dreaming comes so easily (heavensgardener) wrote in megidolaon, @ 2008-08-15 15:47:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | fic, persona 2 |
chasing shadows (Persona 2: EP)
Game: Persona 2: Eternal Punishment (with a hefty side of Innocent Sin)
Characters: Tatsuya Sudou, quite a lot of mentioned Jun
Pairings: very one-sided Sudou/Jun
Spoilers: Eternal Punishment (who the EP Joker is, primarily), some Innocent Sin.
WC: 503
Warnings: insane schizophrenic arsonist, crazy obsessions, me not able to write this very well, me fucking up suffixes (as I'm not quite certain what suffix Sudou uses in IS to refer to/address the Joker)
The memories swirled around in his head, discordantly, like the voices that screamed so loud, memories of a time and things that never happened (but did, he knew it as well as he knew the voices, fire and flame and a dream that would change the world, knew that it had happened on the Other Side), and he chases the shadows of what may have been, of what had been, through the fire and the flames. (chases the shadows, even while the voices scream so so loud, and the what is and the might have been snap together in-and-out of phase, until he can feel the scars on the left side of his face, that aren't there anymore, but are, and are not)
He couldn't be Joker-sama (not be so kind and pure and beautiful like a goddess), he wasn't the worthy one, couldn't make that dream come true, but he could ensure that things wouldn't be fucked up this time, that he wouldn't screw it all up. The memory-image slides through his fingers like water, like oil, and little flickers of something that should not have been, but since it was, he would not let it go, memory of a gentle smile, kind words, pale beautiful features. He couldn't ever be that lovely gentle boy, but he could try to prepare the way for him, try to bring back enough echoes of the Other Side (so maybe, just maybe, things could be made right) .
It wasn't the same. It couldn't be, and Tatsuya Sudou didn't try to be, pulling a paper bag over his head, killing for those who summoned him by dialing their own telephone numbers, (and killing only stopped the voices for a little while, then they came back again, seven times louder) when before, Joker-sama, the real one, not the false one that he pretended to be, had been granting wishes and dreams.
But maybe, just maybe, there would be enough parallels, enough similarities, to draw Joker-sama back from the forgetful, quiet dreaming of This Side. To guide them, once again, here, in this new beginning place.
Where he wouldn't fuck things up.
(and sometimes, when the voices scream loudest, it is the memory of a slender, pale white hand brushing his, the memory of one single allowed kiss, of delicate lips beneath his, parting so very demurely, sweet so sweet, the single sweetest thing he could ever remember tasting, that silences them, even if only for a moment)
And he watches, and kills, and waits, and plans, chases shadows, while the voices in his head drive him on, a cacophony shrieking a frenzied litany of madness in his head, that sends him spinning in circles, chasing after a dream, a boy who was both more and less then a dream, an object of devotion.
(because it should have been that way to begin with. it should have been. all the voices agreed, driving him onwards, ever onwards, chasing shadows of memories until he cannot distinguish anymore).