... OK. I'm taking a lot of huge risks with this chapter. I'm pretty much scared of the length of it, the allusions. The development of the characters. Where this is pointing -- Hell, I got it all planned out in my head, but this is becoming a strange, strange limit. I am pushing characters in ways they've never been pushed in the series. Ever.
There's a lot of information in this chapter, whether you note it or not. This is where we're getting into the crazy, crazy stuff. This chapter was insane. It was not only hard to write, but pretty painful to write on top of it.
Pretty much everyone gets a mention here. Asuka, Misato, Toji, Shinji, Kaworu, Rei. The next chapter is going to be shorter, assuredly.
You get a lot of stuff you've never seen me write, before. So. Uh. Yes.
Whatever, now I'm stalling. STOP STALLING, R. STOP IT.
Title: Meet Me at the End of the World
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Pairing: Eventual Kaworu/Shinji.
Rating: R this chapter for disturbing imagery and general underlying details on a particular psychosis.
Genre: AU. Ikari Shinji, the last angel, cannot find it within himself to kill the Third Child, Nagisa Kaworu.
Chapter: 5/?, counter-transference
Notes: Katsuragi's had enough, and Nagisa's intentions only serve to boggle Ikari further as he desperately tries to reason with himself.
Previous parts / Side-pieces:
I. reality testing
II. uber-ich (super ego)
III. symptom
IV. counter-wish
Asuka: Pride is a Small, Red Bird
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xx (child 005, age VII, memory.)
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He never truly forgot what he was; at least, not really.
(The seconds and hours of treading through this house. Contemplating his mother's voice. The occasional wetness that would mar her face, and the wetness that marred it even now.)
It was different, this time, of course.
(She was quiet and unmoving. She'd wake up soon, he was certain. It was all just a matter of time, sitting next to her on the kitchen floor. Barefoot and clammy. His mother's old comforter slung around his shoulders like a mantle. Dwarfing him. He was still so small.)
And part of him thought, that perhaps that was why he was greeted the way that he was. With her limp fingers still clasped in his tiny hand. Under the buzz of the kitchen lights. The soft rush of rain beyond the windows.
(It always poured here, after all. But, he cannot remember a time where it had seemed this prominent. Not drowned out by his mother's soft humming. The lull of the radio. The static-song of televisions and electrical wires. No, he couldn't remember this at all -- And it was just his hair slicked to his forehead. The heat of the room coiling under his skin. And the whip-like voices of the men in the doorway. With steel-toed boots and standard-issue uniforms.)
"Are you sure he's the one?" "He matches the physical description." "He looks like my own son, for God's sake! Are you--?" "Why else would we be armed, you idiot? SEELE--"
And perhaps that was why when the first one approached him, he was wary. And perhaps that was why he nudged his temple with the muzzle of his gun. (And in the back of his mind, Shinji knew what he would want.)
And perhaps that was why, when the man commanded from somewhere above him, for him to stand up, Shinji could not will himself to budge. (Couldn't will himself to even look up. Couldn't--)
And it seemed like a dream, almost. The short, fleeting seconds before the order was barked, again. The short, fleeting seconds before the stranger tilted his head up, for him. His fingers rough against the soft skin under his chin. Shinji's eyes, blue and wide and unfocused. (Hand still in his mother's. She should be up--She should have been--)
And perhaps that was why, when Shinji murmured he didn't want to go -- It was silent. Paused for a half-beat.
And then--
It was hands. And it was arms. And it was his body going slack. (And it was one grabbing his legs. Another grabbing his shoulders. And it was his dead weight, attempting to be lifted.) And he could feel his grip on his mother slipping. And --
And it was voices. And it was slow motion. And it was the high-pitched whine of electricity weaving through telephone wires. And it was the lashing of rain on the rooftops. And it was words: "Let her go," that stirred something inside of him.
(Idon'twanttoletgo.)
And that was panic. And it was the sudden, sharp sting of anxiety. And was his body jolting back to life. And it was -- Animalistic. (The moment his fingers were wrenched from hers. The instant he was lifted completely from that floor--) It was his nails digging into the soft flesh of forearms. His body twisting and tensing and struggling -- And it was futile. And it was useless. And they were strong. And he was--
(And threats and curses and swears. The lock of death grips. The inevitable bruising. The shouts and commands and: "Hurry the fuck up and sedate him--!")
And it was the brightness of this room. The cacophony of his movement. Their movement. It was his mind -- fragmented and lost and (was that him screaming?) -- and it was -- (And suddenly, it was a quick knotting of something behind the cage of his ribs. A pressure. Air rushing in and out of his lungs without ever really breathing it. It was a fast, painful detachment. Kicking out with his legs, uselessly. It was terrorhurtconfusion -- The words: letgoletgoletgo, it was his mother's voice in his ear. Murmuringmurmuringmurmuring: we'reallstrungtogether,shinji-kun--)
And suddenly, everything unraveled. (Emotions threading out of him. Poison. Blank slate. Tensing for an instant before --) And it was quiet. And suddenly, abruptly -- The men let go. Released him so quickly that he didn't have time to shield himself before he found himself again on the kitchen floor. His head knocked back.
And from here, all he can recall is the spiking of pain. The blotting darkness of his vision. The shrieks of grown men. And the way the ones who had held him gripped their heads as he curled in on himself. Gasping. (Listening to the sound of their sobbing. The sudden, babbling incoherence. The ultimate confusion of muffled pleas to makeitstop makeitstop makeit--.)
And from here, all Shinji can recall is searching for his mother. A face he can no longer remember. The anonymity and the possibility that she had never been there --
But, as he turned his head -- His mother's dark eyes were staring back. (Past him. Through him. Her pupils blown wide.) And it was only before his consciousness fled, he felt his breath thin --
Heard the sentence:
"Get them out, get them out -- Get him --"
-- And beheld nothing more than the sound of war drums; and the whisper of:
Mother, instead.
---------
end sequence
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6.2
("Do you know where you're living, Shinji-kun?"
Easy question. Easy answer. Nagisa's smile, imploring and childish. Soft.
He hadn't known how long they had sat side-by-side in that hall. Hadn’t known when Beethoven blended into Pachelbel. When Nagisa had stopped humming along, and all that was left was the sound of the score. The hollow footfalls, corridors away – not surprised, considering the acoustics.
And it had been a long stretch of time before Shinji responded. Battling orders and common sense. Knowing that "no" would bring the same volunteerism, and at least this way – perhaps it would be more tolerable. It would be --
In a way, it had been too easy. Too freely answered. And Shinji bit the inside of his cheek. Rested his chin on his knees. And mumbled that his apartment was six blocks from here. Inhaled, slow. A good stroll.
So, when Nagisa relieved the ear bud from him (still warm) – He almost turned his eyes to openly regard him. Almost.
(Nagisa's eyelashes were lowered in thought. His fingers working fluidly to wrap the wires of the ear buds around the small, mp3 player he held in his hand. Blue, and Shinji recognized it as something fairly new. He had seen something like it once before, when he was young.)
Nagisa had pulled himself to his feet, then. Stretched languidly. The material of his over-shirt pulling taunt at his elbows. And through his messy bangs (drying hadn't helped it, after all) Shinji had absently watched him. (I can't get out of this, now.) Not truly aware that –
"Something wrong?"
And it was amusement tugging at the corners of Nagisa's mouth when Shinji realized he had been staring. And he had quickly averted his eyes. (Second time today. Ayanami, now--) Stuttering:
"N-no, I just—I had just kind of—"
But, Nagisa had kindly extended his hand. Politely declining to comment on his embarrassed expression. Seeming to understand, as Shinji hesitated – As Shinji tentatively accepted it. As he let go of it the moment he was on his feet. (Nagisa's eyes still on him. Questioning.) Curled his fingers awkwardly. (And his skin had been warm in comparison to his. And the heat still lingered in the palm of his hand, when Nagisa off-handedly mentioned:
"I know how to get there. I'm on the way," (And Shinji knew this was why he should have declined to listen with him, but -- But, Nagisa was gently persistent. And Shinji had nervously avoided his eyes when he offered him his company in the form of four words: "I'll walk you there." )
And it was through this, that Shinji found himself dripping wet in the middle of a foreign apartment. His hands on his knees -- a poor attempt to catch his breath. His SDAT player, likely waterlogged and ruined in his pocket. And Nagisa standing near to him, his red-undershirt bleeding through the white of his over-shirt. An apologetic frown pulling at his lips. His fingers, pushing back his hair. (Mumbling: "I knew I should have brought an umbrella.")
And Shinji's mind, reeling when he truly recognized, that of all places --
This was Nagisa's home. And if nowhere else in the world, this was the last place he was supposed to be in.
And since Shinji had never been one for eloquence, the only thought his mind could muster, then (through his mounting panic) was short, concise, and apt:
Dammit.
7.
The bathroom in Nagisa's home was small and cramped and dark.
(Shelves filled end to end with bizarre cosmetics. Half-damp shirts, wrinkled and far too feminine for Nagisa to wear, slung over the side of the bathtub. And for a moment, Shinji was struck by the oddity of Nagisa even possessing a roommate, to begin with.)
They didn't tell me that, He paused. Shifted his fingers to peel off his drenched over-shirt. Fingers trembling, from anxiety or the sudden cold, and amended, after a moment: well, of course they wouldn't. Why would they? I should have never spoken to him, to begin with.
But, here -- The tips of his own fingers were clammy as he pulled his undershirt over his head, struggling for a moment as it got caught on his elbows -- it had stopped making sense.
Since the beginning. Since he even arrived at NERV -- Nagisa had been a constant. For the last forty-eight hours, Nagisa had been with him. Asking questions. Answering questions. His words too simple. His sentences too honest. And --
He stilled. Shifted uncomfortably. And glanced at himself in the mirror. (Perpetually uninteresting. Nothing truly remarkable. Dark hair. Small stature -- and he pressed his fingers against his chest, for only a moment, felt his heart still beating quickly, -- wet eyelashes. Slicked skin. Nothing that would mark him as someone intriguing. Visually or no.)
-- And something had felt right about it. Beethoven. Pachelbel. The long minutes spent in silence, not awkward, but --
He tore his eyes away from his reflection. Grabbed whatever it was Nagisa had pushed into his hands ("My clothes would be a bit big on you." Odd smile. Nagisa's cold fingers brushing against his. Calloused. "But, I think you'll find this to be warmer.") -- and Shinji almost felt the need to be indignant when he discovered exactly it was.
But, he would rather be dry. (And admittedly, it was warm.) And he told himself that he would have to forgive it as he shucked off the rest of his damp clothes and pulled it on, because --
A voice, distinctly female, drifted through the closed door. And Shinji barely had a moment to make himself decent (over the sound of Nagisa's hurried interjection, falling short) -- When dim light from the living room came flooding in, and Shinji turned to find Major Katsuragi herself standing in the doorway. Hand still on the doorknob. Frozen seemingly in place. And expression utterly, utterly blank.
And it might not have been intelligent, but the first sound that rose to Shinji's lips was (a terribly articulate):
"Um--"
But, Katsuragi was already holding up her hand. Silencing him. And it wasn't long after she had wordlessly shut the door behind her as she left again, that he heard her voice:
"Care to tell me why he's here? And why he's in my bathrobe? And -- You know what? I don't even want to think about this right--"
And it was entirely unconscious that he moved to press his ear against the door. Listened harder. Mortified, that Katsuragi would even--
But, Nagisa's words were calm. Barely audible.
"That's a tad presumptuous," A pause. Something like an exasperated sigh. Nagisa's or hers, he wasn't -- "I've only known him for two days."
Quiet. For a moment. Shinji held his breath. Entirely embarrassed. (I'm right here! Who in the world discusses this sort of things so--")
Sharp sound. Palms slamming down on a surface. (He jumped.)
"Well, what was it supposed to --?!"
Cut-in. Even. Quick.
"I had offered to walk him home." (He curled his fingers against the door. Relieved.) "He's close by." (Katsuragi made a sound to interject, but Nagisa continued. Stifled it.) "It started to pour, so I urged him to come in." Softer. "It would be inconvenient if he got sick."
And then, it was the sound of footsteps. The opening and shutting of what sounded to be a refrigerator door. And a low sharp, command:
"I want him gone as soon as the rain lets up." Sharper, still. "Don't you dare think I'm happy with you."
And it seemed an hour before the footfalls finally fell away. And it seemed an hour before Nagisa's words pressed against the quiet. Clear, like the first chords of tentative song:
"You can come out, now."
And it seemed an hour before he even dared himself to leave the bathroom. Nagisa's expression as tranquil as it had always been as he glanced up from where he sat, quiet at the table. Switching almost effortlessly into amusement as he noted Shinji fiddling with the cuffs of the robe, feeling ridiculous.
His fingers barely peeked past the sleeves. And if anything, the robe itself was far too big. And he could only imagine how dwarfed he looked, as Nagisa granted him a lazy smile. Noting his posture. And inquired:
"Are your damp clothes still in the bathroom?"
Shinji nodded. Looking everywhere, but his eyes. Silent, before Nagisa's voice rose again. Over the sound of the rain. The faint whistle of wind: "I'll go put them in the dryer, shortly -- In the mean time, you can sit down, you know."
And it was mirth that colored his words. And it was reluctance that colored his own, when he soundlessly sat down across from him. When he opened his mouth, after a significant pause. His fingers twisting in his lap. Mumbled.
"I shouldn't be here."
But, Nagisa only hummed. Absently. Neither in agreement or disagreement. And it was only the sound of Nagsia rising to his feet that garnered his attention. It was only him settling beside him that urged him to finally, truly look at him. (His hair a wild mess about his face. And in this light, it looked almost white. Half-dried. Odd angles and his expression oddly rueful.)
And for the third time that day, Shinji found himself staring. (His eyes didn't match his expression. Distant, like before. And -- Nagisa was raising his eyebrows curiously. And Shinji quickly looked away.)
So much for not drawing attention to myself--
But, Nagisa seemed unoffended. And he made a soft, bemused sound before leaning forward. Reaching across the table, where Shinji had fixed his gaze.
(A violin. Newly polished. Dark wood. A German model. And Nagisa's voice was near to his ear, as he settled it delicately in front of him.)
"It isn't mine," He started. And Shinji didn't dare look to see his expression (there was something beneath his words, and flickered there for an instant, before it was gone). And Nagisa was shifting away from him. And in the comfortable warmth of the living room, he turned to face him. (And Shinji knew then --) When Nagisa cleared his throat. When Shinji allowed himself to look, the violin already tucked carefully under Nagisa's chin. His fingers drawing up the bow from where it rested. As he inquired: "But, would you like to hear something?"
Unspoken: ("It is the least I can do.")
And it was without thought, that Shinji murmured:
"Yes--I mean, if you wouldn't--"
And Nagisa shut his eyes. His fingers settling, blind. And Shinji's remaining words died on his lips when the bow was first dragged across the strings. A testing note, and then --
(It was long after the rain had ceased, that Shinji had found his way home.)
8.
He had always taken comfort in monotony.
(The smell of detergent. The mugginess of the laundry room. The simple motions. Folding the sleeves of shirts in. Tucking them beneath his chin. Folding them in half. Starting again. Careless and careful. Katsuragi had always disliked the chore, so it was a relief that he had opted to take it. And for it, it became a routine.)
And for it, he made breakfast in the mornings. And for it, he did the laundry in the evenings. And it was only something he was used to, when one night she had peered in. Had watched him.
("You fold clothes like my mother used to." And she had paused then, clinking her beer can against the doorframe. "You remind me a bit of her, you know. She was like you, in that she always seemed to know what to say and when to say it...A bit too honest for her own good."
And he had offered her a small smile. A murmur of thanks coupled with a dismissive wave of his free hand -- modest, and not. And he had turned to grant her a playful retort, but found himself lapsing into silence.
She was studying him, critically. And he might have felt nervous, but his expression had not betrayed it. And he could remember the detached look that had settled over her features, then. The faint knit of her brows. Unsure of how to work the words. And whether it was from her memories or the effects of the alcohol, he was never quite sure why she queried: "Why do you do it, Kaworu? Why don't you complain or rebel or say no?"
And suddenly, it wasn't about the chores anymore. Nagisa had known as much. However, he had ignored it. And part of him still didn't think she deserved it when he responded, off-hand:
"It is just a soothing activity, Misato," He turned away from her. Kept relaxed. "You learn to like it for what it is.")
So, when Katsuragi cleared her throat from the doorway this evening, Nagisa had pretended not to hear her. (It was different, this time. The authoritative air. The way she waited. No beer can. No doubt that she wasn't--)
"Why are you behaving like this?" No playful edge. Her words were clipped and Nagisa only placed another shirt on the washer. His own. Didn't answer. At least, not yet. Instead, he raised a shoulder. Picked another shirt from the dryer. Katsuragi's. Gently folded it.
And for a moment, there was silence. And he could hear her hesitate before stepping into the cramped room with him. Pausing just behind him. Her hand on his shoulder. (And he didn't resist frustrated movement as she jerked him around to face her.) And for the first time since he met her, he had no desire to meet her eyes. No desire to-- (Her expression was dark. Her mouth twisting. Reminiscent of--) "Kaworu."
She was close. Blocking the exit with her body. His lower back pressed against the edge of the dryer. And he knew that he would not leave without answering her question. He knew that-- (And he watched her warily, then. Gaze level.)
"I don't think I am the one who is acting abnormally--"
And he hadn't expected Katsuragi's hands to fist in his shirt. Hadn't expected her to shake him. Hadn't expected her to snarl, too close:
"Don't give me that!" (And it was all he could do to listen to her. Eyes widened. Calm, for a moment, displaced. She had never done something like this--) And he could feel her hands trembling with exertion. He could feel her hot breath. And he could only barely will himself not to protest when she continued:
"You've been testing poorly, you've been questioning me more than ever, you haven't even touched your own violin--" (And her voice had caught, here. But, it was too late to cover it. And Nagisa moved his hands to tentatively cover hers, but she had already let go of him. Had already stepped back. Had already realized--)
And he hadn't known what had happened in the span of those short, fleeting seconds. Hadn't known how he had wound up seated on the floor of the laundry room, hands splayed over unfolded clothes. Hadn't known when he was pulled into Katsuragi's hesitant embrace. Her long fingers threading through his hair. His cheek pressed against the curve of her small shoulder, and her voice so near to his ear:
"--You can't pretend it never happened, Kaworu." (He knew that. Of course he knew that. Heknewheknewhe--) "I just wish, for once, you would cry or get angry or be upset. You can't run away from what you feel. You can't replace Asuka or Toji." (And he could feel his chest tighten, then. But--Katsuragi stilled her hand. Leaned her head against his.) "You can be weak sometimes, you know."
Quiet.
And it was long, long moment before either moved. Before Nagisa lifted his head. Taking in the scent of her dark hair (soft, like the perfume she always wore). Listening to each other's breath. The white hum of the washer kicking in. The rustle of unfolded clothing when Nagisa gently pulled away. Went to stand. Not looking at her, his words low in his throat:
"It is nothing to be concerned over, Misato." His eyes on the far wall. His body numb. He blinked, hard. "I do not run away."
(And he didn't need to glance to her to know her expression was blank. That there was frustration gathering at the corners of her red, red mouth. That there was hurt in the way her hand lingered -- paused by his side. In the way she pulled it back. In the way she too, looked away.)
He didn't need to glance at her. He didn't need to glance at her at all, because she uttered nothing more when he stilled for only a moment, before heading out the door.
--
It was only later in the quiet of his room -- in the quiet of his bed, did Nagisa reach for the rain-ruined SDAT player on his nightstand. (Where he had placed it earlier. An exchange. "Take mine. At least until I can get you a new one.") Flipped it over in his pale hand. (Ran the pads of his fingers over it. The worn letters of play and rewind. Used so many times, the words were almost unrecognizable.)
And it was only then, that he unwound the ear buds. Placed them hesitantly in his ears, and depressed the play button.
(And there was no sound. And there was no music. But, regardless, he kept the ear buds in. Shut his eyes. And even with the unfamiliar weight of the player on his chest, slept as well as he ever did.)
--
A/N: Permission to die now, captain?
By-the-by, that room Shinji was in? Temporary. He needed to be assigned an apartment. It seemed to only make sense, since Rei and Misato both live outside of NERV.
Also, folks:
Do you think I should just give it up and archive this on FF.net for safe-keeping?
vibe;: 
drained
drainedmusic;: falling slowly | glen hansard & markéta irglová
18 caged | cage a butterfly
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