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Necrophilia	By : Saranwyn Category: +G to L > Junjou Romantica (Junj? Romanchika) > Junjou Romantica (Junj? Romanchika) Views: 3439 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Junjo Romantica or any of the characters! I do not profit from these fanfictions!

Chapter List
- 1-Necrophilia
- 2-Red
- 3-Despondency
- 4-Voice
- 5-Death
- 6-Cold
- 7-Mine
- 8-Snow
- 9-End
- 1
- 2
March, 23, 2006 – Writer’s Journal Entry 1,095
Such a month is March! Fickle, ever-changing March! Green and robust one day, white and frozen the next. The rush of life, stumbling over itself in its mad scramble to escape the icy claws of winter. Surging forward before being dragged backwards in a mad tug-of-war. Up and down, twisting and turning in gusts of wind. Sun, then snow, then rain, then snow, then rain, then sun, again. Sun. Sun. Sun. Snow…Rain. Rainrainrain. Snow. Sun. Mother Nature at her most temperamental. Leaving us breathless as we race to keep up with her constantly changing moods. Such a month is March!
March is a bad month of an anniversary – even if it’s just the anniversary of your long, complicated relationship with your writer’s journal. I don’t even want to talk about the fact that it’s also my birthday. I hate March. The weather is unpredictable, the rain is always cold and drizzling – not like April, May, June, and July where you get glorious thunderstorms – always hovering right on the edge of sleet. You still get the occasional snow dusting, but that hardly counts and is really just a nuisance.
March laughs in the face of my struggle with depression by depriving me of much-needed sunlight. March pours salt and lemon juice on my cuts until my life has become nothing but one, unbearable, roiling mass of pain. March takes my loneliness and shoves it in my face while sneering and linking arms with February and April to show that even he is less alone than I. March echoes my incompleteness. It can never be whole, and each year it reminds me how I, too, can never be whole.
But March understands me. It must hate me as much as I hate it, but it clearly knows how I feel. When March reads my writing, it knows my heart. So many times, I am told that my writing is a celebration of life. Oh, how they misunderstand! Oh, how the ignorant fools grin and laugh with their eyes and ears covered. And oh…oh how I envy them. My writing is a lament disguised by flowery language. My writing is my very soul, poured onto paper and covered with an illusion that, upon further inspection, would fall to tatters. And the pathetic masses that read my work…they have the gall to pretend to know what I write.
I was told, the other day, in an interview, that my writing brings tears of joy to this woman’s eyes. The interviewer told me she loves my celebration of nature and humanity. She informed me that my writing was an inspiration for her to see the good in life wherever it was. At that time, I smiled, said thank you, and fed her some line about writing being for the reader’s interpretation. I wanted to smack her and show her what I really meant. I wanted to tell her she had it all wrong. To tell her that my writing was my agony, my sorrow, my grief. But I said none of that. It is better, I think, to give the people what they want and expect. If they knew me, they would recoil and watch with pity as I squirm and think “How pitiful for a man to become something like that.”
Akihiko abruptly stopped writing. He shut his journal and stood, wrapping his scarf more securely around his neck. Groaning, he rubbed his forehead. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently. Well, he never slept well, but he’d been sleeping worse than usual. Even the prescription stuff the doctor had given him wasn’t working, anymore. He flipped through the small, leather-bound book in his hands. What a first entry, he thought ruefully. This was his third journal – one for each year since he’d started keeping one. His editor had given him a journal for his birthday, three years ago, and told him he should write in it every day, and then, if he ever lacked inspiration, he could go through the journals and try to find something. He didn’t always write about his day or his life or anything. In fact, more often than not, he would write little stories – nothing like the novels he wrote, but small works of fiction he might try to incorporate into one of his novels, later.
However, today, he’d just felt like complaining. He’d felt like kicking and screaming and crying and then curling up in a hole and dying. Largely, this was due to the fact that the love of his life, and his best friend, Takahiro, had announced he was getting married. Akihiko had congratulated him, hugged them both, and wished them well. He’d stayed and let them talk through every detail they’d planned for their wedding. He smiled and pretended he was truly overjoyed. And then they’d left, and his little game of pretend promptly ended. His mask of joy shattered and his heart plummeted. Fighting the urge to break down sobbing, he’d gone outside to a park, sat down on a bench in the shade of a large cherry tree, and wrote.
Words had always come easily to his pen – probably making up for how they dragged their feet coming to his tongue. Ever since he was in middle school, he had been a writer. Reclusive and virtually friendless, his sole companions had been pen and paper. Now, in the age of the computer – he still had refused to abandon them completely. Some, like his editor, laughed and said he was old-fashioned, but he always did everything first in pen and typed it out later, for editing and publishing. When he looked at his typed work, he felt like it was missing something, some crucial element. Maybe that was why no one understood. Maybe it was that they couldn’t see his handwriting in the shapes of the words sprawled across the page. He’d admitted that to his editor, once, but she’d just smiled sadly, patted his arm, and told him it was more likely because his sense of irony and sarcasm was too dry for most people to get it.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, Akihiko turned to head back to his car. He had barely made it two steps when a cry halted him and he looked up towards it…just in time to break someone’s fall with his face. They both hit the ground. In an instant the person – a boy of perhaps eighteen years – was scrambling off Akihiko, apologizing profusely.
“I am so sorry! Are you okay? Say something! Oh my God, I’ve killed him! Oh please say something! Please, please, please say something! I really, really didn’t mean to fall on you! Mister, please say something!” he babbled senselessly.
“I would if you’d shut up for half a second,” Akihiko finally managed to cut in. The boy shut his mouth abruptly, staring at the author in shock. Then he let out a huge sigh of relief.
“I was scared I’d killed you,” he admitted.
“Well, calm down. You didn’t,” Akihiko assured him, looking around. “What were you doing up in that tree anyways?” he asked. The boy frowned.
“Tree?” The boy looked up at the tree. “Oh. Um…I don’t know…” he admitted. Akihiko frowned. What’s up with this kid? He doesn’t know? “Anyways, I’m really glad you’re okay!” He stood up and offered Akihiko his hand to help him up. “My name’s Misaki!” Akihiko took his hand and got up, looking the boy up and down. He was pretty cute, for a scrawny little brat. He had short, light brown hair and wide, bright, emerald eyes. All in all, he reminded Akihiko of summer.
“Usami Akihiko,” the author offered his own name at length.
“Pleased to meet you, Usami-san!” the boy chirped, brushing dirt and grass from Akihiko’s shoulders.
“Right, well…bye. Take care of yourself.” Akihiko started to walk off, but the boy followed him. Frowning, he decided to ignore him for a while to see if he’d go away. When he got to his car, however, and the boy was still following along like a lost puppy-dog, he turned on him. “What are you doing following me? Go on and run along home.”
“Well…I was actually wondering…if it would be too much hassle if I stayed with you for a bit,” the boy admitted. What the hell? Is he homeless? Would he really just trust some random guy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? For all he knows I could be some psychopathic killer!
“Yes, it would be.”
“Please, let me stay! I can cook and clean – that could be like paying rent or something, right? And I won’t bother you when you’re busy, I promise!”
“No.” The boy looked down, his eyes filling with tears. Oh, Good Lord, don’t do this to me! Akihiko despaired as a silvery tear escaped the corner of Misaki’s eye, quickly followed by more. He tried in vain to rub them away.
“I-I’m sorry…I…”
“Geeze, fine, get in the car!” he grumbled. He was winded by Misaki throwing his arms around him and plastering himself to his chest.
“Thank you so much! You won’t regret it, I promise!” Too late, Akihiko thought moodily, prying himself loose.
“Just get in the car.” The boy obeyed in an instant, settling himself in the passenger’s seat and beaming up at Akihiko. What an idiot, the older man thought as he pulled out of the parking lot. "Really though, kid, you have no idea what kind of guy I could be. You shouldn’t just trust anyone, you know.”
“That’s okay, Usagi-san – can I call you that, because Usami sounds like usagi, and I love rabbits!”
“Fine, whatever.”
“See?! I was right about you, Usagi-san! You’re really a nice guy! Say, what’s your favorite kind of food? Oh, but I don’t have any money, so you’ll have to pay for groceries – is that okay? Well, by the looks of this car, it should be…are you rich, Usagi-san? You look rich, because you dress so nicely and you’ve got this expensive, red sports car. Are you listening, Usagi-san?” Akihiko exhaled deeply. I have just dug myself an early grave, he thought as the boy continued to chatter, leaving him no time to even think of an answer to any of his questions. What an idiot…
They arrived at the apartment building where Akihiko lived and he parked, but the boy was too busy talking animatedly to notice.
“Misaki!” Akihiko cut him off mid-sentence. “We’re here…get out.”
“Oooh! Wow! You live here?! It looks really fancy!” Misaki got out of the car, looking around with eyes the size of dinner plates.
“Just…come on.” Akihiko led him inside to the elevator and up to the top floor.
“You live on the top floor?! Wow! You really are rich!” They went inside and Misaki stared. Ah, quiet at last, Akihiko praised silently. “Do you live here by yourself?” came the quiet question at last.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t it…get lonely?” Akihiko blinked and then chuckled, rolling his eyes, and chose not to answer. Instead, he just removed and hung up his coat and take off his shoes.
“Let me give you the grand tour. This is the living room here, and then right through this door is the kitchen. Up the stairs on the left is my bedroom, the door to the right of it is the linen closet and across the hall is the bathroom. The door to the left of my bedroom can be your room – assuming it doesn’t have stuff it in…I don’t think it does. And-” He was cut short by a pair of arms wrapping around him from behind and a cheek resting against his back.
“Thank you, Usagi-san,” Misaki whispered.
“Um…you’re welcome. Misaki? Are you crying again?”
“N-no…” Akihiko felt tears seep through his shirt.
“You are crying!” he accused. “Why are you crying, now?”
“I’m just so happy…that you’re letting me stay.”
“C-calm down, kid. Seriously! It’s really not a big deal, okay? So just stop crying…” Misaki released him, wiping his eyes.
“S-sorry…I’ll try not to…it’s just…I saw you and I thought…I really wanted to make you happy, but instead I’m just causing you trouble. I’ll try really hard, Usagi-san! You won’t regret letting me stay! I promise!” Akihiko sighed in defeat and ruffled Misaki’s hair.
“I know, Misaki, so just take it easy, okay?” Misaki nodded, sniffling a little and looking around. He walked over to a picture and picked it up.
“This man in the pictures with you…”
“Takahiro…he’s a friend of mine.” The boy touched Takahiro’s face with his fingertips, staring at the picture. “You okay? Do you know him?”
“…No.” Misaki set the picture down. “I just was thinking how lucky he must be to have a friend like you, Usagi-san.”
“Don’t say that kind of thing, Misaki. You have no clue what kind of person I am, really, so don’t think you do.”
“I know what kind of a person you are,” Misaki replied. He walked over to the couch and sat down, patting the giant teddy bear that was already there. “You collect teddies?” he asked.
“Toys in general. It started as an experiment for my writing, trying to see what the life of a normal child is like, but somehow it got a little…extreme.”
“Extreme?”
“You’ll see.” Akihiko chuckled lightly. “Well, let me get you some pajamas for tonight –we can go shopping to get you some necessities tomorrow, okay?”
“Thank you.” The author went upstairs to his room. His bedroom was a jungle of children’s toys – dolls, stuffed animals, toy trains, musical instruments…you name it. He easily made his way across the treacherous span of his toy-littered floor to his dresser drawers, where he dug around until he got some pajamas for his new guest. What are you getting into, Akihiko? He mused as he returned to give the boy his clothes.
“Misaki, here are the-” Akihiko stopped talking, staring at the sleeping boy on his couch. Chuckling, he walked over and ruffled his hair before picking him up and carrying him to a guest bedroom to sleep for the night. “Goodnight, kiddo.”
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Necrophilia