[power]
THE NIGHTINGALE
by doublehyphen
"There is nothing so hard to bear as a series of fine days" - Goethe
Someone told Hikaru a story once (he thinks when he was just a little kid, scraped-knees snot-nosed and they'd probably wanted to get him to sit still and shut up for a minute), a story about an emperor and a bird that had sung the most beautiful song in the world, and jealous men and a machine that played, in silver and gold chimes, the most beautiful song in the world; about a death-bed and an unexpected return, about a bird who remembered how to be merciful, about a miraculous recovery and at last a “good morning,” though he still isn't sure how he'd managed to sit still long enough to get to that point. He wonders what it is about this story that it pulls at the edges of his memory, even now, even when he can't remember who told it to him or when he heard it. But mostly he wonders why when he thinks of it he thinks of Touya Akira, and the way his eyes look when he asks, “Well, Shindou? Aren't we rivals? Why aren't you playing me seriously?”, the shift of light across the knife-blades of his cheekbones that says, don't leave me behind. “What are you talking about, you idiot?” Hikaru snaps, instead of thinking, instead of thinking any of those things. “I am playing you seriously!”
Though he does think that perhaps the look on Akira's face when his eyes close down close in and he turns away feels a little like dying; he's not sure if Akira remembers how to be merciful.
*
Someone told Akira a story once, though it would probably be more accurate to say that they had read it to him (and he can still remember the heft of the book in his hands, old leather thick pages that smelled like dust and time) his mother's voice (but had it been his mother? He can't recall) soothing-soft over the words, of how the nightingale had been brought to the emperor, how he had locked it in a golden cage where it had sung the most beautiful song, the most sorrowful song, how the courtiers, jealous of the emperor's favour for the bird, had built a music box of gold and silver and diamonds. How the emperor had so easily abandoned the nightingale for the mechanical bird with its single song, its imitation of grief.
(And it is in remembering this that his heart stutters, clenches, because everything, everything can be replaced, and what he is most afraid of is being forgotten, left behind.)
So he looks at Hikaru and says, “Is there someone else-something else? Am I not your rival any more? Why won't you play me seriously?” and the look on his face freezes Akira's blood, turns him to stone and cold iron, and he snaps “Of course I'm playing you seriously, you idiot!” and Akira wonders if this is what it feels like to go from a golden cage to nothing, to be cast out from a soul-deep longing into the wilderness of his own dying dreams.
*
Hikaru stretches out a hand, feels as if it is the darkest hours of the night and all of his forgotten ghosts are whispering their old grievances over his head. All their dying regrets.
“No, Touya,” he says, “it's not-of course you're my rival! I would never-I wouldn't ever leave you, I couldn't-”
He wonders what it means to take things for granted, what it means to feel as if the dawn will never come, to feel as if, unconsciously, he has thrown away everything that might have meant something to him, once.
He wishes he could say what he means, even if he's not sure what exactly it is that he means, anymore.
*
But Akira remembers also that at last the emperor had fallen ill for wanting something he had let go, had cast away; he had started dying, because what good is an imitation when there had been, once, an actuality, the greatest most beautiful grief?
And in the end the bird had returned, had sung a song like the end of pain outside of a dying man's window, and he had survived- the bird had returned, because it is easier to forgive, to accept confines and unspoken edges, than it is to be alone.
This is something that Akira knows, if only dimly, at the corners of his consciousness, and so he is almost surprised, himself, when he touches Hikaru's arm lightly through his sleeve and smiles. “I think I understand,” he says, and, “I wouldn't leave you either, Shindou, do you know?” but what Hikaru has to say to that Akira does not know, will not know, because he has already started moving away.
He doesn't look back but is unsurprised at the sound of running feet and Hikaru's shout of “Touya!” next to his right ear. He smiles.
(On the train to the Institute, when Hikaru takes Akira's hand and holds it, almost too tight almost too close, Akira just closes his eyes softly and says nothing, because he understands what it means to love someone, to want something so much that it hurts, and his joy is a palpable thing in his chest, a tiny grey bird singing the saddest song in the world.)
by doublehyphen
"There is nothing so hard to bear as a series of fine days" - Goethe
Someone told Hikaru a story once (he thinks when he was just a little kid, scraped-knees snot-nosed and they'd probably wanted to get him to sit still and shut up for a minute), a story about an emperor and a bird that had sung the most beautiful song in the world, and jealous men and a machine that played, in silver and gold chimes, the most beautiful song in the world; about a death-bed and an unexpected return, about a bird who remembered how to be merciful, about a miraculous recovery and at last a “good morning,” though he still isn't sure how he'd managed to sit still long enough to get to that point. He wonders what it is about this story that it pulls at the edges of his memory, even now, even when he can't remember who told it to him or when he heard it. But mostly he wonders why when he thinks of it he thinks of Touya Akira, and the way his eyes look when he asks, “Well, Shindou? Aren't we rivals? Why aren't you playing me seriously?”, the shift of light across the knife-blades of his cheekbones that says, don't leave me behind. “What are you talking about, you idiot?” Hikaru snaps, instead of thinking, instead of thinking any of those things. “I am playing you seriously!”
Though he does think that perhaps the look on Akira's face when his eyes close down close in and he turns away feels a little like dying; he's not sure if Akira remembers how to be merciful.
*
Someone told Akira a story once, though it would probably be more accurate to say that they had read it to him (and he can still remember the heft of the book in his hands, old leather thick pages that smelled like dust and time) his mother's voice (but had it been his mother? He can't recall) soothing-soft over the words, of how the nightingale had been brought to the emperor, how he had locked it in a golden cage where it had sung the most beautiful song, the most sorrowful song, how the courtiers, jealous of the emperor's favour for the bird, had built a music box of gold and silver and diamonds. How the emperor had so easily abandoned the nightingale for the mechanical bird with its single song, its imitation of grief.
(And it is in remembering this that his heart stutters, clenches, because everything, everything can be replaced, and what he is most afraid of is being forgotten, left behind.)
So he looks at Hikaru and says, “Is there someone else-something else? Am I not your rival any more? Why won't you play me seriously?” and the look on his face freezes Akira's blood, turns him to stone and cold iron, and he snaps “Of course I'm playing you seriously, you idiot!” and Akira wonders if this is what it feels like to go from a golden cage to nothing, to be cast out from a soul-deep longing into the wilderness of his own dying dreams.
*
Hikaru stretches out a hand, feels as if it is the darkest hours of the night and all of his forgotten ghosts are whispering their old grievances over his head. All their dying regrets.
“No, Touya,” he says, “it's not-of course you're my rival! I would never-I wouldn't ever leave you, I couldn't-”
He wonders what it means to take things for granted, what it means to feel as if the dawn will never come, to feel as if, unconsciously, he has thrown away everything that might have meant something to him, once.
He wishes he could say what he means, even if he's not sure what exactly it is that he means, anymore.
*
But Akira remembers also that at last the emperor had fallen ill for wanting something he had let go, had cast away; he had started dying, because what good is an imitation when there had been, once, an actuality, the greatest most beautiful grief?
And in the end the bird had returned, had sung a song like the end of pain outside of a dying man's window, and he had survived- the bird had returned, because it is easier to forgive, to accept confines and unspoken edges, than it is to be alone.
This is something that Akira knows, if only dimly, at the corners of his consciousness, and so he is almost surprised, himself, when he touches Hikaru's arm lightly through his sleeve and smiles. “I think I understand,” he says, and, “I wouldn't leave you either, Shindou, do you know?” but what Hikaru has to say to that Akira does not know, will not know, because he has already started moving away.
He doesn't look back but is unsurprised at the sound of running feet and Hikaru's shout of “Touya!” next to his right ear. He smiles.
(On the train to the Institute, when Hikaru takes Akira's hand and holds it, almost too tight almost too close, Akira just closes his eyes softly and says nothing, because he understands what it means to love someone, to want something so much that it hurts, and his joy is a palpable thing in his chest, a tiny grey bird singing the saddest song in the world.)