Note: Posted this fic last year in my livejournal, but here is a lightly revised version. Please enjoy.
Gray Heaven
By chibiryu
Sometimes Tezuka dreams in monochrome. The walls are swathed in a felt cover of pastel gray, where the edges blur together, smeared as if a child ran a curious finger down their path. On certain occasions, the curtain shimmers like a translucent waterfall, and he catches a peek of metal frames. But the curtains never lift completely.
Sometimes Tezuka sees the world in shades of red. Deep red, almost black, spilling across the floor like great scars on a giant's back. Bright red, so bright that it hurt his eyes, leaking from the ceiling, raining acid onto his bed. Within the spectrum are reds that thrum and strum, swirl and whirl, rise and fall, beating a random rhythm that has blood pounding into his eyes.
Sometimes the world Tezuka dreams of is not a world at all. Rather, it is a measure of contradictions, a vacuum devoid of nothing and everything. The dry wind biting his skin one second, accompanied by an eerie depravation that made him wonder if his ghost is all that's left.
He cannot see his body, but that of another boy's stands out in stark clarity before his eyes. A lithe figure reclines an embrace away, stretching languidly in the dreamscape of sentient colors that laugh and dance and drives him crazy.
The boy is always there. And though Tezuka can not see his face, the whispers in his heart and the cool fingers combing through his hair awakens in him an aching familiarity.
The name lingers on his lips. He parts them…
And from the shadows that begin to peel away from the boy's face is a sliver of a smile—before the world plunges into an endless vortex.
Sometimes Tezuka doesn't need to dream in monochrome to live it. The room sways like underwater currents, washed in pale silver light and muted gray stains. Everything is parched of color; he has the distinct feeling that he's living in a static frame of an old fifties movie. Even sound is muffled beneath the layers of gray—the hum of machines and padded footsteps and whispered prayers tickle his ears, but he cannot scratch at the elusive irritation. And when he tries to pinpoint the source, he sees the boy again.
The boy who shares his pillow, shares his body heat, shares the breath between them. The boy who smiles that painfully intimate smile. At such close proximity, Tezuka sees blue. And he remembers.
Sometimes Tezuka resents not being able to dream. In a state of consciousness, he feels the phantom arm gnawing at his pride and the remains of a long dream. His eyes burn with corporeal pain; his body groans from expensive drugs. He sees people he doesn't want to—not now, at least, and maybe not ever, because he has fallen too far and yes, yes, when the pillar falls, it shatters into a million pieces and why can't anyone damn well understand that he's broken, sick, and broken?
In his state of consciousness, Tezuka cannot see the boy anymore because his neck is paralyzed. He strains his eyeballs to the side until he thinks they will pop out of their sockets, but still he does not see him. In his myopic vision are perpetual white walls and ceilings, strangers in white hospital garbs, the white face of his mother, the clean white fabric of Seigaku Tennis uniforms, but where is—
"Fuji."
In his state of consciousness, Tezuka hears a voice that sounds like Oishi's.
"I'm sorry, Tezuka. But Fuji…he didn't survive the crash. He died four days ago."
Ah, so that's how it is.
For a long time, Tezuka sees the white light of anguish, until an angel descends from the ceiling and delivers him to a gray heaven.
The angel has blue eyes and a familiar smile.
Tezuka takes his hand and thinks, "This is real."
The tranquilizer can rot in hell.