Kanda Yuu; part 2.aidenesqueSeptember 20 2008, 11:26:18 UTC
Special Notes: This Kanda was written for kacfrog711's Lavi; in this canon, the two of them were 'involved', but no one would know to what extent -- it wasn't something Kanda ever spoke of.
[there's a pause, and Kanda's face comes into view, looking sour and displeased.]
This thing is b --- [static, the video feed flickers] -- oken already, dammit! Who the hell do I hav -- [more static and flickering] -- alk to to get this thing fixed already?
If hell on earth could have existed, Kanda would have been existing within it right now. Five days he had suffered beneath this, five long, grueling days. Fever burned through his body as it desperately attempted to heal broken bones and torn flesh, wounds it was incapable of mending. Years ago this would have been simple; a day at most, maybe two, considering the extent to which he'd damaged himself, but no more than that. Now, tired and spent and wrecked, he could do no more, and although his body was doing all that it could to keep him alive, his mind knew that it was failing. He'd gone too far this time, pushed himself beyond his limits; there was no coming back from this.
As the fever intensified, his senses had suffered -- everything looked and felt hazy, and he'd spent more time unconscious than he had spent awake. Theodore had been there, Kanda could feel him, his warm, callused old hands, the powdery smell of his skin. Around the edges of his awareness he could hear the sound of his heaving, heavy sobs. Theodore had always cried too much; it was a shame that Kanda hadn't had the wherewithal to tell him to shut up.
Lying in bed had left him with boundless time to think, he clung to the moments of clarity that occasionally drifted through his drugged and fevered mind. Funny, in his youth he would have fought this. He would have climbed out of bed like an idiot and sent all of the nurses into a tizzy, he would have yanked the IV feeds out of his arm and struggled to stand despite the pain and fever. And yet here he was, a different man, apart from the one he had been, braving the acceptance of his fate rather than disputing it. Instead of fighting it, he lay here quiet; possibly because he did not have the energy to fight it anymore, or possibly because he was resigned to it. Kanda had always promised himself that he would die without regrets, but that felt somehow selfish, somehow wrong.
And as he lay there, voices passed in and out of his hearing range; nurses, Theodore, other exorcists, but no one was right now, and Theodore was asleep, slumped forward in his chair. Night had fallen, and Kanda was alone in the infirmary, accompanied only by the sound of humming machinery and his own faint breathing. His head felt heavy, and his body felt hot and foreign; everything burned, everything ached, and he was trapped in this broken body, unable to find solace even in his sleep, which was always shallow and fitful. The tattoo on his chest throbbed, lancing sharp pain through his neck and arms and torso.
Now was the time. He could feel it building inside of him: a cold, numb lump in his belly grew, branching out into his limbs, catching his lungs and heart and mind. Kanda opened his too-tired eyes just in time to see Theodore stir and lift his shaggy head -- his breath caught, his body arched, twitching and shuddering and then suddenly falling still. Behind the door to his abandoned room, the flower lost its faint glow.
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Sample Posts
Writing Sample for overclockedrp
What the -- thi-- [static]
My godda-- [static] --lem is -- [static]
[there's a pause, and Kanda's face comes into view, looking sour and displeased.]
This thing is b --- [static, the video feed flickers] -- oken already, dammit! Who the hell do I hav -- [more static and flickering] -- alk to to get this thing fixed already?
Writing Sample for overclockedlogs
If hell on earth could have existed, Kanda would have been existing within it right now. Five days he had suffered beneath this, five long, grueling days. Fever burned through his body as it desperately attempted to heal broken bones and torn flesh, wounds it was incapable of mending. Years ago this would have been simple; a day at most, maybe two, considering the extent to which he'd damaged himself, but no more than that. Now, tired and spent and wrecked, he could do no more, and although his body was doing all that it could to keep him alive, his mind knew that it was failing. He'd gone too far this time, pushed himself beyond his limits; there was no coming back from this.
As the fever intensified, his senses had suffered -- everything looked and felt hazy, and he'd spent more time unconscious than he had spent awake. Theodore had been there, Kanda could feel him, his warm, callused old hands, the powdery smell of his skin. Around the edges of his awareness he could hear the sound of his heaving, heavy sobs. Theodore had always cried too much; it was a shame that Kanda hadn't had the wherewithal to tell him to shut up.
Lying in bed had left him with boundless time to think, he clung to the moments of clarity that occasionally drifted through his drugged and fevered mind. Funny, in his youth he would have fought this. He would have climbed out of bed like an idiot and sent all of the nurses into a tizzy, he would have yanked the IV feeds out of his arm and struggled to stand despite the pain and fever. And yet here he was, a different man, apart from the one he had been, braving the acceptance of his fate rather than disputing it. Instead of fighting it, he lay here quiet; possibly because he did not have the energy to fight it anymore, or possibly because he was resigned to it. Kanda had always promised himself that he would die without regrets, but that felt somehow selfish, somehow wrong.
And as he lay there, voices passed in and out of his hearing range; nurses, Theodore, other exorcists, but no one was right now, and Theodore was asleep, slumped forward in his chair. Night had fallen, and Kanda was alone in the infirmary, accompanied only by the sound of humming machinery and his own faint breathing. His head felt heavy, and his body felt hot and foreign; everything burned, everything ached, and he was trapped in this broken body, unable to find solace even in his sleep, which was always shallow and fitful. The tattoo on his chest throbbed, lancing sharp pain through his neck and arms and torso.
Now was the time. He could feel it building inside of him: a cold, numb lump in his belly grew, branching out into his limbs, catching his lungs and heart and mind. Kanda opened his too-tired eyes just in time to see Theodore stir and lift his shaggy head -- his breath caught, his body arched, twitching and shuddering and then suddenly falling still. Behind the door to his abandoned room, the flower lost its faint glow.
He died with more regrets than he could count.
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