Shooting Stars

Chapter Thirteen: When Glass Dreams Shatter


Author's notes:wince: Ouch. Ittaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii whimper I really hated writing this, which is the primary reason I took so long to get it out, far more than my move to France (I love it here, by the way). In any case, I did it… in a mix of anime and manga, since I only have the anime in front of my eyes here, but remember a few scenes from the manga as being more powerful, leading to me borrowing them. This is, of course, primarily a manga-based work… but I digress. Enjoy this overly long chapter as much as you're able and please don't blame me for canon. I really didn't want to do it either.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't let this happen.


The end of that idyllic moment in my life when I was finally happy came so unexpectedly because it started so innocently. Spring was already giving way to summer, everything was blooming, and the days were becoming hot. Eiri-kun's school let him out for summer vacation the first week in June, and I managed to get a weekend off to fly him down to the seashore. There wasn't enough time to go back to Japan, not even for a little while, though Noriko-san's daughter had been born over a month ago, and she continued to guilt me into running off to Japan to see her every time we spoke on the phone. Eiri-kun's family wanted to see him, too, but when I asked him whether he felt like returning to Kyoto while he was on vacation, the answer I got was immediate and negative. "I'm happy here," he told me. "Even without school, there's more to do here than there ever was at home."

I bought him his own computer to keep him occupied, and he sat at it for hours on end, sometimes late into the night, typing away. It seemed Kitazawa had put the idea into his head to try his hand at writing; this was the only idea of the tutor's that I did not find offensive in the least. At least this way Eiri-kun was well entertained, and if the process itself seemed to frustrate him, he positively glowed when he managed to finish something. I read a few of his efforts, and though I wasn't particularly knowledgeable in the field, it seemed like he had talent.

I should have caught myself becoming complacent, but it didn't really seem to matter—until the day everything suddenly and irreversibly changed.

It started innocently: with a visit from K-san. He had come a few times in the past few months, on visits that almost seemed more social than business, and to pick up any sheet music I might have lying around to give to Ryuichi-san when he got back to Japan. I had known he was in America again recently, but thought he was in California until he came striding into my office one day, tanned dark and grinning, wearing what looked like full riot gear, with two huge guns strapped to his back and another at his side. He plopped down in my chair (I was across the room watering one of my plants) and raised his hand in greeting. "There you are, Seguchi," he said cheerfully. "I was beginning to think you had used this opportunity to run away while I wasn't watching."

"No one runs from you unless they want to be shot in the back," I said with some amusement, taking the chair opposite my desk, relieved to have something to break the monotony of the paperwork I was doing instead of composing like I wanted to be.

K-san let out a laugh at my half-joke and patted the holster at his hip lovingly. "Oh, so very true," he told me cheerfully. "It's nice to see how well you know me."

I only smiled and rang for the secretary to bring in two cups of coffee. "To what do I owe this visit?" I asked, leaning back in the chair I kept for guests since he still occupied mine. "And what is all this about running away?"

"Ukai's been complaining," he answered. "Seems you're avoiding her. She expected you there to make fun of her when she was fat as a whale, I think. She's skinny again now, and terribly disappointed that she didn't get the chance to hit you and blame it on hormones."

I couldn't help a smile as the secretary brought in a tray with two coffee cups. That really was terribly like Noriko-san. "I haven't been avoiding anyone. I've just been…" I waved my hand absently at the convenient stack of papers on my desk, "busy," I finished. "Work. You should know what a sad state they were in here."

"Of course I did, which is why I sent you here to get them in line for us. How fortunate that I wasn't disappointed." His grin had something feral to it. "They're raving about you, and are ready to sell their souls if I reconsider taking you away from them."

"Away?" I asked dumbly.

He looked at me oddly. "In case you've been momentarily struck stupid, I'm glad to remind you, you have a little business called Nittle Grasper to think about," he said slowly. "Ukai's maternity leave is nearly over, Ryuichi is about ready to jump out of his skin with boredom, and the fans are getting restless. We need you back in Japan within a month, so wrap up whatever standing projects you have and get home, or I'll come and get you, and I don't think you'll like it."

I kept blinking, feeling like I was slow in comprehending exactly what was going on. "A month? Back in Japan?"

"You've been here half a year," K-san said impatiently. "You sound like you don't want to rejoin Nittle Grasper."

"No, it's not that at all," I said automatically, still processing it. I knew this couldn't last forever. "I can't wait to be back onstage instead of behind the scenes."

"Good, I was beginning to worry," K-san said, still regarding me curiously.

"No need to worry."

"Perfect. Try to time it to be under a month. We'll be glad to have you as soon as we can, and that kid of yours can pick up the fall trimester back in Japan, and everyone will be happy." He paused. "You seem a little shell-shocked."

Quickly I cleared all traces of emotion off of my face. "Tired. Just tired, K-san." I smiled politely, coolly. "If you'll excuse me, I have more than ever to do if I'm to wrap up my affairs in a few weeks."

"August, Seguchi," he said, getting up. "I want you back in the office by August."

"Right," I said distractedly, using my coffee as an excuse to hide my eyes for a little while.

"August," he repeated, and walked out of the office.


I left for home later than usual that night. I had been telling the truth when I had told K-san that there was enough work for four normal men. The amount of work seemed to double the moment they learned I was leaving, and I spent most of the early, and then not so early, evening doing things that suddenly needed to be done right then and could no longer wait for the next business day. I was more than a little harried and frustrated when I finally got out of the office, and nearly stalked to my car. For some reason, everything seemed to irritate me.

Of course everything irritates you. The beautiful dream is nearing its end. What will you do once it's gone?

How will you cope without him next to you?

Can you?

My thoughts were dark and not entirely coherent as I drove home through still-snarled traffic. To calm myself, I popped in a tape of one of the groups I had been rescuing and attempted to concentrate on my job. I quickly realized that wasn't working, and switched it for the worn, old and well-loved tape of our first record. Generally, those songs served to comfort me, simply by virtue of being so very familiar.

"Let the glass dreams shatter
Let the pieces scatter..."

Mirthlessly, I sang along softly on the upper harmony, just as I had done on the recording, and at every concert since. Familiar words, familiar music, years old now, and still somehow I managed to find something new in them yet again.

Realizing my mood was becoming blacker as the song progressed, I replaced the tape with a more recent one, and listened through Believe Me twice, rewinding the tape to hear it again. For the first time, I wished Ryuichi-san's lyrics weren't always so heart-rending. I needed his voice, our music, to remind me of who I was, of what I was going back to, but at the same time his songs, able to strike a chord in my heart so easily, only made me sadder.

"Vicious cycle," I murmured to myself, and removed the tape. I drove the rest of the way in silence.

I could see the lights in the penthouse as I parked my car, and tried desperately to smile as the elevator took me up, but I found that I had grown unaccustomed to smiling when I didn't really mean it.

I was met with the sharply sweet smell of Chinese food when I unlocked the door. The television was chattering down the hall, probably turned on for company since I was so late. In the kitchen, Eiri-kun was eating lo mein out of a delivery carton, a book open on the table before him. When I walked in, he looked up and smiled absently. "Hi. I ordered in since you were so late. Hold on, let me finish this chapter." He retreated back into his book, leaving me to get a pair of chopsticks from the drawer and stare at the cartons, no appetite whatsoever.

A few minutes later, he carefully marked his place and looked up. He appeared a bit confused for a moment when he saw my full plate. "Are you sick, Tohma?" he asked, reaching across the table to put his warm hand on my forehead for a moment. "You seem a little off color."

I closed my eyes for a moment, leaning into the light, carefree touch, feeling a pang of something that resembled nostalgia.

It isn't over yet, and I miss him already.

"I'm just tired," I said with a smile I hoped would pass for fatigued as opposed to sad. "It was a long day; I'm sorry for leaving you all alone."

"It's all right," he said, then took his hand from my forehead to shove the plate at me. "Eat a little, if you're only tired. Mrs. Smith would say you're just too tired to remember you're hungry." He returned to his noodles. "Anyway, Yuki-sensei spent most of the day with me. He only left about an hour before you came home. It's all right."

I did my best to eat, though the food seemed tasteless. "Did you go out somewhere today?" I pushed down the pang of jealousy as I had accustomed myself to doing.

"Just the bookstore," he said, casting a glance at the novel he had put aside. "This one's really interesting, actually. It's on the reading list for AP literature next year; I picked up three others from the list too. Not all the classics put you to sleep, apparently. I actually like Hemingway; it's a lot easier to understand than some of the other things sensei's been giving me." He sighed. "I still think that class may be a little much for me, but Yuki-sensei says my English will be up to par by September. Anyway, it's supposed to be really helpful for getting into college here, since there aren't huge entrance exams like in Japan, and… why are you looking at me like that?"

With a start, I realized I had let my carefree expression slip, listening to him talk about his plans so comfortably. "You probably shouldn't have bothered buying the books," I said dully. "I doubt they'll cover the same materials in your Japanese high school. And your AP courses won't help you to get into university at home, either."

"Why all of this about my Japanese high school?" he asked, clearly confused. "It doesn't matter what they cover there; I don't care. I'll just stay here, finish high school, go to college. Yuki-sensei says-"

"What Kitazawa-san seems to have conveniently forgotten is that you're an exchange student, Eiri-kun. This arrangement wasn't ever meant to be permanent." I knew the words were coming out harsh, somehow wrong, but I couldn't seem to stop myself, despite the stricken look on his face. "We're going back at the end of this month," I finished heavily. "One semester abroad will have to suffice. In any case, you'll pass your English exams with flying colors."

He finally found his voice to speak. "I don't want to leave."

"Unfortunately, that isn't your choice." Nor mine. "We should be back in time for you to pick up the second trimester, so enjoy what's left of your vacation. You don't have to study anymore if you don't want to. Kitazawa-san's services will no longer be needed, either."

"Tohma… I don't want to go," he repeated. His eyes were hidden as he looked down at the table. "I like it better here, like this. Can't we just stay here?"

"This is not your decision to make. We're leaving in three and a half weeks. Enjoy what you're given."

He looked up, his eyes icy cold as I had never seen them, and glared at me. "And I don't like the way you're talking to me. You're treating me like a spoiled child."

"I can't help it when you behave like one," I snapped, on the end of my rope. Does he think I'm happy about this?

Instantly, I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. He looked as though I had struck him for a moment, then stood and turned away from me. I only saw his back as he spoke, but his voice was cold enough to freeze the air of the cozy kitchen. "I'm going to bed. I trust I'm still adult enough to decide when to do that." He walked out of the kitchen, and I heard a door slam down the hall, from the direction of the bedroom he hadn't used for months that only remained furnished to keep up appearances.

For a long time I sat at the table, letting my food grow cold and congeal in front of me, head resting in my hands, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders with no idea how to alleviate it.


The next morning, when I reached across the bed to turn off the screeching alarm clock, I was momentarily confused not to feel him there, warm and sleepy and hiding his face under the pillow as if to escape the noise. It was only a moment of disorientation, but then I sat up heavily, climbed out of bed, dressed in the first things that I could grab out of my closet, passing only a cursory eye over them to make sure they matched though I was usually very conscious of my appearance, and headed for the kitchen.

That was empty too, and quiet. I brewed coffee with a small sardonic smile. I had better get accustomed to mornings alone again.

His bedroom door was still shut, keeping me out as effectively as any lock, when I left for work.

I wasn't good for much that day, and looking at myself as objectively as I could, I was shocked to see what an argument with him was capable of doing to me. I had always seen myself as strong and unshakeable-Noriko-san had told me I had ice water in my veins-and yet something so small could leave me completely worthless.

I managed to get out early that day, mostly by virtue of the incredible, sticky heat that made everyone in the office wilt to a point where they no longer really cared whether any work got done or not. Even the air conditioning didn't seem to be able to save us, though it was turned up to maximum, and its quiet, steady whoosh was audible in every room. I left the office in early afternoon without anyone so much as trying to stop me. The only acknowledgement I received was a limp wave from one of the secretaries at the front desk and a half-nod from the security guard when I entered the blissfully cooler underground garage to get my car.

Traffic was vicious, as it always seemed to be when a heat wave settled onto the city. It took me three times longer than usual to get home, giving me plenty of time to think dark thoughts and berate myself for yesterday's comportment. The first thing to do was apologize for the things I had said and not really meant—after all, it wasn't Eiri-kun's fault that I had been shell-shocked, and it had been stupid of me to take it out on him.

The house was silent when I entered and headed to the kitchen for a lifesaving drink of cold water. I sighed with disappointment to realize he wasn't there, but then I spotted the note on the table. Forgetting my drink momentarily, I headed over and picked it up. I relaxed a little as I read it.

Tohma,

I guess I should say sorry too for yesterday. It wasn't entirely your fault. Anyway, I went over to sensei's house; I want to see him a few more times before I have to leave, after all. I'm still mad at you… but we should talk about it when I get home, which shouldn't be later than seven. I don't like being mad at you.

Eiri

I couldn't help but smile a little at that ending, and my good humor was almost restored as I poured my water and headed back into the hall to turn the air conditioning up to maximum strength. Here it seemed to work better than at the office, and I soon felt lively enough to head into the living room and settle down at the piano to pick through a melody that had been developing at the back of my brain for a few days.

The thoughts that came with the music weren't entirely dark either. I knew it would be difficult to work through this relocation, far beyond difficult to be without him every day. I wanted nothing more than to take him with me wherever I went, to break ties with his family and tear him away if necessary, to give him the freedom he seemed so desperately to be seeking, a freedom we seemed to find only with each other. In this short time, he had become so much a part of me that I could no longer see myself complete without him. Though the words had never been spoken, I loved him more than I could have imagined, more and more as the days passed. That was something I realized I needed to tell him. There had been no words spoken, no promises made to tie him to me, and I could see that that was the sum of the reason I was so malcontent. I didn't know what was in the future.

I want us in the future. I need to hear it from him, to know that whatever drastic steps I take will be because he wants it, too.

The melody changed, wandered through several keys before settling in E major, and began to work itself out. With the music, my thoughts also arranged themselves neatly into their proper places. If he loved me half as much, it wasn't surprising he had reacted the way he had. It wasn't just his freedom he was leaving behind here, but a tenuous future that threatened to disappear like smoke the moment we set foot back on Japanese soil.

But this didn't have to be the end, not if we needed each other enough, and I needed him more than the air I breathed, it seemed. When he came back, I would tell him, all this and more.

I relaxed then and let the music take me, which was why I didn't notice the time passing at first. When I hit a snag on the bridge, I happened to look up to see that the clock read seven-ten. At first, I tried not to worry, but the bridge simply wouldn't come, and the minute hand pushed relentlessly forward, to seven-fifteen, seven-twenty, seven-thirty.

By seven-forty-five I was no longer making attempts to work. I got up to pace a few times around the living room, then tried telephoning Kitazawa's apartment for the fifth time, receiving the short signals of a line in use. I threw down the phone with more force than strictly necessary, paced around the room once more, then gave up and paced down the hall and out of the apartment, barely remembering my keys.

Traffic was still snarled and moved at a snail's pace when it moved at all. It was late in the day but the heat showed no sign of diminishing, even with the sun beginning to set blood red behind the smog. I swerved into a parking space when I was still nearly ten blocks away, convinced I could go faster on foot, ignoring the blaring horns of the cars I had cut off and the creative curses of their drivers.

I started out at a fast walk, but my worry kept mounting, even if it was rather unfounded. Despite the heat which rose in waves from the pavement and pounded down from the sky, I broke into a trot, then a full-out run. People jerked out of my way as I ran headlong down the sidewalk, a few of them calling out, "Where's the fire?" in annoyed voices.

I was breathing heavily by the time I reached Kitazawa's building, but I took the stairs of the fire escape two by two, not bothering to go around to the main entrance, vaulting into the eerily silent hallway, throwing myself at the door just as the last gunshot rang out, knowing somehow even then that I was too late.


They say that times of shock, like nightmares, fade away at the edges and become fuzzy with time. They tell you it's easy to let yourself get swept along when your mind is broken and not recall it later. They say it's a merciful side effect, that the worst times in your life are the ones which will come to the forefront of your mind cloudy and surreal.

They lie.

I remember every moment, every labored breath as I struggled to stay on my feet, the cramp in my side, the way my eyes squinted to accommodate for the dusk provided by lowered shades, the slight but unmistakable smell of gunpowder already being overpowered by the sickly-sweet smell of blood. I remember my heart pounding too loudly in my ears at seeing him, kneeling in a spreading puddle of blood, his pants around his ankles, clutching a gun in his hands, trembling like a leaf but not making a sound. I remember saying his name, my voice trembling too, and his indrawn breath as he turned huge eyes towards me, eyes filled with sheer terror before he recognized me and let the gun drop.

I remember falling to my knees, reaching for him, him jerking away for a moment before going limp in my arms and beginning to sob with a voice that didn't seem quite human with desperation, pieces of words, self-accusations, rage and grief and terror mixed into one. I remember kneeling there with him sobbing into my shirt, feeling the blood and tears seep into my clothing, the cavernous empty feeling in my mind as I told him, over and over, that it wasn't his fault, the meaningless apologies that spilled out of my mouth, the hot tears that flowed down my face.

I remember thinking that a neighbor must have called the police as I heard the sound of approaching sirens. I remember grabbing the gun behind his back with a vague thought towards erasing his fingerprints, and standing as the policemen rushed into the room, my face cold and impassive, my hands and clothing bloody, the gun still in my hands, trying not to look at the trembling boy huddled at my feet. I remember telling them I killed them, repeating it over and over until even I started to believe it, maybe because I wished it had been me who had done it.

They tore me away from Eiri-kun and took me aside to question me. Two paramedics tried to lead him away, but when they tried to touch him he reacted like a wild thing, kicking and clawing at them, his eyes like a cornered animal's, until the police had to let me take him down to the ambulance because he would let no one else near.

I answered questions mechanically, giving them our names, address, telephone number, anything they asked for. I stumbled on only one question. "What is your relationship to this boy?"

It took me nearly a minute to answer, a minute of fighting back a hundred wrong answers and tears that had not yet been shed. "His guardian while in New York," I finally answered. "His sister's fiancé. We aren't otherwise related."

They let me go in the ambulance with him after he lost consciousness, only because they were afraid of what he would do if he didn't see me when he woke up, based on his earlier violent reaction.

I remember every minute of the following hours at the hospital as he remained unconscious and I was questioned over and over by the police. Even in the state I was in, I managed to put together a coherent story, to tell it correctly, to keep it consistent until the police left me with the warning that I would go into holding once Eiri-kun's state was stabilized, leaving me with one guard standing unobtrusively in the corner.

I remember calling Japan, waking Mika-san from sleep, her silence, then her tears, the helpless disbelief in Uesugi-san's voice when I told him, the cold fury directed, rightfully, at me. I remember not even being able to tell them if Eiri-kun had truly been hurt, only repeating that it was my fault, and more tears, more hopeless apologies, Mika-san finishing by throwing down the receiver after saying she was coming to New York and a halfway coherent mumble to the effect of calling Noriko-san, because someone had to take me in hand, too.

I remember those hours of waiting, the feeling that my face had turned to stone to stay as calm as it was when I was screaming inside, his shallow, barely audible breathing as he lay in the hospital bed, and the crushing weight of guilt.

But even with all these memories so hideously crystal clear, there is one thing I remember most of all. I remember the moment when he jerked and sat up, his breathing suddenly whooshing in and out as if he had just run a marathon. I reached for him automatically then, and he didn't wrench away as my hand took his, but looked up at me. For a moment, his eyes were terrified like they had been in that nightmare room, but then the terror seeped out of them, replaced by blank confusion. He cleared his throat almost experimentally, as if he himself didn't really know why his vocal cords were so sore, and then he spoke. "Who are you?"