Some long overdue fanfiction
I was so amazed by this fanart by xxray that when I read it was originally an idea for a fanfiction, I offered to write it. Unfortunately that was well over a month ago ^^;;; And I was so pleased with the first half except then it was disastrously cut off by this strange thing people call a social life and I was terrified to pick it back up again. So I apologise for the quality and the tardiness, I really, really do! If people think it's worth something then I might put it up on the comms and ff.net but otherwise it was a gift and a very nice project!
So basically this is a Kurofye Yama fic but it's nothing bad - about PG
Waiting brings nothing but worry and sorrow. Sitting outside the medical tent, boots caked in churned up dirt, watching the corpses float by on stretchers dripping blood, there is nothing but Fye and his thoughts, the distant echo of war in his ears. His mind is numb and his heart pulses fearfully in his chest, far more painfully than in battle. Slowly, his fingers run over and over the buttons and clasps of his uniform, rubbing them repetitively and soothingly until the tips of his fingers reek of metal and are lined with a thin film of sweat.
He frowns now, glancing over to that haze of dirt and sweat, dying last breaths fading in a cloud of condensation into the air, and purses his lips thoughtfully. Less than an hour ago he’d been involved in this brawl. Or at least he thinks it had been an hour. Time is drawn so thin alone with his own thoughts.
The first he’d realised of it was the crack through the air at his right ear, the whip of an arrow through the battle as it ripped past his head, punching into Kurogane’s leg.
What had surprised him was that the man did not cry as loudly as he did, watching a thin dribble of blood leak from Kurogane’s thigh as his knees hit the ground; his resolve did not waver as Fye’s did, nearly forgetting to cover himself from the rest of the onslaught as he backed down. He’d dropped off his mount, boots hitting the muddied slop of ground and he’d clasped at Kurogane’s shoulders as if to ascertain himself he was real, that he was injured, that there was the possibility he’d be alright.
Kurogane choked a single laugh, smirked a little, baring teeth and clutching at his leg, patting it like a bruise though his eyes narrowed and his face grimaced in pain. Even so, there was still a fire burning in his eyes - a desperate thirst for battle with sword clutched in hand.
Mutely Fye admired the man in that moment. Numbly, he was so jealous he almost despised him as he clasped his hands about his face and stared sternly into his eyes while bodies heaved, feet stumbled and swords clattered about them. His own breath seemed so jagged and frayed.
Consciousness snapped back to him suddenly.
“You need treatment,” he said tonelessly in his own tongue, rising to his feet and wrapping his arms about Kurogane’s shoulders.
The man almost protested, only able to watch the movement of Fye’s lips as his words were swallowed into the chaos swirling around them, oblivious to their meaning even if he could understand, but somehow the glaze in Fye’s eyes was enough. But as Fye clutched at his muscle and the cold sweat he felt dripping off it, the sheer unadulterated agony of standing silenced him completely, giving himself over to Fye and allowing him to tentatively ease him over on to the back of his mount. It was only then that he realised that hard, cold glint in Fye’s eyes, the determination glowing and pulsing beneath his skin as his thin lips set hard against each other, leaping effortlessly over the back of the beast and tugging deftly at the reins with a flick of the wrist so unlike him.
It was one of those rare moments where Kurogane finds himself respecting the mage and he was tempted to blame it on the swaying shift of his consciousness, rippling like waves through his mind as he drifted in and out, feeling only the cold wind tousling his hair as Fye ripped through the crowd.
***
Fye smirks to himself, leaning himself against the canvas and thinking about it, flicking the flakes of mud smattered over his knees and boots, glued to the sole in a thick layer. He’d felt so unlike himself it was almost surreal, driven entirely by one instinct. The blood continues to throb anxiously about his own body, the roof of his mouth is bone dry and he agitatedly licks it just to occupy his mind as he sits there on the ground, sticky mud becoming plastered both to his uniform and his fingers. The way his nerves seem to tauten inside his own body, pull tight until his stomach clenches and he gasps for breath, is almost distracting and he chooses to stand and pace instead, encircling a small area of the encampment, never letting the view of the canvas tent disappear from his sight.
His eyes dart back and forth to the mouth of the tent nonetheless, continuously glancing in the vaguest slightest hope that someone will emerge, someone with good news and a smile or perhaps the man himself with a slight reproachful glare that washed away in only a moment - that look he knew only too well by now.
Time, it seems, is the most painful thing, digging into his skin with a slower and far more malicious glee than a sword or knife. No - this pain feeds on his mind and imagination, desperately tracing circles, linking thoughts and feelings through his head in a tangled mess of broken string as his feet carry him uselessly round and round these battered, blood-flecked foot-paths between the medical tents, droplets of blood sitting dark and perfect on the chewed up mud. Another is dotted on the thigh of his trousers in a neat, round circle. It’s barely visible against the course, black material. But it’s there all the same, preying on him, reminding him that no matter how distant there is always something to fear whether in that tent or on the battlefield. There is always something to twist his insides with a sickened sort of anticipation, a swirl of bitter anxiety bursting against him under the ever-present calm of his expression. He feels as if something had raged and erupted in a violent swathe within him in that blurred moment when blood was first drawn and he could barely see straight. It had devoured all that was inside so that now he stood in the encampment, strangely empty and yet so sick of fear he hated himself for caring at all.
By the time the doctor emerges from the tent, peeling back the canvas and glancing towards him, the soles of his boots are already painted thick with mud and flakes of cracked, dried blood, stewing in dirt and trampled blades of grass, though it barely seems to register at all with him, sprinting numbly back to the tent with no thoughts on his mind or words on his lips. It surprises him but only faintly - like everything else it becomes lost amidst a blank and mindless swirl.
The look the doctor passes him as he sidles by sends a stab of fear into his chest - his lips are set, his hands arms are tightly folded but his eyes stare with a blank veil and his mouth forms a clipped smile. At first it seems like an apology. Then it appears as a reassurance - a careful and promising smile. But it barely matters. By the time Fye has realised, he’s already staring down at Kurogane’s make-shift bed on the ground, roughly covered in sheets and hides, and the man sitting upright within it.
He’s stark naked, pulling a yukata over his gleaming chest, drenched in a thick layer of cold sweat, and for a moment, Fye can barely help but allow his eyes to drift down and gulp a heavy ball in his throat. He pushes down an unwelcome pulse of thirst through his veins, finding it swallowed all too quickly once his eyes settle on the bandage wrapped tight about Kurogane’s leg.
It’s then that Kurogane looks at him for the first time, narrowing his eyes towards him cautiously to just the slightest degree and shifting on his futon. Prepared to step forward, Fye feels as though his body is dissolving into nothing as he draws in the sight and takes in that harsh glint in Kurogane’s eyes. The uncertainty he feels within himself is painfully obvious.
He purses his lips resentfully and steps towards him, meeting and matching that gaze coldly and steadily, with such sharp reproach it almost takes Kurogane aback for a moment, forgetting to protest as Fye kneels neatly at his side, seeming a mere shadow of a soul. His eyes seem chained now to the bandage clinging to his thigh and that droplet of blood seeping through the layers in a telling dot.
It’s difficult to discern whether Fye feels guilt or anger, watching his pale eyes narrow and inspect the wound with vigorous attention, with an almost desperate depth. His lips lie thin against each other and each breath is drawn ragged in torn and frayed emotion. He lays a hand against Kurogane’s leg, as though feeling for the pain, divining it and tracing it through his own fingertips.
“It’s fine,” he grumbles to Fye as his fingers loops distractedly over his bandages, tracing his wounded skin in a soft, light trail that sends a shiver pulsing through his spine.
Fye’s eyes flick up to him now, assessing him coldly with tight, drawn lips that seem as though they could never spill a word and they don’t need to - they are in his eyes, gleaming within that dark and calculating look that sinks through Kurogane’s conscience like an icy dagger through his skin.
But he reasons Fye is the last person who should chide him for bending the truth, for trying to protect him from the fact that the wound burns and sears him in pain whenever he attempts to move. For the most part, it barely bothers him. He’s received far worse wounds and been dealt far more intense pain. At the very least this agony is tolerable. That firm and steady gaze of Fye’s is far more strange and unbearable. The one moment a smile refuses to grace his lips and strangely Kurogane is tempted to tug at the edges just to stick that infuriating grin on his face like he's supposed to wear.
“It’s fine,” he repeats more severely this time, feeling at a loss as he starts to picture Fye smiling a silly grin just to bring some normality to the situation.
Whatever semblance of regularity - of that stupid game of cat and mouse Fye so enjoyed, those teasing smirks and stupid names he wrapped around his tongue in song while Kurogane screamed for his blood - shatters completely as Fye clasps a hand to his face, crumbles totally as he stares him dead in the eyes and strokes a thumb across his cheek near mindlessly.
He whispers something in his own language. Even if Kurogane can’t understand then he can feel the meaning pressing into him in that cold, seething voice.
Don’t try to protect me.
Kurogane’s frozen to the spot but he finds himself smirking, grinning beyond his will and snatching the blonde’s hand from his face. There are no words to say and he simply drops Fye’s hand as he shakes his head, tossing it slightly as though to rid himself of this feeling that stirs with uncomfortable sympathy in him, warming him in places he would rather feel barren.
Soon enough, Fye’s fingers are on his wound again, brushing it slowly and gently with a sad, pained well within his eyes. He drags them across his thigh and then around in a circle, running along the bandages with a metronomic, soothing pace.
He's just as stubborn in sorrow as he was in glee, it seemed.
“Oi...” Kurogane grunts at him, just wishing for him to stop this insane charade and grow back that spine he’d shown on the battlefield.
Fye’s fingers stop their slow and hypnotic dance, falling to a gentle stop, drifting down to clasp his thigh as gently as snow. But for all his grace, his eyes narrow and spin to the side, betraying a fat, slick tear dripping from the corner of his left eye and his lips twist almost as if he forbids it, is disgusted with himself for merely feeling emotion.
Kurogane clasps a hand to the side of his face, feeling his fingers weave through strands of gleaming gold tumbling over the back of his hand as it carefully lay to rest there, fingers carefully twitching just at the base of Fye’s forehead.
His eyes are soft now - damaged and hurt - and his smile is weak and bitter. It twitches on his lips in guilt and frustration as he stares into Kurogane’s eyes with about as many words as he can possibly express in the depth of his eyes, glistening now with a wet veil of tears though his lips tremble in self-frustration, silently seething at his own sorrow and guilt.
“I said it’s fine,” Kurogane repeats sternly, his voice cold and hard like stone.
A smile flickers across Fye’s face for the tiniest moment.
And in that betrayal of emotion, Kurogane sees all he could ever need to and draws him close, setting their lips together carefully, a soft and brief kiss in a clutched and depraved moment, clawing for that fleeting glance of a feeling dangling before him before it evaded him again. He presses his lips a little harder to Fye’s, slips his fingers down to his neck and holds him there as their mouths shift uncertainly against one another.
This feeling is too warm to be comfortable, too natural to be real, he decides as Fye’s hands gently settle against his bare, sweating skin and clasp him as he smiles in a sweet bliss and melts away into that kiss, teasing wetly at Kurogane's upper lip, their lips brushing in soft puckers, carefully swallowing the taste, relishing in the soft and gentle touch.
Still, it doesn’t take him very long to pull away abruptly, to dust the touch of Kurogane’s hands to his body off his battle clothes and smile away his secrets. He mutters something in his own tongue, curls it sharp and devious so its meaning remains foreign to Kurogane though its abruptness and dismissal rings painfully clear, resounds against Kurogane’s ears with a sickening clarity as Fye bursts through the tent door and Kurogane is left alone in a silent canvas bag, reeking of dirt and blood and death.
He closes his eyes, resting his head carefully against his pillow and begins to wonder what they’re both living in fear of.
***
a/n: Would it amaze you if I said that I don't really believe anything happened between them in Yama? I mean it's nice to read about but very few things have made me actually start to seriously think it's possible but it's just an opinion really. Writing this was a little strange :) Still, I hope it came out semi-decent at least! I noticed a lot of mixed tenses in there while I was checking it over for mistakes and I'm just praying it's not too badly OOC or messes up the original idea! And I hope that it was worth the wait, xxray ^^' Sorry!
So basically this is a Kurofye Yama fic but it's nothing bad - about PG
Waiting brings nothing but worry and sorrow. Sitting outside the medical tent, boots caked in churned up dirt, watching the corpses float by on stretchers dripping blood, there is nothing but Fye and his thoughts, the distant echo of war in his ears. His mind is numb and his heart pulses fearfully in his chest, far more painfully than in battle. Slowly, his fingers run over and over the buttons and clasps of his uniform, rubbing them repetitively and soothingly until the tips of his fingers reek of metal and are lined with a thin film of sweat.
He frowns now, glancing over to that haze of dirt and sweat, dying last breaths fading in a cloud of condensation into the air, and purses his lips thoughtfully. Less than an hour ago he’d been involved in this brawl. Or at least he thinks it had been an hour. Time is drawn so thin alone with his own thoughts.
The first he’d realised of it was the crack through the air at his right ear, the whip of an arrow through the battle as it ripped past his head, punching into Kurogane’s leg.
What had surprised him was that the man did not cry as loudly as he did, watching a thin dribble of blood leak from Kurogane’s thigh as his knees hit the ground; his resolve did not waver as Fye’s did, nearly forgetting to cover himself from the rest of the onslaught as he backed down. He’d dropped off his mount, boots hitting the muddied slop of ground and he’d clasped at Kurogane’s shoulders as if to ascertain himself he was real, that he was injured, that there was the possibility he’d be alright.
Kurogane choked a single laugh, smirked a little, baring teeth and clutching at his leg, patting it like a bruise though his eyes narrowed and his face grimaced in pain. Even so, there was still a fire burning in his eyes - a desperate thirst for battle with sword clutched in hand.
Mutely Fye admired the man in that moment. Numbly, he was so jealous he almost despised him as he clasped his hands about his face and stared sternly into his eyes while bodies heaved, feet stumbled and swords clattered about them. His own breath seemed so jagged and frayed.
Consciousness snapped back to him suddenly.
“You need treatment,” he said tonelessly in his own tongue, rising to his feet and wrapping his arms about Kurogane’s shoulders.
The man almost protested, only able to watch the movement of Fye’s lips as his words were swallowed into the chaos swirling around them, oblivious to their meaning even if he could understand, but somehow the glaze in Fye’s eyes was enough. But as Fye clutched at his muscle and the cold sweat he felt dripping off it, the sheer unadulterated agony of standing silenced him completely, giving himself over to Fye and allowing him to tentatively ease him over on to the back of his mount. It was only then that he realised that hard, cold glint in Fye’s eyes, the determination glowing and pulsing beneath his skin as his thin lips set hard against each other, leaping effortlessly over the back of the beast and tugging deftly at the reins with a flick of the wrist so unlike him.
It was one of those rare moments where Kurogane finds himself respecting the mage and he was tempted to blame it on the swaying shift of his consciousness, rippling like waves through his mind as he drifted in and out, feeling only the cold wind tousling his hair as Fye ripped through the crowd.
***
Fye smirks to himself, leaning himself against the canvas and thinking about it, flicking the flakes of mud smattered over his knees and boots, glued to the sole in a thick layer. He’d felt so unlike himself it was almost surreal, driven entirely by one instinct. The blood continues to throb anxiously about his own body, the roof of his mouth is bone dry and he agitatedly licks it just to occupy his mind as he sits there on the ground, sticky mud becoming plastered both to his uniform and his fingers. The way his nerves seem to tauten inside his own body, pull tight until his stomach clenches and he gasps for breath, is almost distracting and he chooses to stand and pace instead, encircling a small area of the encampment, never letting the view of the canvas tent disappear from his sight.
His eyes dart back and forth to the mouth of the tent nonetheless, continuously glancing in the vaguest slightest hope that someone will emerge, someone with good news and a smile or perhaps the man himself with a slight reproachful glare that washed away in only a moment - that look he knew only too well by now.
Time, it seems, is the most painful thing, digging into his skin with a slower and far more malicious glee than a sword or knife. No - this pain feeds on his mind and imagination, desperately tracing circles, linking thoughts and feelings through his head in a tangled mess of broken string as his feet carry him uselessly round and round these battered, blood-flecked foot-paths between the medical tents, droplets of blood sitting dark and perfect on the chewed up mud. Another is dotted on the thigh of his trousers in a neat, round circle. It’s barely visible against the course, black material. But it’s there all the same, preying on him, reminding him that no matter how distant there is always something to fear whether in that tent or on the battlefield. There is always something to twist his insides with a sickened sort of anticipation, a swirl of bitter anxiety bursting against him under the ever-present calm of his expression. He feels as if something had raged and erupted in a violent swathe within him in that blurred moment when blood was first drawn and he could barely see straight. It had devoured all that was inside so that now he stood in the encampment, strangely empty and yet so sick of fear he hated himself for caring at all.
By the time the doctor emerges from the tent, peeling back the canvas and glancing towards him, the soles of his boots are already painted thick with mud and flakes of cracked, dried blood, stewing in dirt and trampled blades of grass, though it barely seems to register at all with him, sprinting numbly back to the tent with no thoughts on his mind or words on his lips. It surprises him but only faintly - like everything else it becomes lost amidst a blank and mindless swirl.
The look the doctor passes him as he sidles by sends a stab of fear into his chest - his lips are set, his hands arms are tightly folded but his eyes stare with a blank veil and his mouth forms a clipped smile. At first it seems like an apology. Then it appears as a reassurance - a careful and promising smile. But it barely matters. By the time Fye has realised, he’s already staring down at Kurogane’s make-shift bed on the ground, roughly covered in sheets and hides, and the man sitting upright within it.
He’s stark naked, pulling a yukata over his gleaming chest, drenched in a thick layer of cold sweat, and for a moment, Fye can barely help but allow his eyes to drift down and gulp a heavy ball in his throat. He pushes down an unwelcome pulse of thirst through his veins, finding it swallowed all too quickly once his eyes settle on the bandage wrapped tight about Kurogane’s leg.
It’s then that Kurogane looks at him for the first time, narrowing his eyes towards him cautiously to just the slightest degree and shifting on his futon. Prepared to step forward, Fye feels as though his body is dissolving into nothing as he draws in the sight and takes in that harsh glint in Kurogane’s eyes. The uncertainty he feels within himself is painfully obvious.
He purses his lips resentfully and steps towards him, meeting and matching that gaze coldly and steadily, with such sharp reproach it almost takes Kurogane aback for a moment, forgetting to protest as Fye kneels neatly at his side, seeming a mere shadow of a soul. His eyes seem chained now to the bandage clinging to his thigh and that droplet of blood seeping through the layers in a telling dot.
It’s difficult to discern whether Fye feels guilt or anger, watching his pale eyes narrow and inspect the wound with vigorous attention, with an almost desperate depth. His lips lie thin against each other and each breath is drawn ragged in torn and frayed emotion. He lays a hand against Kurogane’s leg, as though feeling for the pain, divining it and tracing it through his own fingertips.
“It’s fine,” he grumbles to Fye as his fingers loops distractedly over his bandages, tracing his wounded skin in a soft, light trail that sends a shiver pulsing through his spine.
Fye’s eyes flick up to him now, assessing him coldly with tight, drawn lips that seem as though they could never spill a word and they don’t need to - they are in his eyes, gleaming within that dark and calculating look that sinks through Kurogane’s conscience like an icy dagger through his skin.
But he reasons Fye is the last person who should chide him for bending the truth, for trying to protect him from the fact that the wound burns and sears him in pain whenever he attempts to move. For the most part, it barely bothers him. He’s received far worse wounds and been dealt far more intense pain. At the very least this agony is tolerable. That firm and steady gaze of Fye’s is far more strange and unbearable. The one moment a smile refuses to grace his lips and strangely Kurogane is tempted to tug at the edges just to stick that infuriating grin on his face like he's supposed to wear.
“It’s fine,” he repeats more severely this time, feeling at a loss as he starts to picture Fye smiling a silly grin just to bring some normality to the situation.
Whatever semblance of regularity - of that stupid game of cat and mouse Fye so enjoyed, those teasing smirks and stupid names he wrapped around his tongue in song while Kurogane screamed for his blood - shatters completely as Fye clasps a hand to his face, crumbles totally as he stares him dead in the eyes and strokes a thumb across his cheek near mindlessly.
He whispers something in his own language. Even if Kurogane can’t understand then he can feel the meaning pressing into him in that cold, seething voice.
Don’t try to protect me.
Kurogane’s frozen to the spot but he finds himself smirking, grinning beyond his will and snatching the blonde’s hand from his face. There are no words to say and he simply drops Fye’s hand as he shakes his head, tossing it slightly as though to rid himself of this feeling that stirs with uncomfortable sympathy in him, warming him in places he would rather feel barren.
Soon enough, Fye’s fingers are on his wound again, brushing it slowly and gently with a sad, pained well within his eyes. He drags them across his thigh and then around in a circle, running along the bandages with a metronomic, soothing pace.
He's just as stubborn in sorrow as he was in glee, it seemed.
“Oi...” Kurogane grunts at him, just wishing for him to stop this insane charade and grow back that spine he’d shown on the battlefield.
Fye’s fingers stop their slow and hypnotic dance, falling to a gentle stop, drifting down to clasp his thigh as gently as snow. But for all his grace, his eyes narrow and spin to the side, betraying a fat, slick tear dripping from the corner of his left eye and his lips twist almost as if he forbids it, is disgusted with himself for merely feeling emotion.
Kurogane clasps a hand to the side of his face, feeling his fingers weave through strands of gleaming gold tumbling over the back of his hand as it carefully lay to rest there, fingers carefully twitching just at the base of Fye’s forehead.
His eyes are soft now - damaged and hurt - and his smile is weak and bitter. It twitches on his lips in guilt and frustration as he stares into Kurogane’s eyes with about as many words as he can possibly express in the depth of his eyes, glistening now with a wet veil of tears though his lips tremble in self-frustration, silently seething at his own sorrow and guilt.
“I said it’s fine,” Kurogane repeats sternly, his voice cold and hard like stone.
A smile flickers across Fye’s face for the tiniest moment.
And in that betrayal of emotion, Kurogane sees all he could ever need to and draws him close, setting their lips together carefully, a soft and brief kiss in a clutched and depraved moment, clawing for that fleeting glance of a feeling dangling before him before it evaded him again. He presses his lips a little harder to Fye’s, slips his fingers down to his neck and holds him there as their mouths shift uncertainly against one another.
This feeling is too warm to be comfortable, too natural to be real, he decides as Fye’s hands gently settle against his bare, sweating skin and clasp him as he smiles in a sweet bliss and melts away into that kiss, teasing wetly at Kurogane's upper lip, their lips brushing in soft puckers, carefully swallowing the taste, relishing in the soft and gentle touch.
Still, it doesn’t take him very long to pull away abruptly, to dust the touch of Kurogane’s hands to his body off his battle clothes and smile away his secrets. He mutters something in his own tongue, curls it sharp and devious so its meaning remains foreign to Kurogane though its abruptness and dismissal rings painfully clear, resounds against Kurogane’s ears with a sickening clarity as Fye bursts through the tent door and Kurogane is left alone in a silent canvas bag, reeking of dirt and blood and death.
He closes his eyes, resting his head carefully against his pillow and begins to wonder what they’re both living in fear of.
***
a/n: Would it amaze you if I said that I don't really believe anything happened between them in Yama? I mean it's nice to read about but very few things have made me actually start to seriously think it's possible but it's just an opinion really. Writing this was a little strange :) Still, I hope it came out semi-decent at least! I noticed a lot of mixed tenses in there while I was checking it over for mistakes and I'm just praying it's not too badly OOC or messes up the original idea! And I hope that it was worth the wait, xxray ^^' Sorry!