Title: Flowers of Yesterday

Summary: War. An era of bloodshed when to lie is to live and trust is for the foolish. Unable to cope with this madness, one boy runs away from his destiny...only to land straight in the hands of fate. SxS AU

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the apple cinnamon flavored cereal in the bowl beside me.

Chapter One: Dancers Perform Ballet, Politicians Direct Plays

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Text from the book

Thoughts

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They were dancing.

The ballet dancer carefully arranged her long legs into position, tilting her right foot into the classic pointed stance that most professionals those days assumed. She proudly lifted her head and stared straight into the center of the audience. Her vivid green eyes seemed to hold a challenge in them as her gaze held our breaths, waiting.

I leaned heavily against the wall to my right and fiddled with the broom in my hands.

Almost everyone thinks of strength as a male trait, and connects it to weight lifting and bulging steroid-produced muscles. Not many realize that true strength comes from inside. The courage to brave your deepest darkest fears, to fight when you would want nothing else than to hide. To me, strength is to have the self-control to listen to mind over heart.

She was about to prove that to me.

Suddenly, a look of panic came across her face. Almost instantly, her face contorted into a pained expression, as if she remembered something horrid. A muscle in her cheek jumped, and even the thick layers of make-up masking her face couldn't hide the startling loss of color in her youthful complexion. She blinked rapidly a few times as a few strands of hair came out of her elegant bun.

But she could do it, put logic over desire that is. She was the very epitome of strength.

Her head lowered just a fraction of an inch before raising once again. The movement was almost imperceptible, and had I not been paying such close attention I doubt that even I would have been able to catch it.

For before I could even register this moment of weakness, she leaped away from the stage just as the first few tinkling notes floated through the air. Her slippers touched the ground for almost a second, and then she was off again. Relaxing her arms, she allowed herself to stretch complacently in the air before whirling around, never once straying from the beat. The chords seemed to surround her, creating a tangible aura in the theatre that we could almost touch.

Sakura Kinomoto didn't dance with the music. It danced with her.

Later I was to learn that she especially loved the feeling of flying in the air. For in that split second…she was free. The ropes of the society that she was born into were left behind on the ground as she raced with the melody. Even if it was only for a split second, she slowly became addicted to this moment of escape. It was like a drug to her, starting as a mere adrenaline rush, and eventually cascading to the point where she wouldn't feel complete without it.

She grinned as she danced.

"The Song of the Wind" was just another show, just one of the hundreds of performances in her blossoming career. To her, this would be remembered as a long night filled with hordes of fans asking for her autograph, if it were remembered at all.

As for me, this was the night adorned with a sky as black as a soft velvet dress. The stars that evening seemed like windows, spasms of light peeking through the black surroundings. And the moon, while not a perfect circle, was in a delicate crescent shape. It dangled in the sky tauntingly, so close that if I reached out my hand just a little bit more it would be in my grasp.

To me… I felt for the first time, the desire for something as far away as the yellow sliver of heaven in the sky that night.

She loved flying, and I loved to watch her fly.

She was rich, and I was poor.

She was an experienced performer, and I was looking for a job.

She was the unattainable and I…

I wanted nothing more than to have her notice me. To turn around, look me straight in the eye, and just smile.

But I ended getting more than I ever bargained for.

--

Although this story seems to revolve on a single insignificant woman, keeping in mind the grander perspective of the world at the time, its purpose is to reflect on the lives of thousands in that era. I have selected this one person to portray the influences that time period had on my people.

My best friend didn't understand this. He would take a deep swig of alcohol and attempt to lift the unoccupied hand and prod my chest with a finger, or with his whole hand depending on how impaired his coordination was at the point. Then he would stare at me.

Eriol had this habit of sizing people up before he said anything that he deemed was important. However here in France, the rich didn't appreciate his impudence. I, on the other hand, have learned quickly. I doubt my current employer even knows what color my eyes are.

Unsurprisingly, Eriol's employer is well informed of the fact that Eriol's eyes are as black and empty as a shadow. In turn, Eriol is also very familiar with the roughness of Mr. Danvers's hand.

All of these thoughts soon scattered as Eriol continued to focus his eyes on me. Strange thing is, no matter how many times he does this; it never fails to intimidate me.

"You need to move on, Syaoran."

These words manage to come out as clear as day, although he's had over five bottles of drink. But then again, I wonder if he was even drunk in the first place.

We were both very closed people I suppose. On the outside it may appear that Eriol was the open, carefree gentleman who never hesitated to smile at anyone passing by (usually females) while I was the sullen loner who never bothered to raise his head.

And then I found out his father was a drunkard and that his mother worked at a brothel.

Apparently, his father had brought him up, if it could even be called that. Eriol was often the one who took care of him when he could barely hold himself up, stumbling up the steps to their two-room apartment.

The saddest thing of all? His dad was considered the active parent in the family. And for that, Eriol loved the old man unconditionally. Imagine that: willing to risk your life for someone who allowed you to sleep in the same room as them.

It almost makes me guilty when I think about how I treated my own family.

Back to the subject at hand, he was fourteen when he discovered his father lying lifelessly on the bedroom floor. The fifty-something-year-old man had (finally) died of alcohol poisoning. When the paramedics arrived to take the body away however, they were baffled by the smile on Keiichi Hiiragizawa's face. Evidently, the senior Hiiragizawa's life wasn't exactly filled with sunshine either, as he welcomed death with open arms.

But Eriol moved on. It's been twelve years, and the only time, he even mentioned his childhood was when he told me all this. It was his father's death anniversary, and on top of that, he was extremely drunk.

Nevertheless, besides that conversation, I don't remember one time when we confided in each other. And yet, we both know that we're the only things we have left in this world- best friends. Brothers, even, but that doesn't mean he has to know all about me. I've had my share of problems, too, but that's over and done with now.

Moreover, all this is completely off topic; what I'm trying to write is a story about what happened in the most romantic city of the world, not annoying family problems about my life before I escaped to France. Ever since I stepped on that boat, Xiao Lang Li, a rich and pampered boy who had everything fed to him with a golden spoon since the day he was born, died without even a trace of his existence. And 'Syaoran' replaced him.

Nevertheless perhaps…when the occasion calls for it…I might mention bits of it in passing. Maybe this will help me relieve the few happy memories I have of that cold palace in which I grew up.

There were some, I have to admit. I even developed a shy affection for my cousin who, unlike the other women around me, was loud and outspoken. She was never afraid to tell her parents what she thought of them. I, on the other hand, would just shuffle along, lurking in the shadows as I always did. Running away to Paris was probably the only act of rebellion I had ever done in my life.

Back to the matter at hand, I would just to like the reinstate that this is not some trashy romance novel. Just a good, honest-to-God memoir.

To be truthful, I'm not even sure if I ever loved her. What is love anyway? Let's get one thing straight here. I do not, by any means, believe in the fairy-tale dreamy rubbish otherwise known as love. "Love" itself is merely a trick of evolution. A paradox. Some say that love is selfish by wanting to keep the person you love next to you; others claim you should set her free. Complete and utter nonsense.

Obsession exists, obviously. Perhaps even a type of deep-rooted devotion that can bind two people to stay together for half a century, but love? No. That's just a delusion created by weak and foolish minds that need to "think with their heart". I'd rather think with my mind and not some whimsical impulse, thank you very much.

She taught me that, by the way. Ironically, I thought at that time that I was in love with her. Ha-ha, I actually believed that I had fallen head over heels in love with a woman whom I had never had a conversation that lasted more than three sentences.

Amazing. I cringe at the thought of it.

We were standing on a balcony, watching the stars together - the perfect romantic setting. My 18-year-old self seemed to think so too, for I was particularly flustered that evening. My tie was almost choking me due to my inexperience with the knot, and my western suit was hanging about as comfortable as cardboard on my body. Back in China, I was accustomed to the soft and form-fitting silk robes that my maids slaved over for months to make. But here I was no longer pampered and waited on like royalty, and it was only by luck that I even had a suit in the first place.

It's been years since that day, and yet I need only to close my eyes to feel the cold metal that I was leaning against that night. Of course, I don't remember what exactly we were talking about. Something along the lines the war that was wreaking havoc in the countries of the Eastern Hemisphere, I suppose. Oddly enough, the insignificant irrelevant details of that evening have persisted. For example, she was wearing a blue formal evening gown with a small jade pendant necklace. Yellow light streaming through the open doors from the hotel managed to catch its luster, giving the green stone a soft shine.

--

My pen continued to move in my hand, but my mind was months and months away.

Somewhere, I hear the doorknob to the apartment door turning, but I was too concentrated on transferring memories onto parchment to really care. My body is bent over the edge of my desk, and the scratch of a pen on paper is the only sound in the room.

It's times like these that I can remember, and imagine and just…live again.

--

I remembered thinking dazedly that the way they twinkled was strikingly similar to the stars in the sky above us. Apparently, my brain was not functioning at the moment.

And the way that her eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight -

--

"Like the stars in the sky?" Eriol scoffed and I immediately snapped my head up, "I can't believe that a man is writing this." He batted his eyes and said in a high falsetto voice, "Oh Syao-ran, this is just so sweet! I like love you, now!" Alarmed, I stared at what I just wrote before. Holy shit.

I coughed and raised an eyebrow, "I don't expect her to act like that."

Eriol looked at me disbelievingly, "Then what do you expect to be gaining from this," he jabbed one of the many papers that my desk was hiding under, "crap? Be honest with yourself, Syaoran. You can't honestly be doing this to 'portray the influences that time period had on my people.' Is it because the radio had nothing interesting on?"

"And why not?" I smirked, "I have gotten bored of the never-ending holiday music anyway. There's a reason why Christmas comes from the word 'Christians'."

"You don't have to be religious to enjoy Christmas. Ever heard of the joy of giving?"

"Hm," I pondered thoughtfully for a moment and even scratched my chin for a Sherlock-Holmes effect. "No, not really." He sighed exasperatedly before heaving me out of my seat roughly and dragging me to the window.

We arrived at our destination, a grand total of seven steps from my desk. "You can let go now." I had gotten tired of joking around, and my hand was itching to continue the scene from earlier.

"Look out there."

I rolled my eyes, "I get it. I spend too much time inside writing some useless story, I should go outside more, enjoy life, yada yada yada. Now can you let me go?"

"I said, look." If he meant to catch my attention, it worked.

"All right then, I'll look. Sheesh, no reason to get your knickers in a bunch," I muttered in an effort to appease him and turned my head away from Eriol's heated glare to glance at the snowy grounds below us outside.

It looked like it always did. Even though it was already morning, thick gray clouds prevented any attempts of natural light. Instead, the old street lamps cast a dull glow on the filthy streets, illuminating a store name here and there, and even without opening my eyes I knew from the mixed smell of cabbages and tomatoes where the trashcan was. "What am I supposed to see again?"

That's when he lost it. His mind, his composure, all rationality went down to the drain.

"What are you supposed to see?" He grabbed my head and smashed it against the panes so forcefully that my nose was smeared against the cold glass.

"Those starving children on the street corner maybe? That pregnant woman carrying a baby in her arms, looking for a baby-sitter because the father just died in a recent epidemic? That old lady hobbling around begging for money to get her grand-kids into school?"

Despite my initial shock, my excessively large ego apparently couldn't take this sudden and entirely unnecessary lecture. Besides, Eriol had a bit of a problem of not being able to contain digestive juices where they belong, so I wiped off a few drops that had managed to find its way up to my face before retaliating with a few ugly words myself. I followed it up with a sharp tug to get my arm free. "Damn it, Eriol! What the hell is your problem today?!"

Eriol yanked his jacket from the hook on the wall. "You want to know what my problem is? My problem is that I am sick and tired of putting up with this shit. There's a world out there, Syaoran. And if you'd only get off your ass and stop wasting your life blubbering about one failed relationship, you'd actually see some of it."

And without another word he stomped away, snatching the keys that were hanging from a nail, and slammed the door so hard that I could hear some bits of plaster falling from the walls. His heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, and I caught a few snatches of "that ungrateful bastard" and "don't know what to do with him".

I stared dazedly at the door. Never, in all the years that I met Eriol, have we ever had a fight like that. An argument or two, maybe, but never a full-blown, ugly spat like today. I sighed and reached up to rub my temples.

After another moment or two of gawking at the messy array of shoes in the entrance, I stooped down to pick up the papers that fallen to the ground. He didn't understand, I told myself. I'm not doing this for myself. I honestly do feel badly for the country I left behind, and if this relieves some of the pain, well, that wouldn't be necessarily a bad thing either.

Now, where was I…?

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Half a world away, a young woman in her twenties woke up from her afternoon nap. She stretched her arms before smiling lazily at the sun beaming at her from the blue skies outside. Careful not to disturb the sleeping form beside her, she slipped out of the thick covers and made her way to the giant window that framed their bedroom to the east. The expensive carpet muffled her footsteps as she tiptoed past her little grooming corner that consisted of a dainty table with a white chair to match, a wide array of make-up in every color imaginable, and a beautiful oaken jewelry box.

After a couple more complacent yawns, she came to the foot of the light that was shining through a crack in the curtains. With a gentle tug of her hands, the sheer muslin material separated easily, revealing a picturesque landscape. A few mansions similar to the one that she was staying in dotted the streets in the distance. The area that they were situated was considered the "city"; yet because of its well-off residents the roads were neatly kept, and all of the stores even down to the lowliest apple cart had a smart, dignified appearance.

Just sixty miles away lay the real city, in all its polluted glory. But here where the richest of the rich dined and frolicked; this was their home, their utopia.

This tranquil neighborhood was where Sakura Tsukishiro lived.

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A/N: Edited as of 8-2-03, split the uberly long chapter one into two among other miscellaneous changes. Confused about the chapter title? No matter, all will be revealed soon. On a side note, I wonder if anyone is still on when there's a much better source of entertainment on this particular day…-coughBREAKINGDAWNcough- ahem. As always…

Approbation is appreciated, flames are forgiven, constructive criticism is coveted, and reviewers are revered.