-- Title: Just
-- Fandom: Ouran
-- Pairing: KyouHaru
-- Rating: T
-- Notes: cross-over with xxxholic and a concept of chobits
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It is often said that tragedies must be as such: that it should have a beautiful beginning, and the downfall of the protagonist. Perhaps the downfall began to early for this to be a tragedy, so let us consider this as a happy story.
It begins, like this.
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It takes about three seconds before his life flashes before his eyes.
One. (that she would wave her arm and call to him to hurry up because they won't get to go anywhere if he doesn't move faster).
Two. (that she has been looking at the world as an unsafe place all her life and this is one of the first few times she lets her guard down)
Three. (that he should look up and a half-smile should stay frozen on his lips for a fraction of a moment, twisting into an 'o' that is round and sharp and cautious at the same time, and hers would, inevitably, be unwavering, even as her eyes are covered by a shaking hand)
And after that -- after that --
He does not know what to do, or say, or think. He could only feel.
After that, what happens next?
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accidents in time
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He has accepted long before that death was a natural course of life, that accidents were just what they were -- accidents. But it does not make him feel any better to know that her precious, singular life is to be added to the rising count of the masses who pass away, the list of accidents in the police reports, the insurance, the death rates, the decrease in the population. Rather, it makes him embittered, colder, and it is because of her eternal absence from his side.
He supposes that if he were her, he would not think that for every birth in every second, there must be an equivalent to be exchanged, and that is the death of someone's most important person. But he is himself and he has always been rational, even if there is a fine line between madmen and geniuses.
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because we are all too lonely
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The shop is not big, nor is it too small. The apartment complex she used to live in was smaller, he remembers, but this one has less of a modern feel to it. A rather strange Japanese shop, but picturesque all the same. Surprising, really, that the proprietor claims to be capable of fulfilling his wish -- for a price.
He doubts her, of course, because as a logical person, a businessman, it is not possible to gain what he has lost forever.
The woman with long black hair and long limbs smiles a smile like his own, and says, anything is possible, if you could give something equal in its price.
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a last resort, the first of many
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"This isn't what I wished for."
The woman, Yūko, places a hand on the doll's head, peers too closely at the lifeless body, and says, dryly, "A businessman like yourself should have understood that what you wished for was next to impossible in the first place, but you're welcome to try her."
It, his mind screams, and he barely conceals his disgust.
She holds the doll's head upwards, for his inspection, and he cannot help but stare at how exactly alike this doll is to her, so much so that it makes his eyelids quiver slightly. Yūko leans in closer, nuzzles the pretty object's cheek, and remarks, "Such a beautiful little thing."
He looks away, and asks, "What do you want in exchange?"
Yūko hides her face behind the doll's, and speaks, in a tone to like the deceased's voice, "Regret."
That, he thinks, is something he would like to give up, if he could.
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like snowflakes, only better
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Kyouya-san, the doll addresses him with reserve. It is outfitted in one of her old clothes, a pale shade of yellow, this time. He wonders what Tamaki, the twins, or anyone else that mattered would think if they could see them now.
What is it? He hides his face behind a newspaper in the breakfast table, whenever she is with him (and when is she not?), away from the prying eyes of the world. How strange that she is now a princess locked in a tower that he himself has built for her, to conceal his shame. If there is nothing else to hide behind, he averts his eyes, as if looking at her brings nothing but regret.
It -- she tilts her head at him, cups the glass in her hands carefully, and asks what Haruhi-san was like.
His heart is fluttering with emotions, and one of them is an old feeling of sadness, the kind that one could only acquire in losing something dear. He wishes that he could have asked Yūko-san to take this away and make him cold, unfeeling, numb. That would have been a better wish.
This Haruhi is everything like the Haruhi before, but she isn't, can never expect to rise above her predecessor, synthetic flesh and inhuman insides. Two beings who look so alike and act the same way, only different because he regards them as different. He cannot bring himself to look at this Haruhi with the love he has shown the other one with. Whatever love he has left in his heart is drained with every touch and every word of the new one.
Sometimes he wishes he could believe, but it gets harder to when she smiles.
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this is your happiness your prison your own
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Yūko-san is not surprised when he returns 'Haruhi' a fortnight after.
"I've finally figured it out," he says, and Yūko-san nods at him.
"Good for you."
It is this singular fact: that 'Haruhi' is his only regret, and that by giving up the inhuman symbol of her, then he would resign himself to his fate.
Kyouya-san, he remembers her saying, I could be Haruhi for you.
He replies with an enigmatic smile that cuts through his own heart, no, no you can't.
He walks home that night, and the distance is almost long enough for him to think that he could bear this, alone.
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end