Disclaimer: Gakuen Alice is not mine.

The boy stood before the bathroom sink, his eyes closed, unruly black hair plastered down to the sides of his face with sweat, his breaths coming in light pants. His hands gripped the white ceramic so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Minutes passed by, but he stood there as still as a statue until his breaths slowed down.

Then he raised his head, his blank red eyes staring into the mirror. Slowly, he reached out one hand to the tap to turn it on.

The water gushed out, and he held his hands out to the jet of numbingly cold liquid. The moment it touched his hands, it turned red, staining the ceramic, sullying it, dirtying the once pure material. He let out a low laugh, but it had no mirth in it. It was the bitter, broken laugh of someone much older than he was. It was defiant, daring someone – anyone – to come and stop him, to strike him down for his blasphemy.

The water rushed on and on, now colourless, having washed away every drop of the blood on his hands. He lifted one of his hands to his nose.

It still stunk. The metallic, cloying stink of blood still clung to his thin fingers. Because it wasn't his blood. It was never his.

He scrubbed at his fingers, his movements now hurried and furious. Every few seconds, he raised his fingers to his nose, and then returned to scouring them, first with soap, then detergent and finally, desperately, cleaning fluid.

The skin on his fingers burned. But finally, when he held those red, raw fingers to his nose, the smell was gone.

He stumbled back to his room and fell onto his bed, still staring at his hands. That was the first time.

Five years later

The blonde-haired boy sat on the floor of the dark room, his back to the wall opposite the window, chin resting on his knees. His blue eyes remained fixed on the dark shadowy trees outside the window, their leaves making a slight rustling sound as the wind swept through them. It was a new moon night, meaning the only light came from the stars, tiny pinpricks set in the dark sky. Far away, a clock struck one.

A slim, petite brunette sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. He put an arm around the sleeping girl, drawing her close, a fond smile on his face as he looked at her.

Suddenly, the light from the window was blotted out by a dark figure. It stood for a second on the wide window ledge, and then jumped into the room.

"Ruka." A low, husky voice came from the figure as it walked towards the duo.

"Natsume," he replied, the relief in his voice clear. His eyes widened as he saw the dark stains on his friend's shirt. "Have you been injured?"

There was a pause, before he answered, "...No." He turned away, weariness in every line of his posture.

"But what about the blood?" Ruka protested.

"It's not mine," he said, his voice dull. "Go away, Ruka. Go back to your room." It was then that he saw the girl. He frowned. "What the hell is Polka doing here?"

"She wanted to wait up for you," Ruka said, lifting her up. He walked over to the bed and lay her down. "I'm leaving her here. When she wakes up, you can send her back to her room."

"Ruka," Natsume began, his voice annoyed, but his friend was already halfway out of the room. The door shut quietly, and then he was alone again. With her. "Dammit."

He walked over to the bed and held out a hand to shake her awake, but then hesitated. "Oi, Polka. Wake up!" he finally said loudly. The girl stirred in her sleep and mumbled, "Two more minutes..." but he continued calling out her name until she finally opened her eyes, and looked at him, confusion in her groggy expression. "N...Natsume?"

"C'mon Polka. Get up and go back to your room." He turned, intending to walk away, but then stiffened as a warm hand caught his arm. His head snapped back, and shaking his arm free, he hissed, "Don't touch me!"

"Natsume, what's wrong?" Mikan, now fully alert, sat up in the bed. "Natsume?" She leapt out, and in a few bounding steps, caught up with him. She threw her arms around his neck, looking up into his stunning crimson eyes. They were without his usual mask, deep pools echoing torment.

His body shuddered, and he made a half-hearted attempt to remove her arms. "How..." he began, his voice strangled. "Why do you care about me so much?"

He ducked out of her embrace. She opened her mouth to answer him, but he continued, now looking at a point above her shoulder. "These..." His gaze returned to his hands. "These are the hands of a killer, Mikan. I'm a killer. These have the blood of so many people on them – I can never erase that smell from them."

"Natsume..." she murmured, taking a step towards him. His eyes flashed, suddenly wild. "Do you know how many people I've killed tonight, Mikan? Eight. And only two out of them were soldiers. That means that's eight families I've wrecked, all in one night." Her arms were around him again, her face buried deep in his chest.

"I know every detail about their lives, Mikan," he continued. "I know that one of the men had a two month old son. I know that another was planning to go from the meeting and propose to the love of his life. I found the ring in his pocket – the box was stained with his blood."

His hands threaded through her silky brown locks of hair. He inhaled the smell of tangerines – it was so her. His hands pulled on her hair gently, forcing her to look up at him. "Do you know how easily I could kill you Mikan?" he whispered. "Right now..."

"But you won't."

Her golden brown eyes looked into his, only trust and affection in them, not the hatred and revulsion that he expected. "Natsume, stop beating yourself up over this. I care about you because of the person you are inside, not the monster you think you are. This..." her hands trailed over his "is not who you are. I know that the only reason you do this is for me, and Aoi-chan and Ruka-pyon, and everyone you care about, and that does not make you a killer here." Her soft touch landed on his heart.

"You should hate me..." he said in a low voice, his eyes still not meeting hers. She smiled, her wide warm smile reaching the hardest part of his heart, and slowly melting it until he felt much lighter. "No, I shouldn't, you baka."

He stared at the door as it closed after her softly. Slowly, he walked over to his bed and lay down, his gaze returning to his hands as he held them out before him. For the first time, that sickly-sweet, metallic smell was gone – masked by the smell of tangerines.

Crap? Yeah, I thought so too. It's something that I wrote out in half an hour with very minor editing, so pardon any grammatical errors. Other than that... uh, reviews?