[fic] VF ficlet: Illusions
Title: Illusions
Character: Asami
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: none
Notes: This is one of those shorter, slightly introspective things I'm moved to write on occasion. I have another b-day fic for Asami almost finished, but this kind of jumped out just now. (with apologies to Oscar Wilde...)
He looked at himself in the mirror, as he did every year on this day. He stood there, without clothing, facing himself honestly. His eyes roamed along his frame, examining the skin for blemishes, the body for any signs of fat or loss of muscle mass. Of course there weren't any. There never were. But he always checked.
Next was a harder part. He looked himself in the eyes, acknowledging all he'd done that past year. He was never one to be dishonest, but he tended not to bother with trivialities like guilt. Repercussions of his actions he of course attended to, but not ones assigned by some moral compass that he'd stopped following years ago, if he'd ever tried.
But once a year he tried looking at what he'd done the way his mother might have, had she lived. Would she be proud of any of it? He had to ask her shade, because his own no longer knew how to answer, and hers was the closest to a moral person he knew. Except one.
His eyes laughed back at him from the mirror. Ask Akihito what he thinks of the state of my soul? He knew better than to rise to that challenge.
So he thought back, starting with last year's birthday, and covered the events. Most were the same as previous years. The deaths he'd been involved with, never at his hands, but nonetheless his responsibility. The pain he'd caused, mostly unintentional, but causing pain went hand in hand with making money, especially criminally making money. These were common things to him, and his mother shook her ghostly head and breezed past them to stop and poke at things he'd not thought worth anyone's notice.
Like Akihito.
Of course a mother would notice Akihito. She'd long since given up any hope of finding him a wife, but mothers are perpetual matchmakers and the hint of romance stirred her up. He'd normally blow her and her assumptions away, but it was a day he allowed himself to be opened up for complete inspection and welcomed all revelations that resulted, if only so he could rip them to shreds later under the cold harsh light of reality.
So he let her pull his memories out, savoring the meetings he'd had with the boy, trying to focus on the sex and all the sleaziest things they'd done together. He was annoyed when she ignored that as she always had and pulled moments out for his inspection that were out of the ordinary, for him at least: The way he cared for his lover when he was sleeping and wouldn't notice. The softened eyes when the boy was out of the room. The more frequent smiles on his face when no one was looking.
Who do you think you're fooling, Ryuichi? Him, certainly, but not your mother.
She sounded quite satisfied this year.
Naturally she'd ignore all the evil he perpetrated in favor of one small glance or touch. He and his mirror image rolled their eyes at each other. He was almost disappointed at the lack of disapproval. He'd have to try harder this upcoming year.
Perhaps, too, his mother's eyes weren't the ones he needed to look at him any longer. Maybe he should ask Akihito, open himself up to that frank gaze and read what he would there. What would be the result of such honesty? He didn't particularly care to find out.
His own eyes mocked him for shying away from such a confrontation. Face it, he felt him urging himself. Why do you insist upon hiding yourself from him?
Not from him, he denied. From everyone. No one was to know him. That kind of candidness would amount to opening the wall behind his closest and showing them the skeleton within it, and no one was ever to see that.
His reflection acknowledged that. But, it pressed with some humor, if you want honesty you can't rely upon smoke and mirrors.
He turned from the glass, annoyed. He usually felt cleansed, absolved after such an inspection of his soul. This year he felt like muddied water, as if everything had become harder to see.
His fists clenched. He needed clarity. There was one way to get it, one he usually avoided, but it seemed it was necessary this year. He opened his closet and pushed the hand-made suits aside, shoving them apart as if they were to blame for what they hid. His fingers sought for the button in the knot of wood at the top of a panel, finding it easily, though he only used it once a year if that. He paused and took a deep breath before pushing it, vowing he wouldn't recoil from what he knew must be there.
As the panel slid aside revealing the contents of the recess he almost stepped back, despite what he'd promised himself, but he did not. He never would, and to prove it made himself step forward to examine the older, yet more truthful version of himself, though what it represented disturbed him on several levels, not the least of which was that it existed at all.
It wasn't the signs of age, though he didn't enjoy seeing them slight though they were. It was what was missing that shook him. The signs of dissipation and wickedness that had been so prominent for his predecessor barely showed up at all. But then, he wore his wickedness publicly and his pleasure-seeking was always accompanied by discipline. The softening though, around his eyes and lips, that was unexpected. His own lips thinned in displeasure.
What was this? What did it mean?
Foolish questions, because he knew the answers. He slammed the panel shut lest he be tempted to destroy what was within, which wouldn't do at all.
He glanced at the mirror next to his closet again. From that angle there was nothing in it but the bare wall on the opposite side of the room.
Stepping to the side, he placed himself in front of it, mere inches away. His vision from the closet overlaid his reflection for a moment before he pushed it away. He looked, really looked, and understood finally that the change was real. His mother had been right. His reflection had been right. They'd seen the truly important events of the year. His eyes fell away and shoulders sagged slightly.
The thought of it was totally fucked up. But he couldn't deny it. In fact he really wouldn't care that it was true if he only had to worry about the present. But the future, that was another thing. There could never be a happy ending, not while there was that lie at the back of his closet.
He heard his mother speaking in his head. Honestly Ryuichi, you'd think this was the end of the world. You've only had the painting 5 years. It's not like turning 40 would kill you. Tell him now and get it out of the way. Your vanity can take the blow. Don't tell me you're afraid. You're my son and I know better.
Afraid? Never. He just preferred layers of illusion between himself and others. But it wouldn't allow anything good to come of what was growing in him. And while he didn't think he particularly needed the good, he also refused to fail.
He went back to his closet and opened the panel and removed the painting. He'd had enough of turning 35. His fireplace was gas, but still worked, and he turned the jets on full blast and watched the flames rise. Then he threw the picture, frame and all, onto it and watched it burn as he got dressed in one of his favorite suits. The air was beginning to smell foul as he left the apartment, but he didn't care. The maids could clean up the mess.
By the time he reached the garage under his building his right hip twinged a little and he was a bit out of breath, enough to make him reconsider the pack of cigarettes he'd pulled out before extracting one with his lips. One change at a time though, he thought as he lit one and drew in a satisfying lungfull of smoke.
He got into his BMW and sat for a moment catching his breath, then pulled out his cellphone, placing a call.
"Where are you?" he asked without preamble.
He listened to the angry spate of words that followed and let himself smile a little at the show of spirit.
"They won't fire you for one phone call. I'll pick you up in an hour. You're going to dinner with me."
More words followed, a little more cautious this time. He pulled out the ashtray under the dash and tapped his cigarette into it, listening.
"Because it's my birthday, and you only turn 40 once."
There was silence at the other end of the line, then a hesitant question.
"Clearly your file on me was wrong, which isn't surprising since you probably use the beauty parlor gossip method of information gathering." He drew on the cigarette again. "One hour, Akihito. Finish your work by then." So what if he cared? It didn't mean he had to be nice.
He glanced into the review mirror and saw his mother sitting in the back seat and shaking her head.
"Oh hell, would you get lost? How the fuck can I have a date with you along? Leave or I swear we'll have sex right on top of you."
She sniffed and disappeared, and Akihito's voice jumped across the line.
He rubbed his temples, trying to stop the headache that was coming on. "No one you'd want to know, believe me. And yes, a date. Christ, you'd think the world was ending. I'll explain it all later. We have a number of things to talk about."
Once more there was silence, then another question. Then it was his turn to hesitate. "Yes. Well. Birthdays can do that to a person. Take advantage of the opportunity while you can." It wouldn't do to let the kid think it was going to be easy.
At Akihito's agreement, he hung up without niceties and started the car. It would take him the whole hour to drive there from here. He'd need the time to figure out what he was going to say. Or rather how he was going to say it. He knew one thing though, it was going to be honest. But not because he was looking for absolution.
He put the car into reverse and adjusted his review mirror, meeting his eyes once more, pausing at seeing himself as he really was, hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and hints of gray at his temples. The same eyes though, arrogant, intelligent, unafraid, and yes, slightly softer now that he looked for it. But clean and clear. He'd granted himself his own absolution this time.
Nodding at the reflection, he backed the car out. Another year down, and this next one would be lived with each day meaning something more without all those protective layers there. He laughed to himself as his heart raced at the thought. So what if he was 40? He hadn't felt this good in years.
~end~
Character: Asami
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Warnings: none
Notes: This is one of those shorter, slightly introspective things I'm moved to write on occasion. I have another b-day fic for Asami almost finished, but this kind of jumped out just now. (with apologies to Oscar Wilde...)
He looked at himself in the mirror, as he did every year on this day. He stood there, without clothing, facing himself honestly. His eyes roamed along his frame, examining the skin for blemishes, the body for any signs of fat or loss of muscle mass. Of course there weren't any. There never were. But he always checked.
Next was a harder part. He looked himself in the eyes, acknowledging all he'd done that past year. He was never one to be dishonest, but he tended not to bother with trivialities like guilt. Repercussions of his actions he of course attended to, but not ones assigned by some moral compass that he'd stopped following years ago, if he'd ever tried.
But once a year he tried looking at what he'd done the way his mother might have, had she lived. Would she be proud of any of it? He had to ask her shade, because his own no longer knew how to answer, and hers was the closest to a moral person he knew. Except one.
His eyes laughed back at him from the mirror. Ask Akihito what he thinks of the state of my soul? He knew better than to rise to that challenge.
So he thought back, starting with last year's birthday, and covered the events. Most were the same as previous years. The deaths he'd been involved with, never at his hands, but nonetheless his responsibility. The pain he'd caused, mostly unintentional, but causing pain went hand in hand with making money, especially criminally making money. These were common things to him, and his mother shook her ghostly head and breezed past them to stop and poke at things he'd not thought worth anyone's notice.
Like Akihito.
Of course a mother would notice Akihito. She'd long since given up any hope of finding him a wife, but mothers are perpetual matchmakers and the hint of romance stirred her up. He'd normally blow her and her assumptions away, but it was a day he allowed himself to be opened up for complete inspection and welcomed all revelations that resulted, if only so he could rip them to shreds later under the cold harsh light of reality.
So he let her pull his memories out, savoring the meetings he'd had with the boy, trying to focus on the sex and all the sleaziest things they'd done together. He was annoyed when she ignored that as she always had and pulled moments out for his inspection that were out of the ordinary, for him at least: The way he cared for his lover when he was sleeping and wouldn't notice. The softened eyes when the boy was out of the room. The more frequent smiles on his face when no one was looking.
Who do you think you're fooling, Ryuichi? Him, certainly, but not your mother.
She sounded quite satisfied this year.
Naturally she'd ignore all the evil he perpetrated in favor of one small glance or touch. He and his mirror image rolled their eyes at each other. He was almost disappointed at the lack of disapproval. He'd have to try harder this upcoming year.
Perhaps, too, his mother's eyes weren't the ones he needed to look at him any longer. Maybe he should ask Akihito, open himself up to that frank gaze and read what he would there. What would be the result of such honesty? He didn't particularly care to find out.
His own eyes mocked him for shying away from such a confrontation. Face it, he felt him urging himself. Why do you insist upon hiding yourself from him?
Not from him, he denied. From everyone. No one was to know him. That kind of candidness would amount to opening the wall behind his closest and showing them the skeleton within it, and no one was ever to see that.
His reflection acknowledged that. But, it pressed with some humor, if you want honesty you can't rely upon smoke and mirrors.
He turned from the glass, annoyed. He usually felt cleansed, absolved after such an inspection of his soul. This year he felt like muddied water, as if everything had become harder to see.
His fists clenched. He needed clarity. There was one way to get it, one he usually avoided, but it seemed it was necessary this year. He opened his closet and pushed the hand-made suits aside, shoving them apart as if they were to blame for what they hid. His fingers sought for the button in the knot of wood at the top of a panel, finding it easily, though he only used it once a year if that. He paused and took a deep breath before pushing it, vowing he wouldn't recoil from what he knew must be there.
As the panel slid aside revealing the contents of the recess he almost stepped back, despite what he'd promised himself, but he did not. He never would, and to prove it made himself step forward to examine the older, yet more truthful version of himself, though what it represented disturbed him on several levels, not the least of which was that it existed at all.
It wasn't the signs of age, though he didn't enjoy seeing them slight though they were. It was what was missing that shook him. The signs of dissipation and wickedness that had been so prominent for his predecessor barely showed up at all. But then, he wore his wickedness publicly and his pleasure-seeking was always accompanied by discipline. The softening though, around his eyes and lips, that was unexpected. His own lips thinned in displeasure.
What was this? What did it mean?
Foolish questions, because he knew the answers. He slammed the panel shut lest he be tempted to destroy what was within, which wouldn't do at all.
He glanced at the mirror next to his closet again. From that angle there was nothing in it but the bare wall on the opposite side of the room.
Stepping to the side, he placed himself in front of it, mere inches away. His vision from the closet overlaid his reflection for a moment before he pushed it away. He looked, really looked, and understood finally that the change was real. His mother had been right. His reflection had been right. They'd seen the truly important events of the year. His eyes fell away and shoulders sagged slightly.
The thought of it was totally fucked up. But he couldn't deny it. In fact he really wouldn't care that it was true if he only had to worry about the present. But the future, that was another thing. There could never be a happy ending, not while there was that lie at the back of his closet.
He heard his mother speaking in his head. Honestly Ryuichi, you'd think this was the end of the world. You've only had the painting 5 years. It's not like turning 40 would kill you. Tell him now and get it out of the way. Your vanity can take the blow. Don't tell me you're afraid. You're my son and I know better.
Afraid? Never. He just preferred layers of illusion between himself and others. But it wouldn't allow anything good to come of what was growing in him. And while he didn't think he particularly needed the good, he also refused to fail.
He went back to his closet and opened the panel and removed the painting. He'd had enough of turning 35. His fireplace was gas, but still worked, and he turned the jets on full blast and watched the flames rise. Then he threw the picture, frame and all, onto it and watched it burn as he got dressed in one of his favorite suits. The air was beginning to smell foul as he left the apartment, but he didn't care. The maids could clean up the mess.
By the time he reached the garage under his building his right hip twinged a little and he was a bit out of breath, enough to make him reconsider the pack of cigarettes he'd pulled out before extracting one with his lips. One change at a time though, he thought as he lit one and drew in a satisfying lungfull of smoke.
He got into his BMW and sat for a moment catching his breath, then pulled out his cellphone, placing a call.
"Where are you?" he asked without preamble.
He listened to the angry spate of words that followed and let himself smile a little at the show of spirit.
"They won't fire you for one phone call. I'll pick you up in an hour. You're going to dinner with me."
More words followed, a little more cautious this time. He pulled out the ashtray under the dash and tapped his cigarette into it, listening.
"Because it's my birthday, and you only turn 40 once."
There was silence at the other end of the line, then a hesitant question.
"Clearly your file on me was wrong, which isn't surprising since you probably use the beauty parlor gossip method of information gathering." He drew on the cigarette again. "One hour, Akihito. Finish your work by then." So what if he cared? It didn't mean he had to be nice.
He glanced into the review mirror and saw his mother sitting in the back seat and shaking her head.
"Oh hell, would you get lost? How the fuck can I have a date with you along? Leave or I swear we'll have sex right on top of you."
She sniffed and disappeared, and Akihito's voice jumped across the line.
He rubbed his temples, trying to stop the headache that was coming on. "No one you'd want to know, believe me. And yes, a date. Christ, you'd think the world was ending. I'll explain it all later. We have a number of things to talk about."
Once more there was silence, then another question. Then it was his turn to hesitate. "Yes. Well. Birthdays can do that to a person. Take advantage of the opportunity while you can." It wouldn't do to let the kid think it was going to be easy.
At Akihito's agreement, he hung up without niceties and started the car. It would take him the whole hour to drive there from here. He'd need the time to figure out what he was going to say. Or rather how he was going to say it. He knew one thing though, it was going to be honest. But not because he was looking for absolution.
He put the car into reverse and adjusted his review mirror, meeting his eyes once more, pausing at seeing himself as he really was, hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and hints of gray at his temples. The same eyes though, arrogant, intelligent, unafraid, and yes, slightly softer now that he looked for it. But clean and clear. He'd granted himself his own absolution this time.
Nodding at the reflection, he backed the car out. Another year down, and this next one would be lived with each day meaning something more without all those protective layers there. He laughed to himself as his heart raced at the thought. So what if he was 40? He hadn't felt this good in years.
~end~