Current mood:	indescribable
Current music:	Frou Frou -- Let Go

FIC: X/1999 drabbles (several in this case)
These are some random X/1999 drabbles I've been working on the last few weeks. Some of them have been posted to x_100 though a chunk of them are brand new.

The warnings for these are: angst, hints at NCS (in one of them), introspection, surrealism.

Pairings: Mostly Subaru +/X Kamui, though the first one is Seishirou x Kamui. XD;;

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 or any of these characters so don't sue me. I'm just playing around.

Other Notes: Also, these will all find a home on Fallen Icons later on. And mucho smoochies to amet for betaing these.

Enjoy!



Seishirou smiled, dipping a finger in the melting chocolate mess, the ice cream having long since melted, letting it drip over the bared expanse of white skin, pleased by the embittered moan that earned him. Pushing the boy's black shirt up his midriff, the assassin leaned forward, lapping at that sticky pool, feeling the skin beneath his lips and tongue quiver, silently begging despite the clenched teeth, pretty, almost effeminate features contorted with an angry passion, body rousing despite the other's best efforts. It was amusing to behold, to watch Kamui fight as he fought everything else and ultimately -- lose.

***



"What's with the face?"

Kamui glanced up from his schoolwork, Sorata looming over him, friendly concern coming off him in waves. You could say what you wanted about the monk, but subtle he was not and Kamui sighed, closing his book and knowing what was coming.

"Sorata, I'm all right. You can stop worrying."

"Worrying?" Sorata's broad face was innocent, too much so to be genuine and Kamui gave him a look, almost feel bad when the expression crumbled. The monk plopped down, fiddling with one of the pencils in front of him. "We're just ... " he paused then gave up. "Worried. You haven't said much."

"What's there to say?"

"I know you two were close --"

"No, I was close and he--" Kamui looked away, unable to voice that, his greatest fear. 'I was close and he was never there.'

***



This is his apocalypse.

Subaru knows it because he can feel his foundations shake, the stones on which he built his life crumbling as lips softly touch his throat, his jaw. He closes his eyes, shuddering as another tremor unmakes him. The skin beneath his is burning soft, but somehow solid, enduring as the bones of the earth. Real and not some lucid hallucination, not the spicy, smoky cologne of a lingering ghost. This is more immediate, scorching away at the rot underneath the exterior until nothing is left.

When Kamui pulls him closer, Subaru can feel the world end.

***



"Isn't there somewhere you should be?"

"This small talk thing? You think you have the hang of it?" Kamui sounded amused, rolling his eyes.

Subaru shrugged, watching guests drift by, "I never have. Which is why I'm hiding back here. What's your excuse?"

Kamui flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm not good with people. Yanno, beyond snapping at them or blowing them up. Small talk isn't really my thing either."

Raising an eyebrow, Subaru let go of the curtain, "Really? You're doing just fine right now."

"This is different."

"How?"

Kamui turned away so quickly, he almost didn't catch it "Because it's you."

***



Kamui is warm against him, silent and still, wrapped around him like a bony blanket, elbows and knees poking him uncomfortably in awkward places but Subaru finds he doesn't mind. There's something comforting in laying like this, head resting against the armrest of the sofa, the other boy damply warm, feverishly so, his forehead burning against Subaru's throat, melting the cool and giving him something else to think about. Something else to worry over. Like the faint sheen of red he can see staining linen bandages or the faint whimper that escapes reddened lips whenever Kamui moves, never quite waking but conscious enough to be aware of pain, finding no peace even in dreaming.

He's been sitting with him for hours now, holding him through the shakes and the storm of tears as he vomited earlier, so hard and long that Subaru feared he would do more than just tear his stitches. He's sat with him through the worst of the cleaning, watching as then whitened lips were bitten raw, trying so hard not to scream and shamed when it happened anyway. If he could, if he thought Kamui would believe him, he'd explain to him that there was no shame in that. If anything, Subaru found himself ashamed, at being able to do so little, at being able to do nothing more than hold on, a mostly silent witness, trying to remember all those words Hokuto had comforted him with those days he overexerted himself and was unable to do more but restlessly turn his head and ask for more water. Kamui wouldn't even ask for that and there was something about his too bright eyes that made Subaru fear, that made him linger and stay close, not wanting to leave his side for even a second because what if--

He refuses to finish that thought, not that he needs to. It finishes itself without his help.

This is something new for him. Having to watch and care about someone else's pain. Not distantly but as a participant, feeling Kamui's hot breath and the bitter tang of sickness thick in his nose but not as overpowering as the fear, fear like he hasn't felt in years, causing him to hold on a little tighter than perhaps he should, stroking sweat-slicked locks. He's not sure how this happened, how Kamui came to mean so much in a short amount of time, especially with the weight of inevitability on them, Fate bearing down, inexorable and unforgiving, marching them one step closer to the year's end. To a possible destiny and the world's end.

Subaru wishes he cared about that. About any of it. But it doesn't matter. It never mattered. What does matter is in his arms, sick, perhaps dying and each minute drags on a little more than the next, as if whatever reel of time he's in has snapped and he's waiting for the projector to be fixed so that things will begin again.

Kamui matters. Kamui matters so much; in so many ways, to the world, to destiny, and to Subaru. And he's being torn apart, ritually sacrificed a little at a time like Karen's Job, put through torment after torment for no reason and with no end in sight -- and to prove what? That he's worthy? Or perhaps to learn some lesson, to drag him a step closer to the wish that lies hidden in his heart.

In truth, Subaru cares nothing of that, wanting Kamui's wish only because he wants to spare him. To spare him some ounce of pain, to steel him, and make him ready. He doesn't want Kamui to win for the world's sake. The world has never done anything for him and if this is the end, then so be it. But Kamui is not some faceless stranger. He's real, more real than anyone has been for Subaru in years and when he's with Kamui somehow everything seems ... better. More connected. The past hasn't gone away but it feels more like there's a future, like there's something beyond the ever present pull of the past, so thick and invasive that it intrudes and makes the present a mirror. With Kamui, he feels like he could have a future, a ghost of hope that frightens him, almost too timid to reach for it, with only pained violet and the remembrance of their gaze, sometimes shimmering with determination, at others broken by a ripple of tears, to spur him on. Kamui makes him want -- things. Want to be better, a better man, a better human being even while he's not sure that's even possible for him anymore. There's so much he wants to say and can't, held back by fear and wariness, waiting for that one moment when everything will coalesce and it would be all right. Subaru knows it's stupid. He knows that waiting can mean that moment never comes and the present should be seized but he's never learned very well from his mistakes. The only thing he can do is sit by Kamui's side, holding him through the worst of his sickness, through the worst of the tremors and the embarrassing moments when he loses control entirely, disgracing only himself, soldiering on as he's always done. It's a trick that Subaru never mastered, drifting through his life, chasing ghosts, becoming one himself. Until now. Until this.

And maybe he will never say those words, the ones he wants to say, the ones that would tell Kamui how close to his heart -- the one he thought dead, buried beneath a layer of wrecked permafrost -- he truly is but Subaru feels them nonetheless, trying to find little ways to convey them. The brush of fingers against Kamui's brow, the way he clings just a little too long to Kamui's hand, or lying beside him, cradling him close, lips touching the top of his head when the boy is sleeping, fever-lost and near delirious. Trying to work himself towards the day when he can say those words, when he can tell Kamui what he means to him, and how he made someone who felt so dead feel alive again, no matter how briefly. It doesn't matter that this is something he only feels with this person, with this boy, because that just tells him the one thing he already knows.

Shirou Kamui is special and not because he's the would be Savior of the World or the leader of the Dragons of Heaven but because he means something to Subaru when nothing and no one has meant anything to him in so long. And it's something precious he would do anything to protect, not because it's his duty to protect his Kamui but because it's something he genuinely wants. Subaru sighs, staring at the ceiling, remembering all too well what happened the last time he cared about anything this much. This feels different or like it could be if he let it. And he does want to let it only -- it's that timing thing again. Wondering if he has the right to put this burden on Kamui's shoulders, worrying that Kamui might not feel the same way, and if he does, will this prove a distraction and a hindrance to his duty?

There are no answers, no right ones, not even any wrong ones to feel out and try to base his decisions off of. He can only guess and as much as he believes in Kamui, it's himself that trips him up, that gives him pause, always questioning his own motives, his judgment, and ultimately allowing it to paralyze him, to freeze up his tongue when those words most want to come. Hokuto would laugh if she could see him, laugh and perhaps call him seven different kinds of idiot.

He'd give anything just to hear that again, to have her squeal at him, even if it was to voice her disapproval but there was no help there. The dead stayed dead and as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he was still very much alive.

There is a very real chance that after this year, Kamui will not be. Granted, they all might not be, but in his mind, it is Kamui who came first in that, the other Dragons fading to a sort of softly muted background. Is it worth it to risk so much? To try for something that might never be? Could he accept the consequences if he didn't?

"Subaru?"

The voice is weak, Kamui sounding ragged and hoarse as he turns head, pulling back a little to peer at Subaru through glazed eyes. The onmyouji brushes his hair back gently, smiling. "I'm here, Kamui."

Kamui shivers, brown-black hair so damp that it clings to his flushed face, having to struggle a little more than normal to breathe. "I thought you weren't," he falters, "I thought --"

Subaru laces their fingers together, shushing him. "I'm here," he repeats a little more firmly.

There's a moment and then Kamui nods, lowering his head again, burrowing his face against Subaru's throat, the prickle of hot breath there making Subaru's skin break out in goose bumps and his arms tighten without thinking about it. He feels almost guilty about this, about taking comfort in this when he should be offering it but he can't deny the small pulse of relief that accompanies each of Kamui's breaths, as if the boy is gaining a firmer foothold than the one he had before. He will live, Subaru can't allow himself to believe otherwise, and there will be time. Time for all those things he wants to say and hasn't, to reach out as he is now but with Kamui realizing what's being offered. Time enough for a future branching beyond the crimson splash of a sakura shower, part of the past always and of him, but no longer guiding him towards his destiny.

Let Destiny tend itself. In his experience, it always did. What was important was this one moment, holding this person and listening to each rising breath, stronger than the last, steadier, sweeter than music and pulling him towards places he never thought he'd see again. Even if it never goes any farther than this, than this second, fragile as a soap bubble, there is something of forever to be had in it.

***