~Rendition~/~PG~
Author: demi_rabbit
Title: Rendition
Rating: PG
Pairing: Vauge mentions of TamaEclair
Summary: --so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes-- Tamaki attempts to atone after the fiasco with Eclair.
Spoilers: Only for the end of the anime.
Warnings: Cryptic-stage drabble ahead, people!
Author's Notes: A diarea is not a sickness, and it's not what you're probably all thinking. It's the dying character's last song.
Rendition
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me;
now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by
my foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself,
and by my friends, I am abused: so that,
conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives
make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for
my friends and the better for my foes.
Eyes downcast. Blond hair obscuring half his face. Hands twisted in a painfully uncomfortable way in his lap. Tamaki’s eyes were alight and his face dark with the weight of some hidden burden he seemed to be carrying today. It hadn’t affected his hosting abilities; no, more of before and after the doors of the Host Club had opened was when he was downtrodden and, dare they say it, seemingly depressed.
No laughter echoed around the marble room from the twins, no cakes were being eaten, no music played, no keyboards tapped. Somehow, the King’s mood had affected them all just as negatively. So they waited. Silent and still they waited. Even Haruhi was still they, and what was more she was not jiggling impatiently, even if there was a 50% off sale at her closest super market. They waited for the blond curtains to pull aside and for the violet eyes to relay what was wrong. The play was going to start soon, and no one knew how this act would end.
They all had their suspicions. Red heads believed that this play would have a spectacular diarea, someone was dead. The black haired man with the glasses to see the spectacle closer thought for sure he was in the right to assume it was a comedy-one hidden within the confines of a tragedy, like the actors who had preformed a tragedy much to the audiences displeasure, and switched gears halfway through. The shortest thought the act to be the final, and felt the displeasure well up within his stomach-no! This play could not be over. The quietest thought that the act was just that, and act, and that as soon as this play was over, the actor would be the same person again. And the girl thought this play to be a waste of time, but had no intention of leaving the theater until every act was over, every song sung and every member applauding.
So they waited, listening to their breathing, the tick-tock of the mounted wall clocks and the occasional tap-tap of footsteps outside the theater. Quiet, people, the drama is in progress.
“Do...” a quiet voice asked, all playful conviction and all stage presence gone. “Do you all...Hate me?”
There were many reasons to. The everyday drama, the tears, the broken hand, the broken arm, the useless fighting, and the fear-the heart wrenching fear-of falling off a bridge.
“After all I’ve done to you...”
There was no reason for hate. The audience would applaud eventually, anyway, to show their appreciation. How could they not. The first act brought them outside the box, the second allowed them to laugh out loud, and see what they most wanted to see. The third broken chains on a world left untrodden before. And together, they all were living in the moment, ready to change costumes at a seconds notice. The fourth act was still undecided.
The audience rose to their feet, allowing their appreciation to ring through the air with subtle clapping and the cries of ‘bravo’, ‘don’t be stupid’, ‘encore!’. The lights rose, the play was over, and the glistening tears in wide, violet eyes that begged forgiveness showed just how well the performance had gone. Well enough for there to never be need for a rendition.
We're not mad at you, the stage echos the audience's words for them.
Why, this is most excellent.
Title: Rendition
Rating: PG
Pairing: Vauge mentions of TamaEclair
Summary: --so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for my friends and the better for my foes-- Tamaki attempts to atone after the fiasco with Eclair.
Spoilers: Only for the end of the anime.
Warnings: Cryptic-stage drabble ahead, people!
Author's Notes: A diarea is not a sickness, and it's not what you're probably all thinking. It's the dying character's last song.
Rendition
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me;
now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by
my foes, sir I profit in the knowledge of myself,
and by my friends, I am abused: so that,
conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives
make your two affirmatives why then, the worse for
my friends and the better for my foes.
Eyes downcast. Blond hair obscuring half his face. Hands twisted in a painfully uncomfortable way in his lap. Tamaki’s eyes were alight and his face dark with the weight of some hidden burden he seemed to be carrying today. It hadn’t affected his hosting abilities; no, more of before and after the doors of the Host Club had opened was when he was downtrodden and, dare they say it, seemingly depressed.
No laughter echoed around the marble room from the twins, no cakes were being eaten, no music played, no keyboards tapped. Somehow, the King’s mood had affected them all just as negatively. So they waited. Silent and still they waited. Even Haruhi was still they, and what was more she was not jiggling impatiently, even if there was a 50% off sale at her closest super market. They waited for the blond curtains to pull aside and for the violet eyes to relay what was wrong. The play was going to start soon, and no one knew how this act would end.
They all had their suspicions. Red heads believed that this play would have a spectacular diarea, someone was dead. The black haired man with the glasses to see the spectacle closer thought for sure he was in the right to assume it was a comedy-one hidden within the confines of a tragedy, like the actors who had preformed a tragedy much to the audiences displeasure, and switched gears halfway through. The shortest thought the act to be the final, and felt the displeasure well up within his stomach-no! This play could not be over. The quietest thought that the act was just that, and act, and that as soon as this play was over, the actor would be the same person again. And the girl thought this play to be a waste of time, but had no intention of leaving the theater until every act was over, every song sung and every member applauding.
So they waited, listening to their breathing, the tick-tock of the mounted wall clocks and the occasional tap-tap of footsteps outside the theater. Quiet, people, the drama is in progress.
“Do...” a quiet voice asked, all playful conviction and all stage presence gone. “Do you all...Hate me?”
There were many reasons to. The everyday drama, the tears, the broken hand, the broken arm, the useless fighting, and the fear-the heart wrenching fear-of falling off a bridge.
“After all I’ve done to you...”
There was no reason for hate. The audience would applaud eventually, anyway, to show their appreciation. How could they not. The first act brought them outside the box, the second allowed them to laugh out loud, and see what they most wanted to see. The third broken chains on a world left untrodden before. And together, they all were living in the moment, ready to change costumes at a seconds notice. The fourth act was still undecided.
The audience rose to their feet, allowing their appreciation to ring through the air with subtle clapping and the cries of ‘bravo’, ‘don’t be stupid’, ‘encore!’. The lights rose, the play was over, and the glistening tears in wide, violet eyes that begged forgiveness showed just how well the performance had gone. Well enough for there to never be need for a rendition.
We're not mad at you, the stage echos the audience's words for them.
Why, this is most excellent.