So here we go. Collecting my stuff so they won't be scattered, and I can go back and laugh at myself once in a while. Hope you enjoy! Hate my guts? Think I should find a cliff to disappear off for de-anoning? There's the review button! Love, your ever spamming Author.
Prompt : It wasn't for the chief justice's son...
It was for Klavier.
Run with it, pleaaaaaaase?
Bonus points for either K/A or Daryan/Klavier.
Stealing Thunder
The man's been in the lobby for many hours now, and he doesn't look like he's moving any time soon. The man's been sitting there, all alone, while the clinic empties of patients and the chairs empty of patience. He just sits, crossing his arms and staring at this blank spot on the wall and showing no expression other than to flick a casual eye onto a medical guy walking pass sometimes. He's like a gargoyle, or some sentry beast that is stagnant, and only the eyes move. Back and forth, back and forth. Daryan Crescend is as stagnant as the plastic chairs he sits on.
Sighing, Doctor White let go of the clinic's green curtains and they fall back into place to block out the tiny medical window. He's not leaving, is he? White's told him countless time today, and he's told him countless time last week when he came and sat all Sunday afternoon too. White's a doctor. He's not a paperboy.
His secrets are not his to keep, nor his to spread around. If White's some kind of tiny ghetto clinic doctor, fine – he'll give him what he wants and give him what he wants quickly. But he's not, dammit, he's a doctor – and the kind of stuff Daryan Crescend asks for, information on other patients...That's just confidential, no matter what.
Sighing again, he walked out of his room, feeling infinitely dirtier than his name. Daryan perks up the moment he sees him, and even though the man's shoulders must hurt like bullshit, sitting there in those damned uncomfortable chairs all day long, he still manages to get up and grin at him.
"Heya, doc."
"You're still here?" White demanded, as though he hadn't been keeping an eye out on the Elvis impressionist all day long. Behind the counter, Alissa snorted.
"He's gathering dust faster than my vacuum he is, White.'
White looked Daryan up and down rudely. "What, that's the new 'in' thing amongst you rock stars? Dust's the way to look now?"
A look of irritation flickers across the man's face, but his expression doesn't waver, nor does it disintegrate into annoyance. White had no doubt that if this is a month ago, Daryan would be shouting his head off in the lobby itself, damn press and damn other people. He sure had done so in the clinic, demanding that White hand over the report at the top of his formidable lungs. That's changed since then though – and White's learn to see what kind of expression this is.
This is the kind of face you see on relatives of a dying person. Something of a parody of the dying person's expression, but to a lesser degree. There's that deep seated worry in the eyes, making it sink and go lower. The lines under the eyes become a little more pronounced, a little harder. The corners of the mouth turn the slightest bit down reluctantly, as though two heavy worries had hanged themselves onto the edges of the person's mouth and had proceeded to play see-saw on it.
See, see! Saw, saw! Heigh-ho! Bon voyage, happy days! Weigh anchor – heave-ho!
A competition of grimacing.
Daryan folded his arms and glared at him. "You know full well why I've been waiting here like a fool all day long."
"If you're gonna ask me out on a date, I'm sorry Crescend – but I don't swing that way."
"I rather date an exploded treacle pudding," He growled.
"Glad to see we're on the same page then. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Crescend..."
"Not so fast."
Daryan darted in front of the doctor, neatly blocking his escape path. White scowled at him, then beyond his shoulder at where freedom and cool night air awaits. He's been working all day now, and he really doesn't need this sort of bullshit for his final act.
"What do you want, Crescend?"
"You know full well what I want. Tell me what's wrong with him – tell me what's wrong with Klavier, dammit."
"And you know full well that I can't do that," White snapped back. "That's violating the patient-doctor confidentiality, and seeing as your friend is a prosecutor – I think I'll take my chances with you."
Daryan's fist, clasped beside him, starting shaking violently. He glared at White like he wanted to let swing like a pro Japanese baseball batter, or at least the kind they keep showing on anime where the balls fly across the stadium like weiners on wings. If it wasn't that he'll get into trouble, or that White will just go in and patch himself right back up, the good doctor would probably be flat on his back with a broken hip or two.
"Look. Why do you have to be so difficult? All I'm asking for is one name. One word. What's so hard about that?"
"Rules, hot-shot. I saw your face all over TV with your new album. Don't you think you guys should study a little on the thing call 'rules' before promoting it?"
"This is beyond rules," Daryan hissed back. "This is Klavier, okay? Rules can go jump and fuck themselves on a starfruit for all I care."
"Why do you care so much?" White shot back. "It's just a small disease – nothing special."
"It's not a small disease." He snapped.
"Why so sure?"
"I just am."
"It's minor."
"It's not."
Then some invisible string, strained to breaking point, breaks at that very moment. Snippity-snip, someone's taken a scissors to it – and White doesn't know how long the guy's been keeping his steam under a lid, but the lid had melted off right there in front of him – yessir, it did.
"Why am I so sure? Why am I so sure?" Daryan hissed. "That's the wrong question, doc. The right question is why wouldn't I be sure?"
He took a step forward.
"Why wouldn't I be sure, when we group together to practice for the band, and every time he shows up, he gets a little bit thinner? Gets a little bit more transparent? His skin is all stretched, like some kind of damned rubber over a ball. Who wouldn't see that? When you look at him under the light, it's like you're looking through him, not at him. Why do you think he keeps wearing those glasses, doc? Because you can't see his eyes!"
"They're all whitening out! When you look at him, all the sparkle's gone, all the sputzah! Those eyes are like fucking fish you see in the market. They've got no life, they've got no shine. Klavier, he used to come in and you'll think 'Gee, this guy is like a kid', cuz you know why?"
White shook his head.
"Because there's life in there! Because when you look at him, and he smiles at you, there's something in there! Hope, joy, whatever! He can be stone drunk and there would still be a glint there, some kind of mischievous twinkle that tells you he's up to a prank. His eyes are always laughing, laughing at something no one else knows, some kind of personal joke of his own that makes Klavier Gavin – a joie de vivre about him. You look at him, and you just can't stop smiling, because goddammit all – who gives a piss about your shit? When you look at that smile, you just gotta grin back at him."
"I...I'm sorry," White mumbled. He suddenly wants to just get out of here. Doesn't want to hear this kind of heartbreaking one-sided sermon, because it's more than he wants to know. Keep your sorrows to yourself, don't depress me – that sort of principle.
But Daryan isn't done yet.
"And you know what? Now that he's down with whatever he has – whatever bastard thing he's got that he's not telling us, it's like the damned thing is eating him from inside. Klavier just keeps pretending there's nothing wrong with him, that nothing's wrong with life. But every time he looks at us, it's like he's saying goodbye. Au Revoir. Sayonara. That sort of epically bullshitting bullshit."
"And he thinks we don't know that he cuts our band practices into three two-hour segments instead of one six-hour segment because he can't take it, that when he works too hard, the next day he can't show up at work."
"...And whenever some detective asks for him to join them on the field, he just smirks and say no way, he's too lazy – when in fact, he never fails to show up before. Now he just doesn't want to move, just staying there, like some kind of damned battery charging up for one final burst of movement – So tell me, dammit!"
Daryan reached forwards, and digging all ten fingers into White's shoulders, starting shaking him."Tell me what he's got –it can't be so bad! Tell me what he's got so that I can--"
"...That's enough, Daryan."
White looked up – and recognizes immediately who's standing at the doorway to the lobby. All six feet or so of maroon coat, it's the prosecutor, the star of The Gavinners alright. And incidentally, the reason why Daryan is shaking him like that now. Not that he did anymore. The moment he saw Klavier, those hands had lost their grip on his arm, loosening like uncoiled screws. They drop now, drop down loosely and falters while their owner falter too.
"...Klavier?"
Klavier looked at White and grinned. "Sorry about that, doc. He's just an excitable kid, is all." Daryan started growling at this, but Klavier ignored him, instead, waving dismissively at White. "Sorry if he bothers you, doc. I know you're a busy man – I'll take him off your hands now."
The doctor nodded, and before Daryan could make another grab for him, he slipped backwards and into the darkened hallway, leaving Daryan alone with Klavier.
Daryan was left standing in the middle of the lobby. He kinds of wish that the doctor is still around, so that he might act as a buffer between them and a shield to keep Klavier off. To shy off the unwanted awkwardness – and to stop Klavier from knowing that he, Daryan Crescend, the local smart mouth and the asshole of the band, had actually come down to the hospital like some sort of sappy lovesick fool to dig out information on Klavier. Doesn't want Klavier to know that he's worse than those paparazzi. That God forbid – he was worried about him or something.
"I wasn't worried about you." Daryan blurted out. Then immediately bit his tongue. Well, that came out wrong.
Klavier took no offense though, quirking a little smile at him – those kind that Daryan hasn't seen for a long long time now. The slight, unworried smile.
"Ja, that will explain why you came down here in the middle of the night, when there is so much more you can do, and pester doctors, ja?"
'I couldn't sleep." He protested, aware how ridiculous he was sounding even to himself.
"So you amused yourself by coming down to the hospital. Very good, Daryan – I see I do not need to worry about your mental health."
Daryan gnashed his teeth. That's how Klavier always acts in moments of uncertainty – be the most sarcastic bastard you care to name and not to meet. "You don't have to be such an asshole over it." He snapped. "I was just—A little...Concerned. That's all."
Klavier still looked highly amused, and Daryan's target suddenly went from White to him. Sometimes he just wish he can take a good old rug and scrub and scrub and scrub that man's arrogant expression off his face.
'Worried. You are worried about me?"
"I didn't say I was worried about you!" Daryan yelled. "Don't twist my words!"
"Ach! You just said you were concerned about me!"
"Concern is concern – worry is—Argh! Forget it! I'm not worried about you, period! You can fall yourself into a hole, and I wouldn't lend a finger to help you out!"
Klavier smiled at him, twisting one indolent finger around his hair. Daryan just stewed, torn between wanting to go back in and pound the doctor out for more information, or digging a very deep, very big hole for himself to jump into and hide forever in embarrassment. Caught red-handed being a worrywart – how uncool is that?
Klavier only smiled though, and it's not a censorious sort of smile that people make at you when they're patronizing you inside. It's just a..Smile. Why is something so simple so complicated?
At last, Klavier spoke out quietly. 'Why didn't you just ask me?"
"Why should I?" Daryan shot back.
"Don't play that game with me, Daryan. Why didn't you just come right up to me and ask? You know I hate all these sneaky stuff."
Daryan's face is stony. "I didn't think you'll tell."
"Is that so?"
"That so."
Klavier stepped towards him. One tiny hesitant step, followed by another, then another – and then he's right in front of him. He smoothed one calloused hand over Daryan's jaw, still smiling that little smile of his – and Daryan hates that look in his eyes too. It's that look that says everything is hopeless, which is hypocritical – because wasn't he the one who had always preach on impossibilities? The one out for some sort of so call 'truth' in a crazed justice mission?
"Give a name, Klavier." He hissed out brokenly. "Just give me a name and I'll--"
"Incuritis."
The word hung in the air like doom. Incuritis. Incuritis? Incuritis.
Yes, he hadn't heard it wrongly. Incuritis.
Incuritis, incuritis, incuritis.
The word pounded into Daryan's head like a sledgehammer. Shock? What's that sound? Did someone blow a building up in the distance? Or was that his heart?
"I—Incuritis?"
"Incuritis," Klavier repeated again firmly – and he has that look in his eye too. The don't-gimme-bullshit look. The look that says he's not gonna take any sappy stuff and he's just gonna leave you behind if you can't move as fast as he does. "That's what I got, Daryan. And just the name itself must tell you what it can be cure with, ja?"
He smoothed a ringed finger across the line of Daryan's jaw, like he's admiring some bloody work of Picasso or shit. "There's nothing. Nothing you can do, Daryan. Absolutely nothing."
Wow. Thanks for playing, buddy. Why don't you go back to the end of the line and NEVER PLAY AGAIN?
"That's impossible." Daryan snapped. "That's impossible – completely impossible. Why would you get that? I mean, you drink a little, but none of that drug and smoke shit."
"If they figured it out, they wouldn't call it incuritis now, would they?"
"There's got to be a cure," He insisted again. His mind races through every single thing he's seen about it in the past years, racking through everything the way he never knew his brain could. Is there a cure? No article ever mentioned one. But there was one? Was there? He doesn't know – but this is the era of technology. Surely humans, who can move across the heavens and the sky – surely these people can come up with a cure for one paltry disease named by some unimaginative medical community?
Incuritis. What kind of shit of a name is that? That's like naming your son You're Gonna Die, Baby.
"No, no – there's got to be a cure. Maybe those experimental shit they're always yapping about. We can get some experts. God knows we got enough money to make a pyramid for them if they just provide us with a --"
"There's no cure, Daryan."
That interrupted Daryan's flow, and it made him gagged on the unsaid words. Unsaid words being that there must be one. Impossible that there isn't one. Got to be one. Impossible. That's absolutely impossible, to be told that Klavier not only got some kind of drastic problem, but one without a cure at that.
He was expecting something horrible, like maybe Cancer – but Cancer can be cured. There are cases where Cancer patients survive. Maybe not a large majority, but certainly a large majority of rich bitches who can pay their way out of hospital and medication.
Even AIDS can be salvaged, but Incuritis is just...
"There's no cure, Daryan," Klavier repeated again, shaking him slightly just to clear the daze out of Daryan's brain. "Daryan, do you hear me? I'll say it again, okay? There's no cure, Daryan – and there never will be. I'm going to die."
"Don't say that," Daryan snapped. "You don't know that."
"Ja, I do." The man repeated stubbornly. "I do – because there is no cure. It's not even Emo crap. It's the truth. Come hell and boiling water, I'm gonna go."
"You don't know that." He insisted. "There's got to be a cure that will just--"
"--Do not exist."
Daryan stopped.
Quiet, as Daryan swallows the fact the way someone would swallow flaming tea. Klavier too, because even as he said the words, it becomes a little more real. A little more damning that just a few words on a few pieces of paper. It's the truth Klavier so loves, so loves to spout and hunt and prosecute. It's the truth, the truth, nothing but the truth, and even though they are rich and young and full of hope – there's nothing you can do to turn truth away when the cruel mistress comes a-calling.
Still with the same revealing quietness, Klavier slipped both arms around Daryan and leaned into him, placing his cheek on his heart. Listening to something that, as morbid as it sounds, he wouldn't be having this time next year.
"...Let's just spend every moment we have together...Ja?"
"But Klavier..."
"Okay?"
"...Okay."
Daryan curled his own arms around Klavier and rested his head on the tangled mass of blond mane. He felt like crying, even though he hated whiny saps. He wanted a pillow, and to bury his head into it and slam it and strangle it and ask the cotton - why?
Why did this have to happen to him – to Klavier – to them? Why of all the billion people out there – and this might sound selfish but it's the truth – why couldn't it have happened to someone else? Why not some stupid African kid he'll never hear of, never feel for? Why Klavier? Why does it have to hit, and hit him of all people?
Unheard, Klavier rubbed his face on him softly, nuzzling Daryan's jacket. Then he raised his head and smiled lazily at him. "Achtung, Daryan."
Daryan looked down at those soft blue eyes – known to flash cold and warm in split seconds – or like now, completely watery and mesmerizing. "What?"
"Let's go."
"...Okay."
Then Klavier untangled himself and dragged the dreaming Daryan off with him. Out of the hospital, out into the cold air, and simply out. He would laugh with Klavier that day. Pretend that the end is nothing to be scared about. He never did cry either – that would come later. But it was at that moment that Daryan had decided, no matter what he had to do, he'll find some cure for the disease. He'll be the first man to finish off this so-called unbeatable disease, this 'Incuritis.'
And if he had to steal the Gods' thunder itself, he'll do it too.
