Finite
Chapter 3 - Tsuzuki
Rating: PG
Genre: Angst/Introspective
Notes: I apologise in advance for the length of this note. Well, I tried. I took a crack at Tsuzuki. And although Yukoma (who says such lovely, lovely things about me *glomps*) says I can't botch any characters up, I'm still cringing at this. The other two were written in one hit (each), but this took a couple of days because I got so tetchy about it.
It might be of use if I try to explain why I've written Tsuzuki the way I have. See, I'm a strange person who gravitates towards things not so much for what they appear to be, but for subtext or side-stories - for instance, my favourite bit of Othello isn't the murdery part or the main plot, but the way Iago interacts with his wife. And although it would have been a piece of cake to write Tsuzuki as indignant at being molested or suicidally angsty, I don't think that's how he would have reacted to Muraki's death. Tsuzuki, as I see him, cares an awful lot about what other people think of him and bases his own opinion of himself on what he feels is reflected off those people. When people tread lightly around him he feels alienated, when he's a pest he gets chastised as a normal person, and when the person he's interacting with is unable to respond to him, he lets his paranoia roam free in little paroxysms of strong feelings. Well, that's my little explanatory rant. Please don't hurt me.
I never understood you. Maybe that's why I can't figure out if I should be crying for your death and the sadness of the people you've left behind, or dancing around in merriment that he, not to mention my virtue, are both safe.
Would you expect me to cry? I think he's afraid I'll show sympathy for the devil and do just that. But even Lucifer was an angel once; the brightest star of heaven. Does that make it okay or make the tears all the more shameful? I'll bet the rest of my paycheck that wherever you are, you're probably smirking at me right now.
I hate you. Do you know that?
I hate you because you threw away something I never had, even when I was alive. Especially not when I was alive. I never asked you why humanity was so disgusting to you that you had to rise above it - the opportunity just never cropped up. I envied you, and I think I still do because no matter where you wound up, you're more at peace than I could ever be.
Some people have all the luck.
I hate you for what you did to him. You ruined his life without the slightest hint of regret, scarred him beyond repair and humiliated him when his only crime was rotten timing. I never asked you why you took such pleasure in being cruel, either. Does it feel that good? So good that you laughed at him while he screamed and bled? Did...did someone ever do that to you? Is that why you wound up the way you were, and why even now your face isn't relaxed in the way a dead man's should be? I've seen enough of death to know that you have to be hiding something, even though it's not really possible. I have so many questions for you, now that you're finally letting me ask. I wish you'd answer me.
I hate you because I can't make myself hate you the way so many people probably think I should. Maybe it's got nothing to do with you at all, and I just hate that others spend so much of their time trying to predict and compensate for how I'll potentially react to something.
They try to make me feel worthy, but you made me feel I was ...worth something.
Even if it was primarily through a sufficient amount of sexual harassment to get you deregistered. Guess your Hippopotamus Oath wasn't really that important to you, ne?
But then again...you helped her. You made her well when she was sick. Does that make you a good person? In a way it makes a lot of sense. You heal and that makes you good, and I kill people and make them sad, so that makes me bad. But you kill, too, so you're bad as well. Ohhh, I don't understand...
I wonder if he'd call me an idiot for being so confused about you, or
whether he'd just clam up again. Maybe both.
I wish I could have been as graceful in my death as you are in yours.
Look at you - it's as if you're only asleep. No scarring, no agony...just silence. I feel like I should poke you in the shoulder to remind you that it's time you were up and about wreaking havoc or collecting stamps or whatever it is you do when we're not watching.
Wait. What...? What am I doing?! You're a monster! And I'll bet you're still hurting people and making them cry, even now.
I wonder if anyone would cry for me. I mean, really cry. Sometimes I see them in my dreams - the people that accepted me as I am, even if they didn't know exactly what I am, and they can't see me because I'm really dead. And they're laughing. I know Tatsumi doesn't like me very much, whether because I cry too much or spend too much money or I'm just a rotten partner, but he doesn't have to smile so wide his face looks like it's going to crack. All my old partners are there, too. The ones I was never good enough for. They're consoling Hisoka, but he doesn't look broken up at all...he's smiling, too, as they slap him on the back in congratulations.
That's the point I usually wake up at, covered in sweat and shaking like a child that's about to be swooped in on by a man in a black coat that reeks of blood.
If you're a monster, I'm more of one.
...Would you cry for me?
Of course not. You'd just find someone else to molest. I suppose that if I had higher self-esteem I'd find a better way to judge my own worthlessness than by the type of people trying to get into my pants.
I need something to drink.
Ah, moonlight, my constant companion! Streaming through the half-empty wine glass by the armchair near the window like a little beacon of salvation, leaving a false stain of colour on the white of the cloth beneath it not unlike a smear of glowing blood. The chill of the room has preserved it. What's the word they use to describe leaving red wine unopened before you drink it? ...Breathing, I think. Well, this has been left to the air for who knows how long, so at least it'll be good. A toast, sensei, to both of us. May we both find contentment in death someday.
Ack. Guess that if you leave red wine out too long it breathes so much it gets old and dies, because that is the most bitter, horrible thing I've ever put in my mouth. It's like chewing lemon pith! You have strange taste in drinks, Muraki. Oh well, booze is booze. I'll just hold my nose and I won't taste it.
I'm starting to get the impression I shouldn't be here. I'll just stay over here in your armchair and watch for a little while longer, shall I? Just to make sure you're not about to get up and go after my partner again. I told him I'd protect him, especially from you, and if you decide to yawn and stretch and breathe again I'd be lying to him even more than I usually do. For what it's worth, please don't hurt him anymore. Just between us, you know.
The wine's working. I'm starting to slump down in the armchair and it's warm on my aching muscles, holds on to me when I arch my neck away from it only to sink back down again. It's kind of hard to breathe, slouched in this position. Oh well, it's not like it's going to kill me.
I really shouldn't be here, should I? But all the same, please don't send me away. I don't want to go yet.
You still haven't answered my questions.
End
Endnotes:
Hippopotamus Oath - Yes, I know it's "Hippocratic" as opposed to "Hippopotamus". It just struck me as the type of thing Tsuzuki might mishear or mispronounce, because I do genuinely find him huggable. ^_^
Bitter wine - If you hadn't picked up on it, the reason the wine tasted bad to Tsuzuki is because it was laced with the strychnine Muraki used to floor himself. The odd reaction that Tsuzuki goes on to have to something as simple as a single glass of wine is symptomatic of strychnine poisoning, and he doesn't realise it's poisoned because he doesn't normally drink the stuff.