meme:25 lives

25 Lives, by Tongari

The very first time I remember you, you are blonde and don’t love me back.
The next time you are brunette, and you do.
After a while I give up trying to guess if the colour of your hair means anything. 
because even if you don’t exist, I am always in love with you.
I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together,
when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me.
I love how you play along with my bad ideas,
before you grow up and realize they are bad ideas.
(And in our times together I have many bad ideas.)
When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you.
Yet, always, you forgive me. 
As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for
all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist,
and the ones where we just, barely, never meet.
I hate those. I prefer the ones in which you kill me.
But when all’s said and done, I’d surrender to you in other ways.
Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder
is this the last time?
Is that really you?
And what if you’re perfectly happy
without me?
Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s only fair
that I should be the one
to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes 
until I find the one where you’ll return to me.

The very first time I remember you, you are blonde, and you don’t love me back. The next time you are brunette, and you do. After a while I give up trying to guess if the colour of your hair means anything, because even when you don’t exist, I’m always in love with you. I remember most fondly those lifetimes where we get to grow up together, when you share your secrets and sorrows and hiding places with me. I love how you play along with my bad ideas, before you grow up and realize they’re bad ideas. (And in our times together I have many many bad ideas.) When we meet as adults you’re always much more discerning. I don’t blame you. Yet, always, you forgive me. As if you understand what’s going on, and you’re making up for all the lifetimes in which one of us doesn’t exist, and the ones where we just, barely, never meet. I hate those. I refer the ones in which you kill me. But when all’s said and done, I’d rather surrender to you in other ways. Even though, each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder is this the last time? Is that really you? And what if you’re already perfectly happy without me? Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you’ll return to me.
—  25 Lives by Tongari
Letter to a Princess: a lifetime of Tongari's 25 lives

3/6/2013
“Is that really you…?”

If this is really you, then this lifetime probably wouldn’t be one of the best we’ve had (or will have). This lifetime, we started from nothing, like we usually do. Then turned to something so beautiful and wonderful, it felt like infinite… Invictum. But what happened? Why did it end this way? Why do we hate each other so much right now? Are we really supposed to end this lifetime like this? Should we really waste this chance?

Right now, as I write this letter, you probably have no Idea how angry I am at you. I know you’re angry at me too. I hate you… I hate you so much that it really hurts. As I pour out my emotions in this letter, your version of the poem plays. Intentionally repeating it. Hearing your voice over and over again. The more I hear it repeat, the angrier I get, the more painful it gets too… Hearing your sweet, soft, and tenuous voice makes me feel like you’re right there in front of me; talking to me directly, staring at me eye to eye, making me long for that feeling when I touch your tender face, and not to forget, your long, wavy, gorgeous hair… Something I probably wouldn’t ever feel in this (and probably even a couple more) lifetime again. I hate you and I miss you quite terribly.

Although this lifetime hasn’t ended yet, and whether or not we meet each other in this lifetime again, I’m sorry for what has happened, and what’s been happening. Maybe our timing was just off this time around. I wouldn’t really know. Regardless of what happened to us this lifetime, I’m glad I met you again. Thank you for the experience and learnings you’ve shared with me this lifetime. I hope it won’t be long ‘til the next lifetime where we can get to meet each other again.

If by any chance that you’re reading this now, I want you to know that I love you. I hate you. I miss you quite terribly. And I love you so much. And this isn’t even everything that I wanted to say to you. I’d write it down in this letter, but doing so would no longer make this a letter. That would turn out as a novel if I do so. I love you. I always will, even in the lifetimes where you don’t exist, I love you.

'til the next lifetime we meet each other.

-Chase

becketsenior-archive  asked:

Kiss me, quick!

Send me "Kiss me, quick!" and I’ll generate a number to see where my muse will have to kiss yours.

12. Old Scars

Chuck Andrew Hansen loves every part of Yancy Gregoire Becket. That’s the thing about love, and it’s probably the only thing his father taught him that he’ll carry will him forever. You don’t get to pick and choose the parts of a person you love. Take the good with the bad, the ugly with the beautiful, the sorrow with the sweet, or don’t bother at all. 

Chuck’s that kind of person, he supposes. All or nothing. If it’s not worth devoting yourself to completely — a hundred and ten fuckin’ percent — then it’s not worth the effort at all. Every part of Yancy Becket is worth all of Chuck Hansen, and more. Beyond.

Yancy still gets uncomfortable with his scars, with the faint pearly lines and the splotchy burn marks, the jagged edges and the precision surgical cuts. Chuck loves every part of Yancy Becket, and those damn scars were the first thing about him that Chuck fell for.

Yance came back from the dead. Every scar a story. Chuck loves those scars. He’s never said it out loud, not once. Nothing beyond a quiet dismissal of Yancy’s fear that Chuck found them distasteful or thought of him as anything less than whole. Yancy is who he is, scars and all, and instead of saying anything out loud — because Chuck is not always so sure with his vocabulary, his tongue is always fickle and he says the wrong thing so often — he simply makes it a point to press his fingertips to the lines on Yancy’s shoulder. To let his lips linger on the old scratches on his face. To take Yancy’s left hand in both of his and rub each finger, even the dead ones.

Love is the language that you speak without words, Chuck figures. It’s almost a good thing that he can’t trust his own tongue worth a damn unless it’s tracing down the scars on Yancy’s hips, can’t make his lips work right beyond pressing them to the seam behind Yancy’s ear. It’s almost a blessing. Yancy speaks that tactile language, the one of touch and taste and things you can feel against your skin.

Chuck Hansen loves every part of Yancy Becket, and he says it with the touch of lips to old hurts.