My life is strange, because sometimes I'll find myself wanting to write something - and I don't mean some passing thought, what I really mean is a story, a real real story full of tendons and ligaments and muscles - and I just won't do it. I will just sit there contemplating the fact and the desire and never really write a story.

Sometimes I wonder why not. Why not write something? You have a lot of time to lose, and this fact is true and undeniable, but isn't this like economics? "There is no such thing as a free lunch," and Mr. Clark, I completely agree.

In full analysis, I really have nothing to lose from writing something once in a while. I can invest in creativity, practice writing and writing stories and writing anything other tiny story that comes to mind so that the next time I write, I won't be so redundant. How can I expect to specialize in writing, or, in other words, truly get good at it if I don't invest in writing now?

I understand I can't compare my life to a productions possibilities curve in ceteris perebis - after all, I am much more complex and fickle. However, the opportunity cost is worth it. I am simply giving up some lingering on gchat, maybe losing some reading on livejournal stories and that's really about it. My bad grammar is really a testament to how much I don't understand why I don't just write.

And when it comes down to it, the irony really hits hard. I can spend hours probably, going in circles about why I can't write a great story instead of seriously doing what I need or should be doing: writing a story. Perhaps I am self conscious - so self-conscious that I feel ashamed to write.

To such a revelation I can only say - suck it up, get over it you big sissy. Start writing.

[Instead of studying for the English AP, I'm going to write. It seemed only fair.]

He didn't ask for the blue of his eyes or the brown of his hair. He never begged for his fair complexion or his strong shoulders. He didn't ask for the flirts, the crushes and the lovers. All he asked for was to be human - to be worthy of the blue of his eyes, the brown of his hair, the fairness of his skin, the strength of his shoulders.

Yet he ended up getting so much more than he wanted, so much more than he needed.

The signs weren't so obvious at the beginning; he wasn't unobservant or vain. But, slowly and surely, the kind, offhanded compliments given by the parents of his friends and his elementary school teachers devolved into sneaky and seductive comments from one person or another. First some girl in the hallway, then some woman working at Express, then - worst 0f all - his own best friend.

And, like he said, the signs weren't so obvious at the beginning.

[Okay I can't do it. Not working out. : ( ]

how

The people were still bustling around the boardwalk the first time she saw him, leaning over the side, eyes focused on the canal, his ice cream melting and dripping slowly into the water. At the time, she glanced around before placing her attention away from whatever her camera lens had led her to previously and focusing on him. He blended in with the moving crowd, his blue and red and pink striped plaid shirt tightly stretched at the shoulders and his jeans faded. He had a pair of sunglasses in his back pocket, and what seemed to be some sort of note.

She didn't mean to take a picture of him, didn't mean to be a stalker or a paparazzi, but her thumb pressed down on the snapshot button before she really had much time to reason with herself. And, once it was stored in her camera, she couldn't delete it, just couldn't.

So, this is how a random boy by the boardwalk, of whom she has never ever talked to or even stood within 10 feet of, ended up on her photography wall in her studio. She's content with just leaving him unnamed, pinned up to the wall just like another photograph - but she's not one to make her photos 2-D. She's always had a story behind each photo, a life to the picture, the thousand words for what it's worth.



The people were celebrating spring break at the boardwalk the second time she saw him. She didn't have her camera around her neck this time, and he hadn't been leaning against the side rails, but she could have recognized his plaid shirt anywhere. He had been standing in line for gelato and she had been sitting down at a table with her sketchbook in front of her. He blended in with the line, sunglasses worn over his eyes and his hands placed in the pockets of his shorts. He had the gelato menu in his hand and seemed to be mulling over his choices.

She didn't mean to sketch him as he stood in line, didn't mean to take advantage of his wait time, but by the time he had managed to get his gelato, 10 minutes had passed and a page of her sketchbook had been etched with a lose figure. And, once she had sketched something down, she didn't have the heart to tear it out and throw it away.

This is how the unnamed boy ends up on her wall a second time, but only because she had moved all of her sketches out of the book and onto a progress wall in her studio. For a while, she didn't dwell on the second meeting, but when she decided to go back and title all her sketches, the unknown boy in the picture had stood out amongst everything else she had drawn.



The people are all in their winter clothes the third time she sees him. She almost misses him, bundled up in a large, plaid scarf and a dark peacoat. He catches her eyes for a second as he blows over his hot coffee. She had been glancing at him the whole time.

Their town is not large, not an irony to its name, so she wonders how she doesn't know him as well as she wishes she did. The traffic on the boardwalk has thinned down, so much that the only people left on the dock are a couple of stragglers and the boy drinking coffee and her. He examines the camera in her lap and the pile of paper on the cafe table, and seems to strike an interest. He eyes her carefully, and she the same to him, but neither dares to make the first move. He's only here for the coffee, after all, and she's only here for a quiet place to work.

He stands up and finishes his coffee, and for the shortest of all moments too short, he considers walking over, pulling up the chair in front of her and asking her about her photography and her drawings. He imagines striking a conversation with this girl he doesn't know or may never know, but the opening of the cafe door distracts him just long enough for him to stop.

This is how the unnamed boy in her photo and her sketch remains unnamed. This is how they know they will never know. This is how their story both continues and ends forever.

inferiority complex

With his hands in his pockets, his feet shuffling along the paved road, his body turning this way and that to avoid the other pedestrians, Peter Petrelli heaved a sigh. He had been invisible for the past thirty minutes or so, just walking in circles and wandering around and around Nathan's work place.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to go in.

Peter remembered, and all too clearly, what Nathan had said - "Anytime you've got trouble, Pete, you just come to me; I can help" - that night as Peter buried his head in his arms, groaning and whining on about his inability to control his powers and irritated that he needed his brother to save him once again.

Well, he was in trouble again, and like always, he somehow ended up leading himself right to Nathan's doorstep. Peter asked himself why sometimes, just why, or maybe even how Nathan could help him now that the circumstances were so complicated.

All Nathan Petrelli, high and mighty and successful and senator Nathan Petrelli, could do was fly. How was he supposed to stop someone who secretly had all the power in the world now, somebody who used to be, and still is Peter Petrelli, rebellious and different and nurse Peter Petrelli?

And yet, part of Peter wished, yearned and desperately hoped that, like always, Nathan would be able to save the day, save him. It was probably this thought that finally stopped Peter's circling, leading him straight through the revolving doors and into the lobby. In times like these, being invisible had its quirks, and this was one of them. He wouldn't need security clearance nor a sane reason to be meeting Nathan. When Peter was invisible, it was like things were back to the old days, when the only thing dividing the two of them was that wall between their bedrooms.

Ding. The elevator signaled Peter for his exit, the thirty-second floor, and he snuck out from the side, ignoring the exchange of "who wanted to get off on this floor?" and "must've been a mistake" between the people behind him.

(It's so late. I wanted to get to some dialogue but wayy too late for me. Maybe I'll get back to this. Maybe not. Hopefully yes, because I want to try my hand at Heroes.)

the sum

(hoorah, here goes!)

There's a lot of things I regret.

I wish I could say that lightly, but that would be making this an understatement. And, trust me for once, it's not.

There's a lot of things I regret.

I wish I could tell them all to you, but each word I whisper seems to crush me down even more under the weight, bear me down above all that guilt, bury me deeper in regret. And, that wouldn't help me. Not one bit.

I want to say it. Trust me, I really do. I want to tell you, want to scream it out to you. I need to say these words.

But, I can't. I just cant. I can't say these words because of all the things I know I can't do. The consequences inevitably following my actions can't be ignored; I can't say these words because I'm too much of a coward - I won't take those consequences.

This conscience nags at me; it wants me to say these words to you. But, I can't. Every other muscle and fiber of my being is fighting itself, in a schizophrenic conflict that is truly everlasting in nature.

So let me pass. Let me get pass you, get pass these words, without having to sneak a little squeak of my regret, without having to whisper it to you, and - God forbid - without having to bellow it out to you.

There's a lot - too much for me to even say - that I regret.

This, all these words and all this nonsense and all these hours spend in insomnia over you and all those moments occupied with the uselessness that is you and me, is regret.

two lines that are never meant to cross are nevertheless connected

A/N: Wow, yes, I'm actually attempting a CHAPTER fic. Well, more like this is part one, because I don't have the energy/ability to continue it any further for I am already much, much forcing it. No, this is not my permanent interpretations of the mysteries of the future arc. xD


inverse fear
part one: effort

Gokudera isn't good with goodbyes, or, rather, he has never given a real goodbye in his life. Which is why when Yamamoto and he are sending Ryohei off, all he can do is present him with a wave of his hand and a grunt of acknowledgment - one that roughly translates to "see you soon, lawn head" in his silent words. He doesn't think much about Ryohei's trip, other than what he needs to, but when Gokudera lays his eyes upon the sight that is simply Yamamoto's best farewell smile and its accompanying chuckle, he can't help but look back on it all, explore the 10th's reasons for it all.

"We'll miss you, for sure." Yamamoto speaks the last phrase with the same sentiment as an artist does on their final stroke of a masterpiece.

And it's as if it's just simply that careless, happy-go-lucky, delusionally naive grin upon Yamamoto's face that teases Gokudera again, forcing his mouth to vocalize some syllables, some sense of a goodbye.

Ryohei begins to turn, leave. The former boxing club president has changed dramatically over the years, while still maintaining the exact same traits. Something so stupid seeming, Gokudera thought, that only someone like Ryohei'd be capable of it.

He plans to keep his mouth shut, to maintain his silence like he has all these years, when - as if the moronic jock knew he was grappling with himself - Yamamoto nudges him from the back, causing Gokudera to jump just the slightest.

"What the hell?" He questions, switching his attention between the departing Ryohei and Yamamoto's grinning expression.

Soundless, Yamamoto doesn't open his mouth either - using just his eyes and his smile to communicate more words than Gokudera can possibly even want to have swarming around in his head. He grumbles under his breath, at how even after all these years, why the hell Yamamoto is still standing beside him, for he still fails to understand the reason.

"Oi, lawn head!" Gokudera shouts out, the distance between Ryohei and him now warranting for Gokudera to raise his voice. "You better be back soon to help the 10th, you got it?"

Only partially turning, Ryohei nods back - recognition of his farewell message.

"It'll be a quick trip to the extreme!" He replies back, in equal volume, if not louder, from all the years of toned practice, and waves his hand, then turns towards his terminal.


"It wasn't that hard, was it?" Yamamoto asks after they leave the airport, giving Gokudera another nudge - and, the hell, is that a wink? - as he does so.

"You couldn't have seen Ryohei off by yourself?" Gokudera snaps, pulling out another cigarette now that they were clear of the - heaven and hell forbid! - 'designated non-smoking area.' "I've got some work to get to and you drag me off to say a freakin' pointless goodbye."

"Just thought you needed the break. You looked like you were about to pull out your hair sitting at that desk with all those boxes." Another smile flashes itself at Gokudera, pulling again at that something he can't yet pinpoint.

"I was not, and I'm not going to." Gokudera blows out a puff of smoke, and sighs as they reach the car. "Aren't you supposed to visit your old man today?"

And, as if instanteously, that smile pops itself back up onto Yamamoto's face, completely in disregard of the inhumanly short time that it was gone, and he swings himself into the car. Gokudera does the same, and only until after Yamamoto inserts the car keys into the ignition and the vroom of the engine starting sounds does the conversation continue.

"I am. Thought you'd like to come with me." Yamamoto says the words - no, sneaks the words out, is more of a fitting description, Gokudera thinks - as if he's just revealed a great big shenanigan.

"Hell no!" What is the response Yamamoto expects from him? Gokudera rolls his eyes as he realizes he is pulled once again by some miracle of centripetal force to spend time with the baseball freak. "I'm not in the mood for sushi, anyways."

"Ha, you're ridiculous, you know, Gokudera?" He puts down the window for Gokudera so the smoke can escape through the window, carried away by the breeze blowing itself into the car. "You're always in the mood for sushi. I've taken you to my dad's too many times to not notice that."

Another smile. His attacks just don't end, Gokudera thinks, do they?

"Well I'm not today. Take me back."

"I'm already driving in his direction; don't waste my gas." Yamamoto jokes as he slides one hand off the steering wheel and relocates his arm unto the open window sill. Even now, he still remains that epitome of relaxed, even when behind it all, the Millefiore are gaining power and the dangers, waves as they are, continously increasing, are raising above the predictions, the banks. "Plus, you'll get the afternoon off. Nobody can make you a better offer than what I've got."

"I could use some time away from you. That's a better offer by far." But, Gokudera knows his only choice is to stay in the car. Yamamoto caught him at the sushi, but that isn't any reason for their strife to end.

This is how we strive, Gokudera thinks, leaning his head back against the seat; this is how we've been - year after year after year - and he just can't understand why they don't want to change.

The chuckle born from Yamamoto's cheery voice - the same one Gokudera has gotten used to over all these years, atoned to all these years, and perhaps, even addicted to all these years - reaffirms the situation, as they pull into Nanimori, the sights too similar to not to invoke memories.

They pass by Nanimori Junior High - still same, nothing has blown it to pieces yet; not that both Gokudera and Yamamoto don't know that if anybody even so much as tries to, Hibari would bite him or her in a split second. They pass by Sasagawa Kyoko's house - now empty due to Ryohei's leave, but it still means just as much to Tsuna either way; neither time nor peril is able to sway the 10th's affection towards Kyoko, and both Gokudera and Yamamoto knows that as well. They pass by the graveyard - absolutely the same, at least in their context; Gokudera and Yamamoto haven't associated with the site yet, and they don't want to - they hope with all they have not too.

And, it's then, as Gokudera's still half absorbed in all that is left of what used to be, the car screeches to a halt. The law of a reaction for every force acting itself upon Gokudera's body throws him forward, his head near centimeters away from the windshield.

"Are you a freakin' idiot?" He scolds at Yamamoto, taking only a split second to recognize the foreign look upon Yamamoto's face. "What's so bad you have to - "

He stops there. Because it takes all the effort he has to keep from painting the same expression onto his face as Yamamoto. The memories flash back at him again, but more violently, more painfully then before; Gokudera's stomach curls in within itself, and he doesn't even want to fathom what Yamamoto is feeling - the same symptoms, but worse, perhaps?

At that exact moment, Gokudera realizes how much he misses Yamamoto's condemnable laugh, his practically sinful smile, and can't help but gaze back upon his frozen, astounded face.

They arrive at the restaurant - the sushi store of his dreams, Gokudera is willing to admit it now that it is all too late - and, yet, he doesn't know what to say. What his memories want to see don't correlate with what he is seeing, and, like Yamamoto, Gokudera is wondering if he's also gone into some sort of withdrawal symptom.

Before them, the store lays in practical pieces, fresh smoke still pillowing out from cracks and creases that are not supposed to be chimneys, fresh smells of blood, of battle, carried in by the same breeze that had previously cooled them down, and fresh ruins - a scene of all that is late and too gone to change.

before (after) the storm

I used to wish people would scatter at my presence, fear my arrival, evacuate right before my eyes at the sight of my dynamites, my explosives, my resolve. I used to loathe those people that always stayed behind, the ones that wouldn't retreat, wouldn't leave, no matter what deluge of force I would rain upon them. I used to scoff at the mention of the 10th Vongola, sneer at his name and his incapabilities.

I used to do a lot of things, be a lot of things - until now. Instead of glowering with excitement at my explosions, my strength, I see everything differently now. This storm brewing inside of me, this fear turned into formidability, I've dedicated it all, devoted it all, to the 10th.

It's still the same math equation solving, reaching, for the same answer. Just, I've changed the numbers; I've changed the process.


Nine years and nine months. That's how long it's been since I last questioned the 10th's decision, his power, his ability. In nine years, too much can change; compared to before, our path has differed, the old evolved into the new - we weren't kids anymore.

Byakuran was closing in now, within weeks, he had taken down everything Tsuna had wanted to stand up for, everything I had wanted Tsuna to uphold.

The boss was humble, modest, strong in every sense of the word. But, Byakuran wasn't - perhaps that was the problem. Byakuran - it hurt for me to say his name - wasn't strong like the 10th, probably couldn't even measure up, but he was more twisted than Mukuro, more skewed in moral than moral could possibly be skewed.

I begged him; I pleaded him. I practically threw myself down to my knees, and then my elbows, and then my head. Contact after contact against the floor, I begged, the thumping of my head against the floor board a worthy sacrifice if I would succeed.

But, the boss was humble, modest, and strong in every sense of the term.

"I can't just sit around and watch him destroy us one by one!" He shouted back, reluctantly at first, but his voice grew as my desperation grew. "This is the only chance, Gokudera. He's giving us a chance."

"Just let me at him, 10th!" I yelled back, still kneeling on the floor. I had realized long ago that my pleads wouldn't effect the 10th; it just never hurt to try. "Let me blow that bastard to pieces!"

"It's my responsibility." He continued, eyes calm. Lately, I wasn't able to catch that glimpse of the old Tsuna, the 'no-good Tsuna' reflected in his expression. "I'm the one that destroyed the rings. I'm the one Byakuran's after."

"That doesn't mean you can't freakin' bring us along! Let Yamamoto and me take care of him, please." My voice cracked at the last words. That was it, my cover had been blown.

"No. You wait here." Tsuna raised himself up from his chair, and strides over to me. He placed his hand on my arm, a gesture for me to get the hell up already. "I'll be back in no time, and then we can - "

"Hell no!" I knocked his grip off my arm, striking him across the chest as I did so. I couldn't even fathom what I was doing - rebelling against the 10th. It was like a complete violation of my sacred scripture, a complete betrayal. "I'm going."

Tsuna stared at me blankly for the next passing seconds; whether looking through me or impaling me with the glare, I had no idea. His head drooped just slightly, not enough for anyone but a guardian to worry about, and then the old smile of his spreaded across his face.

"You worry too much, Gokudera!" He lifted his head, reassurance in the facade he had decided to place up before me. With a pat on my back, he exits the room, uncertainty and frustration obviously effecting his steps, his pace.

There was nothing to do except wait for the impact, the damage to be done. One can't measure the potential threat of any event until it has landed, until foundations had been blown away and expectations torn down.

Like the rational function, I could wait as long as I wanted for the curve to reach the bases of the graph, the x-axis and the y-axis, but no matter how long, I would never know. I would never find out until it was all too late - and infinity was the limit of my delay.

The equation had been set in stone, ascertained for its purpose, but perhaps I had plugged in the wrong numbers to solve for it?


I followed him. Against his orders, I followed him. I had followed his every step until now, so why stop when the 10th was in need?

Sistema C.A.I. wasn't complete yet; the fact of it nagged and nagged and nagged my mind as I trailed Tsuna's footsteps, each perilous advancement lessening the distance between us and Byakuran.


NOT DONE.