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Departures

--November, 2008

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(1) Disclaimer: Not mine, not purported to be mine. Just borrowing.

(2) Summary: Just a one-shot. Shuichi is leaving on a jet plane, and Yuki is overjoyed—isn't he? This was a snippet that was supposed to turn into a longer fic and never did, so I decided to change it a bit and put it up.

(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) Please comment—negative or positive, it's just great to know someone is reading!

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"YAHOO!!!"

Shuichi galloped through the apartment, shrieking. "Sold out! They've all sold out! All the venues, both local and abroad! Wooooo!!!"

"Shut up, idiot," snapped Yuki irritably. "Can't you make your noise elsewhere? At least with you gone the apartment will be quiet."

"Ne, Yuki? You don't meant that, do you? You'll miss me, won't you?" Shuichi was suddenly still, turned now towards Yuki; his voice anxious, a frown creasing his mobile face.

"As if, brat. I'll relish the peace so I can work."

Subdued, Shuichi stopped jumping around and screaming—which, Yuki told himself, was exactly what he'd set out to accomplish.

Sold out. Three weeks, 10 venues. If things went well—and why wouldn't they, Bad Luck was one of the top bands in Japan, and were rapidly rising in popularity abroad as well--there might even be extra concert dates, an extra week of tour.

Probably four, then. Four weeks. A full month.

A full month of quiet. Of silence. Of being on his own.

A full month without Shuichi.

A month without the brat jumping around, disturbing him and his work, making racket and screeching and generally disrupting the order of his day.

Miss him? Miss that damned brat?

More than he knew. More than Shuichi could ever imagine.

The first day wouldn't, Yuki knew from experience, be so bad. An adjustment, to be sure, but a day of quiet would be nice, a day of rest, a day he could work. Almost like any day when Shuichi worked late—and those were not infrequent. But by the third day, Yuki would no longer be able to pretend that Shuichi was anything but gone. The well-appointed apartment would seem too bare, the expensive entertainment system ostentatious and pointless, the computer in his study an onerous task he could not possibly deal with. So he'd brood, and think, and thinking led to ….

All the reasons he hated counseling. All the reasons he hated thinking. All the reasons he wrote about stupid people and stupid problems and …

… all the reasons he loved the energetic ball of pink hair coming home at five to interrupt whatever it was he'd been thinking about, because those thoughts were never good, and Shuichi and his indomitable love was only the best of anything this world had to offer.

The counselors had never helped. Could never help. He'd gone through enough of them to know.

It wasn't your fault, Yuki. You were innocent and vulnerable. You were horribly manipulated. You don't know that I killed someone, though, do you? I shot him, you know, a defenceless old man. I killed him. I would have killed them all. Now what do you say, little girl?

You were only a kid, and he was supposed to protect you. Thank God Tohma-san intervened before anything happened. Ah, but that's just the story Tohma tells you so you'll "help" me. And because you read my books, don't you, in the middle of the night, when no one can see? But I can't tell you what really happened, and you can't tell me I'm forgiven, because you have no fucking clue. I'm dirty and a killer. Some things can't be forgiven.

You have difficulty trusting people, don't you? How can I help you if you aren't open with me? At the same time, he didn't want them to know. Couldn't cope with the judgments and the knowing and the blame if they had.

You need to be honest with me. And, most importantly, he didn't want to go to prison for murder. He knew that for all that Shuichi called him dangerous, he was nothing compared with some men. Yuki and Eiri would both be destroyed in prison. It was the one thing Tohma had been absolutely clear about—he could tell no one. Not ever. They would never discuss it again, and he was forbidden to tell anyone.

Not even Mika knew.

But Shuichi knew. Somehow, Shuichi had found out everything. Shuichi--he knew it all, and loved Yuki anyway. They'd had a fight about it once, and Shuichi had hollered it at him, that he didn't blame Yuki, wasn't scared of Yuki, didn't think all those things that Yuki thought he ought to think …

Yuki didn't quite understand it, himself. He really thought Shuichi was a little defective, personally—for a celebrity rock star, Shu certainly was a complete joke, with his innocence and guilelessness, and his complete lack of understanding of how the real world worked—on greed and selfishness and deception. Hell, his Shu-chan couldn't even understand that those were the very things Yuki ran on, most of the time.

But even Yuki couldn't dismiss everything Shuichi said or did by saying that Shuichi was simply stupid (for all he pretended he was) or clueless, or dependent on Yuki-- hell, with Bad Luck's success Shuichi could buy anything or even anyone he wanted (not that doing so would ever occur to the little idiot). Because Shuichi had told him, time and again, in words and deeds and every other way, until even Yuki had no choice but to believe—that despite everything, the only thing that Shuichi wanted was … well, him.

No, he couldn't pretend Shuichi didn't know. Shuichi knew exactly what had happened, exactly who and what Yuki was and wasn't. Not only that, he understood it, and still—he still wasn't…

Wasn't scared of Yuki. Didn't pity Yuki. Didn't sympathize with him falsely.

Wasn't anything but sorry that it had happened at all. And that it had happened to Yuki.

Shuichi had cried for him. Had actually cried for him.

It was like something out of a novel. Out of one of his own idiotic novels. Better, in fact. Was more than any of that drivel his heroines hoped for, somehow concrete and real and oh, so unexpected, but so very desired.

Yuki didn't get it at all.

But in the night, after he'd had yet another nightmare, Shuichi was there, warm and quiet, breathing evenly beside him. After a long night of writing, Shuichi was there, and his bed was not cold. And in the morning, Shuichi was always there, making noise and singing random tunes in the shower, while comforting smells of shampoo and coffee scented the sterile air.

Shuichi had allowed himself to be abused, to be raped. Because of Yuki.

And when Shuichi was gone … Yuki's bed was cold. When he woke in the night, he woke alone. The silence was absolute, the apartment was still, and the only smells in the place were those of his own stale sweat and disinfectant. Instead of a warm embrace and soft pink hair, little yellow pills were his only comfort.

He didn't know that he could survive a month. Hated that Shuichi was so excited about going. Hated that he wouldn't miss Yuki while he was gone, for all he said he would.

Because he wouldn't, Yuki knew. For every phone call that Shuichi made to him, filled with mad protestations of love and how much he missed Yuki--Shuichi lived for singing. Shuichi lived for singing, lived for the audience, thrived on the public's adoration. Yuki had watched his performances, either in person or on T.V.; Shuichi simply glowed in the stage lights, radiant and beautiful and mesmerizing as if he were born for nothing else. For all Yuki's hatred of performing and hatred of fame (although he had to admit he enjoyed its perks), Shuichi loved it, every aspect. The tour would be his dream.

No, Shuichi wouldn't miss him. He'd be too busy reveling in the spotlight. An adulating spotlight that Yuki fully he admitted was completely deserved.

And Yuki—Yuki was supposed to be supportive. Supposed to encourage the bright-haired brat to go, to enjoy himself, to kick ass, to not worry about him at all.

Not to worry about Shuichi, enticed by alcohol and drugs, women and boys, all young and pretty, all making him impossible promises in honeyed tongues and sultry languages--promises Yuki had never uttered, would never utter. Not to worry about any of the myriad temptations that would be thrown his way, the thousands of offered delights that all Shuichi had to do was reach out and take. Not to worry about all the things that living with Yuki deprived him of, things that would be shown to him every minute he was away from home; things that Shuichi deserved, had earned, had worked and suffered for.

Not to worry about any of it, at all.

And all Yuki could manage was not to be obviously upset. Not to take out his anger on the baka while he bounced around the apartment filled with insane glee.

He had a brief image of him grabbing Shuichi's leg as Shuichi tried to shake him off and move towards the door; a horrific vision of role-reversal.

He shuddered. Maybe he needed a drink. Or something. He just wasn't sure what.

"Yuki!"

"WHAT, brat?"

"I just had a great idea! Why don't you come with me?"

"Why don't I … you moron. I can't come with you," snapped Yuki irritably. His head was throbbing, and he felt too warm. He moved towards the kitchen for his pills.

"But why not? You could …"

"Shut up, you idiot!" Where the hell were his pills …

"Yuki?"

Why the hell the brat wouldn't go away when he ought was beyond Yuki. He forced himself, through clenched teeth, not to scream. "What the fuck is it?"

"You know that when I sing, when I'm out there--every song, every lyric, every note—it's all about you. Every time I sing, I feel you with me. If you …."

Shuichi never finished his sentence, whatever other drivel he had to say, because Yuki's mouth was on his, and swallowed all the other words.

And when Yuki finally let him come the singer come up for air, all he said was, in a sickeningly-sweet voice dripping sarcasm, "Shu-chan, I'll miss you", and when Shuichi was silent, followed it up with, "Wasn't that what you wanted to hear? Fine. Now get into the bedroom and strip. I'll give you something to remember."

And Shuichi squealed and bounced and practically flew into the bedroom, laughing and shouting, "Yuki loves me! Yuki is going to miss me!" at the top of his lungs.

Yuki sighed, not immediately following. He went through the room, turning off lights, straightening a cushion, looking over the familiar shapes and shadows of his apartment, the city lights flashing below.

Tomorrow morning, Shuichi would pack. Tomorrow, Yuki would kiss him—maybe--and kick him out the door. Because tomorrow, they would more likely fight and he'd scream and Shuichi would cry, both of them tense and irritable and stressed about the upcoming month, the impending separation. Shuichi would be worried about the tour, the fans, how'd they'd do, whether he'd forget a lyric, whether he'd practiced enough, periodically nagging at Yuki as he always did about taking his pills and eating properly while he was away and where the hell was his sparkly purple shirt--and so maybe, maybe, Yuki could allow that Shuichi would be worried and think, while he was away, a small little bit about Yuki. Yuki, for his part, would worry about Shuichi, at the mercy of his fans and people speaking languages he didn't really understand—hell, Shuichi's English wasn't even all that good, and he'd been studying it for years—and whether Shuichi would get enough sleep and eat enough (because, despite the nagging, without Yuki to remind him, Shichi tended to forget to eat and stayed up too late far more often than Yuki ever did) and what he would do to fill the empty silences and long days while Shu was away, with only a few phone calls to break the monotony, and what the hell any self-respecting man was doing with a sparkly purple top anyway. Whether he would be able to write, despite his misery, or whether he would be able to channel that misery and write more than he ever could in five months of Shuichi.

From experience, he knew it to be the latter. Shuichi never worried because he always came back to find that Yuki had finished whatever novel he'd been working on. Shuichi never protested a tour because he knew that Yuki exceeded deadline whenever he had a month to himself. Shuichi truly believed that his being away was good for Yuki. Shuichi wasn't clear why—he kept protesting that he tried to stay out of Yuki's way and tried not to disturb when he was home, and sometimes even suggested maybe a bigger place so that he could really stay out of Yuki's way and Yuki would never even know he was there, and Yuki always just snapped at him to shut up.

So they'd fight. Much as he'd try, his temper would be short, and Shuichi's anxiety would translate into being even more annoying than usual. And so tomorrow would be horrible, and kisses would be unlikely. Most probably, Shuichi would leave with him hollering at the door that he planned to change the locks, and Shuichi would be crying and pleading and begging even while K threatened to shoot him if he lingered a moment longer, all the while bodily dragging him out the door.

And tomorrow, Shuichi would sit on a plane flight beside his only slightly less idiotic friend Hiro, still crying, no doubt telling that moron how Yuki hated him and yelled at him and they'd all think to themselves what a horrible pathetic excuse for a boyfriend their poor talented friend had, and how he deserved so much better.

Of course, he still had his doubts despite Shuichi's denials, as to whether Nakano didn't believe that he was the someone better

Yuki might even get an irate call from that Nakano, later. Yuki would, of course, hang up. Shuichi might call then, all contrite.

Hmmm, maybe he'd be able to use Shuichi's guilt to talk him into phone sex.

Yuki brightened. Excellent.

Yuki always wondered, all those nights and every night before Shuichi left for his various career commitments, and sometimes even when he himself left for an interview or book tour, if he'd ever win a contest between himself and Shichi's music. Because in his case? In spite of all his resistance, Shuichi had broken him down, and the answer was clear. It wasn't even a contest.

Shuichi's voice called from the bedroom. "Yuki? Yuki, I'm getting cold …"

Yuki, for all his faults, was not a stupid man. There were some questions that should never be asked. He turned towards the bedroom, opening the door. Shuichi was lying on the bed, naked as the day he was born, smiling at Yuki as Yuki closed the door firmly behind him.

One night left. Yuki was going to make it count.

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