Pairing : Ryo x Ohkura
Genre : I refuse to slap a label on this fic
Rating : R
Summary : Psycho!Ohkura with a God Complex. Ryo the unwilling accomplice fighting a losing battle against his conscience. And their twisted relationship you can either see as self-inflicted torture or a warped kind of love.
A/N : My inspiration has nudged me towards this fic and no I have no idea whether that is good or bad. For kamexkame aka Ana whose last comment to this fic blew me away. And also to diac who has been very supportive and encouraging with all her comments. Comments/critiques are loved.
Nishikido Ryo liked the brief paralysis of oblivion, except that oblivion doesn’t come cheap at all. He looked at his wrist, beads of blood forming across the skin and slowing to a trickle. He put the razor blade on the bedside table, glad for the numbness in his left wrist. He didn’t want to die, maybe he just needed a respite from the litany of danger, death and the voices warring inside his head. A serial killer who self-mutilates. He couldn’t stop his lips from quirking upwards in sardonic humor. Any self-respecting psychologist would probably have a field day trying to pick apart his brain. Sadly there was no mystery at all. His heart rebelled against his mind, the emotions he felt a most unwelcome traitor.
There were times when he tried to distance himself, except that he realized he had nowhere to go, that this was the only kind of life he had known for seven years. The blood, the carnage, the games and deception without any apparent pangs of conscience or embarrassment. But there was, because his conscience came to haunt him at night behind closed eyes, in the form of broken screams and ghostly wraiths. At first Ryo escaped to sleeping pills. After a while, he realized this was his punishment, that this was his purgatory to expiate his sins. And he stopped running, even in his nightmares because he wanted to assure himself that within him, there still lived a basic human decency he wanted valiantly to protect. Even if it was a losing battle.
There was the low rumble of thunder, a crack of lightning that flashed across the sky and illuminated the room. It was raining again. The heavy pelting of raindrops hit the windowpanes and he could hear the howling of the winds outside, like a lonesome death dirge that swept across the bloodied land. Indeed, even God had a penchant for theatrics, he thought.
He had become accustomed to the darkness when the door opened and he saw a silhouette standing there in the shadows. The light flushed in from the living room, and Ohkura simply stood there, on the threshold of the room, one hand still on the doorknob. His eyes shone like beacons in the murky darkness and the air became stilted, oppressing. Then he shut the door, and Ohkura being the man he was, made sure he heard the click of the door being locked. There was going to be no intruders but obviously Ohkura took a perverse pleasure in the sound of the lock, sounding like a last death knell or the final nail in the coffin.
Ryo simply laid on the bed with a strange kind of fatalism and inevitability, painfully aware that he only had on a threadbare shirt and a pair of drawstring pants hanging low on his hips. He didn’t fidget, he simply laid there, because he knew how Ohkura thrived on fear and the worst thing he could do was to betray the impulse to run. And so he did the only thing his instinct told him to do. He struck first.
“You smell like a whore.” In the darkness, he heard the soft velvet caress of Ohkura’s laughter, slightly unsettling in how beguiling it sounded.
“I bathed already. And don’t worry. I didn’t kill her.” With every word, Ryo heard the whisper of Ohkura’s bare feet against the carpeted floor. Then he felt the bed sag under the weight of Ohkura, and he smelled him. Like tangerine, like mint, like darkness, like the harbinger of death.
His long tapering fingers ghosted over the pout of Ryo’s parted lips, before his hand wrapped around his neck. Not tight enough to warrant pain, but Ryo could feel the fear settling in. All he needed to do was to exert enough force, and all he would feel was the swift, blinding pain. And in Ohkura’s very own words, that would be the very least of his worries now that Ohkura was above him, his knee insinuated unceremoniously between his legs. He leaned down, the scorching heat of his breath branding him, the wet silken heat of his mouth near his ear. He shivered, and he could picture the little teasing smile on Ohkura’s face, luxuriating in the power he had over him.
“Tell me why I didn’t kill her, Ryo.” His voice was a deep sibilant croon. He had dragged his mouth down the side of his neck, his teeth resting against the fierce, frantic pulse of his life.
“You rediscovered your hidden conscience?” Ryo muttered under his breath, his words the only defense, the only way for him to openly flaunt his defiance. In the ways that mattered, he had long prostituted himself to Ohkura, his conscience, his preconception of right and wrong, his heart.
The hand tightened around the soft flesh of his neck like a vise, the forefinger exerting pressure on his chin. Ryo felt dizzy, disorientated and he had no way of knowing whether it was because of the impending stench of danger and death, or Ohkura’s body resting against his.
“Because she was easy, Ryo.” The phantom hand gripped his wrist and Ryo put up a token struggle, before he felt the salve of Ohkura’s wet tongue licking the blood, sucking hard on the dried wounds. Ryo met those impenetrable eyes fearlessly, and realized all he could see in those cassock eyes was dark swirling mist. And he had been lost inside for the longest time, wondering whether there was a way out, wondering whether he actually wanted to find that escape route.
“Because she wasn’t you.” Ryo almost allowed himself to feel a brief sentimentality at those four words, but Ohkura was too glib a liar, too consummate and proficient an actor, that he didn’t believe him. Ohkura had long robbed him of his ability to trust, and he clung to his diminishing faith by a threadbare string, and the only thing sustaining him was his guilt.
“So now you’ve become a romantic too? Go to hell Ohkura.”
Ohkura’s hand delved under his shirt, splayed wide on his abdomen in a blatant show of ownership and an insolent disregard of Ryo’s unwillingness.
“Well Ryo, look around you. We’re already there.”