|Shards of Mending
Author: Arya Yamamoto PM
one shot light m/m: He was broken, slowly mending, only not in the same way, ever again.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst/Family - Words: 821 - Published: 09-27-11 - Status: Complete - id: 2956227
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: warning light m/m
Shards of mending
Fluffy white clouds…
Colours of the rainbow…
They mock me and my grief. I know I am wallowing in self pity, but I cannot muster the strength to smile.
Often, I am told that I am stubborn. But am I really? Bittersweet are things of late, and the world is discoloured in front of my eyes.
Tears are wonderful. They mean that my heart is still beating, still feeling the pain, still alive. There are no more tears now. I've shed them all.
Yet sitting here, sitting where the sun shines bright, I am aware of the irony. The irony of the sun on my face and the storm within, warmth beating at the harden planes of my face and the icy coldness of my heart of stone.
Long fingers dash away lingering tears, they caress my face; bring life and death in the same breath. A beautiful face blocks my vision, a waterfall of silky blond hair, a pair of luminous eyes. Yet as I gaze at her, I see another. One with rakish dark tresses, and sweet lips, eyes of fire and passion.
I had to choose. It was a horrible choice. Between the one I love and the one who loves me. But it could not be helped. It was my destiny. To have loved both the sun and the moon. To chase after a dream only to realize that it is beyond reach.
Reality is tiring. It has killed my dreams, my childish hopes. Growing up has robbed me of my imagination and spirit. The blind but wonderful trust I used to have in people has now been shattered by ruthless cruelty and pointless hatred.
I remember the colourful graffiti that was sprawl all over the red brick wall. The morning sun then – like how it is today, was hot. Your hands fit so perfectly in mine. I remember the taste of your lips, the smell of your dark hair (falling to your shoulders, ridiculous for a guy), and the feel of our legs touching as we stand side by side.
Abominations they call us. But we were so happy. Is it a crime then to be happy?
Sometimes they still drop by for a cup of tea. As if they were not the ones that tore you away from me, as if they were not the ones that ripped the very fabric of my life open, they shake my hand. Their eyes are like vultures, their words barbed and probing. Only two came today, but I am not deceived. I can see the hundreds and thousands behind their eyes. They know it too, unconsciously squaring their shoulders in pride.
How are you today? They asked. My wife answers, a small smile on her face. Very well, thank you. I too smile, woodenly. I hope they did not notice that it did not reach my eyes. I am a puppet, dancing to their tune. I call my children.
Say hello to these uncles, dear.
They like seeing my children. Innocent laughter turns the awkward silences into ringing music and when they look back they can say that yes, this family is happy, and they put a little red check in the box next to my name, way at the bottom of the list. Like a shopping list. Or a mailing list. Or maybe a welfare society. Smiling they move on to the next house, where another ruined man stand amidst the happy smiles and shake their hands like gentlemen.
I long for the days of my youth. When ice cream still tasted good and laughter bubbled from my chest unhindered, boisterous and true. I long for the humid nights spent under stars, safe in your arms, unmindful of the pointed stares and glancing fingers behind our backs. Exploring the forbidden seemed so much fun at first, until I realized too late that love had snuck up behind me and pulled a fast one. Helpless then, it seems to me, to fight the inevitable, but now I regret not fighting harder. If I had fought harder, would it be you beside me now, instead of a pale-haired stranger?
I feel sorry for my wife. She loves me even now, the broken man I am, and the only part of me that lives loves her too. Grateful I am to her, for without her you'd be dead and gone, and I, I would choose the lonesome path and waste away like a shadow.
You are my past, she is my present. But I am both and therefore my pain. Therefore my sorrow, and happiness and bittersweet tastes of this somnolent life.
Forgive me, I have drunk too much. And hot sun beats down like a heavy mallet. I must go sleep. My wife would scold and my heart will break all over again. I must sleep.