in the end.
pair: ?
rating: g
summary: In the end, they don't know what to regret.
wordcount: 257
note: largely experimental. it's fine if you don't understand it, because I don't either. fit in your own favourite pairing.
Idols don’t write poetry, he pronounces, slow and steady. Hair bleached brown. There was a time when his hair was straight but they wanted volume, wanted him louder than the microphones scratching out his voice.
Tap-tap, the fingers on the table. He clings to the handle of the teacup but only briefly. There was a time when he could drink hot chocolate by the roadside with just a sweater round his shoulders, but that might only be part of his imagination.
You’re such a celebrity, lightly. Like treading on thin glass. They wouldn’t have met otherwise. Maybe one would watch the other, coolly, with faint disdain. Idols are whores, mostly - only envious. There is no television screen between them; only cups of coffee cooling in the Tokyo air. Only the dark tint of their sunglasses, as if that were disguise enough.
He shrugs because it’s true. Childhood wasn’t a chapter of playing football with the sun chasing him, it was walking after a soccer ball with the camera flash in his face. A bit to the corner, where the light accentuated his eyes. Bright enough.
Do you regret it, the other asks. Both know and don’t know the answer. What is there to regret if you don’t know the could-have-beens? It was childhood enough, for him, growing pretty for the camera, drawing pictures to sing songs to. Huddling under blankets because they missed so badly, felt so far from home.
You’re not supposed to let me, he replies, smiles like an enigma.
The sugar melts, unstirred.
rating: g
summary: In the end, they don't know what to regret.
wordcount: 257
note: largely experimental. it's fine if you don't understand it, because I don't either. fit in your own favourite pairing.
Idols don’t write poetry, he pronounces, slow and steady. Hair bleached brown. There was a time when his hair was straight but they wanted volume, wanted him louder than the microphones scratching out his voice.
Tap-tap, the fingers on the table. He clings to the handle of the teacup but only briefly. There was a time when he could drink hot chocolate by the roadside with just a sweater round his shoulders, but that might only be part of his imagination.
You’re such a celebrity, lightly. Like treading on thin glass. They wouldn’t have met otherwise. Maybe one would watch the other, coolly, with faint disdain. Idols are whores, mostly - only envious. There is no television screen between them; only cups of coffee cooling in the Tokyo air. Only the dark tint of their sunglasses, as if that were disguise enough.
He shrugs because it’s true. Childhood wasn’t a chapter of playing football with the sun chasing him, it was walking after a soccer ball with the camera flash in his face. A bit to the corner, where the light accentuated his eyes. Bright enough.
Do you regret it, the other asks. Both know and don’t know the answer. What is there to regret if you don’t know the could-have-beens? It was childhood enough, for him, growing pretty for the camera, drawing pictures to sing songs to. Huddling under blankets because they missed so badly, felt so far from home.
You’re not supposed to let me, he replies, smiles like an enigma.
The sugar melts, unstirred.