This was supposed to be a Christmas fanfic, posted on Christmas Eve, but yes, everything got so hectic and I didn't finish it on time so it was also hurried. Oh well, (belated) Merry Christmas, everybody!
(Note: Angst is my specialty. Forgive me. I didn't have a swell Christmas, so yes, my bitterness overpowers the necessity to write fluff. Pardon also the utter stupidity of the entire thing...I don't have a beta-reader, as well, so therefore, forgive my mistakes.)
Disclaimer: Got a dictionary? It's written right there.
Beloved's Whisper: A Christmas Fic
By Assiah
Snowflakes danced with the wind as its partner, twirling in the air with the grace of the piano's waltz. December's soft downpour veiled Kantou with its usual thick white blanket, the frosty cotton particles falling from the damp gray skies.
Families comfortably nestled in their homes, tucked away in blankets, and cuddled by the warmth with the means of a kotatsu, delicious meals, and human touch. Friends greeted each other the happiest of holidays, exchanging gifts and merry smiles—their tokens of appreciation, love and affection.
Some people saw it fit to visit their late relatives, their hearts filled with the casual idea of greeting them in this fine Christmas day, despite their own Shinto or Buddhist religion. They brought the usual gestures of mourning, love, and remembrance. Their family members' favorite foods, handmade gifts and even the simplest act of prayer were dedicated within the frosty chills of Aozuregau Cemetery.
But, at the moment the clock stroke past eleven, only a lone silhouette endured the cold biting at his skin. His teeth refused to chatter, his body took no acknowledge in the shivery spasms the coursed through his veins. Eyes stern, looking straight down at the Christian grave, engraved with the ever emblematic cross beside the deceased's name written in gorgeous scripted English. His face bore no expression; no fond smile, grieving tears and such. The young man, who was actually twenty-three despite what appearances said, was curtly dressed in an English black tailor-made suit, with an equally impeccable winter trench coat, and leather boots, strapped together by silver buckles.
With gray woolen gloves, at the palm of hands was a bouquet of fresh and vibrant beige roses, still shimmering with dew and frost. They were packed neatly together inside Japanese paper of blue and white cotton cloth, strung by a silver ribbon, laced in the middle by ebony stitches.
Tezuka Kunimitsu stood in front of that grave, lips thinned and tinted with rime, eyes cold and expressionless despite the slivers of regret and grief leaking in the corners. His dark brunette hair, impeccably styled in its rather unruly way was lightly veiled by winter's bubbly whispers.
Tezuka hated winter.
He hated Christmas.
Bitterness engulfed his heart immediately as he stepped into the household, the aura of depression and the vague form of grief pervading the suffocating atmosphere. It hurt to breathe as he stepped forward, bowing deeply in front of the distraught and devastated mother of the deceased.
His chest constricted painfully as he heard the cries of the sobbing father, the heartbroken sister and the angered, confused and pained brother. He knew his friend loved his family dearly, and held great importance in his friends. Hearing those beloved people of his mourn for his sake must be cruelly painful…
But did that stop Tezuka from utterly, wholly, completely, destroying him?
No, it didn't. And that train of thought refrained him from crying, and he was the only one of his comrades who stilled himself at the sight of despair, and refused to weep.
He thought about their relation. How it sparked, spawned, grew and morphed into something so surreal, so dignified and true yet so impossible, so cruel and most of all, a complete and utter deception. How they first met in their pre-teen years, how they never batted an eyelid in the other's direction, watching from afar, slightly indifferent and casual, never knowing but always knowing the truth about the other.
They knew each other best. They rubbed off of each other's personality, learning their quirks and their kinks, their habits and their life. They annoyed each other, challenged each other's limits and superiority. However, at exactly the same time, they felt the completeness they had never felt, the fading emptiness inside them disappear, and how their companionship grew and transformed into a relationship, which turned into anything but good.
He banged the smaller frame against the high school lockers, eyes ablaze with barely controlled anger and contempt. He didn't know the meaning behind those ill-fated feelings, but the ever-present smile on that pale passive face irked him to a degree only touchable by that gentle and serene face. He hated the deception the other person's entirety represented.
In the years they've known each other, he had come to learn how to see through that fake mask. He had seen the rotten core of his friend's person—how utterly vile, cruel and sadistic his companion, teammate and at one point in time, lover had been.
"Saa…brooding, Tezuka?" Fuji had drawled, eyes barely opened to reveal the mischievous glints of brilliant sapphires. His mouth was quirked up into a nasty smirk, the pink rosy lips inviting and parted, the very essence of Lust's temptation.
Tezuka gritted his teeth in his annoyance, his stoic face crumbling in the presence of the genius' sadistic nature. In his contempt, he tightened his grip on Fuji's shoulders, his nails digging into pale flesh, spawning bright red bruises. He pulled Fuji close to him harshly, instantly nipping on his neck, biting and licking, drawing the lovely tang taste of blood from his lower lip.
The prodigy gave no response, but the widening of his smirk. Tezuka's actions hurt him, of course. Physically or otherwise, he didn't know. The harshness and utter distaste extracted from his captain's movements proved the nothingness… the utter destruction of their relationship.
Yes, Fuji knew he was cruel. He used Tezuka, manipulated him, even betrayed him in various ways. He never loved the captain; he refused to acknowledge the complicated strings Time had knitted together in her boredom, forming the beautifully designed tapestry, mirror-imaged to the gorgeous ink sketch in Fate's old and dusty book, pages torn throughout the years their life together grew and steadied onward.
Tezuka's mask always crumbled before him, and Fuji knew at some point that he was the living, breathing form of Lust, the corpse of the desire for human flesh. Beauty is a curse, of course, and Pride is the highest of all capital sins. But did he care? No.
Regret was never a part of his vocabulary…
Tezuka never cried. He had no recollection of any moment his tears had been shed. But even so, what ached his heart so deeply, damaged his estranged soul beyond repair was the gnawing claws of regret, grabbing unto him like a leech, sucking up his existence and leaving him bare and cold, exposed to the hated realities of the real world.
He knew he had hurt Fuji. Likewise, Fuji, too had damaged him beyond repair. But Tezuka was strong, he always was, standing firm and unconquerable like an oak. He had no problems gaining his goals, achieving his dreams without the assistance and guidance of others. He maneuvered his own life, gambling his own choices. He knew how to live.
Fuji, whereas, was a willow. He was bendy and adapting, allowing the wind to guide him, picking up pieces, putting them together and throwing them away. The willow tree was a beautiful scenic child of Gaia, and Aeries treasured its dancing leaves and swaying branches. But, had the wind blew too strong, the willow would crumble and fall, ripped apart from its roots.
And if Tezuka hated too much, hurt too much, suffer and live in utter contempt and misery, then Fuji too would crumble and fall. Loving others more than himself, and being cruel to others, using and manipulating them as one's pleasure was his greatest contradiction--the keystone of his meaning and identity. He cared not for his own wounds but mended others. True, he was playful, and naughtily mischievous.
But like any other playful, naughty and mischief-ridden child, he easily can easily get hurt, crack and shatter. And what would be left?
Nothing.
Tezuka never thought that it would come to the point, that regret and pained despair would be the only emotions he would feel for his friend.
They never held each other after their encounters. They simply ignored one another and went about their own way—but after their rough display in the locker room, Fuji had held Tezuka close, a soft, barely audible whimper escaping his throat as arms wrapped around the tennis captain's slim waist.
Tezuka blinked, stiffened at the action so foreign to him. It was uncomfortable, truly, and it nagged at Tezuka's heart and brain, gnawing, tugging at the cells, screaming in the midst of its rare tantrums. It nauseated his thoughts, buzzing them into hated confusion. His brain desperately tried to register Fuji's uncharacteristic actions, submitting numbly to the fair-haired teenager as he brought a hand to cup Tezuka's cheek, and bruised lips meeting his in a brief and chaste kiss.
Pulling away, what Tezuka saw made his heart stop, stilling Time in her watching and Fate in her writing. An expression so pure, so innocent was on Fuji's face, no secrets or hidden motive shimmering in his features. The raw hurt and confusion, the years of unhappiness and self-hate were unmasked by his smile.
Words died in his throat and yet again, the falsely cheery smile was plastered on that fake face, barely showing off the sparkle of ceruleans and ghost of a smirk before the prodigy walked away, leaving Tezuka in the locker room, confused and hurt, raw with the revelations of how lovely Fuji's touch had been, how tenderly the brunette had kissed him but also with the wordless message conveyed through them.
This was the end. It was goodbye.
Forever.
How he wished he could make up for his stupidity and naiveté. But sadly, wishes, he had learned the hard way, were never granted completely. Everything was just too late. Regret meant nothing now, as the snow continued pooling around him as he walked away, leaving the bouquet alone on top of the grave mark, standing out beautifully in contrast to the glistening frosty portrait of winter.
If only his pride wasn't so hurt, his speculations so far from the truth, the raw hurt inside his heart would have died, and in fact, never existed. But Time cannot play rewind, and Fate can't turn the present back to the past. The sisters were apathetic to his grief, even after five years, and they were amused with it, instead. Sadomasochists, they were. They knitted his life together in its perfection, but barrenness was always the end solution: emptiness was always what he felt.
And Tezuka knew the reason why.
He never felt so alone.
He sat on the bed of Fuji's room, fingers wrung together in dismal pretenses, his eyes blank and expressionless, with his lips curved in a slight frown. At the very eve of Christmas, the Fuji household, and his teammates, and even some from rival schools were in no mood for celebration.
Just two days prior to the birth of Christ, a tragedy had befallen Seishun High and its rival schools, damping their Christmas spirits with grieving mourn and ill feelings.
Fuji Syuusuke committed suicide.
Anyone who knew the teenager would laugh and probably say, "Fuji Syuusuke? Suicide? You can't be serious!" No one would expect Fuji to kill himself. He was a brilliant person, utterly perfect to a casual observer's eyes. Intelligent, attractive, and talented, Fuji had it all. He was kind and gentle to others around him, despite the nasty rumors of sadism and fetishes the boy had.
No one ever anticipated such a turn. Fuji had it going. He would be a professional tennis star with his friends; a freelance journalist; a professional photographer…he could have had everything he wanted, pursued any career he desired. Nobody thought that he would end his life, his everything just at the age of eighteen.
He hadn't even reached adulthood yet. Why? The answer to that question, nobody knew. Not even Yumiko was aware of her brother deepest and sincerest of feelings. And if not Yumiko, his sister who was most like him, then who else would? His best friend, Eiji? Childhood friend, Saeki? Beloved little brother, Yuuta? Or maybe… his ever respected Captain?
Veins popped out from the grip Tezuka's hands had on each other, his brow creased in his displeasure. He had heard of how his…friend had been found. It was every mother's nightmare.
Yoshiko had called out to her son the evening the day before yesterday, with dinner prepared, at the rarest moments the entire family was together. Her husband, Hajime had just come home for vacation from Europe, Yumiko had cancelled her appointment and Yuuta even decided to stay over for the night instead of being all cozy within the dorms of St. Rudolf Academy.
Everything was perfect. That was until Yoshiko had come up to her eldest son's room and saw the horrendous bloody picture easily stating one thing:
"I hate myself."
Yoshiko screamed and screamed and screamed, staring with wide eyes at the bloodied sheets and carpet, the cutter thrown unceremoniously away from the bloody, tattered body of her son. Hearing the anguished screams, the rest of the household had ran up the stairs to see the normally cheery and happy mother sobbing and screaming, arms around Syuusuke, whose normally clean and silky brown hair crimson at the tips and dirty with filth. His clothes were torn, tattered and slashed in various places and severe cuts layered the formerly smooth and unblemished skin of the eldest son's body.
Fuji's eyelashes were tinged with the blood trickling down his forehead, only to mix with the bitterness of his tears.
There was no need for an ambulance.
Fuji was dead.
Tezuka bit his lower lip in his anguished frustration. Why did Fuji had to do that? There was no reason for him to kill himself! He had a life to live, full of possibilities and chances! Why?!
Caught in his shaking thoughts' ramble, Tezuka stood up brusquely from the bed and began pacing, letting steam corrode from his system, but as he did, he managed to knock a hard-bound English book off the blue-eyed brunette's dresser.
Printed in bold golden letters was the title, "The Little Prince", with a rosewood-textured brown cover. He picked up the book, remembering that it was Fuji's favorite when a slightly old photograph slipped away from the fairytale's pages.
The photograph fell on the floor face-up, revealing the hidden picture in all its 6-year-old glory. Scrutinizing it, Tezuka realized that it was taken during first year in Seishun Middle School, when the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, a day after Tezuka and Fuji had met for the first time. A senior had persuaded the two for a picture, and if he recall, quite blurrily so, that Fuji had asked a copy of that taken shot.
It was one of the instances where Fuji had actually persuaded Tezuka to smile in a photograph, one of the most amusing Kodak moments, really, with Fuji's arms around Tezuka in an almost compromising position, displaying in neon lights the warning of intimacy, a bright smile on his face to glower at the uneasiness in Tezuka's frame… but the twinkle behind those oval spectacles were real and the curve of those normally thinned and impassive lips were true and genuine.
Fuji treasured the picture, and Tezuka began to grow an attachment to it as well, seeing the soft, tender expression of the smaller boy's face, a look blissful and so innocent, it made Tezuka hurt to know what Fuji had become. A manipulator who wrecked others for himself, loving no one and merely using them.
He remembered the ephemeral affection they shared, the passion in each others' eyes… only to find out all of that was a lie, leading to their relationship's inevitable destruction. Tezuka never thought of Fuji ever the same…
…until the moment he flipped the picture to see its back, his eyes widening, and he dropped the candid photo.
Tezuka understood then. Hurt filled his trembling body, his hands shaking and turning into fists, the nails digging into flesh, leaving marks. Blood trickled slightly, he never could have realized how foolish he utterly was. He heard Fate laughing her sensual cruelty, eyes ablaze with unmatched sadism by the side of Time, so utterly bored yet amused at the same time.
But now, thinking back, comparing everything to these unbearable feelings, the rush of every contempt and sorrow in his veins, his past scars were nothing. They were mended, and were healing.
Tezuka didn't think time was enough to heal this wound.
He felt his heart crack, the pain searing into his body with the strength of the revelation he had learned, and walk hurriedly away from Fuji's bedroom, from his scent, from his taste…from his memory.
And if one would look at the gorgeous photo of the two boys, one would shed tears knowing their story as they read the confession of one who hurts others but in return, destroys himself.
One would see the shattered pieces of their souls, the disjoined fragments of memories that lay forgotten in a grave made especially for them. Someone would look at the candle, lit with their ephemeral passion, their love and affection...never reaching the other; a fire supposed to be strong, beautiful and warm, blazing with intense heat. But the fire was ice, lit on the candle, melting the wax and burning the precious metal of its holder; it was so cold, its presence glowing amidst the darkness, fueling the deepest of sorrows harvested in life. Despair pervaded its smoke, and ashes spread, the smell of burnt paper thick in the air.
Their emptiness was never severed, their hearts were never joined, their souls never relished in the loveliness of how their relationship would have been, how their love would have surfaced and furnished. Had one of them not been too prided and the other not too stubborn, their innocent love and attraction would not have morphed into the horrid sins of flesh, the longing desires for human touch and the inevitable destruction of each other's being. Had they stripped themselves of their pride and stubborness, Aeries would have embraced them with loving and gentle arms as that of a mother, accepting their relationship and wishing nothing but their happiness.
But sadly, none of those possibilities were taken. They had strayed down the path of inevitability, using one another, manipulating one another, hurting and wrecking each other's sense of self. They saw each other as strangers, as friends, and at one point, lovers. But they never felt that closeness, nor that distance. What they felt was hurt, and inevitability crashed down into them as such as their many arguments and fights.
Neither took notice in the cries of their souls, the raw hurt desperately clawing at their hearts.
Their story had ended way before it had begun. No one had realized the complications of their relationship, neither party was aware of the other yet knew each other to the extent of surpassing the closeness of friends and the distance of strangers. A leather bound book was on the floor, new yet destroyed. Pages were dirty with blotches of ink and stains, chips of paper were sewn everywhere, littering the empty dark room, only lighted by the flame of their icy regret and growing sadness.
In one page burnt and torn, also behind the Kodak photo, written in beautiful cursive, with suspiciously dim and fading red ink were the words: "Merry Christmas, Tezuka..."
Hearts had shattered and memories lay burnt on the floor, written in paper, and easily forsaken...
"I'm sorry I love you."
Turning back one more time, Tezuka eyed his beloved's grave. This time, recalling everything from the moment everything began, tears descended from his hazel eyes, a look of regret and sorrow overpowering his pokerfaced expression. For the first time in his life, he felt the urge to cry and he submitted to it; bowing down in its years of glory. He had enough of "what if"s and "if only"s... He had wasted his time with hate and regret; too consumed with what he would get in his relationship with Fuji.
They had wasted each other, destroyed each other, and through the many years of unhappiness Fuji had suffered. Their separation, Tezuka's cruelty was the breaking point.
Nothing that smells of flowers ever sprouted from love.
"I'm sorry too. Merry Christmas…"
"…Syuusuke."
No one was there to pick up the pieces.
Fin.