When The World Falls - The Pianist 1/3
Title: When The World Falls
Movie: The Pianist
Author: songkissed
Rating: PG-15
Summary: War isn't black and white. Kazuya doesn't realize that until Nishikido Ryo, an enemy soldier, comes into his life, and suddenly, his world regains colour as the lines between enemy sides blur.
Warning: um...ever seen a war movie? The Pianist is a war movie. Aka there is violence?
Notes: (under lj-cut because it's really long)
*waves* so hi there. So, as you can see, I wrote the pianist, but I just felt like I had to explain myself. If you're reading this, you've probably watched the Pianist before and got interested in what some random fan did with it. *cough* The pianist is set in WWII, but because I kinda wanted to concentrate on an aspect that was slightly looked over in the movie (as in the way the Pianist was in a way saved, from malnutrition, etc, by the enemy soldier that helped him), I reworked it so it made sense for it to be in Japan. You can see it as set in the future, or in an alternate universe where there is a war between areas of Japan, but that's the basic setting of this, and I just thought I'd mention it, because I didn't follow the plotline of The Pianist as much as I took the characters and tried to make something more out of them and the relationship between them than what the movie gave us :) (or as you may want to see it, the development of a relationship, of two people from enemy sides in a war, from hate into something more?) I hope you enjoy reading!!
-- WHEN THE WORLD FALLS --
One night, Kamenashi Kazuya woke up to black eyes and a gun pointed at his head.
He kept his eyes wide open, not daring to close them, so that when death finally found him, he would be able to see who it was that managed to do him in when even starvation and cold had already failed. He wanted to make sure that in those last few seconds, he would be able to see the face of the one who managed to finish him off. And, maybe, he wanted to know that while he only had to live with his killer’s face for a few more seconds, his killer would have to live with his for much longer.
Maybe that was why he kept his eyes open, but it certainly wasn’t because of a false sense of bravery; yet, it could have been for these exact reasons, or maybe none of those reasons, that he suddenly saw a flicker in the silver moonlight reflected in those dark eyes.
“Why aren’t you screaming for help?” his future-killer’s voice was revealed to him in a rough and low whisper, as if he was also wary of the overwhelming silence that lingered over the deadened town.
Kazuya could still feel the cold metal barrel of the gun against his temple, but he kept his eyes trained on those black ones; he barely moved his lips as he whispered out, in his own voice that he barely recognized, because it had been so long since he’d spoken to another person, “There’s no one to help me. Why waste my breath?”
Those onyx eyes stared at him for a long time, before the gun pressed itself deeper against his skull, “Why waste it indeed?” the other man murmured in a low voice, and Kazuya could just feel it as death began to wrap its claws around his body.
A heavy silence hung between them for a few seconds.
Then, the gun slid away and Kazuya stared in confusion as those dark abysses of eyes left his vision as well.
He could hear the other man’s voice, like a butterfly, fading away from him, “You’re practically dead already. Why waste my bullets on you?” was all he said as he walked away, the boots that went along with that uniform making loud footsteps as he left.
Kazuya barely blinked at his words; they were probably true anyways.
He was a dead man, just waiting for the day when he actually lived up to that title. Kazuya lived a life of a double identity, but in both, he was a dead man. When he just has the title of dead man, he was spared because he wasn’t worth shooting, but if they ever found out who he really was, he would be dead within seconds.
The choice between a figurative dead man and a literal dead man.
But, for today, for yet another day, death whispered on his lips, but it didn’t claim him yet.
* * *
The next few nights, Kazuya didn’t wake up to guns pointed at his head, or actually had any indication that the man was still somewhere in town, so he just presumed that he was long gone by now. That man was probably part of the forces that had been going through town earlier that week, settling in at that base that he knew had been built not too far north of town, and he had probably just been slower than all the others. How he had managed to find Kazuya, though, the younger man still had no idea.
It was under this presumption that Kazuya found it safe, tonight, to venture out of the house he had been hiding out in. The town was literally a ghost town; there was no one here, and there hadn’t been anyone else living here for months. A few months ago, the rest of the citizens, the ones who hadn’t already left, had been dragged out of their homes and taken elsewhere by the military. Kazuya had no idea where they were taken to, but he had hoped that it was a better place than…this. The town had gone through so much that everything was in shades of grey and rubble; the fighting had damaged the world so much that Kazuya couldn’t really remember the last time he was able to look out the window and see a clear blue sky.
The condemning silence of the town was broken when Kazuya heard something move. He whirled around as quickly as he could, his eyes wary; there shouldn’t be anyone else here. One day, after everyone had been taken away, he had gone through the town and looked everywhere for a sign of someone else. It was only when he had been unable to find even a hint of another soul that he settled into the house he was taking refuge in now.
Kazuya froze where he was standing when he saw a familiar uniform, and the same gun that had been pointed at him only a few nights ago.
Kazuya had seen many men wearing this same uniform pass through the town, and even back in his hometown, before he came here, the uniform was something he hated.
“Still alive, I see.” The man said with a sardonic tone. He took a step forward, but Kazuya still heard the drag in just that one step; there was obviously something wrong with the man’s leg, which may or may not give Kazuya the advantage right now.
Kazuya didn’t say anything for a moment; then, making a decision, he took a deep breath, “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked much too bravely for it to be a reflection of his own emotions.
The man looked startled and then, glancing at the gun at his side, he looked at Kazuya and scoffed, “I told you, your life isn’t worth it.”
Kazuya gave a slow nod, and as he looked into those dark eyes and saw those lips turning up into a light scowl, he just took off. He heard shouting and swearing in his wake, but he didn’t hear the resounding and unmistakable click of a gun’s safety, so he just ran faster. He knew the town better than this man possibly could, so he could disappear into this destroyed city and never be found.
Or so he hoped.
Just in case, he ran, and ran, and ran. In his desperation, he even ran to the one place he had sworn he’d never go to again.
* * *
Kazuya used to love playing the piano; he used to love the feeling of the black and white keys beneath his fingertips, the sensation that went through him when his fingers extracted such a clear note that he could imagine the melody that followed it; Kazuya loved everything that came with playing that instrument, so much so that he made his life revolve around it. Before all this started, before the war, his best friend had hosted a radio show, and Kazuya would often spend his time playing there, only looking up when the song ended and he could hear Koki speaking while smiling at him. He had loved playing and, sometimes, he had felt that if he didn’t play, life would end for him.
That was why, right now, as Kazuya ran a hand over the clear polish of the piano, wiping away months and months of dust, he could only smile sadly at the grand piano.
He had come across this months ago, back when people still lived in town, and he had to be careful when walking around; when soldiers had been passing through town one day, Kazuya had been shoved by the family he had been housed by into this building. It had already been abandoned when Kazuya first came here, and that day, in one of the rooms, Kazuya found this piano.
But Kazuya knew that he couldn’t play it - ever. The risk was too high; there was a chance that if he started to play, he would grow addicted to the feeling, to the peace he had always associated with the piano, and he’d forget why he was living like this.
Since he had come in here five days ago, Kazuya had almost given into the urge so many times, but he managed to fight it so far. He wondered why he even came in here in the first place; it was the most dangerous place for him to be. He wouldn’t be able to resist playing for much longer, not with the lull it already had over him. It was like a symbol of his life before disaster hit it, and he wanted to remember how happy and peaceful he had once been, instead of desolate and broken.
Sometimes, he just wanted to escape into the notes, and play forever and ever, and never wake up. He would then become a living doll that just kept playing, and reality of the outside world wouldn’t be able to penetrate through the haze of his dreams.
Kazuya drummed his fingers along the black and white keys, but he still managed not to play; he only tapped on the keys, not hard enough to draw out any clear sound, and that was enough to let him remember how happy he had once been sitting at a piano.
Songs were stories to a melody, and Kazuya remembered a story he had once told to the little girl whose family had sheltered him - before they had been taken away one day, while Kazuya had been pushed down into a cellar along with a few other fugitives. He had been unable to help them back then, and was left to wonder if, and hope that, they were still alive somewhere.
“Once upon a time, there was a prince. But he was the worst sort of prince - he was greedy and power-hungry.” He stated, singing a tune that wasn’t there, but if it was, Kazuya could imagine a staccato sort of beat, in a minor key, because this was a terrible story - the worst of the worst, “His father, the emperor, was only emperor by name; there were other bodies of power who made the decisions that the emperor used to. This prince kept wondering why he couldn’t have more power. One day, he saw his chance…one day, when all the people with power were gathered in an important meeting, bad men attacked, and many were killed…and this was the prince’s chance.”
Kazuya paused, smiling sadly.
“Once upon a time, a greedy prince destroyed the world.”
His finger slipped, pressing down on the key, letting out a loud, resounding, note throughout the room.
* * *
Music would be his downfall; that one resounding note was ringing through his head throughout the long hours of silence, like a deafening bell that kept holding onto that one, single, note. He couldn’t bear to force it out of his head, but at the same time, he couldn’t enjoy it, because if he enjoyed it, he would give in and he would let his hands go back to the piano. The silence was torture, but at the moment, the beautiful note inside his mind was even worse.
But then it got to the point where he wanted to scream, and he couldn’t help it; he was hearing the note over and over in his head. He sat calmly at the piano, a front that he was hoping would calm his mental state. It didn’t work, because only moments later, nearly breathless, his fingers were perched on the keys. He was still refusing to play though, he was afraid of what would happen if he did.
He was struggling against his own urges; the desire to play was like a drug in his system. It was taking all his power to resist, and it was taking all his power to do the one thing that would end this torturous silence that had fallen over the own.
In this town where nobody else lived, and a soft cough from him could probably be heard down an entire street, the silence was torture.
That was why, when he heard a resounding click, that single noise seemed to reverberate and echo through every inch of the silent town.
He jumped and when he moved his head just a tiny bit, he could feel the familiar, and unforgiving, cold metal barrel of a gun.
Kazuya told himself to remain calm, somehow managing to convince himself to do that, and remarked, “You found me.”
He couldn’t see the man, but he could certainly feel his presence; he wasn’t too far away, and in fact, Kazuya could actually feel the warmth emanating from him. It was almost ironic; the one who was going to reduce him to a cold and lifeless corpse was actually warmer than Kazuya right now.
“For someone who looks on the verge of death, you keep escaping it somehow.” The low voice remarked, almost idly.
Kazuya could only offer a shrug; he could feel the gun barrel move down the back of his head, travelling, almost like a caress, down his neck. Cold metal ran against his skin until it rested against the middle of his back. It stayed there and didn’t move, and now, the only sound he could hear in the room was their breathing.
“You seem to having quite a struggle with the piano,” the man said, idly, and Kazuya could imagine a callous expression in those black eyes, “Play something.”
Kazuya kept his eyes trained ahead, but he was becoming confused at this strange request; finally, he murmured a, “No.” He wasn’t quite sure who he was speaking to right now - the man threatening his life, or his own heart that suddenly yearned to play.
Kazuya could feel the man bristle in anger at the refusal, “No?” the voice repeated, and it betrayed his irritation.
“I can’t.” Kazuya said, but didn’t explain himself. How was he supposed to explain that if he started to play now, he may never be able to stop? He tried so hard all this time to resist the pull of playing, he couldn’t give in now.
“Sure you can. Even if it’s something terrible sounding, all you need to play are two working hands,” the man said snappishly, “And look, you have that.”
Kazuya was shaking his head, but he had a feeling that unless he started to play, he would hear the click of the gun again, and maybe, this time, a bullet would go into his back.
He took a deep breath and, for a second, he dared to tilt his head to look back at the man. Kazuya stared at the man with nothing but overwhelming hatred for making him do this, before he turned back around and with a sigh, let his hands rest on the piano keys. It was familiar, too familiar, and he let out another sigh.
His fingers slowly pressed down on the keys, notes that resonated in the room, and Kazuya began to play, fingers moving in a way that he had thought they would have forgotten already. He could feel his heart break at the sound of the notes, but at the same time, it sang.
Chopin’s Ballad in G Minor had never sounded so beautiful to Kazuya’s ears.
His heart was singing to the music, and Kazuya’s worst fears came true. He didn’t want to stop playing, to stop this beautiful sound, and he fell in love all over again with these black and white keys, these notes that made him want to smile and laugh. But he shouldn’t.
The gun moving away, and the rustle of clothing, was what woke him from this haze of a dream he was submerged in; Kazuya turned to look at the man, whose dark eyes were staring piercingly into his own brown ones.
“I see no need to report to my superiors about an unknown man living in this town; his only uses seem to be escaping death and playing piano. He’s of no importance otherwise.” The man said idly, not quite looking at Kazuya.
Then, he began to walk out of the room and Kazuya stared after him.
Had he just…?
Kazuya let out a sigh. He could deal with not being important enough to be reported, or even killed. It just meant he’d been spared by death again…
Kazuya suddenly gave a start when he saw something by his foot; he picked it up gingerly, suddenly recognizing it as the man’s uniform jacket. It took all his effort to remind himself that just because he was touching the uniform of the enemy didn’t mean he was betraying himself to the enemy.
Kazuya held it at a distance, warily; it was like any other uniform Kazuya had seen on the soldiers who pass through this town. One thing did catch his eye though; on the inside material of the right sleeve, which had been turned up like a cuff for the jacket, written in bright yellow marker, is a name.
“Nishikido Ryo.”
Kazuya quickly threw the jacket to the corner, but even then, the name would haunt his thoughts for the rest of the night, just like the way the barrel of the gun running down his skin haunted him, even though the gun - and the man - was long gone.
Kazuya shuddered.
* * *
Nishikido Ryo, also known as the trigger-happy guy in Kazuya’s mind, returned, much to Kazuya’s dismay. He had gone through most of the day believing, and maybe hoping, that the soldier would just leave him alone. But that was probably too much to hope for.
Kazuya stared at the figure who walked in through the door, lifting his head from the bare skin of his arms the moment he heard footsteps.
Nishikido was staring back at him, just for a moment though; the next moment, he was throwing something at Kazya, and years of playing baseball made him unable to resist the instinct to catch whatever it was. Kazuya winced as something heavy flew into his palm. He looked from Nishikido to the can of preserved food he just caught.
“I figure if you’re planning on continuing to cheat death, you need food,” Nishikido said nonchalantly. Kazuya hesitated though, staring at the other man warily. He didn’t trust Nishikido, and he definitely didn’t trust anything Nishikido gave him.
Nishikido rolled his eyes, before settling down on the piano bench, not far from where Kazuya was, “Fine, choose to die.”
Kazuya didn’t say anything, and returned to his initial position of staring at nothing in particular; sitting against the wall, he could hear when Nishikido moved even a little. But even if Nishikido chose now to kill him, Kazuya probably wouldn’t do anything to stop him. He had chosen long ago to do enough to survive, and not do so little that he died, but he was never going to fight for his life again. After all that happened, he didn’t deserve to live. He would let fate or whatever decide how he was going to be done in. Or at least, that had been the plan.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a finger pressing down on the piano keys, playing a part of a descending scale in beautiful tortuous notes.
Then…
“Play for me,” Nishikido ordered.
Kazuya lifted his head again, and just stared at Nishikido, not saying a single word.
“Play for me,” Nishikido repeated, staring at Kazuya with those dark eyes of his. Kazuya wondered if he was going to threaten him with a gun if he didn’t do it; that was what happened last time after all.
“Are you going to threaten me again?” Kazuya asked stonily.
“If I have to.” Nishikido retorted.
Kazuya didn’t say a word, but he did move over to the piano, and even then, he could see Nishikido fingering the gun. He remembered the feeling of metal going down the skin of his neck, and the horrifying sensation of being close to death but not quite there.
Kazuya placed his fingers on the black and white keys, pressing his fingers down on them; a familiar melody once again came from the keys, and he closed his eyes, trying to pretend that he was the only one in this room.
If he tried hard enough, he could imagine himself in a time when he was happily playing, when the people watching were all people he loved, and there was no bullet threatening to go through his chest if he didn’t play. Back then, he played because he wanted to, back then…he was happy. Back then, little things saddened him, but the piano could take them away; now…not even the most beautiful song he can play could take away the pain and the sadness…
Three words escaped his lips as he played, and he wondered if they could be heard over the deceptively beautiful notes of the piano.
“I hate war.”
It was a few seconds later, but words that were not his own, whispered, thoughts pierced through the melody of piano. Kazuya turned his head sharply for a moment, toward Nishikido, who was staring at Kazuya with a far away, but intense, look in his eyes.
“I hate it too.”
Kazuya returned Nishikido’s stare; Nishikido couldn’t possibly hate war, not when he was one of the soldiers in this war. All Kazuya had ever seen were soldiers who were all too happy to use their position and military power to get what they wanted - that was how most of the people had been driven out of this town, taken away like cattle. Never, though, had Kazuya ever heard sentiments that reflected his own come from a soldier.
Nishikido’s dark eyes suddenly snapped into focus, and Kazuya felt the barrel of the gun press deeper against his back. Even without looking at him, he could still feel the way Nishikido was now gripping the gun tightly.
Inside his mind, Kazuya let out a sigh of relief; for a moment, Nishikido no longer looked like the enemy. For a moment, Nishikido looked human.
But that illusion was quickly shattered, and only jagged pieces of it remained.
It’s impossible, Kazuya’s inner self breathed into his very being, He’s the enemy, and he’ll kill you. There’s nothing human or good about war. There’s nothing good about him.
But too many pieces of that illusion remained, in jagged pieces that refused to allow Kazuya’s inner self to touch or destroy it.
* * *
Kazuya sat on the piano bench, once again persuaded by Nishikido to play, and by now, Kazuya had gotten used to it; he had even begun to accept that he would be playing whenever Nishikido showed up, but he would never admit that out loud, because accepting that meant accepting Nishikido’s presence as part of his daily life and routine - whatever routine there was left anyways. Kazuya hadn’t had a stable life for a long time.
Kazuya lifted his fingers from the keys, and he lifted his head up; every time he finished a song, he could feel the notes remain, singing in his heart. It was something he had grown to both hate and love.
Kazuya was suddenly aware of Nishikido staring at him, but that was also nothing knew; those black eyes stared at him all the time, whenever Nishikido was around.
Nishikido tended to confuse Kazuya, although he would never admit that either. Even though it was clear that Kazuya and Nishikido were on opposite sides of the war, Nishikido kept coming back here, maybe to check if Kazuya was still alive or not. Each time, though, he brought food with him, and Kazuya could only stare, confused, at the food and then Nishikido’s expression would turn irritated because Kazuya would refuse to eat the food.
He didn’t need help from Nishikido; he could survive just fine on his own.
“Here.” Nishikido interrupted his thoughts, and Kazuya looked up in time to catch a can of preserved food. He stared at it for a moment, and then tossed it back, not too gently either.
“I don’t need it,” Kazuya said coldly, staring stonily Nishikido. Inside, his stomach churned in protest; that was a lie and he knew it.
Nishikido’s expression turned into an irritated one as he caught the can; he threw it from hand to hand for a little while, before he stared intently at Kazuya. Then, Nishikido began to close the distance between them, and Kazuya stared warily at each step the other man took.
“Do you hate me?” Nishikido asked in honest curiosity when they were not that far apart.
Kazuya was taken back at the question, but he tried his best not to let that show.
“You constantly threaten me,” Kazuya pointed out dryly, his eyes flickering toward the gun Nishikido had put away. It was hidden, but Kazuya knew exactly where. Sometimes, he thought about wrestling it away from Nishikido and pointing it at him to see how he felt with a weapon that only brought death pointed in his face.
Nishikido tilted his head just a tiny bit, “If that was it, you’d have tried to leave already.” He pointed out, “You’d be afraid, not so determined and stubborn; you hate me, or hate something about me, and that’s what makes you stay here even though I threaten you so much. Hate takes away any fear you have.” He said bluntly.
Kazuya stared at him for a moment, before he looked down at the piano keys; he pressed his fingers down on the keys, not answering.
Nishikido made an irritated noise, but Kazuya still didn’t say anything; instead, he traced imaginary words on the white part of the keys, thinking.
“I think you’re an arrogant jackass who, like all the other soldiers who’ve passed through this town, relies on weapons and violence to make people do what you want.” He finally said.
He could sense Nishikido tensing up at that, “What; how dare you -”
“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Kazuya asked calmly; he didn’t know why he was saying this, being this honest, but he had a feeling that he wanted to wipe that superior, smug, look off of Nishikido’s face, even if he got shot for it. He didn’t know why he didn’t just duck his head and keep quiet, like he probably should, like anyone with common sense would do, but for some reason, for the first time in a long time, Kazuya felt like fighting back, “I say my opinion, you’ll get angry and then you’ll pull your gun on me.”
Nishikido’s fingers twitched and a twisted look crossed his face as he did exactly as Kazuya said he would, or tried to at least. He had his hand on the gun while staring at Kazuya.
Kazuya let a sad smile cross his face, “See, you don’t even try to prove me wrong. But you know what,” Kazuya’s inner self was telling him to shut up, just shut up, because this was sure to get him killed, but Kazuya wasn’t listening to it anymore; he has music running through his head and heart, and he wondered if music was some kind of courage drug, because he felt more confrontational than he had in a long time, “The first time you pulled your gun on me, I was determined to do something; even while I thought I was going to die that night, I was determined to make sure that if you killed me, I’d make sure that my face would haunt you for killing someone who wasn’t even armed. That hasn’t changed.” He says bitingly, and from the look on his face, Nishikido was surprised that someone as starved and malnourished as Kazuya had this much fight left in him.
Nishikido was still holding the gun out, but it looked as though Kazuya had struck a nerve; he looked wary now, like Kazuya was some sort of demon. Funny, that was how Kazuya saw him…
“As long as you have the taint of that uniform, I’ll hate you, because as long as you wear that uniform proudly, you’re not even human to me.” Kazuya finished, and he turned to look at Nishikido; the fight in him began to diminish as he let out all the fight he had inside him. His inner voice was telling him that he was an idiot and now, he was just asking for death, but he didn’t let that affect him. Maybe it was the music, or maybe it was the remembrance of what he loved and lost, but Kazuya didn’t want to be a coward now; for the first time in a long time, Kazuya wanted to fight back, to be strong.
Nishikido was staring at him like he was something horrifying, and Kazuya watched as he lowered the gun, unable to shoot gain. Nishikido slowly left the room, and Kazuya didn’t miss the look of irritation etched across his face.
Kazuya closed his eyes in near relief when the footsteps finally faded away; then, as though his rant had awakened something sleeping inside of him, he felt something stir in his heart. He pressed his fingers down on the piano keys once more, letting notes fill the air.
He knew what this feeling was, even though he had nearly forgotten it. It was hope, and the courage to fight because of hope. The note took on a sad, sombre tone.
He wondered if this was how Koki had felt as he was proudly dragged away by enemy soldiers. Fear, but a sense of courage, rebellion, and a pride that conquered and smothered that fear…
There had been a time when Kazuya felt like that all the time.
He had just forgotten until now.
* * *
Nishikido didn’t show up for the next few days after that; Kazuya found himself sitting at the piano anyways, touching his fingers on the keys, but not doing anything that would draw Nishikido back to terrorize him. He hated himself for even thinking of considering Nishikido when deciding whether or not to play the piano, and he hated that Nishikido’s presence still haunted him even though the man was nowhere near him.
Kazuya lay with his head resting on the black and white keys, too listless and out of energy to even move anymore; when was the last time he had actually eaten something?
Suddenly, Kazuya was beginning to regret not taking Nishikido’s offers of food, and he hated himself even more for thinking that. It was a moment of weakness, that was all; Kazuya was trying to cling onto life and consciousness, and right now, anything would seem good compared to the black abyss of death that loomed closer and closer.
When had that changed? He wondered when he had started to fight against death, when he had been sure that when it came to claim him, he would just accept it.
Kazuya could barely force his eyes open when he heard footsteps, familiar ones, and the sound of the door to the piano room opening. He could see a dark, blurry, form from the corner of his eyes, and he knew that it had to be Nishikido. Who else could it be? He wondered if he was imagining the nearly stricken expression on Nishikido’s face right now.
He must be, in hopes that when he died, someone would grieve for him; there was no one left to grieve for him after all. All his friends were gone, alive or dead he didn’t know, and it was likely that his family was dead. He was just clinging on to the hope that he wouldn’t die alone and unwanted just like he was trying to cling onto life right now.
“Looks like death is finally going to get you,” Nishikido spoke, a blur of words that took a few seconds to make sense in Kazuya’s head.
Kazuya didn’t answer, but he did force himself to pry his eyes open a bit more, and he could see Nishikido, still in that uniform; he turned his head away, and couldn’t even work up the effort to shake his head.
“This must look so good to you right now,” Nishikido started to say, holding up a can of preserved food; Kazuya could only let out a groan, but even then, he force himself to mutter a, “Not from you,” as he tried to move away.
Instead, he fell from the piano bench, landing with a heavy impact on the wooden floorboards; he winced, but still tried to sit up. He could see Nishikido staring at him, and for once, Kazuya was pleased to see that he didn’t hold the almost smug look he always seemed to have; instead, he was looking at Kazuya like Kazuya was taking away something he wanted.
“Tough luck,” Kazuya managed to say hoarsely, as he pushed himself up into a sitting position with difficulty.
Nishikido stared at him for a moment longer, before his dark eyes narrowed, “Oh, no you fucking don’t,” he swore under his breath before he had opened the can of food, and was holding it out to Kazuya, “You’re not supposed to die from something as stupid as malnutrition, asshole.”
“Get away from me,” Kazuya hissed, trying to move away.
Nishikido paused for a moment, and set down the can of food on the piano bench, before he began to try to hold Kazuya down; he winced as he moved, but his face was set in determination as he pushed Kazuya down on to the ground, not needing much effort to overpower Kazuya. Kazuya hissed in protest, and drew up the energy he needed to fight as much as he could against him, thrashing wildly, and fighting against Nishikido.
The dark-eyed man snarled in irritation and frustration, before he held Kazuya’s arms down and managed to sit on Kazuya so that his legs couldn’t move either.
“Get off.” Kazuya snarled back; he was surprised he could manage to even fight back like this.
Nishikido stared down at him for a moment before, slowly, he began to undo his uniform, slipping the uniform jacket above his head, removing the gun, until he was in nothing but a sleeveless black top and his boxers. Kazuya stared, confused and a bit apprehensive.
“I’m no longer in the uniform you hate, you fucking brat. You’re a stubborn idiot who’s just as prideful as you accused me of being.” Nishikido spat out, “You’re worse, because you’d actually let yourself die over your pride.”
“Better than killing over mine,” Kazuya managed to hiss.
Nishikido had frozen for a moment at that, his expression going cold, “I’m out of the uniform, right now, we’re just two guys. No enemy, no war, no anything, except the fact that unless you eat you’re doing to die from malnutrition. I’m going to force you if I have to.”
“How’re you going to do that?” Kazuya snapped, trying to push Nishikido off of him, but failing terribly; Nishikido only smirked, and then he leaned in closer, “Well, if you don’t eat willingly…if what’s giving you the food is keeping you from opening your mouth and spitting it out, you have to swallow, you know.” He licked his lips to stress his point.
Kazuya froze, and stared up at Nishikido.
Almost as if he was reading Kazuya’s mind that there was no way Nishikido would do it, the dark-eyed man leaned in even closer, until he was breathing softly on Kazuya’s lips, “You know,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “If you can’t stand even being in my presence, imagine how it’ll be if I have to get food into you through my mouth.”
Kazuya stared in both horror and disbelief; finally, he let his shoulders sag and stopped fighting against Nishikido.
Nishikido let a smirk cross his face in victory, and he held out the can of preserved vegetables to Kazuya, “Eat up, before I go through with my threat anyways.”
Kazuya couldn’t help but stare at the way his lips curled up into a grin, and he quickly took the can; for some reason, he didn’t hate himself as much as he thought he should for taking it. He hated himself more for how Nishikido managed to affect him so much that Nishikido suddenly turned from the demonic enemy into an just an insufferable guy. Kazuya still hated him, but he hated himself for the fact that he couldn’t seem to hate him as much as he wanted to when he thought he was nothing but a monster.
* * *
One night, Kazuya dreamt of screams and blood splattered on the cold pavement; he dreamt of resounding gunshots, and then deathly silence, which was broken by the sound of his own feet as he ran toward the screams, toward the horizon that never seemed to end. Then, he woke up to a set of dark eyes with a stifled scream on his lips. He stared at Nishikido for a long moment, and then twisted his head to look away from him, hugging the blankets closer to him so that he could find some sense of comfort within himself.
“Some dream, huh,” Nishikido commented, as he sat cross-legged on the floor, just staring at Kazuya; the man was still in his boxers and that sleeveless top. Every time he was here, he would be like that, purposely making sure that Kazuya never saw him in that uniform.
Kazuya always wondered why he was going to such trouble, but he refused to let himself ask him. He didn’t care what Nishikido wanted to accomplish with that, or so he told himself every time he saw Nishikido.
“What’re you doing here?” Kazuya finally snapped.
“Same reason why I’m always here. Making sure you aren’t dying.” Nishikido responded with an arched eyebrow.
Kazuya didn’t say anything to that, and put his head in his hands as he tried to erase the images of blood from his mind.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and jumped away when he saw Nishikido moving closer to him. The dark-eyed man stared at him for a moment, before a smirk cross his lips and he took a few purposeful steps closer. Kazuya glowered at him, as he curled his hand into a fist.
Nishikido leaned in closer for a moment, and Kazuya let the fist fly into the older man’s gut, earning a strangled noise, but it barely lasted a second. Nishikido stayed like that, with Kazuya’s fist digging into his flesh, as he leaned in even closer, not caring that it just made the fist dig in harder, “Do you still think I’m a monster?” he asked in a tone that didn’t match his wavering smirk, “Even after I’ve fed you and helped you escape from death.”
Kazuya let out a growl but didn’t move his hand, not that he needed to; Nishikido was bringing enough pain onto himself by moving even closer, “Don’t think that just because you’ve helped me, I’ll suddenly change my opinion of you.”
Nishikido moved closer again, “Why do you hate me so much?”
Kazuya tightened his fist, staring Nishikido hard in the eyes, “Because of the uniform you wear. Or used to wear,” he mocked a little, “Do you even believe in your cause that you’re supposed to be fighting for?” he asked, taking pleasure in the flinch that came from Nishikido, “Or a better question. Why do you continue to let me live when you know that I am in no way a sympathizer to your cause?”
Nishikido paused, his gaze not moving away from Kazuya’s glare, “Not everyone who become soldiers fight because they believe in their side of the war. Not everything is as it seems, sometimes.” He remarked, “Maybe I joined to protect someone, or maybe I joined because I wanted to. You’ll never know.” He said with a grimace.
Kazuya stared, unnerved, at Nishikido.
Nishikido chuckled, as he returned Kazuya’s gaze, “I’m not a monster; don’t I look human?” he asked, rhetorically, as he suddenly grabbed onto Kazuya’s wrist, and then in a flash of movement, twisted it until he had Kazuya on the floor, arm behind his back, and Nishikido was sitting on Kazuya’s back, keeping him from moving.
Kazuya struggled, but he wasn’t too surprised that he couldn’t do anything; it would take much longer than the time that had passed to regain more of his strength after being in the near-death state he had been in before.
“I’m human, whether you like it or not.” Nishikido snarled out, a conviction in his voice that Kazuya couldn’t bring himself to say anything to.
A long silence passed.
“Okay,” Kazuya finally choked out, having managed to twist himself enough to crane his head to look at Nishikido; the older man stared at him for a long moment, before he abruptly let go of Kazuya, pushing the younger man away from himself.
“I am human,” Nishikido repeated, and this time, although he was looking at Kazuya, the look in his eyes told Kazuya that he was trying to convince both of them. Kazuya sat there, disturbed by this weakened, human, side of Nishikido that he had never seen before. The monster that Kazuya had been convincing himself to see all this time began to crumble, leaving nothing but a barely dressed man sitting on the floor in front of him.
Kazuya just kept staring, but he inched back a bit, until his back hit something, and he reached his hand up and felt something familiar, something soothing, in this moment of uncertainty.
He pushed the fingers of his hand down one by one, letting clear notes of the piano fill the room, slowly; it was a broken tune, but somehow, it seemed to fit, as he and Nishikido continued to stare at each other for the longest time.
* * *
Kazuya had slowly moved to sit at the piano bench, his hands now moving across the black and white keys; Nishikido still hadn’t left like he normally did, almost like he couldn’t leave. Kazuya couldn’t exactly ignore his presence either, so he concentrated on the notes he was playing, trying to erase that urge to shudder earlier when all he could play were broken, rocky, notes.
He chanced a brief glance at the older man, who was still sitting where he had earlier; Kazuya wasn’t sure if he had moved even an inch. It had been hours ago, and Kazuya had been playing mindlessly, flitting from one song to the next, for nearly that long.
Kazuya lifted his hands from the piano keys as another song ended, furiously intent on not breaking the tense feeling that had settled between them; it was heavy, and it was suffocating. If he broke it, it felt as though the world would crumble around him. The playing, he was convinced, was the only thing keeping the world together. He couldn’t break it; he didn’t want to break it.
He didn’t want to think about what breaking it meant; it felt like ages had passed already, and he couldn’t ignore the almost vulnerable, human, look in Nishikido’s eyes when he had pushed Kazuya away, and even when Kazuya had started to play the piano slowly, hesitantly. It was as though, then, the world had teetered on the edge for a moment, and Kazuya’s playing had slowly brought it back to how it was supposed to be, suspending the inevitable for a while longer.
“What was that song called?”
Kazuya nearly froze when he was about to start on another song, turning ever so slightly to face Nishikido, who had finally decided to show signs of life, it seemed. He stared at Nishikido for a moment, and for that moment, Kazuya was brought back to hours earlier, when they had done the exact same thing.
“On Wings of Song,” Kazuya answered slowly, hesitantly.
Why wasn’t the world crumbling? They had broken the tension and Kazuya had stopped playing to distract from the tense atmosphere; the world should have been crumbling, but instead…
There was an almost haunting calm in the air. A bit too much like the song he had just played.
“I like it,” Nishikido said, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Another silence fell between them, and Kazuya couldn’t even bring himself to begin playing again, to avoid this again. Why was he so wary all of a sudden? Perhaps it was the idea that he could no longer see Nishikido as a monster, or convince himself that he was one, not after seeing that look in Nishikido’s eyes, or that desperation to make Kazuya believe that he wasn’t a monster.
Kazuya had often wondered, in the months he had been alone in this town, devoid of humanity, what did that make him? He had felt that same desperation to make himself believe that he too was still human.
Strangely, Nishikido’s presence, although monstrous and terrifying at first, had almost seemed to make the humanity in himself clearer. Kazuya wondered if he did the opposite to Nishikido; if, as defenceless as he had been every time they had encountered each other, no way to fight back if Nishikido had decided to shoot him, if he made Nishikido feel less human in the same way that Nishikido had brought back a semblance of Kazuya’s sense of humanity.
“Here,” Nishikido said suddenly, and Kazuya tensed when he saw Nishikido slide over to the uniform he had left at the door. Kazuya was startled when Nishikido slid something metal over to Kazuya; he didn’t
even have to take a second look to know what it was.
Kazuya eyed it hesitantly, before picking the gun up.
“Why?” he finally blurted out, and for the first time, there was no sense of hostility or wariness in his voice.
Nishikido smirked a little, but it was half-hearted, “I’m a soldier, you know. I’ve used that gun before, many times; so I guess you can say I became a killer many times.”
Nishikido forced a laugh out, “Bullets don’t seem like much, but they kill so quickly; you may be right about me, I’m probably just a monster by now.”
Kazuya stared at Nishikido for a moment, before he stood up; surely, Nishikido knew what he could do with this. Why was Nishikido surrendering such a dangerous weapon over to him? Kazuya approached until he was practically nose to nose with Nishikido, leaning over him, and he had the barrel of the gun set against Nishikido’s chest; he could feel Nishikido’s heart beating faster.
Or maybe that was his own.
He leaned in closer, it was almost like a replay of their exchange hours ago, only a bit reversed. Their faces were so close they were practically touching, and Kazuya realized that he had moved to sit on Nishikido’s legs, keeping him from moving away; the safety of the gun was just under his thumb, all he had to do was release it.
He pushed, leaning in even closer, so close that he could feel Nishikido’s erratic breathing on his mouth, and he could see the look that he couldn’t place in Nishikido’s eyes; then, in a nearly silent whisper, he pushed the gun even more. His hand went to Nishikido’s cheekbone, a bit below Nishikido’s eyes that were staring unblinkingly at him, fingers dancing across the skin.
“Don’t turn me into you,” Kazuya finally hissed before he dropped the gun onto Nishikido’s lap. He went back to the piano and began to play. Once again, it was Wings of a Song; he didn’t’ know why, but he kept playing that song over and over.
He knew that Nishikido was staring at him, but Kazuya didn’t stop playing; again and again, Wings of Song resonated in the room, until, hours later and well into the night, Kazuya’s head fell forward on the piano keys, too tired to play anymore. He could feel the stare still, and he could feel calloused fingers moving across his cheekbones in a way he had done to Nishikido earlier, but Kazuya didn’t move, letting the song resonating through his head lull him to sleep.
* * *
There were days that Kazuya had the urge to go out, leave the safe confines of his shelter, and go outside. Before, he hadn’t dared to, because of Nishikido’s unknown presence, but Kazuya found, for some strange reason, that with all that had happened just the day before, Nishikido no longer seemed like a threat toward him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that; it was almost earth-shattering to come to the realization that one of the people he defined as the ‘enemy’ was not much of an enemy; it was even harder to begin to accept the fact that he was beginning to tolerate, maybe even accept, Nishikido’s presence.
So, comfortable - or at least, somewhat comfortable - with the idea of venturing outside, Kazuya did just that, finding himself sitting on what was left of a destroyed building, on the rubble that a few of the buildings in town had become. Kazuya supposed he was just lucky that they hadn’t destroyed the entire town when they had taken everyone else away, or else he’d have been left in the cold with no shelter.
Kazuya sat on the gravel, drawing shapes with his finger as he sat back against a broken wall; the gravel wasn’t exactly comfortable to sit on, but it was softer than sitting on the jagged pieces of stone that had broken off from the wall. He was, to be honest, just relieved to take in the fresh air, no matter how cold the air was.
And he was alone, at least.
Kazuya couldn’t help but be alarmed and trouble by his tentative acceptance of Nishikido’s presence; the older man was supposed to be the enemy. What was Kazuya doing, not exactly helping him, but not hating him on sight?
“I’m not a traitor…” he said quietly to himself, under his breath as took a larger piece of the gravel and drew lines within the tiny rocks; it was like sand, almost, being able to write in the layers of tiny stones.
He wasn’t a traitor, right? Just because he was accepting Nishikido, didn’t mean he was helping the enemy right? He had hated Nishikido at first, on principle, for being a soldier, but…
He couldn’t bring himself to hate him so viciously now; he didn’t exactly trust him either, but after all that he had witnessed the other day, Kazuya could only feel one strong emotion toward Nishikido.
Sympathy.
The guilt that Nishikido had displayed, so much like the guilt that Kazuya felt at being a survivor in this town, had tore at Kazuya’s heart for more than a few brief moments. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t bring it upon himself to kill Nishikido when he had the chance; there was so much guilt, guilt that Kazuya hadn’t thought was possible for a soldier to feel toward the enemy, leaving Kazuya to only feel sympathy.
And for some reason, it felt like he could understand Nishikido for the first time since he had barged so abruptly into Kazuya’s life of solitude, bringing Kazuya’s hate, wariness, and distrust upon himself.
It wasn’t Kazuya being a traitor. It was Nishikido being human, because it was Nishikido’s humanity that was allowing him to feel guilt for those he had been trained and instructed to kill; the humanistic traits that Kazuya had tried to ignore had been revealed. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Nishikido wasn’t a monster. Maybe he was the only one, or maybe there were others, but Kazuya’s sympathy towards him, his understanding of Nishikido, wasn’t something wrong.
Hesitantly, Kazuya began to draw characters in the gravel; it wasn’t enough to think it. He had to reassure himself more, or he would waver.
I’m Kamenashi Kazuya, and I’m not doing anything wrong.
He wrote it, as firmly as he could, but he could feel a small bit of doubt, from years of distrusting anyone from the ‘other’ side.
It wasn’t wrong to feel sympathy, it wasn’t wrong to be human to another human being.
It wasn’t wrong for Kazuya to feel for Nishikido; it didn’t mean Kazuya was turning his back on his family and friends. It just meant…
It just meant that he had found one of the enemy that had enough of a heart that he could relate to, that he could feel sympathy for, that he could understand.
It wasn’t wrong at all.
With a nod, Kazuya took a deep breath and stood up, quickly erasing the words with a swipe of his foot. Then he headed back inside; he was alone there too, as Nishikido had gone off somewhere, but Kazuya had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be alone for long. Nishikido never seemed to leave. Despite his resolution to himself just now, Kazuya wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
There was a huge difference between no longer hating someone and wanting them there.
Kazuya didn’t notice that the he didn’t quite manage to erase all the words from the gravel, leaving a shallow indent in the gravel. Not long after he had went back into hiding in the building, a dark-haired man that had occupied his earlier thoughts bent down curiously and traced the imprint slowly until the salvageable part of his words were formed.
“Kamenashi Kazuya…” Nishikido Ryo read quietly to himself, looking toward the building that the pianist had headed into. He stared at the words for a moment, “I guess that’s one way to put half-starved pianist.” He said with a slow smirk, wondering why he was so satisfied that he had finally found out something personal about the man who regarded him as nothing but the enemy.
The one who had refused to kill him when he had had the chance.
Maybe it was because it made the lines separating the sides of war blur even more.
* * *
Kazuya sat at the piano, slowly playing a scale, for lack of anything to play at the moment. If asked, he would be surprised that the piano had suddenly become such a part of his life, when not long ago, he had been trying his hardest to banish even the thought of playing. He seemed to always retreat to the piano now; he wasn’t sure if maybe it was the soothing tunes he could produce from the keys, but the piano itself became a sort of sanctuary. He could take refuge in its notes, and maybe that had been the reason Kazuya had tried so desperately to keep himself from it. He hadn’t wanted to feel like it was safe, not even for a moment.
And while the piano and the playing had had a large part in that, he knew, despite his efforts to not admit it, that Nishikido had a role in that too. Nishikido simply didn’t seem like a threat anymore. There was almost an unspoken agreement between them; Kazuya would play, they would stay in this room together, and sometimes, they could pretend the war wasn’t going on outside of this little hideaway, and they could pretend they were just acquaintances that tolerated each other.
Or at least, that was the case for Kazuya.
Kazuya could never tell what Nishikido was thinking; it almost seemed as though the moment Kazuya began to get a handle, through many small glimpses, into what Nishikido’s personality, as he tried to shed all conceived perceptions about Nishikido, the man would change, like he was determined to throw Kazuya off track.
“You know…”
Kazuya was jolted out of his thoughts by Nishikido’s voice; he stopped playing the scale, and looked over at Nishikido with a coolly raised eyebrow.
“Before this…war…” there it was, the disguised but still slightly visible hint of contempt at the word. Kazuya had heard it a few times before, but it seemed that Nishikido was beginning to allow himself to show his true feelings on the war itself, instead of hiding behind a front of being a loyal, or sometimes hesitating, soldier.
Kazuya shook his head distractedly, “Sorry, what?” he asked, realizing that his thoughts had drifted away and he had missed what Nishikido had said.
Nishikido raised an eyebrow, “Before this war started,” he repeated himself, “I used to play the guitar.” He said, looking almost wistfully at Kazuya’s hands, and the music that they were producing, however mindlessly Kazuya was doing it at the moment.
Kazuya paused for a moment, “Was that your job?” he asked.
Nishikido looked startled, “I guess,” he said, laughing a little, blinking in surprise at Kazuya; perhaps it was because Kazuya had never actively tried to inquire more about Nishikido, “I gave music lessons from time to time, mostly to little kids who thought that guitars were cool and wanted to show off to their friends.” He said casually.
Kazuya’s eyebrows shot up at that; despite knowing that Nishikido was not quite the monster that Kazuya had tried to make him out to be, it was still surprising to hear of a soft side to the man who had worn that uniform that Kazuya hated. He refrained from saying anything though, but perhaps it had shown on his face, because Nishikido cracked a wry grin.
“What? Can’t imagine a monster like me teaching children?” he asked, but there was a bitter hint in his voice.
Kazuya didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt appalled that Nishikido was referring to himself in that way; he knew that he had done it many times, before, but…hearing it from Nishikido’s own mouth was unsettling for some reason.
“No, that’s not it.” Kazuya said firmly, surprising himself with how quickly and decisively he said it. Nishikido was taken back for a moment, and then a light smirk crossed his face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Not that the opinion of a half-starved pianist matters all that much to me.” Nishikido said finally.
Kazuya stared, and then he narrowed his eyes, deciding not to mention that not that long ago, his opinion had mattered to Nishikido.
Finally, he settled for saying, “Now I know why you’re so obsessed with making me play.”
“I’m not making you play.” Nishikido countered.
“You did before.”
“Do you feel forced into playing right now?” Nishikido returned without skipping a beat.
Kazuya paused, taken back, “No,” he admitted grudgingly, ignoring the way a grin was spreading across Nishikido’s lips, “I’m playing because I want to.”
Nishikido sat back, arms crossed, with a triumphant smirk.
Kazuya rolled his eyes, and for a moment, he had to resist the tugging of his own lips. He turned back to the piano and began playing again, hiding his face from view; he knew Nishikido had seen that slip in his expression though, and he could hear Nishikido laughing quietly to himself as Kazuya ignored him and continued playing.
It was times like this when he could trick himself into believing that nothing bad was going on in the world outside, and he could trick himself into believing that this temporary peace that the two of them had managed to build, after all the hateful insults and threats they had exchanged, would last.
* * *
Part 2
Movie: The Pianist
Author: songkissed
Rating: PG-15
Summary: War isn't black and white. Kazuya doesn't realize that until Nishikido Ryo, an enemy soldier, comes into his life, and suddenly, his world regains colour as the lines between enemy sides blur.
Warning: um...ever seen a war movie? The Pianist is a war movie. Aka there is violence?
Notes: (under lj-cut because it's really long)
*waves* so hi there. So, as you can see, I wrote the pianist, but I just felt like I had to explain myself. If you're reading this, you've probably watched the Pianist before and got interested in what some random fan did with it. *cough* The pianist is set in WWII, but because I kinda wanted to concentrate on an aspect that was slightly looked over in the movie (as in the way the Pianist was in a way saved, from malnutrition, etc, by the enemy soldier that helped him), I reworked it so it made sense for it to be in Japan. You can see it as set in the future, or in an alternate universe where there is a war between areas of Japan, but that's the basic setting of this, and I just thought I'd mention it, because I didn't follow the plotline of The Pianist as much as I took the characters and tried to make something more out of them and the relationship between them than what the movie gave us :) (or as you may want to see it, the development of a relationship, of two people from enemy sides in a war, from hate into something more?) I hope you enjoy reading!!
-- WHEN THE WORLD FALLS --
One night, Kamenashi Kazuya woke up to black eyes and a gun pointed at his head.
He kept his eyes wide open, not daring to close them, so that when death finally found him, he would be able to see who it was that managed to do him in when even starvation and cold had already failed. He wanted to make sure that in those last few seconds, he would be able to see the face of the one who managed to finish him off. And, maybe, he wanted to know that while he only had to live with his killer’s face for a few more seconds, his killer would have to live with his for much longer.
Maybe that was why he kept his eyes open, but it certainly wasn’t because of a false sense of bravery; yet, it could have been for these exact reasons, or maybe none of those reasons, that he suddenly saw a flicker in the silver moonlight reflected in those dark eyes.
“Why aren’t you screaming for help?” his future-killer’s voice was revealed to him in a rough and low whisper, as if he was also wary of the overwhelming silence that lingered over the deadened town.
Kazuya could still feel the cold metal barrel of the gun against his temple, but he kept his eyes trained on those black ones; he barely moved his lips as he whispered out, in his own voice that he barely recognized, because it had been so long since he’d spoken to another person, “There’s no one to help me. Why waste my breath?”
Those onyx eyes stared at him for a long time, before the gun pressed itself deeper against his skull, “Why waste it indeed?” the other man murmured in a low voice, and Kazuya could just feel it as death began to wrap its claws around his body.
A heavy silence hung between them for a few seconds.
Then, the gun slid away and Kazuya stared in confusion as those dark abysses of eyes left his vision as well.
He could hear the other man’s voice, like a butterfly, fading away from him, “You’re practically dead already. Why waste my bullets on you?” was all he said as he walked away, the boots that went along with that uniform making loud footsteps as he left.
Kazuya barely blinked at his words; they were probably true anyways.
He was a dead man, just waiting for the day when he actually lived up to that title. Kazuya lived a life of a double identity, but in both, he was a dead man. When he just has the title of dead man, he was spared because he wasn’t worth shooting, but if they ever found out who he really was, he would be dead within seconds.
The choice between a figurative dead man and a literal dead man.
But, for today, for yet another day, death whispered on his lips, but it didn’t claim him yet.
* * *
The next few nights, Kazuya didn’t wake up to guns pointed at his head, or actually had any indication that the man was still somewhere in town, so he just presumed that he was long gone by now. That man was probably part of the forces that had been going through town earlier that week, settling in at that base that he knew had been built not too far north of town, and he had probably just been slower than all the others. How he had managed to find Kazuya, though, the younger man still had no idea.
It was under this presumption that Kazuya found it safe, tonight, to venture out of the house he had been hiding out in. The town was literally a ghost town; there was no one here, and there hadn’t been anyone else living here for months. A few months ago, the rest of the citizens, the ones who hadn’t already left, had been dragged out of their homes and taken elsewhere by the military. Kazuya had no idea where they were taken to, but he had hoped that it was a better place than…this. The town had gone through so much that everything was in shades of grey and rubble; the fighting had damaged the world so much that Kazuya couldn’t really remember the last time he was able to look out the window and see a clear blue sky.
The condemning silence of the town was broken when Kazuya heard something move. He whirled around as quickly as he could, his eyes wary; there shouldn’t be anyone else here. One day, after everyone had been taken away, he had gone through the town and looked everywhere for a sign of someone else. It was only when he had been unable to find even a hint of another soul that he settled into the house he was taking refuge in now.
Kazuya froze where he was standing when he saw a familiar uniform, and the same gun that had been pointed at him only a few nights ago.
Kazuya had seen many men wearing this same uniform pass through the town, and even back in his hometown, before he came here, the uniform was something he hated.
“Still alive, I see.” The man said with a sardonic tone. He took a step forward, but Kazuya still heard the drag in just that one step; there was obviously something wrong with the man’s leg, which may or may not give Kazuya the advantage right now.
Kazuya didn’t say anything for a moment; then, making a decision, he took a deep breath, “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked much too bravely for it to be a reflection of his own emotions.
The man looked startled and then, glancing at the gun at his side, he looked at Kazuya and scoffed, “I told you, your life isn’t worth it.”
Kazuya gave a slow nod, and as he looked into those dark eyes and saw those lips turning up into a light scowl, he just took off. He heard shouting and swearing in his wake, but he didn’t hear the resounding and unmistakable click of a gun’s safety, so he just ran faster. He knew the town better than this man possibly could, so he could disappear into this destroyed city and never be found.
Or so he hoped.
Just in case, he ran, and ran, and ran. In his desperation, he even ran to the one place he had sworn he’d never go to again.
* * *
Kazuya used to love playing the piano; he used to love the feeling of the black and white keys beneath his fingertips, the sensation that went through him when his fingers extracted such a clear note that he could imagine the melody that followed it; Kazuya loved everything that came with playing that instrument, so much so that he made his life revolve around it. Before all this started, before the war, his best friend had hosted a radio show, and Kazuya would often spend his time playing there, only looking up when the song ended and he could hear Koki speaking while smiling at him. He had loved playing and, sometimes, he had felt that if he didn’t play, life would end for him.
That was why, right now, as Kazuya ran a hand over the clear polish of the piano, wiping away months and months of dust, he could only smile sadly at the grand piano.
He had come across this months ago, back when people still lived in town, and he had to be careful when walking around; when soldiers had been passing through town one day, Kazuya had been shoved by the family he had been housed by into this building. It had already been abandoned when Kazuya first came here, and that day, in one of the rooms, Kazuya found this piano.
But Kazuya knew that he couldn’t play it - ever. The risk was too high; there was a chance that if he started to play, he would grow addicted to the feeling, to the peace he had always associated with the piano, and he’d forget why he was living like this.
Since he had come in here five days ago, Kazuya had almost given into the urge so many times, but he managed to fight it so far. He wondered why he even came in here in the first place; it was the most dangerous place for him to be. He wouldn’t be able to resist playing for much longer, not with the lull it already had over him. It was like a symbol of his life before disaster hit it, and he wanted to remember how happy and peaceful he had once been, instead of desolate and broken.
Sometimes, he just wanted to escape into the notes, and play forever and ever, and never wake up. He would then become a living doll that just kept playing, and reality of the outside world wouldn’t be able to penetrate through the haze of his dreams.
Kazuya drummed his fingers along the black and white keys, but he still managed not to play; he only tapped on the keys, not hard enough to draw out any clear sound, and that was enough to let him remember how happy he had once been sitting at a piano.
Songs were stories to a melody, and Kazuya remembered a story he had once told to the little girl whose family had sheltered him - before they had been taken away one day, while Kazuya had been pushed down into a cellar along with a few other fugitives. He had been unable to help them back then, and was left to wonder if, and hope that, they were still alive somewhere.
“Once upon a time, there was a prince. But he was the worst sort of prince - he was greedy and power-hungry.” He stated, singing a tune that wasn’t there, but if it was, Kazuya could imagine a staccato sort of beat, in a minor key, because this was a terrible story - the worst of the worst, “His father, the emperor, was only emperor by name; there were other bodies of power who made the decisions that the emperor used to. This prince kept wondering why he couldn’t have more power. One day, he saw his chance…one day, when all the people with power were gathered in an important meeting, bad men attacked, and many were killed…and this was the prince’s chance.”
Kazuya paused, smiling sadly.
“Once upon a time, a greedy prince destroyed the world.”
His finger slipped, pressing down on the key, letting out a loud, resounding, note throughout the room.
* * *
Music would be his downfall; that one resounding note was ringing through his head throughout the long hours of silence, like a deafening bell that kept holding onto that one, single, note. He couldn’t bear to force it out of his head, but at the same time, he couldn’t enjoy it, because if he enjoyed it, he would give in and he would let his hands go back to the piano. The silence was torture, but at the moment, the beautiful note inside his mind was even worse.
But then it got to the point where he wanted to scream, and he couldn’t help it; he was hearing the note over and over in his head. He sat calmly at the piano, a front that he was hoping would calm his mental state. It didn’t work, because only moments later, nearly breathless, his fingers were perched on the keys. He was still refusing to play though, he was afraid of what would happen if he did.
He was struggling against his own urges; the desire to play was like a drug in his system. It was taking all his power to resist, and it was taking all his power to do the one thing that would end this torturous silence that had fallen over the own.
In this town where nobody else lived, and a soft cough from him could probably be heard down an entire street, the silence was torture.
That was why, when he heard a resounding click, that single noise seemed to reverberate and echo through every inch of the silent town.
He jumped and when he moved his head just a tiny bit, he could feel the familiar, and unforgiving, cold metal barrel of a gun.
Kazuya told himself to remain calm, somehow managing to convince himself to do that, and remarked, “You found me.”
He couldn’t see the man, but he could certainly feel his presence; he wasn’t too far away, and in fact, Kazuya could actually feel the warmth emanating from him. It was almost ironic; the one who was going to reduce him to a cold and lifeless corpse was actually warmer than Kazuya right now.
“For someone who looks on the verge of death, you keep escaping it somehow.” The low voice remarked, almost idly.
Kazuya could only offer a shrug; he could feel the gun barrel move down the back of his head, travelling, almost like a caress, down his neck. Cold metal ran against his skin until it rested against the middle of his back. It stayed there and didn’t move, and now, the only sound he could hear in the room was their breathing.
“You seem to having quite a struggle with the piano,” the man said, idly, and Kazuya could imagine a callous expression in those black eyes, “Play something.”
Kazuya kept his eyes trained ahead, but he was becoming confused at this strange request; finally, he murmured a, “No.” He wasn’t quite sure who he was speaking to right now - the man threatening his life, or his own heart that suddenly yearned to play.
Kazuya could feel the man bristle in anger at the refusal, “No?” the voice repeated, and it betrayed his irritation.
“I can’t.” Kazuya said, but didn’t explain himself. How was he supposed to explain that if he started to play now, he may never be able to stop? He tried so hard all this time to resist the pull of playing, he couldn’t give in now.
“Sure you can. Even if it’s something terrible sounding, all you need to play are two working hands,” the man said snappishly, “And look, you have that.”
Kazuya was shaking his head, but he had a feeling that unless he started to play, he would hear the click of the gun again, and maybe, this time, a bullet would go into his back.
He took a deep breath and, for a second, he dared to tilt his head to look back at the man. Kazuya stared at the man with nothing but overwhelming hatred for making him do this, before he turned back around and with a sigh, let his hands rest on the piano keys. It was familiar, too familiar, and he let out another sigh.
His fingers slowly pressed down on the keys, notes that resonated in the room, and Kazuya began to play, fingers moving in a way that he had thought they would have forgotten already. He could feel his heart break at the sound of the notes, but at the same time, it sang.
Chopin’s Ballad in G Minor had never sounded so beautiful to Kazuya’s ears.
His heart was singing to the music, and Kazuya’s worst fears came true. He didn’t want to stop playing, to stop this beautiful sound, and he fell in love all over again with these black and white keys, these notes that made him want to smile and laugh. But he shouldn’t.
The gun moving away, and the rustle of clothing, was what woke him from this haze of a dream he was submerged in; Kazuya turned to look at the man, whose dark eyes were staring piercingly into his own brown ones.
“I see no need to report to my superiors about an unknown man living in this town; his only uses seem to be escaping death and playing piano. He’s of no importance otherwise.” The man said idly, not quite looking at Kazuya.
Then, he began to walk out of the room and Kazuya stared after him.
Had he just…?
Kazuya let out a sigh. He could deal with not being important enough to be reported, or even killed. It just meant he’d been spared by death again…
Kazuya suddenly gave a start when he saw something by his foot; he picked it up gingerly, suddenly recognizing it as the man’s uniform jacket. It took all his effort to remind himself that just because he was touching the uniform of the enemy didn’t mean he was betraying himself to the enemy.
Kazuya held it at a distance, warily; it was like any other uniform Kazuya had seen on the soldiers who pass through this town. One thing did catch his eye though; on the inside material of the right sleeve, which had been turned up like a cuff for the jacket, written in bright yellow marker, is a name.
“Nishikido Ryo.”
Kazuya quickly threw the jacket to the corner, but even then, the name would haunt his thoughts for the rest of the night, just like the way the barrel of the gun running down his skin haunted him, even though the gun - and the man - was long gone.
Kazuya shuddered.
* * *
Nishikido Ryo, also known as the trigger-happy guy in Kazuya’s mind, returned, much to Kazuya’s dismay. He had gone through most of the day believing, and maybe hoping, that the soldier would just leave him alone. But that was probably too much to hope for.
Kazuya stared at the figure who walked in through the door, lifting his head from the bare skin of his arms the moment he heard footsteps.
Nishikido was staring back at him, just for a moment though; the next moment, he was throwing something at Kazya, and years of playing baseball made him unable to resist the instinct to catch whatever it was. Kazuya winced as something heavy flew into his palm. He looked from Nishikido to the can of preserved food he just caught.
“I figure if you’re planning on continuing to cheat death, you need food,” Nishikido said nonchalantly. Kazuya hesitated though, staring at the other man warily. He didn’t trust Nishikido, and he definitely didn’t trust anything Nishikido gave him.
Nishikido rolled his eyes, before settling down on the piano bench, not far from where Kazuya was, “Fine, choose to die.”
Kazuya didn’t say anything, and returned to his initial position of staring at nothing in particular; sitting against the wall, he could hear when Nishikido moved even a little. But even if Nishikido chose now to kill him, Kazuya probably wouldn’t do anything to stop him. He had chosen long ago to do enough to survive, and not do so little that he died, but he was never going to fight for his life again. After all that happened, he didn’t deserve to live. He would let fate or whatever decide how he was going to be done in. Or at least, that had been the plan.
Suddenly, he heard the sound of a finger pressing down on the piano keys, playing a part of a descending scale in beautiful tortuous notes.
Then…
“Play for me,” Nishikido ordered.
Kazuya lifted his head again, and just stared at Nishikido, not saying a single word.
“Play for me,” Nishikido repeated, staring at Kazuya with those dark eyes of his. Kazuya wondered if he was going to threaten him with a gun if he didn’t do it; that was what happened last time after all.
“Are you going to threaten me again?” Kazuya asked stonily.
“If I have to.” Nishikido retorted.
Kazuya didn’t say a word, but he did move over to the piano, and even then, he could see Nishikido fingering the gun. He remembered the feeling of metal going down the skin of his neck, and the horrifying sensation of being close to death but not quite there.
Kazuya placed his fingers on the black and white keys, pressing his fingers down on them; a familiar melody once again came from the keys, and he closed his eyes, trying to pretend that he was the only one in this room.
If he tried hard enough, he could imagine himself in a time when he was happily playing, when the people watching were all people he loved, and there was no bullet threatening to go through his chest if he didn’t play. Back then, he played because he wanted to, back then…he was happy. Back then, little things saddened him, but the piano could take them away; now…not even the most beautiful song he can play could take away the pain and the sadness…
Three words escaped his lips as he played, and he wondered if they could be heard over the deceptively beautiful notes of the piano.
“I hate war.”
It was a few seconds later, but words that were not his own, whispered, thoughts pierced through the melody of piano. Kazuya turned his head sharply for a moment, toward Nishikido, who was staring at Kazuya with a far away, but intense, look in his eyes.
“I hate it too.”
Kazuya returned Nishikido’s stare; Nishikido couldn’t possibly hate war, not when he was one of the soldiers in this war. All Kazuya had ever seen were soldiers who were all too happy to use their position and military power to get what they wanted - that was how most of the people had been driven out of this town, taken away like cattle. Never, though, had Kazuya ever heard sentiments that reflected his own come from a soldier.
Nishikido’s dark eyes suddenly snapped into focus, and Kazuya felt the barrel of the gun press deeper against his back. Even without looking at him, he could still feel the way Nishikido was now gripping the gun tightly.
Inside his mind, Kazuya let out a sigh of relief; for a moment, Nishikido no longer looked like the enemy. For a moment, Nishikido looked human.
But that illusion was quickly shattered, and only jagged pieces of it remained.
It’s impossible, Kazuya’s inner self breathed into his very being, He’s the enemy, and he’ll kill you. There’s nothing human or good about war. There’s nothing good about him.
But too many pieces of that illusion remained, in jagged pieces that refused to allow Kazuya’s inner self to touch or destroy it.
* * *
Kazuya sat on the piano bench, once again persuaded by Nishikido to play, and by now, Kazuya had gotten used to it; he had even begun to accept that he would be playing whenever Nishikido showed up, but he would never admit that out loud, because accepting that meant accepting Nishikido’s presence as part of his daily life and routine - whatever routine there was left anyways. Kazuya hadn’t had a stable life for a long time.
Kazuya lifted his fingers from the keys, and he lifted his head up; every time he finished a song, he could feel the notes remain, singing in his heart. It was something he had grown to both hate and love.
Kazuya was suddenly aware of Nishikido staring at him, but that was also nothing knew; those black eyes stared at him all the time, whenever Nishikido was around.
Nishikido tended to confuse Kazuya, although he would never admit that either. Even though it was clear that Kazuya and Nishikido were on opposite sides of the war, Nishikido kept coming back here, maybe to check if Kazuya was still alive or not. Each time, though, he brought food with him, and Kazuya could only stare, confused, at the food and then Nishikido’s expression would turn irritated because Kazuya would refuse to eat the food.
He didn’t need help from Nishikido; he could survive just fine on his own.
“Here.” Nishikido interrupted his thoughts, and Kazuya looked up in time to catch a can of preserved food. He stared at it for a moment, and then tossed it back, not too gently either.
“I don’t need it,” Kazuya said coldly, staring stonily Nishikido. Inside, his stomach churned in protest; that was a lie and he knew it.
Nishikido’s expression turned into an irritated one as he caught the can; he threw it from hand to hand for a little while, before he stared intently at Kazuya. Then, Nishikido began to close the distance between them, and Kazuya stared warily at each step the other man took.
“Do you hate me?” Nishikido asked in honest curiosity when they were not that far apart.
Kazuya was taken back at the question, but he tried his best not to let that show.
“You constantly threaten me,” Kazuya pointed out dryly, his eyes flickering toward the gun Nishikido had put away. It was hidden, but Kazuya knew exactly where. Sometimes, he thought about wrestling it away from Nishikido and pointing it at him to see how he felt with a weapon that only brought death pointed in his face.
Nishikido tilted his head just a tiny bit, “If that was it, you’d have tried to leave already.” He pointed out, “You’d be afraid, not so determined and stubborn; you hate me, or hate something about me, and that’s what makes you stay here even though I threaten you so much. Hate takes away any fear you have.” He said bluntly.
Kazuya stared at him for a moment, before he looked down at the piano keys; he pressed his fingers down on the keys, not answering.
Nishikido made an irritated noise, but Kazuya still didn’t say anything; instead, he traced imaginary words on the white part of the keys, thinking.
“I think you’re an arrogant jackass who, like all the other soldiers who’ve passed through this town, relies on weapons and violence to make people do what you want.” He finally said.
He could sense Nishikido tensing up at that, “What; how dare you -”
“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Kazuya asked calmly; he didn’t know why he was saying this, being this honest, but he had a feeling that he wanted to wipe that superior, smug, look off of Nishikido’s face, even if he got shot for it. He didn’t know why he didn’t just duck his head and keep quiet, like he probably should, like anyone with common sense would do, but for some reason, for the first time in a long time, Kazuya felt like fighting back, “I say my opinion, you’ll get angry and then you’ll pull your gun on me.”
Nishikido’s fingers twitched and a twisted look crossed his face as he did exactly as Kazuya said he would, or tried to at least. He had his hand on the gun while staring at Kazuya.
Kazuya let a sad smile cross his face, “See, you don’t even try to prove me wrong. But you know what,” Kazuya’s inner self was telling him to shut up, just shut up, because this was sure to get him killed, but Kazuya wasn’t listening to it anymore; he has music running through his head and heart, and he wondered if music was some kind of courage drug, because he felt more confrontational than he had in a long time, “The first time you pulled your gun on me, I was determined to do something; even while I thought I was going to die that night, I was determined to make sure that if you killed me, I’d make sure that my face would haunt you for killing someone who wasn’t even armed. That hasn’t changed.” He says bitingly, and from the look on his face, Nishikido was surprised that someone as starved and malnourished as Kazuya had this much fight left in him.
Nishikido was still holding the gun out, but it looked as though Kazuya had struck a nerve; he looked wary now, like Kazuya was some sort of demon. Funny, that was how Kazuya saw him…
“As long as you have the taint of that uniform, I’ll hate you, because as long as you wear that uniform proudly, you’re not even human to me.” Kazuya finished, and he turned to look at Nishikido; the fight in him began to diminish as he let out all the fight he had inside him. His inner voice was telling him that he was an idiot and now, he was just asking for death, but he didn’t let that affect him. Maybe it was the music, or maybe it was the remembrance of what he loved and lost, but Kazuya didn’t want to be a coward now; for the first time in a long time, Kazuya wanted to fight back, to be strong.
Nishikido was staring at him like he was something horrifying, and Kazuya watched as he lowered the gun, unable to shoot gain. Nishikido slowly left the room, and Kazuya didn’t miss the look of irritation etched across his face.
Kazuya closed his eyes in near relief when the footsteps finally faded away; then, as though his rant had awakened something sleeping inside of him, he felt something stir in his heart. He pressed his fingers down on the piano keys once more, letting notes fill the air.
He knew what this feeling was, even though he had nearly forgotten it. It was hope, and the courage to fight because of hope. The note took on a sad, sombre tone.
He wondered if this was how Koki had felt as he was proudly dragged away by enemy soldiers. Fear, but a sense of courage, rebellion, and a pride that conquered and smothered that fear…
There had been a time when Kazuya felt like that all the time.
He had just forgotten until now.
* * *
Nishikido didn’t show up for the next few days after that; Kazuya found himself sitting at the piano anyways, touching his fingers on the keys, but not doing anything that would draw Nishikido back to terrorize him. He hated himself for even thinking of considering Nishikido when deciding whether or not to play the piano, and he hated that Nishikido’s presence still haunted him even though the man was nowhere near him.
Kazuya lay with his head resting on the black and white keys, too listless and out of energy to even move anymore; when was the last time he had actually eaten something?
Suddenly, Kazuya was beginning to regret not taking Nishikido’s offers of food, and he hated himself even more for thinking that. It was a moment of weakness, that was all; Kazuya was trying to cling onto life and consciousness, and right now, anything would seem good compared to the black abyss of death that loomed closer and closer.
When had that changed? He wondered when he had started to fight against death, when he had been sure that when it came to claim him, he would just accept it.
Kazuya could barely force his eyes open when he heard footsteps, familiar ones, and the sound of the door to the piano room opening. He could see a dark, blurry, form from the corner of his eyes, and he knew that it had to be Nishikido. Who else could it be? He wondered if he was imagining the nearly stricken expression on Nishikido’s face right now.
He must be, in hopes that when he died, someone would grieve for him; there was no one left to grieve for him after all. All his friends were gone, alive or dead he didn’t know, and it was likely that his family was dead. He was just clinging on to the hope that he wouldn’t die alone and unwanted just like he was trying to cling onto life right now.
“Looks like death is finally going to get you,” Nishikido spoke, a blur of words that took a few seconds to make sense in Kazuya’s head.
Kazuya didn’t answer, but he did force himself to pry his eyes open a bit more, and he could see Nishikido, still in that uniform; he turned his head away, and couldn’t even work up the effort to shake his head.
“This must look so good to you right now,” Nishikido started to say, holding up a can of preserved food; Kazuya could only let out a groan, but even then, he force himself to mutter a, “Not from you,” as he tried to move away.
Instead, he fell from the piano bench, landing with a heavy impact on the wooden floorboards; he winced, but still tried to sit up. He could see Nishikido staring at him, and for once, Kazuya was pleased to see that he didn’t hold the almost smug look he always seemed to have; instead, he was looking at Kazuya like Kazuya was taking away something he wanted.
“Tough luck,” Kazuya managed to say hoarsely, as he pushed himself up into a sitting position with difficulty.
Nishikido stared at him for a moment longer, before his dark eyes narrowed, “Oh, no you fucking don’t,” he swore under his breath before he had opened the can of food, and was holding it out to Kazuya, “You’re not supposed to die from something as stupid as malnutrition, asshole.”
“Get away from me,” Kazuya hissed, trying to move away.
Nishikido paused for a moment, and set down the can of food on the piano bench, before he began to try to hold Kazuya down; he winced as he moved, but his face was set in determination as he pushed Kazuya down on to the ground, not needing much effort to overpower Kazuya. Kazuya hissed in protest, and drew up the energy he needed to fight as much as he could against him, thrashing wildly, and fighting against Nishikido.
The dark-eyed man snarled in irritation and frustration, before he held Kazuya’s arms down and managed to sit on Kazuya so that his legs couldn’t move either.
“Get off.” Kazuya snarled back; he was surprised he could manage to even fight back like this.
Nishikido stared down at him for a moment before, slowly, he began to undo his uniform, slipping the uniform jacket above his head, removing the gun, until he was in nothing but a sleeveless black top and his boxers. Kazuya stared, confused and a bit apprehensive.
“I’m no longer in the uniform you hate, you fucking brat. You’re a stubborn idiot who’s just as prideful as you accused me of being.” Nishikido spat out, “You’re worse, because you’d actually let yourself die over your pride.”
“Better than killing over mine,” Kazuya managed to hiss.
Nishikido had frozen for a moment at that, his expression going cold, “I’m out of the uniform, right now, we’re just two guys. No enemy, no war, no anything, except the fact that unless you eat you’re doing to die from malnutrition. I’m going to force you if I have to.”
“How’re you going to do that?” Kazuya snapped, trying to push Nishikido off of him, but failing terribly; Nishikido only smirked, and then he leaned in closer, “Well, if you don’t eat willingly…if what’s giving you the food is keeping you from opening your mouth and spitting it out, you have to swallow, you know.” He licked his lips to stress his point.
Kazuya froze, and stared up at Nishikido.
Almost as if he was reading Kazuya’s mind that there was no way Nishikido would do it, the dark-eyed man leaned in even closer, until he was breathing softly on Kazuya’s lips, “You know,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “If you can’t stand even being in my presence, imagine how it’ll be if I have to get food into you through my mouth.”
Kazuya stared in both horror and disbelief; finally, he let his shoulders sag and stopped fighting against Nishikido.
Nishikido let a smirk cross his face in victory, and he held out the can of preserved vegetables to Kazuya, “Eat up, before I go through with my threat anyways.”
Kazuya couldn’t help but stare at the way his lips curled up into a grin, and he quickly took the can; for some reason, he didn’t hate himself as much as he thought he should for taking it. He hated himself more for how Nishikido managed to affect him so much that Nishikido suddenly turned from the demonic enemy into an just an insufferable guy. Kazuya still hated him, but he hated himself for the fact that he couldn’t seem to hate him as much as he wanted to when he thought he was nothing but a monster.
* * *
One night, Kazuya dreamt of screams and blood splattered on the cold pavement; he dreamt of resounding gunshots, and then deathly silence, which was broken by the sound of his own feet as he ran toward the screams, toward the horizon that never seemed to end. Then, he woke up to a set of dark eyes with a stifled scream on his lips. He stared at Nishikido for a long moment, and then twisted his head to look away from him, hugging the blankets closer to him so that he could find some sense of comfort within himself.
“Some dream, huh,” Nishikido commented, as he sat cross-legged on the floor, just staring at Kazuya; the man was still in his boxers and that sleeveless top. Every time he was here, he would be like that, purposely making sure that Kazuya never saw him in that uniform.
Kazuya always wondered why he was going to such trouble, but he refused to let himself ask him. He didn’t care what Nishikido wanted to accomplish with that, or so he told himself every time he saw Nishikido.
“What’re you doing here?” Kazuya finally snapped.
“Same reason why I’m always here. Making sure you aren’t dying.” Nishikido responded with an arched eyebrow.
Kazuya didn’t say anything to that, and put his head in his hands as he tried to erase the images of blood from his mind.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and jumped away when he saw Nishikido moving closer to him. The dark-eyed man stared at him for a moment, before a smirk cross his lips and he took a few purposeful steps closer. Kazuya glowered at him, as he curled his hand into a fist.
Nishikido leaned in closer for a moment, and Kazuya let the fist fly into the older man’s gut, earning a strangled noise, but it barely lasted a second. Nishikido stayed like that, with Kazuya’s fist digging into his flesh, as he leaned in even closer, not caring that it just made the fist dig in harder, “Do you still think I’m a monster?” he asked in a tone that didn’t match his wavering smirk, “Even after I’ve fed you and helped you escape from death.”
Kazuya let out a growl but didn’t move his hand, not that he needed to; Nishikido was bringing enough pain onto himself by moving even closer, “Don’t think that just because you’ve helped me, I’ll suddenly change my opinion of you.”
Nishikido moved closer again, “Why do you hate me so much?”
Kazuya tightened his fist, staring Nishikido hard in the eyes, “Because of the uniform you wear. Or used to wear,” he mocked a little, “Do you even believe in your cause that you’re supposed to be fighting for?” he asked, taking pleasure in the flinch that came from Nishikido, “Or a better question. Why do you continue to let me live when you know that I am in no way a sympathizer to your cause?”
Nishikido paused, his gaze not moving away from Kazuya’s glare, “Not everyone who become soldiers fight because they believe in their side of the war. Not everything is as it seems, sometimes.” He remarked, “Maybe I joined to protect someone, or maybe I joined because I wanted to. You’ll never know.” He said with a grimace.
Kazuya stared, unnerved, at Nishikido.
Nishikido chuckled, as he returned Kazuya’s gaze, “I’m not a monster; don’t I look human?” he asked, rhetorically, as he suddenly grabbed onto Kazuya’s wrist, and then in a flash of movement, twisted it until he had Kazuya on the floor, arm behind his back, and Nishikido was sitting on Kazuya’s back, keeping him from moving.
Kazuya struggled, but he wasn’t too surprised that he couldn’t do anything; it would take much longer than the time that had passed to regain more of his strength after being in the near-death state he had been in before.
“I’m human, whether you like it or not.” Nishikido snarled out, a conviction in his voice that Kazuya couldn’t bring himself to say anything to.
A long silence passed.
“Okay,” Kazuya finally choked out, having managed to twist himself enough to crane his head to look at Nishikido; the older man stared at him for a long moment, before he abruptly let go of Kazuya, pushing the younger man away from himself.
“I am human,” Nishikido repeated, and this time, although he was looking at Kazuya, the look in his eyes told Kazuya that he was trying to convince both of them. Kazuya sat there, disturbed by this weakened, human, side of Nishikido that he had never seen before. The monster that Kazuya had been convincing himself to see all this time began to crumble, leaving nothing but a barely dressed man sitting on the floor in front of him.
Kazuya just kept staring, but he inched back a bit, until his back hit something, and he reached his hand up and felt something familiar, something soothing, in this moment of uncertainty.
He pushed the fingers of his hand down one by one, letting clear notes of the piano fill the room, slowly; it was a broken tune, but somehow, it seemed to fit, as he and Nishikido continued to stare at each other for the longest time.
* * *
Kazuya had slowly moved to sit at the piano bench, his hands now moving across the black and white keys; Nishikido still hadn’t left like he normally did, almost like he couldn’t leave. Kazuya couldn’t exactly ignore his presence either, so he concentrated on the notes he was playing, trying to erase that urge to shudder earlier when all he could play were broken, rocky, notes.
He chanced a brief glance at the older man, who was still sitting where he had earlier; Kazuya wasn’t sure if he had moved even an inch. It had been hours ago, and Kazuya had been playing mindlessly, flitting from one song to the next, for nearly that long.
Kazuya lifted his hands from the piano keys as another song ended, furiously intent on not breaking the tense feeling that had settled between them; it was heavy, and it was suffocating. If he broke it, it felt as though the world would crumble around him. The playing, he was convinced, was the only thing keeping the world together. He couldn’t break it; he didn’t want to break it.
He didn’t want to think about what breaking it meant; it felt like ages had passed already, and he couldn’t ignore the almost vulnerable, human, look in Nishikido’s eyes when he had pushed Kazuya away, and even when Kazuya had started to play the piano slowly, hesitantly. It was as though, then, the world had teetered on the edge for a moment, and Kazuya’s playing had slowly brought it back to how it was supposed to be, suspending the inevitable for a while longer.
“What was that song called?”
Kazuya nearly froze when he was about to start on another song, turning ever so slightly to face Nishikido, who had finally decided to show signs of life, it seemed. He stared at Nishikido for a moment, and for that moment, Kazuya was brought back to hours earlier, when they had done the exact same thing.
“On Wings of Song,” Kazuya answered slowly, hesitantly.
Why wasn’t the world crumbling? They had broken the tension and Kazuya had stopped playing to distract from the tense atmosphere; the world should have been crumbling, but instead…
There was an almost haunting calm in the air. A bit too much like the song he had just played.
“I like it,” Nishikido said, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. Another silence fell between them, and Kazuya couldn’t even bring himself to begin playing again, to avoid this again. Why was he so wary all of a sudden? Perhaps it was the idea that he could no longer see Nishikido as a monster, or convince himself that he was one, not after seeing that look in Nishikido’s eyes, or that desperation to make Kazuya believe that he wasn’t a monster.
Kazuya had often wondered, in the months he had been alone in this town, devoid of humanity, what did that make him? He had felt that same desperation to make himself believe that he too was still human.
Strangely, Nishikido’s presence, although monstrous and terrifying at first, had almost seemed to make the humanity in himself clearer. Kazuya wondered if he did the opposite to Nishikido; if, as defenceless as he had been every time they had encountered each other, no way to fight back if Nishikido had decided to shoot him, if he made Nishikido feel less human in the same way that Nishikido had brought back a semblance of Kazuya’s sense of humanity.
“Here,” Nishikido said suddenly, and Kazuya tensed when he saw Nishikido slide over to the uniform he had left at the door. Kazuya was startled when Nishikido slid something metal over to Kazuya; he didn’t
even have to take a second look to know what it was.
Kazuya eyed it hesitantly, before picking the gun up.
“Why?” he finally blurted out, and for the first time, there was no sense of hostility or wariness in his voice.
Nishikido smirked a little, but it was half-hearted, “I’m a soldier, you know. I’ve used that gun before, many times; so I guess you can say I became a killer many times.”
Nishikido forced a laugh out, “Bullets don’t seem like much, but they kill so quickly; you may be right about me, I’m probably just a monster by now.”
Kazuya stared at Nishikido for a moment, before he stood up; surely, Nishikido knew what he could do with this. Why was Nishikido surrendering such a dangerous weapon over to him? Kazuya approached until he was practically nose to nose with Nishikido, leaning over him, and he had the barrel of the gun set against Nishikido’s chest; he could feel Nishikido’s heart beating faster.
Or maybe that was his own.
He leaned in closer, it was almost like a replay of their exchange hours ago, only a bit reversed. Their faces were so close they were practically touching, and Kazuya realized that he had moved to sit on Nishikido’s legs, keeping him from moving away; the safety of the gun was just under his thumb, all he had to do was release it.
He pushed, leaning in even closer, so close that he could feel Nishikido’s erratic breathing on his mouth, and he could see the look that he couldn’t place in Nishikido’s eyes; then, in a nearly silent whisper, he pushed the gun even more. His hand went to Nishikido’s cheekbone, a bit below Nishikido’s eyes that were staring unblinkingly at him, fingers dancing across the skin.
“Don’t turn me into you,” Kazuya finally hissed before he dropped the gun onto Nishikido’s lap. He went back to the piano and began to play. Once again, it was Wings of a Song; he didn’t’ know why, but he kept playing that song over and over.
He knew that Nishikido was staring at him, but Kazuya didn’t stop playing; again and again, Wings of Song resonated in the room, until, hours later and well into the night, Kazuya’s head fell forward on the piano keys, too tired to play anymore. He could feel the stare still, and he could feel calloused fingers moving across his cheekbones in a way he had done to Nishikido earlier, but Kazuya didn’t move, letting the song resonating through his head lull him to sleep.
* * *
There were days that Kazuya had the urge to go out, leave the safe confines of his shelter, and go outside. Before, he hadn’t dared to, because of Nishikido’s unknown presence, but Kazuya found, for some strange reason, that with all that had happened just the day before, Nishikido no longer seemed like a threat toward him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that; it was almost earth-shattering to come to the realization that one of the people he defined as the ‘enemy’ was not much of an enemy; it was even harder to begin to accept the fact that he was beginning to tolerate, maybe even accept, Nishikido’s presence.
So, comfortable - or at least, somewhat comfortable - with the idea of venturing outside, Kazuya did just that, finding himself sitting on what was left of a destroyed building, on the rubble that a few of the buildings in town had become. Kazuya supposed he was just lucky that they hadn’t destroyed the entire town when they had taken everyone else away, or else he’d have been left in the cold with no shelter.
Kazuya sat on the gravel, drawing shapes with his finger as he sat back against a broken wall; the gravel wasn’t exactly comfortable to sit on, but it was softer than sitting on the jagged pieces of stone that had broken off from the wall. He was, to be honest, just relieved to take in the fresh air, no matter how cold the air was.
And he was alone, at least.
Kazuya couldn’t help but be alarmed and trouble by his tentative acceptance of Nishikido’s presence; the older man was supposed to be the enemy. What was Kazuya doing, not exactly helping him, but not hating him on sight?
“I’m not a traitor…” he said quietly to himself, under his breath as took a larger piece of the gravel and drew lines within the tiny rocks; it was like sand, almost, being able to write in the layers of tiny stones.
He wasn’t a traitor, right? Just because he was accepting Nishikido, didn’t mean he was helping the enemy right? He had hated Nishikido at first, on principle, for being a soldier, but…
He couldn’t bring himself to hate him so viciously now; he didn’t exactly trust him either, but after all that he had witnessed the other day, Kazuya could only feel one strong emotion toward Nishikido.
Sympathy.
The guilt that Nishikido had displayed, so much like the guilt that Kazuya felt at being a survivor in this town, had tore at Kazuya’s heart for more than a few brief moments. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t bring it upon himself to kill Nishikido when he had the chance; there was so much guilt, guilt that Kazuya hadn’t thought was possible for a soldier to feel toward the enemy, leaving Kazuya to only feel sympathy.
And for some reason, it felt like he could understand Nishikido for the first time since he had barged so abruptly into Kazuya’s life of solitude, bringing Kazuya’s hate, wariness, and distrust upon himself.
It wasn’t Kazuya being a traitor. It was Nishikido being human, because it was Nishikido’s humanity that was allowing him to feel guilt for those he had been trained and instructed to kill; the humanistic traits that Kazuya had tried to ignore had been revealed. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Nishikido wasn’t a monster. Maybe he was the only one, or maybe there were others, but Kazuya’s sympathy towards him, his understanding of Nishikido, wasn’t something wrong.
Hesitantly, Kazuya began to draw characters in the gravel; it wasn’t enough to think it. He had to reassure himself more, or he would waver.
I’m Kamenashi Kazuya, and I’m not doing anything wrong.
He wrote it, as firmly as he could, but he could feel a small bit of doubt, from years of distrusting anyone from the ‘other’ side.
It wasn’t wrong to feel sympathy, it wasn’t wrong to be human to another human being.
It wasn’t wrong for Kazuya to feel for Nishikido; it didn’t mean Kazuya was turning his back on his family and friends. It just meant…
It just meant that he had found one of the enemy that had enough of a heart that he could relate to, that he could feel sympathy for, that he could understand.
It wasn’t wrong at all.
With a nod, Kazuya took a deep breath and stood up, quickly erasing the words with a swipe of his foot. Then he headed back inside; he was alone there too, as Nishikido had gone off somewhere, but Kazuya had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t be alone for long. Nishikido never seemed to leave. Despite his resolution to himself just now, Kazuya wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
There was a huge difference between no longer hating someone and wanting them there.
Kazuya didn’t notice that the he didn’t quite manage to erase all the words from the gravel, leaving a shallow indent in the gravel. Not long after he had went back into hiding in the building, a dark-haired man that had occupied his earlier thoughts bent down curiously and traced the imprint slowly until the salvageable part of his words were formed.
“Kamenashi Kazuya…” Nishikido Ryo read quietly to himself, looking toward the building that the pianist had headed into. He stared at the words for a moment, “I guess that’s one way to put half-starved pianist.” He said with a slow smirk, wondering why he was so satisfied that he had finally found out something personal about the man who regarded him as nothing but the enemy.
The one who had refused to kill him when he had had the chance.
Maybe it was because it made the lines separating the sides of war blur even more.
* * *
Kazuya sat at the piano, slowly playing a scale, for lack of anything to play at the moment. If asked, he would be surprised that the piano had suddenly become such a part of his life, when not long ago, he had been trying his hardest to banish even the thought of playing. He seemed to always retreat to the piano now; he wasn’t sure if maybe it was the soothing tunes he could produce from the keys, but the piano itself became a sort of sanctuary. He could take refuge in its notes, and maybe that had been the reason Kazuya had tried so desperately to keep himself from it. He hadn’t wanted to feel like it was safe, not even for a moment.
And while the piano and the playing had had a large part in that, he knew, despite his efforts to not admit it, that Nishikido had a role in that too. Nishikido simply didn’t seem like a threat anymore. There was almost an unspoken agreement between them; Kazuya would play, they would stay in this room together, and sometimes, they could pretend the war wasn’t going on outside of this little hideaway, and they could pretend they were just acquaintances that tolerated each other.
Or at least, that was the case for Kazuya.
Kazuya could never tell what Nishikido was thinking; it almost seemed as though the moment Kazuya began to get a handle, through many small glimpses, into what Nishikido’s personality, as he tried to shed all conceived perceptions about Nishikido, the man would change, like he was determined to throw Kazuya off track.
“You know…”
Kazuya was jolted out of his thoughts by Nishikido’s voice; he stopped playing the scale, and looked over at Nishikido with a coolly raised eyebrow.
“Before this…war…” there it was, the disguised but still slightly visible hint of contempt at the word. Kazuya had heard it a few times before, but it seemed that Nishikido was beginning to allow himself to show his true feelings on the war itself, instead of hiding behind a front of being a loyal, or sometimes hesitating, soldier.
Kazuya shook his head distractedly, “Sorry, what?” he asked, realizing that his thoughts had drifted away and he had missed what Nishikido had said.
Nishikido raised an eyebrow, “Before this war started,” he repeated himself, “I used to play the guitar.” He said, looking almost wistfully at Kazuya’s hands, and the music that they were producing, however mindlessly Kazuya was doing it at the moment.
Kazuya paused for a moment, “Was that your job?” he asked.
Nishikido looked startled, “I guess,” he said, laughing a little, blinking in surprise at Kazuya; perhaps it was because Kazuya had never actively tried to inquire more about Nishikido, “I gave music lessons from time to time, mostly to little kids who thought that guitars were cool and wanted to show off to their friends.” He said casually.
Kazuya’s eyebrows shot up at that; despite knowing that Nishikido was not quite the monster that Kazuya had tried to make him out to be, it was still surprising to hear of a soft side to the man who had worn that uniform that Kazuya hated. He refrained from saying anything though, but perhaps it had shown on his face, because Nishikido cracked a wry grin.
“What? Can’t imagine a monster like me teaching children?” he asked, but there was a bitter hint in his voice.
Kazuya didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt appalled that Nishikido was referring to himself in that way; he knew that he had done it many times, before, but…hearing it from Nishikido’s own mouth was unsettling for some reason.
“No, that’s not it.” Kazuya said firmly, surprising himself with how quickly and decisively he said it. Nishikido was taken back for a moment, and then a light smirk crossed his face, but he didn’t say anything.
“Not that the opinion of a half-starved pianist matters all that much to me.” Nishikido said finally.
Kazuya stared, and then he narrowed his eyes, deciding not to mention that not that long ago, his opinion had mattered to Nishikido.
Finally, he settled for saying, “Now I know why you’re so obsessed with making me play.”
“I’m not making you play.” Nishikido countered.
“You did before.”
“Do you feel forced into playing right now?” Nishikido returned without skipping a beat.
Kazuya paused, taken back, “No,” he admitted grudgingly, ignoring the way a grin was spreading across Nishikido’s lips, “I’m playing because I want to.”
Nishikido sat back, arms crossed, with a triumphant smirk.
Kazuya rolled his eyes, and for a moment, he had to resist the tugging of his own lips. He turned back to the piano and began playing again, hiding his face from view; he knew Nishikido had seen that slip in his expression though, and he could hear Nishikido laughing quietly to himself as Kazuya ignored him and continued playing.
It was times like this when he could trick himself into believing that nothing bad was going on in the world outside, and he could trick himself into believing that this temporary peace that the two of them had managed to build, after all the hateful insults and threats they had exchanged, would last.
* * *
Part 2