A/N: This section is too small. *pouts* Behold my pathetic
attempt to fill it out.
You know, I've noticed that I tend to stick my words in
characters' mouths during first person POVs- not always my
opinions, just words and phrases I don't think they'd usually
use, or changes in their speech patterns. So this fic is one of
my attempts to get over that and try for a really in-character
story (or at least what I perceive as the character ^_^;;). If
you see anything you think I've gotten wrong, please tell me.
That's why I'm writing it, after all.
Oh, some yaoi-ish things and hints of angst are in here. But
we're all tolerant people here, right? ^_~
Arashi's POV. Set after volume four, and a gift for my darling
Katalyst, because I know she loves this series and I think I
ought to keep her happy while I'm grounded for my idiocy. ^_^;;
So, if you know my writing and know my Katalyst, you'll know I
was reading her poetry on fictionpress.net while writing this
and a few of the more kick-ass lines are inspired by said poetry
and other various Katalyst-isms.
"Coloring In the Roses"
"You know, I love listening to you talk. I hate living with
you, but your conversation is first rate." ~ Garfield; "The
It's raining. My head hurts, and I'm thinking of you again.
Fought with my mother tonight, and chose to storm out into the
lousy weather rather than into another room like a sensible
person. That's never a good thing, but it's worse than usual
The deal: the apartment's off-limits- Yukari spilled a bottle of
green dye on the floor, and George, being George, somehow wound
up talking us all into going out, buying paint and fabric, and
redecorating the whole place to match this one freaking tiny
stain. I'm all for cheering Yukari up, but I would've preferred
if it hadn't meant the paint fumes would chase me out of my home
for a week.
Plus, I'm pissed at Miwako again, so I can't crash at her place;
Isabella's out God knows where and I'm not begging her butler
for a bed; and George and Yukari are probably screwing again-
and even if they aren't, I'm not running to him (he'd molest me,
the bastard!) and there's no way in hell Yukari's mom would even
let me through the door.
So I'm outside, in the rain, like the idiot I am.
It's cold. I didn't even grab a coat. And God DAMN it, but I
hate spring. It was warm this afternoon, but now I'm freezing
my ass off and I wouldn't be surprised if it started to hail any
I sneeze and wrap my arms around my stomach, feeling generally
miserable and pretty pathetic to boot. At this rate, I'll catch
pneumonia, and oh, wouldn't George LOVE that. I think he'd gut
me for being so stupid, to be honest. But as for right now, I'm
too fucking stubborn to get off my ass and go crying to any of
the usual suspects.
I suck the chain that attaches my lip ring to my earring into my
mouth and gnaw at it thoughtfully. For some reason, I think of
George's painted roses again. They were beautiful onstage, all
pinned up with Yukari and the dress, but if you got really close
to them, they were cracking and brittle. When they were still
Isabella's, they were soft and smooth. But George took them
away and made them into a gaudy centerpiece- attractive and
appreciated, but easy to break.
He seems to do things like that a lot.
The rain increases: sidewalk toccata of the pedestrian's lonely
soul. Your phrase, not mine.
But I don't want to think about you and your strange, poetic
blurbs. I used to think you should be a writer. You said once
that you'd like to, but I don't know if you still think that
way. Miwako says we don't know you anymore, but I don't buy it.
Thoughts change, opinions change, but the soul is forever.
Your face is older, but your voice is the same. It broke and
deepened, but the inflictions haven't changed. I still know
you, beneath it all.
And I loved the way you spoke to me, the tones you told me your
secrets in. The way your eyes glittered when your lips shaped
those sacred, deluded stories. They'd never believe that you
could tell jokes that could make even George do a double-take.
But I don't want to think about you right now.
Though that may be a little hard to manage, since I'm right
outside your building. I'd love to say I'd gotten lost in the
rain, but I don't lie well. That's your talent, though you
rarely take advantage of it- could've gotten us out of so much
trouble when we were kids if you had. I never really minded
getting punished, though, unless the punishment was being
separated from you and Miwako. You two have always been my most
Fuck it all. Why am I here? I could be in bed with Miwako, or
crashing on George's couch, or in one of Isabella's million
Instead, I'm on a bench in front of your apartment, getting
wetter by the minute.
For some reason, the rain has just stopped, and when I tip my
head back to look up, a gaudy pink and green umbrella is
hovering over me. I tip it back further, and find you standing
behind the bench, lips quirked in something that might be a
smile, or might just be nerves.
"Nice brolly," I tell you with a faint smirk.
"Present from Miwako," you reply distantly, twirling it
slightly. You've used it to cover me and left none for
yourself, which means you're getting as soaked as I already was.
Pointless- but so like you.
I've never known anyone so innocent as you. Even Miwako can
take the bad things in stride, but your expression of pain every
time you hear something even remotely unpleasant is enough to
make me feel guilty every time, like it's my fault.
Sometimes it is, of course.
But this time I won't let it be. I won't let it happen.
Tell me another story. I'll listen and ask questions when you
want me to; "ooo" and "ahh" in all the right places; do exactly
what you need and be absolutely fucking brilliant if you can't
figure out part of the plot.
Paradise is cheap, you know. You can buy it with anything- all
you need is to get one thing right, and the rest follows. The
right smile in the right place at the right time, and the most
perfect person you have ever seen is suddenly standing in front
of you and sending out "date me" signals.
You, unfortunately, are bringing us a little too close to
Paradise for me.
I realize we haven't said a word in at least ten minutes, though
you seem un-phased. You're drenched now, and smiling very
faintly at me.
"I missed you," you say quietly when you see that my attention
has returned to the present.
I just shrug. Your expression saddens, but the affection in it
doesn't fade. I look at you for the longest time.
Do you know why I asked Miwako to stay away from you? I was
afraid that if she stayed friends with you, it would mean I
could too. And I didn't want that. It wasn't enough, so why
torture myself with the possibility?
You smile at me again.
Why, when I always knew we could have this, did I do everything
I could to get away?
"I saw the show," you tell me happily. "Yukari looked so
beautiful, and the dress was gorgeous. I just wish you hadn't
painted the roses," you add with a sigh. "It seemed like such a
waste, you know? They would've been just as stunning left to
themselves- just in a different way."
I am suddenly aware of every tattoo and piercing on my body,
each one burning like a Roman candle against my skin, and then I
think your poetry has corrupted me into this state of existence.
And you smile yet again, and your fingers lightly tug at the
chain draped across my cheek.
"I ever tell you how cool I always thought that looked?" you
"Why don't you get one, then?" I ask dryly.
"I like yours," you reply softly, earnestly; and move in closer.
You're still outside the umbrella's reach, and rain drips down
your face in a thousand tiny waterfalls, taking the path towards
your lips, dying there when you lick it away- a death I'd love
You will never be like the blue.
* ende *
. : I'll take them all to paradise . . . : .