solitude & stardust
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a heavy heart on the boulevard tonight, oh,
shooting stars watch me fall apart tonight
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— turn off the lights, panic! at the disco
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Ikuto doesn't know how to explain it.
He can't even begin. He doesn't know where to start because, really, he's sure it's all just inside his head — a fabrication of a weary mind; a shadow on his heart; it's a background noise, faint and constant, buzzing away throughout every thought until all begins to blur and shift and blend away into a mess so mind-numbing that, truly, Ikuto cannot be bothered to tire himself with it.
Because it doesn't matter. It's never going away. It's something he cannot shake; an oddity he cannot fathom; an unrest he can't abide and, seemingly most importantly of all… It is now his life, yet, for all its worth, he cannot tell you when it came to be.
So no, Ikuto can't describe it. Not to you. Not to them. Nor even to himself. He just feels it. Somewhere deep at his heart it nags him; gnaws at him; pulls on his heartstrings and snags away at his chest until he feels as though he can bear it no more, for, after all, it's just oh-so crushing and every time he feels that tug, Ikuto becomes more aware...
He is more alone than he can put into words.
It doesn't make sense. It shouldn't make sense, he thinks as he hops from roof to roof with Yoru by his side; as he worms his way through Amu's balcony door; as he drifts about the corridors of his crowded school, ushered towards his seat by the group of morons he calls his friends and tailed by adoring juniors and heart-eyed admirers and that damned annoying, persistent excuse of a music teacher who somehow thinks he'll be able to persuade him into becoming the new head of the orchestra society.
Ikuto most definitely is not alone in any physical sense of the word… And yet…
Well… And yet his world is black and white. He exists in monochrome — a shadow amongst the waking world; a figure of obscurity; his life is lived behind a veil from which he cannot escape (which he just cannot begin to breach) and slowly Ikuto thinks he's beginning to suffocate because, for the life of him, he has never known how to break that barrier and finally walk into the world as one who might truly belong.
But belong he does not.
Walk freely he cannot.
His friends smile warmly at him and invite him out that evening. Utau appears outside the Easter building and bashfully asks him home for dinner. He sits hunched and slouched in the branch of a tree, fading into nothingness entirely unawares, when he sees his little brother wander happily down the path below him, his cheeks aglow and his smile shining, humming a familiar tune that smacks of warm summer sonatas and nostalgic masterpieces from long ago and inside Ikuto feels that gnawing pang of loneliness tear away at his weathered heart because as much as he might wish — as much as his heart may ache and his head may cry — he knows he cannot simply walk back into that Kiddy King's pleasant little life. He can't sit with his sister and talk as though not a shadow lies between them. He can't look his classmates in the eye and pretend to smile but one more time, for with every false façade he feels every word unsaid well up inside his chest, drowning his voice, weighing down his shoulders until he can barely breathe.
And now Ikuto realises that that snag upon his heart — that irrepressible weight in the pit of his stomach — it is not solely his solidarity turning against his weathered body. No… That tug is made of chains. It's made of iron and lead and malice and it slithers about his chest, winding round his feet, gathering about his shoulders as his stepfather yanks on the cord because, after all… How can he join this world of colour when Easter still stains his existence such a sullen grey?
And so his lips must stay sealed and his tongue bit behind his teeth because they must never know. Utau and mother and Amu and Tadase — all those he holds truly dear — they must never know what fell things lurk within the grey space in his mind. They must never hear his whimpers nor feel his fear nor watch as his failing façade begins to falter — falter as it does on those darkest nights when he is alone and unafraid of company — for if they did… If they ever dared to try and bear some of the burden that he has bestowed upon himself…
Well, Ikuto could never forgive himself.
Sometimes he wakes in the dead of night and feels the sweat run cold down his back, terrifying images of his own creation flashing before his eyes. The Director works such devilry in his dreams as in the flesh and Ikuto finds himself haunted by the fear of what misfortune might befall his loved ones if they drew too close to the flame of his stepfather's wrath.
And so the façade returns. The walls pile high. Ikuto shakes his head and hauls himself from the depths of this waking nightmare and walks alone beneath the moon where he can truly say that he is as alone physically as he is within his head and he dreams of some far-off world that is alight with colour — vivid and vibrant, untouched by the desolation of this unhappy existence so that he might finally walk a free man again, light and lifted and unburdened by the weight of iron…
But it seems to him every so often on these dismal nights — when the moon is full and the air is still — that there lingers yet some solace out there way amongst the night and when he sits atop the roof of his home and turns his head towards the sky, he sees the stars twinkling blissfully above and inexplicably his heart is lifted, for only then does he truly feel like he is not alone. Only here beneath these blessed lights does Ikuto feel as though he walks under the watch of some merciful eye, guided by spirits, looked over and protected by the watchful night, for he feels as though these stars might look upon him and understand. They have always been there. They see his pain. They observe his heartache. They have heard on these darkest days the echoes of the cries within his heart and they alone have heard his solemn story…
And that is all he needs.
To feel as though his tale is one worth listening to. To feel as though there may be yet one other soul out there, waiting for him on the other side of the impending gloom, to share his suffering — to be there to listen when all grows too unbearable to hold back behind pursed lips…
To make him feel like he is not alone.
And when the stars are gone?
When the stars are gone — hidden from sight beyond the veil of cloud — it makes little difference.
He knows they are there. They are listening. And so he stands beneath the dreary sky and plays some slow sonata, for there is a lightness in the lilt of music that makes him feel as though he is flying — flying high enough to pierce those darkened clouds and touch the stars himself. Unbridled and untroubled he plays and, for that brief moment, he forgets.
He forgets his loneliness. He forgets the snag. He forgets the shadow of his stepfather looming over his lanky form and, sometimes, if he plays for long enough, the sky will clear and the clouds will part and he will feel alone no more.
He reassures himself that one day he may not be so alone — so drowned by the weight of his silence, for it's on nights like these that another might appear — that pastel pink and honey gold might grace his presence — and, in the light of her eyes, he sees those glorious stars twinkle bright and brilliant…
And Ikuto realises then that there really might be one other soul who will listen…
Who might lighten up this world.
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A/N: Well this was depressing. I'm actually really sorry. This was really uncalled for. It's yet another little piece I found unpublished in my documents and I kind of didn't want to post it because I realised I must have been having some pretty gloomy thoughts whenever the inspiration struck… But I just can't let fics go. I have a problem.