Solo Moment
It was a whim that drew Kaiba to the small airport chapel, just as it had been the time before and the time before that- a whim like magnetism, a force-of-gravity whim. Kaiba was fascinated with the incongruity of the sacred spaces, like tiny jewels in the bustle and self-absorbed river of life. Hospitals, airports, once even in a mall. Chapel, meditation room- a variety of names but the same meaning to them all, the same purpose, the same feeling.
The moment Kaiba crossed the threshold into the empty room all sound muted. He studied the walls closely, as he always did, but this one was no more sound-proofed than any of the others, made of no different material or covered or coated in any way. Kaiba had never been able to account for the sense of quietness that folded around him in these places, although he never stopped looking for the design element that must be responsible.
The décor was muted blues and marble, two rows of chairs that would look at home in any doctor's office or lobby, with a third in the front bisected by an arm length kneeler, all facing an aggressively non-denominational podium. Kaiba prowled the room, fingering the many pamphlets, running his fingers along the wooden stand, standing with his arms crossed before the ironically half-dead floral arrangement. Back to the door and along the wall again. Between the rows of chairs. Reaching for the handful of plastic rosaries dangling from the racks of slickly folded platitudes and pulling back before his fingers made contact.
Moving on a slow impulse, Kaiba knelt down, fingers splayed flat on the slick, brown-patterned rail of the kneeler. He stared at the large, stained glass circle on the wall behind the lectern with cool appraisal. A dove was the only concrete form, the rest a study of blue and orange and brown, arranged, Seto was certain, to be as noncommittal as possible. Fire licking on water, or earth and mountains and air. Bitterness swamped Kaiba like a wave.
He stared up at the tasteful swirl of color, eyes full of sullen resentment, lacing his fingers with a complex tangle of hot betrayal and outrage, defiantly refusing to even think at a being he wouldn't acknowledge but felt deceived by just the same. Kaiba had never been innocent but even the most hardened, jaded person alive had been vulnerable once.
Slowly, the anger drained from him. It left - not peace in its wake, nor did it bring emptiness. As Kaiba stood and walked from the room with sure, steady steps, he took the feeling with him, identifying it as he passed from hushed sanctity to noisy concourse.
Waiting.
The moment Kaiba crossed the threshold into the empty room all sound muted. He studied the walls closely, as he always did, but this one was no more sound-proofed than any of the others, made of no different material or covered or coated in any way. Kaiba had never been able to account for the sense of quietness that folded around him in these places, although he never stopped looking for the design element that must be responsible.
The décor was muted blues and marble, two rows of chairs that would look at home in any doctor's office or lobby, with a third in the front bisected by an arm length kneeler, all facing an aggressively non-denominational podium. Kaiba prowled the room, fingering the many pamphlets, running his fingers along the wooden stand, standing with his arms crossed before the ironically half-dead floral arrangement. Back to the door and along the wall again. Between the rows of chairs. Reaching for the handful of plastic rosaries dangling from the racks of slickly folded platitudes and pulling back before his fingers made contact.
Moving on a slow impulse, Kaiba knelt down, fingers splayed flat on the slick, brown-patterned rail of the kneeler. He stared at the large, stained glass circle on the wall behind the lectern with cool appraisal. A dove was the only concrete form, the rest a study of blue and orange and brown, arranged, Seto was certain, to be as noncommittal as possible. Fire licking on water, or earth and mountains and air. Bitterness swamped Kaiba like a wave.
He stared up at the tasteful swirl of color, eyes full of sullen resentment, lacing his fingers with a complex tangle of hot betrayal and outrage, defiantly refusing to even think at a being he wouldn't acknowledge but felt deceived by just the same. Kaiba had never been innocent but even the most hardened, jaded person alive had been vulnerable once.
Slowly, the anger drained from him. It left - not peace in its wake, nor did it bring emptiness. As Kaiba stood and walked from the room with sure, steady steps, he took the feeling with him, identifying it as he passed from hushed sanctity to noisy concourse.
Waiting.