a̶k̶u̶t̶s̶u̶ fujimaru (阿久津藤丸) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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fictionalized2014-01-19 01:21 am
afflictive) wrote in fictionalized2014-01-19 01:21 am
fanfic; outsider
Title: Outsider
Series: Snow White and Seven Dwarfs
Character(s): Fujimaru, Ken.
Warnings: ... Spoilers for the series...??
Summary: Every child has a time where they move on from their fantasy worlds that only they can see. For Fujimaru, that time came a little late, but it did come.
—
Outsider
—
It hadn't been that long since Fujimaru left, and it'd never been home to begin with—but it felt like it'd been years since the last time he'd been in Hachiouji.
Ken had decided that it wasn't safe for him to go back alone: a decision that Fujimaru hadn't protested. Though Makoto had forgiven him, the pardon of one teenage boy was hardly equal to that of a district's population, and while the people's anger did nothing against the city government, it could certainly do plenty to a boy who didn't know if he was ready to face it.
If nothing else, he just didn't want to have to hurt any of them again.
With that, Ken had accompanied him back to the Hachiouji headquarters that were mostly deserted—the work there was no longer needed, after all, and hopefully it never would be. It was for the best as well; with personnel no longer there, the people of Hachiouji had apparently taken it upon themselves to decorate the place with messages they'd kept to themselves over the last two years.
(In other words, the building was a wreck. Fujimaru couldn't say he was sorry to see that.)
One part was left in tact, however, presumably due to the fact that nobody could figure out how to enter and it likely hadn't been worth breaking into. Fingers easily moving over the buttons, Fujimaru pressed the password sequence, before the door to his room opened.
It was a mess, just as he'd left it. Various things were scattered across the floor and tables: boxes, spare parts, computers, wires, appliances, and toys. Some of the latter were vehicles (a few of which were broken when he'd found them and fixed), while others were simpler things, like the tennis ball that he kicked out of his way as he walked, or the stuffed dinosaur that he remembered fishing out of the ruins of a building.
It was a mess, but it was his mess—the closest thing he had a place to call his own.
Or at least it had been, once.
Making his way to his bed, he sat down, glancing at the items spread across: namely, the airplane he'd been fixing before the entire mess with Shakudou began but never finished. Gently, he picked it up with his left hand (his left—not his now useless right), looking it over, before he placed it down on his lap. Picking up the tools still lying on his bed, he slowly began to fiddle with the plane.
He didn't ask how it was doing.
He didn't ask if what he was doing hurt.
He wanted to, but he couldn't.
Instead, he ignored his worsening headache and smiled softly down at the plane—a companion over the last few years, like most of the things in the room. Once, he'd spoken with them regularly, even if mostly over maintenance and other such related issues. Machinery weren't much for idle talk, though Fujimaru had never minded this as neither was he. Ken had been occupied with his own district, and to his subordinates in Hachiouji, he'd only ever been "Chief Fujimaru" at best and "the tekigousha" at worst (as if that alone defined everything he was—but in the end, they weren't really wrong).
He didn't care for 'people'. Not when people had betrayed him, treated him as nothing more than an object, nearly killed him on repeated occasions for the sake of a science that had only destroyed everything it touched.
But—these were different. They were simple, straightforward, and never possessing ulterior motives. This was a world that was quiet and peaceful, and if there was one thing Fujimaru had wished for over the last ten years, it was to not have to fight anymore.
(And, to be entirely honest, he'd needed someone beyond Ken or else even he'd have likely gone mad from the isolation—)
It was a world that only he could touch, in which he was comforted.
It was a world in which he was now an outsider.
"... Sorry," Fujimaru said to the plane as he remade its engine for the hundred and third time. "You're probably saying something now, aren't you? But... I can't hear anything anymore."
Nothing but the ringing inside his head—his headache the only remnant of his power. He knew the poison still ran through him, as it always would, but the root of everything was now gone.
Once, he'd been able to hear things that no one else could.
Now, everything was painfully silent.
"... Sorry..."
His headache flaring up, he stopped what he was doing to press a hand against his forehead, waiting for the pain to fade.
(Sorry. I don't mean to ignore you, but—)
"—Fujimaru?"
The intercom came to life—Fujimaru was half-surprised it still worked—as Ken's voice came through.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Go ahead." Normally, he didn't like others entering his room, but as usual, Ken was the exception. A few moments passed, before the man entered the room, glancing around at the mess. He then looked at Fujimaru—sitting on the bed, with a plane that he could no longer communicate with in his lap.
Fujimaru's expression was unreadable (or at least he hoped it was, even if Ken was the one person he'd be willing to show any sort of vulnerability to), while Ken's was one of stoic worry. It wasn't the first time Fujimaru had seen that face on him (let alone directed towards him), and he knew it wasn't going to be the last.
There were too many things to be worried over—even if they were adopting Shakudou's policy of braving the future—even if, among those, Fujimaru's state wasn't one of them. He knew he was never going to regain use of his arm again, and as annoying as they may be, he didn't think his headaches were going to leave him, making them something he was going to have to get used to.
Ken was a bit of a worrywart, though. He'd always been, Fujimaru knew, and he supposed it was better for him to be constant than suddenly change.
"... Is it lonely?" Ken asked.
(Ken was also the one person who understand him better than anyone else.)
Fujimaru let out a light scoff. "Who's got time to be lonely?"
"Even if you pretend otherwise—"
"Ken," Fujimaru interrupted, looking at his old friend in the eye. "Even if it's lonely, it doesn't matter. I knew that victory was going to come with its prices. This was the sacrifice I chose to make."
To do his part, to protect the world, to defeat the nightmare that he'd been living in for the last ten years—the loss of a part of whom he used to be was a small price to pay for that.
(Because once, being a tekigousha defined all that he was; now, he'd like to think that he could create a new identity for himself.)
Ken was right—it was lonely. Like cutting off all ties with a friend, he knew he'd given up something that he was never going to get back. A bridge burned; a voice lost. It must be painful for them, he knew, for him to suddenly no longer be able to hear them. Perhaps it was cruel of him to return like this, though he'd thought that it'd be more cruel to simply disappear without a word.
(Sorry. I don't mean to ignore you, but—your voice won't reach me anymore.)
And it hurt on his end as well, with a part of him not having even wanted to return. But more than that, he didn't want to run away anymore. He put an end to that a long time ago.
He found closure there, and now he just needed to find it here.
Placing the plane by his side, he stood up.
"Come on. Let's go."
Ken looked around again. "You're not taking anything with you?"
"You know there's too much work to do," Fujimaru replied, shaking his head. "... Later. I didn't come back to bring anything with me. I just wanted to let them know that I'm okay."
Because he was, as much as it hurt. The world was changing more quickly he knew how to handle it, but he knew that he was happier than he'd ever been. He could smile now—and as Shakudou was always saying, that meant he could keep going on. It was sad to think of, knowing that that meant leaving behind this world—that the price of his freedom was cutting these ties—but there was nothing more about it to be done.
Following Ken out the door, Fujimaru turned one last time to look at his room—at his belongings scattered around, his old companions.
He wasn't going to leave them there forever, he knew, but things were never going to be the same.
"... See you."
He was moving on with his life.
Series: Snow White and Seven Dwarfs
Character(s): Fujimaru, Ken.
Warnings: ... Spoilers for the series...??
Summary: Every child has a time where they move on from their fantasy worlds that only they can see. For Fujimaru, that time came a little late, but it did come.
It hadn't been that long since Fujimaru left, and it'd never been home to begin with—but it felt like it'd been years since the last time he'd been in Hachiouji.
Ken had decided that it wasn't safe for him to go back alone: a decision that Fujimaru hadn't protested. Though Makoto had forgiven him, the pardon of one teenage boy was hardly equal to that of a district's population, and while the people's anger did nothing against the city government, it could certainly do plenty to a boy who didn't know if he was ready to face it.
If nothing else, he just didn't want to have to hurt any of them again.
With that, Ken had accompanied him back to the Hachiouji headquarters that were mostly deserted—the work there was no longer needed, after all, and hopefully it never would be. It was for the best as well; with personnel no longer there, the people of Hachiouji had apparently taken it upon themselves to decorate the place with messages they'd kept to themselves over the last two years.
(In other words, the building was a wreck. Fujimaru couldn't say he was sorry to see that.)
One part was left in tact, however, presumably due to the fact that nobody could figure out how to enter and it likely hadn't been worth breaking into. Fingers easily moving over the buttons, Fujimaru pressed the password sequence, before the door to his room opened.
It was a mess, just as he'd left it. Various things were scattered across the floor and tables: boxes, spare parts, computers, wires, appliances, and toys. Some of the latter were vehicles (a few of which were broken when he'd found them and fixed), while others were simpler things, like the tennis ball that he kicked out of his way as he walked, or the stuffed dinosaur that he remembered fishing out of the ruins of a building.
It was a mess, but it was his mess—the closest thing he had a place to call his own.
Or at least it had been, once.
Making his way to his bed, he sat down, glancing at the items spread across: namely, the airplane he'd been fixing before the entire mess with Shakudou began but never finished. Gently, he picked it up with his left hand (his left—not his now useless right), looking it over, before he placed it down on his lap. Picking up the tools still lying on his bed, he slowly began to fiddle with the plane.
He didn't ask how it was doing.
He didn't ask if what he was doing hurt.
He wanted to, but he couldn't.
Instead, he ignored his worsening headache and smiled softly down at the plane—a companion over the last few years, like most of the things in the room. Once, he'd spoken with them regularly, even if mostly over maintenance and other such related issues. Machinery weren't much for idle talk, though Fujimaru had never minded this as neither was he. Ken had been occupied with his own district, and to his subordinates in Hachiouji, he'd only ever been "Chief Fujimaru" at best and "the tekigousha" at worst (as if that alone defined everything he was—but in the end, they weren't really wrong).
He didn't care for 'people'. Not when people had betrayed him, treated him as nothing more than an object, nearly killed him on repeated occasions for the sake of a science that had only destroyed everything it touched.
But—these were different. They were simple, straightforward, and never possessing ulterior motives. This was a world that was quiet and peaceful, and if there was one thing Fujimaru had wished for over the last ten years, it was to not have to fight anymore.
(And, to be entirely honest, he'd needed someone beyond Ken or else even he'd have likely gone mad from the isolation—)
It was a world that only he could touch, in which he was comforted.
It was a world in which he was now an outsider.
"... Sorry," Fujimaru said to the plane as he remade its engine for the hundred and third time. "You're probably saying something now, aren't you? But... I can't hear anything anymore."
Nothing but the ringing inside his head—his headache the only remnant of his power. He knew the poison still ran through him, as it always would, but the root of everything was now gone.
Once, he'd been able to hear things that no one else could.
Now, everything was painfully silent.
"... Sorry..."
His headache flaring up, he stopped what he was doing to press a hand against his forehead, waiting for the pain to fade.
(Sorry. I don't mean to ignore you, but—)
"—Fujimaru?"
The intercom came to life—Fujimaru was half-surprised it still worked—as Ken's voice came through.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Go ahead." Normally, he didn't like others entering his room, but as usual, Ken was the exception. A few moments passed, before the man entered the room, glancing around at the mess. He then looked at Fujimaru—sitting on the bed, with a plane that he could no longer communicate with in his lap.
Fujimaru's expression was unreadable (or at least he hoped it was, even if Ken was the one person he'd be willing to show any sort of vulnerability to), while Ken's was one of stoic worry. It wasn't the first time Fujimaru had seen that face on him (let alone directed towards him), and he knew it wasn't going to be the last.
There were too many things to be worried over—even if they were adopting Shakudou's policy of braving the future—even if, among those, Fujimaru's state wasn't one of them. He knew he was never going to regain use of his arm again, and as annoying as they may be, he didn't think his headaches were going to leave him, making them something he was going to have to get used to.
Ken was a bit of a worrywart, though. He'd always been, Fujimaru knew, and he supposed it was better for him to be constant than suddenly change.
"... Is it lonely?" Ken asked.
(Ken was also the one person who understand him better than anyone else.)
Fujimaru let out a light scoff. "Who's got time to be lonely?"
"Even if you pretend otherwise—"
"Ken," Fujimaru interrupted, looking at his old friend in the eye. "Even if it's lonely, it doesn't matter. I knew that victory was going to come with its prices. This was the sacrifice I chose to make."
To do his part, to protect the world, to defeat the nightmare that he'd been living in for the last ten years—the loss of a part of whom he used to be was a small price to pay for that.
(Because once, being a tekigousha defined all that he was; now, he'd like to think that he could create a new identity for himself.)
Ken was right—it was lonely. Like cutting off all ties with a friend, he knew he'd given up something that he was never going to get back. A bridge burned; a voice lost. It must be painful for them, he knew, for him to suddenly no longer be able to hear them. Perhaps it was cruel of him to return like this, though he'd thought that it'd be more cruel to simply disappear without a word.
(Sorry. I don't mean to ignore you, but—your voice won't reach me anymore.)
And it hurt on his end as well, with a part of him not having even wanted to return. But more than that, he didn't want to run away anymore. He put an end to that a long time ago.
He found closure there, and now he just needed to find it here.
Placing the plane by his side, he stood up.
"Come on. Let's go."
Ken looked around again. "You're not taking anything with you?"
"You know there's too much work to do," Fujimaru replied, shaking his head. "... Later. I didn't come back to bring anything with me. I just wanted to let them know that I'm okay."
Because he was, as much as it hurt. The world was changing more quickly he knew how to handle it, but he knew that he was happier than he'd ever been. He could smile now—and as Shakudou was always saying, that meant he could keep going on. It was sad to think of, knowing that that meant leaving behind this world—that the price of his freedom was cutting these ties—but there was nothing more about it to be done.
Following Ken out the door, Fujimaru turned one last time to look at his room—at his belongings scattered around, his old companions.
He wasn't going to leave them there forever, he knew, but things were never going to be the same.
"... See you."
He was moving on with his life.