[Honey and Clover] Spilling and Spelling Hope
Title: Spilling and Spelling Hope
Series: Honey and Clover
Rating: K
Characters: Takemoto, Hagu, Morita (No specific pairing interaction, really)
Word Count: 750; Short short
[Dedicated to the_firefly, referring to Takemoto as ‘you’]
You slowly became a part of recreation. You rebuilt and reshaped the ruins with the ones you met during the endless biking trip. You had your license, an old but a clean car and a bit of money. The work was the only thing you had come for and you planned to stay a long time.
Of course, no one particularly minded. They all loved to taste your cooking: the deliciously baked potatoes, the steaming rice, the warm dumplings filled with meat, vegetable salads drenched in fresh dressing. They didn’t take it for granted, but surely they would have if they could. Companionship soon reformed in the same way it had over the summer; you felt relief going through your body that left you laughing like the performer of a one-man show. You learned, then, to smile a lot more often, even though you had left many things behind.
The day you saw the same four eyes (a pair of mauve and another of blue-black) was a Wednesday. The sun shone brightly above and you squinted to see the two figures approaching the temple from a faraway road. One short, one tall, they both dressed lightly.
It had been three years, and then Hagu and Morita stepped into your view. You stood there without saying a word and smiled. “What did you come here for?” You asked.
“I just find people.” The man answered, putting his hands behind his head.
“Shuu-chan told me.” The girl (woman) replied, holding a small paper with the address written on it in her hand.
(How did they get here? Did they come together? How were they doing until now? What about their careers? Were they planning any? … Did I ever tell sensei where I was going?) You nodded and didn’t ask for anything else.
.
The visitors took shelter by the tree where the extra sleeping bags lay. The two of them never complained. Instead, she neatly arranged her art supplies and he began to venture into the temple.
“Wait, Morita-san! The insides aren’t finished yet!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I can smell the wood and paint from a mile away.”
You stopped, your hand outstretched in mid-motion. “Right.”
Then on another day, she would sit and gaze into space as if she were lost.
“Hagu-chan, are you okay? Hagu-chan!” You called, waving a hand in front of her eyes.
She smiled then. “I’m okay, Takemoto-kun. I’m just looking around.”
It seemed uncertain, their return. Sometimes it felt as if they were barely there like an unreachable river, the waters running and running faster than your bicycle or car ever did. But you couldn’t reach them; you never could no matter how hard you tried. So you had waited and they had come.
If Morita tended to be loud and outgoing (and contemplative at rare times), then Hagu was clearly the opposite. But they had something behind the curtain that you couldn’t see-she had a canvas covered up in light, white cloth and he used the trunk of a giant tree to hide an unfinished sculpture behind. You didn’t notice because you were part of that building’s resurrection; to bring it back to life, it took all you had.
A week later they almost left without a word, but you caught them just in time.
“I didn’t even get to talk to you that much,” you told them, embarrassed and apologetic.
“We’ve got presents for you since you worked so hard.” Morita said, grinning. “Who knows, maybe I’ll make a CG movie of this spot right here!”
Hagu looked straight into your eye and said, “I hope you like it.”
You waved them goodbye and brought yourself to unveil what they left for you three days later (three days for three years).
It was a painting of you, a miniature sculpture of you, down to the last detail of your fingers and the towel you wore around your neck, all of it like shaped like a fleeting remembrance.
You would take the painting, covered and strapped to your back; you would bring the sculpture with you in your bags. You would hold them preciously until you reached home at the end of that summer and lay them down in your room of that new apartment you had. You would put those old memories in a new place.
Then you’d pick up the phone and dial a familiar number, smiling all the while.
“Sensei,” you would say, “do you know where everyone’s staying?”
Series: Honey and Clover
Rating: K
Characters: Takemoto, Hagu, Morita (No specific pairing interaction, really)
Word Count: 750; Short short
[Dedicated to the_firefly, referring to Takemoto as ‘you’]
You slowly became a part of recreation. You rebuilt and reshaped the ruins with the ones you met during the endless biking trip. You had your license, an old but a clean car and a bit of money. The work was the only thing you had come for and you planned to stay a long time.
Of course, no one particularly minded. They all loved to taste your cooking: the deliciously baked potatoes, the steaming rice, the warm dumplings filled with meat, vegetable salads drenched in fresh dressing. They didn’t take it for granted, but surely they would have if they could. Companionship soon reformed in the same way it had over the summer; you felt relief going through your body that left you laughing like the performer of a one-man show. You learned, then, to smile a lot more often, even though you had left many things behind.
The day you saw the same four eyes (a pair of mauve and another of blue-black) was a Wednesday. The sun shone brightly above and you squinted to see the two figures approaching the temple from a faraway road. One short, one tall, they both dressed lightly.
It had been three years, and then Hagu and Morita stepped into your view. You stood there without saying a word and smiled. “What did you come here for?” You asked.
“I just find people.” The man answered, putting his hands behind his head.
“Shuu-chan told me.” The girl (woman) replied, holding a small paper with the address written on it in her hand.
(How did they get here? Did they come together? How were they doing until now? What about their careers? Were they planning any? … Did I ever tell sensei where I was going?) You nodded and didn’t ask for anything else.
.
The visitors took shelter by the tree where the extra sleeping bags lay. The two of them never complained. Instead, she neatly arranged her art supplies and he began to venture into the temple.
“Wait, Morita-san! The insides aren’t finished yet!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I can smell the wood and paint from a mile away.”
You stopped, your hand outstretched in mid-motion. “Right.”
Then on another day, she would sit and gaze into space as if she were lost.
“Hagu-chan, are you okay? Hagu-chan!” You called, waving a hand in front of her eyes.
She smiled then. “I’m okay, Takemoto-kun. I’m just looking around.”
It seemed uncertain, their return. Sometimes it felt as if they were barely there like an unreachable river, the waters running and running faster than your bicycle or car ever did. But you couldn’t reach them; you never could no matter how hard you tried. So you had waited and they had come.
If Morita tended to be loud and outgoing (and contemplative at rare times), then Hagu was clearly the opposite. But they had something behind the curtain that you couldn’t see-she had a canvas covered up in light, white cloth and he used the trunk of a giant tree to hide an unfinished sculpture behind. You didn’t notice because you were part of that building’s resurrection; to bring it back to life, it took all you had.
A week later they almost left without a word, but you caught them just in time.
“I didn’t even get to talk to you that much,” you told them, embarrassed and apologetic.
“We’ve got presents for you since you worked so hard.” Morita said, grinning. “Who knows, maybe I’ll make a CG movie of this spot right here!”
Hagu looked straight into your eye and said, “I hope you like it.”
You waved them goodbye and brought yourself to unveil what they left for you three days later (three days for three years).
It was a painting of you, a miniature sculpture of you, down to the last detail of your fingers and the towel you wore around your neck, all of it like shaped like a fleeting remembrance.
You would take the painting, covered and strapped to your back; you would bring the sculpture with you in your bags. You would hold them preciously until you reached home at the end of that summer and lay them down in your room of that new apartment you had. You would put those old memories in a new place.
Then you’d pick up the phone and dial a familiar number, smiling all the while.
“Sensei,” you would say, “do you know where everyone’s staying?”