I know that one day, only our happiness will be left.
one liners .
When children laugh and play and smile at her, she feels like life is worth living; she doesn't know how to smile like that anymore, but she has the strange feeling that there is someone waiting to teach her.
Somehow, before she had noticed, he had slipped into her heart and into her blood; with the taste of apples on her tongue, she knew spring had come.
Their first kiss is soft and short and unassuming - the ground does not shake, the sky does not fall, and her world clicks into place.
These birds of paper and gilt cannot fly, but she wishes they could carry her heart to his, even as her tears fall down upon their wings.
Hisoka barely knows who to be angry with when Yuki cries to him the first time, but he is ninety percent sure it is some subpar human being. It is a strange mix of envy and devastation that wells inside her when she sees them standing together, but her tears won't stop falling.
Even when his skin is warm and alive under her hands, he feels a thousand miles away and her heart breaks when she sees that some part of him is living in the past and that is the one place she cannot follow him to.
Yuki has always prided herself her composure, but his smile drives her insane - it does insane things to her heartbeat and insane things to her.
journey .
She stands in a perfect darkness, in a hush of silence that only the slow breaths and thudding hearts of thousands can produce. Behind the thin layer of her eyelids, she sees an impossible future in that void.
The smooth lengths of wood warm in her hands, like a part of herself that she had long forgotten.
They flow around her wrists, spinning; the waver of her hands finds a partner in the quivering of her thick lashes.
Her heart swells with some infinite, terrible joy, overflowing, spilling.
The song begins and she opens her eyes. She sees the future.
laughter .
He laughs a lot, sometimes because he means it and sometimes because he likes to believe that happiness comes to those who seek it.
Ren, who unthinkingly grumbles about his siblings, hears him laugh quite often, because the other option is not an option at all. His father, who thinks his son has deteriorated to previously unknown levels, hears only the descent of the one child he has left.
When she smiles at him though, it feels like the summer sun is sinking through his skin and there is no denying that he laughs because he means it.
remorse .
In a field of embroidered colors and shining hint of gilt paper, her knees thud, finding the one, unerringly, the one place where the tatami mats are bare.
Carefully folded lines and corners brush against her skin, quiet, comforting. But she doesn't see the desperation built into those tiny birds, because her sightless eyes are fixed on something that is not real.
They see flashes of laughing smiles, lithe figures leaping from unfathomable heights.
When her tears fall, salty and scared, unto crimson wings, the message written in a heart's ink darkens.
In her hand lies the answer to her questions.
lost .
Natsuhana Yuki walked out of the room and shut the door behind her.
It clicked softly into place and her steps echoed through the silent halls, just as they echoed through her heart, cutting past the clamor of riotous emotions. The nurses that passed her by turned to each other and asked, "Who is in that room? The poor girl looks like her world is ending." But it was not the apocalypse that loomed on the horizon, not even a storm, though whatever brewed there at the break of day, she would not have seen it. Instead, it took every jolt of thought firing across her neurons to hold together just two things - breathe and walk. One foot in front of the other, one breath at a time, life pulled her away. Spring had come and now she knew not what to do with the fern frost crawling over the surface of her heart, encroaching upon its old home with deliberate brutality. Was the paralysis of shock supposed to hurt?
One foot in front of the other, one breath at a time, life pulled her away.
She did not cry until she was blocks from the hospital and the only thing she had was the sky above her, spread vast and endless across the earth. Each star that shone so very brightly from their celestial perches only lit the dark space at her side, the dark spaces where another had once stood.
That was when she cried.
And when she thought there were no more tears left, she walked home and stared at her ceiling, surrounded by a thousand paper wishes and discovered belatedly that she was wrong. They fell soundlessly upon frail what-if?s of ink and gilt, dancing like the sound of rain. The burden of one hope too many fractured their intricate illusion of flight and her fingers shook as she unfolded the crane.
Yuki closed her eyes, as if in the darkness behind those closed lids she could wish away the careful lines written within. She opened them. And closed them once more, until the tremor of her hands had slipped into her veins like a poison and reached the frail shell of ice.
The clink-clink of crumbling ice rang in her ears as she chose her prayer and took her confessions to paper. She bore it with her, all the way back to where it had began (to who it had begun with), past the staff who took pity on a sparrow girl without her wings, all the way back to him. And that was where she stopped, where her feet would take her no further. One foot in front of the other, one breath at a time, life had left her frozen here. So Yuki set the small dream wrought of thin origami and amorphous yearning beside him and slid onto the floor, knees hitting tile with a dull thud. Greed made her stay, made her commit the size of his hands next to hers, the width of his wrists and tilt of his jaw. Moonlight washed over his pale skin and sickly bruises in blessed silver, made them disappear for an ephemeral moment. It was enough for her to pretend.
She could not have felt the sting of her kneecaps because now she that she was seeing him, here and hers again (but not really, not really here and not really hers), her heart found that could still cry some more.
When moonlight was gone and the moment had passed, she too was gone.
answer .
"Yuki."
Her chasen continued to scratch against the sides of her bowl and she could feel the give of fragrant grains through the bamboo handle. The elegant turns of her wrist spun tirelessly, driven by the lingering memory of tradition, the professional movements that skirted foam and ceramic rims.
"Yuki. I believe the tea is thick enough."
Kazuki did not often sit for tea with his sister, but this morning he had moved Hisoka aside and rescheduled a meeting. He stretched out an open palm, expectant, and watched while Yuki's hands froze, the glimmer of awareness in her eyes as she closed them.
"Hai, Onii-san."
The bamboo laddle faltered and only the quick hiss of breath from her told him that she felt the burn of boiling water. "That was careless," he offered, standing up to soak a towel in cold water. His precious only sister had not so clumsily erred for years, "Look at your hand, it's so red now."
"Hai, Onii-san."
Kazuki took her hand and studied the swollen flesh, begrudging every millimeter of flushed skin.
"You will tell me what is wrong."
And despite the defiant tilt of her jaw, he knew she would.
she is breathless when she sees his name on the screen, the familiar characters and smiling face. if she says no, she might be able to pretend a little longer, to lie a little longer, but in the end she thinks she needs this even if it will hurt her. her heart craves his touch, the thump of his own, in spite of the wounds he will leave in his wake.
"yes."
suddenly she can breathe again.
ghost .
He begins to lose feeling in his fingertips.
That's how it starts; they grow colder and colder and stain like burst blackberries ripe on the ground, heavy fruit of missed opportunity, never savored.
His knuckles turn white and pale as if death whispers between bone and skin and no blood runs for miles beneath the surface of a parched heart. It hurts. It hurts with an ache, with a loss; it hurts like the inside of his soul has been hollowed out by a great fire and the walls of his lungs are still charred. Sorrow and regret fill his mouth and iron weighs sharp on the tongue; there are cracks in his lips where teeth have left their savagery.
Sterile air and sterile sounds - nothing is right.
Please, one more time.
Just...
One more time?
There! A flutter, a flicker, a jump in the steady whine that has already become customary. A shift in the frame and a single shaft of sun parts the mottled clouds; she opens her eyes and rescues him.
Condemns him in the same breath.
"Hiro," and just as quickly corrects herself. "Takeda-san. I - I didn't think you'd be here."
"I'm sorry," the voice that rattles past his lips does not sound like him. Another man's perhaps, husky and unused, low rust rasping against the syllables. Everything pours out after those words, a rush, a torrent, all that can be said without breaking, all that can be said to mend and atone and love.
She's so stupid.
Lying there in the hospital bed and all she can do is see the circles dark around his eyes, the wrinkles folded deep across his shirt. Gently, horrifyingly gently, she cups his face and the IV attached to her arm trembles in an echo of the line of her arm. Relief melts his bones and his resolve (his secret oath to bear the pain, to strain under the shadow of another cross) crumbles at the joy of her touch, of her skin.
Seeking, he writes his gratitude into the palm of her hand with a press of his mouth and she stares, stricken by how easily he burns her.
Later, one day, her pulse will pound with fear and confusion at the alien rage of his back, defiant and strange. It will feel like the end and tears will gather in her eyes, but the small sounds that are perched in her throat will shake her spine.
Those sobs held back only by the tight clench of her jaw and the seal of her hand over her lips, chasing the ghost of a kiss.
lights .
The wooden soles of her geta make a click-click sound as she twirls, the hem of her blue sleeves swaying like a pair of earthbound dreams from her slender arms. Hisoka assures her that the pale porcelain patterns and snowy silks of her obi are just perfect. He adjusts the knotting on the sides and declares her beautiful as she fidgets with the intricate flowers pinned to her hair. "Are you meeting your friend at the festival, Yuki-chan?"
Her geta clack uncertainly.
"I think so," she admits, unreasonably proud that her voice does not waver.
"Are you sure? You haven't been out of the hospital long."
Hisoka's touch is filled with tenderness when he brushes an inky strand of black from her face. "Daijoubu, Hisoka-nii. Honto ni." He relents and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"Call if you are going to miss dinner. I'll come pick you up later."
The cloudy, fine cotton of her yukata sighs as she goes.
"Hiro-kun, over here!"
More than a few people are whispering, glancing at her as they pass her by, but she remains stubbornly ignorant of them. The weight of their stares are drowned out by the stuttering of her heart echoing in her ears. She still does not expect to see him here, not really, and maybe that is why she feels like she dares to breathe when his arms are empty and he is alone. Memories flare in the treasury of her mind.
Pain as new and sharp as ever before twists callously, but she pushes it aside. Yuki is determined to do nothing but smile today.
He waits, hovering at a distance as she finishes the elegant line of calligraphy on her slip of paper, fingers reaching for the highest bamboo branch she can see.
Later he will buy the largest, fluffiest (and a somewhat lopsided) mound of cotton candy. She steals bits and pieces of it while he points at booths and sneaks looks at her idle hand swinging by his side. She pretends not to notice, but her senses are swimming with the taste of melting sugar lingering on her tongue. Hiro might try to kiss her right as she notices a goldfish pool and her geta tap fearfully as she walks away.
Holding a soft blue lantern, she might stumble over an empty cone and he might catch her for once. Yuki wishes she hadn't fallen.
She pulls away; he doesn't let her.
Hiro's fingers tighten minutely and her geta rest silent in stillness when he leans down and kisses her. He chases betrayal from the quiver of her lashes, hesitation from the flash of her eyes. She gasps for air when they part and she cherishes the imprint of his lips on hers, dizzy even as she forgets a girl in a park cutting off the strings to her heart.
( He stitches them back in place, one by one. )
This is a face that is altogether different from the boy she knows, cast in the shadows and play of tanabata lights, his eyes are dark storms and his mouth a firm, solemn line.
Far above them, her wish hangs in the breeze.
Far above them, let's meet again over a river of stars
Far above them, spend the days a heaven apart
Far above them, but you are only as far as my heart
reach .
Her fingers brushed past the blue rims, soles arched and face upturned, so he filled her vision with the sight of his hand, (so much larger, so much warmer) and the line of his neck. The curves of her back, paved by fragile bone and Okaa-san's words, bent imperceptibly toward him, like she was a sapling and he the wind, showing her glimpses of a world outside of her valley. He handed her the teacup and there the shadows of their hearts intertwined.
broken .
Maybe they begin when he smiles at her.
Maybe they begin when she smiles at him.
Maybe they begin in halting, lurching steps that echo through her string of destiny like a new song, unsure of its footing and the murky depths ahead. She cannot quite chronicle these moments when she is so far ahead of them now, but she feels the weight of their marks ripple over her. (His hand ghosting over her fingers, reaching for a bowl - the sounds of her name a wingspan of lightning sparking in the drum of her heart - she remembers them all, and never escapes the fall.)
Maybe they end when she stands over a sink full of frail bubbles and breakable dishes, when her head hangs in a broken line of surrender.
how sorrow builds, tear by tear beneath her quivering heart, until they spill - mixing with dishwater and clinking plates
Maybe they ended a long time, the hollow words ring, but she still aches for him.
Maybe she loves him a little more than she should.
the color only he knows .
What was the color of her eyes?
Blue, green, pieces of a stormy sky or the unreachable depths of the ocean tides - he wondered what colors they bore, and what colors she saw in him. Had she ever glimpsed him bright in noontime glow, earthy browns and windy corals, alight with a joy as true and his as the sea belonged to the moon? Was he red as wine, gleaming with secrets and singing notes of untold years asleep within wooden barrels, dwelling low in the fog of memory? Sometimes he thought she was as ice, smooth surfaces slick beneath his fingertips, hungry edges for the muscle of his palms.
There were other colors here too, a shock of azure rich and thick; sheaths of sapphire spun spidersilk in a riverfall under the pale cage of brittle snow. She had even been the shade of rosebud dreams, when he’d least deserved it. Once upon a time, he had thought that those fragmented reflections of happiness reachable, touchable - that he would have dug through the ancient crust of this Earth to find her there, trapped and young between layers of fear and iron ore.
If he had all the colors in the world, how would he paint her? Darkly, he thought, darkly with the ink of heart’s blood, darkly, as the trail of salt and sorrow might trace its journey on the hem of her nightgown. Darkly, for the strokes of her hair, long, swift strokes - sure, wispy, so terribly cold next to the white of her skin. Yes, white, white for the mask he wore, white for the threads of their destiny, where a misspoken word and forgotten lie had tied their miseries together in hoarfrost lock.
White for his guilt because it was the easiest to recall the spill of her trust upon, so faint and impermeable and yet it haunted his vision everywhere.
It hunted him in the afternoons, when he awoke and found the bed as empty as he was. It haunted him in the messy throw of sheets and pillows arrayed in patterns left over from too-slippery nightmares and the echo of her hand alabaster in the twist of shadows, alabaster and so extravagantly pure it had hurt - but it had hurt more not to take that hand, not to press his face into all the excessive silence and breathe in her colors. No amount of desperate anger heated his skin and no amount of winter blankets brought the warmth her voice had; glittering, quiet, woven with strands of starlight and love. If voices had gravity, she had been his. And now all the laughter in the world was dry and grey in his mouth, the charred remains of recrimination sluggish like muddy orange and creaking yellow, sallow with illness.
........I wish I were here with you.
........He gripped the neat square of stationary and clung onto those words.
His own days seemed dull and that too was a film noire he thought he knew. The ebbing of his life followed an old story with crinkled pages and dog-eared corners - always, blindness and sightless, he would have much (wealthy in the eyes of others, but poor, so very poor, in the coin of knowledge), and inevitably, loss and sight and rage were all his in turn. Loss and sight and rage to stand in the place of people as beloved and precious as the hopes he’d long surrendered to the hands of Fate.
In the early periods of loss, many plates were broken and left untended (sharp, they’d bit into the soles of his feet like the teeth of his regrets, like the blade in his heart that was the shape of her back, the sound of her heels as they carried her and his colors away). All except two littered the tiles of the kitchen floor and they sat unused and lonely upon the shelves, the cheerful apple pattern slowly gathering dust in fuzzy layers of denial. In the rage, he had refused to sleep at all and that was a particular maze he had travelled before, where every corner was an oath of pain and recollection. He painted his own face old and stark with heavy lids and bloodless lips. He refused rest and anything that resembled sanctuary for there was no sanctuary or rest to be found in the raw snatches of honesty.
Because if he were to be honest, his own bed scared him. It remembered the shape of her waist in his arms, the way her shoulders curved and the weight of her words in the dip of his collarbone. He had never thought someone would fit with him, so broken and deceptive, but she did and she had. Not perfectly, for no two people were ever that well made for another, and yet they had been.
Perhaps it remembered too, how each had changed and lost themselves over and over in trials untold until they had found the other. Certainly, it remembered how she’d laid kisses on the nape of his neck (how she’d sown seeds in barren soil and planted new flowers in the dead places of his soul) and given him all the absolution he’d never asked for. It remembered her.
Everything remembered her. The kitchen remembered Yuki sitting at the breakfast table, scowling at the tall bottle of Calpico, the vapors of morning pu er drifting from the rim of her dainty chinaware. His bathroom mirror remembered her mouth surrounded in white, minty foam and the errant, messy loops of her hair. Her impossible grin and the muffled good morning through her toothbrush. It had been a very long time since he had even felt what morning might have been.
Worst of all, it remembered a him he could no longer be. That was sight.
He saw the chill of ache and yearning in the tea cups he’d never touch, lonely and unfulfilled of their purpose in his kitchen. He saw it in the way he turned his head when the phone rang and his knees knocked when he leaped from the couch. He saw, simply, that they had erred and the golden, sweetly promised road of fairytales had crumbled as week-old cake crumbles at the touch of a fork, no matter how light.
Colors came back to him again, at times slowly (the day when he bought a tin of matcha and burned his hand with boiling water - the matcha had been very green in her cup, earnest and weakly fragrant) and at times quickly (overwhelming him, flooding him, until he swam in ghosts of her and him so strong and real he would have drowned peacefully in the palpable caress of her laughing). Love, written in the sand, swept away in a flash of water and a wave of confusion, but he still saw it there.
In the end, the only one doing the remembering was him.
Hiro never forgot those moments, not a year from then or a decade further. He never forgot to make note when she was close enough that her cheeks flushed pink, or when he returned to that world of homeless facades and broken walls, where she toppled giants and vanquished demons with a touch, with a breath. With a glance of her eyes.
How could he ever forget what color they were?
change .
At six, she tells the world (her world is her mother and her father, is her brothers' laughter and strong arms) that she wants to fly. She envies her namesake, each one special, each one nothing, but itself. She envies them for drifting in the sky, for being white and soft, melting on her small hands.
At twelve, she tells herself that she wants to be a flower, to be bright and fragrant, to bloom at spring and endure the winter.
At eighteen, she wants nothing more than his hand around hers, the touch of his smile buried deep within her like a seed for safekeeping. At eighteen, she no longer wishes to fly, for there is no Takeda Hiro in the sky.
He holds her like she will keep him safe and she holds him like she is waiting for spring.
found .
Yuki sees hurt in his eyes sometimes, as if something important is irrefutably lost (find me, someone inside him cries, and he realizes now that it is his voice).
She feels his back stiffen just so when he sees her glancing again at his neck.
Hiro knows she has questions, many, many questions.
Instead, she smooths her hands across his forehead, as if the physical motion alone will dispel the monsters hiding in the shadows of his face (of his mind). She throws silence around them like a familiar blanket and smiles.
Surrounded by her warmth, he falls asleep.
eternity .
And she smiled against the crook of his neck, the flutter of his pulse beating against her lips like a butterfly's mad flight. Gently, softly, she drew away, eyes dark with promises, and trailed fingertips along the length of spine, rubbing in small circles as she went. Their hips bumped and clicked together like two puzzle pieces with a low thump and her breath shuddered from her lungs.
Those marks, deliberate strokes of black, stood stark against his skin - Yuki bent over him, length of hair falling in long, obsidian curls onto skin like whorls of cool ink, slipping, brushing, like a lover's wishful touch. Instead, she bent closer still, tongue darting to trace the marks of an artist's touch.
It marveled her, how Hiro's breath rose underneath questing hands, how his skin could taste like rain and tears, but she would not relinquish it for the world, would not leave this place, where their breaths mixed.
So Yuki bent lower and pressed her heart to his, reveling in the thud of his heart against hers, the rhythm of his body pounding next to the roar in her chest. It made her fingers tingle and her mouth curve.
And then they fit - her gentle curves warm and flush against his firm heart, his hands on the swell of her hips, and she was just lost, lost to that moment of distilled hopes and faiths, lost to the cry on his lips. Would that the world never found them the next day, that this moment would stretch into eternity.
And then he rolled them both over and whispered her name and the world fell away.
FRENCH VANILLA IS AN EPIC WRITER.
FRENCH VANILLA IS AN EPIC WRITER.
FRENCH VANILLA IS AN EPIC WRITER.
