drabbles
I hate everything I do at this moment in time, although no one cares haha
I've just been writing random things here and there, things I wouldn't normally write. Enough comfort zone. Eh.
Everything's pretty tame so like...a kind of general PG-13 for the occasional bad word? /:
Ambushed -Ryohei + Hibari
He had just been walking home (and yes, he had one besides the school, contrary to popular belief), slowly, in no rush, taking the long route through the park (and being careful to avoid those gaudy pink trees for memory's sake) when he'd been ambushed (more literally than one might imagine). The park was more or less empty, too late for children out playing, too early for couples to be taking romantic strolls into the cover of the trees, but it was a warm, pleasant evening and Hibari was quite content to be walking home with only himself for company.
But then Sasagawa Ryohei came flying out of some bushes, Hibari's name like a war cry on his lips and all that changed.
The dark-haired teen said nothing, didn't even flinch when the boxer skidded across the gravel to fall into step with him, he just kept walking.
“Hibari, I thought it was you! I saw you from across the park so I caught up! Run with me, Hibari, let's get some extreme training done!”
No response. His pace remained the same, step after step, as the other jogged slowly by his side, shadow boxing, sweat rolling down his temple.
“It's good I saw you like that, the sprint was good to break up the rhythm!”
No response.
“You're not exactly dressed for running, still in uniform, huh? You're extremely late leaving school! Was it club activities? I didn't know you were in any clubs, Hibari!”
Hibari continued to look straight ahead, taking step after step as Ryohei circled him, ran ahead and back again, double stepped so as to keep in line, talking all the time and filling in the answers himself when he garnered none from the other.
“It's been a while since we talked like this,” the boxer nodded to himself eventually, when the park gates were in sight.
The monotonous thud of steps stopped and black shoes halted on the asphalt.
“We've never talked.”
Ryohei ground to a halt, face twisting up in great concentration as he brought a hand to his chin as if in great philosophical thought.
“Aah?” he furrowed his brow, as if only just realising, “I guess you're right.”
-
cosa nostra- Kyoko [27K]
She's in his arms, face pressed to his chest with eyes wide open, and his scent fills her head. Sweat, faded cologne, gentle breath she remembers the taste of. It sweeps over her, encloses her, fills her with comfort and familiarity, but still it's not enough to cover the putrid stench of death and blood running down walls. His arms tighten and she trembles faintly, unsure if the fingers cradling her skull are his or the ones she stepped on with her Gucci pumps and felt crack, resonating up through her heel and into her leg, through her muscles and sinews, into the marrow of her bone and up, up into her stomach, jerking with revulsion.
He clasps her tighter, to the sound of his beating heart, and under his arm, from the corner of her eye, she sees his two best friends, hissing quietly between themselves, like angry snakes she thinks placidly, salvaging live meat from the massacre spread across the floor. There is none, she wants to tell them, you're wasting your time, silly snakes.
There's her name, hanging in the air somewhere, a whisper that came from his lips, held tight, and she's pulled gently, frozen limbs jerking like a mechanical doll tip toeing awkwardly through the door. Eyes set starkly on the bleakness, she watches them as she's walked away, watches him put his head in his hands, watches the other put a hand on his shoulder, watches them shake their heads and mutter broken prayers.
The arm around her waist tightens, squeezing, you'll be alright, and she withers, blinks back tears, suddenly realises and just as suddenly tries to forget this is the world she belongs to now.
-
Casa - D59
At first, they just met by coincidence. Gokudera was wary, keeping himself at a distance like a stray cat already world weary in its young age. He narrowed his eyes and gave sharp looks whether they were called for or not, he spoke in clipped sentences, quick to anger and defence. They met by coincidence, but the coffee bought in a small shop on a small side street was almost entirely on purpose.
They just talked about home, mostly. Gokudera refused to speak in Italian at first, even when the elder man slipped into it without any thought. The teenager would offer all his responses in flurried Japanese, catching himself trying to answer in his native language and biting his tongue to stop himself. They spoke about home, about the politics and the current state of affairs, about musicians (although the teen would get remarkably tight lipped whenever classical music was brought up), about the weather in comparison to Japan.
It made sense that they met up regularly to talk. Gokudera even started speaking in Italian. At first, he insisted he was only in it for the coffee and pastries the elder man was buying, but both knew that they were each other's lifelines to a home they sorely missed, even without saying the words out loud.
At first, it was just coffee and talking, the occasional smile lighting up, so neither knew why it was a secret that they met. But the further they divulged in their reminiscing, the harder it became to mention it in passing. It made sense to keep it to themselves.
At first, it was coffee and talking, a slip of the hand, a brush of fingers, a reminder of home. An apology, a sheepish grin, a painful twinge that longed to be closer to those memories. It made sense when hotel beds became more accustomed to their presence than small coffee houses on small side streets.
-
Poison- ShamalBianchi
It's in the way she stretches her legs, the curve of her calf or the tilt of her hips when she bends over to pick something up. Or maybe it's in the way her hair curls gently at the ends, swishing past her spine as she walks, saunters and sways, the way it falls gracefully when she flicks it over her shoulder, or how elegant her neck looks when it's tied up, with pearls wrapped tight around her throat. No, it had to be in the subtle way she does her makeup, the way mascara clings tightly to long lashes, lowered over glittering emerald eyes, a gentle blush high in her cheeks, lips rounded, glossy, smirking, a sultry scent of expensive perfume hanging behind the teardrop crystals in her lobes.
Even when she was a kid, she emulated that stainless grace her mother had, smiled with such perfect cruelty and knew how to pluck a man's heart clean out of his chest before she knew what she was supposed to do with it.
There were other women, like there always was, but somehow, his eyes always dragged themselves back to her. She was almost like a daughter. It was disgusting, but he could never subdue the burning temptation building in his nether regions when it came to her. Still, no matter what he did, she rejected him, usually forcibly. For the best, probably. She was almost like a daughter after all.
But isn't that what makes it so irresistible? The thought of sliding a hand up her creamy thigh, tonguing wet circles on her arched neck, of holding her buttocks tight as he thrust her into a wall, that girl that hugged his legs and played tricks on him with her little brother all those years ago. He wants to break her, worship her body, melt her like ice over his heat-...or something stupid like that.
He reaches out boldly, without much thought, slides a hand across her lower back and leans in, whispers some drunk, lewd comment about poisoning him. Then he waits for the rebuff, grin plastered to his face, waits for it to get slapped off.
She looks up from under her lashes, eyes glazed with a little too much wine. Red lipstick curves gently like a bloody gash and she moves an inch closer, bristling with cold energy. When she tilts her head up, murmurs softly against his ear, his smile falters, his blood chills and his longing aches, and, he thinks he understands just what 'it' is.
-
Older - Ken96
After some time, Ken stopped expecting to see Mukuro everywhere he looked in the old abandoned warehouse they called home. He even stopped inhaling sharply when he saw that tuft of hair that was actually only Chrome, stopped feeling the bitter disappointment when it was only her. They'd gotten a bit older, a (tiny) bit more mature, a little less cruel when it came to Chrome. Well, Ken couldn't speak for Kakipi or really anyone else, but he for one, had grown, whilst not happy to see the girl, accepting at least.
Although, she might not really know that.
She looked up curiously when he threw chocolate snacks into her lap. She didn't panic, or flush embarrassedly, or stutter or avert her gaze in case he yelled, she simply looked up, prepared for his onslaughts after several years of them.
Looking down at her, he frowned, the puckered skin of his scar creasing crookedly as he furrowed his brow. They simply looked at each other for a while, before she finally broke the silence with a small, hopeful voice.
“Would you like to share?”
She hid her timid smile when he sat down heavily next to her.
-
Scribblings - Lussuria + Squalo
“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit,” Squalo hissed under his breath, fists clenched over the paper set on the table in front of him, “I'll fucking kill you!”
“Maa, you wouldn't, you wouldn't!” the great fucking faggot sat by his side crowed back, equally quietly.
Levi looked at them from across the table, eyes narrowed and suspicious. The swordsman bit back a snarl, but didn't try particularly hard in masking the sneer that pulled back his lips, baring his teeth ferally. Eyes quickly swivelled away, a quick snort of disgust expelled on the way. Squalo's hands again crept over towards Lussuria's papers and again they were inched just out of his immediate reach; he'd have to lean over the table to get them and alerting people to the situation wasn't something he particularly wanted to do.
If any of the other Varia or underlings or shits from other parts of the family looked over at them or brought attention to them or asked what exactly it was they were fighting over, Squalo might as well pull his sword on himself then and there. Dying a painful death via slitting his own throat would be a preferable option to suffering the nervous titters, unabashed stares and wide eyed shock that would no doubt be thrown his way when Lussuria jumped to his feet and showed off his ridiculous scribblings.
“Give me that shitty paper, now.”
“Nooo, you'll just shred it!”
“Of course I fucking will, fucking queen!”
Some of the younger ones, trying to concentrate on the shithead talking about expenses or some other wank like that, hesitantly dared to glance over, quickly averting their gaze when Squalo returned the favour.
He had to get that piece of paper.
Of course, starting a shin kicking fight with Lussuria of all people, mightn't have been the wisest plan, but nontheless, it happened, and the swordsman was quickly defeated with what sounded like breaking bone and a rather unmanly squeak. Fists clenched on the table once again, Squalo sat fuming.
“Levi, darling, you should read this!” Lussuria crooned, sliding something over the table that could have been an expense report, a mission objective, a-
Piece of paper covered in scrawlings of 'Squalo loves Xanxus'.
The following bewildered uproar caused by Squalo cutting a gash through the table and launching paperwork in every direction by jumping on top of aforementioned table, however, led to the room's attention being entirely focused on him and how to get him down from said table before his shark was brought out to play, meaning that one small scrap of paper was completely lost in the melee.
Pity he didn't think of it earlier.
-
The Colour Thief - Tsuyoshi/his wife +Takeshi
Tsuyoshi had a wonderful marriage. A truly wonderful, bright and happy marriage. People looked at them together and oohed and ahhed wistfully, aren’t they so adorable, aren’t they so in love, aren’t they just so perfect. Tsuyoshi totally believed them.
They weren’t particularly well off, and the restaurant was still getting started, but she stood by him faithfully, a pillar of strength and comfort, the whole time. She helped out in the store, even got up at four AM to go to the fish market with him when he told her to stay at home, to stay in bed. But no, she just insisted.
One day a week (usually a Tuesday, the least busy day they’d found), they would close the restaurant and go out. A day trip to anywhere they fancied. They would laugh and joke and take pictures, steal kisses and entwine their hands together tightly. Staying out for dinner, they’d get home late, make love and fall fast asleep, ready for the early start back in reality.
When she got pregnant, it was like they’d been blessed. The sushi chef thought he might have been given someone else’s life by some divine accident, but no, it really was his, this beautiful wife, this happiness, and now a child. He was swelling with pride, telling everyone that would listen, and they would smile and shake their heads at his enthusiasm.
But then she started to change. She became listless, stopped taking care of her hair (her pride and joy), stared for hours out of the window without moving a muscle, wore shapeless clothes to hide her slowly growing stomach. Tsuyoshi often asked if she was feeling alright, desperately, holding her hands, and she would reply with a painted smile ‘I’m fine’. Her eyes were always cloudy, glazed, blank.
They grew apart, despite his best attempts. He just couldn’t fathom anything about her, and her unresponsiveness only caused him greater distress, leaving her to herself as if it was what she wanted. All he wanted to do was see her smiling, excited for their child, to put his head to her stomach and feel it kicking, talk to it. He wanted to go walking with her like they used to, he wanted her to glow and shine and laugh like she used to.
But she didn’t. Every week that passed seemed to drain more colour from her and what they had. By the time she gave birth, their world was more a dingy gray than the rainbow kaleidoscope they had known only a few months ago.
She gave a faint turn of lips, maybe a smile, when the baby was laid on her chest; a son. Takeshi, they named him. The mother held him loosely, looking at him blankly. She didn’t see her son. She just saw a baby, nothing to do with her at all.
It came as no surprise when Tsuyoshi woke to a note several weeks later, explaining that she’d returned to her parents in the North and it was unlikely she would ever return. She had loved Tsuyoshi, and what they’d had, but the child was like an alien, a parasite that she couldn’t bring herself to share that love with. Every time she picked him up, she felt nothing. Every time she fed him, there was nothing. Every time he cried, she didn’t really care. She couldn’t stay.
Tsuyoshi was crushed but it was somewhat expected, which lightened the blow a little. Not wanting to blame her for the things she felt, he tried to understand. He put the note away somewhere he couldn’t come across it by accident, twisted his face into a bright smile and went to his son, picked him up and laughed when he gurgled happily. The woman that had stolen the colour from their lives wouldn’t stop them repainting it all in every shade of joy they could find.
Some years later, just as the store was closing, Tsuyoshi rubbed his eyes with a bony wrist, breathing out heavily, satisfied. The store was doing well, exceptionally well. He was busy beyond imagination with a small child and a restaurant to run by himself, but he was managing. Takeshi was a good kid, helping with what he could, which, being a five year old, didn’t amount to much, but he was well behaved and he was loved by the regulars whom he sat with in the restaurant as they drank sake and chattered amongst themselves, ruffling his hair and laughing with him.
Looking up, Tsuyoshi saw a pair of feet dangling from the end of a booth seat and he smiled tiredly. Switching off the lights and checking the lock on the front door, the man moved over to where his son had fallen asleep waiting for him.
C’mon Takeshi, bed, he murmured as he hefted his rapidly growing son up and held him to his chest, hearing only a muffled grumble in response. Tsuyoshi laughed to himself.
It was almost as if there’d never been a colour thief at all.
-
I've just been writing random things here and there, things I wouldn't normally write. Enough comfort zone. Eh.
Everything's pretty tame so like...a kind of general PG-13 for the occasional bad word? /:
Ambushed -Ryohei + Hibari
He had just been walking home (and yes, he had one besides the school, contrary to popular belief), slowly, in no rush, taking the long route through the park (and being careful to avoid those gaudy pink trees for memory's sake) when he'd been ambushed (more literally than one might imagine). The park was more or less empty, too late for children out playing, too early for couples to be taking romantic strolls into the cover of the trees, but it was a warm, pleasant evening and Hibari was quite content to be walking home with only himself for company.
But then Sasagawa Ryohei came flying out of some bushes, Hibari's name like a war cry on his lips and all that changed.
The dark-haired teen said nothing, didn't even flinch when the boxer skidded across the gravel to fall into step with him, he just kept walking.
“Hibari, I thought it was you! I saw you from across the park so I caught up! Run with me, Hibari, let's get some extreme training done!”
No response. His pace remained the same, step after step, as the other jogged slowly by his side, shadow boxing, sweat rolling down his temple.
“It's good I saw you like that, the sprint was good to break up the rhythm!”
No response.
“You're not exactly dressed for running, still in uniform, huh? You're extremely late leaving school! Was it club activities? I didn't know you were in any clubs, Hibari!”
Hibari continued to look straight ahead, taking step after step as Ryohei circled him, ran ahead and back again, double stepped so as to keep in line, talking all the time and filling in the answers himself when he garnered none from the other.
“It's been a while since we talked like this,” the boxer nodded to himself eventually, when the park gates were in sight.
The monotonous thud of steps stopped and black shoes halted on the asphalt.
“We've never talked.”
Ryohei ground to a halt, face twisting up in great concentration as he brought a hand to his chin as if in great philosophical thought.
“Aah?” he furrowed his brow, as if only just realising, “I guess you're right.”
-
cosa nostra- Kyoko [27K]
She's in his arms, face pressed to his chest with eyes wide open, and his scent fills her head. Sweat, faded cologne, gentle breath she remembers the taste of. It sweeps over her, encloses her, fills her with comfort and familiarity, but still it's not enough to cover the putrid stench of death and blood running down walls. His arms tighten and she trembles faintly, unsure if the fingers cradling her skull are his or the ones she stepped on with her Gucci pumps and felt crack, resonating up through her heel and into her leg, through her muscles and sinews, into the marrow of her bone and up, up into her stomach, jerking with revulsion.
He clasps her tighter, to the sound of his beating heart, and under his arm, from the corner of her eye, she sees his two best friends, hissing quietly between themselves, like angry snakes she thinks placidly, salvaging live meat from the massacre spread across the floor. There is none, she wants to tell them, you're wasting your time, silly snakes.
There's her name, hanging in the air somewhere, a whisper that came from his lips, held tight, and she's pulled gently, frozen limbs jerking like a mechanical doll tip toeing awkwardly through the door. Eyes set starkly on the bleakness, she watches them as she's walked away, watches him put his head in his hands, watches the other put a hand on his shoulder, watches them shake their heads and mutter broken prayers.
The arm around her waist tightens, squeezing, you'll be alright, and she withers, blinks back tears, suddenly realises and just as suddenly tries to forget this is the world she belongs to now.
-
Casa - D59
At first, they just met by coincidence. Gokudera was wary, keeping himself at a distance like a stray cat already world weary in its young age. He narrowed his eyes and gave sharp looks whether they were called for or not, he spoke in clipped sentences, quick to anger and defence. They met by coincidence, but the coffee bought in a small shop on a small side street was almost entirely on purpose.
They just talked about home, mostly. Gokudera refused to speak in Italian at first, even when the elder man slipped into it without any thought. The teenager would offer all his responses in flurried Japanese, catching himself trying to answer in his native language and biting his tongue to stop himself. They spoke about home, about the politics and the current state of affairs, about musicians (although the teen would get remarkably tight lipped whenever classical music was brought up), about the weather in comparison to Japan.
It made sense that they met up regularly to talk. Gokudera even started speaking in Italian. At first, he insisted he was only in it for the coffee and pastries the elder man was buying, but both knew that they were each other's lifelines to a home they sorely missed, even without saying the words out loud.
At first, it was just coffee and talking, the occasional smile lighting up, so neither knew why it was a secret that they met. But the further they divulged in their reminiscing, the harder it became to mention it in passing. It made sense to keep it to themselves.
At first, it was coffee and talking, a slip of the hand, a brush of fingers, a reminder of home. An apology, a sheepish grin, a painful twinge that longed to be closer to those memories. It made sense when hotel beds became more accustomed to their presence than small coffee houses on small side streets.
-
Poison- ShamalBianchi
It's in the way she stretches her legs, the curve of her calf or the tilt of her hips when she bends over to pick something up. Or maybe it's in the way her hair curls gently at the ends, swishing past her spine as she walks, saunters and sways, the way it falls gracefully when she flicks it over her shoulder, or how elegant her neck looks when it's tied up, with pearls wrapped tight around her throat. No, it had to be in the subtle way she does her makeup, the way mascara clings tightly to long lashes, lowered over glittering emerald eyes, a gentle blush high in her cheeks, lips rounded, glossy, smirking, a sultry scent of expensive perfume hanging behind the teardrop crystals in her lobes.
Even when she was a kid, she emulated that stainless grace her mother had, smiled with such perfect cruelty and knew how to pluck a man's heart clean out of his chest before she knew what she was supposed to do with it.
There were other women, like there always was, but somehow, his eyes always dragged themselves back to her. She was almost like a daughter. It was disgusting, but he could never subdue the burning temptation building in his nether regions when it came to her. Still, no matter what he did, she rejected him, usually forcibly. For the best, probably. She was almost like a daughter after all.
But isn't that what makes it so irresistible? The thought of sliding a hand up her creamy thigh, tonguing wet circles on her arched neck, of holding her buttocks tight as he thrust her into a wall, that girl that hugged his legs and played tricks on him with her little brother all those years ago. He wants to break her, worship her body, melt her like ice over his heat-...or something stupid like that.
He reaches out boldly, without much thought, slides a hand across her lower back and leans in, whispers some drunk, lewd comment about poisoning him. Then he waits for the rebuff, grin plastered to his face, waits for it to get slapped off.
She looks up from under her lashes, eyes glazed with a little too much wine. Red lipstick curves gently like a bloody gash and she moves an inch closer, bristling with cold energy. When she tilts her head up, murmurs softly against his ear, his smile falters, his blood chills and his longing aches, and, he thinks he understands just what 'it' is.
-
Older - Ken96
After some time, Ken stopped expecting to see Mukuro everywhere he looked in the old abandoned warehouse they called home. He even stopped inhaling sharply when he saw that tuft of hair that was actually only Chrome, stopped feeling the bitter disappointment when it was only her. They'd gotten a bit older, a (tiny) bit more mature, a little less cruel when it came to Chrome. Well, Ken couldn't speak for Kakipi or really anyone else, but he for one, had grown, whilst not happy to see the girl, accepting at least.
Although, she might not really know that.
She looked up curiously when he threw chocolate snacks into her lap. She didn't panic, or flush embarrassedly, or stutter or avert her gaze in case he yelled, she simply looked up, prepared for his onslaughts after several years of them.
Looking down at her, he frowned, the puckered skin of his scar creasing crookedly as he furrowed his brow. They simply looked at each other for a while, before she finally broke the silence with a small, hopeful voice.
“Would you like to share?”
She hid her timid smile when he sat down heavily next to her.
-
Scribblings - Lussuria + Squalo
“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit,” Squalo hissed under his breath, fists clenched over the paper set on the table in front of him, “I'll fucking kill you!”
“Maa, you wouldn't, you wouldn't!” the great fucking faggot sat by his side crowed back, equally quietly.
Levi looked at them from across the table, eyes narrowed and suspicious. The swordsman bit back a snarl, but didn't try particularly hard in masking the sneer that pulled back his lips, baring his teeth ferally. Eyes quickly swivelled away, a quick snort of disgust expelled on the way. Squalo's hands again crept over towards Lussuria's papers and again they were inched just out of his immediate reach; he'd have to lean over the table to get them and alerting people to the situation wasn't something he particularly wanted to do.
If any of the other Varia or underlings or shits from other parts of the family looked over at them or brought attention to them or asked what exactly it was they were fighting over, Squalo might as well pull his sword on himself then and there. Dying a painful death via slitting his own throat would be a preferable option to suffering the nervous titters, unabashed stares and wide eyed shock that would no doubt be thrown his way when Lussuria jumped to his feet and showed off his ridiculous scribblings.
“Give me that shitty paper, now.”
“Nooo, you'll just shred it!”
“Of course I fucking will, fucking queen!”
Some of the younger ones, trying to concentrate on the shithead talking about expenses or some other wank like that, hesitantly dared to glance over, quickly averting their gaze when Squalo returned the favour.
He had to get that piece of paper.
Of course, starting a shin kicking fight with Lussuria of all people, mightn't have been the wisest plan, but nontheless, it happened, and the swordsman was quickly defeated with what sounded like breaking bone and a rather unmanly squeak. Fists clenched on the table once again, Squalo sat fuming.
“Levi, darling, you should read this!” Lussuria crooned, sliding something over the table that could have been an expense report, a mission objective, a-
Piece of paper covered in scrawlings of 'Squalo loves Xanxus'.
The following bewildered uproar caused by Squalo cutting a gash through the table and launching paperwork in every direction by jumping on top of aforementioned table, however, led to the room's attention being entirely focused on him and how to get him down from said table before his shark was brought out to play, meaning that one small scrap of paper was completely lost in the melee.
Pity he didn't think of it earlier.
-
The Colour Thief - Tsuyoshi/his wife +Takeshi
Tsuyoshi had a wonderful marriage. A truly wonderful, bright and happy marriage. People looked at them together and oohed and ahhed wistfully, aren’t they so adorable, aren’t they so in love, aren’t they just so perfect. Tsuyoshi totally believed them.
They weren’t particularly well off, and the restaurant was still getting started, but she stood by him faithfully, a pillar of strength and comfort, the whole time. She helped out in the store, even got up at four AM to go to the fish market with him when he told her to stay at home, to stay in bed. But no, she just insisted.
One day a week (usually a Tuesday, the least busy day they’d found), they would close the restaurant and go out. A day trip to anywhere they fancied. They would laugh and joke and take pictures, steal kisses and entwine their hands together tightly. Staying out for dinner, they’d get home late, make love and fall fast asleep, ready for the early start back in reality.
When she got pregnant, it was like they’d been blessed. The sushi chef thought he might have been given someone else’s life by some divine accident, but no, it really was his, this beautiful wife, this happiness, and now a child. He was swelling with pride, telling everyone that would listen, and they would smile and shake their heads at his enthusiasm.
But then she started to change. She became listless, stopped taking care of her hair (her pride and joy), stared for hours out of the window without moving a muscle, wore shapeless clothes to hide her slowly growing stomach. Tsuyoshi often asked if she was feeling alright, desperately, holding her hands, and she would reply with a painted smile ‘I’m fine’. Her eyes were always cloudy, glazed, blank.
They grew apart, despite his best attempts. He just couldn’t fathom anything about her, and her unresponsiveness only caused him greater distress, leaving her to herself as if it was what she wanted. All he wanted to do was see her smiling, excited for their child, to put his head to her stomach and feel it kicking, talk to it. He wanted to go walking with her like they used to, he wanted her to glow and shine and laugh like she used to.
But she didn’t. Every week that passed seemed to drain more colour from her and what they had. By the time she gave birth, their world was more a dingy gray than the rainbow kaleidoscope they had known only a few months ago.
She gave a faint turn of lips, maybe a smile, when the baby was laid on her chest; a son. Takeshi, they named him. The mother held him loosely, looking at him blankly. She didn’t see her son. She just saw a baby, nothing to do with her at all.
It came as no surprise when Tsuyoshi woke to a note several weeks later, explaining that she’d returned to her parents in the North and it was unlikely she would ever return. She had loved Tsuyoshi, and what they’d had, but the child was like an alien, a parasite that she couldn’t bring herself to share that love with. Every time she picked him up, she felt nothing. Every time she fed him, there was nothing. Every time he cried, she didn’t really care. She couldn’t stay.
Tsuyoshi was crushed but it was somewhat expected, which lightened the blow a little. Not wanting to blame her for the things she felt, he tried to understand. He put the note away somewhere he couldn’t come across it by accident, twisted his face into a bright smile and went to his son, picked him up and laughed when he gurgled happily. The woman that had stolen the colour from their lives wouldn’t stop them repainting it all in every shade of joy they could find.
Some years later, just as the store was closing, Tsuyoshi rubbed his eyes with a bony wrist, breathing out heavily, satisfied. The store was doing well, exceptionally well. He was busy beyond imagination with a small child and a restaurant to run by himself, but he was managing. Takeshi was a good kid, helping with what he could, which, being a five year old, didn’t amount to much, but he was well behaved and he was loved by the regulars whom he sat with in the restaurant as they drank sake and chattered amongst themselves, ruffling his hair and laughing with him.
Looking up, Tsuyoshi saw a pair of feet dangling from the end of a booth seat and he smiled tiredly. Switching off the lights and checking the lock on the front door, the man moved over to where his son had fallen asleep waiting for him.
C’mon Takeshi, bed, he murmured as he hefted his rapidly growing son up and held him to his chest, hearing only a muffled grumble in response. Tsuyoshi laughed to himself.
It was almost as if there’d never been a colour thief at all.
-