Happy Valentine's Day, Boni!
Title: Memory Loss
Author: ???
Recipient's Name: Boniblithe
Pairing: Touda/Tsuzuki
Rating: PG-13
Tsuzuki sits beneath a tree, pretending to watch the leaves fall. He is quieter when he thinks he is alone. His performances of impulsive cheerfulness are large and loud and alter him too much, and without them he looks small and mortal. Touda is not certain which version he prefers. It seems that for Tsuzuki to be happy, he must be fake.
Everything in GenSouKai feels more real than in reality; the world of the gods shimmers with truth. There have never been apples as fully apple-like as the ones that grow here, and every flower contains within its petals the secret of what it means to bloom. The leaves that spiral down around Tsuzuki are red as blood, orange as firelight, brown as chocolate.
Touda makes no sound and Tsuzuki does not turn to look at him, but after a moment his master speaks. “Yamamoto left.”
Touda doesn’t recognize the name. Tsuzuki waits, or thinks, or regrets speaking, but the silence is too late, not enough to disguise the bitterness in his words. He sits messily on the ground, clothes rumpled and coat flung around him like a shadow, incongruous on the emerald-bright grass. Now that he has said something, he no longer feigns interest in the leaves. His head is lowered between hunched shoulders, and he holds himself stiff and tense with unwilling animosity; Tsuzuki has never been at peace with his own vehemence. His skin is visible as an unexpected delicacy where it stretches over the nape of his neck, revealed between his collar and hair.
He waves a hand, long fingers splayed wide. “Transferred. That’s all. He didn’t want to work with me anymore.” He doesn’t manage the levity he tries for, and the words are quick but dull. He laughs to cover the mistake, but it only sounds angry and he stops abruptly. He waves a hand again, brushing away concern.
Tsuzuki’s hands shake when he gestures. He is trying too hard to control himself, and the stress shows in the tremors of his fingertips. Touda considers stilling them.
Tsuzuki turns to him. It is simpler to watch Tsuzuki’s hands than his face. His face shows everything too clearly. “Your partner,” Touda says. Tsuzuki nods. “I never met this one. Was he special?”
“No.” Tsuzuki stares at nothing, face immobile. Whatever he truly thinks of Yamamoto, he won’t say. “He wasn’t different from any of the others.” He tears a stalk of grass from its roots and rips it to pieces, then crushes the shreds between his fingers and grinds them to nothing. He watches himself do it. Touda wonders if he ever looks like this when they are not alone, if anyone else sees his movements small and focused and the pain that roars behind his smiles.
“It would be easier if I didn’t have to remember so much.” Tsuzuki brushes his hands clean and drops them in his lap. Green faintly stains the pad of his thumb. “There’s too many. It’s not fair.” He almost achieves a childish whine, but the tone is too hollow.
“Then don’t.” Touda moves closer and Tsuzuki has to tip his head back to see him. It is strange to see Tsuzuki’s face so long without a smile; in its absence, he could be someone else entirely. Tsuzuki is strange in many ways. He is changeable as Chijou itself, flickering through seasons and moods without pause, and all of his faces hides another. He is never wholly true. Touda is not certain how to swear himself to someone who is not the same from moment to moment.
“What do you mean?” Tsuzuki is easily distracted also. He allows confusion to lighten his features.
Touda looks down at him. He does not think that obedience should be this simple and personal, but loyalty to Tsuzuki is less than thought; it waits in his bones and blood and body. He does not need to think to know how deep his devotion runs.
“Remembrance and forgetfulness are only in your mind. What is the difference between pretending to forget and actually forgetting?” It seems obvious to him, but he lives in a world where image and reality are the same, and to change one is to change the other. In GenSouKai, a snake may be comfortable in the skin of a man. Tsuzuki believes himself bound by the definitions of his appearance; he does not see that he may make his own meaning.
“Ah.” Tsuzuki smiles. It looks as if it would taste bitter. For a moment, he is tempted; Touda can tell by the way he lowers his eyes and doesn’t speak, how the tension vibrating in his shoulders lessens. Touda does not know what Tsuzuki would be like without his wounds and resentment. It is hard to picture him at peace.
But Tsuzuki smiles with all the hatred he has always had for himself. “It’s horrible of me, isn’t it? They were kind. I shouldn’t want to forget them.” He looks at Touda, but there is nothing to say. Tsuzuki fills in the silence for himself. “Even if it’s easier.”
He trembles with the effort of doing nothing, and Touda cannot look away from him. Tsuzuki defies logic and conscious knowledge in this as in everything else; he could be powerful, but all his strength is turned against himself.
Touda settles on the ground next to him. There are things that he does not say to Tsuzuki: that he would follow any order. Any. Tsuzuki breathes deep and steady, but just a little too rapidly. It is how soldiers breathe when they are dying, to hide that they know what is coming.
“Think of other things,” Touda says. It is the only advice he can offer. Tsuzuki would not want to hear of what actions could be taken against those who have left him; he wants to be kind.
Tsuzuki turns his head, leaving his hands in place. His fingers cross-cross over each other and his eyes, and he looks out at Touda from behind their bars of shadow and flesh. There is nowhere left to look that is simple. “I don’t know how to do that,” Tsuzuki says. “Everything reminds me of it.” Giving to Tsuzuki is as instinctive as breathing, and as necessary.
When he touches Touda’s hand, Touda cannot feel it through the glove. Tsuzuki watches him without smiling or concealing his intentions, waiting for a response. He has learned a trick of asking without saying anything at all. Touda answers him.
When he touches Touda’s shoulder, his fingers are cool on the skin.
Author: ???
Recipient's Name: Boniblithe
Pairing: Touda/Tsuzuki
Rating: PG-13
Tsuzuki sits beneath a tree, pretending to watch the leaves fall. He is quieter when he thinks he is alone. His performances of impulsive cheerfulness are large and loud and alter him too much, and without them he looks small and mortal. Touda is not certain which version he prefers. It seems that for Tsuzuki to be happy, he must be fake.
Everything in GenSouKai feels more real than in reality; the world of the gods shimmers with truth. There have never been apples as fully apple-like as the ones that grow here, and every flower contains within its petals the secret of what it means to bloom. The leaves that spiral down around Tsuzuki are red as blood, orange as firelight, brown as chocolate.
Touda makes no sound and Tsuzuki does not turn to look at him, but after a moment his master speaks. “Yamamoto left.”
Touda doesn’t recognize the name. Tsuzuki waits, or thinks, or regrets speaking, but the silence is too late, not enough to disguise the bitterness in his words. He sits messily on the ground, clothes rumpled and coat flung around him like a shadow, incongruous on the emerald-bright grass. Now that he has said something, he no longer feigns interest in the leaves. His head is lowered between hunched shoulders, and he holds himself stiff and tense with unwilling animosity; Tsuzuki has never been at peace with his own vehemence. His skin is visible as an unexpected delicacy where it stretches over the nape of his neck, revealed between his collar and hair.
He waves a hand, long fingers splayed wide. “Transferred. That’s all. He didn’t want to work with me anymore.” He doesn’t manage the levity he tries for, and the words are quick but dull. He laughs to cover the mistake, but it only sounds angry and he stops abruptly. He waves a hand again, brushing away concern.
Tsuzuki’s hands shake when he gestures. He is trying too hard to control himself, and the stress shows in the tremors of his fingertips. Touda considers stilling them.
Tsuzuki turns to him. It is simpler to watch Tsuzuki’s hands than his face. His face shows everything too clearly. “Your partner,” Touda says. Tsuzuki nods. “I never met this one. Was he special?”
“No.” Tsuzuki stares at nothing, face immobile. Whatever he truly thinks of Yamamoto, he won’t say. “He wasn’t different from any of the others.” He tears a stalk of grass from its roots and rips it to pieces, then crushes the shreds between his fingers and grinds them to nothing. He watches himself do it. Touda wonders if he ever looks like this when they are not alone, if anyone else sees his movements small and focused and the pain that roars behind his smiles.
“It would be easier if I didn’t have to remember so much.” Tsuzuki brushes his hands clean and drops them in his lap. Green faintly stains the pad of his thumb. “There’s too many. It’s not fair.” He almost achieves a childish whine, but the tone is too hollow.
“Then don’t.” Touda moves closer and Tsuzuki has to tip his head back to see him. It is strange to see Tsuzuki’s face so long without a smile; in its absence, he could be someone else entirely. Tsuzuki is strange in many ways. He is changeable as Chijou itself, flickering through seasons and moods without pause, and all of his faces hides another. He is never wholly true. Touda is not certain how to swear himself to someone who is not the same from moment to moment.
“What do you mean?” Tsuzuki is easily distracted also. He allows confusion to lighten his features.
Touda looks down at him. He does not think that obedience should be this simple and personal, but loyalty to Tsuzuki is less than thought; it waits in his bones and blood and body. He does not need to think to know how deep his devotion runs.
“Remembrance and forgetfulness are only in your mind. What is the difference between pretending to forget and actually forgetting?” It seems obvious to him, but he lives in a world where image and reality are the same, and to change one is to change the other. In GenSouKai, a snake may be comfortable in the skin of a man. Tsuzuki believes himself bound by the definitions of his appearance; he does not see that he may make his own meaning.
“Ah.” Tsuzuki smiles. It looks as if it would taste bitter. For a moment, he is tempted; Touda can tell by the way he lowers his eyes and doesn’t speak, how the tension vibrating in his shoulders lessens. Touda does not know what Tsuzuki would be like without his wounds and resentment. It is hard to picture him at peace.
But Tsuzuki smiles with all the hatred he has always had for himself. “It’s horrible of me, isn’t it? They were kind. I shouldn’t want to forget them.” He looks at Touda, but there is nothing to say. Tsuzuki fills in the silence for himself. “Even if it’s easier.”
He trembles with the effort of doing nothing, and Touda cannot look away from him. Tsuzuki defies logic and conscious knowledge in this as in everything else; he could be powerful, but all his strength is turned against himself.
Touda settles on the ground next to him. There are things that he does not say to Tsuzuki: that he would follow any order. Any. Tsuzuki breathes deep and steady, but just a little too rapidly. It is how soldiers breathe when they are dying, to hide that they know what is coming.
“Think of other things,” Touda says. It is the only advice he can offer. Tsuzuki would not want to hear of what actions could be taken against those who have left him; he wants to be kind.
Tsuzuki turns his head, leaving his hands in place. His fingers cross-cross over each other and his eyes, and he looks out at Touda from behind their bars of shadow and flesh. There is nowhere left to look that is simple. “I don’t know how to do that,” Tsuzuki says. “Everything reminds me of it.” Giving to Tsuzuki is as instinctive as breathing, and as necessary.
When he touches Touda’s hand, Touda cannot feel it through the glove. Tsuzuki watches him without smiling or concealing his intentions, waiting for a response. He has learned a trick of asking without saying anything at all. Touda answers him.
When he touches Touda’s shoulder, his fingers are cool on the skin.