Tenipuri - NiouYagyuu
wOOt 2:46 PM. Yesh. I'm moving and rewriting old things from FFnet to here, so here's something I wrote last Christmas which I just completely killed. It's 3AM, break please?
Title: White Christmas
Pairing: NiouYagyuu
Rating: R, just because
Comments: Uh, yeah, bad analogies. ^_^;; And forgive any insults, I like Christmas, I just felt like writing some Niou-angst. Probably still a bit raw...
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
There's a pause over the threshold as he runs a hand through his hair, inspecting the silvery strands that stick to his fingers. There's another moment as he gently stretches one glinting hair and glares at it, hating it for the smooth tan that it's not. With a soft growl and a hard flick of the wrist, it snaps easily and floats to the floor, made all the slower by his watchful eyes. "White Christmas, my ass."
Just like the ones I used to know...
Christmas, in his opinion, is probably one of the gayest holidays around. Because it, for one, is the product of some priest's error-laden calculations. Because it, for another, is a dead man's birthday, and to celebrate the Saviour's but not the Gentleman's worldly entrance seems wrong. Even worse, there are the stupid traditions: trees, mistletoe, wreaths. He hates plants with a passion. And to ice the cake, people prance around being nice, gifting presents and acting, well, gay.
Where the treetops glisten...
He sighs, and absently rubs his head again. Staring at the new strands on his hand, he idly reflects that he'll probably go bald soon - he wonders if he should shave it all off first. Snorting, just a bit, the Trickster walks into a derelict elevator, knowing that he could punch the thirteenth button violently, but also knowing that if he did, the elevator would stall and break. He contents himself with a rough push, just as, he smirks bitterly, he contents himself with the ass-fucked life he leads alone.
And children listen...
He thinks that it may just be the atmosphere - he's not usually this damned. He knows that 'tis the season to be jolly, and that should he ever forget, the commoners will be more than happy to remind him of the significant others he lacks under the stupid mistlestoe. But he also knows that it's hard to be euphoric in a hallway that reeks of unidentifiable liquids and a second-rate apartment that smells like cheap sex on a humid day begging for rain, so he stalks out of the elevator, bad mood renewed, ready to take on the world of liquor he hopes he's remembered to stock. And when he reaches his flimsy excuse for a door, he feels through his pockets and realizes that, shit, he doesn't have his keys. He curses more, louder, hoping to wake up an irate neighbor, because something like that would just make his night. But there's no such luck, and it doesn't matter anyway, because the door's so rotten that...
To hear sleigh bells in the snow...
Minutes later, the lock lays disassembled and broken next to remnant splinters. The door, swinging precariously on hinges greased so well they drip, sports a new hole where his back can be seen retreating. He leaves the door be, because by morning he'll be out of this hellhole, watering himself at his usual haunts and no poor bastard would ever bother robbing a house - not home - like his. He looks up to find his feet have taken him to the far end of the kitchen sometime during his thoughts about poor bastards, and absently chooses a cup out of the twenty identical ones resting on the shelf. He proceeds to go through his nightly ritual, which features several brown bottles and sometimes, one that's clear.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
After his legs have given out - he's not sure whether from the alcohol or because he stood while consuming all two hours of it - he stumbles his way to the bedroom, fully ready to collapse on the nearest surface that isn't the lice-infested floor. Instead, remembrance makes him sit down, burying his head in his hands while roving eyes peek out between the thin and scarred fingers. There's a bed. A dresser. A bottle. A glass. A photo. He picks up the metal wire frame, quite possibly the only thing that speaks of a time when he had money to enjoy such luxuries, and grins a ghost of a smile that he can see reflected faintly at him in the smudged glass.
With every Christmas card I write...
The frame holds a creased picture, depicting a smiling Trickster dragging a slightly twitching Gentleman towards a roller coaster. In the background, an Addict and a Brazilian are laughing at the latter's ungentlemanly conduct, while the Sickly smile on as gently as ever. Missing are the Samurai, who had taken the photo (suprisingly), and the Beast and its Tamer, gone to play with their whips.
May your days be merry and bright...
On a whim or on a drink, he grabs the frame and throws it. Hard. With a deceptive tinkling laugh, the glass breaks, shining dangerously in the moonlight. He panicks. His feet move him again as his mind asks him what in hell he's done, and he sifts through the shards frantically, ignoring the pain in his hands. Finally, he uncovers the picture, punctured in a few places, but still as whole and worn as before. Oh Yagyuu... he whispers, letting the first tear fall.
And may all your Christmases be white...
The answering machine beeps. Funny - he hadn't heard the phone ring at all. "Sorry," a feminine voice chimes, "your call cannot be answered right now. Please leave a message after the beep."
Sickly's soft voice floats across the dead air. Are you there? There's a pause, just in case the Trickster feels like picking up today, and then, an almost imperceptible sigh. "I suppose I don't have to remind you what day it is." He laughs nervously. "We were hoping that you would...join us this year. We visit him at this time anyway. We know you do too...since there's never any snow on the grave. Would you like to come with us...? And maybe...go out for a late dinner afterwards...?"
The Trickster ignores the phone.
"Or maybe just dinner?" His voice turns pleading. "Please, we haven't seen you in over a year...we're worried." Breath. "Consider it and call me back. You know my number. And, yeah...merry Christmas Eve..."
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
He gets up and walks to the bathroom, intending to clean up the mess on his hands. After all, the little voice reminds, he can't go getting the photo dirty, can he? He winces from the sting of soap on his hands, unused to both the clean and the lye as he looks as himself in the mirror. Smiling sadly, he takes some water and splashes it on his hair, smoothing the wild locks into place. Then, reaching for an old and worn pair of glasses, he puts them on. While inspecting his new reflection, a thought comes to him, and he poses and mouths some words at himself. Merry Christmas, Niou...
With every Christmas card I write...
With that, the floodgates open and tears slip quickly down already wet cheeks. Stop it, Yagyuu... he whispers at the reflection, You never cry. Gentlemen never cry... The tears flow faster and he chokes, the drink upsetting his stomach and the tears his throat. "STOP IT, YAgyuu..." The command won't come out right, the second syllable fading out with his voice and consciousness. "it was all your fault... if you hadn't done that... run front... that car... not six feet underground... all your damn fault, yagyuu... if you hadn't done that...you...still alive...i wouldn't..."
May your days be merry and bright...
He vomits and cries until there's nothing left, then gently takes off the glasses and puts them reverentially on their shelf, reminding himself to be more careful with the Gentleman's memoirs next time. Another quick brush pulls out some more silver strands and the slicked back hairstyle, and with a few choice swears at the mirror, he stumbles back into his room. His nightly ritual is complete, and though the window above his head is letting in the cold winter air, he collapses with a thin blanket and broken heart. Wiping away another tear, he puts his hands together, realizing, ironically, that it looks like he's praying. It's snowing outside, he notes, and plans a trip to the graveyard tomorrow. Thinking tasks done, he turns back to his clasped hands, wrapped tightly around the old photograph. Smiling wistfully, he decides on a "prayer."
"Merry Christmas, Yagyuu. Not like you ever got to enjoy it, anyway."
...and may all your Christmases be white.
Title: White Christmas
Pairing: NiouYagyuu
Rating: R, just because
Comments: Uh, yeah, bad analogies. ^_^;; And forgive any insults, I like Christmas, I just felt like writing some Niou-angst. Probably still a bit raw...
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
There's a pause over the threshold as he runs a hand through his hair, inspecting the silvery strands that stick to his fingers. There's another moment as he gently stretches one glinting hair and glares at it, hating it for the smooth tan that it's not. With a soft growl and a hard flick of the wrist, it snaps easily and floats to the floor, made all the slower by his watchful eyes. "White Christmas, my ass."
Just like the ones I used to know...
Christmas, in his opinion, is probably one of the gayest holidays around. Because it, for one, is the product of some priest's error-laden calculations. Because it, for another, is a dead man's birthday, and to celebrate the Saviour's but not the Gentleman's worldly entrance seems wrong. Even worse, there are the stupid traditions: trees, mistletoe, wreaths. He hates plants with a passion. And to ice the cake, people prance around being nice, gifting presents and acting, well, gay.
Where the treetops glisten...
He sighs, and absently rubs his head again. Staring at the new strands on his hand, he idly reflects that he'll probably go bald soon - he wonders if he should shave it all off first. Snorting, just a bit, the Trickster walks into a derelict elevator, knowing that he could punch the thirteenth button violently, but also knowing that if he did, the elevator would stall and break. He contents himself with a rough push, just as, he smirks bitterly, he contents himself with the ass-fucked life he leads alone.
And children listen...
He thinks that it may just be the atmosphere - he's not usually this damned. He knows that 'tis the season to be jolly, and that should he ever forget, the commoners will be more than happy to remind him of the significant others he lacks under the stupid mistlestoe. But he also knows that it's hard to be euphoric in a hallway that reeks of unidentifiable liquids and a second-rate apartment that smells like cheap sex on a humid day begging for rain, so he stalks out of the elevator, bad mood renewed, ready to take on the world of liquor he hopes he's remembered to stock. And when he reaches his flimsy excuse for a door, he feels through his pockets and realizes that, shit, he doesn't have his keys. He curses more, louder, hoping to wake up an irate neighbor, because something like that would just make his night. But there's no such luck, and it doesn't matter anyway, because the door's so rotten that...
To hear sleigh bells in the snow...
Minutes later, the lock lays disassembled and broken next to remnant splinters. The door, swinging precariously on hinges greased so well they drip, sports a new hole where his back can be seen retreating. He leaves the door be, because by morning he'll be out of this hellhole, watering himself at his usual haunts and no poor bastard would ever bother robbing a house - not home - like his. He looks up to find his feet have taken him to the far end of the kitchen sometime during his thoughts about poor bastards, and absently chooses a cup out of the twenty identical ones resting on the shelf. He proceeds to go through his nightly ritual, which features several brown bottles and sometimes, one that's clear.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
After his legs have given out - he's not sure whether from the alcohol or because he stood while consuming all two hours of it - he stumbles his way to the bedroom, fully ready to collapse on the nearest surface that isn't the lice-infested floor. Instead, remembrance makes him sit down, burying his head in his hands while roving eyes peek out between the thin and scarred fingers. There's a bed. A dresser. A bottle. A glass. A photo. He picks up the metal wire frame, quite possibly the only thing that speaks of a time when he had money to enjoy such luxuries, and grins a ghost of a smile that he can see reflected faintly at him in the smudged glass.
With every Christmas card I write...
The frame holds a creased picture, depicting a smiling Trickster dragging a slightly twitching Gentleman towards a roller coaster. In the background, an Addict and a Brazilian are laughing at the latter's ungentlemanly conduct, while the Sickly smile on as gently as ever. Missing are the Samurai, who had taken the photo (suprisingly), and the Beast and its Tamer, gone to play with their whips.
May your days be merry and bright...
On a whim or on a drink, he grabs the frame and throws it. Hard. With a deceptive tinkling laugh, the glass breaks, shining dangerously in the moonlight. He panicks. His feet move him again as his mind asks him what in hell he's done, and he sifts through the shards frantically, ignoring the pain in his hands. Finally, he uncovers the picture, punctured in a few places, but still as whole and worn as before. Oh Yagyuu... he whispers, letting the first tear fall.
And may all your Christmases be white...
The answering machine beeps. Funny - he hadn't heard the phone ring at all. "Sorry," a feminine voice chimes, "your call cannot be answered right now. Please leave a message after the beep."
Sickly's soft voice floats across the dead air. Are you there? There's a pause, just in case the Trickster feels like picking up today, and then, an almost imperceptible sigh. "I suppose I don't have to remind you what day it is." He laughs nervously. "We were hoping that you would...join us this year. We visit him at this time anyway. We know you do too...since there's never any snow on the grave. Would you like to come with us...? And maybe...go out for a late dinner afterwards...?"
The Trickster ignores the phone.
"Or maybe just dinner?" His voice turns pleading. "Please, we haven't seen you in over a year...we're worried." Breath. "Consider it and call me back. You know my number. And, yeah...merry Christmas Eve..."
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...
He gets up and walks to the bathroom, intending to clean up the mess on his hands. After all, the little voice reminds, he can't go getting the photo dirty, can he? He winces from the sting of soap on his hands, unused to both the clean and the lye as he looks as himself in the mirror. Smiling sadly, he takes some water and splashes it on his hair, smoothing the wild locks into place. Then, reaching for an old and worn pair of glasses, he puts them on. While inspecting his new reflection, a thought comes to him, and he poses and mouths some words at himself. Merry Christmas, Niou...
With every Christmas card I write...
With that, the floodgates open and tears slip quickly down already wet cheeks. Stop it, Yagyuu... he whispers at the reflection, You never cry. Gentlemen never cry... The tears flow faster and he chokes, the drink upsetting his stomach and the tears his throat. "STOP IT, YAgyuu..." The command won't come out right, the second syllable fading out with his voice and consciousness. "it was all your fault... if you hadn't done that... run front... that car... not six feet underground... all your damn fault, yagyuu... if you hadn't done that...you...still alive...i wouldn't..."
May your days be merry and bright...
He vomits and cries until there's nothing left, then gently takes off the glasses and puts them reverentially on their shelf, reminding himself to be more careful with the Gentleman's memoirs next time. Another quick brush pulls out some more silver strands and the slicked back hairstyle, and with a few choice swears at the mirror, he stumbles back into his room. His nightly ritual is complete, and though the window above his head is letting in the cold winter air, he collapses with a thin blanket and broken heart. Wiping away another tear, he puts his hands together, realizing, ironically, that it looks like he's praying. It's snowing outside, he notes, and plans a trip to the graveyard tomorrow. Thinking tasks done, he turns back to his clasped hands, wrapped tightly around the old photograph. Smiling wistfully, he decides on a "prayer."
"Merry Christmas, Yagyuu. Not like you ever got to enjoy it, anyway."
...and may all your Christmases be white.