hachikuro fic: fine by degrees, and beautifully less (mayama/rika)
Written for team7's Anti-OTP challenge. The poison I picked (so to speak XD) was Mayama/Rika because I'm a total Mayama/Yamada shipper and I sort of um have had this kind of thing for uh Shuuji/Rika. Thus, two birds with one stone and all that jazz~ (Didn't attempt Nomiya/Yamada because... NO. There's only so much pain a person can take, and even I have a threshold despite my, um, track record. XD)
I'm a day late of the deadline by my time zone, but in my defense the bed was especially comfy and plus genius cannot be rushed!! ahahaha. Benevolent Tin, plz. take pity on this wretched soul, if you will.
Cross-posted to hachikuro and honey_clover.
FINE BY DEGREES, AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS.
Honey and Clover copyright Umino Chika.
Rika was a messy brusher. The washbasin was too low, and although there was a mirror above it, she hadn't seemed to take notice yet, the svelte limbs of her frail body moving in a manner that seemed to suggest she were a vagrant water lily that knocked about wreathing in the deep indigo water where delicate little whorls were thus formed. As though her movements were trapped, still, in slumber.
As he studied her closer he became aware that even her dimmed eyes retained an expression of the faint lingering enchantment that is exhaled when having greeted an old dream. And she had slept in her work clothes, a crisp cotton blouse as white as snow and a vivid plum-colored skirt. The clothes were as soft, as glossy as crumpled silk, and the blouse in particular was exceptionally smooth but for a fine array of creases found blooming on the shirtfront, like cobwebs the wrinkles gossamer-thin. The collar stuck out at an odd angle from where it rose at the fold like the thick white tip of a tulip petal. He watched her throat and shoulders, the jut of her elbow as her arm moved the brush. It was predawn, and winter. The sky outside was still as a painting; later there might be snow.
"As messy in the mornings as always," he began.
Her head jerked up from where it had been bent over the sink. Straightening, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror at last: her mouth was smeared with foamy toothpaste. "So it seems," she professed, laughing a little; and her hand crept up shyly to tuck a tendril of hair behind one ear. In the doorway of the harshly lit bathroom he grew intensely cognizant of how lovely and beautiful she seemed, how breathtaking and ethereal her presence, as if, suddenly, he were enlightened simply by the impossibly slender fingers, the knob of her sharp pale wrist. He stood gazing at her fondly.
"Then, will you have breakfast with me?"
"...Yeah. But I'm afraid I need to clean up first." (Fingertips unconsciously skirting the smiling red bow of her mouth.)
"Take as long as you like," he said softly.
She moved at once to scrub hastily at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, perhaps thinking how utterly foolish she was looking but, expecting this, he snatched her wrist away and held it in his hand where, tightly encircled, he gave it a kiss. Her eyes did not widen; the fact that he wants to touch her is no longer surprising to her after so many years.
At coffee shops she was an orchid sitting in a sunlit quarter where, captive in a world all her own, she seemed untouchable and isolated, like a pearl shrouded in an oyster. Her chin in her hands. Neck bent. Studying the designs in some print book or another with an air of childlike curiosity or intrigue. Almost, hermitic. Then, suddenly, she might turn that deeply stilling gaze with its dauntlessly striking candid eyes and soft bitten lips toward him. Thin divisions of whispery light fell upon her at the dawns and dusks of endless days. There was a moment when he was reminded that this was the same gaze that had moved him to fall in love with her some years ago. This was also the same gaze that enkindled a stirring flush of fever in his groin. Her beauty was so immeasurable it was frightening.
"You look lovely today," he'd say.
She put the book down. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I looked the same everyday."
"Never. The face is the canvas of human expression--it doesn't have the privilege to be static. It changes day to day, moment by moment, and it's a lover's job to know it."
She laughed. "I was mistaken, then, poet."
"You look lovely everyday," he said warmly, "but today especially."
"Today especially?"
"Yes." He paused, frowning. "You're not in love with anyone, are you?"
"Well, why do you ask?"
"I'm told that girls look more beautiful when they're in love. Perhaps it's true. Are you in love with anyone?"
The print book lay pushed aside on the tabletop, open to a page that reproduced artwork from selected 15th century northern renaissance painters.
"I'm in love," she said, "with you."
END.
A note of reference: The part about Rika sitting like an orchid in the coffee shop is derived from this line of The Great Gatsby: "Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white plum tree."
The title is taken from a Matthew Prior poem (Henry and Emma).
I'm a day late of the deadline by my time zone, but in my defense the bed was especially comfy and plus genius cannot be rushed!! ahahaha. Benevolent Tin, plz. take pity on this wretched soul, if you will.
Cross-posted to hachikuro and honey_clover.
FINE BY DEGREES, AND BEAUTIFULLY LESS.
Honey and Clover copyright Umino Chika.
Rika was a messy brusher. The washbasin was too low, and although there was a mirror above it, she hadn't seemed to take notice yet, the svelte limbs of her frail body moving in a manner that seemed to suggest she were a vagrant water lily that knocked about wreathing in the deep indigo water where delicate little whorls were thus formed. As though her movements were trapped, still, in slumber.
As he studied her closer he became aware that even her dimmed eyes retained an expression of the faint lingering enchantment that is exhaled when having greeted an old dream. And she had slept in her work clothes, a crisp cotton blouse as white as snow and a vivid plum-colored skirt. The clothes were as soft, as glossy as crumpled silk, and the blouse in particular was exceptionally smooth but for a fine array of creases found blooming on the shirtfront, like cobwebs the wrinkles gossamer-thin. The collar stuck out at an odd angle from where it rose at the fold like the thick white tip of a tulip petal. He watched her throat and shoulders, the jut of her elbow as her arm moved the brush. It was predawn, and winter. The sky outside was still as a painting; later there might be snow.
"As messy in the mornings as always," he began.
Her head jerked up from where it had been bent over the sink. Straightening, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror at last: her mouth was smeared with foamy toothpaste. "So it seems," she professed, laughing a little; and her hand crept up shyly to tuck a tendril of hair behind one ear. In the doorway of the harshly lit bathroom he grew intensely cognizant of how lovely and beautiful she seemed, how breathtaking and ethereal her presence, as if, suddenly, he were enlightened simply by the impossibly slender fingers, the knob of her sharp pale wrist. He stood gazing at her fondly.
"Then, will you have breakfast with me?"
"...Yeah. But I'm afraid I need to clean up first." (Fingertips unconsciously skirting the smiling red bow of her mouth.)
"Take as long as you like," he said softly.
She moved at once to scrub hastily at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, perhaps thinking how utterly foolish she was looking but, expecting this, he snatched her wrist away and held it in his hand where, tightly encircled, he gave it a kiss. Her eyes did not widen; the fact that he wants to touch her is no longer surprising to her after so many years.
At coffee shops she was an orchid sitting in a sunlit quarter where, captive in a world all her own, she seemed untouchable and isolated, like a pearl shrouded in an oyster. Her chin in her hands. Neck bent. Studying the designs in some print book or another with an air of childlike curiosity or intrigue. Almost, hermitic. Then, suddenly, she might turn that deeply stilling gaze with its dauntlessly striking candid eyes and soft bitten lips toward him. Thin divisions of whispery light fell upon her at the dawns and dusks of endless days. There was a moment when he was reminded that this was the same gaze that had moved him to fall in love with her some years ago. This was also the same gaze that enkindled a stirring flush of fever in his groin. Her beauty was so immeasurable it was frightening.
"You look lovely today," he'd say.
She put the book down. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I looked the same everyday."
"Never. The face is the canvas of human expression--it doesn't have the privilege to be static. It changes day to day, moment by moment, and it's a lover's job to know it."
She laughed. "I was mistaken, then, poet."
"You look lovely everyday," he said warmly, "but today especially."
"Today especially?"
"Yes." He paused, frowning. "You're not in love with anyone, are you?"
"Well, why do you ask?"
"I'm told that girls look more beautiful when they're in love. Perhaps it's true. Are you in love with anyone?"
The print book lay pushed aside on the tabletop, open to a page that reproduced artwork from selected 15th century northern renaissance painters.
"I'm in love," she said, "with you."
END.
A note of reference: The part about Rika sitting like an orchid in the coffee shop is derived from this line of The Great Gatsby: "Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white plum tree."
The title is taken from a Matthew Prior poem (Henry and Emma).