[ficlet] [PWP] This is Not My Madonna
ahah if you can't tell from the title, this was supposed to be crack XD; but it didn't want to be. it just has yamamoto with super aura detection skillztm! ...no, i can't explain or give an excuse for that.
more gen than 8059, and far from perfect. just had to get these out before i settle down to work again.
This is Not My Madonna
1
Even when he learned she was gone, he never really believed it, because he still sometimes saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was a shadow, a shape, a whiff of familiar perfume, a quiet touch of a warm hand in a cold and noisy crowd.
He knew she was out there, watching over him, leaving little messages for him to find - a piece of his favorite candy lying somewhere within reach. One of her favorite songs playing in the nearby open cafe. The turn of a head and the tips of long, wavy hair catching the sun. Everything's new and different and scary, but it's okay; Mother's here, Mother's watching over you; you're loved, you're going to be safe.
But in time, those signals faded. The things they used to say to him dwindled into whispers and finally into nothing.
The last thing to go wasn't the music from the cafes or the concert halls, he realized - it was her smile. She smiled in a particular way, one that filled her entire face; when she smiled, you could feel her joy singing through the air toward you, sinking into your skin.
She was her smile.
Sometimes he saw that smile in strangers. And just when he was starting to feel numb, to feel like nothing mattered, someone would smile like that at him and it all came back - the songs and the scents and the shadows and the signals; the knowledge that he wasn't alone, that he was going to be fine.
And more than once, he thought maybe he was falling in love with the person who showed him that smile. It got to him so thoroughly, it made him forget that people were shit and that most of them didn't even deserve his time, much less his affection. He knocked himself back to earth with the reminder that it was a mere facial expression, for crying out loud...
Over time, even the memory of that began to fade. It became one smile in a hundred thousand, one woman's lips curving upward in a way that many other women's lips would. Hayato was grateful for that. He was growing up and growing out of that one final trace of her, leaving it behind him like everything else from his sick, sad past.
And then one person showed him that smile again. It just had to be that person - the kind of person that shouldn't even exist in the world, much less breathe the same air as he did.
As if it wasn't enough that Hayato could barely remember his mother, only knew she left a hole in him so big it was probably half of what he was, THIS guy had to step in. And smile like that. And do it constantly, wholeheartedly, every day, just to shake up Hayato's world just a little more every. Single. Time.
Who the hell gave the go for this cosmic joke?
That guy wasn't even an older woman. Perhaps if he were, it would be a lot less insulting for Hayato. To feel safe and okay and home. And not as empty as he had gotten used to.
2
Like many other children growing up without a mother, Yamamoto Takeshi often found himself having to invent her.
His father made her out to be perfect in every way - gentle like an April shower, pretty as cherry blossom petals falling on a sunny day. But his father's definition of "perfect" changed with the weather and sometimes, she was tough as nails, vicious as a hellcat, sultry like the first big-breasted AV star he happened to lay eyes on when he'd had a little too much to drink.
As a result, Takeshi had a hard time imagining her. And sometimes, he wondered if she even existed, or if his father had in fact picked him out of a box left on some sidewalk, as a newborn.
Frankly, Takeshi didn't want a mom. You wouldn't long for a mother if you had a dad who rushed to heal every cut and scrape, and a hundred thousand friends to distract you and to lean on.
But sometimes he couldn't help wondering. He watched other kids growing up with mothers - Tsuna virtually grew up without a dad, but his mom was really one of the best out there, in Takeshi's opinion. He looked for little clues like how they dressed themselves, how well they spoke to other people, how they cared about coming home, and he came to the conclusion that growing up really is different if you have a mom in the house. He couldn't explain it, but their mothers' love left a mark on his friends - a strange warm glow, most noticeable when they're perfectly still.
He didn't have that glow, he believed. Now and again, he wondered what he would've been like if he did.
If he had even a single good memory of a mom to hold on to, would he have been happier? Sadder? Angrier, maybe, like Gokudera? He had just recently learned that Gokudera had lost his mom in a tragic way - one he thought only happened in slightly ridiculous things, like soap operas or neighborhood gossip.
When Takeshi thought about it, he thought he could understand why Gokudera was so angry. It was like everything had conspired to take something so precious away from him. (But maybe it was silly to convince himself that Gokudera remembered her. Maybe, like Takeshi, he didn't remember her at all.
(Still, it would make a lot of sense, wouldn't it? He must've loved her, and she must've loved him, so much that the things in control at the time decided she was simply in the way.)
This guy isn't like me. He lost his mom. I never had one. Takeshi had a lot of questions for Gokudera about his mother, and he would ask them in the future. But for now, while the topic wasn't open for discussion, he contented himself with watching his friend.
When his friend was silent, lost in thought or some distant memory, sitting still with his profile sharp against the faint glow all around it, Takeshi thought he could discern the kind of woman his friend's mother was.
And in his mind, by his own definitions, she was perfect.
more gen than 8059, and far from perfect. just had to get these out before i settle down to work again.
This is Not My Madonna
1
Even when he learned she was gone, he never really believed it, because he still sometimes saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was a shadow, a shape, a whiff of familiar perfume, a quiet touch of a warm hand in a cold and noisy crowd.
He knew she was out there, watching over him, leaving little messages for him to find - a piece of his favorite candy lying somewhere within reach. One of her favorite songs playing in the nearby open cafe. The turn of a head and the tips of long, wavy hair catching the sun. Everything's new and different and scary, but it's okay; Mother's here, Mother's watching over you; you're loved, you're going to be safe.
But in time, those signals faded. The things they used to say to him dwindled into whispers and finally into nothing.
The last thing to go wasn't the music from the cafes or the concert halls, he realized - it was her smile. She smiled in a particular way, one that filled her entire face; when she smiled, you could feel her joy singing through the air toward you, sinking into your skin.
She was her smile.
Sometimes he saw that smile in strangers. And just when he was starting to feel numb, to feel like nothing mattered, someone would smile like that at him and it all came back - the songs and the scents and the shadows and the signals; the knowledge that he wasn't alone, that he was going to be fine.
And more than once, he thought maybe he was falling in love with the person who showed him that smile. It got to him so thoroughly, it made him forget that people were shit and that most of them didn't even deserve his time, much less his affection. He knocked himself back to earth with the reminder that it was a mere facial expression, for crying out loud...
Over time, even the memory of that began to fade. It became one smile in a hundred thousand, one woman's lips curving upward in a way that many other women's lips would. Hayato was grateful for that. He was growing up and growing out of that one final trace of her, leaving it behind him like everything else from his sick, sad past.
And then one person showed him that smile again. It just had to be that person - the kind of person that shouldn't even exist in the world, much less breathe the same air as he did.
As if it wasn't enough that Hayato could barely remember his mother, only knew she left a hole in him so big it was probably half of what he was, THIS guy had to step in. And smile like that. And do it constantly, wholeheartedly, every day, just to shake up Hayato's world just a little more every. Single. Time.
Who the hell gave the go for this cosmic joke?
That guy wasn't even an older woman. Perhaps if he were, it would be a lot less insulting for Hayato. To feel safe and okay and home. And not as empty as he had gotten used to.
2
Like many other children growing up without a mother, Yamamoto Takeshi often found himself having to invent her.
His father made her out to be perfect in every way - gentle like an April shower, pretty as cherry blossom petals falling on a sunny day. But his father's definition of "perfect" changed with the weather and sometimes, she was tough as nails, vicious as a hellcat, sultry like the first big-breasted AV star he happened to lay eyes on when he'd had a little too much to drink.
As a result, Takeshi had a hard time imagining her. And sometimes, he wondered if she even existed, or if his father had in fact picked him out of a box left on some sidewalk, as a newborn.
Frankly, Takeshi didn't want a mom. You wouldn't long for a mother if you had a dad who rushed to heal every cut and scrape, and a hundred thousand friends to distract you and to lean on.
But sometimes he couldn't help wondering. He watched other kids growing up with mothers - Tsuna virtually grew up without a dad, but his mom was really one of the best out there, in Takeshi's opinion. He looked for little clues like how they dressed themselves, how well they spoke to other people, how they cared about coming home, and he came to the conclusion that growing up really is different if you have a mom in the house. He couldn't explain it, but their mothers' love left a mark on his friends - a strange warm glow, most noticeable when they're perfectly still.
He didn't have that glow, he believed. Now and again, he wondered what he would've been like if he did.
If he had even a single good memory of a mom to hold on to, would he have been happier? Sadder? Angrier, maybe, like Gokudera? He had just recently learned that Gokudera had lost his mom in a tragic way - one he thought only happened in slightly ridiculous things, like soap operas or neighborhood gossip.
When Takeshi thought about it, he thought he could understand why Gokudera was so angry. It was like everything had conspired to take something so precious away from him. (But maybe it was silly to convince himself that Gokudera remembered her. Maybe, like Takeshi, he didn't remember her at all.
(Still, it would make a lot of sense, wouldn't it? He must've loved her, and she must've loved him, so much that the things in control at the time decided she was simply in the way.)
This guy isn't like me. He lost his mom. I never had one. Takeshi had a lot of questions for Gokudera about his mother, and he would ask them in the future. But for now, while the topic wasn't open for discussion, he contented himself with watching his friend.
When his friend was silent, lost in thought or some distant memory, sitting still with his profile sharp against the faint glow all around it, Takeshi thought he could discern the kind of woman his friend's mother was.
And in his mind, by his own definitions, she was perfect.