IF YOU GET TO GIFT ME THE FICS YOU'VE BEEN SITTING ON FOR MONTHS AND MONTHS FOR VLOCKERS I SHOULD! GET TO DO THE SAME!! Except the tennis things I am sitting on weren't so explicitly for you, I just need to leave this dead bird at your feet since I've mentioned it to you more than once now.
I wanted to leave you a Shiraishi/Sanada thing but I straight up could not think about anything other than Shiraishi taking Sanada for walkies via bike and just, I cannot commit that to proper prose words, I just can't, even if I suspect you'd be Fucking Delighted.
ILU VERY VERY MUCH YRIN, HAVE A DEAD BEETLE DEAD DOVE.
-
Shiraishi kneels before the patch of newly-turned earth, head bowed and hands resting heavily on his knees. Yukimura stands behind him with the sun at his back, casting a shadow across the miniature grave.
A mournful quiet descends over them. Shiraishi swallows against the knot in his throat.
"Shall I say a few words?" Yukimura asks.
Shiraishi laughs, a startled, half-choked sound.
"I'm sorry," Yukimura says. "I wasn't sure what else to try."
"It's not really a funeral," Shiraishi confides. "But it is something I had to do."
"I'm not quite sure I understand," Yukimura admits. "I've never had a pet myself."
"Never?" Shiraishi asks.
He looks up at Yukimura, eyes wide. The sun dazzles him when it shines in his face, reducing Yukimura's expression to an unreadable smudge of shadow and irritating eyes that are already red from crying. This isn't the first beetle he's buried, but he's sentimental. The ritual of returning them to the earth rubs his nerves raw every time.
"No," Yukimura says. "Is it truly so surprising?"
Shiraishi shrugs, looking down again. "Everyone has pets."
"Not me." Yukimura speaks loftily, as if telling a story rather than speaking from experience. "Only plants. Which I cared for with the utmost of diligence."
"Have you had a plant die before?"
"Oh, of course," Yukimura says. "Not all growing things have the same will to live, no matter how carefully we might tend to them. But it has felt like something of a personal failure, when I couldn't coax a plant to grow."
"Then you understand," Shiraishi says. "It's something like that."
They fall silent again, until Yukimura's soft voice ventures, "They have awfully short lives, beetles."
"Yes," Shiraishi agrees. "They do."
His beetles are like his garden; death and rebirth, moving in cycles. That, Yukimura will understand.
no subject
I wanted to leave you a Shiraishi/Sanada thing but I straight up could not think about anything other than Shiraishi taking Sanada for walkies via bike and just, I cannot commit that to proper prose words, I just can't, even if I suspect you'd be Fucking Delighted.
ILU VERY VERY MUCH YRIN, HAVE A DEAD BEETLE DEAD DOVE.
-
Shiraishi kneels before the patch of newly-turned earth, head bowed and hands resting heavily on his knees. Yukimura stands behind him with the sun at his back, casting a shadow across the miniature grave.
A mournful quiet descends over them. Shiraishi swallows against the knot in his throat.
"Shall I say a few words?" Yukimura asks.
Shiraishi laughs, a startled, half-choked sound.
"I'm sorry," Yukimura says. "I wasn't sure what else to try."
"It's not really a funeral," Shiraishi confides. "But it is something I had to do."
"I'm not quite sure I understand," Yukimura admits. "I've never had a pet myself."
"Never?" Shiraishi asks.
He looks up at Yukimura, eyes wide. The sun dazzles him when it shines in his face, reducing Yukimura's expression to an unreadable smudge of shadow and irritating eyes that are already red from crying. This isn't the first beetle he's buried, but he's sentimental. The ritual of returning them to the earth rubs his nerves raw every time.
"No," Yukimura says. "Is it truly so surprising?"
Shiraishi shrugs, looking down again. "Everyone has pets."
"Not me." Yukimura speaks loftily, as if telling a story rather than speaking from experience. "Only plants. Which I cared for with the utmost of diligence."
"Have you had a plant die before?"
"Oh, of course," Yukimura says. "Not all growing things have the same will to live, no matter how carefully we might tend to them. But it has felt like something of a personal failure, when I couldn't coax a plant to grow."
"Then you understand," Shiraishi says. "It's something like that."
They fall silent again, until Yukimura's soft voice ventures, "They have awfully short lives, beetles."
"Yes," Shiraishi agrees. "They do."
His beetles are like his garden; death and rebirth, moving in cycles. That, Yukimura will understand.