[RP] [Viva la Vie] Run
[Title] Run
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG
[Notes] Filler for pokerfacenino in viva_la_vie. Nino's world falls apart again.
Nino ran without thinking, without looking, without noticing. The sound of his sneakers on the concrete barely registered in his ears over the sound of his own breathing. Sharp, acrid, the scent of polluted air suffocated him even further, and he ran from everything, from his fear and his love and himself.
Kaori. He hadn’t heard her voice in seven years. He hadn’t wanted to. He couldn’t handle that life, that place. It hurt, his heart hurt when he thought about her, because she was so much to him for so long and when she left something inside him had simply died. Words he’d pushed away flowed back in Nino’s mind with the broken dam, and he choked, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Even falling couldn’t stop his movement, and he climbed back to his feet and kept running. Stopping was to be caught by the monster behind him. Stopping meant he’d have to think and feel again.
At some point, he hit a park, and the ground under his feet turned from pavement to dirt. Falling again, this time Nino couldn’t drag himself back up, not when the voices he’d grown up with grew louder and louder inside his head.
He never cried as a kid. Crying drew attention he didn’t want. Crying was like what his mother did late at night in the kitchen when she thought no one saw her. Crying like his father did when Nino would come home from school without speaking a word. Crying like Kaori did when one by one, her friends stopped calling because no matter when they invited her out, she always had to babysit her odd kid brother. Nino built cities in the dirt and talked to himself, endless streams of babble, creating a world that he could control in some way.
“Kazu, what are you doing in the dirt again? Mother likes her pansies where they are.”
But he never answered her, did he? He didn’t like to talk, he didn’t like that he had to speak Japanese at home, and he didn’t like that the kids at school couldn’t understand him because of his accent. He missed their house in Tokyo. It was tiny, but he liked the walls that were thin and the floors that smelled like plants, and the sound the door made when it slid open. He’d wanted to go to school and wear the yellow hats like the bigger kids, and have a red backpack, and read manga behind his schoolbooks. He wanted to go back to the place where he hadn’t been smaller and stranger than everyone else, without understanding what the TV said or the kids down the street played.
“Kazu, I miss hearing your voice.”
But he didn’t cry. He just built his own Tokyo in the gritty yard.
Gasping, the Nino in the park was struck with the force of the memory. He remembered little of Tokyo, really, and had tried to forget how difficult the transition from Japan had been. But as soon as he drew a shaky breath, he felt his chest constrict again and suddenly he was watching his sister walk down the isle with the man she loved. He watched her pack her things. He watched her walk through the gate to a plane that would take her to the other side of the world. The complete loss ripped through him violently, and he was startled to realize he could still remember the way she smelled the last time she hugged him goodbye.
“You don’t even try in school, why do I even bother reading these anymore?!” his father snapped, flinging the report card down on the counter with disgust. Nino didn’t answer, focused on the cabinet behind his father’s head. The call had come in that morning; Nino had ditched history six days in a row, was everything alright? His teachers marveled over the fact that such a well-liked boy really seemed to have no friends, and suspected he was getting into fights, based on how often he came to class with bruises and scrapes without explaining anything. His grades were poor in nearly every subject, just barely enough to pass and never more, except in music, where he excelled. His music teacher adored him, pleased with his interest and dedication to each piece. Every instrument seemed to appeal to him, and he took to nearly all with ease; only woodwinds gave him trouble, his fingers not quite long enough to play nicely. But Nino never explained why his parents weren’t at their concerts, and he never seemed surprised when they didn’t show up.
Shivering as he was once again dragged out of his thoughts, Nino knelt, his arms wrapped around himself as he bent double. He trembled as thought only his own grip on himself kept him from flying to pieces. The sick roll of his stomach at the way his father’s voice echoed in his ears was like every single day in junior high; shame and hatred and crushing confusion as he continued to fall below his parents’ expectations. Nothing he did with any skill brought them pride; nothing he failed at could be forgiven.
The next memory slid into view a bit more gently, as if to compensate for the painful nature of it.
“You’re horrible! An ungrateful leech on this family! You’re running my life, don’t you care about your mother at all?!” she shrieked, burying her face in her hands as his father glared and raged. Everything, it seemed, had come down to this moment. He’d never known where his place in his parents’ lives was, where his place in anything was. Iolana had given him a place, however temporary, with her. She’d given him a place in school, in the world, and he’d thought that finally he fit somewhere. But she was gone now, and with her, his carefully ordered world came crashing down. School was nothing but a game he didn’t want to play anymore, and his family was a joke. His parents fought and he had no friends and he couldn’t remember exactly when the last time was that his smile wasn’t fake. Hell, even fakes were too hard for him now. So he packed his bags, the things that he’d built into his idea of self, and left the only place he could remember because there just wasn’t room for him anymore. Nino couldn’t stand another day of feeling trapped.
“I miss hearing your voice.
“You don’t even try in school, why do I even bother reading these anymore?!”
“You’re ruining my life, don’t you care about your mother at all?!”
The scream ripped its way out of his chest and his hands clapped against his ears. The words, the hurt, the life he’d tried so hard to leave behind wasn’t going away, wasn’t staying dead like he’d hoped.
Nino hunched over on the ground and thought that the ringing in his own ears could only be one thing: the sound of when he gave up.
[Author] honooko
[Rating] PG
[Notes] Filler for pokerfacenino in viva_la_vie. Nino's world falls apart again.
Nino ran without thinking, without looking, without noticing. The sound of his sneakers on the concrete barely registered in his ears over the sound of his own breathing. Sharp, acrid, the scent of polluted air suffocated him even further, and he ran from everything, from his fear and his love and himself.
Kaori. He hadn’t heard her voice in seven years. He hadn’t wanted to. He couldn’t handle that life, that place. It hurt, his heart hurt when he thought about her, because she was so much to him for so long and when she left something inside him had simply died. Words he’d pushed away flowed back in Nino’s mind with the broken dam, and he choked, tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. Even falling couldn’t stop his movement, and he climbed back to his feet and kept running. Stopping was to be caught by the monster behind him. Stopping meant he’d have to think and feel again.
At some point, he hit a park, and the ground under his feet turned from pavement to dirt. Falling again, this time Nino couldn’t drag himself back up, not when the voices he’d grown up with grew louder and louder inside his head.
He never cried as a kid. Crying drew attention he didn’t want. Crying was like what his mother did late at night in the kitchen when she thought no one saw her. Crying like his father did when Nino would come home from school without speaking a word. Crying like Kaori did when one by one, her friends stopped calling because no matter when they invited her out, she always had to babysit her odd kid brother. Nino built cities in the dirt and talked to himself, endless streams of babble, creating a world that he could control in some way.
“Kazu, what are you doing in the dirt again? Mother likes her pansies where they are.”
But he never answered her, did he? He didn’t like to talk, he didn’t like that he had to speak Japanese at home, and he didn’t like that the kids at school couldn’t understand him because of his accent. He missed their house in Tokyo. It was tiny, but he liked the walls that were thin and the floors that smelled like plants, and the sound the door made when it slid open. He’d wanted to go to school and wear the yellow hats like the bigger kids, and have a red backpack, and read manga behind his schoolbooks. He wanted to go back to the place where he hadn’t been smaller and stranger than everyone else, without understanding what the TV said or the kids down the street played.
“Kazu, I miss hearing your voice.”
But he didn’t cry. He just built his own Tokyo in the gritty yard.
Gasping, the Nino in the park was struck with the force of the memory. He remembered little of Tokyo, really, and had tried to forget how difficult the transition from Japan had been. But as soon as he drew a shaky breath, he felt his chest constrict again and suddenly he was watching his sister walk down the isle with the man she loved. He watched her pack her things. He watched her walk through the gate to a plane that would take her to the other side of the world. The complete loss ripped through him violently, and he was startled to realize he could still remember the way she smelled the last time she hugged him goodbye.
“You don’t even try in school, why do I even bother reading these anymore?!” his father snapped, flinging the report card down on the counter with disgust. Nino didn’t answer, focused on the cabinet behind his father’s head. The call had come in that morning; Nino had ditched history six days in a row, was everything alright? His teachers marveled over the fact that such a well-liked boy really seemed to have no friends, and suspected he was getting into fights, based on how often he came to class with bruises and scrapes without explaining anything. His grades were poor in nearly every subject, just barely enough to pass and never more, except in music, where he excelled. His music teacher adored him, pleased with his interest and dedication to each piece. Every instrument seemed to appeal to him, and he took to nearly all with ease; only woodwinds gave him trouble, his fingers not quite long enough to play nicely. But Nino never explained why his parents weren’t at their concerts, and he never seemed surprised when they didn’t show up.
Shivering as he was once again dragged out of his thoughts, Nino knelt, his arms wrapped around himself as he bent double. He trembled as thought only his own grip on himself kept him from flying to pieces. The sick roll of his stomach at the way his father’s voice echoed in his ears was like every single day in junior high; shame and hatred and crushing confusion as he continued to fall below his parents’ expectations. Nothing he did with any skill brought them pride; nothing he failed at could be forgiven.
The next memory slid into view a bit more gently, as if to compensate for the painful nature of it.
“You’re horrible! An ungrateful leech on this family! You’re running my life, don’t you care about your mother at all?!” she shrieked, burying her face in her hands as his father glared and raged. Everything, it seemed, had come down to this moment. He’d never known where his place in his parents’ lives was, where his place in anything was. Iolana had given him a place, however temporary, with her. She’d given him a place in school, in the world, and he’d thought that finally he fit somewhere. But she was gone now, and with her, his carefully ordered world came crashing down. School was nothing but a game he didn’t want to play anymore, and his family was a joke. His parents fought and he had no friends and he couldn’t remember exactly when the last time was that his smile wasn’t fake. Hell, even fakes were too hard for him now. So he packed his bags, the things that he’d built into his idea of self, and left the only place he could remember because there just wasn’t room for him anymore. Nino couldn’t stand another day of feeling trapped.
“I miss hearing your voice.
“You don’t even try in school, why do I even bother reading these anymore?!”
“You’re ruining my life, don’t you care about your mother at all?!”
The scream ripped its way out of his chest and his hands clapped against his ears. The words, the hurt, the life he’d tried so hard to leave behind wasn’t going away, wasn’t staying dead like he’d hoped.
Nino hunched over on the ground and thought that the ringing in his own ears could only be one thing: the sound of when he gave up.