Notes: A big thanks to my buds Becky and TK-chan for helping hammer out this story. Without you two, this probably would have never got on paper.
To all the readers: Enjoy.
***
Duet de la Morte
By RubyD
Prologue
***
Sweat beaded Hijiri's brow like a crown of tiny diamonds. Even with the window open to the approaching winter wind, the bedroom was almost unbearably warm. He stared in frantic despair at the music assigned to him to learn for class. Terrible.
"Why can't I do this?" he asked himself, eyes red and tired. The whole weekend, wasted.
It shouldn't be so difficult. But Hijiri, virtuoso violinist, found the notes lacking and the piece hollow. Try as he might the only noise coaxed out of his beloved violin was a lifeless scratching and screeching.
He stopped, shaking. It wasn't enough. None of these insipid sonatas were enough to quench the intense ache inside for... something. What was the matter with him? Inspiration slipped through his grip and a myriad of unfinished solos he himself had written littered the room like trash. The ink notes were scrawled and ran up and down the scales without pausing or ending. His music, his precious music.
Slowly, he picked up a crumpled sheet from his feet. Requiem of the Marionette, by Minase Hijiri. His mind was hazy and he couldn't remember exactly how it was suppose to sound. He had spent yesterday working on it, hadn't he?
So placing it carefully on the music stand, he brought the violin back under his chin. Ignoring the light-headed feeling between his temples, Hijiri began to play. Finally, something that didn't mimic a cat's yowl. The song was sweet to his ears, trickling and cool. It was the sighs of lovers swallowing sweet death, or a sailor's tears for the fallen albatross. Beautifully dark and slow, the melody wove through the still air as the shadows grew from the fading sun, listening.
The first movement ended.
Then the next burst out in a speed of sound, the notes sharp enough to cut glass, surprising the birds just beyond the windowsill into flight. Faster and faster he played, with a fervor he had not felt since that day in school six months ago. Fingers skimmed over the strings and the bow was a blinding sword in his hands. The music frantically raced to a crescendo and his staccato heartbeat was set to the tempo. It threatened to break.
With a distant ugly fascination Hijiri watched himself play on automatic. Nausea ate at his empty stomach as fingers turned raw and then finally bled, spilling in little rivets down his arm. A sudden dread jolted through him, a horror at himself. A spontaneous and mad urge caught him, bubbling forth from his chest.
Stop...
...Stop it!
He screamed, a cry so tortured and pained that anyone listening would think him dying. Certainly, he felt as though he were. Fierce determination made him rip the instrument away. It was the color of fire in the light. The last echoes of the song and scream died out, and Hijiri, panting and crying, slammed the violin to the ground.
It shattered.
***
The hall was dark and the only light came from an open bedroom. He supported himself on the table and focused intently to the phone in his grip. Who did he want to call? Why was he calling anyone? There was no one that he could really talk to...
Bloody fingers left the tabletop slippery as the young man sunk to his knees. Yes... he'd need help for that. Almost in a daze, Hijiri pressed in the familiar numbers of his doctor.
The line was ringing. Once. Twice.
It clicked and someone answered. "Yes?"
"Sensei... this is Hijiri. Minase Hijiri."
"Hijiri-san, it's good to hear from you."
"Is it?"
"Surely. You seem to have become quite famous in the area."
"Th-thank-you, Sensei..." There was silence as the violinist tried to recall what he wanted to say. Why was he calling again? Oh, yes... "But I - there is something... " His voice wavered as a small headache sent spider-webs of pain through his skull.
"Hijiri-san?"
He blinked the spots from his vision and continued, "Sensei, can you help me?"
"Of course. I've helped you before, haven't I?"
"That's right..." He blinked again. "You were my surgeon."
"Then is your eye bothering you? You're not due for a check-up until next week."
"I'm not sure." The droning ache in his temples grew stronger. "I feel sick, Sensei."
"Have you been ill?"
"No, not exactly, but it's like after the cornea transplant..."
"Tell me."
"I don't know. I can't seem to play... or I do it too much. It hurts," he said petulantly, trying to shake himself out of the foggy state of mind.
"Are you injured?"
That made him pause. Green eyes stared blankly at his left hand, still oozing red. They were going cold and numb. "My fingers - they're bleeding. I cut them on the strings, I think. And I have a headache. I can't play my violin like this, you know?" He was starting to babble, and knew it, but didn't care. "There are papers all over my room. I have things to learn - my teachers haven't been too happy and the other students are saying that I might be losing my place."
The liquidly smooth voice broke in through his haze. "Don't worry. I will be by to pick you up - meet me outside. Do you understand?"
Then the feeling of fire arced across the base of Hijiri's skull. He hissed, nearly dropping the phone. "Help me," he choked out coarsely.
"Do you understand?" the doctor simply repeated.
"Yes - I do. Please hurry." The other line was quiet, and Hijiri guessed that the doctor forgot to hang it up. He drop the phone and left it there, digging nails into the back of his neck. Sensei will help him, yes, and find out what was wrong. And there was something definitely wrong. When did it start?
He turned his gaze back to the red-stained hand, temples perpetually throbbing. Fingers so strong and delicate, like the wings of a sparrow. He wouldn't be able to play again for days.
Play what? The violin was gone.
Whatever that was happening, he'd figure it out. Legs jerked and stood, and his bare feet moved on their own accord.
Don't worry.
Sensei would be there soon.
***
The fallen leaves were brown and crunched under his stiff steps. Autumn was coming to an end, with winter quickly at its heels. A shiver caught him, and passed, but left a tremble in his stomach that came from more than just the cold. It was hard to breathe. He wasn't feeling good at all.
Hijiri stopped at the street and waited. His dull eyes were greeted with an empty road lit only by the dim lamps and the moon. The white crystalline bubble was probably a week away from being full.
He stole another look at his hand. It was still dripping, little by little, but far less than it had been earlier. Studying closer, the blood seemed dark now - nearly black. It was like ink on pale skin, smeared and written into a language he didn't understand.
Then he had the insane urge to lick it.
Another shiver took him, beginning first from his arms and from there overcame his thin body. He felt violently ill, and would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach. Knees suddenly went rigid and refused to let him collapse from the spasm.
Panic flooded his senses. Where was he? Where was Sensei?
Paralyzed, he imagined he would stand there throughout winter if Sensei didn't come. A great block of ice locked in pain. Absurd, but Hijiri didn't notice. At that moment headlights were turning the corner; the brightness fading anything else from his sight. Help had arrived.
The long white car quickly rolled to a stop ahead of him. The door opened quietly, and a divine figure stepped out. Sensei was pale a flawless - his eyes almost glowed, like mist and mercury, and the light around him gave the illusion of a halo. Hijiri gaped in the wonder that seized him every time he saw Sensei: the man was just that beautiful. How many of his patients must have thought him to be an angel come from heaven to save them?
Relief filled him. His legs lost their strength and Hijiri took three wobbling steps towards the doctor before giving out. He shut his eyes in anticipation of the hard ground, but came against silky fabric instead. Without moving, it seemed, Sensei had gently caught him and let the boy crumple against his body. A little bit of blood left a trail down the front of the jacket.
"You're here," Hijiri whispered meekly.
The doctor nodded, and then gathered him into the seat. The violinist sat down with a grateful sigh. Yes, Sensei would help him.
"Thank-you," he murmured, finally relaxing. He was so tired that he could fall asleep at any moment.
Sensei simply bowed his head, and smiled.
The car drove away and disappeared down the black road to a destination unknown.
***
End Prologue
***
Note: I'll just say that this is not going to be a Hijiri-focused fic, but I do love the boy...
To all the readers: Enjoy.
***
Duet de la Morte
By RubyD
Prologue
***
Sweat beaded Hijiri's brow like a crown of tiny diamonds. Even with the window open to the approaching winter wind, the bedroom was almost unbearably warm. He stared in frantic despair at the music assigned to him to learn for class. Terrible.
"Why can't I do this?" he asked himself, eyes red and tired. The whole weekend, wasted.
It shouldn't be so difficult. But Hijiri, virtuoso violinist, found the notes lacking and the piece hollow. Try as he might the only noise coaxed out of his beloved violin was a lifeless scratching and screeching.
He stopped, shaking. It wasn't enough. None of these insipid sonatas were enough to quench the intense ache inside for... something. What was the matter with him? Inspiration slipped through his grip and a myriad of unfinished solos he himself had written littered the room like trash. The ink notes were scrawled and ran up and down the scales without pausing or ending. His music, his precious music.
Slowly, he picked up a crumpled sheet from his feet. Requiem of the Marionette, by Minase Hijiri. His mind was hazy and he couldn't remember exactly how it was suppose to sound. He had spent yesterday working on it, hadn't he?
So placing it carefully on the music stand, he brought the violin back under his chin. Ignoring the light-headed feeling between his temples, Hijiri began to play. Finally, something that didn't mimic a cat's yowl. The song was sweet to his ears, trickling and cool. It was the sighs of lovers swallowing sweet death, or a sailor's tears for the fallen albatross. Beautifully dark and slow, the melody wove through the still air as the shadows grew from the fading sun, listening.
The first movement ended.
Then the next burst out in a speed of sound, the notes sharp enough to cut glass, surprising the birds just beyond the windowsill into flight. Faster and faster he played, with a fervor he had not felt since that day in school six months ago. Fingers skimmed over the strings and the bow was a blinding sword in his hands. The music frantically raced to a crescendo and his staccato heartbeat was set to the tempo. It threatened to break.
With a distant ugly fascination Hijiri watched himself play on automatic. Nausea ate at his empty stomach as fingers turned raw and then finally bled, spilling in little rivets down his arm. A sudden dread jolted through him, a horror at himself. A spontaneous and mad urge caught him, bubbling forth from his chest.
Stop...
...Stop it!
He screamed, a cry so tortured and pained that anyone listening would think him dying. Certainly, he felt as though he were. Fierce determination made him rip the instrument away. It was the color of fire in the light. The last echoes of the song and scream died out, and Hijiri, panting and crying, slammed the violin to the ground.
It shattered.
***
The hall was dark and the only light came from an open bedroom. He supported himself on the table and focused intently to the phone in his grip. Who did he want to call? Why was he calling anyone? There was no one that he could really talk to...
Bloody fingers left the tabletop slippery as the young man sunk to his knees. Yes... he'd need help for that. Almost in a daze, Hijiri pressed in the familiar numbers of his doctor.
The line was ringing. Once. Twice.
It clicked and someone answered. "Yes?"
"Sensei... this is Hijiri. Minase Hijiri."
"Hijiri-san, it's good to hear from you."
"Is it?"
"Surely. You seem to have become quite famous in the area."
"Th-thank-you, Sensei..." There was silence as the violinist tried to recall what he wanted to say. Why was he calling again? Oh, yes... "But I - there is something... " His voice wavered as a small headache sent spider-webs of pain through his skull.
"Hijiri-san?"
He blinked the spots from his vision and continued, "Sensei, can you help me?"
"Of course. I've helped you before, haven't I?"
"That's right..." He blinked again. "You were my surgeon."
"Then is your eye bothering you? You're not due for a check-up until next week."
"I'm not sure." The droning ache in his temples grew stronger. "I feel sick, Sensei."
"Have you been ill?"
"No, not exactly, but it's like after the cornea transplant..."
"Tell me."
"I don't know. I can't seem to play... or I do it too much. It hurts," he said petulantly, trying to shake himself out of the foggy state of mind.
"Are you injured?"
That made him pause. Green eyes stared blankly at his left hand, still oozing red. They were going cold and numb. "My fingers - they're bleeding. I cut them on the strings, I think. And I have a headache. I can't play my violin like this, you know?" He was starting to babble, and knew it, but didn't care. "There are papers all over my room. I have things to learn - my teachers haven't been too happy and the other students are saying that I might be losing my place."
The liquidly smooth voice broke in through his haze. "Don't worry. I will be by to pick you up - meet me outside. Do you understand?"
Then the feeling of fire arced across the base of Hijiri's skull. He hissed, nearly dropping the phone. "Help me," he choked out coarsely.
"Do you understand?" the doctor simply repeated.
"Yes - I do. Please hurry." The other line was quiet, and Hijiri guessed that the doctor forgot to hang it up. He drop the phone and left it there, digging nails into the back of his neck. Sensei will help him, yes, and find out what was wrong. And there was something definitely wrong. When did it start?
He turned his gaze back to the red-stained hand, temples perpetually throbbing. Fingers so strong and delicate, like the wings of a sparrow. He wouldn't be able to play again for days.
Play what? The violin was gone.
Whatever that was happening, he'd figure it out. Legs jerked and stood, and his bare feet moved on their own accord.
Don't worry.
Sensei would be there soon.
***
The fallen leaves were brown and crunched under his stiff steps. Autumn was coming to an end, with winter quickly at its heels. A shiver caught him, and passed, but left a tremble in his stomach that came from more than just the cold. It was hard to breathe. He wasn't feeling good at all.
Hijiri stopped at the street and waited. His dull eyes were greeted with an empty road lit only by the dim lamps and the moon. The white crystalline bubble was probably a week away from being full.
He stole another look at his hand. It was still dripping, little by little, but far less than it had been earlier. Studying closer, the blood seemed dark now - nearly black. It was like ink on pale skin, smeared and written into a language he didn't understand.
Then he had the insane urge to lick it.
Another shiver took him, beginning first from his arms and from there overcame his thin body. He felt violently ill, and would have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach. Knees suddenly went rigid and refused to let him collapse from the spasm.
Panic flooded his senses. Where was he? Where was Sensei?
Paralyzed, he imagined he would stand there throughout winter if Sensei didn't come. A great block of ice locked in pain. Absurd, but Hijiri didn't notice. At that moment headlights were turning the corner; the brightness fading anything else from his sight. Help had arrived.
The long white car quickly rolled to a stop ahead of him. The door opened quietly, and a divine figure stepped out. Sensei was pale a flawless - his eyes almost glowed, like mist and mercury, and the light around him gave the illusion of a halo. Hijiri gaped in the wonder that seized him every time he saw Sensei: the man was just that beautiful. How many of his patients must have thought him to be an angel come from heaven to save them?
Relief filled him. His legs lost their strength and Hijiri took three wobbling steps towards the doctor before giving out. He shut his eyes in anticipation of the hard ground, but came against silky fabric instead. Without moving, it seemed, Sensei had gently caught him and let the boy crumple against his body. A little bit of blood left a trail down the front of the jacket.
"You're here," Hijiri whispered meekly.
The doctor nodded, and then gathered him into the seat. The violinist sat down with a grateful sigh. Yes, Sensei would help him.
"Thank-you," he murmured, finally relaxing. He was so tired that he could fall asleep at any moment.
Sensei simply bowed his head, and smiled.
The car drove away and disappeared down the black road to a destination unknown.
***
End Prologue
***
Note: I'll just say that this is not going to be a Hijiri-focused fic, but I do love the boy...