DISCLAIMER: SKIP BEAT! and its associated characters are the creations of Yoshiki Nakamura. This author claims no ownership of Skip Beat or any of its characters. All other rights reserved.

Chapter XXXI: Waystations on the Via Dolorosa

… But maybe there's nothing
Up in the sky but air.
And there's no mystical design,
No cosmic lover preassigned.
There's nothing you can find
That can not be found…

It was Kuon Hizuri who twisted the key into Ren Tsuruga's apartment late that night. He'd left it a lifetime ago, and now it welcomed him like an empty stage, desolate after the end of a play. He could hear his footsteps echoing into the empty as he shut the door behind him. To his right was a kitchen he never used, full of shiny pots and gadgets still wrapped in their original packaging. Straight ahead of him was a living room no friends ever laughed in, overlooking the pulsing lights of a city he had never enjoyed. And to his left—to his left was a bedroom with a big, too-empty bed that had always been too cold and a closet where expensive clothes hung like ghosts. All of this was detritus, he realized, the trappings of the half-life that he'd been living.

He wondered why Ren had never realized how empty his life had been. Why had he never seen it? Ren had mistaken work for life. Ren had always been an escape vessel for his pain—but even Ren couldn't help him with this. This pain was too big for Ren. This was the kind of thing that laid waste to kings, empires, and palaces—the kind of power that opened the earth and forced mountains to crumble into the sea. When he'd watched her turn from him, he wondered how it was possible he wasn't bleeding out into the floor. Even now, part of him was still there with her, torn from his body in a jagged line. Such pain should manifest physically, and yet here he stood—sound of body, if not quite sound of mind.

Nothing else mattered, really.

He'd spent the day battering his mind against her implacable certainty. All through the long, awkward drive with Yashiro, he'd argued with her in his head. "And yet you're leaving me today," she'd said, but didn't she know that being with her meant more than being physically next to her? Hadn't he proven to her, over and over, how much he cared? What gave her the right to accuse him of future crimes he would never be capable of committing? And yet he knew he'd been condemned. She hadn't seen him off, hadn't given him one last glance—not even a single word of comfort. Even Yashiro had expected her at the dock. Instead, the last thing he could remember was an impenetrable wall rising between them—the very foundations of the ryokan felt as if they were pushing him out like a stranger. She'd been judge, jury, and executioner in a trial proceeding against her heart, and his sentence had been heartbreak. He was angry—so angry—the injustice of it, the unfairness of it—all of it building into an unbearable pressure that threatened to explode out of him in one long, howling scream. She'd told him to spare her the pain of a long goodbye, but she didn't understand—

Pain wasn't something you could pay for in advance.

It wasn't something one 'got out of the way,' not a fine you paid to move on with your life. Pain was not a transaction; you could not bargain with it or give it to someone else to live through. It could not be talked to or reasoned with—it simply was. Pain was a solid state, a discrete and definite condition. And this pain, he knew, was the beast that had laid waste to an entire Garden of Eden.

Kuon knew these things instinctively. Since Rick's death, he'd gotten to know the nature of pain very, very well indeed. He knew how the beast slithered its way through the cracks in one's soul. His exile had taught him how that beast grew and changed and shifted, how it fed on scraps of hope, how its hunger waxed and waned daily with little reason. He knew what the beast wanted, and it was taking its pound of flesh from inside him right then.

He took a shower and then gave himself a hard look in his mirror. The man it showed was pale, dark-haired, green-eyed—he was half-Ren, half-Kuon, and still entirely Kyoko's. The love-marks she'd given him last night were still red on his skin—they hadn't had the chance to turn purple yet. He placed a hand on the one over his heart, pressing down into the bruise and closing his eyes against the pain which bloomed there. He hadn't been good enough. He'd given all of himself to her and yet she still found it wanting. Would anything have worked? Wasn't there any way at all to show her that the sweetness of the now overpowered whatever grief the future held? Even if she was right about the fickle nature of love—and she wasn't—wouldn't it be worth it?

=.=.=

1 am.

The red digits on the clock stared at him with hostile intent. Two empty zeros. He poured a tumblerful of whisky and drank.

The last time he'd done this, he'd been stuck on Katsuki. He'd emptied bottle after bottle, sitting quietly on the floor, watching his father and that blasted broken teacup over and over again on repeat. He'd eventually gotten himself to a place where he wouldn't freeze. His performance had been heavily derivative of Shouhei Hozou's, but Ogata had accepted it. Everyone else on the set was copying their predecessor anyway—from Mio on upwards. Why shouldn't Katsuki follow suit?

The irony, then, of Lory using that debacle as pretext to send him to Kyoto.

He sighed and then poured another finger or so of whiskey into the tumbler.

He knew he had to get it together. He'd been more than a little reckless on the drive back to Tokyo. He knew Yashiro was pissed at him. Maybe even furious. He knew he ought to be ashamed of himself. He knew he never should have given free reign to his emotions the way he had on the drive back. He knew all his professionalism had gone out the window. He hadn't intended it to, but he'd overestimated himself. He'd managed to keep his composure as they'd left the ryokan, but his control crumbled the further away they got from Kyoto. Still, he was hoping he'd feel something on that downhill run. Something strong enough to cut through the pain.

But they'd never truly been in danger…had they?

Perhaps it was for the best that 'Ren Tsuruga' wouldn't be on the commercial or talk show circuit for a while, nor was he expected on-set for a drama. The fans knew that he'd just finished shooting Ring Doh, he'd let Yashiro spin his absence as he wished for the upcoming Tragic Marker shoot. He'd laugh if he didn't want to cry. Kuon Hizuri, playing Ren Tsuruga, playing Cain Heel, playing Black Jack. A veritable onion of obfuscation, one layer after another. But if he couldn't somehow get his shit together, could he even call himself an actor? Perhaps Ren Tsuruga couldn't handle his pain—but a soulless, murdering demon would. He would go down that hall of mirrors and settle into a persona many layers removed from himself. Maybe then he'd be able to function.

Thank God he didn't need to see Lory any time soon.

2 am.

He checked his cell phone, noted the time. He was avoiding the pictures of her that were in his gallery and thanked whatever supreme being there was that she'd never had much in the way of social media. He could only imagine the torture in store if she'd had an Instagram. For a second he thought about calling her on her phone—she still had it. Her number was still on his mobile plan. He knew she no longer carried it—it had been on her desk since the first night of their sundering. But so long as she had it, there was still some hope. A tenuous link, some connection. A means of contact. At least she hadn't insisted on returning everything he'd bought for her. Not that he would've wanted any of it back.

A nasty thought occurred to him—what if she simply hadn't had the time to put everything together? He remembered how painful it had been to receive Corn from her the night after the matsuri. That was back when there was nothing between them but potential. Now? He wouldn't—he couldn't accept it. What would he do if a package of her things appeared at his door? What would he do, now that he had memories of her in that dress, smiling with that lipstick, smelling like that perfume?

Another tumblerful of whisky sloshed into the crystal tumbler.

The liquid didn't have the bite he wanted it to. He wanted the drink to hurt, to burn, the way he could remember cheap vodka going down as a kid. He was chasing oblivion, and good whisky couldn't get him there. Of course Ren Tsuruga wouldn't have anything so déclassé in his apartment—the 'gorgeous star' would never have anything rougher than a twenty-year-old Islay malt. Kuon-in-the-present toasted Kuon-of-the-past. At least Kuon-of-the-past could take a dumping with good grace. How nice it would be, to be indifferent to her absence.

3 am.

He'd thrown the glass against the wall; it didn't even have the decency to shatter into a million pieces. Only three or four shards fell onto the floor—

Ha, I'm in more pieces than you are, he told the tumbler silently. How terribly unsatisfying.

He gave into the impulse that told him to call her, just to hear her recorded voice on his line.

The phone picked up on the first ring with the voicemail prompt. "...is not available right now…" he heard. The phone, apparently, had been turned off. Because she'd never bothered to replace the default prompt, he hadn't gotten to hear her voice.

He hung up instead of leaving her a message.

And then he was stalking back and forth in his bedroom, a caged animal haunted by thoughts of her. He was out of whisky…so he started on cognac. It was a soft man's drink, he thought. Even less burn than the whisky he'd had before it. He glared at the bottle in his hands, looking at its sinuous curves. Balefully he thought of other women, the girls she'd accused him of wanting, the girls she'd told him he ought to be with. His mind skittered over the thought of other bodies—other breasts, other legs, open and welcoming, the scent of girls he'd slept with in another life, the voices of women who'd wanted to seduce him in this one. Would sleeping with one of them hurt her as much as it would hurt him? All of them melted into one big not-Kyoko and all of them repulsed him—he'd had his share of sex-without-love, and to go back to that would simply add salt to an already gaping wound. He took a swig of the cognac, aware that perhaps this bottle might break into slightly more pieces than the tumbler had. It was one of those hand-blown Baccarat affairs, given to him by some studio executive. Or was it some producer?

Didn't matter.

He drained it, wiped his mouth on some silk-shirt-or-other and then threw the bottle against the wall.

This time, there were plenty of shards.

Had he thought he was going to sit quietly on the floor while he emptied out his bar? This wasn't anything like Dark Moon. Had he thought that situation was worth drinking over? Katsuki be damned. Acting be damned. Ren Tsuruga be damned.

He laughed at himself. It was better than crying.

And then he gave in, unlocked his phone, looked at the gallery…and there she was. Picture after picture of her—videos of her. The sound of her laugh filled the room—'Kuon, you'd better not be recording this!' He smiled back at the smiling girl on the screen, surprised all over again at how very golden her eyes were. He put the videos on a playlist and set them on repeat, and then he curled up on the floor, surrounded by the broken glass.

Sleep, when it came, was fitful and shallow.

=.=.=

Yashiro had arrived back in his own apartment and fought back the urge to fall on his knees and hug the unmoving ground after the long and harrowing drive back from Kyoto. What, exactly, had that been? He'd found Kuon packed and ready to go, his room ordered and neat. His outward appearance gave Yashiro no cause for concern. He was dressed fashionably, the way Ren Tsuruga always dressed. The necklace Lory had had him design was around his neck again, fulfilling its role as a totem. He'd even made his bed. Kuon didn't say a word as Yashiro looked around, but the manager could tell that something had happened between Kuon and Kyoko. He wasn't blind to the look in Kuon's eyes. The boy looked like a dog who'd been kicked, fearful and desperate, whimpering in the rain. Yashiro didn't like seeing it, but figured there would be a last-minute resolution. What with jumping-out-of-boats and making-out-in-back-rooms, it would be par for the course for these two. Though…he wondered. The tension over the last few weeks had been nigh-insurmountable—but surely they wouldn't leave things so unsettled?

When Kyoko didn't appear on the dock to see them off, he knew. All he needed to do was look at Kuon to confirm. Perhaps someone else would've been fooled, but Yashiro wasn't—Kuon was barely holding himself together when they'd crawled onto the boat. Kuon had walked out of the ryokan calmly, walking out of the mist with a practiced smile—his fake press-junket smile. Yayoi-san accompanied him and then they bowed goodbye to each other.

"Thank you for everything, Yayoi-san," he heard Kuon say.

"Iterrasshai, Kuon," Yayoi responded. Yashiro saw how sad and how resigned the Okami-san was.

Kuon smiled politely at her, bowed, and then boarded the boat.

Both of them had gotten into the car silently—Kuon was deep in his thoughts and Yashiro too concerned to intrude. Kuon settled into his seat, pulling on the seatbelt and then firing up the engine, all without a word. Grim was the only way to put it. The boy had stopped making an effort to look happy the minute the ryokan was gone from view. A minute or two into their drive, Kuon had turned on a radio station, filling the cabin with mindless K-pop. A boy group singing about being your girl forever set to a frenetic beat, and Yashiro jumped when Kuon slapped at the console, turning it off abruptly.

"Are you going to tell me what happened, then?" Yashiro asked.

Kuon kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look at him. "Do you really need to ask?" he replied.

Yashiro sighed. Whatever the Shachou's motivations had been in sending Kuon to Kyoto, it had resulted in the degradation of Ren Tsuruga's manners. "If it's something that's going to affect your work, then yes, Kuon, I need to ask," he said.

"It won't affect my work," Kuon said.

"Somehow I don't believe that."

"Ren Tsuruga is a professional."

"Even professionals have hearts, Kuon."

"Not Ren." Kuon gave a short, bitter laugh. "Ren's the consummate gentleman. Gentlemen don't need hearts, they just need manners."

Yashiro gulped and grabbed at the handle above his door as Kuon took a curve just a little too quickly.

"Seems to me like Lory should've found a better way to teach me this lesson," Kuon said. Yashiro had never seen that particular look on his face. It was a desperate look—the kind of look a man might have after being given a death sentence.

Yashiro watched as the mile markers flew past. They were going a little too fast, he knew, and it was raining, but he'd seen Ren do amazing things as a driver, not least of which was avoiding a fatal collision with a little boy who'd darted out onto Dark Moon's set during the chase shoot. And he wasn't out of control.

"He has…unusual methods," Yashiro said.

"Maybe I should have accepted mediocrity as an actor," Kuon replied. "I should have refused to go along on this ridiculous whim of his. Anything but this."

"So she dumped you?" Yashiro asked. "But why!?" Until she'd gone back to school, he'd thought they were doing extremely well.

He regretted saying it as soon as he saw Kuon flinch. The actor didn't answer him, choosing to turn the radio on again. Yashiro didn't protest as he cranked up the volume—an American song, this time, came on to fill the air.

"Unbreak my heaaaaaaaaaart…" A sultry woman's voice filled the cabin this time. An American song. "Say you'll love me agaaaainnnn…"

Kuon shut down the radio with a vengeance. "Fuck," he said.

Silence reigned in the cabin again, punctuated by the intermittent fwip fwip of the wiper blades wiping away the rain from the windshield. Yashiro was half-afraid he was going to punch the console with his bare fist, and he had no wish to take Ren Tsuruga to a hospital in his current state. The truth was, he didn't know what to say. Everything seemed pithy and crass in the presence of Kuon's grief. "I'm sorry," he ventured, earning a grunt from Kuon. "Better to have loved—"

But Kuon interrupted him with a glare. "Yashiro, shut up," Kuon said.

No, the summer had definitively not improved Ren Tsuruga's manners. The very idea of Ren Tsuruga telling his manager to 'shut up' would have been absurd to Yashiro just months ago. But as he was quickly learning, Kuon was not Ren. Yashiro shut up…

…until he couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore. He'd dozed off for an hour or so, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the rain and the road. He woke up to a sudden lurch, the car whipping sharply to the left and then to the right, a g-force pinning him to the door before he came fully awake just in time to see blinking chevrons pointing right as Kuon rounded a sharp turn at breakneck speed. Yashiro squeaked and then outright squealed as the little silver Porsche ate the curve and then rounded another one, coming down the mountain as if monsters were coming after it.

Yashiro took a look at the road and then looked at the GPS display on the dashboard, noting, to his consternation, that they were not on the recommended highway route that he himself had taken to go to Kyoto. No, whatever road this was switched back and forth and back and forth like the curving tail of a dragon. A back way, then? A touge? He had not had the pleasure of ever driving down one, but from the way he was driving, apparently Kuon had. He could see a mad light, almost a kind of insanity in his eyes as he shifted gears, revving the engine and pushing the gas even as they came downhill in the mist and the rain. Yashiro's knuckles were gripping white onto his door handle, his other arm clutching at his chair as they rounded another corner on this godforsaken hill, this time inches from opposing traffic on the narrow road. Yashiro waited until a fairly benign straightaway came back in view before screaming at his charge.

"Kuon!" He sputtered, not wanting to curse. "What is the meaning of this!?" he asked. "Do whatever you need to do, but please spare me!"

His outburst earned a sideways glance at him. Kuon looked as grim, but Yashiro's shoulders relaxed as he saw the younger man ease off of the gas. Yashiro regretted his outburst—it had sounded callous even to his own ears. The next curve came; Yashiro was relieved that Kuon slowed down to a decent, safe speed to take it. "I assure you, Yashiro-san, you're perfectly safe," he said. "I know my car and the road's limits."

"Yeah, tell that to Lory," Yashiro had said. "And let me know how that works for ya."

"What does Lory care?" Kuon asked. "All Lory cares about is having Ren Tsuruga out there making money."

"You know that's not—" Yashiro saw that Kuon was speeding up again, heedless of the conditions right outside their windows.

"Ren the gorgeous star," he said, punctuating the statement by shifting the gears up.

"Ren the motherfucking-goddamn-one-take-king, the on-time god, the heartbreaker—" The speedometer was pushing upwards, and Yashiro could hear the roar of the engines as Kuon took his feelings out on the road below.

"You KNOW that's not true, Kuon!" Yashiro shouted. "Lory Takarada loves you—he has strange ideas, but—"

"STRANGE IDEAS?" Kuon laughed. "Strange ideas!?" They were passing by a hairpin curve on a bluff so high the clouds were below them. "He'd rather have me in pieces over love than whole and sane."

"That's not true—"

"What about that isn't true, Yashiro?" Kuon was openly laughing now, a sardonic, sharp laugh. Yashiro would have taken him for a maddened villain, except the boy was also crying. "For years now, that's all Lory's talked about. 'Ren needs to figure out his love acting,'" he mocked, "'He'll never be a great actor until he knows how to love.'" Kuon snorted. "It would've been easier to take steroids and build up the muscle. I wouldn't need to know how to act then. Look at Arnold Schwarzenegger. Man can't act, but he built an empire out of it anyway—"

"Kuon—" Yashiro was viewing the speedometer with some alarm, because Kuon couldn't possibly be watching the road with those tears welling out of his eyes.

"—and what does it matter if I can act, if she isn't there with me? Tell me, Yashiro—"

"KUON!" They were heading for the railing of a particularly scenic patch of road—scenic, except the view right then was obscured in fog.

Kuon swerved and hit the brakes in time, but the car spun around nonetheless, stopping in the opposite lane and facing the opposite direction.

"Fuck." Kuon said, bashing his forehead onto the steering wheel. "Just fuck."

Yashiro was shaking. "You need to pull over," he said. It wasn't a request. Kuon nodded meekly, all of his reckless energy gone. Quietly he brought the car around, grateful that there hadn't been opposing traffic.

They pulled into a scenic overlook a few yards down the road. "Out," Yashiro said. It was to his credit that he managed to stay calm, though his hands were still shaking. Kuon nodded meekly. He peeled his long figure out of the driver's seat and waited in the rain as Yashiro exited and then climbed in to drive. "Get in," he told the actor. Kuon climbed into the passenger's seat, chastened, ashamed, and in utter despair. For a while they just sat there. Yashiro was waiting for his heart rate to descend back to normal. Kuon was trying to stop the flow of tears.

"You need to calm down," Yashiro told him. If it had been anyone else, he would have quit right then and there, exited the car, and then attempted to find his way back to Tokyo some other way, rain or not. But Yashiro had known Kuon for years now—except for Kyoko-chan, who else knew who he really was? The boy was more than his charge, he was a friend. And it would be poor form indeed for Yashiro to abandon him in what might be the worst crisis he'd had since they'd met. "What you did—what you were doing—you have no right to take me with you, Kuon. Do you hear me? No right. You can self-destruct on your own time."

Kuon looked at him, tears still falling from his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. And the sound of his voice was so broken and so defeated that Yashiro forgave him right then and there. It was the voice of a man who was thoroughly ashamed of himself. But Yashiro could only hope that Kuon would find a way to control himself. It was all well and good for Kuon to have a private meltdown, but Ren Tsuruga didn't have that luxury. Yashiro could only do so much damage control in the media, and he was dreading the report he'd have to make to Lory the next day.

=.=.=

Since his return from Kyoto, Lory had decided to put away the trappings of a circus master. Being wrong had that effect on him. He had no appetite for camels, or ice rinks, or circus clowns after having been so off the mark with Kyoko. Consequently, the office was…very much an office this time. Though…not entirely without a thematic underpinning, of course. It was a midcentury modern office, complete with Bauhaus chairs and an Eames lounge. Something about that look always managed to make him feel like more of a businessman. Sharper, perhaps. More objective.

He'd had this meeting with Yashiro penciled in for months now, at least since he'd dispatched the manager to Kyoto to oversee Kuon's work on Ring Doh, and now the manager was standing in front of him, grim-faced and solemn.

"Are you worried about him, Yashiro-kun?" the President asked. He knew Kuon and Yashiro had arrived the night before. He hadn't contacted either man, opting, instead, to contact them the next day after they'd had a rest. "You look pale."

Yashiro kept himself still, his mouth set in a professional, if grim, line. Yesterday had not been easy for him, professionally or personally, and yet he was certain it was a million times worse for Kuon. He'd been furious at the boy, at his antics, at his recklessness—and yet he also couldn't find it in himself to stay mad at him.

"No, of course not," Yashiro replied. Lory gave him a look.

In response, Yashiro sighed and shook his head. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'm worried, Takarada-san."

"Do you think he'll be able to pull off this Cain Heel role?" Lory asked. The manager looked worried. He hadn't heard anything at all from Yayoi-san, though perhaps that was to be expected: the woman had distanced herself from him considerably after the debacle with Kyoko's contract. Perhaps he should contact her…

"I think he might be looking forward to it," Yashiro said. "A means of sublimation, maybe."

"Sublimation?"

Yashiro stared. Was it possible that Lory did not know? Lory, who knew everything? Who had eyes and ears everywhere?

"You…don't know?" he asked. Lory started. He hadn't known there was tension between the two—when he'd left, they were as united as two lovers could be. But…he'd left before Kyoko had returned to school.

At last, a glimmer of comprehension dawned in Lory's eyes. "Kyoko."

"Kyoko," Yashiro nodded.

"She—"

"Ended it."

Lory sat up, back ramrod straight. "She…what?"

"It certainly wasn't Kuon who broke it off," Yashiro said. "He won't tell me why."

Lory shook his head. "Do you think—do you think it was something he did?"

"To be perfectly honest with you, Shachou, I'm not sure what to think. Things started going sour after she started school again—" Yashiro filled him in, telling him about the increased distance Kyoko had begun to put between herself and Kuon. How she'd begun insisting on ignoring him as she did homework, how Kuon had gone to work on set for the last few weeks with dark bags under his eyes. "I don't know what to make of it," he finished. "I didn't see her before we left, but even when she was avoiding him, the way they looked at each other! No one could mistake them for anything but lovers."

"And now you're worried about him."

"I'm more than worried," Yashiro said. "I wanted to talk to him about dropping this Cain Heel role—and it's not the isolation or the violence in it. Right now I'm not even sure he could do a commercial, and you know he can do those in his sleep."

"I understand you perfectly, Yashiro-san." Lory leaned back, frowning. He pondered a cigar for a moment before cutting off its end and then lighting it. "Has he said he doesn't want to do it?"

"He…wasn't entirely himself yesterday," Yashiro said. "Almost tried to kill us on a downhill run in that car of his."

"Downhill run?" Lory was asking. "What do you mean?"

"He decided to put his car through its paces," Yashiro said. "On a touge somewhere in between Kyoto and Tokyo."

"Was he drinking!?" Brattiness, insubordination, even outright rudeness, Lory could tolerate. But substance abuse? No. Absolutely not. Kuon had known what Lory's rules were when he'd decided to accompany him to Japan. For the most part, he'd been a model young man. Lory had never had to worry about Kuon and drugs—he'd sworn to leave all that behind in LA.

"No! No," Yashiro said. "He wasn't. But he was reckless all the same—" Haltingly, he described the touge, the rain, the car zipping down curves—all of it still made him want to clutch at the nearest stationary object.

"He's grieving," Lory said.

"More than that." Yashiro shook his head. "Worse than that. He's self-destructing."

"Oh?"

"He says he wishes you'd never talked him into going to Kyoto." Yashiro shuffled his feet. "Said something about bulking up and being the Japanese Arnold Schwarzenegger. Said it would've been better to accept mediocrity—"

Lory listened with grim concern. "In all seriousness, Yashiro," he said. "Should we pull him out of Tragic Marker?"

Yashiro paused. In all his career, Ren Tsuruga had never pulled out of a role. Not once. Not ever. Though he would not be credited as Ren Tsuruga in Tragic Marker, it was still a major production. And he knew Ren-before-Kyoko had truly looked forward to testing his mettle. He'd been spoiling for the chance to fool people for the better part of that year.

"He has a few days before he has to go to Guam," Yashiro said. "Let's watch. I don't want him to risk himself while he's there, but he's…he's Ren Tsuruga, Lory. I've seen that boy's work ethic." And then he sighed. "But if we do pull him out," he said, "then he may never get that kind of opportunity again."

"Your faith in him is commendable," Lory said. "But I'll call him."

=.=.=

"What do you want?" said the voice on the phone.

Lory took a look at the clock—nearly nine o'clock, and yet Kuon sounded as if he'd just woken up. Lory happened to know that the boy woke early out of habit—unless something had happened. "Ren," Lory said.

"Ren can't answer the phone right now," said the voice. "Cuz he's dead." And then Lory nearly jumped out of his skin as raucous laughter boomed through his receiver.

Apparently Yashiro was right to be worried. "Kuon."

"Lory." He sounded like a cartoon caricature of a broken-hearted man.

"You've been drinking." Lory tried to keep the reproach out of his voice. He would give Kuon a pass, just this once. Heartbreak was a valid excuse for a drunken stupor, but it was not something he would condone in Kuon—or anyone else—on a regular basis. Not when they were represented by LME.

"I am of age and it was very expensive liquor, thank you very much," Kuon replied.

Lory sighed. "You've worked too hard to let yourself down like this," he said. "And Yashiro and I are worried. You're dropping the Tragic Marker role."

"Hell no."

Well, there was that, then. Ren Tsuruga would never have refused an outright order like that so rudely. "You're incapable of it as you are."

"I'll be sober by Friday," Kuon responded. His voice was dripping with bravado. Lory could almost see his shoulders shrug. "And who made it your choice, anyway? It's not like you can stop me…The contract has my name on it, not yours, and you stopped being my legal guardian over a year ago—"

"Yashiro and I talked—"

Kuon snorted. "Ha. I'm sure you did."

"Don't blame him," Lory said. "We simply think it might be best for you to—get some distance. Rest a little—"

"You sent me on vacation for two months. Lots of rest. Huge success. Mega."

"Why yes, Kuon, I daresay it was."

"That was sarcasm."

"Oh?" Lory responded. "I hadn't noticed. But for your edification, I do count your trip a success."

"I'm glad to have provided you with entertainment, then, my Lord. I must say, if you wanted drama, you got drama," Kuon said. "Are you not entertained?"

"You're acting like a brat—"

"Is this the part of the Otome game where you restart from the beginning cuz your characters all got terrible endings?"

If he had been any other actor on any other day, Lory would have thrown him out of his office, torn up his contract, and then blacklisted him from anything LME touched. Ren Tsuruga was a big star who'd brought the agency profit and renown, but under normal circumstances, Lory would not have hesitated to cut the cord. But these weren't normal circumstances, and Lory didn't have the heart to throw the boy out. Like it or not, he was family. And he'd worked so hard and gained so much. "Kuon…" he started.

"No, Lory," Kuon said. "No. I am not a fifteen-year-old boy for you to manipulate anymore. I never should have gone to Kyoto."

"You know that isn't true."

The response came in a torrent. Kuon's voice came through loud and clear, his rising distress breaking through the petulant sarcasm he'd affected since he'd picked up the phone. "It is. It is true. I was asleep and it was good and then you had to wake me up and now I can't go back and now I know you're sitting there with that awful shit-eating grin on your face like I'm a doll and she's a doll and we're in a dollhouse for you to play with—you keep talking about Fate, Lory, but somehow I can't help but think you just like to hold all the strings."

"You don't think it was Fate that brought you to Kyoko?"

"No. It was you. You did it. Ren Tsuruga would never have made the decision to take a goddamn TWO MONTH LONG VACATION, Lory—"

"But then you wouldn't have met."

"Well you can't have it both ways, old man. Either we would have met again no matter what or we wouldn't have met again at all. Which is it?"

Lory was silent. His feelings told him they would've met somehow—someday, perhaps later in their futures. He trusted his instincts. He always had. He knew, deep down, that Kuon and Kyoko were meant to be with each other—and he knew Kuon knew that too. His observations in Kyoto had only confirmed what he'd felt from the start. Kuon needed to go back to Kyoto. And if Lory were to wager on it, he'd wager his entire ownership stake in LME that Kuon would. The red string that connected him to Kyoko would have demanded it sooner rather than later. But though he had absolute faith in the power of true love, he also had to acknowledge that other truth: that the course of true love never did run smooth.

"You would have met again," he said with conviction. "And you will meet again—"

"Have you ever considered that there's no such thing as fate, Lory? Maybe we're all just looking around for someone who's just good enough. Have you ever thought that maybe—hey, soulmates don't exist? That maybe there isn't another half out there? Do you know how much damage you're doing to people, peddling that ancient bullshit?"

Lory waited for him to stop talking. One heartbeat, and then a second, a third—"You will stop interrupting me, young man. Are you done now?" Lory asked. He'd never seen Kuon like this. In the past, he'd grieved Rick with a heavy, solemn silence. He'd moved forward like a man in a daze until he'd finally found his footing as Ren. But now—the boy wasn't grieving, he realized. He'd been wrong to say so to Yashiro. No. Kuon was like an animal stuck in a bear trap, howling in pain. Whatever was hurting him wouldn't stop hurting him until he managed to cut himself off from it. It was simply too bad one couldn't cut out one's heart and still keep on living.

Silence on the other end of the line. "Kuon?" Lory asked.

That, maybe, had gotten through to him. Lory heard an intake of breath. "Yes," Kuon said. "I'm done."

"So…Kyoko was just a random girl…that you had a summer fling with?" He took a drag off of his cigar, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. "You really believe that?"

On the other side of the line, Kuon felt the words burn through him. The same words that Kyoko had said, over and over again—that she was just a random girl that he'd soon forget.

"I told you a long time ago…that love makes you lose your composure…that you struggle without thinking about how other people think of you."

"I knew it," Kuon said. "This was all an acting exercise to you—"

"The answer is no, by the way," Lory said. "I've never once considered a world in which soulmates don't exist."

"Bullshit—"

"No, young man." Lory's voice took on a sharper, harder edge. "I will overlook this childish behavior from you, but don't you dare tell me my wife wasn't my soulmate. Or Kouki's Lina, for that matter. You think for a second that a day goes by that I don't think about her? That I don't feel her missing? You don't think I knew the moment I met her? Do you think I would have traded a single day with her for a lifetime with someone else who 'was just good enough' for me? You've never seen the way your father and your mother look at each other?"

More silence.

"I don't think you know or understand the gift the universe gave to you. How many millions live and die without knowing what true love is? I'm not sure what you're trying to fool yourself into believing, Kuon, but you know what she is to you. Drink if you need to, cry if you need to, act like a brat if you need to. Just don't lie to yourself."

Lory heard him rustling on the other side of the call. He was worried—he'd be a fool if he wasn't. Lory's belief in love was absolute. He believed in its power to create—it augmented and amplified talent, after all. He was reasonably certain, though, that love could be as destructive as it was creative. He had a feeling that this phase, whatever it was, would get worse before it got better.

"Then why this?" Kuon said. "Why?" His voice broke. "She says she can't be part of my life. She says I'm going to fall in love with some random woman on some movie set somewhere—she doesn't believe me when I tell her I could never—"

"Whoever said it would be easy?"

That stopped the deluge of words. "No, I guess it's not," he breathed. "It's not easy." Kuon was preparing himself for a long lecture on how good marriages took lots of work, that every couple needed to communicate. Those were pithy pieces of advice—the kind of thing you saw on magazine covers at the grocery checkout line. "Would it make you happier if I said it out loud? Kyoko Mogami is my soulmate." He paused. "But she's not some marionette dancing on a string. She chose this. Free will is a thing, Lory. And that trumps Fate every time."

"You have free will, too. Are you giving up?"

It was the same thing Yayoi had asked him. That time, his answer had been no. But this time? This time, he was heartsick. He was tired. And the faith that had propelled him into her arms that very last night had been tested to an extreme. He wanted to say "No, of course not," but if she had closed the door to him entirely—if she even refused to see him, refused his calls, ignored his emails—what could he do?

Lory felt a tendril of concern as he listened to the lengthening silence. If this were a movie, the young man talking to him would already have girded up his resolve to win the girl back. But it wasn't. Instead, he had a broken, sad boy. "Kuon?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Don't. Don't give up. Go back to Kyoto. Forget this Tragic Marker shoot, there'll be other parts."

Kuon didn't say anything, though Lory could tell he was paying attention. When he did speak, Lory's heart broke for him.

"I can't, Lory," he said. "You weren't there. You don't know what she was like. You were right— I can't sit here and take this quietly. I'm not—but I can't make her accept me, either. All I have is my work now. So let me do my work."

In his office, Lory slumped. The resignation in his voice! The sadness—this wasn't the boy who'd accepted his girlfriend's departure with a smile and a wave.

"Go, then," he said. "If you must."

"I'll get myself together," Kuon said. He sounded as if he were preparing himself for the gallows. "I'll be fine."

But somehow Lory didn't think he'd be fine at all.

=.=.=

She watched him leave from behind a window, gripping it tightly to keep herself from running out to him. She would not cry. She had given up on crying. This was no different from getting over Sho. She would take each minute, each hour, each day at a time until this feeling of being drawn and quartered passed. And it would pass, of this she had no doubt.

She couldn't stop herself from feeling that there was a monstrous wrongness about this—part of her wanted to be out there with him, smiling at him, kissing him, taking her hand through his hair one last time before finally letting him go—but not really saying goodbye.

But she'd said goodbye, hadn't she? A true sayonara. Final and immutable. She would have to stay strong—she had made her decision, right? If her fundamental conclusions were solid, then she'd made the right decision. Stability and responsibility and adulthood were what she had chosen. It was what she owed to Yayoi and Etsuro, and it was what she owed to herself. She hadn't had the strength to take all of his gifts to give back to him, but she would—she didn't know where he lived, exactly, but she was sure she could send the box to Takarada-san at LME.

She clenched her hands, willing herself to watch. The next time she saw him, he would be a stranger on a screen. She needed to breathe—she couldn't breathe—why couldn't she breathe?—but she saw him as he exited the ryokan. So beautiful—his tall figure, wearing those tailored clothes of his, his hair perfectly combed and yet still perfectly unruly. He stood up straight and tall—she couldn't see his face, but she could only surmise he was smiling his gentleman's smile. She'd begged Yayoi to see him off in her place. The older woman hadn't asked for an explanation, but had looked at her with such sadness her resolve had almost broken. What right did Yayoi have to look like that? Surely she saw the foolishness of continuing that doomed affair—though perhaps her association with Takarada-san had influenced her into some new romanticism.

She watched the boat leave the dock. It was a picturesque sight. A classic river scene. The kind of thing one saw on postcards and woodblock prints. There was the boat, low against the river's waterline, making its way back to Kyoto past a hillside of brilliant red momiji. There was nothing special about the boat, nothing special about the foliage. It was all just…pretty. It was just a background. Just the backdrop for the tragedy that had played out and finished.

When the boat was out of sight, she slumped forward. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath, and yet she was. She felt—hollow. Gutted and…disappointed. The pain was blunt and sharp at the same time—and messy. When she'd come back from Tokyo, pain had been something she could put into a small box. But try as she might, the calm she'd affected upon her return from Tokyo escaped her this time. She would have to work twice as hard, but she would be fine. She made herself stand straight and then rolled up her sleeves. She berated the part of herself that had expected him to come running back to her like a knight storming the castle gates. Was she the kind of idiot that said one thing but really wanted another?

She hadn't bothered with the nakai's kimono—the one thing she'd requested from Yayoi was that she be spared any customer-facing duties for this day. She'd asked to clean Kuon's room herself.

She sped forward down the halls she knew so well and off to where he'd slept. He had left; she had to keep reminding herself that it was her choice that made his absence permanent. And now she had to remove all of him from that room—she would clean it of his presence until it was just another room in a building full of rooms. Tomorrow, strangers would occupy it and then everything could creep in that same petty pace the way it always had. The little magic pocket dimension that they'd lived in over the summer was gone. Time had started to move forward again.

Or so she thought.

She opened the door and knew, instantly, that she'd overestimated her abilities. Apparently she could not go about her day quietly and calmly, because all she could see in that room were memories. All of their laughter. All she had learned about acting. The way they had kissed.

She couldn't have known that Kuon had thought the same thing as he left.

Part of him still lingered there. She caught his scent in the air, faintly: the smell of his cologne and his skin. He'd clearly cleaned the room as he packed—it was immaculate. Even his bed had been made, and the sight of it hurt. It only served to remind her of all the times he'd helped her, how he'd been by her side even through the most mundane and menial of tasks.

She wheeled her cleaning supplies into the room and then shut the door behind her.

In front of her was the bed, neatly made up. Even the corners had been tucked correctly.

She took a step forward and then another, and then she sat on it, reaching for a pillow. This was sheer weakness, she knew, but it smelled like him—she buried her face into it and told herself she'd just be a second but instead an overwhelming sense of want enveloped her. She couldn't help the tears that welled out of her eyes. She hid her face into the pillow's fluff. She wouldn't show these tears to anyone—not even the walls.

The floodgates opened. She tried to swallow back her grief but it was all-encompassing. Sobs escaped her, the sound muffled as she tried to hold them back. All of it threatened to consume her—try as she might, she couldn't stop. The loss of him was too complete.

She found herself laying on the bed, on her half, the side she always occupied when he was there. Curling up into a small ball, she burrowed under the sheets he'd so carefully made, surrounding herself in what was left of him.

She told herself she would be ok. She told herself this would pass. She told herself many, many things, but in the end, the only thing she was sure of was how much she missed him. She cried until she couldn't cry anymore. As her eyes burned, she wondered if she'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Still, she told herself, there was no way out but through.

=.=.=

Author's Note: Hi everyone, thank you for your reviews and your patience. Life hasn't exactly let up-I meant to get this out on Christmas as a present of sorts (I saw your review, Guest-san! I am honored you would check for an update on Christmas!). Alas, it was not to be. The pre-Christmas cold snap froze up my pipes and yours truly lost an entire 4-day weekend to crawling into crawl spaces with a hairdryer and space heaters to thaw those pipes before they could burst. That was a four day weekend I should've been able to spend writing. *And* sleeping. And perhaps seeing my family, which did not happen because of the big freeze on the US East Coast (yes, that is where I live). Alas! In any case, I know a number of you wanted me to resolve this, and I shall. I am sorry it is frustrating. I am, however, somewhat bound by my characters and the story. All I'll say is have faith, ya'll!

Please let me know what you think - reviews are food! Your authors love them. (Seriously, not just me. All of us. All of us are dopamine junkies.)

1. Epigraph: Lyrics from "Wicked Little Town (Reprise)," from Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

2. Touge: translates from Japanese as a "pass." These are winding roads that go up and down mountains. You know, like in Initial D.

3. Sayonara: Many non-Japanese speakers use 'sayonara' to mean goodbye, but in Japanese, the word sayonara denotes a more permanent goodbye. It's a word you would use if you know you're not going to see that person again, or if you're not going to see them for a long time.

**Happy new year!**

Love,
Parkerbear
12/31/2022