(no subject)
Title: Substitutes for Sugar
Pairing: Doumeki/Watanuki
Summary: What if Watanuki died when he fell out that window?
Notes: This is a series of connected drabbles exploring an alternate ending to chapter 116. The format may be a little strange at first but please bear with me. This is also my first fic for this pairing so any feedback would be great!
I
He cannot say how long he has been in the dark, only that there are things in there with him, sucking curiously against his uncovered hands and interrupting the stillness like ripples in a deep well. They do not seem to fear him. They wrap their arms around his neck and whisper, ‘You are one of us.’ Are they evil? He doesn’t know. Maybe they are not even spirits, but are travelling in the gap between here and there, like him. In any case, he sees nothing. He has not seen anything from Watanuki’s world since Yuuko took his eye.
II
Doumeki can recall the precise moment that it happened. Watanuki fell in the same way that he did everything else, with flailing limbs and wide, wide eyes. It isn’t the fall that Doumeki remembers. Doumeki remembers the ohgodbreathehurts that nails into him from halfway across the schoolyard -
Have you ever had a Zashiki-Doushi rip out your soul?
Watanuki? Dead. Yuuko? Who can say? It’s just Doumeki and the body and the window and the smoke and Himawari shaking like a leaf. And then? Blindness. ‘Welcome back,’ says the black and white world. He does not say, ‘I’m home.’
III
“You cannot bring him back.” She says this tonelessly, as though her words hold no meaning. Doumeki has been standing for an hour by the empty place that he knows is not empty at all. Yuuko does not look at him and she does not smile. She wears something on her face: some not-expression like a drop of water tumbling into a drain. It warns, ‘Do not rely on me.’
For the witch is aloof and untouchable, too tangled in the strings of fate to be of any earthly good. It’s strange, how all spiders seem to bear a grudge against him.
IV
Doumeki cannot claim to understand the business of selling souls, but he knows well enough that spiders are merciless. He does not fear payment, only that he has nothing to pay. So he does not say, ‘I’ll give anything.’ He says, ‘Tell me how to fix it.” Unbidden, he can taste ‘please’ on the tip of his tongue. It fills his mouth with bitterness, self-contempt and the acid of wounded pride. Doumeki will never agree with Yuuko’s methods. Perhaps it is a habit picked up from archery.
He has never been good at caring about anything that isn’t right in front of his eyes.
V
“You cannot bring him back.” This time, there is a touch of regret. “But perhaps…” Long fingers reach to grasp his chin, tilting his head up just so. The angle is almost painful.
The old Doumeki would never have allowed it. This Doumeki grits his teeth and bears her careful examination. He does not like to wonder why his right eye has begun to leak of its own accord.
“You are connected more deeply than I thought,” she says, as if surprised, but all the same, her gaze is knowing.
“That eye and five years of your youth, as payment.”
VI
He opens his mouth, thoughts suspended somewhere between protest and gratitude.
“Listen carefully, Doumeki-kun. I will only accept things of equivalent value.” Thanks have no place in Yuuko’s no refund, no guarantees policy. “For that price, I can send you to a place where you may find what you need. That is all.” The slight stress on ‘may’ makes him think of ‘may not.’
“...Will I find Watanuki?”
“Is he what you need?”
This is how Doumeki finds himself in the dark. In the very last moment of clarity, he looks at her, questioning.
She says simply, “I owe him.”
VII
Doumeki is beginning to think those five years will be spent stumbling in blackness when an invisible hand grips him by the shoulder and hauls him back into the world - the world being a relative term only.
This world is a city, really. It’s a strange city, with unfriendly horses and people, and weather that never seems to improve. Everyone is European or something very like it: English-speaking and pale. His reflection in shop windows stands out sharply against their white-washed faces. It is him, but not him. Five years... He touches the glass and thinks of Grandfather.
VIII
His own English improves in rapid bursts of inspiration, as it does when one is thrust into an unfamiliar culture and forced to get on with it - well enough to know when he’s being mocked and reciprocate appropriately, and to catch the ends of admiring titters, the nervous giggles of dolls with parasols. “Isn’t he handsome-looking? Oh, hush Roberta, he’s lovely for a foreigner - pity about the eye - and doesn’t he look like the pretty man at the patisserie?”
He can’t describe the way his heart jumps after months of sluggish metronome. At last, there is someone tugging on the other end of the string.
IX
His first impressions are of warmth and the blast of sweet-smelling bread. Watanuki is kneading dough behind the counter, cheeks pink with exertion, wire-framed glasses slipping down his nose and flour all over his hands. Doumeki feels his chest swell, closes the distance with quick strides and Ijustneedtotouchmakesureit’sreal -
“Can I help you, sir?”
The sunny grin is dazzling and the illusion breaks because the words are whole and unmuffled by a lifetime of Japanese. This is not his Watanuki. The doppelganger smiles expectantly and when the words don’t come, he blinks and says, “Do I have chocolate on my face again?”
X
Stupid, that he allowed himself to hope. Now he looks an utter fool, shell-shocked and cheated of something that was never his in the first place, not even in the other world.
“Just here,” he murmurs, and very deliberately grazes a thumb over unmarked skin. He drops his gaze, pretends to consider jam tarts and cinnamon buns and swallows the rock in his throat.
“What do you recommend?” he manages, and the voice which emerges is passably steady.
Not-Watanuki beams and wipes his hands over his apron. Doumeki draws a sharp breath as nostalgia strikes, watches the enthusiastic gesturing and wishes they were not so similar.
XI
They are not alike, the two Watanukis. This Watanuki is a little older and perfectly happy, knows nothing of spirits, sees the same from either eye and doesn’t require rescuing. This Watanuki is Kimihiro.
He is not, as Doumeki first thought, a phantom, so many familiar aspects hashed together into someone that was almost, almost - “Shizuka?” - but not quite.
He is a beautiful man with black hair and cat eyes and an earnest soul, who loves Classical and feeds the street urchins incredibly expensive meringues.
Doumeki can’t help falling for this one either.
This one kisses back.
Pairing: Doumeki/Watanuki
Summary: What if Watanuki died when he fell out that window?
Notes: This is a series of connected drabbles exploring an alternate ending to chapter 116. The format may be a little strange at first but please bear with me. This is also my first fic for this pairing so any feedback would be great!
I
He cannot say how long he has been in the dark, only that there are things in there with him, sucking curiously against his uncovered hands and interrupting the stillness like ripples in a deep well. They do not seem to fear him. They wrap their arms around his neck and whisper, ‘You are one of us.’ Are they evil? He doesn’t know. Maybe they are not even spirits, but are travelling in the gap between here and there, like him. In any case, he sees nothing. He has not seen anything from Watanuki’s world since Yuuko took his eye.
II
Doumeki can recall the precise moment that it happened. Watanuki fell in the same way that he did everything else, with flailing limbs and wide, wide eyes. It isn’t the fall that Doumeki remembers. Doumeki remembers the ohgodbreathehurts that nails into him from halfway across the schoolyard -
Have you ever had a Zashiki-Doushi rip out your soul?
Watanuki? Dead. Yuuko? Who can say? It’s just Doumeki and the body and the window and the smoke and Himawari shaking like a leaf. And then? Blindness. ‘Welcome back,’ says the black and white world. He does not say, ‘I’m home.’
III
“You cannot bring him back.” She says this tonelessly, as though her words hold no meaning. Doumeki has been standing for an hour by the empty place that he knows is not empty at all. Yuuko does not look at him and she does not smile. She wears something on her face: some not-expression like a drop of water tumbling into a drain. It warns, ‘Do not rely on me.’
For the witch is aloof and untouchable, too tangled in the strings of fate to be of any earthly good. It’s strange, how all spiders seem to bear a grudge against him.
IV
Doumeki cannot claim to understand the business of selling souls, but he knows well enough that spiders are merciless. He does not fear payment, only that he has nothing to pay. So he does not say, ‘I’ll give anything.’ He says, ‘Tell me how to fix it.” Unbidden, he can taste ‘please’ on the tip of his tongue. It fills his mouth with bitterness, self-contempt and the acid of wounded pride. Doumeki will never agree with Yuuko’s methods. Perhaps it is a habit picked up from archery.
He has never been good at caring about anything that isn’t right in front of his eyes.
V
“You cannot bring him back.” This time, there is a touch of regret. “But perhaps…” Long fingers reach to grasp his chin, tilting his head up just so. The angle is almost painful.
The old Doumeki would never have allowed it. This Doumeki grits his teeth and bears her careful examination. He does not like to wonder why his right eye has begun to leak of its own accord.
“You are connected more deeply than I thought,” she says, as if surprised, but all the same, her gaze is knowing.
“That eye and five years of your youth, as payment.”
VI
He opens his mouth, thoughts suspended somewhere between protest and gratitude.
“Listen carefully, Doumeki-kun. I will only accept things of equivalent value.” Thanks have no place in Yuuko’s no refund, no guarantees policy. “For that price, I can send you to a place where you may find what you need. That is all.” The slight stress on ‘may’ makes him think of ‘may not.’
“...Will I find Watanuki?”
“Is he what you need?”
This is how Doumeki finds himself in the dark. In the very last moment of clarity, he looks at her, questioning.
She says simply, “I owe him.”
VII
Doumeki is beginning to think those five years will be spent stumbling in blackness when an invisible hand grips him by the shoulder and hauls him back into the world - the world being a relative term only.
This world is a city, really. It’s a strange city, with unfriendly horses and people, and weather that never seems to improve. Everyone is European or something very like it: English-speaking and pale. His reflection in shop windows stands out sharply against their white-washed faces. It is him, but not him. Five years... He touches the glass and thinks of Grandfather.
VIII
His own English improves in rapid bursts of inspiration, as it does when one is thrust into an unfamiliar culture and forced to get on with it - well enough to know when he’s being mocked and reciprocate appropriately, and to catch the ends of admiring titters, the nervous giggles of dolls with parasols. “Isn’t he handsome-looking? Oh, hush Roberta, he’s lovely for a foreigner - pity about the eye - and doesn’t he look like the pretty man at the patisserie?”
He can’t describe the way his heart jumps after months of sluggish metronome. At last, there is someone tugging on the other end of the string.
IX
His first impressions are of warmth and the blast of sweet-smelling bread. Watanuki is kneading dough behind the counter, cheeks pink with exertion, wire-framed glasses slipping down his nose and flour all over his hands. Doumeki feels his chest swell, closes the distance with quick strides and Ijustneedtotouchmakesureit’sreal -
“Can I help you, sir?”
The sunny grin is dazzling and the illusion breaks because the words are whole and unmuffled by a lifetime of Japanese. This is not his Watanuki. The doppelganger smiles expectantly and when the words don’t come, he blinks and says, “Do I have chocolate on my face again?”
X
Stupid, that he allowed himself to hope. Now he looks an utter fool, shell-shocked and cheated of something that was never his in the first place, not even in the other world.
“Just here,” he murmurs, and very deliberately grazes a thumb over unmarked skin. He drops his gaze, pretends to consider jam tarts and cinnamon buns and swallows the rock in his throat.
“What do you recommend?” he manages, and the voice which emerges is passably steady.
Not-Watanuki beams and wipes his hands over his apron. Doumeki draws a sharp breath as nostalgia strikes, watches the enthusiastic gesturing and wishes they were not so similar.
XI
They are not alike, the two Watanukis. This Watanuki is a little older and perfectly happy, knows nothing of spirits, sees the same from either eye and doesn’t require rescuing. This Watanuki is Kimihiro.
He is not, as Doumeki first thought, a phantom, so many familiar aspects hashed together into someone that was almost, almost - “Shizuka?” - but not quite.
He is a beautiful man with black hair and cat eyes and an earnest soul, who loves Classical and feeds the street urchins incredibly expensive meringues.
Doumeki can’t help falling for this one either.
This one kisses back.