Voice
Title: Voice
Fandom/Original: Roleplay
Pairing(s): Kirito/Miyavi, Kirito/Kumi
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Real person fanfiction, implications of homosexuality, & mild language.
Summary: Toshiya reflects on the life his little brother has lead and his desire to protect him from all harm.
Notes
Well, after my previous roleplay story was written, unknown_eyes felt inspired to write a response (you must be on her Friends List to view). I felt inspired enough to respond, although this deters into an obvious fanfiction. I still definitely favor the original piece.
Voice
“Can we go yet?”
“Not yet, hold your horses, Ira,” I toss my cigarette to the ground and use my next step to grind it out for good measure. My daughter, impatient and agitated, crosses her arms.
“I don’t even see why we’re here. He’s not worth it.” I ignore her. She’s a child and does not know my brother the way I do. He doesn’t know him the way I know my brother either. “I don’t see why he doesn’t just kill the bitch. You know, I’m willing to if he’s gonna keep mopin’ like this and dragging us halfway across the world to babysit his pansy-ass.”
“Ira.” She falls silent and responds with her usual attitude-laced sigh. She’ll get over it. She’s a spoiled bitch anyways, acting like she’s fifteen or sixteen when the runt’s only five by human appearances. “Go home.” She doesn’t hesitate to obey me and is gone while I kneel beside my brother.
Well, the shell of my brother. His face has not changed, but I still cannot recognize him. Nothing will move him from the spot he’s planted himself to and the only emotion anyone can seem to rouse out of him is anger and rage. He’s a demon in mourning, it’s to be expected. But more importantly, he’s a beautiful soul in utter agony. I can hear his soul crying out, weeping. I know his former mate is not deaf to this sound when he focuses. But he denies his blood. He runs and hides like a coward while my dear brother is weak and unable to stand. That much, no matter how much time has passed, will never change.
Even when we were alive, it was no different. He has always been as thin and frail as he is now. When he was born, I remember overhearing worried whispers of possible death claiming the new infant before he reached his first year because of his sickly appearance. They held off naming my little brother or allowing me to even see him until then. Everyone held their breath as he stumbled around in his over-sized clothes. The maids barely dared pick him up for fear the new little prince would break under the slightest amount of pressure. Seeing this, my heart broke quickly for my little brother.
So, I extended my hand to him like any older brother would. He looked at me curiously from the floor. Unsure of what to do before grinning a dopey smile and placing his hand in mine. He did not let go after that. No matter what his problem was, he always came to me before a maid, mother, or father. I dried his tears as he wordlessly clung to me. He did not let me hear his voice until he was almost five years of age. It had been soft, barely above a whisper, and as gentle as the silk garments we were forced into day in and day out.
And just as we were forced into those excessive outfits, we were forced apart often. Because I was the eldest son, I had to be groomed and tailored to perfection. I had to become a replica of my father before me. Miyavi, on the other hand, was groomed to be more of a servant to me than a brother. I had to look away every time he was struck for disobedience. He was not allowed to touch me; he was not allowed to look me in the face. He had to allow me to walk everywhere first, he could not walk alongside me. He had to bow before he entered or exited the room I was present in. He had to address me with formalities and could not speak to me freely. It pained me to see my quiet brother treated as such. I would always make a point to meet with him as soon as possible and comfort him. The beatings became less and less though as he “learned.”
By the time I was old enough, I married some girl whose face and name I do not even remember now. We were supposed to have children, but she was useless and we soon discovered she was barren. Father then sent out servants to find orphaned sons so that I would adopt and continue the family name. I hardly saw much of Miyavi anymore, but I knew that he had grown into a beautiful man. Although his skin had never lost its pale coloring and he never gained much weight, he grew tall and much stronger than his frail appearance commented on. His black hair grew long and always had a certain shine to it. (And this was the days before haircare products humans are so obsessed with now.) And while his voice did grow stronger, I was the only one to hear it strong and bold.
He could have married anyone. He did not have the same duties as me. But it was because he reserved that voice for only me, the only person he trusted and allowed himself to trust, he had no one but himself. And he was content with that. He had always been satisfied to be alone. That was until he fell in love.
And not with me. What we had…that wasn’t love. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it wasn’t love. But once he had felt the touch of another, someone finally extending their hand other than me, he didn’t have a need for me anymore. I had fought that for the longest time, but I’ve come to terms with it. Sure, I still think his mate is a cocksucking bastard who deserves to have his throat slit and then drown slowly on his blood, but I’ve let the issue pretty much go. I have no reason to fight for Miyavi anymore when he found someone else to do it.
I don’t know what was so special about the half-breed. I still don’t. But something attracted Miyavi to stay close by even after his job was done. And that’s when Miyavi started to change, when I wasn’t there. That voice he had only for me…he began to use it for others. He didn’t reserve it for me or for Kirito. He used to with everyone. He began to smile more than I had ever witnessed. He began to glow. It was like for the first time his entire life and afterlife, the kid finally lived. I’ll admit I was jealous Kirito had this power over him. But what was I gonna do six feet under and feeling more pain than I’ve ever had in my pampered life?
And now that brings us to today. Kirito’s gone. He retracted his hand and my little brother fell flat on his face. And what’s worse? He doesn’t have the will to get back up. It’s why he sits here day after day, night after night, just staring at that same damn spot with no emotion on his face and no voice. That voice he had reserved for me and opened to everyone had left with Kirito.
I’ll admit I’m pissed at the selfishness that stupid half-breed has shown. It has hurt and broken my little brother to the point that now as I am brushing back some of his hair behind his ear he does not even acknowledge the touch. With a sigh, I make the promise that I will come back tomorrow and remind him that I’m here if he needs me for any reason. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t respond to me.
A few more strands are fixed before I stand and look down at my brother.
He’s still tall, still strong. His skin is still pale, contrasting with his dark eyes and hair. And he’s still holding his knees, fighting back the overwhelming pain he’s feeling on the inside. And as I leave him, I vaguely wonder if I will never hear his sweet voice again, if I will never see a smile grace his features once more.
I swear that if I see that bastard again, I’ll kill him. I don’t care what Yuhiko says.
Fandom/Original: Roleplay
Pairing(s): Kirito/Miyavi, Kirito/Kumi
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Real person fanfiction, implications of homosexuality, & mild language.
Summary: Toshiya reflects on the life his little brother has lead and his desire to protect him from all harm.
Notes
Well, after my previous roleplay story was written, unknown_eyes felt inspired to write a response (you must be on her Friends List to view). I felt inspired enough to respond, although this deters into an obvious fanfiction. I still definitely favor the original piece.
Voice
“Can we go yet?”
“Not yet, hold your horses, Ira,” I toss my cigarette to the ground and use my next step to grind it out for good measure. My daughter, impatient and agitated, crosses her arms.
“I don’t even see why we’re here. He’s not worth it.” I ignore her. She’s a child and does not know my brother the way I do. He doesn’t know him the way I know my brother either. “I don’t see why he doesn’t just kill the bitch. You know, I’m willing to if he’s gonna keep mopin’ like this and dragging us halfway across the world to babysit his pansy-ass.”
“Ira.” She falls silent and responds with her usual attitude-laced sigh. She’ll get over it. She’s a spoiled bitch anyways, acting like she’s fifteen or sixteen when the runt’s only five by human appearances. “Go home.” She doesn’t hesitate to obey me and is gone while I kneel beside my brother.
Well, the shell of my brother. His face has not changed, but I still cannot recognize him. Nothing will move him from the spot he’s planted himself to and the only emotion anyone can seem to rouse out of him is anger and rage. He’s a demon in mourning, it’s to be expected. But more importantly, he’s a beautiful soul in utter agony. I can hear his soul crying out, weeping. I know his former mate is not deaf to this sound when he focuses. But he denies his blood. He runs and hides like a coward while my dear brother is weak and unable to stand. That much, no matter how much time has passed, will never change.
Even when we were alive, it was no different. He has always been as thin and frail as he is now. When he was born, I remember overhearing worried whispers of possible death claiming the new infant before he reached his first year because of his sickly appearance. They held off naming my little brother or allowing me to even see him until then. Everyone held their breath as he stumbled around in his over-sized clothes. The maids barely dared pick him up for fear the new little prince would break under the slightest amount of pressure. Seeing this, my heart broke quickly for my little brother.
So, I extended my hand to him like any older brother would. He looked at me curiously from the floor. Unsure of what to do before grinning a dopey smile and placing his hand in mine. He did not let go after that. No matter what his problem was, he always came to me before a maid, mother, or father. I dried his tears as he wordlessly clung to me. He did not let me hear his voice until he was almost five years of age. It had been soft, barely above a whisper, and as gentle as the silk garments we were forced into day in and day out.
And just as we were forced into those excessive outfits, we were forced apart often. Because I was the eldest son, I had to be groomed and tailored to perfection. I had to become a replica of my father before me. Miyavi, on the other hand, was groomed to be more of a servant to me than a brother. I had to look away every time he was struck for disobedience. He was not allowed to touch me; he was not allowed to look me in the face. He had to allow me to walk everywhere first, he could not walk alongside me. He had to bow before he entered or exited the room I was present in. He had to address me with formalities and could not speak to me freely. It pained me to see my quiet brother treated as such. I would always make a point to meet with him as soon as possible and comfort him. The beatings became less and less though as he “learned.”
By the time I was old enough, I married some girl whose face and name I do not even remember now. We were supposed to have children, but she was useless and we soon discovered she was barren. Father then sent out servants to find orphaned sons so that I would adopt and continue the family name. I hardly saw much of Miyavi anymore, but I knew that he had grown into a beautiful man. Although his skin had never lost its pale coloring and he never gained much weight, he grew tall and much stronger than his frail appearance commented on. His black hair grew long and always had a certain shine to it. (And this was the days before haircare products humans are so obsessed with now.) And while his voice did grow stronger, I was the only one to hear it strong and bold.
He could have married anyone. He did not have the same duties as me. But it was because he reserved that voice for only me, the only person he trusted and allowed himself to trust, he had no one but himself. And he was content with that. He had always been satisfied to be alone. That was until he fell in love.
And not with me. What we had…that wasn’t love. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it wasn’t love. But once he had felt the touch of another, someone finally extending their hand other than me, he didn’t have a need for me anymore. I had fought that for the longest time, but I’ve come to terms with it. Sure, I still think his mate is a cocksucking bastard who deserves to have his throat slit and then drown slowly on his blood, but I’ve let the issue pretty much go. I have no reason to fight for Miyavi anymore when he found someone else to do it.
I don’t know what was so special about the half-breed. I still don’t. But something attracted Miyavi to stay close by even after his job was done. And that’s when Miyavi started to change, when I wasn’t there. That voice he had only for me…he began to use it for others. He didn’t reserve it for me or for Kirito. He used to with everyone. He began to smile more than I had ever witnessed. He began to glow. It was like for the first time his entire life and afterlife, the kid finally lived. I’ll admit I was jealous Kirito had this power over him. But what was I gonna do six feet under and feeling more pain than I’ve ever had in my pampered life?
And now that brings us to today. Kirito’s gone. He retracted his hand and my little brother fell flat on his face. And what’s worse? He doesn’t have the will to get back up. It’s why he sits here day after day, night after night, just staring at that same damn spot with no emotion on his face and no voice. That voice he had reserved for me and opened to everyone had left with Kirito.
I’ll admit I’m pissed at the selfishness that stupid half-breed has shown. It has hurt and broken my little brother to the point that now as I am brushing back some of his hair behind his ear he does not even acknowledge the touch. With a sigh, I make the promise that I will come back tomorrow and remind him that I’m here if he needs me for any reason. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t respond to me.
A few more strands are fixed before I stand and look down at my brother.
He’s still tall, still strong. His skin is still pale, contrasting with his dark eyes and hair. And he’s still holding his knees, fighting back the overwhelming pain he’s feeling on the inside. And as I leave him, I vaguely wonder if I will never hear his sweet voice again, if I will never see a smile grace his features once more.
I swear that if I see that bastard again, I’ll kill him. I don’t care what Yuhiko says.