Actions

Work Header

chilly chilly is the evening time, but waterloo sunset's fine.

Work Text:

My real life relationships, all of them, romantic or semi-platonic or the fuzzy area in between, have ended in unequivocal, unmitigated disaster of one kind of another. They don't just end, they end, more or less, in ruin. As a result, rather than subject myself to yet another instance of failing to love another human being half as well as I manage to love the fictional relationships in my head, I suspect that I more or less fall in love with ships instead of people, anymore. I suspect it's a coping mechanism of sorts. I think, selfishly, that as coping mechanisms go, there are far worse ones I could cultivate.

Harry/Draco is roughly equivalent to The One, whose first name I never say; the one I am over, except for how once every five years or so I find myself thinking about him and it all comes flooding back like it was yesterday. H/D was The OTP, the one you don't get over, the one you never really move on from. H/D is the ship that burned its way through my heart and changed everything. H/D took years to recover from and probably required therapy. H/D is still reaching out and coiling itself around my heart. This is us, HP fandom. We'll never be quits. Never.

But oh, then there was Tezuka/Ryoma. And if H/D was The One, Tenipuri was that unexpected, robust passion that comes into your life when you least expect it. Prince of Tennis was this new, joyous love that I never ever expected and didn't quite know what to do with. And if, when it was over, I realized it was a perfectly clean break, nothing left, then I had no lingering regrets either. We parted with fondness and wished each other well, and I smile whenever I look back now. I remember how in love I was then, and I laugh that I was so head over heels for something so fleeting. But how could I have been anything else? It was wild and wonderful and unforgettable.

Somewhere in there, McShep and I kept having these sordid flings in back alleys, where I gorged myself on all the fic I could find with a vague sense of self-loathing, because I should know better than to fall for such a cocky, arrogant, acerbic ship. McShep thinks it's just such hot shit. Well, let me tell you, McShep, I've looked into the soul-blazing clear eyes of Tezuka's all-blinding rainbow-colored love for Ryoma, and I can tell you I know from soulbinding, and you, McShep, you and I, we're just not compatible. Not at all. Ugh, you're so vain and smug and --we're just not -- oh my god is that a coffeeshop AU? *MAKES OUT WITH*

And then, and then, Akira/Hikaru. Akira/Hikaru, who makes me tea when I am sad and fluffs my pillows and allows me a safe place to hide my head in. Akira/Hikaru, the kid next door who's always there for you, your best friend and more, the one who waits for you to grow up, the one you take for granted until it's stealing your breath and breaking your heart; and all you can think is that you want to keep this, this feeling inside you, with you forever, locked somewhere secret and safe, so that the two of you can always be together.

________

I kind of don't want to write fic for Inception. I kind of want to just keep enjoying everyone else's passion, letting it envelop me but still breeze right by me. I was never really happy with any of the fanfic I wrote for Prince of Tennis, because I feel like I was too giddy in love with the subject to be uninvested enough to write anything good. I am alarmed at my own level of investment in Inception fandom. Maybe it's just a summer fling, but it doesn't feel the way the others do--not Kradam or Merlin or House or Death Note, where the superficial appeal was obvious but the investment was never more than half-hearted. No, this feels more like that giddy, joyous insouciant thing that I've only felt with Tenipuri (and maybe with That Guy, the one with the long slender fingers and the off-key singing, who made me weak-kneed and heartstricken when I was too young to know what to do with the feeling).

I kind of don't want to tackle Mr Eames, with his beautiful mouth and his expressive eyes and his face that goes haunted when you least expect it, so quickly you think maybe you imagined it. I'm kind of afraid he'll break my heart. I'm kind of afraid Arthur, beautiful Arthur with his frowns and his straight lines and clean angles, will mystify me to exhaustion. I'm kind of afraid I'm projecting (lol projection). Maybe it's okay to sit this one out. Or maybe I'm just intimidated. Or tired.

Then again, maybe I'm relating just a little too hard to Eames, forever, cheerfully, holding out his hand to Arthur, with utterly no expectation and no hope of return. There's something cold and ultimately so sad in that metaphor.

Especially when I bring it back around full circle and apply it to myself.

_________

(All this navel-gazing aside--just like Eames, there's nowhere else, right now, I'd rather be. ♥)

 

eta, 8/25/10: as stunned as I am to say it, it seems to be real, and not a dream:
- there is actually now beautiful, gorgeous-beyond-description fanart based on this post by kimna;
- and there is actually now heartbreaking, glorious, painful, amazing fanfic based on this post & comments by temperance_k.

Please, please go gaze/read and give the creators your love. ♥