Title:What Inspires You
Series:Gravitation, after the end of the series.
Summary:A theme of So You Can Keep on Going that withered in the story but branched into this continuation. Or, if you want to look at it another way, Shuichi's reply. Shonen-ai (Y/S).
Disclaimer:Gravitation = not mine. God knows I could use the royalties, though. And love and kisses forever to Subaru Sumeragi, who betaed this for me. ^_^ It's thanks to her that any ooc on Shuichi's part isn't even worse.
I like watching you-- not when you're writing, since you won't let me, but when you're inspired. It comes sometimes, even if you're quieter about it than I am. You just trail off a little, let the conversation down awkwardly, and your eyes flick towards the laptop. If we're not at home, you casually fish out a notebook, and you could be writing a reminder, a grocery list, a telephone number, a dirty joke, a math problem, a little wishlist of your favorite cars, a rant about the TV shows you wish they hadn't cancelled… but you're not. I can tell by the way a smile hooks in the corner of your mouth, the way your eyes look eager, as if you're finding something buried under sifting thoughts. Not at all like me, when I just jump up and scream how brilliant my latest thought is, huh?
But it's hard to tell what gives you the ideas that you turn into such beautiful stories that I have to sneak into your office to read them, five or ten pages at a time. I mean, we could just be walking to the studio and suddenly your eyes will be focused a little beyond me, staring at… uh… a couple dirty cars, uneven sidewalk, a scraggly little tree? Nothing that would inspire me, that's for sure.
Maybe even you don't know what inspires you, maybe that's why you insist that there's no benevolent creator god smiling down on you, giving you ideas. When you're mulling over plot, you say stuff like, "And she's got to have slept with him by the time her lawyer tries to steal the inheritance, otherwise the such-and-such demographic will get bored…" Silly. You don't write for demographics, I'm sure. Because… because if you did, I wouldn't feel it the way I do, you know? I wouldn't read with my heart thumping, hoping and hoping she'll see through the lawyer and end up with her devoted gardener.
I guess you'd say it's the same as me saying I write lyrics for my fans… which I do, sometimes… but mostly I write for you. When I pry my eyes open because I can't stand my dreams anymore, awful loneliness or company that's-- that's worse, it's hard to do anything except lie there staring into darkness and just wish I would sort of fade… it's hard to keep singing, hard to keep writing. But it's you, your warmth beside me that can coax me to sit up and scribble something. Something of my dreams, good and bad, something of my own frightened hope, but also of something terribly beautiful that can't stay, but it doesn't matter because I'll follow it wherever it goes. And I hope you can hear in my songs how much I love you.
Someday maybe you'll show me something of yours, and say you were thinking of me when you wrote it. You know, that would make me really happy.
You can't say things are right, even with the two of them curled around each other in bed, feeling that they're right where-- maybe not where they should be, but where they must be. They're where they belong, but there's something in the way he holds her-- a little too tightly-- something in the way she looks at him-- a shade too desperately-- that warns something is still not right. There's no need to say so; they both know it. And both cling, and gaze, and believe with all their hearts that if they just stay together like this, answers will arrive and they'll be able to face the rest of whatever is coming after them. Perhaps, after all, wishing does make it so.