White Umbrella [1/?]
anonymous
March 11 2009, 19:53:10 UTC
I'm planning for more (eventually...), but for now have this scene, which I hope satisfies somewhat while I gear up for the rest.
Kiku fell asleep during the flight to Seoul. Over the next two and a half hours he dreamed that it was 1920, the ninth year of Taisho, their wedding night.
They hadn’t had a wedding night, of course. They hadn’t had a wedding. That was a fairly rare event for their kind. Kiku remembered how their aunt Kudara had never put up her two thick braids even as generation after generation of Kudara’s people had done so. Yong Su also looked as though he would have kept his own braid dangling in perpetuity, never having occasion to knot it up atop his head.
He didn’t knot it up in the dream, either. In the dream Kiku chopped the braid away with his dagger, slapped Yong Su’s hand away when he tried to pick it up. Perhaps he had actually done that, at some point. Because at some point, after all, Yong Su no longer had a braid. But not at their wedding. They hadn’t had a wedding.
Re: White Umbrella [1/?]
anonymous
March 11 2009, 20:03:36 UTC
Wow... it's incredibly bittersweet and just- tragic all around. I'm not normally a Korea/Japan fan but this simply works. I'll be waiting for the rest of it eagerly.
Re: White Umbrella [1/?]
anonymous
March 11 2009, 20:15:08 UTC
Thank you. It's not exactly my OTP either, but I keep finding myself trying to fiddle round with the dynamics there. I hope I won't keep you waiting too long.
White Umbrella [2/?]
anonymous
March 11 2009, 20:02:54 UTC
At this point all semblance of logic took refuge elsewhere, because now Yong Su arched into his hands, now Yong Su murmured when he raised his head away Yes, yes, please, yes. Now Yong Su slipped his own hands under Kiku’s kimono, grasping at his chest, which was factually-based enough if not in itself at all logical, but then when Kiku pushed his hands back down they stayed down, which he couldn’t help but find internally inconsistent. And as he returned to his own explorations, even harder now, Yong Su moaned Please, aniki... I want... I want to be... make me like you, please, slurring, make me... you... make us...
Shh, he said again, though he didn’t really want to, and Yong Su was silent. And Yong Su lay still.
And Yong Su’s eyes turned glassy, Yong Su’s bright blood trickled from his slackened mouth, Yong Su’s head lolled to the side, and he was wearing a shiromaku now, with the white liberally splashed with red. Inside the peeled-back fine silk Yong Su was small and short-haired and looked like him, was exactly like him, and
( ... )
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Kiku fell asleep during the flight to Seoul. Over the next two and a half hours he dreamed that it was 1920, the ninth year of Taisho, their wedding night.
They hadn’t had a wedding night, of course. They hadn’t had a wedding. That was a fairly rare event for their kind. Kiku remembered how their aunt Kudara had never put up her two thick braids even as generation after generation of Kudara’s people had done so. Yong Su also looked as though he would have kept his own braid dangling in perpetuity, never having occasion to knot it up atop his head.
He didn’t knot it up in the dream, either. In the dream Kiku chopped the braid away with his dagger, slapped Yong Su’s hand away when he tried to pick it up. Perhaps he had actually done that, at some point. Because at some point, after all, Yong Su no longer had a braid. But not at their wedding. They hadn’t had a wedding.
There had been a wedding, he ( ... )
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Shh, he said again, though he didn’t really want to, and Yong Su was silent. And Yong Su lay still.
And Yong Su’s eyes turned glassy, Yong Su’s bright blood trickled from his slackened mouth, Yong Su’s head lolled to the side, and he was wearing a shiromaku now, with the white liberally splashed with red. Inside the peeled-back fine silk Yong Su was small and short-haired and looked like him, was exactly like him, and ( ... )
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