Misc. Unfinished Writings

[bekkalynn]

I'll pulling a Kira here and posting a bunch of unfinished snippets in the vain hope that someone will poke me into finishing one of them. I don't think I've put any of these here before, and honestly, I hardly remember writing a few of them ^_^;; There's some bad, some decent, and some... that I want to put through the blender... But, uh, have fun?

Good Omens


It had been exactly one month since the world hadn't ended. To the hour, even. Maybe not to the precise minute or second, but when one lived for thousands of years, things were significant if you measured their time past in any increment smaller than a decade, and Crowley thought that the world not ending was very important indeed. So important, in fact, that he had momentarily considered popping open a bottle of sherry and drinking a toast to the general existence of mankind - but it really wasn't the way of demons to celebrate happy things. Not that he'd ever been a real paragon of evil incarnate, but drinking alone was boring.

Still, he figured the anniversary deserved some kind of commemoration. The usual wiles wouldn't suffice, it seemed; besides, it would be rather regressional, wouldn't it? All that work to save the world - well, less save and more not destroy, but it was all the same theoretically - and right back to causing mayhem. Aziraphale wouldn't approve, but Aziraphale never approved. It was something about being an angel, that general disapproval for fun things.

So Crowley curled up on the couch in his flat with a copy of Dave Barry Does Japan and a box of chocolate cookies, providing a running commentary on the book to the resident house plants. The demon liked to think that the near-Apocalypse had infused him with a respect for the small things in life. (Like board games. Or patterned socks, but those were really more Aziraphale's style.)

He was in the middle of explaining the illogic that is Japanese Kabuki theater to a rather droopy looking Lamb's Ear when the angel himself dropped in. And when I say dropped in, I mean that he appeared from thin air in Crowley's foyer. Not the most endearing habit in the world, but forgivable, as Aziraphale had no great love for elevators and hated wasting time climbing the stairs.

Prince of Tennis


As captain of the tennis team at Hyotei Gakuen, Atobe Keigo was expected to look out for the members of his team. He was supposed to keep an eye out at all times, making sure those players with the drive and ability to reach regular status did not undergo anything or participate in activities that would negatively affect their game. It was something Atobe had to adjust to - as a prodigal first or second year, he had been able to whip his racquet around without care or concern for the other members of the team, but when he became captain (which he always knew he would, of course) it  became clear that if he did not take the occasional step to build strength in the team, no one would.

A lot of the time, Atobe found it annoying. He had become the exceptional player he was now without the interference of his captains; truthfully, he usually dismissed them, knowing he was better than they were and that the title buchou would really take no meaning until he held it. Atobe was not a person who naturally cared for others unless it benefited him - and as tennis players, the only way the team members could benefit him was by winning.

Atobe would sculpt an indestructible team at Hyotei Gakuen.

He never could have anticipated the strength of Fudomine and Shishido's loss to Tachibana Kippei. He conceded that the losses of Hyotei's doubles teams was due mostly to kantoku's policy of not using regulars in matches that were expected to be easy wins. Shishido had been a safeguard - and had failed.

Atobe knew how strong a player Shishido was. He knew what strength it would take to completely crush him. He hadn't thought anyone but he and Seigaku's Tezuka Kunimitsu held that kind of power in the junior high circles. And as Tachibana Kippei put the match point past a fallen Shishido Ryou, Atobe felt a first-ever horrible pang of doubt in his indestructible team.

He would never show on the outside that he had even had a momentary thought that Hyotei Gakuen would not take every game, every match that was thrown at them. They still had him, of course - Atobe had never failed to win a game in his position of Singles One. But if the team could not hold two games until it came his turn to sweep the match... Atobe refused to accept the possibility of another loss. He would build a stronger team, and they would not lose.

As he walked briskly away from the Fudomine match, Shishido trudging a hollow death march behind him, head hung heavy with the knowledge that Hyotei Gakuen did not give second chances, Atobe deftly retrieved one of his cell phones.

"Yeah. Shishido lost." Atobe was well aware of the way Shishido tensed behind him, but Atobe was ruthless and knew it. He made a quick calculation in his head. "Send Jiroh."

Akutagawa Jiroh would not lose. The only person Atobe had seen beat the third-year in many months was himself - not even Oshitari Yuushi, Hyotei's own tensai, had been able to pull out a win in their unofficial match one practice. Jiroh was a talented volley specialist who only ever took interest in the matches he played if he had to work to win - it was a mindset that was almost identical to Atobe's own; the difference was that Atobe did not find it necessary to inform his opponent that he had sparked his interest.

When Jiroh arrived to take Shishido's spot for the remainder of the day's matches, Ohtori Choutarou came with him. He tugged a shuffling, yawning Jiroh over to Atobe, barely pausing to greet his captain before he pulled Shishido to the side, consulting him with shining eyes. Shishido would be replaced on the regulars.

But Atobe saw Shishido's face harden - and with it, his resolve - and he knew it would only be a temporary arrangement. Kantoku didn't give second chances. But Atobe was building an indestructible team.

Jiroh yawned beside him. "Shishido's better than Taki, though," he said sleepily. "You're gonna let him back before we play Seigaku, right?"

One day, Atobe told himself firmly, he would stop being so shocked by Jiroh's perspicacity.

If it Hyotei Gakuen was in the practice of choosing a fukubuchou for their tennis team, Atobe thought it would probably be Oshitari. Not that Atobe needed a fukubuchou - he was more than qualified to exert complete control over the club on his own - but it was a thought that had crossed his mind more than once since he had taken the position of captain. It was vaguely interesting to Atobe that although Oshitari seemed the natural choice for fukubuchou, Atobe found himself more inclined entrust Jiroh to safeguard the team.

It was probably because he never had to explain things to Jiroh. Atobe didn't like explaining things.



Yuuta came home for Christmas that year.

Of course, Syuusuke had never doubted the boy's intent to return home for the holidays. When Yuuta arrived on the evening of December 23rd, shoving his bag inside the front door and kicking the snow off his shoes, Syuusuke held the door open, smiling. He reminded himself that it was silly to have even thought that his little brother would rather stay at that school than come visit his siblings. His friends were probably all going home for Christmas, anyway, so there was really no reason for him to stay.

Yuuta closed the door behind him, and Syuusuke bent to pick the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder. "I'll take this to your room for you."

He heard Yuuta make a noncommittal noise behind him as he wandered down the hall to his brother's unused room. Amiling to himself, he deposited the duffel on the bed, calling over his shoulder. "Do you want me to unpack it for you, too?"

"No!" In mere seconds, Yuuta dashed into the room, pulling the bag away from Syuusuke's hands. Syuusuke smiled.

"Just offering," he said.

Since their parents were so ofter away on business, the children of the Fuji household had developed a plethora of their own traditions. Truthfully, they had never celebrated Christmas until Yumiko had declared one year that they should, and Syuusuke and Yuuta had been to young at that point to do much in way of protest. It had developed into their own version of the traditional holiday; on the years that their mother or father was home for the season, they mostly ignored the way their children laced and graced their home with decorations, only sneaking a few gifts under the tree at the last possible moment. They were used to indulging their children.

Syuusuke hummed to himself as he nibbled at a chocolate chip cookie, freshly baked by Yumiko that morning. He glaced over at their Christmas tree - it stood bereft of ornamentation in the corner, looking almost forlorn in its undecorated state. But he and Yuuta had always decorated the tree together, so Syuusuke had let it be until his brother got home.

Now, though - Syuusuke finished his cookie with a flourish, brushing the crumbs from his hands - Yuuta was here. He already had the ornament boxes set out; he padded down the hallway, stopping briefly in his own room to retrieve his camera before knocking lightly on Yuuta's door.

"Yuuta?" he said softly, opening the door a bit. Yuuta looked over at him from where he was sprawled on his bed, cordless phone held to his ear. He gave his brother a disgruntled look.

Syuusuke smiled. "We still need to decorate the tree."

Yuuta blinked, glancing briefly between the phone and his brother. "No - yes - hang on a second, Mizuki-san." He covered the mouthpiece, scowling. "Later, okay? I'm on the phone."

Syuusuke nodded and closed the door softly behind him.

The next day, Eiji came over and helped Syuukuke trim the tree.

"You have a lot of weird ornaments," the redhead commented, deftly hanging a multicolored glass trout from one of the higher branches.

Syuusuke smiled. "Aa. Yuuta and I chose them when we were children."

"I like them, nya. My mother and sisters always want our tree to have a theme. It's so boring. Oishi likes it though, so he helps them, 'cause his family doesn't celebrate," Eiji said, debating whether to hang the grapes or the ferret next. He decided on the ferret, setting the grapes aside and reaching for another cookie with his now free hand. "These're good, too."

"Yumiko-neesan made them," Syuusuke said. He retrieved the abandoned grapes and hang them near a blue mouse.


On his last night at Hyotei Gakuen, Shishido Ryou couldn't sleep. He wasn't the type to toss and turn; instead, he laid still under his sheets, pulling his quilt around him - the school's dormitories were never warm enough - staring blankly at the wall beside his bed. Shishido always slept facing the wall. Every now and then, he would drop off, dozing, but he would always wake up soon after, no more refreshed, and it was still just as dark outside. After a while, it started to seem as if the night would never end.

It could have been because Shishido's mind was whirling around at a mile a minute, despite the boy's placid exterior. This was the last night he would even spend in this room, after all, and while he had never had any particular love for Hyotei, this room had been his home for the past year - he had grown comfortable with it, which was more than Shishido could say for most places he stayed. He never though he would have any qualms about leaving. But now the past year - his last year in junior high - was replaying itself in his head, over and over, and he was realizing that while he didn't mind leaving Hyotei for high school, there were some things he would take with him, if he could. And there were a few things - very few - that he would miss more than he ever though possible.

But it couldn't be helped, Shishido told himself. There was nothing he could do about it now.


As a way to assess the new first-years' skill levels, they were allotted the chance to play the second-years during the first few days of practice. The second-years always gathered beforehand, pointing and snickering at the weaker looking newcomers, making wagers on who would have the privilage of grinding them into the court. This particular year, there were quite a few shining examples of hopless looking (by Hyotei standards) first-years and, while Ohtori Choutarou wasn't nearly as scrawny as most of them - he was taller than many of the second years, even - his unassuming demeanor made him seem smaller than he really was, and a few of his more arrogant senpais couldn't help but point him out.

"Oi, Katze," said one, indicating Ohtori, who was lacing his shoes on a bench. "Look at that one."

"What a face," Katze remarked, grinning. "Doesn't look like he could hurt a fly, much less a tennis ball."

"Heh, he's not as scrawny as lots of these kids, though. I'd like to have to play him."

"You do that, Taki," cut in a third voice. "He knows how to hold a racquet, at least. That's more than can be said or you, some days."

Taki glared as a small, skinny figure behind his interrupter snickered. "Point Shishido, fifteen-love," Gakuto proclaimed, the other two boys looking over at him in mild indignation at his intrusion.

Shishido smirked slightly. "Only fifteen-love, Gakuto?"

"New year, new game," the slender boy commented airily, waving a dismissive hand as he assimilated back into the crowd of second-years. Shishido turned back to Taki and Katze.

"So why don't one of you play him? Since it'll be so easy and all."

"Why don't you?" sneered Taki. "Since you have such confidence in his skill." Katze chuckled.

"Coach already said I had to play that kid," Shishido said, pointing. "Sorry."

"Fine, then. I'll see you later, Shishido," Taki called as the other boy made his way toward his next opponent. "Maybe after the regulars are decided! If you're nice, I might let you touch my jacket!"

Shishido waved vaguely over his shoulder, not really listening. Not that he cared if some first-year was any good or not; he just wanted to get Taki riled up before his match. The boy played worse when he was frustrated, and anything that made him look bad just before the regulars were decided was to Shishido's benefit. He had beaten Taki in their first year, and the boy had declared such a heated rivalry on Shishido that he actually reached a level where he would be considered as a regular - and while Shishido didn't give a damn about any rivalry or whatever, he didn't want anyone messing up his chances of becoming a regular.

"Oi, kid," Shishido said brusquely, getting to attention of the first-year in front of him. The boy looked over at him, and Shishido noticed with some disgust that he was just as tall as he himself was. Shishido hated being short.

"I gotta play you. Hurry up."

After practice, Shishido found himself in the crowded locker room, swearing to himself that he would secure a spot on the regular team as soon as possible, if only for the spacious locker area. There really wasn't enough room for all two hundred members of the team in the normal locker room - more often that not, it was the freshmen who got shoved to the back.

Shishido elbowed his way to the lockers, sandwiching himself between a chattering Gakuto and a particularly sullen-looking Taki.

"--but did you see the kid Yuushi had to play? He was freaky," Gakuto was saying to anyone who happened to be listening. "And his hair looked like a mushroom - but Yuushi beat him, of course, but he got a couple games, which is actually really good, 'cause Yuushi is a te-n-sa-i." The redhead grinned, casting a coy glance at the tall, dark-haired boy a few lockers down. Oshitari smirked, looking vaguely amused.

"Ne, Yuushi..." Gakuto caught Oshitari's eye, running a hand inside the hem of his unbuttoned shirt. "You're walking me home, right?"

Oshitari chuckled, murmuring an affirmative. On the other side of Shishido, Taki scowled.

"God, you're such a slut," he spat, shutting his locker none-too-gently.

Gakuto rolled his eyes. "Hardly. What crawled up your ass?"

"He lost to that freshman," Shishido informed everyone in their general vicinity.

"The tall, wimpy one?" Gakuto laughed. "Well, the one I played sucked. Honestly. He would have fit in better at - at Seigaku or something."

"Don't let Atobe hear you insult Seigaku," Shishido interrupted. "He's got it hard for their Tezuka."

"It doesn't matter - he's in the regular's locker room." Oshitari had made his way over to join their little group.

"When do they choose the regulars, anyway?" Taki asked, sparing a glare for Shishido.


It was always well past midnight when Gakuto got back to the room.

He had to wait until the security guards stopped patrolling the hallways, of course - if Kantoku ever learned that one of his regulars had broken curfew, he would be positively irate. More than once, Oshitari had covered for his roommate when there had been after-curfew checks and Gakuto was out on one of his nighttime excursions. Oshitari didn't mind, though - after all the months they had been roommates, he had never known Gakuto to have someone in his own bed.

It was a difference between them, Oshitari thought; Hyotei's tensai never bothered to venture to others' beds - they came to him, drawn to his tall, dark frame and low, purring voice. Boys or girls would come, trying to be coy or seductive or, rarely, blunt, and if Oshitari felt like it, he fucked them, and when he finished, they left. They never stayed. Oshitari wouldn't let them. Fucking someone was entirely different from sleeping with someone, because the latter indicated some sort of sentimental attachment or trust. Neither were things Oshitari formed lightly. The only place Oshitari trusted someone was on the tennis court, and then it was only Gakuto.

On the nights that Gakuto left, disappearing out the window for a midnight rendevous with the latest boy who'd caught his interest, shutting the the window behind him with a puff of cool night air - those nights, Oshitari never slept well. Even if he laid in his bed, under the covers with his back to the vacant bed across the room - or if he sat up reading one of his old, dog-eared novels, he could never drift off until he heard the window click closed, Gakuto's light padding across the floor, always straight to the bathroom for a shower. Gakuto hated getting his sheets dirty.

"I think you should stay in tonight."

Gakuto paused halfway through the window. He cocked one perfectly arched eyebrow, giving Oshitari a silent look that clearly aid he thought his partner was losing it. Oshitari met his gaze stoically over the top of his novel.

Gakuto rolled his eyes, twisting to slide his other leg out the window, slowly lowering himself until his feet found the small ledge halfway between stories Oshitari knew was there.

"Gakuto."

The head of read hair disappeared under the windowsill. Oshitari let out a short, exasperated breath, pressing his fingers to his temple. Setting his book aside, the tensai crossed the room in three long strides, leaning deftly out the window and grabbing his partner's arm.

"Ow - Yuushi!" Gakuto exclaimed as he was forcibly dragged back inside. "Ow! Ow, ow - what the hell are you doing?" The redhead wrenched violently away, falling in a heap on the floor. He glared up at his partner, breathing hard.

"Yuushi, what the fuck was that all about?"

"Just what I said," Oshitari said, settling back onto his bed.

Weiss Kruez


Slipping in the back door of the flower shop, Omi drops his bookbag and kicks it lightly under a table. He closes his eyes and inhales, taking in the scent of home after another day at school; it was always a relief to get back here to do something that actually mattered. "I'm home!" he sings out, carefully treading on that cheerful note that everyone expected. A moment passes before Ken pokes his head into the back room.

"Omi! Hey, how was school?" Ken busies himself poking through the shelves of supplies. "Do we have any of those stakes for morning glories to climb up?"

Omi smiles brightly - he can feel it even reach his eyes; that's how practiced it is. His cheek muscles settle into their seasoned position and stay. Omi doesn't have to worry about his smile slipping, now - it rarely does. "I think," he says, rummaging around behind a bag of soil, "there's some back here. Ah, there you go, Ken-kun."

Ken ruffles his hair, and he feels like a child. "Thanks, Omi!" He bustles back into the shop - Omi can hear the schoolgirls chattering in their high-pitched voices and he knows he should probably be out there helping his teammates, but he really doesn't feel like it. It's not his shift, anyway; he usually helps out after school, but that's just to get his mind off the inanities of the schoolday. Today, he doesn't feel like doing much of anything - he retrieves his schoolbag and trudges up to his room. The others won't miss him, they're too busy with the customers.

Yami no Matsuei


"Hisokaaaa! You're messing up the tinsel!"

Hisoka bit back an exsperated sigh. Tsuzuki sidled around the Christmas tree next to his partner, gathering the uneven clumps of tinsel into one of his large hands. Hisoka rolled his eyes as Tsuzuki started explaining the finer points of tinsel-ing a tree.

It was Christmas Eve; Tsuzuki had invited Hisoka to help him decorate his Christmas tree some day before. To both Shinigamis' surprise, the empath accepted the offer. Hisoka figured it would make Tsuzuki happy, and that was well worth venturing from his usual solitude.

The ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of the empath's lips as he watched his partner energetically demonstate how to hang the silvery decorations. The lighting in the room was dim -- mainly decorative candles, and a dull lamp in the corner -- and Tsuzuki seemed to glow in the festive atmosphere.

"--you see? Hisoka?" The older Shinigami finished, prodding Hisoka's shoulder. Hisoka blinked, shaken out of his thoughts.

"Er -- hai," he replied, and began neatly replacing the tinsel on a tree branch.

Tsuzuki stood back for a moment, watching his young partner. Hisoka was so pretty, he sighed to himself. The older Shinigami had been nothing short of ecstatic when the empath had said he'd come here. Tsuzuki had been rather hesitant in asking -- no, scratch that. He had had no qualms in actually asking. He was, however, still scared that Hisoka might say no.

"Tsuzuki?" Hisoka asked over his shoulder. "Aren't you going to help?"

Tsuzuki grinned and bounced back to his side of the tree, and they finished the tinsel in companionable silence.


Hisoka remembered what Christmas was like when he was alive.

Christmas was in the winter. The winter, when the cold enveloped everything, the trees turned to skeletons and the white snow and the white sky sucked all the color out of what little life was left; the winter, when there wasn't even a bird to chirp outside his window at sunrise, and there was rarely a sunrise worth chirping at, anyway. The winter seeped into the foundations of the house, because not even the biggest fire or the best heating system could warm every nook and cranny of such a large, old house. Every room had a cold corner - and Hisoka's cell seemed to foster the chill like a squirrel kept his acorns in the winter, and it drew the warmth from the very marrow of his bones, so even if he was not always freezing, he was never completely warm, and his teeth chattered in his sleep.

Hisoka did not get gifts on Christmas, but it didn't bother him. After all, he hadn't known what Christmas was even about, then. All he knew was that it was one day out of a cold winter when his father had a myriad of esteemed guests - and he only knew they were esteemed because his father had no other kind - over for an elaborate night of wine and talk.

Christmas even became a day to dread for Hisoka. The men and women taking advantage of the holiday festivities projected emotions in such multitudes that Hisoka's mind ofter reeled at their thoughts, leaving his head in such agony that the ache did not fade for several days. The true nature of Christmas never occurred to him because of this; his father's guests did not emit joy or thankfulness or contentment. Instead, their thoughts reeked of greed, piety, jealousy, cupidity - these emotions assaulted Hisoka's mind on Christmas, while on any other day they would just be a mere whisper beyond the hum of feelings that seeped into his cell.


I don't know why I'm doing this. It's rather stupid, really - writing to a dead man. But, to me, you're more alive than anyone else. You live in my mind and my heart; you live in my soul. Maybe this is my way of looking for closure, of trying to free myself of this nightmare that seems to linger with me. Or maybe it's my way of hanging onto it - because the memories of you always seem to eclipse the blood and the horror.

I'm sure if you read this you'd think I was being silly. Or maybe you wouldn't, because you always seemed to understand me. I barely knew you, and you could still read my thoughts and my reasons. I'd never met anyone like you before - and I haven't since. You were one of a kind, a complete original, so wonderful that no one could ever, ever take your place in my heart. This is probably the silliest of me; I know that I'll probably never see you again, and even more so that the space you take in my heart had already been filled by someone else for you. I don't begrudge you, or him. I just hope you're happy; I hope you know what you have.

I played a solo concert today. They stood as they applauded - I imagined that somehow, you and he were hidden in the back of the crowd, clapping too. I imagined your smile, your eyes. I hoped you would be proud of me. Publicly, the concert was dedicated to the founders of a children's charity group, but in my mind my music is always for you. Every piece, every note, every trill - it's all for you, only you.

A little girl gave me a rose after the show. She had eyes like yours. I pricked my finger on a thorn, and I suppose I got blood on the stem, because there are red wisps floating in the vase with the rose. It's horribly poetic, but somehow it reminds me of you.

It's been so long since you left, but at the same time it's like it was only yesterday I was hugging you near the sakura trees, and sometimes when I I want nothing more than to see you I can still feel your arms across my back and your chest against my cheek. Some nights I can only fall asleep by the hope that I'll meet you in my dreams; some nights I hope I never wake up from those dreams. Then I could see you again, couldn't I?

But I can't. I have to live, I have to play. For Kazusa, for Hisoka, and for you. Always for you.



Watari had always liked the window in his laboratory. It had a wonderful view of the cherry trees that always bloomed in Meifu; as much as people liked to walk among the trees, Watari liked to watch them. Between experiments, he would watch as various Shinigami wandered down the path. And ever since the incident with Muraki in Kyoto, the blossoms served as a small comfort to prove that he and his friends were all home and safe.

Watari pushed the window open wide, humming softly to himself as 003 flittered around his head. Sweet-scented air wafted into the room and Watari grinned and donned a pair of plastic goggles, getting straight to work.

"What shall we create today?" he asked the little owl on his shoulder as he absent-mindedly sifted through the mess of vials and beakers that was scattered on his table. He didn't have an assignment or a specific project at the moment - he realy couldn't complete one until he got that budget raise he applied for, anyway. Not enough supplies. But he could always needle Tatsumi into giving a loan if he tried long enough.

Watari shrugged, found an empty beaker, and uncorked two vials. Then there was that gender-change potion - surely it wouldn't hurt anything to test a few theories...

But the scientist was interrupted mid-ponder by a sharp knock on the door. "It's open!" he chirped, and the ever-imposing Secretary of EnmaCho sidled gravely into the lab.

"Watari-san," Tatsumi began, then stopped, eyeing the potions Watari had poised, ready to pour. "Er - please refrain from mixing those until after I have left." He looked mildly apprehensive. "What are you mixing, anyhow?"

Watari reflected for a moment. "You know, I'm not sure," he said. Tatsumi looked exasperatedly upwards, but the blonde Shinigami just grinned. "I thought they might make a nice color, though, don't you?"

Tatsumi looked thoroughly unamused. "I'm going to asume you're joking, Watari-san, as the recent request for additional funding you filed indicated clearly that you don't have any supplies to waste."

"Oh!" Watari brightened even more, if that was possible. "So do I get more money?"

"Well, if you can afford to waste--"

"I wasn't wasting, I was experimenting; science and all that. Oh, come on, Tatsumi," the scientist bounced up and down, reminding Tatsumi uncannily of an eager puppy.

...Yeah. o_o