Judgements of a Stone

Judgments of A Stone
By: Vain
6.2001-11.23.2001

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-----READ THIS INFORMATION OR YOU MAY BE CONFUSED!!!!!-----
Please Note:
THIS IS A STORY CONTAINING MATURE THEMES, DISTURBING IMAGERY, ADULT SITUATIONS, VIOLENT THEMES, CHARACTER DEATH, AND VARIOUS FORMS OF CHILD ABUSE. THIS IS RATED NC-17.
ALSO, THIS IS UNRELATED TO ANY OF MY OTHER WORKS.

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“I was born with the devil in me.”
~ Dr. H.H. Holmes

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Chapter Two:
In Which There Was Darkness on the Face of the Deep
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Ken tried not to tremble—it was actually quite an effort for a five year old to exert, but he tried his hardest. If Osamu Oniichan saw him afraid . . . it would be bad.
Osamu was yelling and waving his arms, but the words slipped by faster than Ken could comprehend them. He wondered when Momma and Poppa would be home. He wondered why he had spilled the juice on the carpet. He wondered why Osamu Oniichan was always so very angry. He wondered what Yukio-san was doing.

“Well?! Answer me!”

Ken started and his eyes widened. What had he asked? What should he say? “I . . . Osamu Oniichan, I—”

Osamu scowled and lunged forward, gripping his brother’s tiny hand and jerking the boy forward. Acting on pure instinct, Ken tried to pull away, fighting and tugging against the painful grip on his hand. He flailed, accidentally connecting his fist to his Oniichan’s thigh. It was nowhere near hard enough to hurt, but it was more than enough to further enrage his brother.

“YOU USELESS BRAT!”

“Aah!” The hand wrapped around Ken’s wrist flung the boy away from Osamu and his body slammed into the wall with a hollow thud and his head bounced off the white paint dully. Stars exploded behind the little boy’s eyes and he felt his teeth penetrate his lower lip. He slid into a heap on the floor and began to shake. Second later muffled sobs emerged from him.

For a moment there was silence. Then: “ . . . Kenny-boy . . .?”

He didn’t—couldn’t—look up.

“I—Ken?”

Move! Get up! Do something, don’t . . . The thought was cut short by a hand pressing against his shoulder. Osamu sat down on the floor and pulled the crying boy into his lap.

“I . . .” Ken hiccupped. “I—I’m sorry, Osamu Oniichan.”

“Oh, Kenny-boy . . .” A tired sigh left his brother’s lips and Ken cringed at the soft sound. Osamu wrapped his strong arms around his brother and held him close, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. “You just . . . Why can’t you just be good?”

“I’m sorry.”

When Momma and Poppa got home there was a big stain on the white carpet. Ken was sent to bed without dinner.

~~~ -+- ~~~

There were bruises on his Ichijouji Ken’s wrists. He looked tired, dark circles gradually forming under his eyes and giving him the shadowed appearance of a startled raccoon. Yukio ground his teeth together, angry at wher her had done this to his little Ichijouji Ken. His little Ichijouji Ken.

It had been months since they had first met in the park for ice cream. Autumn had come and gone and now winter was on its way, bringing with it the promise of snowball fights and darkened skies. Ken’s birthday had come and gone, too. The child’s family didn’t throw him a party, though, so Yukio took the situation into his own hands and took Ken to the zoo. It amazed him that he could vanish with Ken for hours and no one seemed to notice that he was missing. It was frightening. It was so thrilling, so intoxicating, that more and more often Yukio entertained the thought of not returning his little angel to the hell that was his home and instead carrying him far, far away to where he could keep Ken all to himself and love and protect Ken forever. He wanted to so badly that he could taste it . . . almost the same way he could taste his Ken. It was almost as sweet, too.

But Ken was quiet now—too quiet. He was always like that after “Osamu Oniichan Got Angry,” as the child called it. Yukio hated that. He hated the fact that something could deprive his little bird of its chirp. He hated the fact that Osamu’s name, Osamu Oniichan, was a title, a name to be whispered with awe and respect. He hated the fact that something, this Osamu Oniichan thing, could frighten his angel. But most of all, he hated having to share Ken with this Osamu Oniichan thing. Ken was his. He loved Ken. He made Ken laugh and smile. He was privy to Ken’s secrets. He was all that Ken needed—would ever need. There was only him . . . And Osamu Oniichan.

A large meaty hand gently ran itself through Ken’s hair. It was an addiction for Yukio, that soft silky hair. “What happened?”

Ken sniffled. “Nothing. I fell down.”

“What were you doing that you fell?”

“I just slipped. I’m clumsy, s’all.”

The two were silent and a cold wind blew. Ken shivered. Yukio regarded him for a long moment and then scooped him up in his immense arms. Ken offered no resistance and allowed the adult to lift him up and begin to walk away. The child was used to such treatment by now; Yukio-san was always lifting him up or touching his hair, or holding his hand, or rubbing his back. It felt nice at first, always being the center of attention. It was a foreign feeling. But lately, it had begun to make him uncomfortable, it made him feel funny inside sometimes when Yukio-san touched him, the way he’d rub his skin or stroke his hair—the way he’d look at him like he was something to eat . . . But Ken knew that he was just being stupid. Yukio-san loved him just like Osamu Oniichan loved him. If they were angry or something was wrong, it was because he messed up. And he had already messed so many things up!

He knew he wasn’t smart, and he didn’t look nice, and he didn’t understand stuff, and he wasn’t important, and he did such awfully bad things; he knew it all. But he tried so very hard and Momma and Poppa just didn’t love him because he was so bad and Oniisan tried even harder than he did to teach him to be a good boy and obey and Yukio-san was so very important to whatever it was that he did but spent time with Ken anyway and he just had to be gooder and smarter and faster and better to make sure that he didn’t mess up.

Osamu Oniichan loved him. Yukio-san loved him. His parents tried to love him, but he was just so bad . . . But Osamu and Yukio were everything. If they hurt him it was only to make him better. It was only because he deserved it. If there waythiything that Ken had learned in his short life it was that people never really mean it when they hurt you, when they hit you, or touch you in that weird way that makes your skin crawl, or hit you with the umbrella after you knock over the bridge they had been building with toothpicks to show stuff about stuff in the big school where everyone wears the gray clothes. The big school that he wanted so much to be a part of. They never meant any of that stuff. They only did it because they love you and you’re too dumb to understand and to love them back and to be GOOD. Because that’s all that he had to do really, the one thing that he didn’t understand most: be good. So it was alright when they did those things. He deserved it.

Yukio stopped short in front of a large building and Ken looked up, blue eyes subdued and occasionally flickering to violet. He turned to regard his friend curiously. “Where are we?”

“This is where I live, my little Ichijouji Ken. This is home.”

They entered the building and went into a small elevator where Yukio gently set Ken on the ground and pushed a button. Ken was silent as the adult gently squeezed his hand and the elevator lurched upwards. “It’s cold outside,” Yukio was saying. “You mustn’t catch cold, my little Ichijouji Ken.”

Mustn’t catch cold, the boy repeated to himself silently.

A tinny-sounding bell rang and the door slid open with a groan. Still holding Ken’s hand, Yukio left the elevator and walked down the long dim hallway. His long strides shortened automatically so that his companion could keep up with him. Butterflies the size of hedgehogs fluttered in the adult’s stomach and he shot a quick glance down to watch Ken’s blue-haired head bob back and forth as his little legs worked rapidly to keep up.

What are you doing, Yukio, he thought as he watched the boy. You shouldn’t be doing this now . . . Not yet. Not this yet. His mind avoided the thought the same way that it always had, tried to put it offaybeaybe I should take him away with me for a little bit first—just for a little before . . . What? But perhaps just a little, not all the way, but just a little bit for now . . .

“Yukio-san? Are you alright?” Ken’s wide eyes regarded him in solemn concern.

The big man blinked rapidly at the boy and then raised his eyes to look at the closed door of his apartment. They were here.

“Yukio-san? You look funny, Yukio-san? Do you have a temp’ture?”

“No . . . I . . .” He trailed off, eyes staring blankly at the door. He looked back down at Ken, that look that made Ken feel funny, and his voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. “Would you like to play a game with me, my little Ichijouji Ken?”

Blue eyes blinked owlishly. “A game? Okay.”

Yukio fumbled with the lock for a moment before the door swung open. The hinges shrieked eerily in protest. A firm hand pushed Ken into the apartment and the child blinked, slightly disoriented by the bright sunlight streaming through the windows after the darkness in the hall. They both paused at the entrance to remove their shoes before Ken hesitantly edged the rest of the way into the apartment. The boy regarded the tight quarters with a child’s curiosity before his eyes latched onto a large screen TV that occupied most of the living room. He grinned.

“Can we play video games, Yukio-san?”

The adult looked down into those big blue eyes and smiled, his resolve and confidence restored by the boundless love he saw there. “Of course we can, my little Ichijouji Ken.”

The boy grinned broadly and happily bounced over to the television set. Yukio trailed behind him.

“What do you want to play?” he asked as he settled himself on the floor next to the boy.

After casting a backwards glance at his friend to be sure it was alright, the child went over to the entertainment center and his small fingers fluttered over the game cartridge. Finally, his eyes widened with pleasure and he settled on a game with a dark picture of space ships shooting lasers at other ships. He whirled around and held it out for Yukio to see, a plea shining in his blue eyes. Yukio accepted the cartridge from him and lifted an eyebrow.

He eyed the boy curiously. “A strategy game?”

Ken nodded eagerly.

The adult frowned. “Don’t you think that this is just a bit advanced for you?”

A defiant spark suddenly shone in Ken’s eyes and his lips drew into a thin line. “I play them all the time on Osamu Oniichan’s computer when he’s not using it.”

The tall man stared, taken aback by that hard look. He had never seen Ken look like that before. “Alright then.” He put the cartridge into the machine and settled himself down next to Ken. “You’re player one,” he announced as he handed the child a remote.

Ken nodded and leaned forward, eyes shining brightly. The game was starting.

~~~ -+- ~~~

An hour later Yukio stared at the television as his last space ship blew into smithereens. He blinked in confusion. What the hell just happened here . . .? He had been bested by a six-year-old boy? He blinked again. How . . .?

Next to him, Ken threw back his head and laughed in childish delight. “I told you I could beat you, Yukio-san!”

“Indeed you did, my little Ichijouji Ken,” the man murmured as he pushed himself up. “Indeed you did.”

“Yukio-san?” Ken frowned as he watched trownrown-up stand. Had he done something wrong?

“No more video games for today, my dear,” Yukio said as he moved to turn off the machine.

“Yukio-san?”

He turned and smiled at the child and Ken shifted, suddenly, inexplicably uncomfortable. If Ken had known what the word predatory meant, it would have been the first word he thought of, bs its it was, he didn’t know what it meant so all he could do was shiver a little at the chill that ran up and down his spine.

“We are going to play a different game now, alright?”

Blue eyes watched him with a mix of caution and curiosity. “Another game?”

“Yes. But you must promise me that you will be quiet and do everything I say, do you understand my little Ichijouji Ken?”

The boy bobbed his head up and down. “Is it like a secret?”

The man paused at a doorway leading out of the room. He blinked owlishly and then smiled that smile again. “It’s exactly like a secret, so you must be very, very good, alright?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Wait here a minute.” Yukio turned and went into his darkened bedroom. Once he was there, he sat down heavily on the bed and reached for the phone. His hands were shaking, making it difficult to punch in the numbers. “What are you doing, Oikawa?” he murmured to himself as he struggled not to hyperventilate. “What are you doing?”

On the other end of the line, the phone rang. “Bourgeoisie. How may I help you?”

His voice sounded hoarse and strained. “ is is Oikawa Yukio. I need to leave a message for—yes, that right. Mmm-hmm. No. Just tell him that I have to cancel again. Yes. I’m entertaining a close friend tonight. Thank you.”

The phone clattered loudly in its plastic cradle as he hung it up clumsily. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and put his head in his hands.

The curtains were drawn and no light dared to enter the chamber. For a moment, Yukio let the darkness seep into him, sooth him and push away the last of his worries, fears, and the raging headache that he seemed to have developed in less than a minute. Then, all of its own accord, Yukio’s body stood up, opened a drawer, and pulled out one of his wide, neatly folded silk ties. He stared down at the material dully, acutely aware of its cool smoothness against his burning skin. His body seemed rooted to the spot, ice cold and burning up all at once. He bit his r lir lip. What are you doing . . .?

“Ken?” The deep throb of his voice startled even him. “Will you please come here, my little Ichijouji Ken?”

A minute later a small blue-haired head appeared in the door. “Yes, Yukio-san?”

“Close the door and come here, Ken.”

The child did as he was told, the door clicking closed and plunging them both into deep, heavy shadows. “Are you okay, Yukio-san?” he asked as he blinked in the lighlighting, trying to get his bearings. He began to walk towards his friend hesitantly. “You look funny. Are you sick? Osamu Oniichan says that—”

“Stop.”

Ken halted instantly.

“Never, ever mention that name in here, do you understand me, Ken? Never.”

The bluenette swallowed hard and nodded jerkily. “Yes, Oikawa-san. I understand.”

Neither noticed the switch back to formal honorifics. Something had just changed between them—their relationship had shifted—and although neither could say how he knew, they both knew that Yukio-san and little Ichijouji Ken were not in this room. Now there was Oikawa-san and Ken, and those were two completely different people. Yukio’s voice softened then, once more the gentle thunder that the boy was so very acquainted with. “Good. Now come here, Ken.”

Trembling a bit, he did as he was told. Why was he scared? Yukio-san loved him. He would never hurt Ken. Not unless he deserved it. Gentle hands grazed the child’s slim shoulders from behind, unnerving in their insubstantiality. They slid back to stroke his neck, teasing the pale skin beneath those waves of blue hair. Ken shivered violently. It was dark in there. So dark that the tiny youngster felt like it was trying to swallow him up. And Yukio-san wouldn’t stop touching him . . .

“Oikawa-san—”

“Do you love me, Ken?”

The voice sounded far away, like Yukio-san wasn’t even there. Tears started to well up in Ken’s eyes. What was going on? “Y—yes, Oikawa-san . . .”

“I love you,” the voice continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “Do you trust me?”

“Oikaw—ah!”

Yukio dug his fingers hard into the shaking boy’s shoulders. “Do you trust me, Ken?”

“Yes.” Tears were sliding down Ken’s face now.

A hot breath settled down near his ear, stirring his hair lightly. “Good. We’re going to play a game now, Ken. Would you like that?”

Ken whimpered.

“We’re going to play a very special game because we’re both good friends and we love each other, okay? But this is a secret game, understand? And you mustn’t ever tell anyone about this game. If you did they’d make us stop. They’d take you away from me and lock you up and never let you see me again because you were bad and told.” The hands trailed down Ken’s body and one of them slid up his shirt, wrapping around him to rub his belly. Yukio’s palms were rough and hot. “You don’t want that, do you? You don’t want to be a bad boy, do you?”

Blue hair flew as the boy shook his head miserably. “No . . .” Sobs were collecting in his throat, sitting heavy in his belly, just under Yukio’s hand. He pushed them down—he knew better than to cry.

“Then you must be very, very quiet, Ken, and not say a word. I’m going to make you feel good, real good. I promise.”

The hand beneath Ken’s shirt vanished and he heard the rustle of clothe and motion. Then something cool and smooth was ed oed over his eyes and tied tight behind his head, pulling at his hair. The boy whimpered again as he was plunged into darkness and the entire world was reduced to smell, taste, touch, and sound. Cool air washed over him as he felt his shirt being pulled over his head and then clutched at his legs when his jeans were roughly dropped. He tried to wrap his arms around himself defensively, but found his wrists caught up in hands much larger and stronger than his own.

“No,” Yukio whispered roughly as he jerked him forward a bit. “No. I want to see you.”

The sobs started to rise again but Ken pushed them back down. His wrists were released and he dropped them to his sides again, terrified of moving lest he do something wrong. The hands brushed his shoulders again and then slid down his chest towards the waistband of his Power Rangers briefs. Something large and heavy pressed into the shallow dip of his neck and as Oikawa nuzzled his throat something hot and wet moved over his skin. Yukio moaned into his pale, trembling flesh. The hands dipped below the elastic band of his underwear and they were pulled down to land in the pile of jeans around his ankles. The hands continued their exploration.

Behind his blindfold, Ken squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to wail at the horribly invasive and personal touch that traced every inch of his body. The mouth that licked, nipped, and sucked at every part of exposed skin, always moving lower and lower and lower . . . Then it stopped.

Ken let out a gasp of air, suddenly painfully aware that he had been holding his breathe. He ached inside. He felt dirty.

“You . . .” the words were a choking sigh somewhere nearby. “You are an angel. Exquisite. Exquisite.”

The blindfold absorbed Ken’s tears.

There came the sound of cloth and motion again. A zipper. A grunt. A slight displacement of air. Ken squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tensed so that his entire body shook. Momma, Momma . . . Osamu Oniichan . . .

Something hard and fleshy was pressed against Ken from behind and he flinched as he shook. Osamu, Osamu, I want to ome ome . . . I want Oniichan . . .

Yukio’s roaming hands returned, wrapping around his waist, moving there—gripping hard where it would hurt the most. Ken cried out faintly and bent double, an inborn protective instinct. His body felt like it was trying to shake itself to pieces and he nearly fell, tangled up in his jeans. The grip tightened. Oniichan . . .

“Exquisite,” Oikawa murmured almost drunkenly behind him. He pulled Ken closer. bea beautiful.”

Something hard, long, and big pressed against him—pushed hard up against him—and then pushed farther—

Ken screamed.

~~~ -+- ~~~

Sitting alone in a café called the Bourgeoisie, Hida Hiroki frowned as he checked his watch. Yukio was late . . .

“Excuse me?” he flagged down a pretty waitress with hideous fake blond highlights. “Waitress?”

She came up to the table and smiled brightly. She was almost pretty enough to block out those highlights. Almost. “Can I help you, sir?”

He frowned darkly, an odd expression on a face that was obviously so used to open laughter and happiness. “Are there any messages for a Hida Hiroki?”

“I’ll go check,” she said before she swayed off back into the café.

Hiroki stared after her for a minute. “Where are you, Yuk-kun?”

Over the past four months the two of them had been making fabulous progress in the Digital World. Ever since they had discovered that data and DNA were actually interchangeable, they had been moving at an astounding rate of speed. Hiroki was thrilled. It was almost within his reach . . . A beautiful, peaceful world that knew nothing of pain, or crime, or war, or evil. New, pristine. A place where he could watch his little Iori—his precious son, his very reason for being—grow up and learn the right and honorable ways a man should live. And it was right there in front of them—barely out of reach.

But something had been distracting Yuk-kun as of late—eating up their time together. Hiroki’s schedule was not his own. He worked for the government. This made any and all time that he could spend with his family and best friend precious, almost sacred. So why was Yukio suddenly so willing to throw it away?

“Sir?”

Hiroki blinked as he shied back from those thoughts. He smiled up at her smile. “Yes?”

“A message was left by one Oikawa Yukio. He says that he’s entertaining a friend and won’t be able to it it again tonight. Did you need anything else?”

He sighed heavily. “No. No, thank you.” He stood up to go and pulled out his cell phone. Six was the speed dial home.

“Moshi-moshi. Hida household.”

“Father?” the man said into the phone. He stopped at a crosswalk.

“Ah. Hiroki! I thought that you were going out with that friend of yours tonight. What was his name again?”

“He had to cancel.” After checking the light, he stepped into the street. “I’ll be home in about fifteen minutes, alright?”

“Very good,” the old man’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “You’ll be just in time for supper. Iori has been anxious to see you. You really should spend more time with the boy. One never knows how much time we are given to lead our lives and therefore we must live everyday to the fullest. Your son is young yet. His earliest memories should be of you, not of hanging onto his mother’s apron strings.”

“I know, Father, I know. I’ll see you all soon, okay?”

“Are you alright, my son?”

“I’m fine, just a little disappointed.”

“Disappointment is a fact of life, my Hiroki. One more thing, though?”

“Yes?”

“Could you pick up some prune juice and yogurt?”

Hiroki blinked. “Yogurt? In the cups or the drinkable stuff?”

“Drinkable yogurt? Who would even want to buy such a thing?”

“They’re actually not that bad. I like them.”

“You young people . . . Just because something’s new does not mean that it is better.”

He could almost hear his father shaking his head. There was just no use in arguing with the old man: while he could dispense advice from here till doomsday, he just couldn’t accept it that well. “I’ll get them now, Father. Ja ne.”

“Ja ne.”

Hiroki folded up the phone and returned it to his coat pt. t. So you’re entertaining someone, Yuk-kun? Why didn’t you tell me before? Oh, well. I hope that you’re enjoying youf, mf, my friend.

At that moment, unknown to the world, a child was screaming in Tamachi.