Pairing: Dan Howell/ Phil Lester and PJ Liguori/ Chris Kendall
Warnings: Swearing and eventual fluff/smutt (so much fluff in this chapter I’m not even sorry.)
Summary: AU- Super powers. Dan’s not normal. In fact, he’s never met a single person exactly like him. No one else can move objects with their mind, just by a simple thought. He lives life carefully, limited interactions and semi-non-existent social life. That is, until a pair of sapphire blue eyes change everything. Dan Howell/Phil Lester, PJ Liguori/ Chris Kendall.
Notes: Ahhh okay the moment is finally here. Be prepared for a crap load of fluff to happen. But enjoy it while you can, after all, what’s life with out some angst? Enjoy C:
OH MY GOD!
For once I actually found the book an excerpt on a standardized test is from!
“Kiichi Shimano, the head sensei of the Daizen School of Calligraphy, gazed out of his studio into the garden. An autumn breeze had plucked crimson leaves from the maple tree and scattered them on the moss-covered grounds in a pattern that was random yet had strong balance and lively rhythm. So easy for nature, so difficult for the artist. The difference must be that the artist creates art by thinking and feeling. Nature creates its art with neither; it is merely obeying simple rules-gravity, the force of the wind, the change in seasons-combined in infinite ways.
Daizen sensei picked up his calligraphy brush as he focused on the Japanese kanji characters for ‘crimson.’ The word was part of the poem that he had started:
Not much of a poem, he would have admitted.
There was not enough time to write better poetry, not since he had been named twenty-ninth head sensei of the Daizen school a few months earlier. Scheduling, practice sessions, assigning students to the school’s instructors, judging competitions, dealing with the school’s finances; these were a few of the many duties he had inherited as Daizen sensei. And there were the interviews, the latest was just that morning, a live broadcast for an Osaka television station’s morning show. The interviewer, though enthusiastic, seemed only interested in superficial aspects of shodô: 'What kind of brush do you use? Where do you get your ink? How often do you practice? For how long?’ Exhausting her repertoire, she had asked his age and, when he answered, she christened him the 'Young Sensei. Only thirty-four years -fifteen to twenty years younger than the usual age of a new head sensei - he was the second youngest Daizen sensei. The youngest had been the samurai Sakata, and was known as the father of the current era of competitive Japanese calligraphy.
The reporter asked one final question: How well did the Young Sensei think he would do in the next Daizen-Kurokawa competition? Daizen sensei had anticipated that question, and had prepared a brief history of the competition in case she asked. In 1659, Sakata and the founder of the Kurokawa school initiated the Daizen-Kurokawa Calligraphy Competiiton, still the most prestigious in Japan. Held every three years since, the competition helped assure that the two schools maintained their eminence.
Daizen sensei answered that he didn’t know how he would do but he would try hard to do his best.
He hoped the reporter would have asked him why calligraphy done correctly is imbued with spiritual power. He wanted her to ask him why calligraphy takes so much dedicated practice to achieve even a mediocre level of accomplishment. He wished she had asked why one should study such an old art form in these days of the popular mass media.
She had asked none of those questions.”
-Todd Shimoda, The Fourth Treasure
There is a soft, fragile body buried under the Chinese maple in the backyard. There is ivy clinging to the tree, ivy that has been growing tall with me since I was a child. I had climbed the tree in my childhood, and the nails that once supported small wooden steps are now half-sunken into the bark, swallowed by the tree itself.
The body was buried amongst the roots, so that it might nourish the tree and the ivy; so that its death might feed into another life. So that the circle might not end.
When the body was buried, flowers were planted atop the freshly tilled soil, and petals of yellow and white and purple were scattered about the base of the tree.
Years passed and the petals withered away and the flowers died and a thick layer of moss grew over the resting place of the small body. Under the shade of the maple leaves, the ground became thick with tall grasses and tiny wildflowers, and the ivy grew in fat vines around the trunk of the tree.
None of us could tell if the death of one being had enabled the growth of such lush plant life, in what had once been a barren, shady patch of the backyard. The place became one of contemplation, of serenity. An old metal chair, coated in chipped blue paint was placed under the tree to aid periods of thoughtful meditation.
When I was fifteen I watched my mother sit in the robin’s-egg-blue chair and cry for the death of her father. Her tears fell, heavy with grief, onto the ground. At eighteen, I curled up on the bed of moss under the tree and heaved with the pain of a broken heart. I wished for the solitary strength of the old tree.
The tree was nourished with death and watered with tears, but it is willful and does not bend or break even in the worst storms. Its leaves bloom red and cheerful each spring and the branch I used to hang from as a child still supports my weight. It is a tree of strength, it is a tree of remembrance, it is a tree of support.
It is a tree of life.