Apple of my Eye, part 6
Title: Apple of my Eye (6/6)
Author: stupeur
Editor: cranperryjuice
Rating: R
Pairing: Tatsurou (MUCC) x Shiina Ringo
Summary: Despite his fame as a visual artist in 1960s Tokyo, Tatsurou has a strong dislike of circles and events, but caves in to his friend Miya and follows him to a private party in a jazz lounge. There he meets the beautiful and elusive Ringo, a woman unlike any other.
Notes: Awe, it's over! Thank you for the comments & support! It's my first time finishing anything other than a one-shot, so it's a small victory for me. ^^; Enjoy the ending. :3
Previous chapters: One Two Three Four Five
Tatsurou never did anything to repair his mistake. The thought of going back to Ringo to apologize never even crossed his mind. What little he knew of her was enough to tell him that there was no use, and he went back home to resume his life like he had never known her. It was only after robbing him of everything he had, however, that her memory finally stepped out of his mind - his lack of feelings and his inspiration left him as a hollow shell. Days or weeks or centuries had passed since Ringo and he had exchanged their last kiss, a kiss that had reflected their relationship- maddening, cruel and much too short-, and Tatsurou had not been able to go back to what he used to be.
Thus, when Ringo appeared on his doorstep without so much as a warning, the first thought that crossed Tatsurou's mind was that she had finally driven him insane and that his longing had materialized itself into her shape. And indeed, she looked much too ghostly and haggard to be anything but an apparition. Her eyes were red and glistening, and her lips so pale that he could barely tell their contour. But reality crashed into him at once when she pulled him hard to herself in a tight embrace, dropping hot, careless kisses all over his face, the fragrance of her body hitting him together with the sensation of her tears rolling from her cheeks to his - and he thought to himself that had she been a mere figment of his imagination, she would not have been crying.
It was her voice that made him know for sure that she was real, when she murmured a quiet "I'm sorry" into his ear. Never could his imagination recreate the perfection of its timber, the flawless flow of her words and the whisper of her breath. And at last, Ringo answered his question:
"I love you," she said, "and that's the reason I cry."
That night, as Tatsurou reacquainted himself with her body, he found her completely devoid of the haughtiness behind which she usually hid. Without her adornments, her rouge and her jewels, he felt her so genuine and true that he even allowed himself to whisper into her ear all the words he had been holding back, and the warmth of her body, the slight tremor of her caresses and the sound of her gasping voice seemed impregnated with a novel sincerity.
Later, as they both laid in each other's arms, her thin leg swung across his and his fingers absentmindedly stroking her side, Tatsurou finally felt at peace again. It was like taking a deep breath after having nearly drowned, and he thought- not without feeling slightly ashamed- that comparing her to oxygen was not that far-fetched.
The moment was short-lived, however - she soon moved away from him and sat on the edge of the futon.
"You can stay the night, you know," he tried, perfectly aware that his voice had failed to cover his desperation at the thought of having her walk out on him so soon. She did not answer right away and instead started to gather her undergarments from the floor. Something was wrong. Her usually controlled and poised demeanor was long gone and her nervous struggle with her corselet betrayed how agitated she was.
"I can't, Tatsurou."
"Why not?"
"I'm going to England tomorrow," she answered flatly, her back to him as she attached her stockings to her garters.
"What? What do you mean? How long?" Tatsurou managed to say when he finally to catch his breath. Her answer, however unmalicious, had felt like stab to the stomach.
"Forever. I don't want to come back here ever again."
Instinctively, Tatsurou grabbed her wrist - much to his surprise, she did not even attempt to resist him and stumbled into his arms, limp and weak. Her long lashes were sticking together and for the first time, he noticed the fine lines at the corner of her eyes. "Why?" he asked, but he immediately realized that he knew what she would say.
"This country, it's- it's killing me. It was planned even before I met you. It was perfect. Just take your painting with me and leave and not miss anything." She sobbed and the tears that had been welling up in her eyes rolled down her face. "But then I fell for you."
Tatsurou had already known she would leave. He perfectly understood why - he and she were both misfits. They had found within each other this same difference that had been their common ground. She was unlike every woman he had met and, he was certain, he was unlike every man she had met. He had seen past the dresses, the voice and the stage persona - and all he wanted was for her to bring this memory of him wherever she went.
And he made sure she did so with a single word - that real name of hers that no one knew.
"I love you, Yumiko. I love you."
***
What happened after this was all a blur. Ringo somehow left and took with her what little color there was in Tokyo. Tatsurou devoted himself body and soul to his art, leaving himself barely any time to remember her - no one seemed to question his decidedly darker approach, but despite his professional success, his life had never been as lonesome as it was now with its one light out.
It was only when he received an unexpected parcel in the mail that he allowed her memory to surface again. Tatsurou opened the large, flat envelope and carefully took out its contents. A record. On its cover was a black and white picture of his Ringo in a form-fitting black dress, fabric flowers blossoming across her chest, her silken hair cut in a short bob, and a curve so slight on her lips that he was not sure if it could even be called a smile.
And between the cover and the disc, he found a note - still written in that cursive, lavender hand-writing:
"It's still you I think about when I sing.
S.R."
And for the first time in what felt like a hundred years, Tatsurou smiled.
Author: stupeur
Editor: cranperryjuice
Rating: R
Pairing: Tatsurou (MUCC) x Shiina Ringo
Summary: Despite his fame as a visual artist in 1960s Tokyo, Tatsurou has a strong dislike of circles and events, but caves in to his friend Miya and follows him to a private party in a jazz lounge. There he meets the beautiful and elusive Ringo, a woman unlike any other.
Notes: Awe, it's over! Thank you for the comments & support! It's my first time finishing anything other than a one-shot, so it's a small victory for me. ^^; Enjoy the ending. :3
Previous chapters: One Two Three Four Five
Tatsurou never did anything to repair his mistake. The thought of going back to Ringo to apologize never even crossed his mind. What little he knew of her was enough to tell him that there was no use, and he went back home to resume his life like he had never known her. It was only after robbing him of everything he had, however, that her memory finally stepped out of his mind - his lack of feelings and his inspiration left him as a hollow shell. Days or weeks or centuries had passed since Ringo and he had exchanged their last kiss, a kiss that had reflected their relationship- maddening, cruel and much too short-, and Tatsurou had not been able to go back to what he used to be.
Thus, when Ringo appeared on his doorstep without so much as a warning, the first thought that crossed Tatsurou's mind was that she had finally driven him insane and that his longing had materialized itself into her shape. And indeed, she looked much too ghostly and haggard to be anything but an apparition. Her eyes were red and glistening, and her lips so pale that he could barely tell their contour. But reality crashed into him at once when she pulled him hard to herself in a tight embrace, dropping hot, careless kisses all over his face, the fragrance of her body hitting him together with the sensation of her tears rolling from her cheeks to his - and he thought to himself that had she been a mere figment of his imagination, she would not have been crying.
It was her voice that made him know for sure that she was real, when she murmured a quiet "I'm sorry" into his ear. Never could his imagination recreate the perfection of its timber, the flawless flow of her words and the whisper of her breath. And at last, Ringo answered his question:
"I love you," she said, "and that's the reason I cry."
That night, as Tatsurou reacquainted himself with her body, he found her completely devoid of the haughtiness behind which she usually hid. Without her adornments, her rouge and her jewels, he felt her so genuine and true that he even allowed himself to whisper into her ear all the words he had been holding back, and the warmth of her body, the slight tremor of her caresses and the sound of her gasping voice seemed impregnated with a novel sincerity.
Later, as they both laid in each other's arms, her thin leg swung across his and his fingers absentmindedly stroking her side, Tatsurou finally felt at peace again. It was like taking a deep breath after having nearly drowned, and he thought- not without feeling slightly ashamed- that comparing her to oxygen was not that far-fetched.
The moment was short-lived, however - she soon moved away from him and sat on the edge of the futon.
"You can stay the night, you know," he tried, perfectly aware that his voice had failed to cover his desperation at the thought of having her walk out on him so soon. She did not answer right away and instead started to gather her undergarments from the floor. Something was wrong. Her usually controlled and poised demeanor was long gone and her nervous struggle with her corselet betrayed how agitated she was.
"I can't, Tatsurou."
"Why not?"
"I'm going to England tomorrow," she answered flatly, her back to him as she attached her stockings to her garters.
"What? What do you mean? How long?" Tatsurou managed to say when he finally to catch his breath. Her answer, however unmalicious, had felt like stab to the stomach.
"Forever. I don't want to come back here ever again."
Instinctively, Tatsurou grabbed her wrist - much to his surprise, she did not even attempt to resist him and stumbled into his arms, limp and weak. Her long lashes were sticking together and for the first time, he noticed the fine lines at the corner of her eyes. "Why?" he asked, but he immediately realized that he knew what she would say.
"This country, it's- it's killing me. It was planned even before I met you. It was perfect. Just take your painting with me and leave and not miss anything." She sobbed and the tears that had been welling up in her eyes rolled down her face. "But then I fell for you."
Tatsurou had already known she would leave. He perfectly understood why - he and she were both misfits. They had found within each other this same difference that had been their common ground. She was unlike every woman he had met and, he was certain, he was unlike every man she had met. He had seen past the dresses, the voice and the stage persona - and all he wanted was for her to bring this memory of him wherever she went.
And he made sure she did so with a single word - that real name of hers that no one knew.
"I love you, Yumiko. I love you."
***
What happened after this was all a blur. Ringo somehow left and took with her what little color there was in Tokyo. Tatsurou devoted himself body and soul to his art, leaving himself barely any time to remember her - no one seemed to question his decidedly darker approach, but despite his professional success, his life had never been as lonesome as it was now with its one light out.
It was only when he received an unexpected parcel in the mail that he allowed her memory to surface again. Tatsurou opened the large, flat envelope and carefully took out its contents. A record. On its cover was a black and white picture of his Ringo in a form-fitting black dress, fabric flowers blossoming across her chest, her silken hair cut in a short bob, and a curve so slight on her lips that he was not sure if it could even be called a smile.
And between the cover and the disc, he found a note - still written in that cursive, lavender hand-writing:
"It's still you I think about when I sing.
S.R."
And for the first time in what felt like a hundred years, Tatsurou smiled.