transparency
A/N:
Yuki does not belong to me. This fic has the possibility of being disturbing, but if you've seen the anime (and this fic is based only on the anime, as I only have volume one of the manga because I'm poor, poor and poor) then it should be fine. It probably doesn't make enough sense to disturb anyway. This was written as my first response to Erishon's 'Eighty Fic Challenge'. The word is transparency.***
Frequently you toss the small cylinder upwards; catching its tiny weight between fingers that feel bereft of the cigarette you're too nervous to light. Better leave it until you're backed into an alley by the decision: it wouldn't do to submit to craving this early in the hardship. It's poised in the dip on the side of the thick, glass ashtray.
The roll could be developed. In thin negatives you could scan with your eyes there would be the story of what happened. Swift violation. If you could glance over them quickly enough then it would be like watching the event. The thought is masochistic, and you know it; but if you don't actually see them then you would imagine, and the articles in your memory -- you hope -- are worse than what the film contains.
Even in thought you don't want to inflict your memory upon him. Perhaps it is right to have them developed and burnt individually, so that you can see and hate and deplore every desecration. Somehow it feels wrong: the thought of intruding into the contents is a right you don't possess. He would not want to be seen at his weakest.
You would not want to see at your weakest.
Forgetting about the pictures, you could hold the negatives in front of your eyes, a sepia shade constructed of defilement to filter the lights of the lounge. You laugh. It's strained because the taut pain in your abdomen won't allow the throbbing outward motion of a derisive hah. Even your body is against your laughter, even if it is sarcastic.
The lip that the film was formally stretched from runs across your thumb. You reach for the cigarette, and before you lift it you place the film beside the ashtray, searching rapidly for your lighter with your other hand. It's in your left pocket. You put it there because your shirt-pocket is easily accessed and you did not want to yield so soon.
Nicotine is what you need, not introspection. You inhale slowly, deeply, leaning your head back against the couch and squirming as your trousers stick to the leather. If the negatives were displayed in front of you, then you would apply them to yourself, images overlaid on memory.
To see through him and see yourself would be disastrous. You light a new cigarette with the butt of the used one -- discarding it on the floor -- and throw the film against the wall. The plastic casing shatters with the force and the film spirals outwards, corrupted in the fluorescent light.