Summary: to live—Sion as he takes his first breath of life; cadence—Nezumi as he paints life out of words.
Title: to live/cadence
Disclaimer: I don't own.
A/N: Two ficclets for their cuteness.
He was, like winter, the small secret flakes of snow that float and flitter towards the ground, forever silent, forever smiling. He was, like summer, the most humid noons when even the sun cannot dry out the perspiration of the world as it pants around its axis, trudging slowly along the same path it has traversed since the first blink of time--the first moment of everything.
He was a child, a newborn babe in a vast and wonderful, horrible, horrible world. He had lived, yet can one really call his life to that point living? The Rat knew better; no, he had simply functioned, on the most basic level of human life. He had taken in oxygen with every mechanical breath, processed it through the web of his veins and ventricles, and expelled the leftover poisons back into the air for the world to recycle. And the process begins anew. No, he had not lived as of yet, but that was all changing.
It had already changed.
Yes, the first real breath he took was on that night, so many years ago, when the wind and rain had cursed furiously at every closed window, every shut curtain and a Rat had come darting into his life, aiming straight for his heart with those eyes that looked like steel.
That was his first breath, and he’s held it ever since then, until a more recent evening, not quite as terrible and dark as the first, but similarly full of the unexpected. It was when a girl--and what a girl she was--had asked plainly for something that he could not provide, that he did not want to provide, when the Rat had slipped back into his life and flipped it upside down. He’d never forget the sardonic, yet oddly wistful voice in his ear, chuckling over his apparent naivety.
And once again, life was within his grasp and he’d snatched it up without another thought, gulping down lungfuls of crisp excitement.
It was awful, yes. Gruesome, definitely. Shocking, of course. Fascinating, most certainly.
Those deaths were an unmistakable marker for the beginning--or the end, but then who wants to debate that anymore--of a revolution.
And it could only be called a revolution.
Being captured, and then escaping. Running away, and then wishing he could go back.
He had never felt such a surplus of emotion, and such strong emotions at that. But being with the Rat had made him happy for the first time in his life. While he had been content locked within the walls of a so-called utopia, he had never been truly happy. Until now.
He had never had to push his way through a crowd, worry and anticipation twisting his insides; he had never danced for the sake of dancing, or sung for the sake of singing. But he has now, and he’s done so much more than that.
Now, he was, like spring, the clear bell-chime-blue of a cloudless sky, laughing with the wind. And he was, like fall, the blood of the trees that crunch along the streets, under the wings of birds as they fly over seas.
He was a boy now, young as he was, but a boy who has lived and learned and loved--loves. And he has breathed, oh yes, and dreamed and everything in between. He has seen all those that the others had not wished him to see, but he was ever so glad he had, because now, he can smile with his heart, and dance with his soul, the fire that had sparked and cracked when the Rat had bitten him on that night so long ago.
It was on that night, when he had taken his first breath, and dived into the world.
Like rhymes, rhyme, rhyme—where bluebells might chime—their skies blend together; the one of a kind.
The Cat and the Rat, the Rat and the Cat, who is whom, exactly? Well, no one knows that.
One way or the other, the chase can never end, however each might twist, or tumble, turn, and bend—right through the hands of time.
The strongest weapon a person has—the one that everyone hides away—can be molded and then twisted into something thinner than day, brighter than May, strong enough to paint the sky before the light would fade. And Nezumi had it all—his words.
They’re deep and low and smooth, like warm syrup over just-made pancakes, but never ever saccharine or over-sweet. They’re perfect and right for every moment of the night, when candle-light plays the role of the sun and the shadows come out to dance. How they sway to the rhythm and beat, the dips and rises of his every word, they pause when he takes a breath and leap when the story bends. Sion is content with listening.
Reading becomes an art in his hands; clay for the sculptor to use as he pleases, to mold a story out of nothing but sounds, yet sounds on his tongue can hold the world in their fingers. New worlds, fantastic worlds, full of magic and charms and witches and cauldrons and special soup made with newts and frogs. Delicious-delicious, he would always say with that insufferable smirk laid across his lips; the lips that Sion can’t help but kiss.
A year from now, or maybe two, would they still be able to lay like this? Without worry or thought or fear of being caught, without pain or secrets or lies left out to rot. With each other? Because Sion can’t imagine a world without his Mouse. And Nezumi wonders what a life’s like without Sion. And then they both laugh at the ridiculousness of it all—oh what a laugh, what a laugh; what can’t you laugh at with the one you love?
Sion had asked; Nezumi had thought, and pondered what exactly he should say. It was one of those times when his words would fail him and tangle together before he could make them come out. They tripped and they fell—much as he had for Sion—and they screamed and they yelled, and he could never tell, what he really wanted to say. So he didn’t; he just smiled, and hoped for Sion to understand.
And oh yes, there would always be love.
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