Post by krystalepyon on Jan 1, 2008 7:50:26 GMT -5
Oh. My. God.
This is depressing.
Seriously, it's weird, depressing, and disturbing. This is what happens when I'm in an empathy induced, bitterly miserable mood.
I wrote the beginning of this fic like half a year ago and while I didn't have anything planned for it, it certainly wasn't meant to turn out like this.
But... it's interesting. At least, I think so.
I haven't posted this on AFF.net yet. I'll probably do that after I'm happy with the new chapter of Concerto and post that. Meanwhile, here ya go.
SPECIAL WARNING: Haku, just don't read this.
Pairings: Tezuka/Fuji (sort of) Yukimura/Fuji (sort of)
Warnings: Uh, MASS ANGST!!! character torture, physically and mentally. S&M with no rules. Time skips. Total OOCness (but naturally induced, I swear!) AU (Or is it?
) Character death.
Stakes
"If I win, you belong to me."
Fuji felt a shudder of horror at those words. He was aware of what that meant, what Yukimura would do to his prized possession...
But that was okay. Fuji wouldn't lose. He was a tensai. For Tezuka's sake, he would put everything he had into beating Yukimura.
*
Fuji felt smug as the ball sailed through the air. Yukimura had been stupid enough to hit a smash a such a critical point in the game. He was beating Fuji, and if he'd only held his patience, he probably would have collected the vital point that would secure Fuji's loss. However, with the aid of Higuma Otoshi, Fuji was about to regain his momentum and -
Fuji's heart seemed to stop and then plummet as the ball landed outside of the court. His stunned face left the traitorous object, to take in Yukimura's smiling expression.
It was the same tactic Ryouma had used on him.
All of a sudden, the fact that he had lost, that he was now Yukimura's property, that he had let Tezuka down... It all sank in and he felt flat, useless.
The racket dropped from his fingers as tears began to stream down his cheeks.
Why was he crying? Because he'd lost? Pathetic.
But he couldn't stop it.
Thoughts began to fill his mind of how he could have won if he'd only tried harder, if he hadn't made such a mistake, if he hadn't been over-confident, if he hadn't underestimated Yukimura...
And there was Yukimura, smiling ever so sweetly as he watched Fuji cry. Fuji just wanted to stop. It was bad enough to cry at all, but like this... In front of his opponent, now his master... The desperate need to stop only made him cry harder.
And then Yukimura was there, lifting his chin and whispering falsely sweet words before he walked off, all confidence and pride. Meanwhile, Fuji only cried harder, feeling utterly hopeless, and the one thing that kept coming to mind was that he had failed, that Tezuka would be ashamed of him, and that he deserved to become Yukimura's prey. What he didn't deserve was Tezuka.
*
Fuji took the backhand to his face, stumbling back into the wall. His body was limp as his Master slammed his frail shoulders into the plaster. If he wasn’t help up by the hands pinning him, he’d have sunk into a ball on the floor.
Biting back tears, he endured his Master’s biting lips, abusing his in a harsh kiss. It was a cruel parody of a romantic gesture, but if he didn’t put something – anything – into it, the punishment would be that much worse.
Silencing the last stubborn part of himself that was slowly crumbling away into a gaping crevice, he kissed his Master back, utilizing the one remaining emotion of bitter hate to resemble passion. His bones protested once more as the kiss ended with another rough shove and Fuji hissed in pain.
“You’re pathetic,” spat the derogatory voice in his ear.
Fuji wisely made no reply, not even a sound. He coughed as a knee slammed into his stomach and he fell weakly onto his Master’s chest, hitting the ground a moment later when his Master recoiled from him.
Stretching out one hand as if to push himself back up, he grunted and his chin bounced on the floor, his teeth rattling, almost biting his tongue…
Yukimura ripped away his underwear, the Master’s knee kneading uncomfortably into the base of Fuji’s spine, effectively sealing any significant movement or attempt to rise. He did not try again, staring blank-eyed at the carpet as his Master ruthlessly fucked him.
By the time it was over, all he was really aware of was that his chin hurt, and his neck felt uncomfortably stiff.
*
Tezuka was almost sick, watching Fuji lag behind. He’d long been displaced from the regulars and day by day, drew closer to withdrawing from the club completely. The only things that kept him there were routine, and the people forcibly dragging him to practice every day.
He looked like living death. There were deep circles under his eyes and he’d lost an unbelievable amount of weight. It was amazing that he could run at all.
Tezuka couldn’t stand to look. He turned away, briefly meeting Oishi’s eyes, but unable even to hold his vice captain’s gaze.
It was his fault. Somehow, it had to be.
Fuji’s decline had begun after the tensai broke up with him, completely unexplained. He never even bothered to give Tezuka an excuse. Then, Tezuka had felt hurt and betrayed, and had treated Fuji harshly, but as the tensai’s physical and mental shape rapidly went downhill, Tezuka had begun to wonder if it wasn’t he who was mistaken in some way. What had he done to cause Fuji to break up with him? What had hurt the tensai so badly that he was destroying himself from the inside out?
Either way, Tezuka had to find out soon, or else there would be no Fuji left.
*
Fuji recoiled violently, flinching every time Tezuka made the slightest movement towards him.
He was in pain, physically and mentally. His whole body was battered, bruised, and broken – a finger or two and several ribs had been cracked for a couple of days. Still, the mental pain was worse. He couldn’t stand being on the team any longer. He couldn’t stand seeing Tezuka day after day. He couldn’t stand the sympathetic, false looks of those who had been his friends. He couldn’t survive any longer.
No more tennis. No more school. No more family.
His Master would provide for him until he wasted away into nothing. That was the only way he could go on. There was nothing left.
*
Tezuka turned his back on the fragile mass cowering beneath a bench in the locker room. He ushered everyone outside, unable to hide his own tears.
“Tezuka,” Oishi whispered at the door his eyes horrified and his voice desolate. “He’s dying.”
“I know.” Tezuka’s reply was a choked whisper.
“A doctor…”
“I need to do this,” Tezuka insisted.
If he had put Fuji in this state, then he had to get Fuji out of it.
*
The broken, sobbing mass in his arms was no more reassuring than the withdrawn, emotionless zombie of before.
“I lost,” Fuji kept sobbing over and over, gasping and hissing in pain for some reason.
Tezuka had his suspicions about trauma to the ribs, and a few other areas, but he didn’t know what to do. Fuji needed to go to the hospital, but he needed to be himself again, first. Tezuka needed to find him in there.
“You never lost, Fuji. You’ve won every game I’ve seen you play. Fuji, listen to me. You never lost.”
“I lost… He beat me,” Fuji rasped. “He always beats me.” The tone altered now, darker, frightened…
“Who does?” Tezuka asked.
“He beats me,” Fuji repeated in a terrified whimper.
“Who, Fuji? Who beats you?”
“My Master.”
Tezuka felt a shudder of apprehension trickle through him. All this time, Fuji had been hiding abuse, and he had never known. He’d thought the tensai was doing it all to himself…
“He won’t hurt you again, Fuji. I won’t let him. I promise. Who is he? Just tell me and I’ll make it stop.”
“Won’t stop. Never stop,” Fuji whispered. His sobbing had abated, and now he was tense in Tezuka’s arms, almost as though he was ready to run away. But he couldn’t run, he didn’t have enough strength left in his maltreated body.
“It will stop,” Tezuka told him firmly. “Tell me who he is.”
“You can’t stop the child of God,” Fuji breathed.
For a moment it sounded like psychotic babble, and then Tezuka remembered the nickname. His eyes narrowed as he came to understand exactly who had done this to Fuji…
*
When Fuji first came out of his coma, he was broken. He remembered weeks, months, maybe years of horror, and the scars on his mind blinded him to the world.
Time and medication brought him around, and he became coherent again. He was damaged, but he was alive, and there was hope for him to come out of it almost okay.
It was a sign of his old self when he asked the visiting Eiji about Tezuka and why his old captain hadn’t come to see him.
Eiji had responded with tears as he very quietly, very reluctantly answered that Tezuka couldn’t visit. He was in prison.
When Fuji asked why, Eiji couldn’t answer.
It wasn’t for another week that Fuji finally heard the reason why.
His sister, smiling with infinite kindness, held his hand as she explained.
“Tezuka pleaded guilty for murder. He killed Yukimura.”
*
A year later, when Fuji was finally released from the hospital, he paused at the entrance to the prison and found that he couldn’t enter. It wasn’t for another five years that he was able to visit Tezuka in his jail cell.
He found the love of his life vastly changed, and it tore him apart to know that it was his fault.
A stupid kid had believed so firmly in honor that he had given his life away for a stupid bet. One even stupider than that had stolen the first kid’s life back for him and now continued to pay a heavy price. A life, for a life, for a life.
*
Tezuka hated the apology and horror in Fuji’s eyes. He’d given everything to save Fuji. He didn’t want apology. He hated it. He feared it.
But never once did he regret what he had done.
When he made a desperate attack on a prison guard in plain aim of several others, that was the thought that ran through his mind.
And the memory of Fuji’s young, healthy, beautiful face flashed before his eyes with every bullet he took.
*
An old, scarred man sat staring up at the clear blue sky, his matching blue eyes a million miles away. The earth beneath him cushioned his battered old bones, and the tombstone he leaned against comforted his heart.
It wouldn’t be long before he joined the only man he had ever loved. He had waited a long time, but now there wasn’t much longer to wait.
“I forgive you,” he rumbled, having to chew his way around the words.
He wasn’t sure to which specter hovering before him he offered the sentiment, perhaps both, but his life had generated more than enough blame. It was time to let go…
The end.
O.o;
This is depressing.
Seriously, it's weird, depressing, and disturbing. This is what happens when I'm in an empathy induced, bitterly miserable mood.
I wrote the beginning of this fic like half a year ago and while I didn't have anything planned for it, it certainly wasn't meant to turn out like this.
But... it's interesting. At least, I think so.
I haven't posted this on AFF.net yet. I'll probably do that after I'm happy with the new chapter of Concerto and post that. Meanwhile, here ya go.
SPECIAL WARNING: Haku, just don't read this.
Pairings: Tezuka/Fuji (sort of) Yukimura/Fuji (sort of)
Warnings: Uh, MASS ANGST!!! character torture, physically and mentally. S&M with no rules. Time skips. Total OOCness (but naturally induced, I swear!) AU (Or is it?
) Character death.Stakes
"If I win, you belong to me."
Fuji felt a shudder of horror at those words. He was aware of what that meant, what Yukimura would do to his prized possession...
But that was okay. Fuji wouldn't lose. He was a tensai. For Tezuka's sake, he would put everything he had into beating Yukimura.
*
Fuji felt smug as the ball sailed through the air. Yukimura had been stupid enough to hit a smash a such a critical point in the game. He was beating Fuji, and if he'd only held his patience, he probably would have collected the vital point that would secure Fuji's loss. However, with the aid of Higuma Otoshi, Fuji was about to regain his momentum and -
Fuji's heart seemed to stop and then plummet as the ball landed outside of the court. His stunned face left the traitorous object, to take in Yukimura's smiling expression.
It was the same tactic Ryouma had used on him.
All of a sudden, the fact that he had lost, that he was now Yukimura's property, that he had let Tezuka down... It all sank in and he felt flat, useless.
The racket dropped from his fingers as tears began to stream down his cheeks.
Why was he crying? Because he'd lost? Pathetic.
But he couldn't stop it.
Thoughts began to fill his mind of how he could have won if he'd only tried harder, if he hadn't made such a mistake, if he hadn't been over-confident, if he hadn't underestimated Yukimura...
And there was Yukimura, smiling ever so sweetly as he watched Fuji cry. Fuji just wanted to stop. It was bad enough to cry at all, but like this... In front of his opponent, now his master... The desperate need to stop only made him cry harder.
And then Yukimura was there, lifting his chin and whispering falsely sweet words before he walked off, all confidence and pride. Meanwhile, Fuji only cried harder, feeling utterly hopeless, and the one thing that kept coming to mind was that he had failed, that Tezuka would be ashamed of him, and that he deserved to become Yukimura's prey. What he didn't deserve was Tezuka.
*
Fuji took the backhand to his face, stumbling back into the wall. His body was limp as his Master slammed his frail shoulders into the plaster. If he wasn’t help up by the hands pinning him, he’d have sunk into a ball on the floor.
Biting back tears, he endured his Master’s biting lips, abusing his in a harsh kiss. It was a cruel parody of a romantic gesture, but if he didn’t put something – anything – into it, the punishment would be that much worse.
Silencing the last stubborn part of himself that was slowly crumbling away into a gaping crevice, he kissed his Master back, utilizing the one remaining emotion of bitter hate to resemble passion. His bones protested once more as the kiss ended with another rough shove and Fuji hissed in pain.
“You’re pathetic,” spat the derogatory voice in his ear.
Fuji wisely made no reply, not even a sound. He coughed as a knee slammed into his stomach and he fell weakly onto his Master’s chest, hitting the ground a moment later when his Master recoiled from him.
Stretching out one hand as if to push himself back up, he grunted and his chin bounced on the floor, his teeth rattling, almost biting his tongue…
Yukimura ripped away his underwear, the Master’s knee kneading uncomfortably into the base of Fuji’s spine, effectively sealing any significant movement or attempt to rise. He did not try again, staring blank-eyed at the carpet as his Master ruthlessly fucked him.
By the time it was over, all he was really aware of was that his chin hurt, and his neck felt uncomfortably stiff.
*
Tezuka was almost sick, watching Fuji lag behind. He’d long been displaced from the regulars and day by day, drew closer to withdrawing from the club completely. The only things that kept him there were routine, and the people forcibly dragging him to practice every day.
He looked like living death. There were deep circles under his eyes and he’d lost an unbelievable amount of weight. It was amazing that he could run at all.
Tezuka couldn’t stand to look. He turned away, briefly meeting Oishi’s eyes, but unable even to hold his vice captain’s gaze.
It was his fault. Somehow, it had to be.
Fuji’s decline had begun after the tensai broke up with him, completely unexplained. He never even bothered to give Tezuka an excuse. Then, Tezuka had felt hurt and betrayed, and had treated Fuji harshly, but as the tensai’s physical and mental shape rapidly went downhill, Tezuka had begun to wonder if it wasn’t he who was mistaken in some way. What had he done to cause Fuji to break up with him? What had hurt the tensai so badly that he was destroying himself from the inside out?
Either way, Tezuka had to find out soon, or else there would be no Fuji left.
*
Fuji recoiled violently, flinching every time Tezuka made the slightest movement towards him.
He was in pain, physically and mentally. His whole body was battered, bruised, and broken – a finger or two and several ribs had been cracked for a couple of days. Still, the mental pain was worse. He couldn’t stand being on the team any longer. He couldn’t stand seeing Tezuka day after day. He couldn’t stand the sympathetic, false looks of those who had been his friends. He couldn’t survive any longer.
No more tennis. No more school. No more family.
His Master would provide for him until he wasted away into nothing. That was the only way he could go on. There was nothing left.
*
Tezuka turned his back on the fragile mass cowering beneath a bench in the locker room. He ushered everyone outside, unable to hide his own tears.
“Tezuka,” Oishi whispered at the door his eyes horrified and his voice desolate. “He’s dying.”
“I know.” Tezuka’s reply was a choked whisper.
“A doctor…”
“I need to do this,” Tezuka insisted.
If he had put Fuji in this state, then he had to get Fuji out of it.
*
The broken, sobbing mass in his arms was no more reassuring than the withdrawn, emotionless zombie of before.
“I lost,” Fuji kept sobbing over and over, gasping and hissing in pain for some reason.
Tezuka had his suspicions about trauma to the ribs, and a few other areas, but he didn’t know what to do. Fuji needed to go to the hospital, but he needed to be himself again, first. Tezuka needed to find him in there.
“You never lost, Fuji. You’ve won every game I’ve seen you play. Fuji, listen to me. You never lost.”
“I lost… He beat me,” Fuji rasped. “He always beats me.” The tone altered now, darker, frightened…
“Who does?” Tezuka asked.
“He beats me,” Fuji repeated in a terrified whimper.
“Who, Fuji? Who beats you?”
“My Master.”
Tezuka felt a shudder of apprehension trickle through him. All this time, Fuji had been hiding abuse, and he had never known. He’d thought the tensai was doing it all to himself…
“He won’t hurt you again, Fuji. I won’t let him. I promise. Who is he? Just tell me and I’ll make it stop.”
“Won’t stop. Never stop,” Fuji whispered. His sobbing had abated, and now he was tense in Tezuka’s arms, almost as though he was ready to run away. But he couldn’t run, he didn’t have enough strength left in his maltreated body.
“It will stop,” Tezuka told him firmly. “Tell me who he is.”
“You can’t stop the child of God,” Fuji breathed.
For a moment it sounded like psychotic babble, and then Tezuka remembered the nickname. His eyes narrowed as he came to understand exactly who had done this to Fuji…
*
When Fuji first came out of his coma, he was broken. He remembered weeks, months, maybe years of horror, and the scars on his mind blinded him to the world.
Time and medication brought him around, and he became coherent again. He was damaged, but he was alive, and there was hope for him to come out of it almost okay.
It was a sign of his old self when he asked the visiting Eiji about Tezuka and why his old captain hadn’t come to see him.
Eiji had responded with tears as he very quietly, very reluctantly answered that Tezuka couldn’t visit. He was in prison.
When Fuji asked why, Eiji couldn’t answer.
It wasn’t for another week that Fuji finally heard the reason why.
His sister, smiling with infinite kindness, held his hand as she explained.
“Tezuka pleaded guilty for murder. He killed Yukimura.”
*
A year later, when Fuji was finally released from the hospital, he paused at the entrance to the prison and found that he couldn’t enter. It wasn’t for another five years that he was able to visit Tezuka in his jail cell.
He found the love of his life vastly changed, and it tore him apart to know that it was his fault.
A stupid kid had believed so firmly in honor that he had given his life away for a stupid bet. One even stupider than that had stolen the first kid’s life back for him and now continued to pay a heavy price. A life, for a life, for a life.
*
Tezuka hated the apology and horror in Fuji’s eyes. He’d given everything to save Fuji. He didn’t want apology. He hated it. He feared it.
But never once did he regret what he had done.
When he made a desperate attack on a prison guard in plain aim of several others, that was the thought that ran through his mind.
And the memory of Fuji’s young, healthy, beautiful face flashed before his eyes with every bullet he took.
*
An old, scarred man sat staring up at the clear blue sky, his matching blue eyes a million miles away. The earth beneath him cushioned his battered old bones, and the tombstone he leaned against comforted his heart.
It wouldn’t be long before he joined the only man he had ever loved. He had waited a long time, but now there wasn’t much longer to wait.
“I forgive you,” he rumbled, having to chew his way around the words.
He wasn’t sure to which specter hovering before him he offered the sentiment, perhaps both, but his life had generated more than enough blame. It was time to let go…
The end.
O.o;
