[fanfic] The Weakest - (Mikado & Masaomi)
Title: The Weakest
Type: Oneshot | PG
Fandom: Durarara!!
Pairing: Mikado and Masaomi
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship
Word Count: 4,625
Warnings: None
Summary: Masaomi calls Mikado in the dead of night, a storm brews, and chocolate doesn't taste quite as sweet as it used to.
~~~
“Mikado.” Masaomi said through his cell phone.
His voice was lifeless and flat, devoid of the good humor and cheerfulness it normally exuded. The musical quality that had made people smile and laugh was long gone, and in its place stood a profound sense of despair and abandonment: a whole myriad of feelings and emotions embedded deep in that soulless tone.
Mikado had to press his phone closer to his ear, had to crush the plastic against warm cartilage to hear it. And when he did, a shiver crawled up Mikado’s spine; it was cold. Unpleasant. Foreign. And the terrifying sensation crept steadily back down only to land in the pit of his now-churning stomach.
Masaomi had disrupted his dreams of better times; of warmth and sunlight and memories; of images that still shrouded his eyes like an invisible veil, forcing him to remember the times of his vivid past. But his eyes were open now. The dreams were over and Mikado had been crashed down to a reality that he couldn’t comprehend or begin to articulate properly, no matter how hard he tried.
The dark sound of Masaomi’s voice and his labored breathing forced Mikado to shift his body and sit up from the warm comfort of his futon. It was cold. A storm brewed outside, and heavy pelts of rain pounded rhythmically against the thin wall of his apartment: Clink, clink, clink. Gray and black. Clear. Colorless. A monotonous song of melancholy that mirrored the steady beat of his heart.
Mikado shivered¾ once, twice, almost three times¾ despite the numerous blankets cocooning his warm body. His back was as tense as a springboard; his heart had stopped. He couldn’t see anything through the murky darkness of his apartment except for trace amounts of sliver moonlight that filtered through the window, little slices of white, and the neon glow of buttons on his computer monitor.
Mikado felt accused of something he had no knowledge of. The lights were glaring at him. The air was choking him, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. He waited patiently and remained quiet through the phone, even though he wanted to explain, wanted to comfort Masaomi and tell him everything was fine.
“Mikado.” Masaomi repeated, almost whisper-like in its slow and peaceful cadence. And this time, there was a shuddering breath that accompanied his name. It held so much of everything and nothing, so much emptiness and blackness that Mikado had to gulp, blink steadily at the unfamiliar emotions in that voice. He willed away his fear, fear of the unknown, and gathered as much courage as possible from within his core, dragged it up and far to spread across the rest of his cold body; warmed it softly until he could breathe again.
“Masaomi…” Mikado replied. He paused. Swallowed thickly, unsure and awkward yet confident at the same time.
But he was powerless.
Masaomi chuckled loudly, bitterly as if he heard a sick joke, and Mikado didn’t understand why or how his best friend ended up like this.
Heavy static and the brutality of rain and thunder sounded through the flimsy connection and Mikado couldn’t say anything. He was too worried, too frightened of his friend’s voice and implications to continue the words he so desperately wanted to say.
“So you answer this time, huh?” Masaomi said, accusing Mikado with a simple statement. The sentence arose even more questions that Mikado tried really hard to answer, but the answers came up blank in his mind. Blurred and out of control.
Masaomi sounded sad, gloomy, but still bitter after the few moments of tense pause between his utterances.
And again, Mikado couldn’t respond, even though he really wanted to. He just didn’t know how, didn‘t know what was appropriate or wanted.
The dark-haired teen pushed himself out of his futon, clothed feet pattering softly against the floor in the direction of his blind-covered window. He looked back, gazed at his rumpled sleeping place¾ blankets, pillows, sheets¾ and wondered about his troubled friend.
Mikado had noticed the changes in Masaomi over the past few weeks: how he avoided his gaze, looked at him while he thought he didn’t notice, watched his interactions with certain people ¾ the people that interested him¾ how he acted differently to Anri and him while still acting like himself. It was so confusing, so troubling, that it made Mikado and Anri question his whereabouts. The charade was the perfect act for those at school, but Mikado had felt something, had noticed the abrupt change in the current, like a crack that formed at the bottom of a glass, but traveled upwards as the times grew long and fluttered past in silent reverie.
Mikado guessed that this was the time: the time to find out what had been bothering Masaomi.
He sighed softly into the phone, wondered if Masaomi could hear his anxiety as strongly as he felt it.
Masaomi didn’t respond.
Honking, footsteps, endless static and rainfall alerted Mikado that Masaomi was walking outside in the rain. In what direction? He pondered, worry eating away at him, biting his insides and freezing him. His free hand held the blinds away from the glass window and his eyes grew solemn, dim, but hopeful as they peered out the clear surface.
The conversation had died not long after it had started, but neither Masaomi nor Mikado hung up. The connection was still there. The two best friends remained silent. Their phones stayed pressed against their ears, waiting.
Mikado’s eyes became distant as the moments passed by. His vision turned blurry as the image of silver raindrops morphed into a smooth cloud of precipitation devoid of clarity. He was shivering, thin white pajamas swaying with each shuddering movement, but he remained by the window, red phone pressed against his ear and small charm dangling back and forth. He ignored his body’s complaints and settled himself in a trancelike state of mind.
His thoughts were flooded with sounds, images, words of Dollars, Yellow Scarves, Orihara Izaya, Anri¾ all of Ikebukuro, really. But one thought remained and stood out like a blinking light that alerted the presence of an oncoming train: his one and only best friend since childhood, who changed without him realizing it. Masaomi.
Mikado’s body was cold and stiff, his mind lost. But then Masaomi’s quiet voice released him of his musings and forced him back to the real world.
“I’m outside your apartment.” he said.
No feelings were exposed in that single statement. Masaomi didn’t sound happy, nor angry, nor sad nor bitter. He sounded empty. His voice was low and quiet.
Mikado blinked slowly, released a shuddering breath and narrowed his eyes at the rain-covered window as if the action would improve his vision. Squinting, he could see a hunched figure leaning against the wired fence. It was male, Mikado could tell. He wore a simple white hoodie, blonde bangs covered his down-turned face, and in his right hand was a yellow scarf, its color darker than its usual brightness. In the other hand appeared to be a cell phone, pelts of rain attacking the small open screen, numbered buttons flooded with moisture.
It was undoubtedly Masaomi, Mikado realized. He wasn’t moving at all, not even shivering or breathing, even though the harsh, unforgiving weather attacked him from all angles. The worry in Mikado’s belly shot up ten-fold: he didn‘t expect it to be this bad. So Mikado spoke into his cell phone -- loud, clear and urgent:
“Masaomi! Are you okay?”
Masaomi didn’t respond.
Mikado wasn’t sure if the blonde had heard him. He wasn’t sure if Masaomi’s phone had short circuited from the rain water or if he was just ignoring him. So Mikado did the next best thing that came to mind.
The thin, dark-haired male shut his red phone while biting his lip and furrowing his eyebrows. After a few seconds of contemplation, Mikado quickly placed his phone on the computer desk, grabbed the jacket closest to him¾ his green track jacket¾ and promptly threw the garment on without thinking. He hastily procured a pair of shoes, placed them on his chilled feet and slammed open the door to his apartment.
The weather was brutal: cold pellets of rain stabbing the air, wind pushing, forcing the water into crescent-shaved waves on the cement. Mikado braced himself, glanced at his still-unmoving friend, who was below and by the fence, and stepped out of the safety of his small apartment.
Each step was dangerous to the dark-haired teen. He idly wondered when he was going to fall, when he was going to crash down to his death upon the slippery stairs. The wind was so powerful it battered his body from side to side. He could barely see past the rain that obscured his vision. The moon seemed to have vanished from the sky: the only light sources were that of the houses around the apartment complex. Mikado had to shut his eyes several times in order to see two feet right in front of him, and his hands gripped the rail so tight he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore.
When he finally descended the staircase and made it to the street, he stopped, just stood there and stared at Masaomi through rain plastered bangs. He was scared of what he might find. He was afraid of losing his friend to all these secrets, this circle of lies and half-truths. But most of all, he was frightened of the fact that this boy standing dejectedly in front of him would eventually fade away.
Mikado shook his head of the water. He was shivering, dressed in only his thin, white pajamas, a favored green jacket and his worn-out shoes. And then he crossed the distance that seemed like miles, time that felt like hours. He made his way across the street without looking both ways like his had parents taught him; his eyes were trained on the soaked figure as he walked on and on, forward and forward, until he finally stood in front of his unmoving best friend. Mikado’s ears were pounding. He couldn’t hear nor see anything. All he could see was gray, and at the center of that blurred, ugly gray was Masaomi.
Mikado called out to him, teeth chattering and worried voice bleeding thick into the wind’s incessant shrieks “Masaomi?”
When he didn’t say anything, Mikado sighed heavily. “Masaomi!” he said again, this time louder.
Masaomi seemed to come to himself. His body shifted a bit and his head tilted upwards until his unfocused eyes pinned themselves on Mikado.
Mikado released an internal sigh of relief.
“Masaomi…it’s really cold out here.” he chuckled a bit, though it was obviously strained. “You should come inside. Otherwise, you’ll catch a cold!”
Masaomi nodded mutely and looked up until he was face-to-face with Mikado; their bodies were but inches apart. But there was no body heat to be shared in the close proximity; all warmth had been sapped away by nature’s force. Masaomi gave his best friend a ghost of a smile that made Mikado’s belly hurt more than ever.
“Okay, let‘s go then.” Mikado said. And he gently removed Masaomi’s cell phone from his stiff, ice-chilled hand, pried his fingers apart so slowly and delicately it seemed like he was afraid he’d break them. Mikado closed the orange cell phone and placed it gingerly in his jacket pocket, shifting his body all the while.
Masaomi watched the movement with unseeing eyes. His body and face remained unchanged. He was expressionless, but his eyes were hooded and his face was shadowed by dripping wet bangs. Mikado tried to smile as best as he could. He could feel the cracks of his mask grow with each passing second, but he soon gave up when he realized it had no effect on Masaomi.
Slowly the two teenagers made their way across the empty street, Mikado pulling gently on Masaomi’s arm, watching out for the safety of not one, but two people. His eyes traced themselves on his apartment door, the empty streets and Masaomi’s down-turned face.
When they finally reached the stairs, Masaomi seemed to snap out of it, if only for a little. He harshly pushed away from Mikado, stumbled a few paces back, and moved his head back and forth as if denying something that only he understood. Mikado stopped, noticed his friend about to run away¾ about to possibly leave him forever¾ so he made an effort to reach out to him. He positioned his outstretched arm so it was parallel to the wet ground, perpendicular to the pouring rain. Fingers pressed together as if collecting the water, he reached for his best friend with pleading eyes.
Masaomi looked frightened. He looked like he was about to bolt at any moment, and Mikado himself was frightened by that simple fact, which he knew to be true. He didn’t move, just implored his blonde friend to come with him through his eyes, which he hoped spoke volumes. Words alone were not enough to reach the blonde¾ not in this state¾ so actions had to be carried out to show that he cared, really cared. Mikado himself was almost on the verge of tears at the lack of reaction, but he constantly reminded himself, ‘I must be strong. I have to be strong.’
Mikado’s arm reached for Masaomi for what felt like minutes, though in actuality, only seconds ticked by. His arm was aching, burning from his shoulder to his fingertips, and though he knew he wasn’t very strong in the physical department he never imagined it would hurt this bad. But he persisted, laid out his offer so long that his arm was trembling and his heart slowly breaking.
Masaomi tentatively placed his hand in Mikado’s own, a shaky smile on his face. Mikado could tell he was confused, hell, Mikado was confused as well. But Mikado couldn’t help the suspicion that crawled through him. Was this really Masaomi? Or was he faking it?
Did Masaomi have the right to be confused when he was the one who called him in the middle of the night, threw accusations like they were party favors (though wordlessly) and came to his apartment, told him that he was outside as if he were expecting Mikado to help him?
Mikado knew the answer.
Yes. The blonde had every right. But petty thoughts had eaten away at him, slithered pass his defenses like the shadows that forced their way through the light.
Mikado smiled¾ a mask he knew Masaomi perfected.
He wondered if Masaomi could tell he was faking it.
~~~
The door closed with a loud bang, the wind still screaming outside and the clouds still crying in their heavenly posts atop the world.
Masaomi stood limply in the doorway. He was dripping water onto the floor, clear rain droplets creating a path down the contours of his face before falling.
Mikado couldn’t help but look at the yellow scarf in Masaomi‘s hand, couldn’t help but observe the meaning and implications. He tried to attach the pieces, connect all loose ends to find an answer. And after a few moments of contemplation, Mikado realized his conclusion was one that he didn’t want to believe. He hoped he was wrong. He wished this was all some strange nightmare and that he’d wake up, go to school like normal, attend classes and hang out with his friends while enjoying life for its wonders.
But the sheer, intense coldness was seeping into his soul and his body. The wind was loud and boisterous. Masaomi was standing in front of him. His body felt frozen and stiff.
This was not some dream world, it was a reality that he had to come to terms with.
Mikado stepped hesitantly closer to Masaomi, ignored the watery imprints on the floor and gazed intensely at his face. Only a few inches separated him from his best friend, so he could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, he could see his dark eyelashes blinking.
He could see that Masaomi was alive.
Mikado breathed slowly, closed his eyes for a few seconds before tentatively reaching his arms around the taller body of his best friend, one arm tightened on his waist and the other over his shoulder. His face was buried in the soaked, white hoodie; inhaling and breathing and feeling his best friend, listening to Masaomi’s slow heartbeat as he closed his eyes tightly, desperately. He shivered violently as the cold and wet became more pronounced. It soaked through his skin and impaled his bones with little bursts of ice.
Masaomi released a quivering breath that spoke volumes. He slowly snaked his arms around the smaller shaking body, holding him firmly as he buried his own head in Mikado’s neck. A small, choked sound, escaped from the back of his throat and Mikado tightened his hold, responded by gripping onto Masaomi's hoodie like a vice, almost tearing the white cloth in his desperation.
He was afraid to let go.
They didn’t say anything, just held each other. And Mikado wouldn’t notice until later, but Masaomi had dropped the yellow scarf behind Mikado’s back when they were blanketed in each other‘s arms¾ arms that felt warm despite being cold, wet, and wavering.
Masaomi cried silently, soundlessly. Just one, two, maybe three warm tears escaped from his tightly closed eyes, and Mikado could feel them. He could feel them soaking his neck and dripping onto his shirt. He could feel their warmth on his skin.
~~~
Eventually, Mikado slowly pulled away from the blonde. He held on gently to Masaomi’s hand as he pulled him deeper and deeper into the small apartment. His blue eyes never left Masaomi’s brown, even when he turned on the light, which flickered unsteadily before bathing them in a weak shower of fake gold.
“You should take a bath before you get sick,” Mikado suggested softly as the pair stopped in front of the bathroom door. “You could leave your clothes on the sink. I’ll take care of them....and there‘s also some extra towels in there.” Mikado released Masaomi’s hand, which retracted and returned to its normal position, in order to scratch the back of his head. It was a gesture Mikado did when he was either embarrassed or nervous. This time, he was a strange mixture of the two.
“You go in first. You look horrible, Masaomi.” Mikado teased to lighten up the mood a bit, to bring things back to normal. He then laughed, and the sound was so loud in the empty apartment he almost cringed.
“Go on ahead.” he urged, smiled slightly while shooing him into the bathroom.
Masaomi nodded. He smiled a little. Traces of the light in his eyes had returned.
And Mikado had smiled right back.
~~~
After Masaomi had taken a shower and changed into a clean set of Mikado’s clothes, the pair sat side by side on Mikado’s futon. They didn’t saying anything.
Masaomi seemed to be more alive now than before, however; he responded to Mikado, albeit reluctantly; he moved on his own, his face held some expression and his eyes contained tiny traces of that familiar light that made them so unique. Mikado loved his friend’s eyes. Though he never told him. He loved the ambition and ferocity, the courage that sparkled deep in those brown eyes.
Mikado wiggled his toes under their shared blanket. He still smelled like rain, and he was still dirty. But he didn’t want Masaomi to be alone. He was still afraid that the blonde would leave him and run away only to return as a completely different person, if at all. Warmth and cleanliness could wait. Masaomi didn’t seem to care, so he didn’t care himself.
Mikado shivered and looked out the window. It was still dark. The storm had lightened up considerably and there was no more thunder, lightning or shrieking wind to disturb his thoughts. There was only the clear pitter-patter of rain against his window, which worked to calm his nerves somewhat.
Masaomi startled Mikado by flopping onto his back. He now lay flat on the small futon, blankets wrinkled around them like the waves of a perilous ocean, and the silence stretched on.
“I’m sorry.” Masaomi said quietly after a few seconds. And Mikado could hear it. Could hear the honesty, pain, and regrets in those two little words.
Mikado looked down to his left at Masaomi. The blonde’s eyes were staring up at the cracked ceiling, his arms and legs were spread out as much as possible in the limited space. Mikado almost chuckled at the familiar image, but the heavy atmosphere shot that idea straight out of his mind. He averted his gaze instead, and pinned his eyes on the floor.
Seconds of steady breathing and rain passed within the cold apartment before Mikado followed his friend’s example. He looked up at the ceiling, body still seated next to Masaomi on the futon and blue eyes tracing the little cracks and marks as if doing so would give him all the answers.
“I’m sorry too.” he whispered.
Although he didn’t know what he was apologizing for, what Masaomi wanted him to be sorry about, he hoped Masaomi could understand him. Mikado did know, however, that he was apologizing for what was not said, for what was not done. He was apologizing for Dollars, apologizing for using Masaomi as an excuse to escape the countryside and experience a new life in the city. But most of all, he was apologizing for not noticing the changes in Masaomi…
...No.
He knew. He was apologizing for not confronting him about it, for not putting forth the effort to show that he cared. And Mikado had finally realized that he was selfish, that everyone was selfish in their own right.
Masaomi just nodded again, let Mikado know he had heard him, and Mikado was grateful for the simple act.
Mikado removed himself from the futon. He regretfully didn’t have a portable heater with him at the moment so he decided that he needed to warm the two of them up somehow.
Feet pattering softly against the floor, he made his way to the small kitchen area. He procured a tea-kettle, filled it up with water and set it on the small electrical stove. The dark-haired teen watched as the water simmered and bubbled and boiled. It was a good distraction. It kept his mind off of the blonde lying in his bed and all the questions hammering through his skull. He let his mind wander, his vision growing blurry in a similar fashion as earlier. He became so lost in reverie he didn’t notice the water boiling violently on the stove top, some water leaking down onto the hot surface, creating steam and hisses as it made contact with the hot metal.
“Mikado!” Masaomi exclaimed from a few feet away from him, brown eyes alert and blonde hair a mess. Mikado blinked before looking down and noticing the sizzling water. His eyes then widened and he promptly shut off the stove. Since when did Masaomi get over here?
Masaomi rubbed the back of his head while averting his eyes, and he chuckled a little nervously as the awkwardness settled in. Although the sound was subdued, Mikado heard it clearly as if it were right beside his ear.
He looked up.
“Oh. Masaomi.” the teen said. It was the first thing that came to mind and he blurted it straight out. Mikado was a bit perplexed, but then he grabbed a hold of himself. “Umm. I was making something warm for us to drink so…” He looked up at Masaomi, didn’t know what else to say.
Masaomi seemed to understand, and noticing that everything was alright, returned back to the futon without a sound.
Mikado sighed. He was supposed to help Masaomi, not the other way around. But then he looked down at the steaming kettle and remembered his task of making hot chocolate for the two of them.
Chocolate was a favorite flavor of Masaomi’s. He hoped it would bring comfort to the blonde and remind him of the childhood memories they shared together. Mikado wondered if Masaomi remembered any of them, or if his memories of chocolate were replaced with new people and new events; better times than the ones shared with him.
Mikado wanted to know, wanted to know desperately¾ to make sure the Masaomi he knew was still there.
And Mikado hated himself for manipulating such an innocent act of kindness.
He was such a liar.
~~~
When Mikado returned to the futon with the hot drinks in hand, Masaomi was sound asleep. That was when Mikado realized how late it was (or rather, how early it was) since time was still trapped in the black shades of morning. He remembered the coldness, the rain and the emotional stress the past events had put on both him and Masaomi, though more on his blonde-haired friend. Mikado didn’t know what happened that night. He came up with some ideas but he knew they would all be wrong.
Something had to have happened to make Masaomi call him, to have made him a shadow of his former self. Something had to have happened to make Masaomi accuse him with unspoken words. And Mikado was guilty. In his eyes, he was guilty of every crime, of every wrong-doing Masaomi had accused of him.
Mikado didn’t wake Masaomi up from his sleep. Instead, he placed the blonde’s steaming mug on the small table used for eating and occasionally, for homework. He sat down heavily next to the sleeping body of his best friend and spent the rest of his night sipping on the warm liquid at regular intervals, staring endlessly out at the sky and at Masaomi. He couldn’t sleep no matter how hard he tried, and images, words, thoughts kept invading his mind, forcing him to stay awake.
The sun was rising. Masaomi was having a nightmare, curled up into fetal position, tears trickling silently down the planes of his face. But Mikado didn’t comfort him. He just watched him with unseeing eyes, didn’t move or make a sound. His childish face was emotionless, and he looked his age for once, tired and drained, and just so tired of it all that it hurt. But despite that, he felt every bit of despair and pain in those tears that didn’t belong to him. He felt his heart bleed out in tune with the tears that fell from Masaomi’s eyes.
Mikado couldn’t finish his hot chocolate. The sweetness tasted bitter in his mouth, and like the lights in the earlier darkness, the sweet flavor was mocking him, condemning him of his hypocrisy and lies.
Mikado peered down at the brown liquid in his mug, stared at his reflection, which shimmered with the barest of movements. And then the darkness finally grabbed a hold of him, pulled him underneath the black, murky water. Drowning him.
Tears fell silently from Mikado’s eyes like raindrops that fell from the heavens, shattering his mask and his stronghold. They dripped woefully into his drink¾ plunk, plunk, plunk¾ and onto his wrinkled, worn blankets. He didn’t move, just continued to stare at everything and nothing, accepted the accusations and truths unspoken by both Masaomi and himself. Some of the tears reached his lips before their final descent and they invaded his palate with a familiar warmth and saltiness.
And Mikado realized that his tears tasted sweeter than the drink in his hold.
~~~
Mikado fell asleep to the sun’s rays peeking through his blinds, his face calm and devoid of any worry. His half empty mug sat innocently next to Masaomi’s untouched one.
And Mikado dreamed.
~~~
Note: Uhh, I posted this at ff.net, but I wanted to post it here first. For some reason, LJ-cuts weren't working on my journal yesterday.
I hope you enjoyed this. :]