Impersonator Waltz Chapter 2: Clover White’s Broken Promise, a fruits basket fanfic

Impersonator Waltz

Chapter Two

Clover White's Broken Promise

An infinite count of silken nylon threads coloured with silver was splayed euphorically against a fine embroidery piece of black cotton, like stars that were strokes of a pen, drizzling the naked sky. Tufts of whispery hair caressed his feverish cream of skin, touch like a lover's, making Ayame turn in his sleep, sub-consciously hypnotised and fooled. The air he inhaled was stifling, as though he were laying at the bottom of a well being heated by the fires of hell. Despite being beneath four layers of cloth, he still felt the creeping, frozen murmurs of a chill grope him around the neck. Ayame was dreaming a nightmare, and he tossed and turned, slowly making each layer of cloth fall away, dripping off like the last droplets from a waterfall in purgatory.

Many images were assaulting him, invisible fingers reaching out and reaching in. A horror movie of some sort replayed over and over in his mind, as though it were a broken filmstrip left in its projector, always depicting the same image of pain and longing to a person bound in a chair. Ayame tossed violently, wrenching a muscle in his lower back. He cried out, but it was not the sudden pain of the pulled tissue which made him do so. Cries for help were slowly drowning him, covering his mouth so he couldn't speak, plugging his nose so he couldn't breathe, and plastering his eyes so he couldn't find a way out. No one was going to save him anymore.

It seemed almost impossible that one person could withstand such onslaughts of inhuman torture, but Ayame Sohma was living proof that such a task could be done, even though the heart was wrenched open and minced. Love was pain, he usually said jovially to one of the Sohma teenagers undergoing a love-hate crisis with a crush. He never foresighted that one day he would experience this first hand, first heart, and first fall.

A hiss. 'Ayame …'

His lashes dug into his skin like rusted razors as his eyes tightened together with force. Unknown faces flashed in his dreams; black, then red, then white, then black again. His mouth whispered words, light as a feather, but baring the weight of a black heart. Like the awakening dead, his arms thrashed. It looked as though he had been thrown into an ocean infested with devils. An ocean made with watery fires instead of watery deluge. The consistency of the matter engulfed him, first his feet, then waist, then his shoulders, then finally his face, and it was his eyes that saw the skies last … the skies, showing the smirking face of Hatori Sohma.

'Hatori!'

Things cricked unpleasantly in his neck as he sat bolt upright, eyes open and overly bright, breathing erratic and short, skin drenched in a sickly sweat. He was shaking, trembling like a child before a whip, frail and afraid. With instinct, he fell back heavily and curled back up in foetal position, insecure and empty, betrayed. It was all coming back now, and Ayame wished it hadn't. He wished it left him alone. He wished it to be peaceful. He wished it was three years ago, when things weren't so tangled and destroyed, like the aftermath of God's long overdue vengeance.

Spindly fingers grasped the material beneath, scrunching it up in distorted patterns. A strange coldness was trickling slowly through him, like a faucet left on for much too long, the post-shocks of his transformation back. He looked pious, chaste right then, curled amidst fine sheets of covering, innocent and safe, almost child-like.

But he was not. He was not pious, nor was he chaste. He was not innocent or child-like, and most certainly not safe. Ayame felt as though grating fingers were upon his face, slowly scratching off bits of him that were imperfect, ugly, things that were insufficient to Hatori. With these thoughts, he whimpered pitifully. Without his consent, his nails dug into his flesh, ready to drag themselves down his face.

'Ayame!'

Arms were around his wrists in an instant, the grip tight and stunned.

'Why are you doing this to yourself? It's stupid and you're not stupid. You shouldn't be so … shouldn't be so … Stop this …'

Shigure rested his forehead against his companion's, drawing Ayame closer to him. His long fingers still encircled the other's heated wrists, hold still in place and unwilling release. Ayame batted half-heartedly at him, muttering incoherent phrases, body language plainly pleading for Shigure to let him go and hold him all at once.

The silver-crowned man felt the phantom of déjà vu tickle him, one that had been born a decade ago. It was he, however, who comforted the person when he had cried. It was he who held the broken man in his arms, saying words that would soothe and heal. It was he was who was not hurt so terribly back then. It was he this time who was being comforted, for so many different reasons.

'Shigure …' he whispered, tracing saliva across his chalked lips as they settled in a comforting embrace. 'Shigure, he didn't lie to me, did he? He was probably busy, ne? Busy, right? His schedule … appointments, interviews?'

Shigure felt the hairs on the back of his head being pulled as Ayame gripped him there, desperate for consent. It was as though Ayame clung to him in white fear of seeing the execution of a lover, cheeks stained with tears, like the axe would be with blood in a moment's time. This seemed to be the daunting picture playing in Shigure's mind, and he cursed himself for being subconsciously sardonic and heartless at such a crucial time. He gripped Ayame's slight form tighter, swearing an oath to himself that if ever Hatori repeated such a stunt as he had, there would be more than a few punches thrown.

'Ayame … Ayame, are you hungry? I'll get something for you, okay?' Voice so soft, so velvet-like. One could drown in the rapturous coating of silk and gentle caresses. Like sleeping in an angel's whisper, never to wake or die or hurt or love.

'Did you cook it?' He mumbled miserably.

'No, Tohru would have.'

'That's all right, then.'

Despite things, Shigure barked with laughter. The sound was pleasant and painful to Ayame's ears. With no hesitation, he brought himself a little away form Shigure and kissed the other man's cheek, gratified and contrite. A tiny smile crept inconspicuously at the corner of Ayame's lips, hoping not to be seen. Shigure mirrored this gesture, relieved at seeing the other man, even if so faintly, so briefly, content. It was okay that Ayame was not happy right now. It was expected. Shigure expected him not to be happy. It was okay.

They extricated themselves from the embrace, allowing their arms to loosely touch each other, breaths mingling, faces close, a brotherly distance. Their noses almost touched.

'I'll be right back, all right?' He let go of Ayame, allowing the Snake to settle back into his comforts. His voice was gentle, almost fatherly. The hard glint in his eyes, however, did not acquiesce to this notion. 'Don't push yourself too hard, else I might have to spank you.'

Ayame chuckled dryly, his mind in a delusional waltz.

'Hai.'

With a lost look, Shigure left the room.

Shadows of ballerinas and clowns dotted the walls of the Doctor's mind. Hatori aimlessly twirled a calligraphy pen between his lithe fingers, watching dazedly as the strange shadows it created formed peripheral flowerets, mirroring in his thoughts. The black figures imbed themselves in his currently impressionable mind, moulding themselves into faces of unknown and known. A black, translucent finger curled and formed full lips. The lips separated into two, revealing a row of long teeth. The teeth twinkled at him, as though winking. Hatori blinked once and the visions fled.

He had been stationery for the last few hours, seated on the hard floor where Shigure had left him. It felt like only a few minutes had whizzed by, like bees on a flawless summer's day. He did not think, merely let idle thoughts and farfetched notions to drift hazily across his mind, like unaware children in a lake infested with piranha. His legs were crossed Indian-style, both long limbs already numb from the constant pressure. The winds from across the open windows swirled around him in blunt torrents, thin dust forming vague ringlets as nature's breath weaved and did wonders. One could say that the corridor was comfortable, even a little nippy. Yet, judging by the sheen of perspiration at the nape of Hatori's neck, it was otherwise.

Ayame had waited, Shigure had said. For three hours, in a snowfall.

He backed it all up with punches and phlegm. Why would Shigure lie?

Ayame had waited for him, Shigure had said. Crying.

When did Ayame ever cry? It was always smile, smile, laughter. Never tears.

Hatori shook his head tiredly and slumped back, resting on the wall. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes intertwining like lovers' fingers. A faint blush dusted across the sculpted hallows of his cheeks, the only indication of his currently unhealthy balance of thought and lie. Sleep was about to claim him with a greedy tongue before a voice snuck up on him, like a tiger prowling around the trapped prey.

'Oh …'

The tone was thoughtful, observant.

'Why is my poor Dragon sad?'

Mocking. Slow. Smooth. Poison.

'Hmm … you shouldn't work so hard, Hatori. It's bad for your health.'

Not really concerned, are you? Always lying. Exasperation and playtime with fire.

'You shouldn't be out of bed, Akito.'

Frighteningly frail hands cupped Hatori's face, frigid and spider-like. The Dragon had the urge to flinch away, disgusted with the touch, but then remembered conveniently that Akito disliked rejection, often retaliating with a strength no one would expect from such a little thing. He would do well to ride the wave in fear of crashing, rather than leaping into the water without fear of dying. An eerie tingle crawled behind his eyes as Akito's fingers traced the scar near his healed wound.

'You're much too pretty to be sad, Hatori …'

Temperature surge, temperature plummet.

'Being sad is too tiring. It won't do you any good. Pretty soon you'll cry, too. And what would crying solve, Hatori? The problem is still there when the tears stop. Pity is scarce these days, especially from the ones you love.'

A stinging pain as Akito slapped him mockingly jolted Hatori from the hypnotised state, like a rape victim reminded constantly of his imprisonment by the whip.

'It's much too late for you to be up, Akito.' Business-like tone as he withdrew from her hold. His long frame towered over her, disapproving face looked down. Akito looked instantly annoyed, arms crossing defiantly, like a child deprived of her ridiculous desires.

'I don't need a second mother,' came the indignant hiss. But nevertheless, the younger was led away, slowly, with much dragging. It was strange that Akito kept her famous temperament that frightened everyone under control. A first thing, a novel thing, perhaps? Who would know?

'Promise to be happier, Hatori?'

The words wafted in the air like the plucked bloody wings of a black butterfly.

'Yes, Akito.'

The Doctor watched as Akito wrenched herself from his grasp and walked with much dignity back to where she had come from, steps light and effeminate. Kureno waited for her, and led her back inside, hand placed affectionately around her thin waist. Hatori's eyes showed no reaction or emotion as the shorter shadow that was Akito stood on its tiptoes, unmistakably to receive an equally affectionate kiss. It was no surprise to him, but what was a surprise was that he found his mind discreetly thinking that Ayame would not need to stand on his toes to kiss him. They were almost of equal height, Hatori being taller by a pathetic few centimetres. This fleeting, sinister thought was greeted by a slight widening of the eyes from Hatori.

He needed sleep. Badly.

With steps that greeted the ground coldly, he walked back, long hands jammed into pockets, almost afraid that they would start trembling.

An unforgiving glint of shining teeth in the darkness. A long reed, filled with ready, black ink. A piece of yellowing vellum scented with jasmine and rose tears. A sense of honest trickery in the thick air, adrenaline painted and doused. Faint light from the chars in the fireplace, still aglow, bathing the moonlight kissed room in an eerie, ghost-like essence. Like an image from a fairytale gone awry.

Ayame.

Deepest apologies from my regretful heart. My schedule pressed me and I could not see your face. I beg forgiveness, if this amendment pleases you. I wish another meeting. Noon, at the same place.

Hatori.

Widening sneer. Meticulously folded paper, sealed with a fake kiss. Reed left wet with ink, hanging off the corner of the cluttered desk. Disappearance … room left warmer.

The paper whispered as it was placed beside the silver-crowned head. The house was silent as two hours after midnight approached. The hand touched the sleeping form of the Snake lightly, like the caress of a sharpened blade. The figure recoiled into the darkness, and disappeared from the house, footsteps quiet, as though padded with human hair ripped from an unknowing scalp.

When Ayame awoke, the letter would be the first thing he would see.

The bomb ticked on.

.end goes chappie two.