Author's Note: I apologize to anyone who thinks I've gone off and gotten myself killed. ;_; I didn't, but thank you for your concern. No, really? My dad messed up our computer (for the seventh time that month) and this time I had lost all of my works in progress, *gasp* including chapter 2 of Risaisha. It was probably the longest time I've had to go without Internet access in my LIFE… save for when I was a kid and didn't have a computer. XD So, here I am, trying to re-write from scratch so bear with me if things seem a little… off… it's been a while since I've been able to actually sit down and work on this again. By the way, my mommy was so nice! She got me a laptop so that my dad can't destroy my work –again! So everyone, thank my mommy because she helped in the process of getting me back to writing stories.

And to the person who asked me to start writing 'Bright Green Ribbons' again… I'm not sure what's going on with that story. A part of me just wants to scrap the idea and start over. In chapter three, I began getting way too detailed and it hurt my brain just to re-read it. Another part of myself wants to try and revive the story, just because it's my baby. Hahaha. Actually, I've come to the decision that I'll rewrite chapters one and two. So um… look for that!

Disclaimer: Characters are mine, plot is mine, and I'm currently in the process of buying Tom Felton off of E-bay. Yes, you can buy anything off of E-bay. XD So soon the characters will be mine, the plot will be mine, and Tom Felton will be *gasp* mine. Unless he tells me no and gives me a pouty face. *lipquiver* I wouldn't be able to say no to him if he made a pouty face. *starts to whimper thinking about it* I can't be responsible for making such a beautiful boy CRY! … that's what the seme is for. O_o;;

Risaisha: The Song Of Lance Black

Chapter 2: Playing Games

Written by: Taichi K. Hakubi (Don't I sound so important when I write it like that? XD)

            It hurts, doesn't it? But I wouldn't remember…

            Lance screamed again, his whole body convulsing. Every time he heard those words, he kept feeling jolts of pain, each one getting stronger and more painful than the last.

            It hurts, doesn't it?

            Yes! It bloody fucking hurts! Lance wanted to yell. But it was quite impossible to yell if you were quite sure you didn't have a voice to yell with. Lance had tried to yell, but no sound had come out, so he might've gone deaf… though at the same time, he could still seem to hear his body as it jerked and shuddered so he was pretty sure he hadn't gone deaf just yet. Hell, he was pretty sure he could hear the sweat pouring off of himself. So why was his voice broken? 

            And the more annoyed and pained he got, the more his pain was punctuated with the bothersome phrase: it hurts, doesn't it?

            It hurts! He knew that already! It went from being creepy to just plain irritating.  

            Lance still had room to be scared shitless though, amongst the anger, the annoyance, and the pain. Who wouldn't be scared of some bodiless voice taunting him as his body was sent through such physical trauma, while being in some dark, extremely hot place where he couldn't see or feel anything beneath him? Lance would've liked to pretend he wouldn't.

            Another large wave of pain rolled over Lance's beaten body, causing him to cry out, and he was only slightly surprised that he could finally hear himself screaming. 

            "Ooh that hurts… yeah… that really hurts…" He gasped, still arching his back slightly when the pain stopped. His breathing was loud in the silence that followed. He sort of wished that the voice would come back just to break the maddening quiet.

            There was a long, tense stillness as Lance awaited the next round of pain. None came.

            Eyes finally able to snap open, he stared at the obscurity in front of him. Nothing but a dark, purple sky ahead. He stroked the ground beneath him, at least, now that there was a ground. It felt like grass. Really dry grass but Lance was thankful for it nonetheless. At least he knew he wasn't floating on nothing.

            "Now what is going on here?" He rasped, his vocal chords burning. He was too drained to attempt at sitting up so he settled for just staring at the sky. It was hypnotizing in itself, really. A pretty sight. Hardly ever could he remember seeing a purple sky in such true color. "What the hell is going on here?" He repeated, feeling the sweat coating his arms and face begin to cool. It was soothing but he still couldn't shake the eerie feeling that he was being watched.

            Many more moments passed and nothing happened except for the peaceful sounds of Lance's breathing which was become much steadier now.

            Finally Lance attempted at sitting up, feeling his joints groan in protest when he successfully pulled himself into an upright position.

            You're not ready for this yet. Came a new voice, a softer one. It was filled with angelic youth, yet he could find traces of sadness. It was possibly a child's voice, and didn't hold the dark possessiveness the other voice held.

            "Who are you?"

            You're not ready for this yet.

            "I'm getting really tired of talking to voices that seem to know only one phrase like a dumb broken-record or something. Say something different or go away." At that moment, it didn't strike him odd at all that he was talking to bodiless voices, sitting on dry grass and admiring a purple sky. In fact, all this seemed rather normal.

            Please go back to sleep, little one. You're not ready for this yet.

            "Sleep. You want me to sleep." Was this idiot kidding? Sleep was the reason he was haunted by nightmares like these.

            Lance paused.

            Nightmares like these.

            This was it! This was his nightmare. This was the nightmare that kept returning to him every night only to be forgotten in the morning. This was the nightmare that made him fearful of the shadows at night.

            The moment he realized this, it was as though the world around him began to shift. The purple sky and the dry, white-yellow grass started to blend and swirl into black nothingness, slowly draining the remaining light from wherever it shown.

            Startled, Lance jumped to his feet only to regret it moments later when his vision became unfocused and dizzy. He stared down at his hands, which were blurring at the edges.

            Lance closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his stomach, surprised at how calm he was. 'Maybe because I've been through all this before.' The muscles in his arms tightened for a moment, trying to hold down the nauseous sinking feeling he suddenly got.

            Lance could sense the child's voice leaving, but oddly, he wanted it to go. He wanted the light to be taken from him. The older, darker voice returned, and he wanted it to. He wanted this darkness. He wanted the possessive darkness that seemed so intent on owning him. He wanted to be owned by it.

If you're good, it wont hurt anymore.

            And instead of swearing or questioning whom the voices belonged to, he merely responded serenely, "I know. If I'm good, you'll go away."  

            He could still feel that dark, threatening presence watching him, and he let it. The darkness was using him. Drinking from him. If he was good, it would be over and the darkness would go away. But part of him didn't want it to go away.

            If you're good, I'll go away. The voice agreed, though something within Lance knew it was a lie. The darkness wouldn't leaving, not after he had so willingly allowed his soul to be frayed by the dark hands.

            "But you won't go away. You'll come back tomorrow night… and the night after." 'Just like every night.' Lance thought, and was only slightly surprised at himself when he realized he wasn't despairing over the fact.

            I'll come back tomorrow night, and the night after. The voice repeated, and Lance could hear the smirk in the voice. He was tempted to smirk right back.

            "And you'll keep taking from me."

            I will.

            "And someday I'll be no more. What then?"

            … I'll be no more as well.

            "Then giving my life to you will have been in vain?"

            … Yes.

            "But you'll still take from me."

            I'll still take from you.

            "Why?"

            To fulfill my Final Purpose.

            "And what is your Final Purpose?"

And like every time he had this dream, there was no response from the voice. Lance held his breath, hoping that this time it would be different. He knew it wouldn't, but it never hurt to pretend. Lance could already feel his eyelids flickering, his consciousness returning to him. 'No! Just a little bit longer!' His mind cried, trying desperately to stay asleep for just a few moments more. 'Stay asleep a little longer!' He was aware of the voice retreating, fearful of the light. 'Please stay… please…'

"Please stay!" Lance's voice suddenly cried out, his hand outstretching in the darkness. His fingers brushed against something cold and silky and he grabbed a fistful of whatever it was, desperate to keep the voice near him longer. His arm began to jerk in pain but he didn't release his fist. "Please tell me!" His veins began to swell through his skin, but he didn't remove his hand.

This was the longest Lance had ever been able to stay in this dream and he didn't dare turn back now. Something within him knew this would be the last time he would get so close to the voice.

"What is your Final Purpose and what does it have to do with me?"

My Final Purpose is …to destroy you.

Lance's eyes snapped open and he leapt from his bed, his breathing shallow and rapid. Slowly the darkness ebbed out of his vision and he was left standing in the familiar sanctuary of his messy, rock-star influenced bedroom.

            "Destroy me." He repeated, idly tracing his fingers along his dresser. He could already feel the memories of the dream sinking back into the abyss of his mind. Panicked, he yanked open a drawer and pulled out a notebook, trying desperately to keep the dream in place as he scribbled keywords and moments down.

            Lance's eyes scanned the paper several times; reading over and over the words and feeling something was missing. An important part of the dream that should have been addressed was absent, and he no longer knew what it was.

            "Destroy me." He said again, slowly writing it along the margins of the page. "And who is it that I keep hearing? Who wants to destroy me?"

            After what seemed like hours passed (which in reality was only fifteen minutes), Lance got fed up with staring at the paper, knowing it wouldn't reveal any of its secrets any time soon. Growling in frustration, he threw the notebook at his wall, cringing when it hit the lamp, sending it crashing into a couple of water bottles he had accumulated on his nightstand that soon ended up on the floor.

            "Damn it!" He hissed, falling back onto his mattress with a 'fwump!' He inhaled the scent of his shampoo as it wafted around his nostrils and sighed. His eyes began tracing patterns in the ceiling, listening for the sounds of his mother stomping around downstairs. He heard nothing and figured she was probably out at the store.

            Lance had many times dreamed that dream, but never had it happened during the middle of class, nor had it been so painfully introduced.

            Usually as he would fall asleep, it would lead straight into the pleasant conversation with the voice before ending with Lance bolting upright in bed, a sheet of sweat covering his arms. This time he had made definite progress, though he wasn't quite sure of the results.

            "The voice," Lance paused thoughtfully, pursing his lips and making a puckering sound. "I can't keep calling it 'The Voice'." Another pause as he sucked at his teeth (habits his mother found appalling), "But is the voice a man or a woman?"

            Lance's eyes scanned the room, though his mind was elsewhere. In all his times in that crazy little dreamland, had he ever stopped to listen to the voice itself and not just the words? He came to the conclusion that no, he had never actually listened to the voice. He frowned. For some reason or another it had never even seemed important.

            He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the voice, straining his memory. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Lance repeated out loud, trying to morph the sound in his mind until it fit. When he drew up nothing but blanks, he gritted his teeth and repeated the phrase again, completely aware that he must look like a total lunatic sitting on his bed and talking to himself. Later he could question his sanity but at that moment, he needed to figure out…

            "What the hell am I doing?" Lance said suddenly, his cobalt blue eyes shimmering in aggravation. "I'm analyzing a dream! My mom does things like that!" He scratched the place behind his ear and sat up, feeling suddenly very foolish. "It's just a stupid, reoccurring dream. Nothing more. I'm not being hunted by some bodiless, genderless voice, nor am I going to sit in my room all day keeping a dream diary."

            Lance walked over to the full-length mirror off to the corner of his room and finally assessed himself for the first time that… morning? He turned and stared at his clock. He bit his lower lip, subconsciously realizing he had picked up a new habit for his mother to scold. "Shit. 3:27. I slept right through class." He shook his head and stared at his wrinkled clothes. His mother must have removed his sweater for him while he was sleeping.

            He sighed and walked back to his dresser and began plucking random articles of clothing from his top drawer, then squatted to reach his underwear drawer (boxers, you think?), pulling out a pair of plain, blue and green plaid boxers (whoo!) to change into.

            As he was removing his pants, he hopped over to his stereo and hit the power button with his big toe before falling back onto his mattress and dropping his wrinkled trousers to the floor. He reached around under his pillow and pulled out a smashed pack of gum and flipped a piece onto his stomach as he stuffed the rest back under the pillow.

A random, upbeat pop song began playing but he made no move to change it. Instead he lay on his mattress, his pants strewn across the floor and a stick of chewing gum standing between his teeth before he let it drop into his mouth and began snapping it noisily.

Lance rubbed his hands over his face and sat back up, completely and utterly bored. He began drumming his fingers over his thighs, trying to pick up a beat. Unfortunately, he had no coordination. He got bored very quickly.

            "I can't take it! I have to figure out that dream!" Slowly he grabbed the clothes he had picked out and began to change.

He stood once again in front of the mirror and admired himself with dry humor. "Do these pants make my butt look big?" He asked, giving his reflection the flirty eyes.

"No, but that's just my opinion." Came an amused voice from the doorway.

Lance spun around, and upon seeing his intruder, he visibly paled. "Err… I was… it… it isn't what it looks… um… fuck?"

"No thanks, I've got a girlfriend. But I'm all too happy to know the offer stands if Liz gets bored with me." Andrew, the evil stepbrother, glided into the room, placing his hand on Lance's shoulder and admired his own reflection in the mirror.

"That's not what I meant. And what are you doing here? What happened to that dump of an apartment of yours?"

"Don't worry, I'm not staying long. Just the weekend. Liz wants to get some work done in the bedroom."

"I'll bet." Lance muttered sarcastically. He winced when Andrew jerked his ear.

"I mean she wants to paint."

"Oh, oh yeah. That's exactly what came to mind."

"Very funny. Would you like me making fun of your girlfriend? Oh wait!" Andrew made a face of mock-surprise, "You don't have a girlfriend."

"Go take a needle to your balls."

"What's your sudden interest in my balls, little brother?"

Lance snarled and threw his fist out, catching Andrew just under the eye. "You're not my brother, damn it! I wish you and your dumbass father would just get it through your heads! You are not part of my family!"

Andrew stumbled back a few steps before smirking. Almost before Lance realized it, Andrew had shoved him into the mirror, sending it rocking to the floor and Lance along with it.

"You may not want us but you'll have to have us, Lance. You think I'm happy with this arrangement? Dad dotes on you and you can only act totally rude. You're such a little brat!"

Lance said nothing but stared at the tiny shards of glass and then at his bleeding arms.

"You're a fucking idiot, Lance," Andrew continued, "You throw tantrums when you don't get what you want. You're daddy died and he won't come back so you expect to punish your mom by making her live the rest of her life alone? Things don't work like that, Lance! And whether you like it or not, your mother loves my dad. He's trying for you, you asshat. He really is. Hell, even I'm trying for you!"

Lance could feel tears stinging at his eyes but he remained silent still. He lifted his head and stared at Andrew defiantly, knowing how his lip trembled.

"Stop trying then, if it's so much work for you." He said softly, his voice surprisingly calm even though he was shaken to the core.

Andrew's eyes widened as though wounded for a brief moment before it was masked with rage. He lifted Lance by the shirt and pressed his face so close that he felt his unsteady breathing on his face. "I'm not going to stop trying. I love my dad, and I love Samantha. I'm willing to love you too, Lance. You just keep pushing us away from you. You can't keep us away forever, you just can't." He watched as Lance clamped his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears from rolling down. Andrew's heart nearly broke as he saw Lance had failed, and he reached up to brush the tears away with one hand. Andrew let go and looked away as Lance crumpled to his knees in the shards of broken glass, furiously wiping the tears away with the back of his arm.

"I'm going to try." Lance said, his voice shaky and pained.

Andrew didn't reply, wanting Lance to continue. He had no idea where this might lead.

"I'm going to keep you away from me. You've won mom over, all right, I'll admit to that. She loves you both too…" He sniffed and set his fists in his lap, staring down at them as tears began falling onto them again. "But I never, never want you to become part of my life." He took in a shuddering breath. "I'll never love you both… and… and I'll never accept you into my life."

Andrew swore under his breath and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard behind him that the pictures on Lance's wall rattled off the nails and took their place on the floor beside him and the broken mirror.

The dream temporarily forgotten, Lance wept. Not for himself, not for his mother, not for any particular reason except one…

…His dad had bought that mirror for his mother for their anniversary…

To be continued…