time is a valuable thing *_*
HAPPY 2009 PEOPLE. ♥ My resolutions are to (1) mostly sleep at a reasonable hour; (1.5) keep the laptop out of reach from the bed; (2) graduate; and (3) finish all my WIPs. Ahahaha. 9_< Good luck to me.
For reasons inexplicable, I was in a foul mood over NYE/Day and thus threw Kismai into WWI. 8D Which was probably not the mopst auspicious thing to have done because I've only ever written one thing in which Iida is not dead/doesn't not die, and this is not it. (<-has a thing for torturing ITY. ♥ As well as Nikaido speaking pidgin.) Something of an exercise in... differentiating styles? Each POV (x7) is 200w.
*
Title: And then there were seven.
Details: Kismai. PG-13 for blood and death. Oneshot.
Summary: It is not a lack of hope that weighs us down, so much as a few pounds of muddy optimism.
Notes: NCO/Noncom: non-commissioned officer.
The trench is rank. There are bodies, there is piss, and there is mud. There is so much mud, and all of it cold. Miyata can't feel his toes or take off his boots - though wouldn't have wanted to see the state of his feet anyway, even if he could. He thinks maybe his socks have fused with his skin lately. It's been a while.
It isn't raining, but it will be soon. It always rains over No Man's Land. There are no birds in the sky, and he can't see the sun either. None of them can. It doesn't shine in hell, where they are.
Miyata's rifle is an old gun. Not yet broken, gripped in two hands. His breath frosts over the tip of its butcher bayonet.
He doesn't know why they're fighting, just that they are fighting. That they are dying. The powers have called, they'd been told. And they'd gone, and they were here, because the powers have need. He doesn't even know where here is. The world had been a much smaller place just weeks ago. (Months ago by now, maybe. He isn't too sure anymore.)
There is crying. And it's not Tamamori this time.
*
It's the howl of the hellbound with flesh wounds incurable.
Yokoo shouts, dizzy. The world spins off-axis as he fights Iida's clawing hands down from his bloodstained uniform, pins him into the trench floor mud like a butterfly drowned.
Life broken.
Life crushed.
Life unbeautiful.
Iida arches under him, straining with a maddened strength as his body stains the mud red, his cry torment, twisted in pain and fear and Yokoo struggles, still shouting, still dizzy, but Iida can't hear him and the deities are deaf.
Not now.
Not here.
Not like this.
A choke, a cough of crimson rejected, sees Iida's breath rattle wet with each desperate gasp he takes, dying to live; shattered ribs shift, cutting blood-flooded lungs around the lead in his chest. He's nothing to scream with anymore, drowning.
"Stay with me!" Yokoo commands, demanding the way he's done since childhood. "Look at me, Kyon. I won't let you die here."
For one short moment,
Iida stops trying to breathe, stops fighting; for one long moment,
wild panic and pain subdue to calmness as he stills... slowly... meets Yokoo's eyes. Sees. Yokoo smiles. "We'll get you out. I promise."
As just one bullet renders it void.
*
The air rings stunned and dead in the silence that follows. Yokoo rises slowly, his right hand closing around Iida's rifle. It's slicked with blood, the gun - as well as the hand. And Yokoo's face, too - freshly spattered and smile wiped away.
Fujigaya sets his own rifle down and kneels with his arms raised in surrender. Unfairly steady, Yokoo cocks the gun and stares at him down its barrel, blindly unblinking.
"Wataru..." Fujigaya tries.
And although Yokoo's hands don't shake, his voice does. "Taisuke."
"He was suffering," Fujigaya says. Gently.
"He was still alive."
"He wouldn't have made it."
"You had no right to-"
"He'd have done it himself had you let him."
"...how dare you say that."
"Because there was never a time Iida wasn't in control of himself, Wataru."
And Yokoo has nothing anymore. His grip wavers, glare turning red-rimmed. "Taisuke-"
"He wouldn't have wanted to go that way."
"Don't-"
"Wataru, Kyohei was my comrade too." Fujigaya moves in. One pace. "I knew him as well."
"Don't-"
"You saw it, right?" Reaching out, he pushes the rifle out of line and Yokoo lets him. "He believed what you said. Because he wanted to."
"I hate you."
*
When Yokoo sinks down with the shakes, Fujigaya's the one in the mud beside him, an arm around his shoulders and a hand caressing his face.
Paces away, Nikaido sees Kitayama casually re-holster his pistol. Their Noncom settles back against the trench wall, crisis averted. (He sleeps with one hand on his rifle.)
Paces away, Nikaido sees Tamamori guiltily lower his hands from his ears. Sees Miyata give an awkward, hurting smile.
And right beside him, Senga stands, boots squelching.
"What the hell!" Nikaido yanks on the other's sleeve. Senga sits again, abruptly.
"I just... his face," Senga says. (Numb.) "I thought we should cover it."
"You could'a got your head blown off just then," Nikaido scowls.
Senga wraps his arms around his rifle, turning uncomfortable and miserable.
"Stop shakin'," Nikaido says, and shifts a little closer. His ass squelches. (It's kind of gross.) "Smoke?"
Senga shakes his head.
"How old are y'really?" Nikaido asks, lighting up with irreverence.
"Eighteen," Senga lies.
"Bullshit."
A sideways look. "Yeah, well how old are you?"
"Old enough," Nikaido lies.
A wan smile. "Bullshit."
"Yeah, well..."
As if something so easy as age could make everything okay.
(They'll never be old enough for this.)
*
Senga's ears almost ring in the eeriness. With a critical eye, he tries to pick the rust off of his bayonet. Then stops because it's pointless.
"Um," he says instead. "Would you-"
Nikaido blows a smoke ring in his face with a grin. "Yeah, would I what?"
Senga coughs a bit, but gestures kind of vaguely to where Iida lies. His voice drops. "If... I got hit that bad. Would you... y'know..."
He's talking too soft probably, but the air's still kind of raw and he doesn't want it hurt any more.
Nikaido doesn't seem to have heard for a long while, the cigarette burning mute between his fingers. Senga watches the white paper turn red and black and burnt, and crumple into ash...
"Yeah," Nikaido tells him finally. "I would."
"Oh," Senga says, unsure if he should add 'thank you' to that. It doesn't really seem like the done thing, but...
"Dumbshit," Nikaido turns to glare. "What was that question for anyway? Y'ain't gonna die."
Y'ain't gonna die.
Senga wonders how Nikaido can say things like that and believe them, with just barbed wire between them and the enemy, and so many cold bodies back the way they've come.
*
"Nikaido's an idiot," Tamamori mutters.
"Oh?" Miyata tilts his head, leaning in closer. He's half deaf thanks to a shell two days ago. "Why? Bar the obvious."
"He's saying Senga won't die."
"Ah." Miyata's eyes crinkle up at the edges. "Silly promises?"
Tamamori nods and beholds the mud. He can hardly tell where his uniform ends and the sludge begins. His fingers are cold. He doesn't want to die either, but somebody telling him he won't when he very much doubts his own chances would just be annoying.
Miyata speaks loudly. "Ahh, he probably left out a bit."
Tamamori looks sidelong at him. "What?"
"See, I don't think you're going to die either." Miyata grins - just grins, until Tamamori's patience whittles down to about an inch from smacking him in the face - "Unless I'm already gone and can't protect you."
"..." Senga's stare and Nikaido's glare make Tamamori's cheeks burn like fire; even so, his fist of reproach stays embarrassingly gentle against Miyata's helmet. "Idiot."
"Ow," Miyata says anyway. Tamamori hits him again, harder. And again when Miyata starts laughing, and again, and again and again, until he's maybe laughing a little too and can't remember why he shouldn't be.
*
They're strangely strong, the sounds around.
Kitayama can't help a smile as he keeps a half-open eye on the sky behind them.
Tamamori and Miyata laugh. Senga holds Nikaido back and Nikaido shoves at him 'til they wrestle in the mud. Across the way, Fujigaya whispers something by Yokoo's ear that earns a derisive snort, before Yokoo shrugs him off and together they set Iida right.
Kitayama's no guardian angel, but as junior NCO the squad is his responsibility, and...
Unseen by the rest a Very flare goes up in the distance, the echo of its propelling gunshot barely reaching Kitayama's ears seconds later. Green signals ten minutes 'til the next charge, so he closes his eyes again, betraying nothing.
And maybe he can't promise life, but he can spare them all a little more time free.
Tomita...
Matsumoto...
Iida...
Yokoo...
Fujigaya...
Miyata...
Tamamori...
Senga...
Nikaido...
"One minute," Kitayama says at the last, pulling out his pistol to re-check its load. Cocking his rifle.
Banter stalls. Hands clatter for guns and good-luck charms, and the air restrings its tension.
When Kitayama looks down the trench, six good men return his steady gaze.
He touches a hand to his helmet with a lopsided smile.
"On three, we fly."
For reasons inexplicable, I was in a foul mood over NYE/Day and thus threw Kismai into WWI. 8D Which was probably not the mopst auspicious thing to have done because I've only ever written one thing in which Iida is not dead/doesn't not die, and this is not it. (<-has a thing for torturing ITY. ♥ As well as Nikaido speaking pidgin.) Something of an exercise in... differentiating styles? Each POV (x7) is 200w.
*
Title: And then there were seven.
Details: Kismai. PG-13 for blood and death. Oneshot.
Summary: It is not a lack of hope that weighs us down, so much as a few pounds of muddy optimism.
Notes: NCO/Noncom: non-commissioned officer.
The trench is rank. There are bodies, there is piss, and there is mud. There is so much mud, and all of it cold. Miyata can't feel his toes or take off his boots - though wouldn't have wanted to see the state of his feet anyway, even if he could. He thinks maybe his socks have fused with his skin lately. It's been a while.
It isn't raining, but it will be soon. It always rains over No Man's Land. There are no birds in the sky, and he can't see the sun either. None of them can. It doesn't shine in hell, where they are.
Miyata's rifle is an old gun. Not yet broken, gripped in two hands. His breath frosts over the tip of its butcher bayonet.
He doesn't know why they're fighting, just that they are fighting. That they are dying. The powers have called, they'd been told. And they'd gone, and they were here, because the powers have need. He doesn't even know where here is. The world had been a much smaller place just weeks ago. (Months ago by now, maybe. He isn't too sure anymore.)
There is crying. And it's not Tamamori this time.
*
It's the howl of the hellbound with flesh wounds incurable.
Yokoo shouts, dizzy. The world spins off-axis as he fights Iida's clawing hands down from his bloodstained uniform, pins him into the trench floor mud like a butterfly drowned.
Life broken.
Life crushed.
Life unbeautiful.
Iida arches under him, straining with a maddened strength as his body stains the mud red, his cry torment, twisted in pain and fear and Yokoo struggles, still shouting, still dizzy, but Iida can't hear him and the deities are deaf.
Not now.
Not here.
Not like this.
A choke, a cough of crimson rejected, sees Iida's breath rattle wet with each desperate gasp he takes, dying to live; shattered ribs shift, cutting blood-flooded lungs around the lead in his chest. He's nothing to scream with anymore, drowning.
"Stay with me!" Yokoo commands, demanding the way he's done since childhood. "Look at me, Kyon. I won't let you die here."
For one short moment,
Iida stops trying to breathe, stops fighting; for one long moment,
wild panic and pain subdue to calmness as he stills... slowly... meets Yokoo's eyes. Sees. Yokoo smiles. "We'll get you out. I promise."
As just one bullet renders it void.
*
The air rings stunned and dead in the silence that follows. Yokoo rises slowly, his right hand closing around Iida's rifle. It's slicked with blood, the gun - as well as the hand. And Yokoo's face, too - freshly spattered and smile wiped away.
Fujigaya sets his own rifle down and kneels with his arms raised in surrender. Unfairly steady, Yokoo cocks the gun and stares at him down its barrel, blindly unblinking.
"Wataru..." Fujigaya tries.
And although Yokoo's hands don't shake, his voice does. "Taisuke."
"He was suffering," Fujigaya says. Gently.
"He was still alive."
"He wouldn't have made it."
"You had no right to-"
"He'd have done it himself had you let him."
"...how dare you say that."
"Because there was never a time Iida wasn't in control of himself, Wataru."
And Yokoo has nothing anymore. His grip wavers, glare turning red-rimmed. "Taisuke-"
"He wouldn't have wanted to go that way."
"Don't-"
"Wataru, Kyohei was my comrade too." Fujigaya moves in. One pace. "I knew him as well."
"Don't-"
"You saw it, right?" Reaching out, he pushes the rifle out of line and Yokoo lets him. "He believed what you said. Because he wanted to."
"I hate you."
*
When Yokoo sinks down with the shakes, Fujigaya's the one in the mud beside him, an arm around his shoulders and a hand caressing his face.
Paces away, Nikaido sees Kitayama casually re-holster his pistol. Their Noncom settles back against the trench wall, crisis averted. (He sleeps with one hand on his rifle.)
Paces away, Nikaido sees Tamamori guiltily lower his hands from his ears. Sees Miyata give an awkward, hurting smile.
And right beside him, Senga stands, boots squelching.
"What the hell!" Nikaido yanks on the other's sleeve. Senga sits again, abruptly.
"I just... his face," Senga says. (Numb.) "I thought we should cover it."
"You could'a got your head blown off just then," Nikaido scowls.
Senga wraps his arms around his rifle, turning uncomfortable and miserable.
"Stop shakin'," Nikaido says, and shifts a little closer. His ass squelches. (It's kind of gross.) "Smoke?"
Senga shakes his head.
"How old are y'really?" Nikaido asks, lighting up with irreverence.
"Eighteen," Senga lies.
"Bullshit."
A sideways look. "Yeah, well how old are you?"
"Old enough," Nikaido lies.
A wan smile. "Bullshit."
"Yeah, well..."
As if something so easy as age could make everything okay.
(They'll never be old enough for this.)
*
Senga's ears almost ring in the eeriness. With a critical eye, he tries to pick the rust off of his bayonet. Then stops because it's pointless.
"Um," he says instead. "Would you-"
Nikaido blows a smoke ring in his face with a grin. "Yeah, would I what?"
Senga coughs a bit, but gestures kind of vaguely to where Iida lies. His voice drops. "If... I got hit that bad. Would you... y'know..."
He's talking too soft probably, but the air's still kind of raw and he doesn't want it hurt any more.
Nikaido doesn't seem to have heard for a long while, the cigarette burning mute between his fingers. Senga watches the white paper turn red and black and burnt, and crumple into ash...
"Yeah," Nikaido tells him finally. "I would."
"Oh," Senga says, unsure if he should add 'thank you' to that. It doesn't really seem like the done thing, but...
"Dumbshit," Nikaido turns to glare. "What was that question for anyway? Y'ain't gonna die."
Y'ain't gonna die.
Senga wonders how Nikaido can say things like that and believe them, with just barbed wire between them and the enemy, and so many cold bodies back the way they've come.
*
"Nikaido's an idiot," Tamamori mutters.
"Oh?" Miyata tilts his head, leaning in closer. He's half deaf thanks to a shell two days ago. "Why? Bar the obvious."
"He's saying Senga won't die."
"Ah." Miyata's eyes crinkle up at the edges. "Silly promises?"
Tamamori nods and beholds the mud. He can hardly tell where his uniform ends and the sludge begins. His fingers are cold. He doesn't want to die either, but somebody telling him he won't when he very much doubts his own chances would just be annoying.
Miyata speaks loudly. "Ahh, he probably left out a bit."
Tamamori looks sidelong at him. "What?"
"See, I don't think you're going to die either." Miyata grins - just grins, until Tamamori's patience whittles down to about an inch from smacking him in the face - "Unless I'm already gone and can't protect you."
"..." Senga's stare and Nikaido's glare make Tamamori's cheeks burn like fire; even so, his fist of reproach stays embarrassingly gentle against Miyata's helmet. "Idiot."
"Ow," Miyata says anyway. Tamamori hits him again, harder. And again when Miyata starts laughing, and again, and again and again, until he's maybe laughing a little too and can't remember why he shouldn't be.
*
They're strangely strong, the sounds around.
Kitayama can't help a smile as he keeps a half-open eye on the sky behind them.
Tamamori and Miyata laugh. Senga holds Nikaido back and Nikaido shoves at him 'til they wrestle in the mud. Across the way, Fujigaya whispers something by Yokoo's ear that earns a derisive snort, before Yokoo shrugs him off and together they set Iida right.
Kitayama's no guardian angel, but as junior NCO the squad is his responsibility, and...
Unseen by the rest a Very flare goes up in the distance, the echo of its propelling gunshot barely reaching Kitayama's ears seconds later. Green signals ten minutes 'til the next charge, so he closes his eyes again, betraying nothing.
And maybe he can't promise life, but he can spare them all a little more time free.
Tomita...
Matsumoto...
Iida...
Yokoo...
Fujigaya...
Miyata...
Tamamori...
Senga...
Nikaido...
"One minute," Kitayama says at the last, pulling out his pistol to re-check its load. Cocking his rifle.
Banter stalls. Hands clatter for guns and good-luck charms, and the air restrings its tension.
When Kitayama looks down the trench, six good men return his steady gaze.
He touches a hand to his helmet with a lopsided smile.
"On three, we fly."