Love Hina Fan Fiction ❯ Last Call ❯ Chapter 1

Last Call

Alzrius

 

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. You can sue me over it, but you'll have to catch me first!

 

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Keitaro Urashima, like all of the residents of Hinata Sou, had, at one time or another, shaken his head and clucked his tongue in disapproval over Kitsune's drinking habit. He just couldn't understand why anyone would deliberately drink so much, so often.

 

Now, sitting at the bar and wobbling slightly as he finished off his third mug of beer, he felt that he was beginning to gain an appreciation for it; no matter how much you heard it on television, you never truly understood how alcohol could help you manage pain until you tried it yourself. And while his fox-faced tenant had never deigned to share what inner turmoil she was dealing with, Keitaro himself was in quite a bit of pain at the moment.

 

Head down, staring into the empty glass, Keitaro didn't bother to look up as he signaled the bartender for another.

 

“You know the drill, pal,” droned the barkeep, “money first, then the booze.”

 

With a sigh that seemed to come from his socks, Keitaro dug through his pockets until he managed to get his wallet out. Fumbling with it for a moment, he pulled it open, only to groan as he noted the lack of bills or coins in it. Shaking his head, the bartender, having heard that same noise from countless other patrons, turned to go serve the customers who could still afford to pay, when a five hundred-yen coin was pushed towards him across the bar. Blinking, Keitaro looked over at his benefactor, not having even realized that someone else was sitting next to him.

 

The fellow on the next stool was fairly nondescript. His black shoes seemed nice enough, and blended seamlessly in with the black corduroy pants he was wearing. The dark jacket that he wore over his white shirt was slightly long, not quite a trench coat, but longer than what a salaryman would have worn. He didn't quite seem to be a barfly, but at the same time, seemed to fit in perfectly with the almost-but-not-quite respectable crowd.

 

“Give the man another,” he said to the bartender, “on me.” Shrugging, not particularly caring where the money came from, the barkeep nodded and put another one down in front of Keitaro, who slowly turned back to it, even as he kept his gaze on the other guy.

 

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, but a tad bit worried that he was being hit on, Keitaro gave the guy a polite half-smile. “Thanks.”

 

The guy was already turning back to his own beer, but gave the recognition nod - that kind you give when you don't know someone, but nevertheless made eye contact or something - and said “Sure. It's my random act of kindness.”

 

The conversation seemed to be over, at that point, with the guy apparently losing all interest in the person next to him. Emboldened by the apparent lack of interest his neighbor was showing in him, Keitaro turned around on his stool so he was facing him directly. “I'm Keitaro Urashima,” he said, holding out his hand for a Western-style handshake; it was something he'd picked up from being around so many other archeologists on his digs.

 

Looking both surprised and slightly amused, the man turned in kind so he was facing Keitaro directly. “Taro Yamada,” he introduced himself, shaking Keitaro's hand. Keitaro couldn't resist the slightest grunt of amusement. He'd thought his own name was bad, but Taro Yamada was so common as to be almost ridiculous; it was the Japanese version of “John Smith.”

 

Keitaro had never been the most perceptive man in the world; to him, “Taro Yamada” seemed like a decent guy. Had she been there, though, Kanako would have taken an instant dislike to the man without knowing why. Motoko would have been backing away and drawing her sword. Tsuruko would have seen “Taro” as he truly was and attacked immediately. But Keitaro, who was already halfway drunk and wouldn't have realized that anything was wrong even if he'd been sober, just managed a small smile as he shook the guy's hand.

 

“So, Keitaro, tell me, what's the other guy look like?” asked Taro, nodding towards Keitaro's right eye, which was swollen shut and blackened.

 

At the question, Keitaro seemed to visibly deflate, slowly making the quarter-turn back to the bar so he could take another sip from his beer. It was only after draining half the mug that he managed to mutter, not able to make eye contact with Taro, “It wasn't a guy.” It was only after it came out that he glanced over to see the other man's reaction, expecting to see the amused disbelief and ridicule.

 

But the expected reaction never came. Instead, Taro's eyes widened marginally, even as his brow furrowed and a frown appeared on his face, as though he'd just been told something very solemn. “Damn…hit by a girl, huh?” he asked, shaking his head ruefully, “A man's gotta have a hard time feeling like a man if he's gotten his ass kicked by a girl.”

 

Keitaro closed his eyes tight at that. The sheer, unvarnished truth of the statement sent shame flooding through him so powerfully that it was almost physically painful; but at the same time, it was almost a relief, like how it felt when you bit off the last of your nail down the cuticle, because you knew it was finally off. He gulped down the last of his beer almost desperately.

 

“I'm guessing that's not `cause you grabbed some chick's ass on the train, either, right? Nah, you don't seem like the type. Which probably means that it's someone you know who gave you that shiner. I can't imagine what that must be like, having to face them again and again and again, both of you knowing how she beat you up. To say nothing of your family and friends knowing it too.” Shaking his head again, Taro put down another five hundred-yen coin on the bar, “Here, have another one, you look like you need it.” As the barkeep put the fresh mug in front of Keitaro, Taro turned back to his own for a moment. “So, was it like your sister or something?”

 

Keitaro was already drinking deeply from the next glass, pausing only at the question. He didn't feel angry at the other man's litany; instead, he felt a sort of desperate relief. Finally, someone else understood. Someone else understood the sort of pain he was carrying tucked around deep inside beneath the fake smiles and the false laughter. And he wanted him to understand it even more…

 

“My wife.” Keitaro managed to whisper.

 

Taro put a hand on the Keitaro's shoulder, his other hand sliding a thousand yen note onto the bar, nodding to the bartender to keep the drinks coming. “That must be so emasculating, Keitaro. Seriously. To think that your woman is beating you up, it must be absolutely killing you inside.”

 

Keitaro couldn't even look at him, giving a mournful nod. He barely noticed as yet another beer was put in front of him, having to grope about for a minute with unsteady hands to grab the handle. It was true…it really felt like the worst thing in the world.

 

When he and Naru had gotten married almost a year-and-a-half ago, it had seemed like they'd worked out all their problems. They'd finished Todai, and had found happiness together, just like they'd promised each other over two decades previously. The problem had been that that happiness hadn't lasted. Keitaro had gotten the archeology grants he'd wanted, and had spent a considerable portion of his post-undergraduate time away on digs. Naru, however, hadn't been an archeology major, and as such wasn't able to go with him on his expeditions. The amount of time the two of them had been spending apart had been what had started the problems.

 

Naru had, at first, tried to hide how upset she was at him leaving all the time, but she'd never been good at concealing her displeasure. Soon they were fighting about it, and it wasn't long before their fights had gotten physical. Or rather, before Naru's fighting had gotten physical.

 

Maybe it was his fault…he'd told her, once, that he'd liked it when she'd abused him. That had been a fairly blatant lie, though. He'd said it just to alleviate her guilt at hitting him…guilt she didn't seem to feel anymore. Worse, for whatever reason, his vaunted “immortality” seemed to be deserting him. When he'd been trying to get into Todai, it had seemed like nothing could ever really hurt him. But now…now a single punch from Naru was enough to leave him with a black eye.

 

After that last fight, after she'd hit him hard enough to knock him down, Keitaro had had to get out of there. He just couldn't be in the same place as Naru while he still felt that awful mixture of anger and despair and shame. He'd gone for a walk, trying to sort out his feelings, but all that'd happen was that his anger had dissipated, leaving only depression and self-loathing in its wake. Finally, tired and cold, he'd gone into a bar to drown his sorrows.

 

Taro was still speaking, one hand still on Keitaro's shoulder as he continued. “I mean, anyone who looks at you would know who wears the pants in your marriage. They'd never say it to your face, of course, but you know they'd all be talking about it behind your back, just out of earshot.”

 

“You've gotta wonder just how you wound up like you have. It's not like you didn't have plenty of other girls to choose from, am I right? But instead of picking any of them, you chose the one who'd treat you like garbage.”

 

“Can you imagine how awful it'd be if you had kids? Think about it, imagine trying to raise a son the way you are now. How could ever look him in the eye knowing that he's seen Mommy beat up Daddy? How could you ever teach him to be a man when you aren't one yourself?”

 

Tears pouring down his cheeks, Keitaro struggled to lift his head up off the bar to take another sip of his beer. He'd lost count of how many he'd had, or of how long Taro had been speaking. All he could do was shudder and try to suppress his sobs as Taro's words cut through him, unerringly verbalizing every personal flaw, every self-doubt, every negative thought he'd ever had about himself.

 

Keitaro had no way of knowing that Taro's words were making him slowly lower his natural defenses; that as his sense of self was eroded, he was leaving his soul open to predation. Even if Keitaro had been sober, he wouldn't have realized that the lethargy and despair he was feeling was actually the pain emanating from his soul as Taro's hand on his shoulder broke it down and absorbed it, piece by piece.

 

Head down in a puddle of booze and his own tears, Keitaro's last coherent thought was that he wished it'd all just end…

 

Giving the other man one last pat on the back, “Taro” drained the last of his own beer and got up off the stool. Pulling out a cigarette and lighter, he lit up as he exited the bar, inhaling deeply before exhaling the smoke with a wide grin as he walked out into the night.

 

Back inside, the barkeep frowned as he noticed the guy from before lying down, head on the bar, apparently passed out from drinking too much. Giving another long-suffering sigh, he nudged the unconscious man. “Hey buddy, this is a bar, not a hotel. Sleep someplace else.”

 

The guy didn't move, didn't even twitch, and the bartender frowned again, deeper this time as he hoped he wouldn't have to put him in the cot in the back. The guys who got too drunk to wake up tended to puke in their sleep, and he really hated having to clean that up. He nudged him again, “Look man, I said you can't-“

 

His last nudge having moved the man enough to make his face visible, the bartender leapt back with a scream, drawing all eyes towards himself as he looked at his now-deceased patron in horror…

 

His eyes were gone.

 

* * * * *

 

It was almost inappropriate how beautiful it was the day they buried Keitaro. The clear blue sky, warm temperatures, and gentle breeze all seemed to mock the grief of the assembled people as they slowly lowered the coffin into the ground behind Hinata Sou.

 

As far as anyone knew, Keitaro had died from alcohol poisoning. The autopsy had shown that his blood-alcohol level was high to the point of being unbelievable, and his body had shown signs of massive dehydration. When the coroner had cut him open, Keitaro's liver was discovered to have been reduced to a papery lump resembling a wasp's nest more than a human organ. Strangest of all, however, were his eyes. They were still there, of course, but they were completely desiccated, having lost all aqueous fluids, as though he'd literally cried them all away. That was patently impossible, of course, but the medical examiner hadn't known how else to explain it.

 

All of this had been kept from the family, of course. It would have been cruel to mention such peculiarities when they were already grieving, so they had simply told them he'd died from drinking too much, and with the morticians having simply closed the corpse's eyelids, no one was the wiser.

 

Despite his marriage, it was Kanako who had taken the news of his death the worst. During the funeral, she had wailed and howled loudly with grief, and as the coffin was interred, Haruka had had to physically restrain her from throwing herself onto it.

 

Naru's grief was much quieter, but no less palpable. She had just stared silently at the casket during the service, tears running down her cheeks. Once it was over, she'd just stood there, staring at the grave as though unable to register what was going on. Kitsune, Mutsumi, and almost all of the other girls had tried to console her, but Naru had seemed almost catatonic in her mourning, barely responding to any of them.

 

The following weeks passed slowly for Naru. Even the constant companionship from her friends didn't help alleviate the massive guilt she felt about her husband's death. After all, it had been her selfishness and bad temper that had driven him to go out and drink, and that had been what had killed him. As far as Naru was concerned, she was responsible for his death as surely as if she'd gotten a gun and shot him. And while she knew her friends meant well in trying to help her, she just didn't want to hear it. She began spending more and more time away from Hinata Sou, just taking long walks around the district to avoid having to talk to anyone.

 

It was during one such walk when it started to rain. Despite her depression, she still couldn't help but seek shelter, ducking into a nearby bar. Just the sight of the place made her heart ache worse, but at the same time it seemed somehow ironic, in a horrible way. Making her way to the bar itself, Naru sat down on a stool, ordering some sake in a miserable voice.

 

“I'm sorry miss,” replied the bartender in a contrite tone, clearly taking pity on the bedraggled woman, “but we need you to pay in advance.”

 

Naru closed her eyes in a silent, mournful sigh. She'd left her purse back at Hinata Sou, which was just perfect. Silently preparing herself to go back out into the rain, which was beginning to pick up, Naru had just started to stand when the guy next to her, whom she hadn't even realized was there, slid a five hundred-yen coin towards across the bar. “Here,” said the unfamiliar man, “it's on me.”

 

Blinking in mild surprise, Naru turned to regard the person who'd just bought her a drink. He seemed fairly nondescript. His black shoes were nice enough, and blended in nicely with the black corduroy pants he was wearing. The dark jacket he wore over his white shirt was slightly long, not quite a trench coat, but longer than what a salaryman would have worn. He didn't quite seem to be a barfly, but at the same time, seemed to fit in perfectly with the almost-but-not-quite respectable crowd…

 

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Author's Notes: This is based on the framing fiction for “The Man at the Bar,” from The Book of Unremitting Horror.