AN: This is my first FY fic. Just know that and don't be too cynical about it. And, people, I do not own the characters. Just my own ideas. So don't sue me, please.
We are cups,
constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves
over and let the beautiful stuff out.
--Ray Bradbury
When she thinks about it now, she doesn't know why she didn't notice it before; the differences in their hands; it was all brought from their hands; the scroll, the shinzaho, the blood.
Chiriko; his hands were innocent; they were pudgy and un-molded; no scars of life had crossed his world of words or his hands.
Misukake; his hands were big; they were in proportion to his broad shoulders, shoulders that Shoka must have loved burying her face in; there were no scars, only his character; his character that had been a blessing and a curse: his love and his loss –Alpha and Omega-; yet they were smooth, calming; he was as soft spoken as his hands felt.
Chichiri; his hands were wiry; his life had crushed his sprit to the thinness of his hands; the mask had covered him, given him the emotional veil he needed from the outside world, the big fluffy winter coat warming and covering his emptiness.
Tauski; his hands were burnt, scars caused by flames the color of his explosive hair; they were young hands, hands molded by too much in a relatively short life, but they were chiseled into young planes; he was strong, but full of layers of deception, his outer macho-ness being belied by the thinness of his hands.
Hotohori; his hands were strong, too strong for her pudgy mitts; they were as gentle and steady moving as he was in life; they were perfectly formed, as had been his character by no experience and high morals; the veins stuck out deliberately, just as his sword; they were unscarred, he had never touched life she sighs to think; he was all goodness and narcissism on sakura petals; he was a strong pillar, just as his hands were.
Nuriko; his –hers?- hands were beautiful, as he –she?- was; they were unbelievably strong, retaining the masculinity, but still had the gentleness and the softness of a woman's hands; the scars never stayed on Nuriko's hands, they faded as pessimism in Nuriko's world; his-or her?- hands protected her, saved her, as only a true friend could.
Tamahome; his hands fit perfectly in hers; they were hands that were meant to be intertwined with her own; he was her lover, her justification, her need, her chocolate; his hands were not perfect, not thin nor thick, but they held curves in places where hers did not, and the curves of flesh on her palms fit in place on his; they were kind, but scarred, gentle, but pushing; they had a power in her hand as melting as a flame; she will dissolve into him and let his hand go on the way, their palms sticking together.
She looks at their hands in the picture, all crinkled in fun as the edges of their mouths in smiles, in fun; she wonders what happened along their road, where the divulgences were, where they went down their different forks. In the end all she was left with was the feel of their hands, and what those hands had done in the short time all their paths crossed. She wanted a happy ending, but this is real life isn't it?
She thinks now she can change. Change from the little glutton with the fat hands and wacky smile, into who she always wanted to be: beautiful, smart, with well shaped hands, and a demure, intriguing smile.
It is because of them. And their hands.
AN: Ignore my funky uses of the semi-colon, and any wrong descriptions of their hands (I didn't have a manga on hand while doing this). Sorry if it is kinda boring. Thanks for reading thus far, and please take the time to pop me a review and make my day. (It's my birthday this Thursday, so it would be a great birthday present. ;)