ICP: Potong + Durian + Float + Melting
The second set of Ice Cream Parlour.
Title: Ice Cream Parlour
Pairing: Multi-pairing
Rating: T
Summary: Because a single flavour isn't enough to describe their stories. Multiple one-shots, pairings will vary.
Notes: On-going, all suggestions and comments are welcome, and will be taken into consideration and such.
Chapters:
● Potong
● Durian
● Float
● Melting
● Potong ●
She gripped the hand which seemed so small, in her manicured ones.
She looked down, onto the head of deep-blue, and could already the sense the expression on the face. One of express contempt, hate and anger. Bending down, she could now look into his eyes.
In his eyes, was a fire which was not meant to burn at the fragile age of five. It seemed misplaced, and it aged him more than he was supposed to look. Kids his age were supposed to smile with complete innocence and sweet, sweet obliviousness. They weren't supposed to have hate imminent in every muscle of the face.
He looks so much like him, she thought, absently rubbing her index finger along his stiff cheek.
“Ryuuji-chan, smile for Mama?”
He didn't, and he kept his gaze fixed on the door. Fixed on the shoe rack, now missing three pairs of shoes.
“...Ryuuji-chan, give Mama a hug?”
He didn't, and she could feel the rigid stiffness in his body as she put her arms around him in a one-sided embrace. She could feel it, literally feel the immense (too immense, to come from a five year old) hate pulsating out of his small form. It was disconcerting at first, then saddening.
She had caused a young child - her own son - to experience such strong hate, far too early in life.
The woman placed her forehead on the boy's small shoulder.
“Mama's sorry, Ryuuji,” she whispered.
I'll make sure you're happier. Much happier. I'll make sure you'll have everlasting-happiness forevermore.
The tears began to flow, the sobs heaved her body.
Ryuuji relaxed. He put his own arms around his mother. His only mother. His mother, who was still here.
“Ryuuji's sorry too, Mama.”
(A/N: Potong is a type of old-fashioned ice-cream)
-
● Durian ●
He sat there with the rest of them, in the corner, absently scratching at his nose, laughing way too loudly at a joke which probably didn't deserve that much laughter anyway. His hair was long, uncombed, and totally out of style, as far as everyone else in the cafe was concerned.
With his stained sleeve, he accidentally knocked over the glass of water on the table, soaking the boy sitting next to him. Laughing guiltily, he tried to mop the pool of water up, as the waitress closest to the table did it in one effective swoop. Seemingly involuntarily, he let his eyes wander to her (Body? Face?), as he grinned (what she assumed to be) flirtatiously.
She smiled, couldn't help but be intrigued by this one.
Most of the guys here dressed up in shirts and suits, spiked up their hair and paid generous tips as their form of 'flirtation'.
He didn't, and it was strangely refreshing.
“Table fourteen!”
She grinned, picking up the tray as she sashayed over. She could feel his eyes on her (which part of her?) as she took their orders.
And she could feel his incredulous stare at her back, after she slipped him a slip of paper with the magical words on it.
“Call me.”
(A/N: Its Haruta, by the way.)
-
● Float ●
Kawashima Ami stared at the drink machine. She did this every day, every day since she stepped into this school as a student. She knew these three drink machines like the back of her hand, perhaps even better, by now.
The dark blue one on the left was the most prone to dropping extra change, and it also had the warmest cold-drinks. The small white one, to the right of the gap between the machines, had the least variety of drinks, and often displayed the 'stocked' sign, even when it had run out of a particular beverage. The orange one on the left had a sticky collection unit, resulting in you having to stand there (looking like a fool) for approximately three minutes, trying to pry the drawer open.
However, the collectively oddest thing about the three drink machines, was that they all stocked pretty much the same things. Even so, Ami never strayed from her standard drink: Mocha. The chocolate flavored coffee had been a favorite of hers since she'd been introduced to it by one of her modeling friends. It was the thing she always picked, the one constant thing which could always rely on.
Till recently, that is. For some reason, her hand no longer readily headed for the button below can of mocha. Her mind began to wander to the possibility of other drinks.
There was orange juice. Something which couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be sweet or sour, so it just rested somewhere in between. Sometimes you could taste a bit more of the sharpness which cut into you just so, sometimes the hidden sweetness of it would surprise you. Ami's finger hovered over the lighted button for the juice.
Too... Too childish.
The next button would send a green tea down. This green tea was the natural sort. Not as conservative as the type made at tea ceremonies, but it herald the label of 'un-sweetened'. She knew the type. Or at very least, she thought she knew the type. Bitter when you least wanted it to be, strangely calming when you needed it. It was addictive too, you couldn't stop once you started.
Too... Too addictive.
Milk was right next to the green tea. It always was, in all three machines. The two were starkly contrasting, but it just seemed to be the unwritten law of things. It was one of drinks which were very much obviously good for you, something which you had since your birth, one of those drinks which your mother would always push at you. It was straightforward, with only one taste, and you either loved it or hated it.
Too... Too plain.
Then came the soda, to the left of the orange juice. This one was apple soda, the type which would just go crack fizzle pop the second it got into your mouth, perhaps even taking a few taste buds away in the process. Altogether, Ami didn't like soda very much. Too headstrong, too full of energy, too many calories. Not enough refinement, not enough in-depth flavor, not enough nutritional value. The little-kid of the beverage world.
Too... Too fun.
All of that pushed aside, it basically left her with mocha again. The chocolate-tinted coffee. Something which generally screamed sophistication and maturity, elegance and flavor. Something, she thought, the world assumed her to be. She pressed down on the button, retrieved her can, and squeezed into that small space between the two machines once again.
Maybe I'll try something new... Tomorrow.
-
● Melting ●
It was a rehearsal.
I wore a veil, I didn't want a vow.
His breaths came out in short puffs. His lip was cracked to the left.
Five times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a promise
I wore a veil, I didn't want a vow, I wanted something tangible.
His breathing was uneven. His lower lip was cracked.
Five times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a promise.
I wore a veil, I wore a dress. I didn't want a vow, I didn't need a vow.
He was breathing fine, his face flushed. His lips weren't cracked, but I still said they were.
Three times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a vow.
I wore a veil. I wanted something solid.
His chest was rising and dropping erratically. His lips looked soft.
Six times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was warm. So very very warm.
-
Title: Ice Cream Parlour
Pairing: Multi-pairing
Rating: T
Summary: Because a single flavour isn't enough to describe their stories. Multiple one-shots, pairings will vary.
Notes: On-going, all suggestions and comments are welcome, and will be taken into consideration and such.
Chapters:
● Potong
● Durian
● Float
● Melting
● Potong ●
She gripped the hand which seemed so small, in her manicured ones.
She looked down, onto the head of deep-blue, and could already the sense the expression on the face. One of express contempt, hate and anger. Bending down, she could now look into his eyes.
In his eyes, was a fire which was not meant to burn at the fragile age of five. It seemed misplaced, and it aged him more than he was supposed to look. Kids his age were supposed to smile with complete innocence and sweet, sweet obliviousness. They weren't supposed to have hate imminent in every muscle of the face.
He looks so much like him, she thought, absently rubbing her index finger along his stiff cheek.
“Ryuuji-chan, smile for Mama?”
He didn't, and he kept his gaze fixed on the door. Fixed on the shoe rack, now missing three pairs of shoes.
“...Ryuuji-chan, give Mama a hug?”
He didn't, and she could feel the rigid stiffness in his body as she put her arms around him in a one-sided embrace. She could feel it, literally feel the immense (too immense, to come from a five year old) hate pulsating out of his small form. It was disconcerting at first, then saddening.
She had caused a young child - her own son - to experience such strong hate, far too early in life.
The woman placed her forehead on the boy's small shoulder.
“Mama's sorry, Ryuuji,” she whispered.
I'll make sure you're happier. Much happier. I'll make sure you'll have everlasting-happiness forevermore.
The tears began to flow, the sobs heaved her body.
Ryuuji relaxed. He put his own arms around his mother. His only mother. His mother, who was still here.
“Ryuuji's sorry too, Mama.”
(A/N: Potong is a type of old-fashioned ice-cream)
-
● Durian ●
He sat there with the rest of them, in the corner, absently scratching at his nose, laughing way too loudly at a joke which probably didn't deserve that much laughter anyway. His hair was long, uncombed, and totally out of style, as far as everyone else in the cafe was concerned.
With his stained sleeve, he accidentally knocked over the glass of water on the table, soaking the boy sitting next to him. Laughing guiltily, he tried to mop the pool of water up, as the waitress closest to the table did it in one effective swoop. Seemingly involuntarily, he let his eyes wander to her (Body? Face?), as he grinned (what she assumed to be) flirtatiously.
She smiled, couldn't help but be intrigued by this one.
Most of the guys here dressed up in shirts and suits, spiked up their hair and paid generous tips as their form of 'flirtation'.
He didn't, and it was strangely refreshing.
“Table fourteen!”
She grinned, picking up the tray as she sashayed over. She could feel his eyes on her (which part of her?) as she took their orders.
And she could feel his incredulous stare at her back, after she slipped him a slip of paper with the magical words on it.
“Call me.”
(A/N: Its Haruta, by the way.)
-
● Float ●
Kawashima Ami stared at the drink machine. She did this every day, every day since she stepped into this school as a student. She knew these three drink machines like the back of her hand, perhaps even better, by now.
The dark blue one on the left was the most prone to dropping extra change, and it also had the warmest cold-drinks. The small white one, to the right of the gap between the machines, had the least variety of drinks, and often displayed the 'stocked' sign, even when it had run out of a particular beverage. The orange one on the left had a sticky collection unit, resulting in you having to stand there (looking like a fool) for approximately three minutes, trying to pry the drawer open.
However, the collectively oddest thing about the three drink machines, was that they all stocked pretty much the same things. Even so, Ami never strayed from her standard drink: Mocha. The chocolate flavored coffee had been a favorite of hers since she'd been introduced to it by one of her modeling friends. It was the thing she always picked, the one constant thing which could always rely on.
Till recently, that is. For some reason, her hand no longer readily headed for the button below can of mocha. Her mind began to wander to the possibility of other drinks.
There was orange juice. Something which couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be sweet or sour, so it just rested somewhere in between. Sometimes you could taste a bit more of the sharpness which cut into you just so, sometimes the hidden sweetness of it would surprise you. Ami's finger hovered over the lighted button for the juice.
Too... Too childish.
The next button would send a green tea down. This green tea was the natural sort. Not as conservative as the type made at tea ceremonies, but it herald the label of 'un-sweetened'. She knew the type. Or at very least, she thought she knew the type. Bitter when you least wanted it to be, strangely calming when you needed it. It was addictive too, you couldn't stop once you started.
Too... Too addictive.
Milk was right next to the green tea. It always was, in all three machines. The two were starkly contrasting, but it just seemed to be the unwritten law of things. It was one of drinks which were very much obviously good for you, something which you had since your birth, one of those drinks which your mother would always push at you. It was straightforward, with only one taste, and you either loved it or hated it.
Too... Too plain.
Then came the soda, to the left of the orange juice. This one was apple soda, the type which would just go crack fizzle pop the second it got into your mouth, perhaps even taking a few taste buds away in the process. Altogether, Ami didn't like soda very much. Too headstrong, too full of energy, too many calories. Not enough refinement, not enough in-depth flavor, not enough nutritional value. The little-kid of the beverage world.
Too... Too fun.
All of that pushed aside, it basically left her with mocha again. The chocolate-tinted coffee. Something which generally screamed sophistication and maturity, elegance and flavor. Something, she thought, the world assumed her to be. She pressed down on the button, retrieved her can, and squeezed into that small space between the two machines once again.
Maybe I'll try something new... Tomorrow.
-
● Melting ●
It was a rehearsal.
I wore a veil, I didn't want a vow.
His breaths came out in short puffs. His lip was cracked to the left.
Five times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a promise
I wore a veil, I didn't want a vow, I wanted something tangible.
His breathing was uneven. His lower lip was cracked.
Five times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a promise.
I wore a veil, I wore a dress. I didn't want a vow, I didn't need a vow.
He was breathing fine, his face flushed. His lips weren't cracked, but I still said they were.
Three times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was a vow.
I wore a veil. I wanted something solid.
His chest was rising and dropping erratically. His lips looked soft.
Six times.
It was warm. So warm.
-
It was warm. So very very warm.
-