Sensible Heart
Title: Sensible Heart
Chapter: 1/4
Pairing: Tora x Shou, implied Tora x Saga
Rating: R to NC-17, for this one, R
Genre: AU sorta, angst
Warnings: male x male, gore, sorta AU, foul language, sex, angst.
Summary: What happens after all that you've ever known is gone? You try to move on, with every fibre of your being.
Comments: Angsty Aleksiina is angsty…That idea had been trotting in my head for a while, just waiting for emo muse to come out. I've been in a weird state for two days now, I think its all that depressing weather I get in montreal coupled with the fact that I may be sick -_-, and this came out of it. Its sort of an end of the world fic, but not really since it mostly occurs after the worst of it has happened. I know, I know, it STILL isn't vital signs *gets bricked*, but I did try to work on it. I was in no mood, and I didn't want to f*ck up a funny/fluffy fic with needless angst. So I wrote this instead. Sorry *hides under desk* but I hope some of you will like it…Oh and I named this after a City and Colour song. Go listen to it, its my favourite angsty music, and Sensible Heart is just plain lovely.
***
Tora scratched another thin line in the wooden plank that served as a calendar, on the small table right beside his bed.
Three years he had lived here today. Three years. Such a short time, in two weeks he would turn 34. Yet he felt a million years old sometimes.
It had started innocently, five years ago.
Somewhere in south america, a virus came about. Nothing to fret about, flu-like symptoms, a fever. It was contained at first, kept to small villages. There were some casualties of course. More than expected from a flu like virus, entire villages wiped out. But no one worried. Lamented the deaths, but no more. Even the most common of viruses killed people in third world countries. It was common.
What wasn't common was that some of the corpses came back to life, hungry for the flesh of their own.
Mindless creatures, with no other purpose than to hunt, kill, eat, and start over again. The only way to kill them was a shot to the head, or to starve them, until they ate at their own limbs, their own rotting flesh, leading to death in the end. It was kept quiet at first, villages quarantined. And then it was cities quarantined, and capitals, and entire countries. Governments collapsed, infrastructures decayed, until the entire south-american continent had become a wasteland, where only outlaws, monsters, and terrified survivors remained. A state of emergency was called, some measures taken to contain the virus, before the epidemic turned into a pandemic. But it was too late, pointless. The virus couldn't be contained, not in this age of constant travelling, exchanging, socializing. It made it so easy, for the virus to spread from city to city, country to country, until three quarters of the world population was decimated. Young, old, rich, poor, the virus didn't discriminate. It just killed, and sometimes brought back to life. If the fate of the poor victims that ended up monsters wanting to eat their own family could be considered life.
Japan wasn't excluded, despite the insularity, the strict, controlled nature of their culture and society, they fell just like the rest.
Most of the undead had been killed by now, five years down the line, the few remaining survivors having fled up north, getting smart enough to survive. They lacked of things to devour but themselves, and the virus mostly died out, with nothing to spread to. But what little population that was left was having quite a hard time surviving, without infrastructures, without government, without knowledge. The world had become like the 20th century old west, like a new world colony, people in a rough land, doing their best to survive by their own rules.
Tora was no different. Once he had been a famed guitarist, in a great band, with thousands of fans. He'd acquired more things in a few years of success than most people had acquired in a life time. Life had been good. Nice car, high-rise apartment, the works. What use did he have for all of it now? He had lost everything. Family, home, friends. He didn't know wether they lived or had died.
But most of all he had lost his lover. And most of his faith in the human race, for a time.
So he buried himself in routine, days and nights merging into one another, only separated by those thin, neat lines on the piece of wood that he used to calculate time. He woke up at dawn every day with the light coming through the windows of the small house he had built on his own. It was a small, squat log cabin, made mostly from fitted, sealed tree trunks, and materials he has scavenged from the neighbouring houses, long abandoned by their owners. It was divided in three areas with fabric partitions hanging from the rafters: a living area with a small kitchen, a small space full of shelves, where he gathered all the books that he could get his hands on, and a bedroom, with a footed tub in the corner. There was a outhouse at the back, the way covered by a thinly roofed passageway. There was no electricity, no running water. He lugged all of his water from a nearby stream, got all of his heat from two simple fireplaces in the living room and the bedroom, and created light with candles, and oil lamps he had built using an old design from a century past. It wasn't much, but it was his, built with his own hands. He hadn't built anything in his life, not even a birdhouse. It had been quite the learning curve, and he'd struggled at first, cursing those hands that he thought only had musical skills. But he'd learned, and progressed, realizing that those beautiful, once idle hands could saw, measure, hammer, plaster. By the time winter was settling in, he'd had a safe, warm, quiet place to live into. And he had filled some of the void in his heart.
He could've asked some help, from the small settlement at Wakkanai, but he liked his peace and quiet, and the feeling of accomplishment he had felt when he laid that final piece of the roof into place. It was small, a few kilometres away, just over 70 people, mostly fishermen. Friendly enough people. But he enjoyed his loneliness, despite the warm welcome he was graced with every time he went, to help out any way he could. They had been used to the cold, and leading a hard life, but they were in no better condition that he was. It was the pressing need for a doctor that had given him the will to go on. No one was educated enough, and when he showed up, with his Tokyo accent, and college education, they stumbled over their own feet to ask him, if maybe, just maybe, he had some sort of medical knowledge. They had lost two women, and two newborns that year, because of the lack of proper equipment and knowledge. They were desperate. That was when he learned that those hands could also suture, reset fractures, heal. He had a purpose. The good, caring people of that small town had filled him with hope when all he had wanted was to lay down and die.
He held on to that purpose with everything that he had left. It kept him alive, in this faraway place, with nothing of his past remaining but memories.
Without Saga.
***
He woke up that morning, like every other morning, with dawn caressing his face.
The light so far up north was often grey, and dim so early in the day, but it warmed nonetheless, so he basked in it for a few minutes, lingering in those warm blankets he had spent most of the summer hand-quilting. It kept his hands busy while he read the heavy, thick medical books the villagers had gathered for him from the disaffected town hospital, along with all his medical equipment, and it was a good way to practice his suturing skills. It had reminded him of his teenage years, when he had spent hours deconstructing and resewing clothing for days, just to give them that prized visual-kei look. Little did he know that those skills would be so useful years later. He still didn't complain all two much when he noticed, six months into living in his little house, that there had been a tall man living in one of the nearby abandoned houses when he had gone scavenging for stuff. He'd found a stash of clothing that fit him with minor alterations, nothing too fashionable, common sense jeans and sweaters, flannel button downs. Nice condition, sensible clothing. He couldn't deny that he had been rather happy to find a nice, black, shiny new leather, slim fitted jacket though. It wasn't a time for vanity, but it had cheered him up to no end to find a bit of his old self in that buckled, zippered biker jacket.
He slipped out of his warm bed, wincing when bare toes came in contact with the cool wooden floor. It wasn't very cold yet, days still long and sunny, but the mornings were always a little crisp. He sat up, brushing his now chest-length hair out of his eyes. He had let it grow for he didn't remember how long now, not finding the time or inclination to cut it. It lay in silken, dark ash-brown strands down his back, side parted across his brow. His father would have said it looked girly. He liked it.
He stood up, stretching his arms over his head, shivering in his nakedness. He walked over to the shelves where all his clothes were neatly folded, pulled out a pair of jeans and a blue and black checkered button down shirt. No clean boxers though. He'd have to do some laundry later, and winced at the thought. It was such a hassle. He put down the clothing on a small table he had built, right beside the bathtub, and walked over to the main room, parting the fabric curtains, still buck naked. The fire had burned down to embers, the two large kettles of water he had put on the hooks before going to bed simmering gently. He picked them both up easily, having built up a fair bit of muscle ever since having to do quite a bit of every day physical effort, and lugged them over to the bedroom and the bathtub, filling it up a quarter of the way, before filling up the rest with room temperature water he kept in a large metal bucket. He stepped in the bath, wincing as the water scalded his cold toes, before sitting in it, humming with pleasure as the warmth spread throughout his body. He lay back, letting the water submerge him completely, dunking his entire head in it, wetting his long hair. He emerged, sputtering, brushing water out of his eyes, and reached over to the small table for the bar of handmade soap a village girl had made for him, probably hoping to get more than just a blushing thank you in return. He lathered up his hair, working out the kinks with his fingers before rinsing out the soap, before reaching for the razor and chipped mirror on the side table. He inspected his face in the small surface, still finding no line to mar his fine, sharp features. It amazed him every time, that time only made him more handsome, leaving no trace of its passing on his smooth, pale skin. He shrugged, and started lathering up his face for shaving, with his trusted, old school straight razor. He had been afraid to use it at first, only giving in when he realized that his patchy, thin beard really wasn't a good look for him. He was by no means vain, but even he had his limits. He had nicked himself a few times, but had learned from his mistakes, the motion so familiar now that he could shave blindfolded.
His morning ritual was followed by the emptying of the bathtub through a trap in the floor, and a hot cup of tea, with a small bowl of rice taken at the small table in his library, a heavy tome laid out on the scrubbed surface. He was reading everything that he could on simple surgeries lately, the mechanics of it, trying to accommodate the techniques with the limited means he had. He was studying an incision diagram when a familiar crackling broke the silence. The small, battery operated radio transmitter that kept him in touch with the outside world, another gift from the villagers, was laid out on the window shelf where it could easily pick up the waves. It beeped once, letting him know that someone was trying to contact him. He stood up, picking up the mike, clicking on the side button that gave him control of the frequency.
"Good Morning, Tora-san…"
It was the gruff, reassuring, low voice of Hiroshi. He had been the chief of police before the pandemic, assuming leadership of the small town after all the infrastructures had fallen apart. A good, fair, sensible man of 50 years or so, with a strong build, manly, fatherlike features. He had been the first to welcome Tora, building a strong bond with the then distraught former guitarist, supportive and encouraging. They talked every day.
"Hiroshi-san, how are things this morning? How is Shizuka-san?"
Shizuka was Hiroshi's 19 year old daughter, four months pregnant, Tora's favourite patient.
"Very good, she hasn't been sick yet, which is quite a relief…"
Tora chuckled.
"She should be past the morning sickness stage now, I don't think we should worry too much at this point."
"Good news indeed. I meant to tell you, a stranger came to town today."
Tora put down his tea, intrigued, leaning on the window shelf.
"A stranger?"
"He didn't stay very long. I didn't talk to him, my son in law did. He said he was looking for a friend, a tall man, with dark hair and hazel eyes, with a face to make the girls sigh…It sounded like he was looking for you."
A creeping feeling invaded the pit of his stomach. A wild hope that he had been repressing for so long, he didn't even know how to make sense of it. He dampened it quickly. Who could possibly come looking for him so many years down the line? Everyone he used to know had to be dead by now. His new life was here.
"Did Takuya tell him about me?" he asked, still curious.
"He said that it sounded like you, gave him loose directions. I just wanted to let you know, just to be safe."
It was a safe decision indeed. No one hardly came from the south anymore, the only outsiders coming from the easternmost shore of Russia for trade, or from the neighbouring village for medical care. Friendly folks too, fishermen and sailors. Tora had learned a fair bit of russian from them, managing to trade some home-made medicine for more books, and sometimes a bottle of vodka or two. But no one came from the south, almost ever, and the ones that did, they knew.
"I'll be careful, don't worry. I have always have the shotgun by the door, you know me."
He had picked up a few skills with firearms too, from Hiroshi himself, and the russians. He had become quite good with a gun. Not that it was a choice when you had to hunt to survive the winter.
"Besides, I was going to go fish today. So no need to act all fatherly and worried." he teased, making the older man chuckle at the other end.
"You're smart enough to be my own son, trust me on that…Well, have a good day then, let me know if you caught anything, not that I'm hoping too much with your luck…" the old man teased right back.
It was Tora's turn to chuckle.
"Remind me who caught the salmon last time?"
"Alright alright…I'll call your portable radio if anything happens. Talk to you later. Over."
"Don't you worry, I'll rub it in your face, whatever I catch. Over."
He put down the microphone, picking up his tea again, mulling over the conversation. What if that person was looking for him? Who could it possibly be? He shrugged. There was no way of knowing unless that person found him, and until then, it was pointless to worry. He finished his reading and breakfast, packed his shoulder bag with his fishing line, his portable radio transmitter, a cartridge of shotgun ammo, in case he encountered anything unfriendly that needed more than one round to kill, and another book, on lutherie this time. This winter, when he'd be snowed in with nothing better to do, he would make himself a guitar.
He found a clean pair of socks in a basket by the door, shrugged them on and stepped into his steel-toe boots. He unbolted the door, taking a deep breath of fresh air. The clouds had cleared, the sun shining bright, a warm breeze caressing his skin. He smiled, smoothing his long hair back, twisting it on the nape of his neck before pinning it into place with a pin he had carved from a piece of maple. He shouldered his shotgun, and stepped out in the light.
***
The fishing had been good. Half a dozen good sized river trouts, that he would salt and add to his stash for the winter. He hadn't encountered any other animals but for a few curious birds and squirrels, but he hadn't ventured very far. Soon he would go further into the wild, hunting for bigger game. The deer was plentiful around the fall, and their salted, smoked meat was a good way to keep up during the winter. His step was light, and cheerful, as he returned to the log cabin, stopping on his way to check on his apple, and ume trees. The apples were still hard and sour, but the ume plums were almost ready to be picked to make umeboshi, using his grandmother's recipe.
He was looking forward to eating home-made umeboshi, it had been years since he had some. He was still thinking those happy thoughts as he reached the clearing where his little house stood, immediately stopping in his tracks when he felt that something was off. He looked around for the source of the discomfort, and shouldered his shotgun when he noticed an old dirt bike, dirty and travel worn, parked beside his own. He pretty much was the only one to own a bike in the area. So whose was it?
His eyes scanned the land quickly, with a practiced gaze, picking out all possible targets until his eyes paused on a figure, sitting on his front steps. He stepped closer, cocking the gun, making that tall, slim figure look up in surprise.
That face.
That familiar face, he had seen every day for ten years. That full mouth that hid a straight row of pearly white teeth, the boyish features he still had, despite the fact that he was a tad older than he himself was, the huge, liquid brown eyes. That hadn't changed one bit. He was submerged with memories, of his teenaged years, of his past life, of laughter and sold out tours.
He was skinnier, borderline scrawny, and travel worn, his clothing dirty, dark circles underneath his wide eyes. His hair had grown long too, not nearly as long as his, but it grazed his shoulders in dark brown waves.
That full mouth quivered, those eyes he knew so well filling with tears.
The gun went limp in his hands as he lowered it, head spinning with shock as that tall figure got closer and closer, stopping just a pace away. He reached for that face, tentatively, with the hand that wasn't holding on to the shotgun handle in a vice-grip. He cupped that familiar face with his hand, marvelling at the softness of his skin, the warmth, the solid reality of his face.
"Am I dreaming?" he asked, the question sounding a little dumb to his own ears.
But he had to ask. Had to.
The tall man put a warm hand over his own, just as solid and real as his face, tears streaming down those beautiful features.
"I can't believe it's you…" Shou murmured in a hoarse voice, before throwing himself at Tora.
***
I think that its really odd that I can write the happiest fluff around and then do an abrupt 180 and write this. My muses really are bipolar, but I don't think I'll medicate them just yet, otherwise my fiction is gonna end up about as blank and boring as the "Twilight Saga" Bwah hahahaha! Yeah so sorry I went there, and I apologize to twilight fans, but the entire series reads like a high-schooler's creative writing assignment…*gags* Anyway, part two of this is nearly done already, I'm just testing the waters with this. Let me know if you want more ;) Love ya'll xoxo