[fic] The Cat and His Boy (2/2) {8018, PG}
thanks for waiting! i am horrible with serials and i'm sorry if this is made of fail T_T
have uploaded the rain version of Yiruma's "When the Love Falls," for those who are interested. it's over here.
Part 1 is here.
The Cat and His Boy
Conclusion
You want to be strong.
Stronger than anyone.
No addictions. No attachments. Nothing that forces you into feeling normal, into feeling all right, into feeling something.
Stupid cattle enjoy too many things they don't need. They revel in their little comforts and their little reliefs, never thinking ahead, never watching their backs. Worrying about pathetic temporary things like "love" or "money" or "fame," never knowing that these could be snuffed out at any minute.
You don't live in their world. You live in the shadows people don't even want to look at, much less venture into. Your dreams, if you dream at all, involve you standing in an endless battlefield, a lone survivor in a sea of corpses.
You are thirteen years old and you've just made your first kill.
The man is lying on the ground, face twisted into a mask of pain, belly down and ripped open. This swift death is a mercy, considering that in his overlong lifetime he had killed innocent children of Namimori, who would have wept in fear at the sight of the man at this moment.
The pleasure you suffered when you tore him apart was exquisite. Blood coats your hands and nails, a deeper shade of red than the rain can wash off.
And still, the rain falls.
It's furious. As if by giving its all, it will erase what you've done. As if it can bury an entire adult human body like it has buried tracks and hair and teeth before, has made things easier for you even without you asking.
Look, you suddenly want to say to someone, anyone, This is for you.
But the rain doesn't answer.
You're in the same school now. You're bigger and older and supposedly a lot wiser. You hope against hope that you also look different - that you've lost many of the things he recognizes about you.
So you pretend not to notice him when you pass each other by on a deserted corridor.
You have a split-second, however, to catch up on things and look him over: he's grown. He's taller, his shoulders are broader than you remember. While he's still lean, his whole body is heavier-set.
The leather band on his right wrist fits just right now. One promise kept.
His face somehow seems sleepless and sadder and at the same time more clueless - how much could have happened during your long absence?
His eyes turn wide. The light in it swallows him whole, almost as any of his ordinary smiles would - only, the expression on his face is a bit scared and a bit shocked and a bit unsure of what else to feel.
You -
His greeting falls on deaf ears. He's stopped walking, but you haven't.
It's not that you're ignoring him...
It's more like you don't give a shit even if after two whole years, he's finally standing within reach.
(You're never going to stop getting into trouble, are you...)
You walk on. You don't have to look back, so you don't. He makes it easy for you; he doesn't run after you or try to call you by some stupid name he's made up, like "Cat." Or "Insensitive Jerk." He doesn't call you anything.
You hope he, too, has walked on. And you struggle to drive the image of the sad, sleepless, older boy from behind your eyes.
(But you'll always be fine, I know you will, because it's you. Besides... you'll always come back here, right?)
You turn a corner and all of a sudden, you feel heavy. Like something is on your back. Something that shouldn't have been picked up out of the earth, one rainy evening, then brought home and patched up and warmed up and waited for.
You wish you could just dump it somewhere and leave it to die. But it's too late now.
You hear he's doing badly in his classes. That because of this, he might be kicked out of the baseball team. That he isn't at all as spirited as he used to be in grade school, when everybody knew and loved him and adored the goofy grin that was permanently plastered on his face.
You hear things are getting bad for his family financially, and that he's working hard to stay in school because he needs to be on a professional baseball team someday. He needs to be scouted and recruited so that it will all be worth it.
You tell yourself you don't care. You aren't obliged to go to him and ask if there's any way you can help. If there's anything (or anyone) that needs "taking care of."
You don't need him. You're not responsible for him, or anything about him, least of all his happiness.
The fire inside you has sustained you for this long. It grows as you grow. There are so many words for it that don't fit - words like bloodlust, instinct, rage.
It is not a sickness. There is no cure for it. If you ever wanted it to end, you would just stab yourself in the heart and wait.
You don't need anything washing you clean. You don't need anyone encouraging you. Or patching you up, or calming you down, or smiling at you every time he sees you, like you've just made everything better, like you're his only reason to live.
You don't need all that.
You don't know what you need.
"Yamamoto's going to jump off the roof!"
These words aren't supposed to affect you. And yet your heart skips a beat, your fists clench.
And before you know it, you find yourself dropping everything you're doing and racing to the rooftop, shoving everything and everyone out of your way.
Look.
There he is.
Far in the back of the crowd of students, you can see the tall and not-so-awkward boy holding on with one good hand to the wire fence at the rooftop.
One of his arms is in a sling. He's not wearing a wristband now.
Is he really going to jump? You try to catch a glimpse of his face. You wait for him to look back at the crowd and see you. He never does.
But he's smiling. Some strange how, you know it.
You've never really been here before.
You don't know what to do.
You take a few steps forward, trying to tell yourself it doesn't matter... that nothing you can say could turn back time or make him feel better. All you have to do is grab his hand and pull him back into safety, pretend it's just your job, pretend that he's just anyone and you can't have "anyone" dying on your grounds. And not say a word to him.
Except there are a hundred thousand words trying to leap out of your throat right now.
A funny-looking boy flies through the crowd, almost as if tossed into the wide open space between Takeshi and everyone else.
You stop.
The funny-looking boy tries to convince Takeshi that, of all things, he's no good. And then tries to run away.
You can't believe you're standing around for this freak show.
It's almost as if you know what's going to happen. Takeshi reaches out for the funny-looking boy and loses his balance.
The fall is much faster than you are. They both drop out of your sight.
You run.
And when you get to the edge, ahead of everyone else, you see it - the strange thing that happens, the funny-looking kid tearing his clothes off in a heartbeat and the hair on his head changing shape. The naked boy grabs Takeshi and bounces off the floor; the both of them are unharmed and whole.
Then, you realize you can breathe again.
You burn the image of the funny-looking boy into your brain. You're not sure why exactly - maybe it's just because people whose heads change shape need to be noted down.
And after a while of waiting for the taller boy without the wristband to catch his breath and regain the color on his face, you step away from the edge.
You're sure no one has seen you. Most of the people in the area are fixated on the boy who was about to jump, and the boy who had torn off his clothes just to rescue him. Unobserved, you leave.
He looks stunned. He's heard that name before, but he's never associated it with you.
You almost hear him saying it aloud. Tasting the name on his lips, his tongue.
Hibari Kyouya. I'm glad I finally know that! He'd be saying that if he wasn't busy getting knocked out. By you. Along with his little cattle friends.
"Are you injured? You seem to be protecting your right hand."
The comment catches him off-guard. For a moment he looks like he wants to say something. Something spiteful and angry and long-bottled up.
He lands on his back, close to his silver-haired friend and the funny-looking kid with the SHITI'MGONNADIE expression. Out of commission so soon? You're disappointed. Perhaps you were hoping he'd be tougher, or more agile at least.
He's just cattle, after all. That makes everything a lot easier.
Instead you focus on the two people who grab your curiosity: the baby and the funny-looking kid, who suddenly strips to his underwear and survives you. You're used to strange things (some of it is even your doing), but talk about something you don't see everyday...
You just want to grow stronger. And in order to grow stronger, you have to fight stronger people.
Only stronger people matter. The rest have to be kept in their place.
It's simple.
He's not worth your time if a broken heart and a broken arm are enough to kill him.
You're in the same school. Almost in the same year level. Encountering each other is unavoidable. It's also perfectly possible to come across each other in a completely deserted corridor more than once.
You feel his eyes on your face. You shoot him a bored glance and then look straight ahead.
He stops walking. At first you think he's going to make a grab for your hand or do something equally stupid; you're prepared to send him flying through the air, out the building, in case this happens.
But he doesn't do anything. You pass him by.
"Your name's Hibari," you hear him say softly, "isn't it?"
Despite yourself, you stop walking too. You just don't look back.
"Hibari. My name's Takeshi." He's smiling; you can hear it. "And it's okay."
Then he walks on.
It is okay, isn't it?
He has friends now. Good friends. You watch them from the rooftop, from the window of the disciplinary committee office, from a distance, in crowded places.
The silver-haired smoker punk makes Takeshi laugh, and his laugh rings true and clear. The funny-looking kid - Takeshi lights up when he's around.
Your sources say his name is Sawada Tsunayoshi. And this gains him instant respect among your followers... because you never ask for anyone's name, unless he or she interests you in some way.
And the baby - no question about it, he's strong. He's watching over Takeshi, saying he wants Takeshi to be part of a "family."
This is a good thing, for him. Cattle move in herds, they protect each other and make each other strong.
He won't be jumping off any rooftops again anytime soon.
This is a good thing, for you, too. He doesn't need you anymore.
And yet.
He's wearing a wristband, but it's not the one you gave him.
He's not waiting for you by the window. Or lying awake sleepless because he's wondering why you haven't come back. Or blushing in class because it's still hard to talk in English about a nonexistent cat.
He's not here.
It's been years. The lights are off in his room. Tonight you're sitting in this tree, in the rain, for no good reason.
Except.
For some faint hope that maybe, if you sit here long enough, the lights are going on and the window is going to open and he's going to look out and find you, because he's been waiting and waiting.
The rain washes.
He will forgive you everything.
So, numb from the cold, and later heavy with sleep, you stay.
This isn't a dream about battlefields or corpses. In this one, a window opens. Light pours out of it onto your face and wakes you up.
A little boy with wide eyes peers out through the heavy curtain of water falling from the sky and sees you, beams at you and waves.
He's saying something - maybe something about leftover food, or about getting sick if you stay out in the cold too long. You don't care, you're on your way over to him anyway.
Come inside, the rain says, and his palm against the small of your back is warm.
----------------------------
forget the ink, the milk, the blood-
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters
and none of this, none of this matters.
- Don Patterson
have uploaded the rain version of Yiruma's "When the Love Falls," for those who are interested. it's over here.
Part 1 is here.
The Cat and His Boy
Conclusion
You want to be strong.
Stronger than anyone.
No addictions. No attachments. Nothing that forces you into feeling normal, into feeling all right, into feeling something.
Stupid cattle enjoy too many things they don't need. They revel in their little comforts and their little reliefs, never thinking ahead, never watching their backs. Worrying about pathetic temporary things like "love" or "money" or "fame," never knowing that these could be snuffed out at any minute.
You don't live in their world. You live in the shadows people don't even want to look at, much less venture into. Your dreams, if you dream at all, involve you standing in an endless battlefield, a lone survivor in a sea of corpses.
You are thirteen years old and you've just made your first kill.
The man is lying on the ground, face twisted into a mask of pain, belly down and ripped open. This swift death is a mercy, considering that in his overlong lifetime he had killed innocent children of Namimori, who would have wept in fear at the sight of the man at this moment.
The pleasure you suffered when you tore him apart was exquisite. Blood coats your hands and nails, a deeper shade of red than the rain can wash off.
And still, the rain falls.
It's furious. As if by giving its all, it will erase what you've done. As if it can bury an entire adult human body like it has buried tracks and hair and teeth before, has made things easier for you even without you asking.
Look, you suddenly want to say to someone, anyone, This is for you.
But the rain doesn't answer.
You're in the same school now. You're bigger and older and supposedly a lot wiser. You hope against hope that you also look different - that you've lost many of the things he recognizes about you.
So you pretend not to notice him when you pass each other by on a deserted corridor.
You have a split-second, however, to catch up on things and look him over: he's grown. He's taller, his shoulders are broader than you remember. While he's still lean, his whole body is heavier-set.
The leather band on his right wrist fits just right now. One promise kept.
His face somehow seems sleepless and sadder and at the same time more clueless - how much could have happened during your long absence?
His eyes turn wide. The light in it swallows him whole, almost as any of his ordinary smiles would - only, the expression on his face is a bit scared and a bit shocked and a bit unsure of what else to feel.
You -
His greeting falls on deaf ears. He's stopped walking, but you haven't.
It's not that you're ignoring him...
It's more like you don't give a shit even if after two whole years, he's finally standing within reach.
(You're never going to stop getting into trouble, are you...)
You walk on. You don't have to look back, so you don't. He makes it easy for you; he doesn't run after you or try to call you by some stupid name he's made up, like "Cat." Or "Insensitive Jerk." He doesn't call you anything.
You hope he, too, has walked on. And you struggle to drive the image of the sad, sleepless, older boy from behind your eyes.
(But you'll always be fine, I know you will, because it's you. Besides... you'll always come back here, right?)
You turn a corner and all of a sudden, you feel heavy. Like something is on your back. Something that shouldn't have been picked up out of the earth, one rainy evening, then brought home and patched up and warmed up and waited for.
You wish you could just dump it somewhere and leave it to die. But it's too late now.
You hear he's doing badly in his classes. That because of this, he might be kicked out of the baseball team. That he isn't at all as spirited as he used to be in grade school, when everybody knew and loved him and adored the goofy grin that was permanently plastered on his face.
You hear things are getting bad for his family financially, and that he's working hard to stay in school because he needs to be on a professional baseball team someday. He needs to be scouted and recruited so that it will all be worth it.
You tell yourself you don't care. You aren't obliged to go to him and ask if there's any way you can help. If there's anything (or anyone) that needs "taking care of."
You don't need him. You're not responsible for him, or anything about him, least of all his happiness.
The fire inside you has sustained you for this long. It grows as you grow. There are so many words for it that don't fit - words like bloodlust, instinct, rage.
It is not a sickness. There is no cure for it. If you ever wanted it to end, you would just stab yourself in the heart and wait.
You don't need anything washing you clean. You don't need anyone encouraging you. Or patching you up, or calming you down, or smiling at you every time he sees you, like you've just made everything better, like you're his only reason to live.
You don't need all that.
You don't know what you need.
"Yamamoto's going to jump off the roof!"
These words aren't supposed to affect you. And yet your heart skips a beat, your fists clench.
And before you know it, you find yourself dropping everything you're doing and racing to the rooftop, shoving everything and everyone out of your way.
Look.
There he is.
Far in the back of the crowd of students, you can see the tall and not-so-awkward boy holding on with one good hand to the wire fence at the rooftop.
One of his arms is in a sling. He's not wearing a wristband now.
Is he really going to jump? You try to catch a glimpse of his face. You wait for him to look back at the crowd and see you. He never does.
But he's smiling. Some strange how, you know it.
You've never really been here before.
You don't know what to do.
You take a few steps forward, trying to tell yourself it doesn't matter... that nothing you can say could turn back time or make him feel better. All you have to do is grab his hand and pull him back into safety, pretend it's just your job, pretend that he's just anyone and you can't have "anyone" dying on your grounds. And not say a word to him.
Except there are a hundred thousand words trying to leap out of your throat right now.
A funny-looking boy flies through the crowd, almost as if tossed into the wide open space between Takeshi and everyone else.
You stop.
The funny-looking boy tries to convince Takeshi that, of all things, he's no good. And then tries to run away.
You can't believe you're standing around for this freak show.
It's almost as if you know what's going to happen. Takeshi reaches out for the funny-looking boy and loses his balance.
The fall is much faster than you are. They both drop out of your sight.
You run.
And when you get to the edge, ahead of everyone else, you see it - the strange thing that happens, the funny-looking kid tearing his clothes off in a heartbeat and the hair on his head changing shape. The naked boy grabs Takeshi and bounces off the floor; the both of them are unharmed and whole.
Then, you realize you can breathe again.
You burn the image of the funny-looking boy into your brain. You're not sure why exactly - maybe it's just because people whose heads change shape need to be noted down.
And after a while of waiting for the taller boy without the wristband to catch his breath and regain the color on his face, you step away from the edge.
You're sure no one has seen you. Most of the people in the area are fixated on the boy who was about to jump, and the boy who had torn off his clothes just to rescue him. Unobserved, you leave.
He looks stunned. He's heard that name before, but he's never associated it with you.
You almost hear him saying it aloud. Tasting the name on his lips, his tongue.
Hibari Kyouya. I'm glad I finally know that! He'd be saying that if he wasn't busy getting knocked out. By you. Along with his little cattle friends.
"Are you injured? You seem to be protecting your right hand."
The comment catches him off-guard. For a moment he looks like he wants to say something. Something spiteful and angry and long-bottled up.
He lands on his back, close to his silver-haired friend and the funny-looking kid with the SHITI'MGONNADIE expression. Out of commission so soon? You're disappointed. Perhaps you were hoping he'd be tougher, or more agile at least.
He's just cattle, after all. That makes everything a lot easier.
Instead you focus on the two people who grab your curiosity: the baby and the funny-looking kid, who suddenly strips to his underwear and survives you. You're used to strange things (some of it is even your doing), but talk about something you don't see everyday...
You just want to grow stronger. And in order to grow stronger, you have to fight stronger people.
Only stronger people matter. The rest have to be kept in their place.
It's simple.
He's not worth your time if a broken heart and a broken arm are enough to kill him.
You're in the same school. Almost in the same year level. Encountering each other is unavoidable. It's also perfectly possible to come across each other in a completely deserted corridor more than once.
You feel his eyes on your face. You shoot him a bored glance and then look straight ahead.
He stops walking. At first you think he's going to make a grab for your hand or do something equally stupid; you're prepared to send him flying through the air, out the building, in case this happens.
But he doesn't do anything. You pass him by.
"Your name's Hibari," you hear him say softly, "isn't it?"
Despite yourself, you stop walking too. You just don't look back.
"Hibari. My name's Takeshi." He's smiling; you can hear it. "And it's okay."
Then he walks on.
It is okay, isn't it?
He has friends now. Good friends. You watch them from the rooftop, from the window of the disciplinary committee office, from a distance, in crowded places.
The silver-haired smoker punk makes Takeshi laugh, and his laugh rings true and clear. The funny-looking kid - Takeshi lights up when he's around.
Your sources say his name is Sawada Tsunayoshi. And this gains him instant respect among your followers... because you never ask for anyone's name, unless he or she interests you in some way.
And the baby - no question about it, he's strong. He's watching over Takeshi, saying he wants Takeshi to be part of a "family."
This is a good thing, for him. Cattle move in herds, they protect each other and make each other strong.
He won't be jumping off any rooftops again anytime soon.
This is a good thing, for you, too. He doesn't need you anymore.
And yet.
He's wearing a wristband, but it's not the one you gave him.
He's not waiting for you by the window. Or lying awake sleepless because he's wondering why you haven't come back. Or blushing in class because it's still hard to talk in English about a nonexistent cat.
He's not here.
It's been years. The lights are off in his room. Tonight you're sitting in this tree, in the rain, for no good reason.
Except.
For some faint hope that maybe, if you sit here long enough, the lights are going on and the window is going to open and he's going to look out and find you, because he's been waiting and waiting.
The rain washes.
He will forgive you everything.
So, numb from the cold, and later heavy with sleep, you stay.
This isn't a dream about battlefields or corpses. In this one, a window opens. Light pours out of it onto your face and wakes you up.
A little boy with wide eyes peers out through the heavy curtain of water falling from the sky and sees you, beams at you and waves.
He's saying something - maybe something about leftover food, or about getting sick if you stay out in the cold too long. You don't care, you're on your way over to him anyway.
Come inside, the rain says, and his palm against the small of your back is warm.
----------------------------
forget the ink, the milk, the blood-
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters
and none of this, none of this matters.
- Don Patterson