Fan Fiction ❯ Black Phoenix ❯ Sandwich Rules Supreme ( Chapter 6 )

Chapter Six

I froze when I heard those words. Rian and I were both standing together in front of the bathroom mirror, my hand pressed to my face. I didn't move, just glanced at him in the mirror, his reflection and not him. I didn't trust myself to look at him without losing it. He looked like he was about to drop dead. His eyes were wide in horror, his face pale, and I knew that as long as I watched him in the mirror I could pretend that none of this was real.

But it was, and with excruciating slowness I turned my head, even though my neck was still sore, and looked at him.

"What?" I cried, hating the desperation in my voice.

Immediately Rian composed himself. Then he shook his head. "Nothing," he said.

I was just about fed up with all the crap I was getting fed today. Misunderstandings, homicide attempts, flashbacks, concussion. I was confused and pissed off and shaking and angry and I wasn't even allowed to drink. Not that I wanted to, but that wasn't the point.

"Rian!" I snapped. "You take one look at my face and cry, 'Dear God, no!' and the next minute you're acting like everthing's fine. I'm not stupid so come on, spill the beans! What have you got to say?"

I don't know if he was annoyed with me for shouting at him. Mostly he still looked shocked. Then a wave of dizziness ran through my head (not loving concussion much) and I realised that I was still standing in the bathroom, and at that moment all I wanted was support. A chair, a bed, a crutch . . . anything.

I must have looked like I was about to collapse since Rian gracefully leant forward and collected me into his arms. I felt myself being lifted into the air and realised that Rian was actually carrying me, his arms under my knees and behind my back. I blushed immediately. "Let me go!" I cried. "I'm not a child!"

Rian said nothing. He started to carry me towards my room. Oh no, I wasn't having that. He was trying to use this as an excuse to put me to bed so that I'd forget about what he said and he wouldn't have to explain anything.

But I was so tired, and before I even had the chance to open my mouth I was being placed onto my bed, and Rian was removing my boots. But I'm a very determined guy and I reached forward quickly, grabbing his hands before he finished unlacing my second boot.

"None of this!" I cried. Rian had said nothing for a long time, and his face was emotionless. Now he turned and looked at me and I didn't have the faintest idea what he was thinking. It unnerved me. Then he lifted a hand and placed something cold and wet against my cheek and I cried out without realising why. Perhaps I had just been shocked.

Slowly, gently, Rian ran the flannel down my face and I knew that he was removing the black stain from my skin, as well as attempting to wash away everything that had happened. I had the feeling that he felt guilty, but I wasn't sure why. "What's wrong, Rian?" I asked gently, anger momentarily gone.

His stony façade slowly faded away and he smiled gently, still washing away the black phoenix tattoo. And I was glad of that, cos it was staining me, and I wished that I had never set eyes on it. Then, apparently satisfied, Rian dropped the wet flannel onto his knee and ran his long fingers down my face. I tried not to blush.

"I just never want to lose you," he said quietly.

I cursed the heat in my cheeks. "You're not going to lose me." I tried to sound reassuring, but the assassin had shaken me up more than I liked to admit.

"But I nearly did today," he said, still running his fingers down my face. Then I remembered what he had said to me at the hospital what felt like hours ago. "All I could think was that he was going to kill you, and you'd be gone forever, and I couldn't stand that."

"I never realised that you cared so much," I said, half meaning it, and half laughing. He looked at me like I'd just told him I fancied the Pope. Crap, I'm not that good with words. I always find the wrong thing to say. So I did the only thing I could. I slowly lifted my hand to my face, where Rian's hand was still rested, and I interlaced my fingers with his and smiled gently.

It was his turn to blush and I grinned in triumph. Aha, the ball was in my court now. What ball? There's a ball now? Uh, I was too confused to think properly. Blame the concussion. Yes, Syrian, blame the concussion as much as you can.

Somehow Rian had removed my second boot, which signalled the end of the conversation and the beginning of me going to sleep and pretending that Rian had never shouted, "Dear God, no!" at my face. But I wasn't going to let it go that easily.

"Rian," I said slowly, a grin spreading across my face.

He looked doubtful, as if he was deciding if he should run away as quickly as possible. "Yes?" he answered rather shakily.

"How would you like it if tomorrow you woke up with a weird mark on your face, you nearly get killed, you think you've slept with someone you barely tolerate and you end up in hospital with a homophobic prick of a doctor?" I asked sweetly.

I wasn't exactly being subtle. Rian sighed. "I wouldn't like it much," he admitted.

"Exactly," I said slowly. "So what if after all that you go home and the person you thought you could trust the most suddenly started lying to you and keeping secrets?"

He wasn't stupid. He didn't run, which was good cos at the moment if he did run I would have chased him. Instead he exhaled, turned slightly away from me and said, "I'm not hiding anything from you."

"Well that's bull," I announced. I felt as if my insides were being torn, but at the same time a twisted smile stayed on my lips. Like I was torn between laughing hysterically and sobbing my heart out. Or I was just getting thrills out of playing this twisted game with Rian. Okay, no, forget the twisted kinky game thought. Blame the concussion. Blame the concussion, Syrian.

I think he realised that he was taking this too far, and that if he didn't make quick apologises and explanations that I would hammer him to death with something very hard. "Okay, okay," he said, throwing his hands into the air. "Syrian, just tell me this. Do you have any idea why that assassin was trying to kill you?"

I shrugged. "Not a fan of half-drunk boys who can't dress themselves?"

He let that slide. "You really have no idea?"

"None," I said, shaking my head.

The phoenix. He was looking directly at the phoenix.

"Do you know where you got the tattoo from?"

"No," I admitted. "I can't remember anything about last night, but when I woke up this morning it was just there."

But I remembered that the assassin seemed shocked when I asked him why he wanted to kill me, as if I should have known. And was I really being paranoid when he pointed the gun straight at the phoenix or . . .?

"You think they're connected, don't you?" I asked, looking up at him.

He offered no elaboration. Instead he repeated the question, "Do you have any idea why that assassin was trying to kill you?"

This time I didn't hesitate to give him my answer. "Because he saw the black phoenix tattoo on my face."

That was the answer he was looking for, and suddenly everything began to make sense. "I think," he said, "that someone put that tattoo on your face like a brand or a sign. And then they sent the assassin to find you."

"So he was looking for the twerp with the tattoo," I murmured. "If only I'd washed if off this morning. No wonder he was surprised when I asked him why." I was too tired to think, too tired to say anything witty or to try and make light of the situation. "Then whoever put that tattoo on my face last night wants me dead."

Rian lowered his head. Yes, he was thinking this too.

I sensed that he knew more. "What else?" I asked.

It was coming up to midnight. We were both tired, and Rian apparently decided that hiding things from me just wasn't worth it. Good, he was learning. "Just one thing," he said. "It's just . . . when I was an assassin, I worked for a gang once, an organisation really. It was . . . It was called Black Phoenix. I wouldn't be surprised if it was their mark."

Too tired. Too tired now to nod or shake my head, or even to think. What it all boiled down to was that someone from a dangerous organisation put a damn tattoo on my face that marked me for death. But this could all wait. The tattoo was gone, the assassin was behind bars, and I just wanted to sleep.

Rian sensed that, and stood up to leave.

"No!" I cried, barely conscious. "Please don't leave." I just wanted comfort, like I had always wanted comfort but been denied it.

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking down at me with a strange look on his face. Pain? I thought it was pain, but as I slowly drifted into sleep I almost thought it was desire. I didn't want him to leave. "Please?" I begged.

This time he didn't hesitate. He made a small noise as he pulled off his jeans and climbed into the bed beside me in his white t-shirt and boxers. I smiled in relief. Then I felt strong arms wrap around my body and then sunk into sleep, thankful that such a crappy day could end so wonderfully.

*

The strong arms were still around me, only I wasn't awake. And I felt a physical weight against my chest and stomach. My whole body was clinging to him, and I heard the deep moaning. I felt the need for release spreading through my body; I felt sweating skin beneath my fingers.

It didn't take a genius to figure out where I was, but suddenly finding yourself having sex will dim your intelligence. I heard more moans, realised they were mine, felt a heat building. He was moving, moving, filling me, comforting me. Then he kissed me and moaned into my mouth and it was all over.

We both cried out together, and then the moaning was gone and we were panting. I clung onto him tightly, not wanting to let go, and this didn't bother him at all. "Syrian, are you all right?"

He asked me this every time until the last. I nodded, not trusting myself to talk. Well, I don't think I had enough breath to talk. And then he was running his hands through my hair again and I sighed contently.

After sleeping together for two weeks it was almost like I was addicted to him. The more my father pushed me away, the more frequently I found myself here, in this bed. For a moment I wondered what I would do if my father found out. Wished I never knew.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly. What could I say? Thanks for everything but now I'm going to go back to brooding about my father? But I think he knew anyway, and he took it upon himself to wipe the thoughts from my mind.

So by the time I prepared to go home that night I knew it was late. Later than I ever imagined. Mr Harada didn't want me to leave at a time like this unless he gave me a lift, but I couldn't risk my dad seeing him. But I wasn't ready for a confrontation with my dad. So I did the only sensible thing. Sarcasm. I stayed with Mr Harada all night.

The next morning we went to school together, even though it was suspicious. I couldn't care less. I was totally bored with people sticking their noses in and criticising me. My dad, my friends, the students at my school. We weren't obvious. We didn't run in hand in hand laughing and giggling together. Not that I would ever do that anyway. We just walked in.

People looked at me strangely all day, but none of them had the guts to ask me straight out. Of course I never would have admitted it; not with Mr Harada's job on the line.

It was that afternoon, during lunch break, that I heard the sirens. Perfectly normal there, only the sirens were growing louder and louder, and they seemed to be getting closer to the school. No, the police cars would turn away before they entered the schoolyard. Only they didn't. Nor did the ambulance.

It was summer, and most students took the opportunity to eat outside on the grass. Which meant that a large population of the school, including me, watched as the paramedics ran into the building, towards . . .

I froze. The English department?

The teachers tried to usher us inside, but it was no use. Then the rumours began to spread.

*

I woke up gasping and sobbing as the all too fresh memories infected my mind. My eyes were full of unshed tears and before I even contemplated where I was or what was happening, I let them spill. Silently I cried, the tears running down my cheeks. He hadn't deserved anything to happen to him . . .

I could still feel his body pressed against him, his arms around me protectively. But then my sleep fogged brain began to clear a little and I realised that the arms were still there, circling me. And then I remembered asking Rian to stay, and I smiled gently. It wasn't like me to be so soppy, but I lay there and simply felt his body beside me and wondered for the millionth time why my father hadn't given me the love I needed. But then I knew the answer, didn't I?

I blinked and looked at the digital clock beside what I assumed to be my bed. I'm no good at numbers, so a digital clock was my only option. Blood red letters shone eerily in the darkness. 2.34am. It was dark outside, and strangely even darker inside the apartment.

I knew I couldn't sleep, and I knew it had nothing to do with my concussion. Anxiety rules all, and until my heart stopped pounding and until the sick feeling that suffocated me faded away I was doomed to remain awake. So I slowly rose from the bed, untangling Rian's arms from my body and left him sleeping peacefully.

I went to the kitchen first and laughed gently when I saw the pile of burnt food that Rian had attempted to cook before the sandwich ruled supreme. I also saw the butcher knife placed so carelessly on the work surface, glinting in the pale light. I shivered and moved away. When I felt like this it was better to keep sharp objects away from me.

I walked around aimlessly like some kind of sleepwalker, trying not to let my memories engulf me. Eventually I came to the bathroom, the home of so much pain. Damn that stupid mirror. Damn that stupid tattoo. Damn it all. My father, the assassin, this Black Phoenix that was trying to kill me. Just when my life was starting to make a little sense. Just when I was happy.

Yes, I was happier with Rian than I had ever been in my entire life.

I looked into the mirror again, not really sure what I was expecting to see. I looked at my face. My pale skin. My navy blue eyes. My chestnut hair that hung in my eyes. I needed to get my hair cut.

And then I turned my face to the side and gasped in utter horror. My skin was marked again, stained, and nothing made sense in those few moments. The image of the black phoenix sat across my face again. I blinked, wondering if I was still dreaming. Rian had removed the tattoo, hadn't he? And besides, it was already smudged beyond recognition. Maybe I'm just tired and seeing things. Maybe, maybe . . .

I opened my eyes and looked into the mirror again. No hallucination. No dream. Impossible! The image of the black phoenix was sitting on the other side of my face now, as detailed as before, the wings spread and its tail curled. A work of art really. The beady eye staring at me.

My heart was pounding in my chest and my body was shaking. My mouth was dry. If the phoenix had been removed last night, and drawn again while he slept . . . It meant that someone had been in his room. And the only person who was with me was Rian.

~TBC~