I feel the urge to post fics here once more. Here we go!
Summary: And everytime his fingers brushed against his skin, he had to remind himself, "this isn't real, this was never real, Yami isn't real, Yami was never real"
-Imagination is sometimes cruel. It blinds us to the needs to others-
It was so hard to remind himself about the truth. He knew what would happen, he knew the consequences. He knew it was too good to last forever. He even knew every waking moment of his life, that one day, it would simply end. And that’s that.
It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t fear. It was acceptance. Cursed, bitter acceptance, a drug he forced down his lips everytime he smiled. The drug was cool to his tongue and soon, he could ignore the taste, but everytime he had it, he wanted to smile and cry. Let the tears trickle down his cheeks into his lips and taste the trace of the drug of acceptance and the tinge of his salty rivulets.
Because it was so hard to remember. And it was so easy to forget. He hated that. It should have been the other way around, but it wasn’t. So here he was, trying to bring himself in terms with the future, a future that seemed so grim and gritty before his other selfwas here, and will seem even more so when he leaves.
And when his fingers brushed against his skin, he had to repeat the mantra in his mind, ‘He isn’t real, he isn’t real, this isn’t real, none of this is real, and I’m falling in love with a ghost’
That was the plain undisguised truth that knocked on his door one night and he couldn’t sleep. His other self had asked him what was bothering him, and he told him to dismiss it.
But he didn’t sleep that night.
He wondered how Ryou did it. He thought about asking the pale-haired boy how he managed to restrain his emotions, how he never felt the oppressive touch of regret and self-loathing. How he fell in love and yet, acted so casual everyday. For himself, it was a trying task and he tries to smooth his feelings over by sorting out a dueling deck or fiddling with a new puzzle game.
And his other self to hold him, to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, would kiss his nose and laugh at some sarcastic comment flung at him, his eyes blazing, so warm, so bright, so alive.
It was so hard to believe that Yami, his Yami was dead. That he’s been dead for over 500 years now. That the Yami he shared his heart, soul and mind with, was dead. Even if his eyes glow with happiness, even if he could smell the perspiration of sweat accumulating on his clothes, even when he could brush those golden imperial bangs of his sculpted face, Yami was dead. He was a ghost, torn between a past he could not understand and a present he wished he belonged to.
But in the dark hours of the morning, he would snuggle against the warm body next to him, and cling onto him like a lifeline. And if he listened hard enough, he could hear the steady drum beat of his Yami’s heart. Or so he believed. But Yami didn’t have a heart anymore, did he?
Sometimes, he believed that this is God’s way of punishment of sin. It was such a double-edged sword, so intricate in structure that he had no doubts that God had conceived it. And yet, even if he held the double-edged sword in his hands, he would gladly bleed to death a thousand times over. Then he would have been a ghost too.
But Yami would have been angry. And beyond that superficial anger, would have been despair and anguish. For Yami to live with the feeling that he was responsible for his Aibou’s death would have killed far worse than his simple death. Of course, death was rarely simple either.
He fell in love with a ghost. A person who he loved so strongly that every rule he built for his protection was thrown out of the window. But Love follows no rules except for the ones it sets for itself. It was a humbling feeling, becoming another one of Love’s victims.
But there was pleasure in his memories. Deep-rooted pleasure he would never forget. And there was the togetherness, the bond that never stretched itself too far, but enough to be comfortable in.
But it didn’t change the fact that it can never be. One day, the tombstone will be covered with moss and who would remember the Pharaoh who loved a boy? Or remember the boy who loved the person beyond the grave?
And he would remind himself everytime those fingers kissed his skin and stroked his lips, this isn’t real, he isn’t real, this is an illusion, he is a ghost, I love the ghost
His Yami would pause and ask, “Is there something wrong Aibou?”
And he would kiss his Yami’s forehead in return and say gently, “No. Everything is as it should be.”
And the bitter drug fell to his lips once more.
(O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O) (O)
People only drown themselves in alcohol when they want something to forget. It’s an escape from reality
How many has it been? He keeps counting in his head, yet the numbers seem so far off and vague. As if the drink is seeping away his thoughts, his dreams and his life. Not that he had much of a life to begin with.
They never stop. He doesn’t want them to. Let them come, let them make him forget. Alcohol is indeed a treasure, one he cannot forsake anymore. It flows into his veins stronger than blood ever has and it makes living on this god forsaken planet almost bearable. With its gun powder constantly humming in the air and the taste of lead and blood on your tongue.
What a beautiful way to live, some gun-loving psycho might say. But he was not that person. He wanted meadows, grass under his black soled feet, the touch of water running through his fingers.
But his fingers are always black, always tinged with that metallic feel of lead and soot. Sometimes the smell would invade his food, his drink and then he would wake up from his dream world and puke.
The smell of gunpowder always made him nauseous.
Just drink. It’s so simple, so easy. Such an easy way to forget. Just walk into a bar, ask for a drink and wait until the drink fogs up your senses and you can’t remember the way he fell down onto the ground, the way his back looked when it was riddled with holes, the way his smile never faded. Not even once. It made him sick all over and he took another glass.
And then it came rushing back, despite the allure of the alcohol. How he stood in front of him, how the rage and jealously flooded his old mentor’s face, how peaceful the sky was. There were no dust storms, no brown aching clouds that day. How the sweat made the trigger slippery, how that red cloak fluttered like a handkerchief tossed out to face the mercy of the wind.
How the tears, the tears he thought never existed, began to prickle behind his smoky eyes. How he kept trying to call his name, always calling his name and there was an engulfing silence that he choked on. Because despite how hard he called out, the words caught in his throat and made him stumble.
How he watched his mentor walk away, how he picked up the gun, but never fired those fatal shots. Because…because…simply because…
How many is it now? Ten? Twelve? Or maybe it’s the ungodly number of twenty-three. It didn’t help, the memories came back so clearly now that his head began to spin. And it wasn’t the alcohol.
And he wanted that smile to wither. He wanted an accusation. Blame me! Blame me! He told him that day. Again, he was remembering, but he couldn’t stop. The memories brought a rush that put alcohol to shame. Hate me! Curse me! He told him, his voice furious.
Why should I? I’m the one who decided to be the hero, He answered, those fervent green eyes soft and beautiful. He could imagine the world filled with that great soft colour.
Why did you? Why couldn’t you let me die? I’m no great loss! But there’s only one of you, he jabbed his finger at him, hoping that he would take the bait and accuse him. This…that…anything to blame him and make the other look like the angel he was. Blameless, stainless, pure, something so unreachable that the only thing we can ever grasp is the feathery touch of your wings.
One is enough, He grimaced, but we need more like you.
I hate you! He screamed, he yelled, he dragged the other by the collar to meet his smoky grey eyes, You damn saint!
But his eyes were soft and those harsh cutting words went past him as easily as air.
You shouldn’t die, He said softer now. The insults were dying and now he could see the pain etched on the other’s brow, You can’t die.
But his face was clear, so beautifully clear of those horrible lines of sorrow and tragedy that it made him more than the angel he already was. He then closed his eyes and his breathing had ebbed away.
And then, the glass fell from his hand to roll onto the floor. And he cried.
Title: Pretty Hot
Pairing: One-sided Dee x J.J, hinted Dee x Ryo
Summary: J.J likes it when Dee is angry at him
-…I began to pray he’d stay close to me forever-
—Dee Laytner (Volume Four)
He’s pretty hot when he’s angry.
His verdant eyes would narrow and blaze like green fires beneath the savannas. His lips would tighten and show their colour and his cheeks would flare like roses in summer. Although, he isn’t very happy when he’s angry and he has lousy control over his temper, I can’t help but be mesmerized when he is angry.
I wonder how everyone else misses it. How can they not see those eyes burn brighter than any jaded stone in a lit-up jewellery store? How can they not be absorbed in his anger, his breathtaking tumult of emotions? If there is one thing life has yet to teach him, it is restraint.
I suppose that’s when Ryo came in. I do not know if Ryo also loves the vivaciousness of Dee’s anger, I never asked, but Ryo was the one who tried to push that value into Dee’s life. Slowly, but steadily, Dee tried to rein himself in. I didn’t like that. Dee was like a whirlwind, wild and untamable. He was powerful in his freedom and his will to achieve what he desired.
Nothing, not even God could stand in Dee’s way without being thrown several feet away from his path.
Ryo was passive. I don’t like passive people. Those were the most dangerous kind you see. They submerge themselves in their own feelings and misery and they forget what it was like to actually live and breathe. Sometimes the colour in Ryo’s eyes is too dark to see and I always look away. His eyes were so empty at times. A value of Dee’s that Ryo so desperately needs is the ability to break free from the system that rules his life. Ryo follows too many rules that he has forgotten the rules that he should set for himself.
Dee isn’t like that. I suppose they are good for each other, because they balance each other. But I don’t like Ryo.
Dee is beautiful. His hair is perfect when it is messy and his eyes are so clear, they feel like stain glass on churches. My parents used to take me to the church often. They loved it there and believed everything can be saved by prayers alone. It was that belief that led me to become a cop.
I met Dee when he was angry. Two guys thought it was funny if they took my uniform and make me run in the nude. They were bigger than me and I was new, unbearably new, and unable to understand the way bullies worked.
Dee came in the room, his eyes sharper than any bullet and knocked the two guys out. His eyes were burning and I almost felt the smoke curling from around his lashes. He had such long lashes which highlighted the verdant green. Like pastures in the European folktales, I remembered thinking at that time.
He helped me up and told me not to worry about the bullies. He also offered to tell the superiors about this. I noticed that he had curled his lip in disgust at the two guys and I stammered that this wasn’t necessary. He cocked an eyebrow quizzically at me and nodded. I asked him what his name was. He was surprised and a arrogant self-assured smile blossomed on his face.
“Dee Laytner,” He told me.
I don’t know why I follow him. As if my purpose and my life revolves around him. He seems like a center, a place where I can remember where I must go and where I must stop. His very presence seemed to reassure me that I belong somewhere. That I belong by his side, even if he wants me there or not.
I think that he knows about that, but he never says anything. Sure, he complains continuously about how I grieve him and meddle in his life, but there is no bite in his complaints and even when he is angry with me, there isn’t any malice in it.
Ryo or Randy Maclean is an empty man in need of filling. We both go to Dee in order to fill our lives with something more than work and living. Dee is a scissors that cuts through the proverbial red tape that binds us to police work. Ryo doesn’t understand his need for Dee, hence he pushes him away.
And Dee always came back. I didn’t want Dee broken because of Ryo’s negligence. But… regardless of everything, whether Ryo loves Dee or not, it doesn’t change anything. It will never change. I will still be by Dee’s side and I will always love to make Dee angry.
Simply because Dee is pretty hot when he’s angry. Especially when he’s angry at me.
I needed to put all that up. I finally managed to write today...