Empyrean Rose
by Capella A. Morningside

VII: K: Haunted House

I have always had a problem with people dying in the spring.

There are a million poems out there written about times of war, and how everything seemed surreal and otherworldly because guns were firing, death was all around but at the same time, flowers were blooming and the weather was perfect. Back when I lived in California I had the same problem, I have attended funerals in the spring before, these odd events that create an island of death in the midst of all the blooming and budding life. Nevertheless, it's far, far worse in Japan, because this country takes spring to a whole new level. Two words: cherry blossoms. Pink, delicate, they bloom for two or three days, then spend about a week falling off in a torrential rain of flower petals.

The postcard beauty of this event is something I had to put up with through two of the worst funerals I've had to attend. It would be an understatement to call it inappropriate, to see and hear the indications of new life while death and its grievers surround you. Perhaps it is some kind of reminder of balance in all things; I'm sure that's what any good monk would tell me.

I did the best I could to do some reaching out after the N-G building crisis, although it started by people coming to me. Ryuichi came knocking at my door as soon as he heard, and didn't say much, just slept and drank tea off and on with me, occasionally watching the same news broadcast told a thousand different ways on television while squeezing Kumagouro. It was probably best that he was there, and not at his own home where he could be potentially bothered by the media. I did come to realize why he was there at all; he wasn't hiding or running, he was just sticking close to someone he felt safe with, someone he knew and trusted that would protect him.

After Seguchi's funeral, he got a little more talkative, probably feeling a bit better from the sense of closure, and expressed a fervent wish to go back to America. It surprised me, he hadn't been back in Japan very long at all and he already wanted to return. Here and there he would drop hints that he wanted me to go with him, but I couldn't, and I let him know it. If he wanted to go back, he was going to have to go alone (which I'll admit is a thought that the protective side of me isn't comfortable with). This was his form of escape, I came to understand, Ryuichi was doing nothing more than trying to distract himself, or run away, run somewhere where he could pretend that none of this was happening, where he could pretend that he was living in times that are more favorable. Artistic and creative people deal with grief in artistic and creative ways.

Saying that, I suppose it's safe to say that no one deals with grief in ways that are foreign to them. The sorrow is enough that no one is willing to suddenly change their behavior, they continue to react in ways that they always would, in order to try to give themselves and those around them a sense of normality. For example, I managed to have a short visit with Mika-san to offer my condolences before she took off to live with her father for a time. Dressed in a black silken mofuku, she politely accepted my gifts, my rather-long winded words of encouragement and insisted I seat myself while she served me some tea. I let her, while she darted between tending to me and tending to her infant, talking about how the future has changed for her child, her plans to possibly settle in Kyoto, and maybe even re-marry in good time in order to ensure a stable family life for the baby's welfare. Practical, logical, calculating; it was little wonder they had been married. I didn't dare ask if it was perhaps too soon to think about such things, but I'm sure she saw the question in my eyes, and told me what I just knew she had been pushed to say to so many others: "It's what he would want. For our baby, and for me."

Then there was Sakano. I'll never stop kicking myself about what happened to him, yet I know if I'd done anything, I was most likely just delaying something morbidly inevitable. In this, just as in anything, he dealt with the issue in a nervous, self-destructive, self-blaming manner. It was as talking to a brick wall when one tried to convince him that none of it was his fault, but for a long time, a few others and I were honestly convinced he was going to recover. He spent several days in my apartment as well, pacing around in a constant, navigationally challenged manner, avoiding Ryuichi's eyes at every turn. Where Ryuichi could come and go as he pleased, I refused to let Sakano leave at all, even asking the former to watch him when I went off to his apartment to retrieve some necessities. What I found there was something that in happier times, I would have blackmailed him for in a second; but now, all it did was worry me more about the timid fellow. This was not an apartment; it was a live-in shrine, adoration taken to almost pathetic levels. It should not have, but it made me just a twinge jealous. For a while now, I'd thought of Sakano as someone I could easily fall for, he and my wife had very similar thought processes and qualities, (although he would have done well to learn her self-confidence), had the same astral sign of Virgo, and just like Judy, he'd pin me in an instant with my mistakes and most of my bluffs.

But I digress. Sakano was chosen to temporarily, perhaps permanently take over Seguchi's position as company president, and at the same time, retain his job producing for Bad Luck. This was when I thought for sure he was bouncing back. He did get lucky, our band would be having some time off for Shuichi to recuperate, and for Fujisaki to spend some time with his family, and he wasn't completely weighed down from the beginning. About three days at that job and I was willing to let him go home. He was, of course, still depressed, but he'd started eating well again and was handling the backlog of work efficiently.

Then one day, he didn't show up.

I couldn't hide the fact that I was somewhat in a panic, and he was only an hour and a half late when I left for his apartment. Terrible, grotesque images kept filling my head as to what the man could have done to himself, I almost wrecked my car about a dozen times by driving recklessly when I finally arrived. Something felt wrong as soon as I opened the door. The air in the hall had been a comfortable temperature, yet when that door came open I felt a sudden chill hit me like a breeze, doing more than just rustling my hair and ghosting over my skin; it passed through me, making me cold all over. Just as soon as it came, it was gone, and normal temperatures resumed almost immediately.

I guess I wasn't too surprised when he didn't wake up, no matter how many times I shook him, and the empty plastic bottle of sleeping pills in his hand just affirmed my fears. A whiff of the glass on the nightstand; he'd downed them with strong alcohol, just to be sure. It was the closest I came within those few weeks to tears; but I never shed one.

The band didn't take the news too well, naturally. I didn't like having to weigh Fujisaki down with more loss, but he, just like Mika-san, is doing an excellent job of hiding how strongly all this has affected him. And as I anticipated, it hit Hiroshi and Shuichi a little closer to home. They'd chat with me sometimes, recalling the days they had with him as their manager, the ones I was not present for, and we'd halfheartedly laugh at memories of Sakano leaping desperately from ground-floor windows when some little thing went wrong.

And one by one, the people that I had spent so much of my time and effort trying to help and counsel no longer needed my assistance. After a week or so even Ryuichi went home, and things went back to being as normal as could be expected. Quieter and less sarcastic than usual, Fujisaki returned, Shuichi's wound healed up, practices resumed and I was back to getting work and appearances for Bad Luck but with a bit of a doubled workload. Now I was alone to focus on my emotions, rather than letting myself put all my sight into the feelings of others. At least Judy and Michael were calling more than usual, their voices could brighten the darkest of any day to me. They promised to come and visit as soon as they had a chance, and I'm counting the seconds.

I eventually worked up the will to visit the gravesites all alone one day. It was a relatively large cemetery, and both were laid to rest here, just on opposite sides of a little through-street that barely had enough width for a single car to pass; so imagine my annoyance when I park along the path side, only to see that some sleek, black car is facing mine. This was going to be a nightmare for both of us when either party chose to leave. Yet aside from that, I noticed a striking familiarity about this car, and pieced it together in an instant when I saw two figures standing together just a few meters away; one blonde-headed, the other bubblegum. I'd recognize that dysfunctional pair anywhere.

They must have heard my approach on the grass long before they saw me, as they didn't seem at all surprised when I appeared beside them, two single red roses in hand, every last thorn hand-picked off of the stems. We didn't greet each other verbally, an exchange of glances was all that took place, and I felt them watching me as I bent down, placing one of the deep red flowers on the final resting place of Tohma Seguchi.

"It's beautiful," Shuichi commented.

"Single red rose," I heard Eiri-san say, his voice full of thought. "It stands for simplicity, or love. I would have used white."

"In America," I replied, coming to a stand and dusting off my slacks, "white roses are pretty much for weddings."

"Mm," was his only response.

"But it's not just red. Dark crimson stands for mourning," I went on, lifting the other rose to my gaze, adoring it. "And it has no thorns, but retains its leaves."

"And what's that mean, K-san?" the singer curiously asked.

I sighed, quoting. "I fear no longer; I hope."

Eiri arched a brow at me. "Fear, hm?"

"Some things are best left unsaid," I quipped dryly. "Double meaning, anyway. Not what you'd think."

"So I assumed."

With a last respectful bow, I turned away from the grave, the others following suit within moments to follow me across the narrow street. I did manage to catch Eiri-san's annoyed look to the positioning of our cars as we passed them; it was enough to lighten my spirits just before we reached Sakano's humble-in-comparison headstone.

I kneeled, setting this rose down as well. "Every time I come here," I mused aloud, "I think of this old American poem, by some old anti-war worker during the First World War..."

"Name?" was Eiri's simple question.

I shrugged, standing. "I don't remember."

"Can you recite it?" Shuichi asked brightly.

"It's in English."

"Well of course it is," the author said, dully and borderlining rude, staring at the sky distractedly and sticking his hands in his pockets. "Give me a few lines, I might remember it."

I cleared my throat, preparing to recite. "When I am dead, let no one bow his head, to talk or preach or pray. When I am dead, tears should remain unshed that day."

Eiri's eyes lit up in recognition, though he didn't once look at me, and he interrupted, picking up where I'd left off and still in English. "When I am dead, I want a rose instead, tender and proud on display, aflame with crimson red; to say, when I am dead, what can truly be said no other way."

"So you do know it," I said.

He nodded, finally turning his visual attention to me. "Ralph Chaplin. It's called 'Ultimate Rose'."

Shuichi's violet eyes were full of wonder, and he softly attached himself to the writer's arm with a smile. "Wow... that sounded so cool, Yuki-i... you're going to have to tell me what it means on the trip home."

"We'll leave you be, given I can get my car out of here," Eiri stated towards me, pausing as he and Shuichi gave their respectful bows to the headstone and started to leave, the singer looking back and waving at me in a quietly cheerful manner until his boyfriend's attention was on him.

"Come on, kid," I heard him saying, voice surprisingly affectionate. "I'll tell you all about it on the way."

Author's Note: Wow. And that's it. This project has finally come to an end. And to think, it started with an odd, offhand AIM conversation.

I had fun with the traditional flower meanings. White in Japan means the ultimate absence, death, for those that didn't know. Additionally, the poem was the inspiration for the title. I got it out of a book of my Grandfather's, from the 1930s. Wowee. (One more thing. Note the similarities between the dialogue at the end of this chapter and chapter five. I don't know what I'm trying to say with that.)

I suppose I should say that a 'mofuku' is a traditional black kimono worn by widows.

This piece hit another few landmarks before its end; namely being highest chapter amount as well as word count of all my projects on this site as of now. I also didn't expect the response I got, and I really thank you all for your reading and support! It's meant a lot to me. Thanks to all! The world-famous, mayonnaise-on-her-French-fries-loving Heide DeVries, the mysterious man/woman-behind-the-internet-mask Anon64, the super-ego-boosting Miroku's Priestess (who I must say, figured out one of the larger aims of this project, chapters that can stand on their own with minimal confusion), the happy-go-lucky Guren, the middle-schooler-tolerating l.h.o.o.q., and of course the mistress-of-unexpected-pairings Silverone. I dunno, I just felt the need to give you all hyphenated nicknames as a sign of my gratitude. Give me a break, it's 3:58am!

Goodnight! Happy writing, and I'll see you all in whatever strange thing I think up next.