Another silly Fushigi Yuugi story from me. If you thought Nuriko no Koigataki was stupid, you ain’t seen nothing yet. And if you thought the title was bad, this gives new meaning to the word.

Disclaimer: Mitsukake, Chiriko and other characters belong to Watase Yuu and Flower Comics. Nappa belongs to Toriyama Akira. I am not responsible for any loss of sanity that results from reading this ‘fic.

It might be slightly bashy, but it’s not done with malevolent intent. It’s no worse than the bus-trip omake. Apologies in advance to people who like Mitsukake, Chiriko and\or Araki Kae (whom I usually like, but who made my ears bleed with her 01 'special message' on the 100 Title Memorial Box CD. Haven't heard her 02 one yet. She might redeem herself.).

*

MITS-WHO-KAKE?

“But I’m one of the seven Suzaku seishi, I tell you!” Mitsukake exclaimed in frustration as the bouncer barred the entrance to the club yet again with a beefy arm. A sign above the entrance proclaimed that the “Annual Suzaku Seishi Reunion” was taking place inside it. Even through the door, he could hear the sound of laughter, chatter and music. He thought he recognised Nuriko’s singing too.

“You and all those others,” the man indicated the crowds standing around the cafe with a jerk of his bald head.

“But I’m Mitsukake!”

“Too bad Mitsukake ain’t a seishi.”

With a sigh, Mitsukake turned away from him and walked back into the crowd. It wasn’t his fault that he had had no characterisation after his first appearance. Or that his characterisation in his first appearance pretty much revolved around how much he liked fish. Or that he was a major facelift and a pair of fangs away from being a bishounen. Or that his seiyuu couldn’t sing like Hayashi Nobutoshi. He was still a seishi; he still had died for the cause; he still deserved to get into the club and drink bad cocktails.

He kicked the pavement in frustration. There had to be another way of getting into the club . . . .

*

Nappa hadn’t broken anything for a good, ten minutes, and he was getting bored. The punks in the crowd seemed to have learnt from what had happened to the last otaku to try and crash the reunion. Maybe he shouldn’t have smashed him into both walls. One would have left room for interpretation. His tail twitched in irritation. There had to be something he could crush.

“#@%^&! I’m #$*&ing Tasuki, everyone’s favourite seishi! %$^*!”

A grin spread across Nappa’s face, as he saw the same loser who had earlier claimed to be a seishi by the name of Mitsukake come bounding up to him. He was wearing an old, blue bathrobe, down the back of which he had stuck a mop. Its strings had been dyed a rather grubby orange. He had cut fangs out of lemon peels, while his necklace was a string of grapes. And the fan in his hand looked suspiciously as if it had been folded from an old The She poster.

“You going to %^$#ing let me in or what?”

“Or what,” Nappa said, as his fist crashed into the other man’s face.

*

Groaning, Mitsukake lay on the cement of the sidewalk where the bouncer had thrown him. His cheek throbbed, and he touched it lightly with his fingers to check the damage. It only felt like it was broken. He wondered if he could heal himself, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. It wasn’t like his face was his fortune, like certain other cast-members of a certain shoujo show.

He had just clambered to his knees and was mustering the energy to get to his feet when he saw a familiar white tail waving in front of him. Tama was padding his way up the red carpet that led into the club. There was a black collar around his neck, and a sinuous, honey-coloured Abyssinian at his side. A slightly deranged smile came to Mitsukake’s face.

“Tama! You remember me! Tama!”

The Abyssinian purred a question, but Tama just swished his tail contemptuously and walked into the club. Stardom had evidently gone to his head.

“You were just an alley-cat when I found you!” Mitsukake yelled after him, “An alley-cat eating scraps from my garbage-can! Ingrate!”

This time, he almost expected Nappa’s fist to the back of his head.

*

Stars dancing before his eyes, Mitsukake unpeeled himself from the pavement again. One of his friends had to come along eventually and recognise him. He could not be left outside on the pavement forever.

With some relief, he saw Tamahome and Miaka rounding the corner. Miaka had to recognise him, if only because he had fought her for his fish once. She never forgot food-related incidents.

However, he felt his stomach sink when he looked more closely at them. They were holding hands and staring deeply into each other’s eyes. A soft glow surrounded both of them, fuzzing the edges of the cars and buildings past which they were walking. He knew it had nothing to do with the major head-injury that he had just sustained at Nappa’s hands.

“Miaka,” Tamahome breathed.

“Tamahome,” Miaka sighed.

“Miaka.”

“Tamahome.”

“Miaka.”

“Tamahome.”

“Miaka.”

“Tamahome.”

They disappeared into the club without a second glance at him. He doubted they even noticed where they were, and hoped they’d remember before they started ripping off each others’ clothes. That had been funny the first time it had happened, but just embarrassing by the fifth. Mitsukake kicked the wall in impatience with a booted foot. He was never going to get into the club. He might as well get some coffee and a taiyaki at the diner across the road - it was about all he could afford, considering how poorly his image-song had sold. He couldn’t understand it. He had thought it would hit number one on the charts.

As he walked away from the club, he hummed a few bars of it beneath his breath. A familar pain exploded in his skull, and he sunk into blackness again. Unexpectedly, Nappa was a music critic.

*

Morosely, Mitsukake sat his battered and bruised body down opposite Chiriko at the table in the corner. The youngest Seishi had his hands cupped around a bowl of green tea, and he smiled at his friend through the steam. He had had a more philosophical attitude to his lack of popularity, and had not even tried to get into the reunion that night. He knew it had not been a good sign when his story had been cut out of the anime. And it had been such an interesting one about the character on his foot, he thought regretfully. He pushed the thought away from him - not everyone could be a Tasuki or a Nuriko or even a Chichiri.

“So, you couldn’t get in?”

Mitsukake shook his head, “The bouncer refused to accept that I am a Suzaku seishi.”

“What a pity,” he pushed the menu towards him, “Want to order? It’ll be my treat.”

Ignoring the paper, “We should complain to our fanclubs. They’ll start a petition to get us admitted.”

“Fanclubs?” Chiriko raised an eyebrow, “Even if we combined our two fanclubs, we’d still have fewer members than Araki Kae’s one.”

“Is that even possible? Can you have a negative number of fans?” Mitsukake frowned, “I knew I should have been a Seiryuu seishi. I could easily have been more popular than Miboshi.”

Chiriko winced at the mention of Miboshi’s name, and Mitsukake smiled apologetically, “Sorry. I forgot he possessed you and you had to kill yourself to get rid of him.”

“Everyone does,” Chiriko said diplomatically, “Say, did you know that there was this great story with a character on my foot, Mitsukake? They cut it for the anime. . . .”

Mitsukake groaned.

*

THE END (AND THANK SUZAKU FOR THAT!)