A Dream Lies Dead

Although it was tempting, common sense eventually prevailed and they realized they couldn't have a sleepover in Owari's hospital room. Tsumiki shooed their classmates out, claiming that even though Owari was unconscious, she still needed peace and quiet. Personally, given Owari's flair for action, Pekoyama imagined she would have preferred the opposite. However, Owari wasn't awake to give that opinion. Additionally, their presence was likely to be a distraction to Tsumiki, whose skills were needed more than ever.

Naegi waddled outside with the rest of them. He didn't seem to be grieving; she couldn't understand that look of calm confusion he wore. But she wouldn't pry. Naegi had been there when Owari had collapsed, and she could only imagine the painful route his thoughts had strayed.

Thankfully, one of Naegi's friends were outside to pick him up, so she didn't need to worry about how he would get home in that state. She stuck close to the Young Master instead, and waited for everyone to confront the elephant in the room.

That confrontation waited until they returned to the hotel's gates, and then Kuzuryu shifted. He caught Hanamura's eye and nodded in the direction of the hotel's main building. Hanamura went ahead, bypassing the cabins. He was on his way to the kitchen.

"Hey, Mitarai-kun," Kuzuryu called out.

The Imposter turned. This morning, he had come to breakfast dressed in the original disguise he had attended class in. However, that wasn't to say it was without its flaws; the Imposter had managed to locate his wig, but many more of his supplies had been lost. He'd borrowed makeup from Nevermind and Saionji and at first glance, it was satisfactory. Stare too long and too close however, and it became evident what you were seeing wasn't the whole truth. The Imposter wore a suit, but it was still a Togami-style one – the material too high-class for its supposed owner. He didn't have the large contacts either and had resorted to what Pekoyama thought were his actual eyes.

No one spoke. Yet there was still a conversation. The Imposter shuffled his feet, just as the real, shy-hearted Mitarai would. Still, she had a gut feeling that this slip in body language was the Imposter's own. After what he had seen in the hospital, he must have known what was coming.

"You can't just. . . You know." Kuzuryu groped at his collar to loosen a tie that wasn't there. "You can't go off to bed after that shit."

"Please," Nevermind said and although the tone was imploring, underneath there was a steel that said she would be willing to take drastic action. "Come with us to the hotel."

For once, the Imposter didn't fight; he knew this, too, was inevitable.

They weren't foolish enough to try to serve the Imposter a full meal. Not only would it scare him off, but his body likely would cave under the strain. Hanamura had whipped out a quick stir-fry, something soft and easy to chew. The ingredients were mostly green vegetables. It wouldn't be the most filling, but it would be nutritious and would at least help keep him alive.

"Kuzuryu-kun, we should ask the others to leave," Pekoyama said, eyeing their lingering classmates. While she understood the need to have them nearby as support, she also feared their presence would cause unneeded stress.

"You think so?" Kuzuryu considered it for a second and then turned to the others. "Alright, everyone, go home. Wait, not you, Mioda and Nidai. The rest of you, scram. We can handle this."

There was reluctance, of course. But if seeing Owari's frail form had done one thing, it had left her classmates too afraid to fight back. They left in throngs of twos and three, and Pekoyama moved to join them.

Kuzuryu grabbed her wrist. "You can stay. I was going to hang out in the back, anyways, so he won't noticed."

Although she questioned the necessity of her presence, she nodded. They walked to the darkened rear of the room together, and took a seat.

"Look at that," Nidai was saying. He was sitting across from the Imposter. "Smaller than my hand. Of course, I got big hands!"

"Do you want me to eat some and make sure Teruteru-chan didn't put anything extra in?" Mioda asked cheerfully from the seat next to the Imposter.

"He wouldn't," the Imposter said. Still, he picked up a piece of broccoli and handed it to her.

"Oh, he went all out!" Mioda said after she gulped it down. Foam built in her mouth from the excitement. "It melts in your mouth into pure deliciousness."

"Good to know." The Imposter speared a carrot with his fork. He raised the trembling thing toward his mouth. Nidai leaned back in his chair, eyes on him.

The fork was really shaking now. Mioda reached over and put her hand over the Imposter's free one. He glanced at her and nodded. Those eyes turned back to the carrot. He was swallowing. It was impossible to tell whether they were dry swallows, or he was downing copious amounts of saliva. Pekoyama didn't know if the Imposter looked so worn-down because he was imitating Mitarai, or because it was the truth.

"Let's do this one step at a time," Nidai urged. "First, close your eyes."

The Imposter jerked and did so. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"Now open your mouth."

He did. His muscles spasmed once or twice and made his jaw chomp, but he kept it open.

"Now put it in your mouth."

That was the command that wasn't immediately obeyed. They could see his throat tensing as if it were tightening around something. A sound almost like a blech came from him. He missed his mouth on his first attempt, and the carrot hit his chin instead of disappearing into his mouth. At that point, he froze, and so Mioda reached over and gently redirected the fork up and into his mouth.

"You should take the fork out of your mouth," Nidai suggested. "I don't think you want to eat that."

The fork slid out without the carrot. Was it the lighting, or was the Imposter pale?

"You should chew."

She thought he tried. It looked like he was trying to crack a jawbreaker. Each clack of those teeth was accompanied by an expression of disgust, and his lips were beginning to roll away from each other, showing the teeth like a wolf's snarl.

He swallowed.

"So, is it five stars?" Mioda asked.

He shook his head. "I didn't . . . False alarm. I tried to swallow, but . . ."

Mioda patted him on the shoulder.

The Imposter tried again. And again. They could tell it didn't go down even the third time because he squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the table.

The fifth attempt, they could see something different in the swallow and it appeared it would go down. But then the Imposter gagged violently, and they could tell by his panting that he had coughed it back up. They watched him shudder, forehead resting in his palm, fingers threaded in his hair. Then, the stress became too much, and he tore the wig away, exposing a head of black hair glistening with sweat.

"Take your time," Nidai told him. "There's no need to rush."

The Imposter grimaced and nodded. Mioda put her hand on his. He squeezed it hard.

"We're all rooting for you," Nidai reminded him gently.

Finally, it went down. It seemed as though the worst was over, but then the Imposter gagged again and covered his mouth. Both hands were threaded in his hair now. Mioda flailed, asking if there was a bucket and Pekoyama looked away because damn it, if he puked then all was that was for nothing.

Somehow though, he kept it down. Even though his face was a horrible green color, it stayed in his stomach. The gagging stopped and, in its place, came the sound of soft sobbing. Kuzuryu shifted and glanced at her, asking how to fix this even though he knew she didn't have an answer.

Nidai nearly leaned across the entire table. "Hey, take it easy. Take deep breaths and count to ten."

If the Imposter was doing so, he was counting in his head. So Mioda took up the slack and counted aloud for him. On the sixth count, she managed to untangle his right hand from his hair and held it in her own.

"Ten," she said, and the Imposter forced himself to open his eyes.

"You need a breather?" Nidai asked him.

"The longer it takes, the worse it will be," the Imposter said hoarsely.

He had said it, but he wasn't moving. Nidai reached across, picked up the fork and stabbed it into the next piece.

"You sure?" Nidai asked when the Imposter looked at the plate and violently flinched.

"Yes. It has to be now or never. I know I have to, but. . ." He looked away sharply, eyes tightly shut.

"Maybe it would be easier if you keep them closed," Mioda suggested.

"I think so."

Kuzuryu turned away as the process began again. Her Young Master had witnessed so much torture and death and yet, it was this that was too much for him to bear.

It took a full hour, maybe longer, before the fork clattered onto the table for the last time. The Imposter's eyes were red from all his crying. Privately, she thought it was a miracle he hadn't vomited. Because at points, even Nidai and Mioda had looked like they wanted to from the pure trauma they were witnessing.

"Let's go home and sleep now!" Mioda said. Her usually chipper voice was shaking. As she tried to grab the Imposter's shoulder, he put up a hand to stop her.

"Please. I need to be alone."

Pekoyama didn't know if that was a good idea, but how could they deny him? They left the Imposter upstairs and shuffled out of the hotel.

"That was. . ." Nidai didn't finish that sentence. "Damn."

"That's what it does to you." Kuzuryu laughed hollowly. "That's the shit despair made us into."

"What? No, that wasn't despair!" Mioda protested. "Despair makes you feel all tingly inside."

"No, it doesn't," Kuzuryu said flatly. "That's what it tricks you into thinking. And then you wake up and realize how rotten and miserable it all is."

"Hey, are we talking about the same thing? Because despair's not like that at all." Mioda stepped in front of him, forcing Kuzuryu to stop. "Despair is the number one trend in the world. All the cool kids are doing it!"

"Cool? You think that. . . that thing I used to be was cool? Do you think that was cool?" Kuzuryu pointed back at the hotel where the Imposter was by his lonesome.

"Of course, that wasn't cool; that wasn't despair!" Mioda's voice rose in pitch at the end. "Ibuki knows despair. She creates it all the time for her fans and they love it. They're happy. They smile and cheer and Ibuki knows they're happy –"

"I thought I was, too," he said coldly.

Mioda blinked. She stared at him, as if trying to figure out whether he was serious.

"Ibuki plays the music her fans like," Mioda prattled. "She chooses the genres they like and plays the songs they cheer for. Everyone has a great time at her shows. Ibuki knows they do because she tries, and that's all she wants. She just wants everyone to have a good time. . ."

Kuzuryu snorted. "Until they kill each other, right?"

Mioda was silent for a good few seconds. Then – the transition was so quick – she was gone. She had fled back toward the cabins, but not before Pekoyama caught a glimpse of her tears.

"That was a little harsh," Nidai said.

Kuzuryu walked past him.

"Are you okay?" Pekoyama asked him.

He laughed bitterly. "Okay? Who on this island is fucking okay other than you?"

"You are upset." It was an obvious statement, but sometimes what Kuzuryu really wanted was a chance to vent and that was permission.

"You don't think this whole shit's fucked up?" Kuzuryu demanded. "Or maybe it's all been so fucked up for so long that you just don't talk about it anymore."

"That was disturbing to witness," she agreed.

"I'm going to bed," he semi-snapped. She allowed him to pick up his pace and walk ahead of her.

How long have we stood in your shadow?

The door shut behind him. The lock clicked. He remained against it, half-afraid that Peko would break it down and refuse to let him be alone.

How long did we follow you like dogs?

He stripped off his jacket and shirt. He collapsed on the bed covers in his pants. And shoes he belatedly realized.

When was it you began haunting my thoughts?

He kicked the shoes across the room. Rolled up into a sitting position. He rubbed at his head, and his touch passed over the strap keeping the eyepatch in place.

He staggered over to the washroom. He tripped into the sink, and only kept himself from falling by grabbing either end. He looked up straight in the mirror, at that swirl-patterned eyepatch positioned so prominently on his face. He stared at it, and realized it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen.

Untying knots he couldn't see was usually something he asked Peko to do. It took him a few minutes and swear words before he did. The patch came off in his hand. There was a circular crust on the inside of the patch, and he really didn't want to think about what it was made of.

And there it was. It had spent some time in a freezer before the operation, so it didn't look the exact same as it had on her. However, the eye looked exactly as he remembered it when he had first put it in.

We loved you. We all did. We treated you like a goddess.

When it became too much to look at, he retreated into the cabin's main room. He happened to look at the window to the cabin next to his; Pekoyama had drawn the curtain, but he could see her shadow moving behind it.

. . . But you never cared about us, did you? Instead, you tried to take away those who did.

He walked over to his bed and reached into the underside of the pillow case. He took out the item he had stashed there.

When we took pieces of you into ourselves, it wasn't just to honor you. We hoped that somehow, it kept you alive.

He walked back into the washroom and stared at himself in the mirror.

I hope we were right. Because I want you to feel every bit of what I'm doing next.

He raised the knife to his eye.