Go, vongroovy, it's your birthday . . . or it was yesterday, anyhow
Happy belated birthday to vongroovy!
Once upon a time, you suggested a Japanese Schoolboys painting fic
Calligraphy
Hanabusa Akinari sits up late, frantically re-reading his textbooks. He reads about nobles composing poems, and even their writing is art. His writing is scrawled and ugly. He feels he is reaching for a hidden thing just out of reach. He doesn't understand poetry, he feels a fool if he takes up brush and ink.
In dreams, he writes with a silver pen. The paper is like snow, and is covered in golden words. It is easy and beautiful.
In the mornings he looks at his scrawled notes before class and feels like crying, though he does not know why.
* * *
Tanaka Chojiro sits sprawled in class, doodling. He likes English, but likes tormenting teachers more. He hands in work with deliberate mistranslations to give Miss Oneida headaches.
He realises suddenly that he has forgotten his essay, and that Oneida will probably complain to his mother. Oneida is strolling up and down the desks, collecting essays. He writes furiously, finishing as she reaches him.
He hands over the paper, grinning at her. It doesn't look like his normal writing, but he can't help that. It always happens when he doesn't have time to think. It's an adult's writing. He likes that.
* * *
Chojiro sits cross-legged, leisurely writing on Akinari's arm in sparkling gold ink. He does both their names in a writing script he thinks he has just invented. Although he cannot tell how, he knows this is how their names should look.
The script is neat and confident. It looks as if a strong man wrote it, he thinks.
He writes like a dream, Akinari thinks, still feeling the touch of the cheap pen. The ink gleams.
They look at the writing, not at each other. Akinari pulls his sleeve down, hiding the gold. Chojiro looks slowly away.
They are silent.
Once upon a time, you suggested a Japanese Schoolboys painting fic
Calligraphy
Hanabusa Akinari sits up late, frantically re-reading his textbooks. He reads about nobles composing poems, and even their writing is art. His writing is scrawled and ugly. He feels he is reaching for a hidden thing just out of reach. He doesn't understand poetry, he feels a fool if he takes up brush and ink.
In dreams, he writes with a silver pen. The paper is like snow, and is covered in golden words. It is easy and beautiful.
In the mornings he looks at his scrawled notes before class and feels like crying, though he does not know why.
* * *
Tanaka Chojiro sits sprawled in class, doodling. He likes English, but likes tormenting teachers more. He hands in work with deliberate mistranslations to give Miss Oneida headaches.
He realises suddenly that he has forgotten his essay, and that Oneida will probably complain to his mother. Oneida is strolling up and down the desks, collecting essays. He writes furiously, finishing as she reaches him.
He hands over the paper, grinning at her. It doesn't look like his normal writing, but he can't help that. It always happens when he doesn't have time to think. It's an adult's writing. He likes that.
* * *
Chojiro sits cross-legged, leisurely writing on Akinari's arm in sparkling gold ink. He does both their names in a writing script he thinks he has just invented. Although he cannot tell how, he knows this is how their names should look.
The script is neat and confident. It looks as if a strong man wrote it, he thinks.
He writes like a dream, Akinari thinks, still feeling the touch of the cheap pen. The ink gleams.
They look at the writing, not at each other. Akinari pulls his sleeve down, hiding the gold. Chojiro looks slowly away.
They are silent.