Fate
Fate copyright 1998 to L'Arc~en~Ciel.
Fushigi Yuugi and all characters are property of Watase Yuu.

YAMI:DARKNESS

All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away...

Sun Tzu, The Art of War

My name is Jeff Cotorro and right now, my apartment looks like a garbage heap.
I had known for a while that my roommate was going to be leaving New York. Mike had just enough of the typical bassoonist intelligence to tell me the actual date two days before he was due to fly out to Los Angeles. Which resulted in two days of not sleeping or practicing, stuffing belongings into boxes and snatching bits of leftover pizza and coke in between.
Needless to say, after I saw him off to the airport at five in the morning, I almost fell asleep on the drive back home.
I collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to change, and would have fallen asleep in five seconds if the phone hadn't rung. It was the oboe player from my woodwind quintet, wondering if practice could be changed to seven instead of nine that morning.
I am normally a very patient person, but I suppose in that moment, all my frustration and sleep deprivation caught up to me. After I hung up the phone on the very stunned oboe player, I curled up in a ball on the unmade bed and fell asleep.
I woke up staring at the red and violet shadows creeping across my ceiling. My blurry eyes told me that the time on the clock was five fifteen, and it gradually dawned on me that I had slept through the whole day.
It was a good thing I had not had full orchestra practice today.
I climbed out of bed feeling groggy, with that unwashed, fuzzy taste in my mouth. Going into the bathroom, I washed my face and brushed my teeth, which made me feel slightly better. There were piles of dirty laundry by the trash can, and dirty dishes piled up in the sink in the kitchen. Old newspapers sunbathed on the kitchen table in the light of the setting sun. I wondered if there were roaches in the bathtub.
Sighing, I opened the refrigerator. All the leftover pizza was gone. There was half a macaroni casserole left, which Mike's girlfriend had brought us last night while we were madly packing. Some ice cream in the freezer. An empty jug of orange juice.
We were pathetic.
My still-asleep brain finally processed this information and decided to order some Chinese for dinner that night. I was sick of pizza.
The message light was blinking on the phone, but I called the take-out place first to make sure my order was on the way, then hit the replay button.
"Jeff, this is Marcie. You never returned my call last night and I was just wondering if you were ok. Give me a call. Bye."
That earned a wry smile. Marcie and I had been over for two months, and still she wouldn't give up. I hit delete.
"Hello, Jeff, this is Brian Cranway. You missed quintet practice today, and Alan said you chewed him out on the phone. That's not like you. Just wanted to check up on you and make sure you were all right. If you get this message, call me back. Thanks."
I let the message finish playing and the recording whir, and then sat in the silence of my kitchen, surveying the mess on the floor and the counters.
That's not like you.
I was the "nice" flutist, right? The patient, kind, ever helpful symphony member who would drive an hour to someone else's house to help organize music or count out a part. The one who would always end up after concerts with the janitor cleaning up. The one who had sacrificed a budding solo career because, the conductor said, "We need you."
No, it wasn't like me at all.
The sun had almost set now, and the messes in the kitchen were incoherent lumps casting their feeble shadows in the growing dark. I smelled stale pizza and unwashed socks in the air. A few cars rumbled past outside the apartment, and the floor vibrated. Then it was quiet.
I suddenly felt very sorry for myself.
There was a knock on the door. The takeout. I paid and tipped the delivery boy, and then retreated back to my lonely vigil in the kitchen. Twirling the plastic fork through too greasy noodles, I ate my food in slow forkfuls.
I was happy, wasn't I? I had a successful symphony career. I was a well-known solo performer. I had a decent apartment in a decent part of town. I went to church dutifully every Sunday, tried to be as helpful and considerate as I could. I was single, but had only been for a short while, and soon I would probably find some nice girl and marry her. Wasn't that how it always worked?
Surely some of that would count a little towards happiness.
I finished my noodles and began the arduous process of washing last week's dishes. Mike never washed dishes. He would go through the cupboard pulling them out one by one until there were no more left. Then he would go through the sink, pulling out the plate with the least grease stains and bread crumbs and pronounce it clean. At first, I had complained. Then I just gave up and began silently and uncomplainingly washing the dishes once a week. I suppose Mike considered it a miracle that clean dishes just appeared in the cupboard from time to time.
But with everything had had gone on this week, I just hadn't had time to do anything productive, much less wash dishes.
I turned on the radio and listened to the staticky DJ and then the equally staticky disco song that followed. Undoubtedly Mike had turned it to that station. Neither he nor I had regularly listened to the radio, but his taste in popular music had to be some of the most pointless music ever to grace the face of the earth.
I rinsed the plates and placed them on the drying rack, only half-listening to the sappy love song crackling on the radio. The single kitchen light was harsh and seemed to hold back the surrounding darkness only be sheer strength of will. When I turned it off…
When I turned it off, the world would vanish.
Promise me you'll find my brother. Promise me…you'll take care of him.
The apartment was too dark and empty and Mike's voice seemed to whisper in the shadows, laughter and light and music all spinning into a globe of memories floating away from me. I could see Marcie smiling at me in the corners of my memory. Feel her arms around me.
We had only lasted six months, Marcie and I. I suppose I always knew it was hopeless. She was a piano major at the University of New York, and we had met at a university concert. She was so fiercely independent and yet forlornly lost at the same time, young eyes shining with life and passion, and she moved with a lion's grace. She reminded me…
She reminded me of Shun.
That's why I began dating her, I suppose. I pursued her with a relentless abandon for a whole month before she even began expressing any interest in me. It was through hell and back, trying to win her. And then when we did began dating, she hung on to me like I was the only one in the world that could give her…anything.
Shunkaku had done that.
I left Marcie, like I left Shun. I couldn't take it anymore. It was too much responsibility, too much fear and anger and worry. You'd think I would have learned in one life not to repeat mistakes I made in the last, but apparently not. She called me several times everyday for weeks, leaving messages. Sometimes crying, sometimes coldly angry, sometimes filled with long strings of expletives, sometimes long minutes of silence that I knew were her just sitting and holding the phone to her ear, saying nothing.
It was only a call a day now, and I expected those to start to fade, too. At first I had called her back, trying to reason with her, but it was like trying to reason with a rock. She didn't understand…she would never understand. I didn't understand. Didn't understand the man who called himself Jeff Cotorro, professional flutist, who had once been a boy named Amiboshi, Seiryuu shichi seishi.
I think maybe I was born to betray and be betrayed. Maybe that's how destiny works. They say history repeats itself.
I flung the last dripping clean mug on the tray and turned off the water. My hands were wrinkly from the hot water and soap suds, and as I dried them on the towel, I felt the skin starting to flake off.
I hated it when that happened. It was like trying to play the flute with skin made of thin paper. And then sometimes my hands would crack and bleed and there would be blood all over the keys. If I bothered to put on lotion it would never happen, but I was just too lazy.
Not wanting to leave the kitchen, I perched on one of the bar stools and just sat, looking out the window at the city lights beyond. I was stuck, that's what I was. Stuck in New York, with no career and no future and nowhere to go.
So do something about it.
I snorted softly to myself. That was easy to say. It wasn't easy bringing myself up to this level of playing, and it wasn't like I could just waltz into France or someplace and be guaranteed a job.
France…
I sat up on my stool. There had been a call a few weeks ago for me. From France. They had wanted me to teach over there and maybe audition with a few ensembles. I'd said no, with some regret, because I hadn't been thinking of going anywhere at the moment. I'd been happy here.
But maybe I wasn't so happy anymore.
I jumped off the stool and scrabbled by the phone for the piece of paper I knew on which I had written down the number. Some school of music in Paris. Not too famous, but at this point, famous didn't matter. I wanted out.
With shaking hands, I picked up the receiver to dial long-distance. Maybe there was still a spot for me. Maybe they hadn't auditioned yet.
Oh please, Seiryuu…let it be so.


The dolphins were jumping tonight, and I was content to watch them from the beach, backs silver in the moonlight.
"Nikolas?"
Markos. He sat down beside me. I could feel that he was not happy.
"What happened?"
"Demetrios quit today. We're one actor short now."
I turned incredulous eyes on him. "Demetrios? He just arrived!"
Markos spread his hands. "He said he got another better offer somewhere else. He's leaving tomorrow. I'm not going to beg him to stay. I do have my pride, you know."
I sighed. The waves crashed on the beach. "You said we're one actor short. There's no one else you interviewed?"
Markos grimaced. "Some actor from Cyprus, but I didn't like his voice. And there were a few others, but I can't remember. No one good enough for me, at least."
I smiled wryly. "That's the problem of having an actor do interviews for other actors. We're too picky."
"Better too picky than sorry later!"
I patted him on the back. "Calm down, Markos. We can double on parts. We'll find someone later."
He muttered darkly, before brightening noticeably. "Oh, and I got a call yesterday. They want us to go perform in Italy."
I raised an eyebrow.
He looked apologetic. "I called several months ago because I heard there was going to be a Greek and Roman festival sometime this summer in a part of Rome, and I wanted to know if we could participate. You know people have been dying to go on the road for a while now. We've been too sedate."
"You could have told me sooner."
"I forgot. The call just came in today telling me they want us starting next week."
"That's why you cancelled all of next week's performances. I was wondering."
Markos nodded. "That's right."
"When do we leave?"
"It's not far, so we're leaving on Friday driving over. We can use your car, I'm hoping?"
"For what it's worth," I said. "I need to get an oil change. The thing's falling apart, but I think it can survive a trip to Italy and back."
"Good," Markos said, clapping me on the back and then rising to his feet. "I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow bright and early."
"Good night," I murmured, hearing him leave. The waves crashed in my ears. I should be going also. I had had a long day. Paperwork and long practices did not make an actor's life any easier.
I stood up, stretching. There was a crick in my neck and my back and legs felt sore. I'd gone running for the first time in two weeks just this morning, and I had a feeling that when I woke up in the morning, I would probably not be able to walk. Ah, well. Exercise was exercise, and an actor couldn't afford to be a slob.
My car was in the parking lot on the other side of the building, about five minutes walk away. I liked to come to the ocean after a day of work, just to relax and to think. I had too little time to think lately.
There was a little notebook full of phone numbers that I carried around in my pocket with me everywhere, and somewhere in there was the number for one Marco Bocelli, who might like to hear that I was coming to Italy.
Then again, I didn't know if he would be pleased or not. I didn't know if I wanted to call him. I had gotten the number almost on a whim, and thinking about it now, I was having second thoughts.
Once a Seiryuu seishi, always a Seiryuu seishi, wasn't it? I hadn't been the best seishi that had ever walked the earth, and neither had Ashitare. Maybe we would understand each other.
I had to smile at that.
I gazed out at the ocean one last time. I would have to decide soon whether to call him…Marco was probably a busy man, with his company and renovation projects. I admired him for that. He seemed to have a passion for the arts, if I had heard Yui correctly when she described the projects that he was involved in. Then there was a good chance we would understand each other, as ironic as that seemed.
I remembered why I had stopped taking time out of the day to think, now. Because my thoughts didn't make sense and it was much better to just act on whim, dazzling audiences with some spur-of-the-moment performance and illusion of perfection.
It was late. It was time to go home.
As I turned, out of the corner of my eye I could see the silver of a dolphin leaping under the moon.


I had just gotten out of the shower and was in the process of dressing when the phone rang.
With a grumble, I wrapped the towel around my waist and stumbled across the room to answer it. Who would be calling at two AM in the morning? My broker was asleep, and so was my boss. I hoped.
"Âlo?"
The voice on the other end was not French.
"Ah…Mr. BeauSeigneur?"
My brain switched from French to English in two seconds and I answered smoothly. "Speaking. Who's calling, please?"
"Um…" There was a slight pause. "Sir, I don't know if you know me. My name is Jeff Cotorro…"
He trailed off, and I frowned. I knew no Cotorros. A business associate? A stock broker? "I'm sorry. I don't…"
There was a long moment in which my brain simply froze and then slowly began to function again. "Jeff? Jeff Cotorro?"
"Yes, sir. I-"
"Amiboshi?"
Silence. Then a long breath. ""Nakago-sama."
"Where are you?" I demanded.
"New York. You?"
"Paris."
Another sigh, as if he had been holding his breath. "Nakago-sama, I-"
"Don't call me that," I cut him off. "Just Nakago is fine. Or Stephan. Whichever you prefer." My legs weren't quite steady and I sat down on the edge of my bed, gripping the table for support. "I was wondering if you would call."
"Yui-sama called and gave me your phone number…she suggested that I call you." A pause. "No, rather, she strongly hinted that I should call you."
I couldn't help but smile at that. "Yui-sama can be quite forceful sometimes."
"I agree."
A long silence. It was too strange, Amiboshi on one end of the line and me on the other, I who had been a tyrant in our past lives, who had issued the orders that had almost killed him.
"What do you do? For a living, I mean." I winced. The words didn't come out quite right.
"I'm a professional flutist. I play for the New York Philharmonic."
Jeff Cotorro…"I think I've heard of you," I said. "Your name has been in my readings quite a few times."
He laughed. "Only if you read classical publications."
"I do."
"Oh." He sounded taken aback, a bit wary, as if he might be punished for that statement. Old habits were hard to break. And we didn't know each other. "What-what do you do?"
"I'm a businessman. I travel back and forth…mostly between France and the United States."
"I see."
Silence again. I frowned, thinking. I could hear his soft breathing over the other end.
"How much do you…remember? Amiboshi?"
He didn't ask what I was talking about.
"I remember everything." His voice was flat, the voice of someone who would have preferred not to remember anything.
"So do I. Does it hurt?"
"Nakago-sama?"
"Does it hurt? Remembering."
I could hear him catch his breath.
"Sometimes it does."
The long silence this time was heavy with unspoken words and memories. I was Stephan BeauSeigneur, and I was Nakago. Just as he was both Jeff Cotorro and Amiboshi. How could it be, two people existing within one? Or was I the same and had just been transported to a different dimension, a different time, to make the same mistakes over again?
I didn't blame Amiboshi for his wariness and not wanting to talk to me. After all, I was-had been-Nakago. I had been the second most powerful man in Kutou. I had been ruthless and unforgiving and unforgivable.
I hoped I'd changed…for the better, I would assume. In my youth I had made mistakes, but I had done my best to rectify them. So I wouldn't ever become what Nakago had become in the end. I just had to let Amiboshi find that out for himself. And hope that I wasn't mistaken.
"What were you calling for, Jeff?"
"Is it too late to call?" He sounded worried. "It was really important, and I didn't want to disturb you if you were sleeping or something, but I knew I couldn't sleep unless I tried, and-"
"Jeff. You're not. I was awake. What is it?"
I heard him swallow.
"I'm coming to France in a few weeks. I've been invited to teach music at one of the smaller conservatories in Paris…but I don't have a place to stay, and I was wondering if you would know of any good apartments or something..?"
His voice was painfully hopeful and frightened all at once, and I couldn't help but frown. Whoever Jeff Cotorro might be now, part of him was still the too bright boy who I had sent off to die, such a long time ago.
"I mean, I don't have that much money, and I heard that apartments in Paris are really expensive. So I-"
"Jeff."
The voice stopped.
"You are welcome to stay here with me if you like. My apartment is big enough for two people, and it would be a welcome change from keeping company with myself."
A minute of stunned shock. Then a small voice. "I-I can?"
"Yes. I'd be glad to have you."
"Nakago-sama, I-"
"Don't call me that." I cut him off curtly. "I've told you. 'Stephan' is fine."
"Are you sure? I have a lot of stuff, and I don't want to be a bother…"
I almost smiled. "You're making it harder than it is. I told you I would be glad to have you over, and I meant it."
I could almost see him blinking in confusion. "Th-thank you."
"Don't mention it," I said. "When are you coming?"
He gave me the information, then promised to call again when he had received the plane tickets. "They have them booked for me," he said, almost apologetically. "But I forgot to ask the times."
"It's quite all right." Fifteen year old boy, I reminded myself.
"Sorry to have bothered you…"
"No bother. I've enjoyed talking to you. Call me later."
"Yes, Nak-yes, Stephan." A silence. "That sounds funny."
I laughed. "Good night, Jeff."
"Good night."
He hung up with a click and I slowly replaced the phone on its hook, stepping back into the bathroom to pull on a shirt and a pair of soft pants.
Yui-sama called and gave me your phone number…she suggested that I call you.
I wondered where Yui was. She had not called me or written me since she, I assumed, left to go back to Japan. I wondered if she had found anyone else.
Tomo, perhaps, or Suboshi? Even Miboshi and Ashitare. Amiboshi I already knew about. And Soi…
Soi was dead.
I couldn't believe it even now. It was if she'd suddenly step out of the doorway or come down the hall, calling my name, and it would be just a nightmare.
Nakago-sama, could you remove your armor for me?
I had never removed my armor for her. And then she had died. And then it had been too late.
I wiped the water from the countertop and looked into the mirror. Blue eyes gazed back at my from under blond brows. A strong, straight nose. High cheekbones.
I touched my forehead where my seishi symbol had once appeared. Funny how memories sometimes blended with the present and then became all jumbled up until nothing was real anymore. Or maybe nothing was ever real in the first place. I couldn't think. I was too tired.
Too tired to even think about who was Stephan BeauSeigneur and who was Seiryuu shichi seishi Nakago, or maybe if I was both or neither or somewhere in between.
Reaching out two fingers, I touched my reflection gently in the glass, like liquid tears.