[I'm very sorry for the ultra
long author's notes! ^_^;;] Despite the fact that this is a true
spur-of-the-moment fic, despite the fact that the featured pairing is one of
the most unpopular pairings in this huge multi-pairing fandom, this is the
first and only fanfiction of mine that has ever made me cry, and will probably
be the last. Perhaps it's the way I'm feeling, perhaps it's the deep empathy I
feel for Hana-chan, but never before have I ever ever cried over any
story of mine own and if I can help it, I never ever will again. Yes, I
truly believe in FujiHana. Yes, I have watched Slam Dunk, and the Shoyo Arc to
the death. Yes, I have sat in front of the television staring intently at the
screen intermittently pressing forward and rewind and forward and rewind,
examining expressions, trajectories, and voice pitch and tone over and over
again. Yes, I've done everything I could possibly have done, and I've drawn my
own firm conclusions about the relationship between Fujima and Hanagata. Does
their relationship in this fic reflect my conclusions? Yes, and no. It's what I
would call an alternate future fic, and in this alternate future, I've darkened
their relationship, made Fujima a tad more brutal than he probably is. Does
that change a thing? Not really. My point would be? I don't know.
And that's really it. I don't
know. This fic confuses me. The idea hit me like an angel's sin. I had
to finish it. I did, in two days, yesterday…and today. And despite the fact
that I still have homework, and that my promotional examinations are in less
than a week, I needed to finish it. This fic, I'm afraid, has actually
become important to me.
That's why I will beseech you
now, to, if you start, read the fic to the end [unless you really don't want
to…]. The story, I realise, has four prominent shifts, and in my opinion, it's
really the last parts that…speak. It starts with dialogue. Devotion.
Description. It ends, with d…
'Hakanaki hibi to…'
[Transient days and…]
- Sekai ga Owaru Made wa [WANDS]
Hakanaki Hibi To…
By Djinn
"I understand
that this must be difficult for you."
"Please,
keikan. Spare me the formalities."
"If you
insist. You do realise that this is a serious business."
"I think I
should know that better than you."
"I suggest
that you cooperate with us."
"To the best
of my ability."
"…Very well. I
already know of your…circumstances. I will have to ask you to describe your
relationship with the deceased –"
"Kenji-sama."
"Excuse me?"
"Please don't
say deceased."
"…Alright
then. How would you rather I address him?"
"Kenji-sama –
no. I apologise. Old habits die hard. Fujima-san. That would be better."
"In which
case, I will have to ask you to describe your relationship with…Fujima-san."
"…How much of
it?"
"What do you
mean?"
"It's a long
story."
"All of it, if
you would, spare no details. I have all day, and I would like to understand
your…situation."
"…You haven't
interrogated many homosexuals, have you?"
"Would that be
a matter of any consequence?"
"I suppose
not."
"Please
proceed."
"…I suppose it
began in high school."
"Why then?"
"That was
where we first met."
"Classmates, I
presume?"
"Team-mates,
actually. Basketball team-mates."
"Ah. I have
heard of your close associations with basketball."
"We were the
best."
"I have no
doubt."
"Believe what
you will."
"I think I
shall. Please. Continue."
"Thank you. It
was the first day of training. It was inevitable that we would notice each
other. My height already gave me an edge over the rest of the Year Ones. My
skills put me on the road to becoming a team star. Kenj – Fujima, on the other
hand, was already a superstar. Introductions that day were perfunctory, merely
kindling awareness. Further contact – the Shoyo basketball club ensured plenty
of that – developed more…"
"Dare I
venture…friendship?"
"You might,
but I would not. Friendship denotes mutuality, an association borne of like,
free will. I was rather his dog."
"His dog."
"I know it
sounds trite."
"…When did a
more…serious relationship occur?"
"Two weeks
after we acknowledged our acquaintance. There's nothing moderate about Fujima.
It started with sex of course…I think, in a way, for Fujima that was all it
meant. Sex…and the abuse."
"You'll excuse
me for a moment, Hanagata-san. If I recall rightly, you're a hundred and
ninety-seven centimeters tall. Fujima-san was ten, twenty cm shorter, around
the same number of kg lighter? I find it hard to believe that, in such
circumstances, Fujima-san can dominate, much less abuse –"
"Then you
don't know Fujima very well. Fujima…is - was all about power. Control. Think
about it – a business magnate at the age of twenty-seven? Even in high school –
he was the star, coach and captain of the Shoyo basketball team in our
graduation year. If he had weaknesses, he never…rarely…showed it. I don't even
think he ever truly cared for anyone…we were all just pawns he used."
"And yet, you
chose to be used."
"It was not a
choice. How can I explain? You have to see him – know him to understand.
Fujima…is no ordinary man. He's the brightest, most beautiful thing that could
ever exist. He doesn't request obedience, he commands it, and we just give him all…if
only you could know…to look upon him is to look upon the sun. To hear him…I
think it's close to hearing the voice of God. He's my God, really. I can refuse
him nothing, I don't dare, nor do I want to. How can I make you
understand what I mean? …When I was young and foolish, I thought it was love.
Now…I know it is. I love him…Loved."
"You're quite
the poet, Hanagata-san."
"You may
scoff, but you'll never understand how it was. I belonged to him, body, soul,
and heart. Willingly, despite the pain. I still do, I believe…I still do."
"I'm touched."
"I'm sure."
"Have you
never rebelled?"
"Of course I
have. I wouldn't be human if I never tried to disobey. The problem with
disobeying is that Fujima is always right."
"Care to
explain?"
"I'll give you
an example instead. Once again, Shoyo Basketball Club. Graduation Year.
Kanegawa Prefecture Inter-High Basketball Eliminations. It was a crucial match
– one that would determine whether or not we would enter the finals. And we had
to! Shoyo ranked second in the matches the year before, we could not lose.
Fujima could not lose. But I…disobeyed. We lost. It was my fault. Needless to
say, I had hell to pay."
"Hell to pay?"
"Couldn't move
the next morning. Couldn't sit properly for a week."
"Ah."
"As I said,
Fujima is always right."
"May I remind
you…was."
"…I
apologise."
"I assume that
this relationship carried on after high school?"
"We never
broke up, if that's what you meant. As I said, I loved him, I would never leave
him of my own accord."
"What about
Fujima-san? Was he as loyal?"
"I don't
believe I ever meant much to him, really. If he had had other lovers, he
wouldn't have made a point to inform me. He certainly wouldn't have felt the
least bit remorseful. But truth be told, I doubt he did."
"What makes
you so sure?"
"We had sex
just about everyday. Multiple times, if it struck his fancy."
"I see."
"You asked."
"So I did.
This behaviour continued throughout all further institutes?"
"This
behaviour continued till yesterday."
"You were
satisfied with your relationship, then?"
"There was
nothing to be satisfied about. I loved him. He used me. I let him. He kept me.
But I wouldn't have wanted it to change. Not for anything."
"Tell me, what
happened after Fujima-san entered the working society?"
"I, too, am an
employed man, keikan."
"I did not
forget."
"…Fujima had
already a large fortune at his disposal. What can I say? It got larger. I just
did whatever needed me to do. As long as I could stay with him, it didn't
matter. As for Fujima…I don't think the thought that I might want my own life
ever crossed his mind. It never crossed mine."
"Were there
ever any altercations? Anything that threatened your relationship?"
"No. Nothing
much changed in the eleven years we were together."
"What, then,
happened in the days preceding his death?"
"…There was
never an indication that something like…like that…would occur…except that he'd
been excessively brutal in intercourse for the past few days. That didn't
particularly bother me – he was periodically like that, when he was frustrated
with office work, or any other such matters…And of course, as you should know,
his business collapsed the day before…it happened."
"So he lost
his usefulness?"
"I don't like
what you're implying, keikan."
"Describe what
happened yesterday."
"Nothing much,
at first. I had taken the day off. After the past few nights, I could hardly
suffer myself to sit in the office all day. When I woke up, he had already
left, as usual. I left the house to buy some groceries around noon…Ke – Fujima
liked home cooked meals. When I returned…I found his…body…in the bedroom…On the
floor…"
"Now,
Hanagata-san. Describe to me exactly what you did when you made that
discovery."
"…There was a
gun next to him. I picked it up…I think I put it on the dressing table…He was
lying in an awkward position…he wouldn't have liked it. So I…I just laid him
out in a more comfortable arrangement…"
"Did it ever
occur to you, as you were so conveniently rearranging Fujima-san's body for his
comfort, that you were ruining police investigations?"
"Police
investigations never even occurred to me. Kenji-sama was dead. He was gone.
That's all I knew. It was only when I realised that he'd hate rotting away that
I decided to call the police."
"So you called
the police and told them that there had been a death at your residence."
"That is
right."
"What did you
do after the call?"
"You know the
answer to that."
"Humour me."
"I took a
blade…the kitchen knife. I slit my wrists. I laid down next to him. If
Kenji-sama was dead…there was no reason for me to live…I must have lost
consciousness after a while. The next thing I remember, I was in the prison
ward."
"Did you kill
him?"
"No!
I would rather have killed myself than kill him! I would have…if the lot of you
hadn't revived me. I told you. You should have let me die."
"Then
why did you kill him?"
"I
did not kill him!"
"It
was for the money, wasn't it? You killed him for the money, didn't you?"
"Of
course not! I…what money?!"
"Fujima-san
was a rich man, wasn't he? He might have lost his business, but he still had
his savings – negligible for one used to affluence of course…but you're not
such a man, are you? His savings would have meant a fortune to you. "
"That's
where you're wrong, I'm afraid. He doesn't love me enough to give a damn about
what would happen to me after his death. All his assets would have gone to the
National Basketball Association of Japan. I happen to know. I worded his will."
"Then
you must not have worded his will very well – I have a copy of Fujima-san's
will right here. The Final Will and Testament of Fujima Kenji. In the event of
my death, all property I own at time of death shall be transferred into
possession of Hanagata Touru, should he survive me by a period of at least
thirty days. Otherwise, all property
owned by me at time of death will be ceded to the National Basketball
Association of Japan. The same goes for his insurance policy."
"It's
impossible. He…I…I never knew…"
"A
likely story, Hanagata-san."
"Stop
that. I told you. I didn't kill him."
"Then
who did? Who else would benefit from his death? Are you telling me that NBA
Japan sent an executive to assassinate Fujima-san?"
"Of
course not –"
"Your
residence is completely secure, you know that better than I. There was no one
else in the house, your fingerprints were on the gun –"
"I
took it away from his body!"
"Then
who killed him?!…Or did Fujima-san commit suicide?"
"…"
"Was
it suicide? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"…"
"Young
businessman, despairing at the collapse of his once-thriving company…You could
have just said so from the beginning –"
"No."
"Excuse
me?"
"It
wasn't suicide."
"Hanagata-san
–"
"I
did it. I killed him. There's nothing more to be said."
"Hanagata-san,
I don't know what twisted game you're playing, but I can tell you, I don't
appreciate it."
"Nor
I yours, keikan."
"…Take
him away."
* * * * * * *
The
only illumination in the cell was the moonlight, streaming in like silver
ribbons from the high, lonely bars. He could see the moon from where he sat, a
cold goddess, beautiful…but ultimately untouchable.
Much
like Kenji was now.
The
thought of it hurt, a freezing constriction tearing at this throat. He squeezed
his eyes shut, swallowing tightly, trying to force the hurt away, at least for
a little while.
…In
such a desolate place, the dust motes seemed like silver, points of fairy light
drifting lazily across the moonbeams, but never quite out of the glow. He
envied them, envied their constancy. Ten years, a hundred more, what did it
matter? It was suspended animation. It was eternality.
It
was everything he'd wanted…everything he'd lost.
Stop
that.
Trembling,
grasping for distraction, he extended a hand into the beam…They'd always said
that his pale was a lily pallor – the pall of death. The silver of the moon
caught it, softened it, till it was rather the white of milk…Kenji had been
like that…Caucasian-pale, milk-pale, life and energy and radiance-pale. Except
now he was white. Death white. Bone white.
He
was tired.
It
was hopeless, really. Absolutely hopeless. He could no more stop thinking about
him than he could stop the beating of his heart…and he wished verily,
viciously, that he could do the latter.
He
closed his eyes again, leaning his head back against the rough stone walls.
How
could he be gone? How could he be…dead…
How
could one convey depth of emotion, even emotion? It was impossible to make him
see…It was one thing to tell him that Kenji was bright…but how could one convey
how bright, that he burned, like the sun, that it was sometimes hard to
look at him because he hurt your eyes and yet you could not look away because
he was so beautiful. How, even when he hurt him, he wanted more pain, simply
because it was given by him, and, sometimes, that was the only thing he could
ever get from him. No one could ever understand. He loved him so much it hurt,
a physical ache that centered in his heart, spreading everywhere and anywhere
else, till his entire body was nothing but a shrine created only to pay tribute
to this god that was a man. How could he say that? Long sleepless nights where
he'd stared at his face, so confident even in slumber, drinking in his presence
as if it were the last night of the world. A love he could not speak, caught in
his throat, in his heart, that it ached with frustration and he wished he could
tear his very heart out to show it, for he could not understand. Till
he learned, over time, to simply not say, but love in silence, whether or not
he understood, or even knew. That he would die for him, if he'd only
ask, or even if he did not ask, his life was his. How could he describe?
And
how could he describe, now, the aching emptiness within him…the freezing core
that screamed, keened in black and red, mute and terrified, and wishing to be
filled again, not with this terrible pain that spoke of loss, but another pain
it had learned to love, or even not the pain at all but anything – anything!
– that he would not be dead would not be gone and it clawed and fought and tore
at his chest, waves of grief and loss and pain crashing through his body, the
sorrow diffusing into his blood like love like pain till he thought he would
burst and it begged to be released to rent the air so the world would know it,
grief-crazed, but found none, the only concession being the hot tears that now
spilled uncontrollably from dark, weary eyes, slipping swiftly down pallid
cheeks, the crystal and porcelain evidence of his loss.
It
hurt. God. It hurt.
…Somewhere
in the distance, the perpetual footsteps of the guard faded away into nothing.
The next patrol would not start till an hour later.
It
was time, then.
Carefully,
he stood up, steadying himself against the wall with an outflung hand as a
brief moment of nausea hit him. Despite the transfusion – a waste of good blood
– he was still in the throes of blood loss.
…That
would make his job easier.
Of
course it had been suicide. Any fool could have figured it out. Body, gun, and
lover dying by his side. As clichéd as it might have been, there were certain
set formulas for everything. It must have been the collapsing of the company.
The Fujima pride would have been dealt a blow too serious to withstand.
…He
really should have known…should have guessed. But that night was all about pain
– he'd already been torn, he just tore again – and Kenji hadn't made a great
deal out of it…not that he made a great deal out of many things…
"Hana-chan,"
he'd said, after a moment of silence, the kind one had after sex, "The business
collapsed."
"Daijoubu…"
he remembered saying through the haze of pain, "…You still have millions to
spare…"
There'd
been a pause, wherein, he, at least, had contemplated the significance of the
day, that Kenji had called him Hana-chan, a rare indulgence.
"You're
precious, Hana-chan. Oyasumi."
"…Oyasumi
nasai…Kenji-sama…"
And
that'd been the end of it. Then the next day…
He
really should have known.
But
there hadn't been a word, hadn't been a note, no indication, no goodbye, no
anything at all that denoted the behaviour of a desperate man…of course, again,
the Fujima pride at work. Ah, what a strange creature it was. Too proud for
failure…almost too proud for suicide.
…And
certainly too proud to admit it.
That
was the last and only thing he could do for Kenji, bear the burden of his
shame. What did it matter if they thought him guilty? Only Kenji mattered. Only
Kenji, and now Kenji could rest in peace, his name untouched, untainted, a
martyr, murdered at his prime by his scheming lover. What did it matter if he
died?
He
would die. He was sure of it. He would have nothing else.
But
he would not let those bureaucrats, those bastards, sentence him, put him to
death like a common criminal. If he were to die…he would do it his way.
…It
was at times like this…he wondered about the Hanagata pride.
He
unwound the heavy bandages around his wrists, neatly laying the scraps aside.
The slashes had mostly clotted, but some parts of the wound still gaped open,
the red-pink flesh glistening almost obscenely.
Good.
Quietly,
he examined the bars of the gate, running his fingers along the cold metal.
Prison workmanship was shoddy by nature, there was always some unpolished edge
–
Aah.
The
sharp sting of pain in his fingertips told him he had found it. Further
inspection told him it was approximately six inches in length, less than a
quarter in width. In other words, adequate.
He
eyed the dull gleam with some trepidation. He was not a fool. He knew…
- Pain! As he pushed the gash in his
right wrist against the makeshift blade, laboriously dragging it down.
Pain!! As the dirty steel bit, tore into his flesh with a sickening rip,
and tore more, now slick with blood.
The
bile rose, burning the back of his throat. He raised his free hand, pressed the
back of it against his mouth, trying desperately to keep from retching, knowing
what would come after that. The pain made him sick to his stomach, raw, intense
agony, as he shredded his wrist like a piece of meat.
…But
it was like then…wasn't it? The pain, as he'd sliced his wrists the first time
with the knife. Sheer pain, until he looked again at Kenji's face…the
lifelessness…the bullet hole in his temple…the nevermore…
Utter
grief welled, faster than the blood, filling his heart. There was no room for
pain. The burning in his wrist dulled, he kept his hand against his mouth, now,
to keep from crying out.
Ohh…
A
savage thrust. A sudden spurt. Blood gushed out of the ragged wound, pumping
lethargically in fits and starts.
He'd
reached the artery. Good.
The
other one now. Just as arduously. Slowly dragging down, mutilating the skin,
the flesh. Again. Again. Till the same cathartic burst of red erupted from the
ruined wrist.
That
was enough.
Back
to the bunk, ignoring the scarlet rivulets that painted the floor as he moved.
He lay down upon it, curling up foetally, a haze of vertigo and Kenji's face in
front of his eyes.
There
was nothing left to do…save wait for death…
…It
was near the end…when he could barely think…barely…
…He
could hear the door open…not the cell gate…the bedroom door…soft…
footsteps…coming closer…
…He
knew who it was…
Sometimes…in
the morning…when he'd been very…brutal…the night before…Kenji-sama would…he
would…before he left for work…he would…come in and…sit…on the bed…when…he'd
thought…he was…asleep…he'd stroke his hair…maybe a tender area…maybe…even…kiss
him…before…he…left…
…That
was the Kenji-sama…he…loved…best…not the bright…beautiful…one…not the
one…everyone else…loved…
That
Kenji-sama…with…soft…touches…soft kisses…
…With
that Kenji-sama…he could almost believe…he…loved…him…
Like…that
morning…yesterday…?…that…morning…he'd come…
…And
he was here…now…
A
familiar weight settled…familiar…caress…
…He
smiled…tried to open his eyes…could not…it was…so…dark…
…But
he knew…what he would…see…
"…Kenji-sama…"
"Hana-chan."
"…Did I…do…well…?"
"You did great. Better
than I could ever ask for."
"…That's…all…I ever…wanted…to…do…"
"I know. Ai
shite'ru…Hana-chan."
"…Ken…ji…sa…ma…"
"…You can sleep now."
END
'…kono Tragedy Night.'
[…this Tragedy Night.]
- Sekai ga Owaru Made wa [WANDS]
*sighs dejectedly* I must apologise. The fic had taken on quite a life
of its own. I hope you can understand what I mean, the words that I said in the
author's notes. I can think of nothing more to say, really. ^_^;; Except…
Footnotes :
Keikan – Officer
Daijoubu – 'It's
alright'
…I know that 'Sekai ga Owaru Made wa' is more or less officially
Mitsui's theme [and therefore a Mitko top pick!]. ^_^;; However, it's one of
the most beautiful songs I have ever heard, and I felt it was appropriate for
this, especially in the spirit of the story. Other than that, if I have erred
in any factual element at all [for example, if it were not 'Kanegawa'…],
please do inform me! Thank you!
I do apologise for all the fuss and nonsense I've put you through. Thank
you for putting up with me! ^_^ *drained of all energy*
