And in truth...
Title: And in truth...
Fandom: X/1999, KH, crossover
Rating: PG
Summary: Leon ponders the truth of things, ignores the conclusions. Life moves on, and the truth remains just at the surface.
A/N: In response to Reset.
(In response to Rest)
Sometimes, there are things that happen in our lives that, no matter what we do, become a certain, irrevocable, irrebribal, consistent truth. For most, this truth what a scheduled routine. A rigid, incomprehensible, planned, well thought out time frames in which they followed their day to day life. It didn't always seem so well thought out right in the moment it was brought into existence, but in the grand scheme of things, and for the sake of posterity, let us simply agree to disgree with the matter and leave that for a tale for another time. And as it was, there was a certain amount of pre-destined force in deciding to skip out on the spring festival, regardless of the cold weather howling from the far reaches of winter.
A winter that was slowly crawling on his hands and knees over the city. The leaves streets were still slick with it, the land was sleepy and quiet, and, more importantly, that time of year where things lull into the routine in which people fall into for the holidays.
Boring, in layman's terms.
Leon didn't really like the cold.
But what really brings about the mood is the strange sense of nostalgia. Not that Traverse Town isn't nostalgic. Quashed, old buildings that creaked, molded, groaned, settled. Neon lights, an ever-lasting darkness. It doesn't really match up to white stone, to roses, to the cobbled footholds of a completely different city. The kitchen itself isn't large, despite the fact that quite a few groupings of people live in it. Tenants in small rooms, doing what they've always done...
It's only fitting, he thinks; the proper conclusion for a story such as that.
Aerith's served tea again.
Not just any Aerith, Leon half tells himself, making a slight face at his own thought, sitting at the island counter with a slouch. The stool creaks a little in protest.
Not just any tea, either.
He knew more about tea, by now, that he'd ever thought he'd needed to know. More than he cares to, staring at the half-empty cup, but lacking the true heart to honestly finish the rest of it.
Sometimes Leon wondered if he'd been dreaming. But only sometimes, as dreams are a many resplendent thing. They make and break the best and worst of people, caught in fingers, ensnaring the unwary, cliches. Cliches.
Only sometimes.
The rest of the time, the reminder sits in Leon's inner jacket pocket. There, barely, always, and he never wears them.
He's not sure if he can hate that kid. Hate him, scorchingly, enough that his chest would cinch tight-- "Kamui", he'd said, and of course that was a lie. It hadn't mattered then, still didn't now. Months and weeks and... all Leon had to really show for all those trials, all those moments, all those little things...
Was a pair of sunglasses he didn't care for (no, that's a lie, but he doesn't admit it, not out loud) and a distaste for tea.
It rather figured, didn't it?
So much for fairly tale endings.
He sat with himself, a moment longer. Outside, there was noise-- loud and celebratory.
Leon snorted, escorted himself back to the dark, small, far-back room he kept to himself after a dose of aspirin, ready for a nap to drown the world out.
Sometimes, there are things that happen in our lives that, no matter what we do, become a certain, irrevocable, irrebribal, consistent truth.
And the truth was simple:
Missing it, him, really wasn't going to bring it back.
The sort of emotion Leon isn't sure he has entirely come to understandings with yet.
The glasses sit there on the dresser as just another reminder.
Fandom: X/1999, KH, crossover
Rating: PG
Summary: Leon ponders the truth of things, ignores the conclusions. Life moves on, and the truth remains just at the surface.
A/N: In response to Reset.
(In response to Rest)
Sometimes, there are things that happen in our lives that, no matter what we do, become a certain, irrevocable, irrebribal, consistent truth. For most, this truth what a scheduled routine. A rigid, incomprehensible, planned, well thought out time frames in which they followed their day to day life. It didn't always seem so well thought out right in the moment it was brought into existence, but in the grand scheme of things, and for the sake of posterity, let us simply agree to disgree with the matter and leave that for a tale for another time. And as it was, there was a certain amount of pre-destined force in deciding to skip out on the spring festival, regardless of the cold weather howling from the far reaches of winter.
A winter that was slowly crawling on his hands and knees over the city. The leaves streets were still slick with it, the land was sleepy and quiet, and, more importantly, that time of year where things lull into the routine in which people fall into for the holidays.
Boring, in layman's terms.
Leon didn't really like the cold.
But what really brings about the mood is the strange sense of nostalgia. Not that Traverse Town isn't nostalgic. Quashed, old buildings that creaked, molded, groaned, settled. Neon lights, an ever-lasting darkness. It doesn't really match up to white stone, to roses, to the cobbled footholds of a completely different city. The kitchen itself isn't large, despite the fact that quite a few groupings of people live in it. Tenants in small rooms, doing what they've always done...
It's only fitting, he thinks; the proper conclusion for a story such as that.
Aerith's served tea again.
Not just any Aerith, Leon half tells himself, making a slight face at his own thought, sitting at the island counter with a slouch. The stool creaks a little in protest.
Not just any tea, either.
He knew more about tea, by now, that he'd ever thought he'd needed to know. More than he cares to, staring at the half-empty cup, but lacking the true heart to honestly finish the rest of it.
Sometimes Leon wondered if he'd been dreaming. But only sometimes, as dreams are a many resplendent thing. They make and break the best and worst of people, caught in fingers, ensnaring the unwary, cliches. Cliches.
Only sometimes.
The rest of the time, the reminder sits in Leon's inner jacket pocket. There, barely, always, and he never wears them.
He's not sure if he can hate that kid. Hate him, scorchingly, enough that his chest would cinch tight-- "Kamui", he'd said, and of course that was a lie. It hadn't mattered then, still didn't now. Months and weeks and... all Leon had to really show for all those trials, all those moments, all those little things...
Was a pair of sunglasses he didn't care for (no, that's a lie, but he doesn't admit it, not out loud) and a distaste for tea.
It rather figured, didn't it?
So much for fairly tale endings.
He sat with himself, a moment longer. Outside, there was noise-- loud and celebratory.
Leon snorted, escorted himself back to the dark, small, far-back room he kept to himself after a dose of aspirin, ready for a nap to drown the world out.
Sometimes, there are things that happen in our lives that, no matter what we do, become a certain, irrevocable, irrebribal, consistent truth.
And the truth was simple:
Missing it, him, really wasn't going to bring it back.
The sort of emotion Leon isn't sure he has entirely come to understandings with yet.
The glasses sit there on the dresser as just another reminder.