A/N: Originally posted on my LJ October 1st, 2009.

I've had my iPod on shuffle on the bus to school one day and got stuck on one of those parents-listened-to-when-you-were-little-and-so-you-like-it songs. The song is in Swedish though, so I've translated the lyrics. I quite like how it came out.

Song: "Här i min skrivmaskin" by Robert Broberg. ("Here in my typewriter")

xXx

Typewriter

xXx

Everything's a dream.

But she wasn't perfect, as dreams would be. That was why, he reasoned, he loved her. For all those imperfections. For the violent temper, the clumsy strength and rough language she had. Even her awkward mannerism, her tactlessness in social situations and her disregard of consequences drew him to her like a moth to flame.

He felt as if everything about her demanded something; someone to care, someone to love, despite it all. And he needed someone to hit him over the head sometimes; he wanted someone whose eyes lit with burning passion as tempers flared, and who would be liquid fire in his arms as he responded.

Alone she was awkward; alone she was vulnerable.

And maybe he just wanted to say she was made for him, in a way to make it impossible for her to leave. Even if it was just in rhyming sentences scribbled in the notebook he used to write her poems and sonnets and stories.

As a Poet,

I put poetry,

Against reality.

She was in every one of them, in his notebook. Her imperfections. When he missed her, on the cold nights, he would open up to the first page and read the story of her life. She was warm and she was smiling in his head even as he turned the page, amused by his horrid writing but humbled by his attention to every detail.

He even had a few lines describing her favorite coffee.

And warm,

You are in the fantasy,

Here in my typewriter.

Sometimes, he would run out of pretty words and grow weary of the straight lines of his worn notebook. He would take out a list then, where he had jostled down ideas. Surprises. Like sending her something, in the mail. He always put it aside, because he could never decide which one to choose. So he wrote lyrics instead, toneless verses of her lips and tongue and fingertips. How she made him feel like a man again, like a human. Like he was worth something.

Carry me,

Postre Restante.

Air Mail,

Away from Jante.

Par Avignon,

With this song.

Despite this, he had written countless letters when sleep would not come as the empty side of his bed mocked him. They remained unsent; carefully folded and tucked inside a desk drawer. He wanted to post them, he just couldn't.

I want to send you a letter but sadly,

I have no envelope.

The address book is gone and

I have no postage.

But there were other ways, he reminded himself. Other ways to get a hold of her; other ways to hear her voice. She had a phone; he had her number. So he would dial it, tug at the black cord of his old phone, and wait.

He always hung up, after a while, and went to open his notebook. Choosing a paragraph, he'd put it in ink with his father's old typewriter on fresh, crisp paper without any lines.

He had remembered then, why she wouldn't answer. Why he wouldn't send those letters.

Maybe if she was alive, she'd live at that address.

Maybe if she was real, she'd pick up the phone.

Maybe.

Every time I pick up the telephone,

I hear that you don't exist.

He caressed her name on the white paper, fresh from his typewriter. It didn't smudge, like it would've in his notebook. He only used black lead pencils in that.

Everything's a dream,

Here in my typewriter.

A/N: This may be interpreted in many ways; either Kenshin has made himself a character for a book, and fallen for it (that's the spirit of the actual song), or he's made a acharcter for a book based on someone he's known. It's up to you for now, until I decide to write a sequel. It might never happen so, imagine away haha :P

Some notes on the song; wondering what "Jante" means? It's typical Scandinavian and how it's been described most of us "think" subconsciously....like the need to be politically correct, you know? Anyway, copied and pasted from wiki;

"The Jante Law is a concept created by the Norwegian/Danish author Aksel Sandemose in his novel A fugitive crosses his tracks.

There are ten different rules in the law, but they are all variations on a single theme and are usually referred to as a homogeneous unit: Don't think you're anyone special or that you're better than us.

The ten rules are:

01. Don't think that you are special.

02. Don't think that you are of the same standing as us.

03. Don't think that you are smarter than us.

04. Don't fancy yourself as being better than us.

05. Don't think that you know more than us.

06. Don't think that you are more important than us.

07. Don't think that you are good at anything.

08. Don't laugh at us.

09. Don't think that anyone of us cares about you.

10. Don't think that you can teach us anything.

Further in the book: 11. Don't think that there is something we don't know about you."

-----

I felt it had Kenshin's Rurouni persona written all over it. It was the main reason why I decided to make the drabble an RK one, instead of choosing one of my other fandoms I write for.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed! :D Review, please! :)