Where
Bubblegum-pink flower petals drizzle down like rain, from trees with swirled-white-brown bark and twisting branches. Everything else is blue, blue, pale—and peppered with fluffy white cotton-balls of clouds—everywhere, under me, over me, to the right, to the left, everywhere.
I stretch out one gloved hand—is this real? My hand is there, solid, complete, there…long pale fingers protruding from black and silver gloves…. I turn my hand over, palm up—a pink flower petal falls into it, drifts like a snowflake, down to touch down softly in my palm—there, real, fuzzy.
I hold the petal up to my face, examine it closely, watch it like it'll grow feet and walk away at any given moment. Instead, a breeze blows from nowhere, strong, hurls it away. Suddenly, all the petals are gone; the tree is bare, empty, outstretching its arms, its branches, heavenward—or is it heavenward? Is it up, down, to the right? I don't know.
And the sound waves cause my eardrums to vibrate, abruptly, just now—calm and soft and rushing and sweet. Water.
I turn around on my heels and see it: crystal-clear water, sparkling and diamond-like, there and real and I'm here and real: And all the flower petals are floating on it, pink fairy dust floating on away, on downriver. I stare and stare then step, step: I'm there, real, on the water, on the surface of the water, walking like Jesus, dry feet and solid water.
I look down, see my reflection: floppy mop of gray and black hair, searing auburn eyes with an odd gentle tone, baggy clothing hanging off my skinny frame: This is me, this is Kai, Kai Hiwatari, seventeen years old and alive and here and on the surface of water. My reflection is perfect, not rippled, despite the movement of the water, my feet, the petals….
And petals: One more falls from nowhere (from up? down? left?) and alights on the water, as graceful as a swan: and this one moves the water, ripples it, causes lots of movement of particles…until my image changes, shifts, morphs into—who is this?—someone dark and unrecognizable. It starts to clear, light starts to shine, show me—
But the setting altars and I'm still here but somewhere else. Or is it?
I'm in the same place at a different time: big tree dropping something, this time leaves. Leaves: fresh, bright, green, healthy, alive like in the real world—I know this isn't real.
Is it?
And it's weird: As the leaves fall, they change too; their color changes, more precisely; they grow to be the color of autumn leaves. I watch one leaf at a time:
Green/Yellow-Green/Yellow/Dark-Withering/Brown/ …Dead
drop to the ground, to the sky? Sky: still all light blue and spotted with splotches of white clouds. The leaf falls and falls until it hits nothing, the one I'm standing on, and disappears, gone, poof.
I arch one slender pale eyebrow: up—what's there? Or what's not?
I bend at the waist, down, until I'm down far enough to touch—touch—and there's nothing. Nothing there—just air. And I push down on it, expecting something further down—instead I fall head over heels, not in love, in space.
Down I go, through blue air and white clouds, through nothing, blue-white nothingness, until I've reached another nothing that is just the same nothing:
A peaceful setting, blue sky, white clouds, no, blue all around with white clouds—tree there, in front of me, where am I?
It's all brown, scaly bark—no leaves this time. Not until they all fall from the sky, dead brown leaves, crinkly, breaking apart, decomposing in mid-air so they're nothing by the time they reach me—they've disappeared instead.
I watch this downpour of dead leaves; look down, see white fluff-balls rolling along; don't touch again.
Looking back up, I see something else, something red, blood-red, falling amongst the deadness—I reach out, and even though it's far away—yards, feet, miles, light-years—I touch it, grab it. It's there in my hands, there and real, like me, only I'm breathing and this is soft.
Rolling it through my fingers, I study it, take it all in: It's soft and silky like satin or lace. It's crimson, like my eyes, like gorgeous changing-color autumn-time leaves. It's long and slender and familiar and—what is it?
It's hair.
I realize this, hold it up: Who does it belong too?
The words come out of my brain, materialize right in front of me, dancing and golden and black and away: Fragments, letters, W d o o o t o b l o n g e i t h s e….
And then it's gone, all of it, faded to nothing—and back again.
Back to the tranquility of elephant-tusk clouds and ocean skies and a tree with dead scaly bark and large tangled arms and peeling bark. I stare—oh, what's to happen in this strange land this time?
This, apparently:
Red feathers start raining down, fluffy and brushing against me and falling, dazzling my eyes. I stare and blink and stare and stare: What's going on?
My heart beats—like always. But now I feel it without putting my hand to my chest. I can feel it hammering against my ribcage. Why? I feel nothing but calm—no anxiety or stress or fear—or calm, actually. Just nothing.
No, not nothing: Not when I see the blue sky (up? down? left? right?) sparkle. Sparkle: the way his eyes do, when I like them especially. Oh, they're always beautiful: even when they're cold like the ice he loves. But they're more gorgeous when they're warm like the Sun that melts his ice.
Sun…Sun, like fire, like phoenixes, like me? I want to be the one that melts his inner ice, his inner fears and sorrows and regrets and pain and hate; and give him something to cling to and cry on and love and hold and—
No. What am I thinking? That's not me. Not who I—
Or is it who I want to be? A creature of love, not hate? One with emotions, not one who denies them? They're not weak—I've already figured this out. It's my grandfather's who is weak for telling me they were, for being such a sadist, an avaricious sadist.
The feathers keep falling—and soon stop. No, not stop: They keep falling, but only behind me. I crane my neck to glance over my shoulder: Feathers, gathering on my back, spreading out, combining, consolidating, fusing, forming wings on my back.
I stare, raise an eyebrow, feel the new weight, flap.
Okay…breathing…heart rate speeding…isolated, in a corner—in the open.
I'm in the open, an astronomical nothing. With the Sun setting in front of me, my shadow is long and slender and has wings. The sky is still everywhere but the Sun is only in front, causing everything in front of me to be orange and purple and yellow and pink. Behind me, it's all still blue and fluffy clouded.
I flap, flap, feel the weight and the wind—abnormal, new, different, inhuman: inhuman, I've heard that all too much before, about me, and my soul, and my being…but it is me, isn't it, it is now: wings, phoenix wings—no, angel wings.
I stare as a white feather drifts from my back and lands on the ground, staining immediately with the dark-brown dirt that is beneath my feet. Turning my head, craning, straining, I see: See the wings, large, outspread, white as a cloud, one that's rolling behind me.
And then, now, I hear it—only a whisper, a murmur, a trick of the wind, the way it sounds when it brushes against something quite rougher than its smoothness: But I know there's no wind.
So what is that sound?
I hear it…my name. Whispered. From somewhere. From nowhere. From anywhere?
"Kai…Kai…"
A calling, a summoning: a séance—I'm dead, being called to Heaven, no, Hell, no, séance—back to Earth, back to the living, when did I die, did I die? Yes, it's a séance, because I recognize that voice, calling me back—to Earth, to be with…?
"Kai…Kai…"
Yes, that's him, that's the one I love—one I love, oh no, Kai Hiwatari was not meant for love. He was put on Earth to be a tool, a traitor, a sinful soul, spirit, nothing, there, just there and haunting: A lonely spirit in a lonely back-alleyway, no home, no life, just death and hate and anger and confusion and solitude….
So I can't love—and neither can he. He's the same, somewhat—but so radically different. He was built, raised, on the same standards: He's a lone wolf, hunting alone, eating alone, nesting alone, howling alone, meandering alone, out on the ice and frozen, interminable tundra, dead like his soul and his eyes when their frosted over with the unfair, Gothic-style side of life and living and being…the way mine are, usually are.
"Kai…Kai…"
Why does he beckon me? Do I want him to? True, I love him, against my will, against my life—but surely he does not love me. Homosexuality is a sin, is a wrong, is a crime and not one I want him to be a part of.
"Kai…"
Or, yes, I do. Because I want him to love me. In all aspects, it's wrong—but everything is multi-faceted, like a jewel, like a ruby like my eyes like a sapphire like his, with wrong and right and every color of the rainbow. And maybe I shouldn't or can't love him but I do—I'm strong and intelligent, do I not accept fate? I do. Even if it causes me misery like this—
I should hate him I'm wrong Hate is me I'm sin Love is for other people I've done nothing to deserve him I'm weak I'm loneliness
"Kai…Kai…Kai…"
/Let the ghost fly away, Tala—don't let the wolf's howl call him back./
"Kai."
It's behind me, clear as day, right in my ear, I can feel his breath, warm and sweet—here he is.
Right…here.
"Kai."
I turn, wings folded, back arched, fingers curled—defense?—I see…him. Perfection. Right. Sparkle. Wolf. NOT MINE. never will be
"Kai."
Again, my name—why?
"Tala."
His name, aloud, spoken; rusty voice but syllables so honey-sweet; I want to hold him; throbbing heart, aching soul, vicious words in my head, pounding temples, coiled muscles, tense nerves, him, right here, from Hell and its pits and its depths and its fire and its hate and its cold but he's an angel, right here, with wings and eyes that sparkle in the sunset just for me—I see how I love him, but why, why? Why?
I blink, once, brisk—can't that help? I want it to. And I see his wings, white and pure, same place mine are in, only on his back. I blink, once, brisk—can't that help?
"Tala."
"Kai."
One hand, five fingers, long and outstretched and reaching…for me? I stare, he stares, our eyes meet: fire and ice, not clashing but peaceful and I wish I were holding him.
My hand is in his, suddenly; his is warm and glove-covered. He squeezes, I squeeze back, and we're
falling
falling
The sky blurs and whirs; pale blue. The clouds dance and prance; puffy white.
And we fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall, and fall
Is it up? down? side? north? west? east? south?
I hate this feeling of falling—stomach lurching, brain spinning, eyes dazzled.
But my hand is in his and its safe and I feel warm and why can't I hold him? He's delicious, he's there, he's here, so am I, we're angels falling, together, forever, in oblivion, in nothing, in here, in this realm of magic and mystics, and trees and sky, and no direction but love, just love, I see in those mystery eyes that he loves me and I love him and even though it's wrong
It's wrong to the people of the world that I'm gay
And wrong to my grandfather that I love
but to him and to us and to life and love and fate and God
this is beautiful, wonderful, forever, lasting, here, now, real, dream, true, happy, floating, falling, nothing, everything, something, glorious, heavenly, cloudless, positive, ecstatic, blue, white, pink, yellow, leaves, petals, hair, eyes, skin, us, two, pair, hands, fingers, male, God, right, perfect,
love
Howl to the Moon, Wolf—Call the Ghost Back to the Living.
A/N: Greetings! Hope y'all enjoyed this here little eccentric ficcy. I know I liked writing it.Now, three things:
One--Apologies for the OOC-ness!
Two--I don't own Beyblade!
Three--Reviews are appreciated! Thank you!
Have a nice day!
CyborgRockStar