Tu Rentres - RyoDa Fanfiction
Title: Tu Rentres
Author: aoi_haiiro
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst.
Pairing: RyoDa
Summary: A little story about coming home.
Note: This a bunch of rambling. It’s slightly OOC, but I figure age can change anyone.
As you look at your grandchildren, you wish that you can rewind all the years you’ve lived. And when you look at your old hands, worn from holding microphones and doing stunts until your skin sagged and veins popped beneath the surface, you can’t remember what they looked like before. Your life is almost complete. You’ve lived and experienced more that the average person and now at the end, there is still so much you long to do.
But the aches and kinks from your long life have worn you down. The flashing lights, the happy feminine screams, and the dancing have become only hazy memories. You chuckle and then you sputter, choking on the phlegm in the back of your throat. Your children look at you and you look back. You can tell they are worried. But you don’t worry. Despite the hollow ache in your chest that longs to return to the beginning, you aren’t afraid of death. You were always a sensible one, never one to be lost in fantasies. You know that you will die and everyone dies and everyone is forgotten.
You wish for the innocence of the children playing before you. Ignorance is indeed bliss. You hate wistful people, envied them, and despised them for their ability to push aside reality, to live something a little less mundane. How they would strive for something they could never achieve and yet they never gave up.
At the end of your life you can only look in a mirror and stare in disbelief at how fast time has flown. You wonder how days could blend into years and years into decades. You know the last time you looked in that mirror you were only a child. Now you can only pour over old photographs and try to recall what was happening when it had been taken.
But most of the photographs have escaped your nostalgia. Only a single picture remains clear in your mind. One that had been torn up by a hysterical woman who realized you’d never love her and then had been carefully taped back together when she left. The edges are tattered and the surface has smears from your thumb stroking over a fading image of dark hair and porcelain skin.
You can still feel the silky strands slipping through your fingers as when you had stroked his ink colored hair. You can remember the smoothness of his lips even though you could no longer kiss them until they were bruised and parted. You had memorized the sensitivity of every inch of his milky skin and sometimes you can still feel him shuddering underneath you, on top of you, all around you. And those eyes, dark and skittish, like that of a doe still pierce the darkness as you lie awake at night. You can remember every tear that you had caused to fall.
As you watch your grandchildren you wish you could return to the days when you were young and he was still breathing. The only regret you have is that you didn’t realize how precious the time you spent with him was until it was too late. What you wouldn’t give to go back; to return to your proper place in his arms. You are displaced, a refugee. A man who just wants to go home.
I know this is weird and out there and blah, but I was in an odd mood. I hope you liked it~
Author: aoi_haiiro
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst.
Pairing: RyoDa
Summary: A little story about coming home.
Note: This a bunch of rambling. It’s slightly OOC, but I figure age can change anyone.
As you look at your grandchildren, you wish that you can rewind all the years you’ve lived. And when you look at your old hands, worn from holding microphones and doing stunts until your skin sagged and veins popped beneath the surface, you can’t remember what they looked like before. Your life is almost complete. You’ve lived and experienced more that the average person and now at the end, there is still so much you long to do.
But the aches and kinks from your long life have worn you down. The flashing lights, the happy feminine screams, and the dancing have become only hazy memories. You chuckle and then you sputter, choking on the phlegm in the back of your throat. Your children look at you and you look back. You can tell they are worried. But you don’t worry. Despite the hollow ache in your chest that longs to return to the beginning, you aren’t afraid of death. You were always a sensible one, never one to be lost in fantasies. You know that you will die and everyone dies and everyone is forgotten.
You wish for the innocence of the children playing before you. Ignorance is indeed bliss. You hate wistful people, envied them, and despised them for their ability to push aside reality, to live something a little less mundane. How they would strive for something they could never achieve and yet they never gave up.
At the end of your life you can only look in a mirror and stare in disbelief at how fast time has flown. You wonder how days could blend into years and years into decades. You know the last time you looked in that mirror you were only a child. Now you can only pour over old photographs and try to recall what was happening when it had been taken.
But most of the photographs have escaped your nostalgia. Only a single picture remains clear in your mind. One that had been torn up by a hysterical woman who realized you’d never love her and then had been carefully taped back together when she left. The edges are tattered and the surface has smears from your thumb stroking over a fading image of dark hair and porcelain skin.
You can still feel the silky strands slipping through your fingers as when you had stroked his ink colored hair. You can remember the smoothness of his lips even though you could no longer kiss them until they were bruised and parted. You had memorized the sensitivity of every inch of his milky skin and sometimes you can still feel him shuddering underneath you, on top of you, all around you. And those eyes, dark and skittish, like that of a doe still pierce the darkness as you lie awake at night. You can remember every tear that you had caused to fall.
As you watch your grandchildren you wish you could return to the days when you were young and he was still breathing. The only regret you have is that you didn’t realize how precious the time you spent with him was until it was too late. What you wouldn’t give to go back; to return to your proper place in his arms. You are displaced, a refugee. A man who just wants to go home.
I know this is weird and out there and blah, but I was in an odd mood. I hope you liked it~