Set fire to the rain
Title: Set fire to the rain
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Words: 600
Note: unfinished
Whenever he glances across the room at the white racket, and there is a strong urge in him to play, he doesn’t. He hasn’t for years, yet those strings have been ripped and repaired many times in the span of one life. That racket still hangs on his wall like a trophy, like a tattoo impressed on the brick and on his mind. Even when he removed it, his eyes had searched that spot that corner, regardless.
If entrusted the power, his glare would tear it up with no delay.
Why hasn’t he got rid of it already?
(His mother would be the one to suggest he should restring it, or dust it, or would take it off for days until she is sure he wouldn’t do something he might regret later. His father would side with him for the first time in his life and would rather have that racket thrown away if it returned his playmate. )
There must be a reason because he is not a person to attach to things, or people, or anything. Or almost anything, he still has Karupin.
At night he twists and turns, amongst nightmares, memories, a life he can’t return to, a time when that racket belonged to someone, a time when he was first defeated, when he was taught that there was a lot more to that game than competition and rivals. A single roll over and he will land on the hardwood floor, scrapping his knees, drenched in cold sweat.
He will pad to the window, and will gather his knees to his chest and rest his head on the pane. He closes his eyes and imagines hearing footsteps in the vicinity of the oak tree, and a voice, a deep one, whispering a password they’d agreed on. When he opens his eyes, his thoughts become reality.
‘Leave! Otherwise, I’ll let everyone know that you’re a stalker. This is my last warning, buchou!’ His voice is a notch above a whisper, the equivalent of screaming with his mouth covered. Tezuka, however, studies the height of the tree with determination in his eyes. ‘No,’ he says with conviction.
‘Fine,’ answers Ryoma with a fierce glare, a shadowy smirk playing on his lips, a bitter one. The next moment he is throwing the white racket off the window, without a sense of remorse. ‘I think this belongs to you!’ Though Tezuka’s complexion hasn’t changed, his stormy eyes conceal his hurt.
‘Ryoma…’ He utters softly, glancing down at the racket that is now resting on his palm. ‘I guess you are right.’ He pauses, unsure whether to add more fuel to the flames. The wisest thing will be to leave, as he was told, to give Ryoma up, which is certainly beyond his dignity. ‘Won’t you at least listen?’ He tries, now, every night, every year, and every second of his life if he has to.
‘You’re five years too late, buchou. Whatever you say won’t matter. Hence, don’t even try to.’ The click of the lock fastens without noise, yet Ryoma’s vision follows the translucent silhouette dim into the night, as it always does. Really, he just discarded the last bond he had with his buchou. Now what should he do to get it back? Humph.
His back slides down the cold wall. Karupin mrrows to him from underneath his bed and Ryoma stretches his hand, gathering him close, burrowing his face in the soft fur. He won’t come back, right, Karu? I don’t even know what I want anymore...
Author: lyrasoren
Pair: Tezuka and Ryoma
Words: 600
Note: unfinished
Whenever he glances across the room at the white racket, and there is a strong urge in him to play, he doesn’t. He hasn’t for years, yet those strings have been ripped and repaired many times in the span of one life. That racket still hangs on his wall like a trophy, like a tattoo impressed on the brick and on his mind. Even when he removed it, his eyes had searched that spot that corner, regardless.
If entrusted the power, his glare would tear it up with no delay.
Why hasn’t he got rid of it already?
(His mother would be the one to suggest he should restring it, or dust it, or would take it off for days until she is sure he wouldn’t do something he might regret later. His father would side with him for the first time in his life and would rather have that racket thrown away if it returned his playmate. )
There must be a reason because he is not a person to attach to things, or people, or anything. Or almost anything, he still has Karupin.
At night he twists and turns, amongst nightmares, memories, a life he can’t return to, a time when that racket belonged to someone, a time when he was first defeated, when he was taught that there was a lot more to that game than competition and rivals. A single roll over and he will land on the hardwood floor, scrapping his knees, drenched in cold sweat.
He will pad to the window, and will gather his knees to his chest and rest his head on the pane. He closes his eyes and imagines hearing footsteps in the vicinity of the oak tree, and a voice, a deep one, whispering a password they’d agreed on. When he opens his eyes, his thoughts become reality.
‘Leave! Otherwise, I’ll let everyone know that you’re a stalker. This is my last warning, buchou!’ His voice is a notch above a whisper, the equivalent of screaming with his mouth covered. Tezuka, however, studies the height of the tree with determination in his eyes. ‘No,’ he says with conviction.
‘Fine,’ answers Ryoma with a fierce glare, a shadowy smirk playing on his lips, a bitter one. The next moment he is throwing the white racket off the window, without a sense of remorse. ‘I think this belongs to you!’ Though Tezuka’s complexion hasn’t changed, his stormy eyes conceal his hurt.
‘Ryoma…’ He utters softly, glancing down at the racket that is now resting on his palm. ‘I guess you are right.’ He pauses, unsure whether to add more fuel to the flames. The wisest thing will be to leave, as he was told, to give Ryoma up, which is certainly beyond his dignity. ‘Won’t you at least listen?’ He tries, now, every night, every year, and every second of his life if he has to.
‘You’re five years too late, buchou. Whatever you say won’t matter. Hence, don’t even try to.’ The click of the lock fastens without noise, yet Ryoma’s vision follows the translucent silhouette dim into the night, as it always does. Really, he just discarded the last bond he had with his buchou. Now what should he do to get it back? Humph.
His back slides down the cold wall. Karupin mrrows to him from underneath his bed and Ryoma stretches his hand, gathering him close, burrowing his face in the soft fur. He won’t come back, right, Karu? I don’t even know what I want anymore...