Daphne in the wood (bromantic) wrote,
Daphne in the wood

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Yes, well, I've been wanting to put up a fic here for a while now. Might as well do it.

One of my latest projects. Probably won't be up for a long while, but I guarateed when it's close to completion I'll start posting (and still end up as a procrastinator)

Here we go!

TITLE: Pyrrhic Defeat
RATING: PG? oh and Shounen-ai
PAIRINGS: Hints of past TyKa and the other is a surprise.
SUMMARY: A lone stranger knocks on the door, journal in hand.

Chapter One: The presence of the forgotten

It was the ideal summer afternoon. The sky was clearer than a whiteboard slate and there were birds perched on the trees, chirping merrily at the people. Then the wind would move slowly through the branches, making the leaves shudder and whisper in tongues unknown. And that same breeze would flit past the man with the large cloth-bound book in his hands and ruffle its pages.

Kinomiya Makoto was twenty-three years old. He followed in his father’s footsteps for a short while, but decided to leave Beyblading to the younger generation. He bore Kinomiya Takao’s resemblance that even those who knew him well would see him as his father. It was hard, especially hard for himself, but he has learned to cope.

As well as he can, at any rate.

Makoto clutched the book closer and walked down a small path. This path led to a small house built on the edge of the river. After many years of searching, Makoto had found it. He was scared, infinitely so. Makoto didn’t know how they would react. Will they refuse him?

Makoto mustered up his courage and walked up to the door. It was a large ebony door with a large brass knocker. The emblem on this knocker was a phoenix and even though Makoto felt his insides wracked with uncertainty, he smiled at this reference. He knocked on the door three times, listening to the sound echo in the empty house.

It was a big house, large enough to hold a small army or platoon. But if Makoto remembered correctly (and here, he had a better memory than his father) then this house would always have too much space. Because this house was not meant to keep people in, but rather keep people out.

The Hiwataris were not only eccentric in name only.

The door creaked open slightly and then opened fully to reveal a handsome youth of a year older than Makoto himself. His eyes were a sharp burgundy, finer than any European wine and he had duel hair that marked him as one of the Hiwataris. His eyes widened and without realizing it, Makoto felt the sting of tears prick behind his eyes.

“Hello Gou,” Makoto said, his voice choking, “It’s—been a while,” Surely an understatement, but Makoto found his vocabulary drying up when faced with this remnant of his past. Makoto stretched out his hand slowly and brushed against the painted marks on Gou’s face. Gou’s eyes fluttered slightly at the contact. Makoto immediately drew his hand back as if burned and then let it hang uselessly by his side.

“Makoto…” Gou looked down at the ground and then looked at him, “Well, come in!” Gou said in a voice much more cheerful than his own. Makoto stepped into the house and noticed how bare some of the walls seemed. Gou pulled him along and they went into the living room. It seemed as empty as the hallway. The living room had a large fireplace by the wall and a large picture of the Xeniq Cross , depicting the four sacred spirits.

Makoto walked up to the picture as if in rapture. Silently, he touched the legendary Blue Dragon and felt the urge to pull out his beyblade. He withdrew his fingers from the picture and smiled slightly at Gou, who had entered with two steaming cups of hot cocoa. Gou placed it on the table and gestured to the seat. Makoto sat down, placing the book beside him.

“…I thought that you had given up on me,” Gou spoke tentatively, his eyes drifting over Makoto, “Since we shifted, I thought you were still angry with me.”

I never want to see you again!

Makoto tightened his hands on the sofa, nearly tearing the material, “Did you really think I was serious about a word I said?” His voice was so high, almost as if it had reached a point of climax, “I—we were kids. I never meant a word I said. I sent you letters almost every week. You never replied.”

Gou looked stunned, “I never got any letters. How is that—,” Then his eyes hardened imperceptibly, but Makoto caught it nevertheless, “Father.”

“That’s the other reason I came here,” Makoto stood up and tried to rearrange his scrambled thoughts, “I came to complete the past.”

“Complete the past?” Some of the anger had burned to the back of Gou’s mind, but it would still be there, lingering like a subtle poison. Like father, like son.

“Can you take me to your father?” Makoto lowered his voice, “Please?”

Gou gave him a level stare and started walking up the steps. At the end of the steps, Gou took Makoto through a long corridor. At the end of the corridor was a room. Gou knocked on the door. He didn’t get any response, yet Gou opened the door.

The room was pitch black, but Makoto could see a TV placed in the end of the room and the walls were littered with photographs of all kinds. There was a beyblade dish in the center and the bed was next to a large window that overlooked the river.

And staring out of the window was a man. He didn’t look old, but there were wrinkles on his hands and cheeks. His eyes were the same burgundy as Gou’s, but duller and less fiery. Like tempered blunt steel of a sword, Makoto thought. There was a walking stick besides him and he was toying with a white scarf. His clothes were a white suit that seems to bear the same ageing marks as the man himself.

“Father,” Gou walked up to him and shook him slightly. The man’s eyes fluttered slightly and he stared at his son, slightly dazed. Makoto clutched the book tighter into his chest and prayed silently.

“What is it?” The man’s voice was rasp and harsh, like a crow. Makoto shivered slightly and walked up to him. The man jerked his eyes off his son and scanned him darkly. Makoto held his composure as those hard (Gou’s eyes were so much softer and gentler) eyes roved over him like a panther eyes his prey.

“…Makoto,” the man grunted and turned his eyes back to the window, “Such a pity that you have your mother’s eyes.”

“Father!” Gou’s outburst rang in his ears dimly as Makoto tried to calm himself. But images flitted in his head. Makoto could never remember his mother. Whatever he knew about her was through pictures and when his father was feeling nostalgic enough to talk about her. To his father, she was a symbol of pain and joy etched onto one’s chest. And she was one of the few people who could make him cry.

“Feh,” Makoto wondered why Mr. Hiwatari’s eyes were always so cold, “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

Makoto could see Gou clenching his fists in the corner of his eyes. Makoto put a hand on his shoulder and watched Gou relax slightly. Makoto closed his eyes and opened them once more, “Mr. Hiwatari, I have something important to give you. Maybe after you let me speak, I will leave.”

Gou stared at Makoto as if he was speaking nonsense. Mr. Hiwatari’s eyes narrowed at Makoto’s retort, but he gestured to the seat and Makoto (letting out a sigh of relief) sat down and avoided looking into Mr. Hiwatari’s eyes and stared at the ground. Gou sat next to him.

“Don’t look away!” Mr. Hiwatari snapped, “If you need to speak to me, you’d better look at me! That’s what your father would have done!”

Makoto stared back evenly, “I am not my father,” He breathed softly (“Never back down” his father had told him, “That is the road of victory. When you give up is when the world ends for you”).

Mr. Hiwatari stared at the even dark look building up in Makoto’s eyes and said simply, “I know.”

Makoto relaxed slightly and leaned back on his seat. Then he stared at the ceiling before facing Mr. Hiwatari once more, “My father is dead. He died in his sleep last week.”

Mr. Hiwatari’s face was covered in shadow so Makoto couldn’t see what he looked like. Gou looked away, from his best friend and his father.

Makoto continued, “I went through his room and found this book,” The memories were coming back, Makoto thought, staring at the book.

Otousan, why won’t you wake up? Otousan? OTOUSAN!

…died in his sleep they say…

I always thought the former beyblade champion would go out in a blaze…

..he wasn’t even that old and he kept himself fit…

…how is Makoto taking the news?

Otousan is dead. Otousan is dead.

Stop crying, stop crying,

How old are you?

Get up, Makoto. Shame on you! Your father would have…


…not well…

when will they announce the funeral?

Not yet, not yet, not yet, I don’t want to see it.

when everything is settled, I suppose. Put the dead man’s matters to rest first.

“Go on,” Makoto jerked at the sound of Mr. Hiwatari’s voice. It sounded the same; harsh and cold. Makoto felt a flame build up inside of him, but he restrained his temper.

“It’s his journal,” Makoto said softly, “And I think you need to read it.”

“Bullshit,” Mr. Hiwatari got up in one fluid motion and threw his walking stick at Makoto. Makoto ducked just in time, “Get out, get out, GET OUT!” His voice was wild and blazing like a rampaging fire.

“He loved you!” Makoto yelled back suddenly, some of the old tears leaving the nest of his eyes, “You have to read it!” (love me, love me, love me. Old wounds were too deep and Makoto can’t take out the bullets)

“He left me,” Mr. Hiwatari said angrily, “How dare you come to my house and say those things—,”

“Father, calm down!” Gou said, his own eyes blazing, “Too long you’ve carried around with your grief. Won’t you read his last words?!”

Mr. Hiwatari collapsed against his seat and mumbled, “Leave, leave, leave….”

Gou moved to approach his father, but Makoto blocked him.

“Give him some time,” Makoto said, looking at the murmuring Mr. Hiwatari. Quietly, he left the book by his side and walked out with Gou.

And when Makoto closed the door, he swore he heard him cry.


Chapter Two: The resurrection of the memories

Gou placed the cup down and stared at Makoto. Too long, he thought to himself, since he’s seen his best friend. No one ever replaced Makoto when he left Japan. No one would understand the drive of beyblading like Makoto had. Thus, no one was his friend and while he did feel lonely at times, he submerged himself deeply in the sport that his father had loved. His father never did once pick up a beyblade after leaving Japan. Whenever his father did touch Dranzer, a soft loving smile (and never once, Gou remembered, did he smile like that again) would grace his lips. And Gou would feel content.

Makoto looked older. The cherubic face had trimmed itself into a thinner more feminine oval and like his father had said before, Makoto had inherited the distant cool black of his mother. Gou wondered what Makoto’s mother looked like before. Gou could barely remember his own mother. Sometimes, it frustrated him that he could never remember who she was. It seemed almost blasphemous in nature to him.

“Was that all you came back for?” How controlled, how dark and lost Gou’s voice seemed to Makoto, calling out from the other side of the room. Makoto could recall flickers of the tempestuous and eager voice Gou had when he was younger. And where had all that energy, that vigour gone? Makoto mourned the loss of a precious memory.

“No,” And that was true, Makoto knew. He owed a debt, a last wish in his father’s memory. But he owed himself much more. When Gou moved away, Makoto was as lost as Gou’s voice right now. He remembered standing by the doorway and his father placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Makoto remembered crying and his father trying to soothe him with placating words a grownup offers a child in the time of nightmare.

“You’ll see him again,” His father had said. And though his intent was true and the promise was there, Makoto remembered how the hand on his shoulder trembled and there were tears on his father’s eyes as well.

Gou cooled at Makoto’s response and laid his head back. After a while he spoke again, “How did he die?”

“It was natural,” Makoto could remember those doctor reports as clear as day. The doctors told him that his father’s condition had been deteriorating for years. Makoto had called anyone and everyone who could help. But his father forbade it and let himself rot away. It always bothered Makoto that his father died with a smile.

Someone who is leaving me behind should not smile.

“I see,” And Gou thought of his own father who was sitting in his room. It was that harsh raven glare that was directed at him whenever Gou entered his room that always made Gou feel like he was nothing more than a pane of glass for his father to crack. Now, as he looked at the stairs, he wondered why he loved his father.



Kai didn’t want to touch it. The very idea seemed repugnant to him. But curiosity made him close in on it and put it on his lap. Ah, how could the feel of something that belonged to a person you care for be so powerful? Entranced, Kai opened it and stared at the first pages. The memories washed over him gently like a summer tide and Kai let himself get submerged.

I hate winter. I hate the way it freezes your movement and the mush that gets into your shoe. I picked this up today because I want to curse winter in all its glory. Today, we nearly lost someone who was dear to us. It’s a feeling I never want to experience again. I was so scared that once I grasped his hand, it would slip and I would let go. But today, I will make a promise. I will never let him go again.

Kai lives in eternal winter. He feels cold inside, I know. He hates it as much as I do. So, when I tell him that I hate winter, we can hate it together and there would be no more winter. Isn’t that a lovely concept? But maybe I’m being a little unfair. Maybe I shouldn’t blame winter really. Where would we be without some misery?

I wonder if I was strong enough, I would have been able to hold this team together. It’s not like I’m not trying, it’s just that I think I wasn’t trying hard enough. I know we can do anything and it shows. But how long with the glue hold? Is there an expiry date on the bond we have? I think that for all my trying, they will leave me. He will leave me.

Then where would I be? Would I be like Kai, dwelling in eternal winter? I hate the cold; I hate the loneliness that winter brings. But if I can keep it together, we can play in the summer and winter will be far away.

I can only hope.

Kai shut the book with a slam. He felt his heart choke and he threw the book away from him. It landed twenty feet away from him on the floor. Kai felt his insides churn and he wondered why he felt so sick inside.

Everything that happened, he thought rebelliously, everything that caused their separation was all Tyson’s fault!

The book was quiet as if it had no more words to spare.

Chapter three is still WIP. (like most of my stories) but lesse.

TITLE: Lie like the Dead
FANDOM: Harry Potter (yes, I wrote an HP fic! Scary ne?)

Mentire come i morti
-Lie like the Dead-

-Do you dream of death before you sleep-
-Or do you dream of madness?-
—Ninja master Gara from “Bastard!”

Summary: Harry Potter has experienced Death before. But no experience of death could prepare him for the exquisiteness of it.


The first time Harry Potter saw Death when he was about a year old. Of course, the memory itself isn’t very clear and he could only remember through vague memories that encroached on his curtain of dreams. Sometimes, the pale crooked hand would draw the tenacious curtain back and the green light would swirl around his eyes like a whirlpool. Then he would wake up, drenched in his own sweat and take several minutes to catch his breath.

The next day, he would forget about it completely.

The second time Harry Potter saw Death is when he attacked Professor Quirrel. He couldn’t remember much of that either. He could only recall how the nebulous boils began to puck the white skin and how Quirrel kept screaming and there was so much screaming that it hurt his ears and he wished he could block out the noise and he felt the ground had caved from under his feet and he was falling, falling, and everything around him was churning like butter and milk in a farm. And the stars were falling with him.

The next day, he woke up and he didn’t remember what he had dreamed.

The third time Harry Potter saw Death was when he saw Cedric Diggory die. It was that memory that crystallized in his head and the one he remembered best. It had been surprisingly quick and he remembered wondering how death came so quickly. Like a flash of lightning, it seemed to him and it made him smile later on that this was the most feared curse ever, this curse that didn’t even make the victim feel any sort of pain. It was a blessing of death, he concluded slightly, always ignoring everyone’s fear of being cast into death by the green curse. The colour of his eyes, they whispered, is the colour of death.

When he had dreams of Cedric Diggory, they were distorted. Cedric was always on a sacrificial altar. A crucifix of the Christian religion, he would see and Cedric would have the crown of thorns of his head, the blood staining and mingling with his sweat-soaked face. And there were nails on his hands and legs, binding him there and he would see himself with the roman spear and pierce Cedric’s side. And he always laughed when Cedric cried in pain.

The next day, his hands would feel tired as if they were holding that spear all night.

Harry Potter was not particularly religious by nature. In fact, even before his introduction to the wizarding world, his religious beliefs were below the required minimum. The Dursleys went to church regularly, and that was probably the core of their hatred of Harry. After all, didn’t the Church burn witches at the stake? The Dursleys was rigorous as they were orthodox.

But Harry Potter simply didn’t care and he wasn’t of the age when he would care. In fact, if questioned about his beliefs, he would shrug his shoulders and change the topic slightly. An ordinary person would find this odd, but this was Harry Potter and exceptions were made in his case.

After the invasion of Voldemort in his head, Harry Potter’s dreams have taken a frightening turn. He would see Voldemort’s memories and that was enough to be called the stuff of nightmares. He could recall each sickening detail with a vivid and detached quality that made people question his sanity. But no one asked, hence he never offered. But the thrill of the nightmare was like the burn of a secret and Harry Potter’s hands twitched at any mention of death.

The signs were showing, but Harry Potter ignored them.

He still remembered the first dream he received from Voldemort after the aftermath of Sirius’ death. He remembered how obsessed he was in bringing Sirius back, trying to make denial his weapon, trying to see if magic was still the stuff behind miracles.

What was the point of turning water into wine if it can’t bring Sirius back?

When the dream came, Harry Potter believed for a moment that he would see Sirius and perhaps bring him back. It was a fool’s hope, but a fool’s hope was like anyone else’s hope and it was crushed just as easily. Voldemort had brought some muggles and he let all his deatheaters leave the room. He murmured to himself, “Look at Death, Potter”

Harry Potter was entranced by the spells cast on the muggles. Every few minutes there was a sickening crunch of bones and sometimes he could see it sticking out from their shoulder, so white, like the moon. Then the blood came. It flowed so easily. It felt like glue on his fingertips, the stickiness between reminiscence of the muggle fixing solvent. But how it flowed! More graceful then any river and it rippled with the fluidity of a boy’s muscles. He found himself drowning in that river, reveling in the feeling, the warmth bathing him so soothingly. It coated his face and his eyes felt raw. And he kept sinking slowly in this pit of blood that submerged him so completely.

When Harry Potter woke up, he went to the bathroom to puke. Then he stared at his reflection for three hours before he went to class.

When the next dream came and passed by in the same manner as the previous dream, Harry Potter went to Severus Snape for help. Severus Snape however snarled at him, his thin lips curling in disgust and he threw the boy out without even listening to a word Harry Potter had said.

The next dream was the most pleasurable. He watched as Voldemort took the blade and ran it over the salted skin, eliciting slight gasps of pain and shivers. Such tiny shivers betrayed volumes of emotion and Harry Potter could feel the fear radiating off the victim in waves that rivaled the oceans’ power. Then the blade sank itself into the victim’s skin and the scream seemed to give him a thrill he didn’t know existed before. There were rivulets of blood that ran down from the neck to the victim’s tattered clothes, staining them beyond its original colour. The victim’s thighs were been twisted, making it impossible for walking ever again. Every bone in the victim’s fingers had been broken and bent in angles that would have seemed impossible. And the screams were more beautiful than any symphony of sirens he had ever heard.

Harry Potter woke up in the morning, his hand on his chest. He spent the time twirling his wand between his fingers. And he stared at his reflection in the mirror and began to sing Christmas carols.

It was the fifth of October.

Harry Potter never told anyone. He knew the moment he told anyone about these dreams; he would be carted off to the wizarding asylum. And the sad thing was he knew they were justified in doing so.

Voldemort sang when he killed them in the night. And he would only sing Christmas carols. Harry Potter knew impeccably why, though the actual knowledge would escape him when he woke up. But there were thoughts floating around in Voldemort’s head and Harry Potter need only to snatch the correct one to grasp the enigma which is Voldemort.

Voldemort sang Christmas carols because they were the only songs he knew. An ancient memory had been the drifting of the soft melody which Voldemort had only recognized in his later years. When he sang, Harry Potter forgot that this man had killed, that this man had taken everything from him, and he even forgot why he ever hated that man.

It was around this time that suspicions and rumours had reached a new peak. Harry Potter was unreachable, even by those he was closest to. He spent every waking minute mute and dazed and he began to wait for the moon to bring its curtain of sleep. His eyes were dark, darker than they were before and Ron swore he saw flecks of crimson in his eyes.

And he still sang Christmas carols.

The dreams grew so vivid each night and more sensual as well. Voldemort catered to both tastes, Harry Potter had discovered, and the mornings were hard to deal with. But it was certain that he wasn’t even bothering to shield himself from the visions anymore. There was something enticing about sinking your teeth into the nape of someone’s neck and taste the flesh beneath. To swirl your tongue into the crevasses of the body and clench up in ecstasy. The moonlight would catch into their backs and arch gracefully towards the moon, a fitting tribute. And Harry Potter lapped it up and woke up with a hard on.

When he went to the bathroom, he noticed that his eyes were flickering. He dismissed it and when he returned to his bed, he began to pleasure himself.

The soft lullaby of the Christmas carol would float past his ear when he lingered in the waking world and not for the first time, Harry Potter wondered whether he was sane.

It was the night of the thirty-first of October that Harry Potter finally mustered up the power to talk to his enemy in his head. It started as a whisper, nothing more than the rattle of a dry autumn leaf that slowly grew like a cry from the masses rising up for a revolution. Voldemort was on his throne when Harry Potter spoke. The throne was dark, darker than the room itself which was lit by a few torches. Ebony, smooth and almost silky in its beauty. Harry Potter reveled in it and then sidetracked himself.

Voldemort had heard the comment though, “It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

Harry Potter breathed slightly, “Infinitely so.”

“Would you like one?”

There was a silence that had built around them before from the dreams. But the walls were crumbling because of all the cracks that the rats had made. Harry Potter looked around the room and felt empty. Hollowed out with a spoon.

“Yes,” He answered, “I would like a throne like that.”

When Harry Potter woke up the next morning, his eyes had turned crimson. But I digress when I say that. Because that wasn’t Harry Potter who looked into the mirror that morning, but the tormented individual we all know as Tom Riddle, Voldemort. As for Harry Potter, there was no sign of him except for the scar that marked him as death himself.

YAY! Yes, my sanity is questionable. S'okay. ^^. And I've been struggling with the stupid overrides. HTML hates me.

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