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29 July 2010 @ 08:05 am
So Said Rosencrantz and Guildenstern [Act III]  

Title: So Said Rosencrantz and Guildenstern [Act III]
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.

Act I and Act II


Act III. vienna’s singing for van gogh soon




In tremendous haste and tremulous faced, they packed their bags and detoured southeast for Vienna. The birthplace of music, the classical capitol of modern marvel, Vienna was an appropriate choice for the beginning and the end. Hostess for the original waltz and perpetually fighting a childish Mozartean dichotomy, it’s a city of trained elites and train wrecks.


Planted at the junction between east and west (Europe), Vienna testified to more trauma than it wanted to admit. It’s a republic in three songs: one fundamental stave, two quivering quavers, and a terrible triple treble clef.


“No, no,” said Soujirou, “You’ve got it backwards. Besides, that didn’t make any logical sense. And who allowed you soliloquies?”


Akira shrugged. “The idiot behind the theatrics. Also, it’s not a soliloquy; it’s a monologue that’s unfortunately turned dialogue.”


“What’s that got to do with anything? We’re not in a Shakespearian tragedy. Thank god, otherwise, we’d be dead—since, you know, we are so-and-so.”


“Said who?”


“Who said?”


“I’m experiencing a quirk in time. Why’re we here, anyway?”


Soujirou pondered this solemnly. “To attend a concert, I think.”


“Ah, right. Is Rui performing?”


“He’s not that good. It’s a colleague of his. They both studied under Amadeus Beethoven when they were younger.”


“Amadeus Beethoven. Is that supposed to be an oxymoron?”


“I’m not sure. In any event, we are late. Wait, hurry and hide behind that decorative tree—quickly. I hear someone coming.”


Akira sputtered indignantly. He’ll do no such thing; he’s wearing haute-couture. But Soujirou dragged him behind the fir, and they hushed to eavesdrop clearly. If dishonourable things must be done, then do them with the intention of attaining at least an honourable mention.    


. . .


“We’ll talk about this later.”


“No, we’ll talk about it now.”


“Let go of me.”


“Not until you answer me.”


“I said later.”


Rustle and hustle, the speakers stormed off stage.


Soujirou emerged, slightly ruffled, but immensely pleased. He removed a silk leaf from his hair and checked to see if his attire was mussed. Every strand in place again, he was ready.


Akira fared barely better and suffered only the loss of an earring. He smoothed his tuxedo shirt and sighed in relief. Listening to anonymous argument while concealed behind verdant foliage was a chore he didn’t want to repeat.


“I need to wash my hands and rinse out the cut.”


“You cut yourself on a plastic twig?” Akira joked.


“No, from before, that piece of crystal back in France. There, better now, I’ve stopped the bleeding. Did you hear that just now?


“What do you think they were talking about?”


“Why do you answer my question with another question? What else could it be? She’s obviously having an affair, and he doesn’t like it. It’s about time he confronted her. I was starting to grow bored with anticipation.”


“Should we interject?”


“Why bother? We’re humans. We are not gods. We have no guarantee that we understand all the complexities and convolutions involved. If we do anything, it might only exacerbate the situation. It’s best we watch and silently observe. I think the denouement is approaching, just wait.”


“You don’t feel a little guilty?


“Maybe a bit, but I am resolute. Akira, there’s no use in interfering. Who are we to mess with fate? Let’s stand aside and see at which point the triangle breaks. It’s allegedly the sturdiest geometric shape.”




The famous Viennese Sachertorte was a crumpling delicacy of lies, but Akira had a passion for chocolate that refused to die. And so, he ate it with vast aplomb and surging bravery. It rolled around dry and pernickety (caught and stuck in the snaggletooth). Not overly sweet, not overly rich, it’s a dessert best served with brandy and cream.


In genuine masochistic taste, Akira took one bite and restricted himself to savouring the flavour. He prided himself on being a stoic epicure. Sybaritic pleasures were for the feeble of soul (Soujirou acted as intimate confirmation). Akira firmly denied it as his secret infirmity but stole a second and a third until so long, gone was the entire slice.


“Give me yours if you’re not eating it.”


Soujirou pushed away his china plate. “I want tea.” He pouted pathetically.


“Then order some.”


“I want Japanese tea, fresh from Kyoto, encased oxidized wonder, and pink-glazed manju. I’m desperate, can’t you tell?”


“So order some.”


“But then I won’t have a right to complain, and complaining is enormously fun.”


“Then why are we discussing this? It’s ridiculous.”


“It’s another repartee to add to our repertoire, for that moment when we become internationally recognized and adored. We can say that we surpassed Tsukasa and Rui in something. We’re the writers, we’re the actors, and we’ll have the final word in the drama.”


Akira swallowed the last of the cake and swished down a gulp of cognac. Soujirou looked delirious (so did he). Onward march for jaded glory. “As long as I’m cast as the main narrator.”


“Naturally.” Soujirou raised his glass for a concurring toast.


Armed with the myth of Sisyphus as the new world’s bible, they play catch-the-Alice in cat’s cradle.  


. . .


Eating Sachertorte and drinking coffee, Tsukushi stared at her husband on a fixation high. His curly hair was tousled from the wind (twenty mph, seventeen degrees Celsius, with a ninety-nine-point-nine percent probability of rain). It was her turn to speak.


“I—” She paused to inhale a large quantity of motivation.


Wet dirt smelled like heaven when the first drops of rain penetrated its surface. Dirt was perfect in that state, loamy and soft to touch but not too weak that it became mud. Mud appeared later like a nightmare.


Amassing outstanding courage and resolution, she tried again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to work out like this.”


Tsukasa carefully weighted her words. It’s the second time she said that, and he didn’t believe her anymore than last. “No, you’re not.”


“Maybe not,” she confessed.


“So what do we do now?”


“I don’t know.”


After one year and one month exact, it was the shortest marriage recorded in family history (she was certain). It wasn’t a failed one (Tsukushi kept that as a bracing reminder). There were no such pompous purities as failed marriages—bombastic, useless term. Marriages were brief, enduring, glad, or sad.


But they never failed to leave an impression. That was consistently true.




Landing an emergency plane was like further lancing an already debilitating pain. The basic strategy demanded for cool-headed confidence and a foolproof opening. Zeroing the aircraft through turbulent clouds and onto the charcoal, paved strip always sent hearts racing fast and brains malfunctioning bad. As for lacerations and unguents, sprinkle in lead and the wound will fester. Both scenarios were limited to a single chance for the solitary entrance gate.


Their happy, meerkat-wearing, musketeer quartet turned quintet—perhaps sextet including Yuki—was breaking up. It’s an embarrassment considering how the events unfolded, leading up to the culmination, conflagration up the Sistine ceiling.


Gossip in today’s day and age travelled via the express lane, and news of the impending Domyouji Divorce (all capitals and majestic majuscules) spread in true globalization fashion. Invented in Milan immigrated to Paris exiled to Vienna and encompassed the world.  All of which occurred within the span of a week.


Akira turned off the television and sighed. He was sorely disenchanted with the results (excellent that they didn’t plan to bet).


“What now?”


“I’m meditating.”


“Zen Buddhism?”


Annoyed, Soujirou opened one eye. “Yin-yang, feng-shui philosophy by Master Chang. He’s the focus of every current late-night infomercial. An artificial, phenomenal noumena.”


“Is he on the cover of cereal boxes?”


“Not yet, but I predict he’ll do a Pepsi or Coca-Cola advertisement soon.”


“What kind of faith does he preach?”


“Only the best kind, of course. He practises what’s called Judeo-Hindu-Jesus-Bodhisattva-ism. The –ism legitimizes it as a natural religion.”


“Well, at least it sounds more convincing and grounded than Scientology.”


Soujirou snorted. “What isn’t? I guess we’ll be leaving for home in the morning.”


“Shame, I met two gorgeous girls today—twins, too.”


“It can’t be helped. Tsukasa and Tsukushi announced their divorce and are heading back to officialise the papers. Rui is staying here until the tempest passes. He’s probably hoping for a romantic reunion with Tsukushi when she returns. As for us, we are done here. We’ve accomplished what we set out to do.”


“What did we set out to do?” Akira looked up expectantly.


“Absolutely nothing.”


They grinned like identical Cheshire cats.


. . .


sweet goodnight to The Prince


Chorus: Physically fatigued and shedding off the remnants of existential ennui, Soujirou and Akira reflected over the past seven days. They sit back against back in a busy airport, and feverish with fascination, debate their importance and role in the preceding drama.


Akira: We’re illusionists of the premier prestige. We escaped without a scratch.


Soujirou: That’s because we didn’t do anything.


Akira: What’s the harm in that?

Soujirou: Retrospectively, nothing if you think about what ensued for the others.


Akira: So did we succeed?


Soujirou: Only if we say so.


Lynblueberry_luv on September 18th, 2010 02:18 am (UTC)
Domiyoji Divorce is such a tragic topic to write about, because i can see all those special moments in the elevator, waiting in the rain, through amnesia, all their good intentions apparently couldn't keep these two very different people together. But I love the way it played out here and honestly, i might go reread Hamlet and then read/watch rosencrantz and guildenstern, you've convinced me!