To Arylla, from Yui's Moon.
Title: Aubade
Medium: Fanfiction
Pairing: Some Charles/Jay, but mostly gen.
Summary: Spring feels like it's the beginning, but it can crush you down and burn your heart up until you can't feel anymore.
Partner: arylla
Author's Notes: Writing about children is incredibly enjoyable for me. It shows little pieces of their souls, who they are and why. I hope I didn't bore my partner with my incessant need to babble. I'm fairly proud of this, I think. Unsure of the quality of the last line but oh well. Also I think I may have failed a little at doing exactly what the prompt asked, but um, please don't hate me? As for the title... aubade: noun, a piece sung or played outdoors at dawn, usually as a compliment to someone.
To arylla. From yuismoon.
Aubade
He remembers now-strewn out across the fresh, damp grass beside someone; someone who smells like affection-remembers years ago. A smile; his mother reaching down-fingers poised like a work of art-plucking a sunflower by its long stem, nails grazing the bright petals and circling the deep, scorched center. And the memory burns itself deep into his body, this moment.
The one beside him murmurs, breathes in his ear. But the one who whispers isn't awake, he speaks to a dream and yet that action is reflected in reality. Beauty, beauty, lullabies and the sun, he says, the sun.
Charles's hands clench around the sleeping boy's thin frame.
Power, warmth, nourishment, the attributes of the sun itself. And Charles's skin lay honey-toned-sun-kissed-on his body. The smell of this plant has engraved itself into his whole being. Sweet, mellow yet encompassing; stinging in the kind way, and the sight is not something, once seen, you can ever forget. (Charles breathes in the scent of the dreamer now, and it's sweet, but not that sort of sweet. He finds he doesn't mind.)
He remembers. Remembers the moments, the feel of grass beneath him (just like this), the sun beating down on his young, soft skin, and the surrounding fields of sunflowers at the edges of his vision. Another memory; sunlight slides in through the open window, a sweet, sweet sound of humming-so familiar-and there atop the table sits the vase with the vague painted colours. Swirling around the round sides and into every crevice, the colours are without definition now. Blue, green, red, white, they blend together in his mind to the point of oblivion. And there. There spilling out from within are the flowers of day, carrying their scent into his every breath.
He smiled, then.
He smiles now.
His mother's hair was golden-like the sun, like him-and as an infant he ran his hands through it, knotting it and curling it all with a giggle. Not now, though. Not now. Now he recalls the feel of her hair alone, not the smile upon his face, not the smile upon hers.
Late at night she'd whisper something like a lullaby to him. Words seemed to fail her most times-a tiny, breathy syllable passing, the melody marching on without it. But pain blocks memories to find a way to hide, but love clings to the feelings attached to those moments long gone, holds them and reminds you relentlessly.
He remembers. He remembers now, with the blooming blossoms and the flowing clouds, he remembers the times his father would smile. Few, and so far between, but when he would smile Charles's mother would brim over with adoration. And that helped him love his father, too. That made all the yelling, all the bad feelings, made them hurt less. Daddy doesn't like Mommy all the time, he thinks that's how his mother said it. And now that he's older he knows that was true; knows people change, people argue and people hurt. Each other and themselves.
And maybe that's okay.
He has his father's eyes-the boy beside him has eyes like his mother's, fair and bright but different somehow; more solid, grounded-and Charles smiles strangely at the thought of being one whole taken from two halves who never truly fit right. And maybe that's why he doesn't fit right. But that's how life is. Hair like his mother, eyes like his father. God knows what else.
He remembers the taste of tears. It doesn't burn but it sinks, cruel in the feel of sliding across your tongue and it smothers you with the hatred, with the bone-deep agony. Sometimes they were hot-frantic, help help I don't know what I'm doing anymore, hands scrubbing at the face, stop, bury it behind the delicate fingers-and sometimes they were cold-still, so still in the corner chair, stare, stare down unblinkingly at the world and see nothing at all; slip slip slip, the tears go down-but they always hurt. And yet.
They weren't his tears.
Winter came and the flowers died. Died died died, like a children's rhyme, but he still had his. She wore dark brown gloves-mittens, no fingers. Golden hair matched the sunrise, not sunset. Smile matched the love he felt in his childish heart.
Snow piled up around him-so short, so weak, so small. But he smiled a little, played along because it felt nice, didn't it. She laid on her back, laughed, tickled him because she was the only one who could. Hair splayed out around her, his small body crawled up to see her soft features. Peek-a-boo, she covered her face, gloves filling in the tan her skin bears even in winter, and then her hair was the petals, and her gloves the head. He giggled, because he was so young-and he knew the flower by heart, and he knew she loved it and he didn't know what was going to happen.
Because love isn't supposed to let you worry. Love is supposed to keep you safe, love is supposed to stay with you at night like Mommy does. But it rarely does. It rarely does. And now she doesn't at all.
Ten springs he lived and ten springs he smiled her smile-but all good things must come to an end. And so spring, spring, spring swallowed up the winter and yet her smile never came, on her face or his.
Honking horns and he didn't know what happened, and his father wouldn't let him see, but that was-that was blood, and where's mom but he wouldn't say and oh, oh dear god-so he wore a black suit, black tie, and no expression to her funeral. No expression. But after the friends and the pastors and all the other mourners had left his father broke down, cried cried cried the tears that Charles wouldn't and even though Charles couldn't taste them-too far away for that-he could tell they were the hot kind. He said a lot of things then, his father did, nothing much that made sense, but one thing that did. He just kept saying she never really knew I loved her, she never really knew, oh god, oh oh. Oh.
Oh.
Spring feels like it's the beginning, but it can crush you down and burn your heart up until you can't feel anymore. But maybe when it's like that you only think you can't feel. Because Charles feels warm now-that gentle, soothing warmth he felt so long ago. And he remembers the sunflowers that are just starting to open up in his backyard, and maybe he should do that too. Maybe. And maybe people don't always know when you want to be held, when you want to cry, and maybe that's okay. Maybe you can say something instead.
Maybe it's not too late.
A breath. Once; inhale, slow, slow exhale. Charles takes in the memories, takes in the scent of the boy beside him, takes in the burning pain and decides he doesn't want to be his father, even if he has his eyes, doesn't want to try to bring his mother back, even if his chest still sinks when he thinks of her. Because these are the cards he got dealt-and he can't change it-can't switch them out for something easier, something sweeter. And he's next to this boy right now because of those cards.
Behind his eyes he sees the vague paints all around the vase, twisting and twirling without rhyme or reason. And he liked it-likes it still. Because that's how life is; no rhyme, no reason, just hopeless desires, just desperate grasping and maybe sometimes you reach what you were aiming for. And that's the whole idea, that's the point. In his memory he looks up, sees the flowers there and it hurts but he breathes in now, next to this boy, and says-
Stay here with me, Jay. Just... stay.
Medium: Fanfiction
Pairing: Some Charles/Jay, but mostly gen.
Summary: Spring feels like it's the beginning, but it can crush you down and burn your heart up until you can't feel anymore.
Partner: arylla
Author's Notes: Writing about children is incredibly enjoyable for me. It shows little pieces of their souls, who they are and why. I hope I didn't bore my partner with my incessant need to babble. I'm fairly proud of this, I think. Unsure of the quality of the last line but oh well. Also I think I may have failed a little at doing exactly what the prompt asked, but um, please don't hate me? As for the title... aubade: noun, a piece sung or played outdoors at dawn, usually as a compliment to someone.
To arylla. From yuismoon.
Aubade
He remembers now-strewn out across the fresh, damp grass beside someone; someone who smells like affection-remembers years ago. A smile; his mother reaching down-fingers poised like a work of art-plucking a sunflower by its long stem, nails grazing the bright petals and circling the deep, scorched center. And the memory burns itself deep into his body, this moment.
The one beside him murmurs, breathes in his ear. But the one who whispers isn't awake, he speaks to a dream and yet that action is reflected in reality. Beauty, beauty, lullabies and the sun, he says, the sun.
Charles's hands clench around the sleeping boy's thin frame.
Power, warmth, nourishment, the attributes of the sun itself. And Charles's skin lay honey-toned-sun-kissed-on his body. The smell of this plant has engraved itself into his whole being. Sweet, mellow yet encompassing; stinging in the kind way, and the sight is not something, once seen, you can ever forget. (Charles breathes in the scent of the dreamer now, and it's sweet, but not that sort of sweet. He finds he doesn't mind.)
He remembers. Remembers the moments, the feel of grass beneath him (just like this), the sun beating down on his young, soft skin, and the surrounding fields of sunflowers at the edges of his vision. Another memory; sunlight slides in through the open window, a sweet, sweet sound of humming-so familiar-and there atop the table sits the vase with the vague painted colours. Swirling around the round sides and into every crevice, the colours are without definition now. Blue, green, red, white, they blend together in his mind to the point of oblivion. And there. There spilling out from within are the flowers of day, carrying their scent into his every breath.
He smiled, then.
He smiles now.
His mother's hair was golden-like the sun, like him-and as an infant he ran his hands through it, knotting it and curling it all with a giggle. Not now, though. Not now. Now he recalls the feel of her hair alone, not the smile upon his face, not the smile upon hers.
Late at night she'd whisper something like a lullaby to him. Words seemed to fail her most times-a tiny, breathy syllable passing, the melody marching on without it. But pain blocks memories to find a way to hide, but love clings to the feelings attached to those moments long gone, holds them and reminds you relentlessly.
He remembers. He remembers now, with the blooming blossoms and the flowing clouds, he remembers the times his father would smile. Few, and so far between, but when he would smile Charles's mother would brim over with adoration. And that helped him love his father, too. That made all the yelling, all the bad feelings, made them hurt less. Daddy doesn't like Mommy all the time, he thinks that's how his mother said it. And now that he's older he knows that was true; knows people change, people argue and people hurt. Each other and themselves.
And maybe that's okay.
He has his father's eyes-the boy beside him has eyes like his mother's, fair and bright but different somehow; more solid, grounded-and Charles smiles strangely at the thought of being one whole taken from two halves who never truly fit right. And maybe that's why he doesn't fit right. But that's how life is. Hair like his mother, eyes like his father. God knows what else.
He remembers the taste of tears. It doesn't burn but it sinks, cruel in the feel of sliding across your tongue and it smothers you with the hatred, with the bone-deep agony. Sometimes they were hot-frantic, help help I don't know what I'm doing anymore, hands scrubbing at the face, stop, bury it behind the delicate fingers-and sometimes they were cold-still, so still in the corner chair, stare, stare down unblinkingly at the world and see nothing at all; slip slip slip, the tears go down-but they always hurt. And yet.
They weren't his tears.
Winter came and the flowers died. Died died died, like a children's rhyme, but he still had his. She wore dark brown gloves-mittens, no fingers. Golden hair matched the sunrise, not sunset. Smile matched the love he felt in his childish heart.
Snow piled up around him-so short, so weak, so small. But he smiled a little, played along because it felt nice, didn't it. She laid on her back, laughed, tickled him because she was the only one who could. Hair splayed out around her, his small body crawled up to see her soft features. Peek-a-boo, she covered her face, gloves filling in the tan her skin bears even in winter, and then her hair was the petals, and her gloves the head. He giggled, because he was so young-and he knew the flower by heart, and he knew she loved it and he didn't know what was going to happen.
Because love isn't supposed to let you worry. Love is supposed to keep you safe, love is supposed to stay with you at night like Mommy does. But it rarely does. It rarely does. And now she doesn't at all.
Ten springs he lived and ten springs he smiled her smile-but all good things must come to an end. And so spring, spring, spring swallowed up the winter and yet her smile never came, on her face or his.
Honking horns and he didn't know what happened, and his father wouldn't let him see, but that was-that was blood, and where's mom but he wouldn't say and oh, oh dear god-so he wore a black suit, black tie, and no expression to her funeral. No expression. But after the friends and the pastors and all the other mourners had left his father broke down, cried cried cried the tears that Charles wouldn't and even though Charles couldn't taste them-too far away for that-he could tell they were the hot kind. He said a lot of things then, his father did, nothing much that made sense, but one thing that did. He just kept saying she never really knew I loved her, she never really knew, oh god, oh oh. Oh.
Oh.
Spring feels like it's the beginning, but it can crush you down and burn your heart up until you can't feel anymore. But maybe when it's like that you only think you can't feel. Because Charles feels warm now-that gentle, soothing warmth he felt so long ago. And he remembers the sunflowers that are just starting to open up in his backyard, and maybe he should do that too. Maybe. And maybe people don't always know when you want to be held, when you want to cry, and maybe that's okay. Maybe you can say something instead.
Maybe it's not too late.
A breath. Once; inhale, slow, slow exhale. Charles takes in the memories, takes in the scent of the boy beside him, takes in the burning pain and decides he doesn't want to be his father, even if he has his eyes, doesn't want to try to bring his mother back, even if his chest still sinks when he thinks of her. Because these are the cards he got dealt-and he can't change it-can't switch them out for something easier, something sweeter. And he's next to this boy right now because of those cards.
Behind his eyes he sees the vague paints all around the vase, twisting and twirling without rhyme or reason. And he liked it-likes it still. Because that's how life is; no rhyme, no reason, just hopeless desires, just desperate grasping and maybe sometimes you reach what you were aiming for. And that's the whole idea, that's the point. In his memory he looks up, sees the flowers there and it hurts but he breathes in now, next to this boy, and says-
Stay here with me, Jay. Just... stay.