this took forever wtf
Title: ASD;LAFJASFL;anfsd
Series: LOVELESS
Characters|Pairing: Seimei/Ritsuka
Rating: pg-13 I THINK
Warnings: non-explicit incest and seimei's incredible creepiness. and language, but the language warning is useless by now
Notes: WRITEN FOR barreled, AND IS PORN-FREE TO BALANCE OUT HER SMUT. lmfao i have no idea where some of it came from and i think i deserve to be shot. seimei is difficult as hell to grasp, the creepy bastard. this reads more like a bunch of shorter things than anything whole. i am not happy with it, especially not the ending, but if i did not post it i would have taken 2 months to finish it or something. i hope this is okay bb ♥
ugh first try at loveless!fic ever, and i haven't even read any before, save for YOURS BB lmfao. kk lets see how this goes [/ramble]
Everything is filth.
Everything dripped of poison and dirt and the very essence of overwhelming disgust, the stench of rotted flesh that never left your mind, the stain that you wash and you wash and you wash but could never entirely clean. They said life was wonderful, life was beautiful, but he (never even heard) never listened to them anyway- because he could hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes. When they spoke it was empty and hollow, when they moved it was cold and stiff, and every word was a ragged whisper of dust and worms and dirt and cobwebs because there was nothing, nothing under their skins. They would look at him and they would smile and he could taste the revulsion welling up in his gut, rolling up onto his tongue- and in instinct his lips would twist into a picture-perfect smile. He'd answer to their so-called voices, to the echoes they made in their dead and cobwebbed throats, and he would laugh, close his eyes lightly to slip into too-pleasant laugh (the kind so pleasant it would taste like venom), because then he wouldn't have to see. Because then he wouldn't have to look into their eyes to see the life they pretended they had, because he was better than that, he didn't need to see it.
He didn't hate them (didn't hate anything- nothing was worth hating) but he would never let them touch him (never, these damned corpses that pretended they could breathe).
Some of them were black- black with hatred and black with decay. They painted their rotten world in their colors, these humans, red like hatred and disgust and gray like the fade-to-white of their lives, blue like the sorrow they claimed to feel, like the sky they reached for with grasping hands. Their colors were never true, never pure, dodging and hiding behind each other just pretending to be real- he was black, he thought, but not black like the others. Solid, unmistakable, unquestionable, unknowable and perfect and not white because there was no white and he was black, could never be stained by them. The world was never white, never pure, but all they did was stain and destroy it and dirty it with their fucking disgusting filth- and he thought, the world was never for them. Never for them, just for him, and he'd take it back someday, he'd wipe it clean- no, he'd destroy it. Destroy it and create a new world, in it's place, and only he deserved it.
He wasn't like them, anyway, he knew it from the start. He was different.
He never thought himself as some kind of a god- but he quite fancied the name, when he heard it on his servant's lips. They walked through their world pretending things were pretty and perfect and pure, smooth and white and untainted by anything- but they're made of the dirt, made of stains, every single one of them, and if that's what it meant to be human- then well, he wasn't. Wasn't human at all. Wasn't mortal. Wasn't normal.
(He was just as dead as the rest of them, really, but what made him different was that he didn't try to lie.)
He was something better, and everything was filth.
---
He stared.
He wasn't sure what to make of the thing when he first saw it. Pink and fleshy and-- soft. Skin that looked flawless, smooth and perfect, black velvet kitten-ears folded softly against it's skull. It's small- almost disturbingly so, tiny little fingers that grasped onto everything they could. It's eyes were wide- a shade of violet-gray, shining with curiosity and confusion and a permanent sleepiness- it looks helpless. Weak. Pathetic. It made a sound that he'd heard before, from a distance, but never quite so close, screaming and yelling and tears leaking out of it's eyes.
He had always been disgusted by such creatures, but somehow this one was different.
He's your little brother, he remembers them saying.
This thing. Related to him. To him. The thought is ridiculous, condemning, insulting. He was above mere mortality, above everything, and it was just another stain upon this unsightly world- it was black and gray and red and- no. He stared at it, and it didn't pretend, didn't try, but just was- just was and stared back at him, unafraid, uncomprehending. It didn't know who Seimei was, what he was, didn't know that he was something to be respected, to be feared. But he didn't want to turn away, didn't want to leave, just studied it quietly as it stared back at him, bundled in soft-cotton cloth.
And he thought to himself that he'd never seen anything so... white.
It was fascinating, in an odd way, that something so pale and light and clean could exist. He knew, he realized, right there and then, that something so white, something so innocent and helpless could never survive in this world, would be stained and destroyed or else die with the rest- and it would die beautifully, he thought. Die spectacularly in flames and it would burn, burn like everything else- and it that was it was smooth and pure but flawed, hairline cracks that ran along the porcelain. Nothing like it could live for very long, and somehow that- somehow, he realized, he was annoyed at the thought. Disgusted. Maybe even hated it (he'd never before thought that he could feel- it was a human thing, but so he did, and he didn't pretend that it wasn't there- instead he looked at it, turned it around in his mind's eye with a cold fascination, wondering just what it was).
They told him it's name, and he echoed it in his thoughts.
He reached out- actually reached out- and brushed a hand against it's cheek. It jolted, turned back to stare at him- and it did feel soft, smooth and perfect as it looked, nothing like the dead skins that brushed against him in the daily crowd. He kept his hand there, marvelling at this thing, so perfect and innocent and soon-to-be-destroyed, staring up at him like it knew nothing else in the world, like he had it's full devotion.
"Ritsuka," he murmured, not really noticing. The thing heard his voice, peered up at him with eager eyes, ears perking slightly as he rolled the name around his tongue.
It tasted sweet and pure, and he decided that it was his.
---
It's been years.
"Seimei?"
Ritsuka says his name so differently, he ponders. Everyone else, with their dry voices and rasping throats, coated his name with respect and fear, sometimes even with senseless devotion. But Ritsuka- he said it lightly, casually. Ritsuka made no secret of his devotion, never tried to pretend, or hide- Ritsuka just was. He loved the way the boy said his name, loved it more than he cared to admit, loved his voice, loved the way it sounded. The way he looked at him and didn't hide anything, showed everything right on his face in his voice and in his eyes, made no secret that Seimei was Ritsuka's world, Seimei was everything, and that most of all Ritsuka loved Seimei, more than anything else.
(It was not nearly enough.)
"Hm? He looks puts down his book patiently, turning around in the chair, to see the boy sitting up at the bed. Ritsuka isn't looking at him but at his own fingers, fiddling and twitching uneasily, ears twitching slightly as they pressed against his skull- his cheeks were tinged lightly with color, and Seimei smiled quietly (it was genuine and real and for no one but Ritsuka). So... cute. So fucking cute he wanted to reach out and stroke him and hold him close and crush him between his fingers because it would be simple, too simple, to destroy something so pure. "I thought you were sleeping, Ritsuka."
He was fond of the name.
(Ritsuka. Ritsuka. Ritsuka.)
The boy's other name was irrelevant. It wasn't his own, and that irritated him more than anything, because Ritsuka couldn't be anyone else's but had to be his.
"Ahh..." Ritsuka turns a deeper color, glances away sheepishly. His tail twitches nervously, flicking back and forth, and he plays with the sheets. Seimei just watches, watches and studies and smiles at the creased frown on the boy's forehead, his uncertain eyes, the way his hand fisted into the white-white blanket and clenched tightly, twisting and turning and--
"I was just thinking," Ritsuka said brightly, smiling again, looking up. "I want to give you a present!"
Seimei leaned his chin casually against his hand, watching the boy look at him, as though beaming with pride at his own decision- he still wonders how Ritsuka can be so pale, from slender arms to the delicate curve of his (he could reach out and just choke it) throat. He still wonders how Ritsuka manages to be so beautiful and so flawed, like his soft, soft skin and the bandages plastered against his wounds. He still wonders how Ritsuka is so frail, so fragile, how easy he would be to break.
"Oh?" He replies, with a tilt of the head and a good-natured smile, leaning forwards just ever so slightly. "What kind of a present, Ritsuka?"
(Ritsuka. Ri-tsu-ka. Ritsuka.)
"I want to give you my ears," the boy says confidently, without hesitation.
Seimei pauses.
It's tempting, he would have to admit, so very tempting, as he watched Ritsuka's fingers fiddle endlessly with the sheets. So pure and white and unstained and it would be a thing, such a beautiful thing to break and- how could something like this survive in such a rotten world? It can't. It will not survive. It will die, die in a beautiful flame that burned burned burned and roared with sparks and light, but he would not let it burn. No, this thing was his, his to own and his to keep, and if he had to taint it to keep it than so be it. If it had to be tainted and stained and broken, he would do it himself.
(But not yet.)
He laughs. "Do you know what you're saying, Ritsuka?"
(Ritsuka-Ritsuka-Ritsuka--)
It's a rare thing, for him, to laugh, but Ritsuka seems to love the sound, as startled as the boy seems by it every time. Ritsuka's ears perked slightly, then folded back, and he looked away sheepishly (Seimei wanted to just go over there and tear him apart but not kill him, never kill him, why would he do something like that?).
"Um, I just heard people talking about it before," Ritsuka said, and his cheeks were flushed with color.
People. It annoyed Seimei, to hear (his) Ritsuka talk about these people. Ritsuka would learn, that they weren't worthy, weren't good enough, that they were just empty, hollow things not deserving of the breaths they pretended to have- but Ritsuka liked the little things. He liked to watch the clouds and make up things that weren't there, he liked to talk about flowers and friendships and things. Seimei would listen, but he never understood- like the butterflies that Ritsuka liked so much, pretty as they were. Even they would crumble and fall into kaleidoscope dust, into the worms and the dirt back into the rotting world like everything else. Seimei never- no, it was Ritsuka who didn't understand. He was too innocent, too pure, didn't know anything of the world- but he didn't need to. Didn't need to understand, because Seimei would do it for him.
Seimei showed nothing and made a quiet sound of acknowledgement, a signal for Ritsuka to continue.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to give them to you, but they said that you should give it to the person who you love the most!"
Oh, Seimei thought to himself, and his smile widened, ever-so-slightly. He played with a curl of his hair, staring intently at the dark strands that fell past Ritsuka's ears, just below his eyes.
"I love Seimei the most," Ritsuka continued, with a sort of finality to his voice.
He stood up. He moved with an unnatural grace, pushing himself off the chair and seating himself on the edge of his bed in one fluid motion. He took the boys hand (so delicate and fragile) and pressed it to his lips, a soft, gentle kiss- Ritsuka shuddered slightly, but didn't move, but he could see the confusion flicker across Ritsuka's eyes and he took delight in it. He tasted just like his name always had, sweet and pure- and it was his. Only his. No one else. His to have, his to own, his to taint and break if he so wished.
Besides, Ritsuka seemed so certain. So confident. Like he'd already made the choice. It would break his heart to turn Ritsuka down, wouldn't it?
"Maybe," he said, light-hearted and casual to match his smile. He reached out to stroke Ritsuka's ears, soft velvet to the touch. "But you look so cute with them," he teased, and wrapped the boy in his arms, pulling Ritsuka against his own chest and resting his chin on his head. "You should keep them awhile longer, don't you think?"
Ritsuka squirmed against him before settling down, resting his head against the crook of his brother's shoulder. "....Okay," he murmured sleepily, his eyelids beginning to droop. "But you'll take them, right?"
"I suppose," Seimei said softly against Ritsuka's hair, winding his fingers through the boy's hand, clasping it lightly. "I love Ritsuka the most, too, after all."
"I love you more," Ritsuka insisted stubbornly, but he made a quiet, contented sound, snuggled himself closer.
"I love you," Seimei whispered, silent and deadly into his brother's ears- and he could feel it, feel everything. He felt Ritsuka's breath against his chest, the shudder that travelled down his spine at his words but vanished as soon as it came- could feel his heartbeat, slow and relaxed against his chest- so trusting, so innocent, did he really believe that Seimei couldn't hurt him, even as now he smiled as he thought what it would be to rip out his heart and take it all for his own (but not kill him, never kill him)?
Ritsuka slept, but Seimei didn't. He stayed awake, his brother wrapped tightly in his arms, breathing his scent and echoing the name to himself in the night.
"Ritsuka," he whispered, smiling to himself (and he thought of what he would do, what he would have to do, but that innocence was precious and perfect and the cracks were beginning to show but it would not break until he wanted to and- not just yet). "Ritsuka."
(Mine.)
---
Seimei remembers.
Ritsuka's long-since forgotten that present, but Seimei won't forget. It doesn't matter, anyway- it was already his before Ritsuka gave it to him, because Ritsuka was his his his and nothing could ever change that not ever not even him.
Things were changing. Time had moved on. The world was still disgusting and rotten, but Ritsuka was sill white (so white he couldn't stand it). But he had something to do, now, and Ritsuka would not understand. Didn't need to understand- it would be a test. A test of Ritsuka's love, of Ritsuka's devotion. A test of everything, proof, a solid confirmation that Seimei could look on and know that Ritsuka belonged to him- and a step. The first step.
Ritsuka would break.
(He'd been waiting for far too long.)
He always thought it would be a fine thing to burn. The world was dying and full of rotting carcasses, but a fire is cleansing. A fire is swift and destructive and raging, a terrible thing that consumed everything in it's path, and a fire would leave no bodies. A fire would turn everything to ash and cast it to the wind, and in the end he was sure it would be a fire. A fire that burned and devoured the world and destroyed it until there was nothing, nothing left- and he would start that fire.
At first he'd thought he'd merely be content to wipe the filth from this world, to tear the plague from the dirt so it would be just Ritsuka, just him and Ritsuka, because no one else, no one else could live.
But no, he would start the fire. He would fuel it and care to it and tend to it meticulously, watching as it burned, and it would devour the world alive. It would tear down the walls and turn everything to charcoal and black, black dust, and he would create a new world. He would make a new world for Ritsuka, just for him and Ritsuka, and it would be white, white and pretty and pure, and there would be butterflies and flowers all just for him- and then Ritsuka would break. Break and fall into colors like gray and not-quite-black and red, bright crimson red, and he would paint the world with his colors, spread them with his fingers, and it would all be for Ritsuka.
Ritsuka didn't know it, but Seimei was there. He had always been there, watching, studying, so carefully observing, keeping track of his personal things. And naturally he would not miss something like this. His hand was pressed against the windowpane, his eyes watching the doorway intently, waiting for the first crack of light.
The boy stumbled through the room.
(Mine.)
He coughed. The air was dense with ash and smoke, and the room was dark. He fumbled along the edge of the door and the lights flickered to life. He blinked the soot out of his eyes, and as the dust began to settle, he blinked and stared at everything in front of him.
His face grew white. His eyes wide. His lip began to tremble.
He stumbled forward. Gaped. Choked.
He fell to his knees, and coughed on the cloud of ash that billowed into his eyes.
Seimei could see it in his eyes, that something deep in the boy's mind had broken and finally snapped. He did not stay- he turned away. Because today, for Ritsuka, his world would end. His world would be torn apart by things and forces he didn't understand, didn't have to understand, and Seimei would make a new world, just for them. He pushed himself away from the window and turned, because there was work to be done, because the plan had already been set in motion. He would be back to collect Ritsuka later, but it was a test. A true test. And as a reward, Seimei would make the world anew. All these years had finally come to this. Finally. He walked away, and smiled to himself, because he knew just what he'd done.
A scream sounded in the distance.
It pierced his ears, echoed into the emptiness around him- it was a horrifying sound (humans might've called it terrible, heartbreaking, tragic) but to him it was beautiful, beautiful and perfect and everything he had planned. He paused, for a second, considered turning around to see his Ritsuka's face, to see just how his world had shattered and fallen apart. To see the fruit of his labor, his ultimate gift to Ritsuka, the display of his affection and his love, his proof that no one loved Ritsuka the way he did. Just a second, because then he moved on- he moved on and he laughed, because he realized.
The sound was terrible enough to tear the world apart.
I'M DONE -SOBS- why is he so creepy, this guy
also i hate the ending. i've never even read loveless fic before apart from chelsey's so FKALSFJASF bah at least i TRIED
fff seimei is hard LOL I JUST READ THAT AND ASKLFJASKFLA NO I DIDN'T MEAN BUT HE PROBABLY BUT I MEANT FAJSKLJASF OKAY WHATEVER
zero is seimei's fucking themesong
(emptiness is loneliness and loneliness is cleanliness and cleanliness is godliness and god is empty just like me -RIFF-)
i am too fucking lazy to transfer this to my fic journal at ill_katana so HERE IT STAYS.
i need to write moar loveless crap.
Series: LOVELESS
Characters|Pairing: Seimei/Ritsuka
Rating: pg-13 I THINK
Warnings: non-explicit incest and seimei's incredible creepiness. and language, but the language warning is useless by now
Notes: WRITEN FOR barreled, AND IS PORN-FREE TO BALANCE OUT HER SMUT. lmfao i have no idea where some of it came from and i think i deserve to be shot. seimei is difficult as hell to grasp, the creepy bastard. this reads more like a bunch of shorter things than anything whole. i am not happy with it, especially not the ending, but if i did not post it i would have taken 2 months to finish it or something. i hope this is okay bb ♥
ugh first try at loveless!fic ever, and i haven't even read any before, save for YOURS BB lmfao. kk lets see how this goes [/ramble]
Everything is filth.
Everything dripped of poison and dirt and the very essence of overwhelming disgust, the stench of rotted flesh that never left your mind, the stain that you wash and you wash and you wash but could never entirely clean. They said life was wonderful, life was beautiful, but he (never even heard) never listened to them anyway- because he could hear it in their voices, see it in their eyes. When they spoke it was empty and hollow, when they moved it was cold and stiff, and every word was a ragged whisper of dust and worms and dirt and cobwebs because there was nothing, nothing under their skins. They would look at him and they would smile and he could taste the revulsion welling up in his gut, rolling up onto his tongue- and in instinct his lips would twist into a picture-perfect smile. He'd answer to their so-called voices, to the echoes they made in their dead and cobwebbed throats, and he would laugh, close his eyes lightly to slip into too-pleasant laugh (the kind so pleasant it would taste like venom), because then he wouldn't have to see. Because then he wouldn't have to look into their eyes to see the life they pretended they had, because he was better than that, he didn't need to see it.
He didn't hate them (didn't hate anything- nothing was worth hating) but he would never let them touch him (never, these damned corpses that pretended they could breathe).
Some of them were black- black with hatred and black with decay. They painted their rotten world in their colors, these humans, red like hatred and disgust and gray like the fade-to-white of their lives, blue like the sorrow they claimed to feel, like the sky they reached for with grasping hands. Their colors were never true, never pure, dodging and hiding behind each other just pretending to be real- he was black, he thought, but not black like the others. Solid, unmistakable, unquestionable, unknowable and perfect and not white because there was no white and he was black, could never be stained by them. The world was never white, never pure, but all they did was stain and destroy it and dirty it with their fucking disgusting filth- and he thought, the world was never for them. Never for them, just for him, and he'd take it back someday, he'd wipe it clean- no, he'd destroy it. Destroy it and create a new world, in it's place, and only he deserved it.
He wasn't like them, anyway, he knew it from the start. He was different.
He never thought himself as some kind of a god- but he quite fancied the name, when he heard it on his servant's lips. They walked through their world pretending things were pretty and perfect and pure, smooth and white and untainted by anything- but they're made of the dirt, made of stains, every single one of them, and if that's what it meant to be human- then well, he wasn't. Wasn't human at all. Wasn't mortal. Wasn't normal.
(He was just as dead as the rest of them, really, but what made him different was that he didn't try to lie.)
He was something better, and everything was filth.
---
He stared.
He wasn't sure what to make of the thing when he first saw it. Pink and fleshy and-- soft. Skin that looked flawless, smooth and perfect, black velvet kitten-ears folded softly against it's skull. It's small- almost disturbingly so, tiny little fingers that grasped onto everything they could. It's eyes were wide- a shade of violet-gray, shining with curiosity and confusion and a permanent sleepiness- it looks helpless. Weak. Pathetic. It made a sound that he'd heard before, from a distance, but never quite so close, screaming and yelling and tears leaking out of it's eyes.
He had always been disgusted by such creatures, but somehow this one was different.
He's your little brother, he remembers them saying.
This thing. Related to him. To him. The thought is ridiculous, condemning, insulting. He was above mere mortality, above everything, and it was just another stain upon this unsightly world- it was black and gray and red and- no. He stared at it, and it didn't pretend, didn't try, but just was- just was and stared back at him, unafraid, uncomprehending. It didn't know who Seimei was, what he was, didn't know that he was something to be respected, to be feared. But he didn't want to turn away, didn't want to leave, just studied it quietly as it stared back at him, bundled in soft-cotton cloth.
And he thought to himself that he'd never seen anything so... white.
It was fascinating, in an odd way, that something so pale and light and clean could exist. He knew, he realized, right there and then, that something so white, something so innocent and helpless could never survive in this world, would be stained and destroyed or else die with the rest- and it would die beautifully, he thought. Die spectacularly in flames and it would burn, burn like everything else- and it that was it was smooth and pure but flawed, hairline cracks that ran along the porcelain. Nothing like it could live for very long, and somehow that- somehow, he realized, he was annoyed at the thought. Disgusted. Maybe even hated it (he'd never before thought that he could feel- it was a human thing, but so he did, and he didn't pretend that it wasn't there- instead he looked at it, turned it around in his mind's eye with a cold fascination, wondering just what it was).
They told him it's name, and he echoed it in his thoughts.
He reached out- actually reached out- and brushed a hand against it's cheek. It jolted, turned back to stare at him- and it did feel soft, smooth and perfect as it looked, nothing like the dead skins that brushed against him in the daily crowd. He kept his hand there, marvelling at this thing, so perfect and innocent and soon-to-be-destroyed, staring up at him like it knew nothing else in the world, like he had it's full devotion.
"Ritsuka," he murmured, not really noticing. The thing heard his voice, peered up at him with eager eyes, ears perking slightly as he rolled the name around his tongue.
It tasted sweet and pure, and he decided that it was his.
---
It's been years.
"Seimei?"
Ritsuka says his name so differently, he ponders. Everyone else, with their dry voices and rasping throats, coated his name with respect and fear, sometimes even with senseless devotion. But Ritsuka- he said it lightly, casually. Ritsuka made no secret of his devotion, never tried to pretend, or hide- Ritsuka just was. He loved the way the boy said his name, loved it more than he cared to admit, loved his voice, loved the way it sounded. The way he looked at him and didn't hide anything, showed everything right on his face in his voice and in his eyes, made no secret that Seimei was Ritsuka's world, Seimei was everything, and that most of all Ritsuka loved Seimei, more than anything else.
(It was not nearly enough.)
"Hm? He looks puts down his book patiently, turning around in the chair, to see the boy sitting up at the bed. Ritsuka isn't looking at him but at his own fingers, fiddling and twitching uneasily, ears twitching slightly as they pressed against his skull- his cheeks were tinged lightly with color, and Seimei smiled quietly (it was genuine and real and for no one but Ritsuka). So... cute. So fucking cute he wanted to reach out and stroke him and hold him close and crush him between his fingers because it would be simple, too simple, to destroy something so pure. "I thought you were sleeping, Ritsuka."
He was fond of the name.
(Ritsuka. Ritsuka. Ritsuka.)
The boy's other name was irrelevant. It wasn't his own, and that irritated him more than anything, because Ritsuka couldn't be anyone else's but had to be his.
"Ahh..." Ritsuka turns a deeper color, glances away sheepishly. His tail twitches nervously, flicking back and forth, and he plays with the sheets. Seimei just watches, watches and studies and smiles at the creased frown on the boy's forehead, his uncertain eyes, the way his hand fisted into the white-white blanket and clenched tightly, twisting and turning and--
"I was just thinking," Ritsuka said brightly, smiling again, looking up. "I want to give you a present!"
Seimei leaned his chin casually against his hand, watching the boy look at him, as though beaming with pride at his own decision- he still wonders how Ritsuka can be so pale, from slender arms to the delicate curve of his (he could reach out and just choke it) throat. He still wonders how Ritsuka manages to be so beautiful and so flawed, like his soft, soft skin and the bandages plastered against his wounds. He still wonders how Ritsuka is so frail, so fragile, how easy he would be to break.
"Oh?" He replies, with a tilt of the head and a good-natured smile, leaning forwards just ever so slightly. "What kind of a present, Ritsuka?"
(Ritsuka. Ri-tsu-ka. Ritsuka.)
"I want to give you my ears," the boy says confidently, without hesitation.
Seimei pauses.
It's tempting, he would have to admit, so very tempting, as he watched Ritsuka's fingers fiddle endlessly with the sheets. So pure and white and unstained and it would be a thing, such a beautiful thing to break and- how could something like this survive in such a rotten world? It can't. It will not survive. It will die, die in a beautiful flame that burned burned burned and roared with sparks and light, but he would not let it burn. No, this thing was his, his to own and his to keep, and if he had to taint it to keep it than so be it. If it had to be tainted and stained and broken, he would do it himself.
(But not yet.)
He laughs. "Do you know what you're saying, Ritsuka?"
(Ritsuka-Ritsuka-Ritsuka--)
It's a rare thing, for him, to laugh, but Ritsuka seems to love the sound, as startled as the boy seems by it every time. Ritsuka's ears perked slightly, then folded back, and he looked away sheepishly (Seimei wanted to just go over there and tear him apart but not kill him, never kill him, why would he do something like that?).
"Um, I just heard people talking about it before," Ritsuka said, and his cheeks were flushed with color.
People. It annoyed Seimei, to hear (his) Ritsuka talk about these people. Ritsuka would learn, that they weren't worthy, weren't good enough, that they were just empty, hollow things not deserving of the breaths they pretended to have- but Ritsuka liked the little things. He liked to watch the clouds and make up things that weren't there, he liked to talk about flowers and friendships and things. Seimei would listen, but he never understood- like the butterflies that Ritsuka liked so much, pretty as they were. Even they would crumble and fall into kaleidoscope dust, into the worms and the dirt back into the rotting world like everything else. Seimei never- no, it was Ritsuka who didn't understand. He was too innocent, too pure, didn't know anything of the world- but he didn't need to. Didn't need to understand, because Seimei would do it for him.
Seimei showed nothing and made a quiet sound of acknowledgement, a signal for Ritsuka to continue.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to give them to you, but they said that you should give it to the person who you love the most!"
Oh, Seimei thought to himself, and his smile widened, ever-so-slightly. He played with a curl of his hair, staring intently at the dark strands that fell past Ritsuka's ears, just below his eyes.
"I love Seimei the most," Ritsuka continued, with a sort of finality to his voice.
He stood up. He moved with an unnatural grace, pushing himself off the chair and seating himself on the edge of his bed in one fluid motion. He took the boys hand (so delicate and fragile) and pressed it to his lips, a soft, gentle kiss- Ritsuka shuddered slightly, but didn't move, but he could see the confusion flicker across Ritsuka's eyes and he took delight in it. He tasted just like his name always had, sweet and pure- and it was his. Only his. No one else. His to have, his to own, his to taint and break if he so wished.
Besides, Ritsuka seemed so certain. So confident. Like he'd already made the choice. It would break his heart to turn Ritsuka down, wouldn't it?
"Maybe," he said, light-hearted and casual to match his smile. He reached out to stroke Ritsuka's ears, soft velvet to the touch. "But you look so cute with them," he teased, and wrapped the boy in his arms, pulling Ritsuka against his own chest and resting his chin on his head. "You should keep them awhile longer, don't you think?"
Ritsuka squirmed against him before settling down, resting his head against the crook of his brother's shoulder. "....Okay," he murmured sleepily, his eyelids beginning to droop. "But you'll take them, right?"
"I suppose," Seimei said softly against Ritsuka's hair, winding his fingers through the boy's hand, clasping it lightly. "I love Ritsuka the most, too, after all."
"I love you more," Ritsuka insisted stubbornly, but he made a quiet, contented sound, snuggled himself closer.
"I love you," Seimei whispered, silent and deadly into his brother's ears- and he could feel it, feel everything. He felt Ritsuka's breath against his chest, the shudder that travelled down his spine at his words but vanished as soon as it came- could feel his heartbeat, slow and relaxed against his chest- so trusting, so innocent, did he really believe that Seimei couldn't hurt him, even as now he smiled as he thought what it would be to rip out his heart and take it all for his own (but not kill him, never kill him)?
Ritsuka slept, but Seimei didn't. He stayed awake, his brother wrapped tightly in his arms, breathing his scent and echoing the name to himself in the night.
"Ritsuka," he whispered, smiling to himself (and he thought of what he would do, what he would have to do, but that innocence was precious and perfect and the cracks were beginning to show but it would not break until he wanted to and- not just yet). "Ritsuka."
(Mine.)
---
Seimei remembers.
Ritsuka's long-since forgotten that present, but Seimei won't forget. It doesn't matter, anyway- it was already his before Ritsuka gave it to him, because Ritsuka was his his his and nothing could ever change that not ever not even him.
Things were changing. Time had moved on. The world was still disgusting and rotten, but Ritsuka was sill white (so white he couldn't stand it). But he had something to do, now, and Ritsuka would not understand. Didn't need to understand- it would be a test. A test of Ritsuka's love, of Ritsuka's devotion. A test of everything, proof, a solid confirmation that Seimei could look on and know that Ritsuka belonged to him- and a step. The first step.
Ritsuka would break.
(He'd been waiting for far too long.)
He always thought it would be a fine thing to burn. The world was dying and full of rotting carcasses, but a fire is cleansing. A fire is swift and destructive and raging, a terrible thing that consumed everything in it's path, and a fire would leave no bodies. A fire would turn everything to ash and cast it to the wind, and in the end he was sure it would be a fire. A fire that burned and devoured the world and destroyed it until there was nothing, nothing left- and he would start that fire.
At first he'd thought he'd merely be content to wipe the filth from this world, to tear the plague from the dirt so it would be just Ritsuka, just him and Ritsuka, because no one else, no one else could live.
But no, he would start the fire. He would fuel it and care to it and tend to it meticulously, watching as it burned, and it would devour the world alive. It would tear down the walls and turn everything to charcoal and black, black dust, and he would create a new world. He would make a new world for Ritsuka, just for him and Ritsuka, and it would be white, white and pretty and pure, and there would be butterflies and flowers all just for him- and then Ritsuka would break. Break and fall into colors like gray and not-quite-black and red, bright crimson red, and he would paint the world with his colors, spread them with his fingers, and it would all be for Ritsuka.
Ritsuka didn't know it, but Seimei was there. He had always been there, watching, studying, so carefully observing, keeping track of his personal things. And naturally he would not miss something like this. His hand was pressed against the windowpane, his eyes watching the doorway intently, waiting for the first crack of light.
The boy stumbled through the room.
(Mine.)
He coughed. The air was dense with ash and smoke, and the room was dark. He fumbled along the edge of the door and the lights flickered to life. He blinked the soot out of his eyes, and as the dust began to settle, he blinked and stared at everything in front of him.
His face grew white. His eyes wide. His lip began to tremble.
He stumbled forward. Gaped. Choked.
He fell to his knees, and coughed on the cloud of ash that billowed into his eyes.
Seimei could see it in his eyes, that something deep in the boy's mind had broken and finally snapped. He did not stay- he turned away. Because today, for Ritsuka, his world would end. His world would be torn apart by things and forces he didn't understand, didn't have to understand, and Seimei would make a new world, just for them. He pushed himself away from the window and turned, because there was work to be done, because the plan had already been set in motion. He would be back to collect Ritsuka later, but it was a test. A true test. And as a reward, Seimei would make the world anew. All these years had finally come to this. Finally. He walked away, and smiled to himself, because he knew just what he'd done.
A scream sounded in the distance.
It pierced his ears, echoed into the emptiness around him- it was a horrifying sound (humans might've called it terrible, heartbreaking, tragic) but to him it was beautiful, beautiful and perfect and everything he had planned. He paused, for a second, considered turning around to see his Ritsuka's face, to see just how his world had shattered and fallen apart. To see the fruit of his labor, his ultimate gift to Ritsuka, the display of his affection and his love, his proof that no one loved Ritsuka the way he did. Just a second, because then he moved on- he moved on and he laughed, because he realized.
The sound was terrible enough to tear the world apart.
I'M DONE -SOBS- why is he so creepy, this guy
also i hate the ending. i've never even read loveless fic before apart from chelsey's so FKALSFJASF bah at least i TRIED
fff seimei is hard LOL I JUST READ THAT AND ASKLFJASKFLA NO I DIDN'T MEAN BUT HE PROBABLY BUT I MEANT FAJSKLJASF OKAY WHATEVER
zero is seimei's fucking themesong
(emptiness is loneliness and loneliness is cleanliness and cleanliness is godliness and god is empty just like me -RIFF-)
i am too fucking lazy to transfer this to my fic journal at ill_katana so HERE IT STAYS.
i need to write moar loveless crap.