[ burning mushrooms. ]
(( a lot of things happened to Takumi during TRG.
I'm still writing out the wiki page of the results of W11 on Takumi slowly, but for the time being, I want to stop crying IRL just because the muse is wrecked over the GM (among a lot of other things).
so I wrote a (really rough and unpolished feels dump-y) 1277-word thing. feel free to inquire, trg folks, if you don't understand anything :'D ))
--
things to know before reading: Takumi uses a lotalotalot of nicknames for people, so this might be confusing; thus here is the list of nicknames and names used within this feels dump. Kurenai: Ethan. The GM of Week 11. Matsuba: Daichi. Ex-Player. Lives with Takumi post-week. Oniisama: V. Shibuya's Conductor. Has been, literally, like an older brother for Takumi. (A better one than their biological one ever was.) Ohimesama: Himesaki Chiyo. Harajuku's Composer. Offered Takumi the Reaper position. Rui: Takumi's charismatic and positive partner from their game in Harajuku two years ago. Asked Takumi to erase him in order for Takumi to be offered Reapership. Ruri-kun: Naota. Takumi sees a lot of the same qualities in Naota that they saw in Rui, thus the similar nickname. They regret not getting to know Naota for who he was, and this fantasy relationship reminds them of how Ethan and Akemi's was.
--
Some few nights after the seventh day of their first Game in Shibuya --
Takumi shoves a pile of clothes off the lone table. The laptop hibernates on the bed instead, and they fetch art supplies from the cupboard, where boxes and bags of food and ingredients for meals have slowly begun to accumulate next to the bottles and tubes of paint.
It's late, so Matsuba has already gone to sleep on the futon, snoozing away quietly -- so it's the perfect time to sit down and paint. They haven't done so since early on in the week.
Sitting down at the desk, various tubes of paint on the side, as well as a palette and a cup with water, they take their canvas pencil in their hand, idly sketching out a human figure; they're not sure where the inspiration will take them yet, so they follow the passion, the subconscious desire.
Art is an expression of the soul. A created representation of what's inside a person deep down -- another way of revealing the truth of their inner self.
Takumi's soul has never stropped grieving.
-- over many, many things, even if they remained numb to it until recently.
It shouldn't be too much of a surprise, then, that their resulting forty-five minute sketch depicted someone they have grieved over.
However, it still surprises them, from the objective standpoint, when they look critically at the sketch.
It's a single man, from the waist up, since nothing else would fit on the canvas.
-- One side of the man's face, dressed in armor, holds a certain false expression -- smiling, determined, yet there are tears forming -- holding a sword pointing up in his raised hand.
-- The other half, a dark wing extending from his back -- with some stripes and markings across his skin -- his smile is sneering and his hand extends into a claw.
All around the draconic side, the world behind is full of hastily-scribbled trees, mushrooms, bushes, birds, sunny skies and even sparkles; around the side with the false grin, skyscrapers and buildings tower, all aflame and breaking down, clouds of smoke covering the skies, ash in the air.
...
Takumi takes a moment, temporarily caught up in small mistakes, to realize what their subconsciousness was playing at with this sketch. It's the anatomical problems that caught them first, the small details that are less likely to be noticed by others.
But it's the likeness of the man that they soon realize next.
-- Kurenai.
The previous week's Game Master.
It hits them hard, launching them back from objectivity into grief.
That man had gone through a very similar situation to Takumi. Maybe they'll never know the details, fully, now that they can't ask, but--
-- they know how it feels. Everything the Players heard, Takumi understood.
Being replaced -- being inferior to another. The resulting unnecessary status in the family. Turning to something intangible to escape the pain. Not even something of value to their families -- Kurenai died in a house fire. No one cared. -- Takumi jumped off their apartment building. No one cared.
Perhaps the greatest reason that, upon realizing who they'd sketched, they'd started tearing up themselves...
... was that Kurenai never got the chance to be happy.
If Takumi had never overheard Kurenai speaking to the players, they wouldn't have realized that Shibuya's Game is about changing. Takumi wouldn't have wanted to adapt or change at all. None of what happened the past week would've happened for them -- not Matsuba moving in, not spending time with Ruri-kun, not bonding with the other Players, regaining the ability to feel emotions, losing the leftover numb state from Harajuku...
... if Takumi owes to Rui their existence, owes to ohimesama their survival, owes to Kei-sama their chance to thrive, then...
... they owe to Kurenai the realization on how to thrive.
And it hurts, a lot, knowing they'll never be able to tell him that. Tell him that one single action of his changed Takumi's entire perspective, situation, everything. Knowing that they'll never be able to explain to him just how well they understood what he'd gone through. They'll never be able to give him the kind of hug Takumi knew they always wanted their whole life. That he won't be inferior to anyone, not as far as Takumi is concerned.
They tried to help him realize it, but did it work? They don't know for sure. Does he rest in peace, at last? They don't know for sure.
Takumi is lucky that it's one in the morning, that they've already wiped off all their makeup and taken out their contacts, that Matsuba is sleeping and can't ask why they're crying.
Even if the tears starting to silently fall are genuine grief and sorrow, even if they don't know if Kurenai accepted everything at the very end, even if they don't know if they were able to help the man in some way...
... even if oniisama is right and Kurenai is watching them all, somehow --
-- they need to do this. They need to pay their respects to the primary catalyst in the reviving of their ability to feel. They need to paint this picture, to write a song, to give Kurenai, if he is out there, the knowledge that, even if no one else will remember him, Takumi will.
So...
They raise the cup of unused water, for only a moment, to their face, allowing a teardrop from each side of their face to slip into the water. Their grief will be within the painting, even physically.
(... isn't this the first time they've cried for someone's erasure since Rui?)
Once that's been done, they squeeze paint from the tubes onto the palette. A deep tan color is mixed -- Kurenai had a nice tone to his skin. A soft bluish grey -- a nice pastel for his hair color. A yellowish white, with a hint of pink -- the whites of his tearing eyes. A deep, reddish gray-black, for his shirt, and for the draconic, fantastical side of him. And finally, the bright, vibrant red of his eyes.
Raising the brush for the base coat only to dip it into the water, they tap off excess water back into the cup, before the bristles hold some of that deep tan and begin painting onto the sketch.
...
Six hours later, some intermittent breaks taken to let the paint dry, the last important detail and finishing touches have been applied. The mushrooms and flowers in the trees glow on the fantasy's half, as does the fire consuming crumbling buildings on the reality's half.
Takumi's dried tears haven't fallen for half an hour, but they slip back out of the inspiration and the silent crying begins anew.
... But even if the weight hasn't lifted, a smile touches their face as the wetness slips down their face.
At least now -- there will be other people to see Kurenai. Remember him. Anyone who looks at the canvas painting will be able to know that, once --
That once upon a time, there was a man who suffered. That he turned to fantasy to escape his suffering. In the end, that fantasy was his worst enemy. That fantasy kept him from suffering and happiness alike. And even though he suffered alone -- -- he doesn't suffer anymore.
...
At the very least, he doesn't suffer anymore.
Takumi leaves the painting to dry, and goes to wash their face free of tear-stains from the past seven hours and curl up on the other side of the futon.
They dream of burning mushrooms and forests, and of tall buildings under bright, sunny skies.
