Author Notes: ...eh, written over a year ago. Finally figured I might as well post it here. It's SatoDai, which is rather out of the norm for me. It can almost be called fluff. Almost. Execpt for faint, nearly nonexistent hints of my lovely psycho!Krad and the Hikari clan. Meh. I just enjoy torturing Satoshi too much. Though, even lacking any true torture, I was actually quite partial to this ficcy. Quite satisfied with the way it turned out when I first wrote it.
Hope you enjoy!
disclaimer: disclaim'd.
pairings/characters: Satoshi/Daisuke, mentions of Krad/Hikari Clan
warnings/notes: nothing really. some introspective, some cuteness, some psycho-ness.
A Tradition Worth Having
by scelerus animus
– o –
Tradition has been the caustic foundation of Satoshi's life since before he even had a chance to choose one of his own. In fact, endless routine and tiresome Tradition have been the gaudy foundations for the ice blood that runs in the delicate blue veins of the Hikari Clan seemingly since the beginning of time itself.
Pride is the merciless force that passionlessly sustains and nourishes the Hikari and their portentous beliefs of superiority while Tradition brutally conforms them to this understood set of rigid principles and callous codes by which the Hikari perpetually live and thrive.
Merely as a Hikari, Satoshi has been born into this self-proclaimed sovereignty, trained and indoctrinated. However, born as the Tamer of the infamous curse of the Hikari clan (Krad-sama, they whisper his name behind ghostly pale hands, loving, hating) Satoshi has inherited everything for which the Hikari Clan stands, including their duplicitous pride and cynical hope, and it is a weight that Satoshi loathes to bear on his shoulders.
Fortunately, Satoshi has enough propriety ingrained into him that he doesn't rudely spit upon their ignorant beliefs to their faces, but instead rebukes the Hikari name subtly, artfully with the faint but poignant dexterity that reveals the Hikari blood which fervently courses through his veins like flowing scarlet ice.
Ultimately, he continually fights his clan, his blood, his inheritance (golden-eyed and golden-haired as it is, all poisonous smiles and saccharine mendacity), and they arrogantly (fearfully) choose to ignore the immensity of the burden they have placed upon Satoshi's slim shoulders, treating him as an unbreakable doll to be led by puppet strings, interminably pulled and shoved and kicked.
For this is the vile routine, pattern, tradition (whatever they wish to call it, Satoshi sneers, it all leaves a rancid taste in the mouth, like the metallic aftertaste of coagulated blood) into which he was born.
Conversely, Niwa Daisuke is not one of these such people. The ones that drag him around on cutting wiry puppet strings, beaten and bleeding, and expect him to take it.
And this irritates and confuses Satoshi far too much for his liking. Certainly, Niwa's actions are in definite accordance to his naively compassionate personality, foolishly amiable and concerned for everyone and everything, the flawless representation of a cherub descended to this filthy earth.
Nevertheless, Satoshi is Niwa's rival, his enemy, his complete opposite in everything imaginable; he is even the intended one that will someday kill Niwa, however indirectly and however much he does not want to (then again when has Hikari Satoshi ever been allowed to do anything he wants to?).
Yet each day, Satoshi stoically enters a ruckus-ruled classroom filled with equally unruly and dim-witted students—children—who like to play grown-up when they cannot even begin to comprehend a life where there is no one to hold your hand as you cross a street or no one to catch as you fall into a fathomless chasm of despondency from which you will never be able to escape, and each day Satoshi, as snobbish and antisocial as he may appear to others, receives a sunny smile and friendly greeting from said Niwa Daisuke.
No matter how vehemently Satoshi wishes to deny it, this indubitably is like a divine light in an infinitely dark, infinitely lonely world. His one saving grace, Niwa Daisuke, in a heartless society of deep-seated propriety and supercilious, prideful bloodlines.
Indeed, Satoshi is the proverbial moth helplessly drawn to the mesmerizing crimson flame.
Sometimes, Satoshi absently wonders as to when he will feel the scorching burn of that vibrant dancing flame, and then he remembers he already bears the gruesome scars that prove that he has previously played with that wondrous beguiling fire and has lost horridly.
Not that he'll ever let Niwa even glimpse those hideous reminders, even if they are all too invisible, etched deep beneath the skin.
Many a time, it's the ones whom nobody else knows, the things no one else sees, that hurt us the most.
Satoshi knows this all too well, and he's determined not to taint the shining pureness that Niwa unknowingly exudes anymore than he has to.
Today Satoshi silently meditates on the roof during his daily lunch hour, utterly alone because he much prefers it that way.
Some would probably claim in their all too pathetically ignorant, jarring voices that Satoshi is simply sleeping or dozing, not meditating, which is a fancy-smancy word their diminutive minds cannot understand.
However, Satoshi is in fact mediating and not sleeping or dozing simply by the fact that he is wholly, painfully aware of everything around him, as it was entrenched forcefully and violently into his brain from far too young of an age.
He is aware of every miniscule shift in the air, the slight drop of temperature, the gentle change of course of a sweet-smelling breeze, the muted rustle of wayward leaves as they flutter dreamily onto the rooftop, and the definite squeak of untied shoelaces and muffled whine of the rooftop door as the same Niwa Daisuke that continuously encompasses Satoshi's drifting thoughts like a brilliant burst of sunlight that no cloud can block steps out onto the desolate school roof.
With the innate skill of one with Hikari blood flowing fiercely, if not unwelcomingly, in his veins, Satoshi's cool, emotionless features do not waver for a moment, though he cannot suppress the minor ripple of irritation and finally resignation that pass inwardly through him.
In some distant, detached part of his brain that has been eternally beat down into submission and near nonexistence, Satoshi acknowledges that he is actually pleased by Niwa's albeit expected appearance.
Of course, he will never admit this, as the unspoken but brutally enforced codes of the age-old feud between his family (his flesh, his blood and White Wings) and the Phantom Thief bind his actions and his words like a snake wrapped around the throat, hissing and spitting, golden eyes ever watchful of his every move.
Briefly Satoshi's liquid blue eyes flicker over to where Niwa is shuffling anxiously across the roof, taking note of the ridiculously large bento that he carries in his arms. With a silent scoff, Satoshi closes his eyes once more and doesn't bother to acknowledge Niwa when he comes to a hesitant stop behind Satoshi.
Satoshi easily senses Niwa's awkwardness and apprehension in his every movement. Such as when Niwa clumsily fumbles the bento in his hands like a small child even though he has the faultless skill and grace of the Phantom Thief and years of vigorous training in which Niwa Emiko religiously instructed him backing him, or when Niwa scratches the back of his head, nimble fingers dragging through vivid crimson hair unsure on how to begin to greet the reputedly aloof Hiwatari.
Eventually, Satoshi knows if he does not speak, Niwa will with that unfailingly radiant, absurd smile plastered on his face because it is in his nature (his blood, the rich crimson blood of the Niwa, an enemy to the White Wings) to do so.
It's a curious routine, pattern—a tradition, but never a Tradition, and Satoshi knows there is a difference—they have unknowingly created, day by day, lunch by lunch, and Satoshi idly muses that Niwa is still probably not aware of it (in that oh so cutely stupid way).
Even if he didn't have an amusing pattern to follow, Satoshi automatically knows when Niwa timidly shifts on his feet, one shoe absently scratching at the back of his school uniform pants, a coarse abrasive noise that inevitably grates on Satoshi's sensitive ears, disrupting his tranquil quiet like all nosy Niwas are irrefutably prone to do.
Naturally, there are slight deviations in this tradition, this cyclic routine, pattern from day to day, lunch to lunch, immaterial variations in their gestures and conversations that are craftily painted masks to an ubiquitous meaning behind it all, a meaning of which Satoshi is not entirely certain thus far; however, he surmises that these facades with which he and Niwa liberally sugarcoat these bittersweet truths are as fragile as they are elegant.
(then again that's merely his Hikari cynicism speaking, isn't it?)
Either way, these minimal variants exist, so today Satoshi is the one to speak first, and unsurprisingly his words are simple, precise and fittingly cool to match his wintry complexion and the aristocratic blood that runs in his thin blue veins like sinuous ice.
"Is there something you need, Niwa?"
These flat, pointless words are a part of the tedious routine so Satoshi feels abstractly compelled to say them, but they're not truly spoken as a question because the actual, theoretical question in them has worn out into a threadbare nonexistence long ago, leaving the tangible truth exposed, like a greasy white bone peaking out beneath fleshy pink skin and muscle, ready to be snatched up by a willing participant.
Neither Niwa nor he are prepared to try to grasp that precarious meaning just yet, and Satoshi can only smile sardonically at the mocking, bittersweet tang it leaves in his mouth.
Although he speaks these tiresome words, Satoshi doesn't turn around to face Niwa, instead preferring to simply open his liquid blue eyes and gaze impassively at the large expanse of crystal blue skies and white marsh mellow clouds serenely stretched out before him in an endless mock hope of a heaven, a brighter future to this desolately dark miserable world.
Predictably, Niwa shifts again, rubber shoe scraping against cotton, another juggle of the bento, another absentminded scratch of the head, and replies with an embarrassed laugh, "Umm, well, you see, my mom makes too much food for me for lunch, you know, and I figured…"
He trails off, and Satoshi inherently knows that there is an adorable blush of red tinting Niwa's nose and cheeks, matching his crimson hair and crimson eyes impeccably, an enticing monotone portrait that paints itself across Satoshi's mind like a timeless mural.
After all Niwa himself, however unintentionally, has already impressed himself upon the prominent corners of Satoshi's mind, an eternal smiling picture behind his eyelids, engraved and prepared to stand against the harsh realities of time, willingly there when Satoshi closes his liquid ice eyes to encounter golden-eyed demons that haunt his dreams.
It's another blessed pattern that Satoshi adamantly refuses to bring to reality with senseless words, but he doesn't need to.
Because Niwa will always be there. (…won't he? Satoshi frantically thinks, dares to hope so because…)
For a sporadic moment Satoshi is nonplussed, slender brows furrowing to create that rare, distinctive line of insecurity on his forehead, although his voice remains carefully controlled, meticulously apathetic as he abruptly queries, "You will always be here, won't you Niwa?"
Dumbfounded, Niwa stares, his jitteriness having ceased beneath the bewilderment that promptly overtakes him, filling bright crimson eyes until they are noticeably larger than usual.
"Uhh…" he stutters cutely, temporarily uncertain of whether there is something more darker, deadlier slyly hidden beneath Satoshi's blatant, unexpected question, but then he foregoes intuitive suspicion for open-hearted trust, and Satoshi again is caught between automatic disgust at Niwa's deluded idealism and infinite gratitude for not treating Satoshi any different, even though it is painfully obvious that he is, and Niwa knows it especially.
"…Sure, Hiwatari-kun!" Niwa declares brightly, guilelessly hopeful that he answered Satoshi's question correctly.
(for he doesn't want to lose a friend, Satoshi supplies wordlessly, scathingly, while at the same time he desperately hopes that he won't ever need to return Niwa's heart to him in gleaming red, fleshy shreds)
Instead of another worthless verbal reply, Satoshi merely nods dismissively, rotates his spine a tad, and with the extra pair of chopsticks that Niwa naturally has brought he daintily picks up a small portion of white rice from the bento that Niwa still candidly holds out to him, luminous crimson eyes so open and alluringly chaste, shoes scuffing against cotton-like material in that same rough, now unheard sound.
For the moment, there is no need to mull over Truth and Lies, Blood and Tradition. There is no frantic, crucial need to change their blissful pattern, routine drastically, thus unleashing unforeseen, potentially harmful consequences (taunting a beast with an insatiable hunger, and Satoshi knows not to do that, not until he fatally has to), and Satoshi is content to allow Niwa, a beautiful wholehearted smile alighting his hopeful features, to sit down beside him on the school roof and eat bento.
After all, this is one tradition in a life contemptuously predetermined for him, which Satoshi will (privately) admit to enjoying somewhat, and he heedlessly clings to it (Niwa's captivating smiles and beguiling foolish ideals of honesty and goodness) in an indulgent selfish moment, all too willing to believe that the ice blood of a heartless self-possessed dynasty that flows in his thin blue veins is absolutely meaningless.
– Owari –
End Notes: So what'd you think? Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome!
Ja ne!
– scelerus animus o.O