Old fandom, first ficlet.
Title: Un seule pas de deux
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A dribbley, drabbley thing taken from the last episode of the first season. Pairings are up for interpretation.
They are perfect together. That’s the only thing that’s supposed to matter.
Prince and Princess, swan and swan, step and flawless step.
There isn’t an inch of Fakir that hasn’t been torn or bruised by the raven bitch. If he moves his little finger, everything will hurt, and somewhere far away (very, very far away) it does. But in the glow of Edel’s suicide, he hardly feels anything at all.
Except, perhaps, the mouth-cavern of his chest as it yawns wider, wider, every time Mytho places his palm on her back just so; when there’s a smile-a fucking smile-that stretches from lip to eye to gently miming hand.
They move with unpracticed ease, their bodies fitting together as though they couldn’t be meant for anything else. Fakir sees this, and he will remember the tender shape of Mytho’s hand against her cheek.
This isn’t like before, when he watched Rue play her games with him. Rue was never a threat, and thus Fakir didn’t particularly care what she did with Mytho in the park or the studio or the courtyard where everyone could see them hand in hand.
No, this is nothing like Rue at all.
Fakir is empty, heavy against the fountain; he shuts his eyes and hears the foundations sigh under the weight of his growing cynicism. What a selfish bastard he is. Mytho and Tutu are in the midst of their first, precious pas de deux, while Fakir breaks a little every time he touches her, when she touches him. This is love, he knows, and he wants to vomit as it glows dove-bright between them.
Of course he can rationalize this, and in that far away place he does. He knows that even in a story like this, the prince must have his princess.
They are perfect together.
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A dribbley, drabbley thing taken from the last episode of the first season. Pairings are up for interpretation.
They are perfect together. That’s the only thing that’s supposed to matter.
Prince and Princess, swan and swan, step and flawless step.
There isn’t an inch of Fakir that hasn’t been torn or bruised by the raven bitch. If he moves his little finger, everything will hurt, and somewhere far away (very, very far away) it does. But in the glow of Edel’s suicide, he hardly feels anything at all.
Except, perhaps, the mouth-cavern of his chest as it yawns wider, wider, every time Mytho places his palm on her back just so; when there’s a smile-a fucking smile-that stretches from lip to eye to gently miming hand.
They move with unpracticed ease, their bodies fitting together as though they couldn’t be meant for anything else. Fakir sees this, and he will remember the tender shape of Mytho’s hand against her cheek.
This isn’t like before, when he watched Rue play her games with him. Rue was never a threat, and thus Fakir didn’t particularly care what she did with Mytho in the park or the studio or the courtyard where everyone could see them hand in hand.
No, this is nothing like Rue at all.
Fakir is empty, heavy against the fountain; he shuts his eyes and hears the foundations sigh under the weight of his growing cynicism. What a selfish bastard he is. Mytho and Tutu are in the midst of their first, precious pas de deux, while Fakir breaks a little every time he touches her, when she touches him. This is love, he knows, and he wants to vomit as it glows dove-bright between them.
Of course he can rationalize this, and in that far away place he does. He knows that even in a story like this, the prince must have his princess.
They are perfect together.