Fic: Twigs of Trees
I seem to have misplaced my voice. Target 186 was released this morning which made me feel a bit better about it (RYOHEI=INSTANTFANGIRLMUSH) but voices are not supposed to run away from you for no good reason. The weather hasn't even turned yet.
Anyway, not being able to say anything got me into my Gokudera mood. This one's about Gokkun!maman. Not outright sad; more resigned, if anything.
Title: Twigs of Trees
Characters/Pairing: Gen. Gokudera's mother in the three years she's given.
Word Count: 439
Excerpt: “She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them.”
She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them. It didn’t stop her from walking past the bars of the gate, left to right and right to left, and if she should be caught by his mechanical spies, let him explain to his wife then. Maybe she and her delicate, purebred sensibilities would finally understand that those lying in the gutters of the world were merely fallen flowers.
Perhaps she wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss beggars in rags if she knew they had lain in her husband’s bed.
[ She watches children running home from school, skinned knees and flushed cheeks, admires the pound of tiny children feet on pavement, and knowing that they all have mothers to smooth down their hair, she curls her hands in pain. ]
She called him Hayato because she hoped that he would fly away, that one day he would chase after the falcon in his name, that he would try, in his own way, to be free.
[ Promises aren’t always for keeping, but she holds the bundled baby in her arms and makes one anyway, ‘I won’t let go of you as long as I live.’ ]
When the sympathetic, soothing nurse stole her child, she lost her faith in justice. She learned the truth of things: there’s nothing fair about life after all, and she won’t ever make the same mistake again, won’t trust anyone anymore, especially sweet-tongued creatures with kind smiles and twinkles in their eyes.
[ She wants him to pick her face from a crowd, to reach up for a hug, to tug on her sleeve and drag her into stores, and she knows it’s hard; he sees her three times a year when she sees him everyday. ]
By the time they deemed him old enough to be let out for a bit of sunshine, he was thin, with that pale hair, a little ghost dashing through a flock of toddlers in the park; or on the streets, jostled by cartons of milk and oranges bulging from plastic bags. But he was alive. He was all of two and a half and gloriously, gloriously alive, even though she’d had doubts, even though she had feared -
[ There are mornings when her stomach rolls until she doubles over. Hayato kicks enthusiastically - and won’t it just kill her, if he turns out just like his father? In her heart, she wants him to be naïve, passionate and cigarette-shy, and she is sorry she has no purity left to give him.
He inherits her sadness, her hands and her will. ]
Anyway, not being able to say anything got me into my Gokudera mood. This one's about Gokkun!maman. Not outright sad; more resigned, if anything.
Title: Twigs of Trees
Characters/Pairing: Gen. Gokudera's mother in the three years she's given.
Word Count: 439
Excerpt: “She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them.”
She never hoped to be accepted into their House, not through those doors, the stretch of lawn and snaking driveway between her and them. It didn’t stop her from walking past the bars of the gate, left to right and right to left, and if she should be caught by his mechanical spies, let him explain to his wife then. Maybe she and her delicate, purebred sensibilities would finally understand that those lying in the gutters of the world were merely fallen flowers.
Perhaps she wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss beggars in rags if she knew they had lain in her husband’s bed.
[ She watches children running home from school, skinned knees and flushed cheeks, admires the pound of tiny children feet on pavement, and knowing that they all have mothers to smooth down their hair, she curls her hands in pain. ]
She called him Hayato because she hoped that he would fly away, that one day he would chase after the falcon in his name, that he would try, in his own way, to be free.
[ Promises aren’t always for keeping, but she holds the bundled baby in her arms and makes one anyway, ‘I won’t let go of you as long as I live.’ ]
When the sympathetic, soothing nurse stole her child, she lost her faith in justice. She learned the truth of things: there’s nothing fair about life after all, and she won’t ever make the same mistake again, won’t trust anyone anymore, especially sweet-tongued creatures with kind smiles and twinkles in their eyes.
[ She wants him to pick her face from a crowd, to reach up for a hug, to tug on her sleeve and drag her into stores, and she knows it’s hard; he sees her three times a year when she sees him everyday. ]
By the time they deemed him old enough to be let out for a bit of sunshine, he was thin, with that pale hair, a little ghost dashing through a flock of toddlers in the park; or on the streets, jostled by cartons of milk and oranges bulging from plastic bags. But he was alive. He was all of two and a half and gloriously, gloriously alive, even though she’d had doubts, even though she had feared -
[ There are mornings when her stomach rolls until she doubles over. Hayato kicks enthusiastically - and won’t it just kill her, if he turns out just like his father? In her heart, she wants him to be naïve, passionate and cigarette-shy, and she is sorry she has no purity left to give him.
He inherits her sadness, her hands and her will. ]