Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ This is Not My Life ❯ I don't mean to seem insane, but you wind me up ( Chapter 19 )

“I don't mean to seem insane, but you wind me up”

 

—Ken—

 

Ken Hidaka, you really need to start thinking more before you open that mouth of yours.

 

Most people, normal people, who suddenly realize that they have a crush on someone, and who consequently don't want that person to find out, know better than to instantly suggest a romantic beach getaway with their hope-to-remain-secret-crush.

 

Am I stupid, or what?

 

There are so many other, non-threatening things I could have suggested. We could have gone fishing. We could have taken our bikes out to the country. We could have gone to that cabin on the mountain…no, wait. The cabin is deserted, maybe that wouldn't have been such a hot idea either….

 

Anyway, my point being that there are dozens of places I could have proposed we go to that wouldn't involve Omi in a wet bathing suit. Or Ken having a nervous breakdown while trying to keep himself composed around Omi in that wet bathing suit….

 

Why do I do this to myself?

 

Because I'm a masochist, apparently.

 

Luckily, by the time we packed, drove here, and found a place to stay, it was pretty late; definitely too late to hit the actual beach. I have a brief reprieve before I have to deal with the consequences of my actions.

 

I look at Omi sitting on his bed in our hotel room. He seems to have relaxed a bit since this morning. He's playing with the cat and actually smiling. I wonder if he would still be smiling if he knew the less-than-noble types of thoughts I've been having about him? Probably not. That would definitely add to his stress-load. And I brought him here to get rid of stress, not string him out more. I seriously need to keep a handle on myself.

 

“I bet there's a movie on TV,” he says, looking up from the cat.

 

I nod. A movie would be good. Distracting. I need a distraction.

 

“I could go find us a snack or something, if you want to look for one.”

 

“I'd like that.”

 

It only takes me a few minutes to run to the store and procure some popcorn and candy, but by the time I get back he's already thoroughly absorbed into some sort of Samurai program.

 

That's good, I think, a samurai movie is -safe-.

 

I toss him a portion of the snacks and sit down in a chair which I have deemed a safe distance from Omi. His reaction is immediate. I suppose I should have realized that he'd find it weird for me to not sit next to him while watching a movie.

 

“Why are you sitting over there?”

 

Crap. He actually looks distressed.

 

I try to think of a logical explanation, but come up completely and utterly blank. “I…don't know?”

 

That was smooth.

 

Since I can't come up with an actual reason for me to keep my distance, I get up and move next to Omi on his bed. He immediately scooches over and leans against me. I think my blood pressure raises about 10 points. Its normal behavior for him, of course, he's always treated me like some kind of older brother or something. I try to be normal too; think normal, brotherly thoughts. And fail. The thoughts in my head right now are definitely not of the brotherly ilk. Omi, you have no idea what you're doing to me right now.

 

I'm so preoccupied with the awkwardness of the situation, that it takes me a few minutes to pay attention and actually attempt to watch the movie.

 

I expect to look up and see a battle. Or some sort of character building montage. Maybe a scene with a Geisha.

 

I do not expect to look up and see two samurai making out.

 

I do a double take.

 

Yep, on second glance, those are definitely both samurai. And they are definitely making out.

 

What?

 

I almost panic. Does Omi know? Did he see right through me, and is now trying to test me somehow? Is he making fun of me??

 

A look in Omi's direction reveals nothing. He's completely and utterly absorbed in the movie and not showing the slightest reaction to the atypical scene playing out. His arm has ended up resting halfway across my leg and he's idly drumming his fingers on my knee in a way that I don't think he's even aware of what he's doing. The intermittent contact is maddening. I'm terrified that I'm going to lose it and grab his hand. Or worse.

 

Holy mother in heaven, now there's a third samurai.

 

I…don't think I can handle this movie.

 

Omi must have noticed me fidgeting, because he turns and gives me a questioning glance.

 

“Ah…what's this movie about?” I ask, hoping to sound like an innocent question.

 

“The best Samurai in all Japan,” he says with a shrug.

 

“The best, huh?” I ask nervously.

 

“Apparently he's so amazing that no one can resist him,” he grabs some popcorn in an unconcerned, carefree way, “not even the other samurai, heh.”

 

“Apparently,” I think my voice sounds a little funny.

 

He finally picks up on my discomfort and looks at me more seriously. “Does it bother you? The only other movie I could find was one of those romantic comedies I know you hate. At least this one has had some good fight choreography, you know?”

 

“I like good fight scenes,” is all I can think to say.

 

My answer seems to satisfy him, and he turns back to the movie, completely enraptured.

 

I wanted to watch a movie as a distraction from Omi. But now I'm finding that I need a distraction from the movie too. Time to focus on the popcorn.

 

Omi must be some kind of frickin' mind reader though, because he reaches for the popcorn exactly as I do. The sensation of his hand brushing against mine gives me a jolt, and I jump a little. This earns me another questioning look. I want to crawl under a rock right about now.

 

“If you don't like it, we could go rent a movie, you know,” he says.

 

“No!” I don't know why but his comment makes me feel incredibly defensive. I guess I don't want him thinking I'm narrow-minded. Or…something. “I think it's interesting! I want to know what happens.”

 

What happens is a couple of battle scenes. And then an entirely different type of fight scene that makes me more than just a little bit queasy.

 

Is Omi just completely impervious to weirdness? There's a gay orgy on the television, and he's watching it with an expression that might as well say he's viewing `It's A Wonderful Life.'

 

I really can't handle this.

 

“Um, Omi….” I stand up more abruptly than intended and end up accidentally shoving him off of me, “The car ride left me feeling really stiff…I'm going to go check out the hotel's gym.”

 

He gives me a look that's completely undecipherable. I've simply never seen an expression like that on his face before. I'd feel bad if not for the pressing issue that if I don't leave (-right now-) there is no doubt that there will be a bigger problem to deal with than just hurt feelings. He'd thank me if he knew.

 

“You can come if you like….” I offer lamely.

 

“Maybe after the movie,” he mumbles, to my relief. I'm not quite sure what I would have done if he'd accepted.

 

….

 

So here I find myself in the Hotel's complimentary health club, and not a moment too soon. The gym is my sanctuary. There is no better cure for thinking than the mindless reps of exercise. Whenever something is really bothering me, I come to a place like this, and simply burn the memories away. It's as close to Zen as Ken Hidaka gets.

 

To the further rescue of my sanity, I find that the room is mostly empty. There are just a few beefy body builders of the so thoroughly unattractive type, that my traitorous mind can't possibly be distracted by them. Although, the fact that I even notice this disturbs me a bit. How did it happen that suddenly I can't even walk into the gym without taking a mental survey of how no one here is my type? Two days ago I wasn't even aware I had a `type.' Now I'm coming to the realization that not only do I have one, but it's so specific that pretty much only one person fits the bill. My type is Omi. And from what I can gather, Omi's type is feminine, blue-haired aristocrats. Being a boring, athletic guy and not a cultured girl with indigo locks…well. I obviously need to learn to preoccupy myself with a healthier train of thought. Ken Hidaka needs to start paying more attention to the treadmill and less to the sweaty displays of machismo whom are obviously not my type.

 

I'm watching the stats on the monitor blink and change as I plan out which weights to use when I'm done warming up. I only look up to take a survey of the available equipment, leaving half my attention on how many minutes I've got left to run. A mistake, it turns out. Maybe if I hadn't been splitting my attention it wouldn't have taken me by such surprise to glance over and find Omi in my direct line of sight. Omi casually setting up the bench press and wearing shorts so short they ought to be illegal. Holy crap, is it even possible to exercise in those? My brain promptly ceases to function properly. Unfortunately, with the loss of my brain my legs stop working as well. Even more unfortunate is the fact that the treadmill still works perfectly fine. Suddenly I'm speeding backwards and making a rather abrupt acquaintance with the floor. Ow.

 

Oh please let him not have seen that.

 

Of course, in order for Omi to have not seen that, the universe would actually have to like Ken Hidaka. Which it doesn't. Almost instantly Omi's face reappears above me.

 

“Are you okay?” He asks in a voice that's only slightly lacking the sincerity I'm used to.

 

I might be if you'd go put on some frickin -pants-.

 

I lack the will to get up. Maybe if I play dead he'll just go away.

 

Yeah, right.

 

“I'm meditating.”

 

With an uncharacteristic subtlety Omi raises a single eyebrow and gives me a skeptical look. “Meditating,” he repeats, “on the floor of a grimy hotel gym.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Next to a treadmill,” he persists, “that you were running on about two seconds ago.”

 

“No time like the present,” I answer vaguely.

 

“You ought to keep in mind,” a smirk breaks onto Omi's face as he offers me a hand up, “that your dislike of lying goes in hand with a complete and utter inability to pull it off.”

 

I think I'd be blushing, if not for the fact that my face is already flushed from running. Thank god for exercise.

 

It's probably just my imagination, but it seems like Omi takes just a few seconds longer to let go of my hand than he should have. No, it's definitely my imagination. Besides, my hands are all sweaty so he had to grip me pretty hard in order to yank me up. That's all.

 

That's all.

 

I turn to get back on the treadmill, but am stopped by a tug on my arm. “I was about to bench press,” Omi's saying. Yes, I know. Didn't you notice me watching you? “I need someone to spot me.”

 

Oh crap. Danger Ken Hidaka, danger. There is -no way- I can handle standing over Omi while he lifts weights and just watch him go up and down, and up and down, and—no. No, no, no, no, no.

 

I turn around to expressly decline, but my resolve disintegrates into a feebly blank stare. He's giving me one of those manipulatively meaningful looks that I'm incapable of saying `no' to. Damn it all.

 

“I thought that you were going to watch the end of the movie,” I stall.

 

He shrugs. “I was, but my attention span ran out without someone to watch it with. It was getting too contrived.”

 

Getting? I'd say it started out that way. “It was…kinda weird.” I nod, hopping that he won't interpret that as judgmental. And then, deciding that it is in fact more important to avoid talking about that…movie, I resign myself to the task at hand. “Bench press?” I hope that sounded cheerful.

 

He smiles, and I follow him across the room, where he proceeds to lie down on a bench and grab the suspended barbell. My hands have barely closed around it too, and he's already lifting it up. Even if I wasn't obligated to watch him I'd be riveted. His eyes slide shut, making it apparent that he's not even remotely worried that I'll fail to catch it if he drops the weight. This would concern me a little (I don't think I'm in the most trust-worthy state just now, ya know,) if I wasn't so grateful that he can't see the degree to which I'm staring at him.

 

And boy, am I staring.

 

I'm staring at the serious look of concentration he's wearing, one that rarely appears outside of missions. I'm staring at the way his bangs are plastered against his forehead from sweat. I'm staring at how subtly muscular his arms are, something that isn't really all that noticeable outside of the gym. He certainly doesn't emphasis it.

 

I'm staring and thinking of other scenarios that might involve Omi lying beneath me all sweaty and with his eyes shut like that…and I quickly cut off that train of thought before it makes me feel like even more of a terrible person. Gah. Just…gah.

 

I banish myself to only looking at his hands until he's finished. Even that doesn't stop my mind from concocting all sorts of questionable thoughts which are undoubtedly causing me to turn several degrees of crimson right now, but hey, it's the best I can do.

 

He has nice hands, you know. They certainly aren't the type you'd look at and immediately think `Hey! Lethal darts!'

 

To further distract myself, I start counting the repetitions as he lifts the bar.

 

1.

 

He's your best friend.

 

2.

 

He's your best friend.

 

3.

 

He's your best friend.

 

4.

 

Friends don't have creepy thoughts about their best friends.

 

5.

 

I wonder if Omi had any girlfriends aside from Ouka?

 

6.

 

D'oh.

 

7.

 

He's your best friend.

 

8.

 

Besides, the key word there was `girlfriends.'

 

9.

 

So it doesn't matter `cause you don't qualify.

 

10.

 

He's your best friend.

 

11.

 

But I wonder just how far he and—

 

12.

 

No.

 

13.

 

At the rate you're going you're going he's not going to stay your friend.

 

14.

 

Let alone `best.'

 

15.

 

Just focus on keeping your friends.

 

16.

 

Huh, he's doing a lot of reps.

 

17.

 

“Ken Kun?”

 

18.

 

He's your best friend.

 

19.

 

“Hey, Ken.”

 

20.

 

“Eh?”

 

I don't even notice that Omi was talking to me until I feel the barbell jerk out of my grip. Among other things I had failed to notice was the fact that I'd let my eyes fall shut in self defense. Oops. I'm scared to open them, but I don't really have a choice.

 

Making eye contact with Omi unleashes a virtual slideshow of all the sketchy thoughts I'd been struggling to repress. I'm so appalled with myself I literally feel ill.

 

“You're pulling half the weight,” he's saying, “you were only supposed to hold on, not—” his confused expression slips into a more worried one as he notices what must be a visible drop in my constitution, “Ken Kun, are you okay?”

 

“Um,” I stall, hoping that the wave of..of…weirdness, will ebb, and that I won't have to come up with an excuse, to lie….

 

…But it doesn't.

 

“No.”

 

It's the first thing I've said with confidence the entire night.

 

“Actually, I think I'm getting sick.”

 

`Sick' is such a wonderfully versatile word.

 

“IthinkmaybeIshouldgotobed.”

 

Omi doesn't get a chance to answer before the door to the gym has slammed behind me.