Princess Tutu: Carnival
Title: Carnival
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Characters: young!Fakir, Mute
In the autumn the Carnival comes to town. Overnight it unfurls in the town centre, and when people wake up the next morning the streets are full of the smell of charcoal and roasting chestnuts.
Charon shoves a handful of pennies into Fakia's hand and pushes him outside, slamming the door before Fakir can even draw breath to shout what the hell does the old man think he's doing, the town full of strangers, how can he protect -
Go act like a normal kid for once, Charon shouts back, and Fakir draws in a long, hissing breath, hand clenching tight around the hard metal pennies. He looks up at Mute; the taller boy, his Prince, is gazing incuriously down at him, unperturbed by the yelling; a strain of banjo music comes twisting and leaping down their street and Mute cocks his head slightly to one side to listen.
Fakir lets his breath out from between his teeth. There will be better shelter to be found in a crowd, he decides.
The Carnival is loud and bright, full of voices and smells and the brightly clothed press of people; stall owners sing out their wares and challenges, as do the masters of the small shows. Fakir counts the money in his pocket with his fingers; the strongest smell of all is that of roasting chestnuts.
Mute pauses and Fakir glances over, scowling, immediately registering the pause and the potential of losing him. But Mute isn't looking at him, and Fakir follows his gaze to one stall in particular.
It's one of the ones running a game; as Fakir watches a little girl leans over, brow furrowed in concentration, and tries to scoop a fish from the long, low tank along the front of the store. She misses, and water splatters along the ground. But Mute isn't watching her. Tucked under the stall, almost hidden by draping cloths, there is another tank; but the orange bodies floating in it are still.
So many of them will die, Mute says quietly, and there is a slight question in his voice, he who never questions. Fakir wraps one hand around his wrist, gripping hard, and struggles to steel himself to be hard. That was the purpose he had taken on, wasn't it?
The orange bodies were so still.
Fakir? Mute asks quietly, and Fakir grits his teeth before grabbing his Prince's arm and towing him over to the stall. Foolish, foolish, a voice cackles at him from inside. A Knight breaking his vow? How are you going to protect the Prince above all if dead fish sway you, hmm, Fakir?
One net, Fakir orders from the stall owner, passing over the money, as Mute picks up a flimsy paper net. The last time he promises himself; he must learn to do better, to be as hard and cold as ice.
The fish do not try to evade Mute; they practically leap into his hands and Fakir dolls out more and more money to the stall owner for more nets, and has only a ha'penny left by the time Mute has rescued all the fish. The stall owner is rumbling, purple and furious, as the waiting line murmurs in disappointment and he sees all chance for a profit slipping from his grasp and he raises a hand to Mute.
Fakir steps in between them, catching the man's wrist mid motion, and fixes the man with a cold stare, feeling fury roil and freeze within him. His fingers dig painfully into the flesh he holds and he watches as the man withers, suddenly small and weak under his gaze, and Fakir holds him there, probing the limits of this knew power.
Fakir? A voice asks softly behind him and he releases the man, abruptly recalled to his duty. Dismissing the stall owner, he turns back to mute.
Fakir breaks them into the dancing school's courtyard and they release the bright fish into the fountains and pools. When they are done Fakir stands to once side, an emptied bag clutched in his fist, and watches as Mute kneels on the fountains edge, one slim hand trailing in the water. The fish dance around it, flickers of red and gold, coming close enough to brush against Mute's hand with trailing fins and tails.
A ballet, Fakir thinks, and for a moment sees the dancers in red and gold, shaping the story with their grace, and clears his throat harshly. It's time to head back, he says when Mute looks up, and his Prince makes a soft acquiescing, noise in the back of his throat and climbs gracefully down from the fountain. Mute's hand rests against his thigh as he stands waiting for Fakir to move, dripping water, staining the dry flagstone.
Walking back, he buys a bag of the last roasted chestnuts for the reduced price of a ha'penny, all he has left. Withered and hardened, blackened by the heat, he cracks them open with his teeth and tastes the fire.
Fandom: Princess Tutu
Characters: young!Fakir, Mute
In the autumn the Carnival comes to town. Overnight it unfurls in the town centre, and when people wake up the next morning the streets are full of the smell of charcoal and roasting chestnuts.
Charon shoves a handful of pennies into Fakia's hand and pushes him outside, slamming the door before Fakir can even draw breath to shout what the hell does the old man think he's doing, the town full of strangers, how can he protect -
Go act like a normal kid for once, Charon shouts back, and Fakir draws in a long, hissing breath, hand clenching tight around the hard metal pennies. He looks up at Mute; the taller boy, his Prince, is gazing incuriously down at him, unperturbed by the yelling; a strain of banjo music comes twisting and leaping down their street and Mute cocks his head slightly to one side to listen.
Fakir lets his breath out from between his teeth. There will be better shelter to be found in a crowd, he decides.
The Carnival is loud and bright, full of voices and smells and the brightly clothed press of people; stall owners sing out their wares and challenges, as do the masters of the small shows. Fakir counts the money in his pocket with his fingers; the strongest smell of all is that of roasting chestnuts.
Mute pauses and Fakir glances over, scowling, immediately registering the pause and the potential of losing him. But Mute isn't looking at him, and Fakir follows his gaze to one stall in particular.
It's one of the ones running a game; as Fakir watches a little girl leans over, brow furrowed in concentration, and tries to scoop a fish from the long, low tank along the front of the store. She misses, and water splatters along the ground. But Mute isn't watching her. Tucked under the stall, almost hidden by draping cloths, there is another tank; but the orange bodies floating in it are still.
So many of them will die, Mute says quietly, and there is a slight question in his voice, he who never questions. Fakir wraps one hand around his wrist, gripping hard, and struggles to steel himself to be hard. That was the purpose he had taken on, wasn't it?
The orange bodies were so still.
Fakir? Mute asks quietly, and Fakir grits his teeth before grabbing his Prince's arm and towing him over to the stall. Foolish, foolish, a voice cackles at him from inside. A Knight breaking his vow? How are you going to protect the Prince above all if dead fish sway you, hmm, Fakir?
One net, Fakir orders from the stall owner, passing over the money, as Mute picks up a flimsy paper net. The last time he promises himself; he must learn to do better, to be as hard and cold as ice.
The fish do not try to evade Mute; they practically leap into his hands and Fakir dolls out more and more money to the stall owner for more nets, and has only a ha'penny left by the time Mute has rescued all the fish. The stall owner is rumbling, purple and furious, as the waiting line murmurs in disappointment and he sees all chance for a profit slipping from his grasp and he raises a hand to Mute.
Fakir steps in between them, catching the man's wrist mid motion, and fixes the man with a cold stare, feeling fury roil and freeze within him. His fingers dig painfully into the flesh he holds and he watches as the man withers, suddenly small and weak under his gaze, and Fakir holds him there, probing the limits of this knew power.
Fakir? A voice asks softly behind him and he releases the man, abruptly recalled to his duty. Dismissing the stall owner, he turns back to mute.
Fakir breaks them into the dancing school's courtyard and they release the bright fish into the fountains and pools. When they are done Fakir stands to once side, an emptied bag clutched in his fist, and watches as Mute kneels on the fountains edge, one slim hand trailing in the water. The fish dance around it, flickers of red and gold, coming close enough to brush against Mute's hand with trailing fins and tails.
A ballet, Fakir thinks, and for a moment sees the dancers in red and gold, shaping the story with their grace, and clears his throat harshly. It's time to head back, he says when Mute looks up, and his Prince makes a soft acquiescing, noise in the back of his throat and climbs gracefully down from the fountain. Mute's hand rests against his thigh as he stands waiting for Fakir to move, dripping water, staining the dry flagstone.
Walking back, he buys a bag of the last roasted chestnuts for the reduced price of a ha'penny, all he has left. Withered and hardened, blackened by the heat, he cracks them open with his teeth and tastes the fire.