AN: The rating has been upped to PG-13 for swearing and violence.
The Last Wish - 25
XXV: Nuriko.
~*~
Nuriko was sitting at the foot of the stairs, back pressed to the banister, right arm limp at his side and left arm wrapped around his chest. His hair, cut only a few days ago in preparation for the Prom, was tangled and matted with blood, clinging to his cheeks and pressing against his forehead and dangling against his shoulders. He was shaking, shirt torn and bloodied, bathed in a flood of scarlet that trickled from his lips, his scraped legs and arms, the gash in his side.
And there, lying on the floor in front of him with a kitchen knife buried in his back, was Ashitare.
The house was still and silent, except for the ticking of the kitchen clock, the sickening tap of dripping blood, and the harsh in and out of Nuriko's breathing.
They stepped inside.
He looked up at them as they entered, his head moving slowly, painfully, lashes fluttering, eyes sliding open. The traces of a smile turned at his lips as recognition flooded into his eyes, and he lifted the fingers very slightly from his chest as if in greeting.
"Hi," he whispered.
---
It's not fair.
Hotohori moved mechanically forward, legs stiff and uncooperative; Miaka didn't follow, but he barely noticed, unable to draw his eyes from this man...this boy...this child...this friend. Something heavy was pressing against the back of his throat, burning with each breath, and the room looked suddenly wavery in front of him.
It's not fair. Things like this aren't supposed to happen. Not to people I know. Not to people I love.
He stepped over the motionless body on the floor and came to a jarring halt at Nuriko's side; his legs gave out beneath him before he could think of what to do, and he found himself on his knees on the floor. He knew he should be doing something, fixing this, calling someone, making this better somehow...but, there was no strength to do anything more than sit there, choking on sobs and struggling not to cry, and stare...stare and try to convince himself that this was a dream...please...God...it had to be a dream...
Nuriko's eyes were on him, those thin dark eyebrows bent up in anguish, and it wasn't until he felt the warmth of the hand on his cheek that he realized that this sorrow was for him--for his pain, and not the the older man's own.
Startled, he glanced to the side, found that Nuriko had lifted the arm from his chest, brought his hand to the younger man's cheek and touched it there, very lightly. He seemed to be have trouble keeping it there, so Hotohori drew up his own hand, pressed it to Nuriko's and held it in place on his cheek.
Nuriko smiled, gratitude shining like tears in his eyes. "I never got to tell you," he whispered, "about what I decided."
He was speaking softly, breathing so lightly that his chest barely moved at all.
The words felt dry on his tongue. "Miaka...Miaka, call 911. Call 911 now."
The girl nodded frantically, hands clasped over her mouth and tears streaming over her cheeks, and started to make her way towards the living room...but, stopped when Nuriko shook his head, gave a soft, "No."
Hotohori stared at him, uncomprehending, wondering if he might be delirious. "Nuriko, we have to get help..."
But, Nuriko's eyes were clear.
"No," he repeated, more firmly. "Miaka...come here. Please."
She came, dragging her feet against the floor, and sat down beside him, hands dropping into her lap and eyes fixed in horror on the gash in his chest, the terrifying protrusion of bone streaking up through his flesh...
"N...Nuriko," she managed. "Please...we have...we have to call somebody. Mitsukake--"
"Iie," he breathed. "Miaka...the Book. Ash...Ashitare said...and Suboshi..." He shook his head, eyes wide and earnest, voice soft but thick with urgency. "You have...to stop them," he continued painstakingly. "They're trying...to change things. It's you. Miaka. If they kill you, they change it--do you understand? You can't let them. You can't. If you do..." His voice sank. "...it's worthless."
And then he smiled, tugging his hand gently free of Hotohori's grasp, and reached out to touch her fingers.
"It's all right," he whispered. "It's supposed to be like this. Ne? Ne, Miaka?"
She was just drawing breath to answer when the door slammed open, crashed into the wall so hard that tiny pieces of plaster flaked down from the ceiling like snow. Nuriko's eyes flickered away from hers, bent up towards the figure now standing panting in the doorway.
"Tasuki..."
The seventeen-year-old stood frozen in the doorway, shoulders heaving with each gasping breath, one hand gripping the door frame while the other hung limply at his side. He spent a long moment standing there, silent, staring at the blood, the body, his friends, Nuriko..and, then, he took a long step inside, walked with stumbling steps to where they sat.
"I fuckin' felt it," he said in a shaky voice. His gaze flickered erratically as he spoke, moving from Nuriko's pale face to the growing pool of blood to the knife to Miaka to Hotohori to the floor. He shook his head, still panting. "I...I was at home...and I...I felt it. I fuckin' felt it..."
Hotohori turned to look at him, eyes red and swimming with tears. "We all felt it, Tasuki."
Behind him, Nuriko drew in a slow, difficult breath, let it out in a wheezing sigh. His voice was soft, a strangely-peaceful smile pulling at his lips. "Don't cry," he murmured. "I…it'll be all right."
With some difficulty, Tasuki's eyes settled onto Nuriko's face; his arms folded awkwardly before his chest, and his voice, when it came, was too loud and trembling. "Just hang in there, wouldja?" he said, coaxing a slight smile onto his lips. "Fuckin' ambulance'll be here soon, I bet, and they'll fix ya all up." His gaze flickered to the other two for support. "Right?"
There was a moment's pause; Hotohori's eyes drifted to the floor, Miaka's to her hands.
"You...you guys..." Tasuki shook his head, taking a small step backwards; his arms unfolded jerkily, the hands clenching into fists at his sides. "YOU DIDN'T CALL A FUCKIN' AMBULANCE?? What the hell is wrong with you!?! He's fuckin' bleeding to death, and you didn't fucking call anybody to help 'im?!?"
The words echoed back at them from the walls, made Nuriko draw in a sharp breath, let it out in a cough. Miaka cast him a worried glance, then turned her eyes back to Tasuki almost guiltily. "He...he told us not to..."
"HE'S FUCKING DELIRIOUS!" Tasuki's eyes were wide with rage; his entire body shook as he spoke. "Miaka, you don't fuckin' not call an ambulance when somebody's fucked up this badly!! For God's..." He trailed off, shaking his head through a sudden mist of angry tears. "Fuck. I'm callin' 'em. Hospital's twenty minutes away--can't take 'em too long to get here. Hang in there, Nuriko, I'll get 'em here." He turned, stomped away towards the living room...
"Tasuki?" It was a whisper, barely audible--barely recognizable as Nuriko's.
He skidded to a halt, back going stiff and hands freezing at his sides, and, very slowly, turned back around. Nuriko was staring at him, dried blood staining his cheeks like tears, eyes wide and clear and tearless. "Come back."
He stood there for a few seconds, looking pained and conflicted, glancing from Nuriko to the living room and back again... "Shit," he choked at last, and walked back to where his three friends sat. A moment later, he'd lowered himself down just next to Nuriko, leaned his back up against the bloodied banister so their shoulders touched.
"I'm glad...you're here this time," Nuriko murmured. "Tasuki." His eyes flickered to Ashitare, lying there with his nightmarish eyes frozen open, his fanged mouth stretched into a grimace that held, even in death. "Not too bad...for an okama...ne?"
"No." Tasuki's voice was quiet, gentle, and unnaturally-high, no longer trembling despite how labored his breathing was becoming. "Not fuckin' bad at all."
Nuriko drew in a shallow breath through dry, parted lips, let it out a moment later with some difficulty. His head was tilted back against the glossy wood of the banister, trickles of sweat and blood sliding down the side of his face, clinging to the end of his jaw before slipping off. "I didn't...have a choice this time," he whispered, eyes drifting closed. "But, then...last time...I guess I didn't either."
"Nuriko..." Miaka's voice was choked and small, her fingers suddenly tight around his hand. "You remember?"
His eyelashes fluttered; he looked at her, stared for so long that it seemed as if he wasn't going to answer...and, then, he smiled again, and his voice, when he spoke, was startlingly-solid. "Hai. And...it wasn't wrong of you, to want this. You didn't know. But, now...now...you do, ne?" He gazed at her, again, the smile fading just slightly. "No...no, maybe you don't. But..." He shifted slightly; his shoulder rubbed gently against Tasuki's. "It's okay. You will." Nuriko smiled. "It's...a beautiful dream...ne, Miaka?"
His eyes fell softly closed, then, the smile still playing on his lips, the fingers in her own giving one last warm, gentle squeeze.
And, then, he breathed out...and didn't breathe in again.
They sat there for a very long time, staring at him dumbly, waiting for the next breath, waiting for the inevitable tensing of his muscles, the soft sound of his voice...but, there was nothing.
Nothing.
It was numbing. In the long, breathless, and shocked silence that followed, Hotohori found himself looking down at his own fingers, bending the knuckles and watching how they moved, studying the tiny creases of skin as they expanded, contracted, expanded, contracted--this was how it was supposed to be. A warm, moving hand. Alive. His gaze fell to Nuriko's fingers, the memory of their warmth and their touch still solid and real against his cheek--they...they weren't moving. He was vaguely aware of his breathing growing ragged, of something building inside of him that he couldn't explain or push back, but even as he realized that, he watched his hand stretching forward, grasping onto Nuriko's stilled fingers and lifting them, staring at them, studying them.
Such small fingers...pale...soft. So delicate, like the slightest squeeze could break them...
They were still warm.
And, yet...yet, they were slack and lifeless in his grasp, the fingers curled and limp, the comforting thud of Nuriko's pulse just...not there. For a moment, frantic, he twisted the hand around, pressed his fingers to the wrist and held them there, waiting, straining. Where...where was it?
No. No, it...it has to be here.
He leaned forward, the breaths wheezing in and out of his throat, and brought a hand to Nuriko's throat, to his cheek, to the center of his chest...no...please...
Helplessly, he turned his eyes to his friends, found them both staring back at him with identical looks of shock and disbelief on their faces.
And then, suddenly, there were heavy footsteps behind them, thudding through the front door and across the entryway to the stairs, and before Hotohori knew what was happening, he was being pushed gently out of the way by strong hands, found himself pressed up against Tasuki as a dark head tilted beside him...
"Mitsukake!" Miaka squeaked, eyes going wide, the fingers not intertwined with Nuriko's clutching at the doctor's sleeve. "Mitsukake, please! Please please, you have to--you have to--!"
The tall man, now kneeling just in front of Nuriko, cast her a brief, tense stare that seemed to calm her somewhat, and then returned his attentions to the lifeless eighteen-year-old. "Please, give me some room," he said quietly.
Moving shakily, Hotohori climbed to his feet, stretched down a hand to help Tasuki up--they took a few steps back, then, came to an unsteady halt with their backs to the decorative table that adorned the wall by the door. A glimpse of movement from the corner of their vision caught their attention, then, and both men turned to see a tall, slim man with fluttering blue bangs enter the house, clad in a large blue dress shirt and slacks.
Chichiri, a voice inside of Hotohori whispered. One of Mitsukake's friends...
As he watched, Chichiri slid forward, moved to Miaka who still hadn't released Nuriko's hand or stood up, and kneeled beside her; his hand touched lightly at her back, his eyes drew hers up from the blood and the horror. "Miaka," he said gently. "Let go of Nuriko's hand."
And, she did. Chichiri drew her up, then, and led her to Hotohori's side; the younger man placed an arm around her shoulders when she reached him, pulled her close.
This isn't real.
Mitsukake had moved to Nuriko's right side, placed his arms carefully beneath the small man's waist and shoulders and was now lowering him onto his back on the floor. Once there, he brought his head down to just above Nuriko's lips, eyes facing the stilled chest, and listened; next, his fingers went to Nuriko's neck, held them there for perhaps a full second...
Hands shaking only slightly, Mitsukake brought a palm to Nuriko's forehead and tilted his head back a little, then pinched the younger man's nose shut and pressed his mouth to Nuriko's lightly-parted lips; the healer gave three long, full breaths--Nuriko's chest rose and fell in answer. And, then, he was tearing the tattered shirt down the center, exposing the flat, bloodied chest--he brought the palm of his right hand down over the top of his left, gripped it through the breaks in his fingers, and--sliding it carefully into place as if searching for the correct location--pressed the bottom of his left hand to the center of Nuriko's chest.
Push. "One." Push. "Two." Push. "Three." Push. "Four." Push. "Five."
He sat back then with a huff of air, bringing his fingers again to Nuriko's neck, his ear to just above the pale, parted lips.
"D-Did it work?" Miaka's voice, too high and barely audible, cut in through the silence, jarring as a scream. "I-Is...is he..."
Mitsukake glanced back at them, eyebrows pressing together on his forehead, and drew a ragged breath. "No," he said. "And, I'm not certain that this will work. Since...since he's sustained injuries to his chest, the C.P.R. could be doing more harm than good, but..." His eyes slid closed; a line of anguish streaked down the bridge of his nose. "I'll keep trying."
The healer turned back to Nuriko, began the cycle again; Miaka pressed her face to Hotohori's chest, arms wrapped tightly around his waist--and, even though his arms were deadweights at his sides, the eighteen-year-old somehow managed to hold her with them, to rub mechanically at her back.
"Shit," Tasuki whispered, gathering the stares of Hotohori and Chichiri. "Doesn't...doesn't fuckin' seem real." His eyes were wide and fixed on Mitsukake's back, unblinking even as he spoke. "But it is...isn't it?"
A soft breath fell from Chichiri's lips, lay like a sigh in the air between them. "I'm afraid so, Tasuki," he said softly. "But..." He frowned. "Something...something about this..."
"...feels familiar," Hotohori breathed.
"Of course...it's familiar." Miaka's words rose to them in sobs, muffled by the tears and Hotohori's shirt. "It...it happened...then, too..."
They
were silent for a long time, no sound but Mitsukake's steady counting and the
hiss of air into Nuriko's stilled lungs.
"What...what the fuck is she talking about?" Tasuki whispered at
last.
Hotohori shook his head wordlessly, gaze returning to Mitsukake...
No. Nonono, wait. Wait. No.
"M-Mitsukake? Why...why did you stop?"
My voice doesn't sound right. Too high. But no. Nononono, why is he stopping why why? He can't...he can't stop. Not yet...
The healer was sitting, motionless, beside Nuriko, hands folded in his lap, back trembling slightly, head tilted downwards. "I'm...I'm sorry," he choked.
There was a long, stricken silence. And, then, Tasuki swallowed hard, glanced at his friends briefly before turning his eyes back to the doctor. "W...whaddya mean...you're sorry?" he managed. "Whaddya mean? Huh? Huh, Mits? Whaddya mean?"
He looks so...betrayed.
Somehow, Hotohori pushed past the deadening pain, drew a breath to speak that didn't end in a sob. "Thank you...for trying, Mitsukake." His mouth felt dry, the words cold and hollow; Miaka was rigid against him, her shoulders tense and shaking.
He realized, then, that Tasuki was staring at him with hatred and betrayal in his eyes, trembling with a rage he himself was beginning to sympathize with. "Th...thanks for tryin'?" the younger man echoed in a shaky voice. "That's all you're fuckin' gonna say? Thanks for fuckin' trying, better luck next time, g'bye? Doesn't it fuckin' matter to you that...that..." His eyes squeezed closed; it wasn't until they opened again that the silent tears rolled out, trickled down over his cheeks. "...that he's dead?"
Dead.
Dead dead dead dead dead.
Nuriko?
Dead? How?
How?
Dead.
The word was like a blow, slamming into him, knocking the wind from his lungs. By the time he regained the strength to breathe, he was crying and the breath was a sob, and his knees were weak beneath him and he and Miaka were on the floor, clinging to each other, and Tasuki was there, too, clutching him in a tight hug and sobbing into his shoulder, and somehow somewhere Tamahome arrived, folding himself into the embrace like a child between his parents and then Chichiri was on his left and Mitsukake was just behind Tasuki and when Chiriko came in they were complete, they were complete, but not...not...
Nuriko...God...Nuriko...
Nuriko.
The six remaining Suzaku seishi and their miko clung together on the floor, inches away from their fallen friend, and no one spoke for a very long time.
~*~
AN: *CRRRRRRRRRRRRIES* I didn't want toooooooo!!!!! I swear!! I didn't want toooooooo!!! *criescriescries* B-But... *lip wavers* ...f-for the plot...it has to go like this. I'm sorrrrrryyyyyy...!! g.g *CRIES*
*sniffle* Ahhhhh, but much thanks to Mouse-chan for her help on this chapter--seriously, you were indispensible--and, of course, it was nice to have someone to cry with. ^_^() Anyway. Next chapter, expect appearances from the Seiryuu seishi, as well as the a...aftermath of...of N...N... *hides under desk and cries* Y-Yeah...next chapter...coming soon. g.g *goes off to cry*