Title:So You Can Keep on Going
Series:Gravitation, presumably set before the end of the series.
Summary:Just a little angsty musing. I like defending bastard characters. ^_^;;
Rating:PG-13 for swearing (lots of it) and innuendo. Shonen-ai (Y/S).
Disclaimer:I don't own any part or parcel of Gravitation, which should be fairly obvious from the mauling I'm about to do. Betaed by Subaru Sumeragi (thank you very much!)
I have one goddamn paragraph.
He loved the way she hummed as she flitted around the kitchen, reaching into a cabinet to pluck a bowl or peering into the refrigerator for more ingredients. How he longed to simply walk in, catch one lock of that silky hair and tug her to him, enfold her in his arms before she even knew what had happened. She'd look up with an expression that was part surprise, part alluring innocence, and he simply wouldn't be responsible for anything that happened next.
It's absolute shit; you've been loudly humming-- composing, I assume-- the entire time I've been trying to write, and it's driving me insane.
Goddamn it, all my writing's gone down the shithole since you came. Forever barging in on me, asking does this sound good, does that look good on you, what would I like for dinner, I don't care! Get out of my face, can't you see what the hell I'm trying to do?
Not that I'm allowed to accord the same measure of disrespect to what you do. Every time you get a single goddamn idea in that empty head of yours, even if we're in the middle of something, it's just "Wait! Stop! Gotta get this down before my muse leaves me!" And while I have to admit, you having a worthwhile idea is an event of note, there are a couple things I'd rather you didn't drop without a second thought.
Well, at least you don't stop in the middle of that.
Doesn't it seem slightly ridiculous to you? Just halting your life for whatever random bar or phrase or chord drifts into your head? Even when three quarters of it will be re-read once, shuddered over, and thrown out again? Good thing I don't have any muse to pander like that-- I kicked it out when all it was giving me was highbrow garbage no editor would touch, and deserting me when I was trying to write my first success in the romance line, done half in joke, half in desperation. It damn well deserved it, if it wasn't going to help me get my daily bread. And here I am, churning these suckers out from eight in the morning till eight at night like clockwork, unless I've got some little pink-haired dumbass interrupting my flow every six seconds.
He twitched restlessly as splashes sounded from the bathroom, trying hard not to imagine what she looked like in the tub now, and now, and now. But he knew anyway, and knew what he'd see if he just gave into temptation as he so desperately longed to and flung the door open: she'd look up with an expression that was part surprise, part alluring innocence, and he simply wouldn't be responsible for anything that happened next.
That paragraph, in case you hadn't noticed, is the replacement to the first paragraph I wrote today, which was shit. Unfortunately, this one follows its predecessor quite neatly. You're not humming anymore, which is a relief, but it's too late for me to shut you out of my mind anyway. Those damned big blue eyes of yours are absolutely your worst trait, and that is saying something. The glazed-over glow they get when you're drooling at Nittle Grasper's concert for the hundred and fiftieth fucking time. How they slowly start to shine when it finally enters your impossibly thick head that I've complimented you, against my better judgement. The way they squint shut, then snap open wider than I've ever seen them before, bluer than I've ever seen them, when I'm on top of you. How they crumple and well over with tears, staring up into mine begging to just stop playing this game, just show me who you are. Just-- God, your eyes drive me absolutely insane.
Your eyes are wrong, of course. You don't need or want to know me; I know what you really want. You want someone strong enough for you to lean on, fall on, even bodyslam every now and then, and you need me to be able to take it all without feeling a thing. Which is perfect, because I'm strong and I can show you that, there's no danger there. It's laughable, to think of you with someone fucking emo, someone who would gather you in his lap, tear up a little, and confess to you what's bothering him-- let's be realistic here, you wouldn't know what the fuck to do. You couldn't comfort, you're built to be comforted. You couldn't keep eye contact, keep your voice steady, or keep yourself from shying away.
You couldn't keep singing if you knew what I know.
Hell, I couldn't write, ever after.
So I'll keep scowling and you'll keep tearing up, begging me to open, give you another chance, please please be nice. And I'll give you exactly what you need-- but don't try to see me, because I won't let you. So that you can keep on going. So you can keep humming.