A/N: didn't get much writing done ^^' but at least I'm almost finished Kingdom Hearts (Riku... ;__;). Oh, Sakura Scout, you are right, that is almost exactly the same thing I had planned for Tomoyo-chan, though a bit more involvement from her mother. Oh, and Danse Macabre means 'horrible/ terrifying dance.'
Ryrahd: Aa. Gomen nasai! I know, I know, I should have updated sooner but I've run into some problems.
Ruesar: Don't believe her! She'd been bugging me about my love life for the past several days!
Ry: I have not! *Stuffs a sock down Rue's throat* *cough* I have NOT been bugging poor, cute little boys about their... *cough* love lives. Seriously, I did have conflicts *ducks head* Dun kill me!
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Chapter 6: Intermezzo
Intermezzo: n, short piece of music, esp. one performed between acts of an opera.
Tomoyo sighed pensively, clasping her hands on her lap. What had she been thinking? Stunts like that were too dangerous, too risky, in her opinion. What if things went out of hand? What would she do then? And the young man, what would happen to him? The raven-haired girl shook her head to dissolve the path her thoughts tread.
Tomoyo had seen him two night's prior, standing awkwardly off to the side, seemingly wanting to shrink in his Pierrot smock. He appeared so childlike, so naïve and innocent in the white robe, she almost mistook him for a fairytale creature, a pantomime character on a run from his playhouse. He stood out among the crowd like a speck of light beset by darkness, inexperienced and unfamiliar with the rules of Carnivàl. Clearly, he was not from her world – one of illusion and frightening mystique – and that knowledge attracted her. She knew that such thoughts were forbidden – she'd been drilled this since she was a child – but still, she could not help but watch furtively, hiding behind her mask and sea of people.
And again last night, she'd seen him, equally inexperienced but no longer innocent looking in the very... intricate costume he was wearing. Against herself and everything she'd been taught, she blushed furiously at his alabaster-smooth abdomen, the porcelain mask harshly cold against her heated cheeks. She didn't know why, but the impulse to flee overcame her and so she ran, weaving through the mass of multicoloured bodies, not daring to turn back and see what happened to the boy – man – with skin resembling ivory and hair the same hue as the sky at midnight.
She was heading toward the gondola that was waiting for her, especially appointed by her mother for such purposes. Tomoyo breathed out a sigh of relief, glad to be rid of the stifling atmosphere, the pretence. Then she heard her name being called, and she ran faster afraid of whom the summoner might be. He – for the strides were too lengthy and agile to belong to a woman – chased her all the way to the pier. Only when she was safely nestled in the boat did Tomoyo allow herself to breathe again, to take a wondering peek at the pursuer. It was he: the young man that seemed so foreign these past two nights.
"I'll catch you one day, Miss Tomoyo! Promise me you'll wait!" She heard him call out into the darkness, and shivered involuntarily at the plea and vow in his voice.
No, such thoughts were not allowed. Not accepted. Fake, false, a lie, a broken promise and a prelude to despair. Tomoyo did not want to have this feeling – this uncertainty and hopefulness – gnaw on her ever again, because in the end, there was no escape and no one could help her.
With another sigh, she looked out her window and to the slightly brightening sky.
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Eriol stumbled through the morning Venetian streets, seemingly in a daze. Occasionally, he brought up a hand to brush at his fringe, almost peeling the hair from his sweat glistening forehead. He felt tired, though oddly rejuvenated. He could barely remember what he did the previous night, little fragments of colour and sound and laugher marring his mind. A headache was nagging at his in the back of his head, threatening him with a vile rebuke.
The atmosphere was surreal, he just a wanderer, a trespasser upon uncharted territory. Now that the streets were empty, everything that had happened seemed nothing more than a dream. Was it a dream? Did last night truly occur or did he dream it up, just as he was dreaming of right now? Was any of this real? Was he? How could he be sure?
The young lord muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck in hopes of clearing some of the dizziness away. No, the migraine that was now bludgeoning on him was real, so was the pain. The air slightly sweeping through his hair was also real. So, therefore, last night truly had occurred.
Eriol fought down a groan and the urge to bash his head open against some blunt object. How could he do something so ridiculous, so unlike him? 'Really, chasing after a lady at night as if I was some perverted dunce, calling out to her like a lunatic? I must be losing my wits,' he thought ruefully, with a slight shake of his head. 'Next I know, I'll be serenading her outside her window like a lovesick fool. And then, I might as well be sent to the local asylum, to at least spare myself some dignity.'
He sighed and glanced around him, bringing his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The houses looming around him did not seem familiar, but, rather, like ancient sentinels, rearing their cold fronts at him. 'I must have gotten lost on my way home last night. I didn't even realize where I was going, just following a path, letting my feet guide me. Nakuru and Syaoran must be worried.' He could just imagine his aunt nibbling on her poor nails, whining pathetically and clutching at Spinel's sleeve.
Eriol frowned, his brow furrowing. He hated making people worry; he didn't think he deserved the trouble, wasn't good enough. The brunette didn't like pity, either; he was afraid of what it said about his character, and if he were truthful with himself, what he would learn about himself if he accepted that pity. And still, he appreciated Nakuru and Syaoran's concern; it made him feel less visceral, more real.
Sometimes, after another meeting with his family members (who constantly bickered, mostly about his age and worth), he would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming silently. Sweat would trickle down his forehead and make the thin cotton shirt he wore to bed cling to his body. He always expected harsh sounds to come his way, to hear Her screams, and he would clutch at his hair and pretend he didn't hear anything, though the sounds were only in his head. And on other nights, when he was greeted only with silence, he would cry soundlessly so as not to wake anyone up. The noises that assailed his ears (be it screams or silence) would make him feel small, puny and alone, abandoned and lost. And so, he would cry himself to sleep, weeping but not shedding a tear. If there were people who cared about him, he didn't feel the press of loneliness like a cold hand upon him, not as intensely, more like a simpering something in the back of his mind.
With another sigh, Eriol walked on, subconsciously taking note of all he saw, in case he ever trod these paths again. Almost an hour later, when still-drowsy people were stumbling out of their houses and into the streets or balconies, he reached a familiar-looking corner store (where a portly salesman was arranging the tomatoes). Hopeful, Eriol picked up speed, though his feet ached terribly. Another corner and a winding alley later, he stepped in the reddened cobblestones that lead to his aunt's house.
He smiled slightly at the sight, oddly relieved. His aunt and home had always been synonymous with love and care, to him at least.
"Eriol!" The said young man heard a shrill voice exclaim, and though it was loud enough to damage his ears, he was grateful to hear it (perhaps for the first and only time in his life).
"Nakuru, I – "
"I've been worried sick about you!" The redhead nearly screamed, flinging herself at him. "Syaoran and I were looking everywhere for you after the party ended. We even went knocking on some people's doors! Do you know how it feels, Eriol?"She asked and he could hear the strained sob escape her throat; his heart clenched at the sound. "We thought you were abducted – b-because of your money – or dead somewhere in a dark, damp alley. We didn't know what to do! Oh, Eriol, don't you dare scare me like that ever again!"
Eriol fought down the urge to roll his eyes when Nakuru embraced him, her tears seeping through the Aladdin vest he still had on.
"Shh, Nakuru, shh. I understa –" he began, patting her head in a soothing fashion.
"No! You don't Eriol!" Nakuru cried out, looking up at him accusingly. The youth winced at the earnest tears in her eyes and tried to shrink in his costume. "You're like the son I never had, or the little brother I always wanted. And I don't want to see you hurt because it would hurt me, more than you can possibly imagine. I wouldn't be able to stand it if you were gone. Eriol, for my sake, if not for yours, stay safe."
Eriol swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodding.
"Now, come inside, Eriol-chan. It's too early to be out, and besides, we wouldn't want the neighbours to catch an eyeful with the outfit you're wearing," she muttered quickly after a while, wiping her tears in an offhand fashion.
"Hai, hai," the young man replied lightly following her inside the house. The awkward knot in his stomach refused to abate, despite his coaxing. A moment later, he asked, "Hey, Nakuru? Did you stay up all night waiting for me?"
His aunt glanced at him, grinning sheepishly. "Nah. I fell asleep almost immediately after we came home. I just wanted to wake up earlier to see the sunrise; there's nothing like sunrise in Venice after Carnival. The city looks as if it's gold."
"Yes," answered Eriol, "it does." And though he smiled faintly at the jest in her voice, he knew for a fact that Nakuru did not go to sleep; that became a bit obvious when you looked into her bloodshot and tired eyes.
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"I still don't think that you should have left the way you did," Syaoran stated coolly, scowling at the heat. "What if something had happened?"
"But it didn't," the other young lord said back, "and shouldn't that be enough? You're being too overprotective, is what I think —"
"I am not —"
"And I understand where you're coming from," Eriol continued, unmindful of the interruption. "But I'm not a child; I'm a big boy now, if you can't tell. And I can take care of myself."
Syaoran scowled into the profile of his friend, clenching his jaw to keep himself from firing a scathing retort.
The two were walking along the bazaar, their finely tailored coats hanging loosely off their shoulders, the top few buttons of their shirts open (despite their modesty) to escape the heat. At mid-afternoon, the sun was high in the sky, bathing the city in a wave of jolting heat. Nakuru kicked the two of them out of the stuffy house, saying that she had a ladies' exclusive – no men allowed – and that they needed more exploring before leaving for homeland.
And so, the two London-dwellers, walked through the streets, turning their heads this way and that, marvelling at all the products on displays and occasionally stopping in the shade of a tree (which was rare) to cool off.
"Why did you leave anyway?" Syaoran asked, brushing his hair away from his eyes.
Eriol shrugged, not wanting to admit his weakness but not willing to lie to his friend. "Something caught my eye," he compromised.
"And was she worthy of your eye?" Little Wolf asked, grinning slyly.
If Eriol was surprised, he hid it well, only the rising of his eyebrows an indication that he was startled. "More than that; she's worthy of my attention, of my thought and my heart, I fear," he answered.
Syaoran sighed. "Don't let the freedom get to you, Eriol, because in the end, you'll leave this place and her and your heart with her. And then you'll be hurt again. A heart – a lover's, dreamer's heart – is precious because it is the most fragile, the easiest to capture of them all. You cannot afford to lose it. No, not again."
"You're one to talk," Eriol snorted, puffing out his cheeks boyishly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Grinning, the raven-haired youth replied, "Oh, you're not fooling me Syao-chan, I've seen the way you acted yesterday night at the ball. All starry-eyed and smile-y, I thought you were possessed. And then you keep on murmuring her name when you think I don't hear. What was is? Saku –"
"No, don't! Don't finish that word!" Syaoran exclaimed, mortified at being found out.
"And why not? Are you afraid –" he teased light-heartedly.
"No, I'm not," the more taciturn of the two replied, seething. "And it's different with her."
"Oh? How so?"
Blushing, Syaoran looked down to the toes of his leather shoes. "She's kind and gentle and warm. She's like a breath of fresh air to a humid, stifling chamber. And like light, too. And oh so unattainable, untouchable." He blinked the dazedness away, the scowl returning. "Besides, I will never be foolish enough as to fall heedlessly in love."
Eriol smiled knowingly, like he usually did. Empathic, he was always able to tell what his friend was feeling or trying to say without actually saying anything. "Ah, but you forget the Golden Rule: when it comes to love, there is no never, no foolishness or heedlessness. Love is the one single most powerful emotion on this planet. It surpasses everything you can fathom and everything you cannot. When the time comes, you'll fall in love, too, willingly or not. And when the chance arrives, you have to go after it, seize it."
Syaoran just sighed and shook his head, exasperated. Clearly, there was no stopping his friend, especially not when he thought he was right.
"You're being overly dramatic, Eriol. And though poetry is nice, there is no room for it in real life," he muttered under his breath.
The sun was beginning to set when the two, hands laden with souvenirs, started for home. They took a different route this time, deciding to go through the quieter section of the town. Gradually, the housing complexes gave way to more grand, statuesque edifices, similar to Nakuru's mansion. Syaoran was walking in front, his long, purposeful strides seeming too strict to the other youth. Eriol could tell that the chestnut-haired lord was deep in thought, perhaps over what he mentioned, about love and that girl.
Abruptly, Eriol froze in place, eyes darting around the beautiful buildings, searching. Something he couldn't quite place a finger on had mad him stop. That same force tugged on his stomach muscles, made him turn to his right to face a slate-coloured mansion. Unwittingly, he moved over to the black iron fence, looking up at the Gothic-style windows. The wind picked up speed around him, making his hair and loose fabric of his shirt dance along with the dust that settled over the ground. The swish of it around his body sounded oddly like a whisper, a call or prayer – to him, maybe. Eriol squinted his eyes against the setting sun, and at that moment caught a wraith-like figure looking through the third floor window down at him.
For that instance, when he thought their eyes met, his breath stilled in his lungs, his heart nearly stopped its steady rhythm and his blinking slowed down until he couldn't close his eyes, only watch the phantasm-like figure. Time stilled for him, too, until there was nothing in his universe but her. Tomoyo...
"Eriol! Have you decided to become a lamppost all of a sudden? Hurry up!"
Syaoran's harsh voice broke the moment, and when he blinked again, the heavenly apparition was gone.
"Are you coming home today or not?"
Finding his voice, Eriol replied shakily, "Yeah.. I-I'm coming.. Just thought I dropped something." With that, he gave another glance to the house and the window, hoping to catch the illusion again, and followed his best friend.
"Hey, Eriol?" Syaoran said after a long while of silence, during which the mentioned lord kept on replaying the dream-like scenario. "What you said about love...? I don't think that love is a worthy enough excuse for you to pursue an obsession."
(tbc)
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I don't want to make Eriol seem like a wussy, but believe me, he has a good reason to cry himself to sleep at night. So, obviously, this story will have angst, but not too much.
