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almondinflower2008-08-13 03:40 am
fromastudio) wrote in almondinflower2008-08-13 03:40 am
fic: Paper Amnesia, 3/? [Rikkai, crossover AU]
paper amnesia, part 3 of?
characters: Yagyuu, Rikkai
notes: very very AU, i.e canon as we know it did not happen. just to clear up the confusion. ok?
Genre: AU, Death Note Crossover
part iii
The maple tree outside Yanagi's favourite coffee house was shedding leaves. I watched them drift downwards, red, gold, carried by the slow wind. There was just enough of a breeze to be chilly. I would have preferred to sit inside, but Yanagi was absorbed in reading the university magazine.
“Anything interesting?” I asked. Yanagi was holding the glossy magazine so that it was propped against the edge of the table; from my position I could only see the edges of its cover art, which appeared to be an oil painting in intense primary colours. It looked like Yukimura's work.
Yanagi lay the magazine flat on the table. Not being good at reading upside-down, I could just barely, if I squinted, make out the headlines in the news section. The most prominent one said: Student wins international music competition. “A few articles. Bunta won another award. A jazz one. And there's a feature on Seiichi's latest exhibition.”
“The one that just finished? I didn't make it to that one.” I like Yukimura's paintings, but I don't go out of my way to look for them.
“No; the two of you don't get along well, do you?” Yanagi gave me a curious glance. “I've been told you were childhood friends.”
I shrugged, fingers idly pushing a cup of espresso around its saucer. “His parents and mine went to school together. We haven't been close for years. Not since junior high.”
All things that Yanagi knew already. He was constantly inquisitive, but rarely meddlesome. “Ah well, it's common for friendships to change over time. Especially childhood ones.” He turned the page. A panel in the upper left-hand corner (Yanagi's left, my right) caught my attention.
“Is that an obituary?” I asked.
Yanagi scrutinised the page. “Yes. Hijikawa Ken, the Professor of Applied Mathematics. He died of a heart attack three weeks ago.”
“The one who was a total and unmitigated arsehole?”
“Quite a few students called him that, yes. Although the magazine editors have chosen to focus on his contributions to research and 'the teaching of a generation of students.'”
“None of whom were particularly grateful, I bet.” A waitress arrived, carrying our sandwiches. Yanagi knew her, and smiled politely. “Have they found a replacement yet?”
“Not that I know of.” Yanagi's eyes suddenly flickered sideways, in distraction. I turned and saw Marui strolling towards us. His usual air of nonchalance seemed a tad exaggerated to me – the chewing motions of his mouth were too vigorous, his step a bit too springy.
Yanagi must have thought so too. “I thought you would still be at the hospital,” he said, when Marui came to a stop at our table.
“Seiichi's having a biopsy this morning. And I had class.” Marui laid his hands flat on the tabletop; his nails were painted the colour of his hairdye. Like Yukimura, he'd begun affecting long hair at university; the ubiquitous sight of their ponytails flanking Niou on either side had led the political competition to refer to them derisively as the drunken engineer and his artist women.
Yanagi congratulated him on winning the jazz competition. Marui made a little dismissive gesture with his fingers. He had graceful calloused hands, the clipped fingernails of a violin player. “I was lucky. There was a pianist there who deserved it more. I think I should be the one congratulating you, though. Word has it that you've been published in quite a few journals lately.”
Yanagi writes essays on history, very good ones, and short stories, not quite emotional enough to be compelling. “I have a long way to go before matching Akaya's record.”
“Oh yeah, the kid writes poetry, right?” Marui snapped his fingers. “Actually, I've been wanting to set some of his poems to music for ages. I was going to ask him, the last time I saw him at that club, but then things got a little crazy--”
“What happened?” asked Yanagi neutrally.
Marui frowned. “Nothing. Just a bad night out, that's all. I'm going to get some coffee. See you soon.”
We watched him saunter into the coffee house. “I hope Akaya isn't indulging in his wilder habits again,” said Yanagi.
Again, I shrugged. “It's not Marui's job to tell us. Speaking of which, your achievements and Marui's make me feel quite unaccomplished.” Story of my life thus far.
“You ought to start writing again. Non-fiction, at least, if poetry is too difficult these days. You're quite the avid diarist, aren't you?”
“That's different.”
“How so?” When I made no response, he persisted: “Or perhaps you could join the tennis club.”
“Yanagi.” If he wanted a personal pet project, that was what we kept Kirihara around for.
There is nothing I hate quite as much as being told what to do.
He backed off, we continued sipping our tea and coffee, and I watched the maple leaves fall, thinking of Yukimura's thin, thin hands, the dark circles beneath his eyes.
characters: Yagyuu, Rikkai
notes: very very AU, i.e canon as we know it did not happen. just to clear up the confusion. ok?
Genre: AU, Death Note Crossover
part iii
The maple tree outside Yanagi's favourite coffee house was shedding leaves. I watched them drift downwards, red, gold, carried by the slow wind. There was just enough of a breeze to be chilly. I would have preferred to sit inside, but Yanagi was absorbed in reading the university magazine.
“Anything interesting?” I asked. Yanagi was holding the glossy magazine so that it was propped against the edge of the table; from my position I could only see the edges of its cover art, which appeared to be an oil painting in intense primary colours. It looked like Yukimura's work.
Yanagi lay the magazine flat on the table. Not being good at reading upside-down, I could just barely, if I squinted, make out the headlines in the news section. The most prominent one said: Student wins international music competition. “A few articles. Bunta won another award. A jazz one. And there's a feature on Seiichi's latest exhibition.”
“The one that just finished? I didn't make it to that one.” I like Yukimura's paintings, but I don't go out of my way to look for them.
“No; the two of you don't get along well, do you?” Yanagi gave me a curious glance. “I've been told you were childhood friends.”
I shrugged, fingers idly pushing a cup of espresso around its saucer. “His parents and mine went to school together. We haven't been close for years. Not since junior high.”
All things that Yanagi knew already. He was constantly inquisitive, but rarely meddlesome. “Ah well, it's common for friendships to change over time. Especially childhood ones.” He turned the page. A panel in the upper left-hand corner (Yanagi's left, my right) caught my attention.
“Is that an obituary?” I asked.
Yanagi scrutinised the page. “Yes. Hijikawa Ken, the Professor of Applied Mathematics. He died of a heart attack three weeks ago.”
“The one who was a total and unmitigated arsehole?”
“Quite a few students called him that, yes. Although the magazine editors have chosen to focus on his contributions to research and 'the teaching of a generation of students.'”
“None of whom were particularly grateful, I bet.” A waitress arrived, carrying our sandwiches. Yanagi knew her, and smiled politely. “Have they found a replacement yet?”
“Not that I know of.” Yanagi's eyes suddenly flickered sideways, in distraction. I turned and saw Marui strolling towards us. His usual air of nonchalance seemed a tad exaggerated to me – the chewing motions of his mouth were too vigorous, his step a bit too springy.
Yanagi must have thought so too. “I thought you would still be at the hospital,” he said, when Marui came to a stop at our table.
“Seiichi's having a biopsy this morning. And I had class.” Marui laid his hands flat on the tabletop; his nails were painted the colour of his hairdye. Like Yukimura, he'd begun affecting long hair at university; the ubiquitous sight of their ponytails flanking Niou on either side had led the political competition to refer to them derisively as the drunken engineer and his artist women.
Yanagi congratulated him on winning the jazz competition. Marui made a little dismissive gesture with his fingers. He had graceful calloused hands, the clipped fingernails of a violin player. “I was lucky. There was a pianist there who deserved it more. I think I should be the one congratulating you, though. Word has it that you've been published in quite a few journals lately.”
Yanagi writes essays on history, very good ones, and short stories, not quite emotional enough to be compelling. “I have a long way to go before matching Akaya's record.”
“Oh yeah, the kid writes poetry, right?” Marui snapped his fingers. “Actually, I've been wanting to set some of his poems to music for ages. I was going to ask him, the last time I saw him at that club, but then things got a little crazy--”
“What happened?” asked Yanagi neutrally.
Marui frowned. “Nothing. Just a bad night out, that's all. I'm going to get some coffee. See you soon.”
We watched him saunter into the coffee house. “I hope Akaya isn't indulging in his wilder habits again,” said Yanagi.
Again, I shrugged. “It's not Marui's job to tell us. Speaking of which, your achievements and Marui's make me feel quite unaccomplished.” Story of my life thus far.
“You ought to start writing again. Non-fiction, at least, if poetry is too difficult these days. You're quite the avid diarist, aren't you?”
“That's different.”
“How so?” When I made no response, he persisted: “Or perhaps you could join the tennis club.”
“Yanagi.” If he wanted a personal pet project, that was what we kept Kirihara around for.
There is nothing I hate quite as much as being told what to do.
He backed off, we continued sipping our tea and coffee, and I watched the maple leaves fall, thinking of Yukimura's thin, thin hands, the dark circles beneath his eyes.