and She Said (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} bloodied_quill) wrote,@ 2006-07-20 09:56:00 |
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Title: Sensory
Category: fan fiction, one-shot
Genre: emotional/romantic; bittersweet
Rating: PG-13
Date: June 20, 2006
Written for![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
30_kisses
Theme: 11 - Gardenia
Pairing: hyde and Megumi (L'Arc~en~Ciel)
Disclaimer: I do not own/am not affiliated with L’Arc~en~Ciel, Sony Ki/oon, Danger Crue, etc. hyde and Megumi are real people, and really married. This story 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. As a work of fiction, this piece does not express the views or life of the artists portrayed within and no harm to them is intended.
Word Count: 613
POV: third person
Summary: Some things fade, and some are never forgotten.
Taste—the lingering hint of scrambled eggs seasoned with too much pepper. Sight—her unblushing smile as he walked into the bathroom without knocking, without thinking. Sound—her laugh when he muttered an apology even as he smiled back. Touch—the soft, damp smoothness of her manicured and moisturized hand brushing along his unshaven cheek.
These memories have faded away with the others, flowing down the metaphorical drain like so much bathwater.
Even now he’s never forgotten the smell.
The scent of gardenias filled the small, tiled room, hanging so thickly it could have been the scent that fogged the mirror rather than the steam. It was her shampoo; he realized that as he pulled her unclothed body against his smaller frame, holding her gently and burying his face against the untanned skin of her slim shoulder. He pressed gentle kisses onto the damp strands of her perfumed hair and told her, for the first but not the last time that morning, how beautiful she was. She laughed, the second time in just a minute, and the light sound pleased him. She always laughed that way when he said nice things; it was her way of showing him that she appreciated those words.
Her laughter no longer plays in his head when he tries to remember. She doesn’t laugh much these days, at least not around him, but he probably wouldn’t be able to hear it even if she did. He might even be truly deaf now; she has no way of asking because he no longer speaks. He offers her confused smiles every so often, and she smiles back, caressing his hair the way he used to touch hers. He seems to enjoy it, and it comforts her to be able to do at least that for him.
It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes it wasn’t even good, but they’d come through. And she wondered, questioned, almost screamed sometimes wanting to know why after all the passion and apathy, the compromise and the resolution, it had had to come to this. And she felt a connection to his quietly agonized lyrics she hadn’t understood then. It wasn’t fair. And she no longer felt sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he didn’t even know that anymore.
He hadn’t forgotten the smell.
She brought him gardenias, the white, fragile petals bearing a stark resemblance to the frail man she’d chosen them for. For a moment, his face lit with a clarity he’d lost what sometimes seemed to her to be ages ago. He reached his bony, callused hands towards the delicate flowers and her own hands trembled as she plucked one from the vase so he could hold it. And he smiled. Really smiled, she’d say later, her eyes full of tears both joyous and crushed. She wouldn’t notice that the doctor’s smile as she said it was patronizing, that he and the nurse exchanged a we-doubt-it glance once she had looked away. He smiled. At the flowers, first, and then at her—his lips moved without a sound, but he didn’t seem to notice and she knew that he had tried.
He knew that smell.
He seemed to know, in some way, that that scent and the woman beside him were somehow one and the same. He pressed the flower to his lips in the memory of a kiss; he turned his head to brush the dry, almost cracked flesh over her fingertips as they traced his cheek. And then she lost him to the same world he’d so briefly been pulled out of, and he no longer seemed to know she was there.
He hadn’t forgotten the scent of gardenia.
Title: Sensory
Category: fan fiction, one-shot
Genre: emotional/romantic; bittersweet
Rating: PG-13
Date: June 20, 2006
Written for
30_kissesTheme: 11 - Gardenia
Pairing: hyde and Megumi (L'Arc~en~Ciel)
Disclaimer: I do not own/am not affiliated with L’Arc~en~Ciel, Sony Ki/oon, Danger Crue, etc. hyde and Megumi are real people, and really married. This story 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. As a work of fiction, this piece does not express the views or life of the artists portrayed within and no harm to them is intended.
Word Count: 613
POV: third person
Summary: Some things fade, and some are never forgotten.
Taste—the lingering hint of scrambled eggs seasoned with too much pepper. Sight—her unblushing smile as he walked into the bathroom without knocking, without thinking. Sound—her laugh when he muttered an apology even as he smiled back. Touch—the soft, damp smoothness of her manicured and moisturized hand brushing along his unshaven cheek.
These memories have faded away with the others, flowing down the metaphorical drain like so much bathwater.
Even now he’s never forgotten the smell.
The scent of gardenias filled the small, tiled room, hanging so thickly it could have been the scent that fogged the mirror rather than the steam. It was her shampoo; he realized that as he pulled her unclothed body against his smaller frame, holding her gently and burying his face against the untanned skin of her slim shoulder. He pressed gentle kisses onto the damp strands of her perfumed hair and told her, for the first but not the last time that morning, how beautiful she was. She laughed, the second time in just a minute, and the light sound pleased him. She always laughed that way when he said nice things; it was her way of showing him that she appreciated those words.
Her laughter no longer plays in his head when he tries to remember. She doesn’t laugh much these days, at least not around him, but he probably wouldn’t be able to hear it even if she did. He might even be truly deaf now; she has no way of asking because he no longer speaks. He offers her confused smiles every so often, and she smiles back, caressing his hair the way he used to touch hers. He seems to enjoy it, and it comforts her to be able to do at least that for him.
It wasn’t perfect. Sometimes it wasn’t even good, but they’d come through. And she wondered, questioned, almost screamed sometimes wanting to know why after all the passion and apathy, the compromise and the resolution, it had had to come to this. And she felt a connection to his quietly agonized lyrics she hadn’t understood then. It wasn’t fair. And she no longer felt sure if it was a blessing or a curse that he didn’t even know that anymore.
He hadn’t forgotten the smell.
She brought him gardenias, the white, fragile petals bearing a stark resemblance to the frail man she’d chosen them for. For a moment, his face lit with a clarity he’d lost what sometimes seemed to her to be ages ago. He reached his bony, callused hands towards the delicate flowers and her own hands trembled as she plucked one from the vase so he could hold it. And he smiled. Really smiled, she’d say later, her eyes full of tears both joyous and crushed. She wouldn’t notice that the doctor’s smile as she said it was patronizing, that he and the nurse exchanged a we-doubt-it glance once she had looked away. He smiled. At the flowers, first, and then at her—his lips moved without a sound, but he didn’t seem to notice and she knew that he had tried.
He knew that smell.
He seemed to know, in some way, that that scent and the woman beside him were somehow one and the same. He pressed the flower to his lips in the memory of a kiss; he turned his head to brush the dry, almost cracked flesh over her fingertips as they traced his cheek. And then she lost him to the same world he’d so briefly been pulled out of, and he no longer seemed to know she was there.
He hadn’t forgotten the scent of gardenia.
