Seems like I can't stay away from Nastume and angst, eh?
So much so that I've created a goddamn community for Natsume-based angst ('The Black Cat') - so for a quick plug anyone with fic they think ought be in it give me a PM and I'll have a lookie-see.
Anyway, on with the angst, because there really is a lot of it in this :P
Disclaimer: I don't own Natsume (unfortunately) or any of Gakuen Alice.
Rated for language, because it just snuck in there and I reckon Natsume would be one of those people (but recently revised and toned down a bit).
Revised again not that people would notice because as I like the premise of it I want to update its quality. 21/01/10
He was nightmaring again. There was fire. There was always fire.
Not surprisingly, it burnt.
Fucking hell, it burnt.
He didn't have a body in the dream; he was just a vague presence, like an outline without a filling. He was trapped and filled by a blinding cloud of fire and ash, rancid with the smell of boiled blood. It soaked into what would be his skin, that scent he knew so well, that stench of scorched flesh and death.
His hands, if that was what he could call them here, were mangled and charred, overflowing with all the blood of the people he'd killed – the lives he'd taken.
Although the flames of his own Alice never harmed him, that didn't mean it didn't put hell over his body, because it did.
It spared no thought in ravaging his insides and cutting him up in places even bullets couldn't reach, and he knew everywhere they could; all too well as a matter of fact.
Years of this condition with his Alice, and the relentless way they had pushed him in spite of his 'steadily deteriorating' condition; it enforced certain physical habits in his body – waking up with the taste of blood in his mouth and just a fraction of his lungs working, while the rest drowned in tar and bile, that was one.
A stabbing pain in his chest reminds him of the time he took a bullet straight through it and his lung had collapsed.
It was actually of Natsume's opinion that all these ideas of hell as fire and brimstone and eternal punishment had nothing on bleeding inside and out of your body in the middle of a dirt track, without a chance of getting anywhere because you can't fucking breathe, let alone walk.
That is what he thinks they should tell kids about in school if they want them to behave, not this fairytale of punishment. Reality hits so much harder.
The worst part of that particular memory is that if it hadn't been for Persona coming for him and dragging his sorry corpse to hospital in the dead of the night, he really would've died out there: no ifs or buts. Just died.
He hated Persona when that bastard was still alive, no doubt about that. He had to - if he didn't hate him then he would've probably ended up just like him, and one look at the way that man died was enough to put anyone off his lifestyle. Natsume would know; he was the one who killed him.
On the other hand, there was also no way in this world or the next that he'd still be here, alive, without Persona's oxymoronic mercy. He had more than he wanted to admit to thank him for.
Maybe, he thinks, it's all some kind of a sick trade: one life for another, and although they hadn't taken his life just yet, it wasn't too far off at this rate.
New lives…childhood memories…these were the things he preferred to dream of. Scrambling through the streets of his hometown holding Aoi's hand as they raced to the park, playing on the swings or buying ice creams or one of those innocent, simple, stupid things that children liked to do.
Was he still a child? In the eyes of others, at least; he stopped seeing himself as a child the day he first killed under orders. How many years had he existed now, fifteen, sixteen? He didn't even remember, his birthday was in the winter, but he forgot to count them when all the days felt the same.
He'd sure as hell never felt fifteen in his life.
But in the here and now, or so to speak, he was trapped in the inferno: sticky with blood, deafened by the roar of flames, and still burning all the while.
The sound of a man screaming with the last desperate breath of his life played on a loop in his head, as did the hisses and crackles a heavy corpse makes when burnt, and that revolting smell of burnt hair and fingernails in his nose.
It all seemed so real and terrifying, but then again he's seen it all before, countless times…so he sighed, right in the middle this horrific nightmare and he sighed, because he's just so sick and tiredof it all. And in his sickened despair he manages to fall away.
Waking up with a violent jerk, the line between dreams and reality confused, Natsume Hyuuga struggled desperately for air and breath, but choked on the simple action, fighting through his lungs and failing at it.
He rolled over onto his side and clutched for the shred of material he'd ripped from an old shirt, preparing for the battle. The war fought in his blood.
He hacked and gasped and retched and coughed his dammed guts up, probably very literally going by all the dark red spattering the once-white rag. He pressed the cloth harder over his mouth and doubled over, heaving and gagging as his body tried to cleanse itself. Although it didn't really stand much of a fucking chance.
'Luna thought she had it so bad…' he thought spitefully as he drowned for air.
Eventually, his chest stopped constricting and he could breath almost normally, so with a rasping groan he pushed himself upright, feeling sweat running down his face and neck in heavy beads, soaking the back of his already-sodden top.
"Shouldn't have slept at all..." he muttered hoarsely, barely a voice emerging through the mess of his throat, but pathetically comforted by the sound of something in his empty room.
He turned around, hanging his legs over the edge of the bed, and coughed a while longer before moving to stand.
He groaned as everything span upon rising, and shakily raised his hands to push the slick hair out of his face until the dizziness passed. He reached over his shoulders he grabbed hold of the back of his top and yanked it off, dropping it on the floor.
On the far side of the room a window bearing a window sill large enough to support his weight beckoned him with promises of cold, fresh air. Natsume weakly made his way across the luxurious Special-star accommodation.
The window opened a little and got stuck, so with an irritated groan he rammed his shoulder against the rusted frame. Eventually it swung open and he took in a deep breath of the night air, sighing heavily as he leant against the frame and felt the cold breeze stinging away his sweat.
Once he caught his breath again, he placed both hands flat on the windowsill and climbed up onto it, then crept forwards to sit on the edge of the platform.
He paused a while, and then shuffled even closer to the end and looked down; this room was on the top floor, and it was a long way to the ground. A light breeze teased by, whispering in his ear and urging him to flout temptation.
He bent over further and let his legs slide out a little more, then placed his palms heavily on either side of the sill and tensed them to hold up the weight of his body, and suddenly let himself fly forwards and for a few seconds swung perilously over the edge, only held up by trembling muscles and willpower.
'I could just let go…' he baited himself as he balanced there, toying briefly with the idea before pulling himself back up to sit once more, 'if only' he thought, resigned; nearly scoffing at his own pitiable situation.
He raised a hand and rubbed his thumb over the back of one of his earrings, wondering what would happen if he really did it. Only, jumping would be a coward's way out.
If he died then the Academy would simply find someone else to replace him, and who knows who it would be if Persona was their best option before. Not to mention for his insolence he knows they would make good on those threats to pull Ruka into their shadows, because he didn't doubt for a second the attitude they would take if he stopped playing the obedient lapdog.
…But wouldn't it be easy?
He played with the idea, remembering the time he had been made to swear to take his own life if he was captured. It wouldn't be like that here, though.
It'd be his choice, his control. He could just shift his weight half a meter forwards and relax his body and he'd be gone: a swift fall and a dull crack. Over. No more academy, no more missions, no more fire or fighting or murders or coughing or pills or anything…
He sighed, almost wistfully, he could, he could just say 'fuck it' and jump, spinning, sailing out of existence. Whatever happened as a result wouldn't be his problem, he'd be dead, no worrying when you're dead.
But he couldn't, that was the point, he just couldn't. There was too much riding on him. He had people's lives to protect.
Half the fools they shoved into the dangerous class these days were more clueless than Mikan Sakura, which was saying a lot, and they panicked like headless chickens when they were jammed into a real life-or-death situation, which happened more and more as the Academy corrupted.
So he sent them back, well, about half of them. Straight-up refused to acknowledge their existence in his class, and Persona's replacement couldn't do a thing about it, because they both knew it was his class. Even though 'they' still chose and made the missions, and dutifully threatened to wreak vengeance on those dear to him if he didn't obey, when it came to the crunch it was Natsume who had control of the students there.
How the hell did he end up a leader? He asked himself from time to time, and leading that, for fuck's sake...
Perhaps it was the fact that he'd managed to get this far without getting his head smashed, bashed, or shot in… maybe it was just some cruel trick of fate: that he'd end up having to lead the very thing he despised. Even the teacher was scared of him and couldn't do squat outside the Academy in the slaughterhouse.
He was sick of it, that was the understatement of the century, but he knew that if he kicked the bucket then there would be at least ten innocent kids who'd end up with their brains on the wrong sides of their heads next mission.
So he didn't even have a choice, he had to do it, and do it well, or he'd have even more material for his nightmares, even more guilt.
The single redeeming part of this situation was that with him running the operation ever-so smoothly, the Academy didn't feel the need to replace the shadow of fear and torture Persona had cast over so many students…they had him now, and at least he was better than that man.
So he'd perfected the 'you need to do this or you are screwed' speech – in fact, it was one of his specialities. That and the 'don't come into the darkness that you don't need to see' one, which Mikan needed reminding of whenever her idiot's memory wore out. However, he was also getting better at protecting some of them, not his friends – they were fucked to high hell if he stepped out of line, the Academy made sure of that, but the younger ones, or the frightened ones.
He could usually tell with a single glance when a kid was likely to break down outside the walls, and a single glance was all he gave them before 'out, chickenshit, you don't belong here.'
Except for the few who really were dangerous, too dangerous for the other classes, and he'd always end up taking pity on them sooner or later. 'Just go to your room. Don't be seen. Don't make a sound. Don't let anyone know you're there. I will tell them you went so just stay quiet and don't fuck it up.'
Then they'd stare up at him like big moon-eyed babies, usually crying, and he'd roll his eyes and make sure he was gone before they could try and thank him. No one should be thanked for murder.
In the dead of the night, Natsume Hyuuga, student of the Alice Academy and hell-knows-what, stared out over the grounds from his third-storey seat; shrouded in the darkness.
A light flickered in a building opposite his that he knew belonged to Sakura; he'd spent plenty of time staring at it before. What was she still doing up at this time?
He was sure that she would be the death of him in the end, quite literally. All it would take is another of her hair-brained, unplanned ideas; those which inevitably go wrong anyway, and end up nearly killing him as it is. It would take just one more of them to crush the camel's already broken and bloodied back,and she'd finally polish him off once and for all.
He only hoped that he'd be able to save her doing it… the stupid moron had to go on living, didn't she?
He might finally get a rest then.
Dedicated to all my homies or all the people who have felt even a little like this before.