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 Posted: Sun Mar 04, 2012 8:46 am
It was by complete and utter chance that Fritz found the newspaper kicked under his bed.
He had not intended to clean his room today, but considering Tolliver's constant harping, he thought it best to perhaps take note of the fact that, although he had been sneaking out for days to be Celsus and Tolliver probably knew this (the sneaking part, not the Celsus part), his brother had not said anything to him yet other than "don't get dirt on the rug" - and even then, it had been directed at the fact that he had traipsed inside one day, covered in muck from a particularly rainy day.
Fritz thought it best to perhaps throw a bone to his brother.
So, on a Saturday morning, he spent a good several hours cleaning out the rather stuffy room. It was not that it was messy; it was cluttered, filled with a wide assortment of a variety of things: paints, canvases, CD's, movies, a small mini-fridge for late-night snacks, some rolled up posters that he had yet to actually hang up, stacks of books, boxes of knickknacks, a heap of clothing beside his closet that he was supposed to have hung up a week ago, and a small bin of kitty toys for Crook - none of which he actually played with.
It was around noon when Fritz finally dropped down onto his knees to inspect beneath the bed. Despite a lot of dust, it was, in fact, surprisingly clean - all except the newspaper, which had been kicked towards the back, almost hitting the wall. Fritz stretched out his hands and grappled for it, dragging it out and expounding a lot of dust in the process. Coughing he, held up the paper automatically, eyes scanning the front page.
MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT - 60 CITIZENS DISAPPEAR FROM DESTINY CITY WITHOUT A TRACE.
Oh, it was that paper, thought Fritz, frowning a bit as he sat back, shaking out the yellowed newspaper. Though he knew that it had been widely recognized as a strange phenomenon, he had not thought to actually look at the papers, since most of the hype had occurred while he was up in the Surrounding. And this paper was dated during the time that he had been gone.
Which meant that Tolliver had gotten the paper, not him. It made sense. His brother had disappeared, and if Tolliver had disappeared, Fritz would have looked everywhere for an answer, read every article he could to get some sort of clue what had happened.
He folded the paper back up, still frowning as he set it atop of his desk, perched on a thick textbook from class. Had it really been so long since he had become a Knight of Chronos? It felt so recent, and yet...simultaneously, it didn't.
With a small sigh, Fritz pushed the paper away and resumed cleaning.
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Posted: Mon Mar 05, 2012 8:51 pm
▨ All Tied Up // Celsus + Remarque
In which there is much bickering and squabbling of two people who probably shouldn't have met again.
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Posted: Mon Mar 05, 2012 8:52 pm
▨ The Scent of Danger // Celsus + Lesath
In which Celsus complains about his heels and meets a certain DMS senshi.
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Posted: Wed Mar 07, 2012 7:05 am
▨ Back to Back Action // Celsus + Tsui
In which Celsus fights more youma and meets a tiger.
Sort of.
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Posted: Wed Apr 11, 2012 10:49 am
▨ Turning the Pages With My Feet // Celsus + H ebe
In which Celsus brings a special guest to his Wonder.
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Posted: Wed Apr 11, 2012 11:07 am
Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you felt so happy you could die
Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
But that was love and it's an ache I still remember
He supposed he probably should have cleaned off the canvas before starting a new painting, but Fritz was a) too lazy to actually get up and go find another one in the chaos of his room (which looked as though a tornado had blown through it) and b) someone who didn't believe in mistakes anyway. At least not when it came to art. When it came to art, every line made mattered, even if that line had been placed somewhere it hadn't been meant to be placed. That line that was supposed to be four inches to the left of the face? Turn it into something else, a tree branch perhaps. The ocean that was supposed to have turned out blue, but was actually purple when the paint dried on the canvas? The sky would turn a pinky yellow to match. And Fritz rather enjoyed placing this theory into life itself.
It was too bad that sometimes life wanted to negate this theory.
He was standing now in the center of the living room of the apartment he shared with his twin brother, dressed in a pair of old jeans, a teeshirt, and an apron so completely smeared with paint that it was difficult to tell what color it had been originally. His hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail and he had a paintbrush held in his teeth, another tucked behind one ear. Yet another was held in Fritz's hand, and he had it held up against the canvas, making long, sweeping strokes. Green melted into blue, turquoise smearing over the white.
"You're leaving? Just like that? Without saying goodbye? Are you serious?"
Another stroke of the brush, this time with a pale yellow, somewhere above the turquoise.
"Anna."
His voice sounded placating, even to his own ears. "Anna, please, this is my choice, and you should be happy with that."
She had glared at him, eyes full of anger. He could see the tears welling there, glistening in the vibrant blue. "Happy that you're just...walking away without me? That you're moving without an explanation? Why would you think I would be happy about that?"
He shrugged, fiddling with the yo-yo in his hand, uncertain as to what exactly to say. A small, hesitant smile was on his face - one that meant he felt awkward, but confused as to why she was acting this way. Didn't she care about him at all?
He asked her. Her expression was thunderous.
"Of course I care about you! Why do you think I'm so upset right now?"
A brush of pink now, mingling with the yellow. The resulting color was something pleasant, a pale, pastel section of happiness.
He did not know. This was what he had wanted for so long, and now that it was here, he only felt the triumph of his success, not the sadness of everything else. Was this how it was supposed to feel?
"Look," he tried. "Couldn't we still be - "
"Don't." She cut him off, one brusque word to silence him. "No. I'm not even going to answer that. Don't you care at all?"
Her voice was rising, almost a shriek now.
"Don't you love me?"
Fritz wondered whether adding red would be too harsh. He debated for a few moments, eyeing his half-finished canvas carefully.
He looked at her with surprise. "Of course I love you. This isn't about that, this is about the fact that I finally get a chance to do what I've always wanted to do."
"No!" she screamed, and it was unnerving, unpleasant. He took a step back. "No, if you loved me, you would stay here and you wouldn't be trying to break my heart!"
The red was too much. Too bright, too harsh and too vibrant for the painting, which was mostly made out of pastels. Fritz set it aside.
"I'm not trying to break your heart, Anna - " He tried consoling her, but she tore her arm away from him and ran away, back to her house, where he could not reach her anymore. He stood there for a few moments, his hand still outstretched, mid-motion.
He was almost finished now. Just a few more strokes, of white this time.
The London Heathrow Airport was crowded at this time of day, people bustling here and there, children with sweets and plush toys clutched to their chest, their mothers grasping their hands and tugging them this way and that. He stood at the gate, watching the airplanes as they rumbled towards the runway and took off, filling the air with noise and a rumbling that trembled beneath his feet.
It was almost time. He pulled the letter from his pocket, unfolded it and read the single line printed across the page in the neat, curly handwriting that was so familiar to him:
I don't want to be your friend. I'm sorry.
He folded it back up, tucked it away. His eyes found the gateway again.
It was time to go.
He was finished. Fritz took a step back from his canvas, his hands on his hips. The sky of the painting stretched from side to side, pale and pink and orange of the earliest morning, before the sun actually rose. The waters beneath were still and calm, a deep bluey green that contrasted well with the light sky.
Fritz pushed his hair away from his face, leaving a smear of blue against his cheek. A soft smile touched his face, his shoulders relaxing.
There were no mistakes.
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Posted: Sat Apr 14, 2012 2:48 pm
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Posted: Tue Jul 17, 2012 7:43 pm
▨ Deliberate Deliberation // Celsus + Order
In which there is a great deal of mess and noise.
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Posted: Wed Jul 25, 2012 2:06 pm
▨ Battle: Order vs. Chaos // Celsus + Order + Chaos
In which there is much fighting, squabbling, and confusion, and Celsus kicks a Captain in the face.
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Posted: Wed Jul 25, 2012 2:09 pm
▨ Moon City (Battle Follow-Up) // Celsus + Order
In which Celsus attempts to figure out what exactly is going on.
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Posted: Wed Jul 25, 2012 2:11 pm
▨ Ain't No Party Like a Zodiac Party // Fritz + Zodiacs
In which there is much partying and getting to know one another.
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Posted: Thu Sep 13, 2012 11:47 am
▨ Under the Destiny Sky // Celsus + Navi
In which Celsus runs into an old friend enemy.
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Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2012 6:57 pm
Fritz decides that in England, things were easier.
In England, it rained, it smelled of water and smoke and city and it was a chaotic mess of tourists and citizens and familiar accents and architecture and Earl Grey and all he wants to do sometimes is go back and be right in the middle of that mayhem all over again. In England, where he had grown up, he could trace the streets with his eyes and his feet and make a path for himself without ever thinking twice. In England he could grab a tag and take it downtown and spend the majority of his time simply admiring the cities around him or the countryside north.
In England, things were normal.
Fritz decides that before he was a Knight of Chronos, things were easier.
Being a Knight brings certain rewards. He feels good about what he is doing. He feels good about what he has accomplished. He knows it is good, this Knight business.
Being a Knight brings certain consequences. He has lied to his twin brother. He has snuck out of their shared flat. He has not seen his parents for years. He has not finished a single painting in weeks. Sometimes he comes home with bruises and scrapes and scratches that he cannot explain to Tolliver. He is losing his brother's trust.
Things were easier before everything collapsed around him. Things were easier before any of this happened.
Sometimes he feels as though there is something inside of him that is clawing to be set free, something twisting in the pit of his stomach, spreading blackness up his chest and into his throat. He cannot hope to understand what it is that he is missing, or what he still has yet to understand, but there is a general sense of anxiety associated with what he is doing.
He wants it.
He doesn't want it.
He feels trapped.
He feels free.
Fritz's emotions shift constantly, like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide that rises and settles again within a few seconds. There are times when he is so shrouded in shadows that nothing can seem to drag him out of it, not even his artwork, not even his brother. There are wounds that cannot heal, do not heal, will not heal. Physical wounds cannot compare to what lies in his still young mind. He is consumed from the inside out by his emotions, which are skyrocketing this way and that, confusing, messy, and frustrating.
When he looks in the mirror, he does not know if the reflection looking back at him is an accurate portrayal of who he is, what he wants to be, what he cannot be, and what he is.
The light is fading fast from the world of Frederick St. James.
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Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2012 7:10 pm
Tolliver is three and a half minutes older than him, as his brother constantly (and annoyingly, sometimes) reminds him. This means that he is the elder brother, which means he has some hold over Fritz and his well-being.
Fritz objects to this. Tolliver objects to his objection. They argue good naturedly, bicker, squabble, and finally end the whole thing piled onto the couch with Cokes and fish and chips and some biscuits and wind up watching The Lord of the Rings trilogy on repeat.
Fritz dreams of his twin.
Sometimes the dreams are bloody. He can see Tolliver dying, drenched in scarlet that spreads across his body like an awful, twisted flag of some sort. He can see him lying spread eagle on the ground, eyes staring blankly up at the sky without seeing it, his chest completely and utterly still, all of the breath gone from his body.
He can see a hand being plunged into Tolliver's chest, hear the raw, aching scream that erupts from his body as his body collapses, his energy being utterly drained until he is nothing but a shell with nothing in it.
Sometimes the dreams are good. He remembers when they were little and his parents taking them to the cinema or to the park or to the museums so they could see the statues and the paintings (Fritz had always loved the paintings, even at such a young age). He dreams of times long past, times that have happened in his life that have brought him great happiness.
But those dreams are few and far between.
Fritz knows he cannot keep the truth from Tolliver for much longer. Tolliver is his twin, after all, not just a brother. They are two sides of the same coin. They are not two halves a whole, because they are neither incomplete, but complete beings who are meant to stay with the other. They complement each other. They are light and dark and good and bad all twisted into one. They have been together since before birth. Fritz cannot read his brother's mind, nor can he sense when Tolliver is in trouble, as some twins have claimed to do, but he understands Tolliver enough to understand when he is pain and when he is upset and when he is happy.
He can read his brother's emotions like an open book because he knows him as well as he knows himself.
But how well does he know himself anymore? This is a question that lays unanswered in the back of Fritz's mind, like a book without an ending or a movie without a beginning. There will always be questions, but there will not always be answers. He is changing, and so is Tolliver.
He wonders what Tolliver thinks of him now.
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Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2012 7:22 pm
Fritz remembers reading a quote one day:
"Life isn’t difficult when no one understands you. It’s difficult when you don’t understand yourself. Who are you? Why are you? Whose are you?"
He doesn't remember who said it. He doesn't remember where he read it, or where it came from. All he remembers is that he read it and it was there, in his head.
This quote gets stuck in his head. It's what he thinks about as he stands in front of his blank white canvas, an apron tied around his waist, a paintbrush in hand. His usual supplies are set up around him, ready and waiting to be used. He had to dust a few of them off; it has been that long since he has set brush to canvas, pen to paper, pencil to sketchpad.
Out of all of these, he far and wide prefers painting to all else. There is something so very cathartic about painting, about the stroke of the brush across the canvas, the smell of the paint, the way the colors mix and mingle together to create something else entirely.
Sometimes Fritz wonders whether or not he can repaint himself. If he can mix himself with something else, with somebody else, with anything else, anything that would get him to become something different, to be something else, something other than what he is.
He does not hate himself, but he does not understand himself either.
Frederick St. James does not know what he wants anymore. He had thought that being a Knight would mean becoming something more than what he was, having a purpose in life, having an underlying meaning to all that he has been doing.
In a way, there has been. In a way, this is true. But there is something missing that he cannot seem to put his finger on. He knows that what he has been doing as Celsus, Squire of Chronos, is what is true and right and good. He fights for his beliefs and for what he stands for. He knows that much, at least, but sometimes he feels as though it is not enough.
Like he is never enough.
He wonders whether or not he will ever be enough.
The canvas remains white for the better part of the afternoon, drawing into evening. Fritz has paced the room with practiced steps until he has worn down the carpet in some places, and the setting sun is casting orange and purple-pink rays of color across the white walls of the studio room in the loft he shares with Tolliver. It has been so long since he has painted that he has lost his inspiration.
He does not know what to paint anymore.
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