[FIC] Reita/Ruki - the GazettE - DEFECTIVE TRAGEDY - Chapter 3
Title: DEFECTIVE TRAGEDY
Author: bakacoconut69
Rating: R (estimating. may change)
Warnings: male/male relationships, angst (LOTS of it), psychological abnormalities (paranoid schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts, no beta, AU (not set in Japan, either), I may or may not refer to them as Reita and Ruki in the story, may add more as story goes on.
Pairings: Reita/Ruki
Disclaimers: I bought Reita and Ruki in Narnia from the White Witch. I do not own Ruki or Reita or any other celebrity I may mention in this fic (I will make note of who specifically if they come along).
Summary: Takanori Matsumoto had lost hope many years ago when an accident took both his daughter and the use of his legs from him which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his wife. Young Akira Suzuki has always carried the burdens of suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and a troubled past. For the youth, hope had always been naught but a passing dream until he meets the famed author Takanori in a cemetery, of all places. Striking up an unlikely friendship, the two begin a journey of helping each other with their personal struggles. In the long process, friendship turns to love and soon it all becomes too much to bear for the both of them. Will Takanori and Akira be able to overcome their own personal demons in order to be there for the one they love most?
Author's Notes: After the posted chapter(s).
::Previous Chapters::
-Prologue/Chapter 1-
-Chapter 2-
Chapter Three: An Unlikely Encounter~
"Akira, don't tell me you're reading that crap again."
"What? Crap?" The blonde looked up.
"Takanori Matsumoto's work," Marcie stated, "is, more often than not, utter crap. I swear, the only decent thing he's written is-"
"The 'Stumbling Out Of The Closet' series," Takanori finished. "Guess which one I'm reading."
"A shame he's made no sign of finishing it," Marcie sighed. "It was obvious the death of his daughter had an effect on the last one, but he stopped writing after his wife left him."
Akira gasped and dropped his book. After a moment, he leaned over to pick it up. "You mean he's straight?"
"Of course," Marcie replied. "Whatever made you think he wasn't?"
"Well . . . isn't the overall story about a man who's outed to his wife by a past lover?"
"Straight people can write gay literature too, Akira," Marcie said, flipping her own blonde hair out of her face. Her sapphire eyes glinted in an almost-knowingly manner. Akira blushed, causing Marcie to chuckle lightly. "You can be so naive sometimes, Akira. Did you honestly know nothing about your supposedly favorite author?"
"Not his personal life," Akira admitted in a mumbled tone.
"I'll give you the gist," Marcie said quietly. "It's not a pretty story, but about ten years ago, a horrible car accident killed Takanori Matsumoto's daughter and left him paralyzed from the waist down. Less than a year into his recovery, Takanori's wife, Catherine, decided it was his fault that their daughter passed and divorced him. It was horrible. All over the papers and tabloids: she accused him of murder."
Akira stared at Marcie, completely dumbfounded, his eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears. "That's just . . . horrible."
"He stopped writing 'Stumbling Out Of The Closet' after his last one bombed, which likely happened because it lacked what the other books had: substance. When his daughter died, it was all angst so he stopped writing the series. After his wife divorced him, Takanori stopped writing novels all-together. Nine years and not a single piece of writing has been published. Not a novel nor poem nor article. He even stopped updating his advice column on his blog that he had taken on as a side project."
"So, we'll never know the true ending," Akira mumbled as he stared at the book in his hands. After a moment, the blonde sighed. "I really had no idea . . . I didn't even know he had stopped writing."
"Yeah," Marcie sighed. "Not many people know even half the story, anymore. Matsumoto just kind of disappeared from the public eye. Anyway, I'll see you later Akira."
"Yeah... bye Marcie," Akira went back to his book. How had he not noticed the difference in writing style between this one and the ones before? It seemed so obvious once it was pointed out to him. Regardless of the difference, though, Akira still felt Matsumoto's writing far surpassed other things he had read.
"Akira, we need you back on the floor," Dr. Brennan said, poking his head in. "Anna's sick in the bathroom and is going to head home."
"I'll be there in a second." Akira had closed the book and was already heading towards his locker. Within seconds he was ready and whipped out of the room.
The rest of Akira's shift passed swiftly and was full of sick kids and ornery elders. There was one teenage boy who was a victim of a hit and run: he'd been run over by a car who'd sped away and it took several hours of Akira's shift to get him stabilized and through surgery. They had him in a medically-induced coma for the time being while they reevaluated his injuries when Akira was leaving, so it looked like he'd be one of Akira's patients tomorrow as well.
"See you tomorrow, Akira!" Dr. Brennan called as Akira exited the building. The young man took in a deep breath as he started across the parking lot. The air was brisk and sharp: like it was going to snow soon. Not caring if he was caught in the whiteout promised in that morning's broadcast, Akira kept a steady pace towards the pharmacy down the street. Within five minutes, he entered the warm building.
"Akira!" a warm voice greeted him, "we expected you hours ago!"
"I got caught up at work," Akira responded to the elderly gentleman behind the counter. "We had a hit and run victim and I couldn't very well leave in the middle of his surgery."
"Always putting others before yourself, I always liked that about you," the old man said as he scaled a wall of filled prescriptions. "What's your last name again? Sorki?"
"Suzuki, sir," Akira replied.
"Ah, here we are!" the elder man scanned the prescription into the computer and began bagging it up. "Do you have your insurance, yet?"
"I don't," Akira said. He picked up a pink carnation from a display of fresh flowers. "I'll take this as well."
"Then I believe that will be $197.05. These pills just don't come cheap, do they?"
"They don't," Akira agreed as he slid his bank card through the machine and entered his information. "But I'll have insurance soon enough. One more month." He took the bag from the elderly man. "Thanks, I'll see you next time!"
Swiftly, Akira walked to the bus stop across the street and waited in a short line to board a bus that had just come to a halt. When his turn came, he stepped up into the massive vehicle and took the first available seat he came to. The bus vibrated and shifted slightly as it was put into drive. Akira looked around and noticed that the bus wasn't too terribly clouded, which was odd for a Friday evening. Then again, most people didn't want to go where this particular bus was headed. Almost fifteen minutes passed before the bus stopped and Akira stood up. Nodding to the driver, he descended from the bus, double-checking that his bag was still with him.
Once the bus drove away, Akira turned around and began crossing the street. His final destination? A cemetery. Akira proceeded through the gate and into the darkening rows of headstones. The further he walked, the darker it became. When he finally started to slow, he heard voices coming from the gloom ahead. Paying no mind to the figures that were the source of the noise, Akira turned into a row of graves and stopped at a particular one that read 'Akiko Suzuki. Beloved sister. Survived by Akira Suzuki.'
"Sorry I'm late, sis," Akira said softly as he placed the single flower on the ground. "I got caught up at work and, well, you know. There was this one patient and . . . I don't know if he's going to make it. Anyway, the doc's trying me on a new combination of meds. I hope they work. My therapist thinks my last hospitalization was because I concentrate on working too much. Anyway, how have you been?" Akira stopped and waited for a response he knew wasn't coming and was taken by surprise when he heard a distinct whispered "I'm sorry, Aya."
"Woah! Sis? Who's Aya?"
"Aya," a voice to Akira's left said, "is my daughter." Akira's face fell for it wasn't his deceased sister at all but a middle aged man visiting a grave further down the row.
"I'm sorry, sir," Akira said apologetically. "You spoke so soft the first time, I thought that . . . maybe . . . it was my sister. Stupid of me . . . she's dead."
"I understand the mistake. Us left to live on long to speak to our deceased loved ones and can sometimes trick ourselves." Akira permitted himself to look at the source of the voice this time. The man's hair was dark but faded and he sat in a wheelchair. The man spoke again "why don't you come closer so I can have a look at you?" Akira obliged and stepped in front of the man. The man gasped. "You look far too young to have lost a sister."
"My sister killed herself a year ago," Akira explained. "I visit her three times a week and will for as long as I am able." When he finished, Akira instantly wondered why he spilled so much information of himself to a complete stranger. Could it be that it just felt . . . right?
"I'm very sorry for your loss," the older man said. "I myself usually only visit the cemetery once a year. I don't know what compelled me to visit this night."
Akira permitted himself to look at the man and gasped. "You can't be . . . Takanori Nishikawa, can you?"
"Guilty as charged." The man instantly shrunk back into his chair. "Are you a fan or a former who's going to tell me how to write?"
Akira noted a menacing change in Takanori's voice. "I'm actually a fan," Akira admitted timidly.
"And I suppose you're going to ask why I don't write books anymore."
"No, sir," Akira responded politely. "Why you stopped writing is your business. But I would be honored if you'd sign my book."
"Well," Takanori said, taken aback, "I- uh . . . sure."
Akira immediately began rummaging through his bag for his book and a pen. When he found the two items he sought, he turned back to Takanori and handed him the objects.
"And what is your name?" Takanori asked.
"Akira Suzuki, Mr. Matsumoto," Akira responded.
"Please, call me Takanori," the former author said, scribbling a short message on the inside of the book cover and handing the book back to the younger man. "And where are my manners, this is my driver, Jeffrey."
"Please to meet you, young man," Jeffrey said simply.
"Likewise," Akira said softly. "Well, I should be going... thanks for the autograph and sorry for troubling you." Akira turned to walk away.
"Wait a moment," Takanori requested. When Akira stopped, he continued. "I saw you get off the bus across the street and it's getting awfully chilly to be waiting outside. Would you like a ride home?"
"Oh, I'd hate to trouble you further-"
Takanori didn't let him finish. "I promise, it's no trouble."
"All right," Akira gave in. "But are you sure? I don't live in the city."
"I don't live in the city, either," Takanori told him. "It's no trouble," he repeated.
"If you insist," Takanori stood back and waited for Jeffrey to begin pushing Takanori towards the black SUV that awaited them with the promise of a heated ride home.
------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: I meant to have them meet in the hospital and THEN the cemetery originally but the story kind of took on a mind of its own at this point. Hopefully I'll update more quickly this time around but my life's been hectic lately and I only foresee myself getting busier so who knows? Anyway, hope you like it. Comments and criticism are <3!
Author: bakacoconut69
Rating: R (estimating. may change)
Warnings: male/male relationships, angst (LOTS of it), psychological abnormalities (paranoid schizophrenia), mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts, no beta, AU (not set in Japan, either), I may or may not refer to them as Reita and Ruki in the story, may add more as story goes on.
Pairings: Reita/Ruki
Disclaimers: I bought Reita and Ruki in Narnia from the White Witch. I do not own Ruki or Reita or any other celebrity I may mention in this fic (I will make note of who specifically if they come along).
Summary: Takanori Matsumoto had lost hope many years ago when an accident took both his daughter and the use of his legs from him which, in turn, resulted in the loss of his wife. Young Akira Suzuki has always carried the burdens of suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and a troubled past. For the youth, hope had always been naught but a passing dream until he meets the famed author Takanori in a cemetery, of all places. Striking up an unlikely friendship, the two begin a journey of helping each other with their personal struggles. In the long process, friendship turns to love and soon it all becomes too much to bear for the both of them. Will Takanori and Akira be able to overcome their own personal demons in order to be there for the one they love most?
Author's Notes: After the posted chapter(s).
::Previous Chapters::
-Prologue/Chapter 1-
-Chapter 2-
Chapter Three: An Unlikely Encounter~
"Akira, don't tell me you're reading that crap again."
"What? Crap?" The blonde looked up.
"Takanori Matsumoto's work," Marcie stated, "is, more often than not, utter crap. I swear, the only decent thing he's written is-"
"The 'Stumbling Out Of The Closet' series," Takanori finished. "Guess which one I'm reading."
"A shame he's made no sign of finishing it," Marcie sighed. "It was obvious the death of his daughter had an effect on the last one, but he stopped writing after his wife left him."
Akira gasped and dropped his book. After a moment, he leaned over to pick it up. "You mean he's straight?"
"Of course," Marcie replied. "Whatever made you think he wasn't?"
"Well . . . isn't the overall story about a man who's outed to his wife by a past lover?"
"Straight people can write gay literature too, Akira," Marcie said, flipping her own blonde hair out of her face. Her sapphire eyes glinted in an almost-knowingly manner. Akira blushed, causing Marcie to chuckle lightly. "You can be so naive sometimes, Akira. Did you honestly know nothing about your supposedly favorite author?"
"Not his personal life," Akira admitted in a mumbled tone.
"I'll give you the gist," Marcie said quietly. "It's not a pretty story, but about ten years ago, a horrible car accident killed Takanori Matsumoto's daughter and left him paralyzed from the waist down. Less than a year into his recovery, Takanori's wife, Catherine, decided it was his fault that their daughter passed and divorced him. It was horrible. All over the papers and tabloids: she accused him of murder."
Akira stared at Marcie, completely dumbfounded, his eyes filled to the brim with unshed tears. "That's just . . . horrible."
"He stopped writing 'Stumbling Out Of The Closet' after his last one bombed, which likely happened because it lacked what the other books had: substance. When his daughter died, it was all angst so he stopped writing the series. After his wife divorced him, Takanori stopped writing novels all-together. Nine years and not a single piece of writing has been published. Not a novel nor poem nor article. He even stopped updating his advice column on his blog that he had taken on as a side project."
"So, we'll never know the true ending," Akira mumbled as he stared at the book in his hands. After a moment, the blonde sighed. "I really had no idea . . . I didn't even know he had stopped writing."
"Yeah," Marcie sighed. "Not many people know even half the story, anymore. Matsumoto just kind of disappeared from the public eye. Anyway, I'll see you later Akira."
"Yeah... bye Marcie," Akira went back to his book. How had he not noticed the difference in writing style between this one and the ones before? It seemed so obvious once it was pointed out to him. Regardless of the difference, though, Akira still felt Matsumoto's writing far surpassed other things he had read.
"Akira, we need you back on the floor," Dr. Brennan said, poking his head in. "Anna's sick in the bathroom and is going to head home."
"I'll be there in a second." Akira had closed the book and was already heading towards his locker. Within seconds he was ready and whipped out of the room.
The rest of Akira's shift passed swiftly and was full of sick kids and ornery elders. There was one teenage boy who was a victim of a hit and run: he'd been run over by a car who'd sped away and it took several hours of Akira's shift to get him stabilized and through surgery. They had him in a medically-induced coma for the time being while they reevaluated his injuries when Akira was leaving, so it looked like he'd be one of Akira's patients tomorrow as well.
"See you tomorrow, Akira!" Dr. Brennan called as Akira exited the building. The young man took in a deep breath as he started across the parking lot. The air was brisk and sharp: like it was going to snow soon. Not caring if he was caught in the whiteout promised in that morning's broadcast, Akira kept a steady pace towards the pharmacy down the street. Within five minutes, he entered the warm building.
"Akira!" a warm voice greeted him, "we expected you hours ago!"
"I got caught up at work," Akira responded to the elderly gentleman behind the counter. "We had a hit and run victim and I couldn't very well leave in the middle of his surgery."
"Always putting others before yourself, I always liked that about you," the old man said as he scaled a wall of filled prescriptions. "What's your last name again? Sorki?"
"Suzuki, sir," Akira replied.
"Ah, here we are!" the elder man scanned the prescription into the computer and began bagging it up. "Do you have your insurance, yet?"
"I don't," Akira said. He picked up a pink carnation from a display of fresh flowers. "I'll take this as well."
"Then I believe that will be $197.05. These pills just don't come cheap, do they?"
"They don't," Akira agreed as he slid his bank card through the machine and entered his information. "But I'll have insurance soon enough. One more month." He took the bag from the elderly man. "Thanks, I'll see you next time!"
Swiftly, Akira walked to the bus stop across the street and waited in a short line to board a bus that had just come to a halt. When his turn came, he stepped up into the massive vehicle and took the first available seat he came to. The bus vibrated and shifted slightly as it was put into drive. Akira looked around and noticed that the bus wasn't too terribly clouded, which was odd for a Friday evening. Then again, most people didn't want to go where this particular bus was headed. Almost fifteen minutes passed before the bus stopped and Akira stood up. Nodding to the driver, he descended from the bus, double-checking that his bag was still with him.
Once the bus drove away, Akira turned around and began crossing the street. His final destination? A cemetery. Akira proceeded through the gate and into the darkening rows of headstones. The further he walked, the darker it became. When he finally started to slow, he heard voices coming from the gloom ahead. Paying no mind to the figures that were the source of the noise, Akira turned into a row of graves and stopped at a particular one that read 'Akiko Suzuki. Beloved sister. Survived by Akira Suzuki.'
"Sorry I'm late, sis," Akira said softly as he placed the single flower on the ground. "I got caught up at work and, well, you know. There was this one patient and . . . I don't know if he's going to make it. Anyway, the doc's trying me on a new combination of meds. I hope they work. My therapist thinks my last hospitalization was because I concentrate on working too much. Anyway, how have you been?" Akira stopped and waited for a response he knew wasn't coming and was taken by surprise when he heard a distinct whispered "I'm sorry, Aya."
"Woah! Sis? Who's Aya?"
"Aya," a voice to Akira's left said, "is my daughter." Akira's face fell for it wasn't his deceased sister at all but a middle aged man visiting a grave further down the row.
"I'm sorry, sir," Akira said apologetically. "You spoke so soft the first time, I thought that . . . maybe . . . it was my sister. Stupid of me . . . she's dead."
"I understand the mistake. Us left to live on long to speak to our deceased loved ones and can sometimes trick ourselves." Akira permitted himself to look at the source of the voice this time. The man's hair was dark but faded and he sat in a wheelchair. The man spoke again "why don't you come closer so I can have a look at you?" Akira obliged and stepped in front of the man. The man gasped. "You look far too young to have lost a sister."
"My sister killed herself a year ago," Akira explained. "I visit her three times a week and will for as long as I am able." When he finished, Akira instantly wondered why he spilled so much information of himself to a complete stranger. Could it be that it just felt . . . right?
"I'm very sorry for your loss," the older man said. "I myself usually only visit the cemetery once a year. I don't know what compelled me to visit this night."
Akira permitted himself to look at the man and gasped. "You can't be . . . Takanori Nishikawa, can you?"
"Guilty as charged." The man instantly shrunk back into his chair. "Are you a fan or a former who's going to tell me how to write?"
Akira noted a menacing change in Takanori's voice. "I'm actually a fan," Akira admitted timidly.
"And I suppose you're going to ask why I don't write books anymore."
"No, sir," Akira responded politely. "Why you stopped writing is your business. But I would be honored if you'd sign my book."
"Well," Takanori said, taken aback, "I- uh . . . sure."
Akira immediately began rummaging through his bag for his book and a pen. When he found the two items he sought, he turned back to Takanori and handed him the objects.
"And what is your name?" Takanori asked.
"Akira Suzuki, Mr. Matsumoto," Akira responded.
"Please, call me Takanori," the former author said, scribbling a short message on the inside of the book cover and handing the book back to the younger man. "And where are my manners, this is my driver, Jeffrey."
"Please to meet you, young man," Jeffrey said simply.
"Likewise," Akira said softly. "Well, I should be going... thanks for the autograph and sorry for troubling you." Akira turned to walk away.
"Wait a moment," Takanori requested. When Akira stopped, he continued. "I saw you get off the bus across the street and it's getting awfully chilly to be waiting outside. Would you like a ride home?"
"Oh, I'd hate to trouble you further-"
Takanori didn't let him finish. "I promise, it's no trouble."
"All right," Akira gave in. "But are you sure? I don't live in the city."
"I don't live in the city, either," Takanori told him. "It's no trouble," he repeated.
"If you insist," Takanori stood back and waited for Jeffrey to begin pushing Takanori towards the black SUV that awaited them with the promise of a heated ride home.
------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: I meant to have them meet in the hospital and THEN the cemetery originally but the story kind of took on a mind of its own at this point. Hopefully I'll update more quickly this time around but my life's been hectic lately and I only foresee myself getting busier so who knows? Anyway, hope you like it. Comments and criticism are <3!