Parameters [February 18th] [Doumeki/Watanuki] [xxxHOLiC]
Title :: Parameters
Prompt :: February 18th, “The blood of hyacinths” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Doumeki; Doumeki/Watanuki implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 123
Summary :: In his dreams, the flowers are hyacinths in lieu of hydrangeas, and his hands are deeply stained rather than sore.
Notes :: …I am pretty sure I have not seen the last of this fic. >.>;; Right as I was finishing it, it decided it wanted to turn itself into EpicFic instead (lovely timing; I love how this happens right as it is approaching midnight and I really needed to get posting), so I may very well end up coming back to expand upon it. Oi. Also, the prompt/symbolism in fic comes from the myth of Apollo and Hyacinthus.
In his dreams, the flowers are hyacinths in lieu of hydrangeas, and his hands are deeply stained rather than sore.
And there is no rain, only the coldest of winds that somehow makes him feel even more hopelessly exposed as he stands, and he stands, and he stands.
Waits.
He could ask the witch, he supposes, upon waking, what exactly all the strange symbolism might mean, but he doesn’t see the point. He does not care whether it is the past or a premonition; either way, he knows his place, and knows his purpose, and that is all he needs.
There is something deeper at work here than any dream, and it is the only thing to which he will trust his aim.
Prompt :: February 18th, “The blood of hyacinths” [31_days]
Characters/Pairing :: Doumeki; Doumeki/Watanuki implied
Rating :: PG
Wordcount :: 123
Summary :: In his dreams, the flowers are hyacinths in lieu of hydrangeas, and his hands are deeply stained rather than sore.
Notes :: …I am pretty sure I have not seen the last of this fic. >.>;; Right as I was finishing it, it decided it wanted to turn itself into EpicFic instead (lovely timing; I love how this happens right as it is approaching midnight and I really needed to get posting), so I may very well end up coming back to expand upon it. Oi. Also, the prompt/symbolism in fic comes from the myth of Apollo and Hyacinthus.
In his dreams, the flowers are hyacinths in lieu of hydrangeas, and his hands are deeply stained rather than sore.
And there is no rain, only the coldest of winds that somehow makes him feel even more hopelessly exposed as he stands, and he stands, and he stands.
Waits.
He could ask the witch, he supposes, upon waking, what exactly all the strange symbolism might mean, but he doesn’t see the point. He does not care whether it is the past or a premonition; either way, he knows his place, and knows his purpose, and that is all he needs.
There is something deeper at work here than any dream, and it is the only thing to which he will trust his aim.