I do not own FLCL.
This just screamed FLCL. I don't like Haruko/Naota, but I like Mamimi/Haruko/Naota. Go figure.
Apparently FF dot net had a falling out with itself. Seems I missed it. Damn, all the hits have restarted! –nibbles on FF dot net-
Sorry for lack of updates FF-wise. Here's the thing. A) Once again, I don't have internet access of my laptop, which is where all my ficcage is. I'm writing some things on this comp, but most of the chaptered stuff is on there. I'm writing (kinda?) but it may not be up for a while. Time shall tell. B) I post most of my non-chaptered things on LJ. I think I may spam my FF account with some things today, though.
WORKS OF ART
challenge: An electric Michelangelo
She strummed her bass, and then he'd wake up, sweating and cold. His blanket had fallen down onto the floor again.
He'd just lay there for a little bit, almost relishing the cold goosebumps on his exposed skin. He almost wished she was back here, just so that he'd stop dreaming about it. Just so that she would be there and he'd be able to punch her in the face.
Mamimi was always telling him to stop thinking about it. After all, that part of his life was over. He wasn't a little boy anymore, clinging to some blurred memory of pink hair and the sound of a motorcycle.
Yet, he never could. He'd fall asleep fearing the return of the dream.
Still, he ached for it.
It was a part of her, after all. Better than nothing. Better than forgetting. Better than cold.
Hey, kid she called, and he looked up. Was he doing homework, eating food, reading a magazine? He didn't remember. Maybe it wasn't even a memory, just a fond picture his imagination had created.
Don't you wish life were like a work of art? He'd only raise his eyebrows at her, partially amused despite himself. Mostly annoyed.
Don't be stupid. Life isn't pretty or anything. It just is. He felt intelligent, like he was the teacher, and she was the innocent student.
I'm not being stupid she answered simply, and curled her hand around the neck of her bass, swinging it around so that the strap fell over her head and neatly onto her shoulder. Why can't life be pretty?
He looked at her, his glance full of you're stupid and shut up, you know I'm too young to be thinking this deep. On the outside, though, he said It just isn't. It hurts. Like if you pinch yourself all the time.
It doesn't have to be, Takkun. Then she's wrapping her arms around his neck, and he can feel the bass between them, against his back, those strings moving against him. Like when you laugh, that's pretty. When Mamimi blushes, that's pretty. When I play while she holds your hand, that's pretty. When you look away when I kiss Mamimi, that's pretty.
He found himself turning red, her voice too close for comfort, and those memories too close to the surface.
Pretty like what? he shot back angrily. I'm a liquid Goya, she's a cracked Dali, and you're an electric Michelangelo? A good bunch of whacko works of art.
She laughed, low and amused. Now he felt like the little boy, naïve despite his tough talk. Exactly. Then she strummed her bass and woke up with Mamimi's wide eyes looking at him.
"You were talking in your sleep, Takkun," she whispered. "Did you have a Haruko dream again?" He frowned, but didn't answer. Her name always tasted like ashes on his tongue.
Then she'd lay back down, without another word, and he's lay there again, knowing the cycle would just repeat again. Sleep, dream, wake, live, sleep. Again and again.
He knew it was pointless, or it seemed pointless.
Then again, sometimes, he'd look around and see something that would touch him on the inside, like the sharp bittersweet pain of an icicle. He'd think half to himself, half to that creature than stole their hearts,
It is pretty.