[je] meme iii.

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays.
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

note: all the songs are on imeem: i, ii, iii, iv, v. translations to i, iv, and v are here, here, and here.

-

i. hybrid rainbow | bump of chicken

koichi doesn’t decorate his side of the room with posters or family pictures. his walls are bare and clean and white, minimalist, because koichi is all about the essentials. in the window, though, he hangs a little crystal dangling on string; it’s a bauble made to hang from rearview mirrors in cars. some sunny lazy mornings, the sun filters through the glass panes and hits the crystal in the perfect way, refracting rainbows on the walls in dizzying array.

nagase, on his side of the room, is dozing still; a late night last night, but all nights are late for nagase these days. ‘debut,’ he had whispered to koichi, hushed because that’s how debut is spoken of among the juniors, with quiet reverence. koichi had gotten up early and finished his homework–he’s studious, which had been a surprise to some at first. now, math is finished and chemistry nearly so. his bed is already made, but he crawls into nagase’s, stealing some pillow. it’s not yet lunch; he has time for a quick nap. in the afternoon, there will be dance rehearsals, more work–but sunday mornings are slow, tranquils things; thick and sweet and golden-lit like honey. koichi dozes to the even breathing of nagase.

later, there will be lunch, will be dance rehearsals and concert planning and television filming for koichi; variety shows and studio recordings and photoshoots for nagase. later, they will smile for the cameras and interview for magazines; be idols to an adoring public. later, nagase will wear leather and fur and boots, too short shorts and too tight vests–his limbs will be slim and boyish still to those of his bandmates, but he will stand in the front, will stand in the center, will sing his throat raw. later, koichi will meet up with tsuyoshi, always tsuyoshi–that’s how it’s been, how it always will be, koichi and tsuyoshi, koichi and tsuyoshi, kinki kids; and they will sing about dreams and forever and love; will promise always, always, always–

later, later; tomorrow, tomorrow.

later, later: they will move out of the dormitories, will host their own shows and have their own careers and do their own projects, will meet only when their schedules coincide–

(debut, nagase had said, and maybe there was a frightened lilt to his voice; it’s a beginning, not an end, koichi had smiled; koichi, unsentimental, uncomforting, but who had immense faith in some things, some things don’t end, occhan)

later, later, but not yet. the kaleidescope of sunburnt colors swing gently on koichi’s white walls, in time to the crystal prism hanging in the window. they have time yet, slow weekend mornings to nap away.

tomorrow, tomorrow: but it isn’t a limit, not a limit at all.

here is only partway through.

[je] la cosa nostra

The extortion cases are easy.

Taichi does most of the talking; smiles honey-sweet, pushing papers and contracts across glossy oakwood tabletops. “Sign here,” he says, “and here. And here,” pointing with a pen. (Pelikan’s Souveran 805 fountain pen, dark blue with a rhodium-designed 18kt gold nib. Taichi pays attention to details.) Nagase stands behind Taichi, folds his arms and looms, doing his best to look menacing. His face is sharp and angled and fierce, like a wolf’s, so it’s not that hard. Whoever sits on the other side of the table usually signs with minimal protest.

The extortion cases are easy.

They don’t do a lot of trafficking. Security’s increasingly tight about drugs, and the money’s just not there anymore. Arms, though, weaponry, gunrunning–they dabble in that sometimes.

It’s a bit more complicated, though.

[je] death to the french is italy’s cry

No one in la cosca really knows how Nagase became sotto capo. He’s not particularly bright to begin with; bad at basic arithmetic, even worse at political subterfuge and intrigue subtleties. He laughs too loud and has no sense of discretion and frequents seedy clubs and wears his suits rumpled. More thug than mafia, really.

The general consensus is that he’s fucking the boss. Or that she’s fucking him. The power dynamics of that particular relationship is a bit questionable.

–

(This is what they don’t know, what–if Ayumi can help it–they never will: that Nagase is a better shot than anyone she’s ever known, a gunslinger in the old, romantic sense of the term; that he may not be very good at math or science or literature, but he knows how to talk, how to listen, how to make people feel comfortable; that when he smiles, there isn’t a bitter shadow to it; that, for all his apparently retarded ways, Nagase knows people. People may not understand him, but they like him all the same.

(Charm, thinks Ayumi, is more dangerous than any other weapon at her disposal.)

–

Koichi doesn’t own many things, though this is more out of disinterest than lack of ability. Among the things that he does own are: 1. a red couch, because Koichi likes red; 2. cars (Porsche 991, Ferraris Modena and f430; and with the latter, a 4.3 liter V8 engine, electrohydraulic shift transmissions, and 0 to 60 mph in 3.5 seconds, the thought of which makes Koichi a little weak at the knees) because Koichi likes cars; 3. suits, Armani and Versace and all specially tailored, because someone (Koichi’s not really sure who) had insisted.

Aside from a laptop, that is about the extent of Koichi’s worldly possessions. He’s pretty satisfied.

On weekdays, he does some chauffeuring business for a very pretty lady. Weekends, Nagase comes over and they watch the Saturday morning cartoons on TV and Nagase makes a mess of Koichi’s apartment and Koichi beats him over the head with pillows and they laugh a lot.

(Sometimes, though, Koichi drives other people. They wear sharply pressed suits, maybe sunglasses, and don’t talk much, which is okay, because Koichi doesn’t talk much either. But sometimes they’re bleeding, which isn’t so okay, because Koichi doesn’t like getting stains over the upholstery in his cars. He doesn’t know why they don’t just call an ambulance. Weird rich people. Sometimes, too, they tell him things like “follow that taxi” (Koichi rolls his eyes at this, because that’s a bit cliche; but he obliges) or “step on it” (which earns another eye roll, because, again, cliche) and sometimes, there are little click-ping-ping sounds behind him, and once the rear window shatters (why would you do that to a Porsche?), and it’s almost like there are people shooting at him. With guns or something.

Mostly, Koichi doesn’t think about it too much.)

[p&p] meme ii.

one art is about

1. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a brilliant astrophycist from CalTech. He’s in Switzerland at CERN, doing some very smart-people and very esoteric research on particle physics and dark matter and black holes. He thinks String Theory is silly and ridiculous, because, really, eleven dimensions?; has his own “Theory of Everything”; does not believe in the Higgs boson; gets very earnest about neutrinos; and thinks “quark” is the greatest word ever. He’s brilliant beyond brilliant, and he knows it too. This annoys a lot of people, but he doesn’t really care about that, because, again, brilliant beyond brilliant. Coming from CalTech, he finds the Genevan weather too wet, too cold, and too miserable. This makes him snappish and curmudgeon-y. He’s very passionate about his work–at least, we suppose he is underneath all that impassivity and icy cool detachment, because he’s something of a workaholic scientist, who can and does get brilliant beyond brilliant ideas at two in the morning. When this happens, he bullies his entire research staff out of their beds and makes them come in to the lab too. They all think he’s a bit wacky, but they love him for it, and they’re loyal to the death (possibly even loyal in the face of coffee deprivation, which is Very Serious Shit.) Sometimes he’s a total dork with them, because they’re sort of all one big family, and he makes lame jokes and remembers people’s birthdays and they’ve all know him too long to be put off by his most-of-the-time freakish perfectionism. On Sundays, he drives into France and gets baguettes from Bingley’s patissier.

2. Elizabeth Bennet, who is from some indeterminate origin. She’s in France because she feels like being in France. (This is a lie.) She is actually in France because she is studying postmodern art. She does not really like postmodern art, but maintains that: “Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not cool. Just because you’re bitchy doesn’t mean I don’t like you. Well…I don’t like you. But it’s not because you’re bitchy. Or maybe it is. It’s not the only reason, at any rate.” (Her philosophy on this confuses Darcy very much. Darcy does Not Like being Confused.) She likes faking bad French accents, and likes canned soup, and is not really fluent in any foreign language but can swear very colorfully and has basic survival skills in fourteen, including Flemish and Japanese. If there’s one thing to say about Elizabeth, it is that she is really, very, terribly camp. Very camp. Darcy has a difficult time knowing when to take her seriously or not. On weekends, she works at Bingley’s little bakery, doing God knows what. Darcy certainly doesn’t know. She gives him his baguettes each week and looks at him strangely: she doesn’t understand why he limits himself to baguettes when there is a whole, beautiful world of quiches and pies and tarts out there. For Christmas, she gives him a copy of Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche. Darcy is sort of just blankfaced. Elizabeth concludes that Darcy is a douche.

3. …and everyone/thing else, which is all background information anyway. So Elizabeth thinks that Darcy’s douche, and his requests for baguettes are obviously Compensating For Something, because, come on, big bread? Darcy does not like this insinuation and does not like quiche and does not like how Elizabeth browbeats him every weekend to try some quiche. She scowls and is terribly flippant; he stands there like a big lump of granite and is very stoic. Elizabeth talks about postmodernism sometimes; most of it goes over Darcy’s head. Darcy talks about black holes and the space-time continuum sometimes; not all of it goes over Elizabeth’s head. Eventually, Elizabeth gets him to admit that he “does not dislike” eclairs or cream puffs (“Cream puffs,” she snickers), which makes Darcy okay in Elizabeth’s book. Elizabeth doesn’t really do anything to make herself okay in Darcy’s book, except maybe breathe, because since their second meeting, Darcy’s book has pretty much been The Book of Elizabeth. Darcy works on his Theory of Everything, but Elizabeth just succinctly sums her theory of everything up as: “Well, it’s sort of like this. You have music and literature and dance and theater, and it’s all this big blob of messy creativity. You have your Impressionism and your Baroque and your Postmodern and your Realism; you have Manet and El Greco and Warhol and Raphael. And everything’s confusing, except you stop to remember that, in the end, they’re just trying to say something. They’re just trying to leave behind some truth (and it may not be a true truth, but it’s their truth and you have to respect that)–and they just want that truth to brush your heart, even the tiniest flutter. That’s all any of us want, really. We’re all trying to say something: you with your Theory of Everything and me with my quiches–we all want to flutter against somebody’s hearts, and that’s something universal. That’s what makes us human, because we just want our words to reach someone, our one person–we just want to be heard, and that’s a motivation of every artist. And each artist being joined by that, each artwork is thus connected, and in the end, you see, there’s really only one sort of art: ours. Humanity’s.”

(Darcy says that she generalizes too much. She says D:< in reply.)

[naruto] meme ii.

and all of its discontents

It’s not a happy marriage. Sakura’s surprised by this in a vague sort of way; she knows who and what and how Sasuke is. She knows not to expect any sort of sweet domesticity with him, and she knows not to think of him as a Prince Charming come to take her away to her happily-ever-after. She knows all this. But Sakura is something of a romantic at heart, and it still hurts when he’s curt with her, when he’s cold, when he’s silent, when he’s late for dinner, when he doesn’t apologize, when he never asks after her day, when he still maintains his distance, surgically separating the spheres of their married life into yours and mine.

He’s dutiful; he’s not unkind. He’s not a bad husband, thinks Sakura, and she’s not a bad wife. Eventually, they will have children, and he will be a good father and she will be a good mother. It’s just not a happy marriage, but it’s not unhappy either, and that has to count for something, thinks Sakura. Sometimes Sakura is wistful, and sometimes she wishes he’d talk to her more, sometimes she wishes he’d eat dinner with her; sometimes Sakura is sad, is melancholy, thinks that things weren’t supposed to turn out like this, that there were supposed to be kisses at the end of the rainbow. But only sometimes. These she dismisses as moments of weakness; and it’s not a bad marriage, it’s really not. It might not be happy, but none of them had happy lives anyway, so perhaps it is fitting. It might not be happy, but Sakura hadn’t really been looking for happiness when she married Sasuke.

She doesn’t regret anything.

(But sometimes, she sees Naruto and Hinata laughing together, she sees Ino and Shikamaru squabbling at each other with disgruntled affection, she sees and maybe she is a little envious in her heart. Maybe she is a little sad.)

-

She wants to say to him sometimes: please be on time for dinner. I’ll wait for you, but–just once, please. Please remember to be on time. She wants to say sometimes: Today is our anniversary, and that must mean something, that means something, doesn’t it, Sasuke-kun? She wants to say sometimes: I’m here, Sasuke-kun, I’m here, I’m here; why are you still so lonely? What am I doing wrong? What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to fix you, Sasuke-kun, I don’t know how to make you happy, are you unhappy, are you still bleeding inside, Sasuke-kun, I’m here, I’m here, are you here too?

She wants to say: I’m here, Sasuke-kun. Look at me. Look at me.

Look at me.

[nobuta wo produce] meme ii.

and i fell in love with you (when i gave you up)

Mariko doesn’t really know how it happened; it wasn’t really like she was looking to get her heart broken or anything. She wasn’t even really looking for a boyfriend. Except Shuuji was always there, and Shuuji was always helpful, and Shuuji always smiled in his sympathetic, sunny way. And even when he didn’t mean it, even when he was lying, Shuuji always said “Yes.” Mariko had never met a boy like Shuuji before, but she thinks no one had really met anyone like Shuuji before. Shuuji wasn’t the smartest or the funniest or the most athletic; he wasn’t the class president and he wasn’t going to be valedictorian. But everyone liked Shuuji, everyone was a little bit in love with Shuuji, and maybe that meant more. (But, she learns, maybe that means nothing.)

Anyway, Shuuji was popular, and Mariko was popular, and they were the Golden Couple, they were what Love was supposed to be all about, they were a fairytale, except Mariko never got her Happily-ever-After. Shuuji wasn’t a prince, and Shuuji wasn’t in love with her, and their first, their last, their only date had been more of a good-bye than anything. “I–” said Shuuji, awkward and clumsy in his honesty, “I never meant–”

(But Shuuji hadn’t meant a lot of things.)

Mariko’s not exactly bitter. She’s sad and hurt, and probably she’s still in love with Shuuji, because it’s hard, even now, not to be in love with Shuuji. But she’s not bitter. She doesn’t blame Shuuji, because he may have lied, but she had been blind, and in the end–in the end, Shuuji had done the most selfless thing anyone’s ever done for Mariko. Shuuji had said “No,” because he didn’t want her to wait for him; because he wanted her to have a chance at happiness. The knowledge of that, Mariko holds on to, and tucks it away, warm and golden, in her heart.

Nobuko writes letters to Shuuji these days, quaint and rambling letters. Mariko helps. “Ask him if he’s drinking orange juice,” she says, as the two girls sit in an empty classroom after school, their dark heads bent over the same desk, late afternoon sunshine streaming in through the half-open windows. Nobuko’s pencil makes tap-tap noises on the desktop. “It’s cold season,” Mariko continues, “Tell him to be careful.”

“Aa,” agrees Nobuko. “And Akira too, to be careful.”

Shuuji writes back, short but frequent letters–his handwriting is neat and tidy and careful, and he never says much. But on the bottom of the page, where there is white, unused space, someone has scrawled crayon drawings of pigs and oceans and a happy, yellow sun. Akira is being stupid, of course, Shuuji usually concludes, but Mariko thinks he sounds happy. The crabs here are HUGE! he exclaims and It’s the middle of February and Akira wants to go surfing. He won’t believe me when I tell him that he’s crazy. ‘Akira crazy?’ he says, and laughs in that stupid nasal giggle. Idiot. but that’s just Shuuji showing his affection. It’s not what Mariko had expected of the Old Shuuji, but she’s beginning to learn that maybe Old Shuuji hadn’t really been True Shuuji, and she thinks maybe she never really knew Shuuji anyway.

“So it wasn’t even really love, was it?” she smiles at Nobuko, who looks vaguely anxious and vaguely sympathetic. “I’m all right. I’m not heart-broken over Shuuji-kun. You can stop looking worried and you can tell him to stop feeling guilty.”

It’s a small lie. She’s not heart-broken over Shuuji, but she’s not really over Shuuji. And it’s just as easy, just as simple, just as natural to fall in love with him through his letters–his truer self, bare and stark, not so polished and not so smooth as the mask that Shuuji tried to present to the world, but just as brave and just as kind. Shuuji is Shuuji is Shuuji is Shuuji, thinks Mariko.

She doesn’t tell him this. It’s all right to be a little bit in love with Shuuji (everyone is a little bit in love with Shuuji), but she doesn’t think she really wants to do anything about it. Not just yet. She thinks he needs to find himself first, however cliche and stupid that sounds; and there had been his “no,” his sincere wish for her happiness, for her not to wait.

“Tell him,” she adds, as Nobuko writes the final few sentences. “Tell him that we’re all fine here. Tell him that we’re–we’re happy.”

–

Two days before he’d left, Mariko found Shuuji sitting alone on top of the playground jungle behind the school. She bit her lips and thought about it for a moment, then climbed up to sit beside him. “Hey,” she said, and bumped shoulders with him. “Shuuji-kun.”

His eyes flickered towards her, and there was something at once wistful and tentative in his smile. “Oh, hello,” he said, but it sounded stilted.

She understood, sighed, rolled her eyes. “I’m not angry with you,” she told him. “And–y’know. Thank you, for the other day.”

He half-laughed, half-huffed, and it was a derisive exhalation. “I should be apologizing–”

“No,” said Mariko. “No, don’t. It–It was good.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, so they sat in silence for a while, looking up at the grey December sky. Eventually, Shuuji said, “I’m sorry,” anyway. “I don’t have any right to love you,” he added, soft and quiet. There was a distant look in his eyes, but he was smiling a little. It was a sad smile, half-wistful. “Boys who make girls cry have no right to love them.” He looked at her again from the corner of his eyes, and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” said Mariko. “It’s all right. I had fun, you know. Even with how everything turned out. I really did have fun.”

“I’ll have to take you to the beach for real sometime, then,” Shuuji laughed, “if that’s your idea of a fun date. You know that it was just Nobuta and Akira tipping sand over the PA?”

“You have good friends,” said Mariko, and bit her lip when the smile faded from Shuuji’s face.

“Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. “I have good friends.”

It started to snow.

Suddenly, Shuuji turned to her, serious and earnest. “Mariko,” he said. “Mariko, don’t wait for me, all right? Don’t wait for me.”

“I–”

“Promise,” said Shuuji. He tugged on one of her hands, and laced pinkies with her. “Promise you won’t wait for me, and you’ll find someone better, and — promise me you’ll be happy. Okay?”

Mariko stared at him for a long moment. She crooked her pinky in his. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I promise. I’ll be happy.”

I’ll be happy.

–

In the end, maybe she gave him up, or maybe he gave her up, or maybe neither one of them gave up. Maybe it doesn’t matter either way. Maybe she’s still a little in love with him, and maybe he’s still learning about truth and honesty; but all he’s ever wanted, really, was her happiness, and she thinks that’s the greatest thing you can want for someone.

She’s happy.

[naruto] meme ii.

pride and prejudice

Naruto insists that it’s all the teme’s fault, what with him being an arrogant asshole and “scion of the House of Uchiha” (whatever the fuck that means) and having shitloads of money, and really, pretty inevitable if you think about it, that Sasuke was going to grow up having issues. “All that inbreeding,” says Naruto. “Fucked up his head, y’know? And being called a scion? –that’s gotta be psychologically scarring.”

“You don’t even know what scion means,” scowls Sakura.

“Who needs to know what it means?” says Naruto. “Sasuke’s one, isn’t he? So it’s gotta be some variation on a theme of ‘uptight bastard with a stick so far up his ass, it could probably double as his tongue,’ right?”

Mr. Uptight Bastard With A Stick So Far Up His Ass, It Could Probably Double As His Tongue narrows his eyes, thoughtfully throws a stapler at Naruto’s head, and does not comment.

“Fucker,” says Naruto, straightening from his crouch, but doesn’t seem particularly fazed. He turns back to Sakura. “But you see what I mean? No respect at all for us lower classes. He’s a total Grinch, Sakura-chan; I bet his itty-bitty heart is all wrinkled and pruny too.”

“Naruto,” says Sakura, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Let’s just–let’s just clean up this classroom, and then we’ll go out for ramen, and we’ll pretend that you’re not crazy and masochistic and we’ll pretend that Sasuke’s not going to kill sometime soon and we’ll all order miso and it’ll be good times, okay?”

“I don’t want ramen,” says Sasuke.

“SEE!” shrieks Naruto. “What did I say about being all weird and fucked up? HOW ELSE WOULD YOU EXPLAIN THAT?” He tilts his head back a little to glare at Sasuke. “Y’know, asshole, for being so loaded, you’d think you could buy ramen for all three of us. But noooooo–you insist on making Sakura-chan spend her hard earned money. You’re a miser.”

“Naruto,” says Sakura. “Naru–”

“Bet your first name’s Ebenezer too,” says Naruto snidely.

“It’s Sasuke,” replies Sasuke levelly.

Naruto sidles up to Sakura, and stage-whispers, “What do you see in him?” Sakura glowers and puts Naruto’s head through a wall. Naruto makes a choked, gargling sound, and says, “Um.” A pause, as he pushes against the wall and tries to tug his head out. “Um, Sakura-chan?”

“What,” snaps Sakura.

“I can’t–my head–it’s not coming out.”

Sasuke may or may not have smiled at that point, a peculiarly boyish, merry grin. Sakura maintains that she saw nothing. Sasuke says, “Maa. I’m done with the chalkboard.”

Sakura looks up from Naruto, who’s flailing his limbs rather spastically. “Oh, finished already, Sasuke-kun? I’m pretty much done too. But uh, Na–”

“If you’re done,” Sasuke cuts in smoothly, “we can go get some miso ramen.” He squints at Naruto’s suddenly still form, and then adds, a touch wickedly, “My treat.”

“EHHHHHH?” wails Naruto. “TEME!”

“Sasuke-kun,” says Sakura, all googly-eyed. Sasuke frowns a bit at that expression, because it’s not like he’s being nice to her, dammit; he doesn’t want her to get the wrong ideas or anything. This isn’t a date. But then she’s grinning and tugging him out of the classroom, and it seems a bit too late and a bit too much effort to really disabuse her of the notion.

“TEME! TEME!” shouts Naruto. “WHAT ABOUT ME! WHAT ABOUT MY HEAD!”

“Well,” says Sasuke, calmly. “Since you are not a product of, as you called it, fucked-up inbreeding, I am sure you have very developed survival skills. You will probably have gnawed your way out of that wall by next week.”

-

Naruto does indeed have “developed survival skills” not to mention mad gnawing skills. He gets his head unstuck less than two hours later, but is not really sure what to do with the hole in the wall. In the end, he patches it up with a rather badly done genjutsu, an illusion of white plaster which will (probably) hold until some kid tries to lean against it, and freak Iruka-sensei out. Well. Naruto shrugs, and trots off to Ichiruku’s. His ramen senses are tingling.

Surprisingly, Sasuke and Sakura are still there, sitting at the counter with empty bowls in front of them. Their heads are bent over a scroll; Sakura is pointing at something, Sasuke is pointing at something out, and they seem–Naruto doesn’t really know if there’s a word. Asuma gets like that with Kurenai sometimes, and Naruto doesn’t really know what that means, but he thinks it’s probably something like how he feels with a belly full of ramen and his friends all around and–happy. Maybe that’s the word.

He doesn’t think too hard about it. Sasuke looks up and tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow, and Sakura glances up as well, and says, “Ah. Naruto!” and smiles. And then–

Then Naruto sees the bowl heaped to the brim with ramen, sitting on the counter, still hot if the steam wafting up is any indication. “YOU BASTARD!” grins Naruto, jumping on the stool. “SAKURA-CHAN!” he mumbles through a mouthful of heavenheavenheaven miso, eyes closed and all blissed out.

Sasuke snorts a little, mumbling something about “no manners” and “vile” and “disgusting” (what does he know anyway? Inbred freak) and Sakura looks a bit twitchy, but they eye him with indulgent (if disgruntled) affection. And Naruto’s grinning so hard, he’s pretty sure he’s going to break something in his face; but his friends were waiting, and there was a bowl of miso waiting, and he thinks life is made of moments like this, moments that go on and on and on forever; he thinks they’ll go on and on and on, forever.

“YOU GUYS,” bawls Naruto, sniffling. “I’M SO HAPPY.”

“You retard,” says Sasuke disgustedly, and Sakura rolls her eyes, and the two of them turn back to their scroll.

It’s another night at the Ichiruku ramen stand lit by the lanterns’ soft golden glow, Naruto slurping his ramen and Sakura gazing at Sasuke with adoring eyes and Sasuke not trying very hard to hide the way his lips twitch at the corners.

(they’ll go on like this, Team 7, go on and on and on and on)

–

[gokusen ii] meme ii.

there is love

Hayato transfers schools in second grade. He’s not really excited about it: it’s his third school transfer, and though his father promises that it’s also the last, Hayato doesn’t really believe his father. His father promises lots of things, like being home for dinner and finding the boys another mom and giving Hayato more weekly spending money. They sound nice, and his father is probably working on it. Hayato’s just learned not to get his hopes up.

His classmates are boring, quiet and complacent like sheep. The girls talk too much and laugh in high-pitched sqeals; the boys won’t meet his eyes. Hayato thinks they’re scared of him. Hayato thinks they’re sissies. They gossip like sissies, in hushed, fast murmurs behind his back, things like “That Yabuki kid! Scary!” and “His face is so mean, ne?” and “Looks like he wants to punch something all the time.”

Lies. Hayato doesn’t want to punch things all the time. Only sometimes. Like when people talk too much. It’s just here, everyone talks too much.

Except for the Odagiri boy, who is quiet and still, like an island onto himself. He’s something of an ugly ducking: bad bone structure and flat thin eyes, a drooping mouth and limp, dull hair. And yet there is something of elegance, of grace, in his movements; an efficiency that Hayato admires very much. It is always quiet and still around Odagiri-kun; people are afraid of him, and afraid of his father, and afraid of his money. The teachers speak to him in quiet placating tones; the students do not speak to Odagiri-kun at all. (Sissies.) With anyone else, this might have been loneliness, but Odagiri wears his loneliness strangely, and Hayato understands that for Odagiri, it is not so much loneliness as it is peace and calm.

“Good morning,” Hayato announces to Odagiri, brash and reckless one morning. He’s made up his mind that Odagiri will be his new friend.

“Aa,” replies Odagiri, quietly. His eyes flicker over Hayato, and then away. It is not exactly a dismissive gesture, but it still stings somehow. Hayato moves on and sits down for roll call. He thinks maybe Odagiri doesn’t want to be friends; maybe Odagiri is happy being an island, being quiet and still and calm. He thinks maybe Odagiri doesn’t like him.

Hayato stares at the pale curve of the other boy’s neck through class, and is wistful.

And yet, Odagiri nods at him in acknowledgement the next morning. It is almost a “hello”. And the next week, Hayato manages to hold a conversation (two sentences long, but there had been dialogue) with Odagiri (about the weather.) And then, one day, while Hayato is walking down the hall towards lunch, Odagiri is suddenly there beside him, thin and pale and tired-looking, but matching Hayato stride for stride. Odagiri doesn’t say anything, doesn’t really even look at Hayato; but their shoulders brush sometimes, and they are walking together, and Hayato is feeling suddenly very light and happy.

“Ryu!” he says, and Ryu (because he’s Ryu now, not Odagiri: Ryu, Ryu, Ryu) says, “Hmm?” and Hayato can’t stop grinning.

So that’s how it begins, really–and that’s it’s been ever since–just the two of them, islands in a mass of humanity, walking together down the hall, side by side, step for step. It’s a long hall, where Hayato found this friendship, where Hayato also finds courage and strength and trust and desire to protect his precious people; and at the other end of the corridor, unnoticed and maybe unsought, but inevitable, really–there is love.

[naruto] meme ii.

tell me the title of a story i never wrote, and i’ll tell you what it’s about.

Velveteen Rabbit’s Footprints

Smoke Sasuke’s twelve: the best in his class, quickest, brightest, deadliest. He’s brilliant, everyone says so, and even if Sasuke hasn’t got a heart, that’s all right. Shinobi don’t quite need hearts the way other humans do. Sasuke’s going to grow up to be the best shinobi ever, better than even Itachi-nii-san, and he’s going to kill his brother and avenge his clan and that’s going to be his story, that’s all he wants.

Wind Sasuke’s sixteen: angry, violent, full of hate and rage and potential. He’s given up a lot of things, friends and home and his own soul, peace and security and happiness and a future. He’s given up too much, maybe; but that doesn’t matter. It’s for Itachi, after all; everything else is superfluous. Sasuke doesn’t need friends or peace or happiness; he’s being taught by Orochimaru and he doesn’t really need a heart like other people. Having a heart around Orochimaru is something of a liability anyway. Besides, Orochimaru’s teaching him what he needs to kill Itachi, and that’s what’s important, because Itachi is what’s important, because Sasuke’s given up everything for Itachi, and–

He doesn’t think too much about it. There’s no room for self doubt.

Earth Sasuke’s eighteen: confused, lost, having fulfilled everything he set out to do and yet having accomplished nothing. Itachi’s dead; has been dead for a long, long time–but his clan’s not avenged yet and he doesn’t know who to blame. He doesn’t really know anything anymore, and he’s so tired, and he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care about anything these days, and it’s easy to just bathe himself in blood, to kill and kill and kill and not think about it. It’s easy not to think about it and it’s easy not to care and it’s easy because he doesn’t remember ever having a heart.

Air Sasuke’s eight: young, young, too young. His father is walking away, and all Sasuke ever wanted was for Tou-san to look back and say, “Good job.”

Fire Sasuke’s lost count of the years, but he’s found his precious people again. “Oh,” says Sakura, and “BASTARD!” shrieks Naruto, and Sasuke realizes that all this time, he’s left his heart in Konoha.

[gokusen ii] supernova

i. say it again

The summer before The Argument, before Yankumi and before graduation–that summer, Hayato takes Ryu on a roadtrip.

“But you don’t have a car,” says Ryu with affectionate exasperation.

“Yes, yes, yes,” agrees Hayato absently. There’s a vendor selling sugar-glazed crab apples down the street, and Hayato strides forward, pulling out his wallet. He takes two steps, but then pauses, cocking his head back at Ryu, and asks, “You want one?”

Ryu hurries after him. Instinct tells Ryu to say, polite and distant, no thank you, but things are different with Hayato, who with rough chivalry and supernova grins inspires something inside Ryu to nod and say yes, please. In the end, Ryu mumbles, awkward and inelegant, with a shove at Hayato’s shoulder but a smile in his voice, “Stop trying to buy me things, Yabuki.”