Author's Notes: I have been working on this story for ages. Originally it was supposed to be a one shot for a challenge issued by my friend J—write a story that somehow includes the lyrics of Akira Yamaoka's "Waiting For You." This metamorphosed into this huge, crazy thing that did not seem like it would ever stop. I lost sight of the challenge after a point, too, but let's just say it was at least inspired in part by the lyrics.
This is another Kensuke set in some sort of AU future. The readers can decide if it has ties to Sweet Dreams, a similar story of mine. Ken is nearing middle age in reality, but age varies in his dreams.
Nightmares in adulthood are often associated with outside stressors or exist concurrently with another mental disorder. Ken just wishes they would stop.
Oneirophobia
1.
Daisuke hates his suit. He really, really hates his suit. It's ugly. It's too big. It's made of a fiber that doesn't breathe. It makes him feel itchy and it smells weird and it is missing three buttons that are crucial in holding the front closed. Whenever he can, he pulls at the collar, straightens the cornflower blue tie, smoothes down the lapels—he does anything he can to create the illusion of restlessness rather than discomfort. He hates his suit because he hates being removed from his natural element of khaki shorts and cotton shirts, plain colors and thin fabrics, comfort and informality. But he must wear this thing right now, for Ken, and he is miserable because of it.
The air is muggy and the gray, heavy, funky, stifling monstrosity sticks to and scrapes his skin, creating red patches that swell up whenever he rubs them. The air conditioner in the limousine is broken and the driver hasn't even bothered to apologize. Daisuke looks out the window and wishes he could open it. The tinting is dark, but through it he can make out a group of people loitering on the sidewalk and watching the limousine as it rolls down the street.
He sits beside Ken in the back of the limousine that is part of a slow-moving funeral procession. No one else wanted to ride with them, so they are alone, and they both like it that way. It wasn't anything personal, their being alone, because they would have accommodated anyone in need of a ride had the situation arose; but everyone saw how close they were sitting together and realized that they could not intrude. The transportation arrangements worked out anyway since less people than expected decided to attend. The number of people going to the graveyard right now is nothing compared to the number that came to Osamu's funeral all those years ago, where pages and pages of signatures and prayers filled the complimentary guest book.
This feels just like I'm falling, Ken thinks and then decides that he doesn't want to think anymore. He turns to numbers instead, unequivocal numbers that don't understand emotion, and he begins to calculate. After the burial ceremony, everyone is expected to go back to his and Daisuke's apartment for a somber reception. There will be plenty of food to eat since Daisuke ordered more than he should have (although he did so with good intentions, so no harm done). Methodically, Ken pieces together a mathematical function to preoccupy his idle, thoughtless time:
"It'll end up being kilograms of potato salad consumed (P) in respect to the number of people who decide to eat it (N)," he says quietly. "P(N), of course, and from that . . ."
"Don't start," Daisuke says. The warning is there, but his voice is too tired to make the subtext impressive. "Ichijouji, don't start. Please."
". . . we know that an average adult consumes . . ."
"Ichijoui."
". . . but that also depends on how good it tastes. Pleasure derived from taste can't be measured quantitatively unless we determine a scale for it . . ."
Daisuke touches the other man's hand. "Ichijouji."
"We could introduce multiple variables to measure taste in respect to the amount of mayonnaise or potato chunks, but only after we find out what the utility—" And then Ken starts sobbing.
It's raining when the burial ceremony starts. The affair is gray and dreary, appropriate for the occasion that feels like a pivotal scene in a tragic movie, but Ken hates the wetness because it makes his bones ache. Daisuke continues to hate his suit and enviously regards Ken, who has managed to wear a pinstriped three-piece without discomfort. Together they stand beneath an umbrella just as everyone else does, and the attendees' collection of black shields creates a sketchy circle around the open grave. A group of professional-looking caretakers put harnesses on the casket in preparation for the lowering.
Most people brought sentimental things to place atop the casket: flowers, coins, framed and unframed photos, even a crayon-colored picture drawn by a little neighbor girl who had never actually met the deceased face-to-face. Ken has nothing to offer aside from his presence; when the attendees move forward to leave their gifts, he stays withdrawn. Surprisingly enough, Daisuke leaves the dry safety of the umbrella and begins searching through his deep pockets. Ken watches him with dull inquisitiveness.
Daisuke constantly seems like he is about to say something as he moves the gift around in his fingers, but he ultimately remains silent. He is holding a simple brass key in his hands. When Ken sees the key, its metal cross work darkened with the years-old oil and sweat from Daisuke's hands, he immediately knows which lock it belongs in.
That is the key to Ken's childhood home, the apartment he lived in until he left for college. Daisuke received his own duplicate key when Ken's parents acknowledged him as part of the family.
(Ken stuttered and flushed and lost all composure when this happened, the intimate nature of the relationship revealed, but his mother only smiled and went out to the store to have another key made.
It's easier for you this way, she explained to Daisuke when she returned with the duplicate and an optional Hello Kitty keychain. Ken was lying on the couch with a cold compress on his forehead, recovering from the shock of being outed. This way you can come and go as you please, right?)
Daisuke knew what the gesture meant—it represented a token of good faith expressing how Ichijouji-san trusted him to take care of her son—and he kept it on his person until he and Ken moved into their own place and never had to worry about locked doors keeping them apart again. It was her gift to him, and now Daisuke is giving it back because it is too late for thankful words alone.
(Ken-chan, you want to see him all the time too, his mother said pleasantly. Don't look at me like that. Mothers always know about what's going on with their children.)
Daisuke mouths his gratitude against the key and then sets it by a bouquet of fragrant white carnations.
That gift gave him the determination he needed to pursue Ken and their fledgling relationship. He worked so hard to keep things from falling apart after every pitfall. That's not to say things are perfect now—jewels always have defects, and Daisuke most often sees those defects when he looks into Ken's eyes—but being given the opportunity to open up around Ken and his family had provided him with hope for the future. The hurried, more intimate experiences were no longer tainted by deceit and the fear of discovery. Casual affection while in plain view became a norm. Acceptance meant the world to them.
"You should have told me you wanted to give something," Ken murmurs when Daisuke moves back under the umbrella. He lifts his free hand to smooth away the raindrops clinging to the other man's cheek. "You're going to end up sick."
"Ichijouji," Daisuke says, "it's okay to grieve even when people can see you."
Ken looks away and watches as the casket is lowered into the ground. The ceremony is wet and cold, dreary and gray, and silent because no one has anything left to say. Placing the casket evenly turns out to be difficult because the dirt has become mush, but the caretakers grunt and strain and eventually get the box settled. Slowly, the other attendees shift away from the grave and mill over by where the limousines are parked in an orderly line. Even the caretakers leave Ken and Daisuke behind in favor of having something to drink.
"I should have . . ." Ken can't finish that sentence. There are too many should have's and could have's to combine into one lamentation. He shuts his eyes. The umbrella shakes a little and he barely notices when Daisuke's hand overlaps his to steady it.
"You're an idiot," Daisuke points out, but his tone is affectionate. "None of this is your fault."
"I should have . . ."
"Stop that."
Ken sighs and Daisuke looks at the headstone. Still sitting atop the casket, the key glimmers in the way a dying star might, copper-red and framed by darkness. In that darkness the white carnations seem to have wilted and the little neighbor girl's drawing is no more than a smeared page of colors. What might have once been a crayon angel holding a harp is now a nightmarish amalgamation of oily blue, sickly yellow, and silvery gray markings.
"She's gone to Heaven now," Daisuke reads from the epitaph. The words are inscribed on a beautiful copper plate anchored to the headstone. Below them are a set of dates and a finely carved name.
Involuntarily, Ken begins trembling again. "Why won't she come back down?" he asks.
"That just isn't how the world works." Daisuke shrugs. "You can't change that."
"You always slice with Occam's Razor! Maybe she has someone she loves more than me with her now."
"Now you're really being an idiot," Daisuke says, studying Ken's hardened profile. Ken looks much older than he should. Lately he has been under great physical and mental strain—he is a violin string one pluck away from snapping. "What did the doctor say?"
"She died of a heart attack."
"No, not her doctor. Yours."
"Last week I told him in no uncertain terms that I'm not going to be coming back."
"You're going to have to apologize to him soon if 'no uncertain terms' means what I think it does," Daisuke says tiredly. "This isn't a good time to be prideful."
"His help is something I don't want or need," Ken says. "I just need you."
Daisuke focuses on the casket. "I can't protect you from everything," he says. The next pause is heavy and dreadful. "I wish I could. But I can't."
"Knowing you're trying is enough for me."
"Wrong! You're blaming yourself right now for your mother's death—and who knows what else, you don't confide in me—and all I can do is say 'No, that is not your fault' or 'You do not need to beat yourself up.' Get real, Ichijouji. You say you need me and yet you're farther away than you have ever been."
The sky splits apart: sudden thunder accompanies an even more sudden intensification of the rain's downpour. Daisuke shivers and hates his suit because it provides no practical protection, and Ken isn't standing close enough to share his body heat (despite how little of it is left these days). But Ken brushes his thumb against Daisuke's. Maybe that is enough for both of them right now.
They stand in silence for a long time while the other attendees' voices drift in and out of hearing range.
Then: "I don't want to argue anymore," Daisuke whispers. "Please."
"Only last week we visited her, didn't we?" Ken asks, effectively changing the subject. "She looked healthy. We ate home-cooked ramen and you told her that red pepper flakes can go a long way when flavoring noodles."
"I think she said that I make an excellent housewife," Daisuke says and bares his teeth for a weak grin. "I had to explain that I cooked because you're a real disaster in the kitchen. No intuitive reasoning. Who the hell uses soybean flour when making a torte?"
"That's all you, Daisuke. You insist on having twenty specific types of flour and you never get around to using half of them. Our grocery bill is insane."
"She said you ought to eat more, anyway." Dependable fingers touch and then run across Ken's flank, searching for the hem of his formal pinstriped jacket. "You refused to let me cook noodles for a week after because of all the servings she gave you."
Ken tries on a smile and is surprised when it fits well. Although he cannot remember much of his brother's funeral—aside from carrying the portrait, all that black crepe, the white flowers, and Oikawa's leering on the side—he does remember everyone standing around afterward and talking through their grief. This is how people deal with death: reminiscing, chatting, joking, supporting one another, and even crying a little but not ashamedly. Already he feels better, and he inches closer to Daisuke regardless of how a few cold, nimble fingers have violated his jacket and are sliding against his exposed skin.
"Mom would be so proud of your handiwork," Ken says dryly.
"You see? She's still here with us," Daisuke says as he leans over to kiss Ken's neck. His lips are warm. "She is in your heart and will be there for you as long as you keep her memory."
"If she were really here, I imagine she'd throw something at us and tell us to put a muzzle on our hormones until we were alone."
"Like when we were kids."
"I'd wait forever for you and your hormones," Ken quips. "I love you."
Daisuke smiles. "Then let's head back to the others so we can get this reception going. Once everyone has gone home, maybe the waiting can stop for a while. What do you think?"
"Well . . ."
The defects linger in Ken's eyes, ruining their inherent brilliance, and Daisuke hates that more than he hates wearing a suit. Hesitation always seems to magnify the imperfections they have a hard time acknowledging during the lighter moments. Daisuke continues to smile, but his fingers stop fiddling with the opal-colored shirt buttons. "Well—what?"
"Do you . . . Daisuke, do you think she forgives me?"
Warm lips disappear from his neck. "Forgives you for what?"
"For killing Osamu."
"Ichijouji!" Daisuke sounds scandalized. His fingers curl up in the material of Ken's shirt and he pulls a little, tugging, as though he will earn keener attentiveness. "How can you say something like that?"
"I wasn't the one she wanted. I merely replaced him. Then I caused her so much pain when I ran away to the Digital World. Even after I got back, there was still hurt in her eyes. Anyone could see it—even you. Moving out broke her heart, too, but I had to because I love you and I wanted to live with you. She said it was okay, right? But I knew it wasn't. I was being so selfish."
Daisuke doesn't respond at first, and Ken receives the impression that something isn't lining up correctly. He cannot identify where the feeling originates from, but there it is anyway, and soon things seem far colder and darker than before. Unease precipitates in his stomach, adrenaline kicks into gear, and panic flutters in his chest like a caged bird.
"Shut the fuck up."
No, he's supposed to say—Ken's throat constricts. ". . . What?"
"I'm so sick of your bullshit," Daisuke hisses. Those once comforting fingers wrench at the shirt and then release it. The umbrella falls and wheels across the ground, directed by the wind. "I have had it up to here"—he indicates eye-level—"with your angst. Your mother had a heart attack and now she's dead. And I hope you're happy! Because you know what?"
"What?"
Daisuke roughly pushes Ken in the direction of the grave. "You are the reason she's dead. No one wanted to tell you because no one likes a sad sack. Too bad keeping the truth from you didn't help matters. So go wallow in the mud, pig."
"But—it's—it's not my fault! I'm just being self-deprecating—"
"You are a horrible liar," he says and stalks closer, making Ken back dangerously close to the sloppy hole. "You became the Kaiser and you had your fun by fucking with all of us. It felt good, didn't it? Sometimes I look in your eyes and I see him waiting in there. I know you're going to betray us one day by picking up his mantle again. Killing your own mother is proof positive!"
"I will never do that!" Ken yelps. "It's been so long—decades—I don't even think about him—don't you know that? You always say that I'm a different person—"
"You are legally blind. (And I thought I told you to shut up!) Haven't you ever noticed that I'm lying? Right through my teeth." To illustrate, Daisuke clacks his jaws together; his resulting grin is demented and too bright. "I fell in love with you and now you're gone. All that's left is this pathetic, servile shell that is waiting for the Kaiser to return so it does not have to think anymore—Ichijouji, don't you dare start crying!"
"You shouldn't be saying this! You're . . . you're supposed to say . . ."
"Oh." Daisuke blinks and the malice abruptly disappears from his expression. Another smile forms and this one is the private kind he only shares with Ken whenever he feels loving and tender. "Oh, I'm sorry. What was I saying? Hey—are you all right?"
Ken sighs with relief and reaches for the other man, who accepts him (albeit confusedly) into an embrace. The rain has soaked them to the bone by now but they do not care. "You weren't saying anything," Ken mumbles against a wet shoulder. "We were standing just like this. Do you want to go to the reception now?"
Beat. "I don't want to go anywhere with someone as disgusting as you."
"Daisuke-kun?"
"Don't call me that!"
Then, without warning, Daisuke shoves Ken hard enough to make him lose his footing. Ken tries to regain his balance, but there is no hope of fighting the fearsome pull of gravity and fate. He falls over into the grave. His head cracks against the coffin first; his body squashes the carnations, knocks the key into the mud, and breaks the glass of one framed portrait. Quick heat seeps through his hair and between his fingers—that's blood, isn't it?—he's bleeding—there is too much of it and it feels warmer than Daisuke's lips had on his neck. He holds up his hand and sees that the glass had sliced open his palm along the girdle of Venus and most of his lifeline. The blood is thicker than usual and maybe more purplish, as though it hasn't oxygenated properly. Upon sitting up and brushing the sore spot on the back of his head, he knows that he is bleeding from there too.
Dazedly he looks up into the rain at Daisuke, who is leaning over the grave's edge. From seemingly out of nowhere, Daisuke procures a deep-scooped shovel. There is such malevolence on his face, such dark intentions, and part of Ken dies from such a sight.
Now Ken understands he is dreaming. He is having a nightmare. Nothing here is real. This nightmare in particular he has experienced several times before; while each ending is different, they usually never climax as violently as this one does. Daisuke was supposed to have said "I don't think you're selfish, you know, because you love me" and then Ken was supposed to have smiled. They also should have kissed. One time they ended up dying in a car accident on the way to the reception, but that death had been instantaneous and not quite as real or personal as the current version. Ken watches Daisuke begin to shovel mud into the hole. Sure, he could climb out easily enough, but for some reason he cannot move and the lucidity of the dream frightens him even more.
"I'm sorry, love," Daisuke says as he works on the next shovelful, "but your subconscious has a quota to fill."
Quotas. Ken prefers handling numbers to thinking, after all.
Soon the mud is high enough to touch his chin. He cannot hope to escape this slick and thick and shiny entombment. Daisuke shovels more mud in, unfazed, and it rises over Ken's mouth, nose, ears, eyes—until not even a tendril of blue hair can be seen once he is entirely buried alive with his mother.