied beyond repair. I don't really care, I hated the thing to begin with. Why wear a school uniform if I don't go to school? It just doesn't make any sense. I suppose I'll have to deal with it for a little longer, though, until I can get out of here and steal some new clothes for myself. I wash my hands. It's futile, since there is still blood under my fingernails and on the cuffs of my uniform. Whose blood it is, I have no idea. Schuldig's, maybe. My own, possibly. I can't clean the blood out and I'll never clean the blood out and I can't get that voice out of my head.
Please…I leave the bathroom, pausing in the doorway to take in my surroundings. There are two other doors in the hallways besides this one and the door to the bedroom. The other end of the hall opens to what I assume is the kitchen. Logic tells me that the front door to the apartment should be in that direction.
I head towards the kitchen, half-leaning against the wall for support. I don't quite trust my legs. I know I probably shouldn't be walking around in this condition, but I've got to get out of here. I stop at the end of the hall and look around warily. Where one Weiss kitten is, there are sure to be more. They tend to travel in clumps. What's the term for a group of cats? A herd? Flock? Gaggle? Oh, a litter. Or is that just kittens? Maybe Siberian drugged me, and that's why my head feels so off.
I was right, there is a kitchen in front of me. Siberian is digging through the pantry; his back is turned to me and he doesn't seem to know I am here. The kitchen is small; one side opens to a large living room. From here I can see the front door. My destination. Too bad there are two open rooms and a guy who kills people with steel claws in the way.
Siberian finds whatever he was looking for and turns towards me. He sees me and pauses, a clear jar of something red and chunky in one hand, and what looks like a can of tomato soup in the other.
"I thought you weren't hungry," he says, placing the jars on the counter before moving to the freezer. I glance towards the door. Maybe, if I run, I can make it without him catching me. Maybe, if I sprout wings, I can fly right out the fucking window.
Siberian catches the look and just shrugs before turning to paw through the freezer. Apparently he doesn't consider me a big enough threat to keep watching me. I don't blame him, I look pretty weak.
"Hey, if you want to leave, that's cool," he says, voice muffled by the freezer, "but you don't have to, and frankly, you look like shit. Might do you some good to stick around a while." I think I'm going to have to take a rain check on that invitation. Maybe next time I'll stay for tea.
He turns back towards me, holding a bag of frozen chicken breasts. Just what the hell is he planning on cooking? I decide I don't care, and I won't be around long enough to see. I take a few steps into the kitchen, grabbing at the counter as my stupid, traitorous legs weaken. I hate myself for letting Siberian see me in a such a horrid state. A few more steps, which are more like stumbles, and I'm at the wide entrance to the living room.
Stairs. There are fucking stairs in this apartment. What the fuck kind of floor plan is that? Sure, it's only three steps down into the living room, but with the way walking pulls the skin tight across my back and makes my head feel a little more off-kilter, they might as well be an entire flight. Great.
My treacherous legs decide it's rest time, and I find myself sitting on the floor, back against the doorframe. I turn so I can face the kitchen and Siberian. He may be holding a bag of frozen chicken, but he's still dangerous and I don't trust him. He's watching me. I suppose I should feel embarrassed for collapsing on his kitchen floor. I'm leaving a trail of dried blood flakes everywhere, too.
"I don't know why you're in such a hurry to leave," he says, setting the chicken on the counter before opening one of the cupboards behind him.
"Weiss is my enemy," I answer, as if such a stupid statement needed a response. Why the fuck should I stay with people who want to kill me?
"Weiss," he pauses as he lifts a large pan from the cabinet and sets it on the stove, "does not know about you. The only people who know you're here are you and me."
Oh, okay.
Wait. What?
"Liar," I accuse through clenched teeth. He must be lying. Siberian is Kritiker's loyal dog. Why would he ever keep something like this from then? They would kill him for such treachery.
He continues talking as he begins dumping things in the pan, oblivious to my earlier name-calling.
"Omi and I are the only ones who found you. Omi insisted on leaving you there, I went back and got you. As far as both Kritiker and Weiss know, you could still be back at that building.
"I didn't bring you here for information, or so that Kritiker could take you prisoner. I brought you here so that you could heal. And because you looked sad."
What the fuck is this kid on?
"But we're enemies," I insist, trying to be rational. Clearly, this kid isn't quite all there, unless he really did drug me and I'm hallucinating all of this.
"Weiss and Schwarz are enemies. The way I look at it, Schwarz no longer exists. I'm just Ken and you're just Nagi Naoe. Why do we have to be enemies?"
God, he is making my head hurt worse. I didn't think it was even fucking possible. I rub at my temple, ignoring my stiff, blood clotted hair. He seems so sincere, so naïve in his thinking. My instincts tell me to trust him. And if he's telling the truth…Perhaps it would not be such a bad thing to stay here for a while. Just a little while. I like chicken.
"So…truce?" he asks, coming over to where I am sitting.
After a moment, I nod, and Siberian smiles. It's one of those smiles the romance novelists talk about, a smile that lights up a room, and all that sap. If I were a teenage girl, I would swoon at the sight of it. As it is, I might faint anyways, but it has nothing to do with Siberian's smile and everything to do with extreme hunger and my head feeling like a rock tumbler on acid.
He kneels in front of me and sticks out his hand, still smiling.
"My name's Ken Hidaka. Nice to meet you, Naoe-san."
I tentatively reach out, and we shake hands. He stands and goes back to the stove.
"Make yourself comfortable, lunch will take a few minutes."
That was awfully surreal. Did it really happen? I think I'll stay on the floor.
I find that reading the newspaper is a lot more informative than watching the news. The newspaper seems more real. It's focused, not as sensational as the TV news. Well, at least it seems that way to me.
It's been almost a week since Siberian and I declared our strange truce. He reads the newspaper every morning before work, except on the days he oversleeps, in which case he reads it when he gets home. So far, it's happened quite a few times.
He reads the comics first, and then picks his way through the rest, reading certain articles, ignoring others. I find myself surprised to see him taking an interest in topics such as politics and international affairs. But then, why am I surprised?
Schwarz, through inside information, has always known that Balinese and Siberian are the smartest members of Weiss. Bombay is the leader only because of his Takatori relations, and because of the fact that Kritiker trained him to lead a field team since he was a kid. He may have more education than the others, but education does not make one smart. Yet, interacting with Siberian, I seem to forget all of this. He acts stupid. He has a dizzy façade that he hides behind.
I really have nothing better to do than sit around and think. Siberian's been working full day shifts every day this week. I wake up when he does; it really can't be helped. I've always been a light sleeper. He spends his nights on the couch, despite the fact that I'm the guest and it's his bed, and his attempts to get ready quietly in the morning usually fail. I get up, get dressed, and eat whatever breakfast he's cooked.
Siberian's meals are, for the most part, pretty damn good. The best I've had in a while, considering the fact that no one in Schwarz could cook better than me, and I can't cook worth shit. The meal he made on the first day of the truce was delicious, despite the odd ingredients. His personal recipe for 'chicken cacciatore,' he said. The only real Italian food I've ever had. Pizza doesn't count.
Once he leaves for work, I read the newspaper. All of it. Beginning to end. I'm so fucking bored. After the newspaper is done, I just…sit. Sometimes I wander into the living room and watch TV, but I'm really not much of a TV person. There are some magazines on the coffee table in there, sports magazines mostly, but I read them all the first day.
There are no books in this apartment. No computer. Nothing…human. It seems empty, almost. The bedroom is barren, the kitchen is always clean and everything is kept away from sight, the living room looks barely-used. There is one more room in the hallway that I haven't seen yet, but it probably looks like the rest. Maybe it's completely empty. What a depressing way to live. At least the Schwarz apartments had signs of life. Dishes in the sink, dirty towels in the bathroom, scattered knives on the living room floor. I hated it then, but I think I miss it now. Pathetic.
I fold the newspaper back into its original shape and set it on the table. I don't know what Siberian does with the papers. Maybe he recycles them. Maybe he throws them away. Either way, they're gone by dinner. I'm so bored. I lean back in the chair and balance it on two legs, trying to think of things to occupy myself with.
I'm not sure how long I'm going to stay here. My wounds are almost healed. This arrangement makes me uneasy, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it might be my safest option. Essett is looking for me. But I think the last place they'd look for me is with one of Weiss.
At the same time, I feel as if I might be pulling Siberian into something that could get him killed, or worse. When it comes to dealing with Essett, there are things worse than death. I have witnessed them first hand. He did offer to let me stay here, and I suppose he should take responsibility for the consequences. But Siberian doesn't know the whole story. How could he possibly know all the risks of letting me stay here? And, of course, do I really care if he's in danger? Sure, he did help me out by letting me stay here, and I should probably feel like I owe him something, but I don't. It's not as if I asked him if I could stay here. I don't owe him anything.
For some reason, that makes me feel guilty.
"Yo, Ken, what's up with your hand?"
Yohji's voice snaps me out of my flower-arranging daze. The shop has been busy, and after dropping two flower pots consecutively, I've been assigned to one of the back tables to construct white rose bouquets for an upcoming wedding. Yohji's at the other table, handling a different order, while Aya and Omi work the front of the shop.
I notice the blood dripping down onto the steel countertop and turn my hand over to inspect the damage. The flower shears I'm working with have gashed my palm open, a long line of a wound that starts at the top of my hand and reaches almost to my wrist. I must have grabbed the scissors wrong or set my hand down on them. I'm not sure. I watch as blood wells up from beneath my skin, the pattering of the drops on the counter increasing slightly in speed. A few splatters hit one of the long-stemmed white roses, the pink spreading across the white petals like infectious mold.
"Christ, Ken, can't you feel that?" Yohji comes around to my table, eyeing the cut. There is a small first aid kit in his hand; he must have fetched it while I was examining the wound. He moves my collection of roses out of the way and sets down the first aid kit, pulling out a roll of gauze and some medical tape.
"You know how my hands are," I reply as he pulls my hand towards him. With one hand on my wrist he slowly wraps the cut. I can feel a faint sting, deep down in my palm, but that's all. I can't feel the gauze or the cut, only his hand on my wrist and that itchy stinging sensation.
"Yeah, I know," he says, and silence reigns once again as he continues bandaging my hand. The blood seeps through the first few layers of gauze and he grabs more out of the kit.
I can smell cigarettes and shampoo as he leans closer to get at a better angle for wrapping the gauze. I would wrap it myself, but it's kind of tricky to bandage something using only one hand. I could try to do it, but I don't mind letting Yohji do it instead. If Omi or Aya had been back here, I wouldn't have let them wrap my hand.
I trust Yohji more than anyone else. I've known him the longest, after all, and the bonds we formed when it was just us, before we were assigned to Omi and we became Weiss, cannot be severed.
I know why he has nightmares every time he sleeps, and he knows why I don't take my shirt off when others are around. He was the only one who cared when I tried to run off with Yuriko, he's the only reason I didn't go. He is the one person who knows about my hands, and he is the only one, besides the Kritiker doctors, who has seen my scars.
I used to revel in the quiet moments between us, so like the way it used to be. But now I feel as if I have betrayed Yohji. He trusts me. He trusts me not to go off and do stupid things, not to keep secrets from him. I've done both. It makes me feel horridly guilty, and I suppose it should. Every day that we work together things feel more strained, at least on my end.
Yohji suspects something, I can tell. He knows that something is up with me, something is different, but he also knows that I will tell him if he needs to know. He won't press me, that's not how our relationship works. And as much as I appreciate that, sometimes I wish he would force me to talk, to tell him what's going on. You know a person is truly concerned about you when he butts into your business.
"Oh Ken-kun, I was wondering—hey, what'd you do to your hand?" Omi has come around the corner from the front of the shop, presumably on a mission to ask me a favor.
There are some people whom I wish would stay out of my business.
"Ken cut himself on the flower shears," Yohji explains while finishing the wrapping on my hand. I bring it back to my side before Omi can look. As cute as everyone thinks Omi is, sometimes I wish he would just leave me alone.
"Geez Ken-kun, can't you be more careful?"
'Gee, Omi-kins, can't you be less obnoxious,' is my initial response, but I wisely bite my tongue and settle for a more mundane, "I'll try."
I begin gathering my scattered roses, tossing the blood-spotted ones away. Yohji wanders back to his own table, resuming work on his current arrangement. Omi hovers nearby, like a mosquito. I wonder, if I was to slap Omi like I slap mosquitoes, would he go away? Maybe he would make a small, bloody explosion. I should test this hypothesis.
"Ken-kun, I have a favor to ask," he begins, blue eyes turned towards the floor, hands laced behind his back. The picture of childhood. I should have slapped him.
"Ask away," I say. I should take refusal-and-death-glare lessons from Aya. I wonder if he'd charge me any money for that? He doesn't seem the type to do charity work, although one never knows.
"I'm going to a soccer game tonight, with some friends…"
"The Japan versus Brazil one?" I prod, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.
"Yeah, and I was wondering if I could borrow one of your old jerseys, one of the practice ones," he pauses, and I can almost hear the rest of that statement, 'one of the ones without your name on the back.' He doesn't say it, but I know it's there.
"You know, to wear, for team spirit and all," he concludes, looking down at the floor sheepishly. How cute, how innocent, I think I'll go barf now. How can he ask me this? Does he have any idea how much my jerseys mean to me? Even the practice jerseys…they're all I've got left. But…I can't say no to him. I can't say no to anyone. That's been my problem all along.
"Yeah, I guess you can," I respond, running my fingers through my bangs, brushing them back from my face. Omi smiles before thanking me enthusiastically, adding that he would come pick up the jersey after work before going back to the front of the shop.
Yohji catches my attention from across the room and holds up a box of cigarettes. He tilts his head towards the back door. Smoking break.
"Wanna come?"
He's not offering cigarettes. He's offering support, silence, a break and a chance to breathe. I glance down at the white-rose arrangement. It can wait.
"Sure."
I jog up the stairs to my apartment two at a time. Omi's coming over in a few minutes to pick up my jersey and I need to warn Nagi. I need to find some place for the kid to hide. I unlock the door and kick off my shoes, almost stumbling in my haste. I find Nagi asleep on the couch, the TV playing the news mutedly, white captions running along the bottom. The voiceless reporter is covering the day's big event, a plane crash over the ocean.
"Naoe-san!" I call, hoping he'll wake easily. I don't want to touch him, he might freak out and use his powers.
He doesn't respond. I try again. Nothing.
"Jesus, this kid sleeps like a freaking rock," I mutter to myself. I'm running out of time.
"Nagi!"
The kid sits up with a jerk and glares at me, using one hand to push his hair out of his face.
"What?" he asks, irritated. I feel bad for waking him, but I'd rather have a pissed off Nagi instead of a dead one.
"Omi's coming, you need to hide." I explain, and he blinks at me before asking where.
I think for a second before coming to a decision. The best place would definitely be the storage room.
"Go into the last room in the hall, and just stay there until I come get you," I say as he stands up. He nods and moves quietly down the hall. I glance over the apartment, making sure that nothing seems out of the ordinary. I'm lucky Nagi's not a messy person. I hear the click of the door as Nagi shuts himself into the library, and a moment later I hear the snap of the lock. Smart kid. Now Omi won't be able to go in there even if he feels curious.
A moment later there's a knock at the front door. I give the apartment one last glance before letting Omi in.
"Hi Ken-kun," he greets me, as if we had not just parted ten minutes ago. I smile and tell him to come inside, ever the gracious host, and shut the door behind him.
"I'll go get the jersey, you can just wait here if you want," I say before heading down the hall and into my bedroom. I don't want him in my bedroom. My sheets, although I have cleaned them, are still bloodstained. I'm going to have to get new ones, but I haven't had a chance yet. I'm sure the stains would raise suspicions in dear Omi's precious little scientific mind.
Almost all of my soccer jerseys are hanging in my closet. I have a huge collection of jerseys from other teams, with the names of my favorite players on the backs, and some of them are even autographed. But there are no J-league jerseys hanging in my closet. They're in a box that stays under my bed. I slide the box out and flip it open, small puffs of dust coming from the top. I clean my apartment, I really do, but dust is always clumping all over everything.
I've got practice jerseys and competition jerseys, three of each for every season I played. The competition jerseys are nice material, brighter, with cooler designs than the practice jerseys, which are faded and stained with both grass and blood. But the competition jerseys have my name on the back. I can't blame Omi for not wanting to wear one. Who would want to wear the jersey of someone who's been blacklisted from the sport?
I grab the nicest practice jersey I can find. It looks small enough to fit Omi. I leave the box out and return to the living room, where I find that Omi has un-muted the TV and is watching the news. I hand him the jersey with a smile, pretending that I don't want to snatch it away from him.
"Ah, thank you so much Ken-kun," he says, beaming at me, "I'll bring it back tomorrow, and I promise not to spill anything on it!"
With that he's out the door, surely going to meet up with his friends. I hope they have a great time, hanging out and being social at the soccer game. I hope there's a riot in the stands and they all die.
I turn off the TV and head back to my room, intent on putting the box of jerseys away. They're like miniature stories of my life, these jerseys. For years, soccer was my life. And these jerseys capture it all. I run my hand over the newest of the jerseys, one of the competition ones from the last season I played. I never even got to wear it. They're all I've got left.
I never got to wear it.
He didn't even ask me if I wanted to go to the game too.
This room…is different than I thought it would be. I figured that, like the rest of the apartment, it would be void of personality. But this room is the only place with it. A computer sits on a desk against the wall closest to me. There's no Internet connection, and it's off, but it's new, and a fairly nice model. I checked it out when I first came in. Two bookshelves are next to the desk, crammed with novels of all genres. There's fiction, non-fiction, even college textbooks. Some appear to be in English. All appear well read, with cracked bindings and dog-eared corners. The closet contains various pieces of soccer equipment, presumably for Siberian's part-time job coaching soccer for little kids. The walls are decorated with replicas of famous paintings, along with some originals of artists I'm not familiar with.
It all seems fairly normal, except for what's in the farthest corner, next to the window. A stack of posters. I flipped through them all when I came in, curious as to why Siberian's got twenty or so posters leaning against the wall. Some are rolled up, others have been framed, one or two are still in their original wrappers, backed with cardboard. And they're all of Siberian. Or, rather, Ken Hidaka. Soccer posters.
Some are team pictures, some are individual shots of just Ken, some are pictures of him during games. I knew that he was a soccer player; Esset kept us well informed of each Weiss member's past. I never realized he was that famous, though. I flip through them again and realize that all of the posters have price stickers on them. The stickers are from different places; second hand shops, discount stores, but no real sports stores. A few of the posters have autographs on them. Those are the ones from the second hand stores.
Almost all of the posters still have receipts attached to them. I examine the receipts, only to find another oddity. The posters that were purchased by credit card all have receipts with signatures on them. And the name that's signed on them is Yohji Kudoh. Balinese.
But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Balinese buy posters of Siberian, and then give them to Siberian? Maybe Siberian is collecting them? But then why would he have them stacked in a corner carelessly?
The sound of the front door closing startles me out of my thoughts. Bombay must have left. I hear footsteps in the hallway, but they stop short of this room. Siberian went into his bedroom instead. Perhaps he forgot I was in here? Well, now that I know Bombay has left, it's safe for me to leave the room. Maybe…I'd like to ask Siberian if I could use his computer while he's at work. Maybe he has a few games on it.
I unlock the door and step into the hallway, heading towards Siberian's bedroom softly. I don't want to startle him; I don't think he's used to other people being around him much. I stop at the doorway to the bedroom, glancing inside. Siberian is on his knees in front of the bed, facing away from me. There's a box next to him, and I can see blue material poking out over the top. And…
I turn and head back to the other room, trying to be as quiet as possible. I don't want him to know I saw him. I sit down in the middle of the floor, shutting the door but not locking it. I float one of the college textbooks from the bookshelf over to me and spread it open in my lap. I'll wait here. Siberian can come get me when he's ready.
I think he was crying.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. And now for some review-replies:
carrothien and gonyos: thank you for reviewing. I hope this update is soon enough! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far.
thecalen: thank you for your review. I'm glad you like Omi; I had (and still have) some worries about the way I'm doing his character. Sorry about the tense change; the story was originally supposed to be all in past third-person, and when I changed to present first-person, I didn't feel like changing the prologue (that's my excuse, anyways.) And I've never really thought about interchanging 'freak' and 'fuck,' I just write it the way it sounds most natural to me...(that's how I really talk! Such language...)
Niko: I'm glad you like it, and thanks so much for reviewing! I wanted to pick a combination of characters that isn't done as much as some of the others, and I think Ken and Nagi aremuch more similar than either of them realize. I hope you enjoyed this part as well.
Chitoshiya no Tohma: thank you for reading and reviewing. To be honest, I did start this fic with the intention of making it KenxNagi, but I'm not actually sure if it will go in that direction now. Maybe! It might end up being a different pairing, though... Anyways, I hope you'll continue reading despite that!