and She Said (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bloodied_quill) wrote,@ 2006-05-31 15:33:00 |
|
Title: And I play pool
Category: fan fiction, one-shot
Genre: reflective/fluff
Rating: PG-13
Date: May 30, 2006
Written for![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
50stories
Theme: #23 - happy
Pairing: hyde and tetsu
Disclaimer: I do not own/am not affiliated with L’Arc~en~Ciel, Sony Ki/oon, Danger Crue, etc. This is a work of complete fiction. It’s for fun; I’m not going to make any money off of this. However, this particular story is my own writing, so please do not claim it as yours or repost it without permission.
Comments: This fic has a touch of the bittersweet, but it remains a smiling reflection on good memories and a good present.
POV: First person (hyde)
Word Count: 892
“A spotless home is a good step towards a spotless life.”
He said it laughingly, sensible enough not to take anyone, even himself, too seriously, and knowing that his housekeeping habits were more than a bit unusual for a man of his young age.
But I was not much older and no wiser, and his gently self-teasing tone was not enough to satisfy my juvenile need to pull him down off his pedestal of over-polished end tables.
“Between that and your dresses, you’ll have to date a dyke to get some masculinity into this place.”
He blushed, and I felt a little guilty for causing that hurt look, hidden by his face turned away, a gentle and wavering smile saving face. He could have turned on me, pointing out the obvious fact that I was the one who best passed for a woman, curled hair, cheap jewelry, and white dresses sufficing for my stage image. I could have said I was sorry, and I could have hidden my smile when his strengthened, giving away how much it pleased him to hear kind words soothing burns left by acidic ones.
But neither scene would play out upon this small, clean white-carpeted stage. We couldn’t have chosen the right words to say why, and we wouldn’t have tried. We can still smile, sometimes, when we talk about it now.
He didn’t want to payback a taunt for a taunt; it held no appeal when the antagonist was I. I didn’t want to overplay my gentler disposition; there was too much to be seen in these actions.
It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t have been hurt; it didn’t matter that no one looking was willing to see. His light flush rose to bring an innocent illusion to his face, masking his impure thoughts as much as it highlighted mine.
I might have been mistaken as a bit of a bully by our well-intentioned but none-too-observant manager. Me, overpowering, overshadowing, overwhelming our determined and confident bassist, leader, god? Only in my wildest daydreams fueled by too much alcohol and a bad day in the studio. I never threw more than he could handle. These days, I suspect that while my fantasies allowed me to accomplish that immature and unkind victory, my dreaming was way over my head. Although even with his platform heels he stood at an unimpressive height, his waifish frame giving him the look of a sapling that required stakes and strings to stand against the breeze, a slender sword does more damage than a club, and he could have proven to be the same if he’d so desired. He had no need for the strength of his body.
We fought more than anyone else in the band combined. More even than the number of times he got upset with the staff. Some of the staff could hardly stand him for the way he was; ken gave up school for him because of those same qualities. You could love him, you could hate him, you could just not give a damn, you could like him well enough but not think about him at all for days. Except for a select few friends, it was all the same to him.
I believed that I didn’t believe in love and the rest of those choices weren’t good enough for me. So I loved him, and I told myself it was all sorts of other names. Devotion, affection, attraction, lust, connection, desire, adoration—anything that would justify they way I felt without giving in to the use of that word for a lie.
He used that word in the first sentence spoken after my hostility had snapped its teeth only to slink away in shame and his pride had recovered. Not thirty seconds after I’d flung vulgar and harsh words in his pretty face he lit it up with an uncharacteristically nervous smile and admitted to, professed what had stopped him from lashing back, what I had less-than-knowingly let stop me from uttering a ‘sorry’.
And all I could do was stare. I stared so long the clock’s ticking could have been a bomb as I watched his expression twitch from hopeful to expectant to stunned and hurt. I know he could have held up to rejection; in withholding even that, offering only a blank look too surprised to show any emotion, I had wronged him, spit in his face. When I saw the water build in his eyes and crossed the room to embrace him, to offer the comfort he needed and the response he’d wanted, he struggled to push me away until I had him sobbing in my arms, entangled uncomfortably on the floor. But that was enough for him, and the next time we found ourselves entwined so ungracefully it was in a sweaty and moaning state of blissful undress.
We laugh at that, too, now that it is far enough behind us. We were on again, off again, secretive while open about the whole thing and amiable when off again finally meant off. My wife thinks he’s a sweetheart and I play pool with his lover—they’ve both known for years what we once had and they both know that the past is passed.
I don’t buy most happy endings and it isn’t over yet, but I didn’t buy love back then, either.
please comment if you read.
Requests are open
Category: fan fiction, one-shot
Genre: reflective/fluff
Rating: PG-13
Date: May 30, 2006
Written for
50storiesTheme: #23 - happy
Pairing: hyde and tetsu
Disclaimer: I do not own/am not affiliated with L’Arc~en~Ciel, Sony Ki/oon, Danger Crue, etc. This is a work of complete fiction. It’s for fun; I’m not going to make any money off of this. However, this particular story is my own writing, so please do not claim it as yours or repost it without permission.
Comments: This fic has a touch of the bittersweet, but it remains a smiling reflection on good memories and a good present.
POV: First person (hyde)
Word Count: 892
“A spotless home is a good step towards a spotless life.”
He said it laughingly, sensible enough not to take anyone, even himself, too seriously, and knowing that his housekeeping habits were more than a bit unusual for a man of his young age.
But I was not much older and no wiser, and his gently self-teasing tone was not enough to satisfy my juvenile need to pull him down off his pedestal of over-polished end tables.
“Between that and your dresses, you’ll have to date a dyke to get some masculinity into this place.”
He blushed, and I felt a little guilty for causing that hurt look, hidden by his face turned away, a gentle and wavering smile saving face. He could have turned on me, pointing out the obvious fact that I was the one who best passed for a woman, curled hair, cheap jewelry, and white dresses sufficing for my stage image. I could have said I was sorry, and I could have hidden my smile when his strengthened, giving away how much it pleased him to hear kind words soothing burns left by acidic ones.
But neither scene would play out upon this small, clean white-carpeted stage. We couldn’t have chosen the right words to say why, and we wouldn’t have tried. We can still smile, sometimes, when we talk about it now.
He didn’t want to payback a taunt for a taunt; it held no appeal when the antagonist was I. I didn’t want to overplay my gentler disposition; there was too much to be seen in these actions.
It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t have been hurt; it didn’t matter that no one looking was willing to see. His light flush rose to bring an innocent illusion to his face, masking his impure thoughts as much as it highlighted mine.
I might have been mistaken as a bit of a bully by our well-intentioned but none-too-observant manager. Me, overpowering, overshadowing, overwhelming our determined and confident bassist, leader, god? Only in my wildest daydreams fueled by too much alcohol and a bad day in the studio. I never threw more than he could handle. These days, I suspect that while my fantasies allowed me to accomplish that immature and unkind victory, my dreaming was way over my head. Although even with his platform heels he stood at an unimpressive height, his waifish frame giving him the look of a sapling that required stakes and strings to stand against the breeze, a slender sword does more damage than a club, and he could have proven to be the same if he’d so desired. He had no need for the strength of his body.
We fought more than anyone else in the band combined. More even than the number of times he got upset with the staff. Some of the staff could hardly stand him for the way he was; ken gave up school for him because of those same qualities. You could love him, you could hate him, you could just not give a damn, you could like him well enough but not think about him at all for days. Except for a select few friends, it was all the same to him.
I believed that I didn’t believe in love and the rest of those choices weren’t good enough for me. So I loved him, and I told myself it was all sorts of other names. Devotion, affection, attraction, lust, connection, desire, adoration—anything that would justify they way I felt without giving in to the use of that word for a lie.
He used that word in the first sentence spoken after my hostility had snapped its teeth only to slink away in shame and his pride had recovered. Not thirty seconds after I’d flung vulgar and harsh words in his pretty face he lit it up with an uncharacteristically nervous smile and admitted to, professed what had stopped him from lashing back, what I had less-than-knowingly let stop me from uttering a ‘sorry’.
And all I could do was stare. I stared so long the clock’s ticking could have been a bomb as I watched his expression twitch from hopeful to expectant to stunned and hurt. I know he could have held up to rejection; in withholding even that, offering only a blank look too surprised to show any emotion, I had wronged him, spit in his face. When I saw the water build in his eyes and crossed the room to embrace him, to offer the comfort he needed and the response he’d wanted, he struggled to push me away until I had him sobbing in my arms, entangled uncomfortably on the floor. But that was enough for him, and the next time we found ourselves entwined so ungracefully it was in a sweaty and moaning state of blissful undress.
We laugh at that, too, now that it is far enough behind us. We were on again, off again, secretive while open about the whole thing and amiable when off again finally meant off. My wife thinks he’s a sweetheart and I play pool with his lover—they’ve both known for years what we once had and they both know that the past is passed.
I don’t buy most happy endings and it isn’t over yet, but I didn’t buy love back then, either.
please comment if you read.
Requests are open
