There's so much I need to say to you
Who: usedlaserbeam and restardom
Where: The forest off Route 35, just outside of Goldenrod.
When: December 1, the afternoon.
Summary: There's a trickster-shaped void in two people's lives. Bonding ensues.
Rating: PG?
Log:
[There are some moments when Yagyuu just doesn't want to be Yagyuu.
They say that the first stage of grief is denial. It's also arguably the one he's best at, if it's even possible to claim expertise in that sort of thing at all. Denial is comfortable, familiar; it's a mask he can wear to conceal his true feelings, which has the added bonus of relieving him of the burden of figuring out what the hell those feelings truly are in the first place. Problems are much easier to deal with when they simply aren't there. Let them go ignored, and they have no power to trouble you.
Deep down, he's pretty sure that's why Niou Masaharu managed to get under his skin the way that he did. Because even despite Yagyuu's best efforts (and were they ever the best of efforts), there was simply no ignoring him. He couldn't get rid of him. He never went away.
He's gone now.
Niou is gone and Yagyuu doesn't know how to feel about that. He could probably manage to quantify it all if he tried-there's anger, there's sadness, there's betrayal. There's regret there, too. Loneliness. Uncertainty. There's definitely a twinge of that thing he very pointedly refuses to acknowledge, because as soon as he acknowledges it then he has to do something about it, or think about it, and his life is far, far less complicated when he just leaves that thing alone. It's a conflict he doesn't want to deal with, a Pandora's box he doesn't want to open, and so he doesn't.
He doesn't know how he feels about this, but he does know how Niou would feel. They couldn't do the Switch if they couldn't read each other that well, not to the degree of perfection that such a trick always demanded of them, that they demanded of themselves. And most of the time, the things that Niou would feel are the ones that Yagyuu wants to, free of the constraints of being the Gentleman and impeccable and responsible and everything that comes with it. Niou knew exactly how he felt in those six months he spent in Johto before Yagyuu caught up. And sometimes, Yagyuu is Niou, which means Yagyuu must know it, too.
Sometimes it's just easier to be Niou. He always used to find it amusing, entertaining the thought that they were better at being each other than they were at being themselves.
It's chilly out here in the woods, with snow dusting the trees and blanketing the ground, the open air thin and biting from the cold. It's colder still up off the ground, perched on one of the low, thick branches of a tree that long since shed its leaves, leaving behind a bare brown skeleton that looms ominous and silent against the muted colors of the landscape. There's a Persian curled in his lap, his hands buried in her fur, and she looks just as moody as he feels, even as he strokes her head and quietly absorbs her ambient warmth as an extra defense against the chill of the afternoon.
It's nice out here, silent, alone. He doesn't have to think too hard about who he's supposed to be, what rules and guidelines and expectations he should or shouldn't be following. He can just sit, and sulk, and if he wants he can be no one at all.
Which, all things considered, sounds pretty good right about now.]
Where: The forest off Route 35, just outside of Goldenrod.
When: December 1, the afternoon.
Summary: There's a trickster-shaped void in two people's lives. Bonding ensues.
Rating: PG?
Log:
[There are some moments when Yagyuu just doesn't want to be Yagyuu.
They say that the first stage of grief is denial. It's also arguably the one he's best at, if it's even possible to claim expertise in that sort of thing at all. Denial is comfortable, familiar; it's a mask he can wear to conceal his true feelings, which has the added bonus of relieving him of the burden of figuring out what the hell those feelings truly are in the first place. Problems are much easier to deal with when they simply aren't there. Let them go ignored, and they have no power to trouble you.
Deep down, he's pretty sure that's why Niou Masaharu managed to get under his skin the way that he did. Because even despite Yagyuu's best efforts (and were they ever the best of efforts), there was simply no ignoring him. He couldn't get rid of him. He never went away.
He's gone now.
Niou is gone and Yagyuu doesn't know how to feel about that. He could probably manage to quantify it all if he tried-there's anger, there's sadness, there's betrayal. There's regret there, too. Loneliness. Uncertainty. There's definitely a twinge of that thing he very pointedly refuses to acknowledge, because as soon as he acknowledges it then he has to do something about it, or think about it, and his life is far, far less complicated when he just leaves that thing alone. It's a conflict he doesn't want to deal with, a Pandora's box he doesn't want to open, and so he doesn't.
He doesn't know how he feels about this, but he does know how Niou would feel. They couldn't do the Switch if they couldn't read each other that well, not to the degree of perfection that such a trick always demanded of them, that they demanded of themselves. And most of the time, the things that Niou would feel are the ones that Yagyuu wants to, free of the constraints of being the Gentleman and impeccable and responsible and everything that comes with it. Niou knew exactly how he felt in those six months he spent in Johto before Yagyuu caught up. And sometimes, Yagyuu is Niou, which means Yagyuu must know it, too.
Sometimes it's just easier to be Niou. He always used to find it amusing, entertaining the thought that they were better at being each other than they were at being themselves.
It's chilly out here in the woods, with snow dusting the trees and blanketing the ground, the open air thin and biting from the cold. It's colder still up off the ground, perched on one of the low, thick branches of a tree that long since shed its leaves, leaving behind a bare brown skeleton that looms ominous and silent against the muted colors of the landscape. There's a Persian curled in his lap, his hands buried in her fur, and she looks just as moody as he feels, even as he strokes her head and quietly absorbs her ambient warmth as an extra defense against the chill of the afternoon.
It's nice out here, silent, alone. He doesn't have to think too hard about who he's supposed to be, what rules and guidelines and expectations he should or shouldn't be following. He can just sit, and sulk, and if he wants he can be no one at all.
Which, all things considered, sounds pretty good right about now.]