snowfall [1/1]
the past must be put behind us. [koga, ofc, janine, lt. surge]
pokemon; drama; pg13; 1300 words
It is like this:
There is snow blanketing the earth, a white mask that hides away all its ugliness and impurities. The cold air prickles the back of his throat when he breathes it in, a refreshing kind of pain, and a faint breeze sends a shiver down his spine. He’s at that age when winter is still lovely, if not a bit of a nuisance, a time for contemplating one’s self and one’s place in the grand scheme of things.
There is a beautiful girl in his garden. She is wrapped in a sleek coat and a scarf many times too big for her body, and her agitated dark eyes dart from side to side.
“Are you looking for something?” he asks politely. She turns toward him, startled, long black hair in disarray around her pale face.
“Oh, I… I’m terribly sorry for trespassing like this,” she mumbles into her scarf, bowing deeply. “But my Pokémon, he… He is not very well-behaved yet, and sometimes he runs away from me. Have you by any chance seen a small Raticate?”
He says nothing - simply turns towards the side of the path, where the skeletal bushes are rustling ever so slightly. He approaches soundlessly, kneels down, and in one deft, almost imperceptible movement pulls a squealing Pokémon from the brush. “Would this be your Pokémon?” he asks solemnly.
The girl’s eyes widen, and she runs over to take the squirming Raticate from him. “Y-yes, it is! Thank you so much! How… How did you do that?”
He raises an eyebrow, folding his hands into the sleeves of his kimono. “It is a simple matter of coordination and timing. There is no trick to it - only discipline.”
She nods, wide-eyed, and thanks him again, struggling to keep her Raticate in check. When she finally departs, he is relieved. He has training to attend to, not to mention a Pokémon battle later on that requires much preparation. Distractions are not welcome in the dojo.
But the next day she is there again, meandering through his garden with the very same complaint. Once again he catches the sly little Pokémon with ease, and hands the creature back to her with a frown. Instead of leaving, though, she stays to chat, telling him a few little details about herself that he knows he shouldn’t care about. He says little about himself (when has he ever?), but she hardly seems to mind.
By the fifth day he starts to suspect that she might be losing her Raticate on purpose.
When he accuses her of this she simply smiles, secretive, and tells him her favorite flower.
-x-
Winter is Miyuki’s season. In the spring she will smile at the blooming azaleas and tend the garden and curl her toes in the soft grass. In the summer she will lie on the warm wooden deck and spread her dark hair out like a fan and sew designs on to her delicate yellow yukata. In the autumn she will sweep the red-brown leaves from the walkway and take him by the hand and lead him up the hill to see the moon.
But it is in winter that Miyuki truly blooms. Biting cold turns her pale cheeks rosy red and snow clings to her long eyelashes, and she twirls like a dancer under the pallid grey sky.
He watches her, year after year, winter after winter, and each year she becomes more and more beautiful in his eyes. In time there is a child with her - their daughter, just an infant but already smiling in the snow like her mother. And as he watches them he thinks of how lucky he is, and they are strange thoughts because he is not a man to be grateful.
One winter he looks out at the snow-shrouded garden and she is not there. And the snow seems ugly, and the world seems empty, and the azaleas have long since withered and died in their dusty vase.
And somewhere far away Janine is crying for her mother, too young to realize that the last lovely winter has already come and gone.
-x-
It is like this:
There is snow blanketing the earth, a white mask that tries in vain to hide away its ugliness and impurities. The cold air stabs at the back of his throat, pins and needles, and a faint breeze sends a barely perceptible shudder down his spine. He’s at that age when winter becomes a tiresome season, almost an allegory for his life, a time when his joints seem to protest every sudden movement and the cold sinks deep into the fine marrow of his bones.
There is an idiot in his garden. He is wearing a light military-issue sweatshirt despite the chill, and is having some trouble getting down the icy path due to the over-stuffed grocery bags in each hand.
“Shit!” the blond man exclaims, as eloquent as ever, nearly tripping over a snow-submerged stone lantern. A few minutes of awkward fumbling and shouted obscenities later and he drags his weary self on to the porch, collapsing with a pained groan.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Koga asks calmly, sipping at his tea.
Surge’s eyes narrow as he hauls himself upright. “What the hell do you think I’m doing? You’re the one who asked me to go to the store. Nearly broke my neck, you bastard.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good. But you seem to be getting snow on my freshly scrubbed porch. I would hate to ask Janine to clean it again.”
As if on cue, Janine’s head appears in the doorway. There’s a bandana tied around her face to block out the dust, but her expression of anguish is still plain as day. “Oh God,” she says, dark eyes wide and distressed. “Please don’t make me clean the porch again. I still have to do the study and the guest bedroom, and that could take hours!”
Surge frowns and pokes Koga’s head obnoxiously. “Hey, why’re you making the kid do all the cleaning? That’s abuse right there!”
“It teaches her a valuable lesson about the thrill of an honest day’s work,” the ninja replies, with something akin to a smirk tugging at his lips. “Such lessons are important in a clan like ours, after all. Oh, and if you touch me again I will break all of your fingers.”
“Aww, that’s sweet,” the blond man says in a singsong voice, slinging an arm around Koga’s shoulder. “I can definitely feel all that Valentine's Day spirit.”
Koga blinks. “It’s Valentine's Day?”
Surge shoots him a look of utter disbelief. “Do you even own a calendar? Why the hell else would I have bought this?” He pulls a red plastic package, decorated with hearts, from one of the grocery bags and hands it to Koga. “Thought it would be festive. The guy at the store told me they were chocolates, but I’m not sure if I trust that little fucker. I really need to learn how to read these damn squiggles…”
(Koga doesn’t have the heart to tell him what the package actually contains.)
Silence falls, and he looks out at the pristine, snowy garden. No matter how many winters pass by, he always hopes to see a lone, dark-haired figure out there, twirling endlessly beneath the grey sky. And yet...
He glances over at Surge, who is trying to inconspicuously rub away the muddy footprints he left on the porch. Through the open door he can see Janine feverishly dusting the windowsill. She stops to glare at an old glass vase, and then shakes its contents into the trash. Azaleas, withered beyond recognition, their petals brittle and brown.
For the first time in many years, Koga smiles.
And life goes on.
pokemon; drama; pg13; 1300 words
It is like this:
There is snow blanketing the earth, a white mask that hides away all its ugliness and impurities. The cold air prickles the back of his throat when he breathes it in, a refreshing kind of pain, and a faint breeze sends a shiver down his spine. He’s at that age when winter is still lovely, if not a bit of a nuisance, a time for contemplating one’s self and one’s place in the grand scheme of things.
There is a beautiful girl in his garden. She is wrapped in a sleek coat and a scarf many times too big for her body, and her agitated dark eyes dart from side to side.
“Are you looking for something?” he asks politely. She turns toward him, startled, long black hair in disarray around her pale face.
“Oh, I… I’m terribly sorry for trespassing like this,” she mumbles into her scarf, bowing deeply. “But my Pokémon, he… He is not very well-behaved yet, and sometimes he runs away from me. Have you by any chance seen a small Raticate?”
He says nothing - simply turns towards the side of the path, where the skeletal bushes are rustling ever so slightly. He approaches soundlessly, kneels down, and in one deft, almost imperceptible movement pulls a squealing Pokémon from the brush. “Would this be your Pokémon?” he asks solemnly.
The girl’s eyes widen, and she runs over to take the squirming Raticate from him. “Y-yes, it is! Thank you so much! How… How did you do that?”
He raises an eyebrow, folding his hands into the sleeves of his kimono. “It is a simple matter of coordination and timing. There is no trick to it - only discipline.”
She nods, wide-eyed, and thanks him again, struggling to keep her Raticate in check. When she finally departs, he is relieved. He has training to attend to, not to mention a Pokémon battle later on that requires much preparation. Distractions are not welcome in the dojo.
But the next day she is there again, meandering through his garden with the very same complaint. Once again he catches the sly little Pokémon with ease, and hands the creature back to her with a frown. Instead of leaving, though, she stays to chat, telling him a few little details about herself that he knows he shouldn’t care about. He says little about himself (when has he ever?), but she hardly seems to mind.
By the fifth day he starts to suspect that she might be losing her Raticate on purpose.
When he accuses her of this she simply smiles, secretive, and tells him her favorite flower.
-x-
Winter is Miyuki’s season. In the spring she will smile at the blooming azaleas and tend the garden and curl her toes in the soft grass. In the summer she will lie on the warm wooden deck and spread her dark hair out like a fan and sew designs on to her delicate yellow yukata. In the autumn she will sweep the red-brown leaves from the walkway and take him by the hand and lead him up the hill to see the moon.
But it is in winter that Miyuki truly blooms. Biting cold turns her pale cheeks rosy red and snow clings to her long eyelashes, and she twirls like a dancer under the pallid grey sky.
He watches her, year after year, winter after winter, and each year she becomes more and more beautiful in his eyes. In time there is a child with her - their daughter, just an infant but already smiling in the snow like her mother. And as he watches them he thinks of how lucky he is, and they are strange thoughts because he is not a man to be grateful.
One winter he looks out at the snow-shrouded garden and she is not there. And the snow seems ugly, and the world seems empty, and the azaleas have long since withered and died in their dusty vase.
And somewhere far away Janine is crying for her mother, too young to realize that the last lovely winter has already come and gone.
-x-
It is like this:
There is snow blanketing the earth, a white mask that tries in vain to hide away its ugliness and impurities. The cold air stabs at the back of his throat, pins and needles, and a faint breeze sends a barely perceptible shudder down his spine. He’s at that age when winter becomes a tiresome season, almost an allegory for his life, a time when his joints seem to protest every sudden movement and the cold sinks deep into the fine marrow of his bones.
There is an idiot in his garden. He is wearing a light military-issue sweatshirt despite the chill, and is having some trouble getting down the icy path due to the over-stuffed grocery bags in each hand.
“Shit!” the blond man exclaims, as eloquent as ever, nearly tripping over a snow-submerged stone lantern. A few minutes of awkward fumbling and shouted obscenities later and he drags his weary self on to the porch, collapsing with a pained groan.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Koga asks calmly, sipping at his tea.
Surge’s eyes narrow as he hauls himself upright. “What the hell do you think I’m doing? You’re the one who asked me to go to the store. Nearly broke my neck, you bastard.”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good. But you seem to be getting snow on my freshly scrubbed porch. I would hate to ask Janine to clean it again.”
As if on cue, Janine’s head appears in the doorway. There’s a bandana tied around her face to block out the dust, but her expression of anguish is still plain as day. “Oh God,” she says, dark eyes wide and distressed. “Please don’t make me clean the porch again. I still have to do the study and the guest bedroom, and that could take hours!”
Surge frowns and pokes Koga’s head obnoxiously. “Hey, why’re you making the kid do all the cleaning? That’s abuse right there!”
“It teaches her a valuable lesson about the thrill of an honest day’s work,” the ninja replies, with something akin to a smirk tugging at his lips. “Such lessons are important in a clan like ours, after all. Oh, and if you touch me again I will break all of your fingers.”
“Aww, that’s sweet,” the blond man says in a singsong voice, slinging an arm around Koga’s shoulder. “I can definitely feel all that Valentine's Day spirit.”
Koga blinks. “It’s Valentine's Day?”
Surge shoots him a look of utter disbelief. “Do you even own a calendar? Why the hell else would I have bought this?” He pulls a red plastic package, decorated with hearts, from one of the grocery bags and hands it to Koga. “Thought it would be festive. The guy at the store told me they were chocolates, but I’m not sure if I trust that little fucker. I really need to learn how to read these damn squiggles…”
(Koga doesn’t have the heart to tell him what the package actually contains.)
Silence falls, and he looks out at the pristine, snowy garden. No matter how many winters pass by, he always hopes to see a lone, dark-haired figure out there, twirling endlessly beneath the grey sky. And yet...
He glances over at Surge, who is trying to inconspicuously rub away the muddy footprints he left on the porch. Through the open door he can see Janine feverishly dusting the windowsill. She stops to glare at an old glass vase, and then shakes its contents into the trash. Azaleas, withered beyond recognition, their petals brittle and brown.
For the first time in many years, Koga smiles.
And life goes on.