Fan Fiction ❯ Black Phoenix ❯ Use the Door ( Chapter 4 )

Chapter Four

"Syrian? Syrian?"

Did I hear that voice or was it just my imagination? Where am I anyway? Unconscious, that's right. The angel of death threw me against the wall and I hit my head badly.

Wait a minute . . . If I'm unconscious, how can I be thinking all this? I groaned slightly. Yep, might as well make an appearance. Although I didn't know who this Syrian guy was. Did I mention that I'm terrible when I wake up? They might as well have been shouting Superman. For all I knew I had a craving for lycra.

So I slowly opened my eyes, another moan escaping my lips. My lips . . . I could still taste Mr Terada on my lips, and that scared me more than I realised. So when I finally entered the world of the conscious I was trembling and crying and no one realised why but me. My dirty secret. At least, that's what my father called it.

"Syrian?" All I could feel, all I could concentrate on was the fact that my body was shaking beyond my control, and I breathed in and out and closed my eyes and held onto my arms so that they didn't fly away until I accepted that I had some semblance of self-control. And then, and only then, did I pay any attention to my surroundings.

I didn't go through the usual routine of, "What's my name and where do I come from?" For some reason I knew that none of that was important at the moment. And then I realised that I was being supported. There were strong arms wrapped around my body protectively, as if I was fragile, and a warm and reassuring voice whispering indecipherable and yet comforting words into my ear.

I flushed before I had any answers, as if somehow I knew who this person was. And then I turned my head, ever so slightly (it was still sore) and I saw an angel. Not the angel of death who moments ago had tried to kill me. No, this was a genuine angel with dark hair hanging in his face and emerald eyes shining at me in relief.

How corny did that sound? But at the moment it was true. I was on the verge of unconsciousness, confused and feeling worse than any punishment a hangover could deliver, but Rian was holding me.

"Rian?" I croaked. I knew his name before my own.

"Syrian?" he said slowly, and he was relieved.

"I - I can't believe -" But I stopped speaking when a wave of dizziness washed over me. I felt nauseas suddenly, and leant forward quickly out of Rian's arms, heaving and ready to prove it to the world. But nothing happened. I was still trembling, but for once my loss of control didn't matter to me. I couldn't believe what Rian had done, especially after what I said to him this morning.

This morning. God, it was an eternity ago.

Then for the first time I heard sobbing and I turned to see Cindy sitting on the floor, and I remembered what had happened. I felt sorry for Cindy. She didn't deserve any of this, and she was hung over. I'm sure that made it all worse. And now she was sobbing her little heart out and I realised that even though she was annoying sometimes, she was a person too, and she had been scared.

The next minute she flung herself onto me and hugged me close to her body. A little too close. "Oh Syrian!" she wailed. "I thought he was going to kill you." I swear I couldn't breathe, and Cindy . . . God, she was practically groping me.

I stopped feeling sorry for Cindy and quickly forgot that she had ever been a person. Even at a time like this and in a place like this, she still managed a quick grope. Then I remembered her, "Oh my God, I'm too gorgeous not to be raped," and immediately vowed never to let her near me again.

The waitress was gone, and it didn't take a genius to realise where. A second later the sounds of sirens invaded my ears, slightly less piercing than Cindy's shouts, and I was relieved. The angel of death was still unconscious on the floor, thanks to Rian, and now the police were here to make sure that he never pointed a gun again. The waitress returned, still looking slightly bored, as if she would rather someone had been shot to make this episode more interesting than the last dozen, and I shivered.

God, what was wrong with me? I was shivering like a drowned animal, and my heart was pounding. As the sirens grew louder and louder, I began to feel more and more dizzy. And I could feel caring lips pressed against mine, and a hand running down my body. Not Cindy's groping. This hand was running through my hair, across my cheeks, guiding me gently.

This time when I leant forward and heaved, I felt the vomit leaving my mouth, my throat and chest muscles constricting painfully. Liquid dribbled down my lips onto the floor, mixed with saliva, staining the skin around my lips. Bile burnt my tongue. I didn't know exactly why I had thrown up. Hangover? Concussion? The memory of my father trying to kill me, what he said? Perhaps all of them, perhaps none. I didn't care at that moment. My stomach was lurching just as the door opened with a heart stopping bang. My nerves were too shattered to take anything, and the sound of police officers racing onto the scene was just too much.

The waitress looked pissed, like she was contemplating the very thought of having to clean the floor. Never mind me.

Rian seemed very tense. Oh, of course. Being an ex-assassin meant that he didn't have a loving relationship with the police. Or perhaps he was worried about me.

I was barely aware that the police were questioning everyone. I could hear Rian answering slowly, and the waitress, as composed as she was, telling the whole story. No one asked me. They probably would later, but at the moment I was the stupid kid in a heap on the floor.

And then I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and knew it was Rian. I was confused. Why was he being like this after . . .?

But I think I drifted in and out of consciousness after that. The next thing I knew I was moving, and someone was talking loudly into my ear. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me your name?"

Jesus, I was on a stretcher. How embarrassing! Everyone was watching, and I was being shipped off in an ambulance. Not what every seventeen-year-old thought about.

And with part of my strength returned, the utter ridiculousness of me being on a stretcher almost causing me to giggle, I nearly told the medic that my name was Spock. It would be interesting to see her reaction, but then, I could wake up in the loony bin. With my father . . .

*

"Syrian?" This voice was different. It was comforting and gentle, but had none of the strength that Rian's voice had. So I knew without opening my eyes that the person calling me wasn't Rian, or my father, or even Larry. And that's how I knew I was unconscious again, and the person calling me was all too familiar.

"Syrian, are you all right?" I opened my eyes, realised almost immediately that I was naked, and I could feel the heat in my cheeks. Arms were wrapped around my body, fingers raking through my chestnut hair. I couldn't see his face but I knew who it was. He always seemed to have a fascination with my hair and my face. He always stroked my skin so tenderly, as if I was worth something, and he cared.

"I'm fine," I mumbled, trying to hide my embarrassment as I realised that Mr Harada was naked too. We were both huddled together under the duvet of his bed, alone in his apartment, and he was pressing small kisses onto my cheeks.

He never struck me as the child molester type. He didn't go around sleeping with all his students, but apparently for me he had made an exception. And I believed him too. He wasn't the dirty, greasy type of person who leered and flashed at young kids. He always seemed to care, whether through his touches or his words, he cared. And at that moment in time, my dad confusing and scaring me, pushing me away, I needed someone to care.

I didn't love him of course. I wasn't stupid. He wasn't a paedophile but it didn't mean that what we were doing was right. He was a teacher and I was a student and we had just slept together.

But it was a turning point in my life. I didn't hate him, I didn't love him. He was just there to offer me comfort, and I gave him comfort in return. Only a different type.

Okay, I had accepted a long time ago that I swung both ways, and I don't want anyone to get the impression that he raped me, or forced me to become gay, or that I was intimidated because he was a teacher. Most people when they hear about teacher/student relationships immediately blame the teacher, but I'm not a child, and I knew what I was doing.

As I said before, it was a fling, a relationship we just both needed at the time but knew would never last.

Only my father didn't see it that way.

I left the apartment and headed home. I walked, even though he offered me a lift. My father was playing on my mind again. I could still see the look he had given me when I tried to help him. Of course, at that time I never knew what would ultimately happen, and I still cared about my dad. At that time.

When I got home he was waiting. He looked at me coldly, looked at his watch, and then at me again. I said nothing, even though I was supposed to. I just didn't know how to act around him anymore.

"What time do you call this?" he said very slowly.

I didn't know what the time was. Instinctively I said, "Sorry."

"Sorry?" he echoed. "Sorry? Where have you been?"

"Nowhere important."

"Don't give me that crap!" he snapped, and I flinched. It looked like he wasn't going to leave me alone tonight. I hated those days. He was doing it again, looking at me as if I was riddled with disease. All words died on my lips. "You've been up to something, I know it!" he whispered venomously.

"No," I said softly.

"You have!" he cried, outraged. "Don't lie to me, boy! I won't accept it."

I wanted to leave and go to my room, but I knew that if I attempted it I would be in trouble. So I did what I always did and waited for him to cool down and then send me to my room. It wouldn't have been his favourite punishment if he had known that my room was exactly where I wanted to go.

I sunk onto my bed and immediately wrapped my arms around a pillow for comfort. I exhaled, confused, not really sure what I was feeling. Guilt perhaps. But mainly I missed those arms around my body, even though I knew it was wrong.

That day had been my first visit to Mr Terada's apartment, but it wasn't my last. I slipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve the small piece of paper that my English teacher had written his address on, but my fingers grasped thin air. I realised in horror that the paper was gone.

*

When I woke up I groaned, the memories of the past all too clear in my head. I didn't know where I was or what had happened in reality, and in that moment I couldn't care less. Then I heard another voice, one that belonged to someone I knew and trusted. "Morning Sleeping Beauty."

For a long moment, I am ashamed to say, I wondered if Sleeping Beauty was actually my name. Then I laughed at the stupidity, tried to sit up and couldn't, and wondered what my real name was. I laughed again, lifted a hand to my face to rub the sleep from my eyes, and caught a glimpse of something. There was writing on my palm.

I blinked, attempted to recover my vision, and then read the words that had been scrawled onto my skin in black biro.

Syrian Black.

17 years old.

You are not, I repeat, NOT, Spock or Superman or any other fictional character.

I laughed again. I couldn't remember writing that little statement on my hand, and I was wondering when exactly I had developed such a fixation on the Vulcan.

Then I remembered the voice that had spoken to me only moments ago and turned, my breath caught in my throat. Rian. Rian was sitting there with a small smile on his twenty-two year old face, his dark hair hanging in his green eyes. He was there, and he was real, and I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

"Rian?" I croaked. I don't know why I said that. I knew his name, he knew his name, but I was still scared that he would disappear. "Where am I and what on earth is happening?"

He looked more relieved than I could ever comprehend. "You're in hospital," he said slowly. I froze, scowled, and then remembered my little trip on the stretcher. Hospital? Oh, for crying out loud, there's nothing wrong with me! But then I suppose everyone who gets shipped to the hospital says that.

Then I remembered it all. Like an explosion in my brain I saw the assassin pointing his gun towards me, Cindy shouting, the rain of glass shards. Rian standing there, unarmed, but ready to . . . He saved me, but was that his purpose? After everything I said to him? I said he was like my father, accidentally of course, but I had hurt him. Or was he there for another reason?

I turned away and felt tears of pain and confusion in my eyes. Overall, I was thinking that this day sucked. No more drinking for you, young man. I simply do not trust you after all that's happened.

And worse was that none of it seemed to make sense. The phoenix tattoo, the assassin. What did it all mean? And why did Rian . . .?

"Syrian?" he said carefully, but I wouldn't turn to face him. I couldn't, I just couldn't. He tried to turn me, but I wouldn't move. He was stronger than me, but he could feel my resistance and apparently decided not to force me to face him.

"Come on," he said, trying to sound light-hearted when he was obviously hurt. "Come on, Syrian, I just saved your life and you're brushing me off?"

Unfortunately I was a pissed off mood.

"Did you?" I snapped. "Did you save my life? Did you jump through that window on purpose because you saw that I was in danger? Or did you just want to 'do the right thing'? Or were you looking to be a hero?"

I was quiet then, and Rian was quiet too. He was hurt, or angry, I wasn't sure which. If I was him I would have smacked the stupid boy on the bed around the head, but I wasn't him. For a long moment Rian was quiet, as if considering just exactly what to say and how to say it.

"Syrian," he said calmly. "I don't understand. Of course I'm not looking for any glory. I was worried about you, I tried to find you, and when I saw that bastard in the café holding a gun to your head, I nearly had a heart attack I swear. All I could think was that he was going to kill you, and you'd be gone forever, and I couldn't stand that. And of course I would have helped anyone in the same situation, but with you . . . I mean, for crying out loud Syrian, I was so alarmed that I couldn't even use the door!"

He laughed slightly, and I found a small smile spreading across my lips, but I was still confused. "But why would you help me after what I did?"

He blinked, furrowed his brow. He obviously had no idea what I was talking about. And then it struck him. The reason why he had run out of the apartment that morning.

"I said you were like my father," I sobbed, still not facing him fully.

"That doesn't matter," he pleaded.

"But you left the apartment because of what I said. I hurt you."

And he was silent again, realising that comparing him to my father was the worst insult I could possibly ever give anyone, and he knew then just how much it had hurt me saying that he was anything like the man I so despised.

But Rian remained silent for longer than I expected, and when he talked again his voice was so full of pain that my heart ached. "Syrian," he said. "I know when you said that I was like your father you were only joking, or that you weren't thinking, but that wasn't the reason why I left this morning."

My mouth dropped open unattractively and I turned again to face him. "Then why did you leave?" I cried. Oh, for God's sake. I nearly get killed by some stupid assassin because I left the apartment to find Rian. Only I found Cindy first. And now this was all some kind of misunderstanding?

He looked pained, as if he was considering whether or not he should tell me.

"None of that!" I snapped. "If it wasn't what I said, then why the hell did you leave the apartment this morning?"

~TBC~