Packing and a drabble.
Feb. 21st, 2008 10:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleI'm packing today. a;dslkjf I leave in-- Five days? Five days. Right. It's going to be-- argh. And. Well. I'm packing. It's taking up a lot more room than I expected, but that's okay. Most everything I'm taking is long-sleeved, 'cause-- Their yearly high? Is, like, seventies. WTF? (That's the low twenties for you C Peoples. <3) That's incredibly low, when I'm used to it soaring above a hundred in May. So. Long-sleeves, woo. (It's going to be crazy, coming back in July!)
Also. I have-- A drabble. As I pack. And as I try to finish Tales of the Abyss.
He caresses the binding, runs his fingers along the seams where the thread is aged and yellowed--
unrequited!Fuuta/Bianchi. Sorta TYL, sorta not. Mostly not. Mostly unrequited. Love's a pain.
Numbering Loves
Fuuta's an only child. He doesn't have any brothers, doesn't have any sisters, and so he loves Tsuna's Family, the feeling of being part of a bigger whole. Of being more than just himself.
He tags along after Tsuna as often as he can, following in Yamamoto's and Gokudera's footsteps, but he always lags, gets left behind. He's small, his mother says, has always been small for his age, and he can't run as fast as everyone else, can't fight nearly so hard. All he can really do, day after day, is read his book, where he writes in tiny cursive. Act like a doll, a little prince to be set up in a castle, waiting for the world to turn for him.
Bianchi takes him by the hand sometimes, murmurs in his ear. She tells him to be patient, to wait. He'll grow, she says, and he'll run after them all. All the boys do, she says. He listens to her, his book heavy in his lap, and she tells him to wait.
She tells him many things. She tells him about her mother, and Gokudera's mother. About her father, and her Family. About her fiance, shot in the head three times. About her best friend, throat slit at nineteen. About everyone she loves, dead or dying, and everyone she hates, living and breathing. He writes her name in list after list, ranking after ranking. Angriest, strongest, smartest, most dangerous. Loneliest. Saddest.
"Wait," she says, "be patient," and then she leaves, dogging the footsteps of all the older boys, her eyes fixed on Gokudera and Tsuna, Yamamoto and Reborn. Fuuta watches her go, and writes a new ranking. Most likely to die. Tsuna's at the top. Bianchi and Gokudera round out the top ten. Fuuta shuts his book, puts his pen away. Doesn't write for months.
He's always wanted a sister. Or a brother. Or anyone more than his mother, because his mother's gone now, and Fuuta feels alone. And so he dogs their footsteps, like Bianchi, and sits at their tables, eating their food and laughing at their jokes. He grows up in their houses, months in this house, years in that house. He grows in inches, then feet, and his Family's growing bigger. Tsuna's Family is growing bigger. And there are always more rankings in the book.
Fastest, sturdiest, most reliable. Most loving. Most beautiful.
Bianchi's name is slowly moving up, and he doesn't want to look at her, not like that, but he does, and he can't look away.
"Wait," Bianchi says, and Fuuta doesn't try to run anymore. He waits for her, walks next to her, and listens to her stories. She tells him about Gokudera, kicked out of university, and Tsuna, still living at home. About Yamamoto, his arms twisted and ruined, and Reborn, less than half of what he'd been. She tells him to write it down, this and that, all of it, and he writes as she watches, scratching his pen across the page.
"Wait," she says, and, "write something happy."
Love, he writes, and all the things he loves. His parents, his Family, Tsuna's Family. Tsuna, Yamamoto, Gokudera, and Chrome. Bianchi, alone at the top, a space the width of Fuuta's thumb between her and the others. And on the next page, again, and the next page, once more. And the next page, and the next. And list, after list, and the things change. His parents sink lower, as they sink lower in their graves, and he can't remember their faces. Yamamoto drags down the list as his career drags on in America, and Tsuna's name jumps between three and seven, nine and two. And Bianchi's name stays steady, slow and firm and there at the top, and Fuuta walks by her side.
"Wait," she says, and Fuuta holds onto his book, and writes down his happy things, and his lists of her. Most beautiful, most charming, most loving. Most loved.
Also. I have-- A drabble. As I pack. And as I try to finish Tales of the Abyss.
He caresses the binding, runs his fingers along the seams where the thread is aged and yellowed--
unrequited!Fuuta/Bianchi. Sorta TYL, sorta not. Mostly not. Mostly unrequited. Love's a pain.
Numbering Loves
Fuuta's an only child. He doesn't have any brothers, doesn't have any sisters, and so he loves Tsuna's Family, the feeling of being part of a bigger whole. Of being more than just himself.
He tags along after Tsuna as often as he can, following in Yamamoto's and Gokudera's footsteps, but he always lags, gets left behind. He's small, his mother says, has always been small for his age, and he can't run as fast as everyone else, can't fight nearly so hard. All he can really do, day after day, is read his book, where he writes in tiny cursive. Act like a doll, a little prince to be set up in a castle, waiting for the world to turn for him.
Bianchi takes him by the hand sometimes, murmurs in his ear. She tells him to be patient, to wait. He'll grow, she says, and he'll run after them all. All the boys do, she says. He listens to her, his book heavy in his lap, and she tells him to wait.
She tells him many things. She tells him about her mother, and Gokudera's mother. About her father, and her Family. About her fiance, shot in the head three times. About her best friend, throat slit at nineteen. About everyone she loves, dead or dying, and everyone she hates, living and breathing. He writes her name in list after list, ranking after ranking. Angriest, strongest, smartest, most dangerous. Loneliest. Saddest.
"Wait," she says, "be patient," and then she leaves, dogging the footsteps of all the older boys, her eyes fixed on Gokudera and Tsuna, Yamamoto and Reborn. Fuuta watches her go, and writes a new ranking. Most likely to die. Tsuna's at the top. Bianchi and Gokudera round out the top ten. Fuuta shuts his book, puts his pen away. Doesn't write for months.
He's always wanted a sister. Or a brother. Or anyone more than his mother, because his mother's gone now, and Fuuta feels alone. And so he dogs their footsteps, like Bianchi, and sits at their tables, eating their food and laughing at their jokes. He grows up in their houses, months in this house, years in that house. He grows in inches, then feet, and his Family's growing bigger. Tsuna's Family is growing bigger. And there are always more rankings in the book.
Fastest, sturdiest, most reliable. Most loving. Most beautiful.
Bianchi's name is slowly moving up, and he doesn't want to look at her, not like that, but he does, and he can't look away.
"Wait," Bianchi says, and Fuuta doesn't try to run anymore. He waits for her, walks next to her, and listens to her stories. She tells him about Gokudera, kicked out of university, and Tsuna, still living at home. About Yamamoto, his arms twisted and ruined, and Reborn, less than half of what he'd been. She tells him to write it down, this and that, all of it, and he writes as she watches, scratching his pen across the page.
"Wait," she says, and, "write something happy."
Love, he writes, and all the things he loves. His parents, his Family, Tsuna's Family. Tsuna, Yamamoto, Gokudera, and Chrome. Bianchi, alone at the top, a space the width of Fuuta's thumb between her and the others. And on the next page, again, and the next page, once more. And the next page, and the next. And list, after list, and the things change. His parents sink lower, as they sink lower in their graves, and he can't remember their faces. Yamamoto drags down the list as his career drags on in America, and Tsuna's name jumps between three and seven, nine and two. And Bianchi's name stays steady, slow and firm and there at the top, and Fuuta walks by her side.
"Wait," she says, and Fuuta holds onto his book, and writes down his happy things, and his lists of her. Most beautiful, most charming, most loving. Most loved.
