[FIC] Illusion
Rating: PG15
Fandom: Reborn!
Prompt: khrfest Round 4. II. 3. Reborn/Fon - perception; "Perception is reality."
Warnings: Er. Possible OOC? Language fail, certainly. Clichéd in its Five-Senses-Theme.
Summary: The truth is only as mighty as it is generous, and generous it is in variety.
dǔ • See • vedere.
There was nothing colorful about him, but he wasn't painted in such monochrome either. Fon could see the strength of an oak tree from the Italian man's lazy posture, see the torment each fluid gesture can inflict like how the sun warms the earth barren, see the promise in the darkness of his eyes, yet he cannot find the brilliant hues of green or the bright shades of red and orange and yellow. He attempted their discovery, browsing through the thicket of black hair, the tan-kissed flesh and the crisp shadows and lights. His eyes are greedy, savoring each vague watercolor painted and detailed sketch drawn, yet his mind always ended in blurred victories and bleak failures. It's as if Reborn lacked so much color or he was so filled with color, that Fon willed himself blind.
líng • Hear • udire.
They were fierce like waves crashing the rocks amidst a storm and soft like leaves falling during autumn. Reborn did not always understand the notes that slipped past Fon's lips, and more often than not, it was because such notes didn't exist and his silences were only as alluring as they were unforgiving. They were foreign to him, not in the way Mandarin Chinese was, but in that it provoked him, called to him, taunted him. It was in the way the shape of that pale mouth changed in a quickly dancing speech. Fon's words were always simple, always concise, and yet they had a way so similar to holding a dagger and carving depth unto the very soul, and it was Reborn who desired to bleed.
qì • Smell • odorare.
He smelled like Death, and Fon thought it was a little bit like life. Sordid and maligned and just a little bit sweet was how he often described the aroma of cocoa and blood and gun powder. The wind was ever gracious, most generous in providing him a whiff of the other man's scents, something putrid yet sensual like the transition of lush autumn into the putrefaction of winter, coiling in heady mists like the scales of a serpent and just as overpowering as the most potent venom. It's a slow kind of death, Fon thinks as he breathes him in, seeping unto his robes, his hair and his skin -- not brimstone and fire and the pain of innocent souls, but something more like mint, certainly gunpowder, and yet the sweet tang of honey, of carnations, of murder, so purely Reborn, that ebbed away at the frost, and Fon waited for spring.
gǎn shòu • Feel • provare.
Smooth and cold and white as porcelain was how his skin looked, and more often than not, Reborn had wondered if he could easily break the martial artist just as well as the China doll he resembled. It always seemed such: when he would touch and exert just a tiny bit of pressure, there were bruises blossoming like kissed flowers on Fon's pale flesh, and yet it was never truly such: when he would hold too tightly, too possessively, too lovingly, it burned and scabbed, and his own skin prickled with fire and hurt. The sensation was alien, but it was not unwelcome, and Reborn followed it, tempted it, provoked it. His palms felt the velvet, the cotton and silk of red and white robes, caressed the marble of Fon's skin and watched the frost melt, because Reborn succumbed only to its fire.
wèi • Taste • toccare.
Tasting life, Fon thought, was so similar to gorging death.There were no words, no metaphors that would equal to the poetry on his tongue, the webs stitched unto his throat. Too cruelly bright, too forceful, too full of life, too much too many but never enough -- it was Reborn, purely Reborn and only the aftertaste of caffeine and gunpowder clung to him; Fon knew it was agonizingly bitter only because it was horrendously sweet -- the tang of sweat, the salt of blood. It was a taste unique to every man and every woman, yet Fon never savored one so much for its taint.
yǐ wéi • Believe • credere.
Reborn knew the other was neither weak nor complacent. Patient and tolerant, perhaps, but never docile, never meek, however much Fon seemed to be so. He was a whirlwind, a tempest -- death cloaked in beauty and strength belied by gentility. This was dangerous, this was foolish, no simple risks or mere gambles. He knew this, understood this, but often when black hair fanned across white silk and red was painted on their skin-----
FIN.
A/n: Disclaiming "...and the pain of innocent souls." Originally from here. Got that from Bus and her lovable and hilarious take on a Skull muse. /o/
A/n: I used Google Translator and Babylon for both Italian and Mandarin. Do correct me if it's wrong!
Fandom: Reborn!
Prompt: khrfest Round 4. II. 3. Reborn/Fon - perception; "Perception is reality."
Warnings: Er. Possible OOC? Language fail, certainly. Clichéd in its Five-Senses-Theme.
Summary: The truth is only as mighty as it is generous, and generous it is in variety.
dǔ • See • vedere.
There was nothing colorful about him, but he wasn't painted in such monochrome either. Fon could see the strength of an oak tree from the Italian man's lazy posture, see the torment each fluid gesture can inflict like how the sun warms the earth barren, see the promise in the darkness of his eyes, yet he cannot find the brilliant hues of green or the bright shades of red and orange and yellow. He attempted their discovery, browsing through the thicket of black hair, the tan-kissed flesh and the crisp shadows and lights. His eyes are greedy, savoring each vague watercolor painted and detailed sketch drawn, yet his mind always ended in blurred victories and bleak failures. It's as if Reborn lacked so much color or he was so filled with color, that Fon willed himself blind.
líng • Hear • udire.
They were fierce like waves crashing the rocks amidst a storm and soft like leaves falling during autumn. Reborn did not always understand the notes that slipped past Fon's lips, and more often than not, it was because such notes didn't exist and his silences were only as alluring as they were unforgiving. They were foreign to him, not in the way Mandarin Chinese was, but in that it provoked him, called to him, taunted him. It was in the way the shape of that pale mouth changed in a quickly dancing speech. Fon's words were always simple, always concise, and yet they had a way so similar to holding a dagger and carving depth unto the very soul, and it was Reborn who desired to bleed.
qì • Smell • odorare.
He smelled like Death, and Fon thought it was a little bit like life. Sordid and maligned and just a little bit sweet was how he often described the aroma of cocoa and blood and gun powder. The wind was ever gracious, most generous in providing him a whiff of the other man's scents, something putrid yet sensual like the transition of lush autumn into the putrefaction of winter, coiling in heady mists like the scales of a serpent and just as overpowering as the most potent venom. It's a slow kind of death, Fon thinks as he breathes him in, seeping unto his robes, his hair and his skin -- not brimstone and fire and the pain of innocent souls, but something more like mint, certainly gunpowder, and yet the sweet tang of honey, of carnations, of murder, so purely Reborn, that ebbed away at the frost, and Fon waited for spring.
gǎn shòu • Feel • provare.
Smooth and cold and white as porcelain was how his skin looked, and more often than not, Reborn had wondered if he could easily break the martial artist just as well as the China doll he resembled. It always seemed such: when he would touch and exert just a tiny bit of pressure, there were bruises blossoming like kissed flowers on Fon's pale flesh, and yet it was never truly such: when he would hold too tightly, too possessively, too lovingly, it burned and scabbed, and his own skin prickled with fire and hurt. The sensation was alien, but it was not unwelcome, and Reborn followed it, tempted it, provoked it. His palms felt the velvet, the cotton and silk of red and white robes, caressed the marble of Fon's skin and watched the frost melt, because Reborn succumbed only to its fire.
wèi • Taste • toccare.
Tasting life, Fon thought, was so similar to gorging death.There were no words, no metaphors that would equal to the poetry on his tongue, the webs stitched unto his throat. Too cruelly bright, too forceful, too full of life, too much too many but never enough -- it was Reborn, purely Reborn and only the aftertaste of caffeine and gunpowder clung to him; Fon knew it was agonizingly bitter only because it was horrendously sweet -- the tang of sweat, the salt of blood. It was a taste unique to every man and every woman, yet Fon never savored one so much for its taint.
yǐ wéi • Believe • credere.
Reborn knew the other was neither weak nor complacent. Patient and tolerant, perhaps, but never docile, never meek, however much Fon seemed to be so. He was a whirlwind, a tempest -- death cloaked in beauty and strength belied by gentility. This was dangerous, this was foolish, no simple risks or mere gambles. He knew this, understood this, but often when black hair fanned across white silk and red was painted on their skin-----
FIN.
A/n: Disclaiming "...and the pain of innocent souls." Originally from here. Got that from Bus and her lovable and hilarious take on a Skull muse. /o/
A/n: I used Google Translator and Babylon for both Italian and Mandarin. Do correct me if it's wrong!