Just a small one-shot to prove I'm not quite dead yet, mostly for character reflection. Written way before the events of Acid Tokyo. And, as always, Tsubasa Cronicle is in no way mine.
x.x.x. (Funny how our lives coincide with the seasons of today...) x.x.x.
Within the group of five, there was an alternating warmth and cold between them, being all so different from each other. Mokona thought (as Mokona is, perpetually, an observer) that the five travelers all-too-closely mirrored the four seasons of Earth, or Hanshin.
Sakura was easy is pin down-- she was spring, full of life and warmth. Her smiles were of the same quality of the sun, beating down on your back in the late afternoon, winking through the trees, creating patch-work shadows. And yet, at times, the early spring broke from the sheer power of winter, and it showed in Sakura, when she was worried or troubled or sad or plagued by things she could not remember. Hers was Mokona's favorite kind of warmth: a gentle kind, one that kept you cozy. She could-- Mokona swore by it-- make the very flowers bloom.
Kurogane was the summer, and it was a much different heat that he possessed. His was the roaring flame, the heat of war, the fury of battle; sweltering, consuming, and inescapable. His cocky grins and slight smiles and supercilious smirks were filled with a heat (he and Sakura held that in common, at least). But there were always the muggy downpours of rain that came with summer evenings, and Kurogane, too, was subject to his storm clouds.
The cold winter was Fai D. Flourite, though Mokona would never tell him so. His own smiles held no warmth, like his expression was frozen by the cold of his home world, and with dogged persistence it followed him. On the occasions Fai's smiles indeed radiated sincerity, they still seemed chilled. Mokona did not know what had happened to the mage, but for just once, Mokona wished that he would smile like Sakura, with warmth. Warmth in winter was surely the purest kind there was.
Syaoran was fall, was autumn, and when Mokona slept near him or perched on his shoulder, he could smell it clinging to him-- the fallen leaves, the slightest hint of sun-baked sand. At times, when Syaoran forgot his past, his future, and what they hunted for, he was the essence of that rare autumn sun; but more often than not, he was the stubborn chill that came down on fall nights, and the leaves turn and fall to the ground from it, one by one.
Mokona often wonders what it is that hold them together-- winter and summer clashing, spring and fall too much alike. There had to be one element that brought them together. But Mokona didn't know what it was.