Chunga Excerpt

[roushi]

beep beep

There was something about artificial light that, coupled with darkness outside, made things seem less real, Youzen thought. Everything in his house almost seemed like a ghost of itself, like it would fade away if he looked away for too long. Especially the figure sprawled on his couch watching him with an almost-eerie smile on his face—Youzen was half-convinced if he took his eyes off Fugen, he'd vanish into the night.

Making eye contact with the interloper currently taking up half his couch, Youzen poured himself a full glass of clear liquor. If Fugen was this far gone then he wanted to be too, damn it, consequences be damned. The next day was his off day; he could afford to let go a little. Youzen took a sip, grimacing at the taste. It burned his throat as he swallowed.

“So,” Youzen said, setting his cup down. This felt like a shadowverse re-enactment of Fugen's last visit here. How long ago had that been? At least a month, if not more. It felt lifetimes away.

“So,” Fugen echoed, smiling. Youzen frowned at him, annoyed.

“You're at my house.”

“I am,” Fugen agreed dreamily, tilting his head to one side, still smiling. Youzen grit his teeth.

“Why are you at my house?”

Fugen's smile slipped. “I... miss Bou-chan.”

Youzen sat back a little, confused. He took another sip of his liquor, feeling the warmth pool in his stomach. “What does that have to do with me?”

Fugen's smile came back. “He was close to you... I mean... He had an interest in you. He kept saying your name when we were in Kingou. Youzen, Youzen, Youzen. He kept worrying about you...”

Youzen felt his throat tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol consumption. He glared into his glass, debating if he could make himself swallow the whole thing in one go.

“So I thought...” Fugen continued. “I thought I'd find something of him here, with you...”

The glass Youzen was looking at blurred into an abstract oval, and the breath he took in sounded suspiciously close to a sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, wiping away the tears that were threatening to spill. Breathe in, breathe out. Don't cry. Don't cry.

“...No,” Youzen said when he thought he could speak again. “I have... I have nothing.”

It hurt. It was a wound that cut into him like a wire wrapped too tight around his arm. Taikoubou had left nothing of himself behind; all Youzen had—all anyone had—to remember him by were memories. Memories that would distort and fade with time, until perhaps the person known as 'Taikoubou' would entirely cease to exist—

Youzen made a strangled noise that he hoped Fugen would be too drunk to interpret as the sound of distress it was. He picked up his glass of liquor and drained it in three large gulps, ignoring the unpleasant heat of too much alcohol all at once. Then he slammed his glass back down, refilling it, trying not to notice how his hands were shaking. Why did this happen every time Fugen appeared? Why was he doing this to Youzen? Was this some sort of punishment for something? Would he have to bear this sorrow for the rest of his life? It didn't feel like it would ever go away. It felt like an infection that was eating him alive. It felt like a death sentence.

Fugen was looking at him, that fake smile he wore gone now, wearing an expression uncomfortably close to pity. Youzen wanted to punch him suddenly, or to pick him up by his too-large shirt and throw him bodily out of his house. It wouldn't be hard. He'd carried Fugen in; the younger sennin hardly weighed a thing.

“I think,” Fugen said, his smile returning, “we are actually very much alike.”

“What?”

A churning mass of feelings boiled in Youzen's gut. He thought it might have been anger, but he wasn't sure. He didn't overly feel angry. He felt uncomfortably warm. Why had he wanted to drink again? Idiot. He was an idiot. He was a violent monster. Why was Fugen comparing them? Saying they were alike? He couldn't be more opposite the angelic sennin than if he tried. Fugen was so soft and sweet and kind he'd given Taikoubou a needle to use as a fish-hook so he wouldn't hurt the fish. Youzen had daydreams about finding Outenkun, capturing him, taking his hands and ripping him to pieces, scattering blood and viscera all over the room—

Youzen coughed as a violent wave of nausea swept over him. He pressed a shaking, clammy hand to his mouth and took three deep breaths through his nose. He was aware of Fugen watching him with concern, and he hated it. Go away, he wanted to scream. Don't look at me. I don't want to exist to you.

“...Youzen, are you okay?”

“How,” Youzen said, his breathing laboured. “How, are we alike.”

Fugen leaned forward. Youzen had the feeling Fugen wanted to reach out to him, physically, to extend an arm and put a hand on his shoulder as comfort. He was too far away to reach where Youzen sat, which was good, because if Fugen had touched him now he didn't know what he would do. What was happening to him? Was this some sort of fit? Was that really all it took to completely undo him? A long day, a glass of alcohol, an upsetting conversation? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He really was falling apart. At this rate he'd never be able to face his shishou again.

“Well,” Fugen said. He was swaying back and forth ever so slightly, like his balance was off. “It's that... We're similar. Because we both have masks...”

“...Huh?”

Caught off guard by Fugen's unexpected reply, Youzen felt his emotions momentarily settle, too confused by this new development to decide what to do next. Masks? What was he talking about? Surely he didn't mean that literally.

“Yes...” Fugen said, fingering the hem of his shirt. “My true 'self'... I only ever showed that to Bou-chan. The 'self' I let others see... That's someone different. That mask I wear...”

Youzen just stared at his guest. What... was he saying? He felt torn. Part of him wanted Fugen to keep talking, had to know what he'd say next. But another part of him, a small, scared part, wanted to scream and cry and tell Fugen stop talking, don't say it, don't say it.

“You wear one too? Youzen.”

Don't say it, don't say it.

“Your true 'self'... That's someone you've hidden, isn't it.” Fugen leaned back against the couch again, closing his eyes. “Gyokutei knew... Bou-chan seemed like he knew. Or he wanted to know. He must've seen some of it...”

Youzen swallowed hard. He felt top heavy, like his centre of balance had shifted upwards, his head a rock balanced precariously on straw limbs. Was this drunkenness? He didn't feel altered mentally. He felt so tired. He wanted to go to bed.

“I don't see how that's any of your business.”

Fugen's plastic smile was back on his face. “Well... That's true. It's not. I don't know you... Not your fake self, not your true self. I don't know 'Youzen' at all...”

Good, that tiny, scared part of Youzen thought. But another voice inside of him was wondering, how good was that, really?

“...Why are you here?”

Even leaning against the couch, Fugen's head lolled from side to side, as if some invisible force was tugging him back and forth. Youzen wondered if he ought to be concerned, but his first-hand experiences with alcohol were too limited to draw any sort of conclusion.

“I...” Fugen said. “We have both lost... that person. It's tiring... having no one I can show that true self to... I am very tired.”

Youzen took another sip of liquor, feeling rather petulant. He was tired too. Fugen should go to bed and leave him alone so he could go to bed. Happy ending.

“So I thought...” Fugen laughed. “If we were both lacking that person... Perhaps we could become that person for each other.”

Youzen raised his eyebrows. That... He didn't know how to feel about that. Hadn't he wanted someone like that? Wasn't Fugen right, with all this talk about masks and true selves? But Gods, that rankled, having a complete stranger make him cry on two separate occasions and then decide he knew everything about him. And he still didn't know anything about Fugen. What was he supposed to do, just start spilling all his secrets and fears like it was nothing? No way. Absolutely not.

“What a foolish thought...” Fugen murmured. Youzen looked up at him, surprised, and saw that he was crying.

“...Fugen?”

The blue-haired sennin let out a sob. “We can't replace... It's not... replaceable. Bou-chan...” He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Youzen felt a pang in his heart. He stood up, carefully, standing still for a moment while his body struggled to find its balance. Then he crossed the small distance to his couch, sitting down next to Fugen. Awkwardly Youzen put his arm around Fugen. The younger sennin leaned against him. Youzen felt his body shaking as he cried.

“I'm sorry,” Youzen said, even though he wasn't really sure what he was apologising for.

“No, I should be...” Fugen said, voice muffled. “What was I thinking, showing up here like this...”

“It's okay,” said Youzen, and was surprised to find that he meant it. “Um. You can sleep on my couch tonight.”

Fugen wiped at his face with one of his sleeves. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Thank you.”

Youzen nodded, then stood up. “I'll get you a blanket.”

Fugen nodded, but didn't move, hunched over with his face in his hands. Youzen felt that same pang in his chest again. Of course Fugen was hurting too—hurting more than Youzen, probably. He'd known Taikoubou longer and suffered worse in the Sennin War. Where had he put his spare blankets? He'd shuffled things around in his search for Koutenken the other day. He remembered seeing a spare set, but if they were from his and Shishou's old house they needed to be washed before they were used.

Poking around in his closet, Youzen could not immediately locate anything useable as a blanket, so he settled for the next-best thing, which was ripping the top blanket off his own bed. He still had his top sheet, and he was still feeling awfully warm, so he'd be fine. Bundling the fabric up in his arms, he headed back out to Fugen.

He was slumped against the arm of Youzen's couch, all folded in upon himself. For a second Youzen thought he might already be asleep, but he stirred as Youzen approached.

“Here,” Youzen said, draping the blanket over Fugen, who made feeble attempts to help. Satisfied that his guest was tucked in properly, Youzen went to turn out the lights.

“Youzen...”

“Yes?”

The top half of Fugen's head peeked out from under the blanket. “Thank you.”

Youzen gave him a tired smile. “Of course. Sleep well.”

Fugen closed his eyes, and Youzen turned out the light.