Tokyo Babylon Fan Fiction / X/1999 Fan Fiction ❯ A Perfect Circle ❯ Martyr ( Chapter 11 )

It had taken a considerable amount of effort to fend Kamui off of Fuuma long enough to convince him that Sorata and Arashi should be the ones to carry the latter back to the hospital to prevent Kamui from ripping his injuries anew. Kamui's blind fervency had been frightening. The pair, who had been in the CLAMP Campus control room when the satellite camera had found Fuuma, had altered Kamui to Fuuma's location and state while he was in the middle of what seemed like an awkward and almost guilty conversation with Subaru. The shiftless atmosphere in the room had shattered at odd angles to itself with their arrival; Kamui had run out of the room with several nervous, jerking backwards glances at Subaru, while the latter's face did not move a muscle for the seemingly suspended, tentative time that Arashi and Sorata were rooted to the spot in confusion. Arashi remembered seeing the first flashes of-anger, jealousy, something negative-flicker across Subaru's face and twitch his jaw muscles as she and Sorata had run back out the door.

Subaru's mad about something. Arashi half-listened to the doctors asked the same questions of her they had of all the Dragons of Heaven prior, and observed one of the numerous plaques adorning the office wall with the back of her mind. He doesn't seem like the fickle sort of person who would give up on that horrible man so easily-even if he is horrible. It's not a good thing, but… no, they're not-

"-Kishuu-san, did you hear me?"

"-I'm sorry. What?"

"Is Monou Fuuma homosexual or engaged in any sort of active homosexual activity?"

"…I beg your pardon?"

"Is he gay?" A mildly distasteful look flinched across the doctor's features, though he kept his continence within the limits of being smooth and clinical. "Does he-does he have a boyfriend? Is he sexually active?"

What on earth? "Why do you ask such a question?"

"We need to discern whether or not he was raped." Arashi furrowed her eyebrows in momentary thought and frowned after she had given the sentence a few moments to register. Oh, lovely. "He's… been roughly treated in that way, and given his amnesia, we need to know whether or not the rape was part of the attack, or whether it occurred beforehand. I know it's a very embarrassing topic, but we need to know. This isn't the time to worry about upholding secrecy. We need to know so that we can help him."

"I honestly have no idea." Even though he gives off the aura of having slept with the entire block, he's still kind of… cold. Untouchable. Sterile. Like he'd sleep with anybody and not be changed. That sort of distant. "I am sorry, but I am not that familiar with him. You should talk to Shirou Kamui."

The doctor sighed and shook his head. "…already did. As soon as I asked him anything even leaning in that direction, he smashed a table and stormed out of the room in a fit. We had to repatch his shoulder… again."

Typical. "Well, he is the only one who would know." Arashi folded her ankles and subconsciously smoothed her indigo skirts, loosely holding the fabric aside her thigh. "If you want, I could try to talk to him. I cannot make any guarantees, though."

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"I don't fucking know."

"Kamui, come on-"

"I said I don't fucking KNOW, all right? Do you want me to make something up?"

"No, but…"

Kamui glared up at Arashi and Sorata from his perch sitting astride one of the plastic hospital chairs, chin resting on his folded hands atop the backrest. He seemed to be deliberately keeping his hair tossed over his eyes in order to look more intimidating and dramatic. Subaru, sitting beside Kamui and watching him, would intermittently make halfhearted motions toward touching Kamui's arm, but would retract his hand as soon as he felt that it was close enough to be sensed. They were in Fuuma's room, where Fuuma was in the sort of still sleep that belongs to the pained and where Kamui had been maintaining a sleepless vigil most of the night. While the former had subdued thrashing and muffled rambling fits through his splinted jaw and a general stupor of staring at the ceiling, the latter had spent a good portion of the night repeatedly snapping at doctors and making threats should they do anything harmful to Fuuma or handle him too roughly. He had stopped protesting to strapping Fuuma to the bed and keeping him on calming medications since Arashi had reminded him that it was only to keep Fuuma from hurting himself that the doctors were doing all of this. Before that point, few doctors were willing to even try venturing into the room with so much as a syringe.

That was at about four thirty in the morning. As soon as Arashi and Kamui had their brief chat, Kamui had roughly snapped at the doctors to do as they would and left to sulk on the roof. When Yuzuriha had checked on him after sunrise she reported that he was disheveled, re-injured, and clouding his bathroom with Lysol. She suspected that he was trying to cover up the hints of cigarette smoke that she was able to smell on his discarded paper robe. He still smelled like a clinical attempt at imitating a rain-fresh valley.

"…Kamui, please…" Sorata repeated.

"Look, I have no idea, all right?"

"None whatsoever?"

"Could we please not talk about it?"

"…Kamui, what in the--?"

"Just get out."

"Kamui, come on-"

"I don't want to talk about it, all right?" Sorata lowered his hand and shoved both into his pockets awkwardly. Arashi glanced at him and half-listened to his protests and questions as to what could be the matter before maintaining her detached observance of Kamui and Subaru.

Something is definitely wrong with them.

"Kamui, come on, we're trying to help Fuuma-"

"GET OUT."

"Kamui…" said Subaru quietly, starting to reach out.

"-do you want the docs to help Fuuma and catch the guy that messed him up, or not?"

Subaru went dead silent and crossed his arms. Kamui stared at Sorata, then glared sideways at Subaru before turning back. "There is no need for that. It isn't going to help him. He's already fucked up."

"You know something, don't you?" said Arashi.

"GET OUT."

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It's hard to believe
That there's nobody out there
It's hard to believe
That I'm all alone
At least I have her love
The city, she loves me
Lonely as I am
Together we cry (1)

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The array of black, crossed industrial wires, apartment buildings, and shadowed alleyways comprising the view from Seishirou's balcony glared with nine o'clock sunlight. Seishirou stood in the open sliding-glass doorway aside a desk fan that had been positioned in the doorpost to aid in airing out the dark apartment. His teeth and jaw were going to be a hellish mess for a while, and his abdomen was protesting any sudden movements. He had cleaned himself up and taken enough painkillers to suffice for the time being, and had arranged for an emergency, before-clinic appointment with the dentist that was estimated to take the entire morning. He would probably be unable to eat solid food for at least twenty-four hours. He thoughtfully pressed his fingertip atop the ridge of the gauze around his front teeth and applied pressure until blood soaked through, vacantly staring over the alley and rocking his finger enough to cause the slightest waves of pain. The bloodied rag frog was still on his counter, staring at him with pinpricks of sunlight glaring off of its black-marble eyes. He stopped, blinked out of his daze, and lifted his finger.

"Do you think I took that too far?" he whispered.

The frog watched his back silently. Seishirou sighed and winced, then gingerly cinched his tie and straightened his lab coat.

"This is a rather handsome price to pay just to win trust."

The frog stared at his back.

"…you're right." He walked toward the door and scraped his keys off the kitchen table in passing with a dull clinking. "Perhaps I did make that far too dramatic. Martyring myself doesn't mesh very well with either of my personalities, does it?"

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"It's going to be all right."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Yes. We'll make it all right."

"Even if I-?"

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"-Ka-uui?"

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"Yes?"

"I forgive you. I understand. And… there's something I've always wanted to tell you."

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"…Ka-uui?"

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"I love you. I want to be with you forever. I've always loved you. You're my best friend, and you always have been-"

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"Whaaaaat?"

Kamui blinked and realized irritably that he was still in the hospital room. He had lost himself in a half-sleeping, half-consciously woven fantasy of the sort in which he had languished to comfort himself at multiple other points of his life, before he fell asleep, or when he was bored, whatever the case might be. It was so well-woven into the matrix of his mind that he could skip over the finite details that made it seem mundanely and awkwardly realistic to get right to the most enjoyable bits.

"-uui!" Movement on the bed caught Kamui's attention. He glanced up in shock to see that Fuuma was consciously trying to move. His voice was muffled by the gauzy splint holding his cracked jaw shut. "Mmmmh-"

Kamui's stomach dropped. Oh my god. Fuuma. FUUMA.

"-uui? Mmmh-"

"It's-yes, it's Kamui." Kamui swallowed excitedly, took a deep breath, and swung his leg over the chair to dismount. His legs had grown stiff with sitting in the same position for a good portion of several hours. He glanced to the side. Subaru was gone, but he had left his bag. Good. Good. He took another deep breath and shoved the first flickers of guilt out of his head. Nothing is official between us. Come on, just go.

"Mmh!" Fuuma impulsively tried to sit up and remembered that he was strapped to the bed. He could not move his neck to look around. Heart pounding and nerves tensed with excitement, Kamui walked around to the side of the bed and stared down. Fuuma was confused, tired, scared, and disheveled. His hair was mussed, and his hospital robe was crumpled and torn as a result of the paper pulling against the straps when he tossed. His jaw-splint was half yanked loose and blood-blotched, and there was a stitched-and-dressed gash above his eye. Above all, though, he was himself. He was aware. Kamui no longer got the feeling of looking into a calculating mirror when meeting his eyes. There was depth, complexity, and a definite and independent mind.

"…hey, Fuuma."

Fuuma blinked and tilted his head in question, clearly asking 'What the hell is going on, and why am I strapped to this thing?' Kamui shrugged. He didn't know where to start.

"Are you hurting anywhere?" Kamui started to undo the buckle strapping Fuuma's neck. Fuuma glanced out the window. "Don't try to talk. Your jaw is cracked. Do you remember anything?"

Fuuma shook his head jerkily, still taking nervous, sidelong glances out the window at the dawn sunlight. Kamui freed Fuuma's shoulders. Fuuma sat up as far as he could with his arms still strapped down and winced. Kamui pushed him back onto the bed.

"Don't move. You've been injured. Are you feeling… um… all right?"

Fuuma glanced nervously at Kamui, then back outside, then at the wall, then back-

"I'm sorry that you were strapped down." Kamui freed his right arm, which Fuuma shook out. "That-must have frightened you when you woke up. But you were thrashing around and raving. I really don't know what's going on, either. What is the last thing that you… remember?"

Fuuma was looking around the room. He stopped, thought for a moment, and motioned to a writing pad and a pen on the bedside table. Kamui set both in his lap. Fuuma glanced over the paper, shifting his position oddly since his left side was still constrained, bent his leg and adjusted the pad on his thigh, and underlined the 'CLAMP Campus Medical Center' letterhead several times with question marks.

"What? Oh, yeah, that's where we are."

Fuuma scribbled on the page. Kamui watched. There was something confirming and intimate in seeing his friend's handwriting, somehow more so than hearing his voice. His script was currently far more shaky and awkward than Kamui remembered, but it was still clearly his own. Kamui blinked hard and worked on Fuuma's left wrist, glancing back and forth between the strap and the paper. God damn it, what the hell is wrong with you? Don't cry! You're acting like a girl.

//Still? How long was I out?//

'Still?' …oh… wait… that's right. "A long time."

//How long is that?//  Fuuma shook out his right arm and shifted the pad on his knee. //Where is Kotori? Is she all right?//

Kamui stopped on Fuuma's left arm. Fuuma watched Kamui before scribbling on the paper.

//What's wrong? What happened?//

…everything. She's dead. God, Fuuma, you really do have no idea how much has happened, do you? Oh my god. How the hell am I going to explain all of this to you? God fucking dammit, stop looking at me like that. This will be the last time I ever see you stare at me like that. Kamui silently freed the rest of Fuuma's body. Fuuma sat up and stretched out his arms, still glancing around nervously, but calming. You're going to hurt so badly. Oh god. Come on, Shirou. You have to tell him. You have to break his heart. Stare at his face. Memorize it. You'll never see that face again. Come on, how many times have you prepared yourself for this? How many? Fuuma sat up and rubbed his own shoulders, cocking his head to the side and waiting patiently for an answer. Kamui screwed his eyes shut. This is it. This is it. He took a shuddering breath. Godfucking DAMMIT, don't even start crying now. But it won't work out great. This is real. He stared at the white sheets and the bumpy, porous material of Fuuma's clinical-blue and white hospital gown. Everything was too real and momentary. All of his former fantasies about this moment and its cathartic, anguish-filled climax followed by a blissful, rebuilding relationship, were completely forgotten.

Fuuma touched Kamui's shoulder.

"She's dead."

Fuuma's hand did not move. Kamui stared at his shoulder, concentrating on the dimpled texture of the blue cloth and following minute white threads running toward the hem; he was unable to see any small tension beneath the drape of the gown. He glanced at Fuuma's other hand, which was resting on top of the writing pad and fingering the thin flap of glue-binding where paper had been torn free in the past. His finger stopped. Kamui swallowed and concentrated on the hand.

"She's dead, Fuuma." Kamui dully listened to his own voice and glanced at Fuuma's face. Not a muscle was moving beneath the dressings. Kamui wet his tongue and stared back down at his hand before he could get a clear look at Fuuma's eyes. This is the right track. He glanced up at Fuuma's eyes for a split second. The confusion was deepening; he was sorting out Kamui's words, and the shock was fading off. He dropped his hand from Kamui's shoulder. Don't stop talking. Just tell him everything. GOD FUCKING-Don't trust your judgment right now-just do what you know you have to do-

"You were 'out' for-several months-Kotori died as soon as you lost consciousness-you went insane-you weren't yourself, so you can't take what anybody says about you to heart, because it wasn't you-it was me-I was controlling you like a puppet because I was too weak to stay away from you-I killed her-I made you kill her, I controlled your hands and your arm and your-the sword, I made you hurt so many people-I ruined your… life-" Kamui screwed tears out of his eyes and sobbed. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. "I fucked so many people over-it's my fault everybody is dead, your father was guarding the sword, your mom fucking died-your family got mixed up in this because you knew me-because I reached out to you and got to know you-all this shit happened-it's all my fault-I'm sorry-I'm so sorry-I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

Kamui hiccupped and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. He took a deep breath, whined, and started to sob hysterically. Oh, great, you pathetic, pathetic, BASTARD. Stop it. I want to be held-Fuuma, come on, I'm hurting, do something-stop that. Fuuma, please-stop. He's going to kill me. Oh my god, I can't even look at him right now. Kamui pressed his eyes into the heels of his hands. I want to die. I want to disappear and die. It's over. It's all over. He'll hate you forever. This is it, Kamui. He brought up the fresh memory of Fuuma's confused, scared, but open face, and wailed and pressed his eyes until he saw dull, painful explosions of color. Oh my god. It's over. Stop it. Stop. It. That memory is all you'll ever have-You promised yourself you wouldn't cry, you stupid prick.

Fuuma was silent. Kamui sobbed and gritted his teeth, silently praying to disappear. A long while passed. Fuuma slipped the pad onto Kamui's lap.

//Somebody was just in the doorway.//

"…who?" Kamui winced at the high pitch of his response and watched his tears blot the ink. Fuuma slipped the pad back into his own lap, ripped off the top page, and wrote for a few seconds. The scratching was agonizingly slow. Kamui hiccupped and stared at his lap, concentrating on his rumpled hospital trousers and waiting for the pad to be slid back into his line-of-sight.

//Tall guy with a white coat and a bandage around his eye. He left.//

"…Subaru. Oh FUCK." Kamui hissed and continued to brokenly curse under his breath. Fuuma retrieved the pad after a few moments and waited. Kamui sobbed,  pressed his hands into his eyes again in a halfhearted attempt at making himself black out, and shook his head at the momentary blankness during which his thoughts were scattered before they reorganized themselves painfully once again. Fuck it, Subaru, why do you have to show up and skark around NOW… He swallowed and whined with a repressed sob. He was trying to sense Fuuma's expression before having to look up at him. Fuuma was being torturously immobile and closed. Kamui could tell that he was withholding his feelings from being sensed; it was a practice he had taught Kamui when they were training together in Kendo as children. The brief memory of the wet shrine grounds-a mental flash of a young Kotori with loose, wavy hair in a white shift holding an armful of sticks and watching while her brother and Kamui mock-battled with practice swords that were twice too big for either of them-flickered through Kamui's scattered mind. He tried to grasp onto the memory in its unadulterated form and preserve it before he embellished on the bits he could not remember. It was a pure memory, not a fantasy he wove around truth when he was looking for hope and reason for continuing.

Kamui glanced sidelong at Fuuma, the latter of whom was staring motionlessly at the wall. His face was still stony, though his eyes were distancing. Kamui wet his tongue and swallowed.

"Do you want me to leave you alone?"

Fuuma did not answer. Kamui watched him for a few seconds until the tension became unbearable, stood up, and slowly walked out of the room. He stopped in the doorway, loosely pulling the door closed behind him. He was debating walking back in and making more attempts at communication when he remembered that his original plan had been to tell Fuuma that he had been the one to kill Kotori with his own hands, not merely by consequence of his heart. He cursed sharply and slammed the door into the jam.

Well, if you were in his position, you would pull all of the 'It's my fault for being weak and controlled' shit, now wouldn't you? He's going to fucking kill himself now. God damn it, Shirou, you coward. He slid down the door and collapsed into a knot, head buried in arms. He had long ago made the intellectual decision that he would rather be hated by Fuuma and have Fuuma forgive himself because he knew that he should, but deep down, he would rather have them share the guilt and still have some chance at keeping Fuuma as a friend, even if Fuuma was more tortured in the long run. He had pushed the former decision forward so that he could feel better about himself when he finally made it happen. It didn't. He curled tighter and whined.

Somebody sat down next to him and touched his shoulder. Kamui looked up. Subaru slid his hand to Kamui's opposite shoulder and gathered Kamui's head against his own shoulder, stroking his hair and back, alternately. Kamui allowed himself to uncurl and collapse into Subaru's arms. He settled his cheek into the crook of Subaru's shoulder, sliding against the soft lapel of his white overcoat. Subaru was stiflingly warm and familiar, from his lanky frame to the scent of cigarettes and musty clothing. Subaru never wore cologne, nor did he take much time to do laundry on a regular basis, but beyond chain-smoking he kept himself clean.

"…hey," Subaru half-whispered. He sounded awkward. "Did you tell him?"

"You should fucking know. You were standing in the doorway."

Kamui knew that he was being unfair, but at the moment, he didn't care. Subaru stopped, mildly surprised, and then resumed his stroking.

"The door was open. I just wanted to see why you were so upset."

"Well, now you fucking know, don't you?"

Subaru stopped. "Kamui-"

"No, nothing's your fault. I'm sorry. I-it's just-argh." Kamui stood up sharply, brushing Subaru into the wall, and stopped, momentarily horrified at how sharp he was being. Subaru was watching him with a hurt, confused expression, still sprawled from catching himself on his hand when Kamui had slid out from under him. "I just-I'm sorry, I just need to be alone. It's not you. I'm sorry, Subaru. I've fucked everything up. I just don't want to talk about it." Least of all to you.

Subaru closed his good eye and pushed himself up, then unfolded his crossed legs and stood. "That's fine. I understand. If… you know, when you feel better…"

"Thanks. Sorry." Kamui walked away, shaking his head vigorously and scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Red light glared through his eyelids when he did this; he glanced at the backs of his hands and saw that the pentagrams were lit. He shoved his hands into his pockets violently and ran down the hall, praying Subaru didn't notice.

The Sakurazukamori started all of this-

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"They're lit again."

"Five-hundred says Sakurazuka is lying."

"Five-hundred says Kamui dumps Subaru like a hot rock-"

"What the hell is this?"

Satsuki and Yuuto looked over their shoulders at the new speaker. Kanoe stared over their heads at the tri-screen setup Satsuki had configured, one screen featuring Fuuma staring at the wall in his hospital room, one screen showing Kamui wandering down the hallway with his hands shoved into his pockets and intermittently stumbling into orderlies and doctors, and the third showing Subaru sitting crossed-legged and brooding outside of Fuuma's door where he had been left. Satsuki sipped her tea and nonchalantly turned back to the screens. Yuuto smiled pleasantly and gestured toward the confection dolly.

"Kanoe! Welcome! Would you like to join us? We're starting a rather complicated gambling table. You can win the entire pot by betting that there will be no more drama--"

"What is this?"

Kanoe walked closer to Fuuma's screen and stared. Yuuto folded his hands loosely on the table and watched after her.

"Oh, that's Fuuma-kun having a mental breakdown. Right now not much is going on in there, though. He's been like that for a while. We're also starting a gambling chart for when he'll move, if you'd like in. Really, even though the company is impeccable, this gets boring with only two-"

Yuuto flinched; Kanoe had rounded on him and was shaking his shoulder. "Get him BACK. NOW."

"…ma'am?"

"He is no longer our Kamui, Kanoe," said Satsuki.

"I don't care. I'd rather have him here where we can fix him."

"Ah, I don't see any reason for that." Yuuto cupped Kanoe's hand on his shoulder and stroked it comfortingly. "The war is over. The Dragons of Heaven won. We are left at leisure to concentrate on the pettier things in life, like relationships and drama. Personally, I rather like this ending better than getting myself killed just so the world can get destroyed." Kanoe withdrew, horrified. "Seems rather silly to me."

"…whose side are you on, Yuuto?"

"Why, I am a Dragon of Earth, of course."

"Then, what the hell… who did this? Sakurazuka? Did he do this? Is my entire organization a den of snakes?-"

"You knew that he never cared about the war either way."

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier? You KNEW, didn't you?" Kanoe looked from Yuuto to Satsuki, poleaxed. Yuuto was watching her with his head tilted amusedly, annoyingly enough to make her want to smack him. Satsuki was watching the screen calmly, ignoring her. "…why are you just sitting there? Do something! Capture Sakurazuka, torture him, make an example of him, and get Kamui back! …don't just sit there! Get up!" Kanoe threw Yuuto's teacup at his head; Yuuto deflected it with his arm. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YUUTO?"

"It would be a waste of energy to go out there, Kanoe. There's no point. We can't do anything."

"You're the king of pointless! Since when did you start questioning orders, anyway? Usually, you just go out there and do it!"

"I don't feel like it."

"…you don't feel like it."

"No, I don't."

Kanoe twitched, gaping, seconds from swiping the table clean of its spread of tea-china and confections. What the hell is wrong with him? Is he trying to impress Satsuki or something? She closed her mouth and smoothed her hair, sure that she looked like an idiot, and took a calming breath.

"…so you'd rather sit around and laugh at people's petty little lives, like they're some kind of soap opera, than trying to do something productive? That's really impressive, Yuuto. I'm proud of you."

"No, it's like watching reality TV. It's worse and funnier. Would you care to join us?"

Kanoe stomped out and slammed the double doors.

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(1) Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Under the Bridge"