The Forgiver

by neurofeces

These filthy hands that murdered your father…if only they could touch you…if only they could apologize in some way… If you can still care for me after all I have done, then would I not at least have a chance...' Tsukasa X Mana unrequited one shot

Title: The Forgiver

Author: obseletevulture (aka. Neurofeces)

Genre: Angst/Romance

Rating: G...possibly PG: it's clean through and through. (Warnings for depressiveness. Eat some chocolate or something happy as you read it if you're subject to being upset over such things)

Summary: 'These filthy hands that murdered your father…if only they could touch you…if only they could apologize in some way… If you can still care for me after all I have done, then would I not at least have a chance...?' (Tsukasa/Mana---one shot)

-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-

"Humanity is never so beautiful as when praying for forgiveness, or else forgiving another"-Jean Paul Richter

"Suns & stars their courses keep,

But not (the) angels of the deep;

Day & night their turn observe,

But the day of day may swerve.

Is there warrant that the waves

Of thought from their mysterious caves

Will heap in me their highest tide

In me therewith beautified?

Unsure the ebb and flow of thought,—

The moon comes back, the spirit not."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson, Excerpt from "The Discontented Poet: a Masque"

-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-

She stood there perpetually in the haunted corners of his mind. The dark corners kept her--as only they could so desperately need that light of hope. There she stood always, smiling with open arms. Warm and wonderful as the light of the sun upon the face that had been turned for far too long to cold and darkness.

She stood before him in reality as well, as she did in times like this: a lamp, a shining beacon...

It wasn't supposed to happen like this! (but was it ever a conscious decision?)

This was the sweet and wonderful girl whose life he had so ruined. He had killed her father with his own hands, had struggled to kill her and the boy who stood so calmly beside her… These were wretched fingers. The beauty of his hands was obsolete, looking at them he saw only blood and gore sizzling in the flames that had burst forth hot from his fingertips.

These filthy hands that murdered your father…if only they could touch you…if only they could apologize in some way… If you can still care for me after all I have done, then would I not at least have a chance...?

Since he had learned the truth of his wretched past, he had been unable to touch any person but Tomonori. Only Tomonori made him feel safe and welcome…only Tomonori, and his friends, and…that precious girl. But only Tomonori seemed close enough to God to touch a sinner such as him and still smile so. Only Tomonori was so Holy…and only Tomonori hadn't had his life intruded upon by the ghosts of the wretched angel's past…Only Tomonori was so close and still had never seen him kill as he once had. Only Tomonori could stop him before he relapsed…

Had to focus, had to keep thinking about his "father"…couldn't think of her…

…But only Kirihara, only his Master could even so much as give him the courage to face Tomonori with the truth. It was only because of her that he'd had the courage to show his crippled wings in the first place… In truth, he tried to keep thoughts of "only Tomonori", his adoptive father, but an undertone always made it "only Kirihara and Tomonori", and it was all too plain to him whose favor he valued more in this balance. Though she is my mindbreaker, and I suppose she's more important than anything else in the world to all the others as well...

It was all he could hope for, that she couldn't see the jealous longing that stirred in him when the Demon he had once tried to kill—the creature who had ripped away one of his wings—wrapped his arms around her, and made her smile that slightly surprised smile. …that smile like the sunlight…

Perpetually surprised, perpetually innocent…was this the purity he had once had? Was that why he so craved it?

He knew it was futile, that he would never be able to speak of it, let alone try to challenge the adoration the object of his affection had for her demon…but he felt it nonetheless. He became increasingly clumsy. Tomonori would smile knowingly at him, and help him clean up whatever mess he had suddenly made. Sometimes she would even stop, eyes wide, and ask if he was okay. And he would blush and smile back, always with the reply "Yes Kirihara-san, thank you."

Of course the Itsuki twins teased him behind her back, and Tomonori would shoo away the psychics when Tsukasa's fragile soul felt too deeply bitten by their light-hearted, sibling-like, teasing words. Tomonori was a comfort, but not a good enough one. Her smile would haunt him as deeply as any of her tears ever could. She treated him like a brother--and it was a much beloved mock-fraternal bond--but never more.

She didn't have any undertones to what she did, she never did…there was no subtlety in her. There was only ignorance and a fullhearted care. Only those two extremes. She was always kind, always helpful to them…And if she had ever wanted more perfect loyalty it was doubtful that she could ever have found it with any blend of tricks and subtlety. They all adored her. He like everyone else, was hers to command. His powers, his heart, his life, his soul, he dedicated them all to her protection, to her whims, her wishes…

He had long before proven that a mindbreak itself could be broken…whether this had been because of her, even then, was not a question he could answer. But if he had wanted to be free, he would have been by now.

I would never worry again if only I could forever serve you as a slave...if only I knew for certain that all of us would always be together...if you would always smile upon me so and give me a reason to live...

His emotions had been his undoing once before, and now he was enslaved in terrible bondage to them once more…

His hands trembled as they hovered upon the written words. He crumpled the letter, allowing it to tumble into the pile with the rest, a wretched ragged exhale of breath escaping from his lips.

He could never tell her. Ever…

This was something he himself was ashamed of: she already loved someone else…he was lucky to have her forgiveness! That alone was more mercy than he could ever deserve! He had nothing to offer…not even his beauty. His beauty was only skin deep. Within him dwelled the past of a murderer…had he been insane? Was all that kept him from killing the ones he loved? This fragile thread of control from her? A thread of control that he had once broken from another's hands to come to her like this?

A beaten, defiled angel's body...is this all I have to offer you? Along with a once-broken heart, a once broken soul? Could I even pretend that this could ever be enough? Could the heart of a secondhand angel ever be enough for such a beautifully pure girl?

Gentle piano song echoed from a masked speaker at the side of the desk. The sounds of the skillfully hammered strings seemed to inspire him in a hopeless virtual war march: inspiring a ragged flag of surrender to rise hopefully, only to be shot and burned down once again by friendly fire that still was too afraid to stop the battle.

He leaned back with a fragile, shuddering sigh escaping his throat, his fingers nervously fixing themselves into a nervous weaving of malt-blond hair and white knuckles.

Those arms would always be outstretched. No matter what he did. She was like the Christ. Holy and dazzlingly pure somehow, with her beautiful smile and forgiving heart…

He would always feel guilty, but welcome when he allowed himself into her embrace. Just as he always felt guilty, yet welcome when he folded his hands and prayed in the church with Tomonori, knowing that he was a fallen angel and damned, and yet daring to hope that he could also be considered a human and eligable for the forgiveness Tomonori claimed the Christ could provide.

But as long as there was this one place where he could be forgiven…he would always have this once place as his home. His home was this hope, this delicate moment of frightened relief where the surrender flag still remained raised...the instant, the single heady few seconds where he could offer himself a faint figure of hope that the flag might be seen and accepted...even though he knew he would again shoot down the flag before it could be glimpsed.

His hope was in the forgiver.

As long as there was this one person to forgive him…he would always be in her service until the day he died. It was his promise, and his penance, and he drank it like good and bitter medicine.

And the sometimes bitter wine of service was a delicious drink indeed to the soul who had been forced to quench his thirst on all-too-sober vinegar…

He bit his lips and stared at the white expanse of paper before him. His hand with the pencil hovered over the paper while his other idly twisted the strands of blond hair all around his face. His lips quivered as he filled his ears with almost trance-inducing strains of piano.

I never wanted to hurt anyone...especially not you...not again...not ever.

There was shame to this. But it was never completed—just like the letters. His hands would always shake so badly in the clumsiness he seemed to have brought upon himself with these emotions… His shame at writing the letters, at coming so close to confessing, to surrendering, would be overcome by the frightful relief as he crumpled each one before it could ever reach her eyes.

But this was his only way, in penning these letters, then crumpling them into little wrinkled balls that would never again be unfolded...This was the only way he could ever bring himself the hope that was his shelter, his sanctuary.

The papers clustered haphazardly in a little corner near the trashcan as though it had spread out its own miniature gravitational field--a black hole for his hopes of confession. Even Tomonori didn't touch the papers in that corner of the room—understanding without words like he always did. That mound of papers was the mound of broken emotion that had overwhelmed the eraser. No human hand could touch it—no more than any human hand could touch another's soul. Thus that one corner of clutter was untouched in the small and otherwise clean rooms of their shared home.

Tsukasa's eyelashes touched damp cheeks. His body was trembling again, a great rift of ache splitting his chest.

He nervously mused as he picked up his pencil once again. Kirihara had such neat handwriting…his always went from lacy and delicate, to an illegible scrawl whenever he did this. He detested his shaking bloodstained hands more than anything. He eyed the tightly clenched fist, knuckles white with the effort. He released his grip. The hand flushed pink and he shuddered, looking away quickly.

Would these hands stain you if they touched you? Could anything ever stain you?

It was a daily affair now…like confession for his "father." They even did it at the same time, as though synchronized. Tomonori would give him a knowing, sympathetic smile as he was pulling on his coat, then would quietly say when he would be back, and Tsukasa would nod dully. Not even Tomonori's kindness in being absent, in not seeing the torment Tsukasa put himself through could lift the heaviness of Tsukasa's heart.

Not even these torn wings could steal this from me…this pleasurable torment…

Tsukasa opened his slightly damp eyes and stared at the ceiling. He closed them again, and that warm smile burned into his eyelids. Tears burned from underneath them.

As though his very hands were possessed, his fingers picked up the pencil, brushing a tear from the page. His face twisted, a soft, shaking sob echoing from his lips.

My hands will stain this letter with blood and fire and this forbidden thing that I feel...

He stopped, crumpled the paper, then as an afterthought, a faint glow flickered around his hand. After a few moments of watching the letter burn, and calming down slightly, he deposited the palmful of ash in the wastebin.

In my new madness, let me only murder trees…

His soul began to bleed in wispy, shuddering, lead cursive halfway across the new page as though to confirm the prayer…

He stopped, lifted the page, looking at it for a moment, then his eyes closed.

Never...Never let me hurt you again...let these bloodstained hands serve you now...

"amen." He murmured with a wistful smile as the page burst into flame and the sickly scent of burning paper filled the room.

I only want to protect the one who inspired such happiness in me. My forgiver...

-o-O-o-END-o-O-o-

Er, good? Bad? It's a bit of a weird pairing, I know (what with the rampant TXT running around--not that my own epic's helped the fandom's fever any snicker).I have sneaking suspicions that these communities are basically dead anyway, so I'm a little less worried in the case that it DOES actually suck as badly as it could. cackle Hooray for angsty viginettes!

Okay, some of you know me by now, of course I rant here at the end. (grin)

The pairing is based off of the outlandish/pervy pairing "challenge" on my bio, under Tsukasa/Mana (I called the pairing "the forgiver" hence the title and the prompt lines within the shot) it's also probably my first actual Hetero romance fic, so I am a little nervous. (I don't know WHY, I mean, if I can write shounan-ai sap-angst all over the place then I SHOULD be able to do this too, right?)

I had a certain feel in mind when I began to write this (aside from the obvious feel of the angst between your toes as you skip down a thoroughly depressing beach snicker) The story basically has two actual "visual scenes" in it. The first is where Tsukasa's simply watching Mana and Kaname together--that part's rather brief in actuality, despite all the excessive thinking that he does on the subject. It samples jealousy and a feeling of almost opressive unworthiness. Tsukasa is a depressed enough character as it is in the manga, but he's even worse in any sort of love. That's more or less common to my portrayals of him, Shounan-ai OR Hetero. The second part shows him trying to write letters confessing love to Mana. He's nervous and stricken and really basically just giving himself a lot of unecessary hypertension. (poor Tsukasa) It battles with a joy that he might actually be able to tell Mana what he feels and stop "pretending" not to mind, followed by a sudden fright where he destroys each draft of the letter--and it seems to be a fairly common practice--afterwards he feels a strange releif that he's stopped himself, mixed with an utter weariness that he must still go on pretending. In the end he seems to be trying to convince himself that he's protecting Mana by not saying anything and instead burning the letters.

nod It's definetely not a happy fic...but hopefully, that doesn't ruin its value as a peice of writing. I did put a lot of thought into it, and read through and edited several times before I even put it up here. I tried to play on what I optimistically call a strength of mine and offer brief character sketches of multiple characters within the larger picture of Tsukasa's character. There are three that I can count out at this point: the obvious larger theme of Tsukasa's personality and thoughts, the worshipful sketches of Kirihara that he projects, and the somewhat desperate reliance-tinged sketch of Tomonori. It's really Tsukasa and the two people he is closest to, but I don't beleive that I've tainted it with shounan-ai (which is good, since this is supposed to be a Hetero fic, not a Bi fic.) He simply feels the closest to Kirihara and Tomonori both. So, this probably makes the rather exclusively small list of fics in the fandom that focus on a strictly platonic view of the Tomonori/Tsukasa relationship.

As seems to be my trademark the entire peice is written in my typical somewhat flowery style filled with a couple of massive picturesque (and depressing) metaphors. (My favorite phrase, personally, was "secondhand angel", I see title possibilities for future ficcage, oooh.) Since the backdrop of the entire series IS the great war of the Aquarian Age, I like to use metaphors of war every once in a while. The main metaphor on in this particular fic focuses on the idea of an indescisive surrender. Raising the flag to give up fighting, then suddenly pulling it back and continuing to fight in a war that you're utterly wearied and sick of. There's a sort of tired desperation to the image that I thought would be especially appropriate considering what Tsukasa is doing to himself by wavering between "war" and "surrender." Mana isn't necessarily stupid for not noticing what it seems EVERYONE else does, she's just simply a very naive and innocent character--as she is in the series as well. If she were to discover Tsukasa's "Problem" in her typical show of compassion she would genuinely try to help him feel better, and apologize profusely all over the place for not being able to be with him (well, as long as she stays canon and with Kaname at any rate...who knows whether that's going to happen given the state of the fandom. knowing smile) Tsukasa cares for her so much--since she has forgiven him for something that he can't seem to be able to forgive himself for in the first place--that he'll even suffer in his "war" if it means she'll still think she's at "peace". Interactions and perceptions are different between people after all. Everyone's trying to let Tsukasa pretend so he can keep Mana happy. As long as he insists that he wants to keep pretending, they'll try to go along. The entire fic sketches a descent. (Um, yes. It's angst. Angst does that.) Perhaps it could even be labeled a tragedy--even though technically nobody dies.

Ah...Don't you wish all the people you had to study for symbolism or such in their books in Englsih class had handy little things like this at the ends of their books explaining out all the levels of complexity so you didn't have to feel like a moron in class? It would make life so much easier...mutter

Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed my little fic and my little rant. Drop any sort of comment you can muster the time for, please! I like to chat! (as is obvious by the size of this rant...eyes rant) All epicures of virtual internet food, I have some spectacular Jalepenos, Tomatoes, Strawberries and Beets for you to sample--all grown in my garden, and guaranteed 100 virtual internet freshness. (Critique me! I have food!)