Sakon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
arknes) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomweekly2020-09-28 07:12 pm
arknes) wrote in fandomweekly2020-09-28 07:12 pm
Entry tags:
[#68] black masks (Ayatsuri Sakon)
Theme Prompt: #68-- Mask
Title: black masks
Fandom: Ayatsuri Sakon
Rating/Warnings: G (Spoilers, Tiny Reference to Mature Content.)
Bonus: No
Word Count: 660
Summary: Sakon faces the usual anxieties, and he must cover them up and continue on.
He always feels it without Ukon: the knot of courage and anxiety fumbling in his stomach when he walks upon the stage.
The stage is his home. At least at a time like this, he knows. It's a mantra he repeats as the curtains open, remembering his grandfather telling him of his emotions, of the anxiety that he once felt. The wood slides against his shoes as it does, the chanting and beating of the drums echo through the building. The audience stares in awe, the feeling entrapping and captivating, just as they are with the performance. The weight of their gaze is massive, and if he blinks, he'll feel his knees buckle, and the importance crumbles on his frankly fair shoulders.
No reprieve will come; Sakon must look forward. There is no option to look back.
It's hard to gaze at all. Sakon must manage regardless.
The sleeves of the expensive garments— he has been wearing them forever, and yet he still manages to put them on wrong— bunch at his elbows. Fabric, bright and red and glowing, spreads over his arms. Unlike his grandfather and father, he is clumsy, unconfident, a doe in front of many. In Ukon's absence, that is. His thoughts are a reminder, and he can feel his grip on the puppet loosening as he grits the ideas back, trying to feel the puppet and its emotions -- the dull hum of loneliness, of the tale being told with seas and rivers cast on the vast backdrop.
The familiar lingering of Ukon's warmth glows in his fingers, but this isn't him; Meiji era puppets are far and few so beautiful and kept as Ukon, and the hardwood resonates dull compared to the lively joints. But nothing compares to Ukon. There is no way of diminishing the beauty of the other puppet, however. Still, his fingers slide against coils and wood pads, gritting his teeth once more, he raises the puppet to the sky, then swoops it to the ground—the puppet's hair swings.
Other disciples in black masks surround the puppet. After all, it takes many to control them, and he is not the only one feeling it. They must not feel the tension, but they are not him, and they are not the leader of a bunraku troupe, and they are not the man— boy —who spoke his aunt into not killing him. They look different, but it's him is. Sakon is not in a mask, the new head of the Tachibana troupe presenting his talents for the world to see. They are so confident, each move big and bold in spirit, each swing pushing him to grip the puppet and pull it to the beat.
The fabric of their clothes clings to their body under the damp stage lights, the hums and beats of drums and plucks of strings only making the movements strenuous. They are meant to fade into the background. Sakon still sees them. They are seen in their garbs and the clothes worn to the darkest blacks, and Sakon isn't sure if he can say the same for himself; he isn't seen. With Ukon, he knows he's visible; Sakon is there.
Rings of clapping and applause will come. It's how he knows he's being seen, even if the people's words don't satisfy him. But he's always being seen, no matter if he or anyone else is behind the mask. People are watching him see bunraku. Ventriloquism, puppets, bunraku — searching through his memories will only bring up that. Sakon loves it outside of the stage. The stage is no different than a playground of cherry trees, and the fact is clear, even if he feels transparent and unseen. This is no time to dwell in feelings.
He must present a show, whether he likes it or not.
Swallowing, Sakon closes his eyes. Savoring the blank against his eyes, the only break, he breathes and begins moves in front of the people once more.
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I especially enjoyed:
The wood slides against his shoes as it does, the chanting and beating of the drums echo through the building. The audience stares in awe, the feeling entrapping and captivating, just as they are with the performance. The weight of their gaze is massive, and if he blinks, he'll feel his knees buckle...
No reprieve will come; Sakon must look forward. There is no option to look back.
The sleeves of the expensive garments— he has been wearing them forever, and yet he still manages to put them on wrong— bunch at his elbows. Fabric, bright and red and glowing, spreads over his arms. Unlike his grandfather and father, he is clumsy, unconfident, a doe in front of many. In Ukon's absence, that is. His thoughts are a reminder, and he can feel his grip on the puppet loosening as he grits the ideas back, trying to feel the puppet and its emotions -- the dull hum of loneliness, of the tale being told with seas and rivers cast on the vast backdrop...
Still, his fingers slide against coils and wood pads, gritting his teeth once more, he raises the puppet to the sky, then swoops it to the ground—the puppet's hair swings.
Other disciples in black masks surround the puppet. After all, it takes many to control them, and he is not the only one feeling it. They must not feel the tension, but they are not him...
and
They are meant to fade into the background. Sakon still sees them. They are seen in their garbs and the clothes worn to the darkest blacks, and Sakon isn't sure if he can say the same for himself; he isn't seen.
You present such a cool moment in this fic and do so very well; I've never seen a bunraku performance but I can almost picture this one, and I kind of want to see a real one now! I also really like the use of the prompt in that Sakon is the only one who isn't in a mask, it's a very neat touch. I liked this one a lot!
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Hope you'll continue writing for this community!
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I really enjoyed this character bit: he has been wearing them forever, and yet he still manages to put them on wrong
This line stood out to me in particular and really set the whole tone for your story: No reprieve will come; Sakon must look forward. There is no option to look back.