some nijiaka in this chapter, for the sake of backstory.
for a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
so collapse.
crumble.
this is not your destruction.
.
this is your birth.
four
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He doesn't sleep for the rest of the week-not even a wink.
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Furihata paces around his room, careful not to let his annoyance resonate in his footfalls. There's no timepiece in his room, leaving him unable to gauge if it is still evening or if another day has already taken over. Shadows follow him wherever he walks to as if guarding him.
He only stops in his reflection of what transpired earlier when the wall adjacent to the door opens up to a dark pit. There, Kuroko emerges, his eyes startlingly blue in the midst of it all. "Furihata-kun," Kuroko says flatly to indicate his acknowledgement. "It is a surprise to see you awake."
"Ah," Furihata scratches his head, suppressing the yawn that threatens to make its way out of his mouth. "I couldn't sleep. Are you bringing me a message?"
Kuroko nods. "Only a short one this time. Is something troubling you?"
Fervently shaking his head, Furihata says, "No, no. I just...uh, let's just get on with the message. I'd rather not waste your time."
"Very well," Kuroko says. His eyes are hooded, quietly yet keenly observing Furihata's reactions. As his fingers reach out to touch Furihata's forehead, Furihata involuntarily closes his eyes, having been used to being swallowed by the darkness and sent to a dimension that he could only travel to when he is unconscious. Furihata collects his bearings as the sunlight treads its way past his eyelids, gently awakening yet persistently piercing.
The setting he's been transported to is familiar from long ago, back when he had to worry about tests and cram school rather than think about where he would derive his and Suzume's means of surviving. He wasn't exactly placed in this classroom when he had the opportunity of education, but he recognizes the writings on the board. Algebra, Furihata muses. Not exactly his cup of tea, but even the academic rigor that he used to go through seems nostalgic when he thinks about it.
He is sitting on the last row, a girl with braided locks situated right before him. Even from this view, he knows that it's Suzume. The sounds of pencil scratching across papyrus is audible throughout the deserted classroom.
Curious, Furihata peers over Suzume's shoulder and squints at her tiny penmanship. It amuses him to this day that she hasn't changed, not even in the slightest bit.
The amusement spontaneously morphs into sadness when he sees what Suzume has been scribbling across her notebook.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Nii-san, can you read this?
Please come back.
The message ends as Suzume tears the page from her notebook and tosses it to the trash can, her hand placed over her lips to muffle her sobs. Furihata blinks back the prickling on his eyes and exhales shakily as he's pulled back into reality. As always, Kuroko watches him without a word, offering only his presence as condolence.
"I really can't reply," Furihata says more to himself than to Kuroko. He rubs circles on his temples to relieve the anguish that has been dormant inside of him.
Kuroko sits beside him on the floor, occupying as little space as possible. It's not too far-fetched with his small frame. "Many of us wish to, but the universe is just as it is, and nobody knows why."
"Sometimes, Kuroko," Furihata mumbles, "I wish things would've turned out more differently. I wonder why I'm here, when it seems as if I don't belong."
"It's natural for you to think that," Kuroko says. "You didn't die the way you were supposed to, but this world only welcomes its own. You are one of us as much as you think you are still one of those you left behind."
Furihata sniffs, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I hope so. Kuroko, do you-"
He turns toward his side only to see the empty space beside him. Sighing, he rises from the cold floor and heads to bed, where he lies wide awake, recounting every mistake he has ever regretted. His eyes soon flutter, the words Good night, good night, good night, Kouki reverberating in his mind as one deafening echo.
With the sunlight streaming through the misty window, he falls asleep.
.
He's five seconds into his slumber when there's a rapping against his door.
.
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His eyes are red-rimmed when he's invited to tea by a raven-haired lad, who animatedly introduces himself in spite of being up during the early hours of the morning. Midorima joins them soon after, huffing as he combs a hand through his hair.
"I'm Takao Kazunari, by the way!" the energetic male says, his face splitting into half due to a wide grin. The star and moon charms on his bracelets create a tingling sound. Furihata barely acknowledges him, only nodding with nothing but a lackadaisical expression.
Takao hums at the sight of Furihata, who nearly slumps to the table and drenches his face with the warm chamomile tea. "Hmm, you must have gotten a bad night's sleep. I wonder why I haven't been able to control that."
Furihata shakes his head, his peripheral vision blurring. His cup of tea remains untouched while Midorima sips on his own. The brunet mumbles, "I...don't understand what you're talking about."
"Or you mustn't have slept at all," Midorima comments as he puts his cup and saucer down, the china clinking with the glass table. "You should inform me if your inability to sleep persists. There are some sleeping draughts in the infirmary for you to freely use."
"I..." Furihata trails off, covering his mouth as he yawns. Takao folds his hands under his chin while waiting for the rest of his statement. "Why did you call me at such an...inconvenient time?"
At that, Takao laughs, although the sound is still not enough to wrench Furihata from his stupor. "Right, I forgot to tell you the order of business. If you didn't catch my name, which I'm assuming is exactly what happened with your reduced attention due to insomnia, I'm Takao, and I'm a Dream Weaver. Basically I intervene when nightmares fall upon the people of this world and turn those nightmares into dreams which are their exact opposite. Now that I think about it, the title should be 'Dream Changer' instead of 'Dream Weaver'. Shin-chan, what do you think?"
Furihata blinks and is surprised to note that it is indeed Midorima whom Takao has referred to. The healer pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and turns away. "It doesn't really matter, as it isn't what we're for."
"Yeah, I was just intending to provide a bit of background information," Takao smiles toothily, turning back to Furihata. The brunet rubs the weariness from his eyes and cracks his neck to stir himself awake. "Do you know why I became a Dream Weaver?"
"Takao," Midorima warns, his bandaged fingers tapping impatiently on glass. "Now is not the time."
The lad in question shrugs, saying, "Now is definitely the right time, seeing as Furihata-kun here will only truly wake up and listen to me if he knows at least the most important part of my story. Funny, this isn't a bed-time story. What should we call it?"
Midorima sighs in exasperation and goes back to peacefully sipping his tea.
"Furihata-kun," Takao says, giggling at his small triumph, "I'm only telling you this because I can sense your curiosity. It's what got us in trouble in the first place." Furihata wrinkles his nose at the accusation and is about to inquire about it when Takao plows forward, his vivacity emanating from his bright eyes and lightening the atmosphere in the almost-empty dining hall.
Takao continues, "I know that you want to ask us questions about our deaths." How did you-Furihata stammers in his head, and his eyes widen. Takao expresses his satisfaction at the fact that he has Furihata's attention now. "There, I caught your interest. Well, mine is really bland, and every time I remember it it doesn't really hurt. I've come to accept it as more of a liberation from a life I never really wanted."
"I'm not...I don't want to intrude," Furihata says in caution, careful not to offend the Dream Weaver. "But why?"
"It's okay-I want to tell you this," Takao assures him, waving his worries off. "Anyway, I had terrible nightmares up until I was about sixteen. Sometimes I kept them to myself, but other times I would wake up screaming and running to my parents' room. It really embarrassed me to seek their presence, being the pubescent male that I was, all sure that the world was going to kneel before me because I was young and ambitious.
"The nightmares kept on progressing like a bad horror novel-never pick one up, by the way-and my parents started to become annoyed at the trouble I've caused them in the wee hours of the night. So they gave me sleeping pills-they'll help you sleep better, they said. They didn't understand that I didn't want to sleep anymore."
Furihata doesn't understand where death came in in Takao's situation. As soon as his confusion is conceived, however, Takao clears it up. "My father was insistent. I'd tell him that the pills weren't eradicating the nightmares, that they were making them worse. I couldn't reason with him. It reached the point where he'd force me to take the pills, where he'd stuff them in my mouth himself. You should've seen my room-it was a classic scenario of overdose, with mountains of bottles whose caps were the confetti and whose labels were pieces of paper ignored."
It astonishes Furihata how good-natured Takao seems to be in spite of recounting his death. "Did it hurt?"
The clink of Midorima's cup against the saucer resounds across the hall, and Takao only chuckles. "Nope. The good thing about having a somewhat bad memory was that you could be happy in spite of the pain you supposedly had to endure."
Furihata exhales, tracing the handle of his cup. It is no longer warm.
Sometimes he doesn't want to listen to these kinds of stories anymore. His stomach lurches, threatening to skin itself raw-all because he's surrounded by people who never deserved the end that they got. Furihata doesn't look at Midorima in hopes that he wouldn't describe his death, too.
"Was I able to answer the million-dollar question?" Takao says, his tone carefree as always. He claps his hands in remembrance and adds, "Ah, let's get back to the priority. It's highly likely for you to ask this question of us, because you're the newest inhabitant of this world and nothing makes sense. You don't buy the fact that we simply exist here, that we weren't something you were familiar of before."
Discreetly, Furihata nods, now only deciding to drink his tea. He winces as it traces a cold path down his throat.
"The problem is that you asked the wrong person," Takao says.
Furihata's jaw unhinges. "...Who? Se...Seijuuro?"
The first name basis makes Takao blink and laugh. However, he does nod to affirm. "It seems as if Akashi still can't come to terms with his own death. Nobody has had the audacity to ask about it, with the exception of yourself. I wouldn't exactly call you out on your straightforwardness, but now it's done more harm than good."
Aghast, Furihata says, "What happened?"
"Well," Takao says, rolling his shoulders backward. "He's trapped in a nightmare about his past, and I tried everything I could to pull him out of it. He wouldn't wake up. I've asked Momoi to visit him there-not physically, of course, since she knows what happened to him anyway-but she declined. The rest of us don't want to find out what's in there."
"Are you asking me to do it?"
"Obviously," Takao answers readily. "You want to find out, don't you? This is your chance, Furihata."
Furihata slumps back on his seat, pale-faced. It's one thing to hear stories about people's murders, but to witness it directly, the memory as fresh as a daisy-it's entirely different. He also can't bear the idea of being in somebody's head, for crying out loud. Besides, the rest of them are far more familiar with the mechanics of venturing into the depths of someone's mind and using magic if necessary.
In his hesitation, Takao knows what Furihata truly feels about the situation. "I don't want to force you into doing this, because...you know how it was like for us when our lives were ended early. We didn't have any choice. But you-you do have a choice, and you're something that we aren't."
Furihata's eyes ask silently, and Takao says, "You're brave."
The only audible sound at that moment is Furihata's heartbeat.
Disrupting the atmosphere, Midorima presses, "We don't have much time. Once the other residents find out what happened to Akashi, they'll panic and the event would trigger their own memories. There may be people who, like Akashi, still bear the burden of their previous lives."
"You really shouldn't ask me to do this," Furihata says helplessly, wanting to help but unable to do so. "Seijuuro didn't want me to know. He would've told me already if he did."
"That's funny," notes Takao, who repeatedly clasps and unclasps his hands. His irises have changed colors-darkened, even. "In his nightmare, I could hear the reverberations of his consciousness. Somewhere in his memory he's standing and waiting. At first, the only one I could hear out of the voices was yours, asking him how he died. We are asking you to meet Akashi in his dream because I also heard another voice. His."
Furihata's hands tremble on the armrests so he places them both under his legs. "What...what did he say?"
Takao's trance-like state ends, and he smiles-not cheerfully nor playfully, but softly. "He said, 'this is my answer.'"
.
.
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Before he's plunged into Akashi's memory, Takao tells him that he'd find himself in nineteenth-century Europe (the name rings a bell but isn't that recognizable to him-he must have read it somewhere). It's raining when Furihata gets there, the pitter-patter against the cobblestone paths tickling to the ear. Furihata is surprised when he feels the material of the cravat against his neck and subsequently looks down at himself to see what he's clothed with.
Somebody shouts behind him and he turns just in time to see a vehicle pulled by a horse-omnibus service, a whisper brushes the shell of his ear. Furihata doesn't waste any time diving to the side, and when he doesn't make it, he closes his eyes in anticipation of the crunching of his bones.
It doesn't come at all.
To his astonishment, the vehicle just passes by him, one of the passengers still screaming with what appears to be excitement. Furihata wrinkles his nose at the oddity and tries entering a building without using the door. He yelps when he goes right through the wall like he is nothing but something at the same time. He also notices that he isn't wet from the rain at all.
Furihata looks around his surroundings, smoke rising to the sky and merchants and craftsmen hustling on the streets. They speak in varying dialects, each one more foreign than the last, but when Furihata concentrates on listening he realizes that he can understand all of them perfectly. Must be Takao's doing, then.
He starts walking, desperate to find any signs and, if possible, anything that would lead him to Akashi. It doesn't bug him when people pass through him, like the ghost he is in a memory that will never happen again. People dash to the inside of shops to wait until the downpour ceases, but he continues to run, footsteps resounding as slaps against the water on the ground. The logos stamped above the doors to the shops tell him that he's in a city called Paris.
Furihata then realizes it all-he's in a forgotten city in a year whose records have gone missing due to its being too far back in a past, and he's supposed to find someone whom he doesn't know about that much.
There's a whine rising in the pit of his throat.
Wandering around the vicinity for what seems to be a whole rainy afternoon, Furihata swallows the unmistakable feeling of being lost even with a sense of purpose. He wonders why Akashi has to make it this difficult for him to learn of his death, but then again, he's the one who started this situation, and he wants to be the one to end it.
He finally comes across a large courtyard, dumbfounded by the number of people in business suits and with top hats getting off their carriages. They're all silent, grim expressions painting their faces. Most of them appear to be middle-aged, judging from their perfect postures, the lines that adorn their foreheads, and the quiet determination that disguises itself as the steely look in their eyes.
But then Furihata sees a boy, seeming to be no more than seventeen years old.
He runs after him, breathless and crazed and sorry for plunging him back where he doesn't want to be. He's so young, so innocent-the brightness of his scarlet hair making him stand out in a sea of upperclassmen. Even then, Akashi has been outstanding and prominent that it doesn't really surprise Furihata any more.
But his age...he should have been given more time to live his life.
Furihata is nearing Akashi, fingertips reaching for his shoulder, but Akashi's voice-the one that he knows very well-echoes in his head.
Not yet, Kouki.
He stops in the middle of his tracks and looks down on his hands.
They're vanishing.
.
The last thing he sees before he's thrust into another vignette of Akashi's life is the human Akashi used to be. The Akashi in this recollection turns around, graceful without trying, and looks right into Furihata's disappearing form.
Furihata blinks as the wind circles him.
He catches a glimpse of red.
Nothing of gold.
.
.
.
Furihata pants, the cold gust of air having stolen his breath away from him while sending him to another place, another time. In this memory, he's in a garden of some sort, with roses in bloom and their thorns threatening to lacerate everything in their way. He hears the clinking of teacups and small conversations.
There Akashi is, poised and impeccable as he is, as he should be. He lowers his gaze while sipping from his cup, listening to a raven-haired lad. Furihata realizes that here, he isn't able to move, as if being one of the flowers that can only let themselves be adored from afar.
"I should get going, Nijimura-san," Akashi murmurs, his tone clipped. He places his cup back on its saucer and dusts something invisible off of his clothing.
Nijimura, his companion, laughs and waves Akashi off. "We're not in Japan anymore. Drop the suffix, Akashi."
Akashi purses his lips stiffly. "Duly noted. But I must go, Nijimura. Father has appointed me to visit a prospective wife."
Wife? Furihata wonders in awe, every bit stunned that Akashi would be marrying at such a young age. Akashi rises from his seat and looks at Nijimura expectantly, as if waiting for a said goodbye. From this distance, Furihata isn't certain if there's something holding Akashi back-his crimson eyes don't have as much luster as Furihata would have anticipated.
Sighing, Nijimura also stands up and puts the chair back in place, leaving his cup of tea untouched. "I suppose I should be leaving, too. I was just reminded that I have an appointment with our family's tailor. I'll tell you this: arranged marriages consume your time and life, so while you aren't in any kind of engagement yet you should make the most of what you still have."
Akashi crosses his eyebrows. "Wouldn't it be better if I am to gear myself for married life by devoting my time to such preparations?"
"Trust me," Nijimura says, and Akashi's eyes soften at the statement. "Don't do anything you would regret later on, Akashi. It's one thing to have obligations and to fulfill what society expects of you, but sometimes you have to let life happen to you."
Akashi keeps his silence, observing Nijimura as if evaluating his honesty, and says, "I'll remember that."
Nijimura doesn't end up saying his farewell when Akashi leaves first, heading toward Furihata's direction. Furihata instinctively tries to hide behind the trimmed bushes but remembers that he is not capable of movement. He opens his mouth to gather as much air as he can before he holds his breath.
Akashi trudges by him, motions too precise and controlled, as if he is dancing under a puppeteer's hand. Furihata thoroughly looks at him and at his hands, balled in his pockets. Akashi's expression is hard, as if he does not want to wed under his Father's orders, and lonely, as if he wants Nijimura to stop him from doing so.
In the opposite direction, Nijimura walks away.
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.
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The scene fades slowly, the darkness closing in on an immobile Furihata and the light claiming him once again. This time, he's in a house with all the curtains drawn and a lone violin playing downstairs. Furihata is standing beside large double doors when they open to reveal Akashi, who bows immediately following his entrance.
"Father."
Furihata turns to look at the man behind a desk, looking up from the stack of papers in front of him. Akashi's father sets his quill pen down-something tells Furihata that the writing instrument is used more out of tradition rather than necessity. He presumes that he's right when he sees a set of steel nibs on the corner of the desk.
Akashi's father adjusts his spectacles accordingly. "Seijuuro," he says, composed voice reverberating in the spacious room. "Have you gone to see the Duchess?"
"Yes," Akashi replies tersely at first. When his father looks at him, not blinking for more than five seconds, he continues, "I've conversed with her parents, and they informed me that she's...rebelling. Her parents are currently investigating about her behavior, and they're convinced that she has a lover among the peasants."
"Tell them that you will not be pursuing this commitment," his father says. Akashi's eyes widen when the man elaborates. "Of course, be delicate. You know what you should say."
"That I have their best interests, and I will maintain their friendship," Akashi casts his eyes down.
"Good," his father says, tone unchanging. "Seijuuro, I also wanted to talk to you about a letter I had you write."
Furihata sucks in a sharp breath as only he notices that Akashi swallows, his facade unwavering. "What is it, Father?"
Akashi's father clasps his hands under his chin. "It's clear that your grasp on French is mediocre at best. In spite of having been given full marks by your tutor, you will have to attend more sessions. You are an Akashi. Anything below exceptional is unacceptable, and if this persists, you will certainly have to abandon your name. I cannot bear to think that someone undistinguished could be a part of my family and be the stain that ruins it."
Furihata gasps, cupping a hand over his mouth to muffle his disbelief at the fact that Akashi's father would readily disown the boy if necessary. Akashi, on the other hand, maintains a neutral expression. "Understood, Father."
His father takes one last look at him before he picks his pen up and resumes writing. "Very well then," he says, his eyes concentrated on the papyrus. "You may go, Seijuuro. Do not disappoint me."
Akashi doesn't say anything. He bows and exits, as light-footed as ever.
.
.
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Of all things, Furihata does not wish to feel pity for Akashi Seijuuro because he does not deserve any, and it would be safe to assume that he wants none. While the wind whirls around and carries him, however, all he can see is Akashi suppressing any of his emotions, cramming all of them into a chest whose key he has already thrown away. He sees a boy, a young boy, burdened with the weight that could crush his sanity and his heart-but if Furihata says that out loud, Akashi would deny having a heart at all.
Seeing Akashi's submission only makes Furihata flinch with unease. He doesn't have any idea how Akashi can manage keeping it all inside without ever getting tired of doing so.
Akashi is in the garden again-this time, he's taking a stroll with Nijimura, who pockets his hands and sighs. "I'm exhausted from having been measured countless times. The prospect of running away from my responsibilities is too tantalizing to ignore."
"Nothing should distract you from duty," Akashi says listlessly. "Shame is much more atrocious than being bound to your obligations."
"I know that, Akashi," Nijimura takes his left hand out to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I know it very well. I've been playing this game longer than you have." Akashi, who plucks a red rose from a nearby bush, barely registers any pain when one of the thorns prick his finger.
When Akashi stops to throw the rose away, Nijimura notices the spot of incarnadine on his skin, also halting his footsteps. Akashi looks at Nijimura, his eyes challenging. "The number of years that you've been abiding by the rules is not equivalent to how willing you are to actually abide by the rules."
At that, Nijimura chuckles, shaking his head at the answer that he should have expected from Akashi. He takes Akashi's hand and brings his finger to his lips, lightly swiping his tongue over the small wound.
Akashi raises his eyebrow in question, but Furihata can see through him-he knows that Akashi does not disapprove of Nijimura's action. While Furihata reddens at the intimate gesture, Akashi lies and says, "That's unsanitary, Nijimura."
Nijimura lets his hand go. "Yet you didn't retract your hand the moment you knew that I was going to do it."
Akashi does not reply, his stare fiery but hollow. After staring back for a few minutes, Nijimura bends to pick up the discarded rose, holding its stem carefully as if it is the one to bleed. He twists it in his hand, examining the deep color of the petals. "Do you know this rose's meaning, Akashi?"
Akashi only scoffs. "Of course. It is expected of me to know the language of flowers for courting purposes."
"I wonder if you know something only you have ever wanted to learn about," Nijimura says, smiling. "Tell me its meaning, then."
Still unnoticed, Furihata bites his lip, guilty that he is witnessing a secret that Akashi ought to have kept to himself. He's not sure why he knows this in spite of not having been romantically involved with anyone-but Nijimura gives himself away in his words and actions. One question that lingers in his mind, however, is one regarding the reason behind the catchflies.
Was Nijimura the one who gave them to Akashi?
"Passionate love," Akashi responds easily, bearing no inhibition about the matter. Furihata slowly inhales, knowing where this is heading to.
Nijimura hands him the rose. "Well said, like every other statement you've been forced to memorize for the sake of amity with wealthy strangers and assurance that the reputation your predecessors built would not crumble."
Furihata's surprised when Akashi does not feign taciturnity. In fact, Furihata discerns the rage behind Akashi's tone. "I beg your pardon?"
"Live your life, Akashi," Nijimura says, placing the rose in Akashi's grasp when the redhead does not take it. "Feel what you want to feel, and say what you really mean. You can't act like a marionette for all eternity."
"Not this life," Akashi mumbles. He tightens his hold on the rose, dismissing the poking thorns. "This is not my life to live."
"There is always a choice," says Nijimura. He walks over to the spot directly in front of Akashi and places his hands on the latter's shoulders. His grip is firm, making Akashi wince a little, but Nijimura smiles, only for Akashi, and every noise in the distance becomes even more of gibberish as Akashi looks up at the other lad. "There is always your choice, and it matters just as much as your father's does."
Something catches in Furihata's throat when Nijimura leans in and closes his eyes, not bothering to ask permission because he knows that Akashi would allow him, anyway. Akashi's fingers find the lapel of Nijimura's suit, and he clings to him as if he is his lifeline. Out of courtesy, Furihata looks away, thinking that he is not worth showing this to.
He isn't worthy of seeing Akashi unveil whom he truly is, not at all.
.
.
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The transition to the other significant events in Akashi's life is blindingly fast, as if Furihata is skimming Momoi's notebook and gleaning only glimpses of the content. He witnesses a kiss, another kiss, a shy one, a short peck, a kiss that stops time, a kiss that spans the rest of time, a kiss that ends too quickly-and all of the kisses are driven by something pure yet powerful. They are in secret, but most of all, they are out of love.
Furihata sees Akashi at his most vulnerable, buried in warm sheets beside someone who doesn't control him and treats him as a person rather than a machine that's flawless and set out to use whatever means to achieve victory.
It makes him cry, makes him bury his face in his hands and surround himself with darkness while he's trembling with sobs wracking his chest-because he knows that one day Akashi will lose all of this, and he doesn't need to know why it's going to happen to gauge just how much hurt would weigh itself down on Akashi.
Tonight, Nijimura does not kiss Akashi like he usually does during their clandestine meetings. Akashi notices this quickly; after all, he knows how to see right through people. But he doesn't ask, and Furihata, who sits in the shadows as he watches Akashi's life progress, almost pleads for him to ask right there and then.
It isn't until Nijimura sets his cravat on the bedside table that Akashi opens his mouth. It's too late, as Nijimura beats him to it.
"In another world, we will have duties, but they're the ones that won't prevent us from seeing each other," Nijimura says softly, testing each word on his tongue. "This world will never let us have anything we want."
Akashi exhales, knowing very well that something bad is impending. "Nijimura, I prefer direct statements. You know that."
Nijimura rubs his temples. He's only a young man himself, but he appears weary, perhaps far more than those who have lived long enough to have seen people take charge of others' fates. "The wedding is due to take place in a month."
"A month left," Akashi murmurs, scarlet eyes flickering in the haze of the lamplight.
"No," Nijimura says, his gaze determined. "It doesn't have to be that way. There's the idea of elopement, and-"
Akashi's expression has soured. "Nijimura, you and I both know that this has been coming for a long time now."
Astounded, Nijimura stands up from the cot and presses, "Have you forgotten what I said about choices? How you're able to make your own if you allow yourself to? Or have you turned your back on all of those for the sake of your pride and standing?"
"You said it yourself," Akashi says with no hint of emotion. "We cannot get what we want, and we cannot make a choice if that choice has already been set in stone for us."
"Akashi," Nijimura calls out, his voice hoarse with desperation. "This isn't...this isn't something that the Akashi Seijuuro I know would say."
Before Akashi can rebut, Nijimura clears his throat and adds, "But you're right, in the end. You've always been absolutely, damnably right-sometimes it infuriates me. Neither of us can forsake our duties. It's not just us-this is not all about us. But know that had we not been in this lifetime, I would've fought for you."
Furihata brings his fingers to his quivering lips, willing them to stop. It's impossible for Akashi not to feel even a twinge of anger, for Nijimura giving up so easily, or of pain, for not having been worth the struggle and the running away.
Akashi straightens himself, forcing back the prickling on his eyes. "Know that I would have done the same." He holds his hand out, all affection lost from his touch, but instead of shaking it Nijimura pulls him to his chest and embraces him.
"I know you're strong and you can fend off for yourself," he whispers, his hand on the back of Akashi's neck. "I believe in you."
What Akashi wants to hear from him is, I'm here for you, but it never comes-the only thing that washes over him like an ebbing tide at first is the realization that he has always been alone, that even Nijimura has trusted him to sort this out independently. The epiphany then comes crashing and raging inside of him, tearing and burning and destroying and clawing at him like the evil thing that it is.
In spite of that, Akashi doesn't wind his arms around Nijimura's waist in return.
He doesn't let himself cry, either.
.
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The setting changes to that of a church, all bells tolling in time for a wedding. The ceremony spans many hours, but the vows are the only things that Akashi pays attention to. He doesn't have to describe Nijimura and his bride-he doesn't know the woman well, aside from the fact that she is the heiress to many lands just south of Paris. Besides, if he tries to tell something about Nijimura, it would have to be about him-and-her, because he and his wife are eternally bound by hollow promises that everybody expects them to fulfill.
To be fair, Nijimura hasn't promised Akashi anything. They're both realists in a world where utility is valued over desire, and it relieves him a bit that Nijimura didn't do more to let him down.
The flowers in Nijimura's wedding are catchflies, red and pristine in a place where nothing of such purity exists anymore. When the rites are over, Akashi stays behind, his fingers tracing the petals of one catchfly. Furihata is sitting primly, observing as Akashi recounts what it means-youthful love-until Akashi blinks, surprised, at one hidden catchfly, its color different from the rest.
It's white.
Akashi plucks it from the arrangement and examines it, laughing bitterly at how unsuspecting the other attendees had been. He takes the white catchfly and retrieves a red one, placing them both in his breast pocket. Furihata watches him silently, noting the falter in Akashi's steps as he walks out of the church and into the sun. Furihata clasps his hands on his lap, his eyes far too heavy for him to have them open for a long time.
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The last of the recollections is in the room where Akashi gets stripped down to what he is: an entity created for the sole purpose of carrying traditions over generations and expanding the prominence of the Akashi household. Furihata winces, unable to do anything more than that, when Akashi's father rises from his seat, the shadows framing his stern look.
"It has come to my attention that you had trysts with Nijimura Shuuzo in the past," he says, voice as cold as the room.
Akashi doesn't respond-he only bows his head to look at his feet.
His father continues in spite of the clamor outside their home. "Haven't I always taught you to weigh the consequences of your actions? If people find out about your disgusting dalliance, you will be condemned. Bear in mind that you still carry my name."
"That was a mistake on my part, Father," Akashi says, his voice not breaking-not even once. "I apologize. It was a brief affair, and it will never happen again."
"No, it won't," his father responds, his eyes narrowed. "My new wife will be giving birth to a child soon."
Akashi stills in his breathing. How had he not noticed?
His father says, "She will be giving birth to my son, one whom I will make sure won't fail me. You are not necessary to the Akashi family's goal of securing victory, Seijuuro."
Akashi's eyes widen. Furihata's own do, too, both at the insinuation in the statement and the first show of emotion that Akashi has ever had in front of his father. "Father-"
"This is what you wanted, Seijuuro," his father says firmly. "You are relieved of all of your duties, but you are no longer an Akashi."
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Furihata's teeth chatter when the chilly wind blows right on his face, and he opens his eyes to the sight of gray skies. He gasps when he finds that he's standing on the railings of a bridge that's hundreds of feet above a commercial river.
Beside him, Akashi is looking up, blinking back something that he can't afford to let go of. His hands hang by his side uselessly.
Furihata inhales sharply as he begins to see how Akashi truly died. He tries reaching out to hold Akashi back, to stop him from wasting his life when he could've done so much more, but he is once again rendered immobile.
Akashi closes his eyes solemnly and murmurs, "There is a choice."
He remains oblivious to Furihata, who begins thrashing to escape from his invisible bondage. Furihata starts pleading, shouting, "Seijuuro, please don't do this-don't, please-"
He's well aware that it won't change anything, because he's only in a memory that has already been done. He doesn't want to see Akashi's death, having witnessed Akashi die several times at the hands of people who could have chosen differently. Akashi breathes in for the last time before he spreads his arms and falls.
Furihata screams, the sound raw in his throat, and he's able to move too late. By the time he reaches for Akashi, the water resounds with a hard splash. He chokes on air even if keeps him alive, and the string of ragged murmurs that he emits consists of nothing but no, Seijuuro, no no nonono.
He's still catching his breath when he gets transported to a more familiar place-to the cliff where Akashi sits alone, fiddling with catchflies while hanging his feet above the raging waters. Furihata is crying, hiding his face behind his hand, in spite of the memories being over.
Akashi says, his eyes closed, "I hope that you understand now."
"I'm sorry, Sei-" Furihata hiccups, shaking his head to steer clear of all that plagues his eyes. He doesn't want to call out the name that Akashi's father used millennia ago. "I'm sorry-I'm really sorry."
"It's not your fault," Akashi replies, his tone as light as the breeze. He is still sitting away from where Furihata is.
He lets Furihata settle down for a while, the latter's eyes already puffy and sore. Furihata doesn't dare stare at him when he knows that Akashi has never been the same again, and that they are, indeed, the same regarding the choice they had to make.
Furihata jolts when flashes of light appear in his peripheral vision. He raises his chin to stare at the moonless sky, and he opens his mouth in awe at three meteors simultaneously streaking the sky with momentary brightness. As soon as they fade away, Akashi exhales, and Furihata gathers the courage to look at him.
He finds gold in place of red. "Kouki, we are different because it is us who ultimately ended ourselves, regardless of what drove us to do it. We are also different because while others attain one thing they have desired the most, we are given three."
"Three?" Furihata repeats, his voice still strained from all that he had seen earlier.
Akashi nods, standing up from his position and striding over to where Furihata is. His eyes silently ask for permission, and Furihata acknowledges by shifting to the side to accommodate Akashi. It's surreal to converse with Akashi like this only moments after he had fallen right before Furihata's eyes, and somehow it relieves Furihata that this is the now, that this is what's real.
The smaller distance between them makes it possible for Furihata to concentrate only on Akashi's eyes. "Kouki, my first wish was to be absolute-to be able to write my own destiny without any interference. So I became king."
Furihata bites his lip, not knowing why Akashi is eager to tell him all of this.
"My second wish," Akashi proceeds, stepping back, "was something related to my fall."
There's a shuffling noise behind Akashi, and Furihata gasps as something protrudes from his back-something white and that which glistens even if it is only under the starlight. It extends far away from Akashi, fluttering proudly.
Akashi smiles sadly. "I wanted wings that could save me."
The obstruction in Furihata's throat pierces him again from within, but Furihata chooses to step forward and to reach out, tracing the outline of Akashi's wings. He caresses the feathers, the texture feeling like home, and breathes, "They're beautiful." Under his touch, Akashi's wings stir slightly.
"Why are you showing me these, Sei?" Furihata meekly asks, still admiring the span of Akashi's wings. "Why, if you didn't want to remember? Why me, of all people?"
Akashi doesn't answer him immediately, but eventually he says, "Because you're the only one who asked. And I wanted to see all of this again. It's hard to remember something you desperately wanted to forget, but the past would eventually catch up to me, someday."
Withdrawing his hand, Furihata faces Akashi completely-this is the Akashi Seijuuro who has bared himself, who didn't want anything to do with humans because they were fragile with their emotions, foolish with their decisions, and cruel with their convictions.
"People fall in love with mysteries, Kouki," Akashi murmurs quietly. "I doubt that you'd want that to happen to you, so I am letting you see what you have to see now."
Furihata doesn't comprehend it at first, but he senses warmth marauding his face when he finally does. He's about to ask Akashi what the last thing he wants the most is; Akashi interrupts, his wings folding back on themselves. "We are out of time."
"What's happening?" Furihata blurts, looking around his surroundings to see that the sky and the ground are crumbling. He flinches when a crack appears under his foot, and he steps aside to avoid falling through.
"Don't resist the collapse, Kouki," Akashi tells him, holding his palm out. Furihata takes his hand and clings onto it tightly. "I am simply waking up."
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Furihata gasps as he's brought back to reality, his vision a white-out from the lights directly above him. Silhouettes, which he assumes to belong to Midorima and Takao, loom over him, and he blinks to acclimate to his surroundings. He tries to move around, his bones brittle and his movement sluggish.
The room is cold, but the hand in his is warm.
Akashi stirs shortly after, small puffs of air escaping his lips. The first thing he does is swivel his head to look at Furihata, and he sighs once he has assured that the brunet is safe beside him.
"Two days," Midorima says, dissipating the image of a clock that he has recently conjured. He strides over to help Akashi up while Takao does the same to Furihata. Akashi loosens his grip on Furihata's hand and completely disentangles their fingers.
Furihata winces, placing a palm over his forehead. He croaks, "That...long?"
"Shintarou. Kazunari." Akashi motions for Midorima to let him go as he tries to maintain his balance by himself. "Thank you for your assistance."
Takao shakes his head, chuckling. "Akashi, you look terrible."
"So I've presumed," Akashi says, flexing his fingers behind his back. Furihata looks at him, and there appear to be dark circles under his eyes although he has just woken up. His trimmed hair is mussed from lying down for far too long. "Has everything remained fine in my absence?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, Midorima responds, "It's a miracle that nobody questioned your disappearance from conventions of the Court."
"There are no miracles, Shintarou," Akashi tells him. Instinctively, his eyes dart toward Furihata's direction. "Kouki, are you fine?"
Furihata's face is flushed when he answers, his hands tingling with the lasting impression of Akashi's. "Yes, Sei."
If the nickname surprises them, Midorima and Takao do not show their astonishment, especially not in front of Akashi. Takao clears his throat and chuckles to slightly alter the atmosphere. He pats Furihata's back. "Well, I'll get going if the matter's resolved. Thanks again, Furihata. You saved us there."
Furihata bows quickly. "I didn't do anything significant, but you're welcome, Takao-kun."
Midorima doesn't voice his gratitude, but he meets Furihata's gaze and nods. Both Takao and Midorima exit the room with silence remaining in their wake. Akashi, on the other hand, follows their footsteps only after minutes of reorienting himself. There's a slight waver to his movement, like he is about to succumb to fatigue.
When he does stumble on his next step, Furihata is there to catch him, his arms hooked under Akashi's. Akashi blinks as Furihata catches his breath, staring Akashi in the eyes by mistake. The moment he does so, he straightens himself and holds Akashi properly, keeping the distance between their faces.
"Sei," Furihata says first, withdrawing his hands to place them on Akashi's shoulders. "Rest first. That...that dream must have taken a toll on you."
Evaluating him, Akashi says, "I promised to find your parents. It is only fair for me never to break my promises."
Furihata shakes his head, quelling his overhwhelming desire to see his parents again. "We'll do that later. For now, recover. It was my fault that you've been stuck in your memories, and I don't want to burden you even more."
"You were a bystander," Akashi says resolutely, carefully prying Furihata's hands off of him. "Not the wrongdoer. Besides, it is the last of the three wishes you are granted. You might as well find the last key of your happiness as soon as you can."
The brunet barely registers the words when he knits his eyebrows, replaying Akashi's previous statement to make sure that he has heard it correctly. "The last? But I've only...achieved one."
Akashi exhales, his face contorting to a frown as he pinches the bridge of his nose. He snaps his fingers while he's at it, summoning a glass of water from thin air. Furihata doesn't widen his eyes as Akashi grabs the floating glass and puts it to his lips. When Akashi finishes, he coughs and says, "Excuse me for that. But yes, the last. The first was your bravery. The second was escape from responsibility."
Something bitter finds its way on Furihata's tongue as he silently denies Akashi's assumption about his second desire, but the more that he thinks about it, he realizes that it is true.
"Naturally," Akashi resumes, his face having gained color again, "the last would be a reunion with your parents. I would say that we shouldn't postpone that. All inhabitants of this world have achieved what they wanted, so it should be the same for you."
"To be honest, I don't really think that I'm brave," says Furihata, who clenches and unclenches his fists. "I don't feel brave. Maybe that's not what I wanted, in the first place."
Akashi stares at him. "I don't think you understand, Kouki. The main reason why it's easy to see right through you is the fact that you're not afraid to bare it all. You cry when you need to, you smile when you can, and you ask questions when everybody else is hesitant to do so. You don't follow take precautions like Shintarou does, yet you don't take huge risks as Daiki is fond of doing. You're reckless-no, the term is 'brave'. You're brave in your own way."
Akashi's voice is distant, as if he is forcing himself to act like he is not concerned with the matter. In spite of that, Furihata reddens after hearing Akashi say all those things about him. It isn't that he has to look to Akashi for the validation of his actions and the confirmation of his identity, but to hear those words uttered to him for the first time...he can't discern what's monopolizing his chest, but he figures that it might not be something important, after all.
Furihata takes his turn to speak after letting it all sink in. "Sei...what about you? I never got to hear your last desire."
"It doesn't matter," Akashi says, gazing into the unfathomable distance beyond the window. "I haven't found it in the time that I have been here, and I doubt that I ever will."
Furihata purses his lips, noting that Akashi hasn't answered him directly. After a while, he says, "But what is it?"
Stubbornly, Akashi replies, "I don't know."
Uncertain if he should press further, Furihata stares at his feet. Neither of them move in the time that passes, but when the quiet becomes deafening, Furihata walks towards the door, his hand grasping the knob. He only holds it, not twisting it, before he whirls around and says, "You don't have to be afraid, Sei. I...I can't say that I understand how you felt when you were in another world-when you were alive-but I will always be here, if you need to talk to somebody. If you need someone to just listen."
He's met with silence, Akashi still looking at him as if the room is empty. Furihata is about to take his leave when he hears footsteps, ever so light.
Akashi walks to him and touches his hand, gently pulling it to reveal his palm. Furihata opens his mouth, stunned, and Akashi places the two catchflies, red and white, in his grasp.
"Keep these for me, Kouki," Akashi murmurs sedately. "I will tell you what it is that I've never found once I ask you to give these flowers back. Until then, you have to keep these safe."
The trust in Akashi's voice also resonates in his eyes, and Furihata swallows, the task too large for him and his self-worth much less than what Akashi sees in him for him to be entrusted with things that Akashi has treasured throughout the millennia.
Furihata caresses the petals with his thumb and returns Akashi's gaze, his face splitting into a smile. "I will. I promise."
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to be continued
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i loved writing this chapter the most xx
quote from the lovely nhixxie on tumblr.