Feuer
Title: Feuer
Group/Pairing: Arashi/Matsumiya (slight)
Prompt: no. 035: Fire
Word Count: 1364
Rating: PG13
Summary: The world is on fire
Disclaimer: Idea is all mine, but the men from Arashi are not ;~;
Note: "Feuer" is German for "fire". When you read, you'll understand why I chose that title. Especially instead of the English word. I believe that German is a beautiful, yet harsh language and that's why I chose the German word. I actually really love the language and I am pretty proud of this fiction. Hope you all enjoy! Second part: Brennend
------
Blood is spilt in tender streams of the sternest red.
Bones are bashed with unbidden disinterest.
Down fall the men and women alike, children and infants too.
The battles are chaos flashing before the eyes of the ones able to stay alive.
---
One step into the devastation that has become the world and it is difficult to not turn and run. For years, houses have lain ablaze with people burning to ash inside and no one to pull them out; long ago was it that the protection of such forces like ‘policemen’ and ‘firefighters’ was extinguished. Rubble of what used to be thriving cities and towns is all that persists of these tiny estates. The only color to be seen is the flames licking the remains of a past unspoken of. Everything else is a searing grey and a wrenching brown. A stench of death has become the air with no way to escape it.
The people living, lying, dying in the dregs of their once ‘homes’ are nothing but empty shells. They can find little to no food and have nothing but their crumbling houses and hope to protect them. Family ties have long been forgotten; everyone fends for what’s left of themselves.
Even so, there are opposites of the tragedy that has befallen these people. Houses in the far distance stand in the brightest of blues and whites and greens. Grass grows beautifully, life thrives. But the people who are there exist in blissful oblivion. The money that was lost is given to them. They are the top of the world according to what they haven’t lost, compared to the wreck of the world just beyond their doorsteps.
The workers of these communities venture into the pillage that is not their own and earn little money to remove those who have perished, paying no mind to the ones still hanging by a bare thread to what they once had. They cover their mouths with perfumed handkerchiefs or napkins depending on their status; oxygen masks are unheard of now. The half-dead only flinch when kicked to see if they are breathing, they’ve lost the ability to utter any sound, especially one of pain.
Sneers of disgust are etched into the workers’ faces as they prod and poke, drag and push their fellow humans around like bags of wretched trash. The familiarity has long since been lost.
He stands among the carnage, earning judging looks from the other men and women. He stands without any aid to his sense of smell and bereft of the designated clothes. Simply, he was not one of the lower class hanging onto that higher rung of society. But why would someone such as him, one who needs no aid in the ways of money, come to witness such suffering? Why would a man, dressed simply although neatly, come to a place he should be oblivious to?
The workers mumble amongst themselves, staring at him, then past him as he turns his stern gaze upon their faces. His thick brows furrow deeply giving way to a scowl that turned his lips down. Glass, rocks, and burnt wood crack sharply beneath his polished boots as he trudges into the innermost circle of the land, where the workers rarely venture. There lay the deadest of the dead; surely the man didn’t know what he was doing. Why, why, why? The workers can not answer themselves and eventually lose interest.
The young man pockets his hands into his denim jeans. A black chain taps in time against his leg as he marches steadily, recounting the years of battle. Back then, he was only a kid. But most anybody had seen at least the death of one person during those times. Death was inevitable, then and now.
His eyes scan the area around him lucidly. He knows which are dead and which are alive. He also knows that in this area, hardly any survive. That’s why he is there. The beat of his heart is dull against his chest, only a thin white tank-top to cover his marble colored skin. Yet the heat of the fires brings a slick sheen of sweat to all exposed elements of his lanky frame. This does not sway him, determined as he is to find a living soul. Not once has he come across one.
Still, he pushes forward despite the stench with the burnt yellow haze of a sunset, causing the skies to smoke, shrouding him. When he gets home he knows that even he will become sick to his stomach, hiding in his private bathroom. He does not bring a handkerchief because he believes it is rude to the dying that are unable to shade themselves from any of the horrors around them. It’s the least he can do.
A glimmer of movement catches his attention and he stops abruptly, staring straight. Again, the movement reveals itself, somewhere to his left. He begins to run, slipping in the mud and trampling on burnt, drab garments of discarded clothing. As he nears the place he’s seen the movement, he slows, head piveting every which way.
Slowing, he notices a man lying with his cheek pressed against a charred plank of wood. The man- how young he looks- stares up at him with misty eyes and then shakily lifts a hand. His dusted pale lips move, cracking to give way to a trickle of dark blood, stark against the tender skin. It drops in between his lips but he is so deprived of strength he is unable to lick it away. Jun remains still when the hand clamps around his ankle, the grasp pityingly weak. He cannot hear the words of the one beneath him, but he can feel the plea flooding through his body, choking him. “Save… me.” The dying man breathes. “Please…”
Jun does not bother to lift the man onto his back, instead picking him up and carrying him as though he was a young child. His weight was no enemy against Jun’s toned muscles. Workers trail him with beady, judging eyes when he walks past, standing tall. All the way back to his large, white house he carries the man, whispering comforting lullabies and unintelligible words to soothe him into a rough sleep.
He rejects and ignores the offers and questions of the maids, hurrying to his room. Jun does not allow anyone to touch the man, but tenderly cares to him himself. He lays him on a pure white daybed, stripping him of his tattered brown clothes and washing him gently down with a hot wet cloth. The thin lips barely move, chest heaving erratically as Jun meticulously does his work on the hot and sticky skin. He does not avoid the horrible lines of bone permanently sketched into the man’s scarred flesh, but allows it all to sink in. This is what is going on in his world. This is what his family and his people are letting happen all around them. This is what his people caused. This is what is left of them; parchment skin filled with muscle-less bones.
Only when the man is wrapped in blankets to trap the heat, a cold towel laid across his forehead to calm the raging fever inside of him does Jun tip the smallest drops of water into his mouth. Then he retreats to the bathroom and cleans the layer of sweat and grime from his hands and body, willing himself to not lose his lunch.
A whisper streams into Jun’s range of hearing and he abandons his own washing to go to the man’s side, kneeling beside him. “Thank…” He whispers, squinting up at Jun. The same hand that had grabbed Jun’s ankle now flops off the edge of the white cushions to take hold of his clenched fist. It is burning. “Thank you.”
“Your name,” Jun demands quickly, seeing that the man is now falling asleep. “Your name, what is it.”
The small man’s eyes close, his body shuddering as he relaxes as much as anyone in his state can. “…Kazunari… Nino…miya,” is his hissed reply before he retires into the most rewarding sleep of his dreadful little life.
Group/Pairing: Arashi/Matsumiya (slight)
Prompt: no. 035: Fire
Word Count: 1364
Rating: PG13
Summary: The world is on fire
Disclaimer: Idea is all mine, but the men from Arashi are not ;~;
Note: "Feuer" is German for "fire". When you read, you'll understand why I chose that title. Especially instead of the English word. I believe that German is a beautiful, yet harsh language and that's why I chose the German word. I actually really love the language and I am pretty proud of this fiction. Hope you all enjoy! Second part: Brennend
------
Blood is spilt in tender streams of the sternest red.
Bones are bashed with unbidden disinterest.
Down fall the men and women alike, children and infants too.
The battles are chaos flashing before the eyes of the ones able to stay alive.
---
One step into the devastation that has become the world and it is difficult to not turn and run. For years, houses have lain ablaze with people burning to ash inside and no one to pull them out; long ago was it that the protection of such forces like ‘policemen’ and ‘firefighters’ was extinguished. Rubble of what used to be thriving cities and towns is all that persists of these tiny estates. The only color to be seen is the flames licking the remains of a past unspoken of. Everything else is a searing grey and a wrenching brown. A stench of death has become the air with no way to escape it.
The people living, lying, dying in the dregs of their once ‘homes’ are nothing but empty shells. They can find little to no food and have nothing but their crumbling houses and hope to protect them. Family ties have long been forgotten; everyone fends for what’s left of themselves.
Even so, there are opposites of the tragedy that has befallen these people. Houses in the far distance stand in the brightest of blues and whites and greens. Grass grows beautifully, life thrives. But the people who are there exist in blissful oblivion. The money that was lost is given to them. They are the top of the world according to what they haven’t lost, compared to the wreck of the world just beyond their doorsteps.
The workers of these communities venture into the pillage that is not their own and earn little money to remove those who have perished, paying no mind to the ones still hanging by a bare thread to what they once had. They cover their mouths with perfumed handkerchiefs or napkins depending on their status; oxygen masks are unheard of now. The half-dead only flinch when kicked to see if they are breathing, they’ve lost the ability to utter any sound, especially one of pain.
Sneers of disgust are etched into the workers’ faces as they prod and poke, drag and push their fellow humans around like bags of wretched trash. The familiarity has long since been lost.
He stands among the carnage, earning judging looks from the other men and women. He stands without any aid to his sense of smell and bereft of the designated clothes. Simply, he was not one of the lower class hanging onto that higher rung of society. But why would someone such as him, one who needs no aid in the ways of money, come to witness such suffering? Why would a man, dressed simply although neatly, come to a place he should be oblivious to?
The workers mumble amongst themselves, staring at him, then past him as he turns his stern gaze upon their faces. His thick brows furrow deeply giving way to a scowl that turned his lips down. Glass, rocks, and burnt wood crack sharply beneath his polished boots as he trudges into the innermost circle of the land, where the workers rarely venture. There lay the deadest of the dead; surely the man didn’t know what he was doing. Why, why, why? The workers can not answer themselves and eventually lose interest.
The young man pockets his hands into his denim jeans. A black chain taps in time against his leg as he marches steadily, recounting the years of battle. Back then, he was only a kid. But most anybody had seen at least the death of one person during those times. Death was inevitable, then and now.
His eyes scan the area around him lucidly. He knows which are dead and which are alive. He also knows that in this area, hardly any survive. That’s why he is there. The beat of his heart is dull against his chest, only a thin white tank-top to cover his marble colored skin. Yet the heat of the fires brings a slick sheen of sweat to all exposed elements of his lanky frame. This does not sway him, determined as he is to find a living soul. Not once has he come across one.
Still, he pushes forward despite the stench with the burnt yellow haze of a sunset, causing the skies to smoke, shrouding him. When he gets home he knows that even he will become sick to his stomach, hiding in his private bathroom. He does not bring a handkerchief because he believes it is rude to the dying that are unable to shade themselves from any of the horrors around them. It’s the least he can do.
A glimmer of movement catches his attention and he stops abruptly, staring straight. Again, the movement reveals itself, somewhere to his left. He begins to run, slipping in the mud and trampling on burnt, drab garments of discarded clothing. As he nears the place he’s seen the movement, he slows, head piveting every which way.
Slowing, he notices a man lying with his cheek pressed against a charred plank of wood. The man- how young he looks- stares up at him with misty eyes and then shakily lifts a hand. His dusted pale lips move, cracking to give way to a trickle of dark blood, stark against the tender skin. It drops in between his lips but he is so deprived of strength he is unable to lick it away. Jun remains still when the hand clamps around his ankle, the grasp pityingly weak. He cannot hear the words of the one beneath him, but he can feel the plea flooding through his body, choking him. “Save… me.” The dying man breathes. “Please…”
Jun does not bother to lift the man onto his back, instead picking him up and carrying him as though he was a young child. His weight was no enemy against Jun’s toned muscles. Workers trail him with beady, judging eyes when he walks past, standing tall. All the way back to his large, white house he carries the man, whispering comforting lullabies and unintelligible words to soothe him into a rough sleep.
He rejects and ignores the offers and questions of the maids, hurrying to his room. Jun does not allow anyone to touch the man, but tenderly cares to him himself. He lays him on a pure white daybed, stripping him of his tattered brown clothes and washing him gently down with a hot wet cloth. The thin lips barely move, chest heaving erratically as Jun meticulously does his work on the hot and sticky skin. He does not avoid the horrible lines of bone permanently sketched into the man’s scarred flesh, but allows it all to sink in. This is what is going on in his world. This is what his family and his people are letting happen all around them. This is what his people caused. This is what is left of them; parchment skin filled with muscle-less bones.
Only when the man is wrapped in blankets to trap the heat, a cold towel laid across his forehead to calm the raging fever inside of him does Jun tip the smallest drops of water into his mouth. Then he retreats to the bathroom and cleans the layer of sweat and grime from his hands and body, willing himself to not lose his lunch.
A whisper streams into Jun’s range of hearing and he abandons his own washing to go to the man’s side, kneeling beside him. “Thank…” He whispers, squinting up at Jun. The same hand that had grabbed Jun’s ankle now flops off the edge of the white cushions to take hold of his clenched fist. It is burning. “Thank you.”
“Your name,” Jun demands quickly, seeing that the man is now falling asleep. “Your name, what is it.”
The small man’s eyes close, his body shuddering as he relaxes as much as anyone in his state can. “…Kazunari… Nino…miya,” is his hissed reply before he retires into the most rewarding sleep of his dreadful little life.