[Other] Cathedrals
Title: saplings
’Verse/characters: Cathedrals; Isamu, Sanke
Prompt: 78B "top of the world"
Word Count: 252
Rating: PG
Notes: snapshot, more than story thread. Isamu anchors with dormouse-in-tea; this is one of those stories that may never be properly written. San mostly flings empty beer bottles at me if I bother him. >.>
It isn't, and they both know it, but the view from the top of the biggest cathedral's spire always seems like they can see anything, like it's the top of the world and everything else is that step distant.
San likes to pitch his apple cores through the open windows of neighbouring houses, deliberately doing it in the height of late-summer when everything's still too warm in the afternoon but the apples are coming to market in droves. There's been a few apple saplings pulled from roofline gutters, much to the bogglement of the removers, over the years. They never think of the spire, because anyone going up there needs ropes and ladders, and that's as obvious as obvious can be.
The first apples of the season are eaten down to the remaining stem, core seeds and all. He's never quite figured out if this is because San really honestly likes apples, and starts throwing away the cores before the craving becomes an aversion, or because the temptation of gutters and windows is just that edge too strong for impulse control.
San's all red and brown by the end of the summer, tan as he ever gets, with freckles sprinkled across his shoulders and gold in his hair. The art across his back seems darker, like ink tans along with skin, instead of beginning to fade as the skin colours, and his few scars stand out more strongly, healing white and red-pink running haphazard across the canvas of his skin.
’Verse/characters: Cathedrals; Isamu, Sanke
Prompt: 78B "top of the world"
Word Count: 252
Rating: PG
Notes: snapshot, more than story thread. Isamu anchors with dormouse-in-tea; this is one of those stories that may never be properly written. San mostly flings empty beer bottles at me if I bother him. >.>
It isn't, and they both know it, but the view from the top of the biggest cathedral's spire always seems like they can see anything, like it's the top of the world and everything else is that step distant.
San likes to pitch his apple cores through the open windows of neighbouring houses, deliberately doing it in the height of late-summer when everything's still too warm in the afternoon but the apples are coming to market in droves. There's been a few apple saplings pulled from roofline gutters, much to the bogglement of the removers, over the years. They never think of the spire, because anyone going up there needs ropes and ladders, and that's as obvious as obvious can be.
The first apples of the season are eaten down to the remaining stem, core seeds and all. He's never quite figured out if this is because San really honestly likes apples, and starts throwing away the cores before the craving becomes an aversion, or because the temptation of gutters and windows is just that edge too strong for impulse control.
San's all red and brown by the end of the summer, tan as he ever gets, with freckles sprinkled across his shoulders and gold in his hair. The art across his back seems darker, like ink tans along with skin, instead of beginning to fade as the skin colours, and his few scars stand out more strongly, healing white and red-pink running haphazard across the canvas of his skin.