Yeah, I bet none of you thought they'd see it coming, but this time I actually stick to my promise: Here's the next chapter. Thanks for the two reviews on the last chapter, I'm doing a horrible job responding to reviews, which is a real shame because they are god-knows not that many ^^°
I'll try to catch on with answering within the next days, but be assured that I'm grateful and adore each and every one of them! You're making me eternally happy with your reviews, and though I know I already told you, it's a thing that can't be said often enough!
Also the beginning is a little... mean. Just so you're warned.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Chapter 6: June – Responsibility
Responsibility is the thing people dread most of all. Yet it is the one thing in the world that develops us, gives us manhood or womanhood fiber.
- Frank Crane
When Nezumi opens his eyes, he is greeted with darkness. Confused he turns, looks left and right, but nothing is there, nothing at all. "What the..." he mumbles, feeling coldness seeping into his bones. If it is the surrounding temperature's fault or a sign of fear—he can't tell.
Actually he can hardly think at all. He doesn't know where he is, what he has done previously or how he could possibly leave this place, and return home.
Suddenly, without a warning, the darkness vanishes, making way for a blinding light, and for a moment he feels like squeezing his eyes shut to hide from the mass of pictures crushing down onto him.
Within seconds though everything turns normal, and he is in a little room, with no windows and raw walls. One side is rowed with bookshelves, all filled to the burst with books, and what doesn't fit lingers on the floor, around the legs of the little couch-table, on the couch, the piano and even the bed. It is his abode and he has just walked in through the door, after a long day of hard labour.
He is expecting a gratifying silence, but instead is greeted by rustling and the smell of an excessive dose of rosemary. Over a little gas cooker a liquid bubbles happily in it's metallic confinement, its originator standing over it, leaning slightly forward as if to marvel at his work. It obviously takes him a few moments to notice Nezumi's arrival, as he jumps slightly when Nezumi throws his jacket over the piano.
"Oh, you're back already!", he says, smiling brightly. "I found wild rosemary a little bit away from the broken playground, you know, the one uphill? So tonight I made stew with rosemary aroma."
"It's not difficult to tell from the smell of it." Nezumi replies, walking over towards Shion, trying to sneak a peek at the pot's ingredients. It doesn't look all too different from their usual dinner dish, if it weren't for the smell you could think it was made like every other time.
"You don't like rosemary? I'm sorry, I guess I should have waited and asked you before using so much." Shion sounds like a kicked puppy, much to easily influenced by Nezumi's comments. It makes Nezumi's anger flare up and at the same time he feels the need to hush Shion, and tell him he shouldn't base his mood on others opinions. The fact he feels like this, like having to comfort Shion, and appease to him, only makes his anger get stronger.
And he's angry, and he's torn bizarrely, because of a petty thing like rosemary. How come he's no longer able to decide how to react? How come he's no longer able to act without feeling like he is going to do the wrong thing, no matter what he decides to do?
Indecisiveness is holding Nezumi in its grip, so all he does is look stubbornly and disapproving, which causes Shion to try—once again—to try and assuage him.
"But you see, my mother used to bake little buns with rosemary, and they tasted absolutely delicious, so I thought it might give the soup a nice flavour as well..." he hurries on to explain, trailing of towards the end.
Then he looks up from the pot and faces Nezumi with strangely... green.. eyes—Nezumi feels himself looking back, completely transfixed, hypnotized, all former thoughts and emotions blown from his mind.
Something is different with Shion, something isn't right, but Nezumi's unable to pinpoint what exactly. Is it only the way he looks like he would go out and drown himself in the nearest river should he not receive forgiveness from Nezumi for varying their dinner? No, that is pretty normal Shion behaviour, by Nezumi's standards.
"Nezumi? Is something wrong?" Shion asks, suddenly no more looking like seeking for absolution, but rather being confused and decidedly worried.
Only then Nezumi realizes he has tilted his head to the side, in thinking, and basically stares Shion down. Instantly he averts his gaze, faces down and makes a diverting scuffing sound, covering up his moment of confusion. "As long as your soup fills the stomach the taste is subsidiary, I guess."
"Oh." Shion says, taken aback. For a few moments there is silence, as Nezumi slumpes down on the bed, exhausted from the hard work. Keeping in shape is essential in the West Block, or a stray cat will eat you for breakfast, basically.
"Could you go and fetch the bowls? I left them outside to dry."
An indignant huff is the answer Shion gets. "Now, we're surely feeling all high, mighty and commanding today, majesty, aren't we? I thought you had taken on the task of preparing dinner, setting the table included." Nezumi elaborates his answer, his tone accusing, and right when the words leave his mouth he knows they're too harsh. He wonders if he simply had a real bad day today, because he is well aware that being asked to fetch a few dishes is in no way any work. It surely is no reason to complain that much, blaming Shion when he was definitely putting all his heart into making dinner, thinking up variations to please Nezumi. Actually Nezumi gets the feeling that all Shion did he did to please Nezumi, to impress Nezumi, to prove himself worthwhile to Nezumi.
And perhaps it's that notion of Shion's that drives Nezumi to being exceptionally harsh, because he doesn't want this, doesn't want Shion to be so dependent, because if Shion is dependent, he's weak, and if he's weak he'll soon be dead, and if he's weak I am weak because if he is dead I am dead.
The thoughts simply rush over him, without any warning.
He's dependent of me, and I'm dependent of him. If he's unable to protect himself he'll burden me, drag me down as well, will make all my attempts of protection useless. Suddenly the room is too small, and the air is too hot, too heavy, Nezumi's suffocating, he's not able to breathe because all these realizations take over his mind, his very being.
Somewhere in the back of his consciousness he registers Shion's voice, now sounding absolutely panicking. He distantly feels hands on his shoulders, but he shakes them off. He's pretty sure he mutters something like "I need air." or "I need to get outside.", or perhaps even an absolutely lied "I'll go fetch the dishes.", but he doesn't really care, all he can focus on is the door.
When he finally reaches it, the room is already spinning around him, and somewhere in the back of his mind a rational part of his self proclaims "This can't be right. Something's wrong. This isn't real."
Just what the hell is happening?
One step outside the door, and all the desperation falls from him, all the confusion and pain, he straightens up and sees a wide, green field. Wind is blowing gently, making the grass dance softly. It's an utterly idyllic view. Not one he would usually have time or will to acknowledge, but right now it somehow renders him immovable with fascination. The peacefulness is so unusual, so uncommon to him. He's used to war, from his childhood to his adolescence, not always fought by many, or with bodily wounds, but wounds waiting around every corner nonetheless.
I want to lay down here and never get up again.
He immediately shudders at his own thoughts. Laying down? Giving up? He couldn't. There was a goal, something to fight for. Something to live for. But what? What was that goal?
He wrecks his mind, but it is as if the wind has blown all of his thoughts, memories, goals away.
What is it I'm fighting for?
A white haired boy enters his field of vision from the left. He's smiling gently, like a mother looking at her child, a look of utter adoration.
Shion.
The name comes as natural as breathing. Is he the one I'm fighting for? But how should my fight be for him? What am I fighting?
The boy opens his mouth, speaks, but he's making no sound. "Nezumi.", he mouths, mutely.
Am I fighting Nezumi?
It takes him a little moment to realize that's nonsense, he's Nezumi, he can't be fighting himself, now can he?
When Shion takes a step towards him Nezumi realizes just how well he can fight himself, as he wants to mirror Shion's movement, but his body won't move.
"Why aren't you coming?" Shion asks and suddenly he has a voice, one that is easily audible over the rush of wind.
"Because I don't want your company. You're naïve and dangerous, for yourself and me. Get rid of that pampered self, or I'll have to." Nezumi hears his mouth say, when he himself only wants to reassure Shion that he's trying to come to him, because the distance is physically paining him.
He sees the hurt in Shion's face, and suddenly isn't in his body anymore. He's looking at himself, his grown 16-year-old self, and feels like he himself is five again, and childishly wants to trust someone, wants to rely on someone.
But Shion's posture changes. He straightens, and his formerly green eyes flicker, turn red.
"I understand." he says, turns and walks away.
What are you fighting for now? And against who?
It isn't his voice that's asking him this time, it's a female voice of unknown origin. And he hasn't got an answer.
Finally in control of his own body again he's able to take a step in the direction that Shion disappeared into, he wants to break into a run and chase after him.
That's when his surrounding swim, the trees change into solid walls, the grass seems to shrink, as if in a reversed growing process turning into solid ground, which then turns into gray concrete. The sound of wind and birds cease, making way to a silence that threatens to drive one crazy with its mere artificiality. The warm, bright light of the sun dulls, until it's cold, artificial light.
Just when the umpteenth 'What the hell is happening?' ghosts across his mind, he realizes that all this can indeed not be real.
There's only one plausible explanation.
But before he can fully formulate this thought, this reason, he's startled by a sound. A sound of violent sobbing, that is.
Once again the thoughts are blown from his mind and he doesn't doubt anymore the reality of what's happening. This time it's at the sight of two bodies, in a corner a few feet from him. The bunch of white hair is one he'd recognize everywhere, and Shion is holding the second body clenched to his chest, rocking back and forth. Realization strikes him, makes his blood run cold: The sobbing comes from Shion.
With staggering feet he nears the figures. What he sees next confuses him, although he thought after the last minutes nothing could confuse him anymore. The person, that Shion is holding tight like his life depends on it, whose blood stains the horrible light-blue sweater, sports hair the same shade of white. Wears the same horrible light-blue sweater. And is covered in blood as well. It's another Shion. Only that this one isn't moving. Not anymore, as it seems.
Halting his steps Nezumi simply stares, trying to maintain a neutral expression. And when Shion looks up at him, his red eyes portray all the despair his voice carries, all his fear and sadness and guilt.
All he can think of is that this is the expression of a broken soul, the expression he always wanted to see as it means Shion won't be naïve anymore, because no broken soul can be naïve, but at the same time it's the expression he never wanted to see, he can't stand to see, because it means that Shion despairs, hurts, and when Shion hurts Nezumi hurts, and the pain will drive them both crazy, and most importantly it means that he destroyed the only thing that means something to him and—
"My friend—" a dreadful sob rips from Shion's mouth. "My friend is dead;" Bizarrely that seems to be when Shion really notices Nezumi, because he looks up, his cheeks stained with tears and blood. Suddenly his face contorts and its sickening that it takes him a felt eternity to recognize it as the smile it's meant to be—a smile asking for some kind of approval—it takes Nezumi so long for he only sees the distorted mask of madness. "My friend is dead; 'tis done at your request."
-oOo-
Nezumi awoke with a startle, gasping for air like he was drowning, shivering and sweating, and he knew that the sweat didn't have the slightest bit to do with the crawling heat awaiting to grasp the city. Instantly he sat up, turned so that his legs hung from the side of his bed and rested his hands on his knees, willing them to stop their frantic spasms.
"Fuck.", he cursed, his voice dangerously weak, breaking on the single word. Somewhere between panicking and trying to calm himself—it only was a fucking stupid dream, what are you getting all worked up about?!—he only barely noticed the little booklet that had fallen from his chest to the floor at his stirring.
Seeing that sitting around didn't seem to help with calming, he started pacing, shaking his head at how pathetic he was.
He was only glad there was no one there to see him like this. When his breathing had mostly evened out, he walked over to the window, opened the shutters and then threw open the window itself, letting fresh morning air waft in.
Another advantage of being so close to the sea was that no matter how hot the days were, every morning he was greeted with cool, moist air. It was really refreshing, and he inhaled deeply, once, twice, feeling the dream finally fading into oblivion.
It was a shame, or a really cruel joke of nature that such a nightmare would probably be stuck somewhere in his memory for like forever, when the most pleasant dreams disappeared into nothing but a distant feeling of contentment and longing mere seconds after they ended.
But he was awake enough by now to be able to distance himself from the feelings of horror the dream had risen, the cold air helping.
"So much for nerves." Nezumi mumbled, raking a hand through his disgustingly sweaty hair—he'd have to take a shower as soon as possible—and as Cravat appeared beside him on the windowsill Nezumi absentmindedly stroked him. He'd never seen his mice as anything else than a way to get information, as a tool. They were the only reminder of his past with the Mao Tribe, in some way, because they were his company, shared the same origin. Still, it was a past he hadn't wanted to be reminded of, hadn't waned to think about, because who looked back was unable to see what was ahead of them, would overlook the abyss and fall, because they tripped.
No, looking back was bad, facing forward was all one could do when coping with a past that was unchangeable either way.
But since Shion... his mice carried names, they had some sort of personality—well, they'd obviously had that before, but he only now was willing to see it—and they took more of him than they provided him with. Nezumi still refused to call them pets because for him it carried the connotation of Inukashi's stinking mutts, of uselessness—not that the dogs could really be called pets, but it seemed like that to him anyway.
Still, the mere fact he was feeding his mice some of his precious food was prove that he valued them more than he had before. Actually he felt some sort of responsible to make sure they wouldn't starve, especially now that they had pups.
Outside of the window he saw the city still in deep slumber. The sun was rising already, and the seagulls' screams were carried over from the bay by the gentle breeze. In the distance he noticed the first fishing boats setting sail to make the best catch possible.
Living near the ocean probably would have been even more favorable if he'd actually liked fish, but no matter how fresh, that thing was to be despised. The little market place right in front of his flat was vacant, no living soul in view, which was quite understandable, going by the fact that even though the sun was rising it was summer, and as such it could hardly be later than 4:30 in the morning. On the other side of the place he recognized one of the promotion posters for their performance. The date printed on it paralleled the one that would be printed on today's newspapers.
Tonight their performance would have the curtains opened for it for the very first time.
Taking a last deep breath, Nezumi tried to absorb as much of the cold air and peacefulness as he could, before turning and trotting over to his bed. He picked up the booklet lying on the floor, having been thrown down carelessly. His eyes ghosted over the black shapes on yellowed paper on the page that was opened.
"To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody business ever." he read aloud Iago's part.
I guess it's not difficult to guess what was the most significant influence to my dream.
Nevertheless he chided his brain for taking Iago's latter words said about the proposed murdering of Cassio and twisting them, putting them into a completely different context. Iago wasn't anywhere close to honest when mourning at the suspect to loose Cassio, and calling him "friend" probably was the greatest lie of all.
Remembering his need for a shower, Nezumi droped the play on the desk, where it easily blended in with the rest of books, booklets and papers, and headed into his tiny, but sufficient bathroom.
-oOo-
With his first step into the theater in the late afternoon, Nezumi felt as if he had stepped into the nest of buzzing insects.
The air was positively humming with noise, everyone shouting commands, demanding knowledge about the state of preparations or asking about last minute adjustments, and although the theater crew including all backstage personnel only counted about twenty people, it seemed like there were twice as much rushing around.
"There you are! Why are you so late?!" a disembodied voice yelled, trying to overpower the omnipresent volume filling the backstage. Then a hand grabbed him on the shoulder, making him spin around.
"You are aware of the fact that it's still more than one hour till the first customer will be allowed to enter?" Nezumi replied, harshly shrugging the hand off. Anthony could be happy he hadn't lost half his teeth for touching Nezumi like that. "We already had our final rehearsal yesterday."
"Mental preparation!" the young director chided him, as if those words were all explanation needed and Nezumi stupid for not considering them. "And physical as well, to be exact. I wanted you to do some last training with Jem. The more the better, because the scene loses it's strength if he's not the dominant fighter!"
The implication of this being difficult for the fact that Nezumi was actually more skilled at fencing hang between them.
Nezumi was tempted to answer with a defiant "It's not as if I need the training, and I'm not in the slightest mood to exercise myself for someone who does." or perhaps an "If you think you can order me around, I can as well leave.". But he didn't. It annoyed him, to be pretty much commanded to do something, and he knew he could always have walked away.
It had already bothered him on his first day in the theater, when he had been hired for not that bad money. Nonetheless, no matter how good the pay, Nezumi had sworn himself no sum could buy his compliance, his pride. Back then Anthony had been demanding. He was hardly more than ten years older than Nezumi, and even if he had been that probably wouldn't have changed the fact that Nezumi was positively pissed. And yet he stayed.
Anthony was ambitious, inspired, wanted his interpretation to be special, something new and yet be something people who knew other Othello interpretations could recognize. It was Nezumi's first time working with a director who would do anything, wouldn't fray from any strain or difficulty to get the play on stage in the best way possible. Back in the West Block, all that had mattered for the thickly director was getting money, the quality of the play that earned it couldn't have interested him less.
Artistic ambition, the want to be as good as possible and even better had always been a notion Nezumi had been alone with in the theater. But he had also been selfish, all his ambition hadn't been for the audience but for his own satisfaction. What had the opinion of others ever mattered to him? Anthony's for sure didn't, no matter how often he chose to express it. If the usual pull would have come, Nezumi would have abandoned the production, would have left. At least that's what he told himself.
All those times he was simply fed up with the director he thought about simply quitting the work, the library for sure would provide enough money to live from. But he hadn't.
And even now he didn't turn and leave out of protest, he simply said: "Not the cleverest plan, letting Jem loose with his epee when all of those people are running around, preparing." Then he turned to head for the dressing room where he knew he would find Jem.
"Direc means you're too bad to look anyhow superior to me in fencing on stage, no matter how good I'm playing the drunk." Nezumi said when entering, sitting down on the bench next to the door.
"I know, he's not trusting me in the least." Jem complained, not even halting in his movement of slashing through an invisible enemy with his epee. "So, one last training match?"
"You're going to be hopelessly inferior, just so you know." Nezumi deigned himself to inform Jem, already fetching his own epee from the locker that belonged to him.
"Jeez, you for sure know how to motivate someone, man." Jem replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.
The next hour basically passed in a blur of last-minute practice, a mass of people, voices and colors as the scenery was being build up and given the finishing touch.
And then Nezumi found himself in the dressing room, fully clothed in his costume, with Jem wringing his hands nervously beside him and Anthony shouting his "five minutes left!"—for sure his third "five minutes", but now the phrase was slowly gaining verisimilitude—and Nezumi heard the bustling audience, voices of anticipation wafting gently backstage.
It was thrilling, and Nezumi noticed something he had never once felt before a performance was about to begin: He wanted the performance to go well, and he wanted to do all that was in his power so that it would become a success. But not so that he himself could be satisfied. He felt like he was owing it to the people who worked so hard on this production.
Owing them... it was a concept Nezumi despised—the one of owe—and yet found himself accepting it, accepting that the crew, no matter whether on- or back-stage, was relying on him. He had arrived as a stranger in No.1, a restless traveler who had never halted and who didn't tell anything about himself.
He highly doubted anyone, and least of all Anthony, knew where he came from. But despite all that he had been trusted, had been given responsibility. He was in the main cast, they didn't have any stand-ins, so if he were to go like he had done before, the play would be ruined, at least temporarily.
He was far from carrying the play's success all by himself, but the responsibility lingered in the air whenever he was meeting with anyone in the theater. Blind trust and responsibility—he knew two years ago, he would have fled from the latter and made fun of the first.
"Okay, Nezumi, next scene you've got to blend in with the background crowd!" Anthony reminded him in a quiet but urging voice, as if Nezumi would actually forget his entry. The director's gaze was completely fixed on what was happening on the other side of the curtain that was shielding them from the audience's eyes.
Nezumi decided against a descending comment, instead let out an amused huff at how tense the young man beside him was.
"Relax a little, Anth, or you wont be able to direct plays for long. Because I don't think the dead are that often listened to." Nezumi told Anthony with a clap on the shoulder as he passed him on his way to stage.
The response was drowned out in Nezumi's mind as he fell into his role. The audience he saw for the briefest of moments, before the world shifted in front of his imaginary eye to the dark, sparsely lit streets of venice.
"The duke does greet you, general." he said, with respect he was actually making himself believe he was feeling laced in his voice. And thus his first play-performance in years fully commenced.
-oOo-
"Have you seen Elly? She sat right in the first row. And was that Mrs Argan in the fourth row who was waving so frantically? I'm pretty sure she only came for you. But you! You were stunning, Nezumi. Absolutely great, astonishing performance. And I'm so glad the whole fighting scene worked out, I was so nervous about it and—" The whole adrenaline bubbled out of Jem in the form of a seemingly un-stillable onrush of words that Nezumi didn't really listen to. He was covered in sweat, the performance and stage fight combined with June's early heat wave had taken their toll on him. But his own adrenaline-induced high prevented him from feeling as exhausted as he was certain he was. Even the sticking costume only bothered him to a certain degree—one that he could still tolerate.
The after-show-euphoria among the staff wasn't expressed as excessively as one might have predicted, going by the scale of the turmoil that had been going on prior to the performance. Or at least the euphoria only lasted shortly behind stage, because everyone wanted to get home and under the shower as soon as possible, because the faster that task was accomplished, the faster they could reunite to go celebrate in some bar.
"I'm going to pick you up in half an hour straight." Jem threatened Nezumi as they left the theater together.
"I'm perfectly capable of finding the way by myself, there's no need for you to do such unnecessary things." was Nezumi's indignant reply.
"Oh, the intention of this pick-up service is rather to assure you won't run. Also your flat's on my way either way." With a last wave Jem took off, making sure Nezumi couldn't voice any objections.
A sigh escaped Nezumi's lips as he turned to head on himself. It was followed by a rueful smile almost instantly though. He still hadn't mastered to control his sighs.
Jem would never be able make sure I won't run. He thought to himself. But when there is no reason to run, why should I?
That there were more than enough reasons to run—the responsibility he'd taken on, the feeling of slow attachment and plans for futures that should be uncertain—he let hang in the air unspoken and unthought.
Because right now those reasons to run were slowly—really, really slowly—turning into reasons to stay. Not in No.1, but one day responsibility would make Nezumi stay in No.6. Or perhaps not in No.6, perhaps in No.4, in some little village or in the vast nothingness of the prairie, he couldn't know. It all was dependant on one factor, and on one factor alone: Shion. For the only responsibility that would always override all others was the one he owed Shion.
That night, when touring through all kind of bars, Nezumi didn't look away when the little television above the counter showed a record of the spring festival opening ceremony. He didn't look away although it meant facing what had formerly been the parasitic No.6, because all he was looking at was the one person standing out in every crowd, white hair being much too easily discernable.
Shion sat in the background, and Nezumi could only imagine his face, but his hair was enough to be certain it was him, and so Nezumi watched him, for the first time on his travels allowing himself to imagine what had become of Shion and the city. The pictures he saw were colorful and cheerful, a stark difference to every face the city had ever showed Nezumi. And it was the responsibility Shion felt towards the city, towards complete strangers, that had spurred on this change.
The rest of the night no amount of alcohol, no person residing in No.1, nothing that could happen would be able to banish the picture of white hair from Nezumi's inner eye, and buried deeply inside him, akin to a little seed, longing was slowly starting to sprout.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
I have to admit I'm very unsure about this chapter, and especially the dream at the beginning. It originally wasn't meant to take up that much space, and I hope it wasn't too strange, but I wanted to capture this feeling of a dream, where something is obviously odd but at that moment it makes complete sense to you.
Won't make any promises on when the next chapter will be up, but right now it seems I'll rather have troubles because it will turn out being much too long...