polychromatic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
polychromatic) wrote2010-11-09 12:31 am
polychromatic) wrote2010-11-09 12:31 am
Entry tags:
there once was a god that held a banquet...
Fruits Basket
the dagger suspended by a thread
Yuki, Akito
A really, really old piece that I never posted anywhere.
1407 words.
(A/N: I wrote this before it was revealed that Akito has breasts!!!!! so let's consider this an AU. Or anime-verse. Or something along those lines.)
It was strange how his carefully cultivated mask cracked, almost compliantly, obediently, in the presence of such a pathetic figure. To think that he, in almost perfect health and admired by many, cowered before someone so sickly, so weak, was almost laughable. At least it would have been laughable had it been anyone but Akito.
He had put it off as long as he could, with valid excuses and well-articulated messages delivered through Momiji, Hatsuharu, Hatori, and, on occasion, Shigure. But there was no excuse to save him this time, and there was no denying that postponing the inevitable would only cause Akito to lash out even more violently, whether physically or otherwise. As Shigure had said, with a most cryptic expression, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Yuki-kun. Just because you’re on the other side of the stream doesn’t mean the fire won’t reach you.”
And so he had set out that morning, noticeably preoccupied and anxious. He hadn’t bothered to retaliate even half-heartedly against Kyou, and only smiled vaguely and absentmindedly in answer to Tohru’s concerned questions. As he walked, he reflected on how terrifying it was to be left alone with Akito, even at this age. As a young child, it had not been unusual for him to lose control of his bladder in fear, as his heart struggled to beat and his lungs laboured with every breath. Akito had raised his sleeve to his nose, his glare scornful, mocking. “How disgusting,” his quiet drawl emanated to fill Yuki’s ears, “The rat, so clever, so cunning, should soil himself in my presence. Do we have any hope for the rest? No, I suppose not…”
Then he had been ushered away quickly by the maids, arm still raised to cover his face.
“Ara! Yuki-san is here! Go tell Akito-san immediately!”
The shrill voice of one of the maids startled Yuki out of his thoughts, and he smiled graciously at her. “Good morning,”
She merely cast upon him a frightened look and scurried after her companion. It seemed that no one wanted to be caught in the presence of the rat. Not here. Sighing, Yuki walked up the steps slowly, but not so slowly as to betray his hesitation. It was meant to be a purposeful walk, showing he was unhurried and scared of nothing.
If only that were really true.
Hatori greeted him at the doorway to the room where Akito would be receiving him; not a hint of a smile, only the single visible eye, expressionless. “He’s waiting for you,” he said quietly, turning to leave. And then, a pause, “As always, be careful,” the single eyebrow in sight dipped lower over his eye in what Yuki interpreted as a frown of concern before he turned once more to leave.
Yuki nodded towards his departing back before carefully removing his shoes and sliding the door open.
There he sat, huddled in a nest of pillows, his robe tied messily around his waist. The open front of the robe exposed the pale, wasted chest that seemed to heave labouriously with every breath. His thin arms, half-exposed, seemed to be lost in the folds of the fabric, weak fish floating in an everlasting swell of water. Beyond the horrors of his physical conditions were his eyes. Burning with anger, glittering with malice, oh there were all sorts of cliches that Yuki could think of to make an attempt at explaining those eyes, but in the end no words were strong enough - hateful enough - to truly describe those eyes.
Those very same eyes, gazing off into the distance, languidly rolled in Yuki’s direction. Akito slowly turned his head towards him, and he lifted a hand complete with slender, delicate fingers that seemed impossibly brittle, ready to snap like dry twigs. “Come closer,” a hoarse whisper that Yuki had to strain to hear, “You haven’t been to see me in months, and yet you stand so far away. Show some respect to the Head of your family,”
It was the last thing Yuki wanted to do, but he proceeded forward, careful to seem obliging in every way. “I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to startle you out of your thoughts,” was his excuse. Even to his own ears, it sounded pathetic.
Akito’s thin lips curled into a bitterly amused smile, “Oh? And what thoughts might I have been startled from?”
Kyou. Myself. The others. How to further your grip on our lives. Who to torture next for having a glimmer of happiness in their lives.
“I don’t know,”
Akito examined him sharply, the smile melting into a thin, hard line. “I’m sure you don’t. Who would expect a mere rat to understand the ponderings of a God? Especially one who suffers so for his rat’s pathetic little existence,”
He was within arm’s length of Akito now. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?” he asked, determined to keep control, to play the part of the Prince he was renowned for at school.
“So eager to run away, Yuki? Back to that ugly dolt of a girl, I suppose,” Akito smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, Yuki. You and Kyou both. Vying for her attention like wretched little birds who can only depend on their mother for food. Pitiable little fools. What will they do when their mother has been eaten?”
Yuki clenched his fist at his side, “Perhaps they would die. Perhaps they would be strong enough to take flight and find food for themselves,” he answered, suppressing the stammer that threatened to break through.
“Of course they would die,” Akito snapped before regaining his calm composure, “How silly you are, Yuki! Imagine feeble little birds trying to jump out of their nests! But let me tell you, Yuki, of another story. I do love telling stories, and I know you love to hear them,”
Swallowing the lump that threatened to choke his words, Yuki knelt upon the floor as he had done when they were much younger. In those days, Akito had had him sit down and told him stories of the snake the gardener had killed that morning, or the bird that had been found on the ground, its fragile neck broken. Little, meaningless stories of death that made Yuki cry while Akito giggled gleefully at the sight. “Of course,” he murmured.
“Once there was a garden of flowers,” Akito began, “Many different flowers. But there were twelve beautiful flowers that grew the best. Water and light gave them life, and they held their faces towards the sun gladly, basking in its warmth and glow.”
“They grew to love the sun,” he paused, an accusatory gleam in his eye, “…perhaps too much.”
“So they grew under the tender and loving care of the sun. They grew stronger, taller, always competing for its attention, reaching out towards it in vain. But, Yuki-kun, do you know what happens to the flower that raises its head above the others?”
There was no answer he could give that would please Akito, he knew this. So he merely shook his head, willing the story to be over.
And then Akito was leaning forward, one fragile fist curled into the fabric of Yuki’s shirt, his sickly sweet breath in his ear. “I’ll tell you what happens, then,” he whispered gleefully, an edge of flint in his voice, “No gardener wants such an unruly, precocious, stupid little flower ruining the order of his garden all in the name of the sun. So he takes out shears and - snip!” fingernails dug through the fabric into Yuki’s skin, “The poor little flower has lost its head!”
With that he pushed Yuki to the floor with a derisive snort that bubbled into hysterical, mirthless laughter, his thin shoulders convulsing with the effort. Yuki heard the sliding door open quietly behind him and then Hatori was there, kneeling beside the shuddering, wasted invalid. “You’d better go,” was all he said and Yuki complied all too willingly, resisting the urge to stumble blindly out of the room as fast as he could, away from Akito, away from the reach of the fickle god who dangled their lives from puppet strings.
And as he hastened to leave the Sohma complex with little fuss, the back of his shoes biting painfully into his ankles, Akito’s gasping chortle echoed in his ears as a reminder that any departure would only ever be temporary at best.
the dagger suspended by a thread
Yuki, Akito
A really, really old piece that I never posted anywhere.
1407 words.
(A/N: I wrote this before it was revealed that Akito has breasts!!!!! so let's consider this an AU. Or anime-verse. Or something along those lines.)
It was strange how his carefully cultivated mask cracked, almost compliantly, obediently, in the presence of such a pathetic figure. To think that he, in almost perfect health and admired by many, cowered before someone so sickly, so weak, was almost laughable. At least it would have been laughable had it been anyone but Akito.
He had put it off as long as he could, with valid excuses and well-articulated messages delivered through Momiji, Hatsuharu, Hatori, and, on occasion, Shigure. But there was no excuse to save him this time, and there was no denying that postponing the inevitable would only cause Akito to lash out even more violently, whether physically or otherwise. As Shigure had said, with a most cryptic expression, “You’re playing a dangerous game, Yuki-kun. Just because you’re on the other side of the stream doesn’t mean the fire won’t reach you.”
And so he had set out that morning, noticeably preoccupied and anxious. He hadn’t bothered to retaliate even half-heartedly against Kyou, and only smiled vaguely and absentmindedly in answer to Tohru’s concerned questions. As he walked, he reflected on how terrifying it was to be left alone with Akito, even at this age. As a young child, it had not been unusual for him to lose control of his bladder in fear, as his heart struggled to beat and his lungs laboured with every breath. Akito had raised his sleeve to his nose, his glare scornful, mocking. “How disgusting,” his quiet drawl emanated to fill Yuki’s ears, “The rat, so clever, so cunning, should soil himself in my presence. Do we have any hope for the rest? No, I suppose not…”
Then he had been ushered away quickly by the maids, arm still raised to cover his face.
“Ara! Yuki-san is here! Go tell Akito-san immediately!”
The shrill voice of one of the maids startled Yuki out of his thoughts, and he smiled graciously at her. “Good morning,”
She merely cast upon him a frightened look and scurried after her companion. It seemed that no one wanted to be caught in the presence of the rat. Not here. Sighing, Yuki walked up the steps slowly, but not so slowly as to betray his hesitation. It was meant to be a purposeful walk, showing he was unhurried and scared of nothing.
If only that were really true.
Hatori greeted him at the doorway to the room where Akito would be receiving him; not a hint of a smile, only the single visible eye, expressionless. “He’s waiting for you,” he said quietly, turning to leave. And then, a pause, “As always, be careful,” the single eyebrow in sight dipped lower over his eye in what Yuki interpreted as a frown of concern before he turned once more to leave.
Yuki nodded towards his departing back before carefully removing his shoes and sliding the door open.
There he sat, huddled in a nest of pillows, his robe tied messily around his waist. The open front of the robe exposed the pale, wasted chest that seemed to heave labouriously with every breath. His thin arms, half-exposed, seemed to be lost in the folds of the fabric, weak fish floating in an everlasting swell of water. Beyond the horrors of his physical conditions were his eyes. Burning with anger, glittering with malice, oh there were all sorts of cliches that Yuki could think of to make an attempt at explaining those eyes, but in the end no words were strong enough - hateful enough - to truly describe those eyes.
Those very same eyes, gazing off into the distance, languidly rolled in Yuki’s direction. Akito slowly turned his head towards him, and he lifted a hand complete with slender, delicate fingers that seemed impossibly brittle, ready to snap like dry twigs. “Come closer,” a hoarse whisper that Yuki had to strain to hear, “You haven’t been to see me in months, and yet you stand so far away. Show some respect to the Head of your family,”
It was the last thing Yuki wanted to do, but he proceeded forward, careful to seem obliging in every way. “I’m sorry. I didn’t wish to startle you out of your thoughts,” was his excuse. Even to his own ears, it sounded pathetic.
Akito’s thin lips curled into a bitterly amused smile, “Oh? And what thoughts might I have been startled from?”
Kyou. Myself. The others. How to further your grip on our lives. Who to torture next for having a glimmer of happiness in their lives.
“I don’t know,”
Akito examined him sharply, the smile melting into a thin, hard line. “I’m sure you don’t. Who would expect a mere rat to understand the ponderings of a God? Especially one who suffers so for his rat’s pathetic little existence,”
He was within arm’s length of Akito now. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to discuss?” he asked, determined to keep control, to play the part of the Prince he was renowned for at school.
“So eager to run away, Yuki? Back to that ugly dolt of a girl, I suppose,” Akito smirked, his eyes narrowing slightly, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, Yuki. You and Kyou both. Vying for her attention like wretched little birds who can only depend on their mother for food. Pitiable little fools. What will they do when their mother has been eaten?”
Yuki clenched his fist at his side, “Perhaps they would die. Perhaps they would be strong enough to take flight and find food for themselves,” he answered, suppressing the stammer that threatened to break through.
“Of course they would die,” Akito snapped before regaining his calm composure, “How silly you are, Yuki! Imagine feeble little birds trying to jump out of their nests! But let me tell you, Yuki, of another story. I do love telling stories, and I know you love to hear them,”
Swallowing the lump that threatened to choke his words, Yuki knelt upon the floor as he had done when they were much younger. In those days, Akito had had him sit down and told him stories of the snake the gardener had killed that morning, or the bird that had been found on the ground, its fragile neck broken. Little, meaningless stories of death that made Yuki cry while Akito giggled gleefully at the sight. “Of course,” he murmured.
“Once there was a garden of flowers,” Akito began, “Many different flowers. But there were twelve beautiful flowers that grew the best. Water and light gave them life, and they held their faces towards the sun gladly, basking in its warmth and glow.”
“They grew to love the sun,” he paused, an accusatory gleam in his eye, “…perhaps too much.”
“So they grew under the tender and loving care of the sun. They grew stronger, taller, always competing for its attention, reaching out towards it in vain. But, Yuki-kun, do you know what happens to the flower that raises its head above the others?”
There was no answer he could give that would please Akito, he knew this. So he merely shook his head, willing the story to be over.
And then Akito was leaning forward, one fragile fist curled into the fabric of Yuki’s shirt, his sickly sweet breath in his ear. “I’ll tell you what happens, then,” he whispered gleefully, an edge of flint in his voice, “No gardener wants such an unruly, precocious, stupid little flower ruining the order of his garden all in the name of the sun. So he takes out shears and - snip!” fingernails dug through the fabric into Yuki’s skin, “The poor little flower has lost its head!”
With that he pushed Yuki to the floor with a derisive snort that bubbled into hysterical, mirthless laughter, his thin shoulders convulsing with the effort. Yuki heard the sliding door open quietly behind him and then Hatori was there, kneeling beside the shuddering, wasted invalid. “You’d better go,” was all he said and Yuki complied all too willingly, resisting the urge to stumble blindly out of the room as fast as he could, away from Akito, away from the reach of the fickle god who dangled their lives from puppet strings.
And as he hastened to leave the Sohma complex with little fuss, the back of his shoes biting painfully into his ankles, Akito’s gasping chortle echoed in his ears as a reminder that any departure would only ever be temporary at best.