Palazzo pants are magic pants that look almost like a skirt. I don't know if they make them for men I don't own Fruits Basket, and my writing pretty much owns me. Please review
It's an amazing summer day. So, of course, all the children and teenagers are out playing, and "hanging out" in the little park where they can be seen by all. He watches them, in their innocence, playing. He wept for them. He truly did.
The little redhead boy, and the brunette girl were playing in the sand. His face shined like he was never this happy, and never would be again. He chattered, and sometimes he frowned. Whenever he did, she would stop playing and just hold him, until he smiled again.
Tears were streaming.
A boy was play-fighting a boy younger than him, but looked older. They were sparring, both with blank expressions. The first boy, the elder with dryer-lint hair, always won the fights. The other boy, with a dull expression, never cared and just started fighting again.
His shoulders heaved with sobs.
A girl sat by herself, her hair touching her hips, just looking at the sky with a beautiful face that shouldn't seem that melancholy; not sad, not depressed. Melancholy. She looked like her best friend stole her favorite doll, and now she had no one to play with.
His arms encircled his feminine waist, which he was so disgustingly proud of.
Two babies sat on one blanket. One towered over the other. The larger boy handed the toys to his younger, and she kept giggling. That made him giggle. Which made their mothers giggle, saying 'When they grow up . . . ' And a small boy, maybe six years old, kept bringing his mother flowers while she chatted with the other mothers. Her eyes screamed disgust, while her mouth said "Thank you. It's beautiful."
He choked back sobs and couldn't see anymore, not that he wanted too.
"Hey," An older boy, a prettier boy, a nicer boy, a happier boy, said, sitting by him. "What's wrong?"
He removed a hand and pointed toward the inner-yard area. "T-They just don't know . . ."
He didn't say the rest.
He didn't have to.
The elder laid an arm over the sobbing boy's shoulder, letting him lean on his chest. "It's okay."
"I'm sorry, but it's not, it's not, it's just not!" He said, his voice thick with tears. "They shouldn't know . . . but it will happen- something horrible will!"
He started running his hand up and down the other's arm in consoling motion. His arm started to warm with the friction, despite their bareness. "What can you do?"
He shrugged, and looked up, into the boy's gray eyes. "Be sorry? There's nothing to do, and I hate it. I don't want them to be . . . us."
"What's so wrong with being me?" He asks, proudly, but the crier knows it's a façade.
"I'm sorry, I'm worrying you. I shouldn't, and I'm wasting your time! I'm so stupid. This is what I'm worried about! What if that girl turns out as stupid as me? I'd be so sorry, and I'd know, 'cause I'm just as stupid. And now I'm rambling. I'm really sorry!" He babbled, then stood up to leave, still hiccupping. His hand is still vaguely pointing at the girl in the sandbox.
The shorter-haired boy grabs his wrist and tugs. "It's fine. I like to be with you."
He blushes and obliges, another wasted 'sorry' on his lips.
He looks at the boy, who he idolizes, and thinks of how his mother never loved him, how he doesn't know his brother and how much he wished they were those kids.
A boy and a beautiful girl like him talking in the shade. They are sitting, because the girl is weak and the boy is chained to her. He hates the chain, but clings to it. They're older than him, and probably talking about something important.
He blinks, and his eyes mist over. He leans on the supportive boy, who is really more in the boy-turning-man stage, and whispers apologies.
His elder sighs, and says that it isn't a problem.
Another boy sits under the large cherry tree next to the boy and girl, scribbling in his notebook. He idly wonders what he's doing, but then they look into each other's eyes, and the notebook snaps shut. They know all about each other, and the recovering boy knows that the other has no reason to be mean. He has a mother who left because of the father, a father who loves him and the girl keeps glancing at him. He shouldn't be glaring.
But he is.
And, the Monkey looks down and sees himself. He's sees the palazzo pants he loves, and a women's shirt that his boyishly female figure can handle, and wonders when it came to that. When he had to walk around like this to feel right. When hairspray became his heroin, and he needed a boy's touch to feel comforted, and he felt sorry that kids were innocent and the world started crumbling.
With a growl he pulls away from the Snake, and stares at the whole space that he can see from his corner.
His eyes sweep across the Cat and Boar, playing in the sand and comforting each other. He wants to spit, because they're setting each other up for pain they can't comprehend, and the other will be responsible for the pieces.
His eyes turn to the Rat and the Cow, battling for honor, or fun, or because they can, he doesn't know, but he hopes they won't fight forever, because if he keeps making his cow's eyes at that Rat, he's going to snap someday, and tell him it's not okay! It's weird, and you're too good for the level I've succumbed to! He won't love you like you do, find someone who will!
Then his eyes turn to the gorgeous Horse, she's so small, but her face is like a porcelain doll before she's dropped and shattered. It's the one mess her parents never helped her pick up, and she knows, now, better than to get close enough to let anyone pick them up. She's staring at the sky, wondering if they were ever real, or if it was just a mystifying dream. He wants the Horse from a few months ago back, who played, and laughed. He wants her innocence back, if he can't have his.
And he sees those babies, the Tiger and the Sheep, just giggling and wonders if it can last forever before they're broken and cynical. He sees that stupid Rabbit, he acts like a girl three years younger than him, and wonders why he doesn't see the disgust in his mother's eyes, how he doesn't hear the hiss her in her voice.
"I'm sorry; I'm so. Damn. Sorry," the Monkey says harshly, and stands up to walk away. The Snake's hand strikes like a cobra's mouth to catch his wrist, his hand, the back of his shirt, but he misses.
He walks past the gender-confused Goddess, and he walks past that damn Rooster who just keeps telling her she's perfect, even though she's a sick, disgusting control freak, who dares to beat the crap out of little kids, but can't put on a legitimate skirt.
And he's still walking past the Dog with a drawing book. Their eyes meet again, and he can't help but read them. "I know," they say, "but it's better off this way."
The Monkey wants to spit again, because he knows it's true.
The Dog races up, and shows him a picture in his book, it's surrounded by words he doesn't read, but he sees the picture and it steals his breath.
It's the word "sad", in the center of a web-diagram of words like "lonely", "unloved", "hateful", "abandoned" and "masked" connected to the center by chains, and each word rests on a cherry blossom.
"They're all somebody," he says, enthusiastically. "I had some trouble thinking up for you, but I think I have two perfect ones."
He touches "regretful" and "misunderstood". The Monkey licks his lips. "At sometime, they're going to be everyone, right?"
The Dog thinks for a second, and laughs a disappointed laugh. "I guess you're right. But that's why it's connected to sad. Because everyone's sad."
The Monkey nodded, and a swirl of wind blew his long hair over his eyes, and blew up loose flowers and the tips of babies' blankets.
For a second, it was just another beautiful, happy summer day, with beautiful, happy children and everything was right. For one split second, the Monkey's world was, blue, green, caramel and the color of the Snake's smile and all he could see was his hair, the sky and Ayame. Everyone was they're own entity of surreal happiness, each their own. Each perfect.
Then, the gust ended, and they were all connected again. By the sadness they either had, or the sad knew they would have.