(A/N: Written a very long time ago)
Sometimes you're so lost in thought you don't see what's there around you, barely register your own mechanical movements- and so here he was before the hospital, caught up with his own thoughts, as though his body had been transported to where his thoughts lay.
It happened slowly.
Before he realized it, he was changing. Time is unrelenting. He tried to stem the flow. He read the same books over and over again, not adding a single new one to the collection. It didn't matter. Even if the constituent parts remained the same, the patterns had been altered drastically.
It always logically starts in the beginning – that beginning marked, ironically, by her eluding of time – and he'd been reading the same books to her as now as she lied, same as always, on the hospital bed. (The concept of "revenge" was at this point, nascent, but the seeds had long since been planted: they would indeed develop.) He continued his usual patterns bereft of the vital components: went to work at the restaurant in the afternoon, continued a considerably pared down class schedule in the morning, and then, visited her… he had to alter his shift so that he'd make it to the hospital before visiting hours ended… and he lost sleep.
By and by he became irritable at work, and less reliable, cutting corners and minutes to leave to see his precious sister. He was sacked – his second real failure, but significant in that it hardly mattered,– he would have let it go passively away, that missed opportunity, if not for a few choice words… the swinging of fist came naturally, the connection to cheek like the hand of God. Though he had knowledge of the motions it was the first time he'd ever punched a man in rage, and surprisingly, his knuckles didn't even hurt afterward.
Well, this would become very familiar in his new life.
Violence didn't seem part of his nature, but perhaps violence was inherent in people. If not from the constant barrage of ill news and the behavior perpetrated by the various dark beasts he'd had to contend with, he'd seen his own behavior, and the behavior of his teammates. He could only fervently wish that his unearthed violence didn't become apparent to her.
Well, things had changed, and he'd barely realized it. Sometimes when he sat next to her, sweet unconscious her, he heard her speak, and spoke back, and they had the imagined conversations, reliving the old days, but her part wasn't changing and his was.
There could be no more friendly words between the few friends he'd had. Somewhere out there on paper or in a photograph Ran Fujimiya had a life, but he'd worn this mask too long to remain unchanged beneath it. Aya was he, and he was Aya… perhaps, until she woke up and resumed its use. But when he would finally lift this persona, he'd be utterly unrecognizable beneath. He didn't know what could have happened, how his life could have gone. In the beginning he mentally exhausted the alternatives, but now… he didn't believe in fate. There was no knowing what other way it could have happened, that was for certain, though it didn't quiet guilt and bloodlust… and he didn't know whether he wanted to change that.
He hated the circumstances, but he couldn't fathom returning to the life he'd once led, as the mild-mannered, shy boy, the weakling who didn't protect her. He'd grown cold and hard, but he was strong.