Title: Parallax
Characters/Pairings: TezuFuji
Rating: T
Warnings: gore, some vaguely sexual content, incomprehensibility
Length: ~2,500
Summary: a set of drabbles/ficlets based on an AU-meme I found some time ago.
There should be more AUs but I can't remember the meme too well. That aside, I can't seem to write anything but AU these days - but I love writing them anyway. I wonder, what other AUs can I write about? /ponders
parallax (or, the world along different lines of sight)
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Mafia Yakuza AU-
Tezuka watches, unblinking, as his opponent stretches an arm, blood gurgling in his slit throat - the man tries to speak; all Tezuka can hear is wet gasps but he does not need words to discern I loathe you, how dare you make me like this, I curse you, I curse you, I curse you, a final howl of defiance before the body starts its decay. It is summer – in this heat the abdomen will completely liquefy by five, ten days at most, skin taking on the texture of cottage cheese, and this man will be naught but a shell, a house for the flies, maggots, the worms that crawl under putrefied flesh by twenty – by less than a year, all that is left will be bone.
Tezuka lowers his eyelids, breathes a prayer to nobody and no one – between this breath and the next he feels a slight tap on his shoulder. Fuji, in a suit more red than white and a smile that no longer reaches his eyes. White is an impractical colour – no matter how one washes blood leaves a stain, a pale rim where liquid and fibre meet – Fuji had shook his head when Tezuka asked, and he had smiled the same smile as now, with a subtle quirk to his lips that Tezuka now realized was a warning – insignificant, futile – and he had murmured, fingers tracing a circle on Tezuka's chest, To remember.
They were twelve or thirteen or fourteen, awkward in their physique and running the streets from Asakusa to Ikebukuro to Shinjuku with the Yakuza tracing their steps – they were young, free for hire, disposable– and the sky was the colour of dust when he found Fuji, back to a brick wall the same shade as the blood pooling around the body at his feet. In Fuji's hand was a knife, edge glinting silver even with the stickiness coating the blade.
Fuji smiled, at him but more through him, and with a voice almost drowned by the din of street life, croaked, "Sorry for letting you see this."
It was then that Tezuka made an oath. "I'll do it," he stated, later that night when the moon was red. "I will destroy the Yakuza,"and the best kind of destruction – of death, of chaos and of hell – begins from the inside. Fuji smiled up at him, eyes unreadable except for that tiny glimmer in his irises - hope, Tezuka wished, believed, believes.
The oath is the collar much too heavy around his neck, coiled barbed wire worn around the chambers of his heart like an invisible crown – it tightens with every heartbeat, every drop of blood spilled.
To remember.
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Pirates AU-
The sea lives in Seigaku's crew, a storm that breathes and shudders and roars with every lift of the ribcage and every flicker of sails. There is a phrase circulating among the traders at Port Royal, whispers of curious wonder and wild-eyed awe: Seigaku makes the seas its own; the same as how Seigaku can't live without the sea, the sea will not exist without Seigaku.
This Fuji laughs at, as he lifts the beer tankard and sips from the rim. The lad next to him – typical pirate, Fuji thinks, a tribute to stereotype – bumps him on the shoulder, almost knocking the tankard away from his fingers. "What's this," the boy drawls, "You a girl or something, mate? Drink like a real man, arr," and to demonstrate, he dumps the contents of his bottle into his face, rum sloshing and spilling around his yellow grin. Roars resound throughout the pub as Fuji slinks away to a quieter table, leaving his tankard behind.
"It appears you have made a friend," Tezuka's brown eyes greet Fuji's vision, his mouth an impasse downturn and a glass in his hand.
"Captain," Fuji smiles and lifts his hat while he curtsies, to which Tezuka raises an eyebrow, "Fancy seeing you here – we thought you were devoured by those pretty ladies the moment we landed in Tortuga. Had a eulogy prepared and everything."
"Sorry to disappoint," Tezuka replies, dry, and takes a sip. Fuji peers into the glass - Tezuka knows better than to push his drink away when Fuji's curious.
The moment Fuji sees the contents of the glass he stifles a giggle. "Oh, what would the people say," he exclaims, theatrical, "If they knew that Seigaku's fearsome captain drinks milkin Tortuga."
Tezuka takes another sip. "They can say what they want. I dislike alcohol."
Fuji chuckles. "Never been too much of a fan myself, but," he nudges Tezuka on the shoulder the way the boy nudged him earlier. "Man up, arr!" he rolls his tongue, "Why are you a pirate, man?"
This he meant to be in jest, but Tezuka answers him perfectly seriously, brown eyes peering endlessly into his own. Under the pub's dim lighting they seem gilded with gold. "Because I love the ocean," he declares, a hidden tumult of pride and passion underneath the timbre of his voice, "And I will make you do the same."
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Cyberpunk AU-
Tsubame takes the form of a sleek black rectangle out of cyberspace, inconspicuous and almost indistinguishable from any cheap drive from JVC. Tezuka grimaced at the thought – the memory of Tsubame's price tag was still neon in his mind. Slotting the AI into his Satella-X9, he heard the click of the AI jack followed by a whirr and waited for the real world to fragment.
Cyberspace was what its name would suggest – a unicolour 3D field stretching endlessly across the metaverse, fluorescent gridlines outlining the location of intranet channels, interlocking arrays of nodes propagating across the infinity. Tezuka surveyed his surroundings – Tsubame was nowhere in sight.
'Hello,' he heard, the sudden wispy voice sending a cold shiver down his spine. 'You must be Tezuka Kunimitsu. If not, my spec contract lied to me.' Tezuka nodded.
'Rather chilly these days, don't you think?' Tezuka could feel the AI studying him, a scrutiny of his new contractor, and he willed himself to stop shivering – it's ridiculous; the physical body cannot feel in cyberspace.
'Not much of a talker, are you?' Behind the AI's words he heard laughter – and two seconds later it manifested into a brown-haired holo, satisfied smile on its – his face. The holo strode forward. "I'm sorry for my rudeness – I would offer a handshake," the holo's lips quirked, "But being an AI does tend to deprive one of tangible form. Pleased to be working with you."
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College AU-
Tezuka was having lunch in a questionable corner of the university cafeteria when the bulge in his pocket vibrated. Opening his clamshell phone ("It's positively antique," Atobe had sniffed) beheld:
Te-zu-ka, listen to what the PA has to say :D :D
-yours truly with cacti-coloured love, Fuji
Tezuka immediately wished he had eaten the mouldy sandwich he had in his fridge that morning. He was about to rush (Tezuka never rushed, he strategically retreated) from the cafeteria, haphazardly packing his bento when the PA buzzed and Tezuka knew he was far too late. A voice, quivering slightly (is the PA guy crying, Tezuka wondered) resounded from the speakers on the wall.
'T-the following is dedicated to the one and only Tezuka Kunimitsu, from you-know-who, yours truly...'
Tezuka felt lucky that he eschews extracurricular activities like the plague; so far most of the people who knew his name are the lecturers and former schoolmates (perhaps he wasn't lucky after all, he suppressed a groan). He was in the onset of severe mental cursing of a certain tensai¸ yours truly, when his ears were assaulted by a... wholly... interesting mash-up of Sonnet 20 and Super Lover (thou, the master-mistress of my passion I need super lover tonight –).
The story of how Tezuka Kunimitsu nearly murdered a man is now well hidden and buried (read: well-told and well-retold) under the increasingly gigantic pile of Seigaku folly. Eiji had been positively delighted, spewing the story with gusto to every known acquaintance – this time, the keen target was Momo. "How'd you think he did it?" Momo asked, chortling.
"Fuji's a master of the three B's, nya. He can do anything – haven't you learnt anything, Momo? I'm ashamed of you!"
"I can't help it, senpai – I haven't exactly been buddy-buddy with Fuji-senpai lately. Anyways, the three B's?"
"Beg, bribe, blackmail. Except it's Fuji so blackmail always, alwaaays, goes first, and there's no beg. So it's actually two B's. But that doesn't sound as cool, nya."
Momo shivered. "I feel kinda sorry for the PA guy."
Eiji waved a finger. "Nah, he's unharmed. Still has both his balls, if you're concerned."
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Cops and Robbers AU-
Fuji Yuuta was a good kid. A good kid messing around with the wrong people: street gangs, bosozoku, wolves – it's a pothole every Japanese teenager experiences, only some of them have the ability to swerve around every bump in the road with sublime grace and relatively few scrapes and bruises; Yuuta, unfortunately, was not one of those teenagers.
The kid probably didn't know what he was getting into. Tezuka's familiar with the stages – they'd start out small, first, normal school delinquents nobody cares enough about to reprimand, and then they'd escalate and start robbing supermarkets and harassing young women on the street – all this, backed by the belief that the bancho cares enough to save them. Too bad – Hajime Mizuki is known for his duplicity, if nothing else.
Tezuka suppresses a sigh.
"Aren't you aniki's partner?"
Yuuta doesn't say aniki as much as spits it onto his face. Tezuka coolly removes his glasses, gives it a cursory wipe before he replaces it, and looks Yuuta in the face. A stray puppy – not even a wolf – eager to prove he can walk just fine with a thorn in his paw.
"You are, aren't you? He'll hate you for this, just so you know," Yuuta states, as Tezuka affixes a pair of handcuffs on his wrists – it's the kind that digs into the skin.
"Give your brother a call," Tezuka says, it's for him I'm doing this.
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Wizards AU-
There should be a limit to how many spiny excuses for houseplants one could reasonably fit into a single forty metres-square hut in the middle of nowhere; unfortunately, the owner of said hut is a creature that circumvents reasonable human behaviour on a meticulously regular basis. The world would be much more beautiful and bright, canaries singing in the sky, candy falling from the branches, had Fuji extended the behaviour to his occupation.
"Ah, is it time already?" Fuji lifted from his face the book he was using as a sleep mask – a priceless spell tome, from the aura the book emanated – Tezuka refused to flinch. "How did you get in?"
"You gave me a key. And your hellhound," Tezuka raised his eyebrow, "Illegal – was asleep."
"Oh, I did – I must have forgotten, how silly of me," Fuji said with a dismissive wave, "And asleep, you say?" Tezuka knew Fuji enough to read the barely visible frown on his face; the hellhound was entirely for Tezuka's benefit – it wasn't stationed at the door post yesterday. "I suppose you'll be wanting a full report?"
Tezuka nodded.
Fuji dropped his feet to the ground, facing him, one finger on his chin. "Let's see, three days ago I have finally finished a foolproof recipe for the elongation of the spines of Pachycereus pringlei, which I am certain would revolutionize the cacti-adoring population. Just yesterday I have concocted a viscous beverage – palatable, I assure you – that would result, upon oral contact, in the spontaneous combustion of individuals with permanent perm–"
Tezuka suppressed familiar irritation, one hand itching to massage his temples. "You haven't done anything, have you."
Fuji's eyes twinkled. "I kept you coming, didn't I?"
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Vampire AU-
She is young, delicate, fragile and lovely at once – a visage of glass slippers, the slender figure in a music box – and he approaches her with a pair of thin-stemmed glasses in hand, red wine a mockery of what he is truly after. "A lady should not stain her face with tears," he begins, lips raised and eyes friendly. The only witness is a grandfather clock, tall and imposing from afar but peeling varnish if subject to scrutiny. It chimes twelve, but this is not a fairytale; there is no carriage, no fairy godmother.
He invites her for a dance, a lone waltz in the star-cloaked balcony, a secret tryst in the exterior dark while the lights and the laughter continue inside. She agrees – he knows she will – and her tears become no more than a distant memory.
He transforms seduction into art, beckoning her with low subtle whispers, fingers tracing circles on the small of her back – this act is not complete without the warm puff of air into her ear, he knows, but he has lost his ability to breathe. He does not need it still; it is with demure giggles and a subtle pink across her cheekbones that she nods and accepts his hand. He guides her outside – his carriage is waiting, he murmurs – but instead he leads her to a dim-lighted corner and presses her against a dusty lamppost.
Her questions are drowned soon enough by a kiss – his fingernails trace the hem of her dress, cold lips worshipping her neck; with the hand on her chest he can feel in her what he no longer possesses. She is breathing, alive, fresh, and he allows himself a whiff of her scent before his fangs pierce the junction between her neck and shoulder blade – she gasps and clutches him closer, a plea for more, more, more – they never could resist – and the world ends for her with desperate moans as rivulets of blood drip down his chin, as his fingernails tease up her side, her expression baring nothing but ecstasy as she falls in his arms, the thrum beneath her ribcage silenced. He savours the taste of her life on his tongue as he rights himself.
He returns to the abode of another person waiting by the armchair near the entrance hallway. "A promising ballerina," his first sentence the moment he opens the door, "Keen to dance the Giselle this coming Wednesday. Her mother had passed away two weeks ago and her favourite colour is turquoise."
The other walks towards him with stately steps, edges of his cloak swirling, blending into the surrounding shadows. That person is a creature – the remnants of a man – luminescent, beautiful under the veil of night, one who obtains false life from death, who made him what he now is. Cold hands encircle his waist, red eyes boring into his own. Do you regret, the eyes – starlight, moonlight, the dead clock on the wall – whisper, do you long for the sun, a taste other than iron in your mouth, rhythm and colour beneath your skin – do you regret, choosing me?
He smiles – neither of them breathes but it is his conviction that they live for as long as they remain. The answer he presents is a wintry palm settling gently on the other's cheek. Never, and the other's lips capture his – searing, burning.
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end.
Thank you for reading – comment and concrit will be stored in a treasure box under my bed. This is unbeta-ed; there must be tons of errors that slipped past proofreading – if you catch one, I would be eternally grateful if you direct me to them.