Paper Flowers Just trying to keep up with all the other Saifuu writers as I try
to finish one of my bigger fics. I'd pay people like kazeno, UO and
Lady Illyna to stop churning them out like there's no tomorrow, but
unfortunately I'm poor, and I love their works too much.
- Guardian

Paper Flowers

Raijin likes to draw.

Oh, lordy, none of that namby-pamby paint stuff with the silly hats
and the paintings of sunsets and all that cardboard crap. He just
likes to draw what he senses, with a pad of paper and an inkpen,
sitting alone in the middle of somewhere and feeling what he feels.
When you're depressed or confused or mad or just feeling weird there's
nothing you can do about it - you just gotta wait and sit it out. Or
you have to take it out on something worthwhile - something that'll
show how you really feel.

If Seif knew, he might call him a pansy. But Seif didn't really haveta
know everythin'.

Sometimes the pen was an extension of his fingers, like it was now
on this stormy, kinetic day, the ink flowing just a darkened version
of his blood. This tree sheltered him, where he sat; and although
he could still hear the distant roll of summer thunder, the wind
didn't whip at his page, and he was left to draw in peace.

Stroke and shade, make a shape that's beautiful and delicate with those
thick fingers, until there's a flower sitting in the middle of the
page. It's plain, long delicate tapering petals that are drooping even
as they try to reach up to gain the sunlight; fragile but with a strong
stem, always ready to hold itself up no matter whether the sun shone
or not.

Kind of like Fusama.

Ever since she was little she'd always given the impression of something
found in a cave in a cold mountain, stony and icy and hard to touch.
And then, they'd come to Garden, and she got exposed to the most
concentrated sunbeam in the universe, no wonder she got addicted;
one touch of Seifer Almasy was enough to thaw anything... anything
'cept Fuu's pride. She'd not been melted proper; Raijin fancied her
heart was responding, but her exterior kept the heart hidden, quiet
and close-lipped, still as cold as ever.

And she'd been hurting, but it was just a matter of time, wasn't it?
Nobody could stay hurt forever. It just wasn't nature's way.

Shade and stroke, brush the ink until another flower emerges,
brilliance being inferred in merely a smudge of ink. This flower is
wide open, facing away from Fujin's, arrogantly soaking up the sunlight
as if to try and suck it dry. There is steel in this one's stem,
probably too much steel; and almost uncannily beautiful it was, no
flaws, no visible wounds. No, with Seifer, they were all on the inside.

This flower was turned totally away from the smaller, droopier, more
delicate one. It had always been like that.

Raijin's brow furrows and then clears as his pen once more takes flight;
the lip of a vessel is granted for the flowers, the vase that holds
them steady. It's nothing special-looking, or even particularly pretty;
but without it, the flowers would fall and die.

After all, they need him, just like he needs them. Posse forever.

Stroke and brush and shade, tie them all together with the ink that
is his blood - even if just for a little while - until the picture
of it all is clutched in Raijin's hands, perfect and light,
penstrokes holding true.

A sudden gust of wind whistles past his safe protective shield and
snatches it from his hands, for it is a sacred thing; over and over
does the paper dance.

Raijin laughs and rests his head back affably on the nice dry grass,
looking at the dark cloudy sky overhead and closing his eyes. That
was where they should all go, those pictures of the soul.

Wasn't good to think too much, anyway. Hurts the brain, ya know?

The paper twists, up, up into the sky.