Ghost Hunt 
by No. 13

Fuji Yumiko left the university’s library at quarter to five, glancing in weary astonishment at the skies that had remained rainless until now. She’d be amazed, should the weather actually hold, and upon entering the lift she threw a routine glance at her mobile.

To see she had several missed calls and one message left. Dread blossomed in her stomach and she scrolled down the list. All calls had been left by Tezuka-kun – worry started gnawing at her, she hadn’t wanted to leave her brother alone at home, but he had been getting better…

With shaking hands she opened the message.

Fuji is missing. I have reason to believe he is at the mansion. Please come there soon.

And she needed no verification. She’d seen visions, caught glimpses already of what was going to happen. So even if she’d prayed for the opposite….

The nightmare was coming true.

White-hot recognition flashed through Tezuka’s veins. Ice that had previously frozen his mind and obstructed his movements, instantly thawed, replaced by burning urgency. He had been right all along. Fuji was down there, hoarse and coughing perhaps, but alive and still himself.

Alive.

Relief flooded his breathless body, washed over scraps and shaken senses, and it was with the world blurring from a sudden on-set of dizziness, of water in his eyes, that Tezuka slumped over.

After everything that had happened, this felt too good to be true.

“Hello?” Fuji called again, voice trembling with barely suppressed anxiety. Tezuka’s heart clenched, even as a particular sharp gust of wind outside knocked branches against the teahouse’s ancient walls. And then, suddenly, wet, choked coughs rang out, throttling any other attempts at speech his friend might have made.

“Fuji!” Tezuka shouted back, devastated by the images assaulting his mind. How much had Fuji’s condition worsened? How long had he been down there, in the cold? How much more could his friend’s frail body take, before…

… before all help came too late?

Biting his lip, Tezuka tried to deny this possibility, tried to convince himself that everything would be alright. Yet staring down into the absolute darkness of the underworld made him wonder – summoned the utterly most horrifying picture of climbing down only to watch Fuji die before his eyes.

‘Never.’ Tezuka swore to himself, shuddering when a cold gust of wind tore through the opened door, swept over ancient tatami and carried the smell of decaying leaves into the small chamber.

‘Never.’ He repeated to himself, even as all he could hear from underneath were weak gasps.

Determinedly he gathered himself and set a testing foot on the ladder. Old, rust-befallen metal groaned and scrunched in protest, but his heart pounded louder. Blood rushing through his veins, he held his breath, dizzy to the degree he couldn’t tell whether the darkness was natural or stemmed from a lack of oxygen.

“Tezuka?!” Fuji’s voice, finally, choked as it was with astonishment and something much worse, liquid and red, “What are you …?”

The ladder held and, praying the rest would hold to, Tezuka took a deep breath, bid a mental goodbye to the raging wind outside and climbed down as fast as he could, almost tripping over his own feet. For once, he forgot about having to climb up again, forgot about the darkness, about his lack of a helpful utensils. He possessed neither a flashlight nor a first-aid kit, and it was ridiculous to believe his mere presence would suffice to make the world all right again, but sanity had fled his mind for the time being.

Coughs again, stifled and choked, making his skin crawl. Fearing the worst, dreading he might find his nightmare come true, Tezuka wanted nothing more than to reach out to Fuji. To grasp his hand and make sure it was warm with life.

Grasp it and never let go…

Metal rattled and Tezuka’s feet hit the ground. He turned, blinking into the darkness, surprised. He wasn’t completely lost and blind, but he could make out vague shapes within the suffocating darkness. Yet he barely took notice of the tiny, flickering candle posted high on a shelf in the far corner of the chamber.

“Fuji, where…”

“Te…” and the rest dissolved in coughs. Turning his head into the vague direction of the noise, barely even registering the metallic rattle he’d also heard, Tezuka stopped short the moment his eyes fell onto the scene. His breath caught in disbelief and everything became numb.

The secret chamber must have been spacious enough to make for a comfortable hide-out, once, four-hundred-years ago. Now, dust and decay had long since settled in. Somebody, centuries later must have thought of it as - maybe a cage for animals, maybe a dungeon – there were thick, iron bars separating one corner from the rest of the room.

A cage.

Right out of some cheap horror movie, an old cage in a secret room stuffed with ancient equipment of dubious use. And the beautiful dress-up doll, smothered by a multi-layered kimono sitting inside, small, white hands clutching the bars, was Fuji.

‘NO!’ Tezuka thought.

“Tezuka!” Fuji called out once more, excitement only barely covering his desperation or how sick he truly was.

One hand reached out blindly into his direction, but was worn down by heavy sleeves, that couldn’t pass the small spaces between the bars. The kimono’s silk seemed to glow in the little light, its heavy folds and voluminous sleeves only further dwarfing his slight figure.

And Fuji’s face was so white, so unnaturally white with lips painted red from blood and hair pinned up by ornamental needles glinting golden in the candlelight. But he smiled. Smiled such a heartbreakingly sweet and honest smile.

Something deep within Tezuka snapped at the sight.

He stumbled forward blindly, forgetting about obstacles, forgetting about the threat hanging over their heads. His heart clenching painfully, forgetting about the old, sturdy iron bars, he reached out, wanting to reassure his friend, to reassure himself.

They were both here, they were alive – no matter how many ghosts there were, no matter how bad the predictions for their future, no matter how bleak the now was – they were here, alive, breathing. The ghost hadn’t succeeded yet, hadn’t …

‘We’re alive.’

He reached out with a hand trembling from relief, grasping Fuji’s with his own and sank down onto his knees in front of the bars. Blue eyes, shining with a myriad of emotions, sought his – maybe overcome with fever, worn by exhaustion, but yet full of hope and relief.

“Fuji.” he mumbled, barely able to bear the sight of his friend reduced to … this. Sickness had left his face a chalky white, his body too weak to stand on his own, even without this monstrosity of a dress weighting him down.

There were tears shining in his friend’s eyes and Tezuka wondered what it must have been like, caged and alone in a dark room, with a lonely candle for company, one that, like sand running out of a clock, dwindled. A constant reminder of impending death, of a gruesome future to come…

As if to chase away those dark thoughts, Fuji smiled warmly at him. As if to say, don’t worry, all will be alright, nothing bad will happen. All will be fine. All will be…

Why the hell was it Fuji reassuring him? Why was he so utterly… so utterly incapable of lending a helping hand when it was so obviously needed? He had set out determined to help Fuji, and now… now he was seeking security in Fuji’s warm smile, trying desperately to hang his hopes onto the make-belief playing on lips, whose red was a lie painted in blood?

Biting his lip, violently pressing back the surging tears, Tezuka reached out, through the bars, burying a hand in Fuji’s hair, trying to draw his team mate into his arms once more, as if there was no iron separating them.

He’d give it back. Give back every small amount of hope and assurance Fuji had ever given him; this time he’d be the one making things alright. This time he’d be the one hold Fuji until the warmth returned to those cold, delicate hands.

One clang and a choked exclamation from Fuji later and he knew that it wasn’t possible. His hands felt no warmth through the outer layer of luxuriously decorated silk, only further layers of clothes that made it hard to breath. Fuji’s hand remained trembling and cold, weakly returning the pressure, but Tezuka found the smell of Fuji’s shampoo over the tang of blood.

“Te…tezuka.” Fuji meekly protested against being squished against the iron bars. His body, Tezuka realized with anxiety, was completely numb. Like a doll. Fuji had barely any strength left, not to stand, not to struggle – Tezuka’s arms were all that held him in his current position.

“Pl… please, you’re…!”

Still, Tezuka only reluctantly let go of his shoulders. Carefully letting Fuji sink back onto the barren floor and he once more patted Fuji’s hair before drawing back. Only of Fuji’s left hand he refused to let go – smiling at the questioning expression in barely-opened blue eyes.

Pressing the hand, willing warmth to return to it, Tezuka fought back the tears welling up in his eyes. Refusing to wipe at them with the sleeve of his black coat, he blinked and whispered:

“Don’t worry.”

Fuji squeezed his hand in return, mustering a tired but real smile. And it broke his heart to see the unparalleled amount of trust shimmering in the ocean blue gaze. One more longing glance, one more wish for the metal bars to be gone, before Tezuka accepted the cold reality.

“Do you know where the key is?” he asked, his voice choked with emotions. He didn’t want to let go of Fuji’s hand, not, when he could feel the pulse there, not, when warmth was slowly returning into it and his friend’s cheeks regained a little colour.

Fuji shook his head, looking down. “When I woke up, everything was already like this.” He whispered, even though his throat protested violently against the motion. Coughs bubbled up, yet, biting his tongue, he suppressed them.

“Hm.” Tezuka frowned, eyeing the lock, painfully aware of Fuji’s laboured breathing. The lock was ancient, yet would most probably hold out against brute force. At least, his strength wouldn’t suffice.

Either the key or something else. Desperately Tezuka let his gaze wander across dusty shelves, hardly visible in the growing darkness. Hadn’t some former inhabitant left something useful? Was there anything around? Anything at all?

Fuji coughed again, weakly raising his other hand to wipe at his mouth. The sleeve was already stained with blood; dull red patches against colourful silk – almost invisible.

Instinctively Tezuka reached out for his friend’s hand again, wincing silently as he felt the tremors coursing through the frail body. He couldn’t bear watching, and yet he was too afraid to look away.

Because if he did… If only for one moment he glanced into another direction… who knew if he wasn’t forsaking Fuji’s life with a careless gesture. If Fuji wouldn’t slip away the minute he…

‘Stop it.’ Tezuka told himself firmly, seeking Fuji’s eyes to see how it truly stood for his friend’s health.

But Fuji only turned away and coughed more.

“Fuji…” he muttered, helpless to do anything but clasp his friend’s hand tighter, “…are you…?”

He didn’t even know the words to use. Had no clue how to voice a question, when the idea alone had his heart quivering in fearful anticipation.

“Ne… Te…Tezuka…” Fuji gasped, eventually, but his head stayed bowed, hair shadowing his drawn features, “I… don’t … don’t worry.”

Consternation washed over Tezuka, disbelief at such heart-wrenching stupidity. Enveloping his hand with both hands, soothingly rubbing over bony knuckles, he tried to catch a glimpse of his friend’s face.

“Really, Fuji, please…”

“Ne…” pulling himself up a little, Fuji lifted his head to smile at Tezuka, “I’ve … been better.”

Wide-eyed Tezuka starred at the traces of fresh blood clinging to the corner of Fuji’s mouth, perturbed by the deathly pallor of his face. He couldn’t deny the severity of this anymore, couldn’t continue to cling onto naïve hopes…

And it felt like a black hole opening up in the confines of his gut, swallowing his insides one after another, tearing at his heart, dragging it toward that spiralling dark abyss. If …

“Tezuka…” Fuji whispered suddenly, solemn eyes fixed onto Tezuka’s – compelling him to lean forward, to look nowhere else – as if to draw him out of his troubled thoughts.

“The ghost…” Fuji set out tentatively, “They want…”

“I know.” Tezuka whispered, hand reaching out to cup Fuji’s white cheek. The skin was soft, unbelievably soft underneath his trembling fingers, but frighteningly cold. Brown eyes hardened in determination, he looked at his friend and made a silent vow to do everything he could.

If this was going to take his life, so be it.

As long as Fuji was safe, he wouldn’t mind dieing.

“I know what they want.” Tezuka said, his voice hoarse and choked with emotions. Blinking back tears, he tilted Fuji’s face up, until their eyes met.

Myriads of feelings reflected from those blue pools, sensation upon sensation and nothing to stop him from drowning in the maelstrom. Leaning forward even more, as if physically attempting to banish all horrid thoughts from his friend’s mind, Tezuka smiled softly at him.

“But I’m not going to let that happen.”

Astonished blue eyes blinked up at him, perhaps the most wonderful expression Tezuka had seen his friend wear since last night. There was pleasant surprise, a sliver of hope and a fragment of … was that happiness? Or was that this odd emotion that caused foreign stirrings in his own heart?

Then Fuji bowed his head, wiping at his eyes, trying to hide those tears of happiness. His shoulders were shaking a little, but the first time in what felt like an eternity those painful coughs were not at fault.

Little giggles – choked, mixed with hoarse coughs and feverish perhaps – pealed from Fuji’s trembling form. Tezuka felt relief crawling through his veins at this sight and he couldn’t help slumping down, tension draining from his shoulders.

“Then I hope you know how to pick a lock.” Fuji announced, an ounce of playfulness returning to his voice. Maybe he was ill enough to be in hospital, maybe he was locked into a dark cellar with only a steadily shrinking candle for light, but just for this moment, with the warmth of Tezuka’s hand holding his he found a spark of hope within himself. Enough to smile, enough to hope for a tomorrow.

Enough to make Tezuka look at the thick iron lock with renewed determination. Somehow there had to be a way to open that thing, and if not, there had to be a way to get Fuji out of this hellish contraption.

And come hell and high water, if there was a way, he was going to find it.

Once more Tezuka glanced around at barren walls, but there was nothing, no key, no saw, no hammer.

“Fuji, do you know … anything that could help me break this lock?”

Shivering with exhaustion Fuji reached back and dislodged several pompous hairpins from his head. Shaking his hair free with relief, he proffered them to Tezuka, who raised an eyebrow at the glittering assortment.

They shared a smile – for a split second normality had been restored. They could hope for a happy ending, they could hope to escape this madness…

And then Tezuka set to work. His palms were clammy and his mind taunted him about never having picked a lock before. Voices whispering, that if it were Eiji or Momoshirou in his place, the lock would have been opened hours ago. If it had been Kawamura, those old bars wouldn’t have stood a chance.

That he wasn’t cut for the task, that all he brought for Fuji was disappointments and trouble, that he would fail, fail, fail.

Biting his lip until he tasted blood, Tezuka grimly reached for another pin, pushing the first on as deep into the mechanism as possible. Something old groaned – maybe he was onto something here.

Fuji was leaning against the other side of the bars, watching his progress through barely opened eyes. Whenever Tezuka looked up he wondered whether his friend had gotten paler still. Whether his breathing sounded even more laboured than the last time. Whether he’d make it in time…

In time before…

… before …

He shivered.

No, it wouldn’t happen. He had made a promise, Tezuka told himself, and he hadn’t yet broken any of his promises. And panicking wouldn’t help – he had to keep working.

It had gotten colder, or maybe it was only the adrenalin dying down. Tezuka set aside one pin, reaching for a string of cloth. The sweat covering his forehead was cooling rapidly, as something like a gust of wind swept down from the outside.

“Tezuka…” Fuji’s breathless voice made him look up in surprise.

Cold gripped his heart, just as a whiff of wet leaves, a breath of frosty air from the outside rushed to meet his sweat-soaked back. Something rattled - the wind outside?, the candle's small flame flickered wildly, casting distorted shadows across the room, the lock in his hands suddenly felt twice as cold - like icy and something, something...

“TEZUKA!”

Fuji’s wide, frightened eyes were the last thing Tezuka Kunimitsu saw before darkness claimed his vision.

Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it and if you have suggestions or comments, please share them with me.

On to Chapter 15~