Smudging the line between good and bad

[mod] Reveal time

2008-03-23T12:53:40Z

The author/fic list is under the cut.

It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World is written by sharpie for reposoir.

In Shadows is written by reddwarfer for giving_ground.

Learning to Fall for the Teacher's Pet or: all of God's lambs chase the dragon's tail sometimes is written by pixxers for evaporate.

Love is a Many-Tentacled Thing is written by reposoir for reddwarfer.

Seigaku General is written by shiroibara for arithion.

Other People's Games is written by giving_ground for sharpie.

The Door is written by arithion for pixxers.

But, What Ends When the Symbols Shatter? is written by dystopiarcadia for shiroibara.

Overtones is written by evaporate for dystopiarcadia.

This concludes balls_it_up! I hope you guys had fun. :)

[mod] End of Balls

2008-03-17T14:00:13Z

So this marks the end of balls_it_up. Feel free to make author guesses here!

To give people more time to read (*pokes for life sign from several people*), the reveal will be this weekend.

Overtones (for dystopiarcadia)

2008-03-14T22:51:15Z

And here comes the last fic!

For: dystopiarcadia
Title: Overtones
Pairing: Yagyuu/Niou
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Prince of Tennis is (was?) all Konomi's.
Summary: There is no such thing as a rockstar with a clean image.
Notes: L, you are amazing for sitting with me while I sobbed and procrastinated and tried to off myself and read bad romance and skipped all my classes to make this make slightly more sense than no sense. dystopiarcadia, I can only hope you enjoy the, er, the ride. Happy badfic reading!

"You ever think about flying?"

Yagyuu and Niou on the roof, Niou leaning against the surrounding fence with a cigarette clamped in between his jaws. Plants, flowers, all manner of foliage everywhere -- the setting is the Rikkaidai botanical garden, northwest corner. The season is fall, and the color of the sky is the most pristine, clearest blue.

Yagyuu has an itch in his elbow and won't scratch it, so he settles for twitching at irregular intervals as they stand in silence. At one point he slams his arm against metal railing in frustration, gritting his teeth all the while, and it is then that Niou walks over, takes Yagyuu's arm, his fingers grinding into the bicep, and rubs his palm once against Yagyuu's elbow, rough and fast.

In response, Yagyuu plucks the cigarette out of Niou's mouth and deposits it in a nearby trashcan.

*

The recollection is crumbling at the edges, as though Niou's watching a movie from behind a cracked, dirt-stained wall of glass. The sky is blue, but when Niou grabs onto Yagyuu's skin the colors yellow and blacken, tobacco stains on Niou's perfect memory. What's left is sickening sweet, sharp and stark, insidious and carcinogenic. What's left is a dull ache in all of his limbs and an unfamiliar arm on his pillow in the black of night, two thousand miles away from home.

The clock beeps softly, jerking him back into reality. Four o'clock -- time to get up for his flight for Nagoya at seven.

Niou turns on his side and winds his fingers through the stiff folds of the pillowcase, clutches the rough fabric. It's all he can do to keep from hurling the pillow at the television set opposite the bed.

*

If Niou's memories of Yagyuu are behind glass, then Niou's early memories of his band are written in light pencil on crumpled, yellowing paper. Life as he knows it now is a blur; it's all he can do sometimes to remember his name, and part of him thinks that he's forgetting the old times on purpose -- afraid to reconcile the band members of then with the band members of now.

Niou vaguely remembers meeting Kirishima Shirou and Hiyama Tatsumi at cram school, in a classroom filled with fluorescent light. A five-minute break for drinks and a glance outside lent itself to five minutes of conversation between Niou and Kirishima, who described himself as an "aspiring artist" who was only attending cram school to conform with societal norm. Niou's first impression of Kirishima: something like "weird, a little (totally?) off-base," but he can't remember much beyond that.

Hiyama is easier; a loud, angry street punk with a fascinatingly impossible dream -- to one day have a concert debut in America, of all things -- and one mean guitar.

They're quite the trio; Niou, with his erratic improvisational drumming, Hiyama's sleek guitar, and Kirishima's powerful, if odd, voice.

Quite the trio, Niou notes wryly, his thoughts turning to Yagyuu. They were quite the duo, once.

*

He remembers his first set of nerves: second year of primary school, front row and center - the school anthem at the sixth graders' commencement ceremony. To his left and to his right are a bold, big-grinned boy and a quiet girl, respectively. Immediately in front of him is a wide, expectant crowd of parents, family friends, friends of family friends. His sister in the audience, surrounded by her fellow graduates. The auditorium a deep gray, the stage swathed in ribbons of light. Speeches, several of them, and the odd hiccup or sob in the short beats of silence.

And Niou, in the midst of it all, a child.

His legs are as two columns of jello. His heartbeat pounds frantically in his brain, cold chills racing down his arms, turning his fingers to ice. Adrenaline courses through him—and suddenly, he's a rock star, a celebrity, and he grins.

After the song and a short salute, the younger students file offstage.

"You were smiling," his sister says, giving him a strange look. "Somewhat of a weird thing to do at a graduation ceremony, no?"

"Nah," Niou says, beaming. "It was fun."

*

Their first real gig had been in Shibuya, in the atrium of a popular teen hangout squeezed between an udon shop and a bookstore, on a street so incredibly tiny that Niou wonders why the municipality bothered to give it a name. Niou is a bundle of nerves and cocky adrenaline; Kirishima spends the half-hour prior to their performance quietly freaking the fuck out backstage; Hiyama spends the half-hour massaging his shoulders and muttering to himself.

For a first concert, it's not actually all that bad. In fact, they hit it pretty big with the chicks, as Hiyama puts it, and Niou's feeling damn good about himself until he realizes, hollowly, that Yagyuu isn't there.

He's pressing the call button when he realizes the date: August 15th. His blood runs cold, and he has to sit down amidst the post-concert chaos.

August 15th, Kantou Regionals. Rikkaidai High School Division Tennis Club: first place.

*

Niou laughs through a cloud of cigarette smoke, blowing a few wisps towards the window, where they slink out and vanish into the crisp early morning air. They are headed to the second to last stop on their first-ever all-Japan tour, in a bus equipped with a kitchen, partitioned cots, and a bathroom. The three band members, however, are sprawled in the common area, talking and laughing. For a moment, Niou sees the three of them back in cram school, with dreams as big as the earth and potential as fresh and sharp as newly-mowed grass.

Then reality sets in -- the three of them, sitting on smelly, manufactured carpet, the air in the bus stale with cigarette smoke and a tinge of uncleaned vomit. The bus bumps along potholes in the older roads, and Niou feels like throwing up. Hiyama actually does, with great gusto, and though Kirishima laughs about it, nudging Niou's shoulder as he chortles, Niou just feels sick.

The bus driver's smooth voice comes over the intercom. "Sirs," he says carefully, "we will be reaching the New Chitose Airport shortly. Please make sure everything you wish to bring to Nagoya is with you when you disembark."

There is a boy adjusting his glasses at Terminal B, his manner business-like and brisk. When he catches sight of the three stars, his nose wrinkles. Niou is reminded, again and painfully, of Yagyuu.

*

Sometimes, Niou doesn't remember what happens at all. The first time they get all-out trashed after a concert; crashing the nearest bar, finding solace in drink until late afternoon the next day... all the memories have meshed together into one huge, dense pile of dredge. Niou's not dumb enough to search through his moments of drunken stupor for enlightenment or truth. He'd rather just forget it all, and for the most part, he does.

Some moments, though, stick out more obtusely than others.

"I find you devilishly attractive," Kirishima slurs, and Niou can't help but laugh a little. There is a druggy haze around his eyes; he thinks there may actually be little circles of rainbow light doing somersaults and cartwheels on Kirishima's eyebrows, which makes him look totally ridiculous and also a little bit like a cartoon character that Niou's certain he liked at one point in his life, when he wasn't really actually, actually, actually thinking about being a rockstar, and he hadn't met Yagyuu yet, whoever the heck Yagyuu was anyway, and God, was that a pony? No, wrong word, that-- "Hey," Kirishima is saying, "are you listening?"

"No," Niou tells him. "I'm not. Your eyebrows are very interesting."

"Glad you like them," Kirishima says, and suddenly Niou's against a wall, a thumbtack grinding itself against his back.

Niou really sort of hates being against walls; this he recalls even through the haze. This is how he justifies yanking Kirishima closer by the collar when he does; this is how he justifies kissing him so harshly that Kirishima loses his balance and Niou's able to fling him against the damn wall (take that, artsy boy, Niou sneers), forcing his legs apart with a quick push of his right knee.

Some how this keeps going, going until it's practically routine. Niou doesn't even realize he's sleeping with his own bandmate until they wake up in Niou's hotel room in Kyoto, six weeks into their first tour of Japan.

When he wakes to find a decidedly not-Yagyuu (not-Niou, too) arm on his pillow, he realizes something has to give.

And then the headache sets in.

*

Yagyuu is sipping tea from a small, ornate cup, which he cradles in his hands. "Niou-kun," he says, a little gently, "perhaps it's time to stop."

Niou, whose hands are poised over drums, his fingers chafed from hours of holding the rough wooden sticks, wipes the sweat off his brow in response. "Sun's still out, Yagyuu." Which is true, to an extent; there are still vestiges of sunset streaming into the garage, the light weak and fiery orange.

"Niou-kun," Yagyuu says, and Niou looks up. Yagyuu sets the cup down on the coffee table by his stool, crosses his arms. "You're quitting the tennis club, right?"

Niou stops, chuckles sardonically. "I guess I am."

Yagyuu takes the cup again. "I see." He sips, his eyes shut to the light.

Niou resumes one of his old riffs, but stops short and begins to laugh, abruptly, and he has to set the drumsticks down. He covers his face with his hands, rakes his hands through his hair, then stands, wobbling a little. He walks straight towards Yagyuu, who once more sets the cup aside and looks at him, waiting. A beat, then: Niou puts his right hand on Yagyuu's left shoulder -- Yagyuu doesn't flinch. Niou leans down, presses a kiss on Yagyuu's mouth -- Yagyuu still doesn't flinch, doesn't close his eyes. They're still staring straight through Niou when his own eyes open, and Niou backs away, picks up his bag, and walks away from the garage.

Yagyuu waits until the image of Niou, hunched with a bookbag slung over his shoulder and no tennis racket in sight, has disappeared, before he closes the garage and heads home.

*

The concert in Nagoya is a success, even if Niou has to admit he's not quite so into it anymore and his drums don't ring with the same harsh, perfect rhythm as they had when the band made its first appearance in an abandoned parking lot. They ease into the nightclub of the hour, Hiyama making a beeline for the first group of women that he spots.

Niou circles his way to the bar and orders a vodka, and it's not until he starts drinking that he notices Kirishima standing a tad too close. He turns to make some witty remark, but Kirishima's faster -- the kiss is there before Niou can get even half a syllable out, and the morning's nausea comes back in fast, unrelenting waves. "Hey, Shirou..." he says shakily, "let's not."

Somehow, Kirishima is already drunk. Either that, or he's actually serious. Whichever the case, he's trying to violate Niou again, and for the last time, too, because Hiyama chooses that exact moment to strut towards the bar with two women on his arm. When he sees the two of them, his initial bewilderment evaporates in an instant, replaced by rage unlike anything Niou's ever seen out of anyone, including Sanada. But then again, he's out of his league. What Hiyama lacks in athletic or martial prowess he makes up in raw, uncultured anger, something Niou -- sheltered, middle class, suburban, tennis-playing Niou -- is woefully unfamiliar with.

Funny that he should be caught now, when he's absolutely certain that he doesn't give a rat's ass about Kirishima.

Surprisingly, though, Hiyama doesn't beat either of them up. He just takes them both "out back," as he calls it, and asks what the hell he did wrong. Should he have introduced them to more girls, he asks. They shake their heads.

Kirishima is adamant and loud, gives the sort of speech only a bleeding-heart liberal could make; something about love and acceptance and passions running high. And Niou, thinking of lazy afternoons and cold feet and blistered thumbs and Yagyuu, can't stop laughing.

*

The official disbanding announcement is made in April of Niou's would-be first year of university, two and a half years after their first meeting in cram school and a year after Shibuya.

Niou uses the last of his clout to con a Tokyo University clerk into giving him Yagyuu's address. He lives in an apartment building a good ten blocks' worth of walking away from campus. He makes the trip by foot, figuring he could use the air and exercise.

Yagyuu lives on the sixth floor, on the corner apartment. There is a window facing east. The door is painted green, with a gold-tinted placard reading "603" at the center.

When Yagyuu opens the door and sees him, he doesn't move at first.

"Hey," Niou says.

Yagyuu punches him.

*

Niou and Yagyuu both remember the first time they partnered up. Two first-years, each as green as the next, tennis rackets in hand. Their opponents: Yukimura Seiichi, first year, and Nobuta Ryouji, first year. The assignments were totally random, as doubles partnerships in Rikkai were wont to be.

They lose, terribly.

It works out anyway.

*

Niou grabs onto Yagyuu's arm as the punch connects.

"A long, long time ago," Niou tells him, letting the stinging pain in his arm fade into numbness, "I used to play tennis. That tennis. Haha, funny, I know. A rockstar playing tennis. How completely absurd." He moves closer, and Yagyuu takes one step back in reply.

"You left your teacup in our garage," Niou says. "I've brought it back. It's a little late, but I was busy." He sets the cup in Yagyuu's free hand, then lets go of his arm. There's a long moment of silence, and Niou's about to excuse himself and run for dear life when Yagyuu sighs.

"A tennis player, thinking to be a rockstar." He sets the cup down, hands Niou a pair of slippers. "How completely absurd."

*

Niou has thought about flying.

No airplanes; nothing metal and overbearing, just his arms and his body cutting through the sky at breathlessly fast speeds, just air and air and more air. Maybe a full orchestral background to add to the effect. A lone jazz trumpet, trailing emptily into silence as he fades into the sunrise. And all the while, a steady undercurrent of percussion, starting off slow and steady, but increasing gradually in tempo, until the final burst of energy at the close.

But, What Ends When the Symbols Shatter? (for shiroibara)

2008-03-13T23:15:07Z

(Author, you seem to have used double line breaks for your paragraphs. I've left them as they are. If you want me to change them, please email me.)

For: shiroibara
Title: But, What Ends When the Symbols Shatter?
Pairing/characters: Troika-ish
Rating: R for violence, I'd say
Warning (if any): AU. Abuse of the word "and". Angst, blood, death, flashbacks, shameless theft of Death in June song title
Summary: Once upon a time, they thought they could make it work. Now they're at the brink of war, and only one person stands in the way of mutually assured destruction: this is the tale of the Prince, the Emperor, and the Sorcerer
Notes (if any): I really hope you enjoy this! I tried to fulfill as many of the requirements as I could, but in the end I think this story just ran away from me, and.. yeah, I'm semi-terrified you'll hate me for it, but give it a chance, please! ^^

The sun lay low across the valley, casting its last golden rays across the shimmering towers of Lassän, the fabled Eternal City once reknowned as the jewel of the empire, who had once outshone all others in the magnificence of its thousand spires; Lassän, last remnant of an age of powerful sorcery so far in the past the very origin of the city lay shrouded in mystery.

Yet now the exquisite architecture crumbled under the strain of time and the wars fought over her, and many of her towers stood empty, inhabited only by the ghosts of those who had sought to defend her, some said. Others said it was but the forlorn wind blowing from the desert that sang a wistful tune as it meandered through fallen archways and porticos, yet even they declined to spend the night in the city, retreating instead to the semi-permanent nomad encampment that had spread around the outside walls over the years.

Fires flickered between the erected tents of colourful cloth, and the smells of a hundred spices mingled as traders, merchants, explorers and other men of fortune settled down to enjoy their evening meal. Here and there bards and entertainers broke into songs, plucking the strings of complex wooden instruments, their voices rising above the howl of the wind; and the traditional songs were echoed by all, and all kept their backs to the silent city and the ghosts it withheld.

The streets of Lassän were all but deserted now as dusk gave way to night, and the robed figure made his way silently through the western gates, slipping past the guards with practiced ease. His long stride covered the cobblestoned alleys effortlessly, gliding past shuttered windows and boarded-up doors, most of which bore painted sigils warding against restless spirits. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and slender fingertips brushed against the still-fresh paint: he could remember a time when such protection would have been laughed at by the bold, brash population of the city, before it became a shadow of itself, before... He pursed his lips, straightening unconsciously before resuming his trek through the lonely avenues: the buildings there seemed weathered by more than time, as though a peculiar kind of melancholy had eroded the once beautiful facades.

Eventually he came to a garden, and in the center of the garden there stood a tower of pale blue marble, and the tower itself seemed to glow faintly as it bathed in the rays of moonlights descending from a cloudless sky. At the foot of the tower the entrance door stood open, and the hooded figure paused, staring uncertainly at the spiralling staircase for a moment before entering, and a peculiar expression crossed his features, a flickering of the eyes, a tilt of the head that might have been anger and might have been regret, and probably was a mixture of both.

Silently he made his way up the stairs, glancing outside through the intricate stained-glass windows that lined the curved walls and allowed views of the faded glory of the city, its overgrown gardens and rubble-filled alleyways, and beyond that the fragile layer of human life huddled around the ivy-covered walls, and beyond that the great sighing desert whose ivory dunes hid the legions of the Emperor, poised to strike at first light and vanquish once and for all eternal Lassän.

When at last he stood at the threshold of the chamber he paused, running his hands lightly over the carved wood inset with precious stones, sapphires and jades whose disposition hid complex runes designed to part unwary intruders from their mortal coils. He did not need to heighten his perception to the unseen planes to know than more than a few foolish souls had relinquished the hold on their souls at this very door. But he had been instrumental in deciphering the runes left behind by the mysterious founders of the city, and though he could not hope to replicate their prowess in the sorcerous arts, he had gained over the course of the years a deep understanding of their underlying principles.

Thus his fingers found themselves remembering the complex paths to follow, and his mind adjusted to the peculiar geometry of the now faintly pulsing runes, and with a rush he felt the old familiar power coursing through his body, probing and testing him until he was deemed worthy of entering, as though the city itself sought to defend her last precious child. With a faint creak, the doors reluctantly parted, leaving the sorcerer slightly dazed at the entrance of the Prince's quarters.

"At last, my liege..", he breathed, and his voice was but a whisper rippling through the still air of the silent room. His feet tread silenty on thick embroidered carpets, and on the walls hung dark tapestries of red and black and thread-of-gold and the curtains were pulled open, a thousand faraway stars casting their pale glow on the exquisitely carved furnishings. He passed by a small table on which lay a silver tray, the food on it untouched, coated in a thin layer of dust, as everything else in the room seemed to be; and this realization tugged at his heart in ways words could not describe, and he found himself almost running the last steps to the four-poster bed that stood by the tallest window.

A faint breeze blew from the open window, sending shivers through the fine veils obscuring the occupant of the bed. Stilling his wildly beating heart, the robed figure reached for the gossamer-like material and pulled it back slowly, and despite himself a gasp escaped his lips as he gazed at the man he believed he would never meet again. With skin of alabaster and raven tresses curling down the side of his narrow face, the Prince seemed to have aged not a day since they parted ways so many summers ago... Yet his unnatural pallor and stillness was enough to convince him the monarch of Lassän had suffered his share of trials over the years, albeit of a different nature than his own.

Gingerly he knelt by the bed, and the soft rustle of cloth was enough to stir the Prince from his slumber, as troubled, feverish eyes sought the source of the sound. His pupils dilated in the near darkness eve as he struggled to sit upright, and as recognition dawned on his features his eyes grew cold, but the sorcerer wasted no time in placing his hands on the Prince's temples, and his incantation was already well underway when the Prince placed his own hand atop his, his grip weakening as the spell took effect; confused, betrayed eyes sliding slowly shut. His body grew limp, and the sorcerer laid him back against the pillows carefully.

"Sleep, Seiichi.. Dream, remember, and perchance, hope to forget..", he whispered as he wiped a faint sheen of sweat from his brow.

And then, shifting slightly so that his back rested against Yukimura's bed, Renji closed his eyes and prepared for the long wait ahead. He could only hope his efforts wouldn't be in vain, that he wasn't wasting his energy on a hopeless endeavour. Withdrawing the Emperor's Seal from his pocket, he channelled all his knowledge of the dark arts and projected his mind out, past the boundaries of the mortal plane and into the shifting dimensions beyond, where he'd banished his friends' souls and spirits to. He didn't notice the faint trembling in his limbs as he sought them out, praying with all his might he had made the right decision.

+

He woke up on an unfamiliar shore where a black sea lapped at fragile dunes tinted red by the blood moon above; and yet for all the perpetual motion of the ocean he could hear no sound save for his own breathing and the frantic tattoo of his heart beating against his chest. Taking a moment to compose himself, he forced his clenched fists to relax and watched the fine grains of sand sift between his fingers, carried away by an unseen breeze. Sitting back on his heels he let his eyes drift shut for a moment, letting his senses open to encompass the alien world around him: he knew he could not hope to rival Renji when it came to sorcery, but his talents lay in fields not entirely unrelated to it. At the the thought of what had been done to him his concentration faltered as a wave of red hot anger swept though his lean frame. If the sorcerer had managed to send him here -and his perception of where 'here' was was getting harder to hang on to, as though his memories were being stolen away one by one, then he had to be around as well.

With a jolt he came to his feet, straggering slightly on the uneven terrain, and he noted absent-mindedly he was barefoot, and still clad in the loose silk pants and tunic he had been wearing when he had gone to bed. Perhaps he was sleeping now, he mused as he surveyed the silent expanse of white, red and black stretching to the starless sky. He'd been sick for so long... And then the world blinked, all colours washing away into an eternity of black, and whe he could see again he was there, his sword already drawn, the Empire's crest engraved on his silver armor.

The Emperor's eyes were unreadable as he lunged at the Prince, and the blade made no sound entering his body, and the white sand shone crimson before they felt themselves falling and everything faded to black once more .

+

There was pain, and then there was blissful oblivion, and after that there was light, so much light it burned the back of his eyelids orange, and warmth too, so he thought he might not be dead yet, although that thought left him perplexed even as it crossed his mind. Nothing made very much sense at the moment: he could sense another presence next to him, a brush of metal against his arm, yet he felt no alarm. For now he was floating, and he could feel the warm wind brushing locks of hair from his forehead, and distantly he could make out a chorus of bells and the hubbub of civilization somewhere down below.

So he opened his eyes to find himself back in Lassän, but Lassän was resplendent, as it had been so many years ago, and flowers grew on every balcony and every tower bore the flags of the ruling Houses, reds and yellows and blues adorned with eagles, dragons and other such noble creatures, and the streets were bursting with life everywhere, and he was in the midst of it all. He felt a rush of exhiliration as he swept through the streets, and for a while he was the wind itself, rushing and rising to play with fluttering curtains, sliding past the tall windows of an too familiar tower..

All too suddenly he was back, looking at the world through the eyes of his eight-year old self, and with a pang of rememberance he realized Renji was there too, a smile threatening to break out on his studious face as Yukimura made faces behind the old teacher's back. The walls was covered in ancient scroll depicting the world and its oceans and strange islands and Lassän in the middle of it all, and the old man was telling them about their history, the long heritage and the Borderlands always a step away from secession from the Empire, but his mind was elsewhere, on the sun shining outside and the friend he'd all but grown up with, and how Renji had promised to show him a new trick today from that spellbook he wasn't supposed to know how to decipher yet... He could hardly wait! He tossed his head to the side impatiently, and his soft curls caught the light, like the moon touching the depths of the ocean...

There was a sharp tugging sensation from deep within, and he caught a glimpse of another place -Asanth-, a city built of dark stone streaked with azure that melded into impossibly high cliffs towering over a raging ocean, and that city was full of life too, with armored troops assembling in the slanting streets underneath great statues worn smooth by buffeting winds, and there were women shouting from open windows, throwing tokens of affection to departing loved ones and somewhere deep within the city there was a boy with intense black eyes who refused to let tears show in his eyes as his father prepared to head the army heading inland. Around his neck hung the heavy chain entrusted to him, and the cold weight comforted and terrified him at the same time, and he cried out once at his retreating father's back, and overhead a great flock of black birds cawed ominously. He felt a dark pain wrapping around his heart then, as though the boy knew the mighty general was never to set foot in his city again, and behind him the council of chancellors watched grimly as the army set off, the clattering of a thousand booted feet echoing between the walls of the citadel..

Winter washed over them and everyday the boy waited at the top of the highest tower, hoping to catch a glimpse of the returning army, or even a messenger bearing news, and the blizzard bit cruelly at his skin, and his eyes grew hard with every passing day. Yukimura felt the cold seeping into his bones and everythin was so horribly unfamiliar, as though he was trapped in the wrong body and he sought to escape back to the desert and the oasis on which Lassän had been erected, away from the bitter wind...

Spring brought pale desert flowers blooming pink in the folds of the dunes encircling the city, and the old wives saw the rare occurrence as a good omen as the king returned victorious from his campaign, and beside him rode a boy with dark hair and cold black eyes, his head held high even in defeat, and his wounded pride was the price he'd paid to save his people.

"The chancellors made the right choice", the King said, not unkindly.

"It was my decision", the boy replied, and his eyes narrowed as he watched a lithe figure about his age running up to the king, his smile illuminating the world around him as he greeted his father, relief evident in his face. Then the boy turned curious eyes towards him, and his expression grew imperceptibly more shielded, but the King simply said: "This is Sanada. He will be staying with us now."

A few steps away a taller boy watched the scene unfold, and a pensive frown overcame his features.

There was a shift, and Yukimura was watching the scene from above now, and he could feel everything, and the rush of emotions was dizzying, resentment, anger, joy and sorrow, and something brushed against him again, the cool metal of the silver armor, and Sanada looked up from his younger self and said: "I was never your equal", and everything disappeared from under them as a great bolt of lightning ripped the world asunder.

+

They stood facing each other in the large room that spanned the top floor of the eastern wing, once upon a time a ballroom and now their sparring room of choice. Three great chandeliers hung from the ornately carved ceiling depicting scenes of love and war, woven in a triptych painted above their heads, and the soft light of a hundred candles cast shimmering shadows on the polished wooden floor. Both were clad in black, for they were mourning the death of a friend, and both had their swords drawn, for only Yukimura's eyes were red-rimmed and bright with unshed tears.

The afternoon light died at their feet as they circled around each other, no longer constricted by protocol and the fear of being overheard. Tension hung heavy in the air as they readied their battle stances, perfect forms poised to attack at the blink of an eye, several feet of space and several years of growing hate standing in the way of their bloodthirsty blades.

"Why?"

Yukimura was the first to break the silence, and his voice was thick with emotion even as he lunged forward, the needle sharp tip of his rapier glancing past Sanada's cheek, leaving a hair-thin trail of blood behind. He retreated back a few steps, parrying the counter attack with ease bred out of desperation to hear the answer to his anguished question.

But Sanada remained silent, lips set in a grim line as he launched his own attack, his blade cutting Yukimura's pleas short; he'd never been much of a talker, after all. He nicked the other man in the arm, and watched as the thin material of his shirt parted, soaking up the blood seeping from the shallow cut. Yukimura appeared incensed by this, and he brought his own blade up, stepping dangerously close to his opponent as he breathed the words through gritted teeth:

"He didn't.. have.. to die!"

Sanada's eyes widened slightly, and a smirk briefly crossed his features as he landed another blow, lower on the thigh this time, and his voice was laced with venom when he replied:

"Renji was poisoning your mind, brother."

And the younger Prince snarled, anger twisting his features in an unrecognizable mask as he avoided Sanada's attack, and the one after that, all the while drawing closer, scoring nicks and cuts over the taller man even as he received his own share in the process.

"Don't you.. ever.. say his name again!"

And with a howl of anguish he buried his blade deep into his brother's heart, and watched as he sank to the ground, words forming on his lips even as life drained out of him, and a corner of his mouth twitched as he rasped with his dying breath:

"He always said... you'd be the one left standing.. in the end. Are you satisfied now.. brother?"

The last word died in his throat as Yukimura fell to his knees, cradling Sanada's broken body and tears were flowing freely down his face now as he rocked back and forth, unseeing eyes oblivious to the grisly scene around him, blood pooling around them both, so much blood he thought he might drown in it...

+

He came to with a gasp, and a great shudder rippled through his body as he backed away frantically from the terrible memory, but it was wrong, so wrong, that had never happened, right? He looked down at his hands expecting to find them stained crimson with his blood, with their blood, and didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified when he realized they were clean. And now he could see Sanada wore a similar expression of shock etched on his features, and his hands were gripping his chest as though he was expecting to find a bloody gaping hole where his heart was, beating frantically against his chest.

There was a whisper then, so faint it almost sounded like the desert sighing, and both heard it and thought they recognized Renji's voice, and it was saying you only see what you want to see, and Sanada's eyes were haunted as he got to his feet, and only then did they realize they were back in Lassän, high atop the battlements encircling the city. He grimaced as though his earlier words had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and leaned back against the rough stone indentations.

"I guess", he started, and his voice was losing that edge of uncertainty, "you should be careful what you wish for."

And he turned his back to Yukimura and surveyed the nomad encampment below, now grown thrice its usual size for the summer festival that attracted visitors from the world over. From all corners of the horizon noblemen and commoners alike were gathering, heralds proclaiming high and wide the prowesses of their masters, ensuring many more feats to come during the upcoming jousts and tournaments: it was a time of truce within the Empire, and all were invited to display their skills at the civilized game of war, and they were there too, astride their mighty stallions, Yukimura with his helmet under his arm, letting the hot summer breeze dry the sweat beading on his forehead, and Sanada adjusting a strap on his armor and gazing towards the east where a cloud of dust signalled an incoming rider...

Once more they were back in and above their younger selves, innocent and jaded as they relived that fateful day ten years ago, and Yukimura's heart sank as he saw the messenger approaching, and he felt the smile slip from his face as the haggard rider reported in a hushed whisper, and his grip on the lance he was preparing to use in the upcoming tournament slackened, the training weapon all but forgotten as it clattered to the ground. And now Sanada was urging his horse forward, clearly taken aback by the conflicting emotions he could see warring on the Prince's face...

The emotions were just as sharp as they'd been then, even as he stood atop the battlements watching the scene unfold once more before his eyes, and what cruel game was Renji playing at?

"Enough!", he shouted to the heavens, and he mustered all his concentration to shatter this painstakingly accurate reproduction of his memory, and the illusion faltered for a moment, the bone-white beach flickering into existence briefly, and the blood-red moon illuminated Lassän like a terrible omen of things to come.

+

Several mental lightyears away the Sorcerer regained consciousness altogether too fast, and his labored breathing echoed in the silent room atop the highest tower of Lassän, and his eyes grew wide and concerned as he watched the Prince struggle against the powerfully woven spell, fighting every inch of the way to return to his mortal body, fragile as it was.

Pushing past the pain in his own weary limbs he lay a trembling hand on the Prince's feverish brow, sadness evident in his troubled gaze as he whispered empty reassurances, knowing all the same all would be for nothing if Yukimura and Sanada didn't complete their journey. His fingers tightened around the Prince's forehead and the familiar incantation was back on his lips before he could change his mind. They had to understand, there was no other way, before it was too late, before they destroyed each other and everything in their wake...

+

They were back in the not-quite-dream, but the edges seemed frayed somehow: time jumped in frantic bursts, leaving only afterimages burning on the back of their eyes, almost too fast to grasp, as though they were trying desperately to reach the end. Running to our deaths in slow motion, and again they thought they heard Renji's voice but they were too tired to fight the onslaught of memories rushing back at them.

The kingdom's army, hastily assembled and awaiting the Prince's orders outside the walls of Lassän, the banners for the forgotten festival still fluttering incongruously in the faint summer wind.

Cold sweat running down his back, underneath the leather jerkin. We will rescue the King. His voice projected confidence to bolster the courage of his soldiers, but fear gnawed at him deep inside. What if they were too late?

Sanada squeezing his hand, in a rare moment of privacy. The simple comfort of his firm fingers encircling his own, wondering how he never noticed how they molded into each other so well.

Renji on his grey war-horse, compiling information gathered from the scouting parties they'd sent ahead even as they marched towards Asanth, stealing glances at Sanada sometimes, one hand curled tight against the hilt of his sword, like he was imagining the suffering his people were going through. Some wounds just weren't meant to heal. And Yukimura lost in his own internal guilt, blaming himself for not having led this campaign to the borderlands, wondering over and over if he could have done anything different to prevent this.

There was an air of grim finality about them; harbingers of the end of an era, and the army following in their footsteps was unnaturally silent, the clinks of their weapons muted against the oppressive atmosphere.

Jagged edges of the not-dream pierced at their hearts and minds: Asanth, burning from a hundred fires stirred by the restless wind, and the invaders sullying her natural beauty, ugly masked things wielding hooked spears and curved daggers, their sorcerers laughing as they cast lethal bursts of lightning at the approaching army.

Sanada, breaking formation with a contingent of men, crying out at the sight of his city, and for a moment Yukimura didn't matter and neither did the King and all he cared about was the handful of memories buried deep within his heart being shredded to pieces under his eyes. His aura glowed white-hot with rage, and he carved a bloody passage to the city gates, not caring who stood in his way, a sea of blood left in his wake.

Renji but a few paces behind him, urging his steed forward desperately, his words lost in the din of the battle as the press of bodies grew thicker around them.

A flash of light, outlining the silhouettes fighting on the cliff, Asanth's natural barrier against invaders, and the battle cry of the ageing King sounding loud and clear in their ears as he raised his sword against his masked opponent...

The pounding of hooves, the incessant clattering of metal against armor, blades piercing flesh and the unbearable human agony as soldiers tread over fallen bodies, the wet sound of blood everywhere, and his sword taking part in the deadly dance, dodging and slaying mechanically, his eyes trailing back to the cliff face every chance he could to catch a glimpse of his father...

He did not see the spell cast in his direction, did not register the electricity charging in the air until it was too late, only felt his mount crumple underneath him and the searing burn travelling down his spine, molten nerve endings spreading fire through every fiber of his body until he thought he had died, but the battle was still going on, and he grit his teeth against the pain because he could not, would not give up now, and he called upon resources he did not know he possessed, disentangling himself from his fallen steed, forcing his knees to lock in place as he spotted a riderless horse a short distance away. Sanada and Renji were out of sight now, but he could still catch up to them...

His vision blurred. White light against the black rock, and his soldiers fighting in a protective circle around him while he led them through the winding streets of the unfamiliar city. Father.. A hot wetness sliding down his back, sticking his garment to his back uncomfortably, but the armor did a good job of hiding the damage done. Just hang on a little longer..

There was a flash, and Sanada's howl was at once terrifying and broken-sounding, his path littered with the bodies of his fallen enemies, and he reached the cliff in time to see the King thrust his sword up to its jewel-encrusted hilt in his opponent's chest even as he stumbled forward, blood seeping profusely from a large gash in his side. Too far, too deep, and the faceless commander tried to wrench free the sword buried in him, denying the King the satisfaction of victory as he pulled him down the cliff with him, and Sanada lunged forward to reach for the King's arm, admiration and loathing warring within him as he tried to rescue the man he had not managed to keep hating entirely.

But his grasp was slippery and the weight too great, and the King nodded once at him, seeking his gaze even as life fled from his eyes, and in that brief instant more passed between them than all the years they'd spent learning to live alongside each other. Forgiveness came at high a cost, though, and Sanada felt the King's hold slacken, and soon he was swallowed in the fog rising from down below, where the waves crashed relentlessly againt the black cliff...

He felt a strange kind of emotion grip his heart as he picked up the King's crown, discarded during the brutal fight. He had freed himself from the demons of his past, but had gained little peace of mind in the process...

"Where is he?"

Yukimura's voice, halting. Breathless, confused, angry. Eyes like steel boring into his, glancing sharply down at the circlet of gold still clutched in his bloody hands. Again, the question came, louder, laced with terror and something else creeping underneath, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing:

"What have you done?"

Renji reached up, tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but the Prince slapped it away. Lost in a world of pain, shadows dancing in front of clouded eyes and all he could see clearly was Sanada holding his father's crown, and he should have seen it coming, wasn't this what he'd wanted all along?

But before he could answer a great shadow rolled across the land, and from down below a second wave of attackers came, pouring through the narrow streets in a deadly torrent, intent on avenging their deadly commander. And Yukimura threw himself in the battle, forgetting about everything, the agony in his body overshadowed by the one raging in his mind, and the only thing that made sense was his blade, dancing for him, dancing with him and soon he lost sight of Sanada, and even Renji faded from view as his world narrowed to a sea of faceless attackers, and madness encroached upon him with every life he took.

He could feel tears running down his cheeks, and he didn't know if he was Sanada or Yukimura or Renji now, names didn't matter anymore, they were drowning in a sea of emotions that were theirs and not, alien and yet so familiar like they'd never really gotten to go beyond skin deep and the layers were shed at once, brutally, drawing fresh blood and letting all the bitterness and the resentment out in an angry torrent...

Time spasmed, hiccupped forward again, winter came and went and still the war raged. Multiple fronts keeping them apart, like they could still pretend it was all going to be alright. Increasing mistrust, opinions clashing loudly in strategic meetings: Sanada raising his voice, saying attack was the best form of defense, and Yukimura looking down at his wounded kingdom, thrust upon the throne too quick..

Fire poisoning him slowly from the inside, and he appeared a ghost, and the terrifying visions he conjured drove his beautiful Lassän to ruins, his weakened body a target for supernatural denizens inhabiting the higher realms of existence. Hungry ghosts lining up to get a bite of his soul, his spirit and still he fought on, and the fight left him drained, unable to lead his army to repel the masked invaders.

A turning point: Sanada reclaiming Asanth for his own, and the black fortress shone again, and the title of Emperor started to circulate on people's lips, and it wasn't long before the rumour became prophecy. The Sorcerer by his side, direly needed to fight this strange new enemy yet longing for peace and the promise of the Prince's safety. But he could not go back, not when Yukimura had made it clear he had chosen his side.. There never were any sides to begin with, can't you see this now?

Civil unrest spreading through the kingdom, and the army spread thin enough as it was: it was a logical decision in the end, though it cost him much to admit it. Unite the kingdom under his rule, else they must all perish... The Emperor had to defeat the Prince, once and for all.

+

Dawn peeked through the open curtains, the first rays of sunlight creeping alongside the smooth stone of the tower until eventually they fell upon the two still figures, coating them in pale golden light.

The Prince awoke first, wide startled eyes landing on the slumped form next to him, one hand reaching out tentatively to the Sorcerer whose eyes fluttered weakly as he felt the ghost of a touch on his cheek. His skin was ashen in the morning light, and deep shadows haunted his eyes, but still he managed to push himself to his feet, wavering for a moment before he caught himself on the edge of a table. The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips, against all odds, and it held no regret, only sadness for the time they had not seen drift away from them.

"Now you see.. why I had to do it.. right?"

He smiled once more, and then crumpled soundlessly to the floor, eyelids drifting shut serenely even as Yukimura cried out, reaching out for Renji to hold him close, burying his face in the crook of his neck as the tears he'd been waiting to shed all these years finally found their release. He cradled the Sorcerer's body against his, rocking gently as though he could take back everything he'd said or done to push him away, to reclaim the last ten years of his life...

He did not know how long he stood there, but eventually he ran out of tears and he straightened up, wiping a hand across his face before gingerly laying Renji on top of his bed, arranging his hands carefully in his lip. He knew what he had to do now.

The sun was higher in the sky as he made his way down the many steps of the pale tower, and each step cost him dearly, for the sickness cast upon him so many years ago had taken its toll on his body, and the sword he held in his hand clattered against the stone steps when his grip weakened. He refused to let his mind wander back to the dark images he'd all but relived a few hours ago; figuring out when it had all gone to wrong was still too painful, even now.

His vision spun by the time he reached the ground floor, and he stepped outside and leaned against the tower, weary eyes wandering over the empty plazas and overgrown gardens. It was all too easy to pretend he could see Lassän as it had been, and forget anything had ever happened.. He yearned for the innocence of days long gone, futile a wish as that was, and was almost glad for the distraction from his somber thoughts when he spotted a familiar silhouette walking slowly towards him.

His breath caught in his throat, and the sword lay limply at his side, point scraping the stone tiles as he uttered his name: "Sanada." And for the first time in ten years, he said it without hate or malice, and there was a great sadness within him as he thought of all that Renji had done to make him realize that there never should have been.

And Sanada was framed in the light now, all sharp edges and every bit the Emperor the kingdom desperately needed, and he must have read Yukimura's thoughts, for he said simply: "I cannot do it without you", and it was all he'd ever wanted to hear, because when had Sanada ever needed him, when he had Renji by his side and they were acclaimed as the heroes defending the realm? And Yukimura could feel the strength flowing through Sanada, his quiet confidence filling him with enough resolve to push himself up against the wall, afraid he would collapse without its support.

The sword fell, useless, to the ground, and the Prince turned his gaze towards the Emperor, sudden horror filling his gaze as he remembered polished wooden floors and a spreading pool of blood, and the dark lifeless eyes staring in silent accusation even in death, and he knew just as well as Sanada did they were irrevocably part of each other, two sides of the same coin, and that was what Renji had been trying so hard to tell them all this time, when it had been in front of them all this time. And the Prince took the Emperor's hand in his, and it was a gesture of comfort and a peace offering and so much more, and his voice echoed the reviving embers in his heart as he replied:

"You won't ever need to."

+the end+

The Door (for pixxers)

2008-03-12T23:22:34Z

For: pixxers
Title: The Door
Pairing/characters: Yagyuu/Niou – minor Sana/Yuki
Rating: PGish
Warning (if any): weird
Summary: Yagyuu has a bad day, or thinks he does, and figures if he starts it out in a better way, it might not end up so bad.
Notes (if any): I tried about 5 previous incarnations with alternate characters, finally settled on this story. Not entirely happy with it, but I tried to encompass 3 of the balls it up prompts, and one scenario. Hope it's okay.

Yagyuu was having a bad day, and to say it was a bad day, was really an understatement. The car had started it all off, really. Yes, the car was at fault. Well, the car and his having let Niou drive it at any rate. Or to be more precise, his letting Niou get in a car, and standing anywhere in the vicinity when he did. Backing out had never been Niou's specialty – in anything.

That was why he was lying in hospital, covered in bandages waiting for the doctor to come in and let him know just what was wrong with him.

The ceiling was almost pretty. White, but serviceable with thousands of tiny lumps he could count away the hours with. And he knew that, because he'd been counting them for hours.

He looked over as the door opened, trying not to let his jaw hit the floor as the person walked in with their doctors coat and hospital name badge on.

"So, so, Mr Yagyuu," he murmured, flipping through the chart he was holding. "Ahhh, nasty accident that one. Hit by a car?" The doctor shook his head, tsking gently with his tongue.

Yagyuu shook his head, thinking something must have gone wrong with his eyes in the accident. He would have hit his head to try and jolt some sense into his brain if he could have moved his arms.

"Anyway, where was I," murmured the doctor. "Ah yes, I'm sorry to inform you, that, while cataloging your injuries, we discovered you have ovarian cancer."

What the fuck? Is actually what Yagyuu wanted to say, but his mouth didn't quite seem to be working properly, so he tried to generate a little spit before trying it again. "What?" Well at least that came out.

"Oh," laughed the doctor, "Silly me, wrong chart. Sorry, that's the lady next door. Let me see if I can find yours."

By now, Yagyuu had had it. "What the hell are you doing masquerading as a doctor, Yukimura?"

Yukimura looked up, surprised. "Masquerading?" He chuckled, "Oops! Guess you caught me! We can have a ball!"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't really know," With that Yukimura starts laughing, and dancing around the room, climbing on the seats and flapping his arms like a chicken.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Sanada stumbled in, followed by two rather burly orderlies.

"Thank god he's in here!" Sanada stated, almost proudly.

Yagyuu leveled a very annoyed glare, well, as annoying as a man with his arms pinned by his side can look, at Sanada, before speaking. "Why the hell was he in here – diagnosing me?"

Sanada blinked once, before speaking very seriously. "Hobby."

Yagyuu blinked back the morse code for what the fuck, but didn't really expect a response, which was good, because he didn't get one. Yukimura was bundled into a robe that looked suspiciously like a straight jacket, while he still tried to dance, his feet still kicked in mid air, and got dragged out of the room.

The door shut closed behind them, only to open for a moment when Sanada popped his head back in to say: "Oh yeah, could you like, not mention that, thanks?"

"Sure..." Yagyuu buried his head in his hands, which for some reason, were now suddenly free and therefore completely smudged his glasses. He'd decided he really didn't like this hospital. It was far too white, as hospitals had a habit of being.

So he continued to wait, glad that at least his hands were free so he could twiddle his thumbs. Hospitals had to be the most boring places on the face of the earth, unless of course, you happen to be Yukimura. At least that was some entertainment.

And at least he learned one thing out of all of this. Don't stand near, or around a car Niou is under the impression he can drive. Yagyuu grinned despite himself, glad no one can witness it. He just couldn't wait to get out of the confining hospital and back home to torment his uh ... friend.

The door creaked open, and Yagyuu turned in its direction, wondering idly just what was going to come his way this time. However, it wasn't really anything shocking. Just a tall, rather important looking man, with a couple of assistants on either side of him, and a clipboard in his hand. ‘Ah,' Yagyuu thought to himself. ‘Now he'll tell me when I can go home.'

The doctor looked down at Yagyuu, and it was definitely down, because the man was damned tall. "Yagyuu Hiroshi?" He asked, tone of voice grave, reminding Yagyuu of a crypt in a graveyard he and Niou had once crept into.

He nodded that yes, he was Yagyuu Hiroshi.

"Usually we have your parents here when we do this."

Yagyuu wondered why, he was old enough after all.

"But as they're not here, I figured you'd want to know you're going to die anyway."

Wait... die?

"You have a brain tumour, inoperable sadly, but a brain tumour nonetheless."

Yagyuu blinked once, and then once again for good measure. "From getting hit by a car traveling eighteen miles an hour?" he asks, his voice flat.

The doctor was the one to blink this time as he glanced down at his chart to refer to his notes. "Yes, that's what the results show. You've got about four weeks to live." There wasn't even a trace of doubt in the man's tone. "Do you have any questions?"

Yes, is what Yagyuu wanted to say, but he shook his head instead, wondering if that was good or bad for brain tumours.

"Well then, we'll leave you be. A counselor should be in soon." And with that, the doctor and his henchmen left the room.

Brain tumour from a car accident? Yagyuu started to laugh loudly. He had a brain tumour? Cancer of the brain! Oh how he could see Niou laughing with him. It would be a rare sight indeed.

The funny thing was, he wasn't even upset by it, because he didn't feel like mourning for himself. His mother would probably do that for him.

Thinking of that, he felt it strange that none of his family had visited him, nor had Niou. Very strange. Holy fuck he was dying of a brain tumour. With, what was it, four weeks to live? What were the things he wanted to do with his life? Four weeks sure as hell wasn't long enough to do them all.

That was a little depressing really. But Yagyuu wasn't the depressive sort, he was a tad more logical. He liked to think things through, even though thinking through the last four weeks of one's life didn't fucking seem logical.

Suddenly, he felt less restricted, like he could move, body a little sore, and swung his legs over the side of the bed – watching the IV stand just incase it toppled.

Death, he was going to die, it still felt so unreal. What a fucking cockhead of a doctor, really! The man had all the bedside manner of a wet dishcloth. Hi, I'm here to tell you you're going to die.

Yagyuu would get mad if he could see a point to it. Being told he was going to die in a nice way wouldn't make it any less an inevitability.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door bursting open once more, and he saw the doctor's head poke around the corner again. "Oh, Yagyuu! Hi there. Sorry about the interruption, but..." He glanced at his notes. "Vertebral Compression, sorry. Not brain tumour! Heh! My mistake. Happens all the time. Have a long and happy life. You can check out later today."

The door closed and Yagyuu just stared at it. To be more precise, stared daggers at it. During his stay he'd really come to hate that fucking door and if he could just get his hands around that doctor's throat, but jail time would interfere with the apparent life he still had to live.

Still, checking out that day would be good. Thinking he'd go see when that might be, he opened the door...

... and woke up in the middle of the night with one arm wrapped tightly around Niou back in his own bed.

Yagyuu rolled over onto his back, muttering under his breath: "What the fuck was that crazy dream." Until he remembered the new car in their driveway, and Niou's promise to drive it the next day.

Making himself comfortable again, he glanced at Niou's only-peaceful-in-slumber face, and smiled before he goes back to sleep, murmuring: "No fucking way I'm letting that dream come true..."

And there was no way the dream would come true if he distracted Niou for long enough in the morning. Evil smirk on his face, Yagyuu drifted off to sleep.