a̶k̶u̶t̶s̶u̶ fujimaru (阿久津藤丸) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
afflictive) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fictionalized2014-02-28 11:11 pm
afflictive) wrote in fictionalized2014-02-28 11:11 pm
fanfic; first step
Title: First Step
Series: Snow White and Seven Dwarfs
Character(s): Fujimaru, mentions of others.
Warnings: ... Again, spoilers for the series to the concern of approximately zero people...??
Summary: Life lessons that Fujimaru has learned.
—
First Step
—
It's amazing, how much a human can get used to.
There are the small things. Fujimaru has gotten used to the needles and cables attached to his skin, to the electric signals they sent to his head, to the medication that they inject to him. He's gotten used to the sensation of feeling nothing in his right arm to a burning pain, to the blood that stains his cast. He's gotten used to choking on his own blood and curling up into a corner until the pain finally dulls.
Then there are the bigger things. Fujimaru has gotten used to the examining smile of that woman as she watches from the other side of the glass, to the doctors' mocking remarks and passive looks, as if what they're seeing is an object rather than a human. He's gotten used to that in itself: no longer being a person but being a subject.
(He stopped being a person the day he was sold. It simply took a bit longer before he accepted this fact.)
Somewhere along the line, he runs out of tears—which makes it something of a surprise when the boy (man?) in the bed next to him seems to never stop crying. Ken Kenneth, despite being several years older and significantly larger, is constantly crying or afraid of one thing or another, and in all honesty, Fujimaru can't understand it.
He starts to understand when Ken offers to help him escape. Not for himself, of course—Ken wanted to be here, for whatever reasons—and it's clear the gesture is nothing more than an act of sympathy, given that Ken likely has no idea how he would go about doing such a thing. Fujimaru would decline for that reason alone, because another one of the many things he's learned is to not cling to ambiguous hope like that (not when he's already been disappointed). More than that, though, he declines because that is the difference between him and Ken.
Ken still feels. He hopes and he hurts.
Little by little, as Fujimaru grows used to this world within the laboratory, he stops feeling. It's how he retains his sanity; it's why the doctors no longer bother to restrain him to the table. After all, there's no reason to fear escape from someone who knows that there is nothing worth escaping for—not when it was the outside that cast him away and abandoned him here in the first place.
When Ken offers, Fujimaru declines because unlike Ken, he no longer hopes and he no longer hurts.
(And if he could wish for one thing, it would be that one day, he stops feeling altogether, because that will be the day that all the pain ends for good.)
Fujimaru is six years old and the first thing he has learned is to give up on the world.
The world breaks, and Fujimaru is surprisingly apathetic about it.
Around him, the doctors chatter in shocked voices, though he drowns them out until he only hears Ken's voice, speaking to him, offering to help him search for his old friends and family.
(Family?)
A flash of resentment reminds him that he still feels, even as he gazes at the destruction like it's entirely normal, compared to the others' astonishment. Granted, what he remembers of the outside world is very little, and while he recalls enough to know that it looked nothing like this, he has no attachment to the image in his memories. Neither does he have any attachment to the people of the city—no friends or family, as he tells Ken.
At least none of the doctors are grabbing onto him anymore, he thinks. They tried to stop him from escaping when he ran up here, which is an idea that's almost funny to him, because he wasn't even trying to escape; he just wanted to see what was going on when the shockwave occurred.
Perhaps this isn't what he was expecting, whatever happened (though he has no doubt that the old hag might've had a hand), but in the end, he supposes that it doesn't really matter. That said, it's fitting, in a way, that this be his first taste of the world beyond the laboratory walls in eight, long years.
After all, though the Tokyo in Fujimaru's memories may not have been torn apart like the one that stands before him now, both are equally bleak to him. And briefly, a small, vindictive part of him hopes that his mother died, though ultimately, he finds it hard to care.
Fujimaru knows that things are going to change from here, what with the old hag talking about saving the people and how he'll be a part of it. He doesn't know whether he should be apprehensive or not, whether this should stab through the walls of indifference he's built for himself. Surely, it doesn't matter either way. Not when he's stopped caring, and when one stops caring, it can't get any better or get any worse.
(He'll find that it can, in fact, get much worse, though for now, he lives in his oblivion.)
Fujimaru is fourteen years old and he has learned that there is still nothing in the world worth believing in.
Freedom is a quiet, subdued experience, but Fujimaru cherishes it all the same.
He sits alone in a near empty nook, cornered between two buildings. It's his private workstation, silent save for the whirring of the machines and the people passing by a distance away. Aside from a small handful of people, no one approaches him. At best, they stand far enough that he can hear them talking, but not what they're talking about.
He can take a guess, though. He knows most of the rumours surrounding him. He knows of the distrust, the uncertainty, the condescension. And he doesn't blame the people for any of those things, for certainly, if he were in their shoes, he wouldn't think very highly of himself either.
As with many things, he can brush off the animosity easily enough. Still, if he had to be completely honest, he prefers to not have to hear any of it (the reminder that he's not quite welcome here), even if it makes him a coward, and so he stays in his quiet corner. Focusing on his work—rebuilding this broken city—is simple enough for him, despite his headaches and lack of his dominant arm.
But as always, there are certain individuals who refuse to leave him alone.
It's almost always Ken, Takeru, or Shirayuki (or, for double the headache, a combination of the above) who come to pull him away from his work, insisting that he take a break or remind him that it's time to eat. He'll point out that he still has work to finish, and they'll ignore him and drag him away regardless. In all likelihood, they're the reason he hasn't collapsed yet from exhaustion, between all the work to be done and his frequent inability to sleep.
What he'll never admit—though they likely already know—is that he appreciates it. It's not that he doesn't already know that they care, given that Ken's been looking out for him for the last ten years and that Takeru and Shirayuki never gave up on him, but the reminder is welcome. It's the reminder that, after years of feeling like an outsider and in a present where he doesn't expect forgiveness, he belongs in this world—in this world that threw him away once, and he wasn't sure if it would ever take him back.
(He still doesn't know what happened to his mother, and truth be told, he doesn't care, because he has something better now.)
And while, perhaps, he might only have a foot in the door—with every thanks he gets for his work, with every district that regains electricity, he feels like he gets a bit further in. It might take months; it might take years. For all he knows, it'll take the rest of his life, but he's willing to work for however long he has to, as for the first time in his life, he feels like what he does has meaning. Perhaps it'll never be quite enough to make up for what he's done—for his decision to give up on everything—but he knows that every action he makes does, at least, have some sort of impact. That what he does is, if nothing else, helping the people of this city that he previously helped to ruin.
To Fujimaru, this is the freedom that he once didn't dare to hope for.
(He never thought he would be, but now, he's glad that he never truly stopped feeling.)
Fujimaru is sixteen years old, and of all the things he has learned in his life, this is the most important one: to have faith in the world.
Series: Snow White and Seven Dwarfs
Character(s): Fujimaru, mentions of others.
Warnings: ... Again, spoilers for the series to the concern of approximately zero people...??
Summary: Life lessons that Fujimaru has learned.
"Take this off. I'm not gonna escape."
There are the small things. Fujimaru has gotten used to the needles and cables attached to his skin, to the electric signals they sent to his head, to the medication that they inject to him. He's gotten used to the sensation of feeling nothing in his right arm to a burning pain, to the blood that stains his cast. He's gotten used to choking on his own blood and curling up into a corner until the pain finally dulls.
Then there are the bigger things. Fujimaru has gotten used to the examining smile of that woman as she watches from the other side of the glass, to the doctors' mocking remarks and passive looks, as if what they're seeing is an object rather than a human. He's gotten used to that in itself: no longer being a person but being a subject.
(He stopped being a person the day he was sold. It simply took a bit longer before he accepted this fact.)
Somewhere along the line, he runs out of tears—which makes it something of a surprise when the boy (man?) in the bed next to him seems to never stop crying. Ken Kenneth, despite being several years older and significantly larger, is constantly crying or afraid of one thing or another, and in all honesty, Fujimaru can't understand it.
He starts to understand when Ken offers to help him escape. Not for himself, of course—Ken wanted to be here, for whatever reasons—and it's clear the gesture is nothing more than an act of sympathy, given that Ken likely has no idea how he would go about doing such a thing. Fujimaru would decline for that reason alone, because another one of the many things he's learned is to not cling to ambiguous hope like that (not when he's already been disappointed). More than that, though, he declines because that is the difference between him and Ken.
Ken still feels. He hopes and he hurts.
Little by little, as Fujimaru grows used to this world within the laboratory, he stops feeling. It's how he retains his sanity; it's why the doctors no longer bother to restrain him to the table. After all, there's no reason to fear escape from someone who knows that there is nothing worth escaping for—not when it was the outside that cast him away and abandoned him here in the first place.
When Ken offers, Fujimaru declines because unlike Ken, he no longer hopes and he no longer hurts.
(And if he could wish for one thing, it would be that one day, he stops feeling altogether, because that will be the day that all the pain ends for good.)
Fujimaru is six years old and the first thing he has learned is to give up on the world.
"I don't have anyone like that. And from here on out, I don't need any either."
Around him, the doctors chatter in shocked voices, though he drowns them out until he only hears Ken's voice, speaking to him, offering to help him search for his old friends and family.
(Family?)
A flash of resentment reminds him that he still feels, even as he gazes at the destruction like it's entirely normal, compared to the others' astonishment. Granted, what he remembers of the outside world is very little, and while he recalls enough to know that it looked nothing like this, he has no attachment to the image in his memories. Neither does he have any attachment to the people of the city—no friends or family, as he tells Ken.
At least none of the doctors are grabbing onto him anymore, he thinks. They tried to stop him from escaping when he ran up here, which is an idea that's almost funny to him, because he wasn't even trying to escape; he just wanted to see what was going on when the shockwave occurred.
Perhaps this isn't what he was expecting, whatever happened (though he has no doubt that the old hag might've had a hand), but in the end, he supposes that it doesn't really matter. That said, it's fitting, in a way, that this be his first taste of the world beyond the laboratory walls in eight, long years.
After all, though the Tokyo in Fujimaru's memories may not have been torn apart like the one that stands before him now, both are equally bleak to him. And briefly, a small, vindictive part of him hopes that his mother died, though ultimately, he finds it hard to care.
Fujimaru knows that things are going to change from here, what with the old hag talking about saving the people and how he'll be a part of it. He doesn't know whether he should be apprehensive or not, whether this should stab through the walls of indifference he's built for himself. Surely, it doesn't matter either way. Not when he's stopped caring, and when one stops caring, it can't get any better or get any worse.
(He'll find that it can, in fact, get much worse, though for now, he lives in his oblivion.)
Fujimaru is fourteen years old and he has learned that there is still nothing in the world worth believing in.
"Fujimaru, I will win. I'll win, and so will you."
He sits alone in a near empty nook, cornered between two buildings. It's his private workstation, silent save for the whirring of the machines and the people passing by a distance away. Aside from a small handful of people, no one approaches him. At best, they stand far enough that he can hear them talking, but not what they're talking about.
He can take a guess, though. He knows most of the rumours surrounding him. He knows of the distrust, the uncertainty, the condescension. And he doesn't blame the people for any of those things, for certainly, if he were in their shoes, he wouldn't think very highly of himself either.
As with many things, he can brush off the animosity easily enough. Still, if he had to be completely honest, he prefers to not have to hear any of it (the reminder that he's not quite welcome here), even if it makes him a coward, and so he stays in his quiet corner. Focusing on his work—rebuilding this broken city—is simple enough for him, despite his headaches and lack of his dominant arm.
But as always, there are certain individuals who refuse to leave him alone.
It's almost always Ken, Takeru, or Shirayuki (or, for double the headache, a combination of the above) who come to pull him away from his work, insisting that he take a break or remind him that it's time to eat. He'll point out that he still has work to finish, and they'll ignore him and drag him away regardless. In all likelihood, they're the reason he hasn't collapsed yet from exhaustion, between all the work to be done and his frequent inability to sleep.
What he'll never admit—though they likely already know—is that he appreciates it. It's not that he doesn't already know that they care, given that Ken's been looking out for him for the last ten years and that Takeru and Shirayuki never gave up on him, but the reminder is welcome. It's the reminder that, after years of feeling like an outsider and in a present where he doesn't expect forgiveness, he belongs in this world—in this world that threw him away once, and he wasn't sure if it would ever take him back.
(He still doesn't know what happened to his mother, and truth be told, he doesn't care, because he has something better now.)
And while, perhaps, he might only have a foot in the door—with every thanks he gets for his work, with every district that regains electricity, he feels like he gets a bit further in. It might take months; it might take years. For all he knows, it'll take the rest of his life, but he's willing to work for however long he has to, as for the first time in his life, he feels like what he does has meaning. Perhaps it'll never be quite enough to make up for what he's done—for his decision to give up on everything—but he knows that every action he makes does, at least, have some sort of impact. That what he does is, if nothing else, helping the people of this city that he previously helped to ruin.
To Fujimaru, this is the freedom that he once didn't dare to hope for.
(He never thought he would be, but now, he's glad that he never truly stopped feeling.)
Fujimaru is sixteen years old, and of all the things he has learned in his life, this is the most important one: to have faith in the world.