For These Scars
~Chapter 23~
Written by: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, Saisyu Kusanagi, and Benimaru Nikaido belong to SNK
It was done. Iori slid the sealed envelope containing his rent payment into the box outside his apartment, stepped back inside, closed and latched the door shut and leaned against the wall. Closing his eyes, he tried emptying his mind but the thoughts kept coming, relentless and unending. When he began trembling, it took all his willpower and self-control not to break down. He found himself on the floor of the entranceway, curled up and unable to stem the flow of anguish and despair that overcame him.
All his debts were settled. There was nothing pending, nothing else expected. The only action he hadn't taken was to write and finalize a will. That had felt too absolute even for him and it wasn't as if he had next-of-kin to leave his assets to. The only other person would be Kyo, but that'd do him more harm than good. If the Kusanagi clan violently disagreed with his relationship with Kyo, Kyo receiving anything from him would be seen as scandalous.
Destroying Kyo's reputation had never been one of his goals. Not when they were rivals, and certainly not now as lovers. A well-meaning gesture from him would be seen in a different light and Iori wasn't going to leave this world with his final action ruining Kyo. Saisyu Kusanagi already placed bars around Kyo; he need not reinforce them, condemning Kyo to an undeserved fate. He already knew his end – it would come and soon – but Kyo still had much to live for, and Iori wasn't so selfish that he'd drag him down with him.
Then why did it hurt so much, knowing this?
Everything was done. Everything but…
He swallowed, the lump in his throat like a stone lodged there.
All that was left to do was fight a futile battle. Fight, knowing he'd lose. Lose and die. That was all now, wasn't it? Just waiting for the final hour?
Nikaido had yet to get back to him. He'd see Kyo one last time – couldn't ask for more, really – and then come home and wait. Kyo said he wouldn't fight this alone, but Kyo wouldn't be back. It was too risky to chance for a second visit and Iori didn't hold his hopes high for any future reunion. He'd had six months. He shouldn't wish for anything beyond that. He wasn't going to get anything beyond that.
He breathed in and out slowly. Tears burned behind his eyes; he refused their release.
All that was left was death. Would it hurt this much if it'd been the blood curse?
His old man had lingered for six additional months. Why was his father granted that time – time he'd never have? Hatred fed his old man, true, but…
He was pathetic. Weak. A shell of himself.
Iori pushed himself off the floor. Stood, unsteady on his feet.
His body ached. His joints were sore. His burns were healing – the second-degree ones – but the third-degree ones continued to pain and discomfort him. He no longer looked in the mirror, since his own face now frightened him. He didn't know how Kyo continued to love him like this; he couldn't hold himself in high regard anymore. Kyo was still a fighter in every sense of the word; he was not. All his skills were worthless without stamina – if he even showed himself now, he'd be the laughingstock in the fighting circuit. If he wasn't considered that, then he'd be an object of horror for all who saw him.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
Carefully, slowly, he made his way back to the couch. Along with the rent payment, he'd also informed in a short letter to the second hospital to discontinue the process for his burn treatment. It wasn't necessary. Not anymore. Another matter resolved – another loose end no longer hanging.
He'd been thorough. The only issue left would be after.
He had no surviving relatives. No immediate family. No friends. Only Kyo, but…
Even if there was a funeral service, no one would attend. Kyo wouldn't be allowed – his clan would see to that. Kagura might but the woman always had other pressing concerns and his insignificant life was nothing compared to hers. Nikaido? He doubted it. He'd alienated himself so well that his passing wouldn't even register for most of them. He was troublesome, a disturbance, a threat, a joke for those who didn't take him seriously. His death would be a relief, once the initial news stopped wreaking havoc in the tourney circles.
The tournaments would move on without him. The other contestants wouldn't even care.
Kyo would move on. He'd have to.
In the end, it would just be him alone. Him and death and the seconds ticking by.
He reached over to where his guitar was. On the front of the case, he'd left a brief note bequeathing the instrument to one of his previous bandmates. It'd find a new home and another owner who'd take good care of it. Possibly play it during their performances. If that occurred, then Iori could rest easy on the music front. It was, quite possibly, the easiest decision to make when settling his final affairs.
He played a few chords. His fingers hurt where the calluses had softened. At least he could still do this for now. Within a few days, he might not be able to. He just wanted some music – some music of his own – before the time came.
Saisyu had taken almost everything from him. Everything but the few notes coming from his guitar. The only things left he could claim as his own.
That, and the ring Kyo gifted him months ago, which reminded him…
He put the guitar down, removed the rings from his finger, and put them aside. Later, he'd find a sturdy chain and wear them around his neck. He didn't want to lose them. The chrome ring meant a lot to him from his teen years. He already knew the significance of the gunmetal one with its etched symbolism. It didn't need any further elaboration.
On the table with his medication were the remains of his meal. Food no longer gave him any pleasure. Eating was a chore and he barely tasted what he forced down. Hunger was a rare sensation – gnawing at his guts only if he didn't eat for a couple days – which wrecked his well-intentioned plan to eat consistently. Without enjoyment – without taste – the motivation to continue wasn't there. He'd eaten some chicken on skewers and a curry beef bun earlier, but remembering what they tasted like eluded him. It was, he considered, something he'd learned to live with.
Soon, he wouldn't have to worry. Soon, he wouldn't need to eat.
A week at best. A few days more, if he was considered worthy of receiving them.
Iori wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. Took a deep breath, feeling his chest strain. His sternum was still healing, but he'd be dead before then.
He glanced at his phone, which was also on the table.
The screen was dark. There was no text. No response from Nikaido.
He bent his head down, pressed his fingers to the strings, and continued playing.
Ignored the burning behind his eyes. Ignored what followed.
He continued playing, unseeing – the chords his only guide in a world he was fading in. He continued playing, the music a poor balm for his soul.
For it was not enough. Nothing would be enough.