The Price I Pay Yuki/Shuuichi

The Price I Pay: Yuki/Shuuichi:

Chapter Eight:

(Sorry, I can’t really figure out how to continue the previous scene, so I’m skipping ahead in the fic, I might have some flashbacks to the previous scene later though.)

A few weeks later:

Yuki stared at his computer screen, searching his thoughts for inspiration, but his muse abandoned him—he couldn’t even seem to force the words out of him, his creativity a dried-up well. Empty, an eternal void.

Sighing, resting his head on his propped up arms, Yuki closed his eyes and then took off the glasses he wore when working. A slight jab of pain pulsed through his head, signaling the start of an oncoming headache—something less common nowadays, but much more annoying.

Closing his laptop, he turned around to look at the bed, smiling wistfully at the pink-haired singer sleeping peacefully sprawled on the mattress. The sleeping man had recovered enough from his pneumonia to come home a few days after he was admitted, and was now completely recovered from that bout.

One good thing in a list of wholly bad ones.

Standing, the novelist stepped softly to the bed, his heart heavy as he remembered how reluctant he was to stay around Shuuichi the day the singer was admitted. He stood away the whole day, eventually winding up drunk in some bar flirting with all the women—and he almost convinced one to spend the night with him before he remembered about the HIV.

The moment he remembered he left the bar, the awful feeling of dread and disbelief rising within him. Guilt too, for he remembered Shuuichi, remembered how he left the singer in the hospital after he’d fallen asleep—Yuki couldn’t imagine how upset the singer would be to find the novelist not there when he awoke. And Yuki couldn’t help feeling an extra-strong stab of guilt when he thought of Shuuichi having AIDS.

That’s why the next few days while Shuuichi recovered from the pneumonia in the hospital, Yuki never left his side, except to eat and use the bathroom—refusing to even sleep at first until the singer grew worried that he might come down sick from lack of sleep. When the novelist finally did sleep, it was in a second bed in Shuuichi’s hospital room, and then it was only a light rest, awaking every hour to check on the singer.

Focusing back on the present, Yuki flicked his eyes to the clock on the stand by the bed, sighing as he read the time. Running a hand through his hair, he leaned down and shook the singer awake.

“Shuu, it’s time for your medicine. Shuu.”

“Mmm….” The singer groaned, eyes still tightly shut, though he leaned into the familiar touch. “Yuki….”

“C’mon Shuu, it’s time to wake up.”

Slowly the singer opened his eyes, groaning something about how nice the dream he’d been having was and he didn’t want to wake up.

“You have to take your medicine; I already took mine a few minutes ago.” Yuki opened a drawer in the stand by the bed and took out two vials; “Here, I’ll go get you some water. One of each remember.”

“Yeah, Yeah.” Shuuichi took the proffered containers, a look of chagrin on his face. “I’m already sick of taking these.” He stared disdainfully at the vials, tossing them onto the bed. “I’m not taking them.”

“Shuu.” Yuki looked vexed and wistful, calming himself with a deep breath. “You have to take them, to manage your AIDS and to make sure you don’t catch anything.”

“They make me feel sick. I can’t do anything when I take them, Yuki!”

“Shuu….”

Suddenly the doorbell rang, and Yuki went to answer it, sighing as he wondered how he’d get Shuu to take his medicine this time.

The pink-haired singer had grown increasingly more adamant against taking his medicine each day since his release, and the novelist grew tired of making the singer take the pills. Yuki was more reluctant to force Shuuichi once the pills’ side-effects started making Shuuichi sick and tired—yesterday the singer stood in bed the whole day after taking the medicine, too lethargic to do anything.

Reaching the door, Yuki opened it, not surprised to see the singer’s friend Hiro—Shuuichi had told his friends and family about his AIDS on the second day of his hospital stay, and ever since Hiro had visited the singer at least once a day.

“He’s in the bedroom; I was just getting some water for him to take his meds.” Yuki said as Hiro entered silently—refusing to greet the novelist. ‘Looks like he still blames me for Shuuichi having AIDS….’ Yuki sighed and walked to the kitchen as Hiro walked to the bedroom; the guitarist knocked once before entering, letting the singer know it was him.

Yuki stood in the kitchen alone for a few seconds, filling up a glass of water to bring to Shuuichi, his thoughts blank as he stared at the water falling from the facet—he didn’t really see the water, he didn’t see anything, his mind just wandered off to a place beyond thought, dissociating himself from his surroundings.

Snapping back to reality a few seconds later, Yuki found that the water from the facet had overflowed the cup and soaked his hand. Cursing himself, he turned off the water and tipped some out of the cup, then he dried his hand and walked to the bedroom; he didn’t want to, but he had to force the singer to swallow the pills.

His hand was right about to turn the doorknob when Hiro’s voice filled the air.

“Shuu, you need to take your meds, you know as well as anyone that….” Pause. “What about Bad Luck? If you don’t take your meds, you won’t be able to sing again.”

“I don’t care—I’ll never feel well enough to sing if I take those pills, the band’s through.” Shuuichi’s voice sounded bitter to the novelist, bitter and sad.

“Shuu, you don’t have to give up the band just ‘cause…you can still record CDs and maybe play a few concerts—you don’t have to….”

“I don’t want to play in the stupid band anymore! Get out! I don’t want to do anything anymore! Just leave!”

“Shuuichi….”

“LEAVE!”

Hearing footsteps approaching the door, Yuki backed away, just in time to dodge as Hiro opened the door frustrated, his expression seething with anger. Without once looking at the novelist or saying goodbye to the singer, the guitarist left storming out of the house as sudden as he arrived.

Yuki sighed before entering the room, glass of water in his left hand.

“I don’t want to see you either.” Shuuichi mumbled sitting on the corner of the bed, back to the novelist, though he peeked behind him once or twice. “I’m not taking those pills. You can’t make me.”

“Shuu….”

“YOU CAN’T FORCE ME TO TAKE THOSE FUCKIN PILLS! I WILL NOT TAKE THEM!” Shuuichi turned to look at the novelist anger gleaming in his eyes. “I’ve had enough of feeling sick all the time—I feel better when I don’t take those pills, Yuki, don’t make me take them.” The singer’s voice turned whiny and sad, tears filling Shuu’s violet eyes.

Sighing, Yuki turned around and left the room without a word, unable to bring himself to argue with the pink-haired man—his own meds had started making him feel sick too, but not as much as the singer; even so he was tired of listening to Shuuichi complain like he was the only one going through this.

‘At least he knows he has AIDS, I have to live each day wondering if my HIV will turn into AIDS. Plus, he doesn’t have to live with the guilt of infecting his partner.’

Without realizing it, Yuki made his way back to the kitchen, emptying the glass in the sink—once again entering that dissociative state, only this time he didn’t stay still through it.

From some place distant in his mind, he saw himself get the knife from the drawer, saw him press the blade to his arm—he heard Shuuichi’s concerned voice from the distant corner of his mind too; but it didn’t stop him from pressing harder with the knife and slicing it across his wrist.

He was still in that dissociative state when everything went black, swallowing him in an abyss.

A/N: End chapter: Thank you for being patient while I worked on updating this fic, I can’t wait until I read your reviews.