Yugioh does not belong to me, or any rights to it. This is strictly non-profit. Yaoi.
Dreaming PerspectiveYou asked for a protector; you begged and wished so sadly I had no choice but to stay and grant you're wish. You wanted to be protected from anything that would stain your pure heart, even if you didn't know it. You told me so pleadingly of your pain it hurt my heart to see you cry. You wanted a savior so badly from the evil surrounding you; you never guessed I might be both.
"He asked me, and I came, he told me what he wanted, and I gave him double. He accepted it, and I was grateful. But he shouldn't have thanked me so soon, he shouldn't have welcomed me so gladly."
There's a man sitting cross-legged near a grey window. He sits, he looks, and he muses. And he's content. But he won't always be.
The man looks through the window out into their small town, it's small, perhaps, too the people passing unconcerned through, but to him, it's a puzzling mystery. He's proud, almost aloof, but dazzled by electric lights, not by the hard glare of sunlight, an odd person who is disgusted and confused by the smell of new leather and white shiny plastic and the tang of rusty metal, but prefers instead to stand aside and inspect crystal bottles containing amber liquids and rich light scented puffs of almost invisible droplets, because they remind him of kohl smeared eyes and thin linen and smooth marble. He doesn't understand these people, who are content to live their lives surrounded by marvelous speaking metal beasts, even if they truly aren't alive. He doesn't understand the children, who are artless and yet scheming and petty, and he thinks, like my advisors, but then he remembers they aren't there anymore, and despite how low and cruel they were they simply aren't there anymore. And nothing in the world will ever change that. There is no force that can bring back the dead, except perhaps the shadows, and only at the cost of the loser. Its not really as if he would bring them back, they weren't important, he muses, but its just a thought. He doesn't have many of that kind of thoughts anymore.
"Yes?"
Would you miss me if I were gone? Would you weep for me? Would you be happy, eventually when you realized you don't need me? Please answer, I don't want…
"Is something wrong?"
Perhaps.
" Do you want to talk about it?"
No. I'm sorry.
"For what?"
Everything. Not telling you.
"It's okay, really. You can talk to me about everything, right?"
Yes. How could I, when my dreams are sullied with blood and angst and flashes of memory, and I wake up, and imagine I can still see the screams and anguished writhes of my former victims in my mind, and I can still see the little friends you care so much about among them, and you?
"Yes."
'You asked me, an odd question one ordinary innocent day, and I answered. You know me so much better than anyone else, you who was so great, and is so bright sometimes I want to shield my eyes and keep you simply locked away, and not share your brilliant light with others, you who can break a man with a few words, asked me a question that I did not know the answer to. It was so terribly confusing, I could almost hate, you, except I could not, would not ever do that, simply did not posses the strength to deny, even if I wanted to see if for just one moment I could dim the radiance of your light. It was a simple question, a simple answer. One that I knew before, hadn't I puzzled over it for so long? I am nothing but a simple boy, who does not understand what the shining creature beside him says, often, but you still smile at me. Only at me. Why? Could you not merely walk away?
I answered your simple question with a feeble effort, but I smiled at you in return. Wasn't that enough? But you didn't answer, so perhaps I was mistaken. Please, my radiant companion, don't turn away. Even if I have to run as fast as my short legs will carry me, I will stay by you. Even if I don't understand what your questions entail I will answer them. You asked me, Will you miss me? and I should have said, I love you.
The boy sits on his seat, idly thinking. He looks out to a world he doesn't really understand. The loud clash of perfumes, scents, noises, and the bright blue and pink of the school uniform overflows the cafeteria. It's his free block, but it's far more pleasant to dream, he thinks, gathering his books. He's an odd boy, who prefers to stand aside and play at his childish games, because they're special, precious to him, even if they can only be a shield against what he fears for so long. The playing, he thinks, is juvenile of him, but its special, he explains in his gentle way, because the bright colors and wild monsters can detract from the present; he's content to live in a dream, to sleep forever in a never-ending sleep, to fall deeply and not surface. But he can't, because that's his wish, not his peaceful serenity. He wonders why he wants that, but it somehow doesn't seem important anymore. He looks like a child, an elaborate porcelain doll, every delicate fingertip and fine hair perfect, exquisitely preserved. He feels tired and almost jaded, sick of being kept like a showpiece. He looses himself in his games, and when he awakes he is once more drawn on to encourage, to cheer, to aid, and belatedly, he realizes it will never end. Perhaps he wants it to. Perhaps he wants a special someone to look at him, to smile because they answered his question. He treasures the thought, knowing it is the only method of his desire. He wants…
" ….I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what will happen. Our friends are hurt, and…I can't STAND IT ANYMORE!"
I'm worried too. I don't want these bad things to happen anymore either.
"Do you think we'll be able to win? To save our friends?" I'm scared. So scared…I don't want to lose everything. I don't want to lose my everything.
Yes. If we have faith, everything will turn out fine.
"I guess so." Will you make it fine because it's you? Are you truly a golden statue, or can youbreak as well?
Have faith. Please.
"That's right. We just need to have faith…" I hope…
How odd. How truly odd that I, the powerful and famous legend, should feel guilty over such a small thing. I'm sure his mother said the same to him many times, to reassure, to hope that his blind faith in her would be enough motivation, a heartfelt prayer from the both of them. After all, that's what all mothers do, don't they? Lie. Tell their children that everything is fine, that their special person/animal is happy, and safe, and loved… tell them that everything will turn out fine when it won't, it may never. Do they feel this, a lingering regret, a soft sadness that pricks the heart? Or are they merely perturbed that they may no longer hold fast to the mantra, I never lied to you? I hope it was the latter. I hope so with all my being. Please, believe me when I say that I am truly sorry; and will hold back the feeble excuses that I know, unconditionally and unadulterated are unreturned. I hope that you are disappointed in me, and I cannot look in your eyes when guilt wracks me. Believe me when I turn away coldly or, even worse, more unforgivable, stay silently by your side. Remotely. I have ruined, warped, innocence, and for that I deserve to bleed, torn by the very gods I sought to favor. My soul is soiled, my sandals trampling on the righteous man, the widow, the orphan, and the very thresholds of the gods themselves. Punish me, I am impure! I am impure!
Please, dearheart, let me be the only disappointment in your life. Let me hold the post of the worse and meanest villain, let me be the one that wounded your heart. You are so fragile, so oddly delicate, unbearably strong. I don't understand you anymore than I understand myself.
I'm so confused, but that simply isn't enough, just to make me alive. Am I alive? Some would differ. You would assure me, happily, laughingly, unbearably beautiful that I am, you would tell me that so seriously and sweetly I would have no choice but to agree. If I were not anything but living, would I not feel this guilt?
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
It's a beautiful day; it's a wonderful morning. The café has never been more busy, the people more exuberantly happy and naive. The two boys/men/children, are almost somber though, ignoring the bustle around them. It's cute, really, to see them avoid each other's glances, to attempt to normally acknowledge the mechanical greetings. The apparent younger of the two studies the scarlet geraniums potted nearby as if they held innumerable secrets in their velvety depths. The other crosses his legs arrogantly in a familiar long practiced gesture, too shy to meet his companion's eyes. He toys idly with a glass, studying the amber flecks of golden light that bounce off its polished surface. He would seem to be unhappy, but how could he be? The boy sitting next to him looks down shyly, almost angrily. He wants to say something but he doesn't, merely content with studying the other's profile. For now.
The other man knows there are choked words in the boy's throat, he feels the weight and heat of the other's gaze burning, but he ignores it. That's what he tells himself. But that's not why he doesn't talk, so it isn't really true.
His delicate companion speaks up first. He starts to hear words, and quickly jerks his head to examine the fine features, but the boy is busy looking into the pale clouds, gazing at the porcelain blue sky, as if to purposefully avoid the other's gaze. He speaks idly, turning sideways in the wrought iron chair, plucking the red dyed petals of a blossom with slender hands. He's determined now. Not many people observing him note the strength in his voice, or the iron in his posture, like a tightly coiled steel spring, and misjudge him, going on in their meaningless lives. The other watches him carefully, giving him his full attention, the epitome of politeness and respect. He sees that, and hates it.
"I need." Fragile, lightly curled petals drift in harsh shreds to the pavement, tramped by passerbyers.
What do you need? Quiet. Almost wistful, he doesn't lift his bowed head.
The sky turns eggshell grey, focusing its nest of turbulent clouds on them, a shadow of iron lacework barely visible from under a striped canvas awning.
"Food. Oxygen. A home. My friends. Sleep, I suppose. To be needed."
You are. Still studying the cobblestones underfoot, he doesn't look up; uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn't see the glaze of disappointment shadow the other's eyes, nor hear the harsh breaths so synonymous with his own. Neither of them is focused on the sky now, intent on finishing this conversation.
He steels himself to answer, to keep talking, feeling the urge to babble already pressing in on him. The first raindrop splatters sown, he studies the dark silhouette that sinks deep into the ground. A ladybug catches his attention, scuttling frantically for shelter underneath the curved underside of a green edge.
One heartbeat. Two. I'm afraid, he says angrily, directing the comment at himself. I don't want to lose.
A pause. More raindrops scatter down, shook free from the awning. They have a gentle rhythm now, as the storm escalates.
"You know, that may be the vainest thing you've ever said."
Perhaps, he agrees, a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. Nobody's perfect.
His companion smiles radiantly at him, tugging insistently at his hand as they dive for more secure cover, both of them faintly soaked from windblown raindrops. He feels a curious sense of loss, standing and dripping foolishly on the welcome mat, but he's not alone. Water drips from the edges of their hair, he shakes his head, suddenly doglike, shrugging droplets into every corner of the faintly lit room. He looks at the other, a trifle ashamed of himself, regretfully nostalgic and gently shy. The boy still holding his hand presses a warm open mouthed fleeting kiss on his wet mouth, standing on tiptoes. He still doesn't let the small hand go, and he's fairly sure he isn't unhappy and guilty anymore. Rainy days are very good for being sad, but they can be equally good for warm, idle dreaming.
Owari
Please respond, a simple hi will do. I do want people to actually read this.
Orahiko
