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19 July 2010 @ 06:23 am
So Said Rosencrantz and Guildenstern [Act I]  
Title: So Said Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Pairing: Rui x Tsukushi, Soujirou, Akira
Fandom: Hana Yori Dango (Boys Before Flowers)
Genre: ???
Rating: PG
Summary:  Soujirou and Akira accidentally witness an absurd affair.

Warning and A/N: Experimental writing in the absurdist style. Some parts are intentionally confusing and ostensibly nonsensical. This is a combination of the Korean Boys Before Flowers and Japanese Hana Yori Dango series. But it really doesn't matter if you haven't seen either as long as you know the characters. It's set in the future, anyway.


Rosencrantz: As indifferent as children of the earth.




Guildenstern: Let us keep things in proportion. Assume, if you ... like, that they're going to kill him...we are little men, we don't know the ins and outs of the matter, there are wheels within wheel, etcetera – it would be presumptuous of us to interfere with the designs of fate or even of kings.


Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead



Act I. piazza in pieces by pisa




Am we, was, we were—are. Long mile down, sick in the earth, in the time of asters and adders, two soldiers laid down to sleep. Upon their surreal, vertiginous, basic-dye-stained graves, the French placed twin wreaths spun from dainty, violet flowers. They’re deranged, deskinned, sorta sore (leagues overcast) and couldn’t quite say.


Rose, there.


What, what? —what indeed— Could you…guild in gilded glitter?


“Akira, is that, do you see?” Soujirou pointed to a shady car parked under whistling shades. Green summer and a white designer suit. Someone stepped out the car (latest Lamborghini from Italy, he was envious) and opened the door for a girl. Heels, hell-on-earth, the sound of an awkward, trip-trippy walk. Whoever she was, she wasn’t full of grace.


Akira turned around and looked west. He squinted his eyes. Damn setting sun, shit, they’re sitting ducks exposed out here. He his head in equal confusion. “What? Is that Rui and Makino?”


“Tsukushi,” Soujirou corrected, “She’s married now, right?”


“Right. Tsukushi and Rui. I wonder why they’re here.”


Soujirou rubbed his chin, heavyset in murky contemplation, and shrugged his shoulders in the end. “Who cares? It’s their business.”


They exited center stage, directing left.


. . .



“Are you sure it’s okay to meet here?”


Rui smiled and answered pleasantly, “Of course. I booked this place for the entire afternoon.”


“You’re starting to act like him.”


His smile widened into a small laugh. He pulled out a chair and indicated for her to sit. And now, so began the apathy chat. “You okay?


“Yeah, why?” (that’s a lie).


“Nothing.” He pretended to scan the menu and said nothing more. He could wait; he’d been waiting all these years. “Try the tiramisu,” (thank you).




One day came along, high noon and sweltering like a lightning-tree in groom, and Akira realized his mother’s birthday was coming up fast. He thought of what to get her, something nice, something unique and recherché, and most of all, something extraordinarily expensive. So, he decided to visit Italy and buy her a whole damn Roman temple if that’s what she wanted (it’s not). Fifty-five was a doubly large, doubly mutinous number to face, and she’d been denying the end for years.


With sun brush-burning overhead and no keys in pocket (no money, jingling Euros), he strolled down la strada, libera. Signs, streets, shapes and shadows. The cities of Italy were unparalleled. Living, simmering testimonies of enduring contradictions, he could get used to this. He passed by a Gypsy fortune-telling swindling and a lawyer in Prada. Briefly paused by the lawyer, she was hot. Unruly black hair and jaded green eyes, Italians, he made a note of that.


He strolled along, carefree in chicken-breast, minty boned, and humming a dreadful tune of guillotine survivors. Abruptly, he stopped in front of the Galleria (neither here nor there, nor Rome nor Pisa, very odd, that lying cheat). Incidentally, coincidentally, on a spoor of fate, he went inside. Stealthy like a hunter, Akira admitted his curiosity.


It was the hotel magnificent in virginal resurrection, bright, brilliant, with walls out of illuminated vellum (Italy was famous for its religious sacrifices). He scanned around the vicinity. He heard a symphony playing from Sinfonia. Phonetic, wait, mispronounce, in sin-city Italiane (no extra charges for translation and currency exchange).


Alone in the foyer among the throngs of mass-moving people, patrons, loiters, and the like, Akira thought of changing hotels. He liked the sizzling snazz, the pizzazz, the finesse intrinsic of all scions with extraordinary largess. He made up his mind, he’ll switch rooms that night.


Across from him, a woman slipped on the newly polished marble. She looked strangely familiar, stranger the strange. Oh, beautiful Maria infinite in grace—the lord with thee. He watched from afar. She regained her poise and walked away, leaving behind a single flower that fell from her bouquet.


Eccentric girl. Akira tilted back his head for a rest.


. . .


On Friday, third day of the month, she notified the butlers, the maids, the secretaries, and the in-laws that she would be leaving for Europe for the week. The butlers bowed stiffly, the maids gossiped immediately, the secretaries (what they didn’t know) made the arrangements, and the in-laws merely shrugged and reminded her of an important, impromptu meeting the following Tuesday. She assured them she would be back by then.

On Saturday, fourth day running away, she checked into the Galleria and pulled out a letter. Standing in the hall, she perused the contents and dashed toward the elevator. At precisely, three-thirty in the afternoon, the elevator doors mechanized into gear (pushed open) and out stepped a man. They greeted each other (highly awkward from bystander view, relayed by another guest several days later). And after a Hogarthian tête-à-tête, she followed him into a very private, very exclusive, very suspicious suite.


On Sunday, the day of judgment and acedia in inertia motion, Tsukushi decided to cut things direct and package them away for the mummification keep. But for now, she will enjoy the moment and drink upscale coffee stirred with genuine crystal.


“You’ve been rather quiet lately.”


“You’re always quiet,” she grumbled back.


Rui stirred some cream into the tepid beverage. The gentle clink of silver battling porcelain jolted the air. Inaction, he reprimanded himself, and unthought were the perpetual, instinctive dangers to be kept at bay. “I saw Akira yesterday.”


“What’s he doing here?”


“Maybe he’s taking a vacation like we are.”


“I’m thinking of having an affair,” and there blurted out the notorious interposition (indubitably posing a threat to everyone).


“Interesting, but not surprising.”


“I want a divorce.”


“I do too.”


“Eh? Really?”


“No, not really.”


She sighed in relief. It was only a joke.


In his head, Rui played Paganini’s Caprice No. 23 on rewind, hit repeat. And in there, he pictured a war between Goya’s Los Caprichos No. 10 and No. 43.


He dreamt of insomnia’s reasonable disenchantment. It’s not prettiness engraved.




Marriage was a risk, an universal truth. Sometimes, the net wins covered the net losses, but sometimes (like in her case) the losses were too great, too encompassing, too unforgiving.


In the heat of July and dissected blights, Tsukushi called up a trusted, anonymous, entirely too miraculous lawyer from her hotel room in Milan. The lawyer paused in the middle of his Nabokov, page 127, and answered the phone. Their conversation went something like annotated this:


“What the devil are you doing there?”


“Sorry, what?”


“I said: did you get those lovely pears?”


“Yes, but—”


“Who’s the boy?”


“New assistant.”


“Madam, you lie—he’s not.”


“Sorry, what?”


“Never mind: it’s damn hot.”


“We’ll talk later.”


“Don’t forget the toy.”


Someone knocked on the door.

. . .


Akira wasn’t a suspicious person by nature, but either he was hallucinating or something extremely weird was going on. He was due to leave Italy, flee to Paris and meet up with Soujirou for his newest gallery opening, when—acting on a hunch—he knocked on Room 333. Paced around, step three in midair, and was about to leave, and then, the door opened just a crack.


He smelled lilies (tasted the lies hung up to dry) and knew he was right. Slowly, Akira crossed the threshold with a cheery expression tattooed on permanently.


“Who’s there?”


“Yo, Tsukushi.”


“What are you doing here?”


“Can I come in?” he walked in anyway.


“Why are you here? Did you know I was here?”


“Nope. Where’s Rui?”


“He’s—no, wait,” she swiftly pulled him inside, darting to see if anyone else were there, “You don’t care that we’re here?”


“Is there a reason I should?”




“So, that’s settled. Say, do you have anything to drink? It’s dry as hell out there.”

He meticulously observed her while she prepared drinks. There was definitely something off. With her hair half-down, tumbled and messy, she looked like a flustered housewife who just committed some bad, bad crime.


Akira took the tea she offered and made a silent toast. There was a mystery happening here, and he was intrigued. “Why don’t we go for a ride later?”

Tsukushi nodded carefully, weighted the consequences. He got her cornered at last.

Act II
♫ made to fangirl ♪: {HYD} Love So Sweete7erlasting on July 29th, 2010 08:54 am (UTC)
I read this when you posted but forgot to comment until now. I found this absolutely fascinating and the style of your writing here so interesting. It really feels quite out there, but I loved following each line.

Really enjoyed this!