*insert clever title here*
I just got back from a weeklong beach vacation... I love seaside towns because they have sort of a double life- in the summer they're filled with life and bustling crowds, but in the winter the only sound is the snow softly falling... Still, I think it would be nice to live there all year round. I love the ocean- it's just so inspiring and peaceful!
Although even if I did live by the ocean, I'd still have to go to school. Which I'm starting on Thursday. I've never had homework before, and my new school is super-academic, so this should be interesting, right? ^_^
And now for something completely different- have a Princess Tutu ficlet! It's set in a modern AU, and it's sort of an anti-ship manifesto for the Fakirue pairing.
“Rue,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She leaned on the back of his chair, head tilted, a fond smile on her face. “About what?”
“Well- about a lot of things, I guess. You see, I’ve been thinking, and- yes, that’s one of those things.”
“What?”
“You’re- you’re petting my hair. Playing with my hair, okay, that’s fine, but I think I’ve asked you several times to stop petting my hair.” A pause. “I don’t like it when people pet my hair,” he added lamely.
“I’m not petting your hair,” Rue said. Still smiling, she stroked an errand piece of hair that stuck up from the side of his head. “I don’t think I remember ever petting your hair.”
“You’re doing it right now,” Fakir said evenly.
If Rue noticed the warning signs, she ignored them. “No, I’m not,” she said, and wove her fingers through his ponytail.
“Then what exactly are you doing, pray tell?”
“I’m not petting your hair,” Rue repeated, running her fingertips over his hair. “I’m stroking it. To affirm our mutually loving relationship.”
Fakir said nothing.
“Anyway,” Rue said brightly, “What is it you wanted to talk about?” She sat down beside him, continuing to pet his hair.
“…you’re petting my hair.”
“No, I’m stroking your hair. Because I love you.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to respect my wishes and stop petting-“
“-stroking-“
“-stroking my hair?”
Rue pulled her hand back as if his hair was on fire. She blinked several times, a look of growing confusion spreading over her face. “But I love you,” she finally told him.
Fakir rested his head in his hands and sighed. “That,” he said after several moments had passed, “is one of the things that I wanted to talk about.”
“And by that you mean…”
“A lot of things. Such as your inexplicable need to tell me you love me every ten seconds.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing! It’s just… a little creepy sometimes, that’s all.”
“You think I’m creepy.” There was no emotion in her words.
“I wouldn’t use that word-“
“You think I’m creepy.” This time each syllable seemed to be laced with poison. “I tell you I love you, and you tell me you think I’m creepy. You really think that it’s creepy to show a little affection once in a while. Is that what you think of me, Fakir? Of my love? Well, is it?” She was standing by then, standing and shouting, crimson eyes narrowed in rage. “Well?”
“Yes!” Fakir shouted, pushing his chair back to stand. “I think you’re creepy. I think I fell in love with an image that had no basis in reality. I think you’re like a little kid who needs to be held all the time and cries when her parents leave the house without her. I think you’re creepy, and needy, and obsessive- and quite frankly, you scare the heck out of me.”
“So,” Rue said, once the echoes had died away. She was smiling, and her breathing was very fast and very deep. “That’s what you think of me.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I think of you.”
“Well, in that case, would you like to hear what I think of you?”
“No. But you’re going to tell me anyway. “
“Yes,” she said, “I am. I think you’re one of those people who go through life saying they’ll write a book someday and never actually follow through on it because they like calling themselves a writer but they’re too lazy to actually write anything. I think you enjoy your misery so much that you want everyone to share it. I think you’re cold and misanthropic and more in love with yourself than you could ever be with anyone else. And quite frankly, I don’t see how I could even tolerate you.”
“So maybe you should leave, if you hate me that much.”
“Yes,” she said, “maybe I will.” And without saying another word, she turned and left the room.
Fakir sat down and stayed absolutely silent for nearly a minute, until he heard the lock click in the door. Then he stood up, pushed his chair back in, and began to dance in triumph.
Although even if I did live by the ocean, I'd still have to go to school. Which I'm starting on Thursday. I've never had homework before, and my new school is super-academic, so this should be interesting, right? ^_^
And now for something completely different- have a Princess Tutu ficlet! It's set in a modern AU, and it's sort of an anti-ship manifesto for the Fakirue pairing.
“Rue,” he said. “We need to talk.”
She leaned on the back of his chair, head tilted, a fond smile on her face. “About what?”
“Well- about a lot of things, I guess. You see, I’ve been thinking, and- yes, that’s one of those things.”
“What?”
“You’re- you’re petting my hair. Playing with my hair, okay, that’s fine, but I think I’ve asked you several times to stop petting my hair.” A pause. “I don’t like it when people pet my hair,” he added lamely.
“I’m not petting your hair,” Rue said. Still smiling, she stroked an errand piece of hair that stuck up from the side of his head. “I don’t think I remember ever petting your hair.”
“You’re doing it right now,” Fakir said evenly.
If Rue noticed the warning signs, she ignored them. “No, I’m not,” she said, and wove her fingers through his ponytail.
“Then what exactly are you doing, pray tell?”
“I’m not petting your hair,” Rue repeated, running her fingertips over his hair. “I’m stroking it. To affirm our mutually loving relationship.”
Fakir said nothing.
“Anyway,” Rue said brightly, “What is it you wanted to talk about?” She sat down beside him, continuing to pet his hair.
“…you’re petting my hair.”
“No, I’m stroking your hair. Because I love you.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to respect my wishes and stop petting-“
“-stroking-“
“-stroking my hair?”
Rue pulled her hand back as if his hair was on fire. She blinked several times, a look of growing confusion spreading over her face. “But I love you,” she finally told him.
Fakir rested his head in his hands and sighed. “That,” he said after several moments had passed, “is one of the things that I wanted to talk about.”
“And by that you mean…”
“A lot of things. Such as your inexplicable need to tell me you love me every ten seconds.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing! It’s just… a little creepy sometimes, that’s all.”
“You think I’m creepy.” There was no emotion in her words.
“I wouldn’t use that word-“
“You think I’m creepy.” This time each syllable seemed to be laced with poison. “I tell you I love you, and you tell me you think I’m creepy. You really think that it’s creepy to show a little affection once in a while. Is that what you think of me, Fakir? Of my love? Well, is it?” She was standing by then, standing and shouting, crimson eyes narrowed in rage. “Well?”
“Yes!” Fakir shouted, pushing his chair back to stand. “I think you’re creepy. I think I fell in love with an image that had no basis in reality. I think you’re like a little kid who needs to be held all the time and cries when her parents leave the house without her. I think you’re creepy, and needy, and obsessive- and quite frankly, you scare the heck out of me.”
“So,” Rue said, once the echoes had died away. She was smiling, and her breathing was very fast and very deep. “That’s what you think of me.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I think of you.”
“Well, in that case, would you like to hear what I think of you?”
“No. But you’re going to tell me anyway. “
“Yes,” she said, “I am. I think you’re one of those people who go through life saying they’ll write a book someday and never actually follow through on it because they like calling themselves a writer but they’re too lazy to actually write anything. I think you enjoy your misery so much that you want everyone to share it. I think you’re cold and misanthropic and more in love with yourself than you could ever be with anyone else. And quite frankly, I don’t see how I could even tolerate you.”
“So maybe you should leave, if you hate me that much.”
“Yes,” she said, “maybe I will.” And without saying another word, she turned and left the room.
Fakir sat down and stayed absolutely silent for nearly a minute, until he heard the lock click in the door. Then he stood up, pushed his chair back in, and began to dance in triumph.