Pendulum that moves the world
Title: Pendulum that moves the world
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Words: 1500
Summary: festivals
Note: I tried something new, again. The title is inspired from Kafka on the shore (Haruki Murakami). Unbetaed. Fusumas is the term for the wooden doors.
He sat on the porch stairs of a house that wasn’t his. His fingers wafted over the lukewarm water of the pond. Legs tucked neatly under him, he may well had resembled a monk immersed in deep meditation. To say the very least, there was something about him preposterous to such a peaceful way of life, ingrained in that slippery smirk, in the way his eyes, sluggish with sleep, would flash at times with a gleam, like the rekindle of a flame in a crevasse. On a whim, he laced his hands behind his back and leaned on the planks, his hair brushing against the fusumas.
‘You should have joined me.’ He said listlessly, observing the dissimilar patterns that shadow created on the roof of the small vestibule. He listened attentively for any small noise reverberating from the inside. Usually, there would seldom be any. He would be entirely ignored, especially on the last days before an Obon Festival. For most part, he wouldn’t have wasted his time waiting, there were enough tennis courts and as many amateurs to give him a fair realization of what he was missing. It felt as if he was playing alone. In a sense, he could be anywhere, though his mind would involuntarily return to one place, that place, or more specifically, that person.
Maybe that’s why he is here, and not elsewhere, he thought.
He opened the sliding wood doors, peeking inside the large and slightly opaque room. He had heard of that festival before, mostly that there would be dances and the streets would be overcrowded, as it happened on such holidays. Meaning he knew very little. He never had participated. Frankly speaking, he was as eager to find a meaning in Tezuka’s action, as he had been ever since he met him.
Coincidentally, Tezuka adopted the same position as himself, legs tucked under the front of a dark-blue kimono. His eyes were closed, his mind blank as a sheet of paper. Ryoma was seeing him all in reverse; even so, Tezuka’s body seemed lighter, like ripples breaking onshore into tides. Myriad of inquiries arose into him, a typhoon, in the eye of which he was gripped tighter with every added though. His head became heft, a throbbing-nagging kind of pressure, his neck cracking at its full extent. He turned on his stomach and didn’t take his eyes off Tezuka. He blinked blearily. The fragrance of the incense didn’t help his case. He folded his arms, and leaned his head on them. In seconds he was fast asleep.
***
‘Echizen.’ A voice? Am I sleeping? Whose voice…is…I know this…captain? Where…oh….so that’s how it is….I did came here after all. Before he knew it, he was fully awake.
‘Captain.’ He answered groggily, yawning. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, especially since he went through the trouble of not playing tennis that day... At least the captain finished with his meditation.
‘I see you are finally awake.’ Tezuka commented, observing him thoroughly. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home by now?’ The captain raised a brown both inquisitive and reprimanding.
‘Never mind that. Actually, it’s quieter here, anyway. And besides, I want to ask you something.’
‘What is it?’ He had never been curious in his life. Everything he needed to know he learned by experiencing it head-on, a new move, step or serve. He was a quick learner. In theory, he absorbed the knowledge like a vacant glass of water sucks the skin inside. Until then.
‘Can you tell me about the Obon Festival?’ All sounds seemed to dwindle to a faint, far-away hush, the rustle of leaves fading somewhere in the background, the insects almost incrusted in a timeless void, paused, for an indefinite span.
‘What do you want to know?’ Tezuka sat on the porch with him, holding a stack of colorful papers in one hand and 2 pairs of scissors in the other. He put the scissors down, and folded a piece of paper lengthways, neatly straightening the edge, creating a sharp crease.
‘What are you doing?’ Ryoma inquired, following Tezuka’s every move. It looks like an origami, yet you don’t usually use scissors, do you?
‘A paper lantern.’ Tezuka stated. Meanwhile he made continuous cuts along the folded edge. Then he rolled the paper together, and from his pocket he took out a mini stapler and fastened the edges together. Afterwards he cut a strip from another piece of paper and stapled it as a handle, on opposite ends of the circle.
‘Hmm, it’s for the festival, right?’ Tezuka’s movements halted for a second, and he was gratified with a sidelong glance. ‘Stupid question.’ He looked down in his lap, his thoughts a stream overflowing all over the place.
‘Captain.’ His voice, an echo resounding from the bottom of a well. Instead of wasting his time wondering what to say next, he grabbed a new paper from the pile and mimicked Tezuka’s actions.
Silence drew out seamlessly; the only thing that ruffled it was the quick motions of hands working in sync, like a water eye reflecting the slow progression of clouds. It was like the time was flowing backwards. Ryoma breathed in deeply the fresh-cut smell of grass, the green earthly fragrance of maple trees, the musk odor of the pond and the addictive smell of new paper. His hand smelled like freshly opened can of tennis balls. Will buchou’s hand smell like this too? He pondered.
‘Obon Festival is a national holiday dedicated to our deceased ancestors.’ Tezuka began to retell in a steady voice. ‘It challenges our attitude towards death and life, urging us to express our gratitude for the great gift that is life and for the bonds we share with each other. ‘
‘Doesn’t it seem paradoxical in a sense?’ Ryoma inquired a little baffled. He hadn’t broached this kind of theory before, yet somehow with the captain everything came naturally.
‘It does. Yet, we are the sum of every living person that had ever existed until now. We live in the light of their contributions. Thus, it is good to remember that once in a while, and pay our due respects to the ones who meant something to us.’ Tezuka concluded - his face solemn and unguarded for the first time.
‘Do you have someone like that?’ Ryoma surmised, the hunch originating from a memory he had entirely lost, the reality that he himself had someone, whom no one did remember anymore.
‘Ah. Both my grandparents.’ A hint of a rueful smile softened Tezuka’s lines, and Ryoma felt like an anchor-less ship floating aimlessly. His skin crawled, his heart smoldered like magma under an extinct volcano and the sounds were pounding in his ears, all alive and renewed. For all was worth, he could sit there forever, and wouldn’t once get bored.
‘I think there are dances, and, um, what else is there?’ Ryoma asked, studying his new creation with critical eyes. He was beginning to like assembling paper lanterns.
‘The customs differ. Some visit the resting places of their predecessors, some spend their times together with their families, others send lanterns floating down the river to the ocean or just hang them around the house.’ Tezuka explained - his eyes focused solely on his hands, while Ryoma’s were the shaft ray of a lighthouse - guiding the captain back from his recollection of the past.
‘So, where are we going?’ Though, by then it was pretty obvious. Except, he self-invited himself, this time. The problem was why did he have to delay it so much? Possibly because a year ago he didn’t have this kind of bond with Tezuka.
‘Echizen.’ Tezuka reproved sternly. ‘You need to go home, it’s late.'
‘No way. I’ve never participated in a festival, not even after I’ve returned to Japan.’ Ryoma argued.
‘Even so, your parents will be worried. I’m sure there will be plenty of festivals for you to participate in.’
‘You know that’s not true.’ His voice wavering. He gazed into Tezuka’s eyes, trying to see past the invisible wall, into his essence. ‘Soon, I’ll never see any of you again.’ He said with a scowl. Not even you.
‘I’ll lend you last year’s kimono. It should fit you.’ Ryoma barely contained himself to just smile, and not grin stupidly.
‘Uis.’ If he could, Ryoma would have flipped through the air like a fish out of water, or imitated Kikumaru’s acrobatic play. However, he merely held the lantern in the sunset, imaging it alight, like Tezuka’s hair in the summer’s evening.
‘Will we really set them floating?’ It was not like he needed reassurance, or maybe…
‘Yes, we will.’ Tezuka almost chuckled, as if knowing precisely his line of thought. And maybe, perhaps, Ryoma knew his too.
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Words: 1500
Summary: festivals
Note: I tried something new, again. The title is inspired from Kafka on the shore (Haruki Murakami). Unbetaed. Fusumas is the term for the wooden doors.
He sat on the porch stairs of a house that wasn’t his. His fingers wafted over the lukewarm water of the pond. Legs tucked neatly under him, he may well had resembled a monk immersed in deep meditation. To say the very least, there was something about him preposterous to such a peaceful way of life, ingrained in that slippery smirk, in the way his eyes, sluggish with sleep, would flash at times with a gleam, like the rekindle of a flame in a crevasse. On a whim, he laced his hands behind his back and leaned on the planks, his hair brushing against the fusumas.
‘You should have joined me.’ He said listlessly, observing the dissimilar patterns that shadow created on the roof of the small vestibule. He listened attentively for any small noise reverberating from the inside. Usually, there would seldom be any. He would be entirely ignored, especially on the last days before an Obon Festival. For most part, he wouldn’t have wasted his time waiting, there were enough tennis courts and as many amateurs to give him a fair realization of what he was missing. It felt as if he was playing alone. In a sense, he could be anywhere, though his mind would involuntarily return to one place, that place, or more specifically, that person.
Maybe that’s why he is here, and not elsewhere, he thought.
He opened the sliding wood doors, peeking inside the large and slightly opaque room. He had heard of that festival before, mostly that there would be dances and the streets would be overcrowded, as it happened on such holidays. Meaning he knew very little. He never had participated. Frankly speaking, he was as eager to find a meaning in Tezuka’s action, as he had been ever since he met him.
Coincidentally, Tezuka adopted the same position as himself, legs tucked under the front of a dark-blue kimono. His eyes were closed, his mind blank as a sheet of paper. Ryoma was seeing him all in reverse; even so, Tezuka’s body seemed lighter, like ripples breaking onshore into tides. Myriad of inquiries arose into him, a typhoon, in the eye of which he was gripped tighter with every added though. His head became heft, a throbbing-nagging kind of pressure, his neck cracking at its full extent. He turned on his stomach and didn’t take his eyes off Tezuka. He blinked blearily. The fragrance of the incense didn’t help his case. He folded his arms, and leaned his head on them. In seconds he was fast asleep.
***
‘Echizen.’ A voice? Am I sleeping? Whose voice…is…I know this…captain? Where…oh….so that’s how it is….I did came here after all. Before he knew it, he was fully awake.
‘Captain.’ He answered groggily, yawning. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, especially since he went through the trouble of not playing tennis that day... At least the captain finished with his meditation.
‘I see you are finally awake.’ Tezuka commented, observing him thoroughly. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home by now?’ The captain raised a brown both inquisitive and reprimanding.
‘Never mind that. Actually, it’s quieter here, anyway. And besides, I want to ask you something.’
‘What is it?’ He had never been curious in his life. Everything he needed to know he learned by experiencing it head-on, a new move, step or serve. He was a quick learner. In theory, he absorbed the knowledge like a vacant glass of water sucks the skin inside. Until then.
‘Can you tell me about the Obon Festival?’ All sounds seemed to dwindle to a faint, far-away hush, the rustle of leaves fading somewhere in the background, the insects almost incrusted in a timeless void, paused, for an indefinite span.
‘What do you want to know?’ Tezuka sat on the porch with him, holding a stack of colorful papers in one hand and 2 pairs of scissors in the other. He put the scissors down, and folded a piece of paper lengthways, neatly straightening the edge, creating a sharp crease.
‘What are you doing?’ Ryoma inquired, following Tezuka’s every move. It looks like an origami, yet you don’t usually use scissors, do you?
‘A paper lantern.’ Tezuka stated. Meanwhile he made continuous cuts along the folded edge. Then he rolled the paper together, and from his pocket he took out a mini stapler and fastened the edges together. Afterwards he cut a strip from another piece of paper and stapled it as a handle, on opposite ends of the circle.
‘Hmm, it’s for the festival, right?’ Tezuka’s movements halted for a second, and he was gratified with a sidelong glance. ‘Stupid question.’ He looked down in his lap, his thoughts a stream overflowing all over the place.
‘Captain.’ His voice, an echo resounding from the bottom of a well. Instead of wasting his time wondering what to say next, he grabbed a new paper from the pile and mimicked Tezuka’s actions.
Silence drew out seamlessly; the only thing that ruffled it was the quick motions of hands working in sync, like a water eye reflecting the slow progression of clouds. It was like the time was flowing backwards. Ryoma breathed in deeply the fresh-cut smell of grass, the green earthly fragrance of maple trees, the musk odor of the pond and the addictive smell of new paper. His hand smelled like freshly opened can of tennis balls. Will buchou’s hand smell like this too? He pondered.
‘Obon Festival is a national holiday dedicated to our deceased ancestors.’ Tezuka began to retell in a steady voice. ‘It challenges our attitude towards death and life, urging us to express our gratitude for the great gift that is life and for the bonds we share with each other. ‘
‘Doesn’t it seem paradoxical in a sense?’ Ryoma inquired a little baffled. He hadn’t broached this kind of theory before, yet somehow with the captain everything came naturally.
‘It does. Yet, we are the sum of every living person that had ever existed until now. We live in the light of their contributions. Thus, it is good to remember that once in a while, and pay our due respects to the ones who meant something to us.’ Tezuka concluded - his face solemn and unguarded for the first time.
‘Do you have someone like that?’ Ryoma surmised, the hunch originating from a memory he had entirely lost, the reality that he himself had someone, whom no one did remember anymore.
‘Ah. Both my grandparents.’ A hint of a rueful smile softened Tezuka’s lines, and Ryoma felt like an anchor-less ship floating aimlessly. His skin crawled, his heart smoldered like magma under an extinct volcano and the sounds were pounding in his ears, all alive and renewed. For all was worth, he could sit there forever, and wouldn’t once get bored.
‘I think there are dances, and, um, what else is there?’ Ryoma asked, studying his new creation with critical eyes. He was beginning to like assembling paper lanterns.
‘The customs differ. Some visit the resting places of their predecessors, some spend their times together with their families, others send lanterns floating down the river to the ocean or just hang them around the house.’ Tezuka explained - his eyes focused solely on his hands, while Ryoma’s were the shaft ray of a lighthouse - guiding the captain back from his recollection of the past.
‘So, where are we going?’ Though, by then it was pretty obvious. Except, he self-invited himself, this time. The problem was why did he have to delay it so much? Possibly because a year ago he didn’t have this kind of bond with Tezuka.
‘Echizen.’ Tezuka reproved sternly. ‘You need to go home, it’s late.'
‘No way. I’ve never participated in a festival, not even after I’ve returned to Japan.’ Ryoma argued.
‘Even so, your parents will be worried. I’m sure there will be plenty of festivals for you to participate in.’
‘You know that’s not true.’ His voice wavering. He gazed into Tezuka’s eyes, trying to see past the invisible wall, into his essence. ‘Soon, I’ll never see any of you again.’ He said with a scowl. Not even you.
‘I’ll lend you last year’s kimono. It should fit you.’ Ryoma barely contained himself to just smile, and not grin stupidly.
‘Uis.’ If he could, Ryoma would have flipped through the air like a fish out of water, or imitated Kikumaru’s acrobatic play. However, he merely held the lantern in the sunset, imaging it alight, like Tezuka’s hair in the summer’s evening.
‘Will we really set them floating?’ It was not like he needed reassurance, or maybe…
‘Yes, we will.’ Tezuka almost chuckled, as if knowing precisely his line of thought. And maybe, perhaps, Ryoma knew his too.