Phantom, Part I

I'm so sorry for taking so long. I'll have a longer note ready at the end of my next chapter. All my love and sincere well-wishes.

~o*oOo*o~

Thirteen hours past present time

Officer Basch Zwingli was having a bad morning. First, he'd gone to sleep on a hard mattress with a bad back. When he woke, he found, with no small amount of horror, that he'd been made a celebrity in his three-hour respite.

Ten hours past present time

Upon entering the hotel room his superiors forced upon him Basch's nose wrinkled; it was a learned reaction. It didn't look particularly bad, the room; it was equipped with two beds, a television, a dresser drawer, a microwave, and a shower, which was more than enough. Still, though the room smelled like disinfectant, it also had a distinctly greasy, used feeling to it. The same odor and density of garage sales, thrift stores, the collective smell of used things waiting to be useful again.

Basch's real revulsion though, came from the number of times he'd visited hotels, hotel rooms, found people motionless in scarlet puddles, facedown in their own sick, blank-eyed and floating in scarlet baths. The weapon Clue Card usually wasn't far away-needles, mostly, glass and powder sometimes.

More then once Basch kicked down the door for someone still alive: A drug smuggler with an attitude and a gun, hookers cowering in the bathroom, an employee whom stole thousands of dollars worth of merchandise and brought the kiddies along to watch Momma being cuffed. Basch couldn't fathom why anyone would voluntarily stay at a hotel if they could help it, which was why he didn't like to go far from home.

No one's filth was as good as your own, after all.

At least he hadn't been obliged to pay for the room; Basch was a cheap, and would've raised cane had his commanding officer not booked ahead. Still irritating to consider what people's taxes were going to. Basch drew back the covers on one of the beds with a thumb and index finger.

Once, he'd looked down at a bed like this one-did hotel furniture all come from the same place?-saw a fucking kid bound there with rope. You'd think she'd be shaking like hell, but she was still as stone-withdrawn so far back inside there was no hint of her when you'd looked into her dark brown eyes. Basch regretted that he had.

The girl was still, gaze steady on the ceiling but uncomprehending; she was somewhere far, far away, over a sea probably and not likely to return. She'd sank into an insane night one could enter but never return from. Maybe it'd been the only sane thing to do. Who'd fucking blame her.

Brushing the stringy hair out of her eyes (Jesus, was she eight?) Basch had seen Lilli in a terrible moment, in this unresponsive child he'd cut free, carried out to the EMTS.

And now, Basch saw him, too. The other one.

He turned from the bed to rub at his face. Christ, he was hungry. Well, not really, but he would think about food anyway. And about the fact he had no access to a toothbrush. Fuck.

Basch wanted to go home and you'd think he deserved to, after a shift like the one he'd served. But his commanding officer had said stay, and as much as he bristled to be treated like a dog, it would not look good were he not to be found the next morning for his interview, particularly after the fiasco earlier in bumfuck Colorado. Fucking Colorado. It would be there.

And as soon as he were interviewed, the sooner he could return to work, though he might take a sick day or two following this stupid fucking night. Check that-he looked at the bedside clock-stupid fucking morning. Past three. Christ. He could be in his own bed by now.

It was late, very late, so he simply sent Roderich a terse text. It was slightly annoying, not being able to tell the man his whereabouts, and then Basch reasoned that he wouldn't tell Roderich where he was even if he could, because fuck Roderich.

Still, the fact that he was instructed to not disclose his location in any circumstance made Basch uneasy. At least they hadn't taken his cell.

Basch hadn't brought any extra clothes with him, so he stripped out of his uniform, folding and perching it neatly atop his stacked laptop and gun cases. He gingerly padded across the room wearing only boxers and socks, wondering how stupid he looked. He'd already locked the door but checked it again. His retinue's paranoia was beginning to rub off on him.

It was protocol, that was all, and he understood that very well. By tomorrow the entire thing would blow over; his commander would approve him fit to resume normal duty and he'd eat at home, play Scrabble with Lilli, or quietly read to her. Probably another chapter of Understood Betsy. That was on the summer reading list.

Perhaps his superiors would grant him a few days at home; Vasch never liked to appear shaken, because he probably wasn't, but perhaps there was an edict somewhere that stated you got your three days at home doing housework and cooking your own meals and enjoying a brief semblance of normalcy after you shot someone in the throat.

His head lolled, tears spilling down his face as he quietly bled out, so dark underneath the canopy of apple trees it didn't look like blood. The figure convulsing, pissing the front of its pants as it died, blood gurgling from its lips. The dying man was regarded with vague curiosity as it clawed the ground beneath him, frothing blood bubbles and spittle.

Then, with a shudder, it fell on its knees, to its side, and died. and Basch's eyes turned to the small pond nearby. It was so still a few stars twinkled in the water.

This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends.

Out with a bang and a whimper. Who said you couldn't have both?

He thought about taking a shower, but the bath was probably so caked with germs it was redundant. Turning off his phone, Basch slipped in beneath the covers, considered turning on the news, quickly reconsidered. The news would pounce, considering there was precious little worth covering lately, but they'd be interested in The Man, and Vasch would vanish behind a nameless uniform and a gun. They might as well be floating in midair, independent of any body beneath it.

Basch switched the light off and lay looking at the ceiling. He was exhausted-on the verge of completing a fucking thirteen hour-long shift before everything went to pot. A simple misdemeanor turned into a catastrophe and the house had exploded and he'd been forced to give chase in the orchard, in the twilight. It had been disconcertingly beautiful, all those trees blooming.

And the devil rose out of the water, and came to meet Basch, the burden it carried...the other watching, waiting...

The man sullenly ran a hand through dirty blond spikes, green eyes narrowing as he stared at the ceiling. He dearly hoped he were imagining the thumps coming from above, although maybe tonight the fucking fuckers were his reprieve...

...but now it was done. People would be too interested in Ted Bundy's heir apparent to bother Vasch. After all, legally pulling a trigger was not that interesting; a jerk of the finger and it was over. No, they'd leave him be in his cloister of patrolmen.

Everyone would want to talk about him, and to talk about him you'd have to start at the very beginning, call people whom knew-so-and-so to give phone testimonials, talk to child psychiatrists, experts on sociopaths, or whatever the fuck he was, to experts on the criminally-insane, family members of his victims. Cyber-security would likely get called in, as would former FBI members. People would argue about international impact and United States-Russian relations. Basch, the person whom inadvertently set the dominoes dropping, would be forgotten in the crowd, and that was how he preferred it.

A raise would not be uncalled for, but Basch felt his work on the force merited that in any case. He yawned, scratched himself.

He'd seen this sort of shit before, and unless it was a dispute of police brutality-and he was certain that was not going to happen in this case-he'd remain nameless to the press, as it should be.

As for the other boy...

Basch remembered him, wished he hadn't. He concentrated on the FIFA scores in the World Cup, idly wondering if Argentina would win, thought Germany was too good. He thought of his back, which still ached from his fall earlier, and whether or not an ice-pack or heating pad were more effective treatment. He thought of his tongue, which grew in your mouth when you thought of it, shrank when you did not.

He wondered about Lilli, if she were asleep by now. Basch would run Roderich over in the street if she weren't. Never mind if Roderich weren't on the road when Vasch scrambled into his vehicle; he'd drive through the wall, up the stairs through sheer willpower, and run Roderich down in his bed. Slightly cheered, Vasch turned and idly thought of that some more.

Most of all, Vasch thought very hard about not killing a man, and consequentially slept very little.

And when he woke, it was to a nightmare.

Four hours after present time

When Hercules pulled out, it was 7:12 p.m. Kiku knew this because he'd concentrated on the digits on his bedside clock as 1407-b fucked him hard from behind, large, hot hands slipping to hold Kiku's shoulders steady. Wincing, biting the inside of his mouth hard to avoid squealing when Hercules brushed against his prostrate, Kiku's arms spasmed beneath him. Burning softly, pain and pleasure crescendoing, Kiku regarded the quiet digital numbers, which seemed to look back quietly, questioningly.

He jerked violently as an arm wrapped around his midsection, reached for his erection and started pumping, and Kiku's mouth opened noiselessly as he came, thumb circling, stroking his slit hard as he was thrust hard into, Hercules's pant improving to a whimper as he too let go, stilling, burning.

Kiku flopped onto his stomach with a grunt, seeing the number reappear in a black stamp over his eyes until he blinked them away. Exhaling, Hercules pulled out and away, peeling the condom off and tossing it in the trash before falling beside Kiku with a soft hum of contentment.

He immediately tugged the smaller man against him, his fingers-long fingers, they'd be good piano fingers-began running through Kiku's dark hair, while another hand busied itself at Kiku's back, running up and down, smoothing the fabric. Kiku was still wearing a shirt and probably looked idiotic, but he didn't like to be completely naked during sex. It was in stark contrast to 1407-b, whom got suspended for sunbathing naked on the dorm roof last year.

Hercules was from Greek, olive-skinned and green-eyed, with a perpetually ruffled, bemused look that suggested he'd either just rolled out of bed, or had rolled a few joints. He liked to do the petting thing, after sex. Kiku tolerated it for a polite moment or two, keeping his brown eyes on the wastebasket near his bed. Perhaps he could run it through the dishwasher after thoroughly applying disinfectant. Then, he rolled out of Hercules's grip with a grunt-the hands tightened but Kiku pretended not to notice-and he reached for his bathrobe hanging on the door, turning his back to the bed and very carefully focusing on the belt.

"What's wrong?" Hercules asked.

"Nothing." That came out too curt, so the young man turned, tried again. "I need to shower. It's almost seven-thirty. I always shower before eight if I can-you know that."

Still flushed, Hercules regarded him curiously for a moment before letting his chin rest in his hand, smiling a small, warm smile. "You're so cute."

Kiku headed into the bathroom, closing the door and quietly locking it behind him. He hoped when he emerged Hercules would be gone, but Hercules had a habit of falling asleep after sex, as he had a habit of falling asleep in applied chemistry or after lunch, or any interval of twenty minutes spent in silence. Kiku did not know how to ask him to leave, so perhaps he'd spend the night on the sofa, rise before 1407-b for his eight-a.m class, and leave a note before heading out.

He delicately stripped, tucking his dirty clothes in the hamper before stepping into the shower. He liked a brief wash, and a long soak afterwards.

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them, said The Bell Jar, which was one of the few books Kiku read for pleasure. Or something like pleasure.

As he rinsed his hair the second time, Kiku wondered if perhaps he ought to ask Sadiq to come study the next time he wanted to get off. Sadiq never called him cute, nor did he pet him, which Kiku appreciated, but Sadiq had an awful habit of smoking in bed following sex. Even Kiku had to put his foot down for that; you'd think they weren't twenty-first med students, or living in a highly-flammable dormitory filled with old wood. And it just smelled disgusting. Kiku would have to frisk Sadiq at the door, would have to pat him down, and that idea had potential...

Swiveling off the shower, Kiku stepped out of the tub to fill it with hot-nearly scalding-water. He'd gotten the nastiest surprise of his life the last time Hercules had stayed over; Kiku hadn't locked the door, mainly because he wasn't expecting anyone to slip in whilst he was still scrubbing himself down, let alone for them to wrap their hands around his eyes and croon huskily: "Guess who?"

Kiku had apologized to his neighbors the next day, whom complained about the screaming. He'd jumped and bashed his head against the shower head, hands scrabbling against his pink, naked calf for the blade and mace he always kept on his person. Thankfully Hercules scrambled out, confused and contrite as Kiku demanded he keep his eyes down, folding himself back into his bathrobe, fuming silently.

"You're so strange, Kiku," Hercules murmured as he'd ran a towel through his curly dark hair. "Why is fucking you against a wall okay, but cuddling isn't?" Kiku couldn't remember what he'd said to that, if anything. He folded a towel and placed it against the sill of the tub before climbing in, groaning like an old man as he sank in the clear water.

There was a hot tub available at Notre Dame's RAC, but Kiku would never, ever use it. Nor would he go anywhere near the school swimming pool, though he had learned to swim since...since nothing.

Kiku turned to look at a small white cat figurine on his sink Hercules had given him for Christmas, one of its paws raised, its eyes slants, a lazy, indulgent smile beneath them. Good luck, supposedly. On the floor was a dark, tasseled rug that was a tapestry of green and white tulips. More ornate then Kiku liked usually, but Sadiq had brought it back as a souvenir from Turkey last summer, and Kiku kept it, partially because it was beautiful and because there wasn't a GoodWill near campus.

He wished the water were hotter, though the mirror was already clouded with steam. Water that hurt to touch at first left you feeling raw at first, and then pleasantly numb, as if you'd stripped off a greasy, filmy layer of filth you'd accumulated throughout the day. The pain of a thorn being extracted, the sore relief of a bandaged wound.

Kiku remembered the other day when he was chatting with a seatmate. A pretty girl with dark, shoulder-length hair she liked to wear a flower pin in, large, honey-brown eyes oval at the ends. She was a bit older than Kiku, but her habit of wearing flowing pink clothing and her Hello Kitty messenger bag gave her a perennially-youthful look. From Taiwan-the school attracted a lot of foreign students and Kiku's main crowd consisted of displaced people.

Her name was Song Lee. Kiku could like her, maybe, and one day he would have to like someone like her. At least his parents wouldn't encourage a relationship right now, especially since Kiku was recently made a teacher's assistant in a biology lab.

Song Lee had asked Kiku about his weekends, which were mainly devoted to research assignments, though Kiku liked to indulge in a movie or a walk or a meal that wasn't ramen noodles occasionally. Just a few days ago, Kiku explained that he'd spent Friday night at a jazz restaurant with tapas and drinks with his boyfriend Sadiq, and Sunday afternoon looking at cats in a shelter before getting ice cream with his boyfriend Hercules. Song Lee looked remarkably confused.

"I think you misspoke. Which one is your boyfriend, and which one is just your friend?"

Just friends. Something about that phrase pissed Kiku off as precious few things did. Whom was to say a friend couldn't mean more to you than your boyfriend?

As it happened, both Sadiq and Hercules were Kiku's boyfriends and he'd told her so. Song Lee's eyes grew to the size of saucers as she clapped her hands over her mouth. "Do they...know? Have you told them you are seeing other people?"

He hadn't. It didn't seem relevant. Song Lee just rapidly shook her head in a brown and pink blur, hair whipping her face. "You must never let them find out," she warned, turning her gaze toward her lab manual as the professor came in. "But sooner or later they must, and they will be so upset. They may both dump you, or try to kill each other." Kiku wasn't really listening at that point.

Kiku contemplated his pruning fingertips. So what if he slept with them both? He'd never agreed to be exclusive with either of them. It wasn't as if he planned for Sadiq or Hercules to become permanent fixtures in his life. They'd just happened, within weeks of each other, ironically enough, and that was fine. They enjoyed each other's company well enough, and there was the sex, but it wasn't meant to last beyond school.

Once Kiku had his Ph.D his parents would politely remind him that he was an eligible bachelor, and that they would like grandchildren. No more than one or two, preferably just one if Kiku could produce a boy the first time around. And you could, these days, with the right money and the right clinic.

Kiku once considered adopting a child when he was older. When he wondered this aloud as a child his parents' smiles would grow taut, and his mother reassured him he'd change his mind. Aiko might've said the same thing had Kiku confided in his mother that men were his preferred sexual partners.

Adoption wasn't a common social practice in Japan, and reminding his parents that they lived in the states now probably wouldn't produce more than a blank, searching look that said, And your point is...?

His parents would want to see that Kiku had a son to inherit his practice, and be assured that someone could take care of him in his old age, though Kiku would rather do it himself. Still, he'd comply without complaint. Kiku's musings of someday adopting a child-he'd dreamed of a little girl, perhaps two of them-with his partner were tucked away, because a small part of Kiku Honda conveniently died, and he accepted his role gracefully.

Knowing this, Kiku grew uncomfortable when Hercules's mouth started wandering after sex, and the Grecian boy mused aloud about the two of them visiting the Greek countryside, the small bee farm his father kept. The smells of beeswax, warm honeysuckle and strawberries growing out back, the comfortable, worn kitchen and smells of warm bread and rose jam.

Eating syrupy-sweet baklava that was somehow both gummy and crumbly, sitting with the entire extended family outside following church, which smelled of incense and had people singing in a way that made you shiver inwardly with a sense of ancient holiness.

Kiku could hate Hercules a little for the impossibility of it all. After all, Kiku had a role to play that he didn't like much, but cared for more than he did living. And even when you took that away, a devout Greek Orthodox family would never accept their open homosexuality.

Sadiq could better understand the position Kiku was in. Sadiq was tall and broad, dark-skinned and smirking more often then not. Like Hercules, he'd come to study medicine at Notre Dame, though he was Turkish, not Greek. He liked shouting down Kiku's protests and paying for fancy dinners; like many Notre Dame students, he came from a well-to-do family that had sort of a monopoly in the textile business back home.

"Being the younger brother back home sucks, normally." Sadiq had said, when he and Kiku were lying in bed together at Sadiq's apartment. "Traditionally, the eldest son follows in his Dad's footsteps, so Jahid was always the one whom got to go to work with Dad on our days off from school. Why not? The entire textile mill was signed off to Jahid the day he was born. As for me, well, you know how it works in fairy tales-the youngest son is lucky to inherit his dad's cat." He'd snorted and lit a cigarette, and Kiku wished he had the nerve to tell Sadiq not to smoke in his own apartment. Sadiq puffed, exhaled the smoke.

"So I knew if I wanted to get anywhere I'd have to study like hell. As soon as I got accepted here, my dad, he started packing my bags that night." The boy chuckled dryly and shook his head. "He'd want me gone in any case."

"What do you mean?" Kiku asked, instantly regretting it. When he'd opened his mouth to speak, he meant to say something along the lines of "That is unfortunate," which was polite, detached, and an invitation to end the conversation.

"Every guy back home has a wife and kids after a certain age," Sadiq explained, turning his cigarette to stare into the flaking ember. "If you don't, you're either broke, retarded, seen as unlucky, dead, or all the above. You just do, even the queer guys. Especially the queer guys. But I don't think my parents are gonna care if I have kids, so long as I'm living in America and studying to be some rich doctor. Jahid has to pay the piper, though-he can't get out of having kids, being the firstborn and being so close to home and all. He's going to Istanbul in a few weeks so that he can marry soon."

"Oh. Congratulations." Kiku had sat up and hugged his knees. "What is she like, your sister-in-law to be? Have you two spoken?"

"He doesn't have a fiancee yet."

"But you just said-"

"I said he was going to Istanbul to be married there, not that Jahid actually has a bride yet. But he will." Jahid stubbed the lit ember out in a small ashtray beside the bed. "He's got contacts who've been pestering him at weddings all our lives, asking him if he's interested in being introduced to Ms. So-and-So. Since he's inheriting a large business, there'll be lots of eligible matches. I wouldn't be surprised if Jahid finds a bride within two months, if her folks don't need to offer too big a dowry.

"As for me," Sadiq explained, staring at his ceiling with a small, ironic smile, "I can be in America and be as gay as I please. My dad might try to arrange a marriage for me, but I doubt he will. All I'll have to do is bring up how harsh marital restrictions can be on men, and he'll turn white and clam the fuck up."

"What do you mean?"

"I think one of the reasons my dad practically pays me to attend school here is because he's guilty as fuck. Once, when I was a little kid, I walked in on my dad getting sucked off by our maid, and another time I found him with some hooker when I came home from school sick. He paid me off so I wouldn't tell my mother, but every now and again he'd give me one of these looks-" Sadiq made a pathetic face, lower-lip protruding, and laughed humorlessly.

"-just begging me not to tell her. Fuck, I'm sure she already knows. I don't care if my Dad's a whore, I just think it's funny that he's running around fucking everything in sight while he always stressed to my brother growing up how sacred marriage is. Fucking hypocrite. So, I figure it doesn't matter even if he does find out I take squats in the cucumber patch. But they won't. I'm not Jahid, ergo I'm free." He turned to Kiku and smiled. "To date anyone I choose."

Kiku had said nothing for a moment, looking out into the well-furnished room before excusing himself to the bathroom. He'd thought there was an edge of bittersweetness in Sadiq's tone, and he wondered at it. He could understand the burden Jahid faced, but what of someone never expecting the slightest thing from you? Being so unmoored must be unnerving, and terribly lonely.

After all, the role you were expected to play before you were born connected you to your family, tethered you to society, to your purpose. Anything else...Kiku did not like to think of it. He might've asked Sadiq, but couldn't bring himself to.

The water by now was growing tepid, so Kiku stood, reached for his waiting towel, and stepped out. As he dried himself off, he cleared a space to look into the mirror.

He wasn't entirely sure where the attraction lay for either Hercules or Sadiq; too many late study nights culminated in shadows under his eyes. It wasn't that Kiku couldn't sleep; it was simply that he saw too many awful things when he did. Using Ambien was worse, because not only was he leery of becoming dependent on narcotics, the drugs didn't bring dreamless sleep. Instead, they forced him to stay under; to endure the entirety of his worst nightmares, when Kiku and the only boy he'd ever loved plunged under the ice into a cold that knocked the wind out of him completely, and every inch of him had been crying out to die, until a comfortable numbness had him floating someplace far away, all the feeling fading in his fingertips...

A Considerable Number of Hours Ago

Kiku had been gone. It was a different goneness then when you were dreaming, when there was still a presence of you, still being. He'd slipped into another night altogether, one without any stars. No awareness, no self, just that great big Silence that would wake Kiku more often then Ivan's screams did.

But before he could go into any Good Night, gentle or otherwise, there had been pressure on lips, blowing life into him and it had hurt like fuck and the wind knocked Kiku back to Earth, slamming back so much pain and terror that was still Life.

His best friend saved him, dragged him back out of the water, Kiku knew, just knew, and had performed CPR. Both he and Ivan were gone; perhaps Ivan was convinced that Kiku was indeed dead, because Ivan would never have simply abandoned Kiku on the shore otherwise.

There had been nothing left to do but drag himself into the forest, and Kiku frequently fell senseless on his trek, possibly from smoke inhalation-the forest was burning-more likely from exhaustion, cold, and too much hurt. Because of these lapses in unconsciousness, estimating how much time elapsed before helicopter spotlights started beaming furiously down and Kiku weakly rose a hand to heaven was very difficult.

It might've been hours, or days before he awoke in another unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar bed, tangled in wires, hearing the dull, metallic pang of an IV. His mother and father huddled together nearby, staring.

The looks on their faces never left him.

~o*oOo*o~

Kiku traced a line in the mirror, still regarding his pale, nude form. Scattered on his body there were withered, starkly-white scars, mementos all of a terrible night.

Kiku did not like to show them, because he might be asked to explain them and he might feel compelled to tell the truth.

Either no would believe him or they would, and he wasn't sure which was worse. Enough time had passed that no one recognized him as one of the three Devil's Advocate victims whom had survived an encounter with the infamous serial killer. It was a relief, a profound relief that no one really scrutinized Kiku anymore upon meeting him, asking if they knew him from somewhere before their jaws dropped a second later, realization brightening their eyes. Kiku had spent too much time in witness protection abroad to ever want to relive that. Hercules and Sadiq did not know, and Kiku did not tell them. It didn't seem relevant.

Sighing, Kiku dressed in the pajamas waiting nearby and emerged. True to form, Hercules was dozing in Kiku's bed, so he heated water for tea, and finished grading some student quizzes at his desk. Just as he put away his portfolio, Kiku's cell rang. An unfamiliar ID. Puzzled, he answered. "Hello."

"Is this Kiku Honda?" The voice asked brusquely.

"...yes. What is it?"

"My name is Officer Leblanc, sir, of Huckleberry Springs. I'm calling on behalf of some old acquaintances of yours-the Jones. Mr. Jones should be in touch with you shortly to confirm my call."

Kiku froze, becoming very hot, then very cold. His phone nearly slipped from his hold. A prank phone call, probably, but he couldn't breathe.

The voice continued:

"Ivan Braginski was found tonight, and killed by authorities following a confrontation. Mrs. Jones would've called you herself, but I'm afraid she's not very coherent right now, sir." The blood was pounding so badly in Kiku's ears he could scarcely hear, though he concentrated with all his might. "As someone who's had previous dealings with the Braginski siblings previously-" Dealings. It sounded clinical-what with the kidnapping, torture, arson, and attempted murder. "You were approved to have notification regarding the case.

The Jones are on their way to St. Joseph's Presbyterian right now, in Huckleberry Springs, Colorado. Mr. Alfred Jones was airlifted via helicopter shortly following tonight's incident."

Alfred.

Kiku collapsed.

There was some sort of pressure at his shoulders but he couldn't breathe, because Ivan was dead and Alfred-! A lump moved up Kiku's chest to his throat, swelling painfully.

"What is his state?" Kiku dared ask, barely above a whisper. Anything more and the lump would burst. "Al-cha-Alfred?"

"I'm afraid I cannot disclose that legally over the phone, sir. I can only notify you. Mr. Jones said he would call you with more particulars. This is all I can tell you for the time being."

"Thank you," Kiku could barely force out, and the man wisely extracted himself with an "Have a good evening, sir" before hanging up.

Kiku slowly lowered his phone, wondering why the world was rhythmically shaking. Oh. Hercules was out of bed, jerking him and Kiku flopped stupidly in his hold like a ragdoll. "Kiku? Kiku what was it? Sweetheart, what's the matter? You-you look white as death."

Hands shaking uncontrollably, Kiku looked down at his phone, forcing his hands to work so that he could access his newsfeed. Had to confirm. Had to confirm.

Of course it was headline news: Ivan Braginski, The Devil's Advocate, was dead. There was precious little in the article, which seemed hastily slapped together; confirming only a few minute facts: Ivan was finally tracked-down, the house had exploded, Ivan escaped into the woods with his prisoner-Alfred F. Jones, Kiku read the name over and over again, as Alfred had loved introducing himself fully to people-and was pursued by S.W.A.T officer Basch Zwigili. There was no comment from Zwigili at this time, but the man had dueled with Braginski-and lived.

Alfred was removed from the scene, and airlifted to the hospital-no specifics, the article did not even mention if Alfred were hurt during the confrontation. It was late, but as Kiku scrolled down, his hands making the screen mist, the comment boards beneath were exploding:

Thank god they finally found him it took too long and guys like ivan should be shot down like dogs. they make me feel unsafe sending my kids school, rot in hell u bastard

At least he was killed by police instead of him wasting precious oxygen and taxpayer money by putting him in jail and through trials that take up a ridiculous amount of time. I hoped it hurt when he went.

anything was 2 good for him sick fuck killed again and again and again and what about those families and lives he ruined. it makes me sick young people romanticize this sick shit, its truley disgusting

We can only send our condolences to the 100+ confirmed Braginski victims, and to the countless others whom haven't even been identified yet. Ivan Braginski left a trail of horror and despair behind him every where he went, so no wonder he died unwanted and unloved. My heart goes out to the Jones boy, who had God knows what happen to him, locked up for so long with a lunatic that claimed to love him. He's the one who's going to have to live with this. I don't think I could survive it.

I don't think I could survive it.

Now the media was eagerly descending. Kiku stood, not feeling his feet. Hercules looked up at him anxiously.

"I have to go," Kiku said faintly, and Hercules stood to steady him. "My best friend is in the hospital. I have to go."

"Oh, no. What happened?"

"Sick. Please, tell my professors why I am gone." He didn't normally like initiating hugs, but Kiku wrapped his arms around Hercules, whom squeezed tightly back. "I will e-mail them tonight myself, but-"

"I will take care of it," Hercules promised, and Kiku withdrew to his closet to seize a bag, and started blindly shoving articles of clothing from his dresser. "Are you going back home?"

"Yes." That was true enough. Alfred had always felt like home.

"I will drive you to the airport."

"Thank you, but no. I will take a taxi. The airport is far away, and you have class tomorrow."

"But...but that will be expensive."

Kiku simply shrugged. He had a small fund he and his parents contributed to monthly, to save for a special occasion. He could only hope it would never get more special than this.

When the bag felt sufficiently full Hercules took him by the arm as he made to leave. The Greecian boy observed him thoughtfully before leaning in for a kiss, and Kiku returned it, feeling confused. "Have a safe trip home. Call me later, and let me know how he is."

He must've said something-or nodded, but Kiku already forgot as he staggered out the door, down the steps. He passed so many doors, so many people complaining about finals, watching television, not knowing or caring that everything had changed...

He feverishly called a taxi company, knowing he could wait upstairs and not wanting to, ordered his ticket using his phone. There would be some wait-a long wait-but he would have to go and he'd pay anything to.

When he clamored into the backseat of the cab, Kiku was profoundly relieved his cabbie was not the type to chat intermittently, too grumpy for having to pick up some two-bit almost Ivy-Leaguer very late at night, and drop him off to the airport so that he could enjoy a spontaneous weekend in Jamaica. Let him think that. Let him think that. Kiku would pay him extra to.

A Considerable Time Ago

The place smelled like hospital-grade ammonia. Flowers, too-there were lots of them sitting by his bedside. So many that they were starting to give him a headache. The pain was muffled, made bearable by the morphine drip at his side. It was hard work staying conscious, but the pressure of his mother's hand on his own helped. Quite a few paper cranes sat on the windowsill, and he wondered at them.

His mother ran a thumb over her son's unbroken hand quietly. She looked like she had been crying, but now she just looked exhausted. Ayumu silently sat back with his eyes lowered, saying nothing.

"They told us what happened." She murmured at last, and Kiku wished for a television in his room so that he could see the news. "Matthew, and the Braginski girl."

Then again, if the events of his kidnapping hadn't killed Kiku, hearing what followed from some overly-earnest and unknowing newscaster instead of someone whom loved him might have done the job.

Aiko told him that thirty-six hours ago, a Nebraskan woman left her trailer to fetch something from her car, only to find two young, severely-beaten people sprawled unconscious in her backyard. Their hair-crusty with dried blood-was tied together. A boy and girl, the boy's face beaten almost beyond recognition, his nose broken. It had bled all down his front.

The girl was missing an eye, and her breathing was shallow. Her limp hands looked like they had been raked raw, and there were some gashes tearing her blouse and overalls.

Screaming fit to raise the dead, the woman ran in her house and called the police. The woman hadn't dared touch them, but the paramedics confirmed that both were breathing, albeit shallowly. Only one of them carried ID with her, which confirmed her as a Katyusha Braginski. Upon running a search, the authorities had been interested to discover Katyusha had been officially reported missing just hours earlier, after the police searched the Braginski apartment.

They had a warrant to search, because teenagers Ivan Braginski, Alfred F. Jones, Matthew W. Jones, and Kiku Honda (the latter involved in a police investigation regarding arson) had disappeared for a little under two days following a party held at Ivan's place.

The authorities had searched for Ivan's sister, and learned Katyusha had also vanished without a trace shortly after the boys were officially reported missing. Katyusha was wheeled in for emergency surgery, and Matthew was wrapped-up, checked-over. There were trace amount of narcotics in his system, but chloroform rather than cocaine.

"Matthew told his story when he woke up," Aiko finished dully, closing her eyes. "And no one wanted to believe him. It was too far-fetched, too horrible." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she looked on her only child.

"But there had been reports of a fire not very far away from where the bodies were recovered, and that did match up to an extent to Matthew-san's story. So the authorities began investigating." She looked down, seemed to brace herself.

"In the forest. And they sighted you in the wilderness. A helicopter spotted you, but by the time firefighters came to retrieve you, you were unconscious, and dehydrated, and..." She gestured helplessly at Kiku, wrapped in plaster and wires. "You were brought here...

"They asked Matthew to return to the scene, if only to identify the c-cabin where everything began." Kiku's father Ayumu took over quietly."

"Then, after a few hours of combing the area, they found a body. A burned young girl, but f-forensics said she likely died earlier from a b-broken n-neck."

"Natalya."

"Hai. Then they found a lake." The man pressed his lips together tightly. "And they're working on recovering what's...what's inside. The body count is at four right now.

"It's exploded all over the news-having four teenagers suddenly disappear was bad enough-"

"Ivan," Kiku asked, because everything else was noise, distraction from what he desperately needed to know. "And Alfred?"

The two shared a Glance, and Kiku did not like that, not at all.

"Matthew-san was so shocked to hear you were still alive," Ayumu Honda said softly, so softly. "Ivan spoke...spoke to the twins, and Matthew-san was led to believe Ivan killed you. Ivan left you for dead, and he returned to the house with Al-chan. There Matthew and Katyusha already were-Ivan overpowered them in a struggle earlier. They were very badly hurt. Katyusha lost an eye. It's a wonder she hasn't died."

"Oh, enough, please," Aiko begged. "Look at him. Look at him! Enough. Enough. I don't want to hear anymore, it can wait..."

"Aiko, go get something to eat." Ayumu said wearily. When the woman hesitated, he added gently, "Please. You've not eaten. And for me and Kiku as well."

Kiku must've been starving, because it had been days since he'd last eaten, but his stomach seemed detached from the rest of him. He could not tell. Aiko kissed Kiku on the head and quietly treaded out. Ayumu turned to look at Kiku again, and the man looked so tired.

"According to Matthew, he and Katyusha were tied up again inside the cabin, then Ivan left to pursue you and Alfred.

After he brought one of you back, Alfred convinced Ivan to let Matthew and the girl go free, in exchange for his remaining in Ivan's custody. Ivan agreed, and went to sedate Matthew. He did not want Matthew to know where he was.

"Iie," Kiku said stupidly, and then again, and again, as if he could make it untrue. He said it in Japanese and in English, beneath grit teeth. "No. Noooooo."

"Matthew thought the same. But Ivan was more inclined to listen to Alfred. Matthew went under, and I don't think Ivan bothered using a sedative on Katyusha, whom was already unconscious. After that, Matthew knows nothing, save for the fact that he woke up in a hospital ten hours later. They couldn't find any ID on him, so there was no identifying him until he woke. Katyusha isn't very lucid yet, but the authorities are waiting to question her."

"Al-chan saved me." Kiku murmured, voice breaking. His father looked away. "I know he did. He breathed back into me when I was dying, in the water. I saw him. I felt him. But Ivan must've thought I was dead. He took Al. He took Al-chan-"

"Ivan got a head start." Mr. Honda conceded sadly. "There's now a manhunt on his head, but no one has any idea where he is, where he might be going. Matthew said Ivan mentioned another hideout where he was likely to take Alfred, but gave no clues as to its whereabouts. But they're interviewing Ivan's teachers, his friends." Ayumu reached to brush a hand through Kiku's hair. "Ivan's face is plastered all over the news now. He's a teenager-the strain of the situation will get to him, and he will crack. He'll make careless mistakes, and he'll panic. Lose his head. The authorities will get him, then."

And what would happen to Alfred when he did? Kiku lay immobilized, saved but still in hell, breathing shallowly, too quickly. The pacemaker showed a decidedly increased heartbeat.

"They will find him. The entire country is terrified of him, and they have people combing the highways, the forests. They are looking for his license plate. Remember: Ivan is just a teenager. Alfred will be recovered."

"Can you get me a toothbrush?" Kiku asked hoarsely, through cracked, dry lips. "And some shampoo? Some soap?"

Understanding Kiku too well, Mr. Honda simply nodded and left. Kiku's head lolled to the side, and he quietly considered the faint light streaming in through the shutters. Someone was talking quietly next door, someone pushed a squeaky cart past the door, and someone was being paged overhead for surgery. The absurdity of it all made Kiku screw his face up, and he turned his face into his pillow, and cried. He cried, and cried, and made himself nearly sick with crying, and when Matthew was wheeled into his room just hours later both boys looked at each other, and wept. Kiku shook madly in Matthew's arms, remembered when they'd been Alfred's, hellbent on saving a boy whom could barely move when a maniac was hot in pursuit.

And now he was gone, in the hands of someone whom managed to legally migrate from Russia following a stay in a psychiatric hospital and several accusations of murder to the United States. As Matthew clutched at him and he'd clutched back, ruining each other's hospital gowns, Kiku could only pray his parents were right, knowing all the while in his heart that if Ivan did not want to be found, he would not be, and neither would Alfred.

Hot, dark, despair plunged through him, and Kiku had wept bitterly that day, remembering Alfred's ridiculousness:

"I'm taking you on the date of your life," he'd promised, on fucking thin ice because Alfred F. Jones was a dumb prince whom would earnestly promise to fetch you the moon if he thought it would help things. And he'd believe he could.

Just three kisses. That was all they had. That, and Kiku's broken heart keening like a beached whale before he'd quietly made himself functional again, stitching himself lopsidedly together so that he could attend school, and wait to have panic attacks alone in his room.

Breathe, the world pounding through your floor, into your feet. Natalya's face, so distorted with rage she hardly looked human, tottering in the flames, card, hard eyes marble-like and mad. She had looked hopeful-so hopeful as her Only reached for with a kind, long-suffering look. And Ivan killed her swiftly, sending the girl dropping to the ground, her lifeless eyes dilating, lips frozen in a smile.

Breathe in, out. In, out. In, in, in in-

Ivan smiling down at Kiku cradling his broken arm to his breast, shuddering as the pain turned his world pulsating and red. And in that red Ivan stood, the dread god of it all, smiling, serene, eyes filled with so much hatred that Kiku wouldn't have been surprised if Ivan danced on his back, carefully breaking his spine apart with that same smile.

That smile was childishly singsong and mocking, and also coldly serene, something floating and majestic, something belonging to a terrible god: I have all the time in the world to watch you suffer, it said.

And maybe, when you've lost all your senses and topple into near-senselessness, I'll let you die.

But first I'll watch you unravel, watch as you watch yourself come to pieces and find out just how fragile you are-a flesh bag of chemicals.

Ivan could watch with hooded eyes, purple pupils shining with so much delight as he raised his pipe overhead, grinning, grinning, grinning. A funny grim reaper.

That smile would haunt Kiku for the rest of his life.

As the car sped onto the highway, Kiku raised a shaking hand to his eyes, feeling again tears streaming hot and fast on them. His phone rang, and he gulped for air before checking the Caller ID. He nearly started howling in the backseat, and it was all he could do to keep himself from dropping to the car floor, and cried freely, as he had not since that day in the hospital.

Give the guy a break.

It's been six years.

~o*oOo*o~

You're probably annoyed with me at this point. I don't blame you. Really, I don't. If you started reading this story at the very beginning, and returned (after no small amount of time) to see it end, as far as I'm concerned, you can feel whatever you like about me, because I'm convinced you're a saint.

If you're just tuning in after enduring 100+ pages of dense, unnecessary jargon, and have managed to get to this point without falling asleep, then I'm also convinced of your sainthood.

Who me? You might ask. Annoyed? Just because you took over two years to update, and when you do you turn the focus anywhere but on the two people we want to hear most about? No, I'm not annoyed. Screw you, though. This stuff with Basch and Kiku isn't really plot-relevant (now) and I'd rather just skip to the part where Ivan seduces Alfred. Hey, could you show us more of that, please? Or you could at the very least pick up where we left off. Show us Ivan's hideout. Show us what his plans are with Alfred. The fact that you're not slows the momentum and is a sign of sloppy storytelling.

Speaking of sloppy storytelling, why the hell are you appearing in the story as a narrator NOW, at the end? You're breaking the fourth wall. Kind of ruins the effect here.

I know. I'm sorry. (I'm not very sorry though, sorry) Really, I am. You bring up thoughtful questions, because my readers are thoughtful, kind, loyal, and brilliant people whom are probably very good at Parcheesi, and no one is fucking good at fucking Parcheesi. Not even people whom form Parcheesi leagues. Is there such a thing? (I think there must be.)

But here's where you might want to stop reading.

I don't like saying that, and you probably don't like hearing it. After all, if you've gotten thus far in the story, you're probably inured to quite a few icky things by now, if you weren't already. (I'm sure it's the latter; you had some inkling as to what this story was about before you decided to read.)

You're likely asking: But aren't you going to explain yourself?

I'll try: This story is not doing a very good job of manifesting itself but in one way. Maybe it's because this was how the way things simply turned out (I dearly hope not), or when I threw my hook into the ocean I pulled a fish a little larger then I could handle.

I am apprehensive to go forward, because I don't feel like I have much business writing about what is about to occur.

And only NOW IS this occurring to you? You might ask skeptically. Hey, look at that bird! Hello, bird! I say in turn. (Really, there's a nice cardinal outside my window. I like cardinals.)

It's remarkably presumptuous of me (because I am a presumptuous person) but I do want to finish the story and fulfill my promise.

Yes, yes, you're probably saying. (It's annoying having someone speak for you sometimes, isn't it?) Get the picture. Let's have some Alfred and Ivan angst. And sexytimes. I want to know what happened.

No, you don't. I don't. That's why I stopped.

You probably don't like reading that either. Well, I don't like typing it. Anyhow, this is my premature 'I told you so' moment, so when you finish the story I can point from my computer and say, "Told you so." (I do love you very much, if that helps.)