"The trouble with not considering him a stranger is that I have to consider him as something else."

Nezumi never had been fond of dramatic romances, of dashing and heroic deeds done, of love that was so pointless and ended only with an entertaining bang, a death or two. He'd never liked how the greatest romances were tragedy of two, two 'destined' to be together, but 'fate' cruelly tore them apart. He'd thought most of it silly, if not impractical. But that was the greats, that was, he supposed, entertainment.

A soft wind blew in from his window, the strands of his hair catching on it and flowing gently before falling again. He looked from his high tower apartment, above the city he currently resided in. It hadn't been any trouble, getting this apartment.

He certainly considered it a change. Underground had never had this sort of view.

He turned his head away, let the sunlight filter in through the open window. Memories cascaded through him, of a window on a stormy day and the sunlight that flooded through them the day after. The warmth of a person, with white hair and a soft smile, and-

-And he really ought to stop.

A sigh escaped him, not quite usual, not quite unusual.

It was happening more frequently, these memories and flashes, the short rushes of thought. It made him think, wonder, even, of what things could have been, mightbe-
-But lingering on memories of a stranger-
-But who could call him a stranger, now?-
-He was a stranger though-
-But not.

The problem, he thought, staring at his beige carpet, with not considering him a stranger is that he has to be something else.

The world was filled with labels, Nezumi had known this since the first day of the rest of his life. The world was in love with labels, in the hopeless way Shakespeare's tragic Romeo loved Juliet, or vice-versa.

But labels made things, in Nezumi's eyes, more difficult.

He considered the thought that it may have been the point. The world was a writer, after all, spinning tale upon tale of characters, some with dull lines and others who stole the scene away with charisma and sorrow. The world loved tragedy like the actors lamented it.

Well, not lament, really. Nezumi quite liked playing the tragic. But it was different, when the stage was your life, and every action that followed changed the script.

That made it different.

On that stage, actors could be whisked away and never come back onstage, while others played parts until the very end of the show. Any action could decide who stayed and who left, when the script changed and bloomed, when the actor began to act. Any one word, any one movement.

His neck hurt. He let his eyes wander to the ceiling.

Was he allowed to pull another actor from the shadows into his own show? Was he allowed to come out of the shadows into another's show?

What was allowed? What role did he have to play to be accepted? Was he good enough for that wide stage?

Whose stage? His?

A name came to his mind, with a gentle but firm voice, a name with a body, with a heart.

Sion.

He laughed. He laughed and laughed, clutching his stomach in pain.

He'd never hesitated in getting on a stage, and he'd never been rejected from getting on one. Now wasn't the time to start.

He looked through the open window, the daylight slowly turning to a dusky twilight.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'd go back. Without any label, without anything but the thought that he would appear on that stage once again, but never leave, not until the whole show was over and the actors had to take their bow.

But did he have what it would take to stand on that stage, what he could consider, maybe, the grandest stage, set in the strangest place. Did he have the ability to stand and act until the ending? Was he willing to work tirelessly on such a stage? Could he?

Well, he thought, now is a good time to try.

Just saying, I got that line at the top from a lovely ask blog on tumblr: knockoutmouse