(X/1999) Not Quite Wonderland
Title: Not Quite Wonderland
Pairing: Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, a little Fuuma/Subaru
Fandom: X/1999
Genre: Angst. I mean, this is X.
Word Count: 995
Notes: No guarantees for characters' preservation of sanity.
Summary: Subaru gets high on LSD, Fuuma wallows copiously in self-pity.
Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people.
Cheshire Cat: Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.
Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland
Day Zero
The ground shakes like a man in his death throes, heavingbuckingshattering-one particularly violent tremor dislodges the cigarette between his fingers and Subaru winces at the waste of nicotine. He laboriously pulls out another stick, his addiction and newfound attitude of ‘fuck this’ egging him on. Subaru waits patiently, smoking, burning, as the apocalypse threatens to push the earth into oblivion.
Day Two
Fuuma looks gloomier than usual, and Subaru supposes he can understand. Killing your significant other-even one in an unhealthy relationship-can be depressing, as Subaru can testify to with a vehement ‘Amen’.
“It’s not the end of the world,” he offers, and Fuuma looks pained.
“Oh, I know,” says Fuuma, laughing like a suicidal man who’s discovered his gun is out of bullets. “And that’s what’s killing me.”
Day Five
The Sakurazuka mansion must have invested heavily in earthquake-proof architecture-the house is still intact, a stark contrast to the wasteland it sits primly in. Subaru pokes a dead koi in the stagnant pond, and grouchily wonders why Seishirou had to be so damn prescient. He vindictively jabs the rotting fish on its bloated side again as Fuuma slouches into the garden.
“What now?” Fuuma is trying not to sound depressed and whiny, but fails on both counts. Subaru flicks away the fish.
“Go out and kill more people?” Tact has been flushed down the drain, along with manners and civility. Subaru vaguely remembers a tree that needs feeding, but shrugs and determinedly returns his attention to Fuuma. Not all his manners are gone.
Fuuma throws a pebble at the floating fish. “There aren’t any people to kill out there anymore,” he says sadly.
Day Nine
“Why,” wonders Fuuma, glowering at the bottles on the table, “would anybody want to be a Harbinger? Of doom, no less.” He moodily flicks the whisky bottle and lets it topple into the neighbouring bottle of brandy. Both careen off the tabletop to explode in a wet mess of glass and alcohol on the floor.
He has clearly forgotten that he had been singing quite a different tune a while ago, but Subaru lets it go.
“You didn’t,” says Subaru kindly, instead. “I don’t think, anyway.”
Fuuma doesn’t hear him, playing with a shard of green glass. “Stupid Kanoe, stupid blind sister, stupid Dad…”
“Stupid Seishirou,” supplies his new drinking buddy. “Wasn’t it Kamui who made the decision to be a Seal?” He doesn’t mention the impaled Kotori.
This gives Fuuma pause for thought.
“Stupid Kamui,” he says finally.
Day Fifteen
Subaru’s inability to cook is nowhere near the top of his things-to-rectify list. If he had such a list. He’s never had to cook anyway-Hokuto, Seishirou and takeout delivery when he even remembered to eat made sure of that. And now even though all three have long since merrily left him in the dust, he has Fuuma to take care of the saucepan-banging and bashing of pots. Complete with the pink, frilly apron left behind courtesy of Hokuto.
Today is pasta swimming in tomato sauce, pale little islands in a sea of blood. Subaru carefully picks up a shell, scrutinizing it before putting it in his mouth to chew over thoughtfully. Compliments to the chef, but Subaru’s never been one to give or take praise, and Fuuma frankly doesn’t give a damn.
Day Twenty
“What would have happened if Kamui hadn’t died?”
Subaru considers this, head aching at the thought of all the possibilities that would arise, and changes to considering even answering the question.
“One of you had to die.” He is frank, unapologetic as he has been of late.
“So what if I had died?” Fuuma sounds desperate.
“That’s not very nice, either,” says Subaru disapprovingly.
“Why?”
“You’d make Kamui cry.” Subaru doesn’t add that misery loves company, but not on a whole, unscathed earth. Not exactly a conducive environment for angsting.
Fuuma turns his head to look at Subaru. Both are lying spread-eagled on their backs, under a vaguely familiar cherry blossom tree. The tree liberally showers one of them with flowers, as if it is offended. “We were never meant to be together, huh?” He sounds sad.
Subaru closes his eyes, looks away. He can’t bear to look into a mirror, not when Fuuma looks as anguished as he feels. “No,” he says, not answering the half-rhetoric.
Day Twenty-one...Day Zero
He doesn’t come visit anymore.
Subaru likes to think that he doesn’t care, no he doesn’t, so he refuses to do anything about it. Except mope about and break into Seishirou’s medicine cupboard, which reveals the great access the previous Sakurazukamori had as a vet. Subaru’s rather pleased because he’s run out of cigarettes, and the idea of going out to get more does not occur to him. Not when he has funny little pills to play with.
By the time he’s ingested more than he should have-and plenty of what he should have left well enough alone in the first place-Subaru finally acknowledges, almost petulantly, that he does mind after all, so he goes to find Fuuma.
The world seems more colourful today, and Subaru observes dreamily, detachedly, the pretty swirls that float around him and the haloes that kiss every speck of light. How he manages to get to Fuuma’s apartment he doesn’t know, and is instead distracted by the little imps that adorn the front door. They giggle at him, some of them exploding in little fireworks while the rest lazily shift from raspberry to lime green to electric blue. He tries to pat one, but his hand meets the door’s peeling paint instead.
“Fuuma is indisposed,” says a black-faced ghoul, baring teeth like tombstones in a leering grin. Sticky fingers of webbed tar grip the doorknob, then disappear as Subaru pushes the door open.
“Mmm,” he agrees, because it’s hard to deny that Fuuma is anything else but when he is swinging gently, gently from the ceiling rafters.
Subaru pities, envies, Fuuma the moment of lucidity it took to do the deed.
Pairing: Fuuma/Kamui, Seishirou/Subaru, a little Fuuma/Subaru
Fandom: X/1999
Genre: Angst. I mean, this is X.
Word Count: 995
Notes: No guarantees for characters' preservation of sanity.
Summary: Subaru gets high on LSD, Fuuma wallows copiously in self-pity.
Alice: But I don't want to go among mad people.
Cheshire Cat: Oh, you can't help that. We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.
Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland
Day Zero
The ground shakes like a man in his death throes, heavingbuckingshattering-one particularly violent tremor dislodges the cigarette between his fingers and Subaru winces at the waste of nicotine. He laboriously pulls out another stick, his addiction and newfound attitude of ‘fuck this’ egging him on. Subaru waits patiently, smoking, burning, as the apocalypse threatens to push the earth into oblivion.
Day Two
Fuuma looks gloomier than usual, and Subaru supposes he can understand. Killing your significant other-even one in an unhealthy relationship-can be depressing, as Subaru can testify to with a vehement ‘Amen’.
“It’s not the end of the world,” he offers, and Fuuma looks pained.
“Oh, I know,” says Fuuma, laughing like a suicidal man who’s discovered his gun is out of bullets. “And that’s what’s killing me.”
Day Five
The Sakurazuka mansion must have invested heavily in earthquake-proof architecture-the house is still intact, a stark contrast to the wasteland it sits primly in. Subaru pokes a dead koi in the stagnant pond, and grouchily wonders why Seishirou had to be so damn prescient. He vindictively jabs the rotting fish on its bloated side again as Fuuma slouches into the garden.
“What now?” Fuuma is trying not to sound depressed and whiny, but fails on both counts. Subaru flicks away the fish.
“Go out and kill more people?” Tact has been flushed down the drain, along with manners and civility. Subaru vaguely remembers a tree that needs feeding, but shrugs and determinedly returns his attention to Fuuma. Not all his manners are gone.
Fuuma throws a pebble at the floating fish. “There aren’t any people to kill out there anymore,” he says sadly.
Day Nine
“Why,” wonders Fuuma, glowering at the bottles on the table, “would anybody want to be a Harbinger? Of doom, no less.” He moodily flicks the whisky bottle and lets it topple into the neighbouring bottle of brandy. Both careen off the tabletop to explode in a wet mess of glass and alcohol on the floor.
He has clearly forgotten that he had been singing quite a different tune a while ago, but Subaru lets it go.
“You didn’t,” says Subaru kindly, instead. “I don’t think, anyway.”
Fuuma doesn’t hear him, playing with a shard of green glass. “Stupid Kanoe, stupid blind sister, stupid Dad…”
“Stupid Seishirou,” supplies his new drinking buddy. “Wasn’t it Kamui who made the decision to be a Seal?” He doesn’t mention the impaled Kotori.
This gives Fuuma pause for thought.
“Stupid Kamui,” he says finally.
Day Fifteen
Subaru’s inability to cook is nowhere near the top of his things-to-rectify list. If he had such a list. He’s never had to cook anyway-Hokuto, Seishirou and takeout delivery when he even remembered to eat made sure of that. And now even though all three have long since merrily left him in the dust, he has Fuuma to take care of the saucepan-banging and bashing of pots. Complete with the pink, frilly apron left behind courtesy of Hokuto.
Today is pasta swimming in tomato sauce, pale little islands in a sea of blood. Subaru carefully picks up a shell, scrutinizing it before putting it in his mouth to chew over thoughtfully. Compliments to the chef, but Subaru’s never been one to give or take praise, and Fuuma frankly doesn’t give a damn.
Day Twenty
“What would have happened if Kamui hadn’t died?”
Subaru considers this, head aching at the thought of all the possibilities that would arise, and changes to considering even answering the question.
“One of you had to die.” He is frank, unapologetic as he has been of late.
“So what if I had died?” Fuuma sounds desperate.
“That’s not very nice, either,” says Subaru disapprovingly.
“Why?”
“You’d make Kamui cry.” Subaru doesn’t add that misery loves company, but not on a whole, unscathed earth. Not exactly a conducive environment for angsting.
Fuuma turns his head to look at Subaru. Both are lying spread-eagled on their backs, under a vaguely familiar cherry blossom tree. The tree liberally showers one of them with flowers, as if it is offended. “We were never meant to be together, huh?” He sounds sad.
Subaru closes his eyes, looks away. He can’t bear to look into a mirror, not when Fuuma looks as anguished as he feels. “No,” he says, not answering the half-rhetoric.
Day Twenty-one...Day Zero
He doesn’t come visit anymore.
Subaru likes to think that he doesn’t care, no he doesn’t, so he refuses to do anything about it. Except mope about and break into Seishirou’s medicine cupboard, which reveals the great access the previous Sakurazukamori had as a vet. Subaru’s rather pleased because he’s run out of cigarettes, and the idea of going out to get more does not occur to him. Not when he has funny little pills to play with.
By the time he’s ingested more than he should have-and plenty of what he should have left well enough alone in the first place-Subaru finally acknowledges, almost petulantly, that he does mind after all, so he goes to find Fuuma.
The world seems more colourful today, and Subaru observes dreamily, detachedly, the pretty swirls that float around him and the haloes that kiss every speck of light. How he manages to get to Fuuma’s apartment he doesn’t know, and is instead distracted by the little imps that adorn the front door. They giggle at him, some of them exploding in little fireworks while the rest lazily shift from raspberry to lime green to electric blue. He tries to pat one, but his hand meets the door’s peeling paint instead.
“Fuuma is indisposed,” says a black-faced ghoul, baring teeth like tombstones in a leering grin. Sticky fingers of webbed tar grip the doorknob, then disappear as Subaru pushes the door open.
“Mmm,” he agrees, because it’s hard to deny that Fuuma is anything else but when he is swinging gently, gently from the ceiling rafters.
Subaru pities, envies, Fuuma the moment of lucidity it took to do the deed.