I swear this isn't an apologist fic.
.
Pinged, proud of it.
Title:Humanity
Subtitle: the seven sins of Subaru Sumeragi, and the seven contrary virtues of Sakurazuka Seishirou
Fandom: Tokyo Babylon, takes place after chapter END.
Rating: PG, creepiness and urges, as usual.
Humanity
the seven sins of subaru sumeragi
and the seven contrary virtues of sakurazuka seishirou
Mithrigil Galtirglin
h.u.m.i.l.i.t.y
For a month, an additional sign on the clinic door reads:
It is with deepest regret that the Sakurazuka Veterinary Clinic must close its doors after three years of happy and dedicated service to the community. Sakurazuka-sensei apologizes for his inability to attend to the needs of Tokyo’s animal citizens. He considers it to have been a pleasure to contribute to the well-being and happiness of so many families, and thanks you all for your patronage.
A list of other recommended clinics follows.
g.r.e.e.d
Seishirou’s ashtray, the one from his clinic, is chipped and old and filthy, caked black in the ridges and the curves.
Subaru keeps it. Uses it.
d.i.l.i.g.e.n.c.e
Work is work. It’s not as if anyone in the House of Councilors knows, or cares, that Seishirou is still recovering, reacclimating, least of all the kind of people in who would hire him. Seishirou refrains from direct confrontation, refrains from motion, only tampers with the corpse when it’s just that, a corpse. He obliterates the spirit, arranges the body as specified, which is not as difficult as he thought it would be without depth-perception, and returns to the hospital. To sleep, after that, is reassuring.
p.r.i.d.e
“I can’t understand your pain,” Subaru says, to a client. It’s become another mantra. If he closes his eyes, he could be saying it to anyone. It’s true for everyone. If there is such a thing as everyone. “Your suffering is your own, and I have no right to presume anything about you or it….I can only know that you are suffering, and do what I can to stop it.”
There isn’t such a thing as everyone. He couldn’t say this to himself.
t.e.m.p.e.r.a.n.c.e
The doctors made it emphatically clear that Seishirou was not to put any additional strain on his left eye. The sunglasses were, initially, a prescription toward that end.
There are other restrictions, of course. He sells the bicycle, has the van scrapped. He cuts the lease short on his apartment, citing that he’ll be moving to someplace more accessible. And he’ll be taking to a more nocturnal lifestyle, he thinks, though in a city like this, the streets are as bright as the sun. Tokyo is not kind to the handicapped, he says.
e.n.v.y
The left wheel of Grandmother Sumeragi’s chair catches on the knot of earth where the bridge meets it. The silver spokes glimmer, shifting with the water’s reflection, rounded on the metal’s curve. Subaru lifts, a little, gently pushes the chair up the incline, to the apex of the bridge.
She speaks; it means he should stop here, listen. Her voice is like the brook. “Does it distress you to see me like this?”
There are two answers. He gives her one. “Yes.”
k.i.n.d.n.e.s.s
Hokuto’s spell nips at his shoulder, like the talons of a shikigami, every time Seishirou kills. It’s frustrating.
s.l.o.t.h
The sound a 500-yen coin makes skittering down the slot of a vending machine is like a train croaking to a stop ten seconds too late.
The price of cigarettes is going up. It’s pay more, or change brands. The choice is easy.
At least this way, he won’t get hundred-yen coins in change. The sakura pattern on the back burns holes in Subaru’s pockets.
a.b.s.t.i.n.e.n.c.e
The scars cry out to him. Now that Subaru’s given up on gloves, all it takes is being in the same district, and the taunting begins. You’re ignoring your prey, something reminds Seishirou, in sleep-needles, an absence of blood across his lower lip. You’re playing with him. You’re humanizing him. You’re indulging yourself. Seishirou disagrees.
l.u.s.t
The backs of his hands burn, so much.
He wrings one over the other, kneads the knuckles together, shoves, forces the bones to shift under the skin. Different kinds of pain. Different. He tries to grind his teeth and can’t keep them down, can’t keep his breath from hissing, shallow, his lips from parting. Can’t keep his eyes shut, and he wants to, wants to not look at his fingers shivering in the light of the scars and the only way to do that is to hide them. He stretches out his chin, traps his clasped hands under it-it burns, they burn-drives them into his collarbone. The way birds hide their beaks, in their wings-backward, hiding his hands in his neck-not hiding at all. The skin sears. The bones jab at his jaw. That shallow breath becomes a whimper. A hiss, driving toward a name.
He slams his teeth down, to keep from saying it.
c.h.a.r.i.t.y
Seishirou recalls making the bet in the first place; what prompted such a thing, what sparked it. A moment where that little boy’s statement, and the tremor around his eyes, changed something. “But isn’t that person in pain?” the boy had said then, and something occurred, like the snap of a twig must feel to the tree.
No, Seishirou thought then, thinks now, because that person is already dead.
Evidently, though-to look at Subaru, now-the dead aren’t actually immune.
g.l.u.t.t.o.n.y
The water’s at that point where he knows, rationally, that it’s supposed to be hot, but according to his skin, it’s just tepid. It’s been a quarter of an hour at least. The drain’s not stopped, but it does move slowly, enough that he knows; if he can feel the water, if he notices it at all, covering his toes, sloshing on his ankles, that he’s been in here too long. Hasn’t picked up the soap, hasn’t fixed the curtain, hasn’t lightened up the setting on the showerhead. Hasn’t even wondered until now if his skin’s shining red. It probably is, but it’s hard to tell, through the steam and the shadows.
It’s pleasant, almost, not worrying. Not thinking. Just standing there, ankle-deep in water that might still be hot, unconcerned. And of course, when he remembers, that all crashes down; that somewhere else in this building there’s a washer straining to get to its temperature, that five minutes from now someone two floors below him will only have hot water enough for five minutes. He can’t even justify it with some kind of grimy feeling under his skin, some kind of reek hanging about him-can’t pretend this is just a purification rite before a job, because it isn’t one. This is just Subaru, thinking that the sound of running water is enough to shut up a ghost.
It isn’t.
The water’s covering his ankle-bones, now.
p.a.t.i.e.n.c.e
He knows where Subaru returns to at night. How he sleeps, how he works, that he’s quit school, that he’s taken up smoking. What brand. How he’s become something no one could have expected out of someone so pure, so vibrant.
Perhaps they should have expected it. Innocence, purity, they’re on the same end of the axis as order, as life. They take work to maintain, and they take force to shatter, and no matter how many times you drop a broken glass it’ll never hit the floor and become whole. And no matter how many times you run a corpse through, it’ll never come back to life.
w.r.a.t.h
“Isetan Shinjuku welcomes you!” the elevator-girl chirps, bowing just slightly enough that her bangs flounce. The reflection of the back of her head shows the little hairpins that keep her uniform cap on, glinting, brassy black. “How can we be of service, sir?”
“Mirrors,” Subaru says after a long breath. “A-full-length one.”
“Fifth floor,” she answers, cheerfully stepping aside to press the corresponding button. Subaru tightens his fists in his coat pockets, looks down. His hands are still shaking. The elevator’s full of them and he’d really rather not look.
Maybe if he gets an expensive one, he’ll have another reason not to shatter it.
---
-
Pinged, proud of it.
Title:Humanity
Subtitle: the seven sins of Subaru Sumeragi, and the seven contrary virtues of Sakurazuka Seishirou
Fandom: Tokyo Babylon, takes place after chapter END.
Rating: PG, creepiness and urges, as usual.
Humanity
the seven sins of subaru sumeragi
and the seven contrary virtues of sakurazuka seishirou
Mithrigil Galtirglin
h.u.m.i.l.i.t.y
For a month, an additional sign on the clinic door reads:
It is with deepest regret that the Sakurazuka Veterinary Clinic must close its doors after three years of happy and dedicated service to the community. Sakurazuka-sensei apologizes for his inability to attend to the needs of Tokyo’s animal citizens. He considers it to have been a pleasure to contribute to the well-being and happiness of so many families, and thanks you all for your patronage.
A list of other recommended clinics follows.
g.r.e.e.d
Seishirou’s ashtray, the one from his clinic, is chipped and old and filthy, caked black in the ridges and the curves.
Subaru keeps it. Uses it.
d.i.l.i.g.e.n.c.e
Work is work. It’s not as if anyone in the House of Councilors knows, or cares, that Seishirou is still recovering, reacclimating, least of all the kind of people in who would hire him. Seishirou refrains from direct confrontation, refrains from motion, only tampers with the corpse when it’s just that, a corpse. He obliterates the spirit, arranges the body as specified, which is not as difficult as he thought it would be without depth-perception, and returns to the hospital. To sleep, after that, is reassuring.
p.r.i.d.e
“I can’t understand your pain,” Subaru says, to a client. It’s become another mantra. If he closes his eyes, he could be saying it to anyone. It’s true for everyone. If there is such a thing as everyone. “Your suffering is your own, and I have no right to presume anything about you or it….I can only know that you are suffering, and do what I can to stop it.”
There isn’t such a thing as everyone. He couldn’t say this to himself.
t.e.m.p.e.r.a.n.c.e
The doctors made it emphatically clear that Seishirou was not to put any additional strain on his left eye. The sunglasses were, initially, a prescription toward that end.
There are other restrictions, of course. He sells the bicycle, has the van scrapped. He cuts the lease short on his apartment, citing that he’ll be moving to someplace more accessible. And he’ll be taking to a more nocturnal lifestyle, he thinks, though in a city like this, the streets are as bright as the sun. Tokyo is not kind to the handicapped, he says.
e.n.v.y
The left wheel of Grandmother Sumeragi’s chair catches on the knot of earth where the bridge meets it. The silver spokes glimmer, shifting with the water’s reflection, rounded on the metal’s curve. Subaru lifts, a little, gently pushes the chair up the incline, to the apex of the bridge.
She speaks; it means he should stop here, listen. Her voice is like the brook. “Does it distress you to see me like this?”
There are two answers. He gives her one. “Yes.”
k.i.n.d.n.e.s.s
Hokuto’s spell nips at his shoulder, like the talons of a shikigami, every time Seishirou kills. It’s frustrating.
s.l.o.t.h
The sound a 500-yen coin makes skittering down the slot of a vending machine is like a train croaking to a stop ten seconds too late.
The price of cigarettes is going up. It’s pay more, or change brands. The choice is easy.
At least this way, he won’t get hundred-yen coins in change. The sakura pattern on the back burns holes in Subaru’s pockets.
a.b.s.t.i.n.e.n.c.e
The scars cry out to him. Now that Subaru’s given up on gloves, all it takes is being in the same district, and the taunting begins. You’re ignoring your prey, something reminds Seishirou, in sleep-needles, an absence of blood across his lower lip. You’re playing with him. You’re humanizing him. You’re indulging yourself. Seishirou disagrees.
l.u.s.t
The backs of his hands burn, so much.
He wrings one over the other, kneads the knuckles together, shoves, forces the bones to shift under the skin. Different kinds of pain. Different. He tries to grind his teeth and can’t keep them down, can’t keep his breath from hissing, shallow, his lips from parting. Can’t keep his eyes shut, and he wants to, wants to not look at his fingers shivering in the light of the scars and the only way to do that is to hide them. He stretches out his chin, traps his clasped hands under it-it burns, they burn-drives them into his collarbone. The way birds hide their beaks, in their wings-backward, hiding his hands in his neck-not hiding at all. The skin sears. The bones jab at his jaw. That shallow breath becomes a whimper. A hiss, driving toward a name.
He slams his teeth down, to keep from saying it.
c.h.a.r.i.t.y
Seishirou recalls making the bet in the first place; what prompted such a thing, what sparked it. A moment where that little boy’s statement, and the tremor around his eyes, changed something. “But isn’t that person in pain?” the boy had said then, and something occurred, like the snap of a twig must feel to the tree.
No, Seishirou thought then, thinks now, because that person is already dead.
Evidently, though-to look at Subaru, now-the dead aren’t actually immune.
g.l.u.t.t.o.n.y
The water’s at that point where he knows, rationally, that it’s supposed to be hot, but according to his skin, it’s just tepid. It’s been a quarter of an hour at least. The drain’s not stopped, but it does move slowly, enough that he knows; if he can feel the water, if he notices it at all, covering his toes, sloshing on his ankles, that he’s been in here too long. Hasn’t picked up the soap, hasn’t fixed the curtain, hasn’t lightened up the setting on the showerhead. Hasn’t even wondered until now if his skin’s shining red. It probably is, but it’s hard to tell, through the steam and the shadows.
It’s pleasant, almost, not worrying. Not thinking. Just standing there, ankle-deep in water that might still be hot, unconcerned. And of course, when he remembers, that all crashes down; that somewhere else in this building there’s a washer straining to get to its temperature, that five minutes from now someone two floors below him will only have hot water enough for five minutes. He can’t even justify it with some kind of grimy feeling under his skin, some kind of reek hanging about him-can’t pretend this is just a purification rite before a job, because it isn’t one. This is just Subaru, thinking that the sound of running water is enough to shut up a ghost.
It isn’t.
The water’s covering his ankle-bones, now.
p.a.t.i.e.n.c.e
He knows where Subaru returns to at night. How he sleeps, how he works, that he’s quit school, that he’s taken up smoking. What brand. How he’s become something no one could have expected out of someone so pure, so vibrant.
Perhaps they should have expected it. Innocence, purity, they’re on the same end of the axis as order, as life. They take work to maintain, and they take force to shatter, and no matter how many times you drop a broken glass it’ll never hit the floor and become whole. And no matter how many times you run a corpse through, it’ll never come back to life.
w.r.a.t.h
“Isetan Shinjuku welcomes you!” the elevator-girl chirps, bowing just slightly enough that her bangs flounce. The reflection of the back of her head shows the little hairpins that keep her uniform cap on, glinting, brassy black. “How can we be of service, sir?”
“Mirrors,” Subaru says after a long breath. “A-full-length one.”
“Fifth floor,” she answers, cheerfully stepping aside to press the corresponding button. Subaru tightens his fists in his coat pockets, looks down. His hands are still shaking. The elevator’s full of them and he’d really rather not look.
Maybe if he gets an expensive one, he’ll have another reason not to shatter it.
---
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