Hello! Happy Thursday and good morning! It feels so good to be posting chapters weekly, wow. Dunno how long it will last especially with NaNoWriMo coming up, but...
Anyway, I hope you're all well. I finished Code Geass again on Sunday, because once you get to episode, like, thirteen you just can't stop. It wasn't my plan, but I'm glad I had the day off and was able to. It's... such a fantastic series, I can't. Had me feeling all the things, it was magical. Then I woke up Monday morning to edit this chapter. Even more feelings, yay! Ugh...
Yeah this chapter's hard, but honestly not as hard as I'd expected? I'm really proud of Fuuma here, actually, and Kusanagi is his usual wonderful self. I wanna drink coffee in front of his fire during a rainstorm, that sounds idyllic.
I think that's it! Enjoy chapter 9!
Disclaimer: I'm making no money off of this, all characters belong to CLAMP.
"Before all masters, necessity is the one most listened to and who teaches the best."
- Jules Verne
Thick, dark storm clouds rolled over Clow as Paying A Call To The Prozorovs' director, cast and crew were falling asleep. They obscured the moon and stars, then kept the rising sun's light and warmth at bay. Seishiro woke to a gentle clap of thunder at 6 AM and was out the door by 6:30, leaving Fuuma alone in his old house. Fuuma himself didn't stir until later, when the soft patter of rain had turned into a powerful downpour.
Half asleep and eyes still closed, he groaned and stretched, but as he inhaled the smells of the rainstorm and musty sheets, memories of the night before seized him and forced him awake. He sprang out of bed and ran down the hall, though he'd known long before he got to Seishiro's room that it was no good. Sure enough, the bed was empty and neatly made, and Seishiro's clothes, laptop and cigarettes were gone.
Unable to stand the sight, Fuuma turned on his heel and sprinted back to Setsuka's room, his heart pounding against his ribs. He snatched up his cellphone from the bedside table, but the only message was, 'I'm sorry! did you survive?' from Camellia. Fuuma's knuckles whitened as his hand dropped to his side. He'd expected this, too, but his throat seared painfully and his hand shook for how hard he was gripping his cellphone. His first instinct was to call Seishiro, but before it could take root as an action, he remembered him last night, his utter fury and disgust and hurt.
"Get out of my room, please."
Fuuma closed his eyes as the pounding in his heart reverberated up into his head. He shouldn't have said what he said. Even in the moment he'd known it was just inflammatory, but that didn't explain why Seishiro had reacted like that, unless… It didn't matter. Surely Seishiro wasn't still hung up on something from that long ago.
"Oh this is like our most famous Macbeth!"
Fuuma massaged his throbbing temple with his middle and index fingers, then called Seishiro. No answer. He tried again and achieved the same result. He tried again. And again. The fifth time with no answer, he threw his phone onto the bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Color bloomed in the blackness as he took a deep breath in and sighed it out.
He'd been given the silent treatment (or straight up ghosted) after arguments before, obviously, and normally it wouldn't bother him. If the person wanted to come back, they'd come back. Either way, it wasn't his problem. Now, though, his stomach writhed and twisted in what he took to be frustration. He hated being in this limbo and he hated that he cared, but most of all he hated that he had no idea what to do. He brought his hands down to cover his nose and mouth, took another deep breath in and exhaled through his fingers, though his stomach continued to squirm and his head and heart continued to throb uncomfortably.
Desperate for literally any distraction, Fuuma showered, dressed and made coffee, then carried his mug through the house, turning on every single light, overheads and table lamps and even lighting the dusty candles on the dining table. For what must have been the first time in years, the gloom that usually permeated the house receded a bit, but Fuuma didn't find it comforting or encouraging as he returned to the kitchen. He slid open the door to the porch, inhaling the smell of the rain and shivering in the chill. A sudden flash of lightning threw the screens he still hadn't fixed, and were so obviously not what Seishiro was actually angry about, into sharp relief. The clap of thunder followed a few seconds later, and Fuuma turned on the porch light, making the holes and tears in the screens more obvious. He reflected that if someone else had told him, "my lover left in the middle of the night because I hadn't fixed screens, or at least that was what he told me," Fuuma would have laughed and said good riddance. It would have been hilarious. Except that it wasn't.
Why hadn't he just asked Seishiro what was really bothering him? Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into the misguided conflict? Perpetuated the bullshit? He took a sip of coffee as more lightning flashed through the screens. Of course, it was easy now to think about what he should have said and how he should have said it, but it was also pointless. 'I should have fixed the screens though,' he thought in spite of himself. He backed into the kitchen, slid the glass door shut against another clap of thunder and returned to the living room.
He'd been fairly confident in their years working and sleeping together that he'd known Seishiro well, that those tiny expressions in his face and body that went unnoticed by others and those words he let slip during vulnerable moments no one else saw were more than enough to make up for the lack of honest conversation. However, as he looked up at the photograph of Seishiro and his mother, the overwhelming realization that being able to imagine Seishiro as that small boy and actually knowing how that small boy had grown up into the man before him, were nowhere near the same. Seishiro had kept him in the dark on purpose, and Fuuma had been proud of the scraps he'd received.
The frustration in Fuuma's stomach boiled even faster and the steam rising from it made his heart ache. He took a hasty sip of coffee and tore his eyes from Setsuka's, focusing instead on the smaller framed photographs on the mantelpiece and end tables. He'd looked at them before, obviously, but now he was actually seeing them. His eyes found one in particular, an old color photo of a hearty looking couple with weathered, good natured faces. Between them was a teenaged boy, already taller and broader than his father. Fuuma squinted at the boy's face and realized with a start that it was Kusanagi.
'Of course it is,' Fuuma reminded himself, impatiently. Kusanagi had grown up here and his father had done all the restoration on the building that would eventually become the Igarashi, as well as this house. However, he hadn't realized that their families had been close enough to have photos of each other on their mantelpieces. He drank more coffee and looked at the rest of the photos, at the faces of other people from Seishiro's past, about which he now had to admit he was woefully ignorant.
In old photos of the founders of Babylon, Fuuma wondered which of the young men was this director. Probably the one closest to Setsuka, that would make sense. As he stared into their faces, it occurred to him that Kusanagi must have known him too. His eyes paused on a framed Polaroid of Seishiro and Kusanagi as teenagers in what was unmistakably the Igarashi. They weren't in costume, or at least they didn't seem to be, and Kusanagi was smiling his usual, kind smile, while Seishiro just looked discomposed. Who had taken the photo? What had they been talking about before they'd been interrupted?
Fuuma retrieved his phone from his back pocket and called Kusanagi before it could even occur to him that he was the last person he'd want to hear from on his day off. "Hello?" The trepidation in his voice hurt way more than Fuuma would have ever expected.
"Hey, sorry to bother you on your day off, uh," he paused, unsure exactly what he wanted to ask and hating how unsure he sounded. He was never above asking for help or outsourcing a solution to a problem, but it didn't make it less uncomfortable. He heard Kusanagi sigh. "No seriously, I meant that!"
"What do you want, Fuuma?" Fuuma hesitated.
"It's not about the show," he said, carefully.
"What?" Kusanagi asked, apparently before he could stop himself. "Is everything okay?" His concern sounded genuine. Fuuma hesitated another moment, then decided on the truth.
"No, not really. Last night ended up pretty fucked up. It was totally my fault-"
"It was what?" Kusanagi asked, again apparently before he could stop himself. Fuuma rolled his eyes, though he knew he deserved that.
"It was my fault and I need your help," he said, as bravely as he could.
"All right then, um…" Kusanagi was clearly caught off guard. "Is this something I do over the phone or do you want to meet up somewhere?" Fuuma mulled the question over for a moment. He didn't want to remain alone in Seishiro and Setsuka's house, not when he was feeling so out of sorts and unwelcome.
"I'll come meet you, but nowhere super visible. It's about Seishiro, so…" He cleared his throat and looked away from the eyes in all the photos.
"I see… Why don't you just come over?" A tidal wave of gratitude rose and crashed in Fuuma's chest at the instant understanding and total lack of judgment.
"You sure?"
"Here's hoping. Get over here before I change my mind." Fuuma couldn't help but laugh.
"Okay. Thanks."
"You remember how to get here?"
"Sort of?" Kusanagi refreshed Fuuma on directions to his house, then said goodbye.
Fuuma heaved a heavy sigh as he ended the call, noticing there were no new messages from Seishiro. He swallowed the ensuing surge of bitter feelings with the last of his coffee.
The trip to Kusanagi's took longer than expected because of the thunderstorm. Rain pounded against the car and blurred his view, though he could still see lightning striking the opposite side of the valley and hear thunder like cannon fire overhead. He pulled into Kusanagi's driveway and sprinted up to the porch, head bowed against the downpour. He took a moment to collect himself, then knocked. Kusanagi opened the door at once, his expression stiff, but curious. "Come in," he said, moving aside.
"Thanks," replied Fuuma, stepping over the threshold and out of his shoes. There was a fire burning in the hearth in the living room, and its warmth washed over him and brought with it a fresh wave of gratitude.
"Do you want something to drink?" Kusanagi asked, shutting the door against the storm. "I just made coffee."
"That'd be great," Fuuma replied, more to be polite than because he really wanted anything. Kusanagi led him into the kitchen, which was full of the smell of woodsmoke and fresh coffee. "I forgot how cozy your place is," said Fuuma.
"Thank you. You want milk or sugar? I've also got honey from my neighbors that's really nice." Fuuma laughed softly, but fuck if he didn't appreciate it.
"Please."
Once both mugs of coffee were doctored up, Fuuma and Kusanagi returned to the living room and sat down in armchairs by the fire. The warmth inside and out put Fuuma more at ease, but his unasked questions kept his nerves taut. It didn't help that Kusanagi was clearly waiting, sat across from him with his mug in both hands, his expression suspicious, but still receptive. Fuuma took a fortifying sip of coffee, trying to decide how best to go about this. "Your parents were friends with Setsuka, right?"
"You could say that," Kusanagi replied.
"There's a picture of the three of you on Seishiro's mantlepiece."
"That's still up?" Kusanagi asked, a smile playing around his mouth as he drank coffee.
"Yeah," Fuuma replied, quietly. "I know you and your dad did construction and stuff for Babylon, but-"
"There's not much more to it," said Kusanagi, shrugging. "It was mostly professional, but we did care about each other; Setsuka did a lot of fundraising for us after my dad got sick, and she was always good to both my parents and me." Fuuma caught the constriction in his voice and suddenly felt just as much an outsider as he had done last night in Setsuka's bed. Again, it actually bothered him that he wasn't privy to this community's collective history and memory.
"That was really good of her," Fuuma said, softly.
"It was," Kusanagi agreed, smiling his first big, genuine smile. "Is that what you wanted to ask about?" It was clear from his tone that he knew it wasn't, and Fuuma appreciated the favor.
"Nah," he replied, sipping more coffee. "Um, that Macbeth, the one whose poster's still up. You weren't in that, were you?" Kusanagi raised his eyebrows.
"I was, yeah, with Seishiro. Did he not tell you that?" Fuuma's eyes narrowed at what felt like a jab, even if the rest of his brain knew it was only a request for information.
"I only know he played the Doctor," replied Fuuma. He swallowed his pride with a sip of coffee. "What was he like, the man who directed it?" The question seemed to unblock him, and he felt a piece of some wall he hadn't even realized he'd built fall away.
"No disrespect, but you're asking this after four years in?"
"Blow me," Fuuma snapped. He and Kusanagi glared at each other for a moment, but then laughed, bringing down more pieces.
"Well that's a pretty vague question," Kusanagi continued, "and I didn't know him that well so I'm not the best person to ask-"
"Fuck off." Again they shared a laugh.
"I'm just letting you know," Kusanagi said, and his expression softened thoughtfully. "I know you've heard this before, but you two are alike. Intelligent, creative, too passionate for your own good and not giving a fuck as a matter of principle…" Fuuma smiled into his coffee, feeling rather touched to hear Kusanagi speak of him this way. However, after he got his answer, he realized he'd asked the wrong question.
"What happened to him? Does he still direct?"
"Probably," replied Kusanagi. "He moved to London after Macbeth and we didn't see him for like, six years."
"The fuck…?"
"No weird circumstances or anything. From what I remember he said he just needed a change of scene. I can respect that."
"Me too," Fuuma replied at once, and Kusanagi closed his eyes as though to stop himself from rolling them. "What's that for?"
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't need to." Kusanagi sighed and Fuuma regretted his interrogative tone. "Sorry, I-"
"I just wasn't surprised to hear you say that, is all."
"Why?"
"You're always talking about leaving," Kusanagi said, bluntly.
"I heard that last night too," Fuuma muttered, annoyed and confused. "What the fuck are you all talking about?" Kusanagi burst into incredulous laughter. "What?!"
"Since day one this season we've been hearing about it," Kusanagi replied, as though it were obvious, which only annoyed Fuuma more. However, Kusanagi stood his ground, his expression suddenly appraising. "I know last season was rough, so-"
"Did he ever come back? That director?" Fuuma cut in, his tone stating firmly that they weren't talking about him right now. Kusanagi stared at him impassively for a moment, then his face fell under a sudden sadness.
"He comes back periodically to see shows, but the last time he actually stayed and spoke to people was Setsuka's funeral."
"…Oh," Fuuma replied, rather lamely. Setsuka's sudden death was another thing about which he knew virtually nothing. Somehow it seemed insensitive to say so, even though he couldn't change that without asking about it. "You were there too, I'm guessing?"
"I was. Everyone connected to Babylon was there. People I hadn't seen in years. There were even people trying to crash the service, it was bizarre." He sighed and drank more coffee. "It was a beautiful service though. That director spoke, and so did Seishiro, obviously."
'You take too much for granted if you think that's obvious,' Fuuma thought, but then just as quickly reminded himself of how it would look if he hadn't spoken, of what people would have said. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for Seishiro, so young, grieving someone he'd spent half his life resenting and having to answer to so many people who didn't understand or didn't care. He fell silent and stared into the crackling fire, holding tight to his mug with both hands.
"That night was hard," Kusanagi said, quietly, after a moment.
"It must have been," said Fuuma, just as quietly. Kusanagi sighed heavily again and stared at Fuuma over the rim of his mug with narrowed eyes, looking more to be choosing his words than judging. "What?" Fuuma asked, doing his best to keep challenge out of his voice.
"Again, no disrespect, but I'm pretty sure this isn't what you wanted help with either." Fuuma said nothing for almost a minute while lightning flashed and thunder clapped outside.
"You're right," he said, eventually, another crack appearing in the wall.
"Do you know what you want to ask?" Kusanagi's tone was kind, but firm nonetheless, and yet another piece crumbled and fell.
"I think so." Kusanagi smiled, a broad affectionate smile that Fuuma recognized, but had never seen directed at him.
"You know, you have such an incredible ability to see through people's bullshit, but when you're blind, you're blind." The words seemed to float in the air, then fall onto Fuuma like a weighted, humiliating veil, pushing any reply he might have made into the depths of his heart. "So I don't blame you for not trusting people," Kusanagi continued, "and I'm not asking you to trust me, but-"
"What does trust have to do with anything?" Fuuma interrupted, forcing the veil off defiantly. A log in the fire split in half on a tongue of flame, sending sparks flying. He expected Kusanagi to come at him with disbelief or incredulity, almost wished he would so they could argue, but yet again he was surprised.
"Everything," Kusanagi replied, simply. "You see through other people's facades, you see how they lie to themselves and you see how they lie to each other. How can you believe anything they say to you?"
"Because I know what's actually going on!" Fuuma snapped, his own raised voice taking him by surprise.
"True, until someone comes along who surprises you," Kusanagi continued, patiently. "Then who's wrong?" These words too hung in the air, then fell in upon Fuuma, leaving him staring blankly at Kusanagi. Was it really that simple? That Seishiro had just broken his trust? A prickle of shame crept down his spine.
"So it was my fault you weren't happy with your show?" Seishiro had asked last night.
'Why weren't you there?' Fuuma thought, the shame making his insides shrivel. 'I wanted you there!'
"I'm not asking you to trust me," Kusanagi said again. "But could you please just ask me what you want to know so we don't have to keep talking around it?"
'Of course the fuck I can,' Fuuma thought, crossly, but then regretted it just as quickly. "Sorry," he told Kusanagi, and he meant it. He drained his coffee and set the mug on the table in front of him. "This doesn't leave this room," he said, straightening up.
"I understand." Fuuma took a breath in, then told Kusanagi about how Seishiro had been acting strange since all summer. "More so than usual, I'm guessing," said Kusanagi. He then explained how much that had sucked, especially after what happened last year. "It must have." He continued to the party, how disconnected he'd felt from Seishiro. "I'm so sorry," said Kusanagi. Then about Seishiro getting drunk and picking a fight over porch screens. "I see," said Kusanagi.
"So then it just fucking escalated, you know, and that guy came up and," Fuuma paused, another prickle of shame running down his spine. "I said, well I only said it because I was mad and-" He paused again, hating how defensive he was being. "I asked if I was fucking him too, and I know I crossed a line."
"I see," said Kusanagi again, and Fuuma finished the story with finding Seishiro gone that morning. "I see," Kusanagi said yet again. Fuuma fidgeted in his seat, waiting for Kusanagi to comment, but he didn't.
"I feel fucking weird even telling you all this," he burst out, when he could stand it no longer.
"It's weird for me too," Kusanagi assured him, which oddly made him feel better. "I don't like getting drawn into other people's," he paused, "problems. It's not my place, and to be honest, most of the time I don't have the energy." Fuuma narrowed his eyes, this mentality simultaneously familiar and foreign. His usual MO was of course "that's not my problem," but he could hardly say "that's not my problem" when he'd caused the problem in the first place. More of the wall crumbled and fell.
"I understand," he said, and he meant it as much as he was able. "And I get if you can't tell me, but… Was that what was going on?" Kusanagi stared Fuuma hard in the face, and he wondered for a moment if he'd gone too far, but,
"I don't know, and if I did that's Seishiro's story to tell, not mine."
"I understand," Fuuma said again, though he felt rather defeated. He couldn't just ask Seishiro, could he? After never getting straight answers from him, Fuuma had just assumed that asking for things directly was a waste of time. However, now he wasn't sure if that was actually true. He looked away from Kusanagi to check his phone for the first time since arriving. No messages. "This fucking sucks."
"It'll be all right," Kusanagi said, bracingly. "Seishiro will turn up again eventually. Regardless of what's going on between you two, he won't leave Babylon." Fuuma bit the inside of his lip and stared into the fire again, trying his best to find the words comforting. A moment's silence passed. "Do you wanna smoke?
"Are you serious?"
"Sure."
"Fuck yeah!" Kusanagi smiled, and Fuuma stood up and clapped him hard on the shoulder, the last of the wall giving way. "Thank you."
Fuuma and Kusanagi spent the next hour by the fire, passing a bowl back and forth and talking about other things until the drug mellowed them into silence. It occurred to both of them how little time they actually spent together, particularly outside of work, particularly one on one, particularly without frustration and hostility.
Fuuma lay back against the couch, the fire mesmerizing now. Kusanagi watched him from across the room, thoughts rising and breaking in his mind like quiet ocean waves. It had been common gossip, and was now common knowledge, that Fuuma and Seishiro's relationship was both personal and professional. Despite knowing full well it was none of his business, he couldn't help but feel torn about not telling Fuuma what he knew. It wasn't his story to tell, that fact remained strong and true, but he was sure the information would help, especially because he doubted Seishiro would ever tell Fuuma the story himself. He stared into the fire, and Setsuka's funeral washed up on the shores of his mind, battered by waves and sand but still clear as ever.
The reception started in the afternoon at the Igarashi. The winter sun hung low in the frozen sky, turning the several feet of snow that covered Clow grey-blue and gold. Bitter winds lashed at the exposed hands and faces of black clothed mourners as they made their way across the parking lot, but inside was bright and warm and boozy. The atmosphere wasn't cheerful, but it was supportive, as though all the bodies and memories and emotions inside the theater could fill the gaping hole left by its leader. Kusanagi was twenty one, and everyone who had known him as a kid was quick to comment on it.
"You're grown up!"
"Oh my god I didn't recognize you!"
"Look at you! You remember my daughter-"
Kusanagi didn't mind, though. He smiled kindly and spent a few hours with his mother, catching up with old faces and trading stories. He spotted Seishiro a few times, looking pale and angular, but didn't exchange words beyond condolences and an apology when his mother gave him a fierce hug. He also spotted the director, crying openly in front of the Macbeth poster and being plied with drinks by former company members.
Once it got really dark, Kusanagi's mother kissed him and Seishiro goodbye and headed home, and all the superfluous people began to follow. Kusanagi could have easily gone with them, but the boiling down of the group was giving him a bad feeling. He stuck around and switched from brandy to coffee.
Those people who were, or thought of themselves, closest to Setsuka huddled by the bar, crying and reminiscing and toasting. Kusanagi had the distinct impression the original company had started this way: drunk creative people telling stories and making promises. His heart squeezed as he joined the group. Seishiro sat by the director, who exclaimed in surprise at the sight of Kusanagi, then immediately launched into a flood of stories about his father, then him as a kid, which of course bled into their production of Macbeth.
Seishiro flushed, but went with it, his eyes still fixed upon the director as he sipped steadily on his drink. Kusanagi's bad feeling got worse as the director began to tell one story in particular, something long and poetic about Setsuka's deep understanding of characters, and indeed of all people. His grief and innumerable bourbon and sodas suddenly intensified inside him, and he began to cry again, but spoke bravely through his tears. It was quite a sight, but Kusanagi was watching Seishiro instead. His lips were parted and he was breathing rather quickly, his eyes glazed but wide with longing. Kusanagi's bad feeling now felt like an alarm going off in his mind and gut, but still he said nothing.
"Sorry," the director said, thickly, wiping his eyes and giving his audience a watery smile, which they returned, laughing and assuring him that all was well. He heaved a heavy sigh, downed the last of his drink and turned to the man on his other side, who rubbed gentle circles on his upper back.
They kissed.
Seishiro's gasp was buried under more sniffing and nose blowing, but the look of utter devastation on his face made Kusanagi's stomach disappear. "Do you want to get out of here?" the director asked, smiling weakly.
"I think it's time," his partner replied, quietly. Another kiss, and they began to tell everyone goodbye. Seishiro downed the last of his own drink in one, his eyes glassier than ever, as though the light in them had gone out. He got to his feet and swayed where he stood. Kusanagi's body tensed expectantly, but the director at last turned to Seishiro and pulled him into a tight hug. Seishiro wrapped his arms around him, and his fingers flexed against the back of his suit jacket as though longing to cling on. After what seemed like a long time, they broke apart, and the director held Seishiro at arm's length.
"You're going to be amazing," he said, very seriously, fresh tears sliding down his face. Seishiro said nothing, biting down on the inside of his lower lip to stop it from trembling. "Take care of yourself, Seishiro." And with that, he let go and turned away. Seishiro's small cry of "wait!" went unheard under the rest of the goodbyes, and Kusanagi's heart broke. He shook hands with the director one last time, then sprinted to Seishiro's side. Seishiro swayed again, whether from grief or drunkenness Kusanagi couldn't tell, but he gripped his arm to steady him.
"Hey," he said, under his breath. Seishiro faced him, blinking as though having trouble getting him into focus.
"What?" He was clearly wasted and becoming more so by the second.
"Let's go," muttered Kusanagi. Seishiro watched the director leaving through the frost covered lobby doors, and his throat constricted visibly. He nodded. Kusanagi got their coats and led him out of the lobby, keeping him steady as best he could. The icy night air stung their faces and made their eyes water as they trudged through the snow and gravel. "Easy does it," Kusanagi said through chattering teeth.
"My car's this way," Seishiro slurred, and Kusanagi rolled his eyes.
"You can't drive. I'll take you home." Fortunately, Seishiro didn't protest, and Kusanagi got him safely into the passenger's seat of his truck. He climbed in himself and started the engine. Heat immediately blasted from every open vent and fogged up the windows. "Are you okay? Feel sick at all?"
"No," mumbled Seishiro, his head against the window.
"Let me know." Once the windshield defrosted, Kusanagi put the truck in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, winding in and out of snow banks and other cars. Downtown was pitch dark and silent, almost oppressively so.
"I'm so stupid," Seishiro mumbled, after a while. He was splayed out an odd angle, but at least his seatbelt was on.
"You aren't stupid," Kusanagi said, pacifyingly.
"What did I think was going to happen?" Seishiro continued, seemingly unaware of the reply. "What did I think was going to happen…" Kusanagi's heart ached for him, but he stayed focused, driving slowly and carefully out of town and into the mountains. "I'm disgusting…"
"You aren't disgusting."
"I'm disgusting…" Kusanagi pulled up the driveway to Setsuka's house at last, and the sight of it dark and empty caused another wave of grief to rise and crash in Kusanagi's chest. It was only exacerbated as he helped Seishiro out of his truck and into the house. Even in the darkness, it still felt so lived in: there were dishes in the sink, a light flashing on the answering machine, and as they passed Setsuka's room with her clothes strewn about and bed left unmade, Kusanagi caught a whiff of her perfume. Seishiro stopped abruptly, clutching his chest and gasping.
"It's okay," Kusanagi said, bravely, half carrying Seishiro the rest of the way down the hall and into his room.
"I'm so stupid," he choked, falling face down into bed.
"You're all right," Kusanagi said, soothing, though his heart throbbed painfully. "Just go to sleep, it'll be better in the morning." He could hear his mother's voice as he spoke. Seishiro replied with a soft moan and passed out almost at once. Kusanagi sighed heavily, then carefully turned Seishiro's head to the side and brushed his hair out of his eyes. He looked like he had as a kid, those times they'd spent the night at each other's houses. Kusanagi hoped he wouldn't remember any of this, that he'd wake up tomorrow and could grieve without this added loss.
Kusanagi heaved another sigh and went downstairs, gathering water and pain reliever and those other things you'd need when you woke up hungover. He had no plans to leave Seishiro by himself, though he knew he'd probably prefer it that way. 'Why don't you let people in?!' he thought, on a fresh wave of grief and frustration.
"I wonder if he's texted Tsubaki," Fuuma said, yanking Kusanagi sharply out of his memories.
"What?" he asked, bemusedly, blinking as he looked at Fuuma rather than into the flames.
"Camellia, I wonder if Seishiro's texted her." Fuuma still hadn't replied to her message asking if he'd survived the previous night.
"I don't know," said Kusanagi. "Why?"
"Never mind, it's not important." Fuuma sighed, closed his eyes and reclined against the couch. She'd said he liked theater because of its impermanence, Kusanagi said he couldn't trust and Seishiro had decided he was leaving. Well, it wasn't like he'd ever planned on staying any one place long, and if they all knew, why did they act surprised or hurt? As far as he was concerned, he was just making his intentions clear. Or maybe that was yet another thing he'd taken for granted. "She used to tell me the same thing," Fuuma amended, changing his mind suddenly. "That I always talk like I've got one foot out the fucking door."
"I see," Kusanagi replied, thoughtfully. He remembered building the sets for Yoru, or set really, as it had all taken place inside the protagonist's apartment. There had been television screens everywhere, which he and Satsuki had rigged to flash on and off or else show memory scenes or white noise. Camellia and Fuuma had managed to pitch it to him and Satsuki in a way that didn't instantly put them off, and though tech had been even more hellish than usual, the results were well worth it. Satsuki had actually seemed to appreciate the challenge and was far less surly, and Seishiro had been present as he hadn't ever been before. Kusanagi wasn't sure what it was about that show that had gotten everyone synced up like that, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss that. There was nothing better than a project where everyone was on the same page and working together, but then the following year everything had come apart.
"How did I have this giant fucking blindspot and not realize?" Fuuma asked, breaking their thoughtful silence.
"We've all got them," Kusanagi replied, as more memories of Setsuka's funeral washed up on the shores of his mind.
"Don't say anything, please," Seishiro said the following morning in Setsuka's kitchen, hungover with a mug of coffee and a plate of eggs and bacon Kusanagi had made for him.
"I won't."
Kusanagi had kept his promise and would continue to do so, because Seishiro had asked him to. It really was that simple sometimes, wasn't it? The memories of Seishiro transitioned smoothly into Yuzuriha, looking on helplessly as Sorata and Arashi walked back to their dorm side by side, at his dining table eating dinner, hanging out with him while he built sets.
"And that director really never comes back?" Fuuma asked, hoping for a different answer this time, but Kusanagi had nothing new.
"He does very occasionally. When he's here it's usually just to see shows. He doesn't like to draw attention anymore." Fuuma heaved another heavy sigh and checked his phone again. Still no messages.
"Here's what I don't get," he said, feeling bitter all of a sudden. "If me leaving is such a problem, why the fuck did Seishiro just ghost on us last year?" He was dimly aware of his volume rising, but didn't care.
"I don't know," Kusanagi replied, unfazed by Fuuma's tone.
"Was it a power move? I don't…" He broke off, the words suddenly sharp in his throat. He coughed and averted his gaze, though cast a furtive look at Kusanagi out of the corner of his eye.
"I have absolutely no idea," he replied, bluntly but not unkindly. "But even if you knew, would it be any less hurtful?" Fuuma shuddered, knowing Kusanagi was right almost suspiciously quickly.
"It might, if there's mitigate circumstances," he muttered, defensively.
"That's fair."
"I actually do understand context," Fuuma continued, trying to make a joke but mostly just sounding hostile.
"I know," said Kusanagi, pacifyingly. "Can I ask you something though?"
"Yeah," Fuuma replied, still sounding hostile and shifting awkwardly in his seat.
"Would mitigating circumstances really have made such a difference?"
"Of course!" Fuuma snapped in frustration. "That's why I asked you in the fucking first place!" Kusanagi said nothing, unfazed as ever. Then, in the ringing silence where only Fuuma's racing heart, the crackling fire and the rainstorm could be heard, his thoughts skidded to a halt, as though his brain had stumbled upon the edge of a cliff it hadn't seen through his weed haze. He'd been happily annoyed at Seishiro for ghosting last year, content to blame him and his absence for the show not being as good as it could have been. Now, however, as he stared over the edge of the cliff, the hot anger froze, sending icy tendrils out from his belly and chest.
It hurt that Seishiro had left. It hurt that they'd worked so closely together only to have him dip out the next project as though all that time had meant nothing. It seemed so obvious, especially given his MO that all people were temporary. "I never promised you anything," he remembered telling colleagues, friends and lovers, so they should- 'Seishiro never promised you anything either,' he reminded himself, coldly, and his eyes widened as if to view even more of the frozen wastes before him. Of course he hadn't, they didn't owe each other anything! 'So why is this different?' he asked himself, and his frozen insides stabbed him.
He didn't want to answer that question. At least not yet. For now, acknowledging that it was his fucking problem, and that he'd solve it with or without Seishiro, was enough, and that tiny ray of pragmatic sunlight was about the most comforting thing he could imagine. He sighed heavily and pressed his fingertips into his eyes. "Sorry for bothering you on your day off," he said, through his hands.
"It's all right," Kusanagi replied, quietly. Fuuma abruptly stood up, stretched and extended his hand. Kusanagi stood up too, then shook it. "Are you okay to drive?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." Their hands were still clasped.
"You don't wanna stay and eat something?" Gratitude bubbled up under Fuuma's frozen chest.
"I can do that."
Back in the kitchen, Kusanagi filled one of his smaller Creusets with tomato soup and gave it to Fuuma to heat up while he made grilled cheeses to go with it. Fuuma carefully stirred the soup with a large wooden spoon, the delicious smell mingling cozily with that of the rainstorm and woodsmoke. "You use so much butter," said Fuuma admiringly. Kusanagi's lip twitched as he spread even more on a thick slice of rustic bread.
"Picked up the habit from my mother," he replied.
"It's a good habit to have! I've known way too many people who don't know how to make grilled cheese, shit is disturbing."
"No wonder you don't trust people," replied Kusanagi, his eyes on the next slice of bread to be buttered.
"Ha!" Fuuma cried, but, 'if only it were that easy,' he thought, helping himself to soup. "Fuck me, that's delicious!"
"Thank you," said Kusanagi, over the sizzling of buttered bread in the frying pan. He hesitated a moment, then, "This was the only thing my dad was ever hungry for during treatment." Fuuma nodded sadly, his eyes suddenly shining as he watched Kusanagi cook.
"Can't say I blame him," he muttered, and Kusanagi smiled and flipped the sandwich over. They fell into silence, and Fuuma tried to remember how he'd learned to make grilled cheese. Probably observing at a distance and finding out for himself through trial and error later, the same way he'd learned how to use a charcoal grill. His heart suddenly tripped over the memory of grilling steaks and drinking wine with Seishiro after the first week of rehearsal. He looked sadly into the warm, simmering soup and took another spoonful. "Seriously, this is so restorative right now." Kusanagi laughed, transferred the first sandwich to a plate and started on a second.
Fuuma watched him cook and dish up in silence, then helped him carry plates and bowls back to the living room. Their conversation became light and easy again as they ate. Neither of them brought up the show, for which Fuuma was grateful, and for which he could sense Kusanagi was too. He knew he stressed Kusanagi out at work, and the last thing he wanted was to ruin this new found affectionate, safe atmosphere.
'I don't mean to stress you out,' Fuuma thought. Most of the time, he didn't mean to stress anyone out. He just wanted what was best for the project, and he liked to think everyone else did too, but, "You push people's buttons," Camellia had told him endlessly throughout Yoru, sometimes affectionate, other times exasperated, but most of the time just matter of fact. He'd always known this to be true, in fact he was sure that was part of why he was so good at what he did. He thought of Subaru and Kamui, of building them up and keeping them focused. He thought of helping Sorata find answers, of helping Arashi feel her feelings and of helping Yuzuriha take herself seriously. He thought of dragging Kakyo out of himself and watching him shine on stage. Then of the countless other casts he'd molded and shaped and made laugh and made cry, and wondered for the first time if these relationships that he'd thought of as reciprocal actually weren't.
He'd pushed his casts to give him everything, but in return he'd remained a detached observer, watching with an almost scientific curiosity as everyone felt and expressed themselves and their emotions. However, Yoru had been different because he hadn't just observed. He'd got stuck in and involved himself, spending extra time with the cast and crew, talking at length with them, Camellia and Seishiro about the characters and how they related to themselves. He'd loved it, totally unexpectedly, and had hoped for the same the following summer.
Unfortunately, no one was as invested. Camellia and Seishiro weren't there, and Fuuma had tried to revert to his usual MO and everything had gone to hell. He knew a deep rush of affection for his current cast followed by an undertow of isolation. No wonder Seishiro had pulled away. No wonder he'd left last night. However, he then looked at Kusanagi across the fire, who had stepped up to help by playing Dr. Grant and now with his issues with Seishiro, and thought of Nataku, Yuuto, Kanoe, Satsuki and Hokuto, those other people who had known him a few years and were always there to help him put his vision together.
He knew another wave of affection, isolation and reassurance, and realized how much he'd been straddling the fence all summer. Not quite in, not quite out. Again, no wonder Seishiro had been acting weird towards him. He'd have to commit fully one way or the other, and as he thought again of his cast and crew, of all the people who had come together to help bring his vision to life, his choice was obvious. He had to commit and get stuck in and see the show through, become a part of something bigger than himself. He resolved to finish what he'd started, to make it not just his problem, but share the problem, with or without Seishiro.
"Do you want seconds?" Kusanagi asked, jerking Fuuma back to the present.
"Yes please," he replied, brightly, his cheeks suddenly flushed. He helped Kusanagi in the kitchen and they finished their second helping with more light, easy conversation.
Once Fuuma felt totally sober, Kusanagi walked him to the door and opened it, letting in the noise and smell of the ever persistent rainstorm. "I'll see you tomorrow," said Kusanagi, holding out his hand. However, rather than shake, they clasped hands, pulled each other forward and clapped each other on the back.
"Thanks for everything," Fuuma told him quietly, then added, "have a good rest of your night, okay?" as they broke apart. Kusanagi smiled.
"You too, take care." Fuuma wanted to say something else, to really express his gratitude, but any words that came to him felt shallow and insincere. Instead, he clapped Kusanagi on the shoulder, stepped into his shoes and headed back out into the storm, the damp chill jarring after the warmth of Kusanagi's bungalow.
He started the engine the moment he was back in the car, shook his hair out of his eyes and turned up the heat. However, before he put the car in gear, he called Seishiro. His stomach twisted with every drawl of the dial tone, and he wasn't surprised when it went to voicemail. "Hey," he said, quietly. "I'm really sorry for last night. Shit was fucked up and I was way out of line. Um," he hesitated, because what else was there to say? Except… "I hope to hear from you soon. Bye."
He hung up with a heavy sigh and plugged in his phone. A soft guitar and male vocals began as Fuuma backed out of Kusanagi's driveway. How does that feel, to know somebody's world revolves around you? However, rather than return to Setsuka's house, he headed toward the hardware store outside of town. Don't think me cruel to drag up memories, of you, it's just the way to right my wrongs…
Yeah, Fuuma!
Seriously, I'm proud of him, and it'll be interesting to see how this all plays out once he's back with his cast!
I think of reviews when I summon my kekkai, leave me some!