Versus, Kenji/Kazuhito, #23 Promise, Shaded Mazoku

[ashkaztra.livejournal.com]

Title: Better Late Than Never.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Fandom: Versus.
Pairing/Characters: Kenji/Kazuhito.
Rating/Category: PG/slash.
Word Count: 672.
Spoilers: For the past part of Versus. Slight spoilers only, though.
Summary: Sometimes, you have to wait very long for a promise to be kept.
Notes/Warnings: A tsukubō is basically the rake from hell. Technically used to trip people, the spikes to keep them from grappling it away from the wielder, I still think it looks like something used for creative flaying. Also, writing all in katakana is considered somewhat weird at best. This is actually pre-slash/post-slash ... Not current-slash. Yet.



Waking up gasping for air had become a habit. There was cold, despair and playful eyes, framed in red and lost to him forever. A promise, long ago broken, and his will to live with it. And then he'd wake, straining to breathe.

Sighing, Kazuhito got up from his futon and wandered into the shower, wondering if he'd ever get a good night's sleep again. His dreams were becoming progressively worse, yet they told him nothing except a lingering sense of betrayal and loss. There was cold, pain and loss, lingering emotions rather than images. Without fail, he woke feeling as tired as he'd been going to sleep, tired and frozen on the inside. Thankfully, his work didn't require him to think, just to act out routine movements.

But then, his entire life was like that. Get up, shower, put on clothing. Drink coffee, go to work, buy tuna sandwiches on the way there. Do his work quickly and quietly, no complaints or comments. Come back home, make dinner, read for a while, then fall asleep. Have more nightmares. The same thing over and over.

Somehow, Kazuhito got through another day of work without talking to anyone, getting on the train to go back home, wondering whether he should make something different for dinner though he knew it would once again be rice with egg and miso soup.

Nearby, there was a commotion. A group of men, obviously yakuza, arguing loudly. Kazuhito automatically turned his music up louder, tuning everything out. Just like every day, never getting involved with the world. It was the only way he knew to handle the world.

Somewhere into the next song, a hand grasped his wrist out of nowhere, and startling, Kazuhito pulled back, bumping into the crowd, apologizing instinctively. The hand still held his wrist, the owner far too deep inside his personal space, even for being on a train. The man was taller than Kazuhito, though not by that much, with wavy brown hair, pink sunglasses and a wide and not entirely sane grin.

Kazuhito tugged at his arm, trying to make the man let go, but the man was deceptively strong. Instead, his assaulter pulled him in, free hand running along his sides, lingering for a while before backing towards the door, as the train rolled into a station. He reached up, pulling off his sunglasses.

He should have been wearing red paint around his eyes, smeared until he looked demonic. Should have been wearing red, carrying a wicked-looking tsukubō, promising to come back for him as soon as it was safe, but never returning. Instead, he wore an expensive suit, smelled of cologne instead of woods, and looking as impossible and attractive as ever.

“I promised I'd come back to you, didn't I?”

Before Kazuhito could respond, the man was swept out of the train by the crowd as the doors opened, waving lightly as he did. Though every instinct told Kazuhito to run after him, the crowd blocked him, and the doors soon closed again. Mentally calculating how long it'd take him to get back to the station if he got off on the next one, he was startled out of his thoughts by an unfamiliar ring tone from his pocket.

The phone he fished out wasn't his own, because his phone had never been chrome and satin black, and he didn't have anything dangling off of it. He flipped it open, staring at the text message within. It was written all in katakana.

Had to run. Dinner soon? Don't make me wait another five hundred years.

For the first time in what did feel like centuries, Kazuhito knew what he wanted, which was both scary and a relief at the same time. Looking at the phone, which looked pretty damned expensive, he typed a response.

Give me back my phone.

Before long, the annoyingly cheerful melody came again.

Soon, when we meet again. Promise.

Despite himself, Kazuhito felt warm inside for the first time since the nightmares had begun.

Comments

[noctuabunda.livejournal.com]

Ooh, there you are again - and once again, with an intriguing piece. Not entirely sane, but all the more interesting.

Thanks for sharing!

[ashkaztra.livejournal.com]

I've had a bit of a writer's block from hell the last few months. I blame university. I feel better now, though, and hopefully I'll be able to write more.

There's not much sanity in Versus, I think, and even less in my writing. Though LJ eating my italics didn't help any.