Disclaimer: I don't own.
Beta-Read: The Digital Gate
Notes: I expect 11 more chapters. So in total, 15 chapters. Not that bad.
Review, please. I swear, I haven't been getting enough time or motivation to write because I'm getting practically no reviews! C'mon guys, I know you're reading this!
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/Friday, Midnight/
Iori walked slowly as he entered the gate.
It was midnight, according to the clock situated on the tower, and so it felt very eerie to the young boy.
His hands were sweaty, having been carrying the flowers.
Usually, one would grab the pink or red.
He hated those colors. They reminded him of happiness.
As he kneeled before the gray stone, his fingers traced over the words.
Hiroki Hida, beloved husband, son, and father. Died in an act of heroism.
Iori felt his eyes become moist. He felt his heart starting to break.
He remembered the first day so very clearly.
A thirteen year old boy was grabbing papers off the couch and table. The clock on the wall said seven fifteen.
His mother was in the kitchen, making pancakes and pouring orange juice. His grandfather was meditating in his room, oblivious to the morning chaos around him.
Iori was quietly eating oatmeal, watching intently as his father stepped into the kitchen.
Mr. Hida was a respected and honorable man. His name was known throughout his department, and everyone felt safe in his company.
Iori smiled at his father when he patted his brown hair.
He returned to his breakfast, his eyes staring at the bowl. He observed the bumps and how the steam only rose from certain sections of the meal.
It was something only Iori would do so early in the morning.
But as his father kissed his wife on the cheek, and she giggled, he ignored it.
It was so routine.
He didn't pay attention to that type of stuff.
He knew he should have. He just didn't.
Hiroki smiled at his son.
Iori knew he was proud. He was proud that his father was proud.
Mr. Hida tilted his head. That was when Iori noticed.
He noticed the wrinkles on the forehead of the man. He noticed the way his father wrinkled his nose every few seconds. He noticed the bags under his eyes.
His father was stressed out.
But Iori didn't do anything about it.
Iori was certain that his father's reflexes were slowing down. His father was old. He knew that his father was going to need help.
He just didn't say a word.
"Hey son?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"Uh huh, whatever you say."
And those four sentences were what killed Hiroki Hida.
The guilt, the regret, and the pure insanity were what drove Iori to visit the grave of the only man he had truly hated at one point.
Now, however, he loved the man more than anything.
"Dad…"
The flowers he had carried with him were placed on the soft soil, and Iori found himself not being able to peel his eyes away.
He couldn't see anything anymore.
Both figuratively and literally.
His eyes were blurred from his tears. His eyes stung from the pain the tears caused him. He wanted to wipe them away, but he knew the damage would get worse with his dirt covered hands.
His heart and head were covered by his guilt. His regret blocked his judgment.
Being curious and being reliable used to be his two greatest qualities.
Used to be.
He no longer cared to know what was going on around him. He no longer helped anyone besides himself.
He had lost himself.
And he wanted himself back.
"Dad, help me."
Iori's hand balled into a fist, and he closed his eyes.
"I love you, dad, and I know that you know it. I miss you. I need you. I need you to help me. I need you to help me help everyone else. I need someone to get me out of this mess."
He opened his eyes, and focused on the grave, picturing his father's brilliant eyes looking lovingly back at him.
"Why? Why did you leave me? Why did you start this mess? If you hadn't died, I wouldn't have fallen apart. If I hadn't fallen apart, I could have prevented all of the others from falling apart. I was suppose to help them, I was suppose to somewhat guide them."
Iori snorted.
"Ha, me, guiding the others. Imagine that? You can't, right? It's not plausible. It's not conceivable. If only you could see me now. If only the others could see me now. I bet Miyako would be slapping me silly, distraught. I bet Ken would have nothing to do with me. And same with Daisuke. Hikari and Takeru would only shake their damn heads, saying nothing, just looking with that damned look of theirs. Hell, I don't even know the others! They only look at me like a fucking kid. And I am one. I'm just one fucking, damn, kid."
He stuffed his head in his palms, his eyes burning from contact with the dirt.
"Dad, how did I end up like this? How did I lose myself? I wanna be me again. I wanna be Iori. Iori Hida."
The teen choked back the remaining tears, and wiped his hands on his pants before wiping his eyes.
Sighing, he shook his head.
"Look at me. I'm so lost; I'm speaking to an epitaph. But dad, I love you. And I hope you always remember that."
A slight smile creeping upon his features, Iori glanced down at the grave.
Slowly, he picked himself up, dusting himself off, and ran his fingers through his hair.
He knew he should get help. He knew professional help wasn't going to do any good.
He need Hikari's guiding smile. He needed Miyako's crazy advice. He needed Ken's skills. He needed Takeru's friendly laugh. He needed Daisuke's determination.
He needed everyone. Every single last fucking damn one of them.
And he was sending himself to hell if Daisuke wasn't the man to help him.
Iori smiled.
It was a true, genuine smile.
It was something that Iori hadn't seen for a very, very long time.
And it felt good.
Iori looked down at the grave one last time.
There, on the moist, fresh soil, lay a dozen white roses, smiling back at him.
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Takeru couldn't sleep.
If there was one thing that pissed him off the most, it was not being able to get in all the hours of sleep he needed.
And so, he was cranky.
He dragged himself out of bed, having given up staring at his white ceiling, imagining something exciting happening. Frustrated, he grumbled under his breath.
Having gained a sudden idea, Takeru made his way into the adjacent room. There, he saw the open drawer in front of him.
Yamato always had trouble sleeping. Being as busy as he was, he always had sleeping pills handy.
And for once, Takeru was glad for it.
Searching through the pile of drugs, his frustration peeked when he came up empty.
When he slammed his hand onto the drawer, he didn't notice the ceramic mug which went flying towards the floor, smashing into millions of pieces.
Takeru ignored it.
He kept searching.
However, in was in that period that he heard the sobs.
They were muffled, and Takeru assumed someone was trying to cover them. They were quiet and short, the person clearly out of breath.
He glanced at the clock.
Midnight.
Who the hell would be knocking on his door at midnight?
But the sobs made him stop.
Takeru was sensitive. He had sensitive hearing. He had sensitive sight. He had sensitive taste.
And he was sensitive to other people's feelings.
Especially when people cried.
If there was one thing Takeru hated, it was when people cried.
Whenever Takeru encountered someone crying, he felt the sudden urge to punch something. To punch someone. Usually, the person crying was knocked out after one hit.
Feeling that urge creeping up on him again, Takeru made his way to the front entrance, stifling the pain caused from the shards on glass on the floor.
He pulled the door open, drawing his fist back.
He stopped.
Out of all the people he hated to see cry, the person before him was the worst.
He only liked seeing her happy. She was the embodiment of happiness.
And there she was, crying.
Her deep eyes were red, and her cheeks stained with tears. Takeru looked away from the angelic face.
He hated her. He hated everything about her.
"Go to hell."
He made to close the door on her face, but he stopped and melted midway when she looked up.
And when she gave him pleading eyes to let her in, he slowly moved to the side.
He ignored the weak, and yet genuine, smile his visitor gave him.
Takeru hated her.
Or at least, that's what he told himself.
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When he turned around, he couldn't help but smile.
There he was, his goofy grin beaming back at him.
That's Daisuke for you.
"Hey."
"Hey."
The younger of the two slowly walked up to the other, and the goggle-headed boy smiled feebly.
Daisuke awkwardly shifted.
"So….how are you?"
Iori snorted.
"Oh, just dandy." He broke out into a grin. "I can't believe I'm going to say this…but, give me a hug."
Daisuke blinked. And then, he blinked again.
Iori was right. He couldn't believe he'd just said that.
But he gave in.
The friendly hug was awkward, but both knew that the best interests of each other were present.
Daisuke knew it was a start.
"You willing to help me knock some sense into the others?"
"Of course."
Daisuke nodded, and threw his arm around his friend, glad that something had turned out all right. But there was a tiny hint of suspicion in his mind.
"What got ya to get your head out of ya ass?"
Iori sighed.
"I guess…life. Just did some thinking. And some talking."
Daisuke noted that his eyes quickly darted back to the grave, and Daisuke smiled in understanding.
"Hey, whatever it was, I'm glad there's somebody out there with some sense in them. Now, are you ready to unfuck some totally fucked up people?"
"Absolutely."
And with that, the most unlikely duo exited the graveyard.
However, not before both cast a meek look at Mr. Hida's final resting place.
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Ken was fast asleep.
But his dreams haunted him.
They always had.
Ever since he could remember, his dreams had been filled with horror and dread.
Sometimes, he wanted nothing more than it to be morning. Other nights, he soaked in the darkness and despair.
Tonight, he showed no interest.
He held no emotion. He had no feeling.
He just slept.
In the back of his mind, he could hear the muffled cries of his mother, and the desperate pleas of his father. He could hear the pounding on his door.
He was surprised no one just knocked it down.
Ken didn't bother to tell them to go away anymore. He knew that they would keep insisting that he leave the gloom and shadows in his room.
But he liked it there.
He liked the feeling he got from the coldness that has settled onto his blankets. He loved the feeling of wind and numbness on his bare feet.
He threw out the socks a long time ago.
But Ken hated his dreams.
They always had some arrangement of colors in them, purple, blue, and yellow always a part of it. He always ended up in the hospital, whether for because of himself or someone else, always changed. But the main consistent element was death. Someone always died. A couple of times, Ken was on the brink of death, always waking up just mere seconds before the deed was done. The majority of the time, however, someone else died.
He remembered clearly the times his friends had died. Especially, Daisuke. For some reason, his dreams loved to torture his former best friend. He was mangled, hung, and brutally murder, once because of Ken's own accord.
He hated them. He hated the illusion of guilt and regret. He hated the feelings of love and loss he felt when he saw their blood staining his clothes.
And he hated himself for having those dreams. He hated the guilt that he felt after them. He couldn't feel guilt. He didn't have feelings. He held no emotions.
He had no heart.
And yet, he felt hate. Ken knew that hate wasn't the enemy to love.
It was apathy. Indifference. Lack of concern.
And that's just what Ken felt.
Apathy. He felt nothing but disinterest and unconcern for his friends' death.
Except when he felt guilt. And then, he hated.
And hating was a feeling.
And Ken hated to feel.
So on went the vicious cycle, Ken in the middle of it all.
And not only did it scare the shit out of him, it also bothered the hell out of him.
So Ken ignored the pain.
He ignored everything. He ignored everyone.
And Ken slept.
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"So, who first?"
"Well, Ken isn't going to be coming around anytime soon. I think he needs everyone's help."
"What about Takeru?"
"We're going to need Hikari to get to Takeru. Unfortunately, Hikari is protected by Taichi, and he won't let any of us lay a damned hand on her."
"And Yamato?"
"Actually, I have no clue. Probably off fucking Sora."
"Have you talked to Sora?"
"Probably off fucking Yamato."
"Miyako?"
"Haven't seen her in a while. I don't think she's come out of his room…like ever. We're probably going to need the girls to get her out."
"Jyou? Koushiro? Mimi?"
"Jyou is no longer Jyou, and I have absolutely no fucking wish to see or speak to him. Koushiro disappeared a couple of days after you stopped talking to me. And Mimi…"
"Yeah?"
"She's changed."
"A bitch?"
"Yup."
"So what now?"
"I have no clue. You're supposed to be the smarter one."
"You're supposed to be the leader."
Silence was his response. Finally, Daisuke sighed.
"I say we go find Sora and Yamato. Yamato is probably the only one of us who isn't completely insane, and maybe Sora isn't either."
"Whatever you say."
"That sounds good."
Iori rolled his eyes, Daisuke strutting forward, and shook his head, following.