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Oh Lord! What have I become?
I'm the face of God I'm my fathers' son
I'm not, what you think you see
I know you can't eat leather, but you can't stop me
Ryo thinks there’s something unnatural about him.
His life feels hazy around the edges, layered onto other feelings and images he can’t quite grasp at. They seem to exist at the periphery of everything. There are nights where he wakes from visions of feverish reds, chest thrumming and elated at something he can’t recognize or name.
There’s something fundamentally wrong about the things he dreams, he knows from the ways they make him feel.
It scares him, feels like a disjointed explanation for the way his father would look at him sometimes.
He’s long since learned to dull the resulting anxiety with weed and other assorted substances. They soften his anxiety, but he can’t bring himself to sleep without a loaded gun under his pillow.
He has other dreams too, ones involving his best friend, all tangled limbs and open-mouthed kisses. Sometimes gentle and warm, other times frenetic, even violent.
He wakes from one of these slowly, entangled in his sheets and comforter, and can’t help the eternally present sinking feeling in his stomach. Ryo sighs and wills himself to roll out of his four poster bed. He pads to his bathroom, stretching his arms and rolling the kinks out of his neck. He eyes his reflection distastefully, notes the messy hair and flushed cheeks.
His first clear memories are of Akira, and the only dreams he can remember clearly are perpetually centered on him.
He’d like to think he’s simply hyper-focused on the task at hand.
Akira, who had the courage to stand up for foreign-looking Ryo, with his willowy limbs and piercing blue eyes. Akira, the only classmate who deigned to befriend him while others gave him contemptuous looks or bloody noses.
Ryo had learned early on that he had a way of unnerving people by being present, observing and silent.
He hadn’t been defenseless then, knew how to break skin and maybe even bone. But he never had to, because Akira was always there.
He kind of hates it.
After his father had died, all Ryo could stand to think of was Akira, in all his well-mannered kindness and naïveté. He hadn’t slept properly in weeks, busied himself with putting the pieces of his father’s research together.
He was and remains sure of one thing: Akira is the only one that can save them all.
And yet, he can’t stand to see him interacting with others, especially that Miki girl.
He grimaces, swallows a few Xanax for good measure. He can’t understand why Akira would involve himself with such a common person, she’s only proven herself to be a complete and utter nuisance.
Well, Ryo thinks. In the grand scheme of things, she means nothing.
He yawns, decides he’ll pick Akira up from school early today. There’s work to be done, after all.
Ryo isn’t sure how he finds these places, there’s rarely any outside signage. It’s like he’s naturally drawn to them.
When he isn’t poring over texts on the occult or with Akira, he frequents places like this. The music is too loud and the warehouse — pitch black, save for the obnoxiously flashing lights— is a definite safety hazard. A mass of people in various states of undress bump against each other, high out of their minds. It’s so perfect he’s almost in awe. He usually prefers to nurse a drink and simply watch the fascinating display.
Tonight, Ryo doesn’t waste time in becoming part of the crowd. He weaves his way through the mass, takes an offered tablet from a pretty woman in a skirt and not much else, pleased that the buzz kicks in within ten minutes.
He feels someone roughly pull his trench off and casually shrugs his shoulders to assist them. It’s too hot in here for clothes, much less a coat. He dances from person to person, completely dazed. He feels his mind go blank, complete thoughtlessness, and luxuriates in the feeling.
It can’t be more than twenty minutes before someone roughly grabs his arm, leads him to a corner and pushes him up against a wall. The back of his head meets brick, and he doesn’t really mind, can’t feel much anyway. Ryo notes, pleasantly, that the stranger has dark hair and nice features. He looks to be in his twenties, with a chiseled jaw and wide shoulders.
His hands are up Ryo’s shirt and he messily shoves their mouths together; Ryo reciprocates. He finds it tastes sweet, but not like candy. It's subtle, so characteristically human.
He thinks of all the warm bodies in this room, drugged up and willing. He laughs into his partner’s mouth, pulls him closer.