as fic: 27 (katou/kira/setsuna)
Um, I was late, but that's only because I was unexpectedly... detained for more than a week. Let's just say that I went to a place where there's no internet or computer access, pens and pencils are considered dangerous and thus contraband items, and they don't allow you to wear those cute little berets in your hair, much less your shoes. That's all I can really say on the matter (though if you can figure out where I went, you're really quite brilliant, I'll give you that XD) because this journal is minus RL, right. I'm just happy to me home the day before my birthday.
And I think the writing style is kind of... different? I wrote it tonight. >_>
Written for and cross-posted to 3measures.
27.
Angel Sanctuary copyright Yuki Kaori.
Minutes ticked by. Ten thousand oceans flooded in his ears--he wondered if he happened to put his tongue to the pale shell of Setsuna's conch-like, fine, delicate ear (everything about that boy was delicate, and why yes, that is a sneer) he would taste the vague salt of a distant ocean. Currently, a music box twinkling or playing, whichever. Take down that breathless summit. Spiders spun their dusky, asymmetrical networks of silk gossamer threads. Weave a tapestry and paint a pretty picture please. Dust collected in the small, soft edges of Setsuna's crisp white sleeve, or maybe, if he dared to peer, on his sun-hot neck--or else to imagine. He expanded his lungs, he breathed deeply, he closed his eyes. The arching glass windows were not enough. The sun found its lover in Setsuna and claimed him. Setsuna, Setsuna whining on the top of his lungs--"Senpaaiiiiii, there's something weird in my eye!" His mind tilted elsewhere, as if it were dragged from his body, his body hovering on the precipice of--of what? Not defeat. There was no defeat, but he felt himself succumbing to something. Thoughts were insubstantial, fleeting, nonsensical things. Redundant as well.
The devil-child was sitting on her throne. Her posture was erect but leisurely so; she was resting her cheek on her fisted hand, blowing the hair from her face, her arm propped up on the armrest. If he recalled correctly from the drudges of his mind, he might resurrect verbatim a certain lecture the Mad Hatter had given the crew and Setsuna upon their first arrival in Hell and, more specifically, the princess's palace (this version abridged, of course):
"Virgin viewers tend to gaze indifferently around the palace (for they have seen too many palaces, and this looks suspiciously like a cathedral, and Lucifer, you must remember, was once an angel before he--), but this is a (sometimes fatal) mistake: Its white-washed marble floors hide smatterings of thick rosy red wherever, possibly around this spiraling staircase here, or maybe behind that corner over there, or maybe... Also, note the high windows through which the Gehenna sun peers ominously out, though this is not really pertinent to facades: Instead, a characteristic individual and innocently separated from other, ah, more unseemly things."
The Mad Hatter had then paused for a moment, the conversation stilted, her head tilted, and seemed as if to consider something before whimsically dabbing her primrose lips with an elegantly folded napkin--and then smiling.
Minutes ticking by. Ten minutes had passed already. His fingers grew cold. How many minutes was it now? Ten, still ten. He watched a black butterfly dance transiently outside the window. He thought about the time when he had fallen asleep here, on the sun warmed marble floor near this window, and how when he'd woken up the first thing he'd seen was Setsuna's worried face looking into his own sleepy visage. The late Gehenna sun had made Setsuna's skin look soft and warm, and the shock of it had made him exhale as if he'd just been kicked in the gut. Sleep was coming now as well. He shifted his weight contrapposto, picked at the dirt under his broad fingernails. He smoked two cigarettes. He recited odd, disenchanted limericks from Eliot etc., devoured them, and then spit the words back out. He tore them apart from inside out. They lay butchered, still (morbidly) funny. His mind, he felt, lagged. Thoughts were insubstantial, fleeting, nonsensical things. Redundant as well.
He dipped his hands in a pot of heavy black ink and stared at them, stared at them, and wiped them on the white walls. Each exhalation in the room was at once sublimely and painfully jarring to the senses--either too loud for comfort, or too soft for sleep--and weighed heavily upon them like grains of gravel tipping slowly a gilded scale.
What were they weighing their breaths against? Their lives, probably. He wanted to stop breathing. He wanted to live without living. But this was an impossibility, he knew; and there was no one in this world who lived like Setsuna did. Se. Tsu. Na. The tongue playfully emerging slightly near the row of bottom teeth at tsu, but ducking back inside at na, like a turtle that pops its head back inside the shell once it realizes that there is nothing very interesting after all. A fucking tease. It was even in his name. And fools are fools are fools, just as he was one, and he dared open his eyes (virgins everywhere speak yet again of sinful, lethal, sweetly lethal mistakes, mistakes that are fatal, mistakes that occur as if with the patient's incognizant consent), and when he did, he saw Setsuna ruffling his hair free of dust.
He held him by the elbow suddenly. "Senpaaiiiiii," Setsuna was still whining, crying almost, turning toward him with his other hand fisted and rubbing incessantly at the sore spot (like a child), "can't you get it out? Please? It's stuck in my eye and there's dust everywhere, even in my hair and--" He said shut up, Setsuna ("Shut up, Setsuna.") and held his head carefully in his hands before tracing his fingers over his soft eyelids, over his matted, slightly wet lashes, the corner of it... Out. But their cheeks grazed. Sestuna was warm. He pulled back instantly. Setsuna was always warm. Warm and radiant and glowing, like an angel. He turned away.
"Don't whine so much," he said, and ran a hand through his hair. When he looked up, Katou was there, leaning from a banister, smoking a cigarette, and looking at him through clouds of billowly black smoke. The minutes ticked by.
END.
P.S., Must make a point of reminding self to catch up with flist. I owe certain people stuff. =_=
And I think the writing style is kind of... different? I wrote it tonight. >_>
Written for and cross-posted to 3measures.
27.
Angel Sanctuary copyright Yuki Kaori.
Minutes ticked by. Ten thousand oceans flooded in his ears--he wondered if he happened to put his tongue to the pale shell of Setsuna's conch-like, fine, delicate ear (everything about that boy was delicate, and why yes, that is a sneer) he would taste the vague salt of a distant ocean. Currently, a music box twinkling or playing, whichever. Take down that breathless summit. Spiders spun their dusky, asymmetrical networks of silk gossamer threads. Weave a tapestry and paint a pretty picture please. Dust collected in the small, soft edges of Setsuna's crisp white sleeve, or maybe, if he dared to peer, on his sun-hot neck--or else to imagine. He expanded his lungs, he breathed deeply, he closed his eyes. The arching glass windows were not enough. The sun found its lover in Setsuna and claimed him. Setsuna, Setsuna whining on the top of his lungs--"Senpaaiiiiii, there's something weird in my eye!" His mind tilted elsewhere, as if it were dragged from his body, his body hovering on the precipice of--of what? Not defeat. There was no defeat, but he felt himself succumbing to something. Thoughts were insubstantial, fleeting, nonsensical things. Redundant as well.
The devil-child was sitting on her throne. Her posture was erect but leisurely so; she was resting her cheek on her fisted hand, blowing the hair from her face, her arm propped up on the armrest. If he recalled correctly from the drudges of his mind, he might resurrect verbatim a certain lecture the Mad Hatter had given the crew and Setsuna upon their first arrival in Hell and, more specifically, the princess's palace (this version abridged, of course):
"Virgin viewers tend to gaze indifferently around the palace (for they have seen too many palaces, and this looks suspiciously like a cathedral, and Lucifer, you must remember, was once an angel before he--), but this is a (sometimes fatal) mistake: Its white-washed marble floors hide smatterings of thick rosy red wherever, possibly around this spiraling staircase here, or maybe behind that corner over there, or maybe... Also, note the high windows through which the Gehenna sun peers ominously out, though this is not really pertinent to facades: Instead, a characteristic individual and innocently separated from other, ah, more unseemly things."
The Mad Hatter had then paused for a moment, the conversation stilted, her head tilted, and seemed as if to consider something before whimsically dabbing her primrose lips with an elegantly folded napkin--and then smiling.
Minutes ticking by. Ten minutes had passed already. His fingers grew cold. How many minutes was it now? Ten, still ten. He watched a black butterfly dance transiently outside the window. He thought about the time when he had fallen asleep here, on the sun warmed marble floor near this window, and how when he'd woken up the first thing he'd seen was Setsuna's worried face looking into his own sleepy visage. The late Gehenna sun had made Setsuna's skin look soft and warm, and the shock of it had made him exhale as if he'd just been kicked in the gut. Sleep was coming now as well. He shifted his weight contrapposto, picked at the dirt under his broad fingernails. He smoked two cigarettes. He recited odd, disenchanted limericks from Eliot etc., devoured them, and then spit the words back out. He tore them apart from inside out. They lay butchered, still (morbidly) funny. His mind, he felt, lagged. Thoughts were insubstantial, fleeting, nonsensical things. Redundant as well.
He dipped his hands in a pot of heavy black ink and stared at them, stared at them, and wiped them on the white walls. Each exhalation in the room was at once sublimely and painfully jarring to the senses--either too loud for comfort, or too soft for sleep--and weighed heavily upon them like grains of gravel tipping slowly a gilded scale.
What were they weighing their breaths against? Their lives, probably. He wanted to stop breathing. He wanted to live without living. But this was an impossibility, he knew; and there was no one in this world who lived like Setsuna did. Se. Tsu. Na. The tongue playfully emerging slightly near the row of bottom teeth at tsu, but ducking back inside at na, like a turtle that pops its head back inside the shell once it realizes that there is nothing very interesting after all. A fucking tease. It was even in his name. And fools are fools are fools, just as he was one, and he dared open his eyes (virgins everywhere speak yet again of sinful, lethal, sweetly lethal mistakes, mistakes that are fatal, mistakes that occur as if with the patient's incognizant consent), and when he did, he saw Setsuna ruffling his hair free of dust.
He held him by the elbow suddenly. "Senpaaiiiiii," Setsuna was still whining, crying almost, turning toward him with his other hand fisted and rubbing incessantly at the sore spot (like a child), "can't you get it out? Please? It's stuck in my eye and there's dust everywhere, even in my hair and--" He said shut up, Setsuna ("Shut up, Setsuna.") and held his head carefully in his hands before tracing his fingers over his soft eyelids, over his matted, slightly wet lashes, the corner of it... Out. But their cheeks grazed. Sestuna was warm. He pulled back instantly. Setsuna was always warm. Warm and radiant and glowing, like an angel. He turned away.
"Don't whine so much," he said, and ran a hand through his hair. When he looked up, Katou was there, leaning from a banister, smoking a cigarette, and looking at him through clouds of billowly black smoke. The minutes ticked by.
END.
P.S., Must make a point of reminding self to catch up with flist. I owe certain people stuff. =_=