[FIC] Ouran: Cat's Cradle

Didn't I say something about this pairing and this fandom that will never let me go? Well, let me reiterate it. This is my ULTIMATE OTP. FOREVER AND EVER.

Kyouya give me back my sanity. This is inspired by the latest manga chapters, and how, despite Haruhi and Tamaki falling for each other all over the place, I will never stop believing in the TamaKyou. Because it's so TRUE.

I shall stop babbling and give you guys the fic.

Cat’s Cradle

Characters/Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Tamaki/Haruhi, Host Club
Rating: PG-13
Words: 6521
Summary: Kyouya had been able to see the red threads between people’s fingers since the day he was born. A song of fate, and the breaking of. Tamaki was a man who could never be predictable.
Warnings: Rather vague spoilers up to Chapter 63.

( Cat's Cradle )

[FIC] Ouran: Cat's Cradle

Didn't I say something about this pairing and this fandom that will never let me go? Well, let me reiterate it. This is my ULTIMATE OTP. FOREVER AND EVER.

Kyouya give me back my sanity. This is inspired by the latest manga chapters, and how, despite Haruhi and Tamaki falling for each other all over the place, I will never stop believing in the TamaKyou. Because it's so TRUE.

I shall stop babbling and give you guys the fic.

Cat’s Cradle

Characters/Pairings: Tamaki/Kyouya, Tamaki/Haruhi, Host Club
Rating: PG-13
Words: 6521
Summary: Kyouya had been able to see the red threads between people’s fingers since the day he was born. A song of fate, and the breaking of. Tamaki was a man who could never be predictable.
Warnings: Rather vague spoilers up to Chapter 63.

( Cat's Cradle )

this is a metaphor

i rarely post my thoughts, which is ironic because this is supposed to be a blog, after all. but i just realized that the entire first page of my journal is only fic, and this isn't meant to be a fiction blog, not entirely anyway. so here i go.

i usually walk through life oblivious and blind, too caught up in my own dreams and my own fantasies. i see only when i'm required to see - when i have a job and have to interview people. during these times, i see poetry in the ways they turn their heads; in the wave of a hand; in the flutter of an eyelash; in the curve of a lip. these subtleties speak more to me than words can ever do, and despite my love for words, i can never find a way to describe them adequately. it's a matter of angle, a matter of detail, but it's also a portrait, a freeze-frame caught in my mind that words can never describe entirely, for words paint a picture and the brush strokes and colours are different in everyone's minds.

i try, nonetheless. i am a dreamer, after all.

i find beauty in the strangest things. perhaps it can be said that beauty is usually found in nature - in sunsets, forests, beaches, seas. but i live in a concrete jungle - all i see are buildings, buildings, buildings. it's stifling, but i make do, for beauty hides its face behind veils of all shapes and sizes, and it's a challenge to discover it.

i find beauty in the clothes hung out to dry, fluttering like wings on coloured bamboo poles. bright coloured, dark coloured, stark white. they are like paintings amongst themselves, telling a story of the people who wears these clothes. look - one bamboo pole has clothes fit for small children, brightly coloured and miniscule enough to fit into a hand, and it tells me, ah, this house holds a family's warmth. look again - and another pole holds dark pants and slacks and blazers and high collared white shirts, and i think that the father is surely a salaryman.

the world tells us of little, insignificant things that form the corners of dreams. the story of the sky is told in the rain's patter patter, in the wind's howl, in the thunder's crackle. the world tells us so much and yet we are so caught up by the concrete jungle, in our miniscule lives that we pass by it, dismissing it even while we live in it. there is so much for us to learn, but we have moved out of the forests and given up the language of lore.

the curves of my fingers while beckoning tells a language of its own, one of want and longing and impatience. my smiles are numerous and each says something different, unspoken words that sometimes even i am oblivious of. i see myself mirrored in a friend's eyes, and i ache for i do not want her to be like me, for the path of a dreamer is a painful one. this cruel world we live in gives us no reprieve for dreams.

yet- i hope.

there's nothing more beautiful than the joining of two clouds against a bright blue sky. or should that be a laugh, or tears?

we speak in riddles and metaphors and i long for simplicity.

this is a metaphor

i rarely post my thoughts, which is ironic because this is supposed to be a blog, after all. but i just realized that the entire first page of my journal is only fic, and this isn't meant to be a fiction blog, not entirely anyway. so here i go.

i usually walk through life oblivious and blind, too caught up in my own dreams and my own fantasies. i see only when i'm required to see - when i have a job and have to interview people. during these times, i see poetry in the ways they turn their heads; in the wave of a hand; in the flutter of an eyelash; in the curve of a lip. these subtleties speak more to me than words can ever do, and despite my love for words, i can never find a way to describe them adequately. it's a matter of angle, a matter of detail, but it's also a portrait, a freeze-frame caught in my mind that words can never describe entirely, for words paint a picture and the brush strokes and colours are different in everyone's minds.

i try, nonetheless. i am a dreamer, after all.

i find beauty in the strangest things. perhaps it can be said that beauty is usually found in nature - in sunsets, forests, beaches, seas. but i live in a concrete jungle - all i see are buildings, buildings, buildings. it's stifling, but i make do, for beauty hides its face behind veils of all shapes and sizes, and it's a challenge to discover it.

i find beauty in the clothes hung out to dry, fluttering like wings on coloured bamboo poles. bright coloured, dark coloured, stark white. they are like paintings amongst themselves, telling a story of the people who wears these clothes. look - one bamboo pole has clothes fit for small children, brightly coloured and miniscule enough to fit into a hand, and it tells me, ah, this house holds a family's warmth. look again - and another pole holds dark pants and slacks and blazers and high collared white shirts, and i think that the father is surely a salaryman.

the world tells us of little, insignificant things that form the corners of dreams. the story of the sky is told in the rain's patter patter, in the wind's howl, in the thunder's crackle. the world tells us so much and yet we are so caught up by the concrete jungle, in our miniscule lives that we pass by it, dismissing it even while we live in it. there is so much for us to learn, but we have moved out of the forests and given up the language of lore.

the curves of my fingers while beckoning tells a language of its own, one of want and longing and impatience. my smiles are numerous and each says something different, unspoken words that sometimes even i am oblivious of. i see myself mirrored in a friend's eyes, and i ache for i do not want her to be like me, for the path of a dreamer is a painful one. this cruel world we live in gives us no reprieve for dreams.

yet- i hope.

there's nothing more beautiful than the joining of two clouds against a bright blue sky. or should that be a laugh, or tears?

we speak in riddles and metaphors and i long for simplicity.