Tsuzuki's babbling. I don't know what he's talking about; I don't really care. It's probably food, or possibly me. He could be reciting love poetry for all I know. I'm not interested enough to find out. Easier just to let him talk to the pigeons. They're looking at him expectantly, waiting to see if he has more breadcrumbs for them. He doesn't.
The man didn't even look much like *him*. His hair wasn't quite the right colour, he was slightly too short and there were too many laugh lines around his eyes. Two good eyes. He didn't feel like him either, which is probably why I'm not a gibbering wreck right now. I know what *he* feels like; It's not something I'm ever likely to forget. Oily, dark, the taste of iron in your mouth after you wake up from a nightmare, that was Muraki. This man was more cotton-wool and poppyseed. I suppose, when you get right down to it, there wasn't really any resemblance at all.
I feel sick.
Any minute now Tsuzuki's going to notice. I can fool pretty much everyone except him into thinking I'm fine, no matter how bad I feel. 'What, I'm bleeding everywhere? Don't worry, it's just a scratch, I'll be alright in a minute.' I think I'll blow it off as something I ate for lunch. There's no sense in stirring up bad memories for him. He's in such a good mood today. (As opposed to the depression that comes so much more naturally to him, of course.) Not to mention the fact that I feel like an idiot. If I have to be stupid I'll do it privately, thank you very much.
It's just so frustrating. All this time and he can still make me feel like a frightened twelve-year-old. He's dead, I *know* he's dead, but there's a part of me that will always wonder if it's just a trick, another one of his insane schemes. Nevermind that if he was going to do something he would have done it by now. It's been years. Sure, he's patient, but not *that* patient. Realistically there's no way he could still be alive, but that's the fun thing about being irrational. Who needs logic when you can be ridiculously paranoid?
Fucking bastard.
Tsuzuki's gone quiet. Damn, I should have been paying a little more attention. Look up, smile, everything's just fine. Get ready to deflect any awkward questions. But he's not looking at me, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet.
"Sometimes, dreams are all you have."
I blink. What the hell? I must have missed a really big chunk of conversation, because that made absolutely no sense to me. I open my mouth to ask him what he means and then --
I wake up.
***
When I open my eyes, he's smiling at me. I want to cry but at the moment I don't remember how. I'm sure he'll remind me.
"We're going to play a game," he tells me, as if he expects me to be excited by the prospect. I close my eyes instead and try to recall my dream. Pigeons. There were pigeons.
"Were there?" he smiles. Damn, I said that aloud. I don't open my eyes, but I can feel his hand on my face. Ignore him, think of the dream. Pigeons, and the smell of grass. Earth, then. What else? It was a nice dream, I know that; I don't get enough nice dreams that I can afford to forget any. He won't let me be, though. He's such an attention-seeker, always has been.
"Was I there?" he asks, playing with my hair. Yes. Yes, he was there. Suddenly the dream takes on a sour tinge and oh, that's right. Now I remember how to cry. I always do. "I was!" he laughs delightedly. I can't help it; I look at him. His purple eyes are dancing. Demon eyes. To think, I used to tell him he was more human than I was.
He's started singing softly. He's quite good, when he wants to be. I wonder why he's so happy? I had dream and it was a nice dream. I think it was about...
"Pigeons," he says, and holds up something sharp.
The man didn't even look much like *him*. His hair wasn't quite the right colour, he was slightly too short and there were too many laugh lines around his eyes. Two good eyes. He didn't feel like him either, which is probably why I'm not a gibbering wreck right now. I know what *he* feels like; It's not something I'm ever likely to forget. Oily, dark, the taste of iron in your mouth after you wake up from a nightmare, that was Muraki. This man was more cotton-wool and poppyseed. I suppose, when you get right down to it, there wasn't really any resemblance at all.
I feel sick.
Any minute now Tsuzuki's going to notice. I can fool pretty much everyone except him into thinking I'm fine, no matter how bad I feel. 'What, I'm bleeding everywhere? Don't worry, it's just a scratch, I'll be alright in a minute.' I think I'll blow it off as something I ate for lunch. There's no sense in stirring up bad memories for him. He's in such a good mood today. (As opposed to the depression that comes so much more naturally to him, of course.) Not to mention the fact that I feel like an idiot. If I have to be stupid I'll do it privately, thank you very much.
It's just so frustrating. All this time and he can still make me feel like a frightened twelve-year-old. He's dead, I *know* he's dead, but there's a part of me that will always wonder if it's just a trick, another one of his insane schemes. Nevermind that if he was going to do something he would have done it by now. It's been years. Sure, he's patient, but not *that* patient. Realistically there's no way he could still be alive, but that's the fun thing about being irrational. Who needs logic when you can be ridiculously paranoid?
Fucking bastard.
Tsuzuki's gone quiet. Damn, I should have been paying a little more attention. Look up, smile, everything's just fine. Get ready to deflect any awkward questions. But he's not looking at me, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet.
"Sometimes, dreams are all you have."
I blink. What the hell? I must have missed a really big chunk of conversation, because that made absolutely no sense to me. I open my mouth to ask him what he means and then --
I wake up.
***
When I open my eyes, he's smiling at me. I want to cry but at the moment I don't remember how. I'm sure he'll remind me.
"We're going to play a game," he tells me, as if he expects me to be excited by the prospect. I close my eyes instead and try to recall my dream. Pigeons. There were pigeons.
"Were there?" he smiles. Damn, I said that aloud. I don't open my eyes, but I can feel his hand on my face. Ignore him, think of the dream. Pigeons, and the smell of grass. Earth, then. What else? It was a nice dream, I know that; I don't get enough nice dreams that I can afford to forget any. He won't let me be, though. He's such an attention-seeker, always has been.
"Was I there?" he asks, playing with my hair. Yes. Yes, he was there. Suddenly the dream takes on a sour tinge and oh, that's right. Now I remember how to cry. I always do. "I was!" he laughs delightedly. I can't help it; I look at him. His purple eyes are dancing. Demon eyes. To think, I used to tell him he was more human than I was.
He's started singing softly. He's quite good, when he wants to be. I wonder why he's so happy? I had dream and it was a nice dream. I think it was about...
"Pigeons," he says, and holds up something sharp.