A/N: I'm terribly sorry it took so long. The reason I've been slow, is that I have barely had the time to breathe during the past few weeks. Tests, tests and a little more tests. Thank God it's over now. Two weeks left and then I can have my well-earned summer vacation. Yay!
I wrote this chapter in a train with a laptop I managed to crash and so made the whole goddamned text disappear in to nothingness. This version here is the re-written one, and if I remember correctly, it's not as good as the original was. Damn... Life is a real bitch sometimes. But you get used to it.
Okay, on with the damn thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2 : Inspiration
I woke up, breathing heavily and only one thought running in my head: 'Please, don't let it be the way I'm afraid it is.' Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around. Very carefully. Sadly, it was exactly how I had feared it would be; I was a kid.
Dream.
It had all been nothing but a dream.
Wasn't this what I had so much been afraid of?
Waking up and realizing it had all been a dream. Nothing but a dream. The deaths, the accidents the losses. All of them, nothing but a dream.
Gasping, I opened my eyes again. It was a dream. Who in the hell would dream about having a dream you never dreamed to have? Once again I had proven myself original.
I sat up on my bed and wiped away the few droplets of sweat from my forehead. I made a mental note not to think about such disturbing things as dreaming of it all having been a dream. Or something. Now I had confused myself.
I sighed, it had become a habit, and tried to sleep again. Obviously the dream had been a little bit to disturbing and my subconscious was telling me to keep from dozing off again. I tried to distract it in many ways; by thinking the dream hadn't been so bad after all, for example.
My mind was not easily fooled and perhaps I should have known it myself.
Only to come up with something else instead of sleeping - I didn't like sleeping that much, after all - I dug up my loyal writing block and looked for my pen from under the bed where it had most likely disappeared to after I had wiped it away last night. I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me and tried to catch the inspiration I knew was lurking somewhere behind the corner.
The inspiration wasn't stupid either. It refused to come out and I could almost hear it laughing at me from its well-hidden location. It was surprisingly difficult trying to glare death to something that's not visible.
I rolled the pen in my hands, glanced out of the window every now and then and sighed meaningfully, only to hint the inspiration that I needed it. And soon, please. 'The question for inspiration is uttered but never understood', I thought to myself and wrote the words down to the paper.
Soon I had scribbled a not-so-very-good rambling about how inspiration was being bitchy when it refused to appear and how it was difficult to write about something you had never known.
The last thought made me remember the request my idiotic, blonde teammate had given me and to beat myself for promising to fulfill it. I simply didn't write romantic sap. It wasn't my style and would never be. I couldn't write a proper Shakespearean sonnet no matter what.
I tried to sketch a love-mush of some sort in my head, only to find myself failing miserably. Then I decided just to take the pen and start scratching. Something would always appear, it had been proven. I had proven it. Anything could be written anytime, anywhere if you didn't care about the quality.
This time it didn't work. After staring at the paper and the pen for a moment longer I decided it was their fault that I couldn't write properly tonight. They were obviously the wrong sort.
It should have been easy. All I had to do was to think how Yoji would think. That would have to be as twisted as possible but also disgustingly flirty. Sweet nothings here and there, praises of the beauty of the one who was supposed to receive the poem written by 'Yoji' and some random ranting about other necessities the amore poems held inside them. I had read enough to know.
'Roses are red, violets are blue, sorry, but this is the best I can do', I wrote quickly in huge Western characters that I hoped Yoji wouldn't be able to read. Inside my mind I was creating a funny little play of what would happen if Yoji, unable to read the text I had given him, only gave the paper to his date who could read it. The mental image of furious Yoji coming to me, seeking for quick and painful revenge was very amusing.
Then again, Yoji could read Western letters, everybody could, and even if he would come seeking for revenge I had my precious katana, and I knew how to use it.
~
I woke up for the third time in a sitting position, the pen and the writing block still in my grasp. I had obviously fallen asleep during some of my ponderous moments and continued the finally achieved rest for the whole night.
The strange thing was, that it had been the rays of the sun that had woken me up instead of my regular alarm clock and that could only mean for one thing. I had slept late.
Rubbing my forehead and yawning very un-me likely I turned my eyes to the clock on my table. Damn it and damn me. It was three hours past my usual six-o-clock wake up and the cursed alarm clock hadn't bothered to wake me up. I gave it the glare of painful death I had attempted to use on the inspiration sometime in the early/late morning.
As if the waking up late and in a sitting position that had caused my entire spine to shrink in to a painful pile of bone, I had to see a grinning, very awake looking Yoji standing in my doorway. Apparently he was being very happy about, for once, being up before me.
"Morning. Omi thinks you're sick so don't be surprised if he'll bring you soup," he told me.
I only scowled at him as a reply trying to get my spine back in to shape by stretching my arms and back. As I noticed he was still standing in the doorway, leaning to the doorframe, I stopped.
"I haven't written anything yet," I told him hoping to make him leave.
"Yes you have. 'How to speak of something you don't know? How to speak of love?' Except that it had nothing to do with the poem you promised to write," he informed me. The fact that he had obviously snatched my writing block from me without me knowing it, read the random rambling and then returned the block to me was very disturbing.
"And by the way, if I tell her that the best I can do is the good old 'roses are red, violets are blue', she'll most likely eat me alive."
"Wouldn't you like that," I mumbled under my breath and moved my writing equipment away. I heard him snort and - from the corner of my eye - saw him shaking his head. I wanted to ask why, but I had decided to get him leave and starting up a conversation was not a good way to do that.
We both heard footsteps coming towards my door and turned to see it was Omi, just as Yoji had predicted, bringing me soup. He had a sincere look of concern on his face as he asked me if I was feeling well.
"I only slept late," I told him. His face fell a little, as a sign of disappointment for making me soup in vain.
"I can eat it, Omi, it's not a problem," I promised.
"No, you don't have to. It was silly of me to be so concerned," he said and was already turning away to leave.
"Give the soup here and stop pouting," I commanded and managed to get the soup. I thanked the kid who was seemingly relieved that his cooking was wanted.
As soon as his footsteps had faded I put the bowl on my desk and stretched my back a little more. It made a nasty cracking sound and for a moment I was sure it had snapped. Since I still was able to stand I figured it hadn't.
Quickly glancing sidewards I saw Yoji was still standing in the doorway.
"Do you have superglue in your shoes and elbow?" I asked managing to sound very sarcastic.
"Yeah, someone had put some in them last night," he replied with his familiar disgustingly smug grin. I suddenly had a great urge to throw him with something. With a katana perhaps. He was easier to hit than helicopters, anyway.
"Let's make this clear: you leave the room and get to work and I'll come down too as fast as I can, and once the working hours have finished, I'll start with that stupid poem of yours."
This time Yoji did leave.
I sighed, for at least the twelfth time during the past 20 hours and hit myself with my writing block.
~*~TBC~*~
That 'How to speak of something you don't know? How to speak of love?' thing is from a poem written by ME and therefore I will bite anyone who steals those lines. Like anyone would feel like stealing it…^^
The next chapter will be up someday, and will probably be Yoji POV. If I can find a way to write him right, that is.
And you know what motivates me. *wink wink* (just in case you –don't- know, it's the reviews)
I wrote this chapter in a train with a laptop I managed to crash and so made the whole goddamned text disappear in to nothingness. This version here is the re-written one, and if I remember correctly, it's not as good as the original was. Damn... Life is a real bitch sometimes. But you get used to it.
Okay, on with the damn thing.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chapter 2 : Inspiration
I woke up, breathing heavily and only one thought running in my head: 'Please, don't let it be the way I'm afraid it is.' Slowly I opened my eyes and looked around. Very carefully. Sadly, it was exactly how I had feared it would be; I was a kid.
Dream.
It had all been nothing but a dream.
Wasn't this what I had so much been afraid of?
Waking up and realizing it had all been a dream. Nothing but a dream. The deaths, the accidents the losses. All of them, nothing but a dream.
Gasping, I opened my eyes again. It was a dream. Who in the hell would dream about having a dream you never dreamed to have? Once again I had proven myself original.
I sat up on my bed and wiped away the few droplets of sweat from my forehead. I made a mental note not to think about such disturbing things as dreaming of it all having been a dream. Or something. Now I had confused myself.
I sighed, it had become a habit, and tried to sleep again. Obviously the dream had been a little bit to disturbing and my subconscious was telling me to keep from dozing off again. I tried to distract it in many ways; by thinking the dream hadn't been so bad after all, for example.
My mind was not easily fooled and perhaps I should have known it myself.
Only to come up with something else instead of sleeping - I didn't like sleeping that much, after all - I dug up my loyal writing block and looked for my pen from under the bed where it had most likely disappeared to after I had wiped it away last night. I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me and tried to catch the inspiration I knew was lurking somewhere behind the corner.
The inspiration wasn't stupid either. It refused to come out and I could almost hear it laughing at me from its well-hidden location. It was surprisingly difficult trying to glare death to something that's not visible.
I rolled the pen in my hands, glanced out of the window every now and then and sighed meaningfully, only to hint the inspiration that I needed it. And soon, please. 'The question for inspiration is uttered but never understood', I thought to myself and wrote the words down to the paper.
Soon I had scribbled a not-so-very-good rambling about how inspiration was being bitchy when it refused to appear and how it was difficult to write about something you had never known.
The last thought made me remember the request my idiotic, blonde teammate had given me and to beat myself for promising to fulfill it. I simply didn't write romantic sap. It wasn't my style and would never be. I couldn't write a proper Shakespearean sonnet no matter what.
I tried to sketch a love-mush of some sort in my head, only to find myself failing miserably. Then I decided just to take the pen and start scratching. Something would always appear, it had been proven. I had proven it. Anything could be written anytime, anywhere if you didn't care about the quality.
This time it didn't work. After staring at the paper and the pen for a moment longer I decided it was their fault that I couldn't write properly tonight. They were obviously the wrong sort.
It should have been easy. All I had to do was to think how Yoji would think. That would have to be as twisted as possible but also disgustingly flirty. Sweet nothings here and there, praises of the beauty of the one who was supposed to receive the poem written by 'Yoji' and some random ranting about other necessities the amore poems held inside them. I had read enough to know.
'Roses are red, violets are blue, sorry, but this is the best I can do', I wrote quickly in huge Western characters that I hoped Yoji wouldn't be able to read. Inside my mind I was creating a funny little play of what would happen if Yoji, unable to read the text I had given him, only gave the paper to his date who could read it. The mental image of furious Yoji coming to me, seeking for quick and painful revenge was very amusing.
Then again, Yoji could read Western letters, everybody could, and even if he would come seeking for revenge I had my precious katana, and I knew how to use it.
~
I woke up for the third time in a sitting position, the pen and the writing block still in my grasp. I had obviously fallen asleep during some of my ponderous moments and continued the finally achieved rest for the whole night.
The strange thing was, that it had been the rays of the sun that had woken me up instead of my regular alarm clock and that could only mean for one thing. I had slept late.
Rubbing my forehead and yawning very un-me likely I turned my eyes to the clock on my table. Damn it and damn me. It was three hours past my usual six-o-clock wake up and the cursed alarm clock hadn't bothered to wake me up. I gave it the glare of painful death I had attempted to use on the inspiration sometime in the early/late morning.
As if the waking up late and in a sitting position that had caused my entire spine to shrink in to a painful pile of bone, I had to see a grinning, very awake looking Yoji standing in my doorway. Apparently he was being very happy about, for once, being up before me.
"Morning. Omi thinks you're sick so don't be surprised if he'll bring you soup," he told me.
I only scowled at him as a reply trying to get my spine back in to shape by stretching my arms and back. As I noticed he was still standing in the doorway, leaning to the doorframe, I stopped.
"I haven't written anything yet," I told him hoping to make him leave.
"Yes you have. 'How to speak of something you don't know? How to speak of love?' Except that it had nothing to do with the poem you promised to write," he informed me. The fact that he had obviously snatched my writing block from me without me knowing it, read the random rambling and then returned the block to me was very disturbing.
"And by the way, if I tell her that the best I can do is the good old 'roses are red, violets are blue', she'll most likely eat me alive."
"Wouldn't you like that," I mumbled under my breath and moved my writing equipment away. I heard him snort and - from the corner of my eye - saw him shaking his head. I wanted to ask why, but I had decided to get him leave and starting up a conversation was not a good way to do that.
We both heard footsteps coming towards my door and turned to see it was Omi, just as Yoji had predicted, bringing me soup. He had a sincere look of concern on his face as he asked me if I was feeling well.
"I only slept late," I told him. His face fell a little, as a sign of disappointment for making me soup in vain.
"I can eat it, Omi, it's not a problem," I promised.
"No, you don't have to. It was silly of me to be so concerned," he said and was already turning away to leave.
"Give the soup here and stop pouting," I commanded and managed to get the soup. I thanked the kid who was seemingly relieved that his cooking was wanted.
As soon as his footsteps had faded I put the bowl on my desk and stretched my back a little more. It made a nasty cracking sound and for a moment I was sure it had snapped. Since I still was able to stand I figured it hadn't.
Quickly glancing sidewards I saw Yoji was still standing in the doorway.
"Do you have superglue in your shoes and elbow?" I asked managing to sound very sarcastic.
"Yeah, someone had put some in them last night," he replied with his familiar disgustingly smug grin. I suddenly had a great urge to throw him with something. With a katana perhaps. He was easier to hit than helicopters, anyway.
"Let's make this clear: you leave the room and get to work and I'll come down too as fast as I can, and once the working hours have finished, I'll start with that stupid poem of yours."
This time Yoji did leave.
I sighed, for at least the twelfth time during the past 20 hours and hit myself with my writing block.
~*~TBC~*~
That 'How to speak of something you don't know? How to speak of love?' thing is from a poem written by ME and therefore I will bite anyone who steals those lines. Like anyone would feel like stealing it…^^
The next chapter will be up someday, and will probably be Yoji POV. If I can find a way to write him right, that is.
And you know what motivates me. *wink wink* (just in case you –don't- know, it's the reviews)