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Apr. 10th, 2005 02:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pezYanagi/Yukimura writing that doesn't quite make it into a fic. But if it ever becomes a proper story, it'll be called...
Stop Trying
Yanagi cannot remember since when he has stopped believing in perfection, or absolutes, anymore. Funny thing really, considering his devotion to mathematics and statistics. He likes mathematics because it is absolute; he is either right, or wrong. Simple, no grey area to worry about.
But once, somebody told him a joke. There were two male kangaroos, one a mathematician and the other an engineer, hopping towards a female kangaroo. With each hop they shortened the distance to the female by a half. The mathematical kangaroo never made it to the female, because the principles of mathematics prevented him from reaching her. The engineer kangaroo got close to the female, considered himself close enough to safely claim the distance remaining equalled zero, and stole the female away.
Why Yanagi remembers this unfunny joke, he doesn't know. But it illustrates one thing clearly enough: that even though life is governed by mathematics, if he still insists upon it, he will never get anywhere.
As for statistics, well, statistics never lie; it only depends on how one presents it. Just as Niou has once said, years ago, "truth is only how you spin it."
Nothing is absolute, and nothing can be perfect. And if he is the engineer kangaroo, easing himself forward little by little, is he close enough to eliminate the remaining distance and just reach out, and touch him?
Yanagi does not know.
Yanagi sees him often. Everyday, to be exact.
The greenhouse is a place for plants to grow, to become strong, before being exposed to the harsh elements of the world, Yukimura always says. For most plants it is not a lifelong shelter; almost every one of them has a final destination, perhaps a sunny windowsill for the smaller ones, or a beautiful garden for the taller ones.
Every time Yanagi steps through the glass doors and sees Yukimura crouched down on the ground, tending to some flowers he cannot name, he wants to ask if Yukimura sees himself still inside his own greenhouse, or if he has grown out of it, and if he has, does he really find the world harsh? Why is it that he prefers to spend his life in this silent glass cage?
And then one day, Yukimura answers the question that has never made it past Yanagi's lips.
"Every plant inside this greenhouse is waiting for that one person to take it to a sunny windowsill, or a beautiful garden."
Yukimura is perhaps the strongest person Yanagi has ever met. Yukimura is not perfection, Yanagi knows this to be true, because he is close enough to him to know of those little quirks and bad habits. But even Yukimura's imperfection is perfect. Yanagi loves the imperfection that makes Yukimura who he is.
That sudden realisation, that the man he now calls his closest friend is the person he wants to spend his life with, has hit him with enough force to cause pain.
And it has never stopped hurting since then.
Gardening is an art Yanagi admits to never mastering, even though he spends time with Yukimura at the end of each day. But you can't master this, Yukimura says, because plants are alive and you need to adapt to their needs.
Perhaps Yanagi is just too scientifical to learn about the proper way to nurture something.
"That's not true." Yukimura takes Yanagi's hands into his own. "You've got beautiful hands, Renji. Hands like these can do anything."
Yanagi lowers his gaze onto their hands, and says nothing. Perhaps they can, apart from touching Yukimura.
Oftentimes, the closer he is, the further apart he feels they are.
Being able to touch him, if he ever dares to do it, makes it all the more obvious that he cannot touch him.
It is like the graph of y = 1/x. The line inches closer and closer to the axis, but never gets there. No matter how hard he tries, those last few inches are like lightyears worth of space, an endless void. He moves forward, but he will never cross that space. No matter how hard he tries, he remains the mathematical kangaroo, governed by rules and formulae.
If he is never going to get there, he may as well stop trying.
"When are you going to stop trying to touch me, and touch me?"
He has forgotten to consider one of the probabilities. That even though his pitiful hopping will never take him to his goal, the other kangaroo may not just stand there and wait for him. That plants, although unmoving, stretch their roots towards fertile soil, and grow towards the sun.
Infinity becomes zero when that hand rests on his cheek. The mathematical impossibility no longer exists; the space has been crossed.
Yanagi has no beautiful garden to offer.
But Yukimura will be his beautiful garden.
Stop Trying
Yanagi cannot remember since when he has stopped believing in perfection, or absolutes, anymore. Funny thing really, considering his devotion to mathematics and statistics. He likes mathematics because it is absolute; he is either right, or wrong. Simple, no grey area to worry about.
But once, somebody told him a joke. There were two male kangaroos, one a mathematician and the other an engineer, hopping towards a female kangaroo. With each hop they shortened the distance to the female by a half. The mathematical kangaroo never made it to the female, because the principles of mathematics prevented him from reaching her. The engineer kangaroo got close to the female, considered himself close enough to safely claim the distance remaining equalled zero, and stole the female away.
Why Yanagi remembers this unfunny joke, he doesn't know. But it illustrates one thing clearly enough: that even though life is governed by mathematics, if he still insists upon it, he will never get anywhere.
As for statistics, well, statistics never lie; it only depends on how one presents it. Just as Niou has once said, years ago, "truth is only how you spin it."
Nothing is absolute, and nothing can be perfect. And if he is the engineer kangaroo, easing himself forward little by little, is he close enough to eliminate the remaining distance and just reach out, and touch him?
Yanagi does not know.
Yanagi sees him often. Everyday, to be exact.
The greenhouse is a place for plants to grow, to become strong, before being exposed to the harsh elements of the world, Yukimura always says. For most plants it is not a lifelong shelter; almost every one of them has a final destination, perhaps a sunny windowsill for the smaller ones, or a beautiful garden for the taller ones.
Every time Yanagi steps through the glass doors and sees Yukimura crouched down on the ground, tending to some flowers he cannot name, he wants to ask if Yukimura sees himself still inside his own greenhouse, or if he has grown out of it, and if he has, does he really find the world harsh? Why is it that he prefers to spend his life in this silent glass cage?
And then one day, Yukimura answers the question that has never made it past Yanagi's lips.
"Every plant inside this greenhouse is waiting for that one person to take it to a sunny windowsill, or a beautiful garden."
Yukimura is perhaps the strongest person Yanagi has ever met. Yukimura is not perfection, Yanagi knows this to be true, because he is close enough to him to know of those little quirks and bad habits. But even Yukimura's imperfection is perfect. Yanagi loves the imperfection that makes Yukimura who he is.
That sudden realisation, that the man he now calls his closest friend is the person he wants to spend his life with, has hit him with enough force to cause pain.
And it has never stopped hurting since then.
Gardening is an art Yanagi admits to never mastering, even though he spends time with Yukimura at the end of each day. But you can't master this, Yukimura says, because plants are alive and you need to adapt to their needs.
Perhaps Yanagi is just too scientifical to learn about the proper way to nurture something.
"That's not true." Yukimura takes Yanagi's hands into his own. "You've got beautiful hands, Renji. Hands like these can do anything."
Yanagi lowers his gaze onto their hands, and says nothing. Perhaps they can, apart from touching Yukimura.
Oftentimes, the closer he is, the further apart he feels they are.
Being able to touch him, if he ever dares to do it, makes it all the more obvious that he cannot touch him.
It is like the graph of y = 1/x. The line inches closer and closer to the axis, but never gets there. No matter how hard he tries, those last few inches are like lightyears worth of space, an endless void. He moves forward, but he will never cross that space. No matter how hard he tries, he remains the mathematical kangaroo, governed by rules and formulae.
If he is never going to get there, he may as well stop trying.
"When are you going to stop trying to touch me, and touch me?"
He has forgotten to consider one of the probabilities. That even though his pitiful hopping will never take him to his goal, the other kangaroo may not just stand there and wait for him. That plants, although unmoving, stretch their roots towards fertile soil, and grow towards the sun.
Infinity becomes zero when that hand rests on his cheek. The mathematical impossibility no longer exists; the space has been crossed.
Yanagi has no beautiful garden to offer.
But Yukimura will be his beautiful garden.
