Fahye (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} mercurial_wit) wrote,@ 2004-12-25 15:38:00 |
|
Xmas fic #5
For:ripedecay
Request: SeishirouxSubaru, in the winter or late autumn when it's pretty cold, street venders and old shops, fire, and sudden warmth. Line - "May I?"
Title: The Shortest Day
Fandom: X/1999
Genre: Angsty imagery. Thing.
Rating: PG for language
Comments: Um, this turned out quite differently than what I had envisaged. For once I didn't try and plan, I just typed and let the fic come out as it wanted. Which was; weird and general and without any names, so it stands as an original piece if you squint at it. Taking it as fanfic, though - it's AU, I guess, set six years after the events of TB.
Also: LJ says hurrah for very few italics tags.
The Shortest Day
Early winter. A cold breath; warm against cold lips, rather, spilling into mist. There are people crowding the streets, feet chattering against the grey stones as if to rub them into warmth and life. A colourful crowd, flashes of every shade imaginable, woven into a scarf or sitting jauntily on the edge of a coat. Steam rises from slim silver columns above the buildings, slowly dissipating signs of life and industry within. The dirtier the steam, the smoke, the older the shop; easy to imagine old men in woolen vests and grey hats, placing logs onto fireplaces with spindly hands.
A touch on the arm, nothing more, and then a silence. Not a real one, of course, the world goes on around you and it is far from quiet. But between you, where it matters – silence, and then an intake of wary breath.
“Leave?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I…yes. Leave.”
“All right.”
Green is not an uncommon shade, in winter. People wear it over their hearts and on their sleeves, a subtle wish for spring, for grass, for life. Two green eyes – very normal, then – are steady and troubled amidst the haste.
~
The week after that. A man stands selling chestnuts. They blacken and smoulder on the dirty metal plate; the cooking process is hard to detect, but can be seen if you stand there long enough. A few coins buys you a paper circle, expertly folded into a cone and filled with tiny gems of warmth, dropped in neatly one by one. The man waves his tongs expressively and says something jovial in Russian. The paper is thin, warmth seeps through and meets a pair of cupped hands. You blow on the chestnuts, mostly out of habit, and sit down to eat them. Before long your fingers are coated in a thin layer of grease that renders the paper transparent. You breathe in; a comforting smell of roasted nuts is mixed with one even more familiar. Steam mingles with nicotine smoke.
You look up, and wait.
“Will you talk to me, this time?”
“Why would I want to?”
“Isn’t there anything you want to say to me?”
A pause.
“There are many things I want to say to you. But they all end in goodbye.”
“Ah. Better to say nothing, then?”
“Better, yes.”
He sits. You do not move, you do not say a word, and this lasts through three more cigarettes and until you have reached the bottom of your cone of chestnuts. He leaves just as silently, and you stare upwards. Grey clouds cover the sky. Nothing exciting, nothing profound, no answers for you here. Not today.
~
The week after that. The air feels like snow about to fall, heavy and tense as though someone is holding their breath. People feel it, and stay indoors. The streets are not as crowded as they have been, and those few you pass are buried inside their layers of clothing and privacy. No words are exchanged; few glances, and fewer smiles. Winter streets are for those shuttered in their own world, and you are no exception. You hide your chin in your scarf, dark blue and soft, bought from a shop. No sentimental value attached. It still smells like secondhand smoke.
There is very little surprise when he approaches, though a spark of it when he does not try to initiate conversation. He walks beside you, letting you choose the path, off the street and through the cold iron gates of a small park.
It is ridiculous, you think, to wear sunglasses in winter. You say as much, quietly.
“Why so?”
“There is no excess light. The purpose is destroyed.”
“Things can have more than one purpose, you know.”
“Can they?”
Your hands clench at your sides. He notices.
“It is ridiculous to wear gloves in summer.”
“Go away.”
“Do they have more than one purpose?”
“Go away.”
“You’re a hypocrite.”
But he does leave, and the words hang in the air like your own pale breath. Hands clench and unclench; around each other, around your coat lapels, around thin air. You pull your gloves off, suddenly, and throw them to the ground. Black pools against the grey path. As you walk away the chill starts to creep in, burrowing down from your fingertips.
It begins to snow.
~
The week after that. Christmas lights begin to cover the shopfronts, and some kind soul drapes them over the trees that are dotted along the road. The cold has taken on a cruelty, a bitter edge, and the crowd moves quickly. Standing still creates an illusion of even greater haste, as though the world is being viewed in double time. Motion blurs. You could be watching a documentary on television. When you begin to move again you walk away from the shops; the lights become scarcer, less gaudy, thin trails of yellow brightness replacing expensive neon extravagance. The lights are going, they are almost gone, and you stop in front of a fire that has been lit in a metal garbage bin. You did not think people still did this. The fire warms your front, your outstretched hands, almost unbearably. You back is still cold, whipped by wind, the temperature splitting you in half like an Othello piece. When you are trapped, you will turn over and become someone new.
His footsteps are dulled by the wind, and his smile blurs sideways. He is holding a coat; not black, not white, a dark shade of green. Entirely unlike grass.
“May I?”
“All right.”
You turn away from the fire and fall into step. The coat is thick, lined with something soft, and the warmth envelops you with a suddenness that is almost sickening.
“I’m sorry. About last time.”
“You’re what?”
A pause that stretches on for an age and threatens to become a silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you know how long I have been hearing your voice, saying that, in my head?”
“No.”
“You do. How long have I been waiting to hear you say it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Six…yes, six years.”
“Precisely.”
You see the way his arm moves to intercede, almost before your hand lifts. You see the way it falls back after the shortest of moments. Not short enough. The violence of the blow, straight across his face, is somehow diminished by the knowledge that it was permitted.
Once again you are left without words, staring at the ground, watching the dirty snow melt away from your boots. His boots. The wind picks up, almost unbearably icy against the exposed planes of your face. It is strong, you could almost be blown away, melt and drift into the landscape. But you have received a gift (the coat is heavy on your shoulders), and the tiny aching part inside you that was brought up to be polite is worried at the lack of recompense.
You look up and smile, just the faintest lifting of your lips, at the edges. It is harder work than you expected – who would have thought such a small thing could weigh so much?
But his face changes, it dissolves, and it is enough.
~
The week after that. The park is empty and brown, a strange half-world of death. Very few trees have any leaves left, and those that remain are withered and dry and cannot truly be said to be alive. One or two come under your feet, and they shatter almost too easily into dust with nothing but a faint crackling whisper of a swansong. Easily heard, in the stillness. The wind has disappeared, leaving the clouds behind in a starkly permanent display of chilly oppression. You can hear your feet on the stones, the thin rush of your breath, the occasional cough. Snow lies in patches on the ground, looking less then pristine against the untidy brown grass. The cold stings your eyes, filling them with tears, and the environment blurs into a mockery of summer days; the green of your coat makes leaves on the skeleton branches, and your scarf lifts to stain the sky blue. Everywhere, everywhere, blobs of white snow that masquerade as clouds. The sun is missing. Presumed dead.
You walk.
Night does not come easily, in winter, though it embraces the early hour of its descent willingly enough. It is the fault of the clouds, which are too white to admit blackness. Slowly, grudgingly, they smudge themselves a darker grey, like an eraser that is removing too many marks and never being cleaned. They seem to press downwards onto the earth as the night closes in. No chance of stars.
You walk.
As the hours pass the night takes over, well and truly. Nothing breaks through the silence, now; your ears hurt from listening so hard to nothing at all.
You sit on a bench and press your fists against your closed eyes. When you look up, you can see stars.
~
The week after that. The little cafés and coffee rooms do a brisk trade, full of people seeking respite from the weather. Voices and laughter fill the rooms, pushing at the windows, seeping out through cracks too small to admit the cold. The air is warm and carries scents of ginger, coffee, bread, chocolate. Winter fare. Glass and crockery chime in unison with clocks on the walls, hanging next to jaunty painting of snow-topped mountains, in case the world needs a reminder of the season. The tea they serve is a deep mahogany shade and smells of cloves, cinnamon, almond, orange. It is surprisingly tasteless for such an inviting scent, although there is a vanilla aftertaste that is pleasant. It warms you effortlessly, and half the glass – served in a glass, not a cup, with a blue plastic frame to serve as a handle – is gone before you really register the act of drinking.
You stare into the cup, watching the drifting black specks at the bottom, wondering if there will be enough to read. Not that you’ve ever been one for fortune-telling; but your gaze never wavers. Another saucer is put down on the edge of the table, and you register it as a small ripple across the steaming surface of the liquid.
“Did you miss me?”
You look up; he sits down. Your fingers reach out and pluck the sunglasses from his face. His eyes are wide, wary, warm.
You stand up – throw the glasses to the ground – and jump. Over and over and over. Perhaps you scream, without words. Like a five-year-old splashing in puddles, jump-jump-jump, long past the point where there is nothing but a smudge of shadowed silicon shards on the ground. People are staring, shocked faces and raised voices. You only notice when you sit down again.
“Feel better?”
“Marginally.”
“So, did you?”
“What?”
“Miss me?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’d know about that.”
“Bitter, aren’t you?”
“Justifiably so.”
“I suppose.”
“You know.”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why didn’t you miss me?”
“Because I hate you.”
“Why?”
“Why do I hate you?”
“First reason that springs into your head.”
“Because I’m fucking in love with you, you fucking bastard.”
More stares, and more. The room stills, turns, you’re slipping on your feet in a pile of shattered metal and glass. You run to the door, and the shock of the cold as you step blindly outside is like letting yourself be slapped across the face.
~
The week after that. The clouds have rolled back, hesitantly – still no sign of the sun, but the celestial search parties are hard at work. Colder than ever, though, as though that slim, icy blue chunk of sky has sapped all of the heat from the crisp air. Toes turn numb inside layers of socks, children run and laugh and their noses are red, peeking out from oversized beanies and handknitted scarves. The twilight creeps up quickly, bleeding into the environmental consciousness at an early hour. It is the shortest day of the year, according to the radio. After today the world will begin to wake up. Downhill ride to summer, although summer seems very far away. It is the death of the season of death, and winter knows how to expire with dignity.
He stands on a corner, smoking. You waver; you’re out of his sight. You sigh, and watch it turn to steam. Two tall silhouettes with white trails from the mouth. Too symmetrical to avoid. You approach.
“I meant what I said, you know.”
“Which part?”
“I told you I was sorry.”
“Ah.”
“I was telling the truth.”
“I believe you.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Sometimes.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Will you ever?”
“I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”
“That far in the future, is it?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But it could happen.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Anything’s possible.”
He’s not wearing sunglasses; you’re not wearing gloves. He takes your hand. This time the smile weighs less, it is slightly easier to lift.
Next week it will be easier still.
For:
ripedecay Request: SeishirouxSubaru, in the winter or late autumn when it's pretty cold, street venders and old shops, fire, and sudden warmth. Line - "May I?"
Title: The Shortest Day
Fandom: X/1999
Genre: Angsty imagery. Thing.
Rating: PG for language
Comments: Um, this turned out quite differently than what I had envisaged. For once I didn't try and plan, I just typed and let the fic come out as it wanted. Which was; weird and general and without any names, so it stands as an original piece if you squint at it. Taking it as fanfic, though - it's AU, I guess, set six years after the events of TB.
Also: LJ says hurrah for very few italics tags.
The Shortest Day
Early winter. A cold breath; warm against cold lips, rather, spilling into mist. There are people crowding the streets, feet chattering against the grey stones as if to rub them into warmth and life. A colourful crowd, flashes of every shade imaginable, woven into a scarf or sitting jauntily on the edge of a coat. Steam rises from slim silver columns above the buildings, slowly dissipating signs of life and industry within. The dirtier the steam, the smoke, the older the shop; easy to imagine old men in woolen vests and grey hats, placing logs onto fireplaces with spindly hands.
A touch on the arm, nothing more, and then a silence. Not a real one, of course, the world goes on around you and it is far from quiet. But between you, where it matters – silence, and then an intake of wary breath.
“Leave?”
“Do you want me to?”
“I…yes. Leave.”
“All right.”
Green is not an uncommon shade, in winter. People wear it over their hearts and on their sleeves, a subtle wish for spring, for grass, for life. Two green eyes – very normal, then – are steady and troubled amidst the haste.
~
The week after that. A man stands selling chestnuts. They blacken and smoulder on the dirty metal plate; the cooking process is hard to detect, but can be seen if you stand there long enough. A few coins buys you a paper circle, expertly folded into a cone and filled with tiny gems of warmth, dropped in neatly one by one. The man waves his tongs expressively and says something jovial in Russian. The paper is thin, warmth seeps through and meets a pair of cupped hands. You blow on the chestnuts, mostly out of habit, and sit down to eat them. Before long your fingers are coated in a thin layer of grease that renders the paper transparent. You breathe in; a comforting smell of roasted nuts is mixed with one even more familiar. Steam mingles with nicotine smoke.
You look up, and wait.
“Will you talk to me, this time?”
“Why would I want to?”
“Isn’t there anything you want to say to me?”
A pause.
“There are many things I want to say to you. But they all end in goodbye.”
“Ah. Better to say nothing, then?”
“Better, yes.”
He sits. You do not move, you do not say a word, and this lasts through three more cigarettes and until you have reached the bottom of your cone of chestnuts. He leaves just as silently, and you stare upwards. Grey clouds cover the sky. Nothing exciting, nothing profound, no answers for you here. Not today.
~
The week after that. The air feels like snow about to fall, heavy and tense as though someone is holding their breath. People feel it, and stay indoors. The streets are not as crowded as they have been, and those few you pass are buried inside their layers of clothing and privacy. No words are exchanged; few glances, and fewer smiles. Winter streets are for those shuttered in their own world, and you are no exception. You hide your chin in your scarf, dark blue and soft, bought from a shop. No sentimental value attached. It still smells like secondhand smoke.
There is very little surprise when he approaches, though a spark of it when he does not try to initiate conversation. He walks beside you, letting you choose the path, off the street and through the cold iron gates of a small park.
It is ridiculous, you think, to wear sunglasses in winter. You say as much, quietly.
“Why so?”
“There is no excess light. The purpose is destroyed.”
“Things can have more than one purpose, you know.”
“Can they?”
Your hands clench at your sides. He notices.
“It is ridiculous to wear gloves in summer.”
“Go away.”
“Do they have more than one purpose?”
“Go away.”
“You’re a hypocrite.”
But he does leave, and the words hang in the air like your own pale breath. Hands clench and unclench; around each other, around your coat lapels, around thin air. You pull your gloves off, suddenly, and throw them to the ground. Black pools against the grey path. As you walk away the chill starts to creep in, burrowing down from your fingertips.
It begins to snow.
~
The week after that. Christmas lights begin to cover the shopfronts, and some kind soul drapes them over the trees that are dotted along the road. The cold has taken on a cruelty, a bitter edge, and the crowd moves quickly. Standing still creates an illusion of even greater haste, as though the world is being viewed in double time. Motion blurs. You could be watching a documentary on television. When you begin to move again you walk away from the shops; the lights become scarcer, less gaudy, thin trails of yellow brightness replacing expensive neon extravagance. The lights are going, they are almost gone, and you stop in front of a fire that has been lit in a metal garbage bin. You did not think people still did this. The fire warms your front, your outstretched hands, almost unbearably. You back is still cold, whipped by wind, the temperature splitting you in half like an Othello piece. When you are trapped, you will turn over and become someone new.
His footsteps are dulled by the wind, and his smile blurs sideways. He is holding a coat; not black, not white, a dark shade of green. Entirely unlike grass.
“May I?”
“All right.”
You turn away from the fire and fall into step. The coat is thick, lined with something soft, and the warmth envelops you with a suddenness that is almost sickening.
“I’m sorry. About last time.”
“You’re what?”
A pause that stretches on for an age and threatens to become a silence.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you know how long I have been hearing your voice, saying that, in my head?”
“No.”
“You do. How long have I been waiting to hear you say it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Six…yes, six years.”
“Precisely.”
You see the way his arm moves to intercede, almost before your hand lifts. You see the way it falls back after the shortest of moments. Not short enough. The violence of the blow, straight across his face, is somehow diminished by the knowledge that it was permitted.
Once again you are left without words, staring at the ground, watching the dirty snow melt away from your boots. His boots. The wind picks up, almost unbearably icy against the exposed planes of your face. It is strong, you could almost be blown away, melt and drift into the landscape. But you have received a gift (the coat is heavy on your shoulders), and the tiny aching part inside you that was brought up to be polite is worried at the lack of recompense.
You look up and smile, just the faintest lifting of your lips, at the edges. It is harder work than you expected – who would have thought such a small thing could weigh so much?
But his face changes, it dissolves, and it is enough.
~
The week after that. The park is empty and brown, a strange half-world of death. Very few trees have any leaves left, and those that remain are withered and dry and cannot truly be said to be alive. One or two come under your feet, and they shatter almost too easily into dust with nothing but a faint crackling whisper of a swansong. Easily heard, in the stillness. The wind has disappeared, leaving the clouds behind in a starkly permanent display of chilly oppression. You can hear your feet on the stones, the thin rush of your breath, the occasional cough. Snow lies in patches on the ground, looking less then pristine against the untidy brown grass. The cold stings your eyes, filling them with tears, and the environment blurs into a mockery of summer days; the green of your coat makes leaves on the skeleton branches, and your scarf lifts to stain the sky blue. Everywhere, everywhere, blobs of white snow that masquerade as clouds. The sun is missing. Presumed dead.
You walk.
Night does not come easily, in winter, though it embraces the early hour of its descent willingly enough. It is the fault of the clouds, which are too white to admit blackness. Slowly, grudgingly, they smudge themselves a darker grey, like an eraser that is removing too many marks and never being cleaned. They seem to press downwards onto the earth as the night closes in. No chance of stars.
You walk.
As the hours pass the night takes over, well and truly. Nothing breaks through the silence, now; your ears hurt from listening so hard to nothing at all.
You sit on a bench and press your fists against your closed eyes. When you look up, you can see stars.
~
The week after that. The little cafés and coffee rooms do a brisk trade, full of people seeking respite from the weather. Voices and laughter fill the rooms, pushing at the windows, seeping out through cracks too small to admit the cold. The air is warm and carries scents of ginger, coffee, bread, chocolate. Winter fare. Glass and crockery chime in unison with clocks on the walls, hanging next to jaunty painting of snow-topped mountains, in case the world needs a reminder of the season. The tea they serve is a deep mahogany shade and smells of cloves, cinnamon, almond, orange. It is surprisingly tasteless for such an inviting scent, although there is a vanilla aftertaste that is pleasant. It warms you effortlessly, and half the glass – served in a glass, not a cup, with a blue plastic frame to serve as a handle – is gone before you really register the act of drinking.
You stare into the cup, watching the drifting black specks at the bottom, wondering if there will be enough to read. Not that you’ve ever been one for fortune-telling; but your gaze never wavers. Another saucer is put down on the edge of the table, and you register it as a small ripple across the steaming surface of the liquid.
“Did you miss me?”
You look up; he sits down. Your fingers reach out and pluck the sunglasses from his face. His eyes are wide, wary, warm.
You stand up – throw the glasses to the ground – and jump. Over and over and over. Perhaps you scream, without words. Like a five-year-old splashing in puddles, jump-jump-jump, long past the point where there is nothing but a smudge of shadowed silicon shards on the ground. People are staring, shocked faces and raised voices. You only notice when you sit down again.
“Feel better?”
“Marginally.”
“So, did you?”
“What?”
“Miss me?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’d know about that.”
“Bitter, aren’t you?”
“Justifiably so.”
“I suppose.”
“You know.”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why didn’t you miss me?”
“Because I hate you.”
“Why?”
“Why do I hate you?”
“First reason that springs into your head.”
“Because I’m fucking in love with you, you fucking bastard.”
More stares, and more. The room stills, turns, you’re slipping on your feet in a pile of shattered metal and glass. You run to the door, and the shock of the cold as you step blindly outside is like letting yourself be slapped across the face.
~
The week after that. The clouds have rolled back, hesitantly – still no sign of the sun, but the celestial search parties are hard at work. Colder than ever, though, as though that slim, icy blue chunk of sky has sapped all of the heat from the crisp air. Toes turn numb inside layers of socks, children run and laugh and their noses are red, peeking out from oversized beanies and handknitted scarves. The twilight creeps up quickly, bleeding into the environmental consciousness at an early hour. It is the shortest day of the year, according to the radio. After today the world will begin to wake up. Downhill ride to summer, although summer seems very far away. It is the death of the season of death, and winter knows how to expire with dignity.
He stands on a corner, smoking. You waver; you’re out of his sight. You sigh, and watch it turn to steam. Two tall silhouettes with white trails from the mouth. Too symmetrical to avoid. You approach.
“I meant what I said, you know.”
“Which part?”
“I told you I was sorry.”
“Ah.”
“I was telling the truth.”
“I believe you.”
“Really?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Sometimes.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Will you ever?”
“I don’t believe in fortune-telling.”
“That far in the future, is it?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But it could happen.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Anything’s possible.”
He’s not wearing sunglasses; you’re not wearing gloves. He takes your hand. This time the smile weighs less, it is slightly easier to lift.
Next week it will be easier still.
