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.
Showing posts with label roro doesn't know what she's doing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roro doesn't know what she's doing. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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.)
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.)
Thursday, September 25, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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