[SP-F1] Waiting For Oikawa (Complete)

[Azide 0]

Azide recalled a play he had once witnessed in his younger days as he adjusted himself to the knotted recline of the chair's wooden frame. It had not exactly been a simpler time in the truest sense of the word; life had been just as busy and anxiety-ridden as always, if not moreso than even now. True, he'd never had to worry about whether or not he was going to die at the hands of some ferocious creature or fall victim to a mob of slightly less vicious creatures, but he would not pretend that those days had been without their own set of rigors.

Edited October 1, 2015 by Azide

[Azide 0]

After his adoption by the Navarre household, he had quickly learned that the mister and missus were cut from the cloth of the stereotypical victorian upperclass- they were boundless in their wealth, and were self-proclaimed patrons of the arts. Among other things, this had meant plenty of time spent at the opera house and in the theater, along with a neverending stream of orchestral and symphonic processions of which he had been required to attend and admire. Although he had never quite fawned over these matters as much as his folks had wished, he had nevertheless grown to appreciate them in his own, quieter way.

Edited September 30, 2015 by Azide

[Azide 0]

Admittedly, it had been quite some time since he'd last viewed a production of this particular story- although the same could really be said of the media as a whole. Not only because there seemed to be an absence of actors and theater groups in Aincrad, but also because he had left that life of excess and luxury years before he'd even slipped on the NerveGear. It hadn't been the more subtle luxuries that he had rejected; hot showers, nice clothes and the certainty of dinner every night were something he had appreciated immensely in the transition.

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And yet, everything else had never felt quite right. It was an old sentiment he'd held from the very first day he'd set foot into his adopted household; there was the sensation that this was not a world in which he belonged. The Navarres were so wealthy, so prosperous- and he had come from a world of ash and dirt. Even as they'd dressed him in their fabulous cloths, each one stitched together by so-and-so in some far off unpronounceable city, he had never felt the feeling of belonging. And it was not as if the Navarre family had not treated him well- they had met all of his physical needs, and then some.

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But always, the familiar feeling would come bubbling up as he laid in bed at a night, trying to fall asleep. Did the mister and misses Navarre actually love him? It had been hard to tell- he had no memories of his parents to draw from. Without a point of reference, how could he even begin to craft and answer for a question like that? On paper, he felt as if the answer should have been a resounding yes; they had rescued him from the children's home, clothed him, fed him, and showered him with things that had never had any business with even crossing his mind.

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Surely love was to care for someone, wasn't it? His adoptive parents had definitely done their part in caring for him. Never had he sat out on a meal because of a lack of supplies in the kitchen, nor had he ever needed to wear the same shirt even twice in a row. Gone were the days of the shirt which had been more patched than sewn, or the rags which were more tatters than shirts. Gone were the days of need- they had been replaced in full by the days of having, and having in abundance.

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So he could not claim that the Navarres had not care for him- they had done just that, and had spared no expense in the matter. And yet, had he ever felt that they had truly cared for him, even just for a single moment? It was a strange thing to think, but he had never felt as if the couple had truly valued him as their own. It would not be fair to claim that they had not made his life a more pleasant one than it had previously been, or that they had somehow failed to make every attempt at providing a smooth transition into his new life. No, they had done all of that.

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And even then, they had never been able to instill within him the warmth he had been expecting, and so desperately had wished to have. Their manner with him had always seemed like a brittle yet pleasant facade; the simplest way to relate it was that it reminded him of the average kindergarten teacher who would appear impossibly kind and nice, but was almost certainly behaving under an idealized persona. Nobody would expect these men and women to come home to their family and continue to act under that mask. But the Navarres did, and they weren't even teachers.

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Not only had their interactions with him seemed hollow and insincere, but their agreements and standards had given him an uneasy feeling, as if his adoption had included a contract with expectations of success. True, it was reasonable for parents to wish success upon their children- and yet, was it still reasonable for this success to be a conditional stipulation for their love and support? And it wasn't as if he were even receiving any love in the first place, although if he had been, he certainly hadn't been recognizing it.

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Though the pair had never gone out and explicitly said any of this, there had been certain implications in the occasional talks they had at the dinner table. Although he had considered himself fortunate enough to have been gifted with a considerable intellect, he had not taken well to the latent expectations which he had been saddled with. Had his so-called parents simply picked him as though they might a cat or a dog? To groom to their liking, then parade before the adoring crowds? Perhaps even teach him a few tricks in the process?

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He felt now that it was safe to say that these people had not loved him- not in the way that they should have, at least. Maybe it was a selfish thing to declare, considering his childhood would have seemed like a fantasy to many a boy or girl. But it seemed a reasonable thing to conclude, and he did not think that this was unfair to say. It was simple the truth of the matter, at least from his own point of view. As he'd once shared with a certain blonde-haired young lady, he'd found himself wondering as a child- what if he had not been so smart?

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It was not such a difficult question to answer, and each time he had asked it, the truth behind his relationship with the Navarres had only grown clearer and clearer still. It was simple, really. Had the circumstances of his intelligence been any different, at least in a negative way, there would have likely been another Navarre in his place. And he would have continued on as Napoleon Nouel Broussard, a poor wretch of a boy destined to spend his childhood as a ward of the state, a burden and a blemish to the more civilized society.

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But that was enough moping and groping about his own past. What mattered more was not the circumstances of his viewing, but the substance which it had held. In this play, Waiting for Godot, a majority of the run time was devoted simply to the scene of two friends conversing as they awaited the arrival of the titular character Godot. And yet, for all of their waiting, Godot would never come- not in that particular showing, nor in any production. Godot would simply never arrive, and the two men were driven to madness and despair every single time.

[Azide 0]

Now here he was, waiting for Oikawa. He tapped his fingers against the countertop, making Lucifer lift its head lazily from its coiled slumber. The slender snake stared at him for a moment and flicked its forked tongue before returning a more comfortable position. The Gurando Foji was empty- there was no Oikawa to keep the furnace burning nor to strike while the iron was hot. Not even King was here, the leopard with a pelt as white as snow which had fallen under the care of his old friend. It was too quiet now, this place which had once been full of life and sound. It had been busy, but now it was still.

[Azide 0]

Azide reached for the cup of tea he'd poured himself when he'd first arrived, and peered into the green-ish liquid, catching sight of his own reflection. He looked greener than usual, for obvious reasons, but also for reasons that were not quite as obvious. In any case, both the cup and its contents were now ice cold, and he set the tea back against the table. Groggily, Lucifer snaked its head over the rim of the cup and gave the liquid a quick lick before turning its head in apparent disinterest.

[Azide 0]

For some reason, he could not help but recall a certain day in which he'd arrived at the Starlight Cafe just in the nick of time. Once he'd entered the lovely little shop, he'd taken a seat beside three others; Lucifer, X, and Oikawa. He could still remember how quickly his heart had been pounding, as well as how he'd attempted to play it off nothing, and the thought made him smile. Unlike the others, he had been the only founder that day to have ordered something other than tea: he'd chosen to go instead with a glass of water, not because he was some sort of contrarian, but due to a combination of frugality and taste.

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But Oikawa had ordered tea. Yes, Seijuro had indeed ordered himself a tea. As hard and thoroughly as he wracked his brain, however, he could remember the specific variety that his friend had enjoyed on that day. But he supposed that it had probably been very similar to this one. His eyes drifted over to the discarded up once more, and he sighed deeply. What a waste of tea- to have gone cold and undrunken like that, all because a certain someone had not yet showed up. And so Azide did not drink it, not just because it was cold, but because the person it had been intended for was simply running late. It would be rude to have invited Oikawa for a chat, and not have a drink to offer him.

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And then there was the color green. It seemed to be an unpopular color, both in this world and the other- the only two people he'd really seen sporting it had to be himself and Jomei, a member of The Velvet Room. But he had not begun to ponder the question simply because of his own preference for it; green was the color of the tea in the cup across from him, for starters. And that observation had drawn his thoughts into yet another memory, one which had been rife with the lively color.

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There had existed a point in time where he had clung desperately to a rumor which had circulated amongst the likes of alchemists all around. Nothing had been concrete, as with most rumors, but the whispers had managed to catch his attention nonetheless. Not only that, but the concept of a plant which could be used to revive a fallen player had truly captured his imagination. He recalled the circumstances which had driven him into seeking out the legendary herb; a guildmate of his by the name of Zaryn had only recently fallen victim to one too many charges from a boar. He remembered how Oikawa had pulled through, and had accompanied him in this venture through the jungle, even though the latter had not initially been told the real reason why they had been trekking mindlessly through the woods.

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The memory of a certain colossal snake, as viridian as any leaf or blade of grass in the entire jungle, flashed in his mind. It soon faded, as the more tangible snake lying next to him hissed slowly, and moved to look its owner in the eye. He knew what Lucifer had intended to communicate, whether the snake were capable of vocalizing the words or not. Though a quiet thing, he had long ago been made aware of the remarkable extent to which the creature was capable of expressing emotion through its lidless eyes. "Oikawa is not coming today," it seemed to whisper solemnly, as if regretting its unenviable position as the bearer of bad news.

Azide reached over and took ahold of the teacup and held the cool ceramic in his hands for a moment, lost in thought, before suddenly downing the contents in a single gulp. He tossed the empty cup through the open double doors of the Gurando Foji, and wiped his lips clean with a handkerchief he'd magicked from out of the folds of his coat, before going the way of the shattered cup.