[ CASTLE / fanfiction, chapter 4 / R / smut, WWII, violence ]
On a totally unrelated note: I changed the layout of the community, for like, the third time. I'm sorry for all the random, and very much so bizarre, changes and I wish I could tell you that this disconcerting *coughcoughcough* incident will be the last. However, I am a fickle person, and will probably change it again--as a heads up and pre-emptive apology: sorry! ^^;;
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A Castle of Silence and Bones
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004.
watch, this is beauty as it crashes.
(there is something fascinating in the obscene, the unseen)
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He has ordered cameras and microphones installed in every possible corner and space of the room. Of course they are all of the best technological standing, German engineering coupled with Japanese design, and near-impossible to see, unless one had been trained to find them. He observes Yao through them, in between watching the troops march and reading the latest sets of demands towards the fallen 'Allied' powers.
(they did not rise together, and so, they did not fall together.)
Kiku hurts, and he knows that Ludwig is hurting as much, if not more, because of the war. It has ended, and yet the Allied forces continue to fight. Foolishly, of course, because there was never any chance of victory in the face of heaven-mandated superiority.
His emperor, the one that will lead his people to certain glory and honor, has asked for him to stay behind. Kiku understands, for it would not be good for the soldiers to mistake him to be one of them, and it is merely a matter of principal and morality. It has nothing to do with the blood-drenched smile that he saw his (worshipped, beloved, heavenly) commander make that night of the massacre.
(He was smiling the same smile, after all.)
And so, he takes to watching the only prisoner in the whole of the palace.
Yao wakes and wanders, sometimes throughout the room, and othertimes throughout the depths and channels and courses of his mind. Kiku watches, something like fascinated and something like enraptured, because every movement, every motion, which (his captive) the other makes compels him to--
To---?
His nightly visits are not enough to sate this thirst, this want.
In a languid fashion, Yao raises the clear crystalline shine of cut glass, putting it to his lips, as if to sip, only to stop right before. His face shakes, contorts, in something like fury and rage, before Kiku sees the glass fly clear across his monitors (across the room), to land in beautiful pieces, each iridescent and distinctly original in their own right, only to fall to the matted floor.
With half-lidded eyes, Kiku watches as Yao glances, contemplating, towards the plate of uneaten food. A hand, shaking and trembling and yet somehow still steady in the hesitation, reaches out, stopping when fingertips graze the edge of the finest porcelain England is willing to give up.
(It was a parting gift from 'Arthur', who lies with his soldiers, once more.)
A jerk of the head, and Yao is looking straight at the camera, straight at Kiku. There is pain, there is hunger, there is disgust; all in the other's eyes. And yet, unlike before, there is no confusion, no disbelief.
Only hate.
Kiku barks forth a laugh, high-pitched and mad, for Yao's hatred is all-consuming.
(His love is more than enough to drive him over the brink.)
'For who--?'
'For you.'
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