Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Digimon or anything pertaining to the anime. The characters, places, etc… are not mine, nor do I lay any claim on them. This is not an attempt to infringe on any rights or copyrights, as this is purely for entertainment.
Authors Note: Just blather. (Random nonsense that doesn't work well together or make any sense.) Try not to read the words in semi-quotation marks ( 'blah' ) as if they are accentuations. They are not meant to stress or emphasize the word, only to separate the he, him, and his that belong to one particular male character from any other male character(s). They are to be read as if there are no semi-quotation's on them at all. The emphasized words are in italics. Very sorry for the confusing format. : (
Side note - Honestly, I don't envision, in even my own imaginary Digimon world, Kou falling for Tai. I prefer him with Mimi or Hikari (I know, weird.), however, for this, it just seemed to work. In regards to couplings, I support anything well written. Although, I have a dislike for pairings of Dai and Takeru, and Tai and Yamato. And I just don't see the reason Iori even exists. But, I'm just being a child. And even thought I dislike some things, I can get past them and love a well written story.
Aa... and I think I posted this before, and it didn't work out so well. Bah, who cares. Here it is anyway. In all it's awful glory. If people really hate it that much, I'll delete it, okay? Okay. : )
Title: 'Watching'
Author: Evie Gunn
Rating: M (rated for mention of sexual preference... and to be safe…?)
Series: Digimon
Pairings: Taichi x Daisuke, (one sided Koushirou x Taichi) / Taisuke, (one sided Kouchi… or is it Taishirou)
Genre?
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Watching
"To love and to be wise, are two different things …"
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I'm watching them. There, across the table from me; bright eyes, and both of them wearing the smiles of practiced innocence. But, I know; I know because I've been watching so hard… No one else can see it, but I know. Beneath the table, 'his' fingers are curled tightly about a smaller hand, one stretched over with sun-kissed skin only a shade more bronze than 'his'. And those fingers, 'his' fingers… such a loose grip, almost negligent, and yet, it's a grasp that could crush a stone to sand. And I know it wouldn't matter if 'he' let go; it isn't 'his' hand that holds on so tightly. And I'm jealous. My mind is groggy, and dark, as if in a daydream that has suddenly become a nightmare.
Privy to a secret. Their secret, my own… But, I've learned that secrets crawl up the spine like a sharp-toothed worm. And I can feel the little creature inching its way up with every passing minute. It hurts. Their secret; how they fall into each other when no one is looking, how their hands meet beneath the cover of a friendly hello or a shadow that obscures view. It's how, when everyone else is lost in their own musings, and it's just them, even for a second, they whisper some smile at the other, or press their breath so close even I can't breathe from watching them. It hurts.
And my own, my secret. Much colder than theirs, dimensions of separation, and I push back into shadows that cover up everything inside of me until I'm not even sure I have a secret at all. But I do. Like a cats eyes, slitted and shadowed, hidden beneath double lids, my secret is there. I love 'him'. I'm unsure when exactly I got so… ill. Somehow, a twisted sense of trust, of fellowship, mutated into some form of unnatural love. And, as in all good stories, in all good affairs of unrequited love, 'he' belongs to someone else. And here, I'm scraping my fingers against my own hand, pretending 'he' is dragging his nails across my palm to wake me from some reckless dream.
There, across the table. I watch them, keeping their secret, as they hide those looks behind cheery grins and sarcastic cascades of words that never sting more than the surface of their furtive act. A charade. I wonder sometimes, how soft their touches would be if everyone knew. I wonder if they would still reach for each other, so nonchalant, if they knew eyes traced their moves like a trail of smoke that leads to a fire. Would guilt or shame dampen either of them?
Again, across the table, they are side by side, something far from unusual, even before it all began. My jaw aches, clenched tight enough to crush my teeth, and I wonder if the taste of his mouth is metal like mine; but then, mine is raw, bleeding from biting the inside of my lips to keep everything inside. 'He' calls his name, voice sweet even then, all sugar on a cake for Christmas, and I remember to breathe, even while I'm angry. "Daisuke". 'He' called him.
'He' likes redheads… it must be the fire. And though my own locks reflect the color, I've no flame. Or perhaps I do, but it's just not enough for 'him'. I, the thin, small-framed boy, wiry and pale and wrapped tightly in poetic injustice; doused to an ember; one that withers if the wind blows too hard. But Daisuke, he has fire. A combustible mass of taught lines that converge into a perfect mesh of gold skin and smiles and energy. Everything I lack.
Suddenly, from the weed, something stronger sprouted, and with a little rain and care, it grew into a willow. He's taller now; legs long and thin, with narrow hips that lead up to a slender waist and a body toned like the years of soccer it's claimed; all clockwork in nature and eyes that are liquid naivety. His deep red hair, still mahogany in the light, is shaggier than it used to be. And his voice; a few octaves deeper, softer. And articulation has dried up the mindless blather, leaving the dust of intelligence to fall away in fewer words. And pretty, nearly the proper word; one that lends a whisper of femininity to his frame, almost prettier, even, than our little musical diamond and his dark genius. I want to hate Daisuke.
Daisuke, across the table, and sitting too close to 'him', smiles. His crooked grin reminds me of a cat; one that wants to eat the mouse, but instead only watches it turn in the cage, praying that his master will dangle it in offer one day soon. And Daisuke gives 'him' that grin, and the one 'he' returns matches like the second of a pair. But then, they've always matched. Once upon a time, she almost matched too. She had the red hair and fire 'he' loves, the tall thinness that models something one could brandish, and she could run, with quick blood that would make me faint. It's everything 'he' has, and what 'he' wants more of. That's not all there is, no, I won't dishonor 'him' to the point of believing 'he' seeks a trophy. But, I'm jealous; so perhaps my flavor is a little more bitter.
And still, they're across the table, sitting close. I'm just watching them, and an accident sends me down, picking up silver just to take a glance, to see their fingers intertwined. Daisuke's hand held tight and, not resting in his own lap, but claimed and held in 'his'. My shoulder blades hit the chair back and I'm sitting, proper, again. Watching them across the table. 'He' is laughing now, and Daisuke's face is red, with some fire bleeding through. And then the laughter fades, trickling away like water. Sometimes, the cat can cow his master.
And that was always easy, for us all. We have all, without lifting a finger or saying a word, taken a swat at 'him'… our leader. For one reason or another. 'His' stubbornness was never callousness; it was never, even for a minute, anything more than the chirp of a spring bird, even as we cried wolf. But as all things, there was necessity in our pawing, our manipulation. And 'he' let us, because 'he' knew, somehow, 'he' had to bend or we'd all break. I think, with that long ago realization, I led my own lines to cross and fell headlong into sickness. But right now, I'm across the table from them, remembering when leadership exchanged hands, and I'm thinking about how those hands are now locked together.
There is a lighter on the table in front of 'him', and I wonder when exactly 'he' started carrying one. And I wonder, too, if I borrowed it, set myself on fire, if I'd burn bright enough. But I've learned that it wouldn't matter, and so I send that train of thought off track and watch. Daisuke, across the table, his crooked Cheshire smile upside down, uses 'his' name like an expletive. And I wonder how many ways "Taichi" could be perverted in a single utterance. My eyes are drawn to the table, my pink-pale hand resting idle; I turn it over, back and forth, searching for hints of green.
Across the table, Daisuke, and beside him, fingers twisted around similar fingers, Taichi. And 'his' voice pries through conversation, imitating a goodbye in a voice that only ever says hello. Heads nod around the table, eyes suddenly sleepy, and I'm reminded of dolls, the old ones, that tilt and fall asleep, heads wobbling loosely as If unconscious, or in agreement. My head shakes, lost in inattentive murmurs of excuse, and I know I'm walking home. Cloth, like zippers and vinyl, and I hear them dressing for the chill outside, and then… warm pats, embraces for everyone. We'll see each other again, soon.
Across the table, standing now; both of them, hands tucked away but still holding onto each other, with two feet between them and every part each to themselves. They leave, one to each side of the broad table, now to either side of me. And I think the thread between them will catch me across the neck and choke me, or send me sprawling to the floor, a bruised line across my throat. But I'm still standing. And Daisuke pats me on the back, smiling past me as his goodnight falls for my ears only. And Taichi presses 'his' chest to my back, pulls 'his' arms tight around me, butting 'his' forehead against the back of my skull. My eyes squeeze shut, aching and hot, my fingers curling backward to return the hug to 'his' thick coat. And while they are talking for a moment, I slip away, curving the building outside to lean against the chill bricks.
Churning thoughts, and I still feel 'him' there, hanging on my back, drugging me sadly to a fleeting dismissal. My fingers ache, clenched to hold onto what's already gone, and my head rolls to catch them leaving. Fingers, again, curled over a sun-kissed hand, shoulders together even as they walk, in a not-so-straight line toward 'his' car. I watch them, and they're not quite keeping their secret, but night is shadowing their careless venture. 'He' is holding him when they reach the silver side-panel, long fingered hands dressing Daisuke's skin beneath his shirt and folding him back against the cold metal.
My mouth tastes like copper, my tongue wobbling in pain, licking the roof of my mouth while I swallow. 'His' neck is working while 'he' presses mahogany hair against the roof of the car, and I wonder if my back is hurting in sympathy of the position, or because I'm grinding away the flesh beneath my coat in effort to push the building backward, farther away. They slide farther onto the car, and the streetlight moon flickers and dies, granting them a moment's privacy. My breath pauses, and I'm wondering if they are simply phantoms of an illness that breaks my lungs against my ribs.
The moon returns, and across the asphalt, they are still there, digging holes into each other with each pass, and I imagine I can see red lines on Daisuke's sides; trails where 'his' fingers drew patterns of 'mine' in some foreign language. I'm waiting, my head banging back in a rhythm with each breath they fail to take. I wonder if their time is different from mine, each year that I lose, I suppose, must be a moment to them, while they share minutes that use no logic. My breath clouds before me, white and frail, like my skin and bones, and my throat begins to hurt; tightening as if their thread had noosed my neck, their every shift drawing it tighter. I snap my teeth together, loosening my jaw, and wonder why I haven't left.
Across the parking lot, the streetlight's yellow glow reminds me of summer skin, and my head aches at the memory, crashing as quickly as matching skin met sun-kissed flesh. I remember the way they played, even before they knew; summer sport blanketing a growing appreciation of one another, and any excuse to meet in the middle, craving contact like a kitten craves mother's milk. And they were a tangle of limbs, rolling on the ground in false anger, the laughing war cry of 'cheater' wet on their lips, and they were only scolded for their penchant for fighting, we all unaware of the truth behind the game. I glance down; my flesh is blue with cold, but I imagine it's just another shade of green.
I'm watching them, dark outlines standing by the car, like shadow puppets. 'His' hand reaching over to tangle in mahogany hair, and I imagine crooked smiles. My lips stretch, sore still, and I'm pretending to smile, like their tenderness pretends to be friends for their secret. Across the parking lot, they are close, Daisuke leaning like the wind pushes a little too hard, and I wish I wasn't sick. There is a cough in me that keeps me cold, and barks like 'his' name. But I'm only a pathetic fraud, trying to sound like a poet.
I press my back against the wall again, and imagine 'his' chest is against me, and when I curl my fingers back; for a moment they are twisting into 'his' warm coat. But, the whisper of only my soft cotton coat calls back, and my fingers tighten on air, frozen fingertips tapping the stiff chill flesh of my palms. I feel like Alice; meeting the mirror instead of stepping through the looking glass.
Again, across the parking lot, they pull away, splitting the car with their invisible thread intact, drawing through the car, dividing the world rather than letting it divide them. I'm watching them, slipping into the car. Daisuke on the edge of his seat, trying to fill the middle, and Taichi at an angle, a tilted bell tower leaning closer. I'm wondering if they are laughing, or just shaking, like I am. Then, the engine, like the growl of a kitten, and the taillights blink like another goodbye. And I'm watching them drive away. I imagine their fingers tangled together, between the seats, still holding on.
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Additional A/N: I know it's hard to make sense of any of it. I don't care much. I blame, partly, the nonsense music I was listening to, and partly, my inability to write anything worth reading. Also, my inability to write a complete sentence.
And here, I pretend that Koushirou refrains from speaking or thinking Taichi's name… referring to 'Taichi' as, simply, 'him' or 'he', most of the time. I know that is quite confusing. (What with all the him and 'him', he and 'he', and his and 'his' in there.) Or, maybe I just don't like using the names much, because when one is thinking, they know who about, and rarely use a name in thought (Unless it is pointedly).