The Pure White Snow
Title: The Pure White Snow
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything
Pairing: Slightly Tamaki/Haruhi, but mostly Gen.
Summary: Tamaki’s thoughts at his mother’s funeral.
It’s cold, too cold for the expensive black suit that Tamaki is wearing to sustain any body heat.
Everyone around him is clutching their jackets close to their bodies and trying to suppress their shivers and chattering teeth. He doesn’t glance their way; in fact, he wishes they’d all just leave.
He knows their only here for one reason and he hates them all for doing so.
The cold wind blows around him and his long, blond bangs whip around his forehead and cover his eyes. He doesn’t push them aside. For once, Tamaki doesn’t care about his appearance.
He didn’t bring a jacket to warm up, but he could care less, even if his fingers feel like blocks of ice.
He kicks at the snow beneath his feet until he can see the hidden grass underneath. It’s brown and crushed by the weight of winter. He finds it fitting. It shouldn’t be green and alive, especially today of all days. Nothing should be fresh and gold today.
Today, December 23rd, he’ll always hate this day from now on.
He tries to keep his eyes from moving away from the brown, dead grass, but they will not obey his will.
The white wood looks beautiful around the falling snow, and he hates the sight. He thinks caskets should be ugly and wonders why they picked the very best one they could find.
The sight of a casket should not look so picturesque. He grits his teeth at the god damn fucking beauty of it all; the perfect lilies and gorgeous angel statute chosen as her tombstone. There is no other word for the view in front of Tamaki then beautiful and he despises it.
He’d rather see anything but beauty…no, that’s not true, he’d rather see just one beautiful view. He longs to see long, flowing blond hair and bright purple eyes.
He wants to hear her harmonic voice rather then the French droning sound of the priest.
He hates Paris now, and wishes to hear the rhythmic and soothing tones that float all around him in Japan. He wants to go home; and he never wants to hear the French language again.
Ten minutes later, he throws a handful of dirt onto the grave. He can hear the noise it makes when it hits the casket. He’d felt the bits of rock in the dirt when he’d picked it up from the small shovel the priest had held out for him. He’d noticed the way the dirt was almost like a block of ice from the snow, but he hadn’t cared. His father had been in front of him and every time the man looked at him, Tamaki wanted to shout “Coward!”
The loud noise of the clumped, icy dirt hitting the casket makes his father gasp and Tamaki suppresses the odd need to slam his fist in his father’s face.
He can’t believe that a man who’d caused his mother nothing but grief could gasp in injustice, now that she was dead.
His father looks his way and he sneers. It feels so wrong on his face that he quickly looks away in shock. He’s never been this angry before, and the way his father says his name makes him shake his head in shame. He is upset with his father, but his mother raised him to be better than this.
“Mom.”
The words slip past his lips before he’s even aware he thought them. He hears his father’s sobs, and quick retreat that leaves Tamaki alone once more.
It finds his father’s departure as fitting as the brown, crushed grass.
It’s just his mother and him once more, and he wishes with all his might he could say that was how it’s always been.
Shame, such overwhelming shame overcomes him so quickly that he lets out a deep breath to stop from screaming.
He should have never left when his grandmother gave his mom that horrible deal. He should have fought to stay. He shouldn’t have enjoyed Japan as much as he has.
He stares down at the white casket and the snow falling past him. The snow is reaching her in a way he never will again. It’ll soon melt and seep through the wood; it’ll touch her skin--her cold dead skin.
He rubs his arms, pushing away his morbid thoughts and begins to walk back to the spot he’d been standing before.
He feels alone, more alone then he’s ever felt before.
People touch his shoulder and whisper French condolences into his ear. He wants to snap at them and tell them to shut up, but he can’t, it’s not him.
Tamaki Suoh does not, and will not act that way, and he can’t be any other way then what his mother raised him to be.
So he thanks them, smiles at their poor attempts to make him smile. He plays host so well that it comes without thought.
After everyone leaves he stands there and watches men with clean, pristine suits pick up shovels and begin to bury his mom.
As he stands there and watches the cold, hard dirt fall from the shovels, it amazes him that he hasn’t since her in three years.
That the last time he saw her alive he was a child, a child who didn’t understand the word goodbye.
Each time the shovels are refilled he feels a slight change inside him take place. The shift inside his mind that makes his eyes older and his lips thinner.
Was this a right of passage that no one spoke about? A ceremony no one discussed or congratulated you on? Was this the passage from youth to adult?
His insides burn with rage, but he pushes the foreign feeling away. He needs to be clear headed in this moment. He wants to soak it up as much as he can before he banishes it from his thoughts forever.
He knows after this day, he'll never look at the snow the same way again. For a brief second he mourns the lost of snowball fights and angel making and is disgusted with himself for doing so.
He feels so old right now that he wonders if a hundred years has passed since the service began.
The men, now in slightly dirtier suits, place down their shovels and watch a machine do the rest of the work.
The loud engine breaks through the silence in a disturbing way that makes Tamaki want to scream at them for destroying it.
Another hand is on his shoulder and he’s about to pull away, he can’t fake a smile right now.
When all of a sudden he hears the soft spoken words of ‘Sempai,’ whispered into his ear.
He turns and looks into impossibly big, brown eyes that look unusually full of emotion.
“It’s time to go, Sempai.”
The flow and beauty of her voice surrounds him and make his lips twitch upwards for a brief second. Her voice, so familiar, so caring, and so much like his mothers. His mother who always spoke Japanese when they were alone.
“You’re shaking like a leaf, Sempai, please will you come away?”
He quickly reaches out and grabs the hand on his shoulder. He holds onto it for dear life.
The hand is cold and shaking. It’s then that he finally realizes that his whole body is shaking and is exhausted with its need for heat.
His teeth began to chatter, as if they too have just become aware of the chill.
He knows he should leave but---he turns back to his mother’s grave. The hand on his shoulder tightens.
“Please, Tamaki.”
Her voice, her beautiful voice, the only beauty he seems to allow around him right now.
He wants to cuddle into it. He wants to lie down and just listen to her voice surround him, warm him.
Behind her stand four young men that are huddled around each other. Tamaki does a double take and is about to ask were Kyouya is, when he feels another hand on his left shoulder.
He hadn’t noticed before, but Kyouya’s been beside him the whole time. He reaches out to his best friend and a jacket is suddenly surrounding him. It makes the icy needles sting his skin less. He watches Kyouya shake from the cold and realizes why the jacket is so warm. He’s about to give it back but Kyouya shakes his head. The gleam from his glasses telling him not to argue.
“You’re going to get sick, Tamaki.”
The concern in Kyoya’s voice is real and pure and warms him more then the jacket’s heavy double liner ever could.
Haruhi’s hand moves off his shoulder but keeps a firm grasp on his own. As they turn away from his mother’s grave he suddenly stops. His breathe forms a cloud around him and he watches it slowly fade away.
“I want to go home.”
Everyone stops and turns to him unison, before a word is uttered, the sound of Kyoya’s cell phone flips open and he demands for the jet to be ready.
Tamaki feels snowflakes melt on his lashes and the smell of lilies in the air.
It’s beautiful and for a moment, he finds it fitting.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything
Pairing: Slightly Tamaki/Haruhi, but mostly Gen.
Summary: Tamaki’s thoughts at his mother’s funeral.
It’s cold, too cold for the expensive black suit that Tamaki is wearing to sustain any body heat.
Everyone around him is clutching their jackets close to their bodies and trying to suppress their shivers and chattering teeth. He doesn’t glance their way; in fact, he wishes they’d all just leave.
He knows their only here for one reason and he hates them all for doing so.
The cold wind blows around him and his long, blond bangs whip around his forehead and cover his eyes. He doesn’t push them aside. For once, Tamaki doesn’t care about his appearance.
He didn’t bring a jacket to warm up, but he could care less, even if his fingers feel like blocks of ice.
He kicks at the snow beneath his feet until he can see the hidden grass underneath. It’s brown and crushed by the weight of winter. He finds it fitting. It shouldn’t be green and alive, especially today of all days. Nothing should be fresh and gold today.
Today, December 23rd, he’ll always hate this day from now on.
He tries to keep his eyes from moving away from the brown, dead grass, but they will not obey his will.
The white wood looks beautiful around the falling snow, and he hates the sight. He thinks caskets should be ugly and wonders why they picked the very best one they could find.
The sight of a casket should not look so picturesque. He grits his teeth at the god damn fucking beauty of it all; the perfect lilies and gorgeous angel statute chosen as her tombstone. There is no other word for the view in front of Tamaki then beautiful and he despises it.
He’d rather see anything but beauty…no, that’s not true, he’d rather see just one beautiful view. He longs to see long, flowing blond hair and bright purple eyes.
He wants to hear her harmonic voice rather then the French droning sound of the priest.
He hates Paris now, and wishes to hear the rhythmic and soothing tones that float all around him in Japan. He wants to go home; and he never wants to hear the French language again.
Ten minutes later, he throws a handful of dirt onto the grave. He can hear the noise it makes when it hits the casket. He’d felt the bits of rock in the dirt when he’d picked it up from the small shovel the priest had held out for him. He’d noticed the way the dirt was almost like a block of ice from the snow, but he hadn’t cared. His father had been in front of him and every time the man looked at him, Tamaki wanted to shout “Coward!”
The loud noise of the clumped, icy dirt hitting the casket makes his father gasp and Tamaki suppresses the odd need to slam his fist in his father’s face.
He can’t believe that a man who’d caused his mother nothing but grief could gasp in injustice, now that she was dead.
His father looks his way and he sneers. It feels so wrong on his face that he quickly looks away in shock. He’s never been this angry before, and the way his father says his name makes him shake his head in shame. He is upset with his father, but his mother raised him to be better than this.
“Mom.”
The words slip past his lips before he’s even aware he thought them. He hears his father’s sobs, and quick retreat that leaves Tamaki alone once more.
It finds his father’s departure as fitting as the brown, crushed grass.
It’s just his mother and him once more, and he wishes with all his might he could say that was how it’s always been.
Shame, such overwhelming shame overcomes him so quickly that he lets out a deep breath to stop from screaming.
He should have never left when his grandmother gave his mom that horrible deal. He should have fought to stay. He shouldn’t have enjoyed Japan as much as he has.
He stares down at the white casket and the snow falling past him. The snow is reaching her in a way he never will again. It’ll soon melt and seep through the wood; it’ll touch her skin--her cold dead skin.
He rubs his arms, pushing away his morbid thoughts and begins to walk back to the spot he’d been standing before.
He feels alone, more alone then he’s ever felt before.
People touch his shoulder and whisper French condolences into his ear. He wants to snap at them and tell them to shut up, but he can’t, it’s not him.
Tamaki Suoh does not, and will not act that way, and he can’t be any other way then what his mother raised him to be.
So he thanks them, smiles at their poor attempts to make him smile. He plays host so well that it comes without thought.
After everyone leaves he stands there and watches men with clean, pristine suits pick up shovels and begin to bury his mom.
As he stands there and watches the cold, hard dirt fall from the shovels, it amazes him that he hasn’t since her in three years.
That the last time he saw her alive he was a child, a child who didn’t understand the word goodbye.
Each time the shovels are refilled he feels a slight change inside him take place. The shift inside his mind that makes his eyes older and his lips thinner.
Was this a right of passage that no one spoke about? A ceremony no one discussed or congratulated you on? Was this the passage from youth to adult?
His insides burn with rage, but he pushes the foreign feeling away. He needs to be clear headed in this moment. He wants to soak it up as much as he can before he banishes it from his thoughts forever.
He knows after this day, he'll never look at the snow the same way again. For a brief second he mourns the lost of snowball fights and angel making and is disgusted with himself for doing so.
He feels so old right now that he wonders if a hundred years has passed since the service began.
The men, now in slightly dirtier suits, place down their shovels and watch a machine do the rest of the work.
The loud engine breaks through the silence in a disturbing way that makes Tamaki want to scream at them for destroying it.
Another hand is on his shoulder and he’s about to pull away, he can’t fake a smile right now.
When all of a sudden he hears the soft spoken words of ‘Sempai,’ whispered into his ear.
He turns and looks into impossibly big, brown eyes that look unusually full of emotion.
“It’s time to go, Sempai.”
The flow and beauty of her voice surrounds him and make his lips twitch upwards for a brief second. Her voice, so familiar, so caring, and so much like his mothers. His mother who always spoke Japanese when they were alone.
“You’re shaking like a leaf, Sempai, please will you come away?”
He quickly reaches out and grabs the hand on his shoulder. He holds onto it for dear life.
The hand is cold and shaking. It’s then that he finally realizes that his whole body is shaking and is exhausted with its need for heat.
His teeth began to chatter, as if they too have just become aware of the chill.
He knows he should leave but---he turns back to his mother’s grave. The hand on his shoulder tightens.
“Please, Tamaki.”
Her voice, her beautiful voice, the only beauty he seems to allow around him right now.
He wants to cuddle into it. He wants to lie down and just listen to her voice surround him, warm him.
Behind her stand four young men that are huddled around each other. Tamaki does a double take and is about to ask were Kyouya is, when he feels another hand on his left shoulder.
He hadn’t noticed before, but Kyouya’s been beside him the whole time. He reaches out to his best friend and a jacket is suddenly surrounding him. It makes the icy needles sting his skin less. He watches Kyouya shake from the cold and realizes why the jacket is so warm. He’s about to give it back but Kyouya shakes his head. The gleam from his glasses telling him not to argue.
“You’re going to get sick, Tamaki.”
The concern in Kyoya’s voice is real and pure and warms him more then the jacket’s heavy double liner ever could.
Haruhi’s hand moves off his shoulder but keeps a firm grasp on his own. As they turn away from his mother’s grave he suddenly stops. His breathe forms a cloud around him and he watches it slowly fade away.
“I want to go home.”
Everyone stops and turns to him unison, before a word is uttered, the sound of Kyoya’s cell phone flips open and he demands for the jet to be ready.
Tamaki feels snowflakes melt on his lashes and the smell of lilies in the air.
It’s beautiful and for a moment, he finds it fitting.