Art/Fic Trade
My half of the art/fic trade with @yanagisawa. At almost 2,500 words, this got way out of hand. I apologize for this monster.
The room was silent but for the sound of chalk hitting the chalkboard, the furious tap-tap-tap intensifying as Yanagisawa’s hand flew across the board. He had abandoned his calculator long before, relying instead upon his impeccable mental calculations. As fast as his wrist moved, scribbling line upon line of mathematical jargon, his mind whirled even faster, almost too fast for his hands to keep up. With a maniacal glint to his eyes and dark circles underneath them, his hair messy and unkempt, a rough layer of stubble graying his chin, he looked every part the mad scientist.
This time, for sure!
Suddenly, his brain ground to a halt. His hand stilled, hovering just above the chalkboard’s surface.
No, that formula...it wouldn’t work there.
He wracked his brain for an alternative, sure there must be one. He’d come so far, after all, certainly there was something! He gripped the chalk harder, nearly snapping it in two. He was on the right track, he knew he was, so what was he missing?
Seconds stretched into minutes, yet his brilliant brain offered no solution to the problem.
In desperation, Yanagisawa flung the chalk from him, a high-pitched tink! sounding from where it met the wall. Angrily, he shoved the chalkboard away from him, the loud crash of it falling backward reverberating throughout the tiny room.
Yanagisawa collapsed to the floor, his head in his hands, as if with his hands he could draw from his addled brain the answers he sought.
In despair, he looked up at the calendar above his desk. It was March ninth.
He was running out of time.
“Dinner,” Yanagisawa announced, opening the door without so much as a knock.
The room he entered was a bedroom, a cozy little place with not much else besides a double-bed and two nightstands, one placed on either side of the bed. A lamp sat on one of them, burning brightly and casting a calming glow throughout the room. In the bed, the former assassin once known as the God of Death sat propped up with pillows, engrossed in a book. He looked up expectantly when the scientist entered, a soft smile curling his lips.
“About time,” he quipped, setting his book to the side.
Yanagisawa scowled. “Is that any way to speak to your savior?”
“You know I’m only kidding,” the God of Death smirked at his disgruntlement.
Yanagisawa grumbled but drew closer anyway, bringing with him a bowl of soup. He set the meal on the God of Death’s lap.
The God of Death wrinkled his nose as he eyed the soup disgustedly. “Again?”
“Yes, again. Do you want to accelerate the anti-matter’s cell division?”
The God of Death avoided his gaze, mumbling that he didn’t, and reluctantly accepted the proffered spoon. The soup sloshed slightly as he used the spoon to ladle some for himself, raising it hesitantly to his lips.
“So...any progress?”
Yanagisawa clenched his fists, gritted his teeth.
That was all the answer the God of Death needed. The spoon clinked as he set it down, letting it rest in the bowl. When he looked up at Yanagisawa, his eyes were resolute, any trace of the playfulness there minutes before long gone by now. “Maybe it’s time to stop.”
“No!” Yanagisawa objected, surprised by the vehemence of his own outburst. “I’m almost there. I’m so close, just a--”
“Kotarou.”
Yanagisawa paused mid-ramble, surprised to hear his given name. It wasn’t often that he was called that.
The God of Death’s stare was steady, unwavering, locked on Yanagisawa’s own. “It’s fine. I have no regrets.”
No, no, it isn’t fine at all…
The God of Death broke their stare to put his soup on the nightstand, shifting over ever so slightly and patting the bed beside him. “Kotarou, please.” His gaze was pleading. “You look exhausted. Come to bed.”
Yanagisawa turned briskly, his back to the former assassin.
“No.”
He couldn’t look. Not now, not like this. If he looked, he might really give in to his requests. “I won’t do it,” Yanagisawa reiterated, voice resolute. He clenched his fists at his sides, hunching his shoulders. “This is no time for sleep. I said I’d save you, and that is exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Kotarou!”
But the scientist was beyond the reach of words. He had made a promise to himself, and to this man before him, promises he had no intention of breaking. He had made up his mind long ago.
“I’m going to save you,” Yanagisawa repeated, determination in his eyes, in his heart, and even in his step as he strode purposefully from the room, deaf to the God of Death’s protests.
I’m going to save you.
No, no, no!
Yanagisawa hurled a stack of manila folders at the wall, its papers flying out and scattering across the room, carpeting the floor.
A year of research. A year.
He had been slaving away at this task for a year.
He chucked another folder at the wall, then a box of chalk.
A year. And nothing.
A binder went flying.
There was no problem too great for the esteemed Yanagisawa Koutarou to solve. With his brains, even the most complex concepts could be unraveled and understood.
“Dammit!”
All he needed was a little more time.
When he ran out of things to throw, things to project his anger and desperation onto, he finally sank to the floor, tears of frustration—or even, dare he think it, sorrow—threatening to spill.
This wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. Yanagisawa didn’t lose.
All he needed was time.
But time he had not. He was fresh out.
It was March twelfth.
Lost somewhere in his own inner turmoil, Yanagisawa didn’t hear the labored steps that approached him from behind.
“Why the long face?” inquired a rather cheeky voice, seemingly from out of nowhere.
Yanagisawa almost had it within him to fire back a retort, but any words he might have had died in his throat when he turned to the owner of the voice. The God of Death’s posture was not his usual confident stance, cocky smile playing at his lips. Instead he leaned heavily against the wall, his chest rising and falling a bit too fast for a simple trip down the hallway.
Yanagisawa rose immediately, rushing to the other man to offer support. “What are you doing out of bed?!” he demanded, so shocked that he forgot to suppress the concern in his voice.
“Just checking on you,” he replied, voice strained, try as he might to hide it.
Yanagisawa only sighed, hoisting one of the God of Death’s arms over his shoulders, supporting the brunt of his weight. On any other day, he might have felt a bit standoffish; maybe it was the fatigue getting to him, but he felt no desire to fight or banter. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
“Kotarou, I...” the God of Death began, once they were halfway down the hallway.
“Hm?”
“I...I don’t have much time left.”
The words pierced Yanagisawa to his very core, and he tried not to stop dead in his tracks. The God of Death’s condition had worsened drastically over the last few days, certainly, but he was fighting it. As long as he didn’t overexert himself or do anything stupid, then maybe he could buy them some time.
Ever since Yanagisawa had discovered the catastrophic effects of antimatter on a given organism, he had spent nearly every waking hour trying to find a way to cease the rapid particle acceleration.
After many hours of study, he’d formulated an elixir that brought the explosion probability down to one percent. It was a huge accomplishment, but Yanagisawa soon found that while the explosion may have been stopped, the ultimate death of the host was still inevitable.
Yanagisawa laid the God of Death as carefully as he could onto the mattress in their bedroom. Yanagisawa cast him a long look, memorizing every line of his face. He had tried everything. He was still trying. So why, then, couldn’t the antimatter host be saved? If the explosion could be stopped, then it stood to reason that the death could be too.
He was about to turn around and head back to his lab space, when suddenly a hand gripped his wrist, weakly but surely.
“Please, stay with me,” the God of Death begged.
Yanagisawa wasn’t sure what made him comply this time. Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the way that the God of Death called out to him, or maybe because he knew deep down that this would be the last time.
Wordlessly, he sat beside him on the edge of the bed. The God of Death’s grip slackened but never left Yanagisawa’s wrist completely.
“Thank you,” the God of Death said, smiling pitifully.
Yanagisawa scoffed, nearly choking on the noise. “What for?”
“This past year has undoubtedly been the best of my life. I had so much fun.” Slowly, he withdrew his hand from Yanagisawa’s wrist, laying it gently on top of his hand instead. “Thank you for giving me this second chance.”
Yanagisawa didn’t know what to say; words failed him. A strange pressure was building in his chest, pushing up in his throat, constricting his breath.
The God of Death gave his hand a squeeze.
The reality of the situation hit Yanagisawa like a brick: fully and without mercy. This was the end, wasn’t it?
“I’ve failed you,” Yanagisawa blurted, eyes downcast, hands clenched. Teeth gritted, voice leaden with the impossible weight of regret. “How can you say such rosy words when I--”
The God of Death took Yanagisawa’s hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. He shook his head subtly but surely. “I have no regrets. I’ve already lived much longer than I would have ever guessed. In that time, I’ve gained many happy memories, more than I’ll ever need, I’m sure.” He chuckled a bit at that.
Yanagisawa was not to be reconciled. “But if only I—if I had found a cure, then you could have had many more!”
“Maybe,” the God of Death conceded, his expression thoughtful. “But even without that, I am content.”
“How--”
The God of Death cut him off with a single, meaningful look. “There’s no one else I’d rather spend my final moments with.”
“No--!”
“Besides,” the God of Death continued, “In the span of a year, I’ve managed to catch up on a lifetime of happy memories. It’s all thanks to you, Kotarou. I never believed I could be this happy, much less deserving of it,” he chuckled, the action sending tremors through his whole body. “I’m so full of it, I fear it might come tumbling out of my ears if I so much as sneeze.”
Yanagisawa cracked a rueful smile despite himself. Typical Guinea Pig, making jokes even on his deathbed.
The God of Death continued to blabber on, probably elaborating on some happy memory the two of them had shared. Yanagisawa tried to listen, he really did; in fact, all he wanted was to hang onto every word.
However, Yanagisawa’s brain was sidetracked by the way the God of Death’s voice was starting to slur. If his complexion looked pale before, it was deathly now.
It seemed as though the organ failure was setting in, Yanagisawa noted with growing dread. When the God of Death had stumbled into his lab hours before, it was apparent that the process had already been set in motion, but to see his condition deteriorating so quickly was jarring.
In no time at all, the former assassin’s breathing became labored, each breath becoming just that much harder to take.
“Hey, take it easy,” Yanagisawa instructed, trying to keep some measure of dignity in his words. Despite his best efforts, his voice sounded pleading, even to himself.
The God of Death didn’t respond, simply closing his eyes and directing all his concentration towards breathing.
Yanagisawa bit the inside of his lip. If his condition was already this advanced, then by his estimation, they had less than an hour.
Yanagisawa stayed by his side the whole time, watching helplessly as the man before him drew shallower and shallower breaths, feeling like more of a failure with each passing second. Honor and prestige be damned, if he couldn’t even save one man, then what kind of scientist was he? The worst kind, he was sure.
“Thank you,” the God of Death reiterated, forcing the words out through a constricted chest.
“Don’t talk,” Yanagisawa shushed him, his own chest feeling tight, but for an entirely different reason.
The God of Death ignored him. “Really, thank you for everything,” he sucked in a particularly ragged breath. “I love you so much, Kotarou.”
“Hey!” Yanagisawa shouted, lunging toward him. “Stay with me!” Was this it? His heart somersaulted in his chest. He felt like he was going to be sick.
Abandoning any and all pretenses, he climbed atop the bed, gathering the frail man in his arms. His breathing had grown positively ragged.
“Stay with me!” Yanagisawa shouted, a sob creeping into his voice. “Hey!”
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Right before him, he was slipping away.
“Please, I love you!”
Despite his state, the God of Death managed a small smile, and the look that lit up his face--Yanagisawa knew he would remember it forever.
“I love you too, Kotarou.”
It was the first time Yanagisawa had said those words. Usually it was the God of Death who started it, and Yanagisawa who answered with a “yeah, yeah,” a “sure,” and if he was feeling especially generous, a “me too.”
Now Yanagisawa wished he had told him more often.
The God of Death’s body suddenly leaped in his arms, spasming as his harsh breathing became almost too painful to watch, as if he was trying to escape his own body’s failure.
And then, suddenly, it stopped. His eyes glassed over, and Yanagisawa watched as the spark of life left his eyes. He wasn’t one to believe in souls and all that, but whatever had been the God of Death he’d gotten to know over the past two years was gone now.
In shock, in sorrow, both and everything at this point, he couldn’t tell, he stared at the lifeless doll in his arms, still warm. And then the tears started, springing from somewhere deep within, a well of frustration and pain and could-have-beens. He clutched the cooling body to his chest.
If only he hadn’t spent all his time on that futile research and had enjoyed his time with him instead; if only he had worked harder, had thrown himself headlong into the research, had found a cure.
If only…
If only…
If only…
In the empty silence, surrounded only by fruitless research and wasted time, Yanagisawa bid farewell to his greatest success and greatest failure, now left truly, truly alone with nothing but himself and his regrets.
