Be gone from my dwelling,
return thee to Hades,
or I will smite thee for o'erstayin' your welcome!''
...This is why your moderator should not be allowed to satirize/and or incorporate it within her writing. Can you tell that I have a Jacobean Shakespeare essay due, and that very same class in an hour?
I am serious though, my fellow obsessive fans - this inactivity pains me. I know - I am partially to blame, for University is consuming my soul, but please, YuBo makes me happy again.
And so I bring you all (I wrote this like a month ago, and only got around to it now)...
Title: The Middle of A Story
Pairing: Light Yaoi - YuBo (I need to write smut soon)
Beta: Kyuusaisha Bleeding (I'm still waiting for Jens' opinion)
Summary: Yuriy muses about the story of his life with Boris. From their beginning and with hope for the future, he knows that Boris will always be by his side. They've watched over each other and always will. Yuriy just likes to talk about it too.
AN/Warnings: All enclosed.
Dedicated to: craveroftea
Here you are, dear readers, proof of my existence. English literature, I must say, is leaving quite an impact on my style. This is unlike the usual, ambiguous poetic eloquence I normally write. I was never too keen on first person narrations because it feels like I have to become that character. I am not Yuriy. But pretending sometimes feels so real.
I’d like to thank Kyuusaisha Bleeding for her editing. I felt like I needed a beta for this one. The title of the story was also provided by her.
-=The Middle of a Story=-
You can call me whatever you like, a pervert, a looker, a silent observer, or a close friend. It really doesn't matter. What I do is natural to me. I sit back and watch. I record, analyze, organize and sometimes, I even recollect. No, I'm not a computer. Every memory I have is deluded with emotions, sentiments, feelings, and personal opinion. My presence in these events makes my interpretation biased. The experience is my own. But this story, or whatever you want to call it – a musing, a log, a journal entry (if I ever took the time to write down my thoughts), is not only mine. It belongs to both of us. I just interpret it, since, like I said, I have been around this entire time. We, he and I, grew up together. From the streets, to the Abbey and even into worldwide tournaments, we have been side by side. I guess you could call me the cameraman of the events in our lives, or in this case, the voice over narrator. I feel that our story should be told. I'm not looking for recognition, a reputation, or even fame; I'm just talking. So listen, will you?
I watched him grow up. Our first meeting was by chance and utter desperation. I won't go into details. We try not to reminisce about the rock bottom times, even though they are our foundation. We built ourselves up together. The streets, the alleys, the homeless shelters – those places were our homes. This is not a stereotypical, cliché tale of our rise from the pits of despair – no – it is just the beginning. He heard me sigh loudly one night, I can't remember why I let out that disdainful breath of exasperation, but I did, and it drew him towards me. Did he say anything? No. Did I look at him? Yes. There was a glance across the dark dingy room of some help center and that was it. Our gazes crossed, as did our paths, until I, yes, I, initiated our first communication. I am older than he is, but my age does not leave any impact on my sagacity. I just knew things, learned, and that's all. He was the same, but more reserved. Something, I don't know what, and I'll probably never know what, clicked between us. We were young and pitiful. We did not judge one another, instead, we found ourselves helping the other.
Boris and I, after a few cautious weeks, became properly acquainted. At first, like the stubborn children we were, refused to talk about ourselves and only the present tense. Our lives before did not matter; skeletons, ghosts, whatever you want to call them; they were buried, locked away, or simply, repressed. Now, this is all the past, but then, only the present was of importance. We lived out each day, slowly building a friendship amid our empty shells. I remember with distinct and precise clarity the first time I saw him laugh. It was at me – but the chuckle was not scornful, or haughty; it was amused. A smile broke the cold facade of his visage. I let one crack across my lips as well.
Thus concludes our introduction. We struggled together, clearly, and surmounted many obstacles. Is there a happy ending? I'm nowhere near being done, nor are our lives complete. This is more of a private summation. The surface, the thick icy layer enveloping us is almost impossible to crack, anyway. Much will be left unsaid. I cannot speak of many issues without hesitance or uneasiness. Some things are better left alone in the ice where they belong. Privacy is something we both treasure. It was, and is, our last means of defense. We learned that hiding in the dark is impossible, and so, we left nothing behind in the darkness. Instead, we simply did not speak of such things. They were with us, but inside, and as far as were concerned, only the outside mattered. Our exteriors, in this case, are not in relation to our physical vanity – either of us possessed handsome features – we were constantly surrounded by filth and scum. The outside, as we understood it, was the present – the everyday world we lived in. I must digress, some things may not make sense to the reader, but to our eyes, our minds, and yes, our hearts, these words are sacred.
Boris, as you all should know, is dear to me. He was not like a little brother; we stood on even grounds, at all times. Rather, he was a competitor, a fellow survivor, and the only person, despite not knowing much about me, who understood me. He picked up on things about my behavior – my likes, dislikes, and I studied him with the same scrutinizing eyes. He did not need to tell me these things. Boris is quiet – he chooses his words very carefully and will purposely mull over his sentences. However, this process is quick. His wit is boundless. I've told him on many occasions to write the story, but he refuses, for another trait of his is his guarded attitude. If he were to write this, then, the readers could very easily get into his mind and start dissecting it. I do believe him to be paranoid, this is highly amusing to me, but his calm nature always takes precedence. He watches everything, as do I, and we discover nature through our own means. We are very similar, he and I.
I smile as I write this.
Have you read enough, so far? Need I further expand upon our friendship, his character, and our interactions? I think I have said enough. It is time to move on, just as we did. Although this area should rightly be devoted to our transcendence into the blading world, I vehemently refuse to speak of said incidents. There will be no particulars, no fond nostalgic moments –no – we grew up the most during this period, and so the references will only be in relation to such. I watched, faithful readers, watched him develop. Alas, this time in our lives left a lasting, and negative impact on our beings. I admit, sullenly, that most of my habits, concerns, and pessimistic thoughts are due to those particular years. Although the street life was agonizing, we succeeded. We were hardened and coarse, unrefined, prepubescent children. We lost our innocence to many cold and terrible nights. At least we managed. But in there, under a roof, with tutelage and guidance, we struggled. I became colder; he became ruthless. We were still in constant contact, and always dependent on one another, but things changed. Our personalities and thoughts were forever clouded by extreme hate. When the opportunity announced itself, a chance to flee, we gladly escaped those confines.
I shudder, but nonetheless, continue; I always do. We pushed forward, but more importantly, we took a break. We stopped, Boris and I, became recluses. During this interlude, we learned far more than we ever had before. We became, dare I say, normal. There was no more stress or pressure. We breathed. The air was clear; we were no longer silently suffocating. I immediately felt refreshed. The languid pace of our days, the unbridled amount of free time – I let the world pass me by and in exchange, I watched its flow.
Now I will include a moment of peace – a serene remembrance of better times. I indulge in nostalgia, devour its sweet taste, and suck one the saccharine memories that will always make me smile. Yes, I will even describe the beauty of the moment. Imagine the sun, not rising or falling, but fixed in the sky, mid afternoon, as a cold breeze and snowflakes swirl together in a nipping gust. I was outside, eyes half-lidded, watching the wintry weather settle itself upon our tiny hometown. Boris found me soon after and leaned up against the railing of the balcony, looking out over the world with me. He murmured something so profound to me just then – words of such magnitude flowed past his lips and out into the breeze.
''I feel cold.''
Those words, ironically, warmed me in such a strange way. Never before had the temperature of our native plains bothered us. Our skin was thick, our defenses thicker and friendship, the thickest. In that one statement, every single layer was ripped away. He shivered. I watched him quake. He admitted, for the first time, a weakness. I did not question him. He confided in me and I smiled and said, in return:
How tempting it is, to end everything with a smile. But this is no conclusion, far from it. I am not writing something anti-climatic. Or am I? I have honestly, until just now, not thought this question over. What am I writing? What is this? Can I even give a name, to such intimate, and yet superficial words?
Boris. This is all about him. I watch him. These are the basics, the fundamental things I have described. He is what is important to me. No, he is not my whole world, but he's lived in it, just as I have lived in his, ever since we were children. I know for a fact that he's watched me just as much, probably even more, over this great expanse of time. I see his eyes, just as they see me. He smirks, I grin.
I'm still smiling now.
He's grown so much – physically, he's taller than me. His shoulders have broadened; his hair is a darker shade now. His voice is no longer broken; a deep baritone intonation resonates in his throat when he does decide to speak. The words he employs are still carefully selected and marinated in wit. Our defenses, even mine, are not as high. We're more dismissive than protective now. We say a lot more, but still in few words. He told me, not too long ago, about what he remembered of his mother. I offered my past, in the same fashion. They, unsurprisingly, were similar, but truly unimportant to us now. We dwell in the present, disregard the past, and stare at each other, because we are one another's futures. I told you, readers, that I was capable of emotions. The same is true about Boris. He grew up right beside me and I watched.
I honestly do not know what this is. Craveroftea had doodled this cute picture of Boris and the theme of Growing Up into someone of Yuriy's type. My initial intention was to write about this exact moment, humor and all, but when I sat down at the keyboard, this is what came out. It took exactly an hour and a half to do. Not bad for something longer than my usual stories? I'm proud of this story, but at the same time, I cannot classify it. It baffles me. I don't understand it. And yet, it came from me. So, opinions, anyone?
Almost 2,000 words. Wow. I killed the drabble demon.