Shuji/Lao. Homeland.
Apr. 1st, 2007 11:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
actionreactionThis was written for LJ's 31_days community. Today's theme was "Homeland." That yielded this.
I needed a tissue afterwards, as did Ai.
It was days like these, when the setting sun stained the sky fire-red, bleeding out into the dark blues and purples of night, the dark creeping closer and closer, that it seemed night was stealing away the brightness and fire of the sun. It was days like these that felt a little too cold, even if it was early summer, and nights were short and days blessedly long, that had Shuji rubbing his arms and staring with unreadable dark eyes at the horizon.
It was days like these that made him happy he’d found Lao again. Only the other boy – man now – could understand without question what shifted Shuji’s mood, how the sunsets then were so like the ones back home, over ten years ago, when every night without fail, someone died.
The plague spread rapidly, without recourse through their small village, refusing to distinguish between adult and child, uncaring who it took. Even so, it took weeks before it hit too close to home, before it struck the Feng and Nakamura families. And when it did, there was little time to react. In less than two weeks’ time the plague had taken them all, sparing one Nakamura child, Shuji, who the illness never touched, and one Feng child, Lao, one of few in the village to fall so terribly ill and yet survive.
Shuji never told Lao how often he cried at his friend’s beside, after watching his parents die, terrified the only person he had left would be taken from him as well. He never told him how fiercely he clung to the boy’s small hand while Lao lay delirious, nearly unconscious, and Shuji defied the helpless healers and illness itself to stay at his side. He never told him how he begged for the plague to take him to if it was going to take his only friend. But the plague didn’t separate them. Being orphaned and sent off to separate places, one a monastery and one a seminary, did. Years separated them, and Shuji fought to find Lao again.
And now Shuji sat, thankfully not alone, hands leaving his own arms to wrap around Lao’s shoulders, tug him close. He stared out at the sun being swallowed and bowed his head, remembering their homeland, the people they’d lost, and how far they’d come.
It didn’t take a word from Lao, just a squeeze of hand and a shy kiss to Shuji’s jaw to make the older man lift his head and smile at his best friend, the love of his life.
It was days like these that Shuji thanked Kord for every blessed gift he’d given him, and most of all, for Lao.
I needed a tissue afterwards, as did Ai.
It was days like these, when the setting sun stained the sky fire-red, bleeding out into the dark blues and purples of night, the dark creeping closer and closer, that it seemed night was stealing away the brightness and fire of the sun. It was days like these that felt a little too cold, even if it was early summer, and nights were short and days blessedly long, that had Shuji rubbing his arms and staring with unreadable dark eyes at the horizon.
It was days like these that made him happy he’d found Lao again. Only the other boy – man now – could understand without question what shifted Shuji’s mood, how the sunsets then were so like the ones back home, over ten years ago, when every night without fail, someone died.
The plague spread rapidly, without recourse through their small village, refusing to distinguish between adult and child, uncaring who it took. Even so, it took weeks before it hit too close to home, before it struck the Feng and Nakamura families. And when it did, there was little time to react. In less than two weeks’ time the plague had taken them all, sparing one Nakamura child, Shuji, who the illness never touched, and one Feng child, Lao, one of few in the village to fall so terribly ill and yet survive.
Shuji never told Lao how often he cried at his friend’s beside, after watching his parents die, terrified the only person he had left would be taken from him as well. He never told him how fiercely he clung to the boy’s small hand while Lao lay delirious, nearly unconscious, and Shuji defied the helpless healers and illness itself to stay at his side. He never told him how he begged for the plague to take him to if it was going to take his only friend. But the plague didn’t separate them. Being orphaned and sent off to separate places, one a monastery and one a seminary, did. Years separated them, and Shuji fought to find Lao again.
And now Shuji sat, thankfully not alone, hands leaving his own arms to wrap around Lao’s shoulders, tug him close. He stared out at the sun being swallowed and bowed his head, remembering their homeland, the people they’d lost, and how far they’d come.
It didn’t take a word from Lao, just a squeeze of hand and a shy kiss to Shuji’s jaw to make the older man lift his head and smile at his best friend, the love of his life.
It was days like these that Shuji thanked Kord for every blessed gift he’d given him, and most of all, for Lao.