Continuity: Pre-series.
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Wept
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I hate him. All of them; I hate the baby for being loved more than me just because Ren is a boy (even if I know I love him, too), I hate Shuu for not liking me, and most of all I hate my Lee for not feeling sympathy, empathy, anything. I cry in the cold sanctity of my room, feeling ratty and ugly as though I'm a crumb buried in the dirt; and he sits, tall and strong and perfect, feeling nothing, staring blank with his face in shadows.
He never feels anything when I cry; he follows and sits, watches and waits, patient in his numbness, perfect in his silence until I need someone to commiserate with me. This unconscious expectation of conversation is a simple conclusion: he is my present, mine, and the closest thing to a friend I have. There is no threat in weeping before him or telling him the truth of my adolescent feelings, how I adored Shuu and envy Ren. It is only bitter when I remember he cannot reply.
I wonder, only for a moment, what might happen if I peeled the scroll from his forehead. Would he cease, then, like I fear? (I don't want to lose my only friend, even if he is dead, silent; how can I go on alone with my oppressing family, with expectations and rigors for feminine perfection?)
Or would my Lee Pyron be free to speak to me? Would he look at me and know what to say, as he did in the movies that fascinate me? (I want to know what he was like when he lived; he was strong and brave, with such kind eyes, hidden by the scroll.) I need companionship and the urge is so strong, just to try once to see if my Lee is as perfect a friend as I want him to be.
"You're worthless," I say instead, scrubbing angrily at the tear streaks on my face. I am nine; I am far too mature now to weep like an infant in my bedroom before a corpse I am master of. "What good is a servant who can't even answer a question?" I stare at him, my Lee, and curl my fingers into my palm just to stop the irrational itching to pluck the scroll from his lifeless skin.
Would he live, if I freed him?
Shaking my head sharply, I tug my hair back from my face, scooting my hands down the folds of my thin robe and glancing at him. There is a glimmer, very faint, in the shadows of his face, and I disregard it. No point in expecting that which is impossible; I know none can revive that which is truly dead, that which is a puppet.
I still wish he would speak to me.
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Notes: Uh, right, I wrote another vignette. Yup. Well, it was this or my Hao/Jeanne smutfic, and I doubt you wanna see that.
Feedback: Please kindly inform me I need to get off my lazy butt and write a decent one-shot.
Disclaimer: Jun, Lee, Ren, and the whole Tao family belong to Takei Hiroyuki. I own Shuu. Tremendously breathtaking, that.
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Wept
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I hate him. All of them; I hate the baby for being loved more than me just because Ren is a boy (even if I know I love him, too), I hate Shuu for not liking me, and most of all I hate my Lee for not feeling sympathy, empathy, anything. I cry in the cold sanctity of my room, feeling ratty and ugly as though I'm a crumb buried in the dirt; and he sits, tall and strong and perfect, feeling nothing, staring blank with his face in shadows.
He never feels anything when I cry; he follows and sits, watches and waits, patient in his numbness, perfect in his silence until I need someone to commiserate with me. This unconscious expectation of conversation is a simple conclusion: he is my present, mine, and the closest thing to a friend I have. There is no threat in weeping before him or telling him the truth of my adolescent feelings, how I adored Shuu and envy Ren. It is only bitter when I remember he cannot reply.
I wonder, only for a moment, what might happen if I peeled the scroll from his forehead. Would he cease, then, like I fear? (I don't want to lose my only friend, even if he is dead, silent; how can I go on alone with my oppressing family, with expectations and rigors for feminine perfection?)
Or would my Lee Pyron be free to speak to me? Would he look at me and know what to say, as he did in the movies that fascinate me? (I want to know what he was like when he lived; he was strong and brave, with such kind eyes, hidden by the scroll.) I need companionship and the urge is so strong, just to try once to see if my Lee is as perfect a friend as I want him to be.
"You're worthless," I say instead, scrubbing angrily at the tear streaks on my face. I am nine; I am far too mature now to weep like an infant in my bedroom before a corpse I am master of. "What good is a servant who can't even answer a question?" I stare at him, my Lee, and curl my fingers into my palm just to stop the irrational itching to pluck the scroll from his lifeless skin.
Would he live, if I freed him?
Shaking my head sharply, I tug my hair back from my face, scooting my hands down the folds of my thin robe and glancing at him. There is a glimmer, very faint, in the shadows of his face, and I disregard it. No point in expecting that which is impossible; I know none can revive that which is truly dead, that which is a puppet.
I still wish he would speak to me.
--
-
Notes: Uh, right, I wrote another vignette. Yup. Well, it was this or my Hao/Jeanne smutfic, and I doubt you wanna see that.
Feedback: Please kindly inform me I need to get off my lazy butt and write a decent one-shot.
Disclaimer: Jun, Lee, Ren, and the whole Tao family belong to Takei Hiroyuki. I own Shuu. Tremendously breathtaking, that.
