DISCLAIMER: We claim no ownership of Fruits Basket.
PART ONE: broken world
Chapter One: Yuki
September
Thirteen Months Later
New Tokyo General Hospital
New Tokyo, Japan
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--
"What do we have today, Noriko?"
"Doctor! You're finally here! Traffic was terrible, wasn't it? Anyway. The patient in room 429—"
"Katsumoto Ayaka-san?"
"Yes. She went into a fit—"
"Another one? How long ago?"
"Just now."
As long as she doesn't go comatose, it's fine.
Doctor Sohma Hatori, age 27, ran down the corridor with his nurse close on his heels.
--
The city of New Tokyo sat at the edge of the Old Tokyo ruins, which were now cleared up and bare of all the loose wreckage that it had sustained less than a year before. The first time Tokyo had been bombed, it seemed, it had gotten off easy; the second time wrought absolute destruction. Yes, the old city, once bright with industry and life, had become a ghost town of shattered buildings and paved roads and one of the sole surviving artifacts of better times: the Tokyo Tower, bruised and battered but miraculously spared.
While otaku were reminded strongly of Tokyo Babylon and X/1999, old CLAMP classics from the 1990's and early 2000's (an insane amount of American 30- and 40-somethings had been to see it in the past year), and very nearly worshipped the old building, other, more rational people decided that this was a sign—that Japan's enemies spared what they wished and they destroyed what they wished; and they had the precision and power to destroy the world, if that was what suited their fancy. More than one strategist had the sneaking suspicion that the Allied nations were being played with.
So more than half the city and a fourth of its population had been completely demolished in the blasts; countless bodies had never been recovered from the city's grave. Between that and the first bombing, it was no wonder that the city of New Tokyo was substantially less populated than its predecessor. It was growing, however, and experts speculated that once the war—that was, the War of Terror, not to be mistaken with the Americans' War On Terror begun almost two decades earlier and never quite finished—was over, then the population of New Tokyo would grow to the size of the original Tokyo's.
Or so they said.
In any case: almost a quarter of the population of New Tokyo lived with the side effect of the first Tokyo bombing, when six weapons of biological warfare were set off in strategic points of the city, releasing a virus into the air. It was, of course, contained within the first 48 hours of the release, but by then it had done its work. Three-quarters of the city's daytime population was infected by that time, and a third of that number had died on first contact with the disease. The main problem with the disease was that doctors were only half-sure of how the whole system worked—the utter randomness of the manufactured disease totally baffled doctors and scientists and pharmacists. The leading theory was that several different diseases had been produced and combined into one and then made into an airborne virus that—that—well, that part hadn't been completely figured out yet, but immunologists believed that they were on the right track.
Still, there was enough information available that medicine was on the market: medicine which stabilized the patient for the meanwhile. It slowed the eventual outcome of the Tokyo Virus, because despite which of the particular symptoms a patient had, they all deteriorated into a comatose state before their hearts just… stopped.
And that was the most that doctors could do. Stabilize them and keep them safe, for the moment.
In New Tokyo, the main research center for the Virus lay on the outskirts of the city, with a nice view of the haunted old city. Some said that being so close to a site of disaster—even if it was slowly rebuilding—bled into the environment and cursed the place from the start. And though the staff vehemently disagreed with that observation, they could not deny that the research institute was a place that ran especially high with frustration and disappointment. It was a terrible atmosphere to work in.
Very few of the victims of the Virus were kept at the Institute, of course. Most were kept either in the new specialty houses headed by one medical society or another, and some lived with relatives. But a good amount of them had been taken into the New Tokyo General Hospital almost immediately after it had been finished.
The Hospital was, well, an ordinary hospital building, with scrubbed down floors and the usual bare rooms and stuffed waiting rooms. But there was one very distinctive difference from the other hospitals of the time: It relied very little on the newest technology, mainly because the architects realized that if some terrorist miraculously figured out how to hack into the main system, then, well… So it was a throwback to older hospitals, with doctors who carried clipboards and files that they wrote on with pencils and pens rather than plasmascreen boards that they dictated things to. Furthermore, because they didn't have any plasmascreens to keep appointments and remind them of various engagements, they were assigned nurses who kept them on track, particularly to those new doctors whose heads spun with the lack of technology. Needless to say, it was alarming to be called to a particular sector by a booming voice on a public address system, especially after one had been used to using StickyChip technology and to merely having a voice projected directly into your head whenever necessary.
And there was another strange thing about the New Tokyo hospital, which was that the greatest percentage of army doctors was drafted from there, which left the hospital with a constantly low number of specialists in each department. Consequently, there were hardly any real "specialists" left. The philosophy had merely become, if you can do this, do it. Otherwise, call someone else.
Which made the hospital seem like a very free place, particularly on the days when the staff gathered together in the cafeteria and traded patient files with one another the way that teenage girls nowadays traded nanophone skins.
So overall, New Tokyo General doctors were thought to be terribly eccentric, technologically clueless, and grim, all of which was completely unfounded.
Well, for the most part.
--
Everyone knew that the war was not a pretty one. It was quite ugly, as a matter of fact. To most people, though, the how and why of it was fuzzy, gray, and hard to comprehend as few newspapers were still being run and distributed. More than one of the printing facilities in New Tokyo had been destroyed in the bombings that had occurred soon after the publications had gotten up and running once more. In fact, all of the major ones were gone, and the only newspapers left were the small independent ones that no one had really liked in the first place.
Hatori understood the politics of the situation—the how and the why—but pondering it was altogether too much trouble. It meant a headache and more, and he was not going to tolerate a headache by any means. He was already tired and overworked and beyond hungry, but his hour-long break was just too short to get food and take a much-deserved nap.
Hatori opted for a nap in the doctors' lounge.
"Good afternoon, Sohma-sensei!" one of the nurses in the staff room—Jeanette Briand, a French immigrant nurse in her 30s—called out, and whispered something to her companion—Yura? Yuka. Ooishi Yuka.
Hatori nodded in response, brushing dark bangs of hair out of his bad eye before letting it fall back into place almost self-consciously. Conceited as it made him feel to admit, he'd used to love his eyes—they were different, an olive green, a result of his foreign great-grandmother's genes. But now his right was crossed by scars and very nearly blind. Hardly anything to be proud of. Hardly anything to flaunt.
He adjusted his glasses.
Inwardly, he sighed. There were too many people around, and he was a light sleeper.
Like he could have gotten a moment's worth of sleep in here in the first place. Was he really so exhausted as to think that one colleague or another wouldn't go out of their way to prod him awake the moment he closed his eyes? This hospital was wired with pure energy. The atmosphere practically buzzed with it.
"Have you heard about the patient in room 636, doctor?" Jeanette asked suddenly. "Yuka-chan and I were just discussing her."
He suddenly regretted his choice to come into the lounge. Hatori shook his head in response to the question. The hospital had run rampant with rumors about various patients in the last few months, and Jeanette was known to be one of the most avid of the gossipers.
Hatori didn't listen to a word of the tales and tried his hardest to avoid her. A single action could spur an entire chain of rumors that would utterly ruin his reputation.
"No. I don't have any patients in 636. Why?"
"She's in the Sasaki Sadako wing, you know. And, well, it's really ir—"
Something niggled at the back of Hatori's mind. Something important. Something that had to do with the Sasaki Sadako wing. Something that had to do with someone in the Sasaki Sadako wing.
"Damn," Hatori muttered. The two nurses stopped chattering and looked at him in question.
"Please excuse me. I'm late for a prior engagement," he explained hurriedly, and ran out into the hall.
"…'Prior engagement'?" Yuka repeated. "What a lame excuse…"
Jeanette shrugged, eyes gleaming.
But this would make very, very good gossip.
--
Once a week. That's all he asked, that's all I promised. Once a week. How could I have forgotten?
Hatori slowed to a trot upon reaching the Sasaki Sadako wing, finally halting in the doorway of room 634.
"You're late, Hatori," a softly lilting, somewhat bored voice reprimanded him.
"I forgot," was his blunt response as he straightened his white jacket and moved closer to the figure sitting in the bed by the window.
"That's so cold. But…" The figure turned its head. "…I suppose I forgive you."
Sohma Yuki smiled wanly, his head tilting to the side as he surveyed Hatori, who now sat (rather uncomfortably, it was noted) in one of the bedside chairs.
"How terribly kind of you," the doctor remarked.
--
Sohma Yuki was (even at age 16, when by all rights he should have been in the middle of maturing into a handsome young man) as pretty as a girl, with oddly grayish hair (a result of the medicine that combated the Virus) that hung on the long side, and wonderfully mysterious black eyes. And he resented his good looks, though probably not as much as he resented other things—namely, a good number of the members of his family and the illness that plagued him and the ceiling of the hospital room where he had been kept for close to a year now.
Hatori, his cousin, was one of the only Sohmas who came to visit their favorite son—was one of the only ones Yuki would permit to come visit him, in all honesty.
Part of it was the fact that Hatori worked in the hospital and their meeting every so often was inevitable. There was also the fact that spending time in one room with little to no contact with the outside world was completely and totally boring. Hatori's visits, at least, were a small break from the awful routine that the 16-year-old had gotten used to in the past year. And besides, Yuki and Hatori were… similar. Almost.
But maybe Hatori was fishing for reasons for Yuki's terribly capricious behavior.
Yuki's room was absolutely the same as any other room in the hospital. The walls were white, and the ceiling was white, and the floor was white. There was a window that faced out at the bright city that obscured the sky, and two cushy chairs sat facing each other beside it. Tucked in one corner of the room was a bathroom, and close by the bed was a wheelchair that Yuki used when, if ever, he wanted to leave his room.
Not, of course, that that was very often. Roaming around a bland hospital that was a blast from decades past was just something that no one actually wanted to do.
"How are you feeling today?" Hatori asked, his eyes boring into his junior.
"All right, I suppose. I've been breathing better now that summer is almost over." Yuki looked out the window once more.
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"Then it probably means you can be released soon. I'll check with your doctor. Who—"
"Arima-sensei," Yuki supplied, subdued, as he referred to one of the other Tokyo Virus doctors—Arima Koki, a man as tall as Hatori, with sharp brown eyes that belied his calm, easygoing temperament.
He was the best friend of perhaps the silliest, worst-tempered doctor in the entire hospital.
"Hatori?"
"What is it?"
Yuki was silent for a moment, lips set in a line.
"Where do I go after this?"
Meaning, of course, I'm not going home. I'm not going home to them and you can't make me.
The doctor absolutely understood.
But Hatori said nothing for a few long moments before rising, glancing at his watch, and running his fingers through his hair.
"Your brother, Ayame—" he began at last, only to be interrupted by a vehement:
"No!"
"Yuki—"
"No, Hatori. That man—"
"That man is your brother," Hatori asserted firmly. "He is the only immediate family you have left in Japan, Yuki. When your parents left, they transferred you to his care. Legally, he is your guardian—although, admittedly, a very negligent one—and, as such, is the only one who can decide what to do with you."
"Some guardian."
Yuki stared out the window defiantly and the doctor knew he was fighting a losing battle. He sighed and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Then if you are so averse to staying with your brother, go stay with Shigure. I know he irritates you—"
"He irritates everyone."
"—but he bought a house here in New Tokyo about a week ago. Away from the Sohma estate. I'm sure he would welcome you back into his home."
Yuki turned to regard the doctor curiously.
"Do you really think so?"
Hatori shrugged.
"Probably. Shall I call him tonight?"
Yuki was the one to shrug now.
"If that's what you want," he said, and feigned indifference. Badly.
"Understand, Yuki. I would take you in, but I'm at the hospital most of the time—as you well know. And you're probably sick of me by now."
"Somewhat, if you really want the truth."
"Then—"
"I get it, Hatori. Just leave."
Hatori watched Yuki for a moment longer before he gave his junior a nod and a wave of his fingers. Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door.
--
Dead tired though he was, at the end of the day, Hatori got out his address book and nanophone and sat on the couch in his tiny apartment to rifle through the pages of the half-blank, old-fashioned book. Upon finding the number he needed, he rehearsed the lines of his script in his head for another moment before he spoke the number into the receiver.
The other end rang only twice before someone picked up.
"HAA- SAN? Does my caller ID deceive me!"
"Shigure—"
"Haa-san! It's been such a long time! You haven't called me in about a year! To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Shigure—"
"Oh, do say it again, Hatori! I love the way you say my na—"
"Shigure. Enough."
"…You're no fun, Haa-san."
Hatori could swear he heard Shigure's pout even over the phone.
He sighed.
"I was talking to Ayame the other day. You bought a house here in New Tokyo?"
"Ah, yes. So you keep in contact with Aaya but not me? I'm hurt."
"Don't be."
"How could I not, Haa-san, when I know you and Ayame are probably doing unspeakable things involving frui—"
Hatori hung up. Not ten seconds passed before the nanophone began to chirp, and he picked it up without a moment's hesitation, though he knew perfectly well that his cousin would be on the other end.
"You hung up on me, Haa-saaa—"
"Stop. Now. I'm trying to be serious with you, Shigure," the doctor interrupted. A whining Shigure was something that he really didn't need.
It was his cousin's turn to sigh.
"I know. So. What's the problem? I know you didn't just call to confirm the purchase of my latest residence."
"Actually, I did. I was wondering if it would be big enough that Yuki could move in with you."
"…Yuki?" Shigure murmured. He certainly hadn't been expecting to hear that name again, at least not for a long while.
"Yes. He won't go back to the Sohma Estate and he won't hear of going to live with Ayame."
"Poor Aaya. But—he's better now? Yuki-kun, I mean."
"Relatively so. He's well enough to want to go outside and walk on his own, at least. And I think… I think that even if he wasn't, he'd be better off away from the hospital. He needs human contact aside from nurses and doctors and he's sick of me already. I know that once Kyou comes home, the head of our family—"
"Akito," Shigure prompted. "Surely you remember his na—"
"The head of our family will probably send Kyou to you once he comes home, but… Even so, I think that Yuki would be happier and better off under your care."
"…"
"Shocking, isn't it?"
"Unbelievably so."
Hatori took in a deep breath.
"Perhaps you should come and see him one day this week. Are you still at the estate or have you already moved?"
"I'm in New Tokyo."
"I assume you have no idea where the hospital is?"
"Correct as always, Hatori!"
"Then I'll pick you up on Thursday morning. What's the address?"
"…Good question. Would you mind holding on for a moment?"
"…You're going to look for some mail, aren't you, Shigure?"
Shigure's embarrassed laughter filtered through to the other end as the irresponsible man set the phone down.
"Dammit, I know I left that envelope somewhere… Now, if I was an envelope, where would I be…?"
Idiot.
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Notes
So. First real chapter of the fic and already there's some semblance of action.
What does Yuki have? Why is he in the hospital? Is he really getting better? Hm. We could tell you, but then there goes a fourth of the plot, darlings.
Oh! And, if you didn't know it, we revised the first chapter. So anyone who read it previously and there were only three parts to it (Hatori-Tohru-Yuki), you may want to go back because we added Shigure's part. It isn't mind-shatteringly important, but if you intend to follow and understand Shigure's fourth of the plot, it'll help. Shigure's a darling.
This wasn't going to be up so soon, but fluorescent took a day off from work to recuperate from slight sunburn and killed feet, so we've completely finished chapter four and started chapter five. Yessss.
So, please review, or rant, or something.
Oh, and thank you-s go out to the following reviewers: Peeka-chan, october darkness, Lucinda the Maid, and Placid Snowflake. Thanks for the encouragement, the faith in our unwavering dedication to this story, and the interest. They are deeply appreciated.
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4/15/06
Ah... MUCHLY revised. Hope you all enjoyed!