For These Scars
~Chapter 25~
Written by: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, Saisyu Kusanagi, and Benimaru Nikaido belong to SNK
Iori went for a walk.
Clouds lay thick overhead, promising rain and the air was muggy, unlike the coolness of the last few nights. It was discomforting, but he needed to leave the apartment while he still could. Staying in there for too long drove him to darker thoughts, so a change of venue might leave them behind. Unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt – he always concealed his scars now – Iori felt better. Not cooler, no, but at least the air didn't feel as thick. It wasn't as if he was going far; however, a nighttime stroll in humid May weather was full of sweat and chirping insects, unless they were too overheated even for that.
He wiped the sweat from his face. Dried his hand on his jeans.
Continued walking, if hesitant stumbling steps could be considered that. He was still upright – still able to get up and around and move. Above him, the clouds were smears of dark gray against a sky black as ground ink. No moon. No stars. Just him, the dark expanse above and the artificial lighting from Osaka's nightlife, cars and neon signs and streetlights aglow. He stood and watched the life teeming in the distance and then moved on.
Despite the humidity, it was a beautiful evening.
Some nights, before all this began, he'd find himself among the nightlife – among the people still seeking pleasures and delights even after sunset. It was part of being in a band; it was a prerequisite of being in the entertainment business. As much as he'd like to go home after a performance, he knew they owed their groupies and for that, Iori stuck around long enough to fulfill his obligations. He was familiar with downtown Osaka and all it entailed.
If he'd been feeling better, he'd be there right now.
But that part of his life was over. He couldn't be there now – not in his condition. Not like this. Not like…
There was no moon. No stars. No light from above to illuminate his path.
Just him alone, walking down the lonely and silent street. Walking past people asleep or living their lives, each day going past without them counting the days. Lives free of his burden. Lives full of other wants and needs, desires and fears.
He went past those apartment complexes, those homes, and continued.
Time passed. Clouds rolled above him, dark against darker, like dissipated ink in water. He unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeves. Tried not to think about the scarring on his arms, on his elbows and inside the curves where the joints were. He undid a third button on his shirt, widening the space between his collar. He needed water and there was a vending machine not far from here. Setting his jaw with determination, Iori headed for it.
By the time he made it there, he was ready to collapse.
Only sheer willpower kept him on his feet until he made his purchase. Then, his knees gave way and he fell forward, striking the side of his face against the hard plastic of the vending machine. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the brief pain; he'd suffered worse. From unwanted experience, he turned himself over, sitting with his back against the machine. Everything was sore now and he was dehydrated. Twisting the cap off the bottle of cold water, he downed half the contents in one gulp. Sitting like this, he looked out at the quiet emptiness, at the neighborhood where he lived.
Hard to believe he wouldn't be seeing this after a few days.
The rings hung heavy around his neck. He didn't reach up to touch them. Their weight was a reassurance – something lasting; memory lingering. He continued gazing at the sky and the city lights, listening for the occasional insect's nocturnal chirping. It was peaceful. The kind of solitude he sought, away from the noise in his head. Orochi hadn't intruded into his thoughts for days; perhaps, his own distress was enough to suffice. It was a small thing to be grateful for.
He took another drink of water, cradling the bottle in his thinning hands.
Perhaps, when the time came, he'd stay in a place like this. It wouldn't be so bad – not at all.
Just him and the quiet when everything ended. Better than wasting away in his apartment – a corpse in isolation.
Having made up his mind, Iori was at ease. He finished the water and tossed the bottle aside. It rolled against the recyclable container where it remained. Iori pulled his knee against his chest, wincing at its resistance, and then draped both arms over it. Resting his cheek against the crook of his arm, he closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was asleep.
It was the light rain that awoke him, spattering cold and wet against his exposed cheekbone. Iori glanced at the sky, groggy in his half-awake state and glimpsed light within the clouds, illuminated from within. It was his cue to find shelter, since it meant a thunderstorm and he was out in the open, soon to be drenched. With his temperature always hovering at fever-point, actually getting sick was a possibility and one that could cut his life short.
His heart had been weakened by the earlier stages of his ordeal. He never forgot that.
Getting to his feet, he made for the nearest bus stop, which had an overhang and a bench. While it wouldn't keep him from getting wet, it'd certainly be better than a complete downpour catching him off guard. He planned his route home in his head, mapping the different stops from his current location onward. If he was fortunate, the incoming storm would abate in sporadic pauses, giving him enough time to go from one stop to the next. He'd gone farther than expected tonight but getting home was still feasible.
So long as his body didn't betray him…
Just as he stumbled into the bus stop and folded himself into the corner upon the bench, the sky burst open. Rain roared down, sharp slanting streaks of cold silver turning the darkness into an indeterminable blur. From where he sat, visibility was nil; if the nightlife was still ongoing, it was veiled by the relentless hammering storm. With his back to the glass, Iori huddled inward, arms around his knees. Without a barrier to ward off the rain, it gusted toward him in an icy spray. Within minutes, he was soaked.
Getting home without falling ill was looking less likely by the second.
As long as he made it home…
He wasn't sure how long he waited, but eventually, there was a lull. Uncurling himself from the bench, he made for the next stop, pushing his weary body forward. The wet and cold combined with his overheated state intensified his aches and pains; he was lightheaded. The ground, though solid, seemed to waver beneath his feet. He was going to pass out – needed to reach the stop first. If he lost consciousness in the street or on the sidewalk, he was never getting home.
Would die out here in the middle of the storm.
Iori knew he was dying – soon enough – but dying like that was beneath his dignity.
He would see home again. Would see Kyo again, once he heard back from Nikaido. He couldn't fight off his ailment but a mere thunderstorm? Since when did a storm overcome Iori Yagami?
He just needed to make it to the second stop. Just…
His feet were tired. His body didn't want to obey him. His eyes were heavy.
He wasn't going to lose this one. He was going to…going to make it there. Into the stop. Just a few more feet. It was visible – a distinct shape going indistinct, sharp edges blurring. He was about to pass out. Forcing himself the last few feet, Iori managed to make it onto the bench before his body called its surrender. The last thing he heard was the clattering of his rings against cold steel.
Then, all was darkness.
His phone vibrated against his thigh. Once, twice, three times. Only on the fourth did he awake, roused from unconsciousness by its persistence. Blinking, his eyesight readjusting to the darkness, Iori retrieved the device from his pocket. The area around his eyes burned, which only made the sudden screen brightness hurt. His head pounded and the aches were now accompanied by constant shivering. He was sick – needed to get home…needed to…
There was a missed call. Nikaido.
He hit the "Call" button. Tried to keep his hands from shaking.
It was three in the morning. He'd been out longer than usual. How much of that time was spent unconscious? He'd fallen asleep earlier by the vending machine. Had lost track of time, then. When he left home, it'd been nine at night.
His nose began running. He started coughing.
No. This wasn't good. At all. He needed to…needed to…
"Yagami? Is that you?"
"Nikaido," he said, caught off guard by the hoarseness in his voice. "What are you –"
"Yagami, you okay? You sound –"
"I'm fine." He wasn't but Benimaru Nikaido didn't need to know that. "What are you calling for?"
"Kyo said 'Yes'. We'll be able to make it at the park Saturday. You sure you're okay?"
His hand shook. He gripped the phone tighter and clenched his teeth, biting back a cough irritating his throat. His shivering had turned to chills – waves of alternating heat and cold – and Iori knew if he didn't make it home tonight, he was going to die out here. He couldn't – not yet. Not like this. It'd be pathetic. A poor ending for someone like him.
"Did he say anything else?"
"No. Just 'Yes'. Do you –"
"No." Even if he did, he wasn't feeling his best right now. "I'll…"
"Yagami, you –"
"I'll see him there." He disconnected the call; the phone slipped out of his hand a second later, clattering onto rain-drenched concrete. The world was hazy – shimmering – and he was exhausted. He reclined against the bench, back to glass and wanted to lie down and sleep. Close his eyes. Fall back into pure emptiness, into silence and a world without sensation, without…
But if he did…
If he did, he would die. Right here. Right now.
He couldn't. Not yet. Not…
Iori forced himself onto his feet. Glanced at the sky – the clouds turbulent – and beyond where the rain fell. Continued falling, a silver mist as far as he could see. He needed to leave. To go home. There was one final meeting and then he could rest.
In the quiet. In the open. In the solitude that suited him.
Retrieving his phone, Iori gazed at the obscurity ahead. Taking a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders back and turning his steps homeward, exited his temporary shelter. Rain curtained around him – driving down cold as knives into flesh – swallowing him whole. His world was gray, with glimmers of silver, and it was just him in the world.
Him and the sibilance, a different kind of silence.
He embraced it – took to it as a sort of comfort.
All around him, silver. Silver unending.