Versus - Untouchable
Title: Untouchable.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in Kitamura's sandbox.
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Nothing untouchable remains so forever.
Pairing(s): Kenji/Kazuhito. (Giggles/Glasses)
Fandom: Versus.
Words: 521.
Notes: Written for smallfandomflsh, challenge #1: Virgin. Also, rampant use of actor names, because they have none of their own.
Kazuhito didn't wear white any more.
He had been fond of white, once, in what seemed like another life, had often worn white both as a child and as a teenager. He'd rather liked the colour. Stark, simple and to the point, suitable for someone with what he'd always assumed was one of the most boring personalities ever. He'd never had much of an interest in anything as a teenager, and had always figured he'd be like his father, working in a salary job for all of his life. He'd had no hope that he'd ever be happy, because he'd had nothing he wanted. A dull life for a dull man, forever confined to a white-collar shirt.
But after his life changed drastically and he discovered his unsettling skill at getting covered in blood, a skill that was utterly ridiculous for someone who was mainly a sniper, he'd made some unavoidable.
White might be the colour of death, but it was never the colour for a killer. Oh, it looked impressive enough on film, and in anime, like that utterly ridiculous girl's show he'd caught Kenji watching, with a doctor all dressed in white, killing people right and left, and somehow not getting a single stain on his long coat.
Real life was nothing like that.
Though it was the colour of death, and of sorrow, he was somehow fond of the western view of it. It was the colour of purity to them, of innocence and virginity.
To Kazuhito, white was both. It was a wast field of snow, not yet broken by tracks, the glittering of the corn snow as though dusted with shimmering pigments. The beauty of something that was untouched, pure and spared the almost blasphemous disturbance that was human interruption. White was the deadly cold of the winter at his great-grandparents' home in northern Hokkaido, lethal in its sheer frigidity.
Untouchable, cold, and deadly. Qualities Kazuhito had carefully cultivated in himself. He had made the lack of emotion and interest from his youth into an art form. As far as everyone else was concerned, he was without feeling, as cold and untouchable as a snowy field in the high mountains.
Of course, there were always exceptions. Apparently, Kenji couldn't read the mental "do not touch" sign Kazuhito worked so hard projecting. Or rather, he could read it, he just gleefully ignored it, like he ignored how you shouldn't put knives in toasters, or use electronics in the shower. He had no manners, no common sense and no respect for personal space, and he'd nearly driven the always so unmovable Kazuhito insane until he'd learned to handle him. The other man was almost entirely to blame for Kazuhito's inability to get out of a fight without being covered in blood. Knives were no match against guns, which made his job of providing cover so much more difficult.
And for every crack Kenji had made in his mental armour, he'd been a little less emotionless, a little more approachable. A little more human.
A little less pure.
Kazuhito didn't wear white any more.
It wasn't needed.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: herukatto@hotmail.com.
Part: 1/1.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in Kitamura's sandbox.
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Nothing untouchable remains so forever.
Pairing(s): Kenji/Kazuhito. (Giggles/Glasses)
Fandom: Versus.
Words: 521.
Notes: Written for smallfandomflsh, challenge #1: Virgin. Also, rampant use of actor names, because they have none of their own.
Kazuhito didn't wear white any more.
He had been fond of white, once, in what seemed like another life, had often worn white both as a child and as a teenager. He'd rather liked the colour. Stark, simple and to the point, suitable for someone with what he'd always assumed was one of the most boring personalities ever. He'd never had much of an interest in anything as a teenager, and had always figured he'd be like his father, working in a salary job for all of his life. He'd had no hope that he'd ever be happy, because he'd had nothing he wanted. A dull life for a dull man, forever confined to a white-collar shirt.
But after his life changed drastically and he discovered his unsettling skill at getting covered in blood, a skill that was utterly ridiculous for someone who was mainly a sniper, he'd made some unavoidable.
White might be the colour of death, but it was never the colour for a killer. Oh, it looked impressive enough on film, and in anime, like that utterly ridiculous girl's show he'd caught Kenji watching, with a doctor all dressed in white, killing people right and left, and somehow not getting a single stain on his long coat.
Real life was nothing like that.
Though it was the colour of death, and of sorrow, he was somehow fond of the western view of it. It was the colour of purity to them, of innocence and virginity.
To Kazuhito, white was both. It was a wast field of snow, not yet broken by tracks, the glittering of the corn snow as though dusted with shimmering pigments. The beauty of something that was untouched, pure and spared the almost blasphemous disturbance that was human interruption. White was the deadly cold of the winter at his great-grandparents' home in northern Hokkaido, lethal in its sheer frigidity.
Untouchable, cold, and deadly. Qualities Kazuhito had carefully cultivated in himself. He had made the lack of emotion and interest from his youth into an art form. As far as everyone else was concerned, he was without feeling, as cold and untouchable as a snowy field in the high mountains.
Of course, there were always exceptions. Apparently, Kenji couldn't read the mental "do not touch" sign Kazuhito worked so hard projecting. Or rather, he could read it, he just gleefully ignored it, like he ignored how you shouldn't put knives in toasters, or use electronics in the shower. He had no manners, no common sense and no respect for personal space, and he'd nearly driven the always so unmovable Kazuhito insane until he'd learned to handle him. The other man was almost entirely to blame for Kazuhito's inability to get out of a fight without being covered in blood. Knives were no match against guns, which made his job of providing cover so much more difficult.
And for every crack Kenji had made in his mental armour, he'd been a little less emotionless, a little more approachable. A little more human.
A little less pure.
Kazuhito didn't wear white any more.
It wasn't needed.