Hola amigos. I suck. 3 reviews? xD Lolz. But no really, should I continue updating this? Just wanna make sure.
Honestly, this is like my favorite one. I was gonna upload it later, but I wanted to do it now. If it wasn't so confusing every single chapter of this would be abstract like this one. I guess I just like the... vague-ness of it all. Hahahahaha. :p
By the way, never did a stupid disclaimer for this. And this disclaimer will be for the whole story because I forget to put it in every single one and it gets annoying. The lyrics used in this are Desolate [The Conductor] by Woe, Is Me and 1,000 Miles by Tyler Carter. God I love him. And also, this is not a songfic. Don't fear. I used to love those and now I realize that a lot of them are stupid. And half of my old fics are songfics, lol. (Sorry, I'm rambling.)
Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray-Man (or any song references). If I did I would die of extreme happiness because that's what I do whenever a new chapter is out.
Summary: He had to be right, because beautiful things knew what was also beautiful. He wanted to be beautiful, too.
Rating: T
Warning: Will possibly confuse you. If you have any questions, ask me in a non-anonymous review and I'll answer any you might have. :p
Fanfic #4:
Beautiful Things
.
.
.
"Music," he said slowly, as if talking to a child.
"Music," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue while wondering if he really liked it at all.
"Music is able to say things that even words cannot explain."
"Silence can say even more than that," he retorted stubbornly.
He laughed. "You're such a grump, Yuu."
- - - /
"Music has saved me," he said, holding out a gloved hand. "Maybe it can save you, too?"
- - - /
Swear to God, I believe we've had enough trying to save the world.
- - - /
He was handed an acoustic guitar, and he scowled and plucked a string experimentally. The sound that came from it was ugly and he hoped he wouldn't have to play it.
"You're doing it wrong, Yuu."
He gritted his teeth.
"Would you like to learn?"
"No."
- - - /
He sat in the garden, surrounded by tulips and lilies and many other flowers he couldn't care enough about to name.
He played a few chords on the guitar that sat in his lap and winced. He wasn't sure he liked the sound of music.
"You learned to play?" A rose was stuffed under his nose, and he looked up and furrowed his eyebrows.
"I taught myself," he confessed and grabbed the flower. It took him a few moments to admit to himself that the way his white hair shone under the sunlight made him look angelic and beautiful – and even then, there was no way he would tell him that.
He would forever associate him with roses, because all things beautiful should belong together, he supposed.
- - - /
It was the first time he had played a song, and he hated it.
"It sounds like shit," he said, preparing to throw the guitar anywhere that was far away from him, because he didn't want to look at it.
"It was beautiful," he said, and he faltered – because he had to be right, because beautiful things knew what was also beautiful.
Right?
"You're lying," he said as a test, to make sure that he knew what he was talking about. He stared at him and silently hoped that he would say yes, that he was lying because he really hated that guitar.
"Of course not!" He sounded hurt, and he grimaced. "I loved it."
He frowned, and decided that maybe he would keep playing the guitar – because he loved it, and he thought that it was beautiful.
He couldn't help but wonder – did that make him beautiful, too?
- - - /
"Where did you get that guitar from?"
He scowled at the redhead, and he cursed God for making him meet this person, because he was exactly like him and yet not similar enough. "From… Allen," he said slowly, and just like before, he tested the word out on his tongue because it had been so long since he'd spoken of him and he wasn't quite sure if the name was really a name anymore.
"Allen?" The redhead repeated, and he refrained from hitting him, because how dare he say his name so casually.
He kicked at the ground and stuffed his hands in his pockets, averting his eyes to any place but the guitar that sat abandoned in the dirt.
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"Was," he corrected automatically, and bit his tongue. How long had it been now?
There was silence, and it told him that he wasn't here anymore, because he would never let any time between them go to waste.
The silence used to be filled with music. Always with music, and now he was thinking that maybe he was starting to miss the music, just a little, even though he hated it.
Now, silence was filled with more silence.
"Is it something you treasure, then?"
He started, not expecting the redhead to speak again, or at least not so quickly. He looked at the redhead, and no matter how hard he tried, couldn't remember his name. It didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.
The redhead was staring at the wretched guitar and his eyes narrowed. "No," he muttered finally, pursing his lips. "I hate it, actually."
The redhead blinked, not expecting the honest answer. "Where is he?"
"Gone."
"You mean… dead?"
He flinched and clenched his fists so tightly that he thought that he might just break his knuckles. "Don't ever say that. No, he left." His eyebrows furrowed. "To where, I don't know, so don't ask."
"Find him." The answer was quick and struck him, like a snake.
He wished things were as simple as the optimistic redhead made them seem. He looked up to the sky. The sun was peeking through the clouds, struggling to break through them, and he knew that later in the day the sun would be shining again. It would no longer be restricted by the clouds and it would warm up his body despite the chilly air. These kinds of days were always his favorite, because he was an optimist, too.
"I can't find him, because he doesn't want me to. And if he doesn't want to be found, then I can't find him."
Simple. Everything was horribly simple and yet horribly complex when it came to him. He wished he hadn't left him with this horrid guitar that made ugly music. He didn't want it.
- - - /
And wouldn't you say that the world has spit on you enough?
- - - /
He stared blankly at the guitar that was lying on the ground, and he reached over and plucked a string. He wondered why he wasn't satisfied when it didn't make a sound.
- - - /
The guitar was in pieces on the grass, and he stepped on the fragments of splintered wood and laughed. It was a cold sound and he contemplated where it came from and why his voice sounded as ugly as the music did.
Amongst the broken wood was a shredded piece of paper.
It was as if he knew – knew that he couldn't take it anymore, that he couldn't resist shattering what he had left of him besides the memories that wandered in his mind.
And now, he had memories and a small, ripped piece of paper.
Come and find me, Yuu, it said, and nothing more. He crumpled the simple piece of paper with the simple words.
Maybe he could find him now, because he finally wanted to be found.
- - - /
"This is like a twisted game of hide and seek, if that's what you want to call it."
- - - /
"I was wondering when you would finally snap and smash up that old guitar."
- - - /
Just a moment, give me just a moment, to clear my head.
- - - /
He knew him better than he knew himself, it seemed.
It was funny how things worked out that way.
- - - /
"You found me, Yuu."
- - - /
He could faintly smell roses again.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and picked up a guitar.
.
.
.