...I am dead.
The good:
I'm applying for summer work as we speak! But in the mean time, I'm going to cross my fingers and hope I get one of the jobs... I really don't want to stress about this during finals.
The bad:
...The workload is piling up. Our 354 lecturer also gave us our assignment, which is due on 9 October. The test, he said quite cheerfully, is after the 12 October.
Bah. I suppose at least I know now instead of wondering when the assignment and test is going to smack me in the face.
The unproductive:
Wow, is it my imagination...or did I actually write something without much angst for WoF? It seems a bit odd amidst all the angst in the previous chapters.
The next day brought more tension. Except, this time, the tension was more bearable and less constrained. Less fraught with hidden meanings and anger against a threat far more subtle than they would have expected. What could be more deadly than fighting within? Gozaburo had taught them to work together, to fight and turn towards each other against a common enemy-it made Seto uneasy to realise how quickly they had unravelled, how easily Seto had drifted from plans and agreements they had made early on. Yet, Seto couldn't entirely regret it either.
Won't help me to think about all this now, Seto thought, as he watched Yami run a hand through Mokuba's hair in greeting. It was a routine of a kind; each morning was spent in comfortable, content silence-sometimes filled with bantering, sometimes not. Each morning, they had breakfast, got ready, and then left to do what ever it was they had needed to do-usually together, but sometimes apart and even then, the separation never lasted long. This morning, Seto wanted it to be like those other mornings, and thinking about what had been settled a short time ago was only going to make that wish impossible.
Yami looked up at that very moment, and Seto thought time had stopped. He stilled, breath caught and held as the moment went on, and then, Yami's lips twitched and his eyes softened, and Seto breathed out a soft exhalation. Seto watched, more at ease than before, as Yami greeted him with a gentle touch on his arm-nothing obvious, nothing loud, like a shout echoing and echoing and echoing-but subtle and soft: private. Intimate. Something that was solely theirs.
Mokuba coughed and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling slyly, face bright. “You guys already have a room for that.”
“Have a room for what?” Yami said, raising an eyebrow innocently, which had Mokuba snickering into his plate of eggs and bacon.
Seto discretely smiled from behind a cup of dark coffee he’d picked up, and thought if he could have this forever, then he would never ask for anything else.
It was a wistful, naïve thought-one Seto would find himself wishing on rare occasions when the contentment of the moment would catch him by surprise-but thoughts like those never lasted, and Seto would brush them off afterwards, like the casual sprinkle of lint that stuck to his coats no matter where he hung them.
“Ha! You know exactly what I mean,” Mokuba said, brandishing his fork loudly. “Don’t me say it-I’m too young to say things like that. Right, Seto?”
Yami chortled from behind his napkin, covering his mouth in what Seto thought was an entirely unsubtle way. Seto knew when he was being laughed at.
He snorted. “You’re absolutely correct.”
“Translation: you will never say or even think about things like that until I am ready,” Yami intoned dryly. “I will be ready whenever I am ready-do not ask, do not tell, and let me keep my illusions when you feel you are ready. Also, I will kill anyone who would dare to think about you in that way with my briefcase.”
Seto gave Yami an affronted look. “As if I would ever stain my briefcase with the blood of those beneath me.”
Yami grinned unrepentantly and insincerely offered, “Kill with a random violent object or objects near at hand?”
“Exactly.” Seto tilted his head approvingly, while Mokuba erupted into a sea of giggles.
“How efficient,” Yami said, eyes crinkled up in mirth. “Just remember to get rid of the mess later. You’re very quick on the uptake, but not so patient with the aftermath.”
Seto sighed amusedly. “You leave bloodstains and a piece of broken glass just that one time and they never let you forget it. What is this world coming to?”
“Being clean?” Yami turned away as he silently laughed, but Seto caught a glimpse of it anyway. He threw his crumpled up piece of napkin at him, inciting a gasp from Mokuba.
“Uh oh…” Mokuba’s eyes grew round in delight as Yami’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t just do that,” Yami growled.
“Oh, but I just did,” Seto said smugly.
Mokuba clapped his hands gleefully. “Let the war begin!”
And then, I started a Tien Li fic on last Saturday. What was I thinking? Obviously, I was writing instead of thinking. XD
The rain felt like small bullets. Harsh, heavy, and painful, each drop leaving a small a bleeding wound that Tien Li couldn't close. The wound was raw, itching at each step he took, at each every sight he encounted. The fresh, dewy air he breathed in felt more like sharp icicles, scratching at the back of his throat.
Tien Li drew his coat closer and walked on, unseeing. Twenty-three steps until he hit the magazine corner-store.Thirty-five steps until he reached the back alley where he first saw a young, tear-faced boy. Forty-seven steps until he reached the apartment he now shared with that young, tear-faced boy -- now older, not a boy anymore -- but who still acted like magic still existed, like love would triumph above all else: as if loyalty would never break. Fifty-nine steps until he reached the abandoned warehouse they sometimes took refuge.
Sixty-one miles until he reached the large mansion where Tien Shue and Kiichi now lived.
He breathed out, and pulled his coat tighter around his neck; the material was wet and uncomfortable, heavy with the scent of rain and smoke. His neck was slick and sticky, smothered by the collar of his coat and cooled by every raindrop that slid down.
Thirty-seven steps now, until he reached his apartment. Sixty-one miles still, until he reached Kiichi. Tien Shue. Kiichi and Tien Shue -- no, Kiichi and Haruomi. He needed to remember that: it was Haruomi now. The brother he had, the brother he hated -- loved -- was gone, and the specter left behind only had room in his heart for one person.
Tien Li couldn't blame him for that. Not when it was Kiichi.
His hands were cold, chilled, from rain, and numb from everything else -- the memories were always strongest when he was cold and wet, with the sky dark and grey, and heavy with turmoil. He could still feel Kiichi in his arms, head turned towards him. Murmuring someone else's name. He could see the church, feel the red-hot fever running through him as he ran and ran, looking for Kiichi, always looking for Kiichi, because Kiichi hadn't come back. He could remember what it felt like, the first time he wanted to have something other than revenge. How it had felt, that first time, to want something more than revenge.
Sixy-one miles. Not a very long journey, if he drove the way he wanted to. If he wanted to.
His feet made small splashes, as he continued walking steadily. His pace was slow, mindful, but firm. Even if his mind was far, far away, his body knew what to do; his feet knew where to take him. It was automatic now, which steps to take, when to turn left, turn right, when to stop. When to go. As long as his feet took him in the right direction, Tien Li could afford to be distracted.
There were reasons he liked walking through the rain. There were also reasons why he hated sitting in the inside of their apartment, dry and restless, slowly burning up. Waiting, maybe. Waiting and wanting, and remembering things he shouldn't be.
Wanting things he couldn't have.
Things he did have at one time, even if it was cold and wet, the rain cacooning them in a space entirely theirs.
Tien Li shook himself, shook away the wet rivets that dripped onto his eyes, like tears he never shed. The chill which had permeated his entire body now felt like it belonged there, as if he had never been other than cold, as if the fire in his belly, the burn in his heart, had never really existed.
Maybe it never had. Maybe it was just in his head, the past blurring with the present, until he didn't know left from right, right from left.
The rain continued falling heavily as Tien Li continued walking. Yi Shin would be worried, no doubt, and nag at him once he got back. He'd say, I told you it was going to rain, and Tien Li would say, Yeah, and I told you to shut it. Then Yi Shin would seeth and make noises, while Tien Li went into the bathroom to wash away the smell of rain and smoke.
I'm applying for summer work as we speak! But in the mean time, I'm going to cross my fingers and hope I get one of the jobs... I really don't want to stress about this during finals.
The bad:
...The workload is piling up. Our 354 lecturer also gave us our assignment, which is due on 9 October. The test, he said quite cheerfully, is after the 12 October.
Bah. I suppose at least I know now instead of wondering when the assignment and test is going to smack me in the face.
The unproductive:
Wow, is it my imagination...or did I actually write something without much angst for WoF? It seems a bit odd amidst all the angst in the previous chapters.
The next day brought more tension. Except, this time, the tension was more bearable and less constrained. Less fraught with hidden meanings and anger against a threat far more subtle than they would have expected. What could be more deadly than fighting within? Gozaburo had taught them to work together, to fight and turn towards each other against a common enemy-it made Seto uneasy to realise how quickly they had unravelled, how easily Seto had drifted from plans and agreements they had made early on. Yet, Seto couldn't entirely regret it either.
Won't help me to think about all this now, Seto thought, as he watched Yami run a hand through Mokuba's hair in greeting. It was a routine of a kind; each morning was spent in comfortable, content silence-sometimes filled with bantering, sometimes not. Each morning, they had breakfast, got ready, and then left to do what ever it was they had needed to do-usually together, but sometimes apart and even then, the separation never lasted long. This morning, Seto wanted it to be like those other mornings, and thinking about what had been settled a short time ago was only going to make that wish impossible.
Yami looked up at that very moment, and Seto thought time had stopped. He stilled, breath caught and held as the moment went on, and then, Yami's lips twitched and his eyes softened, and Seto breathed out a soft exhalation. Seto watched, more at ease than before, as Yami greeted him with a gentle touch on his arm-nothing obvious, nothing loud, like a shout echoing and echoing and echoing-but subtle and soft: private. Intimate. Something that was solely theirs.
Mokuba coughed and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling slyly, face bright. “You guys already have a room for that.”
“Have a room for what?” Yami said, raising an eyebrow innocently, which had Mokuba snickering into his plate of eggs and bacon.
Seto discretely smiled from behind a cup of dark coffee he’d picked up, and thought if he could have this forever, then he would never ask for anything else.
It was a wistful, naïve thought-one Seto would find himself wishing on rare occasions when the contentment of the moment would catch him by surprise-but thoughts like those never lasted, and Seto would brush them off afterwards, like the casual sprinkle of lint that stuck to his coats no matter where he hung them.
“Ha! You know exactly what I mean,” Mokuba said, brandishing his fork loudly. “Don’t me say it-I’m too young to say things like that. Right, Seto?”
Yami chortled from behind his napkin, covering his mouth in what Seto thought was an entirely unsubtle way. Seto knew when he was being laughed at.
He snorted. “You’re absolutely correct.”
“Translation: you will never say or even think about things like that until I am ready,” Yami intoned dryly. “I will be ready whenever I am ready-do not ask, do not tell, and let me keep my illusions when you feel you are ready. Also, I will kill anyone who would dare to think about you in that way with my briefcase.”
Seto gave Yami an affronted look. “As if I would ever stain my briefcase with the blood of those beneath me.”
Yami grinned unrepentantly and insincerely offered, “Kill with a random violent object or objects near at hand?”
“Exactly.” Seto tilted his head approvingly, while Mokuba erupted into a sea of giggles.
“How efficient,” Yami said, eyes crinkled up in mirth. “Just remember to get rid of the mess later. You’re very quick on the uptake, but not so patient with the aftermath.”
Seto sighed amusedly. “You leave bloodstains and a piece of broken glass just that one time and they never let you forget it. What is this world coming to?”
“Being clean?” Yami turned away as he silently laughed, but Seto caught a glimpse of it anyway. He threw his crumpled up piece of napkin at him, inciting a gasp from Mokuba.
“Uh oh…” Mokuba’s eyes grew round in delight as Yami’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t just do that,” Yami growled.
“Oh, but I just did,” Seto said smugly.
Mokuba clapped his hands gleefully. “Let the war begin!”
And then, I started a Tien Li fic on last Saturday. What was I thinking? Obviously, I was writing instead of thinking. XD
The rain felt like small bullets. Harsh, heavy, and painful, each drop leaving a small a bleeding wound that Tien Li couldn't close. The wound was raw, itching at each step he took, at each every sight he encounted. The fresh, dewy air he breathed in felt more like sharp icicles, scratching at the back of his throat.
Tien Li drew his coat closer and walked on, unseeing. Twenty-three steps until he hit the magazine corner-store.Thirty-five steps until he reached the back alley where he first saw a young, tear-faced boy. Forty-seven steps until he reached the apartment he now shared with that young, tear-faced boy -- now older, not a boy anymore -- but who still acted like magic still existed, like love would triumph above all else: as if loyalty would never break. Fifty-nine steps until he reached the abandoned warehouse they sometimes took refuge.
Sixty-one miles until he reached the large mansion where Tien Shue and Kiichi now lived.
He breathed out, and pulled his coat tighter around his neck; the material was wet and uncomfortable, heavy with the scent of rain and smoke. His neck was slick and sticky, smothered by the collar of his coat and cooled by every raindrop that slid down.
Thirty-seven steps now, until he reached his apartment. Sixty-one miles still, until he reached Kiichi. Tien Shue. Kiichi and Tien Shue -- no, Kiichi and Haruomi. He needed to remember that: it was Haruomi now. The brother he had, the brother he hated -- loved -- was gone, and the specter left behind only had room in his heart for one person.
Tien Li couldn't blame him for that. Not when it was Kiichi.
His hands were cold, chilled, from rain, and numb from everything else -- the memories were always strongest when he was cold and wet, with the sky dark and grey, and heavy with turmoil. He could still feel Kiichi in his arms, head turned towards him. Murmuring someone else's name. He could see the church, feel the red-hot fever running through him as he ran and ran, looking for Kiichi, always looking for Kiichi, because Kiichi hadn't come back. He could remember what it felt like, the first time he wanted to have something other than revenge. How it had felt, that first time, to want something more than revenge.
Sixy-one miles. Not a very long journey, if he drove the way he wanted to. If he wanted to.
His feet made small splashes, as he continued walking steadily. His pace was slow, mindful, but firm. Even if his mind was far, far away, his body knew what to do; his feet knew where to take him. It was automatic now, which steps to take, when to turn left, turn right, when to stop. When to go. As long as his feet took him in the right direction, Tien Li could afford to be distracted.
There were reasons he liked walking through the rain. There were also reasons why he hated sitting in the inside of their apartment, dry and restless, slowly burning up. Waiting, maybe. Waiting and wanting, and remembering things he shouldn't be.
Wanting things he couldn't have.
Things he did have at one time, even if it was cold and wet, the rain cacooning them in a space entirely theirs.
Tien Li shook himself, shook away the wet rivets that dripped onto his eyes, like tears he never shed. The chill which had permeated his entire body now felt like it belonged there, as if he had never been other than cold, as if the fire in his belly, the burn in his heart, had never really existed.
Maybe it never had. Maybe it was just in his head, the past blurring with the present, until he didn't know left from right, right from left.
The rain continued falling heavily as Tien Li continued walking. Yi Shin would be worried, no doubt, and nag at him once he got back. He'd say, I told you it was going to rain, and Tien Li would say, Yeah, and I told you to shut it. Then Yi Shin would seeth and make noises, while Tien Li went into the bathroom to wash away the smell of rain and smoke.