Fuse [March 5th] [Kurofai] [Tsubasa]
Title :: Fuse
Prompt :: March 5th, “home is no longer a thing with walls of stone and windows of glass” [31_days]
Pairing :: Kurofai
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Set in Nihon; spoilers.
Wordcount :: 166
Summary :: “He dreams of snow, of endless mountains and valleys and over under over under over on, of the way light catching against ice crystals was so beautiful it could only burn your eyes.
He feels something cold beside him, slivers of ice against his skin, as the wind dusts chill fingers through his hair.
He dreams of snow, of endless mountains and valleys and over under over under over on, of the way light catching against ice crystals was so beautiful it could only burn your eyes.
He dreams of red, silently screaming refusals of surrender overtaking the treacherous safety of white, blood mixed with the snow and the dimming reflections in one another’s gaze.
This is the truth of things, he thinks, ink etched over the starkest of pages, written so boldly he can no longer turn away, not even to pretend; and his fingers itch to grasp and turn.
They are stilled.
(And it is only when he wakes, warm sun wrapping around and causing his eye to almost water in a way somehow completely unlike before, that he understands; sees the chilled metal fingers laced through his and knows they have been holding on all along.)
Prompt :: March 5th, “home is no longer a thing with walls of stone and windows of glass” [31_days]
Pairing :: Kurofai
Rating :: PG
Warnings :: Set in Nihon; spoilers.
Wordcount :: 166
Summary :: “He dreams of snow, of endless mountains and valleys and over under over under over on, of the way light catching against ice crystals was so beautiful it could only burn your eyes.
He feels something cold beside him, slivers of ice against his skin, as the wind dusts chill fingers through his hair.
He dreams of snow, of endless mountains and valleys and over under over under over on, of the way light catching against ice crystals was so beautiful it could only burn your eyes.
He dreams of red, silently screaming refusals of surrender overtaking the treacherous safety of white, blood mixed with the snow and the dimming reflections in one another’s gaze.
This is the truth of things, he thinks, ink etched over the starkest of pages, written so boldly he can no longer turn away, not even to pretend; and his fingers itch to grasp and turn.
They are stilled.
(And it is only when he wakes, warm sun wrapping around and causing his eye to almost water in a way somehow completely unlike before, that he understands; sees the chilled metal fingers laced through his and knows they have been holding on all along.)