A/N: I suggest reading Cleave by this. pen. is. red (without the spaces) and Reset by MiladyQueenMab before reading this. After all, this story is a crossover fanfiction of those two fanfictions, which, somehow, is my alternate-ending for Gakuen Alice.
Dedication: For everyone who's encouraged me to post this story: buttercupbella, Autumn Win-Dow, Black Maya, this. pen. is. red, and MiladyQueenMab. I would also like to dedicate this one shot to November Romeo, who, at the end of this month, will be leaving GAFFn. She has been my inspiration on writing, and I am incredibly grateful for having known her (on Facebook, at least) and for having read her works.
Disclaimer: If I'd own Gakuen Alice, I won't make an alternate ending, yknow? And and credits to KidTantei for this story's title. ;)
In this make-believe world that he had created, he learned more about real life than what he could ever have imagined. He learned about sacrifice. He learned about courage. He learned about love.
He learned, above all else, that imaginary did not mean non-existent.
Nothing would disappear so long as his mind continued working. And nobody could rob him of that.
As the fragmented fantasy timeline patched itself up and unlived memories washed over his mental shores, he lit the fire again with the snap of a finger, as if hitting the 'reset' on his life.
"Welcome to Alice Academy!"
Because in the end, that's all that mattered.
- excerpt from MiladyQueenMab's Reset
A year, seven months, two weeks, and four days later, he was discharged from the hospital; he was free from the world of white, able to see the spectrum of colors the real world had in store for him. This world was far more vibrant and colorful than the world he had created in his head, but somehow, despite the revelation and his acceptance of the truth that Alice Academy wasn't real, he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that it was but a distant memory.
Sighing, he walked, hands in pockets—the right one jingling the coins and few bills given by the kind old man who had been his psychiatrist for years—carrying that aura of superiority he'd always had, and wondered what he would do as he began his life anew. As he passed by a book store situated beside a quaint coffee shop that seemed so homey—although he didn't know why exactly it had a touch of home—painted bubblegum pink with the words Sweet Anna written at the top in bold, brown letters, he felt a sense of nostalgia overwhelm him, much like a storm surge hitting him squarely on the chest. Dismissing the feeling as the initial exhilaration brought about by the realization of freedom, he decided he'd enter the book store, buy a book, and read at the coffee shop beside it.
Somehow, he ended up buying a pen and a paper, and scribbling at once as he entered the shop… about a man, a woman, and the world of alices.
Every day he would go to Sweet Anna, sit down, order coffee or cappuccino or latte—whichever would fit his taste at that moment—and start writing. It had been a habit, a routine, an indispensable part of his daily living. Writing, it seemed, was the easiest way to keep track of all that had happened in the Academy, although it was, as he was told, unreal. He would constantly imagine flashes of hazel and cinnamon and brown but he had no idea how it happened. He'd remember the smell of vanilla and tangerine… and the moment would end. Every single day, as he wrote about Alice Academy and remembered all the elements of the story he'd made when he was at the hospital, he'd see images, flashes of memories, all centered around her. He couldn't decipher why it seemed so real, how he could almost feel, how… how he just wanted to put down his pen and run—run without a definite destination at all, but with a person (or was it a character?) in mind.
But he didn't, he couldn't, and he wouldn't.
Every single day, he had to fight with the urge to go and find Mikan, because if what his psychiatrist said were true, he'd never find her again. Never. So he wrote and wrote and wrote, every single day, without fail, though his hands were tired, though his mind wanted to give up, and though his heart couldn't take the hurt anymore. He kept on writing.
Before he knew it, a year had passed.
That morning, before heading off to Sweet Anna, he vowed that it would be his last. He only had three pages to finish, and he planned on settling everything that day.
He entered the shop the same time he usually did, ordered cappuccino and a slice of cake—for once—and started writing. The wind chimes kept on tinkling but he paid them no heed. It was when he heard the voice—the familiar angelic voice—of the person the Natsume in his story loved the most that he looked up.
And it was her. It was Mikan in the flesh. The old man's words echoed incessantly in his mind.
"Listen. You were out that day, so you were saved by the mess. You, however, had no one to turn to, and so you followed a man named Rei Serio, who was a follower of theyakuza. You worked under him for many, many years. He trained you in an incredibly ruthless manner, and you killed various innocent people—"
"—but you didn't really understand the gravity of what you were doing. Then you met Mikan Sakura, a girl struggling to survive, when you turned twenty. She loved you, and you loved her, which was completely fine, save for the fact that Kumicho Kuonji wanted her as his mistress. You couldn't let that happen, of course—"
"—so you tried to defy him. You were unsuccessful, and when Kuonji found about it, he made sure you were going to be killed. Thankfully, you got to the cops before the mob could get you, and you met police officer Ruka Nogi, who was in charge of your case. You guys became really good friends, and worked together to help find Mikan Sakura…"
But those words weren't true. Mikan Sakura was there, right in front of him, seated on a chair and talking to the barista.
Mikan Sakura was real, alive, and a professional. Not the child he'd dreamed about, not the mistress he thought she'd become.
The old man was lying, thought he.
Then came the epiphany.
If he was lying, and Mikan is alive, a grown up version of the child I'd loved, then…
Alice Academy was real after all.
And then he saw them.
Bubblegum pink and midnight blue and seaweed green.
Brown and blond and dirty yellow.
And then there was the hazel.
Anna, Nonoko, Sumire, Koko, Ruka, and Yuu.
And Mikan. The Sakura Mikan. The one he vowed to protect and saved, who'd saved him from the eternal darkness overcoming him. That girl he loved so much.
…
But something felt amiss. Someone was missing. Where were the pale white skin, amethyst eyes, and raven black hair?
Hotaru. Where was Hotaru?
No, he thought, she had saved me and she just couldn't be trapped in time, suffering, unremembered by anyone because we'd been coaxed to believing our memories of Alice Academy weren't real. She deserves to be honored, remembered, and appreciated. Not only by me, but by Mikan most especially.
And he remembered, once again.
"You were admitted into this hospital for your chronic delusions and that's where 'Alice Academy' was born. You always started with yourself being eight years old, because that was when your nightmare began. You incorporated people from this mental hospital – for instance, Hotaru Imai, the inventor with alexithymia. Anybody you didn't have names for, you made them up arbitrarily—like Kokoroyomi, Kitsuneme and Mochiage."
People from this mental hospital… Hotaru Imai… inventor with alexithymia.
She was alive. She was there at the hospital with him. She'd survived and gotten back but lost her mind. No one was able to remember her—not her best friend, not the one she saved, not the people she loved.
And the only one to remember—the one with the blond hair and baby blue eyes—had his memory erased.
But she didn't deserve that.
The chimes tinkled once more, and when he looked up, standing with her usual stoic façade and cool demeanor was Hotaru Imai.
The Hotaru Imai.
And the pieces of the puzzle came together for Natsume. Everything—no, everyone—he needed was there, within hand's reach. The missing link had been found, the mystery had been solved, and all he had to do was to write it down.
As a proof it did happen, as a testament of their friendship and its importance.
He looked down and picked his pen up, and, as he was about to write, blinked.
…
He then looked at the blank page before him, not quite knowing what had gotten him so excited, staring and staring at the piece of paper and hoping the words would write themselves. Something felt wrong, but he had no idea what it was.
He looked up and saw nothing but a sea of unfamiliar faces.
Disappointed, he stood up and left.
On the table he left were three pages of paper—the one on top had nothing on it…
… except for a few spots, wet with teardrops.
END