cleaning out the queue
midnight musings of a mostly muddled mind
several times over (aka fanships through the ages).
hiiragizawa eriol/daidouji tomoyo, cloud strife/tifa lockhart, asakura yoh/kyoyama anna, nishikido ryo/sawajiri erika. 895 words. g.
--written a bit ago as a psuedo-birthday present for my dear sis, enerirenie, who i love very very much and could not imagine lj life without. and so we have brief visits to some of our shared fandoms and fanships past--which means it probably won't interest a lot of you but...oh well. also as the struck-out title suggests, this was written past midnight (in cali, mind you, so that's around 3AM EST) so there's no accounting for quality that could be fixed with even a quick revision.
Once he was a magician and she was the best friend. They were acquaintances at best, something of friends; almost related in the barest sense. (But ah, weren't they all in that funny way life liked to weaved in and around itself, binding people together in a destiny he tried so hard to control?)
She could never know of his role in the entire drama that followed, of course, not a drop of magic in her blood. And yet--
Sometimes he wondered how much she really saw behind the eye of her camera, ever watching from the shadows of the limelight. Her maturity at such a young age, freshly molded and unreincarnated, was unnerving. Her loyalty to her best friend, without fear or hesitation as things beyond her wildest imagination took place before her very eyes, admirable. (Then again, her imagination was a force in its own right; frills and lace and bows in places perhaps unimaginable to anyone but herself.)
He wondered if her imagination could pierce even the spell he had cast around his identity, his ties to the entire affair, his web of carefully concocted lies and deceit. He wondered if she could keep a secret if she knew. (He already knew she could.)
Perhaps this was why he took up that pen, so many years after the end, to write a letter. It was as brief as the entire history of his life--his lives--could possibly be; a novel of four drafts and six final pages, front and back. It was an idle curiosity, a fanciful whim, a mere puzzle he wanted to crack.
What would she say, what would she think? Of the one that put her beloved through so much heartache and strife. Of the reincarnation of the greatest magician of all time? He posted the letter and waited for the reply from Japan.
A reply arrived shorty, succinct as befitted her style, in a calm, neat script (if script could be so calm):
I always knew you were a mysterious one, Hiiragizawa Eriol.
And nothing more.
With a wry smile, he wondered whether that wasn't his line. He promptly picked up his pen to draft a reply. (Or several.)
*
Once he was a soldier and she was his best friend. She was his. Or so he wished--how he wished--that he was a stronger. That she might give him the time of day.
Time passed. And so he watched. Loves passed. And so he waited. Then her mother passed. And so he followed.
And so they fell.
She saw him when she woke up, finally truly saw him. Only her father berated him, because how could he and why didn't he stop her. (And he just got by with skinned knees.) Then just as suddenly as she saw him, she wasn't allowed to see him anymore. Ever again. A lifetime of finality.
And so he left.
Or planned to leave. Or tried to leave. He tried, but something held him back, just a little longer, wait wait, oh wait please. And he wished (how he wished) that she might stop him, beg him to stay.
And so she did.
But he couldn't turn back now, he wanted to be stronger, better. He wanted to protect her, save her. He wanted to be a soldier. (He wanted to be her hero.)
He promised.
But he didn't, couldn't, wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough. Not at first.
But she always knew he would come to her rescue.
(And she was right.)
*
Once he fought with spirits and she controlled them. (But once she could hardly control herself.)
He thought she was beautiful; she wanted him to die. And the snow continued to fall.
A promise.
That if all else failed they could run away together. (But how could they run when the problem lied within herself?) That he would save her.
The couldn't run from the inevitable. (He couldn't save her, not alone, not without costs.)
A promise.
That she would become stronger, that she would never leave his side until he fulfilled his dreams.
(Dreams of becoming a king.)
A promise to bring back an old friend.
(Love is an encounter. A departure. A transparent piece of cloth.)
They stopped running.
*
Once he was an idol and she was a star, falling, falling, spiraling out of control. A star that burned too bright, even for herself.
And sometimes he wished--how he wished--that he could catch her. Save her. (But he could barely save himself.)
Instead he watched, could only watch as she broke apart.
Instead he waited. Could do nothing but as she ran, ran away from it all; the paparazzi, the journalists, her friends, Japan. Him. Waited with words on his lips.
(Weighted with words on his lips.)
London was her home now, London and another man that was her king. Her everything.
And he didn't dare follow.
But life has a funny way of weaving in and around itself. (Some call it destiny; uncontrollable, irresistible fate.)
She showed up at his door years later, so many years after the end, ringless in ringlets and red Jimmy Choo's. And for once in his life he did the smart thing: he took her in his arms and never let go.
*
Once they lived happily ever after. (Several times over.)
The End.
***
several times over (aka fanships through the ages).
hiiragizawa eriol/daidouji tomoyo, cloud strife/tifa lockhart, asakura yoh/kyoyama anna, nishikido ryo/sawajiri erika. 895 words. g.
--written a bit ago as a psuedo-birthday present for my dear sis, enerirenie, who i love very very much and could not imagine lj life without. and so we have brief visits to some of our shared fandoms and fanships past--which means it probably won't interest a lot of you but...oh well. also as the struck-out title suggests, this was written past midnight (in cali, mind you, so that's around 3AM EST) so there's no accounting for quality that could be fixed with even a quick revision.
Once he was a magician and she was the best friend. They were acquaintances at best, something of friends; almost related in the barest sense. (But ah, weren't they all in that funny way life liked to weaved in and around itself, binding people together in a destiny he tried so hard to control?)
She could never know of his role in the entire drama that followed, of course, not a drop of magic in her blood. And yet--
Sometimes he wondered how much she really saw behind the eye of her camera, ever watching from the shadows of the limelight. Her maturity at such a young age, freshly molded and unreincarnated, was unnerving. Her loyalty to her best friend, without fear or hesitation as things beyond her wildest imagination took place before her very eyes, admirable. (Then again, her imagination was a force in its own right; frills and lace and bows in places perhaps unimaginable to anyone but herself.)
He wondered if her imagination could pierce even the spell he had cast around his identity, his ties to the entire affair, his web of carefully concocted lies and deceit. He wondered if she could keep a secret if she knew. (He already knew she could.)
Perhaps this was why he took up that pen, so many years after the end, to write a letter. It was as brief as the entire history of his life--his lives--could possibly be; a novel of four drafts and six final pages, front and back. It was an idle curiosity, a fanciful whim, a mere puzzle he wanted to crack.
What would she say, what would she think? Of the one that put her beloved through so much heartache and strife. Of the reincarnation of the greatest magician of all time? He posted the letter and waited for the reply from Japan.
A reply arrived shorty, succinct as befitted her style, in a calm, neat script (if script could be so calm):
I always knew you were a mysterious one, Hiiragizawa Eriol.
And nothing more.
With a wry smile, he wondered whether that wasn't his line. He promptly picked up his pen to draft a reply. (Or several.)
*
Once he was a soldier and she was his best friend. She was his. Or so he wished--how he wished--that he was a stronger. That she might give him the time of day.
Time passed. And so he watched. Loves passed. And so he waited. Then her mother passed. And so he followed.
And so they fell.
She saw him when she woke up, finally truly saw him. Only her father berated him, because how could he and why didn't he stop her. (And he just got by with skinned knees.) Then just as suddenly as she saw him, she wasn't allowed to see him anymore. Ever again. A lifetime of finality.
And so he left.
Or planned to leave. Or tried to leave. He tried, but something held him back, just a little longer, wait wait, oh wait please. And he wished (how he wished) that she might stop him, beg him to stay.
And so she did.
But he couldn't turn back now, he wanted to be stronger, better. He wanted to protect her, save her. He wanted to be a soldier. (He wanted to be her hero.)
He promised.
But he didn't, couldn't, wasn't strong enough, wasn't good enough. Not at first.
But she always knew he would come to her rescue.
(And she was right.)
*
Once he fought with spirits and she controlled them. (But once she could hardly control herself.)
He thought she was beautiful; she wanted him to die. And the snow continued to fall.
A promise.
That if all else failed they could run away together. (But how could they run when the problem lied within herself?) That he would save her.
The couldn't run from the inevitable. (He couldn't save her, not alone, not without costs.)
A promise.
That she would become stronger, that she would never leave his side until he fulfilled his dreams.
(Dreams of becoming a king.)
A promise to bring back an old friend.
(Love is an encounter. A departure. A transparent piece of cloth.)
They stopped running.
*
Once he was an idol and she was a star, falling, falling, spiraling out of control. A star that burned too bright, even for herself.
And sometimes he wished--how he wished--that he could catch her. Save her. (But he could barely save himself.)
Instead he watched, could only watch as she broke apart.
Instead he waited. Could do nothing but as she ran, ran away from it all; the paparazzi, the journalists, her friends, Japan. Him. Waited with words on his lips.
(Weighted with words on his lips.)
London was her home now, London and another man that was her king. Her everything.
And he didn't dare follow.
But life has a funny way of weaving in and around itself. (Some call it destiny; uncontrollable, irresistible fate.)
She showed up at his door years later, so many years after the end, ringless in ringlets and red Jimmy Choo's. And for once in his life he did the smart thing: he took her in his arms and never let go.
*
Once they lived happily ever after. (Several times over.)
The End.
***