Loko: So, here we have the spectre of our (my) mediocrity, id est: a whole year, what was I thinking!
Disclaimer: I own bootleg copies of Shaman King; that doesn't count, does it?
Summary: Sometimes Yoh can't quite tell whether he's saying things or thinking things. (Talking to Ren doesn't help.)Part two of four of 'Seasons' ('Autumn' was the first). YohRen
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Seasons
(of Winter)
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Sometimes Yoh can't quite tell whether he's saying things or thinking things. His mind produces words and sometimes his mouth follows and stops short, or goes on too long, and only sometimes says only exactly what he wants. It's not really something that's ever bothered him before – he's never really had anything to say that might bother him before – but when he walks up to Ren, he tries to say only what he needs.
It doesn't work.
Ren, he says.
"Yoh," Ren says, looking up from where he is wrapping reams of white tape around his hands: palm, back, palm, around the thumb, back, palm.
What are you doing? He asks. It looks painful, he thinks.
"It's not," Ren says shortly – Yoh's said it all out loud. "I need to repair the Kwan Dao."
Lyserg broke it, Yoh remembers. Something about Lyserg has touched something about Ren, a kind of deep tugging and Yoh can feel it, a current of some type. It might be, Yoh thinks, fear: fear of that sort, that there will always be a stronger power that will not hesitate to destroy every shred of dream one might harbour. It's not that Ren fears Lyserg. It's that they share the same fear.
For a moment, he holds his breath, terrified that he might have said that last aloud.
"You were there," Ren says shortly, and Yoh breathes out.
Ren is difficult, touchy and moody and as sensitive as a finely tuned violin string and all contradictions. He understands people instinctively, knows exactly how to motivate them and chastise them and make them work in unison to battle perfectly, yet fails entirely to understand their existence. He overestimates and underestimates the world around him simultaneously, striking with unnecessary force and radiating flimsy hubris.
Yoh is simple: he follows his instincts, and his instincts are exceptional. Yoh's guiding principle is simple: he doesn't want to hurt anyone.
Ren's goals, his hopes, everything he is: enigmatic. No-one really knows, Yoh thinks, what exactly Ren will do if he becomes Shaman King, perhaps not even Ren himself.
Ren's hands are long and fine, almost feminine, and covered with calluses and scars, most recently myriad tiny gouges.
Yoh likes the way Ren holds chopsticks, as if he were about to make a priceless painting with them. Absently, he wonders if Ren has learned calligraphy with those hands, or if the arts his family has taught him are limited to sharp pointy objects.
I like you, Ren, Yoh says, and is surprised when he is surprised. Ren shoots him an odd look, one eyebrow raised. Yoh isn't sure how to respond, and doesn't.
They have kissed; they have made love. They are too young for any of it, but then again they are too young to be killing or fighting or participating in a once-every-500-years tournament frequented by bloodthirsty maniacs and stalkers with a penchant for fiery destruction.
When Ren grabs the Kwan Dao, hands closing tightly around the splintered mess, Yoh winces.
"Don't be a woman," Ren says.
Yoh smiles. Only you still say that sort of thing, Ren, he says fondly, liking the way the name tastes on his tongue, and Ren glares at him.
"Why are you here?" He demands.
I wanted to see you, and this time it's one of those simple things that Yoh likes, when he thinks it and says it and it's everything he wants to say and it comes out exactly the way he wants it.
"What for?" Ren says, barely appeased.
Why not? Yoh laughs.
"Hmph," Ren says, but stops asking.
Jun says your birthday is the first day of the year, Yoh recalls, remembering Jun's shuttered expression and his own confusion. When the Shaman Fight is over, we should celebrate New Year's and your birthday together. I'd like that, he thinks, very much. Did I say that last or not?
Ren looks surprised.
"My birthday?" He says, as if he'd forgotten. Good, Yoh thinks with relief, he's managed to stop his mouth on time. "That's right. It is."
Don't tell me you don't know your own birthday.
"I just remembered, didn't I?" Ren snaps half-heartedly.
I love birthdays, Yoh says.
"I don't."
Why?
Ren gives him an expression that screams DUH in blinking capital letters. "I grew up in a household where it was common practice to give four-year-olds animated corpses as birthday presents, Yoh."
I think I like the way you say my name, Yoh thinks, and feels his face colour as he wonders whether that came out or not.
Ren's silence is expectant, not amused, and Yoh relaxes, and wonders if one day he will simply allow himself to say anything he'd like to Ren – and realises that it's difficult, there are too many things he thinks about Ren and Ren is fragile, but he'd like to – he truly would.
Fragile, he muses, not a word for Tao Ren.
Out loud, he makes the conscious effort to say: Oh.
Ren rolls his eyes. "Slow processing speed, much?" He asks, and savagely tapestwopieces of the Kwan Dao together.
Is that going to hold?
"No," Ren says. "I thought it was obvious that I was going to piece it back together with furyoku, too."
Is that going to hold?
"Yes," Ren snaps. "Don't you know anything?"
I'm a perpetual student, Yoh laughs. Ren snorts, and Yoh smiles.
"I hate you," Ren informs Yoh, almost affectionately. "I hate your stupid grin the most."
I can't help the way my face grows, Yoh protests cheekily. Ojii-san says I was born looking like an idiot.
Ren snorts again, but he can't help the way his mouth lifts at one corner. "I hate your stupid excuses, too."
I think I love you, Tao Ren, Yoh realises with a start. I might love you. In the scary way that the people in Anna's soap operas love, as if they'll die without the person they love. Oh God, did I say that?
"And I hate the way your mind randomly wanders," Ren says, no sharpness in his tone, only a nearly-tired sort of resignation, Yoh breathes – and pieces of ancestral weaponry lying scattered onRen's bed and in his lap and white tape absurd against his golden skin and the bloodred wood – Yoh can't remember what comes after breathing.
Ren's thirteen, Yoh remembers, the youngest in their expedition and almost ridiculously muscled, ridiculously strong, a sinuous line from neck to waist and oddlysmooth shoulders.
Yoh can't breathe.
"What?" Ren finally says, sounding discomfited. Yoh's been staring.
I love you, Yoh realises, warm pulsing waves slowly tugging a smile onto his face even as the rational part of his mind pleads frantically with him about Anna and the Asakura line and duty, duty, duty. Ren's eyes are golden and bright against the morning, and Yoh still can't breathe, although he thinks maybe it's okay.
"Did I mention your stupid grin?" Ren says, or he might have said had Yoh not reached over and very firmly pulled his face into a kiss.
It's nothing like their first kiss. There is no desperation, no grasping at rapidly slipping time tripping merrily away, and Yoh takes his leisure memorising the shape of Ren's mouth and the taste of Ren's skin and the way Ren's startled breath is still body-hot in Yoh's mouth and Yoh remembers: inhale.
-owari-
words:1230
paragraphs: 58
sentences: 100
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Yoh's voice is bloody hard. Alas. Also, he is not as Nerdy as Ren, but he apparently has Mental Confusion or something. It all works out in the end, though, even if Ren's moreperplexed than not. Ahahaha.
Er, also, those fic requests I requested in 'Autumn'? I got one and haven't written it yet. This is because I am Grossly Lax and should be Summarily Executed. I apologise profusely and promise that I haven't forgotten, blue leafy, but the thing is: I don't write happy things. Um. But that's a bad excuse, so I promise that I will do that very soon. As soon as possible.
That said? More fic requests are fine! Also, I have marginally more time than usual, so I can probably actually write them within, you know, the year. (The shaaaame.)
As for 'Seasons,' I don't anticipate rapid updates, so I'm very sorry if I disappoint. Of course, if there is considerable encouragement, well, I'm a reviewwhore and will probably write more in that case. Also, as there are only four parts in sum, it probably won't take as long as my doomsaying predicts. With luck. u.u;
Finally, reviews of any sort are very, very, very welcome. Any sort.
Thank you!
Loko