Scribblings by Sephy

New fic and journal news

2006-05-02T19:18:17Z

First, I have another meme fic done, another X/1999 piece for miyukis_4 which can be found here which brings me to my second bit of news:

This journal is being retired.

I've had this journal for a good long time now (a couple of years at least) and while I love it dearly, there comes a time and place to move on. In preparation for that, I've done a little bit of cleaning, have memorized and categorized the fics that are here so if anyone should get the urge, just hit the memories button and you should be able to find a complete listing of the body of work posted here. All this being said, my work is still being hosted at Fallen Icons and all the various subdomains of Winterborn Productions.

From now on I'll be posting my fics here:

onion_girls

This will be a joint writing journal/community for my fics and Amet's. I realize it's an inconvenience to ask you to move but for those interested in following me over, I guarantee that we won't be moving from there anytime soon.

All of this being said and noted, I hope to see you all over there and thank you for making my time at this journal so worthwhile. ♥

--Sephy
05.02.2006

P.S. Also, for those who are curious, Phantom Moon is now here. There's been some trouble with our host (as in Bleeding Moon went down) and so we went ahead and set up a subdomain for it on Winter-born which should be up and running though you may see a few changes to it in upcoming weeks.

FIC: Little Words (1/1), An X/1999 vignette

2006-05-01T04:29:39Z

Title: Little Words (1/1)
Series: X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Fallen Icons
Pairings: Subaru + Kamui
Warnings: Some spoilers, AU-ish (in that sense that as we've not actually gotten an end for X anything is AUish)

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: 'I think that's called life ...'

Thanks: amet for pointing out what needed work and for the read through.

Author's Notes: This one is for cookedcandy who asked for Subaru/Kamui and the keyword 'coffee' in the fic meme. After having re-read through the series again for the umpteenth time, this was what first came to mind. Or rather the question of what happens after? Not in the far off sense of the word but in the more immediate sense. This is probably not making any sense but yeah... read the fic. Hopefully it will speak for itself.

Comments and criticisms are welcome; enjoy!

Little Words
A X/1999 vignette
Sephy

“So that’s it then.”

Kamui took the coffee being offered to him, nodding his thanks, “I guess so. After having this hanging over my head for so long, I have to admit that I’m … Well, kinda at a loss, yanno?”

His companion grunted, Subaru poking the fire with a loose strip of metal he’d found, kicking up a wave of sparks and graying ash that caught in the early morning light, bright against gunmetal skies. Kamui shifted, wincing as he laid his cup aside, reaching for his leg and tugging it out from under him, pins and needles accompanied by a wave of unadulterated pain, plucking at his makeshift bandage before leaning against the building again, closing his eyes.

The others had wandered off, Dragons from both sides, some taking survivors to whatever medical care they could find and others searching out this brave new world of theirs, hopping over the refuse and destruction of what had once been the heart of Tokyo. Given the amount of damage, it was hard to say who had won the battle though Kamui felt pretty sure that – for today at least – the human race wasn’t going anywhere.

“If I told you that you needed to be in a hospital,” Subaru began and then trailed off.

“Would turn you down flat,” Kamui replied patiently, lifting his cup and patting it, “I’ve got what I need right here. Speaking of, where the hell did you find this anyway?”

Subaru shrugged, his black leather coat fanning around him, amber eye speculative, “In the wreckage of one of those buildings while Kasumi-san and Aoki-san were arranging transport for Fuuma.”

“Yeah,” Kamui trailed off, eyes distant as he stared at that damn tower, somehow still the only thing standing tall or rather the only recognizable landmark still standing more or less untouched despite the battle waged there. “Any word there?”

Eyebrow arching, Subaru turned his head, expression faintly quizzical as if to ask why Kamui thought he would know that, “Sorry. I left my cell phone in my other clothes. I thought it would be rude – interrupting the end of the world to take a client. It seemed disrespectful.”

“Is that sarcasm I’m sensing?” Kamui took a sip, closing his eyes against the flood of warmth down his throat, something other than the cool morning dew and blood soaking in him. He opened his eyes again, too tired to be anything other than curious, “Why are you here anyway?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Not what I’m saying, I’m just surprised, that’s all. I guess I figured you’d be taking off again. Like you do.”

Subaru shrugged again, surveying the debris, the raised semi-circle of rubble hiding them, Kamui’s Shinken lying beside him. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be. I guess I didn’t make plans for after yesterday.”

Kamui laughed, a bark of bitter, knowing pain that ended in a yelp as it jarred his leg, “Tell me about it. What do you do after the end of the world? I mean, it seems a little surreal just to have a coffee.”

“I guess,” Subaru lifted his cup, matter of fact, “You can do whatever you want now.”

Lowering his cup against his chest, Kamui mulled that over, the words seeming to drag from him, slow and wary when he finally spoke, “It’s kind of sad.”

“What is?”

“How much that scares the fuck out of me. I -- You ever get the feeling that this isn’t the way things are supposed to be? That something happened and it’s just all wrong and you don’t know how to fix it? So you just sit there and mull on the wrongness of it all?”

Subaru stared at him, expression impassive though there was a touch of pain in his eyes now, “Yes.”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry,” Kamui rubbed his throat lamely, giving him a weak smile and then grimacing at the crust of blood there, “It’s just…I was built for this. For yesterday. For one big, destiny-changing battle and now it’s over. And I’m still here with all this – power that I don’t even know how to fully use. Feels like maybe I shouldn’t be. That I shouldn’t be and Fuuma shouldn’t be either.”

He felt ashamed almost as soon as he said it, shaky fingers lifting to brush his bangs out of his eyes, annoyed at that. He could sense Subaru watching him, his mouth flattening out because he’d cried enough already, over Fuuma when they’d pulled him free, so much blood pouring from his chest that Kamui didn’t see how there could be anything left but there he was, still breathing, pale and nearly dead. Nearly dead but not. He held onto that, the words a mantra in the back of his mind, not telling Subaru that he couldn’t go to the hospital, that he needed time to just sit, to try and prepare himself –

For having broken his promise to Kotori, stomach clenching at the thought of CLAMP campus, of the tree, or anything that didn’t belong in this little cubby hole of rubble and cramped space. Like some goddamn wounded animal intent on licking his wounds though doubtless Ijyuin-san would scold him if he as much attempted something like that.

He was probably already going to get scolded as it was.

“I guess I just wonder – what now? Where do I go? What do I do?”

“I could repeat myself but it wouldn’t do any good. You already know what I’m going to say.”

“Which is kind of a first since I never know what you’re going to say,” Kamui paused, feeling awkward and not knowing how to say any of what he was thinking, not without causing offense. “I uh, I wanted to say thank you. And I’m sorry.”

Something close to surprise settled over Subaru’s face and he turned more fully towards Kamui, arm resting on his knees. Now that he was suddenly the focus of the man’s attention, Kamui regretted saying anything at all, trying not to squirm, “I guess I’m sorry that I wasn’t better, that I wasn’t a very good Kamui. I’m not trying to say that in a ‘Oh poor me, pity me’ way. I mean it. There was more I could have done, that I should have done.”

“You did as well as could be expected.”

“No, I really didn’t. I just sort of reacted, bouncing from one crisis to the next without really pausing because everything at the time was just so important. There wasn’t time to look at the little things, to acknowledge anything that wasn’t somehow – apocalyptic,” Kamui made a face.

“I think,” Subaru murmured, reaching out and plucking an errant strand of hair out of his face, “That’s called life.”

It was so strange to hear that from Subaru of all people, an odd sort of calm surrounding the man – as if he were finished, done and not in some morbid, planning to kill himself sort of way but as if he had a purpose now, something to sustain him and lead him through now. Kamui envied him that even as he shuddered at the cost and payment for that security, detecting a faint shift in his aura, still connected to him as he was the other Seals.

He didn’t ask; not when it was so plain to see that Subaru had accepted Seishirou’s legacy, having recognized the amber eye as soon as he’d laid eyes on it. Subaru didn’t need to explain it to him and probably wouldn’t if he asked. Maybe even couldn’t. It was just something he had to do. A few days ago, Kamui knew he wouldn’t have understood. Hell, a few hours ago he probably wouldn’t have either but here, in this place, after sitting in the dark for so long, waiting for the sun to come up, at times listening to nothing more than the sound of breathing, his and Subaru’s, the sounds of life stirring in the distance, it didn’t matter. Maybe it would later on; maybe it would become something so important that it choked him but right now, all he felt was the oddest sense of calm. As if he was finished too, the role that he’d played for so long finally over with, and the person that was left … Well, he was too busy trying to figure things out, on where to go when he took those first steps to be angry.

“I guess it is,” Kamui nodded, giving him a faint smile, turning his face towards where the sun was starting to rise, wondering how long it would take Imonoyama-sama and entourage to show up or if they were holding off out of some weird sense of decorum. “I uh – Subaru?”

That pale face tipped towards him, a little tired around the edges, half-slumped over where he was sitting, resting his arm on his raised knee, hair whisping around his face in the early morning breeze. The image seemed to freeze and Kamui knew he’d remember it, that moment and Subaru’s calm, his stillness, even if he never saw the other man again after this. He’d remember that face and the way the coffee he made had tasted, the smell of burning wood and paper. It wasn’t the perfect moment; he didn’t think there was any such thing. But it was happening and they were here and it occurred to him that was all he could ask for really.

“I – never mind,” Kamui shrugged, “It’s not important.”

Which was a lie because he thought it might be the most important thing of all, this feeling lurking underneath the skin, never voiced save in the clasp of hands or furtive touches, fleeting glances when the other man wasn’t looking. But he was still human, weaknesses and flaws and full of fears, so many fears despite this moment of calm. He was still sixteen and coltish, uncertain that he even had the right to feel like this for anyone least of all Subaru.

Resting his hand on the ground, Kamui grit his teeth, edging onto his knees and then with help, Subaru half-raising him, standing with him and letting Kamui lean against him as they found their footing, facing the rising sun, gray tinged pink now, slowly turning bloodier, gold touching those storm-colored clouds.

“Kamui,” Subaru began, sounding faintly chiding, as if to reproach him for standing at all.

“It’s okay, I just want to see the sun,” Kamui said, finding his hand and squeezing it. “It’s a new day, isn’t it? That means something unless mass marketing and a thousand cheesy pop songs are totally wrong.”

Maybe that made some sense to him, Subaru’s arm finding its way around him, straightening him up a little further and probably, Kamui was loathe to admit, to prevent him from falling flat on his ass.

“Can we say good-bye this time? When you go?” He didn’t mean for it to sound so abrupt but it’s been on his mind since Rainbow Bridge, haunted by a the ghost of someone not even dead, because until that moment Subaru had revealed himself with Fuuma, he hadn’t been entirely certain that he wasn’t dead. “It just seems – better.”

’More final,’ but Kamui kept that thought to himself, feeling the arm around him tighten then relax as if Subaru were about to do just that, let go entirely and drift off into the early morning mist.

“I’ve been thinking about something the other Kamui, Fuuma, said to me,” Subaru said, as if Kamui hadn’t spoken at all, “About people and wishes. I didn’t understand all of it but – I think maybe I could. Some day.”

Turning his face upward, he saw that Subaru was watching him, studying him as if he’d never seen him before and had he been able to, Kamui might have skittered away at that frank, discerning stare, seeming to take his measure before Kamui finally stuttered out a, “What? Have I sprouted wings or something out of the top of my head and don’t know?”

Subaru’s mouth twitched, shaking his head and passing a gloved hand over Kamui’s messy locks, “You look fine. Surprisingly – good. Not mangled.”

“Not mangled,” Kamui mused, looking down at the collection of scratches, to say little of the weeping gash in his leg, “One of those buildings didn’t fall on you, right? Because I think I look pretty much like I’ve been run over here.”

Shaking his head, Subaru sobered, again studying him, “Kamui – if that day does come, if I’m ready, if I’m ever ready for that. I’ll say good-bye. But not now.”

Kamui straightened, ignoring the jolt that sent through his leg, the words almost through gritted teeth as much due to surprise as pain, “That implies you’re sticking around.”

“I know.”

There really should have been something more to it, some great fanfare, a swelling of flowers, or sparkles like some goddamn shoujo manga. There should have been something more than just the sudden knowledge of what was being said and what wasn’t but – Kamui found he was okay with that. It was more than he’d hoped for and he shook his head, smiling ruefully, “You always do this to me. Surprise me. This – this is better than the last time. I don’t want to do the last time – ever again.”

“Anyway,” Kamui continued, looking away again, fingers tightening in Subaru’s, “we’ve got a lot to do. There’s a whole city to rebuild and I don’t care how rich Imonoyama-sama is, we’re still going to need help.”

“We, huh?”

***End

FIC: Fable (1/1), a XXXholic/X/1999 vignette

2006-04-29T03:14:28Z

Title: Fable (1/1)
Series: XXXholic / X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama-humor? This one's a bit tough to define.
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: Some spoilers for X/1999 / TB; humor; hints at yuri.

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and XXXholic (or any of the series mentioned here) nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: ...tell me a fable...

Thanks: amet for pointing out what needed work and for the read through.

Author's Notes: Picking up with the meme fics again, this one is for ripedecay who I hope won't mind the inclusion of Yuuko Ichihara into things. I had a couple of ideas for this one before I hit upon this and it turned out a bit more...cracked? than I thought it would. The Yuuko-Setsuka dynamic is one that amuses me and it was at least fun to play with.

Comments and criticisms are welcome; enjoy!

Fable
A XXXholic/X/1999 vignette
Sephy

1965

Tell me a story.

Ichihara-san’s eyes narrow, her mouth not quite frowning so much as straightening, jade cigarette holder lowering in thought and Setsuka thinks it gives her a pinched look, nose too long and pointed. Her gaze sweeps downward to Setsuka’s burgeoning stomach, her white on gold kimono stretched tighter than she’d like, wishing she could reach around and loosen the obi but it wouldn’t be very ladylike to do so. Never mind the fact that Ichihara-san herself was sprawled across a divan, one arched foot on the floor, toes as green as her cigarette holder, the other leg lying straight across, her own kimono spread, low and parted across her generous breasts, no propriety at all.

“A story, eh?” White, ringed fingers pluck the thin stalk of the cigarette holder from her lips, sleepy eyes made sharp for once as Ichihara-san tilts her head, a wealth of black hair spilling off the back of the chair, thin and fine. “Aren’t you a little old for that, Sakurazuka-san?”

“It’s not for me,” Setsuka chides her, gathering her arms around herself, taking a cookie from the plate that suddenly appeared, Maru grinning at her. “It’s for the baby.”

“Ah.”

Setsuka sips her tea, holding the cup aloft to examine it as she liked to do, Ichihara-san never content to use the same set twice. Or arrange her shop the same way twice, new items constantly shifted into rooms, sometimes old rooms disappearing entirely as if they’d never been. She quite liked that, enjoyed the mystery and unceasing entertainment of it all. She wished her own home could do something similar but no, it remained as it always did, stolid, protected and perfectly laid out.

All the better to keep her caged in, Setsuka supposes, replacing her cup, her hand creeping to her stomach. She had at least another month to go and as far as she was concerned, it couldn’t go fast enough, mildly intrigued by the way her body had changed on her, the gain in girth and the sharp kicks that sometimes told her there was a baby there at all interesting at least but she was really ready for it all to be done. She wanted to be in her gardens again without the retainers trailing after her or the constant attention from the main house.

The tree was restless too, taking what joy it could in the fact that she was bearing it an heir but sometimes – sometimes Setsuka awoke with the taste of blood in the back of her throat, fingers trembling as nails dug into her palms.

“Wouldn’t you rather I tell you your fortune?” Ichihara-san interrupts her train of thought, sitting up now with both feet on the floor, her arms across her knees in such a way that makes her kimono ever lower than before.

“You already did that. It’s not likely to have changed inside of five minutes, is it?”

“It might have.”

They stare at each other and Setsuka never knows if the woman is being flippant or serious. Then again, it probably doesn’t matter where the Seer is concerned.

“I could tell you his story, you know,” Ichihara-san offers, fingers flicking towards her stomach, “All of it. I could tell you what he does, what he doesn’t do, who he loves, how he lives, how he’ll die.”

Setsuka smiles, “Why would I want to know any of that?”

“It’s a damn sight more useful than some fairy story, don’t you think?” Ichihara-san sounds cross, pushing some of her hair over her shoulder.

Ignoring Moro who suddenly appears as she attempts to rise, Setsuka pushes herself to her feet, padding over as best she can under the circumstances, one hand at her back which has started aching more of late. “But faeries are interesting,” Setsuka seats herself beside the disgruntled woman, taking her cigarette holder and holding it up for examination. “Faeries are different.”

Ichihara-san laughs, bemused as Setsuka rests her head against her shoulder, one long arm wrapping around her. She has spider arms, Ichihara-san does and Setsuka feels a delicious shiver at that image, resting a hand on her knee. “More interesting than people-eating trees or assassins?”

“Yes,” Setsuka agrees.

“All right, I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because I’ve never seen one.”

“Ah,” Ichihara-san sounds more amused now than bemused, shaking her head, “You wouldn’t like them, Sakurazuka-san. They’re rude and they steal things. Children mostly.”

“I thought they were cute and little with flower dresses,” Setsuka says suspiciously, as if she suspects she’s being made fun of now. Which is entirely possible where Ichihara-san is concerned.

“They’re beyond mortal ken,” Ichihara-san picks up her cigarette again, taking a puff and shrugging, careful not to jostle Setsuka too much. “Even for someone like you. So unless you’d like your throat slit and that little bundle of murderous joy cut from your belly, I’d suggest you find something else to ask about.”

“I just want a story,” Setsuka pouts, stroking her stomach then giving Ichihara-san a more considering look, she leans in conspiratorially, “I’ll tell you about my last kill if you do?”

“As tempting as that is … ,” Ichihara-san pauses, “What were you wearing?”

“I’m not telling if you won’t.”

“In any case, I’d rather not have my shoppe over run by hobgoblins and elves. Maru and Moro have a hard enough time cleaning as it is.”

Setsuka huffs lightly, annoyed and curious at the same time, “I think you’re making all this up just so you won’t have to do anything. You are dreadfully lazy sometimes. How do I know anything you just said is true?”

“How do you know it isn’t?”

“You really are dreadful,” Setsuka complains, struck with the sudden urge to break something but Ichihara-san would probably object to a hole in her chest. “I can find out on my own, you know.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you.”

“My dear, if you asked I would give you the secrets of the universe in a jar, a ring that will make you immortal, and the bird that sang to the last Emperor of China before he died but I will not summon up those horrid creatures for your amusement.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate family reunions.”

*** End

FIC: Beneath the Skin (1/1), 'Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle'/'X/1999' vignette, sequel to Dreamsleep

2006-04-28T06:44:53Z

Title: Beneath the Skin, sequel to Dreamsleep
Series: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle/ X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Fallen Icons
Pairing: ...if you read Dreamsleep you can probably guess. XD XD
Warnings: Lemon, angst, some gore. AUishness. Also, written in the present tense.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle nor any of its characters. Same with X/1999 (though I'd like to rent Kamui). They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: ...beneath the skin I am alone...

Thanks: To amet for betaing this for me. Also because she started this whole thing in the first place by requesting it and because she's having a rough time. And to everyone who asked me for a sequel. ♥

Author's Notes: Taking a quick break from memes because I didn't want lose this idea. This is the sequel to Dreamsleep and of course as all sequels do takes that extra step. ^~ I won't babble too much here, this is fairly self-evident. All warnings are applicable and it really frightens me how much I'm starting to get into this idea. XD;

Feedback is welcome though mostly I hope for the work to be enjoyed.

Beneath the Skin
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle/X/1999
Sephy

There’s blood on his hands.

It’s not his blood for once though Kamui’s fingers shake as if it is, yanking the knob of his sink as hard as he can, not bothering to adjust as it sputters to life, curls of steam puffing underneath the silver tap. It scalds as he shoves his hands under the faucet, the blood underneath his skin rushing to the surface as the blood covering it splashes against the gleaming white of the sink. This whole place is splattered, crimson dripping off his clothes and hair against the shining tile and soft bath rug, both of which are also white. Kamui whimpers in the back of his throat, fingers starting to go cold then numb under the intense heat but he makes no more to yank them back or adjust the water, instead scrubbing as hard as he can, eyes darting desperately, never looking in the mirror but landing on the soap. White soap which turns pink as his hands finally move, grabbing at it, scrambling with the pale soap tray, clumsy and desperate, the bar squishing in his grasp. White, white, white. Everything here, so clean, new, as if to mock him with its purity, his trembling growing worse as he continues to turn the bar around in his hands over and over, scrubbing as hard as he can.

How many times has he done this? How many more times will he do this? Why – why – why is he doing this? He chokes back a laugh, a little hysterical, feeling tears press against his eyelids, the world seeming to blur behind the more he stares –

A hand covers his wrist, squeezing, not hard but it’s enough, Kamui’s eyes darting upward, to the mirror he tries so hard to never look into, blood running down his face, between his eyes, a filmy mask of death with too large eyes, lashes as gummed as the bangs sticking to his forehead. There’s someone at his shoulder, same face though it’s harder, leaner, the other boy seeming taller even though they are at face level, the cloak around his shoulders gray, violet eyes unreadable in the fluorescent lighting. It should bother him, seeing his own face, so similar and yet different, messy brown black hair dusting the other boy’s neck and shoulders, expression more impassive than he could ever hope to manage, straight-backed and forbidding as that face tilts but all Kamui can do is laugh again, an edge of relief entering his voice –

Because this is a dream, it’s not real. It’s a dream and the deaths that had chased him through the halls of the mansion, through paths half-forgotten, aren’t real. Just like this boy with him isn’t real though Kamui would never dare tell him so, turning around and aware that while he managed to drip blood on the sink and the floor, none of it was on the other boy, already so close that their noses brushed.

“You came.”

There’s a nod, barely perceptible, followed by the roll of thin shoulders, the other Kamui’s cloak making him look larger than he was, calloused fingers catching his chin and tipping his face upward for closer examination.

“You summoned me,” The other Kamui says, the words simple, stark as if they’re an irrevocable, unchangeable truth though how Kamui doesn’t know.

Kamui feels dizzy now, the odd closeness between the two of them not allowing him to do much more than stare, hands fluttering as if to rest on his other self’s shoulders but no – he can’t do that. Not when they’re so bloody and dirty. Not when he’s so disgusting himself.

Though perhaps the disappointment he feels at that is the most disgusting thing of all.

He’s not sure when this started, when his dreaming started straying, sliding into – other places, only aware that there had been a moment before and then all the ones after this other him, this Kamui had seemed to reach for him, as if through that mirror there, pulling him close. Pulling from his place into – elsewhere, another world perhaps, impressions of water and darkness, the air thick with bitter smells and dust, catching of echoes of things and people he thought he knew but it was all so disorienting that he’d given up trying to follow. He hadn’t needed to because what had happened next – what kept happening –

Kamui closes his eyes as lips brush his, harder, always rougher than he expects, eager too, not so much kissing as nipping. It’s strange, kissing himself, being kissed by – He’s given up trying to wrap it in terms that make sense, turning his face more into the mouth covering his, the hands cupping his jaw cool, the tip of the other Kamui’s tongue sliding through the part in his lips, kisses growing longer, more intent as if he doesn’t mean to stop, either of them. His hands clench then Kamui gives up burying them in his cloak, feeling the sharp press of shoulders against his palm, almost bony and Kamui wonders if his own shoulders feel that way, half tempted to check.

It’s wrong to dream these things, something is wrong with him, and he can only imagine what the others would say. What Sorata or God, Subaru would think but in these moments, precious and fleeting, none of that seems to matter, sensing a separateness, differences in this other Kamui that are both repellant and attractive, his sense of purpose, and the feeling that ‘no’ is not something this other self is used to hearing. Strength and self-possession where he feels so badly these days that he has none of his own, fragile self-confidence shattered upon a wire cross and the splay of soft limbs, the feeling of golden curls tangled around his fingers lingering still.

More than that, this self, this Kamui, wants him. Wants him as no one ever has before, the hands sliding through blood-slicked locks not painful, sure and demanding but there’s no pain or recriminations following his touch or the way his own body seems to rouse to it, hands sliding to the clasp of his lover-self’s robe. He thumbs it free, hands smoothing down lower over that thin chest, the other Kamui huffing silently, pulling back to watch him, fingers drawing against his scalp, massaging it and that feels too good as his fingers pry at the sudden part in fabric. The black of the shirt underneath is startling against his fingers, flexing them in fascination, able to feel ribs and wow does he need to eat, the strangeness of that striking him and the laugh it coaxes this time is more sure, his other self’s face softening as if in understanding.

He doesn’t flinch this time, as he did the first time, when the other Kamui reaches for his tie, playing with it, rough fingers running over it as if fascinated by it, the gesture giving him pause, feeling his chest tighten as they lift, working at the constraining knot. He doesn’t remembering it being so tight before but there’s some relief when the other him manages to work the knot free, now separate ends draped over his shoulders. Those hands move again, reaching for his buttons and Kamui steps back now. There’s not far he can go, back bumping the sink, trying not to wince at the brows slashing downward, mouth flattening out in displeasure, that expression only easing when he shakes his head, reaching for the buttons himself, fingers sticky as they undo each one. He doesn’t know why but the idea of making the bathroom any messier than he already has bothers him, though it’s not as if some dream Imonoyama-sama is going to come bursting through the door to scold him for ruining the upholstery so to speak.

At least he really hopes not.

His other self is not idle, shrugging out of his cloak, catching the garment before it can fall away and tossing it aside, the long chain around his neck swaying gently, twin dragon wings forever entwined, Kamui’s eyes drawn towards them. He wonders about them, what they mean, if they mean anything at all, though he senses that now might not be the time to ask. The other him is dressed in black from head to toe, save for the warm tawny leather of the belt slung low over his hips and the matching cuff on one leg, making him seem somehow skinnier, spare lines and sharp angles that he finds … Well…

Beautiful. It’s odd to think that when he finds in regards to himself and not this other him, he doesn’t see it at all, all too aware of the knobby, too long fingers, skinny wrists, and all the other awkwardness that goes along with being a sixteen year old boy who hasn’t entirely grown into himself. He wonders if it should disturb him, this sense of separateness he feels, taking all those differences he sees in this Kamui and dividing himself from them, making each of them a person rather than part of a whole.

His shirt’s gone now, undershirt too, and Kamui’s grateful for that, feeling his cheeks redden as violet eyes turn predatory, watching nervous fingers reach for his belt. His pants are a lost cause, ripped in places, having already lost the shoes somewhere between here and wherever – he came from. Part of him longs to stop the other Kamui when he reaches for the edge of his turtleneck, wanting to do it but no – he set these rules, meaning to or not and he shouldn’t change them. Not yet at least.

Maybe there’s something to be said in watching, his mouth goes dry at the scarred, pale skin revealed, one tan nipple split by a hideous scar, finding the most difference here, in a valley of silver and pink tissue. His other self seems to pause, lifting his head, his face half-thrown in shadow and for a second, Kamui thinks he catches the split pupil of a cat’s eye, wary and determined. The impression seems to vanish as the other Kamui’s eyes drop, working at his own belt, a few snaps causing it to fall around him. Then he seems to come to a decision, closing the gap between them, his hand clasping Kamui’s upper arm, not enough to hurt but he’s not letting go, leaning to kiss him again, the sensation heady and despite what he tells himself, he’s not ready for it, not for bruising, wet kisses or the body suddenly pressing against his, the erection digging into his hip. He tilts his face, not because he wants to stop but because he feels he should, murmuring something about being filthy, the words incomprehensible to his own ears.

His other self seems to understand them just fine, that bemused expression returning as an eyebrow arches, his voice husking into a near growl, “I don’t care.”

He leans forward again, apparently not to be deterred but Kamui reaches up and grabs his ear -- such a strange sensation, grabbing one’s own ear -- rewarded with a full out glare as he tugs and glaring in turn, though he’s sure it’s less cold than the one he’s receiving. Another annoyed push of air stutters, the chest beneath his hand expanding and contracting again, before Kamui relents a little, reaching for the other boy’s pants, thumbing the button free, letting go of his ear long enough to slide both hands along his side and inward, cupping tapering hips, fabric falling away as his eyes are drawn to the shallow of the other’s stomach, the erection he’d felt earlier stiff and brushing against his hand. He starts as the other him reaches too, as if to return the favor, divesting him of his pants, with movements more sure, more possessive than he’s certain he could manage.

“Shower,” Kamui murmurs, watching the other boy’s eyes tighten, glancing to the right of them before nodding and it amazes him how comfortable these silences feel. As if he doesn’t need to speak as much as he wants to, a little afraid of saying the wrong thing and having this all just – end.

Now would be a really bad time for that.

Squeezing his other self’s elbow (and really they need to find a way to distinguish between themselves because this is confusing), Kamui slips past though not far, large hands finding his hips as he leans forward to turn the shower on, this time working the spray so it’s not hot enough to hurt them. When he glances over his shoulder, he notices the other Kamui is staring, not at him for once, but at the shower itself and then at the room, looking as if – well, he’s seen a ghost, as if something has just occurred to him and then before he can start to ask, he seems to shake it off again, squeezing Kamui’s hips and nodding his head forward.

The air is thick in here, thicker still when he closes the glass door, rubbing his eyes as he ducks under the shower nozzle, concentrating for a minute on cleaning the blood crusting in his hair away, starting as fingers brush the back of his neck, crushing the skin there and oh that feels good. Better than he would have thought possible, leaning his head back and feeling rather than hearing himself step forward, turning him around quickly, Kamui blinking and trying to clear his eyes just before he’s kissed again and this time he gives in, sliding his hands around the other boy’s neck, knotting there, hands sliding low against his hips and back, dragging him forward until their bodies align.

He whimpers, biting down on the other Kamui’s lower lip, drawing blood and he’s almost sorry about that until he finds himself being guided, pushed backward, a coppery taste seeming to pass between them, thick and smoky, his tongue lapping at the wound. Supple hands reach, waiting until he finds some balance against the wall, lifting one of his legs and he helps by locking it around a thin hip, his lover angling himself so that their arousals brush, slick and rough and he feels that all the way to his toes, more scalding than the water from before, sending unsteady sparks through him as his hips jerk in accommodation. The angle is odd here, little adjustments being made, leaving him more open than he can ever remember being, a hand reaching down between them, whimpering wrung into a cry as it closes around both erections, his own already feeling too swollen, his body tight and needing some sort of release as muscles tighten.

Kamui knows what he wants, he knows, and so does his other self, nails digging into his lover’s shoulders as they strain against each other, deep enough that he can feel his other self twitch, his face lifting, the cords of his neck tightening before lowering his face beside Kamui’s ear, moaning hoarsely. This is better, more real, more solid than his waking, than the days filled with battles he knows he can’t win, a life he’s barely treading water in, with people he wants to feel close to and ultimately can’t, knowing that there’s always something of himself he’s holding back.

Not here though. No, here everything is too violent, too immediate, for him to hide behind, his back bending and bending until he’s sure it’s going to snap, that he’s going to shatter into a million pieces and for once that’s all right. For once it’s what he’s chosen for himself.

He’s greedy though because it’s still not enough, the pressure of his mouth suddenly harder, taking the lead, not coy as he leaned forward, shifting again so that he was all but wrapped around himself, hips driving upward, listening for each catch of breath, the air clinging to them, tendriling off locks of hair with wet caresses. He reaches himself, finds his lover’s hand and together they’re moving, sharing, working together, finding a harmony that he’s never felt anywhere before, his fingers petting and petting until he knows it’s coming, a climax he can feel echoed in himself, neck aching as he feels a splash against his belly, then another, slicker than water and warmer, sliding between them and leaving behind a hazy contentment, kisses slowing. His heart feels like it’s slowing too, breath following it, limbs growing heavier and Kamui realizes his mistake, violet eyes widening and then lowering, sliding forward, sliding through himself, catching only a glimpse of something – something that might be anguish and regret and fury all in one, eyes slitting before the world, this one falls away. Before he falls away, arms tightening, face pressed against the soft fluff of a pillow not the sharp round of a shoulder, a low scream tearing out of his throat, almost muffled by the pillow.

Almost.

The door slams open, footsteps hurrying against his floor and then bed sagging, a hand touching his shoulder, too personal and invasive, “Kamui? You okay? Dumb question but –“

Sorata. He gives up on all sense of propriety, slinking forward just a few centimeters and rests his head against Sorata’s knee, throat tight and wanting to howl again, howl at his loss and the knowledge that what he wants, the one thing that might make him whole is so far beyond his reach –

No, not even if it was on the other side of the moon would that help. At least that would be an attainable goal.

“Kamui?” Sorata’s voice is tenuous, worried and he should stop this, he should try and shrug it off and claim it’s a nightmare as he has so often since Subaru left.

But not right now. Maybe in a few minutes. When he can stop feeling ghostly fingers gliding along his neck and back, mouth still tingling. He just needs a few minutes, yes.

Just a few minutes more.

***End

FIC: Dreamsleep, (1/1); a Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle vignette

2006-04-27T01:05:18Z

Title: Dreamsleep
Series: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: Rish
Archive: Fallen Icons
Pairing: Kamui x ? (Read and find out :P)
Warnings: End of the world imagery, allusions to citrus, AUishness? Also, written in the present tense.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: Only you borrow what you hope for...

Thanks: To amet for betaing this for me. Also because she requested it from me...mostly to get me to write about T:RC Kamui and stop driving me mad but still. ♥

Author's Notes: Next fic in the meme I mentioned in the last entry, this time for amet whom I love dearly and who I wish I could do more for right now. I write because I love and I owe her several pieces (since yanno, she requested more than one for me in the meme) but this one came first because I was in a mood. I just uh...didn't expect it to take such a weird turn. XD;; Definitely not my normal fare, what can I say? Rain, industrial music, amd me make a weird mix? Title is from a highly appropriate Collide song.

Anyway, as I've noted several times, this is for my honey and I hope it will suffice for now. ♥

Feedback is welcome though mostly I hope for the work to be enjoyed.

Dreamsleep
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

There’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat, Kamui wiping at his bloodied mouth, turning his face away when Satsuki reaches for it, impersonal fingers rebuffed with the quick lift of his hand. An annoyed huff of air follows then a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, a darted glancing revealing Yuuto, smiling down at him, full of warm concern. Kusanagi is with him, features that reminded him of the pictures he’d seen of ancient monoliths, the proud jut of his chin and a nose that some ancient civilization probably had worshipped.

He can feel the worries clouding their minds, the thin webbing of their thoughts laid bare should he choose to examine it more closely. This he does not do. What would be the point? He already knows what’s there, knows what’s in each of their hearts, of course he does.

He is Kamui.

But sometimes that’s not enough and now is one of those times, impatient and wanting to be elsewhere, having little patience for the small hands tugging at his robe, Kazuki holding arms and grasping hands out in silent demand. Kamui ignores that, sweeping past, shrugging off Yuuto, fingers nervously playing with the clasp of his cloak. Once things had been otherwise; once he would have let Satsuki examine him, critical eyes behind small glasses, joining in Yuuto’s attempts to make her smile before giving up and picking up Kazuki for a ride around the room, the two of them giggling as he turned them around and around.

He doesn’t have it in him for that these days, pulling farther and farther away from the other Dragons even as they seem to grow closer, bonding together over the mechanics of day to day survival, working on new weapons or means of early detection, sometimes breaking to help someone dig another room out of the rubble of the Diet building. Sometimes that yielded things of importance, sometimes those little exercises were nothing but that, something to break the monotony of endless days of rain with the occasional ceasing, never long enough to give anyone hope that the sun was going to stay, the earth beyond barren and dead. What food they had now came from hunting sand worms or from the small gardens Nataku and Kakyou had begun – long ago now, mostly full of herbs for medicine but there were a few foods they’d found that would still grow even in split darkness.

Everyone looks to him, Kamui can see it in their eyes as he sweeps past the communal area, peering at him from behind curtains or bowing their heads in acknowledgement. Even now, after so much time has passed, they still expect him to fix it, to make things right, to be the prophesied messiah who will lead them from this kingdom of desiccation. And he’d gladly do it if someone could provide a map, perhaps signs pointing him in the right direction.

Life is enough of the sign and it’s becoming harder to bear, a terrible sense of - restlessness overtaking him. He wasn’t meant to lead anyone, he wasn’t meant to be anything but a weapon, a sword honed and sharpened for battle and now that battle was done leaving him to –

Rust, corroding away like the rest of this godforsaken world, sheathed and helpless, something in him seeming to deaden with each passing day of waiting, wondering how much longer.

It is the one commonality on everyone’s mind, the shell of the Diet groaning around them, managing to stand under the constant barrage of rain ripping and tearing at stones and steel but like everything else, it’s only a matter of time.

Perhaps if they had machines they could dig, they could drill deeply into the earth, build an underground network of caves. He’s heard Satsuki bantering the idea around with whoever will listen to her, wondering why she’d bother, what good she thought it would do. The rain isn’t stopping, there’s no sign that it will ever stop, not for longer than the space of a few half-hour intervals each day, time enough to scurry out for food and then back into hiding. Eventually the top soil is going to be stripped away and then – perhaps it will collapse or perhaps the earth will just continue to rot, the air acrid with boiling smells, near unbreathable those times they’ve had to burn bodies, unable to bury anything outside now and there’s no refrigeration units to help them along.

This is life but he’s no longer sure he’s living it, walking through its paces, giving up on the words, knowing with grim assurance that the only thing he can do now is try to save these people and hope it counts for something.

Sometimes, he dreams and he thinks – he knows – that this isn’t the way things are supposed to be. There was something he was supposed to be, someone, and he missed him, reaching out for him in those moments between breath and heartbeat, dreaming and waking, trying to pull that Kamui to him, identical in so many ways except for his eyes. His eyes are so different from Kamui’s, wide and violet, full of surprised hurt and despair. Despair is something Kamui knows very well by now but he feels – knows somehow this isn’t the same, it’s more alive and visceral and in those dreams he longs for that, for this boy whose face is his, grabbing scarred hands and pulling him closer, feeling himself recoil but it’s not enough to stop him, reality blurring as the distance closes, his mouth finding the other Kamui’s, brutal and needy, as if punishing him. Punishing him for being able to feel, for those eyes that shone liquid before they close, the mouth underneath his softening, the rough of a tongue meeting his own, both so needy, wanting – one Kamui needing strength and the other to feel at all.

They’re not enough, those dreams; it’s not enough to scrabble at clothing, pulling away the tie around the other Kamui’s neck, feeling buttons pop as he rips open his shirt. It’s not enough when his own clothes join the other Kamui’s, greedy fingers sliding over his spine, shoving until the body against his own that is his own submits, supine and spreading before him, knees brushing against his sides as he maps a course, looks for and finds his sign in flesh that is and isn’t his own, rewarded with those soft vulnerable little gasps that he will never utter again but this him does so freely, head tilted back and reddened lips open. This is life, hot and yielding, finding a rhythm that he’s lost as they scrabble together, nails digging into the skin below his shoulders, his own nails digging similar furrows, two images in a mirror seeking to become one again. To become a person, someone that matters, that cares, that’s strong, that is.

It’s this boy Kamui needs, this self, for himself and ultimately, it’s this that he can’t hold onto, slipping away, time seeming to skip and displace, knowing that there’s a battle this self must face too, neither of them allowed to rest and he hates that, powerfully angry as waking over takes him, wanting to scream and knowing he can’t. He can’t, he can’t do anything not even with the power of God which at times seems the cruelest joke of all.

He’s not dead enough for this, Kamui thinks, hating the dreams almost as much as he welcomes them, needs them to get him through each day, the separation starting to feel longer and longer each time, the dreams a little sharper, more real as if he can really just reach out and touch, dreams thinning to the warmth of skin, the haze of tired violet eyes, and soft kisses.

He wants that, Kamui wants him, whether he comes through or Kamui does, having to bite his lip bloody to keep from calling his own name.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to care about everything around him, that he wants to be detached to protect himself, it’s that he’s lost, part of him gone in the ether, the him that could give him comfort and solace, two things he’s always desired the most and knows one thing for certain. If someone did give him a map, he’d gladly give it back in exchange for another, one that would lead him to that world, that place where he could turn and find himself again, hesitant smile full of tentative affection, afraid to reach out when he had so much that Kamui ached for it, for him.

He could wait for that. He would always be waiting for that.

***End

FIC: Fairytale's End (1/1), A 'Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle' vignette

2006-04-25T05:08:47Z

Title: Fairytale’s End
Series: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13;
Archive: Fallen Icons, Light Up

Warnings: Vampirism, end of the world imagery, spoilers for the Tsubasa chapters 108 onward, some hintings of S+/xK.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: When he walked, he no longer made any sound.

Thanks: To amet for putting up with me all this week even though I’ve been a nervous wreck and for betaing this for me.

Author's Notes: This is part of a meme issued on my LJ; originally I was only supposed to write a paragraph for a requested pairing/character but it sort of ballooned probably because it’s Tsubasa Kamui who has been poking at me for weeks now and because I’m desperately trying to avoid studying right now. This is for asiyakei; I’ve owed you some S/K fic for awhile and if nothing else, I hope this satisfies.

Fairytale’s End
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

When he walked, he no longer made any sound.

Kamui followed the rusty stairwell downward, the elevators long since dead with not even the ghost of electricity to revive them. A few had been damaged irreparably when the worst of the earthquakes hit, the structure of the building surviving though it was little more than a mocking shell of what it had once been. He had been sixteen then, overawed by this place, by the way it gleamed amidst a garden of skyscrapers, the afternoon sun already beginning to sink behind it, lending a reddish tint to the stone dome.

The sun. It had been so long since any of them had seen it. Had seen anything stronger than the candles they made or the glare of strobe lights from the Dragons of Heaven’s machines, their Great Tower in the distance a forbidding monolith, barely visible in the stinging rain, the corroded ground constantly hissing, growling its displeasure into the night.

He could hear it even now, through the empty pipes, as he pushed into the basement, his pupil widening to accommodate that rising darkness, offset only by the faintest of sheens, the walls down here covered with green lichen. The earthquakes had knocked the floor out, the spring, their one gift in this entire mess taking its place, lapping against the low platform they’d fashioned. In those early days, they’d allowed the others down here, hoping it would raise morale, the children in particular enamored by being able to splash and swim. There had been other sources of water then, ones they had thought to turn to before the ground outside gave way, the ever constant eating through and through like funeral worms, the bones and blood of the earth laid bare before its relentlessness. Now … now they did what they could to protect it, harvesting what water they could and monitoring the levels. So far they’d been lucky though Fuuma and his Dragons were continually making attempts to wrest the building from them, as if their own water source wasn’t enough to content them. Perhaps it was in danger of becoming contaminated, too. He didn’t know.

What he did know was that he would do whatever was necessary to protect this building and those people living in it, those who were too weak and helpless to do anything but wait, knowing that it was only a matter of time but hoping -- hoping that he would be able to forestall that fate.

But when had he ever saved anyone?

“Someone came?”

The words though murmured, echoed in this place, punctuated by the drip of water, Kamui pausing, his cloak drifting to a lazy halt around him, the whisper of the fabric somehow the loudest sound of all.

“Yes,” he answered simply, the pool reflecting back varying shades of green – some gray, some with the faintest hint of yellow, and something deeper, almost blue, each shade making the water surrounding full of shadows, writhing and dancing across the unstable surface, “But not him.”

Kamui never heard him coming, not since the first had he ever heard him but over time he’d come to know when he was there and that was more important. As important as the hands that closed around his throat and chest, lightly now, not hurting as they had once been, hard immortal fingers icy against skin, tugging at his cloak, the fastening unsnapping easily and pooling around their feet. He’d long since given up on resistance, instead covering the hand over his heart, twining their hands as Kamui tilted his head, shivering at the sharp sting, a blossom of lethargic heat, the only thing that warmed him these days at all, that gave him any sense of peace.

The world was dying outside and he was dying inside, bit by bit, giving over what was left of his life for power, the power to change things, to fight back and save things. It was never enough though; the strings that had always bound him to Fuuma bolstering the other boy, each battle becoming nastier than the last.

He should stop, Kamui knew that. This should have stopped long ago but he’d never had the strength to turn him away, to give up the only shade of green that pool had never reflected back at him.

Cracking his lids, he caught their reflection in each jumpy wave of the water, two bodies, thin and wiry, clad in black as limbs seemed to merge, disappearing into the darkness, soft black hair brushing his cheek as he reached an arm behind him, starting to feel light-headed.

‘Subaru.’

There was so much in that name that was a blessing and curse, stirring in him emotions that were stronger than ephemeral hope and more real than despair. He would die with that name on his lips, in his heart, filling him until he wondered what was left of Kamui at all that hadn’t been taken from him.

Kamui found himself jerked around suddenly, warm, wet lips against his, salty with his blood and he kissed Subaru willingly, shuddering as fangs brushed against his bottom lip, the vampire pausing only long enough to bite the tip of his tongue, Kamui’s mouth parting easily against his. This was different, always so different than the taste of himself, his blood nothing in comparison, not enough to cause sparks behind his eyes, light-headed and starving, throat bobbing to keep up with that steady stream oozing down his throat. Changing him. Remaking him. Hollowing him out just as the rain was doing to the earth outside but unlike that, filling him with something else, something stronger and more irrevocable. Eternal.

The world was ending but he had only just begun.

***End

FIC: Lullaby (4/?), A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 story

2006-01-18T07:25:22Z

Title: Lullaby (4/?)
Series: Tokyo Babylon / X/1999, slight crossovers with CLAMP Campus Detectives and XXXHolic
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: Rish
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: Major character death, tiny crossovers with with CCD and XXXHolic, blood, gore, even more death, AU timeline-ishness, creepiness, some incest vibes, nudity, some speculation about the Sakurazuka Clan, and anything else I can think to add as I go along.

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and Tokyo Babylon (or any of the series mentioned here) nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: Destiny is turned on its head as Sakurazuka Setsuka acquires a prize no one could have predicted -- Shirou Kamui.

Thanks: To amet, who put up with my fretting over this and nearly made me slip into the present tense several times over thanks to all the Weiss fic she's writing. ^~

Author's Notes: This chapter has kicked around since before I went away to Boston in December. I haven't given up on the story though it probably looks like it given that I haven't updated in awhile; I've just been busy on this end and what I intended for this chapter ended up getting split between this one and the next so if certain people were looking for a promised cameo...eh, next chapter? I promise? With not-so-baby Kamui as a consolation prize?

Lullaby
A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 Alternate Universe story
Sephy

Chapter Three

disturbance

“Itou-san. Explain.”

When she spoke, Setsuka found that her voice was surprisingly clear, cold and steady as if to make false all those feelings tightening in her chest.

Once again it was that man who knelt – scraped at her feet, the whisper of his tie against wooden floorboards, his head lowered, white streaks of hair now visible, marbling the black and gray already there. It was raining outside, the tinkle of wind chimes drifting through her cracked window, thin wooden bars casting dim shadows on the rounding white screen. The petals of her flowers lifted, fat and damp, a slow moving bead of water dripping along the shortened curve to the lip of the vase, hanging there before splashing against the dark wood of the end table beside her, pruning shears glinting.

It played out in her mind, perfect in movement and execution, knowing already how it would feel to rise, skirt swirling around her as she buried those self-same shears between his breastbone, leaning forward as they caught his heart, beating faster and faster, a hysterical bird caught in a bone cage, pinned and unable to do more but feel itself die, the lungs filling with fluid, starting to drown and then – just stopping. She knew the way his body would sound when it fell, heavy and thick as a sack of concrete, the rattle-clash of glasses as they fell from his face, thick black frames, fashionably shaped because of his vanity waiting to be picked up again, lens speckled with dust. She could see it all; her hands itched with the ghost of that act, wanting completion, her mind already suggesting other ways, other methods of death, some full of more rage than others.

She was enraged, but it was a cold anger, with fear at the base of it, her heart echoing with it, as if she’d caught it like a disease from this pitiful man creature prostrating himself before her as she were a goddess who might forgive him his sins.

As if forgiveness was anything but a human affectation and what use did the gods have for those?

He flinched at the sound of her voice; it should have made her feel better but all it served to do was make her feel colder, watching him scrap and attempt not to skitter like a roach underfoot and she longed to step on him. She might yet, but not until she found out what she needed to know.

“Itou-san,” Setsuka murmured, “I will not ask again.”

He rose a little on his elbows, not lifting his face but at least now he wouldn’t be talking into the floor, not wanting to waste any more time making him repeat things not when so much time was being lost.

“Your son,” And she felt a vague stirring of dread and recollection, remembering when he last said something similar, “Sakurazuka-san, I – your son is – “

“Missing,” she finished for him, drawing the word out in a hiss, rising in agitation, watching him flinch again as surely as if she’d laid her hand across his face. “Itou-san, indulge me but how is it that you lost my son in my backyard?”

“Sakurazuka-san, I – I swear to you –“

“My son,” Setsuka snapped, “The second one you’ve lost which leads me to wonder if the first was an accident or colossal incompetence.”

If terror could be painted, distilled down to colors, she could see it now, all the whites and grays, the way his tawny skin almost turned green around the edges, eyes too wide behind thick lenses, threatening to roll up in the back of his head. She could see it crease in the folds under his eyes and in the furrows of his forehead, making his eyes black with pupil, the stupid spurts of hysterical grinning he was struggling to keep in check, white teeth biting hard into the soft tissue of fat lower lip.

“The house,” His voice was too high and he swallowed, Setsuka crediting for at least attempting some decorum after the grievous lapse of the last few minutes, “Everyone is looking, Sakurazuka-san. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”

“Before he’s found or before they, like you, prove useless? You have yet to explain how you managed this in the first place. He’s five years old, Itou-san and I asked you to take him out for air. I fail to see how this should result in my son being missing.”

“I accept responsibility. Full responsibility,” he mumbled and she turned on her heel, small foot catching him below the chin, shoving him backward and putting her weight down as she stepped on his chest, skirts threatening to cover his lower body like a shroud.

“You are nothing. Your claims at responsibility mean nothing,” She moved her heel, pressing down harder, listening to the squeaked wheezes that followed, almost imaging the crack of bone beneath her feet. “I want my son and we are going to find him even if I have to use your bones to beat a path through all of Tokyo.

“I will not lose another child,” Setsuka continued, her heel moved under his chin as she leaned down, the cold breaking and finding instead that she was hot, hotly angry, “Do you understand?”

***

Kamui sneezed, the shivering body in his arms whimpering then attempting to crawl closer, a quick rough rasp across his cheek, making him tighten his arms. He was lying on his stomach in the mud between the rising roots of a tree and he knew that his mother was not going to be pleased with him, his new clothing soaked and dirty. Or that he’d left Itou-san, breaking away as soon as the man’s back was turned, drawn by the mournful cries that only he had heard.

It was the trees, of course. They’d told him and he’d known he was going to have to follow, curiosity stirred by what they’d said, the wind rustling underneath the overcast skies, before the sky had burst and he’d found himself in a slowly filling hollow underneath one of the mammoth trees near the fence, holding on with one hand to his prize and resting his head against the green moss covered trunk.

The tree was dying.

He felt it in an odd, detached sense, the way parts of it were heavy and rotting, the weight of seasons so long past that it made him dizzy. It had bloomed this year but it wouldn’t next. Here in the humidity and wet heat, it was going away, no longer taking any joy in the earth beneath and the taste of rain in sickly branches. Some of the roots that branched around him were already little more than hollow shells, like the skin of those insects Okaasan had showed him once, empty and bereft.

Not quite empty, Kamui corrected himself, another lick catching him unaware and he scrunched his face, peering through the misty gloom at the fuzzy head he could just barely make out. Grunting he crawled closer, pressing his hand along the puppy’s back, attempting to find where it was stuck at, the space it was caught in tight, too tight to do more than wiggle his fingers before sitting back again, mournful eyes following him. He rubbed a hand across his cheek splattering mud there and considered the problem as best as he could, the rainwater starting to fill the space, the puppy’s front paws already submerged. Chewing on his bottom lip, he balanced on his knees and started pulling at the mud, feeling the silt thick loam cling to his fingers, chill and stiff, tossing it as far to the side as he can before repeating the action. The puppy barked and he started then laughed, squatting and sinking both hands into the ground nearest to the animal he managed to grasp a small mound, tossing it aside. The puppy barked again and he imitated it, a rough little sound that seemed to excite the animal, some of its earlier droopiness fading, its tongue lolling as it panted.

Sooner or later, someone, most likely Okaasan, would find him and though he was certain to be scolded, there would be help. His Okaasan could do anything so a puppy caught under a tree should present little difficulty. In the meantime, he wasn’t going to just sit around; his mother had been very clear that while it was his right, his due, to be waited on, sometimes it was better to do things himself.

Besides, it wasn’t as if anything could actually happen to him here, not in his brother’s domain, the watchful eyes not just those of the trees alone. Okaasan worried, fingers brushing against his cheeks and hair with fretful concern, sometimes reaching for him, pulling him close whenever they walked together, always touching him, needing to know that he was here with her. He didn’t mind that so much, loving her for her beauty and the sweet fragrance of flowers that always seemed to follow her, even when her hands were covered in blood, sometimes bringing him a souvenir from those excursions. The separation pained her, he sensed, not minding that she pulled him to her when she was still warm with sweat and blood, threading his small fingers through her hair and clinging until she found her calm again, a subtle change signaled with a laugh and then scolding for letting her get him dirty. There was something wondrous about Okaasan in those moments, the sternness of her voice and the way her pretty features scrunched attempting to be serious. It didn’t suit her and she knew it too, his smiles too much of a giveaway and then she would give up, bundling him off to bathe with her, sometimes strands of black escaping the bun she pinned them in, curling against her and floating with careless abandon in the water between them as she scrubbed him.

She was not loved by the rest of the house, the servants seeming to hold their breath as she came and went, careful to stick to their duties so that even Itou-san who visited her more than any of the rest wanted nothing more than to leave her to her own devices. It wasn’t something Kamui understood; he loved his mother, her willowy beauty and the capricious turn of mood that was just as apt to make her tease as it was to scold. He loved the low murmur of her voice at night as she spoke to him, often of things he didn’t understand but there was always a story there, carrying him off to sleep, her mouth pressed against his head as he curled against her.

Often it was his sleeping brother she spoke of with him, her face always animated during those moments, sometimes happy and sometimes all he could do was cover her face with kisses when she lifted her eyes, flecks of tears visible. Always he felt something fierce and protective towards her in those moments, when all her wisdom and strength seemed to dissolve, loving her all the more for that weakness knowing that were it anyone else, she would despise herself for that slip.

And so this brother that he had never seen grew along with him, a presence in the back of his mind, always mindful of two things: what his Okaasan would want and if his Aniki would approve, if he would measure up in his eyes.

He couldn’t help but wonder what Aniki would think of him now, digging in the mud after running away from his keeper, the stench of wet earth and dog clinging to him. Kamui thought perhaps he wouldn’t mind so much, not beyond the same teasing his mother sometimes gave him when he did something she didn’t understand; besides, he didn’t think Aniki would like Itou-san very much anyway.

Panting, he stopped, half-bent with the rainwater past his ankles, the puppy mewling, its head pointed upward as drops plopped loudly through the leaves, beating against the insensate trunk. The other trees rustled their discontent and he nodded in absent agreement. The rain was coming down faster now, streaks of silver slicing through the air, a thickening rush of sound that seemed to crash, the sky creaking as the wind picked up, those whispers growing louder than before, almost a warning cry and he threw himself down, sucking in a breath before the mud and water slapped him in the face, threatening to drown him, the cries of the dog now louder, almost loud enough to overcome the metallic twanging that echoed in his ears. He sputtered, head tilting in time to catch a glint of white-silver, the tree against him oddly silent in the face of this wound, a branch cracking overhead as something moved, the puppy howling and wriggling against him. Kamui slid forward as quickly as he could, slippery fingers finding purchase on the underside of one of the larger roots, trying to squish down, watching as best as he could.

A knife twanged above his head, the hilt still shaking from the force of the throw, Kamui backing up further, in front of the puppy as a shadow dropped from the branches, the leaves seeming to hiss into the air, a lean, rangy shape dropping in front of him, face obscured and swathed in black, large fingers reaching towards him.

***

Setsuka heard the cries before she saw the cause, the high pitched shrieks of a distressed animal followed by a louder scream, lifting up the folds of her kimono and forgoing all sense of decorum by running towards it, Itou-san’s heavier tread falling behind, forgotten. All she could think of was Kamui, of getting to her son, praying to her other son for his protection, clipping her hands and shoulders as she pushed into the tightening perimeter of trees towards the high fence, more ornamental than anything else surrounding the compound. The wards around the perimeter were little more than warning bells, set off only by the presence of some sort of magic, giving the hunter a nod that the prey was on the premises but that trap hadn’t been set off which meant the prey was a mundane, some insect having the gall to enter her nest. It happened from time to time; occasionally it was even amusing, like watching a fly crawl across a web, never realizing it could never break free.

But not this time, not when it involved her son. Her son who she had foolishly entrusted to that stupid, careless man, already lagging less out of weariness perhaps and more out of distaste, fear for his own skin. He was right to fear; if anything happened to her child, she’d make a garland out of his entrails.

The dense thicket of trees swelled around her, her blood singing and with it the powers she had inherited, maddened and wanting nothing more than to kill, to slake the angry panic and banish it in gore. Her hair loosened and fell in her face, a deft hand pushing it back, tabi barely touching the ground, the air here thicker, cut off from much of the light above the canopy, the trees here allowed to grow thick by design rather than natural progression, the overwhelming scent of green dampened by the rainfall trickling through the trees. She nearly slid a time or two, having to skip the tree trunks by way of leaping for the branches above which were a straighter path, silently cursing her robes which caught in an errant twig or three.

Another howl cracked the air as she found him, blood arcing upward and she adjusted to land on the ground away from it, the smoking remains of a body falling at her feet with a squishing thump, burned head splitting like a melon as it landed, a black-red puddle already oozing from split innards, still sizzling even now. Setsuka eyed it then lifted her face, Kamui on his knees in front of a tree, nearly up to the waist in mud, his hands raised, meeting her gaze with a solemn nod. Behind him a small dog was barking, shrieking and attempting to move forward, obviously unable to, splashing water and still more mud.

Setsuka took in the scene and slowly she composed herself, smoothing her hands over her kimono and crossing her arms and fixing him with a stern gaze, “Shirou Kamui.”

He lowered his hands, expression suddenly sheepish, rubbing the back of his head and she internally winced as he spread still more mud on himself, “Okaasan.”

“Explain.”

Kamui didn’t bother prevaricating, knowing that she would realize it even if he tried, “The trees told me,” he began, glancing down at the ginger-colored puppy, petting its head, “Look, puppy.”

Ah yes, the trees. She had never been quite sure what to make of her little son’s peculiar gift, his ability to talk to plants or rather to listen as it were to that silent, slow moving language that to her was little more than the rustle of the wind or the touch of sunlight. He conversed or rather communed with the trees, often hugging their trunks, claiming that they told him stories and a time or two, she’d caught him sitting under one doing much the same thing. Sharing, he’d said with a sunny smile, before she’d had to catch him – by the seat of his pants, no less, tiny feet and arms waving in the air, wanting to be up in the shelter of those branches. Kamui had been climbing trees almost as soon as he could walk and though it had worried her at first, much as his early rapt staring at the flowers in the garden had, thus far he’d managed to come away with little more than a few scrapes. It was just as well that she not instill that fear in him; it would be harder to remove later when time for the real work came.

“I can see that,” She remarked dryly, “And what have I told you?”

There was a little shuffle-slide as Kamui rose to his feet, more than contrite in that way that only small children could be. “Not to leave the house on my own,” he mumbled, “But –“

“Kamui.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you have to say about all of this?”

Kamui looked at her then at the puppy and the body on the ground beyond them. “I got him good?”

Setsuka smiled at last, moving forward while being mindful of the mud puddle, her fingers stroking through his soft brown-black hair before kneeling down, “Yes, you did. I’m very proud of you. Though that doesn’t excuse you from breaking the rules.”

“But Okaasan, I tried to tell Itou-san but he said I shouldn’t make up stories! I didn’t! The trees told me about the puppy.”

Setsuka pursed her lips, dabbing at his face with the edge of her kimono before giving up. “Itou-san was wrong not to listen to you but you were wrong to break a standing rule. I think you know that, don’t you?”

Where another child might have fidgeted or continued with ‘buts’ or other excuses or perhaps even hung his head, Kamui studied her then nodded, round features drawn as he answered, “Yes, Okaasan, I do.”

“You worried me. There’s a reason that rules are set down and it’s not always to break them, Kamui.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Okaasan.”

He was starting to look so distressed that she couldn’t help but pull him to her, grimacing lightly at the wetness seeping through her clothing, “You’ve also ruined your clothing and mine.” She pulled back, her hands under his arms and looking at him critically, “At this rate, we might as well burn them. And you, my young wanderer, are going to be scrubbed within an inch of your life.”

He squirmed, making a face at her but his eyes were softer, happier and that was better, starting to lift him when Kamui tugged on her sleeve to make her stop, pointing at the forlorn, shivering little animal at his feet. “Okaasan. It’ll drown.”

“I highly doubt it will drown,” she replied but knelt down again anyway, running her fingers over the little burrow the creature had gotten caught in, murmuring, “My, my. However, did you manage to find your way here?”

“Maybe there’s a hole in the fence,” Kamui said, coming around on the other side, giving her a look that was similar enough to the puppy’s that she felt her lips twitch, “Okaasan, we can’t leave her.”

“Oh, her is it? And did the trees tell you that?”

“No,” The look he gave her was almost scornful, petting the animal behind the ears, a pink tongue lolling out in response, “She did.”

Setsuka smoothed a hand over damp fur, rough and tangling against her fingers, the scent of wet dog thick and sour as it threatened to settle on her tongue, watching Kamui in almost absent contemplation before dropping her eyes to the animal again, flattening her fingers against the knobby, quivering bones between the wretched creature’s shoulders. Sliding her other hand along the rough, slick wood arching above where the puppy was caught, she glanced back at Kamui who was now leaning against her, small hands clinging to her shoulders.

“Oh all right,” she sighed, reaching up to tweak his nose, watching his eyes cross and smiling as his hands flinched, tightening then loosening to wrap around her neck in a hug, “But this in no way means that you’re off the hook in regards to running off on your own.”

“Yes, Okaasan.”

Though said with considerably less enthusiasm, her son knew better than to push any farther than he already was, Setsuka tipped her face upward, careful to balance, eyes narrowing as she took in the knife above their heads, water beading then dripping off the handle, light washing off the submerged blade.

“The storm is starting to ease up, I think,” she said absently, patting the dog’s shoulder one last time before standing up, reaching up and dislodging the knife, feeling it vibrate as she freed it, striated handle rough against her palm, the hilt pointing towards the black blade, short but wickedly sharp, doubled edged. A boot knife, military issue, she glanced down at Kamui, already leaning over the dog, secure in her presence, as if oblivious to anything else. And then he spoke, voice detached, almost clinical or at least as much as a child could be with his face buried in the scruff of a puppy’s neck.

“He threw it, before I saw him. The trees didn’t like him climbing on them. They were screaming each time he touched them,” Kamui’s expression was neutral when he glanced at her, “They were happy when I killed him. So was she,” he kissed the puppy’s face lightly, “The others left though. I don’t know where but I don’t feel them anymore.

There was a pause and he grinned up at her, “Maybe they were scared of you, Okaasan.”

“I doubt it was me they feared,” Setsuka pressed her lips lightly against the flat of the blade, tasting it, the faint ghost of dried blood over steel. Frowning, she pulled up her skirt with her free hand, steeping over the tree root, holding out her hand to Kamui who took it obediently though he didn’t look entirely happy, tugging at her arm.

“But Okaasan, the puppy,” He pointed impatiently. “You said—“

“I’ll send someone from the house to free her,” Setsuka narrowed her eyes, head tilted as if listening for something, lifting Kamui’s arm and pulling him out of the hole. “I want you out of the wet before you get sick.”

“But you said--“

“I don’t want to hear it, Kamui. I said I’d help you but I’m not going to argue with you about how. Not out here. Now start walking.”

The little boy glowered, his hand slick against hers and she was felt oddly dizzy at that, at how he seemed to stare through her, disappointed and angry at the same time, in a way he never had before, almost seeming to dare her to drag him. She squeezed his hand, feeling tiny bones moving beneath her grip, her face softening, “Kamui darling, please? I promise I’ll send someone out here and you’ll have your puppy soon enough.”

That did the trick, the boy’s face lightening though it was still grudging and Setsuka felt an odd relief at that, some tight knot that had appeared without warning, with the storm clouds on her son’s face disappearing again. “Will you help me name her, Okaasan?”

Setsuka nodded, sensing that this was important though she didn’t entirely understand why, caring only about keeping that -- expression off her son’s face again. Disappointment – directed at her! The anger she could have dealt with but both… It was too much when she was already angry at herself. “Of course, dear. Anything you like.”

A branch cracked and Setsuka didn’t hesitate, free arm lashing out, the knife in it sailing through the air with a dull thud and hiss, her face hardening as she pulled Kamui along.

“What was that, Okaasan?”

A pair of glasses glinted from the underbrush as they swept past, a tremulous voice whispering, “Sak—urazuka-san…”

“A disappointment, Kamui. A disappointment,” she tightened her hold on his hand, making a note in the back of her mind to call the main house and ask for a recommendation.

They were suddenly in need of a new personal physician.

***End Of Chapter Three

FIC: Lullaby (3/?), A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 story

2005-11-21T07:21:50Z

Title: Lullaby (3/?)
Series: Tokyo Babylon / X/1999, slight crossovers with CLAMP Campus Detectives and XXXHolic
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: Rish
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: Major character death, tiny crossovers with with CCD and XXXHolic, blood, gore, even more death, AU timeline-ishness, creepiness, some incest vibes, nudity, some speculation about the Sakurazuka Clan, and anything else I can think to add as I go along.

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and Tokyo Babylon (or any of the series mentioned here) nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: Destiny is turned on its head as Sakurazuka Setsuka acquires a prize no one could have predicted -- Shirou Kamui.

Thanks: To amet, who put up with my fretting over this and nearly made me slip into the present tense several times over thanks to all the Weiss fic she's writing. ^~

Author's Notes: The chapter in which Setsuka and Baby Kamui meet Ichihara Yuuko. This chapter got a bit out of hand; it was originally supposed to be something else entirely but Yuuko-san decided she wanted to meet Setsuka and have her say and well, you can't really say no to her now can you? Again, this is for ripedecay who I blame for my slight obsession with Setsuka and for amet and vr2lbast who have been continual sources of encouragement through out this process.

We'll see if my characters decide they want to follow the script next chapter. :P

Lullaby
A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 Alternate Universe story
Sephy

Chapter Two

...divination...

Kamui was not yet a year old when they first attempted to take him from her, spring not having given way to summer with only a hint of warmth beginning to warm the rows of sakura surrounding the house, white leaves acquiring a deepening blush as they moved towards blooming, each slow unfurling petal as soft and fragile as the cheek Kamui pressed against hers as they stood under those trees together, his tiny hand always reaching.

It was a gesture she noted with some approval, like the eyes that sometimes lifted towards the barred windows of her cell when she walked around with him, fingers sliding over his small back, the scent of powder and clean infant combining with his warmth to lull her. Kamui was always warm, almost burning with life, watching her and everything around him with a hungry, needy sort of joy, never content to simply sit, crying for her almost as soon as he was put down. In truth, Setsuka found she didn’t mind, his solid weight and the tenacity with which he clung to her making her feel substantial again for the first time in years. She thought – she hoped Seishirou would understand, having understood from the first the jealousy that could spring up between brothers if not attended to.

She still had fond memories of that first meeting, the air thick with the smell of spilled blood, walking with lazy intent through the snows, a trail of crimson crystals left in her wake, too careful as she balanced, sandals and tabi removed first then with Kamui in one arm, reaching for the obi of her kimono, relieved as it slid off one shoulder, pausing only to shift the infant before letting it fall away entirely. It was a ritual she was well acquainted with after a night’s work and she did like to stop off to wish her son a good evening before turning in. The only thing that had set it apart from any other night had been the squirming bundle in her arms, Kamui whimpering she carefully unwrapped him, blood-splattered blankets and diaper removed, discarded. Shorn of encumbrances, of things to hide behind, she’d knelt down with the baby in front of the stone, hold him closer against her when he began to cry in earnest at the cold, the healthy screams from his lungs filling the crisp air, her hair their only shield.

Had she knelt there for long, bathed in his tears and snow, moonlight casting haphazard ripples of shadow over her bare skin, uncaring of the cold or the tacky stickiness of blood on both their skin, the silence tolling outward to envelop her, broken only by Kamui’s protestations? Or had it only been a moment? In her mind, when she cast back for that time, it seemed both, her lost kimono spreading across the ground in front of the gray-black stone, fingers deft as they slipped over Seishirou’s name this time, a taste before it wasted, frozen and useless, warmed only by the press of her lips. With care, she had smoothed those reddened fingers over Kamui’s tears, offering them as well, eventually the infant’s cries quieting, becoming fitful as he began shivering against her.

Itou-san had scolded her later for that, warning her that she might have killed him by exposing him to such extreme temperatures. It had been on the tip of her tongue to remind him what leaving Seishirou solely in his care had amounted to but had held her peace. He seemed to sense without words that this was his opportunity to make amends for that, that his life depended on how well he served the child she now held to her.

He didn’t understand that it was Kamui himself she had offered to Seishirou that night, raw power and voracious life, squirming and shrieking out his displeasure anew when she’d laid him against the cold stone alter. If Seishirou had asked if of her, she would have left him there; if he had been judged unworthy, she would have walked away and thought no more about it, about him at all. She had promised that there would be no more children of her womb but it was not right to force a fosterling on him, if her dear boy had no desire for brothers. It wouldn’t do for him to feel replaced.

The wind had changed, breaking the stillness, coming up from the south, lifting her hair with playful, chilly touches, almost whistling against the haphazard slivers of ice hanging from barren trees, gray bark thickened with a layer of frost, almost gray-green in places. It had changed and so had Kamui as he lay kicking against the cold, against the stone, and everything else that challenged him. Setsuka had glimpsed something, the wind settling around the both, the air seeming to darken, a shape seeming to form behind the back of her half-lowered lids, fingers digging deeper into the frozen earth and feeling it, a hollow strum that was too like a heartbeat but slower than anything human, sibilant whispers that had to have been more than the wind. Even now, she had only to close her eyes to see the edges of that darkness, moving like something alive, something loving and hungry, as it hovered jealously over the infant, her own numbed fingers lifting, reaching for it, needing to know if it was real, if he had really been there –

It was Kamui’s howls that had brought them, his unhappy, almost hoarse screams rousing the house, maids and keepers as one finding her slumped beneath a tree, over the grave stone of her son, fingers still reaching, her lowering body temperature the only thing keeping the baby beside her, cradled in one arm alive.

She could have died, they told her later, voices scolding, too sharp and she’d nodded and smiled, holding her fingers above Kamui’s face, watching him watch her. She would have died, they’d insisted, faces darkening and again, she’d nodded with gentle seriousness, shifting the baby in her arms and adjusting the blankets around him, all too aware of the speculative and covetous glances that were directed towards him. The Sakurazuka Clan had been known to take in foundlings, when heirs could not usually be produced, usually from within the circle of the family but in certain situations, allowances were made. If nothing else and she could read that casual thought almost as if it had been spoken, the child and her obvious attachment to it presented a certain amount of leverage.

Setsuka had made them wait another month before she finally gave them his name, in part to watch the Clan scramble, the shock of having the promised child in their grasp leaving them all but reeling before they closed ranks, bickering over what to do with this development, sending relatives back and to, from the very lowest to the highest to plead, to ask, then to demand, to command that she relinquish her claim on the child.

When she’d called him hers, her son and Seishirou’s brother, the heir to the Sakura, a shudder had run from Tokyo to Nagasaki and back again, the very air around their little home sizzling with thwarted hisses, the messages from the Clan taking an almost sulky air after she’d killed the first few interlopers who had taken upon themselves to try and change her mind by removing the child themselves. She knew her family. In their own way, they were as stubborn and traditional as the hated Sumeragi, agents of chaos yes but it was a chaos of their own time and choosing, their methods and the hierarchy that passed them down one belonging to centuries, not generations. Setsuka was their gift, their plaything, and Chosen, she was of the family and exiled from it by the very nature of her existence as the Sakurazukamori, answerable only to the leader of the Clan and he very rarely called on her now. It was easier that way, Setsuka supposed, to forget the daughter whose hands had been steeped in blood, her name no longer spoken and the paintings of her removed from the House, put into storage and hidden away not to be taken out until her death, stripped of everything save position but that position was everything. It was the heart of the family, every breath she took resonating outward along invisible tendrils; she was the guardian of the Sakura but it was her life that held the family aloft, that gave them their prestige and wealth.

Her response to their insolence had been leisurely, the remains of those would be thieves returned bit by bit, until finally the Clan head had acceded to her unspoken demand. It was something of a shame really; Kamui had enjoyed making faces at some of those heads from where they sat on her nightstand, preserved by a trifling spell, fingers tangling in glossy, drying ends as he toothlessly chewed while sitting on her lap as she pulled a brush through her hair. If it hadn’t been so darling, she might have scolded him for hair in his mouth like that, the end of that particular head’s ponytail looking a little bedraggled despite her spell.

Still, even with all their attempts at coercion and then outright theft halted, Setsuka could feel the weight of the family’s disapproval, their dismay, and while it concerned her not at all, Itou-san (who had somehow found himself placed in the midst of the silent battle, an unwitting liaison) had tactfully submitted that perhaps it would not be amiss if she gave into at least one of the Clan’s requests rather than flouting her disregard so … blatantly.

So it was early one spring morning, the dawn nothing more than steel on the chill, distant horizon, morning still in the process of being birthed, she bundled Kamui up in his best clothes, the one she’d had specially made for him and headed into Tokyo proper, to a little shop hidden betwixt the threatening shadow of the skyscrapers guarding it like glowering sentinels, and the seer who held court there.

Anyone else might have claimed to have made the pilgrimage simply for the sake of familial duty but Setsuka had always enjoyed morning tea with Ichihara Yuuko-san.

***

Ichihara-san was lying on her stomach, spider-like fingers wrapped around a carved black pipe, the end rounding off and outward into ebony butterfly wings, slender white legs lifted and kicking absently in the air, delicate toes flexing as she stared at the half-open back door where rain had just started to fall into the courtyard. She was naked save for the shawl-like covering of black hair and the deep purple coverlet resting just below the pit of her spine, elbows extended outward as she rested her weight on them. Only the faintest flickering of her eyes, as blue as colorless ice, hinted that she was aware of the intrusion, the screen doors behind Setsuka shutting in silent care as Ichihara-san’s servants scamper off. There was something about those two, twin children beautifully and carefully dressed, their eyes too, the color of Ichihara-san’s and twice as knowing, their scent and the taste that lingered after them in the air different, empty. Hollow. As if what she is seeing, isn’t really there, a curious anomaly that perhaps one day she will find the time to explore further but not today. Today was for other questions, other mysteries, Setsuka adjusting the child in her arms, content with the slow, steady answering breaths, Kamui somehow managing to sleep despite the weather and the loud patter-patter against the roof.

“Sakurazuka-san,” Ichihara’s voice was always deeper than she expected, husky as if being torn from her throat, with a lazy quality that made her think of a great cat yawning, caught in a world somewhere between dreaming and waking. The other woman puffed on her pipe, smoke trailing delicate circles around her pointed face and elegant hands, still not turning to greet Setsuka, “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for at least another week. Your family must be giving you a harder time than I anticipated.”

Setsuka inclined her head, still standing, wondering as she always did when in Ichihara-san’s presence, if it came down to it, if she should try, would the other woman with her pronouncements of hitsuzen see it coming. Would she be able to stop Setsuka? The question was tantalizing, particularly with so much fresh, girlish skin laid out before her, fingers already knowing a hundred paths to trace, for pleasure, for death, for both in one blow. “They are not known for their patience.”

“Not for things outside of their own domain, no,” Ichihara-san agreed, lowering her pipe and tapping it against the floor, a flurry of ash knocked free, none of which seemed to actually land on the floor, leaving no mess for her odd servants to clean up after. The other woman stretched, rolling over onto her side, leaning on one elbow now, ringed fingers of one hand buried in her web-like hair, soft and fine as it falls in artful disarray over her shoulders and breasts, the curve of which were visible, only the outline of pink nipples peeking below the heavy black beaded choker she wore. Her smile was Cheshire, curling at the tips as she turned her face, eyes never leaving Setsuka’s, “Are you part of that domain, Sakurazuka-san?”

Setsuka smiled, wondering what it would be like to kiss her eyes, those pale eyes that saw so much, to kiss them then pluck them out, sliding her sharp fingernails in with a care not to damage them too much, to press them to her lips again and see if they imparted to her the visions Ichihara-san took such care to give away to misinterpretation. Testing the world as if seeking something, someone, and reasoning that those who fell along the wayside in the fulfillment of that quest deserved the fate they brought upon themselves.

If she ate them, Setsuka wondered, would they crunch in her mouth like ice cubes?

“Perhaps, I should ask you, Ichihara-san,” Setsuka murmured demurely, fussing with the edge of Kamui’s baby cap, a fuzzy blue and gold threaded affair that seemed to crinkle when the light hit it just right, his weight a solid comfort. “You who see so much farther than most.”

Ichihara-san’s features were too perfect, just a little too sculpted to be beautiful, almost stern and fox-like, like the eyebrow that raised just over her left eye, mouth twitching, “More than an assassin, yes.”

“Why else would I come to you, witch?”

They stared at each other for another, lengthy moment before Setsuka lifted her fingers to her trembling lips, attempting to muffle the giggles that were threatening to escape, mindful of the child in her arms. Ichihara-san had no such compunctions, letting go of a loud cackle, full of mirth and malice, the honesty of it all enough to free Setsuka of her compunctions, reasoning that if Kamui were upset by it, she’d deal with it. It felt good though, to let go of the laughter bubbling in her chest, no matter how untoward or improper it might have seemed, the sound lighter, airier than it had any right to be.

The first time she’d met Ichihara-san, she had been little more than seven, clinging to her father’s hand and peeking around the folds of his robe at the woman who had presided over the divan that was now forgotten in the corner, imagining that what she saw was more spider than woman, that the long black feathers hanging off her shoulders in a mini-cape were really quivery legs, their constant movement always seeking new prey. The image had charmed her then and she saw no reason to change it now. In her mind, Ichihara-san was a spider, spinning destinies casually, changing them with just as much ruthlessness, any who got in her way falling prey to those machinations, her smile smacking of a benign cruelty.

It was Ichihara-san who had cast her fortune, long before the Sakura had made it fact, the first time she had ever touched Setsuka, smoothing the back of her hand along her cheek, Setsuka shivering. Ichihara-san’s hands had been cold, greedy and impersonal at the same time, their touch looking for something in her, and Setsuka had shied away from it, never forgetting the look of smug satisfaction before the Seer had patted her head, lifting those chill eyes towards her expectant father.

“It will be her,” Ichihara-san had nodded, reaching for the glass near her, blood-red nails singing as they tapped against it, her father’s hand around Setsuka’s wrist gripping her tighter than before. “I’d suggest starting her training immediately, before other probabilities present themselves, making things that much harder.”

“I’m sure I don’t understand –“Her father had tried to protest stiffly.

Ichihara-san had cut him off with just a flick of her eyes, lids lowered before turning them back on Setsuka again, turning the glass in her hand around so that the reddish liquid in it swirled. “She hears things, little whispers that you can’t quite seem to fathom for all that you’ve tried. Knows things too, where to find things when they’re lost, how to be found when she wishes it, when not to be found – all about other people, of course. Nothing concerning herself, she’d have to be trained properly to see those things. “She sipped from her glass, “Knowing oneself and those things that concern us … that’s infinitely harder than knowing about other people. There’s a bit of Sight there, hidden behind those eyes. Not very useful for an assassin, Sakurazuka-san, so I suggest training her now before it has a chance to become a real problem. Your family has little ways around these problems when they crop up.”

The unspoken ”Take care of it” had been all too clear even to one such as her father who heard only those things he chose to hear.

She recalled it now because that had been the last time she would ever walk hand in hand with her father anywhere, that she would walk the cloistered hallways of her home at the main compound under the watchful, if not loving eyes of servants and family members, playing in the gardens among her mother’s camellias until she was fetched for dinner. Her father had disappeared almost as soon as they’d returned from the Seer’s, the Witch, her father’s venomous, angry voice still rang in her mind, the rest of the day passing with a curious sort of clarity. She could recall no day before that one so well, the smell of peppermint and sandalwood rich whenever she recalled the kiss she’d been given at bedtime. The last one. The only one that mattered.

The next day she had been given away and her life changed. Sometimes – sometimes it occurred to her she might just hate Ichihara Yuuko-san for that loss of simplicity and security, for having to learn harsh words and blows, the discipline to make her ‘probabilities’ quiet.

It didn’t matter now; she came to Ichihara-san as they all did, for pronouncements, for fortunes read, and sometimes just for gossip. In their world, the Seer was as close as you could get to a neutral party, particularly in the ongoing conflict with the Sumeragi. She dealt with both sides, passed off advice and news, seeming to realize that if nothing else a third party was needed and provided that balance wasn’t thrown off too much by her meddling, all parties concerned were content with the arrangement. Or at least as content as the Sumeragi and Sakurazuka clans were with anything in regards to one another.

“May I sit?” Setsuka tilted her head towards the floor, cushions and seating already arranged as if to belie Ichihara-san’s earlier words.

Ichihara-san swept her hand out, rolling into sitting and clapping her hands, “Please. If I know Moro and Maru then I’m sure they’ll be back at any moment with –“

“Tea!” Twin voices sing-songed as the painted rice doors all but burst open, scurrying around the room, Moro skipping behind the black-clad Maru, twirling around in a white dress, bloomers peeking out as she did, detaching from her twin at a look from their Mistress, plucking the scarlet and black lace robe hanging off the divan and holding it ready for Ichihara-san.

Setsuka smiled at the other little one, Maru who gave her a knowing smile in turn, pouring her tea first then Ichihara-san’s, straightening the tray they’d brought in with the tea set, capering and singing – words really, having no coherence beyond how many times the word ‘tea’ could be brought into play, giving the child in her arms another shrewd glance before disappearing again, a new word added to the other’s serenade, milk. Moro meanwhile was tying off the fringe obi around Ichihara-san’s slender waist, the same canny light in her eyes as her Mistress laid a hand atop her head the both of them staring as if engaged in a silent conversation before turning the full force of those stares on her.

It was really all Setsuka could do not to giggle again.

Maru returned, much more quickly this time, dancing around, heels threatening to catch in the tatami matting, a jug waving high overhead, the side beaded with sloshed milk while a baby bottle was flying close to it, held aloft as Ichihara-san’s servant continued to sing about “Teamilkmilkteateateamilkte~a!”, occasionally making dive bombing noises while waving the empty glass baby bottle around, coming to a running stop just in front of Setsuka, decorum found again both items were set just to the right of her with a bow. She shook her head as if to decline that kind offer, indicating the small bag she’d had her maids pack under careful eye, preferring to trust Kamui’s sustenance to her own people.

“What lovely children, you have,” Setsuka murmured, patting Maru’s head, the little one collapsing into sitting beside her, quiet now.

“I would say the same,” Ichihara-san murmured, seating herself, arranging her long limbs underneath her and handing Moro her pipe, lowered lids doing nothing to conceal her sharp gaze, “But I’ve yet to see one and the other … Well, it has been awhile, Sakurazuka-san.”

“Since before Seishirou’s birth,” Setsuka agreed, shifting Kamui into the crook of her arm before lifting her tea cup.

“You were a regular and then you dropped off completely. I was very lonely.”

“The nights were long. Duty does prevent me from so many pleasures these days.”

“Pity,” Ichihara-san murmured, leaning over the table, nodding towards Kamui, “Though I do think that has rather less to do with duty. You’ve come to ask me about him, yes? I’m thinking something beyond a simple reading of the tea leaves.”

“It’s not so much what I want – “

“Ah. Your family, of course. May I?”

She froze as Ichihara-san lifted her arms, her unspoken demand obvious and Setsuka tightened her hold around the sleeping infant, smile almost a grimace. The last time she’d asked anything of this woman, Ichihara-san had put a hand on her burgeoning stomach and pronounced that she would have a son, a strong one, powerful and with a destiny few would envy. Well, destiny had let her down and she was loathed to hand over this child for another round of false hope.

Like it or not, she was certain the other woman knew that thought as soon as it crossed her mind, her smile more amused than ever. It would not take much to rip those curving lips off and the momentary joy might make it worthwhile.

She compromised, patting the empty space to the left of her, Ichihara-san acquiescing by sliding over, nails skritching across the matting before she settled herself again, Moro moving her tea cup and plate again, the taller woman ignoring the little girl, her attention focused on the child in Setsuka’s arms. Those too long fingers smoothed over the top of Kamui’s head, over the cap and she snorted softly without comment though none was needed, index finger traveling over his partially covered forehead to just between his eyes and as if that was some sort of spark, Kamui started, face scrunching in that particular way that Setsuka had come to associate with a screaming fit, mouth puckering as his eyes screwed up so tight it was no wonder his little face turned so red.

“And so we meet again, Little One,” Ichihara-san said ruefully, lifting her face which was suddenly too close to Setsuka’s and she could see the small slit of pupil nearly surrounded in blue, white around the edges like the finest frost. “I met his mother, the day after he was born in a tiny room at CLAMP Campus. I believe you’re acquainted with the woman who summoned me, she had a fondness for fans.”

“Briefly. I’m afraid I was not able to fully appreciate the hospitality of the house. Or the campus grounds,” Setsuka watched her, tiring of these games and her nearness which seemed an invasion, leaning back. “I came only for confirmation. Will you give it?”

Ichihara-san gave her a penetrating look before straightening, drawing herself up and the shadows on her face grew longer, her expression more stern, forbidding, “Oracles are not to be rushed, Sakurazuka Setsuka-san.”

“I don’t want an oracle. I want you to confirm that this child is Kamui, the Kamui, as all the seers and magicians of my clan have tried to ascertain for months. I want all questions at an end. You may keep your oracles.”

“Are you sure? An oracle once dismissed may still come true. Are you sure you would dismiss what I tell you so lightly.”

“And what of your oracle for my son, Ichihara-san? What of his fortune, his future, which you foretold to me in this very room?”

Ichihara-san sat back, her gaze opaque, brushing the back of her fingers along Kamui’s cheeks and over his lips, watching chubby cheeks flatten, lower lip trembling in response, Setsuka pulling him closer to her, away from the Seer’s touch, rubbing his back as his tiny face burrowed against her collarbone. The twins had crept closer to their Mistress, one on either side of her, heads tilted, almost poised, like a pair of inquisitive kittens and in their eyes she saw a mirror of the distant speculation, cool and impersonal, reflected in Ichihara-san’s eyes. The same thoughtful calculation a chess master might use while contemplating where to move a wayward piece in order to make them useful again. She wondered if Ichihara-san had thought of Seishirou as one of those pieces, if he’d been found wanting in some way, a useless piece on some cosmic board that only people like Ichihara-san could see. Good only for being moved and then once their usefulness had been played out – discarded.

Had her son even been given a chance on that board?

“Sakurazuka-san,” Ichihara-san’s voice was formal, “It was hitsuzen that you would bear the child you bore. From the moment, your feet stepped onto the path of the Sakura there was no other outcome for you. It was destined that you would bear a son, a strong son, a healthy one who could have the markings of greatness but it was not destined that he would survive that burden. There are few who do.”

“In regards to the child you now hold, his life is more than hitsuzen. It is a river, a vortex in which all possibilities may flow. Or they may not. What it will yield not even I can guess. What I can tell you is this. It was no coincidence you picked up this particular child. He was fated to cross paths with the Sakurazukamori. Had your son lived, it is likely it would have been him but now destiny has had to fall back on what is left. You, Sakurazuka-san. The ripples of this change, this chance, are only beginning to be felt.”

“And what,” Setsuka murmured, never taking her eyes off the other woman, something about her words striking a bitter spark, one that could flare with potentially destructive results if she let it, “does any of it matter? What good is a fortune that once told yields nothing but disappointed hopes?”

Those chill eyes narrowed further, little more than slits, pupils little more than pinpricks and Setsuka would have welcomed anger had there been any. Anything to break the stranglehold of this place, the sour longing that stained her memories, wishing to be far from here, back in her cell with Kamui and Seishirou’s ghost, with the protection of the Sakura which could not follow here. At this second, Ichihara-san reminded her of nothing so much as one of those grim-faced temple statues, seeing through her and passing judgment, the ramifications of which she’d never completely know.

Then the illusion vanished with the rise of the Seer’s slight shoulders, Ichihara-san lifting her tea cup, expression bemused as her eyes flickered over Setsuka and Kamui again. “He’s the Kamui,” she said simply, “The one who represents God’s majesty and alternately the one who will hunt it. The destroyer and the preserver of life though Shirou Kamui is the name I advised the Magami to give him, to help hide him from those who will be seeking him. And make no mistake, Sakurazuka-san, he has worse enemies than your fractious clan or the Sumeragi. Take that advice as you will.”

***

It was raining in earnest by the time she returned home, steel skies having darkened as if no sun had risen, the only hint of that the faintest glow, sickly wan around the edges of the sky. There was no sign of the storm slacking off, the wind having pushed at the car for much of the way home, the interior of the car warmer than she might have liked, leaving her sleepy and cross, Kamui sitting in her lap, awake finally and giggling as he blew spit bubbles, burbling at her in gentle amusement. He seemed livelier now that they were out of the shop, away from Ichihara-san and that heartened her even as she mulled over the Seer’s words despite herself.

Someone worse than the Sumeragi. The very idea made her heart rate pick up with a delicious sort of anticipation. While she had no intention of letting anyone harm Kamui, the idea of playing with someone else, some unknown faceless entity, one who might match her or even possibly best her gave her the most delightful shiver. Perhaps she could turn it into a teaching tool if they continued to be a problem, use it as a means of teaching the sweet child their trade. There really was nothing quite like a good hunt to sharpen one’s skills and if the hunt could be turned around so that those who would make them prey found themselves in the same position, so much the better.

It certainly bore thinking about.

***End of Chapter Two

FIC: Lullaby (2/?), A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 story

2005-11-06T02:24:50Z

Title: Lullaby (2/?)
Series: Tokyo Babylon / X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: Definitely R now
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: Major character death, blood, gore, even more death, AU timeline-ishness, creepiness, some incest vibes and anything else I can think to add as I go along.

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and Tokyo Babylon nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: Destiny is turned on its head as Sakurazuka Setsuka acquires a prize no one could have predicted -- Shirou Kamui.

Thanks: To Amet, who beta'd this and encouraged it and put up with my constant fussing over this fic.

Author's Notes: Yet another chapter in my Setsuka fic or as I like to call this one, "Setsuka meets the Baby Kamui" which is a lot nicer sounding than what actually happens. Anyway, I had most of this finished before I went off to Yaoi-con but thanks to catiechu sending kasra_c Tokyo Babylon 1999, my CLAMP muses came back to chew on my head with a vengeance. This one is still for ripedecay because she loves Setsuka muchly and I'm more than starting to understand why after writing this. And also because she's an awesome artist and drew a gorgeous picture for this that I can't help but go back and stare at from time to time.

Lullaby
A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 Alternate Universe story
Sephy

Chapter One

…lost…

The hem of her robe was damp, slick with mud, the end still trailing in the pond, her feet cut and numbed from where they’d broken through the thin layer of ice. Setsuka paid no notice, more intent on the steady drip from her fingers, rivulets of cooling, bitter-smelling blood trickling from elbow to the tips of her fingers, thick steady streams wearing over her skin until what was left was the shape and size of a teardrop, splattering fatly against the stone basin in front of the grave marker. The blood was drying now, growing sticky as it clung to her, freezing against her skin, the sleeves of her kimono already stiff with it. The garment itself was ruined; there was no help for that and she did not mourn the loss. Better that it be offered up as a sacrifice, something for him. She knew he would appreciate the gesture, the destruction of something beautiful to honor him.

There had been so many beautiful things she’d given him over the years. It had become something of a game and a challenge. To find him something new, something worthy and befitting, each year’s birthday gift more beautiful or more extravagant than the last. Ordinary flowers or incense wouldn’t do; what blooms could she offer him that could compare to the Sakura that sheltered him? What smelled sweeter than offering of still warm lifeblood when his had been cold and frozen for so long?

Setsuka liked to think he could taste it, that the Sakura let him wake from his slumber long enough to enjoy this night of all nights, the one night a year that she ventured forth for him and only him.

The only him that would ever occupy her thoughts so completely. Her son. Her darling Seishirou.

She closed her eyes, lifting her face, the wet chill of the night air nipping at her skin, tiny frost-biting kisses that made her shiver beneath the heavy, ornate cloth. The moon was there when she opened her eyes, nearly full, the slow rounding of it visible through the clutch of tree branches, casting silver shadows against soft glowing snow. It reminded her of him but then everything did. It was more than that, it reminded her of her own body, of the changes she’d first watched with fascination, the flat of her stomach swelling, growing plump and ripe like the first budding flowers of spring, waiting to burst, to unfurl. She seemed to remember more now than she ever had then, what it was like, those little details that she’d noted distantly, having to relearn what it was to be in her own skin. Like the slide of her fingers over her bare stomach, feeling him kick inside her, pushing upward against skin that seemed little more than a thin plastic sheath, each caress sensual, the skim of her nails against her nail too much as she broke out in a fine layer of goosebumps. Everything had been so heavy then, breasts filling out until one day she’d turned around and for all of a second, it had been a woman staring back her, a woman with a girl’s sweet face, her once delicate frame now curving, ample and ready and the irony of it all had struck her. Death carrying life, feeling it grow inside, irrevocable and demanding, far more demanding than any death she’d ever given, its tendrils as deeply in her as those of the Sakura that had blossomed for most of her pregnancy, the flowers a darker hue than she could ever recall.

There were moments, seconds when she could swear she felt him with her still, buried deep and safe beneath her flesh, his heartbeat echoing in her ears, the heavy weight of her stomach almost painful, feeling as if she were going to split open, heart picking up until she was almost certain she would. Until she could almost feel him push out of her body, through her stomach this time, a monstrous, breathtaking struggle, her skin coming undone, giving way beneath his demands until he was laying against her, wet and strong, not a newborn at all but a young man. The young man he should have been. Still half inside her as he struggled to wriggle free, his breath hot against her neck and face, always whispering the same word, the one that inevitably jerked her into waking.

Mother.

There was never any hope of it being true, despite the way her robes were invariably open, nails digging furrows into her stomach as if she could help him along, as if her dreaming could become reality. There was never anything but the memory of that weight, of his weight, of how he should feel against her, solid and so strong, covering her body, hot lips pressed pleadingly against her ear, slick and damp. Pleading for life, for the life that had been denied him, for his chance, his chance to serve the Sakura as she did and beneath it all, Setsuka felt her own failure, her failure and the Sakura’s grief.

It had never been said, not in so many words by anyone of her Clan but she felt their disapproval, the tense, clipped anger that she had not produced another heir; that every man they had sent to her was sent back, sometimes piece by piece until finally they’d stopped. Only to turn towards other, less natural methods, plying her with talk of in vitro fertilization, of letting some doctor shove a glass tube through her as if she were too infirm or barren to manage on her own, as if she wanted a mockery carried in the same womb as her Seishirou. Even now, eighteen years later, they were still pulling at her, demanding that she do something about the vacancy her son’s death had left in the family, in the fabric of destiny.

As if she cared for any of those things.

Setsuka knew that destiny would tend itself, it always had. There was no way to guide it, no way to shape it. Destiny simply was. You could no more direct it than you could the pull of the tide, you could only follow it. Shipwrecked as she was, she could no more abandon that belief than she could her faith in the Sakura, in what had always been and always would be. The Sakura looked after itself; it tended its keeper, and waited, just as she waited.

One such as her son could not be so easily replaced.

Kneeling down in front of the blue-gray stone, she reached out, dipping bloody fingers with reverent care over well-remembered grooves, as she did every year, tracing out each kanji until the name glowed wetly in the pale light.

Sakurazuka Setsuka.

His name was to the right of it, the one she had given him and his kamiyo, gifted to him by the priests before his tiny body had been committed to the fire. There had been no real bones to pick out, he’d been too young, the bones in him barely formed and all she’d been granted when they’d cremated him was ash, thick and cold, as if there had never been anything human in it at all.

It was a poor offering, despite all her efforts, the only promise she could give to him sealed in rock and blood, as if he were her husband and not her son, waiting for the day when she could follow him, when she would see him again, lying and growing together in the embrace of the Sakura.

Until that day, Setsuka had only the promise of life, left to feel it intensely, as if she were feeling it for them both, storing up memories of the sky and the wind, of the ground, and what it felt like to touch a pretty girl’s lips or smooth her hands over the strong sternum of a man full grown before she pushed her fingers through. The kill, ah that was to be savored. Savored and lingered upon so that Seishirou wherever he was would feel it, would know her love and devotion that she took just a little more time, just for him, so he could learn their ways. So that he would know that he was not alone, lost in the dark, that the Sakura which held him now was also his mother’s breast and that she would never let him go. Because there would never be another one like him.

Never in a million years.

***

…and found …

She’d never seen the inside of CLAMP Campus though she’d heard stories, half-truths and whispers, snatches of a hundred different idle conversations and hidden in printed words. Setsuka knew the wealth that was behind it, the sweat and the blood behind the rising of each tower and the perfection of its walls. Walls that no one had ever stopped to question nor muse upon, invisible and light as air, tangible only as she’d passed through them, a spider web of glass wires and ancient spells, technomancy at its finest. Not enough to keep her out but it did give her an amusing tingle passing through those wards, toes curling in their tabi.

Seishirou would have liked it here, of that she felt certain. There was so much to do here, so much to see. It was not hard to imagine these precincts filled with students, the planned walkways overflowing with voices and activity, so much to do and to see. It was not a place one could grow bored and if by some happenstance that did occur …

Well, the Sakurazuka had always found ways of making their own entertainment.

It really was a pity that she was only seeing it at night. “Although,” Setsuka murmured into the warm air, too warm for the season, tasting the salty, copper tang of blood on her tongue as she spoke, “I somehow doubt the invitation will be extended after this.”

There was a burble, a faint bubble of air that seemed to gargle and Setsuka lifted an eyebrow, smoothing a wet hand over the well-worn leather folds of the easy chair, coming around the edge of it with one last regretful look out the latticed window dominating the wall behind her. The back of her fingers brushed against soft hair, almost shining in the dimness, curling mahogany locks seeming to glow in the faint stipple of the desk lamp. Setsuka tilted her head, watching as full lips reddened by blood and lipstick attempted to move, trying to suck in a last few minutes of air despite the gaping hole in the area where her heart and lungs should be.

Chalky fingers gripped an ornamental fan, shot with gold and black lacework, golden tassels swaying gently as the other woman attempted to speak, to breathe, a fine trickle of blood splattering, collecting in the hollow of her throat. Still fighting, her other hands still trying to reach under her desk, probably for some hidden switch, Setsuka making a faint clucking noise with her tongue, sweeping that perfectly manicured hand up in hers, pressing it to her lips and stroking the back of it.

“Your school is lovely though,” Setsuka continued, unaffected, conversational as if they were no more than two women sitting down to tea, “Truly, Rijichou, I’ve seen nothing like it in my life and I –“ her shoulders lifted, almost helplessly, “Well, I’ve seen almost everything in my line of work.”

Glassy eyes tracked her, the body in the chair flopping, bouncing back against the leather with a wet slap, Setsuka smiling and reaching up to stroke her face, “Shh. It’s almost over now, all of it. You were very brave and I respect that. Because I respect that, respect how hard you’ve fought, I shall give you a kiss,” she leaned forward, watching those pained eyes flicker, a hand pressed beside the woman’s head, coquettish as she laughed, whispering, “I’m told I’m very sweet.”

Passing her other hand over the woman’s eyes she felt another garbled jerk, leaning forward to press her mouth against those parted lips, fingers sliding over the woman’s face until she was able to pinch her nose shut. The body beneath hers flinched, more of a twitch than anything else, a faint whimper muted as they kissed, Setsuka tasting the blood on the woman’s lower lip thoughtfully, waiting until the movement beneath her stopped, her hand coming to rest against what was left of the woman’s chest. Nothing moved now, leaving her to sit back, frowning at the smear of lipstick and blood left by their kiss, tsking as she dabbed at gray-white flesh, still warm but that wouldn’t last long. Lifting her fingers to her lips, she wiped at the slimy residue there, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb, humming as she arranged the woman, lingering only when she got to the fan still clutched in her hand. Setsuka reached for it, gently opening the dead woman’s fingers, glossy nails glinting as the lamplight struck them. They were beautiful hands, white and smooth, the fingers long, almost tapering with no hint of roughage or any callouses beyond a writing indenture. Against the fan, she could only imagine how they must have looked, how vibrant and slender, flicking with a life of their own.

It was the fan that interested her though, lifting it up and unfurling it with a sharp snap, the air stirring as she fluttered it, gilded edges seeming to twinkle out of painted lacquer, lace giving a satisfying swish as it moved and Setsuka nodded. It would do. It wasn’t much, more a pretty trifle than anything else but she had always been a bit of a magpie and she felt that Seishirou would appreciate something like this.

Snapping the fan shut, she stretched, hand brushing against the outer edge of a frame to her left, wobbling back and forth until she caught it, picking it up and smoothing her thumb over the fine wooden frame. She smiled at the three boys in the picture, the blue-haired boy in the back glowering at two others, one blond and the other raven-haired, the first boy’s eyes softer than his expression led one to believe. Tracing a nail over their faces, she couldn’t help but notice the fan in the blond boy’s hand, resting against his lips as he gave the camera a secretive smile, blue eyes alight. She glanced at the fan she’d claimed, setting the picture down with one last lingering touch before straightening, hiding her prize in her obi.

Skirting around the desk, she paused, hands crossed in front of her, taking in the room, the lush drapes curling around the window, just visible over the back of the chair, the woman’s head at an angle now, as if she’d nodded off, her hands resting against the chair arms, limp. The entire set of the woman’s body was loose, motion preserved, potential lost, soon to harden like amber. She wondered if he would come in here, that little blond boy with his fan, like and unlike the one she had claimed. Perhaps he was here even now, in this house, sleeping, dreaming away as he waited for another school day. Would he come in here, looking for a mother or a sister? An aunt perhaps? Knowing somehow that she would be here, maybe even thinking that she was sleeping as she might have done on nights past, the paperwork still piled and waiting to be signed on the edge of her desk. Would he walk up to her? Without knowing or realizing, somehow missing the blood staining the front of her kimono, only to rub the sleep from his eyes, that moment of realization crystallizing outward, claiming his innocence along with her life.

Leaning over, she tugged the lamp pull and turned out the lights.

***

She was at the foot of the stairs when she heard it, that softly shrill noise, so familiar that her heart seemed to freeze in her chest, freeze and then expand again, the breath she’d taken not enough and Setsuka gripped the banister to steady herself.

The air split again and her feet were moving, drawn before she could even register that need, her kimono too heavy suddenly, too heavy and cumbersome, impeding her as she felt her way through the darkness, following that siren’s lure. There was no light here, the path beneath her feet taking a sharp turn, her hands in front of her as sight was taken, left in a pool of shadow that seemed to swallow her, the dappled play of moonlight lost here. The dark here was more than the absence of light; it was stuffy and oppressive, the air seeming to thicken around her, almost vibrating. No, she was almost vibrating, her fingers cold in a way they hadn’t been in years, cold and trembling as they felt along the smooth walls, the rasp of wallpaper and then the way it broke off giving her warning before she found the door, one that was already half open, waiting.

Just as she had been waiting for so long and now she found she could do anything but as another fitful cry spilled into the air. It was a geas, a command, and enchantment, one she couldn't disobey, a rush of vertigo accompanying it, leaning just inside the door, having to catch her breath, eyes watering thanks to the flickering light a pale pink lamp in the corner spat out, harsh light that broke in and out, washing over the room in rose colors.

The room itself was rather plain, as if decorating was an afterthought, an oddity given the opulence of the rest of the house. There was a bed to one side, only slightly elevated above a cot, something you would find in the servants’ quarters and it occurred to her that she might be in just that. But the crib…it was the crib against the wall, close to that winking lamp that was out of place, too fine and large to be something store bought, smacking of antiquity and use, something that had been polished and preserved over the years with loving care. It was alien here, no more belonging than she did, and yet here they both were, in this dingy cubbyhole, warmer than it was in the house beyond despite the new-ish vent she spied in the corner.

Setsuka hesitated, listening to the low, choked cries, needy and insistent, almost coughing into a louder scream, one that moved her as a cold sweat broke out underneath her kimono, feeling hot at the same time, afraid to look, that this was one of her dreams, the crying too much like that one of her dreams.

It was a baby. Of course it was a baby, small and delicate, skin all but translucent and she could see the fine webbing of veins running underneath scrunched features, whimpering howls seeming to resonate as tiny fists flailed. A very young infant, hair barely more than a faint thatch of dark color against its skull, a plush blue blanket slipping a little as feet and arms kicked.

Blue was for boys and Setsuka was surprised at the choked half-breath, too loud for the child and too feminine, because it was her breath though her lungs felt frozen. The baby seemed to freeze, his cries dying to another whimper, face slackening and eyes moving under lowered lids, looking at her. She could swear he was looking at her, that he knew she was here, another murmur-gurgle sobbed in the back of his throat and she reached out, bloody fingers trembling as they met petal-soft skin, leaving a sticky residue of blood and gore along his forehead and eyes. Messy, but she could not stop touching his face, that curving round, too fragile and precious, just as Seishirou had been in those few, frantic moments afterward, when the world had contracted down to the heartbeat before she held him and all those after, until there had only been then, holding him, petting him, and knowing deep in her heart what loving him meant.

Would it feel the same? Her hands moved for her, remembering the movements, sliding first under the head and then the body, remembering once again that surprising solidness, a weight that was everything and nothing at once, naturally fitting against the curve of her breast, cradled with care as she looked at him, listening to his muffled coos, perfect skin bearing the evidence of her touch, painted in shades of drying blood over his forehead and cheeks. He didn’t fear her at all; more than that, there was something strange, something exotic and possibility about this child, a sense of vital potency, an aura of unrealized power, just as Seishirou himself had possessed. Unchecked, little more than an echo of what he could become, but there, there and screaming across her senses, like sakura petals caught in a windstorm, the air fragrant with the sickly sweet smell of powder and baby but underneath it – underneath it –

Death.

“Seishirou.” It was a whisper, confused and longing, almost as loud as the echo of her heart in her ears. “Seishirou.”

“Put him down.”

Setsuka lifted her head, languid as her eyes swept towards the door, over her shoulder, still holding both baby and memory close, towards the door that had opened without her noticing, something that should have vexed her but meant nothing now. The woman blocking it was half-hunched over, long black hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts, the brocade of her crimson robe glowing in the half-light. She looked tired, pointed features drawn and worn, though there was a tightness around her full mouth and in the set of her hands, the way they were clenched, even around a baby bottle that hinted at danger. As did the narrowing of dark eyes, faintly blue around the fat dilation of pupils, the air in the room seeming to shift. This one for her all her haggard appearance had some power.

Interesting. Setsuka smiled.

“I don’t know who you are but,” The intruder sucked in a breath, attempting to straighten though it was obvious she was in pain, “put my son down.”

“Your son,” Setsuka murmured, almost a question as she glanced down at him, fingers smoothing over the chubby cheeks and lips, the infant’s mouth wrapping wetly around the bloody tips of her fingers. “What a beautiful boy. So fine and healthy. My son,” She trailed off, voice dying away before returning, her smile now rueful, “he was very beautiful, too. And strong. So strong –“

“Put Kamui down,” the other woman interrupted, a shrillness creeping into the edge of her voice, panic sharpening the peril, the tension between them.

Setsuka frowned, offended as she clucked her tongue in chastisement, “It’s rude to interrupt. You’ve done it twice already. I forgave you the once but twice – that’s bad manners and if there is one thing I cannot abide in any form, it’s rudeness.”

The other woman froze as that last word all but snapped in the air between them, the child in Setsuka’s arms oddly quiet, cloudy blue-violet eyes scrunching at her as his tiny mouth opened and closed, his breath a gurgle-gasp. It would not take much to silence him forever, to lift her hand and smother him or perhaps just break that tiny neck. Or even easier, to just dash him against the floor, that soft warm head in her hands splitting like an overripe melon. So easy and there would be nothing this woman could do to stop her, not in time. Something jealous and spiteful in her almost wanted it, lifting the child higher in her arms, arms growing taut with unreleased energy. The woman caught her breath, wavy hair snaking around her, eyes too wide in her head, the bottle in her hand clattering to the floor.

The room breathed but no one in it seemed to, time skipping for the flickering of that broken lamp, waiting.

The baby yawned, sound seeming to rush back with it, sound and life, small hands finding Setsuka’s hair and clutching it, blinking up at her before closing his eyes. There was something beatific in his features, even smeared as they were with blood, beatific and peaceful, the dried tracks of his tears still visible but he wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t crying at all; if anything, he seemed content.

Would her own son have been so if he’d stayed, if she’d fought to keep him? Would Seishirou be alive even now? There was no way of knowing now, not even through the most precise practice of her art. Sometimes the dead stayed dead and only in her innermost thoughts did her son speak at all.

What would he say to her now, in this one moment above all others, with the promise of power, of life and death, in her hands, the burgeoning knowledge that in this there might be the solution to all difficulties? Perhaps he was speaking now, in twinges, in the way her magic seemed to flare, aura growing brighter, stronger around this child, cleaving to his own untapped reserves, to gifts that had not been explored, wanting it, the branches and roots of the Sakura digging in deep, networked deep in her skin, pulling at her with fierce resolve.

Setsuka lifted her head, some of the light fading from the other woman’s eyes, resignation settling between them and she could feel the room shift, the other preparing herself. But it would not be enough. In this, it would never be enough.

“I will not let you have him,” The words were a formality now, they both knew that, stupid and useless and yet required. There was a script, Setsuka felt that as if it had been pressed into her hand but it was unneeded, unneeded and unwanted.

“I know. You will try.”

“I will –“

“Try,” Setsuka whispered, adjusting the baby into the crook of one arm, smiling at him before lifting her other arm, sleeves pooling around her. All she needed was that one arm and the hand attached to it, that and the blessings of the Sakura and she had that. She could feel it tickling against her as if she wore nothing at all, a wave of petals, as though warmed by a summer day, clinging to her skin. “You will try. You will not win. But you will try, of course. He is your son, after all.”

“For as long as you live, he will always be yours,” Setsuka continued, fingers dancing, making light, careless patterns in the air before her, “Even after both your bones are nothing more than dust, something will linger, crying, ‘Mine, mine, mine.’ I know because I am the same. You want this child but I need him. And those are two very different things.”

Her fingers curled in silent invitation, the sharp tips of her nails glistening in the gloom. Come.

The air in the room picked up, bit by bit until it seemed to swirl, Setsuka’s hair being drawn, caressing her face as she blinked, watching the faint gathering of energy fade into life, a dim violet that grew darker and darker in intensity, swirling like smoke, the tendrils spiraling around the other woman, who despite her obvious pain was attempting to stand erect, hands pressed together in front of her, her face dropped in concentration. The walls of the room creaked, the strain of contained power loosening some of the plaster above their heads, flakes of powder falling like soft rain. It would not be long.

It was not.

Her own wards came up with a flick of her wrist, bolstered by the blood of a fresh kill on her hands and the child in her arms, shielding made briefly visible as a blast smacked against it, lavender streaks dispersing over her head like weak fireworks. The other woman’s chest heaved, the cost of that obvious as she struggled to catch her breath, though the glitter of her eyes, glowing electric in the reflected surge of power promised she was far from done.

“Interesting but not interesting enough. You are not in any shape to continue this.”

“I will not stand down,” The words were all but snarled, the woman lifting her hands again, hair floating around her, the curls seeming to straighten with the current, her expression ugly, desperate and angry. “You will give Kamui back or I will take him.”

“Kamui?” Setsuka canted her head, tasting the name, all but hearing the Sakura now, singing in the back of her mind, smug and desirous. “So you are Kamui then, Little One? No wonder I was told to kill the one upstairs.”

There was a choked sob, almost a gasp except that there was no surprise on the other woman’s features, only hopelessness as Setsuka smiled sympathetically, “It was for you and for him, was it not? That she had to die?”

There was no reply save another groan from the room around them as yet another blast bounced off her shields, drilling a hole in the back wall. “Careless,” Setsuka tsked, touching her lips, “Must you be so loud? You’ll upset the baby.”

There was no warning, the woman silent as she launched herself across the small enclosure, a gesture born of pure desperation and they both knew it but Setsuka still flinched, almost admiring the token effort even as she tired of this pantomime. Drawing her hand back, the other woman moved to slam it against Setsuka’s wards, gathering what strength she had, enough that it might actually have broken through had she but taken into account something.

Setsuka was not alone.

A shriek cut through the seething air, the talons of Setsuka’s shikigami burying themselves in her attacker’s face as the bird appeared, grey wings spread wide, beating and pushing, claws staining with new blood as the woman fell backward, all her power sputtering, threatening to go out as she raised a protective arm to fend the bird off.

“I think this little play is just about over,” Setsuka murmured, stepping forward, her hand moving outward, all those careless patterns now meaningful as they were traced into the air, “I do so find repeat performances tiresome.”

A sakura petal floated past her outstretched hand, grazing her skin as it danced in the air before her, first one and then another and another until the air became cloying, fluttering in excitement as they filled the room like excited insects looking for a flame. Setsuka watched them, twirling about in the air, almost swarming above her head, as if looking for direction and she smiled at the prostrate woman, pressing her fingers to her lips as if in farewell.

The Sakura descended, a cloud of pinks and whites that circled their victim first in wide loops then ever smaller ones, the makeshift shield the other woman attempted to throw up shattering as the magic controlling them moved faster, swift, brutal lunges as they attached themselves to her, surging into the mouth that opened to scream, into her mouth and nose, covering her eyes like coins, landing like thousands of deadly butterflies, the body beneath each petal twitching and shuddering.

The baby in her arms, Kamui, stirred, opening his eyes to slits and she cooed at him, adjusting him and lifting him so that he too, could see, murmuring to him, “It’s beautiful, is it not? The way the Sakura finds renewal? That something so small and delicate could be so deadly but then perhaps you know something about that, Little One. Still, there’s so much to teach you.”

“But it can wait,” Setsuka sighed, rubbing her cheek against his forehead as she edged around the body on the floor, noting with some interest the twisted set of the woman’s limbs and the faint trickle of blood spilling over her lips, an errant cherry blossom resting there, all but crimson now. “First, we’re going to take a small trip so that I might introduce you to your brother. I know you’re going to love him just as much as I do.”

***End of Chapter One

FIC: Lullaby (1/?), A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 story

2005-10-12T01:47:13Z

Title: Lullaby (1/?)
Series: Tokyo Babylon / X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Rating: R-ish
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: Major character death, eventual blood, gore, even more death, AU timeline-ishness, creepiness, and anything else I can think to add later.

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and Tokyo Babylon nor any of its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: Destiny is turned on its head as Sakurazuka Setsuka acquires a prize no one could have predicted -- Shirou Kamui.

Thanks: To Amet, who beta'd this and encouraged it even though I think I creeped her out. XD

Author's Notes: This was supposed to be yet another of my ficlets but it's turned out to be something longer than that as it has, God help me, grown an actual plot. This one is for ripedecay and was inspired by both a conversation we had concerning Kamui and Setsuka, specifically on what would happen if they met or God help him, Setsuka came into possession of him. For whatever reason, the plotbunnies really started breeding on this one and thanks to that conversation and the lovely picture ripedecay drew to accompany it, I think it's safe to say this one is going to be an ongoing project.

So this is for ripedecay who has always been encouraging and kind and while I know I've said this before, I really hope you enjoy it and if I mangled your girl, I apologize.

Lullaby
A Tokyo Babylon / X/1999 Alternate Universe story
Sephy

Prologue

Requiem

“Sakurazuka-san?”

From where she was sitting near the window, Sakurazuka Setsuka lifted her face from her contemplation of the flower stems she was carefully cutting, one of the snow camellias slipping from her hand, bouncing towards soft destruction on the buffed planks of the wooden floor. They broke so easily, petals and yellow innards spilling over her hands as she attempted to save it, fragrant and fragile, the sickly sweet of death strengthening as she crushed what was left in her hand, watching a rain of crushed petals, nails digging into her palms.

“Itou-san,” She said and she smiled at him, finally raising her eyes to his, all too aware of his discomfited shuffling, the way he was kneading his hat between nervous hands, stepping forward then back again as if he feared crossing into her threshold, into the innermost recesses of her sanctum.

And this same man had delivered a son to her just a month earlier!

“Itou-san,” She spoke again, careful as she laid the rest of her flowers aside, sparing them a wistful glance before arranging herself, the folds of her heavy winter kimono pooling around her, a protection from the cold. She waited until he was seated across from her on the floor, her hands held in front of her. It seemed to set people at ease when she did so, when she had no sharp objects in her grasp and they could watch, as Itou-san was watching now, her hands.

Not that it ever made any difference.

“I was not expecting to see you again,” she murmured, reaching for the bell pull nearest her, ringing for tea and at something of a loss. Before she had known what to say to this man, what to ask and to do – before she had been with child and he was her caregiver, the one to help her deliver that precious life into this world and then take it from her before it could become a nuisance. Taken so that it might properly be trained and molded, in the ways that all the Chosen before him had been. “Unless this is some last visit? To assess my heath though I can assure you that I feel – so much more now than I ever did. More alive, more vital.”

Itou-san shook his head, his young face suddenly old, gray and more lined than she remembered, circles underneath his deep-set eyes as if he’d not been sleeping well. “Sakurazuka-san,” he began and then paused, staring at her hands, the pulse point in his throat jumping visibly in the stillness as she waited, “Sakurazuka-san, your son –“

“Oh, if this is about Seishirou then you’ll have to talk to the main house,” She tilted her head, her hair brushing against her cheek, her smile winsome as she shrugged, “I don’t handle decisions about him, I’m just his mother.”

“Sakurazuka-san, he’s dead.”

Her fingers stopped, black hair caught between them, scarlet nails almost black in the gloom. “Oh?” There was a pause and she straightened, picking at the fabric threatening to wrinkle in her kimono. “May I ask – how?”

“We don’t know as yet. But the autopsy –“

She rose to her feet, seized with the need to move, wishing they were out in the garden, longing for the sting of ice against her bare feet, a welcome distraction from the sudden stuffy oppressiveness of her room. “Was he sick? You told me that he was healthy. A fine, healthy son, you said.”

“He was,” Itou-san interjected, rising too, this time forgetting enough to almost touch her, his hand hanging in the air between them, both of them staring at it until he fidgeted, rubbing the back of his neck, regret reeking off him like offal. “He had a good, strong heartbeat. Good birth weight, too. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with his birth.”

“And yet he is dead. My Seishirou,” She lingered over the name, running her fingers over the bars of the window nearest to her.”

Reaching up to remove his glasses, Itou-san wiped at them with a handkerchief, coughing behind his hand before replacing them on his nose. They were crooked and her fingers itched to fix them. “Sakurazuka-san. Sometimes…sometimes, infants just die.”

Setsuka pivoted towards him, opening her mouth and then closing it, realizing there was nothing she could say to that at all.

He took her silence as an acquiescence to continue, “There will be an autopsy, Sakurazuka-san though I’m not certain we will find anything. Not enough to rule his death anything but SIDS-related. Are you familiar with this term?”

“Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Yes. It was in one of the pamphlets you left.”

“Then you know that males in particular, have a higher incidence of reported deaths than females,” There was another of those hesitant, helpless pauses she was coming to loathe in the man. “There will be a thorough investigation and I promise – I promise that we will do everything we can to assess your baby’s cause of death.”

“But you may not find anything?” She blinked, confused then something occurred to her and she smiled again, this time warmly, leaning forward to catch the man’s hand, it rough and too warm beneath her own. “You don’t want me to blame myself. How kind.”

“Sakurazuka-s-san,” Itou-san stuttered and she could all but taste the way his heart rate jumped, feeling the sweat breaking out on the hand in hers. “I – I –“

“Or is it, you’re afraid I’ll blame you?” Setsuka’s smile widened, almost pleased at the way he backed up, forgetting about his hand until he realized he could go no further, that she was clinging to it, smoothing her free hand over it, feeling him flinch. “You came with the recommendations of the House. They said you were the best pre-natal doctor in Tokyo.”

She let him go suddenly, watching him stumble back, falling hard on his backside. “I want to see him. I want to see my Seishirou.”

“O-of course. After the autopsy –“

“Before,” Setsuka shook her head, turning from him, towards her discarded flowers, kneeling before them and picking them up in her arms, cradling them gently, running the ridge of her nails along the browning edges of one of the petals. “They die so quickly. So quickly and without warning. Soon there won’t be any flowers to be found at all. Not in Tokyo, not in Japan. Not until the season passes. They’ll lie sleeping, whispering dreams to me until spring comes again and the sakura drowns them out. The sakura. The sakura will receive an early tribute this year, one rich with Sakurazuka blood. The sakura devours us all,” She lowered her face to one of the flowers, kissing it with gentle care, “Soon it will have my Seishirou and one day, one day we’ll lie together, twined forever in blood and petals, living and dying with the seasons. Always beautiful. Always beautiful.”

She turned her face towards the window, gaze lingering on the frozen bark of the cherry trees, stripped and gray in the elements, their only adornment the slick trickle of glass-like water, forming icecicles. “How sad. To outlive one’s child. To see him cut down before he can find his spring.”

“You are young, Sakurazuka-san. There’s still time. For other children, if you wish,” Itou-san murmured, edging towards the door, as if that could save him should she choose to take his life. Maybe she would but not yet, not when he could still be of use. It wouldn’t be fun to kill him now. It would just be meaningless.

Her fingers curved around another of her flowers, holding it as she had Seishirou in those few minutes after his birth when she’d been allowed to hold him. She had cared nothing before that moment, her pregnancy little more than a distracting nuisance but feeling that solid, wet weight in his arms and hearing his lusty, shrill screams, she’d shivered. He’d had such a hunger for life, such a vitality that she wondered if she’d traded some of her own to him, if it had transmitted to him in her womb.

And now he was dead. There would never be anything but that ghost weight in her arms, like the weight of her flowers, coming to her at random moments then leaving her again with nothing but an aching sense of loss. Still hers, yes, he was always hers now. He would never belong to anyone but her and the sakura. Her dear boy, lost in the snows.

No, there would never be another child, not from her. The very idea of something else growing in her body was repugnant though the House might order it to be so. There were other ways to continue tradition, to continue the line. They’d just have to find another way.

Setsuka found she didn’t care at all, eyes focusing on the remains of the flower she’d destroyed earlier, her smile never wavering though the flowers in her arms were suddenly wet.

***End Prologue

FIC: Collide (1/1)

2005-10-11T01:31:04Z

Title: Collide (1/1)
Series: Weiss Kreuz
Author: Sephy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst; hints at Crashers
Archive: http://fallenicons.winter-born.net
Summary:

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Weiss boys and am only borrowing them for the purposes of writing something for my honey. ^~ No infringement is intended.

Thanks: To Amet for betaing and encouraging this.

Author's Notes: I haven't written Weiss Kreuz (Kapital and not Gluhen for once) in a few months but sandinmyshoes requested something Aya and Omi oriented with a bit thrown in about Aya's Crasher's coat for a ficlet meme I put up and I couldn't not write it for her. So this is for Amet whom I dearly love and adore in the hopes it might brighten her day a little.

Collide</b>
A Weiss Kreuz story
Sephy

The rag sailed across the room, fueled by frustration, Hidaka Ken sensing something coming his way and ducking but not before the dirty white cloth nailed him in the back of the head. They all watched it bounce, falling in silence at Siberian’s feet.

It really was possible to feel the tension in the room tighten, Omi thought idly, turning the bottle cap in hand without looking at it, listening to it thump-thump against the table top, too loud but anything was better than the silence. Things had been silent for far too long already.

“Yohji,” Ken grimaced, lips curving as if he wanted to grin, the name tearing itself through his clenched teeth as his hands found his hips, nudging the cloth on the floor with his toe, “What the hell was that?”

Crossing his arms, Yohji rummaged around in his apron, finding first his lighter and then his cigarettes, a sure sign that something was up given how much Momoe hated him smoking around the flowers. There was an almost angry clicking of his lighter, his thumb striking it in quick jerks before lowering his face, cigarette already between his lips, into the flame, waiting until the tip was glowing before he took a drag, tipping his head, “Off-hand?” He murmured around the white stick, reaching up to take it between his fingers flicking the ash, “I’d say a nine-pointer. I was going for ten but your hard head got in the way.”

“Awesome, Yohji. Really, awesome. And is there any particular reason you’re being a prick right now or did I just get lucky?”

There was a soft, contemptuous snort, “Please. You wouldn’t know what to do if you did get lucky, Ken. Not unless it was black and white and round. What’s it like being soccer ball-sexual?”

Ken bent down, picking up the discarded cloth, rolling and balling it in his hands, hard gaze fixed on Yohji though he was smiling now, or rather attempting to. It looked painful to Omi. “Keep this up, Yohji and we’re going to do a little experiment. It’s called how far can I kick a soccer ball up your –“

Omi sat up out of his hunch, turning his bottle cap one more time, murmuring, “I’ll do it.”

Both men fell silent, Ken staring at his shoes, cloth caught between his hands, tugging hard enough that Omi was surprised it didn’t tear while Yohji’s eyes narrowed, free hand lifting to rake through messy blond locks, taking another puff of his cigarette, the minute lines around his mouth tightening. Then he shook his head, flicking his cigarette again. “No. Not you. I’ll do it.”

Omi almost said why not me but was beaten to the punch by Ken who lifted his head, chin thrust out, looking as if he were still scrapping for a fight and daring Yohji to try him. “I don’t see why we have to. There’s no need. It’s just what he does. He—he goes out sometimes and we don’t see him for days. This is nothing new.”

“He’s not a damn cat,” Yohji drawled, stubbing out his cigarette in an empty planter, “We didn’t let him out and he’s not just going to pop back up, not after this long. It’s been over a week – almost two. We have orders from Birman. While I like to be as constant and true as the next guy –“

“You? Constant and true, Yohji? Give me a break.”

“Oh very nice, Ken,” Yohji replied after another interminable staring match, “My point is that he didn’t just wander out. We lost him. In the middle of a mission. There’s been no contact made, no sign of his bitchy red head. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. So far? We’re batting zero in the Fujimiya Aya department.”

“There’s no body either. That means something,” Ken insisted.

Yohji shook his head, crossing his arms, “That means shit, Ken. Sometimes bodies don’t get recovered.”

“Ours do.”

“Oh wake up. This is not some goddamn movie. There isn’t going to be a happy ending with tears and chicks for all. We’re not bringing our buddy home on his shield. Kritiker doesn’t work that way.”

“Well, maybe it should.”

Omi watched the two of them, then pushed his chair back, reaching around behind to unlace his apron, lifting it with quick, deft movements over his head and tossing it on the table.

“Omi, I said that –“

“I know what you said, Yohji-kun.

“Omi, we can wait, you know. Yohji’s being an ass about all of this because he hasn’t gotten laid in the last couple of nights. You don’t have to do this and certainly not now,” Ken shook his head, sympathetic.

Omi paused, looking at the both of them, almost helplessly, “Yes, Ken-kun, I do. Everything has to be catalogued and put away so it can be… “He shrugged, turning away. “It has to be me, Ken-kun.”

It probably said more than a little that Ken backed off, Yohji turning away to stare moodily out the window at the row of girls already outside. It was just as well that Omi had other things to do; he wasn’t ready to face the question of where Aya was yet again.

***

He’d never been sure what had started things between them, when he had started to look at Aya as something more than just his partner, another member of the team. Or when Aya had started seeing him as more than a resource, Omi sometimes waking up to find a trench coat draped over his shoulders, keeping him warm in the cold damp of the basement. When sure touches, simple brushes of their fingers while reaching for potting soil had become something more, something that burned, that kept him awake at night. There was so much he didn’t know about Aya, so much he might never know about Aya, and it had intrigued him, that sense of mystery, a deepening well that confused him, making him wonder if part of the attraction was that he didn’t really know Aya at all.

It certainly didn’t help that Aya could be damn near unreadable, scowling when puzzled and about as welcoming as a sore-toothed bear at times. There were just some places you didn’t go with him, lines that he could only cross in secret, half-afraid Aya really would kill him if he knew about those times he shadowed Abyssinian’s hospital visits.

Hospital visits. He wondered about those now. About the girl lying in that hospital bed, in a place that reeked of cold death and empty machinery, with little more life than a waxen mannequin. Presumably, it would be taken care of; Aya had to have made arrangements, he was too careful with her, too punctual in his visits, too predictable for him not to have.

What if she woke up? Omi shuddered at the thought.

He couldn’t think on that, on the possible expressions that might flicker across that pale, thin face if she learned Aya was dead. Not now, not when he was boxing up Aya’s room, box by box slowing only when he had to construct a new casket of cardboard, laying inside what few personal effects Aya kept with him. There wasn’t much, a few books, some journals, and the occasional oddity, like a small doll he’d found buried in one of the drawers, singed and dirty around the face and dress, dark eyes a little too knowing as he’d examined it, spooking him until he’d packed it away, swathed in paper, shielded from that gaze but feeling it still just the same. Almost everything else seemed of little consequence, a comb here or there, a loose buckle under the bed, and Aya’s work clothes draped over the arm chair in the corner, ready for him to come in and put them on.

Something in Omi closed up, just shriveled to think he never would again.

There was something wrong with him. That he felt so cold, so empty and just drained. He’d thought if any of them had … well, if they’d lost anyone, he’d be in tears, inconsolable or maybe raging. Instead, he just was, moving, mechanical, still not entirely believing because this was Aya, Aya who’d always seemed so much more than mortal, more like a force of nature, a force of vengeance and justice. That Aya could die seemed impossible. No, Aya could not die. Not like this, not on some simple mission, regular as clockwork.

Except, it seemed, he had.

There was nothing left now but the closet, Omi opening the doors and staring blindly at the clothes hanging. There wasn’t really that much left, just a few hangers of jeans and a couple of coats and a rather large, plastic bag towards the back. It drew his eye, the neat white bag obscuring its contents, revealing nothing more than black and he reached for it, shoving those other hangers out of the way, leaning and wiggling until it came free, surprisingly heavy for a garment bag. He held it, the bag folding on itself near the bottom, lifting it as far as his arm could reach above his head, feeling the weight of it, looking around until he found the door hook and hanging it there. Omi took a step back, rubbing his upper arms then crossing them, tilting his head, moving closer then away as if to take it all in.

It was normal plastic that met his touch when he overcame his hesitation, coming easily undone when he reached for the zipper, the scent of worn leather and a familiar aftershave that he easily identified as Aya reaching his nose. There was a plastic squeal, a rumbly rustle of material as he peeled back the semi-transparent flap, watching the way the light played off the silver buckle of the collar hanging loosely around the lip of the hanger, still polished and free of any hint of rust or tarnish. He reached with careful fingertips, hesitating then brushing the edges of the leather strap, pushing away first one corner of the bag then the other, another swish of sound following as it fell away, pooling near his feet.

He could not have been more startled. It looked like something that belonged in Yohji’s closet, not Aya’s. It wasn’t so much the fact it was another long coat, what should have been a trench coat, rather it was what had been done to the coat, the strategic cuts and zippers in places no Aya coat should ever have -- zippers and buckles and straps, more than he’d seen anywhere outside of the red light district. It seemed alive, more so than anything else he’d packed away, flowing around and off the hanger, the nearly detached sleeves hanging lower, almost expectantly. Waiting to be put on again, he supposed and he reached out without thinking, almost flinching at the butter-soft leather, worn in the right places, no longer new and tight with uncomfortable bunchings. There were leather pants on a lower attachment just behind it, with yet more buckles and straps though there were more tears in the fabric than modesty warranted.

There was something wrong with this, something wild and feral and not fitting at all with what he knew of Aya. Which admittedly wasn’t a lot. It was uncomfortable, almost painful, just as finding out about the girl in the hospital had been, having to see Aya in another light, in another life and knowing, knowing …

That he was never mine..

“Look at you,” he murmured, feeling the need to speak, to break the oppressive stillness. “I wonder where you came from.”

“Kyoto.”

Omi didn’t start, he didn’t jump or screech or do any of those things he might have done had someone been writing his story. Instead he went still, eyes darting for the split second it took him to identify that harsh, smoky whisper, turning his face to glance over his shoulder, finding familiar violet eyes staring back, wide and …was that a cut in the corner of the left one, nearly hidden under a dried splash of blood? He pivoted around in a slow circuit, feeling the world tilt as he did so, impressed that he wasn’t doing anything more than just blinking at Aya, at the way he was half-in, half out of his bedroom window, one torn, bloody leg resting unsteadily on the floor, the other bent on the sill. His coat had definitely seen better days, torn and not in strategic, alluring rips like the coat behind him, but ones that spoke of nails and explosions, the blood splattered all of Abyssinian, his face and hands, even gumming in his hair making Omi wonder how the hell he’d managed to get this far without drawing attention.

But then Aya had his little ways.

“Kyoto?” Omi repeated, voice low, almost hushed, taking one step, then halting, almost afraid, afraid to draw near and find out –

Aya was watching him, eyes dark beneath drawn brows, sweat beading there. He looked tired, dead on his feet really but he wasn’t moving, not towards the bed, not away from the window, instead that piercing violet gaze was almost probing, boring into Omi’s, neither frowning nor scowling. Omi took another tentative step forward, followed by another and another, pausing only when they were near enough to touch, his hands rubbing against his shorts nervously.

“What were you doing in Kyoto?”

That other foot came down, heavy and thumping against the carpeted floor, as if there was no strength behind it and Omi winced, particularly at the odd angle it was being held. But Aya’s eyes were fixed on the coat, distant and almost unfocused before they found Omi again, “Finding myself.”

Omi drew in a breath, “And did you?”

“No,” Aya admitted, the words slow, followed up with a half shrug, “But I was pointed in the right direction.”

“And the coat?”

Aya shifted, his katana resting against his thigh, gaze drifting over it, “Trophy of war. Skin of a leopard, if you want.”

“Are you going to imply you changed your spots?”

Aya tilted his head, looking wearier than he’d ever seen him, “That would imply I’d changed.”

“And you haven’t?”

“Do any of us really change? Really?”

“I’d like to think so. Though,’ Omi found himself smiling, the expression feeling strange, unreal, “given how you’re just sitting and bleeding all over the floor – maybe not. I should have known not even an explosion would knock some sense into you.”

Aya winced, shifting again and glancing at the coat, “If they couldn’t do it, then something like that certainly isn’t going to.”

Omi chuckled or meant to, the sound catching in his throat and chest, startling them both, what might pass for concern for Aya flitting across his bloodied features as Omi shook his head, “You’re not going to tell me who they are, are you?”

“It’s –“

“Classified?”

“I was going to say, complicated.”

“Oh.”

Swallowing, Omi let himself reach out then, with just as much ginger care as he had with that coat, setting aside those questions and brushing eager fingers against Aya’s forearm, looking up at him then over him, fingers tightening, needing to know that he was there, that he was really there, and not another ghost, not like the leather and buckle one behind them, that dead feeling inside giving way to something more frantic, smoothing his hands over his chest and arms aware of the liberties he was taking but unable to stop himself. Not even when Aya pressed a hand against his face, lifting it and he was blinking again for an entirely different reason now, Aya’s face closer than he remembered and then he couldn’t see anything at all, aware of nothing more than the taste of blood and smoke, of warm lips and surprisingly steady hands gripping his cheek and arm, of being pulled close and held as he never had been and had always wanted. The way they never had before, all those furtive touches and glances paling in this one moment, feeling as if they’d belonged to someone else’s life, the world seeming to tilt yet again and he wondered if he was that faint or if it was just the feel of everything changing, that seeming click before something new could begin.

“Omi, I – “ Aya managed somehow to murmur, the words finding their way past the press of hungry lips and stolen breath, his heart beating faster as he shook his head.

It could wait. All those little questions and mysteries and maybes, they could wait. What he wanted was right here and now and he wasn’t going let it pass by, one more shade added to the balance of all his regrets. Not when everything was colliding together in one perfect moment, one that he knew wouldn’t last forever.

It didn’t have to. Right now was enough.

***End

FIC: Second Opinion (1/1), A Doctor Who/House story

2005-10-07T02:32:34Z

Title: Second Opinion (1/1)
Series: Doctor Who / House, MD
Author: Sephy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Er...not really much of anything unless it scars you to think about where Captain Jack hides his guns. *coughs*
Archive: http://fallenicons.winter-born.net
Summary: The TARDIS crew make a foray to Princeton-Plainsboro to consult on a problem of Jack's.

Disclaimer: Doctor Who and House, MD do not belong to me. As it is, I'm only borrowing them for the purposes of play and in fulfilling one of my ficlet requests. I promise no Captain Jacks were harmed in the writing of this fic.

Thanks: To Amet for betaing and encouraging this.

Author's Notes: This is the first of the ficlet requests I've gotten done and is for shallowesque. For whatever reason when she requested a Doctor Who/House crossover, this got stuck in my head and refused to let me be until it was all out. I hope you enjoy it, P-chan and that I didn't mangle anyone.

Second Opinion
A Doctor Who/House crossover
Sephy

For P-chan

“I told you not to put it there.”

“Oh, I knew this was coming. Rose, didn’t I tell you this was coming? Can’t ever say ‘Thank you, Jack, you saved our lives, Jack.’”

“Because you didn’t,” Came the slightly smug reply, the swish of leather loud in her ears and she didn’t have to look to know that the Doctor had crossed his arms, head probably cocked in mocking challenge, all but daring someone to contradict. “As I recall, I was the one who got us out. With my little sonic screwdriver.”

“You’re never going to let that go. Look, I’m sorry I insulted your … tool like that but would it kill you to at least acknowledge that I had something to do with your being able to use that penlight?”

“Penlight –“

“Hey!”

Rose Tyler lifted her face from her hands, feeling the vein above her left eye throb as her eyes narrowed, glancing around them and then jogging her head. “Don’t suppose you could both lower the volume a bit? Unless of course you’d like to continue this in front of an audience?”

Both men shifted, the Doctor a little uncomfortably, leaning out of his slouch against the wall and plopping down with a dulled thud in the seat beside her while Jack inclined his head towards the nearest person, giving them a charming smile as he stood at attention, the faintest hint of discomfort grooved in dark circles under his eyes.

“He’s not sleeping,” Rose whispered, lacing her fingers as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees.

There was a soft snort, the Doctor closing one of his eyes while the other fixed on Jack, then her, that gaze a little too intent, a little too discerning for comfort. “Not sitting either. I told him –“

“I know, okay, I know,” Rose cut him off, not wanting another tirade that would inevitably lead to yet another argument because Jack ‘happened to overhear’. She hesitated, “Y’know, he did save our lives.”

“Maybe,” the Doctor scratched his neck, looking unconvinced. “But there are better ways to effect a jail break than jamming high powered weaponry up his –“

“We got out at least and you weren’t doing much better, now were you?”

It was perverse but she got something of a pleasure at watching the Doctor squirm at times like this. He liked to talk big, like he knew everything and sometimes, she thought maybe he did but that didn’t mean he was always right.

She might have felt more triumphant about that if she hadn’t been so certain that he knew it too.

They’d only been traveling together a short time (or over a year if you went by the time her mother held, one long, agonizing, harrowing year as Jackie liked to remind her daughter whenever they spoke) but Rose liked to believe she was starting to learn some of the Doctor’s quirks. He liked to show off, he did but there was something fragile beneath that bravado, unsteady, almost nervous, like a five year old wanting desperately to impress on the first day of school. That and a hideous loneliness in those chill blue eyes, wide and so startling that when you first saw them, you thought the man owning them had to be mad. He acted like it. Rose wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t but he was also hers. Her Doctor, her painfully skinny, angular little Time Lord with an accent that you couldn’t take the North of England out of, all shapeless and formless in well-worn blacks, his battered leather coat looking as if had seen more than it’s fair share of galactic dust. She felt, oh what was it? Protective, yes that was it. Protective of him. Connected to him too; as if they were meant to come together somehow, meant to meet up in that department store.

It wasn’t something she dared voice. He’d probably make fun of her, call it rubbish and tell her she was being a stupid, superstitious ape again.

“I would have gotten us out,” the Doctor said, voice defensive as he ran long fingers over his close-cut hair. “I just needed to find the right sonic calibration –“

“—which you said yourself could take awhile. Face it, Jack got us out and you owe him.”

“Oh I do,” the Doctor said in solemn agreement, waving his hand around the waiting room before crossing his arms, eyes closing. “And I like to pay back my debts.”

“Right. And where exactly are we? And why are we here?”

“Princeton-Plainsboro. It’s a research hospital in the middle of New Jersey,” Came the prompt reply, “We’re here for a medical opinion with the best diagnostician I’ve ever encountered.”

Rose raised her eyebrow, reaching up to remove a strand of loose blond hair from her mouth, again peeking at Jack where he was smiling and nodding still at the people in the waiting room, rocking anxiously on his heels, flirting without realizing as he smoothed hands over his loose blue shirt and for some reason, no one ever called him on it. Whatever discomfort he was in, he hid it with a well-placed word and a cocky grin, leaning in and lowering his voice at the just the right moments. The nurse had already bumped them up a few appointments after a private conversation with the “Captain,” the Doctor rolling his eyes and making faces behind their backs, Rose having to work not to giggle as he started imitating the woman’s breathy little laugh.

“A medical opinion about what? I mean, we already know what’s wrong.”

“We do. But Jack insists it just couldn’t be that. That it has to be something else because he’s never torn rectal tissue before with the old ‘gun in the arse’ trick. I tried to explain that he wasn’t as young as he once was and once those tissues start to harden up, they become less limber and then he got really offended. Said I was just giving him a hard time because I was jealous and demanded a second opinion. So here we are.”

Brow furrowing, she nodded, “Okay, I’ll bite but who are we here to –“

“Jack Harkness?”

A short, dark-haired woman was strolling towards them, the crisp business suit underneath her lab coat telling Rose that she wasn’t just another doctor. Folder in hand and expression annoyed, her delicate features were stern though her tone sounded almost apologetic. Rose watched Jack straighten, wincing a little as he walked forward to meet her, hand extended, a faint tell-tale limp breaking his stride. The dark-haired woman’s eyes lingered on him, cheeks reddening a touch before they focused on Rose and the Doctor coming up behind him, manner becoming more brisk. “I’m Doctor Lisa Cuddy, the administrator for Princeton-Plainsboro. I wanted to apologize. You were supposed to see Dr. House – twenty minutes ago. Apparently he just – ah – snuck into Room Five on us and no one knew he was even around,” Doctor Cuddy’s smile became almost brittle, tight with frustration, “But he’s ready to see you now.”

“How is Greg?” The Doctor asked, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“You know, Dr. House?” Dr. Cuddy sounded surprised, the eyes sweeping over the Doctor suddenly more piercing than before.

“Oh we go way back. Way, way back.” The Doctor paused, frowning in thought. "Or possibly way forward," he waved a hand towards his head, "Sorry, it gets a bit jumbled about up here sometimes."

“I’m sorry and you are?”

“The Doctor. And this is Rose Tyler and well, you’ve met Jack,” The Doctor rocked back on his heels, looking around in appreciation. “Doctor Lisa Cuddy, right?”

“I – yes. That’s right.”

That maniac gleam that she knew all too well suddenly entered the Doctor’s eyes, as he shouldered Jack out of the way, grasping Doctor Cuddy’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically, the smaller woman all but vibrating with each hearty pump. “I’ve always wanted to meet you – heard so much about you, don’t you know? I’ve just never been in the neighborhood.”

“Mapleton Road?”

“No, New Jersey. Lovely place you’ve got here though it could use another wing, don’t you think? One entirely devoted to medical research, particularly nanotechnology.-”

“Well, I –“

“Fantastic,” the Doctor beamed, cutting the flustered woman off before smacking Jack on the bum, the larger man yelping as he jerked out of his too patient wait, much to the amusement of Rose and the bemusement of Doctor Cuddy. “I think we’ll go see Greg now. We’ve made poor Jacky boy stand around far too long. Can’t sit down. It’s a terrible problem. I’m quite broken up about it myself.”

“What the hell was that about?” Rose hissed as the Doctor pushed Jack forward, past Doctor Cuddy who was staring after them, mouth open and blinking, as if she were trying to rewind the last few minutes of conversation before shaking her head and turning around, Rose glancing over her shoulder just in time to see Doctor Cuddy glancing over hers.

“That’s Doctor Lisa Cuddy. In the next ten years, she’s going to start the first nano-medical technology lab in the United States, working closely with the Japanese on developing nanites. In another ten after that, they’ll undergo their first trial run right here, in this very hospital and after that – Bam! Human medicine will leap forward about oh…two hundred years?” The Doctor paused, “Though she’s a bit shorter than I expected.”

“And this – Doctor House?”

There it was, that smirk, the one that always went along with the gleam and which always signified the Doctor was up to something. “You’ll see. How’s your back, Jack?” His tone was solicitous, almost honeyed and sympathetic and neither Rose nor Jack bought it for a minute.

“Oh just fine, Doctor. Thanks for the help back there,” Jack gave him a toothy, murderous grin.

“Well, just so you know I’ve always got your back.”

“Don’t I wish,” Jack’s tone was plaintive, “Don’t tease me, Doctor, my backside is aching, not the rest of me.”

“Oh don’t worry. I’m sure Greg will fix you right up,” The Doctor winked and opened the examination room door for them.

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t the scruffy, graying man huddled in the corner of the room, swearing at the mini-television in his hands and adjusting it. “Come in and shut the door. And be quiet. I’m at the best part.”

Rose and Jack exchanged glances, Rose a little nonplussed and Jack looking as if wished he were anywhere but here, eyeing the examination table with wary apprehension. The Doctor meanwhile loped over, peering over Doctor House’s shoulder before nodding and pulling up the extra stool in the room, the older man, scowling but making room for him.

“Look if this is a bad time – “Jack began, both the Doctors twirling on their stool towards him, House smacking the cane in his hand against the floor.

“It’s Alan and Monica time.”

Rose peered around Jack’s shoulder, incredulous, “What? That on the telly? Are you telling me some soap is more important than a patient?”

House sighed, speaking very slowly, as if she were too dense to understand, “It is when I’ve waited two weeks for this crucial plot point to be revealed. I’m pretty sure we’re going to find out she had the baby in secret but sometimes they surprise me. As for him? Let’s see…you’ve all been out in the waiting room for an hour, he’s been standing the entire time -- I diagnose acute pain in the ass. Something I’m sadly familiar with. What did you swallow?”

The question was abrupt enough to catch Jack off-guard, “Nothing!”

“It’s more a case of what he shoved up there,” the Doctor said, pulling out a bag from his coat and popping a piece of candy in his mouth, offering House one who eyed it then took one.

“Aren’t you a little too old and experienced to make those sorts of mistakes? Usually guys like you are a little more careful when doing things like that,” House groused at him, keeping one eye fixed on the screen.

“Hey, look,” Rose crossed her arms, glaring at the both of the seated men, “There’s no need to be rude. He’s in pain, aren’t you even going to do something?”

There was a knock at the door, a younger blond haired man popping his head in, giving them all an apologetic smile. He was handsome in that boyish, too good to be true sort of way, quite the honey as Jack would say and not just because his hair was that same warm shade, Cupid’s bow mouth that just begged to be kissed. Rose felt her heart pick up just a little, shuffling and giving him a bit of a smile and wishing she’d worn something a bit more stylish than jeans and her Hello Kitty t-shirt. She glanced over and twitched, noticing that Jack was smiling too, smiling and eyeing the newcomer like he’d just found something yummy he wanted to take a bite from.

Bad, bad mental image, she rubbed her forehead, smoothing her other hand against her jeans.

“Ah, Doctor Chase. Just the person I wanted to see.”

“I – what?” Australian she noted, watching as the blond doctor sidled into the room. There was a joke in this somewhere, about a girl trapped in a room full of doctors. Not that Jack was one though she was sure he’d been known to play doctor on occasion.

“I have a patient here. In need of a close examination, something that I think will be just up your alley. Be a good boy and do it for Daddy, won’t you? I promise I’ll give you a cookie later on,” House dug around in his pockets in a move that was eerily familiar, retrieving a bottle and popping the top, dropping a pill in his hand. “Oh and if it turns out to be another MP3 player, call the RIAA, I’m sure we can cut some kind of deal with them about this kind of thing. Give me another one of those candies… I’m sorry who are you again?”

“The Doctor.”

House rolled his eyes, “Aren’t we all?”

***End

FIC: The Ties that Bind (1/1), for windschaser

2005-06-02T22:43:34Z

Title: The Ties that Bind (1/1)
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama/Humor
Pairing: Tsuzuki x Hisoka, mentions of Watari + Tatsumi
Rating: PG-13ish
Archive: Fallen Icons

Warnings: language, brief angst, spoilers up through Kyoto arc, random old school Yami no Matsuei spelling (i.e. from the fansubs XD;;), Bond references.

Disclaimer: I don't own Yami no Matsuei and its characters. They are the property of Yoko Matsushita and I'm only playing in her sandbox briefly. No profit is intended.

Summary: Despite rumors to the contrary, Kurosaki Hisoka was not a morning person...

Thanks: lyssiebaby for betaing this fic. I <3 you like mad for this dearie.

Dedication: To windschaser, the only person who could lead me to write Yami no Matsuei again. This really isn't adequate enough thanks for the favor you did us but I hope that it will at least brighten your day.

Author's Notes: This fic would never have happened if not for windschaser. It's been quite some time since I've had any inclination to write Yami no Matsuei but Odile with her gentle and generous soul inspired it in me. She did us a massive favor which you will all hear about soon enough and for which I can't thank her enough.

I haven't watched Yami in a while and as a result, I fear I may be more than a little rusty here though I hope not painfully so. Warnings on the spellings -- I'm used to the fansub way of spelling things (even though I have the dvds) and though I've tried to get the official release spelling down, I may slip into the old school way. I'll apologize for any obnoxiousness this may present.

The Ties that Bind
A Yami no Matsuei story
Sephy

For Odile

Despite rumors to the contrary, Kurosaki Hisoka was not a morning person. Unlike Tsuzuki, he wasn't one to simply bounce out of bed, carried aloft by a wake of boundless energy. His own rising was sluggish, often a lethargic march towards consciousness, slipping in and out of a doze a good two hours before he finally found a grip on awareness. It was a luxury he hadn't been afforded as a mortal, trained to rise when the sun did. One of his earliest memories was of his father's footsteps; that muffled tread heavy as it stalked proudly past his door, sometimes pausing, as if he could see through the thin rice paper doors into his son's bedroom, daring him to sleep on, to be lazy and therefore, undisciplined. From the time he could walk, Hisoka had taken up that unspoken challenge, wanting nothing more than to emulate the father he had so adored, affecting the stern manner and dignity that held the servants in terrified awe. When love had no longer been an option and approval forever denied, he had still risen, carrying on those traditions ingrained in him within the confines of his cell. Always careful to make his futon and to arrange his belongings in an orderly manner, as if his parents would ever notice beyond their hurried trips to shove food through his door. There was no longer any great mystery in sunrise, only the ghost of a life as dead as he was. He much preferred the creep of afternoon, of days made golden, and an apathetic breeze stirring the leaves across baked pavements.

These days he didn't drink coffee so much as guzzle it, finding in it a jittery serenity that gave him the strength to deal with so many minds in such a confined space. Most of who thanks to the advent of their preternatural gifts lit up on his empathy like beacons. It was not so bad now as it had been, experience giving him distance and the tools to shut out all but the strongest of emotions battering against his mental shields and even then, it often took physical touch to cause any real damage. And none of his coworkers with the exception of Tsuzuki and Watari took that type of liberty with him. Tsuzuki by virtue of the fact that they were involved and Watari…Well, Watari somehow managed to place himself outside of the rules of personal space.

Like now, Hisoka thought, noting the way Watari was leaning, his body inclining towards Wakaba in what might have been construed as an intensely invasive gesture were it not for the total innocence and lack of sexual interest on his part. One hand resting atop the plastic lip of the copying machine, the other absently scratching his shoulder in the wake of 003's bouncy flittering, the scientist fidgeted, unable to remain still even as his leonine eyes fixed on Wakaba, as if she alone were the sole possessor of his attention. Which was not true, as Hisoka knew from personal experience and those few fragments that bounced off his shields, Watari sometimes having an attention span shorter than Tsuzuki's. Underneath that deluge of golden curls lay a witches' brew, layers of thoughts upon thoughts bubbling and boiling, all whizzing to the surface and multi-tasked with the skill of a master. It felt like a hive, swarms of unceasing ideas and observations pushing the man from one end of the room to the other, as easily absorbed, as he could be bored. The same impetus that caused him to create also derailed whatever social interaction skills he might have been granted. Simply put, Watari didn't have time for small talk, jumping straight into conversations whether he had been included or not, sometimes barging headlong into topics that a more tactful person might have left alone. He had an unerring tendency to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, done without malice or apparently, the common sense to know better. Hisoka had once heard it said that there was an art to conversation and if that were true, then Watari was abstract in its highest form, leaving you to trail behind his galloping pace, out of breath and somehow feeling as if you were still missing something.

Which went a long way in explaining why, when those hawk eyes landed upon him, he wasn't sure whether to smile or to heed the pit opening in his stomach. That broad toothy grin containing altogether too much glee would have put Tsuzuki to shame and it made him lean toward the latter rather than the former. His fears were not assuaged in the slightest when the man plopped down on the edge of his desk, removing his glasses long enough to swipe at the lenses with the corner of his lab coat.

Hisoka watched as he examined them critically, breathing on them and running over them again before he spoke, voice rolling in a strange burr and cadence, "Well, Moneypenny, it appears as if 007 is gracing us with his presence after all."

Rolling his eyes, Hisoka paused long enough to shrug out of his soft caramel coat, draping it across the back of his chair. He paused long enough to nod good morning to the brown and red-eyed girl vainly trying to hide her wide smile behind the half-ball of a fist pressed to her lips. Turning to glare at the man now swinging his legs back and to, feet tapping against the seat of his chair, Hisoka's voice was scathing with warning when he spoke, "Watari-san."

"Really, James, if you're going to be in so late, the least you ought to do is give us a call," Watari chided, making a clucking click with his tongue, voice saccharine with mock sympathy, "Rough night?"

For some reason he had yet to fathom, Watari derived a great deal of satisfaction from irritating him with that annoying nickname, had from the time Hisoka first joined the division and Tatsumi had issued him his gun. It was probably the same suicidal impulse that led him to dub and occasionally taunt Tatsumi with chants of "M! M! M!" Time and subsequent forced viewings of James Bond films had led him to understand the references, if not entirely appreciate them. Tsuzuki had thus far escaped, but only because the one time the scientist had tried, he'd ended up fleeing the room due to the combined weight of a blue and green glare. Tsuzuki had spent weeks after that begging to be clued in. Hisoka felt the back of neck burn, a blush still ready to charge out at the memory of Tsuzuki, honey éclair between his lips as Watari said the magical words, jabbing an index finger in the air for emphasis as if the words had just occurred to him, "Honey Ryder! Honey Ryder!"[1]

And no amount of wide-eyed excuses, of claiming that he was just making use of Tsuzuki's sweet tooth was going to dispel the images that had generated. 'I really, really should not have let him talk me into re-watching that damn movie after that,' Hisoka sighed. As much as he liked to contemplate the idea of Tsuzuki swaying gently out of the ocean, tracks of salt water dripping from tendrils of hair down his chin and over chest, he really, really didn't need to think about it at work.

"Don't you have shit you need to be blowing up? Lab rats that need to be set through their paces?" he replied irritably, reaching out and pushing those gently swinging knees none too gently off the desk. Watari floundered, almost unseated before managing to wave his arms enough to regain his balance, 003 circling over his head, wings fluttering in uncertain jerks.

"Oh, no. I'm all yours."

"How lucky," Hisoka said dryly, dropping into his seat and rolling forward, picking up some papers and hoping that his friend would take the hint.

Of course, Watari could never let anything go as the shadow falling across his desk proved, knees brushing against his arm. Chemical-stained hands, surprisingly cool, tipped his face into the light as Watari peered down, amber eyes almost the same color as the wire frames falling casually down his nose. "You look tired," he announced, before his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, almost but not quite as bad as the wink that joined it. "Tsuzuki keeping you up nights?"

"I was working," Hisoka enunciated, each syllable blistering with warning.

"Oh, I just bet you were," the scientist smirked, Wakaba's amused titter only serving to encourage him further. "Where is your wayward partner anyway? I hardly recognize you without him attached to your hip."

"Ha, ha."

"He thinks I'm kidding," Watari tilted his head towards Wakaba, the words spoken sotto voice. "Does the word 'crowbar' mean anything? I'm amazed you get to walk to the bathroom by yourself."

Hisoka started to say something then stopped, leaning forward, elbows supporting the hand under his chin, a slow smirk of his own forming. "And would this be the same crowbar used to pry you away from a certain Secretary's office?"

That mischievous smile slipped, arms crossing over his chest as Watari scowled at him. "That's low, bouya. Low!"

"What? I figured if we were going to speculate about my love life, you wouldn't mind talking about yours. At least I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming you have one, unlike most of the office."

"You know, I never thought I'd quote Tsuzuki but," Watari took a breath, mouth widening to mock-bleat, "Mean! Meeeeeean Hisoka."

"Oh, shut up. I already have to put up with Tsuzuki doing that, I don't need it from you, too."

"Well, if you hadn't given away how much it annoyed you, he wouldn't keep doing it."

"Boys, boys," Wakaba chirped, hands held aloft in the universal gesture of peace. "Don't you think this is getting a little out of hand?"

"Aww, but he started it, Mom," Watari sniffled. "I was just trying to have a conversation but noooooooo…"

"Should I take out my violin? I'm sure I've heard this one somewhere," Hisoka drew a hand in the air, as if playing the aforementioned instrument. "And I don't think it was a conversation so much as you throwing insinuations right and left."

"I never throw insinuations," the scientist huffed, flicking a hair out of his face. "I nail them dead on."

He wondered at what point he had become so relaxed around the office, around Watari, that he could bring himself to engage in such pointless banter. The initial attempts made by the other man hadn't gone over well, mostly ending with Hisoka half-spooked and wondering if he weren't a little mental. In all his life, no one had ever spoken to him, often with such endearing disrespect, as the blond Shinigami did. As a mortal, save for his parents, everyone had treated him with a fair amount of respect, formality tinting every part of his interactions. He was Hisoka-sama to the servants, Kurosaki-san to the doctors in the hospital. Then he'd come here and while yes, most of the office still addressed him as Kurosaki-kun, never once was it with the politely terrified awe or dislike those in life had used. Here he wasn't just Kurosaki Nagare's son, he was bouya or Bon or Hisoka-san. Even more intimate was Tsuzuki's immediate co-option and insistence on calling him Hisoka, sans honorific, sans nickname. The gesture was intensely personal and the first time his partner had tried, it was all he had been able to do not to openly reprimand him for such impertinence. Time had given him the realization that it was meant without malice. Tsuzuki was just like that with everyone, completely tactless and convinced that a dollop of charm would see him out of any trouble he might land himself in.

Unfortunately, he was right on that more often than not.

"All I'm saying is that there's no call for you taking pot shots, Bon. There's no need to rub in that you have a love life while some of us," Watari sighed, the sound genuine enough to cause him to straighten, "aren't so lucky."

It was no secret to anyone in the office, the object of his affection aside that Watari was crushing on Tatsumi. Though crushing was probably too mild a term for it. Watari was head over beaker, completely besotted with the man who, so far as Hisoka had been able to visually detect, hadn't shown an inkling of interest in that direction. Tatsumi appeared amused, often exasperated with the antics of their exuberant friend, putting up with more from Watari than he did anyone else in the department, save Tsuzuki and that said something. Or so he thought. Hisoka had no way of confirming his suspicions and therefore thought it best not to raise Watari's hopes for fear that it would lead only to disappointment down the line. Besides, it was all he could do to manage his own love life without taking on the responsibility for someone else's.

Apparently, Wakaba had no such qualms about expressing her opinions, throwing her arms around the blond scientist and nearly throwing the both of them into Hisoka's lap. "'Aww, Watari-san. It'll work out. Give it time."

He patted her back, easing into the hug and winking at Hisoka over her shoulder. "Thank you, Wakaba. It's nice to know someone cares."

"Oh I care. I'm caring so much I'm wondering what Terazuma's gonna do when he catches you like this."

"Oh, Hajime would never hurt Watari-san," Wakaba giggled again, blinking as though she were utterly convinced of the words.

From the glance he exchanged with Watari, he could tell that the other man was no more convinced of that than he was. Terazuma had a temper and coupled with a possessive streak a mile wide where his partner was concerned, it was a guaranteed mix for explosive trouble. Thus far, most of his anger had been reserved for Tsuzuki, nearly destroying the Diet building several times over between the two of them but it could just as easily turn towards one of the others making unwarranted moves on 'his girl.' Wakaba might think it was funny and sweet and completely adorable but he'd seen what a pissed off Terazuma could do and he had no desire to be at ground zero when it happened again. Even if that was almost guaranteed thanks to his proximity to Tsuzuki.

"Still, it's probably best not to send his blood pressure up again," Watari squeezed her arm before disentangling himself, eyes darting towards the exits as if he expected Terazuma to come rushing through one of them, blood in his eyes and Shiki unleashed.

"Coward," Hisoka teased. "Where is Terazuma, by the way? And Tsuzuki?"

Normally at this hour, Tsuzuki was guaranteed to be at his desk, plate overflowing with the staff donuts, enough so that Wakaba had started buying two boxes just so everyone could have something to eat. Coming in usually involved a pink-frosted donut being waved in his face, Tsuzuki intent on sharing his horde, as if he thought that by convincing Hisoka to try just one of those sugar-loaded concoctions that he'd manage to convert the boy. On the whole, Hisoka thought it was for the best that he didn't; their budget wasn't enough to support two sugar-happy fiends.

"Chief wanted to see the both of them," Watari shrugged.

"Oh, God what did they do?" To an outsider, one who didn't know his partner and Terazuma as he did, the overweening dread filling that question might have seemed melodramatic but he knew as well as they did, just how pertinent it was. "Tsuzuki promised--"

"Relax, Bon. It's nothing like that," Watari scratched his head. "At least I think. There was no yelling and the Gushoshin haven't been flying off the handle. He just wanted to see them."

"Right, because he so often just calls people into his office for a chat."

"You've a suspicious turn of mind, Bon," Watari scolded, lifting his glasses and replacing them. "Then again, given what you have to put up with, that really doesn't surprise me."

"I'd better go find him," he rose to his feet, the chair rattling in response to his quick ascent. Had he been paying more attention and not fretting over what Tsuzuki had gotten himself into now, he might have noticed the twitch of Watari's eyebrows, Wakaba dusting off her skirt before disappearing with a quick nod.

"Kurosaki-kun, a word if you please."

To his credit he didn't flinch as he was wont to do when crept upon nor did he whip his sidearm out of its holster. Perhaps it had something to do with location, with knowing that Sagattanus aside no one from the outside had yet to truly breach the defenses of EmnaCho. Or maybe subconsciously he recognized the subtle hole in his empathy, the lack of awareness where it should be, a sucking, gaping void that filtered around his shields, pulling things in but never letting them out. And there was only one person his empathy reacted that way with.

Tatsumi Seiichirou

He didn't even have to turn around to know he'd find the Secretary at his shoulder, immaculate as usual, brown suit pressed as if it had never known a day without starch. His tie would be perfect, top knot expertly tucked and pinned, the exact opposite of Tsuzuki who couldn't seem to keep his own tie straight if his undead life depended on it. Even his hair would be slicked down, chestnut highlights glinting as he adjusted his spectacles, blue eyes obscured behind a thin wall of glass. Nothing out of place, nothing to disturb the seeming stern serenity that garbed the man, as well worn as that suit.

"Tatsumi-san," he replied equally formal, equally remote, his slow pivot giving him enough time to catch Watari's almost invisible wince. The scientist would scold later, fret and fuss even though Hisoka would dare him to find anything untoward or discourteous in tone or speech.

There was a time, not so very long ago, before this crow of resentment had taken up residence in his chest, pecking at his heart, a seething anger that begged expression and found none, that he would have found it unthinkable to behave, to even feel this way towards Tatsumi. That was a few psychopaths back, before Tsuzuki had become more than just his partner, before he'd nearly lost the chance to find himself again, to have those feelings that he had always sought to deny. He had admired Tatsumi, appreciated his professional demeanor, kind but remote, and respected his privacy. He had wanted to be like Tatsumi, had wanted to be strong and independent and indebted to no one. Hell, he'd wanted to be Tatsumi because he was fairly certain that the man would never have let what happened to Hisoka happen to himself. Muraki would have had his ass kicked several times over before that ever happened. He wanted that strength, that discipline, anything to ensure that he never, ever had to be the victim again, a pawn played in someone else's game.

Being in the infirmary, off the active duty roster, had given him time to reflect on that, to realize that perhaps Tatsumi's aloofness was as much a weakness as it was a strength. Yes, he could be like Tatsumi, holding his professional distance around him like a security blanket, allowing others to get only so close before gently but firmly shutting them out, but it wasn't what he really wanted. Maybe it wasn't what Tatsumi wanted either but it wasn't in his power to change that either. It came down to choices; Tatsumi had made one and Hisoka his.

"I wonder if I might speak with you. In private." The words were patient; the man uttering them neither fidgeting nor rushing his answer as he waited, folder at tilted rest against his chest. Only past experience told him not to try that patience, to waste time, lest he see the sharp side of Tatsumi's tongue.

"Of course. Did you want Tsuzuki, too? I can find him--"

"Just you. It is precisely because Tsuzuki-san is not here, that we should talk."

His eyes widened, for once a ready reply not forthcoming. Well, this was unexpected. What in the world could Tatsumi have to say to him that Tsuzuki couldn't be privy to hearing? Part of him wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that. "Uh. All right."

Hisoka snatched his jacket, needing to feel its protective, comforting weight on his shoulders, as if it might prove proof against the chill of gentians studying him. It was stupid really, to feel his stomach seize up, a unpleasant thrill opening up there. This was Tatsumi. What could he do?

Anything he damn well wanted up to partnering him with someone else, Hisoka answered his own question. Was that why he didn't want Tsuzuki there? Was he so displeased with Hisoka that he felt reassignment was in order? An official reprimand for going against orders and rushing headlong into Touda's fury, endangering not just himself but his fellow Shinigami? Tatsumi might have let them burn but he knew, perhaps had known, that Watari would never let that happen. He had trusted to that hunch, prayed that when it came down to it, the scientist would find a way to get them out of that mess when he could not. A stupid, devious, foolhardy hope but he had played the card and won.

Or maybe something else was going on, deeper forces at work? He lifted his shoulder, adjusting the constrictions of his jacket, the clump of shirt sleeve caught smoothing out.

"Oooh, busted," Watari whispered, punching his shoulder as he walked past. Still, there was something strangely wistful in the corners of his smile, soldered into feline depths, gold and sunflower shimmers banding in the light.

Tatsumi paused, looking over his shoulder at just the right angle for the light to catch across his glasses, sapphire eyes hidden in a white glare. "You too, Watari-san."

"Me?" Hisoka nearly laughed at the pole-axed expression on the other man's face, jumping forward and off the desk with a nervous hop, managing to bang his knee against Hisoka's chair in the process. He didn't quite leap about holding his knee and wailing but the scrunching up of his face was interesting nonetheless. Glaring at the chair, he gave it a vicious nudge. "Ow. So, what? The chairs are attacking me now?"

"I can't imagine why anyone would want to attack you, Watari."

"Laugh it up, bouya. How would you like your stapler to suddenly sprout legs and walk away? Literally?"

"Only if you want to wake up bald."

White hands flew to awry locks as if checking to make sure they were still there. "Thou shalt not touch the hair. Not with scissors. Not ever!"

"I'm amazed you haven't managed to get it caught in all those gears you work with."

"It's a skill," Watari admitted modestly. "Still, no touchee! It's a commandment. One of the ten, I'm sure."

"How would you know? You're not even Christian."

"Yeah, well even so. It's one of my commandments," he made a face.

"Like what? Not being able to draw a straight line to save your life?"

"Gentlemen," Tatsumi drawled the word, each syllable gaining more importance than the ones before, "If Comedy Hour is quite finished?"

Watari threw his arms wide, skipping towards the glowering Secretary and affecting that thick gaijin burr that he knew drove everyone in the office crazy. "Sorry, darling, I forgot. Duty calls."

'Idiot,' Hisoka thought but there was genuine affection behind it. It was a little harder to feel as though he were facing a potential firing squad with Watari trailing along after Tatsumi, matching him stride for stride and all but dancing around him, 003 nesting atop the Secretary's shoulder. Tatsumi patted the little owl absently, eyes trained on Watari and sidestepping every time a potential opportunity for tripping occurred. While he was sure that Watari wasn't doing it on purpose, he had all ideas that his friend wouldn't object if some minor accident caused Tatsumi to land in his lap--both figuratively and literally speaking.

For good or ill, this was his life now, with friends -- no, family. Family and Tsuzuki who was nearer and dearer to him than that. Dysfunctional though they might be, they all had one thing in common -- they needed each other and that was a damn sight better than the family Hisoka had been born into. They were different ties than the ones he'd had before but no less binding.

No less binding at all, he shook his head, thinking of Tsuzuki and Hisoka smiled.

***End

[1]. Honey Ryder. The ultimate Bond girl and the one most often referred to (Well, save for the infamous Pussy Galore) in Bond montages or interviews. Played by Ursula Andress, she's the one you always see in the clips, the blond bombshell rising out of the ocean clad in nothing but a thin flesh colored bikini and a knife. She was also parodied in the Austin Powers sequel, The Spy Who Shagged Me with both Heather Graham and Mike Myers sauntering out of the water wearing the same get-up. I'm not suggesting that Hisoka's imagining Tsuzuki in a bikini but I feel that Tsuzuki romping wet out of the ocean is a nice thought anyway.

Also another update for Gravity

2005-03-18T08:00:19Z

For those of you reading Amet and I's joint CLAMP effort, Gravity, you'll find another chapter of it here and here.

FIC: Inner-cities of the Soul (1c/1), sequel to 'Only Hope'

2005-03-18T07:55:39Z

Title: Inner-cities of the Soul (1c/1)
Series: X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Pairing: Kamui x Subaru
Rating: NC-17
Fic journal: thetwotrees

Warnings: This is posted in three parts because it turned out to be ... longer than I expected. XD;; Also, violence, death, angst, swearing, and a massive lemon of doom. Also a random CCD cameo. Some spoilers for X/1999.

Crossposted at: clampfiction & _notalone

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: '...and no one could know the identity of the Sakurazukamori without becoming his prey.'

Thanks: amet for betaing this fic. I <3 you like mad even though you killed my gentle commas.

Author's Notes: This story is the sequel to "Only Hope" found here. I recommend you read the first story if only so events in this story make more sense. I'm also going to warn yet again that this story contains a massive lemon and if the idea of homosexual sex squicks you like whoa, DON'T READ PAST THIS POINT, HERE THERE BE DRAGONS, ETC. (And no, I did not mean that as a pun.) I will also say right now that this story sets it up for there to be another one so don't get to the end and beat me with sticks for that, okay?

continued from part B

It was later, much, much later before he came to himself again, body aching but not terribly, feeling as if he'd run a long distance and was a little worse for the wear. Rolling onto his stomach, Subaru shifted, wincing at the sudden, sharp ache in his lower regions followed up by the even sharper realization that the place next to him was empty. Cracking his lids, he blinked bleary eyes against the light starting to filter into the room, sheets tangled around his waist as he lifted his head, groggy and worn, turning his head with ginger care before he found what he was looking for, rubbing at his eyes to clear some of the crust of sleep away.

Kamui was getting dressed, half bent over his shoes as he tied the laces, his white button down shirt crisp and ironed but lacking the badges he was required to wear as a student at CLAMP Campus. He stood up, straight-backed and long, lithe limbs unfolding as he dragged his foot from the chair it was balancing on to the floor, sweeping careful hands over his black dress slacks. His hair was combed for once, still wet from a shower and Subaru frowned, wondering when the younger boy had found the time and why it hadn't registered.

Wondering how and why he'd managed to sleep through it when he never slept through anything these days.

He cleared his throat, sitting up just a little, his back protesting the movement. "Good morning."

Kamui glanced over his shoulder, a small smile tipping his lips before he turned, leaning over to kiss Subaru lightly, "Morning."

"It's early," Subaru glanced at the clock, the question implicit. Why are you out of bed?

Kamui's expression was sheepish. "Uh yeah. About that. I kinda maybe have work this morning?"

"Work?"

"Yeah, you know that thing I said I did to earn money?" Kamui scratched his head, hair ruffling then making a face as he stopped himself. "For a few hours before I go to class anyway."

"Oh," Subaru pushed some of the hair out of his face, digesting this, "Where?"

"The Dukylon Bakery," There was a hint of apologetic embarrassment as Kamui smoothed his hands over his pants again. "They work around my hours and -- it's something even someone like me can do and not screw up too badly."

Subaru wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that, feeling that something was expected. Perhaps some sort of protestation but before he could even begin, Kamui shrugged again, "Anyway, I don't want to go in but --"

"You have to?"

"Yeah."

They both looked away and Subaru felt some of the sated feeling, the safe calm ebb a little, back in the waking world where things were not nearly so easy and suddenly he didn't know what to say or do. What was expected of him. What did one say to someone else after a night -- Well, a night like that?

Again, Kamui took the initiative, face more guarded than he could remember seeing it, his voice grudging, "Are you coming back?"

The question was simple, understandable even but it felt like a slap in the face, and he wondered at that, at why that was so because of course Kamui would ask something like that given the circumstances. He glanced at him then down at the blankets puddling around his lap before nodding once.

Kamui nodded, fierce expression relaxing just a touch before he leaned over again, moving quickly as he pressed his lips to the corner of Subaru's eye, a faint whiff of aftershave and soap following him as he slipped away before the Sumeragi could even react, opening the door and then pausing, looking over his shoulder, "I do love you. Even if that doesn't matter. I -- I do."

The door swung and he was gone before Subaru could even think of a suitable reply.

***

'I,' Kamui thought mournfully as he let himself into the shop, 'am an idiot. A massive, gigantic idiot.'

A huge idiot of epic proportions even if he could flee his apartment like he did, pulling away from Subaru out of instinct and fear, trusting his feelings but not -- Well, Subaru had been known to pull his disappearing trick before and if he tried that this time, the least Kamui wanted was the illusion of a morning after. Of being able to pretend he was a normal boy, just like any other, going off to work while his boyfriend lay asleep in his bed.

Boyfriend. Bed. He buried his face in his hands, swallowing hard as he went past the rows of pastry displays into the back, flipping on the lights as he went. His boss wouldn't be in for another forty-five minutes at the very least and it'd be a good hour before any of his co-workers showed up. Kamui found himself grateful for the reprieve, for the silence and the time to digest everything that had happened, feeling himself flush again as his mind drifted back to Subaru and how he'd looked lying in sea of white sheets, rippling around his naked form, well-shaped arms and the defined muscles of his back as he rested on one hand, tousled hair feathering around his face, features slack and free of the habitual moroseness, relaxed around the eyes and his mouth for once not pinched with a shapeless frown. Subaru had looked peaceful, so peaceful that Kamui hadn't had it in him to disturb him, taking a care to be as quiet as possible when he moved around, all but holding his breath in the shower as if Subaru would be able to detect that. Having him wake up, having to talk to him and the rushing of all those fears he'd sought to avoid, Kamui had chosen the coward's way out and prolonged things, afraid and wanting to know what Subaru thought, if he wanted him the way Kamui wanted Subaru, if last night had meant everything or nothing at all.

And yet as much as he wanted to know that, Kamui found himself deathly afraid of the answer. He'd survived Fuuma and the apocalypse, had swallowed his fear to face both and what sent him running? Sumeragi Subaru. Subaru who had always held something of him in the palm of his hand and only now after so much time had passed could he admit that it was a piece of his heart, one of the few pieces that hadn't been shredded or pounded to so much fine dust, lost with Kotori or Fuuma, lying broken and dead with Sorata. Subaru held his hope, a thin fierce flame that would take so little to snuff out, just an indifferent wind, the chill of disinterest and uncaring.

But Subaru had stayed, he reminded himself and if nothing else, that was something. Had stayed and promised that at the very least, this would not be the end. Or rather that he'd be back. Granted, he hadn't said in what capacity that returning would arrive in but Kamui knew better than to press his luck.

"What's the worst that could happen?" he muttered as he unlocked the door to the storage room, determined to retrieve his apron and to get busy setting the shop up which was certain to be a distraction for -- five whole seconds, maybe.

"Funny, that's usually my line."

Kamui froze up, keys dropping from his hand, his stomach dropping in time with that too familiar, too pleasant voice, soft and modulated tones elegant with gentle rebuke. Squeezing his hand around the knob, he resisted the urge to thud his head against the door in front of him, turning slowly on the ball of his heel, having to work not to drop his eyes like a scolded child.

As a rule, Imonoyama Nokoru was a striking, utterly prepossessing man, every inch the aristocrat for all he acted like the most adept of courtiers. He made a svelte figure in pearl gray with gold buttons, his thigh length coat neat and simply cut, framing slim hips and accentuating the cravat at his neck, pleated slacks as spotless as the black shoes he wore, clean enough Kamui swore if he leaned over, he'd be able to see his face in their shine. The head of one of the wealthiest zaibatsu in Japan (as well as the Chairman of CLAMP Campus), Imonoyama-sama had an unerring, if not downright uncanny ability at making an entrance and though this would never top the first moment they met, stained with blood and the remnants of his aunt splattered around him, it was hardly the most auspicious of occasions either. And something in those blue-gray eyes told Kamui that the Chairman knew it as well.

"Pardon the abruptness of my appearance but I thought that you and I," Imonoyama-sama's gaze sharpened even as his smile remained in place, outwardly placid, unconcerned and cool. "Should talk. Alone."

Outwardly lying.

He made no pretense at not knowing what this was about. "You managed to detach Takamura-san from your side. Must be serious."

"I would say allowing the Sakurazukamori onto campus grounds after an edict not to is fairly serious, yes." Imonoyama-sama's tone was mild, his words were not.

Kamui leaned back against the door, arms behind him, trying not to fidget and damning himself when he kicked the toe of his shoes against the floor. "I wouldn't exactly say I let Subaru do anything," he remarked dryly.

Imonoyama-sama's features relaxed, his smile a bit more understanding as he lifted his scarlet and gold fan to tap lightly against his ear. "This is true. He does have a habit of doing as he pleases and damn everyone else, doesn't he?"

Not angry then, Kamui decided, watching the tap-tap-tap of those gilded edges against golden locks. Exasperated was more like it, Imonoyama-sama catching his eye and shaking his head, his expression a bit more reassuring. "I suppose then," he continued, bringing the fan to touch his lips, "It's a good thing that someone knows how to tamper with the campus security system."

Letting go of the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, Kamui slumped, "Thank you. Imonoyama-sama, I--"

The Chairman held his fan up, sounding more stern than before. "I don't like lying to Suoh, Shirou-kun. You know this. I like it even less when I've had to do it on two separate occasions. He becomes very distressed when he knows something is wrong and is left without any answers."

"I know that."

"And you also know why Sumeragi-san is forbidden to be on campus."

"Subaru wouldn't do anything like that," Kamui flared up. "I promise on my life that no one here is in any danger --"

"We thought Sumeragi-san would not change sides during 1999 and he did so. He has always been difficult to predict and given that the Sakurazukamori is a paid assassin and this campus is home to some of the wealthiest and brightest in Tokyo -- No, in Japan … Do you see where I'm having a problem, Shirou-kun?"

"Subaru isn't here to kill anyone. He wouldn't. I know he wouldn't."

"Just like you knew you were perfectly safe the night someone attempted to strangle you in your bed?"

Kamui subsided, hand unconsciously rising to his throat, looking away, "That was different."

"It's always different," Imonoyama-sama sighed, looking pained and uncomfortable. "I mean no disrespect but Kasumi-san? And Nekoi-kun and Shiyu-kun? Were they different? Kasumi-san thought it was worth her life to come here, to give us warning which we disregarded. I won't make that mistake again."

"Nor will I but this is different. This is Subaru. I know Subaru. I know him. He wouldn't --"

"No one knows Sumeragi-san. Not truly. I'd wager not even the former Sakurazukamori understood him completely. And that's what makes him so dangerous," Imonoyama-sama crossed his arms and gave him a penetrating look, "I don't suppose it's crossed your mind what bad timing this is, in the middle of things as we are. Unless you were planning on telling Sumeragi-san about that as well--"

"No," Kamui cut off, shaking his head emphatically, straightening, "It's not something he needs to know and --and it'll hurt him. And I don't want to do that. Ever."

"Besides," Kamui said after an uncomfortable pause, "Given everything else, given -- Well, I think an assassin, imagined or otherwise is the least of my concerns right now. And I won't not live what's left of my life. Not after everything else. That's not fair."

"Shirou-kun, I've found that whether something is fair or not is often beside the point. Suppose you say nothing, you leave everything unsaid and he should find out later about what's really going on here? About our endeavors? What if by not telling him, things become worse? If nothing changes at all and we fail? Don't you think that it will hurt him more to find out later, when so much time that you have now is lost? What then?"

"Then I'll handle it," Kamui let go of the knob behind him, pushing the door inward and reaching for the apron hanging behind it, slipping it over his head and shoulders before looking at him again, "If it happens, if something goes wrong then I'll accept full responsibility for it."

"Like always," he added bitterly, tying the strings of the garment around behind him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

He started to move past but a hand clamped down on his shoulder, Imonoyama-sama's expression more subdued, worried and apologetic. "Shirou-kun, you don't have to be alone in this. Not in this or the other. You know that."

Kamui gave him a weary smile, shrugging the hand off his shoulder, "I am alone, Imonoyama-sama. No matter what you or anyone else does, in the end … I've always been alone."

"And Sumeragi-san?"

A brief flash of pain flickered over Kamui's features before disappearing again, face drawn, "Will do what he's always done -- what he has to. But I won't put this on him. Not this or the other. It -- it isn't fair. And maybe that doesn't mean anything at all to anyone except me but the decision is mine." His smile became rueful. "The decision is mine. I think I finally understand what that means now. So close to the end. I think I understand everything better and then I realize that I don't understand anything at all. And maybe now, I never will."

He glanced at the Imonoyama then away again before he had to see the pity in his face, the sympathy that cut too deeply and the knowledge that was even worse, whatever hope he had left threatening to desert entirely. Straightening his apron, he took a breath and started walking towards the front again when the Chairman spoke again, his voice deep, as if from a tunnel, a question he was slowly starting to get used to, no matter how much he loathed hearing it.

"Shirou-kun, how are you feeling today?"

Kamui paused, inclining his head though not turning around as he considered the question. "I feel like I'm dying, Imonoyama-sama. Just like the day before and the day before that. Thank you for asking."

***End

FIC: Inner-cities of the Soul (1b/1), sequel to Only Hope

2005-03-18T07:53:20Z

Title: Inner-cities of the Soul (1b/1)
Series: X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Pairing: Kamui x Subaru
Rating: NC-17
Fic journal: thetwotrees

Warnings: This is posted in three parts because it turned out to be ... longer than I expected. XD;; Also, violence, death, angst, swearing, and a massive lemon of doom. Also a random CCD cameo. Some spoilers for X/1999.

Crossposted at: clampfiction & _notalone

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: '...and no one could know the identity of the Sakurazukamori without becoming his prey.'

Thanks: amet for betaing this fic. I <3 you like mad even though you killed my gentle commas.

Author's Notes: This story is the sequel to "Only Hope" found here. I recommend you read the first story if only so events in this story make more sense. I'm also going to warn yet again that this story contains a massive lemon and if the idea of homosexual sex squicks you like whoa, DON'T READ PAST THIS POINT, HERE THERE BE DRAGONS, ETC. (And no, I did not mean that as a pun.) I will also say right now that this story sets it up for there to be another one so don't get to the end and beat me with sticks for that, okay?

continued from part A

'Maybe,' Subaru thought later, shifting a bit so that Kamui was resting more comfortably against his shoulder, fingers threading through fine, still wet strands,'This is what it's like to be normal.'

Kamui was warm, feverishly so, something Subaru remembered from long nights spent near his bedside, placing compresses against his forehead and watching to make sure he didn't twist or turn the wrong way, bones so broken that he'd sometimes wondered Kamui had survived any of Fuuma's attacks at all. That warmth was something that hadn't changed; indeed, even without the aid of illness or broken limbs he seemed to burn against Subaru through the layers of both their clothing as he lay dozing, hand fisted in Subaru's coat and head just over Subaru's heart. He was still damp from his shower earlier, a twitchy affair as the boy seemed torn between inviting Subaru to join him and running in the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him as he went. Instead he'd just stood there stuttering for a good ten minutes before Subaru relented and let him off the hook, making himself comfortable on the couch as he informed the younger boy he'd already had his shower for the night.

He was fairly certain he didn’t imagine the faint disappointment ghosting across Kamui's delicate features before the boy shrugged and turned on his heel. What's more, he was equally certain if not somewhat taken aback to find a corresponding sense of dissatisfaction in himself.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Kamui he came around because if nothing else, at least where Kamui was concerned, all those emotions he thought long since dead seemed to resurrect themselves in a painfully jumbled ball, wound so tightly that they fed into each other with no end in sight. It was a far cry from the numb patience that seemed to surround him like a fog most days, thick and encompassing so that all he felt was the basic needs of getting through the day, the most poignant sensations of pain and the small pleasures of eating but very little of the emotions themselves. More like bits and pieces than anything else; a fragment of irritation or despair here, an almost deadened sense of curiosity about the world around him but beyond that everything seemed to switch off. He didn't care about the people milling around him like so many ants, going on with their lives, untouched and unscathed and wholly occupied with their own problems, unaware that Death walked with them. Death wrapped in the sweet smell of sakura, rich and overpowering so that no one never noticed the blood until it was too late.

Once it would have hurt, would have destroyed him to take lives as he did now but Seishirou-san had done his job well, spending years hollowing out his heart until there was very little of it left, the remains left in the care of a dead man and perhaps in the hollow of this boy's small hands.

Subaru frowned at that thought, wondering if it were an exaggeration or possibly a burden that Kamui didn't need to think things like that. He cared for Kamui, the younger boy intriguing him, piquing his interest when no one else since Hokuto's death had. There had been too many parallels with his own situation with Seishirou-san to make him feel comfortable when he'd first met the boy, nearly two years ago but now he'd had time to think, to live and grow into this role and to realize that for all intents and purposes and despite his very best efforts, he wasn't Seishirou-san. He didn't derive the same sense of enjoyment or purpose from taking lives. It was simply what he did. It was his position, given to him by heredity as much as his onmyoujitsu and in fulfilling it he was merely doing what he'd been appointed to do. He was a killer but a killer who felt nothing but the weight of each death sink upon his shoulders, the taint of blood staining skin that he could never wash clean and wouldn't even know where to begin should he even desire that. All he could do was choose those deaths, to pick which jobs he could live with, the deaths that his conscience could countenance. Who could be sacrificed, who couldn't. In the end, there were times Subaru wondered how much any of it mattered at all.

But Kamui mattered. For whatever reason, he'd always mattered and he mattered now. Part of it was the empathy that had always existed between them, knowing the boy better than Kamui knew himself. It had never been about his importance in the general scheme of destiny, never about whether Kamui could save the world or not. Truth be told, Subaru didn't care enough about the world to really want to save it. Caring would mean rousing himself to feel something beyond the torpid, implacable rage and the growing emptiness that seemed to suck out all life, all light and joy, leaving him little more than an animated shell, limbs that moved, a heart that beat but nothing beyond that. Or so he'd thought.

And now nothing was what he thought it would be. There was no satisfaction to be found in Seishirou-san's death, only the death of a past he'd been hanging onto the shreds of and now he wasn't sure who Sumeragi Subaru was or what purpose he was supposed to have in this new world. The night that had fallen seemed to be an eternal one, full of screams and blood, punishing himself as he performed his task forcing himself to relive that instant over and over again, always present in the back of his mind the question of whether things could have been different, if there was ever a moment where any of it could have turned out differently at all. Seishirou-san. Hokuto. And Kamui. The three most important people in his life and just as inexplicably as the first two had died, the third had not.

Subaru just wasn't entirely sure what to do with that and damned if he didn't find himself being drawn in despite himself.

Kamui twitched, fingers clenching up as a slow, involuntary jerk caused his body to coil and tighten, breath catching and he blinked, lifting bleary eyes towards Subaru as he muttered, "What time is it?"

"After midnight."

That seemed to wake him up more fully, Kamui blinking again before letting go of Subaru long enough to rub at his eyes, not even cognizant enough to be embarrassed by his faux pas. "You're shitting me."

He couldn't help but smile at that little bit of vulgarity, so gauche and coltish and utterly Kamui. "No, unless you have every clock in the place set wrong, it's ten after. You've been asleep for some time now."

"Oh," Kamui seemed to digest this, eyelids droopy and face flushed from sleep, mouth forming a pouty moue and Subaru felt something in him tighten at that, lifting a hand to brush some of the hair out of his eyes. The other closed his eyes again, leaning into his touch, kittenish and sleepy as he wriggled in closer, "This is really comfortable."

"Yes. It is," Subaru kept his voice low, smoothing back Kamui's fine hair a little further, faintly amused by how messy it was, tousled and sticking out in several directions as he combed his fingers through it.

There was another long pause, so long that he'd almost convinced himself that Kamui had fallen asleep again as he sat back, petting his hair while his other hand somehow found itself smoothing up and over the boy's bony back, ribs and the knobs of his spine evident through his thin night shirt, when Kamui spoke again, amethyst eyes a little more alert this time when he opened them. "Do you ever take off your gloves?"

Of all the things he'd expected, that wasn't one of them.

His hand stilled, Subaru taken aback, eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing again. "Sometimes."

Kamui's chin dug into his chest, watching him and flexing his fingers, bunching and unbunching the fabric of Subaru's shirt. "When?"

"What do you mean, when?"

"Seems kind of straightforward to me. When do you take your gloves off? And why do you sound so defensive?"

"I'm not defensive," Subaru retorted then winced at just how defensive he did sound.

"Right," Kamui nodded, "This is you, totally not being defensive."

"That's right."

"Subaru?"

"What?"

"I'd hate to see what it's like when you are defensive," Kamui said, voice definite, moving just enough to rest his chin on the hand still clinging to Subaru.

Subaru sighed, leaning back as he stared at the ceiling then brought the fingers of his free hand to his lips, closing his teeth around the tips and yanking, his hand feeling clammy and unavoidably naked as he did so. "Happy?" he mumbled around the fabric.

"Well yeah, though it does bring to mind another question."

"What?"

"Why won't you look at your hands, Subaru?" Kamui sounded serious, letting go long enough to flatten his hand against Subaru's, a strange slick shock passing through their palms, Kamui's dry and small and Subaru's much larger with a faint hint of sweat.

Kamui had always possessed the uncomfortable gift of knowing just what to ask, to say, that would hit him hardest. Whether he spoke those questions or not, luminous eyes alight with more questions than there was time in the world to answer and somehow, he always felt compelled to try nevertheless. Even if it was only to turn his words around in a manner that could only be construed as hurtful.

"Do you particularly enjoy looking at your hands, Kamui?" Subaru twined their fingers so he could turn the back of Kamui's hand towards him, greeted by twisting lines of silver, thick and puffed up with age, a perfect half-imitation of a stigmata, lacking the reverence of vision and too much human intent behind their making, wondering if Kamui saw Monou Fuuma's face leering down at him every time he glanced at his hands. "At the scars you carry, on the surface for everyone to see? Your failure? Your loss?"

He drew Kamui's hand to his face, lips trailing along those old scars, mapping them with his lips, a smooth slip-slide that seemed to feel the thick wreck as if it were his own scars he were touching, the only hint of distress the faint quickening of Kamui's breathing.

"I don't need to see physical scars to know what I lost," Kamui didn't pull away, at least not physically, his eyes suddenly distant, so far away that Subaru felt a chill. "I don't need anything beyond waking up each morning. Listening to the birds outside my window, the sunshine across my face and I know. I know each and every thing that's not here and won't be here, that I'll never have.

His eyes moved to seek out Subaru's, still away, still lost and forgetting everything, "I know their names. I say them every morning between getting up and showering, before facing the world. Tohru. Saya. Tokiko. Kotori. Fuuma. Sorata. Arashi. Hinoto. Aoki." His fingers tightened against Subaru's chest, staring at him, through him, and down in him as he sat back, voice dying away to a thin whisper. "Subaru."

"Subaru."

"Subaru." Kamui repeated for a third time, the name striking against the rising silence, clear and agonized and true. "All dead. Even Subaru. But the only ghost I've ever seen is the one who wears black and hides his scars in mourning."

The atmosphere seemed to wind up tighter and tighter, as if the air was being sucked from the room bit by helpless bit, leaving in its place this choking, drowning sensation, caught like a bird in too large orbs of amethyst, dark and light reflected and conflicted in murky depths neither giving nor taking. He'd seen eyes like that on statues, on blind men who never had any hope of seeing at all, a gaze turned so far inward that all it could see was itself, a winding mobius loop that couldn't allow for anything but a past and a future, leaving only the present a winding, thorny maze. And Subaru felt that for the first time he was seeing Kamui, Kamui as he was, Kamui as he might be, and not the gawky shade of a sixteen year old, wrapped in blood and enraged pain. This hurt went deeper, molded into bone and DNA, quiet and still in that way water is right before something punctures the surface sending wayward silver ripples across and suddenly there were hollows in Kamui's face, the childish curve starting to strip away, lending him a lean and almost feral look. Shadows hung like bruises under already darkened eyes, his skin darker than Subaru's though not by much and his hair which Subaru had thought so artfully mussed seemed longer, tendrils curling around the base of his neck, badly in need of a cut but so wild he thought that not even that would tame it. He was too thin, knobby knees and elbows, slender and not entirely grown into his body yet but that would come, was coming and Subaru could see it with a faint edge of panic, wondering how he'd not noticed these changes, how he'd seen only those things he wanted to see for so long that he could miss this, that he could lose Kamui to, in the change and shift of youth into adulthood, time sculpting the boy into something else. Someone else.

Threatening to displace Subaru once again.

He leaned up, his hand snaking up to crush those curling strands, tugging Kamui down until his mouth found the other's, hard and wanting, needing an anchor against this wave, this growing realization that threatened everything else in his ordered world. Time had moved. Time was moving and it would never stop moving and he could lose this, too. He had only to wait long enough.

Kamui's mouth was soft, still softer than a grown man's but it was longer, more generous than he remembered, a satiny upper lip and the rounding smooth of a plump lower lip, wet and slippery as he returned the kiss, needing no impetus or push, responding easily, needy and devouring, with just the tip of a tongue to wander along Subaru's lower lip to drive him to distraction. He balanced or tried to with the one hand that was free to him, the other still clasped in Subaru's, tremors from the weight of his leaning stalking in quick shakes through his back and chest and Subaru brought the hand in his to rest against his shoulder, letting Kamui find his equilibrium. His free hand smoothed along the fine ribs, each bone distinct and yet blending, small just before the dip of flesh between them and the jut of his hips, boxers just low enough to reveal a peek of flesh as Kamui's shirt moved. Kamui breathed as his fingers moved, chin tilting and breath stuttering against Subaru's lips, his tongue now more aggressive than before, demanding and claiming as it slid inward to brush Subaru's, refusing to let him be still, to let him lie back. No, even if he wanted to Kamui would not let him, crawling up him slowly, letting Subaru feel taut muscle and lean bones the strength of which still surprised him, sometimes rocking back just a bit then stretching forward again, teasing and teasing until he found himself wanting to kiss Kamui just as thoroughly as he was being kissed, so that all the air between them was all that was left as though they were underwater and drowning, with no one left to cling to at all.

That was all right, too.

They kissed, frantic and torn but without the ache of earlier, of the gazebo. No, this feeling was different, familiar and unfamiliar and Subaru found himself cleaving to it. Before there had always just been Possibility between them and what lay there now was Actuality, what existed in the space between each breath was When and How, all the Ifs taken away as if they'd never lived at all.

Kamui had loved him once, maybe did still. At least he said so but Subaru knew the difference between the truth of what was and the truth of what was said. He didn't think Kamui was lying, not about this but always in the back of his mind was that niggling doubt. That one last 'What if' that refused to be dislodged. What if Kamui should know, should come to know just how much blood he bathed in, if he should know about earlier, what if he knew? What then? And perhaps the worst question yet, the one that attached itself to that fear, conjoined and birthing itself even now.

What if Kamui forgave him?

Easing back a touch, Kamui nuzzled his cheeks, pressing sloppy, possessive kisses against his forehead and over his eyes (over both eyes and that left him breathless), leaning in until their noses rubbed in a simulation of other acts, of other touches and caresses and that warmth that had been solely Kamui's was now his too, erupting in his stomach and traveling up him in a hot pulse. And when Kamui spoke, his breath wafting over Subaru's lips, it was that voice and the sound of his pulse rate picking up, something it no longer did not even when he killed that overpowered everything else.

"Come to bed, Subaru?" Kamui took his lower lip and kissed it gently, slowly making love to it with nips and slow brazing caresses. "If you're staying… Come to bed?"

He sat back, hoisting himself up by the hands that had somehow found themselves sunk into the cushions above Subaru's shoulders, pushing up and back, a quick flash of pale tummy and the curve of a hip revealed before his shirt fell forward again. He didn't wait for Subaru to answer, standing up and with one last look turning away, making it clear that whether he chose to or not, Kamui was going to bed and the decision was his to make.

The weight of that knowledge was almost paralyzing, watching Kamui with careful eyes, trying to assemble the pieces of himself that had been smashed and scattered out in the last few minutes, bits and shards he wasn't even aware he still possessed, wondering if this was what Kamui felt for the entirety of that awful year. The burden of knowing that one choice, one decision could change everything for good or ill, could make it where there was nothing that could be taken back, and everything to lose. If he had, how had he lived with it?

There was already too much to lose and the gain… Subaru couldn't think of gaining anything. Whenever anything had been gained, it was just as quickly lost. Better to think on the moment and act, to follow his path even if that path was only taking him ever deeper into damnation. His feet answered for him, an unsteady stagger-step as if they'd gone numb, leather pants tighter than they had been, tight and hot and he felt both, stretched and pulled and in danger of losing cohesion. It took little effort at all to hook his fingers at the ends of Kamui's t-shirt, the younger boy lifting his arms before he'd drawn near enough to reach, fingertips extended towards the ceiling, cheek against one arm, expression somewhere between coy and intent as Subaru tossed the shirt aside. Subaru found he couldn't stop himself, reminded with a jolt of the still gloved hand he bore, as he rested both hands against Kamui's shoulders, feeling the brittle bone beneath, pulse throbbing rapidly in his throat and the flat expanse of chest and stomach, of tanned nipples still faintly pink around the edges and the arching divide of breast bone and rib cage. There was something oddly sensual in this, one hand uncovered and the other gloved hand gliding across Kamui's bare skin, human and inhuman, flattening out from each shoulder to run his palms flat over his chest, watching as those flattened nubs tightened in their sea of pale flesh, counting rib bones as he went downward then up again, feeling Kamui's heart rate jump. Even through the barrier of a glove this seemed too intimate, too immediate and he lifted his eyes to Kamui's, the heart in his own chest beating painfully, his mouth flattening out for fear of trembling.

Kamui's features softened, eyes somehow sad and old as he reached out, taking that protected hand and as tenderly as possible rolling the glove off, dropping a kiss on each individual finger, on the nail and the knuckle and then finally the branching network of veins visible through his skin on the back. He squeezed it and stroked the fingers before letting it go, reaching up to take the lapels of the coat, small hands working at edging the fabric of his coat back.

"You never take it off, do you?" Kamui didn't wait for an answer, pushing it off one shoulder, the heavy weight of the garment falling onto the other, "It's part of your armor. It's part of how you hide. But who are you hiding from, Subaru?"

Subaru had no answers to these questions. Indeed, he could scarcely comprehend what was being asked. Kamui acted as if he didn't really expect him to anyway, catching his jacket before it hit the floor entirely and taking the time to drape it over a nearby chair. This wasn't like the first time, Subaru thought. When everything had been rushed and urgent and too much to stop. There had been no time there for proprieties, no time to appreciate and to taste. There had only been the taking, a wild racing need that had spiraled outward.

There was still no time but they pretended that there was, that they had the time to take. As if this time belonged to them. Subaru had never had anything that belonged to him, at least not for long. His Hokuto. His Seishirou. His Destiny. They were all things he had no control over, things he couldn't affect but drift along in the wake of, reacting passively as he did to everything else with only a bitter anger to push him.

But it wasn't anger pushing him here.

He felt small, vulnerable and unguarded and too aware, as if his clothes truly were armor and what was left underneath was less a man than something too soft and crushable, a worm wriggling in the face of too much light once its rock had been lifted. And without the weight and bulk of his coat, he was all too aware that the dissimilarities between his frame and Kamui had more to do with insignificant things like the broadness of his shoulders and the boyish knit of muscles that Kamui still possessed but had been carved out of him. It was odd to stand like this, with Kamui able to look him straight in the eye if he so chose when all his memories were of having to crane his head downward. He felt the younger of the two of them, out of his element to say little of his depths, and had there been enough life in him to summon a blush he might have done just that. As it was, it was all he could do to meet Kamui's gaze, reaching down and tugging his turtleneck off, Kamui's hands following along his abdomen and sides as easy as a breath, whisper light and giving him form where they touched, making him real in a way that Subaru hadn't been in years.

It bewildered him that he could feel this way, that he could feel himself, could feel Subaru and Sakurazukamori so deeply entwined and entrenched, growing together instead of choking each other, the thorns of one pricking the other and both wanting this. This feeling, this act, this boy. Craving something more than desolation when those emotional deserts had been his comfort for so long.

Kamui's hands were strong, fingers gliding behind the arch of Subaru's throat, bringing them together, breathless before their lips even touched, Subaru's hands gripping the other's shoulders, chests brushing then touching as they drew nearer. It was like gravity, like falling, simple and unthinking, trying to learn the ways they fit, the ways they could kiss or touch.

Seishirou had always known how to kiss him or where to touch him, practiced and polished, able to set Subaru's skin on fire with just a glance or the not so subtle lift of a smirk. With Kamui it was different, enthusiasm in place of actual experience, unflagging and almost joyous, laughing just a little when they bumped chins or Subaru kissed just a little harder than was necessary. There was no acting in Kamui's reactions, no basis for falsehood, for Subaru to wonder if his lover was really with him or if his mind was elsewhere, with other things and people. He could no more parrot feelings back at Subaru than the sun and moon could switch places. What Kamui was, what he had always been at least with other people was honest, sometimes brutally so.

Admissions to himself were, of course, another matter entirely.

Drifting backward, Kamui twined their hands, each step slow, hampered by the kisses he darted against Subaru's mouth, leading him and still it left him stunned when their knees hit the mattress, Kamui having only a second to roll out from underneath him before his elbow caught him in the face. A second and it was enough, the younger boy rolling onto his side and finding his mouth again, kissing him as covetous fingers stroked the curve of Subaru's throat, playing at the rounding hollow there between flesh and bone. Subaru hissed as fingernails turned, raking lightly across his flesh, downward trails of teasing pleasure-pain, making awareness an acute, almost discomforting sensation. Those trailing nails skipped and skimmed a meandering path, an openly hesitant moment before they scratched across his nipple, Kamui's head lifting to watch him, just in time to see Subaru's eyes widen and feel the rush of air that escaped. Another hesitation and then those nails raked across his sensitive flesh again, catching the nub between forefinger and thumb, flicking it as violet eyes grew luminous in fascination. He caught Subaru's eyes and leaned down quickly to place a kiss in the center of his chest, as if he thought the Sumeragi needed comforting. The touch was butterfly soft, like the flap of paper thin wings or a puff of smoke curling, there and gone again. Then there again as Kamui lowered his face again, as if pulled by some magnetic north. Another kiss and then another walking across his chest like tiny feet, ticklish and breezy, Subaru's hands running across brown-black hair, watching it ruffle and feather around his fingers, the hard-soft of the scalp beneath as he offered what encouragement he could, fingers dancing and moving until he found the right spots, the ones that made Kamui's eyes become gauzy and slitted, flushing pink and pausing in his ministrations.

There was power in this, in as much as he gave to Kamui he was gaining it himself, testing it out as he tugged Kamui's face forward, watching eyes close completely as kiss-swollen lips tasted then feasted on his flesh, leaving fire in their wake. And when Kamui's mouth brushed against his nipple, Subaru found himself rising into that tentative touch, desiring and repulsed, nerves shredding just a little more as teeth scraped clumsily then with growing skill against tender skin, the scour-rasp of a tongue following as if to soothe the sting. It didn't nor did it banish that dizzying, too intimate feeling. What it gave was confidence, Kamui caressing his abdomen, a slow glide, fingers curling and palm splayed, stopping just above the hemline of his pants, mouth following the path his hand had already blazed, teeth catching and rolling bits of skin between them, nibbles that deepened the pink crawling up Kamui's complexion.

As lovely as that was to behold, he felt a change within himself, quicksilver and sea-shift in one, turbulent as Subaru propped himself up on his elbow, hand pressed at the juncture of Kamui's neck and shoulder as he all but buried his face on the other side. It was meant to be a kiss but the teeth behind it weren’t so gentle, impatient as the ragged breath that wrung out of him as Kamui's grip on his stomach tightened. He apologized for it with another, truer kiss against the pulse point fluttering so wildly, then over the curve, not quite mimicking Kamui's earlier actions but following the course, curious and wondering. Kamui smelled of soap and sweat and the lingering aftereffects of detergent on clothes, clean smells that made him think of happier times, when Hokuto would try and do the laundry, usually when there was nothing left in the apartment to wear and Kyoto was being stingy with their allowances. One of those lessons in life Obaachan had been so damn fond of shoving at them.

Life taught its own lessons. It didn't need help.

What was it like for Kamui? Subaru wondered, hands wandering, the skin beneath his hands almost girl-soft, all of Kamui's strength beneath those lean, seemingly muscle-less lines, his stomach dipping into a concave hollow just below the elastic of his dingy checkered boxers. Was he overwhelmed as Subaru was? Could he taste the reek of death and the blood Subaru had tried to soap off himself earlier, before coming over here, as if he could spare Kamui the pollution that seemed to fill his nose and mouth at odd moments? That coppery, bitter taste and the rich bile that followed, burning out the top of his throat in a sickly sweet mess? If so, he gave no indication and as Subaru studied him, he was hit by a sudden feeling of déjà vu, of lines crossing and meshing and meeting up, of similar builds and lean limbs, and it was dirty blond hair he saw, Kamui's features melting into something more gaijin and feral-lost and Subaru shuddered, his hand tightening.

Kamui inhaled sharply, his hand finding Subaru's where it lay gripping his hipbone, the sound startling the Sumeragi out of his reverie, familiar features reasserting themselves, dear and alive and so very concerned as the younger boy spoke, "Subaru? Subaru … what is it?"

He shook his head more out of blind stubbornness, determined not to drag those corpses chained to him into this, in between them, closing an arm around Kamui's waist and dragging him closer. He rolled back until the other was on top of him, a careless leg falling between his, desperate to forget as he craned his neck to find Kamui's mouth, giving him no more time for no more questions. It didn't take much to start things up again, just the rise of his leg between Kamui's, hips aligning, listening as Kamui's breath stuttered, eyes disquieted but his body followed Subaru's, reaching down to hold onto Subaru's hips as he rocked experimentally. Subaru thrust upward in response, his hands at the base of Kamui's spine, digging in there as he rubbed against the body on top of his, chests brushing and hips knocking through clothing, thin and thick. A thin wash of sweat broke out against his legs, leather pants drawn tighter and tighter still, Kamui's impatience finally getting the better of him and making things worse as he reached down to shove at his boxers, tangling with Subaru's arms in one breathless moment where neither seemed to be able to make their limbs work. Kamui laughed again and this time Subaru found himself chuckling in response, the sound strained and nervous and he wondered when he'd forgotten to laugh, to truly laugh. Perhaps with Hokuto, perhaps not. It wasn't fair to blame so many changes on Hokuto, on her death and her life.

It was four hands that pushed at those loose boxers, Kamui lifting up with an audible breath, wriggling against him, a curving buttock revealed here, a flash of leg there as he twisted, still perched on Subaru as the Sumeragi tried to help as he could but was unable to do much more than touch errant bits of now bared skin. Disentangling himself a moment, Kamui rested his weight on the palm of one hand, arms curving towards his feet as he pulled free of the garment at last, boxers sliding off curling toes to fall onto the floor. Subaru felt his breath catch, still propped and half lying there, unbearably hot now, eyes drawn to Kamui now that he could see the other properly. For the first time without injury or sickness staining the moment, for the first time with what he knew could only be desire coiling hot in his belly, disturbing serenity with the knife's edge of lust and need. And as Kamui turned his face back around, the younger boy froze, caught in a moment of perfect tension and potential, half kneeling, legs together so that the rounding knobs of ankles lined up and a pink arching instep was revealed. Kamui's legs were long, with little meat on them below the knee, the swell of thigh that ran to his hip the exception and not the rule, the waist above those tiny. His free hand had somehow fallen in the mattress just above the juncture of those thighs, dark hair against an upright shaft, blushing at the tip where it brushed Kamui's stomach.

So Kamui did want him. More than wanted him, if physical reactions were any judge.

"Come here," Subaru murmured, sitting up and watching the play of indecision in Kamui's eyes before the boy acquiesced, scooting over with newfound shyness.

This too was something new, his hands finding Kamui's hips and drawing him closer, watching as the boy tried not to squirm under his eyes, shocked at his own boldness as he examined the body in front of him, finding it pleasing. More than pleasing to his amazement, his hands tracing the muscles and planes before him, Kamui desperately trying to find somewhere to put his hands and being unable to, caught Subaru's forearms, his face an alarming shade of red.

"Subaru," his voice was almost a pained whine, "Could you… I mean, that is -- Hell, haven't you ever seen anyone naked before?"

"Not someone who's mine," Subaru answered, fingers trailing over the curve of Kamui's rear, producing another eruption of squirming before Kamui seemed to realize something.

"Yours?"

There was the edge of heartbreak in those wide eyes, heartbreak and hope and the nettles of other emotions too sweetly bitter to name, Subaru having to turn away from it and the hundreds of questions therein, ignoring him as he took Kamui's hands in his, placing them against the loops of his leather pants. "Help me?"

Two questions and the only answer received was the unknotting of a silver belt buckle, a clinking jingle, undone and Subaru found himself breathing a little easier once it was, Kamui's head bent so that he couldn't see anything beyond the flash of white against his lower lip, the boy chewing on it absently. Breathing became a bit more of a problem as Kamui struggled with the button of his pants, the fabric catching against rounding silver and threatening to stick, the boy's wrist brushing against his erection as Kamui twisted just a little more, sending flares cascading through him in sharpening spikes, leaving something raw in its place. Raw and wanting to be filled, soothed, Subaru's head tilting back, eyes closing as he swallowed. Abruptly all movement ceased, the grip against his waistband there but still. He was about to lift his head again when something moved along the front of his pants, rubbing him through the fabric and breathing was forgotten altogether.

The motion itself was simple, his hips lifting despite himself as Kamui's palm rubbed back and forth across the front of his pants, a small whimper escaping Subaru's lips. He dropped back against the pillow, knees rising as he planted his feet wider apart, voice tremulous, "T-this wasn't what I mea-nt by helping."

"Wasn't it?" The words were innocent but painted with a renewed confidence and coyness that told him the meaning behind them was anything but that, leaving him to gaze at Kamui through lowered lids.

The sound of the zipper that followed seemed too loud, filling the world up with a scratchy noise, impatient fingers rising to finally thumb the button free, the slack against his abdomen filling him with an edgy relief, taking the matter out of Kamui's hands as he pushed pants and undergarments off, Kamui catching the legs and pulling him completely free, tossing them over the side in what had to be a growing pile. Then Kamui was -- there again, catching Subaru's upper leg and holding it, holding him as he eyed him and Subaru's now visible lower half, leaning forward to nuzzle the length of Subaru's arousal with a slow, meaningful arch of nose and lips. Subaru whimpered, catching his--his lover's shoulders, not to restrain him but more because he needed something to hold onto, the feelings coiling in his belly threatening to erupt, a swell of fiery, mindless pleasure sweeping through him. His hips lifted again in a wordless, guttural communion, Kamui planting a kiss along the wrinkle-taut skin. He tightened his grip, squeezing Kamui's shoulders and the boy seemed to melt from under his grasp, finding his way between his legs, his expression wolfish, almost predatory as he pressed a kiss just below Subaru's navel, lips following the thin line of hair downward.

"Kamui," he panted, wanting more, wanting it all to stop, ice cracking before a sea of feeling and sensation, before sight and smell and so much touch that his body groaned and creaked with it, shaken to the core. "Kamui."

Everything was stripped, they were stripped of clothing, of barriers, of everything that didn't involve need and wanting, wanting so much it hurt, eyes wet as they rolled upward, the cords of his throat seeming to stretch and stretch until he was surprised they, that he, didn't burst in a million different directions, torn by invisible cords of conflicting desire. But what swam to the surface was how much he wanted Kamui, how much he wanted to feel his mouth and his fingers and that he wanted to feel his lover inside him, to know what it was to be stretched and if it was as lonely as Subaru feared.

He clamped down on his lip as Kamui's mouth touched the crown of his erection, fingers sliding up and down his shaft in a singular, petting motion, the palm of one sweat-slicked hand under his testicles, lifting and rolling them around in a circular, massaging motion. His tongue lapped over the slit and the vein that roped near it, Subaru's whimpers ripped out of him now, more helpless groans, hips begging as he lifted them, Kamui knelt between the cradle of his legs. His body clenched up and then loosened again, the heat in his belly growing warmer, becoming a molten sea as Kamui's teeth scraped along sensitive skin. Subaru felt himself twitch, the lips around his erection clamping down and suckling harder, just as the hands cradling him began to squeeze harder than before, stroking and coaxing until the breath was stolen. His mouth opened in a broken cry as the wave pulled him under, spilling quick and burning into the waiting mouth, feeling the bob and close of Kamui's throat as he emptied himself.

Strangely he felt anything but empty, limbs languorous and tired-tense, winded but not spent, still waiting as Kamui eyed him from the ridge of his stomach, his lips and chin disappearing after one last swallow, releasing softening flesh to place his mouth lower, Subaru feeling a jolting shudder tear through him as a tongue brushed against that intimate muscle, Kamui lifting his head again, eyes almost pleading. "May I?"

There was no question what he was asking and Subaru nodded, rolling onto his side then rising to his knees, back stretching, rising as he tried to steady himself, to find a calming center instead of the now trembling, exposed core, fingers lacing in the sheets as he glanced at the headboard. Behind him there was movement and he caught the flash of an arm digging around in the nightstand nearest him, a kiss between his shoulder blades to reassure him when the faint then more frantic muttered swearing did not. That faint litany ended as abruptly as it began, another kiss against his spine this time cutting it off, the bed lifting a little as Kamui moved quickly, almost bouncing behind him, catching Subaru's hips and kneading them, wet-warm kisses touching the pit of his spine and the rounding hollow of each buttock, Subaru feeling himself starting to stir just a little despite the still present weary satisfaction.

Kamui's lips moved and then -- he bit down, Subaru yelping as teeth closed around the center of one cheek, the lap of a tongue following it as he swung his head around, feeling a cold sweat break out on already dewy flesh, Kamui's gaze almost smug as he met Subaru's.

"I'm paying attention," Subaru managed, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible and achieving neither, back thrusting outward into Kamui's hands.

"Just making sure."

Kamui wagged a thin vial of Vaseline at him, expression becoming almost reproving, "Fortunately, one of us is prepared."

"You keep Vaseline by your bed in the hopes of having sex with strange men?" Subaru raised an eyebrow, watching Kamui puff up in outrage before frowning, "And how do you know I'm not prepared?"

"Well, are you?" Kamui paused, sounding faintly offended, "And I was not hoping to have sex with strange men. Just one."

"Are you saying I'm strange?"

"I think that question answers itself. And that thing you're doing? That's avoidance, Subaru."

He stretched, feeling lazy and almost sated, almost. "That's right. It is."

Kamui rolled his eyes good-naturedly, uncapping the vial and squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers, "You're lucky I love you."

There were times when the world drew its breath, moments when everything crystallized, ready to blossom and unfold in infinite possibilities, expectation throwing its weight and Subaru felt it hit him squarely in the chest, robbed of voice and words, the reality of what he'd always suspected hitting him with the subtlety of a brick to the head. The moment came and he didn't know what to say, lungs freezing up, the sweat trickling down his back icy. It wasn't that he didn't care for Kamui; he did. They wouldn't be in this position if he didn't but the last time he'd given an admission like that, two people had died -- his sister and the man Subaru thought he'd loved, the shell of him that was and the shards of that shell had buried deep in his heart, making him wary. Distrustful and cold and while he felt things with Kamui, things he never thought he would feel again, he found himself reluctant to put a name to it. At least not yet, afraid of what might yet come out of this.

But he had to say something, trying to find his voice, "Kamui …"

"Hold still," Kamui said briskly, though not unkindly, not quite lifting his gaze and the moment passed, leaving in its place a deepening sense of loss.

Stung, Subaru turned his head again, towards the metal headboard and the ruffled pillows close to his hands. It was ridiculous to feel rejected, especially given how he'd all but done the same in a more evident fashion but something in him ached, joy marred though not destroyed. He closed his eyes, concentrating on this, on spreading his legs a bit more and feeling Kamui settle behind him. Soothing fingers ran over his lower back before reclaiming his hip and dragging him forward just enough to feel the presence of greasy fingers ghosting along the seam of his buttocks, down, down, down until they found a bumpy ring of muscle. Subaru exhaled despite himself, anticipation starting to build in his stomach again as he waited, wondering why Kamui was hesitating, why he wasn't --

An oil slicked finger pressed against that muscle, rubbing and massaging, Kamui murmuring indistinguishable words though Subaru listened to their cadence, allowing himself to be lulled into relaxing as a finger pushed deeper, the probing odd and invasive and not a little painful. But he wanted this, enough to grit his teeth and push back against that slow wriggle, trying to unclench as much as possible as one finger then another began working within him. Despite the slight discomfort of this gradual slide inward, Subaru found he was getting used to it, sweat beading on his forehead, pushing back as Kamui delved within him, searching and wringing a choked gasp out of him, Kamui's fingers buried to the knuckle and still moving, scissoring him open. He could feel his excitement rebuilding, a crescendo to a dance that hadn't ended. He rocked backward, groaning as Kamui's fingers found his center, brushing against it quite by accident then again with more surety, a shock traveling down his spine and legs, toes tingling.

"Kamui," Subaru panted again helplessly, the words barely escaping before he realized his lover needed no encouragement, fingers pulling free and leaving Subaru bereft, a crashing emptiness in its place as he waited with ill-concealed impatience as Kamui squeezed out more greasy oil, liberally applying it to himself this time, small sounds of need and strain falling from the boy's lips.

Subaru found himself suddenly seized with the urge to turn around, to use the pretext of Vaseline to touch Kamui, touch him as he'd been touched, wanting those faint grunts and bitten back whimpers, wanting to know he'd caused them. Would Kamui feel as soft there as he did everywhere else? Or would it be different? Different from the way he felt on those nights where he'd woken sweat drenched, body afire from ghostly touches and caresses, the person in his dreams changing. Sometimes Seishirou, sometimes Kamui, and sometimes no one at all, no one beyond a faceless touch, the needs of his body overruling his mind and the heart that had been barren for so long he was certain nothing would ever seed there again. But this wasn't like that, not a hollow, mechanical lust, as programmed into him as eating or sleeping. This had everything to do with want and nothing to do with duty and as such, Subaru knew nothing of it at all, understanding little how to approach it because for all he'd told Kamui he should chase down what he wanted, that he should let nothing get in his way, that too had smacked of duty, of obligation. Hokuto had given her life for him and it seemed only fair that he give his life in return. 1999 had only been a pretext for it all.

But none of these thoughts mattered now, not as Kamui pressed himself close, the head of his erection against that loosened muscle as he gently grasped Subaru's rear, Subaru feeling his heart pick up in response, the other's breath coming unevenly as Kamui paused long enough to squeeze the flesh in his hands, the only warning he gave before he pushed forward, sliding inward bit by bit, Subaru unconsciously tightening around him. Taking his hips in hand, Kamui began making shallow thrusts, small, rounding pushes forward, past the initial resistance and the wavery moans bubbling up in his chest, burning Subaru's ears even as he stretched Subaru more with each slide. More and more until he was fully seated, Subaru hearing his blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating so fast he could taste it in his throat, pushing back against Kamui, urging him to move and aggravated when the only response was the knead of hands over his waist and hips.

"Kamui."

Fingers smoothed over his lower back and he felt his sanity slip a notch, impatience beginning to get the better of him and really, did Kamui want him to beg? "Kamui--"

Kamui seemed to roll forward, skin washing against skin, sliding as the sea does against the shore, inexorable, unstoppable and strong, far stronger than one would expect. Subaru edged forward with him, the balance of his hands suddenly seeming insignificant, a tremor creeping up his arms as Kamui moved again, slim hips canting in a fluid crash of flesh on flesh, an adroit seesawing motion of pleasure that overwhelmed the pain as Kamui thrust forward, Subaru meeting him on the return crest. Subaru lowered his head, hair brushing the mattress as he rocked backward, the balmy scent of salt and sex thick in his nose, muscles locking and unlocking as he listened to Kamui's grunts, half prayer and half strangled moan, leaning forward to kiss the nearest corner of shoulder, his fingers brushing Subaru's as he used his other arm to brace them both, wrapping around Subaru's waist, thighs sliding against thighs.

It was a dance, like sailing over open water, skipping across the surface, buffeted by waves and wind, pushed this way and that, each second coming faster than the one before it, bracing and freeing even as his arms and legs strained, as if he could break free of this flesh and bone holding him in place, holding them both in check, keeping them from melting into each other. Their rhythm was inborn, unchecked by propriety or duty or anything that didn't resemble desire and need, the world tinted in soft skin and increasingly violent movements, Kamui beginning to thrust faster, deeper inside him, Subaru's body mirroring, knowing where and how to move without thought, a feeling of completion and belonging sweet and heady and his, for once his. Lips touched his ear and Subaru whimpered, almost mewling as teeth joined lips, tiny nips that were a stinging counterpoint to the quivering beginning to encompass him, a storm of feeling, physical and emotional, shaking him from the inside out, aided as the arm around him slipped a little, Kamui's hand sneaking around to grasp his renewed erection, curling around it as his young lover quickened, the angle of Kamui's thrusts starting to lose cohesion, becoming wilder, out of control as his full weight slammed into Subaru, hitting his center, making the pleasure of before seem like nothing in comparison.

"Su~baru," Kamui drawled, voice husking, rich and raw and rolling over his senses like whisky, the muffled cries that followed it intoxicating as he tightened around Kamui, the hand touching him spasming then moving with more surety of purpose.

There was another roll and he was lost, caught in the undertow of a wave that didn't seem to stop, his body winding and winding, coiled and embracing Kamui's, bringing him home and holding on for a breathless instant that didn't have to be forever. It was more than enough, much more than enough and he knew that whatever else happened, he would never forget this, never forget the hard flow of release quaking through his body, taking Kamui with it, feeling in his lover an echo of the storm wracking him, Kamui thrusting forward one last time before they both collapsed as if all those rescue lines binding them had cut.

For a moment, it was all he could do to remember how to breathe, Kamui's weight heavy and hot and covering him, still buried within him but Subaru didn't mind, listening to the slowing thud of his heart in his ears, hesitating before he closed his hand over the smaller one next to his, squeezing it as he shut his eyes.

***continued in part C

FIC: Inner-cities of the Soul (1a/1), sequel to Only Hope

2005-03-18T07:48:43Z

Title: Inner-cities of the Soul (1a/1)
Series: X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Pairing: Kamui x Subaru
Rating: NC-17
Fic journal: thetwotrees

Warnings: This is posted in three parts because it turned out to be ... longer than I expected. XD;; Also, violence, death, angst, swearing, and a massive lemon of doom. Also a random CCD cameo. Some spoilers for X/1999.

Crossposted at: clampfiction & _notalone

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: '...and no one could know the identity of the Sakurazukamori without becoming his prey.'

Thanks: amet for betaing this fic. I <3 you like mad even though you killed my gentle commas.

Author's Notes: This story is the sequel to "Only Hope" found here. I recommend you read the first story if only so events in this story make more sense. I'm also going to warn yet again that this story contains a massive lemon and if the idea of homosexual sex squicks you like whoa, DON'T READ PAST THIS POINT, HERE THERE BE DRAGONS, ETC. (And no, I did not mean that as a pun.) I will also say right now that this story sets it up for there to be another one so don't get to the end and beat me with sticks for that, okay?

Inner-cities of the Soul
An X/1999 story
Sephy

There was a soft choke, the sucking intake of a breath caught in the act, frozen forever as it escaped fleshy whitened lips. The figure in his arms trembled as blood bubbled and trickled, a slow quickening that seemed to catch the man by surprise, tiny brown eyes widening as he lifted them towards his attacker. His skin, Sumeragi Subaru noted with dispassionate distaste, was oily and reeking of sex, a stale, sickly aroma that clung to the man, contaminating the air around him with the mix of oils and semen and beyond that a thicker, more biting tang that he knew to be blood. Subaru wiggled his fingers, feeling slippery tissue ripple then slide off his gloved fingers with a gentle splat against the carpet. Up to his elbow in viscera, he could see and feel everything, the way lungs stuttered, heart beating erratically like the wings of a trapped bird, and the weight of the body swaying as if it couldn't decide whether to fall forward into his arms or backward.

He made the decision for it, pressing the flat of his palm against the man's forehead and pushing back as he yanked his arm forward, an arching spray of blood and gore splattering against the walls and his clothing, all but invisible in the low lighting. The body fell forward with one last exhalation, flecks of bloody spittle staining it's chin, lip bitten through. Subaru knelt a moment longer, tilting his head and studying the corpse, the broad shoulders and the rounding paunch of stomach and hips, as much gifts of age as the streaks of gray in neat black hair. He'd been someone once, someone important, with connections and deals to be made and a life to live with a wife and children but now …

Just so much dead tissue and soon to be rotting organs.

Standing up, he turned away as the first petal of sakura appeared, a single spalsh of color against the other man's still warm flesh followed by another and then another, a cloying ravenous swarm of pinks and whites to devour and take what was needed. Once he'd wondered about that but now he understood only too well. This was the Tree's way, the way it fed, the way it nourished and empowered itself, making him its extension and weapon in one. He could feel its branches even now, twisting and catching around him, a greedy, ebullient thank you that he ignored as he always did, refusing to take the pleasure it offered to share, that of a fresh kill and sacrifice. He had chosen this position, yes but equally did he choose to treat it as what it was -- a position. A job. Just as much his duty as his onmyouji was, this was something he did because there was nothing else he could do. But he could decide the who and the how of it just as he could decide what he took away with him. In this case it was the memory of agonized browns, reflecting his innumerable sins back at him a thousand times over and the almost Jell-O-like feel of the older man's chest giving way beneath the smooth plunge of his fingers, brushing past bones and mining through organs, destroying them as his fingers passed through. The movement was a familiar one, the only way he could kill now reliving that one defining moment over and over again, almost to the point where he didn't flinch at the memory of mismatched eyes glinting at him, sensual lips lifting in one last cruel smirk and then the words that followed.

The words that Seishirou knew he would never forget. The words that had in one way or another damned him just as much as the spell Hokuto had placed on the other man.

He pivoted slowly towards the bed and the figure that lay huddled against the cheap headboard, stained sheets over one shoulder, stringy chin-length blond hair brushing against clenched lips, staring at the mattress as Subaru approached the bed. It was a boy, probably no older than eighteen, foreign and too skinny to be anything other picked up, bought and paid for a night's pleasure. It shouldn't have surprised him, not when boy whores were a dime a dozen in this district, pandering and selling their flesh as easily as their female counterparts, sometimes with more success. This one was probably popular, his features as distinctly gaijin as you could ever hope for but with the sweet, indefinable lines of a boy, androgynous if one ignored what those sheets were covering up, easily mistaken for a girl if one could ignore the faint downy hairs threatening to grow back on his upper lip.

Young then, but not young enough, not naïve enough to be blind to danger, tensing up as Subaru sat beside him on the bed but too submissive to do anything more than cower there, the tremors in his limbs turning to outright shakes. Subaru shook his head, making a low noise at him, wondering if the boy understood Japanese at all or if he only understood the money that crossed his palm. With his clean hand he reached out to stroke the whore's head, threading his gloves through brittle blond strands, smoothing his thumb over them until they feathered. The younger boy flinched, glancing at him and then away again, a hint of blue all he could see of those eyes beyond the long lashes that feathered against his cheeks when he closed them, already damp with tears. Subaru used the hand on the other's head to draw him closer until that sweetly slender body was pressed against him, the dry silk of hair brushing his lips and chin. There was no resistance, just a silent shudder and the lift of a hand to fist in the folds of his coat, the gesture hauntingly familiar though for the life of him he couldn't say why. Closing his own eyes, he dropped a kiss against the other's hair, the hand resting against the top of the boy's head tightening as he moved quickly, catching that sharp chin with his still gore-drenched hand, feeling the bone dig in as he twisted, a sharp crack and the sudden limpness of the body against his, fear silenced forever.

He was careful as he leaned back this time, placing his other arm underneath the broken body, straightening it on the bed and dabbing at the smear where his bloody fingers had held its chin, drawing the covers up to the child's chest placing dead fingers over it. It looked more peaceful this way, settled and over and almost enough to make him believe that the boy was sleeping, not here catching Subaru in the midst of a violent act. That Subaru hadn't had to take his miserable life because he'd seen and no one could know the identity of the Sakurazukamori without becoming his prey.

No one. Subaru glanced at the wall and closed his eyes. Except one.

***

Shirou Kamui squinted, nibbling on the end of his pencil before he hunched over again, scribbling a few more words then throwing his pencil across the desk, watching as it rolled to a bumping halt against the wall. Leaning back in his chair he glanced down at the half-written paper and then the digital clock across the room next to his bed. He felt restless, antsy and unable to sit still or well, pay attention to what he was writing apparently, wincing as he reread the last few sentences he'd written. As far as he could make out from the sudden hen scratches his writing had become, he thought he recognized the words. Maybe. If he turned the paper upside down and put it in front of a mirror. Dropping his head back, Kamui listened to his swivel chair creak, making a face at the ceiling. He only had two days left on his assignment unless he begged for an extension and prayed the teacher was generous and while this would be a cause for panic on a normal day given that his prose made street signs look like the most eloquent of haikus, Kamui found he simply couldn't be bothered. He had too much on his mind and English project or no, he just found himself unable to concentrate.

Not where there were other things on his mind.

Like the way he could still taste Subaru, a week later now, smoke and mint lingering on his tongue, the taste just palpable enough to drive him to distraction. Or the smooth weight of those gloved hands, the ones he'd never seen bare since Subaru had left the Dragons of Heaven, against his chest coming back to him at night when he lay in that finite state between dreaming and waking. The memory of green and amber-brown hazy with passion, alive and flickering, not glassy and dark, reflecting back outward the numb horror of the past. The warmth and the smells and a thousand other little things that came back to him at random moments, like the trace of his fingertips along the contours of Subaru's face, over high, curving cheekbones and the proud ridge of nose and brow. Words that made no sense now murmured afterward, nearly drowned out by the chirrup of crickets and the sounds of the campus at night, mixing into a strange, singsong lullaby.

O-kay he was so clearly not going to get any work done at this rate, turning again in his chair, standing up and stretching, arms twisting around his head and reaching for his shoulder blade, feeling the slow burn of muscles. He twisted his head until his the joints of shoulder and neck popped, a rush-relief following on its heels before he turned to his legs, balancing on one foot and lifting until his toes brushed his buttocks. It was a patently ridiculous position but it made him feel better and gave him something else to concentrate on. And that was good because there were plenty of more important things to do than wonder why Subaru had all but disappeared without a word or a gesture that he even meant to return. Certainly more important things to do than wonder what the Sumeragi was doing and if he was all right because no, he was not concerned in the slightest. Subaru could come and go as he pleased and it was all the same to Kamui because he knew from past experience that it did no good to try and put a leash on Subaru's movements or to allow himself the tantrum that begged to be thrown. He wasn't some green sixteen year old and if Subaru had things he'd rather do after that night then be around Kamui, it was really just fine.

Fine. Right.

'Fine my ass' he thought mournfully, dropping his foot loudly against the floor, wincing as his toes scuffed the wooden boards. Pushing a fist against his spine, he looked around his threadbare room with very little enthusiasm. He really should have taken Keiichi up on those offer for posters, as insipid as some of those slogans had been. Granted they were the remnants of some fundraiser for the education majors and free but there was just something about cute fuzzy chicks breaking out of an egg followed up with some clichéd inspirational slogan that constituted cruel and unusual punishment or so he thought.

Still, it would have been something beyond the occasional bulletin or reminder he posted on the corkboard near his bed or the lonely calendar over his desk. Something more than the white wash of walls, lovely in its own way to be sure but there was something impersonal about the room despite the piles of clothes in one corner and the books stacked along the walls, stretching out in every available direction. He didn't have a television, the radio in the corner more than enough to fulfill his needs and moreover, he'd bought it himself with his own money. The apartment itself was courtesy of Imonoyama-sama, a studio in one of the student run apartments, the Chairman of CLAMP Academy all but insisting that not only was his tuition waived but so were his housing bills. A little thank you, Imonoyama-sama had said with a twinkle in those deep blue eyes, for not letting the world be destroyed. He appreciated the gesture, really he did but after being dependent for so long he wanted to do things for himself, make his own mistakes without fear of the consequences causing the world to shatter into a billion pieces just because he happened to buy the wrong toothpaste one morning.

Besides, given what he'd had to do and sacrifice in order to "save the world," Kamui wasn't sure he deserved the compensation. Certainly not for trying to do the right thing.

Leaning forward, Kamui snagged his uniform shirt and tie shed and abandoned near the chair, giving both a bit of a shake as if to clear the wrinkles starting to crush into fabric. As much as he hated ironing, picking up after himself wasn't much higher on his list of fun things. 'Maybe it'll straighten out if I leave it in the bathroom the next time I shower?' It couldn't hurt, he supposed, folding the clothes over his arm and padding over to the closet to snag a coat hanger, hanging the shirt and draping the tie over the hook. And it wasn't as if he had anything better to do tonight. Granted there was probably something happening on campus somewhere if he were inclined to go hunt it up and put up with the crowds of people likely to be gathering but that would take more effort, to say little of socialization, than he wanted to put in. Kamui was also pretty sure that trying to read through his homework right now would mean re-reading the same passage over again later because he wouldn't remember what he read first time around and at this point he had no desire to start doodling Subaru's name over and over again in the margins like some lovesick teenage girl. He wasn't that hard up or desperate and he'd pass go if it was all the same to the universe.

So that left the shower and maybe he could hack away some zombies on the game he'd just downloaded, grateful that CLAMP Academy felt that every student despite social or economic status needed a computer in their room, a fee his waived tuition had taken care of entirely. He hadn't quite gotten into the online lifestyle that many of his classmates were into, even less inclined to talk to a faceless handle on a computer screen than he was to a real person but he could appreciate certain aspects of it. Particularly the part where he could download or rent games for himself. Hacking up zombies or one player shooter games, those he could get into, being mindless enough he could easily pass a few hours on, more intent on blowing up animated bytes rather to focus on his own problems. Which were, he was forced to admit, not really that much in the grand scheme of things. He had a roof over his head, food, and his education was coming along and in so far as he knew, the world was in one piece. More or less. Or at least if it wasn't, it wasn't his fault or responsibility to fix it. That was something. Sort of. Maybe.

He'd take what he could get.

"Okay then a shower and then a round of blowing shit up on ye old computer system. What more could any self-respecting teenage boy want?" He muttered, pushing his hair out of his eyes then frowning, tapping the coat hanger against his lips. "Except that now I'm talking to myself again and I'm pretty sure that's not good."

Shaking his head, Kamui rocked back on the balls of his feet, closing the closet door, hanger still in hand as he turned and promptly shrieked in a manner that made him supremely, supremely happy that his walls were soundproof and his next door neighbors couldn't hear anything incriminating.

Subaru was leaning against the front door tipping his head in a quizzical fashion, though goddamn him if there wasn't a hint of something curving his lips and Kamui swore silently that if Subaru did anything that remotely resembled a smile, he'd murder him. He was dressed from head to toe in his typical mourning black, a shtick that made him look either slightly vampiric or like a refugee from a wannabe Goth club, Kamui could never decide which. It suited him but he did miss seeing Subaru in other colors even if those other colors had been varying shades of gray or white or drab green. As it was, he wondered how Subaru managed to pass through a crowd unnoticed because while Kamui appreciated the leather (in all ways did he appreciate the leather), the tight black pants and the trench coat of doom with buckles seemed to scream for attention and given what Subaru now er…did, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. I mean, hello? Sakurazukamori?' Kamui thought, waiting for his heart to calm down, not trusting himself to speak just yet. 'Not the most inconspicuous outfit ever.' Maybe he was just too used to the previous Sakurazukamori and Seishirou's penchant for off the rack suits that made him look like a businessman and not an assassin.

Hanger pressed against his chest in an almost protective gesture, he held out a hand, glancing around then back at Subaru, "Okay, you with the being here and -- Excuse me but what the fuck?!"

"I let myself in."

"I can see that. Not that I'm not glad to see you but damn, warning? Please? I know it's probably really hilarious to give me a heart attack but how? When? Er, how? Because I'm pretty damn sure I locked that door and I'm also pretty sure I didn't hear anyone unlock it."

Subaru's eyes drifted over him, arms crossed over his chest, "What would you do if I said it was magic?"

"Threaten to kill you."

"Let myself in," Subaru repeated without missing a beat though his eyes were a shade lighter than they'd been.

"Right because you have such magic fingers," Kamui snorted then colored, his face burning as he realized what he'd said, backpedaling, "I mean, not that I would -- Or that you don't have -- That is, to say, um --"

"Have what?"

'Damn him,' Kamui thought, glowering at the ground as he tried to collect himself, not buying for an instant that oh so innocent tone. "Okay, I think rather than embarrass myself any further and seeing as the earth isn't opening up to swallow me whole when I really need it to, maybe we should start again," He peered at him through a fringe of bangs, "Hi, Subaru. Nice to see you again. On campus even and we've had this discussion already, I think."

"We have," Subaru nodded, "Or rather you talked and I listened."

"And decided that it was a good idea to come anyway even though I've told you that it makes Imonoyama-sama twitchy and they have their phasers set to kill?"

"Imonoyama-sama doesn't have phasers, Kamui."

"You don't know. He could. God knows he has everything else you could possibly want here. I mean, for all we know that giant blowfish on the clock tower? Totally a death ray."

"A death ray?"

Kamui nodded, attempting to look serious and stern and all but having to clamp down on his lip, words muffling a bit. "I've always thought its eyes were a little suspicious, yes."

"And he didn't use this during the end of the world…why?"

"Wasn't developed yet. These things take time. Can't build the Death Star in a night."

"There are Star Wars references now?"

"Grabbed it out of my meager bag of pop culture references," Kamui admitted, resting a hand on his hip, looking chagrined, "Keiichi says it helps."

"Helps?"

"To sound like I haven't been living with adults my entire life. Or that I missed out on most of the last decade or so. All those little things you miss when you're running for your life."

"Ah."

Subaru didn't exactly look uncomfortable so much as inscrutable, more so than usual at any rate and Kamui wasn't sure if it was his bringing up of 1999 so flippantly or if he was doing it to see how far he could poke Kamui before the boy exploded on him. He couldn't fault the other man for that, given how certain subjects were more than sore points but as he couldn't exactly erase the entire year and pretend it never happened. Kamui was trying to find ways to deal with what happened or if nothing else, put things into perspective. A really warped perspective but perspective nonetheless. With some things it was easier than others, slowly coming to the realization that there were some subjects like Fuuma and the incident at Rainbow Bridge that he would never be comfortable with joking about ever.

"So yeah," Kamui subsided, face relaxing as some of his amusement subsided, "You're here. Which is good. I like here. I'm just, yanno, kind of surprised."

"Why?"

"Because you're here at all? You kind of dropped off the radar for a few days. I wasn't really sure you were coming back."

Subaru lifted an eyebrow, looking a touch wary, if not confused, "Why not?"

"Oh hell, I don't know? Because you walked off like thirty minutes after we had sex? How's that one grab you? It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of my prowess or your enjoyment and just … " He paused and rubbed the back of his neck, looking pained. "I don't know? I wasn't expecting you to turn up this soon. Or at all, really."

There it was again, that unreadable stare, brown and green eyes dilated to pinpoints, lips neither smiling nor frowning, just still and measuring like some ancient sphinx. It was all he could do not to fidget under the weight of that stare or worse, puff up defensively and thereby guaranteeing to put his foot in his mouth and say the wrong damn thing at the worst possible moment. It made him uneasy, that look did, as if Subaru were dissecting him bit by bit and making some sort of judgment that would decide the entire course of the rest of the conversation and he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit.

"I had things to do," Subaru stirred at last, gloved hands reaching up to run through his hair, damp strands glistening in the light, Kamui noticed with a start. "Things to attend to."

He said that as if it explained everything and Kamui supposed it did but it didn't make him any happier. Drawing a breath, he shrugged. "Sure, things. Everyone has things. I have things too. Lots of them. School and work and … school."

"You work?" Subaru did sound surprised now, almost disbelieving.

Kamui bristled. "Yes, I work. I have a steady job, thank you very much. Are you saying there's something wrong with that?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying? I do have to make a living now. I'm not some -- some charity case living off the Imonoyama Nokoru Orphan Relief Fund. Nor am I incapable of a hard day's work."

"I didn't say that either," Subaru protested, lurching out of his lean and taking a few steps closer, studying him, "Why are you so angry?"

"I'm not --" Kamui paused, realizing his voice was raising and his words were coming faster than they should have been. "I'm not angry. I'm just -- I don't want charity. Or pity. I want to do something for myself for once. I don't see what's so wrong with that."

"And is that all?" Subaru crept forward another step, arms still crossed as his gaze turned more probing.

Kamui frowned and he looked away, thrown by the other's sudden nearness and having to resist the urge to move back a step, to reassert some sort of distance while he tried to sort out what was in his mind. "You went away." He glanced at Subaru and then away again. "You went away and you didn't say anything after saying I'd made the right choice. Not 'That was great, honey' or 'Oh Jesus, we just did that?' or … "

"Or what?"

Kamui shook his head stubbornly. "You didn't say anything and I thought … Well, " he stopped picking at his fingers and forced himself to straighten up and look Subaru square in the eye, "I thought you'd changed your mind. That you'd thought better and you -- weren't coming back."

"There've been times I've gone away before and you never thought I wouldn't be back," Subaru pointed out.

"I'm aware of that. It doesn't mean I have to like it, Subaru. It doesn't mean that I don't mind when you do. Especially since you have a tendency to go to ground right after something big happens. A guy likes knowing where he stands sometimes."

"But that's my hang up, I guess, not yours," Kamui rubbed his forehead, giving him a small smile, "It's not important."

"Kamui, why do you think I'm here?"

"Damned if I know," Kamui shrugged again and laughed, the sound thick and bitter, all those jagged edges making themselves known again. "Healthy dose of masochism?"

"There's that," Subaru agreed, "But there's also the fact that I wanted to see you again."

"You did? I mean, it's good that you did but um…why?" Unable to stop himself, Kamui raised his fingers to his lips, chewing on the nails for a moment before Subaru rolled his eyes and tugged his hand away.

"I wanted to," Subaru said, squeezing his hand in emphasis, his voice never raising even if as it became more firm. "That's reason enough, isn't it?"

Kamui looked at him and then their entwined fingers, nodding slowly. "I guess it is."

*** continue to part 1b

Also

2005-02-14T06:35:21Z

amet has posted the first part of our joint CLAMP multi-parter. If you're interested head on over to her journal at sandinmyshoes to check it out.

And now I'm going to go splat for the night.

FIC: Only Hope (1/1), an X/1999 vignette

2005-02-14T06:26:13Z

Title: Only Hope
Series: X/1999
Author: Sephy
Genre: Drama
Pairing: Kamui x Subaru (yes, in that order)
Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Angst, swearing, sex. If you have problems with citrus then don't read this. Some spoilers for X/1999.

Crossposted at: clampfiction & _notalone

Disclaimer: I don't own X/1999 and its characters. They are the property of CLAMP and I'm only playing in their sandbox. No profit is intended.

Summary: There was something amusing about the fact that there were still things that could make him nervous given all that had happened.

Thanks: amet for betaing this fic. <3's

Author's Notes: This fic is my Valentine's Day gift for amet & nezumishi. Amet because she's my sweetie and I love her muchly and June because I felt that after all the wonderful things she's done, I owed her some SubaruxKamui/KamuixSubaru fiction. Or in this case, some KxS citrus. June? I hope you enjoy this. ^^ *snugs*

Only Hope
An X/1999 vignette
Sephy

He'd been here before.

So many times Shirou Kamui had walked past this spot on the way to class, a roundabout way to be sure and one that more often than not made him late but for whatever reason he couldn't stop himself. Still can't, even now so long after the fact, after all that was left of those lazy afternoons was the memory of drowning warmth and the low drawl of Subaru's voice, the words rising and falling in a cadence he can still hear all the way down to his toes.

The gazebo was quiet now so long after sunset, almost hidden by trees and shrubbery, the wind off the lake lifting branches, a wordless rustle that played with hair and clothing. There was a clean smell here like the one he remembered from those days not so long past, freshly cut grass and dew, the grounds still wet from the afternoon rain. This was CLAMP campus, wild and civilized, dense forests not clustered uncomfortably but sprawling, the river winding on and on into smaller ponds and ornamental lakes, steel and plexiglass high rises rearing out of the woodland. The same magic that had once helped conceal the Shinken and protect the campus for so long also aided in the climate controlled circumstances, the perfection of spring caught forever for all the students here to enjoy. Strings of lights and street lamps dotted the campus, stark pinks and orange against the faint indigo of sunset, cloud cover finally starting to roll in.

Kamui rubbed his arms, skin rippling with a faint chill, pausing before the darkened structure, then approaching it with ginger care. He paused a moment before stepping over the threshold, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It felt colder somehow; colder and smaller, the stone table in the middle of the building more rough and abused than he cared to remember. He hadn't actually been inside the gazebo in so long, not since that morning he'd awoke to find his life had changed yet again, the billow of satin curtains in farewell the only good-bye he'd ever been given by anything relating to Subaru.

Reaching out he let his fingertips skim the air above the table, detecting a hint of cool before he turned, scooting up and backward quickly, sitting down and trying not to wince as that cold turned to ice, the stone having lost whatever warmth that had baked into it as the day marched onward. Now it was cold and still and waiting. Sleeping, he supposed, until the next day. Until classes began anew again and someone tromped past, using the gazebo for whatever purpose they chose -- a meeting ground, a place of solace and quiet, or maybe a lover's hideout.

His face warmed a little at the last, and Kamui scowled, sliding his legs onto one of the benches, arms resting against his knees as he looked out onto the campus at a new angle. He caught a glimpse of the carnilion as it began chiming in the distance, a steady, hollowing thrum that he could feel echo around in his skull and through his teeth which he gritted in an effort to curb the sensation. Tapping his foot, he shifted again, passing a hand over his hair and ear, flattening the palm there and then pulling it away again, the weird suctioning pressure that followed disconcerting.

The bell tolled and then in the lull that followed, he felt -- something, a shadow, a stillness that made all the silences before it seem false. Kamui froze, half-tempted to look over his shoulder instead stiffening and straightening in an attempt to look more like an adult and not the gawky, soon to be eighteen year old he was. In his case, this meant not moving too much lest his limbs tangle up and he trip over them as he was wont to do when he was nervous sometimes.

There was something amusing about the fact that there were still things that could make him nervous given all that had happened.

"You know, if you didn't want to meet here, Kamui, you could have said no," The voice was part of the stillness instead of shattering it, smooth and calm, not dry and unemotional as some might have thought but filled with hidden depths and just now, the slightest hint of humor. "I wouldn't have held it against you."

Kamui shrugged or attempted to without moving very much, "It's not a big deal. I just don't know why this sudden attack of nostalgia."

"You do remember who you're talking to right?"

Something shifted and he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, chewing on his lip as he attempted to remain still. Whether he willed it or no, it was always like this when they met. The atmosphere seeming to tense up, pregnant with possibilities, with words and thoughts that were never voiced and actions that could never be taken back.

"That's not nostalgia," Kamui said, "That's living in the past. And there's a difference."

"Really? And what would that be?"

The other sounded calm, too calm, damn him and the amusement he'd strained to hear before was there again, more evident than before. Kamui's ears heated and he hunched over just a bit, tugging at his fingers and popping them nervously. "Nostalgia's appreciating the past. Appreciating. Not living in it. Not breathing and walking through it like you're still caught in it."

This was dangerous ground, a conversation that they'd skirted a time or two but never had completely and the last thing Kamui wanted to do was cause offense or pick a fight. The last time that had happened it was nearly three weeks before he was given a chance to make amends. There were some places, some subjects that they'd found it was better to avoid if at all possible and he wasn't stupid enough not to sense the potential for another mood shift, one far less playful than what he was seeing now.

"Anyway, I'm not saying I didn't want to meet here. I'm just surprised to see you … well, on Campus? At all? Especially after the sensor thingies went off like they did last time," Kamui paused, biting the inside of his lip now in an effort not to smile, "I don't think I've ever seen you move quite that fast before. Not even when Fu--"

The words choked and he was sorry he'd brought them up, sorry he'd brought up that time and him, falling silent again. Nervous fingers brushed his bangs out of his face, wishing he had something to do with his hands, something more than just feel them twitch, scarred skin mottled in the dimness, silver leeched white until the skin looked like it truly was, dead.

"Kamui."

Lips brushed his ear and he couldn't help but start at that, trying to steady himself as an arm closed around his waist, drawn closer until all he could feel was warmth, that and the thrum of a heart beating against his back, the scent of cigarettes and something cleaner underneath like sage or mint wrapping around him, refusing to let go, as unyielding as that past they'd spoken of earlier. A gloved hand insinuated itself against his chest, resting just above his heart and if that spooked him Kamui opted not to admit it, not even to himself, instead leaning back and resting his head against the shoulder offered. The arms around him were surprisingly strong for all their deceptive frailty, a little too long and thin, almost spindly, clad in heavy leather. Kamui tilted his head, the milk white expanse of a throat peering out of a black turtleneck and above it the gently rounding, almost heart-shaped features that were too masculine to be pretty but were beautiful nonetheless. Like that single emerald eye, still wide and almost innocent despite the weary tint reflecting back at him, mirrored by the disparate brown eye across from it, lids drooping until Kamui could only see strips of color as Subaru moved to brush his lips against the top of his head. For the Sumeragi it was a terribly intimate gesture, one that spoke volumes, almost as much as this simple embrace, lifting his fingers to rest atop the hand on his chest, not quite twining them together as much as he wanted that.

He couldn't say why Subaru had started coming around, only that he had and that he showed no inclination to stop any time soon. Which might have might have been a problem if Kamui hadn't wanted it so badly himself. Unlike Subaru, he'd never been very good at hiding, not what he felt or even what he thought. In that they were almost polar opposites, Kamui lacking the restraint that came now as second nature to Subaru, his heart out in the open where everyone could see it. See it and possibly grind it into the ground.

He'd never been able to just accept things as the older man did, not when the status quo went against everything in him. So he railed and he fought because that was better than just sitting back and doing nothing at all. Fighting was hard and it was all the time and it never stopped but fighting was also part of being alive. And there were too many people now broken and dead for him to just give up. It was maybe the one thing he could not do, not even for Subaru, not with so many corpses paving the way from past to present.

And the future? He didn't think in terms of futures anymore. Not when each moment was a future creating and destroying itself all over and over again. He'd lived an entire year with the weight of the future on his shoulders and after 1999, he wasn't sure it was something he wanted to dwell on anymore, not when it superceded the present.

Subaru… It was unfair to say that Subaru lived in the past. Lived with it was possibly a better way of putting it. Lived with it and breathed it and was haunted by it, pulled into it by the smallest of things. A thunderstorm in Shinjuku. The laughter of young girls as they ran at then around them, decked out in bright colors like exotic birds, eyes alight with the sheer enjoyment of life. Or the faint outline of Rainbow Bridge in the distance, all sleek rebuilt lines and angles, bigger and taller than before, a monument of steel garters and lighted cables. Kamui had shuddered the day the bridge had been unveiled, setting foot on it for the first and only time that day, wracked by the ghost of too many memories himself to ever be comfortable there. Not when with that first step he had so clearly seen Subaru again, hunched over and clutching the dead body of the Sakurazukamori to him, face all too flushed with emotion for the first time since Kamui had met him --

But Subaru walked there tempting the past, tempting himself beyond all reason by going there. Kamui knew this because the Sumeragi had told him so, the words cutting him so deep that there were still shards buried beneath his skin, left over fragments of anguish and jealousy and so much insecure longing. An echo of who he had been and who he was now, a too sober boy with occasional outbursts of temper who despite his efforts to the contrary could never quite find his place amongst his peer group. His pieces were too rough, too jagged and bent in places and he never felt comfortable. Not around most people, trusting very few and reaching out to even fewer, happier to visit Kotori's tree and commune with the birds nesting there, climbing those twisting branches and finding solace in the sky and the wind.

It should have been lonely and sometimes it was but Kamui was also happy to sit back and watch for a change. To not be in the thrust and the pulse of events all the time, better equipped now to choose what battles he wanted to fight.

"I'm sorry," Kamui spoke at last, wincing at the apathetic contrition that marred his tone, dulling it to the point of resignation as only one topic could. "I didn't mean to bring up -- to bring it up."

"I know," Subaru's soft voice offered little comfort but the arms around him tightened perceptibly. "And I didn't mean to bring up the past. Or rather I did but I'd hoped for something a little less -- painful, I guess."

Subaru waited, the chin resting against Kamui's head moving a little as if he were looking around, before continuing, "This place, those days -- they weren't painful. Do you remember them? In all the time from my sister's death to this moment, I think the time we spent here was the happiest I remember being. Or," Subaru's tone became deprecating now, "as familiar as I am with that term anyway. Happiness."

"No, they were. They were --" Kamui searched for a word now, simpler too much of a lie and complicated not even beginning to cover it. "different, I guess."

And they had been. Different from any of the days he'd ever known, even with Fuuma and Kotori. With Fuuma and Kotori he had been a child, with childish thoughts and desires, the friendship and love he felt for them something different that the complex mesh of feelings Subaru had always roused in him. Admiration. Despair. Anger. Hope. And a nascent desire that had all but overwhelmed him. But he'd never seen Subaru, not as he truly was, not then at least. Kamui knew what Subaru had shown him, feeling a kinship and a closeness that he'd never felt with another living being, not even Fuuma and Kotori. He and Subaru -- they weren't like everyone else, and what had been foisted off on their shoulders was something that no one, no sane human being, would ever willingly bear. Alone and singular and marked as exceptional from the moment they were born, not having a goddamn say in that because what did Destiny care about human wants or wishes?

He'd known Subaru better than anyone else but he'd never known what was at the bottom of his heart, the wish that all others were based upon. Because he'd wanted to see Subaru the way he thought he should be and not the way he was, because he'd wanted to lean on Subaru, to take comfort in his presence when there was no comfort in the chaos of 1999. But Subaru was far more broken than Kamui had comprehended at the time, broken and lost and always needing something, some sense of balance that had been torn from him.

It was not until Rainbow Bridge and then after seeing Subaru at Fuuma's side, whole once more with Seishirou's brown eye and the mantle of the Sakurazukamori on him, that Kamui had begun to understand. Or thought he had.

Understanding Subaru was turning out to be a lifelong occupation, one fraught with all sorts of opportunities for misunderstanding.

"Different," Subaru agreed. A more wistful note entered his voice, "When I was little, I thought happiness was -- well, that it just was. That it was something you could just find and hold onto. But it isn't like that at all. It's fleeting and it's fragile and you never realize that you've held it until it's gone."

Kamui thought about that, the image of blood on white skin, linen stained scarlet as beads scattered to the winds and a girl with Subaru's face falling like a flower cut down too soon. Too soon. It was always too soon with death but there were some deaths that were far sooner and more urgent than others. Death had a way of changing things, of changing people, whether strengthening or breaking them completely. Happiness was like that, too. Something you could yearn for and never have, separated from the rest of humanity by the bitter fruit of knowledge, of knowing there was more going on than all those around you could ever hope to fathom. The desire for happiness, for acceptance and love, searching in all the places where it should be and wasn't, could drive you mad. But that maybe that was the crux of it because happiness was never something you could force; it was something that found you when you weren't expecting it.

"I think that happiness is something you have to make for yourself. Something you have to take and make your own. That's why it never lasts. It's too easy to just let it slip and not do anything about it except mourn. Trying for it, trying --" Kamui shrugged against Subaru. "Trying is harder."

"Trying is always harder," Subaru said. "And it always hurts more."

"Subaru?"

"Yes?"

Sitting up, Kamui didn't disentangle himself so much as he twisted his body around until he was able to look at Subaru, eye to eye, trying not to tense up as he saw the other's eyebrow raise. He took the hand that had been resting against his chest and held it in his hands, squeezing it. "Subaru? Why are you here?"

"Because I thought this would be a nice reminder of --"

"No, Subaru. Why are you here? Why are you with me? Why -- why have you come?"

The Sumeragi lapsed into silence, head tilting as his chin raised, expression neutral. "Don't you know?"

He thought he did. He thought but -- he'd made misunderstanding Sumeragi Subaru an art form. Every time he thought he had the man pegged, Subaru did something completely unpredictable and he was left learning all over again.

"No," Kamui shook his head, nervous fingers squeezing Subaru's. "I've never known. I've never known how you find me. How you know when -- when I'm thinking of you. Those times when I need you here and those times I need you not to be. And I've never known why -- Well, why? Is this a game? Something to do to pass the time?"

"Is that what you think it is?"

"I don't know what I think," And Kamui smiled a little now, even in the face of the awful calm creeping over Subaru's features. "I never have. Kind of my specialty remember?"

"Do you want me to go, Kamui? Do you --"

"No! No, that's --" Kamui drew a breath and shook his head again. "That's not what I meant. That's not what I want at all but I need to know. Why are you here? What is it you -- well, what do you want? Because I'm not anyone special anymore. I'm all used up on wishes and what hopes I have … "

He trailed off for a moment, glancing away, towards the carnilion again, the canary yellow spire rounding off into the emblem of CLAMP Campus. "I never thought … Well, I never thought about any of this. I never thought I would live to be almost eighteen, let alone seventeen. I never thought I would be walking and breathing and going to school and trying to pretend that nothing happened at all. That you none of you ever existed, that Sorata isn't dead and Fuuma -- After Fuuma, I never thought I would have any hope ever again. And after seeing you at his side, I prayed I never would again."

"But?"

"But you're here. You're here and I don't know why you're here or why you keep coming back. You're here and all I can feel is hope, burning me whole. You come and I feel like I'm going to burst with happiness and then you leave and I'm still happy because I tell myself that you'll be back. Even when there's no reason for you to be here at all. Not you. Not the Sakurazukamori. Not Sumeragi Subaru. Especially knowing that Imonoyama-sama has forbidden you to set foot on campus."

"I wasn't aware I was expected to keep accordance with Imonoyama-sama's edicts. Is that what you want?"

"Why is that the only thing you ever ask of me? 'Is that what you want?' What is it you want, Subaru?"

Subaru let his gaze drift over Kamui, slowly then back up again with all due seriousness, his green eye almost earnest for once, something that seemed both alien and out of place, "I would think that's obvious."

"You …" Kamui choked, putting a hand against his temple, mumbling. "Okay. I think reality is checking out for me right now so I'm going to go before I do something incredibly stupid because there is no way that you said what I think you just said."

"What is it you think I'm saying -- "

"Okay, can we cut the questions? Please? I had enough of those in 1999 and I don't like them any better now than I did then. If this is one of those figure it out for yourself exercise things, I'm going home. I mean, would it kill you to answer a question instead of asking me another one?"

Subaru drew back, crossing his arms, face slipping into a more familiar, if not pensive set as he stepped away, leaning against one of the gazebo beams. He seemed to consider the question, turning it over in his mind for a few minutes before he finally shifted, turning his face towards the campus. "I like it here. I like -- spending time with you. Being around you. It's … different."

"Different how?" Kamui was surprised to find his voice, having to work to close his mouth.

Subaru glanced at him then up towards the overhang, "Different. From everything else. From my life. From what I do now. I feel."

"Feel what?"

"Who's asking the questions now?" Subaru challenged but not unkindly, "I feel, Kamui. Something. Anything. I don't know what it is. I just know that the only time I feel real, that I feel as if I exist in the here and now and not in an endlessly looping past is when you're here."

His face warmed again. No, not warmed, burned, a splash of white-hot fire heating his cheeks and crawling from his neck onward. He would have given the world once for those words and now, now…

It wasn't enough.

Palms flattening against the table, he vaulted out of his sitting position, sensing Subaru watching him more than anything else as he straightened his tie and uniform, grimacing at the faint brown smudge staining his shirt, reminding himself to put in for the wash rather than on the floor and thereby for tomorrow's wearing again. Then he put his hands behind his back, the picture of innocence and composure as he took a tentative step towards the Sumeragi. That delicate brown eyebrow was raised again, expression faintly quizzical as if Subaru suddenly didn't know what to make of Kamui at all. He drifted closer, each step claiming more ground than the last for all the tiny steps he took, giving, at least in his mind, Subaru the time and opportunity to do something. Stop him. Or move back. But Subaru continued to watch him, something close to amusement in the brown eye while the green seemed nonplussed, interested and afraid at the same time.

Kamui had grown in the last year and a half though not by much, tall enough now that he could look Subaru squarely in those mismatched eyes, able to see them widen as he slide a hand under Subaru's chin, leaning forward those last few centimeters to press his lips against Subaru's.

As kisses go, it probably wasn't much. It had none of the ravenous demands that Fuuma had placed upon him, demands followed with fear and pain that had made him want to shy back when anyone touched him, even now having to work not to flinch away with Subaru. Nor was it a shy fumbling mash of furitive kisses, stolen in a moment before a world ended and Kotori was taken from him forever. It wasn't even the quick, giggly kisses a couple of his female classmates had pressed against his cheek this last Valentine's Day, exploding into laughter as he stood there sputtering.

This was tentative and slow, careful as his hand came to rest gingerly on Subaru's shoulder, stepping closer and feeling Subaru straighten, a hand finding itself against the base of Kamui's spine. Subaru's mouth was cool and soft like the skin he was holding in his fingers, lips parted just a little because of Kamui's hold on his chin more than anything else and Kamui let his tongue brush against that tempting lower lip cautiously, wary of any change, any tension that might signal a rejection or oncoming violence.

But there was nothing. Just unmoving perfection, cold and unyielding as Kamui sighed, trying to swallow his disappointment as he pulled back, memorizing Subaru's face, the slight glaze over opaque green and brown and the knit of muscle between his eyebrows, as if he were trying to work something out. Kamui squeezed his shoulder and started to tell him not to worry about it when Subaru moved, leaning forward, his mouth against Kamui's and now it was his turn to be still, more from surprise than anything. Subaru kissed as if it was something he'd never had experience with, as if he understood the mechanics behind it but the emotion behind it made him quicker than perhaps he ought to have been, his chin bumping against Kamui's and teeth brushing Kamui's lips. He kissed the way people do when they feel they had to lead and were trying to make up for inexperience in that with some sort of wary bravado.

Kamui pulled back again, pressing his forehead against Subaru's, fingers smoothing over his cheek and trying not to swallow hard at the sudden fragility he glimpsed. He could break Subaru if he wanted to, he realized, with just the right word or action, he could shatter whatever was left of Subaru and the burden of that knowledge was almost too much. Tipping his head, he brushed his lips between the knot in his forehead, mind racing as he tried to figure out just what the fucking hell he was doing here with Sumeragi Subaru and how he was not going to mess this up.

"Kamui?" Subaru's voice had flattened out even further, hollow and filled with an instability that was now glaringly obvious for all to see. A gloved hand gripped the front of his shirt, Subaru looking at him, silently asking for something, that legendary calm held onto by fingernails being replaced by an urgency that he'd never seen before. "Kamui."

Kamui shook his head, kissing Subaru again quickly, the lips against his pliable, moving and attempting to keep up. Kamui tilted his head, stepping closer still, his free hand smoothing over Subaru's arm, the leather folds of his coat yet another barrier between the other man and the rest of the world. Subaru's lips parted easily as he gave into his own growing excitement, pushing past the fear of rejection and taking that tentative gesture for what it was, an invitation. His tongue brushed against Subaru's lower lip again, taking the time to catch it with his teeth and feeling the older man start, kept in place by the beam he was leaning agains. Kamui closed that final distance between them, feeling awkward and desperate as he pushed against Subaru, the other man's body too slender, all angles and wiry strength. But he was real and this -- this too, was real. The hand sliding over his spine and the knee sliding between Subaru's leg, those were real, too. As was the swelling he could feel beginning to make itself known through the leather of the other's pants, hips pressing together, beginning to rub against one another. He felt Subaru gasp against his lips, eyes opening to watch him before closing again, sinking into this, sinking into Kamui, kisses coming with more confidence than before as their bodies ground harder against each other, sharp hipbones digging into Kamui's as he tried to keep steady on his feet.

Subaru's mouth was warm and tasting of bittersweet smoke, slick as Kamui's tongue touched first the hard line of teeth then the quick dart of the other man's tongue before it shied away, Kamui following, kissing him harder than before. Now he was the one who felt clumsy and inexperienced, his only experiences with being this close to anyone like this full of remembered pain, of cuts and ribs breaking, the taste of blood rising up so thick and fast that he nearly choked --

"Kamui," Subaru murmured and he started, not having felt the other man pull back, eyebrows furrowing in mild concern. There was something beautiful about seeing Subaru like this, hair tousled and milk-pale skin flushed, suffused with color right down to reddened, swollen lips.

"I -- it's just … bad memories," Kamui laughed, voice gruff and not a little hoarse, his thumb stroking the curve of Subaru's cheek.

"Do you want -- to stop?" Subaru said the words as if they were foreign to him. They certainly sounded foreign coming off of the Sumeragi's normally reserved tongue.

"Do you?" He countered.

Subaru considered that too, eyes distant for a long second before they focused on him again, something almost shy softening his stern features. " … no. I want to see."

"See what?"

"How much I can feel," Subaru's voice was nearly inaudible, Kamui having to strain in order to hear. "How much more you can make me feel."

"That's not exactly helpful, yanno?" Kamui moved, his knee rising a bit and Subaru's face bloomed with color again, an almost sly smile tugging at Kamui's mouth now. "There's feeling and then there's feeling. Which is it?"

"Don't play with me, Kamui," Subaru sobered, eyes dilated and too large, glinting in the darkness. "Don't --"

"Shh," Kamui shook his head, leaning forward to brush his lips against Subaru's cheek and just beside his nose before moving up over his brow, sprinkling kisses and feeling some of the unhappy tension starting to ebb a little. "I only meant -- what are we doing? Does this mean something? Anything? I -- I'm impulsive but I'm not going to use you, Subaru. And I think you know, I think you've always known how I feel about you."

There was a perceptible nod at that and Kamui had to resist the urge to follow up the silence that followed with a million different questions that would probably have all gone unanswered and completely killed the mood. Biting his lip, he blurted out, "I'm not him."

That was perhaps the wrong thing to say, Subaru's features taking on an angry slant. "Is that what you think this is? That I think you're him?"

"Hell, if I know what this is," Kamui's voice raised even as he tried to stop it. "I don't know what you want. I never have. We made that abundantly clear years ago. I don't know but I'd like to. I'd like to treat you -- better. Better than him. Better than anyone else but I'm never going to not be able to fuck it up if I don't know how far I can push, how far I can go. Or if -- if you even like me."

"Of course I like you," Subaru's voice was heated, not the hard, frigid anger he was used to hearing from the Sumeragi but something more visceral and almost anguished. "If I didn't like you then things would be so much easier. I could just stop and not have to keep doing this. I could finally let go and maybe find some sort of peace again. I could stop thinking of you at all and feeling myself care as much as I hate that I do?

"Do you know what it's like, Kamui? To care and to despise yourself for that, to have lost all you've ever held dear and still lumber on because there's something else pulling at you despite your best efforts to shut it out?"

He sucked in a breath feeling his fingers clenched, trying not to tremble, "Fuuma. And Kotori. I loved them. I loved them so much and I couldn't hold onto them, not either of them. I couldn't save anyone, not even you. The only thing I've ever been able to do is make a choice."

"Then make another one," Subaru whispered, Kamui's eyes drawn back to his. "Make another choice and don't be afraid because you think you're making the wrong one."

Kamui nodded, studying him before he leaned forward to kiss him again, expecting something stiff and uncomfortable but as soon as their lips touched, the connection between them surged again, all of his anger channeling into something else, almost afraid. Afraid to trust himself. Afraid to trust Subaru by reaching out again. But he had one chance, just one and if he let it go he knew he'd regret it for the rest of his life however long or short that might be.

It was that thought more than any other that fueled him, replacing whatever tenderness that had been there with something more needy, clingy and with more than a spark of wildness, his arms sliding around Subaru's waist as he lifted and pushed Subaru upward, the older man lighter than his frame suggested. Tilting his head, he deepened the kiss once more, Subaru's tongue sliding into his mouth this time more insistent than before, caught as he was in the act, in needing this, in needing him, each kiss seeming to burn into his flesh, melting between the two of them like heated air. His leg slid upward until Subaru was straddling it, his own swelling erection rubbing against one of Subaru's legs, thrusting forward and wringing a whimper from his -- his… 'Lover,' his mind supplied helpfully and it was all he could do not to topple the both of them, because their limbs were too entangled, too caught and he wanted to touch and taste everything. He wanted to feel Subaru's skin against his, having to content himself with the rough of leather and his lover's simple turtleneck, managing to wiggle one hand between them, dragging at that barrier until Subaru's stomach rippled in response to his fingers finding purchase. It was hard to breathe like this, harder still to ignore his heart jack-hammering response as he surged forward again, Subaru thrusting downward to meet him, gloved hands sliding behind his neck, buried deep in his hair as they strained against each other, Kamui feeling hotter and more stretched than he could ever remember being. More out of control too, as if his limbs had developed a mind of their own and he could no more stop them or himself than he could stop breathing.

His thigh rubbed harder against the swelling flesh pressed against him and something in Subaru seemed to snap, his mouth hungry and demanding, pulling at the back of Kamui's neck as if he could drag him closer still, bodies all but glued together, Kamui's chest to his abdomen, legs locked and rubbing frantically. There were going to be bruises later on for the both of them probably, he acknowledged as he gripped Subaru's hip harder than was strictly necessary. But none of that mattered, nothing beyond this moment and this glorious struggle, trying to get closer, as if they could dig into each other, needing and wanting an ever tightening whirl that that coiled in his belly, winding faster and faster until he couldn't hold on anymore, distracted by that as tell-tale tremors went off in Subaru's body, the other man stifling a cry against his throat . Kamui gritted his teeth then gave up, pushing once, twice more before letting go completely, his grip on Subaru tightening, trying to hold him through this blinding pleasure, limbs languorous and hot as he felt a gentle weariness start to take hold, knees unsteady and informing him that while he might think they could manage a little longer holding both he and Subaru up, they had other ideas.

Hugging Subaru to him he stumbled a bit, half dragging the both of them backwards, his efforts were hampered by the Sumeragi being half-draped over him and showing no inclination to move much beyond that. He settled on getting about halfway to the table before he gave up, dropping onto the concrete floor, pulling Subaru so that he fell against him rather than on the ground, trying to catch his breath and ignoring the sticky wet smearing against his still clothed skin. Subaru was flushed, cheeks fever bright and there was a light in his eyes that Kamui had never seen, that made him want to roll them both over and start all over again if it produced the same effect.

He wanted to see Subaru like this again. He wanted to see that pale skim flush and suffuse with color, to hear those choked cries that escaped so grudgingly as if Subaru were afraid or ashamed to let them out, and then finally the passion beneath all those layers of ice and calm, tentative and hidden but burning brightly once it found a focus. Kamui wanted to feel Subaru's arms around him like this again, he wanted to know that there would be a next time, that he had chosen rightly. The idea of having this closeness, this freedom, after wanting it and Subaru for so long and then possibly losing it hurt more than anything else.

Stroking Subaru's hair, he closed his eyes, his heart still beating too fast for another reason now as he turned to murmur in his lover's ear. "Did I make the wrong choice?"

Subaru was quiet, his arms still wrapped around Kamui's neck as he shook his head, his forehead brushing against Kamui's throat, "No. You didn't."

***End

Drabble: Sakura and Blood (1/1)

2004-11-23T03:24:44Z

Title: Sakura and Blood (1/1)
Series: X/Tokyo Babylon
Author: Sephy
Word Count: 103
Rating: PG
Pairings: S/S

Author's Notes: Written in an attempt to try and give myself something else to think about, I had hoped to post this to x_100 for their weekly challenge but I don't think it quite fits. ^^;; Sooo, here it goes and here it be.

He's lived his entire life in a dream.

The dream had been gentle at first, the slow drift of childhood, of golden afternoons and deep nights huddled under cavernous blankets whispering with his twin self, sister and companion. There was no separation then. Always together, her laughter and his mixing until he knew nothing beyond that, nothing but her touch and smile, wanting that only.

And then he'd come and with him the first shadows of afternoon had fallen. With him, childhood melted away, the hands that had always clasped his loosening and Subaru strayed into night, adulthood bought with sakura and blood.

FIC: Chance Encounters (1/1)

2004-11-22T18:55:29Z

Title: Chance Encounters (1/1)
Series: Weiss Kreuz Gluhen/Tokyo Babylon
Rating: PG-13/Rish
Pairings: Subaru/Sena
Warnings: Language, humor, hints at adult content
Disclaimer: Tokyo Babylon and its characters are all owned by the CLAMP collective. Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss own Weiss Kreuz Gluhen and Sena. Both are used without permission, no infrigement is intended..
Notes: This was written in honor of Yaoi-con 2004 as sort of a room challenge and is dedicated to kasra_c, vr2lbast, jessieshockey, amet, and anyone else who happened to witness the utter wrong of the Maple Moose (as helpfully supplied by Bast), the apron, the goat, and these pictures. This is pure crack, baby and that's all I'm going to say.

Chance Encounters
A Weiss Kreuz Gluhen/Tokyo Babylon vignette
Sephy

"I'm sorry!"

"Um, do you think you could just -- Ah! No, don't put your hand there--"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Izumi Sena huffed, dropping his head against the pillow and trying not to blush, Subaru already doing more than enough of that for both of them. The onmyouji was balanced above him, obviously trying not to move, his face an alarming shade of red, verging on purple, a faint vein starting to pop out in his forehead. 'Doesn't that hurt?' Sena wrinkled his nose and then his eyes widened, starting to water as his nose prickled.. Oh no. Oh no. Anything but --

He sneezed -- a loud noisy affair, jerking his hand up to his nose and brushing along the inside of Subaru's jacket as he did so, the feel of a slender hip and chest grazing his fingers and he felt his own face tingle, probably about as red as the Sumeragi's now as they both spoke.

"I'm sorry!"

"I'm sorry!"

There was a pause and Sena closed his eyes and counted off silently, trying to figure a way out of this miserable situation.

'Just an easy mission, he said,' Sena thought bitterly, cursing Hidaka Ken back to his very first ancestor. 'A cake walk he said. Be in and out in just a couple of days. Right. Ken, I swear to God that I'm going to strangle you when I get back.'

Providing he could find a way to call in without having to explain that he'd somehow managed to throw his back out entirely.

Lowering his hand, he breathed in, cracking his lids to find Subaru brushing his hair back with one hand, still leaning over him, his black hat perched precariously on his head. At this angle, he could all too clearly see the other boy's large, verdant eyes, fringed with thick lashes, his mouth trembling a little and Sena found himself seized with the sudden, insane urge to try and lift his head and stop those trembles with his own lips.

"Sena-kun?" Subaru asked timidly, "Where did you say your cell phone was again?"

"Back pocket," Sena replied and mentally kicked himself for slipping the damn thing where he couldn't reach it without an appreciable amount of pain.

"Right." There was an uncomfortable pause and a slight drawing of breath. "I--I'm going to get it now, Sena-kun. J-just to let you know."

He gave Subaru a faint and what he hoped was an encouraging smile and tried not to think about those long, gloved fingers sliding along his hip and over the curve of his --

Killing Ken. Stabbing Siberian with his own claws and dressing his corpse in that embarrassing gag apron the man had bought last Halloween, a horrid frilly pink thing that he'd tried to get Sena to wear claiming he was the only one in the house with the hips for it. Persia would forgive him for this right? Maybe? If he made it look like a horrid and tragic accident? You know of the 'oops, seriously, he just ran into his hand' variety?

Above him, Subaru was frowning, obviously trying to figure out how to reach around him and stay balanced and while the obvious answer presented itself to Sena, he had all ideas it'd take years before Subaru ever hit on it which meant he'd have to give the onmyouji a little help.

Help. Right. Was that what they were calling it these days?

"Ah, Subaru-kun," Sena tapped his arm, waiting until he was sure he had his attention and then reached out, grabbing his hips and pulling him downward, the widening of vibrant green imprinting itself in his eyes just Subaru's body came down against his, straddling him awkwardly, legs spread a little even as he tried not to notice that. "I think -- you might have more luck if you try now -- while you're not--you're not trying to balance."

Evidently there were no words for that, Subaru just nodding hastily, ducking his head again so that Sena couldn’t see his face, his hat perched precariously on his head. Sena meanwhile focused on that silly, floppy hat and the ridiculously bright red jacket that matched it, the soft shiny pleather almost glowing in the dim light -- anything but the way Subaru was squirming on top of him, as the onmyouji's fingers hesitated and then moved with hurried resignation over his hip and then in a soft, gripping motion into his back pocket.

"I found it!" Subaru breathed, grinning suddenly, his fingers wriggling as he sought to clutch the phone and Sena damned his hormones for noticing all too quickly the pert behind shifting up and then back again in his lap, Subaru moving onto his knees, eyebrows quirked and biting his full lower lip as he moved, enticingly close. On the other hand, Sena couldn't help but smile back as Subaru glanced down at him, there was something entirely too … cute about Subaru. Adorable really.

"Uh, Sena-kun?" Subaru blinked again, glancing down and began to look a touch panicked again.

"What?"

"I'm stuck."

"You're what?!" Sena tried that sentence again, trying to make sense of it, watching as Subaru tried to tug himself into a more upright position.

"My hand," Subaru elaborated, "is stuck. In your back pocket.</i>"

"What?!"

"My hand --"

"I heard you. How the hell can your hand be stuck?!"

It must be a pain to have Subaru's skin, Sena thought, skin that seemed to have no problems flushing or draining of color with anything he thought or felt. "I didn't do it on purpose," Subaru said defensively, "Your pants are too tight."

"My pants are too tight? Excuse me but have you seen what you're wearing?!"

"My sister picked this out!"

"I can so tell!"

Subaru opened his mouth and then shut it, turning his face away for a moment, his forehead hovering close enough to Sena's shoulder that he could feel the other boy's breath waft along his skin, a sensation that was so not helping things right now. "All right. Look, I can't get my hand out with your cell phone. My gloves are catching against the pockets. Your pants are too tight and that is not me being insulting."

"Take your gloves off then."

"No!"

"Well, then what are we supposed to do, just lay here like this all night? In case you hadn't noticed I can't exactly get up and if I don't call in, my -- well there's going to be a whole team of really annoyed people descending on this place."

"Let me think," Subaru murmured, lowering himself a little so that they were more or less lying together and giving him a slightly more apologetic smile. "Sorry but that position is killing my back."

'Oh sure. No worries. I mean, it doesn't matter at all that you're wearing a really thin cat-suit and I can feel just about every curve of your --and how the hell does a boy manage to have curves -- body. To say little of how warm you are and how soft -- and -- I can't believe I'm thinking about this NOW! I can't even really move and I'm thinking about how I'd like to -- This really wasn't fair. It wasn't like he was thrown into bed with attractive strangers every mission, Sena more likely to be left holding the bag while Aya or Ken ended up with the so-called girl. Occasionally a guy. And once a goat. Sena smiled thinly, staring at the ceiling again and started counting water spots and dreaming up new and exciting ways of eviscerating Ken with his chakram.

He glanced over to find green eyes studying him, that clear white brow wrinkled in thought and Sena raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"Nothing." But it didn't look like a nothing face, that was a something face and he wasn't about to not find out why.

"What?" Sena demanded.

"Well --" And now Subaru sounded sheepish, "I was just thinking that Seishirou-san must be rubbing off on me because I couldn't help but think what a perfect set up this was."

"Set-up for what?" Like he didn't know for what as soon as he opened his mouth but he wanted to see if Subaru would actually follow through.

He wasn't disappointed, the Sumeragi propping up just a bit, hat horribly askew now and hair mussed. His color was high but in a completely different way from before, eyes dark as if his gaze was turned inward, asking himself something. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sena's just as the assassin was opening his mouth to prod him again.

It was by no means a smooth kiss, full of awkward pauses and missed connections as lips mashed together. But there was -- something behind it, sweet and heady as it zinged through him, Sena tilting his head up as far as it would go, his tongue brushing against Subaru's lower lip, feeling the other boy start then open his mouth wider in response, a tremor transferring from the hand stuck in Sena's back pocket throughout his body and his eyes widened as Subaru's hand curved, the phone forgotten and shoved aside as hips pressed into his.

All of this continued for one breathless second before Subaru pulled away, cheeks pink and brushing some of his hair behind his ear but he hadn't let go of Sena. Nor had he lifted himself up, instead his leg curving just between Sena's.

"If you apologize now," Sena warned, "I'll kill you."

"Believe me, I wasn't planning on it," Subaru laughed, voice husky. "That was -- nice."

Maybe it was the way the skin around Subaru's eyes crinkled or how his smile seemed as reassuring as it was seductive at the same time but Sena relaxed, reaching up and doing what he'd wanted to do since the first time he'd met the boy, taking that hat off his head and tossing it on the floor. His fingers combed through silky-soft strands meeting Subaru's questioning gaze with his own, "That's much better. You shouldn't hide your face like that."

"I wasn't. It's just --"

"Part of the outfit?"

"And Hokuto-chan -- "

"Will kill you?"

"More than kill me. There would be corpses everywhere. At least six of them. All over the road."

"Maybe we could bribe her? I've got some maple moose suckers in my room back home."

"That might work," Subaru scooted in closer, still managing to look shy for all of that, "Hokuto-chan likes being bribed with sweet things."

"What about you? Do you like sweet things, Subaru-kun?"

Subaru cupped his face, the feel of gloves where skin should be strange but mildly intoxicating, ghosting across his skin as the onmyouji tilted his face, lips just short of Sena's, "I think you're about to find out."

***End

FIC: Ashes on the Sand (1/1)

2004-11-22T07:09:12Z

Title: Ashes on the Sand (1/1), part of the Under this Flooded Sky series
Author: Sephy
Series: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Archive: http://fallenicons.winter-born.net/
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Pairings: None as of yet
Warning: Angst, humor (as in the Seishirou torturing Syaoran variety), shifting tenses in certain places, some language, spoilers for Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle chapter 52.
Status: Complete.

Summary: Syaoran had known that incorporating Seishirou-san into their intrepid little band was not going to be easy...

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle. It's the property of CLAMP and it's respective copyright holders. No infringement is intended. I'm just playing around here, folks.

Thanks: To amet for beta-ing this.

Author's Notes: Another segment of the Under This Flooded Sky series. This one is short and to the point and oddly enough being posted for Seishirou's birthday. For a dead man, he sure gets around. And is still torturing young boys. :P

Ashes on the Sand
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

"Nothing will change if you don't do anything. Even if it's just a very small thing, a very small step, it will definitely be connected to the future."
-- Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle, Volume 4, Chapter 24

Then…

It's been raining for so long, so long that he thinks perhaps it always has been.

Huddled in on himself, he can't help but be aware of each sound, each plink of water against the ground and the rasp of the wall through the damp fabric of his shirt. The way his skin feels too warm, shivering as he breathes, the air condensing in front of his face in thin patterns of wisp. His hair is damp against his face, clingy and sticky as it falls into one eye, his only eye, the other covered by a swath of cloth. The cloth is itchy, rough and not a little tight but even that seems removed. His head is aching too, just over that covered eye, tendrils of colored light and dulled pain flashing there.

He should care. But he doesn't. Not about the rain, damp ice stealing into his skin with each drip, soaking into his clothes and bandages. Or the puddles forming around him, arms hugging his knees as he stares into nothing at all, his single eye barely registering anything beyond the storm, sometimes flickering just a little as someone passes by, occasionally stopping but most just averting their eyes as if his presence offends them. Maybe he should care about that. Maybe it should hurt but all he feels is hollow, waiting for a spark, a turn, for something so he can begin. So he can do anything but feel the slow leech of hours passing, day giving way to evening again.

He's not even sure how long he's been sitting here. Maybe he's always been here, always waiting. Maybe that's all he's ever going to be.

And then, the rain cuts out, followed by the rat-a-tat of water on taunt fabric and the sound itself is so new he can't help but move, lifting his head from the cradle of his arms and glancing upward.

It's the smile he remembers now, warm and inviting as the older man leaned over, his blond hair tousled and almost white in the gloom, the glint of glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose as he adjusts them, "Are you lost?"

Is he lost? He knows the word but he's not sure it applies. Lost would imply there was something to be found again and in his case, that doesn't hold true. Lost implies a before and for him, there is no before, no time beyond now. There are no words that have been spoken before this moment and this man with his gentle smile and so he shakes his head.

The older man kneels down, still smiling though there's something else in that expression now, too, "Are you hurt then?"

Hurt? His face spasms a little, a faint echo of pain lancing through his right eye and he covers it, fingers thick and stiff from the bandages around them. That seems to answer the other man's questions, "You are hurt." The other reaches out and takes his hand, looking him over carefully or as carefully as anyone can in this dim gloom. "Are your parents around here? Is--is there anywhere I can take you?"

"Parents?" His voice is cracked, strained and he realizes with a start, this is the first time he can remember using it.

The blond man blinks then places a hand on his head, the weight oddly comforting. "I think you'd better come with me. Until we can get things sorted out," There's a pause, "My name is Fujitaka. What's yours?"

Name? The concept seems so alien he can only blink and lift his head a little more, shrugging, his body seeming to know, even if he doesn't, the right gestures to make. What use would something like him have for a name?

"Oh. Well, that could be a problem. I mean, it seems odd to not have something to call you. Let me see. How about -- how about -- Syaoran? Would that be okay? Until we find out who you really are?"

"Sy-ao-ran?" He tries the word out, the weight of the syllables and the way it rolls before shrugging again. It seems to be enough for the man, his broad face relaxing and even breaking out into a grin, pushing at his glasses.

"That's good. Very good. Well, Syaoran, I think we should get you out of the rain and into some dry clothing. What do you think?"

No one had ever asked him that before but then no one had ever stopped before either. Certainly not long enough to speak and never long enough for a name. He's not sure what to make of it and so he nods, reaching out for the hand that's extended to him, pulling him on unsteady legs. Fujitaka plants a steadying hand on his shoulder then seems to come to some sort of decision, ducking down just long enough to pick him up, shifting and fumbling until at last he's able to carry the umbrella in one hand and Syaoran in his remaining arm, the boy wrapping his arms around the neck and shoulders presented. There's an odd sense of safety in this, the emotion so alien that he finds himself at a loss as to what to do with it and later, he'll realize that beyond the physical sensations, it's the first memory of ever feeling anything he has.

"All comfortable? Good. We've got quite a walk ahead of us, I'm afraid but there's food and blankets at the end of it. And after we've gotten you dried off and you've had some sleep, we'll see what we can do about finding out who you are and where you come from, all right?"

***

Now…

Syaoran had known that incorporating Seishirou-san into their intrepid little band was not going to be easy. Given the circumstances and the way the man had dogged and interfered with their quest in the past, that was to be expected and were he on the other side of things, not able to see their position from all angles, Syaoran would be the first to admit that he too, would have reacted as badly as he knew the others would. Kurogane, in particular, had his own beef as Fai liked to call it, with the man who had once taught Syaoran how to fight, to survive in the dusty streets of Clow and given the chance, would probably like nothing better than the opportunity to wrap his fingers around Seishirou-san's neck. What he'd hoped -- hoped, was that he'd be given the time to explain. Hoped but didn't expect it. He had all ideas that Kurogane was likely to attack before he could even get the words out.

In actuality, it had taken a lot less time than that. Say, oh about five point zero seconds. Enter Seishirou-san. See Seishirou-san drape an arm around him and watch Sakura's face crumble in confusion. See Kurogane go completely and utterly nuts and charge the both of them, reaching for Seishirou before Syaoran had time to do much more than blink and wondering exactly how fast Kurogane really was because damn, that sword he was carrying had appeared out of nowhere and --

He was lucky. Seishirou-san believed in keeping his bargains and as such yanked him by the collar out of the enraged ninja's path, whirling around quickly and using the larger man's momentum to pivot into a more defensive position. Still grinning. God dammit.

Syaoran picked himself up out of the dirt, dusting his knees off, "Kurogane!"

The ninja ignored him, wholly intent on the other man, Seishirou smiling like an indulgent father, pushing at his glasses and more than relaxed as Kurogane stopped himself short, turning again and preparing to make another lunge at him. Syaoran glanced at Fai who was watching the proceedings with a certain amount of dispassion but there was a dark glint in those cerulean eyes, particularly when they fell on Li that told him the former magician was not amused and he'd better do something now before he decided to step in and help Kurogane. And then they'd have a real mess on their hands.

Sakura… Well, Syaoran couldn't bring himself to glance at her, not yet ready to destroy himself a little more this morning.

"Kurogane, stop it," Syaoran shouted, getting in the taller man's path, right up in his face and trying to put a hand on his arm, knowing that it was probably a mistake.

He was not disappointed.

"Are you out of your goddamn, rotted mind?" Kurogane yelled, all but grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, "You've done some pretty damn hare-brained stunts but this --" The older man blinked, glancing over his shoulder, "What the fu--"

There was an explosion of movement, the hands latched onto his shoulders suddenly gone and the ninja went flying a good few feet before rolling to a halt, dust kicking up around him as Syaoran tried to figure out what just happened. As it turned out, he didn't have to, another set of arms dropping around him protectively, drawing him back against a warm body as he flushed.

"I'll thank you to keep your hands off my Syaoran-kun if you can't be more respectful," Seishirou-san sounded mild. Sounded. With this man though he'd learned that how things sounded and how they actually were could be two very different matters. He turned Li around, tilting his face upward with gentle care and examining him closely, making a faint noise of displeasure as he used his thumb to rub at Syaoran's cheek.

"Stop it," Syaoran muttered.

"Now, now. I'm not trying to embarrass you in front of your … friends, Syaoran-kun," Seishirou-san clucked his tongue at him, "But when was the last time you bathed? When you were more than half asleep? You look as though you've been grubbing in the dirt."

The older boy paused, giving him an almost fond smile and squeezing his shoulder, "Just like you were when we met. Do you remember?"

'Oh I remember, you arrogant, overbearing son of a --' He didn't finish the thought, turning away quickly and tugging at his cloak. And he was supposed to find a way to make this man fall in love with him? 'Nothing like setting yourself up for the impossible,' he berated himself. Seishirou-san was just as likely to make fun of him as to make love to him and he reddened even further at that thought.

He didn't need this right now. He really didn't but this was what he'd let himself in for and he'd made this so-called bed and now he was just going to have to lay in it and hope he got the chance to wake up the morning after. Which given his choice of partners, was also unlikely.

Great. This morning was just getting better and better.

"S-syaoran-kun?" It was Sakura now, her voice quavery and there was no way to steel himself as he turned his attention towards her, the Princess almost drawn in on herself, gray-green eyes large and far too shiny, lower lip trembling in apparent confusion and -- hurt. Hurt he'd inflicted on her whether he meant it or no. And the longer this dragged out, the worse it was going to get. 'Get your head together. Find the feathers and get the Princess home.'

It had always been his goal before, that and her safety but never before now had he felt anything other than resolve towards it. Never had he felt his own determination falter, worn and flagging and wanting little more than to just be done with this so he didn't have to see that look anymore. So he didn't have to listen to anymore recovered memories, torn between being so happy that he could do even that little thing for her and agonized because with each one regained, he felt more and more alone. Sakura would never remember him, his bargain had seen to that, but she would live. She would live and maybe one day be happy again.

But he couldn't be part of that happiness, except in the most peripheral sense of it. The only thing he could do for her was to be -- her friend. Always her friend. Because it was killing him to want anything else.

Hope could feed a starving man, but it could also choke him a thousand times over.

"All of you," Syaoran stepped into the middle of their impromptu circle, Kurogane just now sitting up as Fai stayed close to Sakura and Mokona hopped uncertainly from the girl's arms to the ground, bouncing up and then down again like a child's ball, ears flopping over it's eyes. He could sense Seishirou-san behind him and it probably said more than enough that he was trusting the man by not turning around to keep a wary eye on him. "Enough. Please. There's no need for any of this."

"No need?" Fai smoothed a hand over his hair, glancing around before his gaze settled on Syaoran, crossing his arms, "Syaoran, forgive me but this man has tried to kill us before."

"In the past," Seishirou-san spoke up, "Of course I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing now."

"Really? And why is that?"

The smile was in his voice, Seishirou coming to stand beside him again, reaching down to squeeze Syaoran's shoulder, "Because it would upset my darling Syaoran-kun, of course."

This really was going about as well as he expected. Even Fai was starting to look vaguely murderous -- in that grinning, Fai sort of way. Kurogane was positively apoplectic, nearly as red as that headband he'd been wearing when they'd first met, veins popping out in his forehead and neck in a way that looked almost painful as he clenched his fists. That he hadn't charged again was more than likely due to Fai's not so subtle slap of his hand on the larger man's shoulder, almost the exact mirror of Seishirou's actions. Sakura meanwhile was searching his face, eyes dark and lost as she hugged her cloak tighter around her body, trembling as if having caught a sudden chill. There was no way to meet that expression with anything less than feeling as if someone had kicked him in the chest. Syaoran didn't even bother.

"Seishirou-san," Syaoran squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his hand against his forehead and the very real ache he felt starting up behind his false eye, "Don't help. Please. "

"Now, now, I think it's important we clear up these things right away and your friend did ask," Seishirou's hand slid to his other arm, around his back and pulling him closer and it was all Syaoran could do not to flinch. "And if we're all to be together on this quest, I think it's best to be completely honest and open about these things. Why should we have to hide our love?"

Maybe it was him but all the sound seemed to switch off, the sound of his heart thrumming exceptionally loud in his own ears. 'He did not just say that. He didn't. I'm going to look at the others and they're going to -- Oh shit, he did just say that. If Mokona can manage that expression then he really did just say that.'

"Seishirou-san--" He felt himself twitch just a touch as another arm joined the first, Seishirou's chin resting against his shoulder.

"There's no need to be so shy, Syaoran-kun. It was bound to come out anyway. Would you rather I was less --"

"Contrived?" He interrupted him dryly.

Seishirou sounded hurt, "I was going to say straightforward. I can be more circumspect if you like though I've heard it's best for lovers to be on equal footing. "

Syaoran winced, glancing up at Seishirou-san and keep his voice down as he hissed, "Lovers? Don't you think you're rushing things a bit?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"Your darling … " Kurogane spoke, diverting both of their attention, his face tightened in obvious disgust though Syaoran couldn't tell which one of them it was aimed at.

"Syaoran-kun," Seishirou supplied helpfully, adjusting his glasses and straightening, careful to leave an arm around Syaoran's shoulders. "For future reference, I would prefer you not to treat him so rudely off the training field. I realize that comrades tend to forget these sort of things but I myself am somewhat possessive. Jealous really. And when I feel threatened -- "

Seishirou shrugged lightly, "Well, I guess I can be terribly -- uncivilized."

The threat in that was clear and Kurogane bristled further if that was possible, his gaze more than accusatory as it slid to Syaoran which he supposed was more than fair under the circumstances.

"Are you done?" Syaoran muttered, keeping his voice low enough that only Seishirou-san could hear him, face flaming and trying very hard not to take his clenched fists and bury them in the older man's stomach. "Can we be done wrecking my life now? Please?"

"Done? I'm being perfectly serious."

He gave the older boy a withering glare, "Right. You know, maybe you should have made that bet if you could make me fall in love with you in a year.

Seishirou pushed at his glasses again, peering at him out of the corner of his eye and clasping his hands behind his back as he tilted his head, "How do you know I didn't?"

***End

FIC: Carry the Weight, (1/1)

2004-11-03T22:04:09Z

Title: Carry the Weight (1/1), part of the Under this Flooded Sky series
Author: Sephy
Series: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Archive: http://fallenicons.winter-born.net/
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Pairings: None as of yet
Warning: Angst, shifting tenses in certain places, stream of consciousness, some language, spoilers for Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle chapter 52.
Status: Complete.

Summary: The world trembled on the weight of sometimes...

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle. It's the property of CLAMP and it's respective copyright holders. No infringement is intended. I'm just playing around here, folks.

Thanks: To amet for beta-ing this.

Author's Notes: Just a few things. One this series finally has a name: Under This Flooded Sky and two, yes this is the direct sequel to A Wing and a Prayer. So far this series looks to be divided into two threads: the first having Syaoran and Seishirou (and crew) while Subaru, Kamui, and Hokuto make up the second thread. I think I already said this but if not, these two threads will eventually intertwine.

There's probably more to say but I'm not feeling my best at the moment so I'll just post this and then go back to work on Syaoran's next bit.

Carry the Weight
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

There were bells.

They echo in his mind, sonorous and mournful, a hollowing silence following on the heels of each thick ring, the clash of metal on metal almost seeming to vibrate against his ear. In the caves, it's the echo that matters, the sound picking up through the ceiling and the stone rafters, bouncing along the stalactites, overpowering the steady downward drip of calcium and water. The bones of the earth were deep here, laid out in the deepest reds and grays, tipped off with yellow and sometimes the walls are alive, glowing green in the darkest of pits, soft and scratchy moss scraping against his wings as he glides past, further and deeper in still. For anyone else, it would be hard to navigate this place, the sudden twist of the walls, narrowing and then expanding out at dizzying angles, the steep drops that could only be compensated for through foreknowledge and warning. Kamui knew the ways and the delves of the earth, the feel of heated air from far beneath baking outward, warming him as he passed further into silence.

It was the bells that made the difference, that guided him home. The slow drag of sound that made even the walls shiver. His people believed that those bells had been a gift from the ancients, from the ones now long gone -- either dead or departed and thus they were hidden, shrouded in mystery and story, passed down between the great families. In his recollection no one had ever seen them, not and remained to tell the tale. Those who had were given up, taken in service of the Great Sound, sometimes to watch and keep the secrets and sometimes --

The world trembled on the weight of sometimes, the hoarse screams that died before this sound, greater than all others, knelling, singing all the Dark Wings home.

The bells existed though he had never seen them, though he had only sound and myth to tell him they were real at all. They had to or else everything that was passed down, everything that was believed by the smallest child to the oldest grandmother was meaningless. The fabric of their lives was meaningless.

It was not something to be understood or shared. Not even amongst themselves and especially not in the open where the Angels might hear tales of it and come amongst them as they had in days long past, the uneasy peace erupting into open war. There were some who wanted that. Some who felt that rather than the blood of the faithful, it was the blood of the martyred that should be given over, drenched and mixed with the blood of the enemy.

Kamui had never understood how or why the Angels and Dark Wings were enemies, only that it hadn't mattered. At least not to him and certainly not in the face of Kotori's warm smile.

***

"Steady."

There are hands at the base of his spine, another on his shoulders and they're turning him with as much care as can be managed, Kamui whimpering as the heat at the base of his left wing flared again, molten sparks beneath the skin, seeming to travel from nerve to the very tips of the wing. He's lying on his stomach now, awake again, head caught and he vomits. The sensation is also hot, searing and sticky, his mouth sour and rotten feeling. His head is boiling, throbbing with each beat of his heart, rapid breaths scouring his lungs until they feel dry, almost cracked. He's burning from the inside out, skin dry and the center of that conflagration is made clear once more as he's set on his stomach, the ground beneath him cool, causing him to shiver which in turn makes him jerk again, wings attempting to flare and he would scream only he's too busy throwing up again.

"Oh gross. Oh God, oh-- Hey! He just threw up on my skirt!"

The fingers holding up his face waver as if they were going to drop him and Kamui braces himself for that, knowing there's no way he's got the strength to stop the downward pull of gravity, already flinching with the imagined impact of his face with the ground.

"Hokuto! Don't drop his head!"

"Subaru, he threw up on me. Do you know how much this skirt cost me? Hell, I don't even remember what world I picked it up on and he -- Oh eww. Subaru! Make him stop it right now."

"And I'm supposed to do this how?"

"I don't care but … Ack! Not my shoes. Subaru, you'd better save my shoes or I'll pound you!"

"Hokuto," A weary note creeps into that voice, one of two Kamui keeps hearing every time he slides back into consciousness, into the world and the agony that goes along with it. It's low and sweet though definitely male and easier on his ears than it's female counterpart. This voice, the Subaru voice, sounds more than a little long suffering and somehow Kamui pieces together that it's Subaru's hands at the base of his spine, gently probing as they sweep upward, searching and searching until --

There is no word for it. The pain doesn't explode. Instead it turns inward after the initial outward spike, those heated nerve endings seeming to melt. He flails, arms moving as if they have their own will, striking against something smooth and curved and there's an outraged squawk that follows. Those hands withdraw and someone squeezes his shoulder, probably in an attempt to be comforting but it's just one more sensation in a smoldering sea, the wreck of his body pitched and dissolving into near blinding pain.

"Subaru --" The Hokuto voice sounds unusually subdued and he wonders at that, at what could wring that from her.

The silence stretches out and Kamui is almost convinced he's drifted out again, floating on his torment and waiting for the next sharp call to wrench him back into waking again. He starts therefore when lips touch his ear, low and knelling across his senses like the Great Bell, demanding he focus on it whether he wills it or not.

"Your wing is broken. I'm going to have to push it back into place and then set it. Do you understand?

Kamui sucks in another arid breath and nods, regretting it as his head pulses with the movement, feeling like so much sloshing fluid bubbling around a paper thin container of skin.

Cool fingers touch his cheek and he wonders at the ice of them, wanting their winter and surprised it doesn't melt against him. "I'm going to move you forward a little," The Subaru voice continues, "Into Hokuto's lap. You can hold onto her if you like. Isn't that right, Hokuto?"

"I suppose," Comes the grudging reply. "You're not going to throw up again, are you?"

"Hokuto!"

"What? Like I'm the only one wondering."

Subaru snorts and there's an odd sense of displacement there, as if something is missing, crucial and vital and Kamui can't put his finger on it. He wishes he could lift his head, could do anything more than lie here as he's tugged forward, frigid hands under his arms until he's lying across something -- Hokuto's legs he supposes and he wishes desperately he could apologize. For being sick. For being broken. For existing. Maybe because he knows there's no way to apologize to Kotori now, for destroying her life and letting it be destroyed after promising to protect her. Kamui closes wet eyes, feeling tears squeeze out from behind his lids, plop by plop, dripping off his face and onto the fabric beneath them. There's something unfair and humiliating in this, in being shattered and exposed in front of strangers, cut to the quick and unable to do much more than lie here, helpless as a child and hope for some mercy.

Arms slide around his neck and shoulders, almost ginger, the caress of nails against his scalp reminding him once more of what he'd lost, of Kotori and the way her hands were long and white, almost translucent when she held them up to the light. The sun hadn't shone around Kotori but almost through her, filling her up, like a glass held up, refracting and reflecting all it saw. He remembers her flying just above him, leaning down as they winged through the skies together, fingers skimming, almost touching. Almost. But something had always held him back.

It doesn't matter now anyway. Whatever he might have said, whatever he might have felt or did, is as dead as she is, stillborn as her blood splattered against those shining flagstones, cut down by her brother's sword.

"It's almost sunset," Hokuto's voice is near inaudible when she speaks again, dry and dusty, but Kamui feels it, the rise of expectation, a current of tension he hadn't even realized was there, as if time had stopped and was waiting to begin again. He wonders why Subaru is delaying, realizing he's already steeled himself, having shifted enough to wrap his arms around the slender waist his face is pressing against, the pain scattered now, flaring in and out, like candle light and he realizes it's dim here. Somehow it hadn't impressed on him before now but it's the play of shadow on the floor around a bending metal stalk, the pungent scent of burning despite the weak lighting that jogs his muzzy senses.

This is familiar, lying across a soft lap, fevered and wounded, soothing fingers picking over his hair and over his cheeks. Kamui lets go of a soft sound, coveting that dry cool, wishing for something to break this arid stalemate.

Similar hands are sliding over his shoulders and he tries not to flinch up, knowing what's coming, even as the arms around him tighten.

"Ready?"

The words aren't for him, he knows they aren't but he shuts his eyes again, another tear slipping free as one hand remains on his shoulder, the other travelling lower until --

He doesn't scream. There isn't time for that. Just the cresting of agony and the dark slams down again.

***

When Kamui was very young, his mother disappeared.

The day began no differently than any other, tolled into waking by the bells that they kept their lives by, turning in his pallet to watch her as she bustled around the nook of their home, carefully stacking baskets and jars as she did every morning. His mother had always been meticulous about that, as if it mattered that she didn't have the primrose in the spot where it had been the morning before or if the water cress from the deepening caves was not pressed and put away, always wrinkling her nose as the musty pungency of those damp leaves as she stripped them. From there, she moved to tend those dying embers of the fire, half-climbing up to clear out the tiny hole drilled into the ceiling to let smoke out into another cavern, putting a pot over the fire, the slow bubble of spice and salts forming the basis of a golden stew that poured down the throat.

It was his habit to watch her, curled up on himself, one hand under his head, smiling as she hummed and muttered to herself. His mother had been the only thing between him and the world, a shield he would miss later on, and though he had never known who fathered him, he had never felt the lack with her around. Not when she was so willing to play with him and sing to him, not when she taught him to read, her long hair falling forward and brushing his face, and not when she snuggled and kissed him good-night. He had never needed anyone else, content to not stray beyond the places she had shown him, beyond their cramped home so far from the others of their tribe.

Sometimes…sometimes he'd wake to find her watching him, paused in the cleaning of the room, dark eyes almost sad and though they never spoke of it, he wondered about it, about what it meant, if he had done something to hurt her.

It never occurred to him that it wasn't he who was hurting her but rather her who was going to hurt him. In the deepest, most fundamental way possible.

He remembered that night. She'd been more playful and clingy than usual, holding him in her lap and speaking in low, hushed tones in front of the fire, as if she was bursting to talk, at times almost shaking him back into waking. But it hadn't been enough and some time in that long night, he'd fallen, called back into waking by the sonorous calm of the bells.

But the fire had gone out.

***

Kamui screams now, awake again, the sound echoing just as that morning bell had long ago, the mourning keen of a child echoed therein, hearing himself again, all of seven summers, sitting at the entrance of their home, waiting. She had gone out. She had been called away. Or perhaps she was taking a walk as she sometimes did when she got antsy.

He sat there for almost two days before the elders came, opening his hands and placing in it a rope of coiled brown. Hair. Her hair, the ends brutally cut, sticky and stiff at the ends. And Kamui knew, even before he looked into the lined, cold faces that gazed down upon him, what it meant. He knew when the bells tolled again, wet and alive with song.

There those who were given up, taken in service of the Great Sound, sometimes to watch and keep the secrets and sometimes --

Sometimes…

No one knew why or how they were chosen, only that they were, and tears would only shame those who had willingly made the sacrifice, who had kept through their death the fabric of their world, their beliefs, stitched and intact.

But what did that matter to a little boy? What did it matter to him? Was the entire world worth that realization of mortality, safety and happiness ripped away, not a boy but a dependent now, dependent on the kindness of those who had robbed him in the first place?

Someone is singing to him now, a low croon without words, caressing his face. There's something -- wrong with his back, with his wings, and he scrabbles, trying to move and unable to do more than choke, sobbing as lips touch the top of his head, the gesture a familiar one, comforting and he cleaves to it, to this feeling.

Mother. Mother, come back. Kotori… Kotori,, please. Don't leave, please don't leave.

The wound is raw, it is open and there is no scabbing. His hatred and his anguish are the same now as they were then. The pain makes that clear, it makes it clean.

The pain makes everything clear just as it always has. The pain means he's still alive, forever left behind.

***

And in the end, pain has always been what was left. That and living.

It hadn't even crossed his mind when his mother had left to give up, to just lay down in the spot where she had for so many nights, and not move again. The thought had never occurred to him. Maybe because he had been too young to really understand or maybe because he wasn't, as the Elders had and would point out one too many times in the intervening years, that dutiful a son. Maybe it was because he hadn't seen what point his death would have. Living was punishment enough.

And Kamui deserved to be punished. Too much so for him to cheat it with such a clean evasion.

Living -- no, he hadn't lived in the caves. In the caves, he'd been buried. Stifled. Given a role in a rigid, inflexible society that disapproved of his existence on general principle, disliking what they saw as haughty disobedience and scorn. They hated him for being dependant, for having to help raise and care for him, for making him more than just a bastard child. And they hated him even more because he hated them, because he could not forgive them for what they took and for what he suspected they had taken before that.

There was nothing in the caves but tradition, weighed down with the inertia of centuries. The bells chimed onward but it wasn't anything but the song of the grave, a threnody of static, unfulfilled life. Nothing changed, nothing moved forward. Outside, the seasons changed, years went past, but in there … in there, they lived as if things were still in that mythic time of legend, where his people were strong, where they were powerful and with the gods on their side as they roamed. Before the Angels had come to their land and chased them deeper in, instilling a sense of paranoid fear of -- everything. Outsiders, changes, and the world without. There was even a sect of Dark Wings who refused to leave the earth at all, who refused to look upon the sun and the air above, delving deeper into the ground. No one went out much anymore, not alone and not without good reason. The Angels controlled the skies outside and the Dark Wings in turn lived in the mountains and the low lying valleys, content with their realm and fearing the devastation of another war, songs of which were still sung.

But Kamui had seen the sun. Once. Very long ago when his mother had still been there to hold his hand. She'd brought him to the edge of clan territory, to the mouth of the caverns leading above and he'd looked up, having to turn his face away at first, blinded. It was only when his mother cautioned him not to look directly at the glowing ball that his eyes had adjusted, beginning to pick out the faint specks of blue and white surrounding it, the fluff of clouds drifting past. He'd seen the sun and then the moon, creeping back later and taken aback by the sharp changes. There were days when he'd snuck away, ostensibly to play but in reality finding a seat and just watching the shift of light above his head, over the trickle of water from the walls, always finding something new. Birds had been a frightening experience until he'd realized that they weren't an Angelic scouting party swooping down to murder a hapless Dark Wing child but just a flock flying southward.

Kamui had seen the sun and having seen the sun, it had never been enough. The caves had never been enough. Maybe if they had, he could have lived with tradition, with the loss of his mother. And in living with that, he could have been dead while living, too. And Kotori would still have been alive too, winging through the heavens as if that was where she'd always meant to be.

***

"Subaru, we're losing --"

"-- we're not."

"He's not breathing --"

Something slaps him across the face, his lips numbed as his head seems to roll, brain rattling around like so many scattered stones. It hurts, more so than it should and there's a bitten off curse. He's cold now, cold where he'd been so hot before, sinking even as someone lifts his head. Kamui tries to crack his lids, a swim of colors greeting him, seen through a thin film. Everything feels remote now, distant, and there's shouting but he can't bring himself to care. The fire is going out again but he can't rouse himself to cross the floor of the cave to strike it back to life. What's the point of it anyway? There's nothing left waiting for him. Mother. Kotori. Hope and despair unravel and in the end, he's stripped of even those comforts. There's nothing left but the waiting, for the inevitable chill of ash to creep in and coat him in silence.

"This isn't the way it should be."

The words are chipped and they burn against him as he's slapped again but there's nothing there. No fuel, no spark.

And then … all at once … there is.

Kamui gasps, jolting as something scalds his lips, fingers holding them open. It boils him, burning like pitch as it pours down his throat. A gulp, then two but it's enough to reawaken his body, to reconnect those wires that somehow gotten submerged and oh it hurts. It hurts so much. He would scream but all that's coming is a choked gargle, eyes flying open and for one perfect second he can see. Too pale skin, like those old marble statues in the Great Hall, jewel set eyes the color of a sea of grass and shaggy soft black hair, a raven's wing in hue. The expression is grimly set, eyes worried and then aware that Kamui is seeing, seeing truly for the first time. The mouth opens and he fades again, sizzling in his own private hell of physical sensation and shut down, catching only some of it.

"I've got you. Don't be af --"

***

"I've got you, Kamui! I've got you!"

Kamui laughed as he twirled in mid-air, wings arching outward to catch the air as he dived, Kotori squealing as that upends her, turning with him thanks to their joined hands. There's something freeing in this, in being able to play and laugh, tugging Kotori along with him and watching her hair float around her, golden waves against the brightest summer blue, dress almost translucent as she swung over his head, framed by the sun and his breath caught, watching it halo around her. She seemed to sense he was watching her and her smile quieted, gentle and welcoming, holding out her other hand and he took it. There was freedom in this too, in knowing that someone cared, someone cared if he lived or he died. Someone would miss him if he didn't show up at the appointed time and would mourn him if he were to go missing. Kotori depended on him and Kamui found he depended on her more with each passing day. The time spent in the caves never seemed so nightmarish, so dark as they did at these moments. Being here with Kotori, with someone who cared, this was living. This was being able to breathe and feel again. He hadn't felt anything like this since his mother had left and it wasn't something he wanted to let go. He didn't want to be alive and dead anymore. Better to be one or the other, better to be anything than stagnant.

"Kamui?"

He watched her for a moment, the stirring of the breeze through her hair and the pearlescent feathers of her wings, chest aching and he paused, her blue eyes widening. It's not part of the script, it's not what happened but it's something that he had to say, that he never got to --

Grasping her hand, Kamui bowed his head, "I'm sorry, Kotori."

He can't bring himself to look again, knowing that it won't be her, it won't be anything but that awful, powerless moment. Gold upon stone and so much blood -- "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry that --"

It wasn't me, that I can't be with you in this. That I can't let go. Not yet. And that I can't forgive myself. Because I know that's what you would have wanted.

***

Everything is dark when he wakes up but that's nothing new. Neither is the sound of chimes ringing and singing at him and for one moment, Kamui forgets everything.

Then he tries to sit up, the ground beneath him cold against his stomach, harder than usual, and his face feels sticky, sweaty and almost glued to his tingling arm. He lifts his face and gasps as that jars his back. The pain is -- better, manageable but it's still there. It's present and sharp and it tells him that he's alive. He's alive.

Whether that's a good thing or not remains to be seen.

"Hello."

The voice is soft, uncertain and he balances there, palms against the -- no, it's not ground. He has to squint but he can just make out the stones beneath his splayed fingers. Lifting his head is not so much a chore now, even if he does feel as though he's tottering, the world threatening to upend itself, his equilibrium askew. Kamui follows the sound of that greeting, eyes scanning until he thinks he's found the right direction, squinting until he can make out a shape within the dimness, a glint of pale surfacing and he finds he can hear faint movement if he concentrates.

"Are you hungry?"

Kamui keeps a wary eye on that spot, on the outline of another person as he tests himself, trying not to fall flat on his face as he grits his teeth, straightening himself bit by bit. He turns his neck with ginger care, letting his shoulders roll and there seems to be no damage there. The juncture of wings and shoulder is aching but no more than that, a throb of dulled sensation. He shies away from the damaged wing, attempting to test the other and blinks when nothing happens, trying to peer over his shoulder and wincing as he does so, resting a hand against his arm.

"I had to tie your wings down. You beat Hokuto with one of them earlier when you were --" His companion breaks off, voice turning slightly rueful, "Not that I suppose that matters to you. Or you know, the fact that I'm trying to talk to you."

Ignoring that, Kamui shifts into an almost sitting position, hunched on his knees and he gives himself a careful once over, poking at the bandaging around his midsection, white strips wrapped tightly around him, glowing faintly in the darkness. The leathery tips of his wings are brushing against his legs but it's not uncomfortable and given that his own people would either have let him die or crippled him by cutting his injured wing off, he's not about to complain. Shoving some of his bangs out of his face, he glances around, finding the only light source in the room, the lightening of a tinted window to his left, a haloed figure knelt in supplication before a something that looks too much like Kotori for comfort and he draws in a quick breath, turning away from that rise of light, taking refuge in the cooler darkness, addressing the other person in the room with him for the first time.

"Where are we?"

"Sanctuary," Comes the prompt reply, tinged with relief and curiosity. Kamui finds that if he peers hard enough he can make out more than a shape, his companion sitting up, legs moving. "We weren't sure where to … Well, it's not every day a winged boy falls out of the sky."

Kamui raises an eyebrow at that, scowling. "Why can't I see you? Why is it so dark in here?"

There's a touch of bemused embarrassment trickling into the other's voice now, "Ah, um, yeah. That would be Hokuto's fault. We ran out of candles about a day back. She was supposed to get some tonight and er…she's not back?"

"You're a god, aren't you?" Kamui asked, "Can't you just wiggle your fingers and make it light?"

"Um, that's really an interesting -- what makes you think that?" Something akin to anxiety seems to trickle in and Kamui finds himself blinking at how flustered and non-godly this divinity is. "I mean, you haven't been listening to Hokuto have you, because I told her she needed to stop --"

"You're a god," Kamui interrupts, somewhat exasperated to be having this conversation at all. Wasn't there some sort of procedure that he was expected to follow? Maybe not, given how not smited he is for something that would have gotten his ears boxed by the Elders in the caves. He thinks about it for a moment, nodding, "I fell on forbidden ground and you saved me, and seeing as neither of us are dead, you're obviously a god. Late but that's the story of my life. That's why I can't see you, right? I'll burn up if I see you in all your glory? Like the stories say?"

"My glory?! I don't think you --"

Kamui crosses his arm, his scowl deepening, "Look, I'm not going to apologize for not believing in you. In fact, I'm not sure I believe in you now."

There's a pause, "You don't believe in me…but you're talking to me?"

"Don't you try any religious double talk on me," Kamui snaps, "I might have had a moment of maybe contemplating believing in you despite the fact you fucked up my life but you blew that. If you're going to punish me, then just go ahead and do it. I'm not going to start worshipping you now.."

"P-p-punish you? I -- Okay, I think somehow we're not communicating here."

"And --and another thing," Kamui stabs a finger in the air, seizing on something else, bleary but just remembered, "I am not a pet. And my name is not Fluffy!

***End

FIC: The Gentle Fall (1/1), sequel to Whispers in the Dark, etc.

2004-09-15T02:46:17Z

Title: The Gentle Fall (1/1)
Author: Sephy
Series: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Archive: http://www.fallenicons.net
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13/R-ish
Pairings: Seishirou +/x Syaoran, Syaoran + Sakura, some light hints of Fai + Kurogane
Warning: Angst, some language, spoilers for Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle chapter 52.
Status: Complete.

Summary: Syaoran makes his choice...

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservior Chronicle. It's the property of CLAMP and it's respective copyright holders. No infringement is intended. I'm just playing around here, folks.

Thanks: To amet for beta-ing this.

Author's Notes: I'm rediscovering that writing is a great distraction when you're ill and feeling like you're going to plotz. If nothing else, writing this up today gave me something else to think about besides the ache of my head and how I have to go to school tomorrow. @_@ Anyway, enough about that. This is the direct sequel to Whispers in the Dark and is in the same universe as A Wing and A Prayer. With this piece, we return to find out what's going on with Syaoran and gang and deal with some of the fall out of Seishirou's offer in Whispers in the Dark. I don't have much more to say beyond I hope this is coherent and that we'll be getting back to Kamui and the twins with the next story. And that I still need a name for this series. >>;

The Gentle Fall
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

There should be rain, Syaoran thought as he trudged home, sword nearly dragging in the dirt, kicking up a faint cloud of dust, pale in the light of the waning moon. Kurogane would have his head if he were here, if he could see how shamefully Li was treating his blade but he didn't have it in him to care right now. Not beyond the knowledge of its weight and how all the strength he'd had earlier was gone, arm as heavy as stone. Why he hadn't dropped it, why he hadn't just stopped, sinking to his knees weighed down by the heaviness in his chest, spiraling outwards like invisible chains settling on his shoulders, Syaoran didn't know. Perhaps it was some last spurt of defiance where everything else had been knocked away, the wind taken from tattered sails, knowing only that if he stopped, he might not move again.

And that didn't seem like such a bad thing.

He couldn't though, not even as that thought burrowed in, traitorous and fat, sitting squat in the back of his mind so that he knew it was there, so that he felt its presence. There was too much to do still. Responsibilities to carry out and the others would be worried if he didn't return home. Sakura would be worried and if nothing else he couldn't bear the thought of causing her more pain. Better to carry a little more of his own rather than dim that slowly growing light, fed little by little, world by world, by the recovery of those precious feathers, each altered memory giving her a little more color than before, restoring her to the Sakura he knew, the Sakura he remembered and cherished.

But she would never be that Sakura. That Sakura was dead and this girl, so similar, so bright and warm in her own way, would never be her. Could never be her. Not without the memories they'd once shared, Syaoran so carefully excised from each one, as if he'd never existed. Sometimes he wondered if he did at all, if what he remembered was truth or some wistful dream, the hope of an orphan who wanted something to cling to and had nothing at all beyond his own imagination. He -- No. No, he had to believe that what he remembered was truth and that somewhere there was a world where the two of them belonged, where there were other people who would remember him even when Sakura couldn't.

The comfort that offered was precious little especially now.

'So, I think I'd like to make a bet with you -- something just between the two of us. And if you agree, I'll accompany you for a year and help you in your quest to gather the feathers. '

How had Seishirou-san known? How had he known just the words and the way to offer Li something he couldn't afford to turn down even knowing there would be a price involved. There was always a price. The Time Witch had taught him that if nothing else. But this -- Syaoran had thought he had nothing more to give up besides his life, nothing precious to him at any rate, not after giving up his place in Sakura's memories but he was beginning to think that he'd been wrong in that. There was something else he couldn't afford to lose and yet put on the line anyway. Himself. His soul. Everything that had and did make him who he was and here he was, actually thinking of giving it over and knowing in doing so possibly damning every single one of them.

"If you can make me fall in love with you, I'll stay with you and continue to help. But if not, after a year, in return for my services, I'll kill you. Is it a bargain?"

He couldn't stop the shiver the memory of those words evoked, burning ice down his spine, accompanied by the memory of furtive, not so rushed touches, as if Seishirou owned him, as if he were already so certain of Li's decision that he could afford to be possessive, almost flaunting. And he hadn't resisted, moving in tandem with each caress as if he were on strings, aching with each touch and wanting nothing more than to let go, to lose himself because it was an alternative to the dull, constant throb he carried with him, his own ever present guilt and regret. For not being better than he was, for not protecting her better than he had, for everything that had gone wrong from that moment to this one and mostly for not telling her. He could never tell her now. It was too little, too late and would never be the same, would never mean the same as if he'd told her then. He didn't want to say those words now and have her parrot them at him, because she felt grateful or guilty, thinking that he needed to hear them. Better to play this part, to be her friend always and protector for as long he could than that.

And part of being her protector meant putting her needs before his own and in this case, Li was forced to admit that given how long each jaunt between worlds was taking, they might be looking at years before she was restored to some semblance of health and self. Or worse, she might get hurt or one of them killed before this journey was over and -- and -- Seishirou was strong. He was powerful in ways they were only beginning to comprehend and he was just ruthless enough that if he made their quest his goal then nothing would be able to stand in their way. Yet…

There it was again -- yet, containing a million possible outcomes and warnings of just how wrong this could be, how he couldn't even trust himself where Seishirou was involved and still he was considering this.

Syaoran reached out, trailing his free hand along warm wood of tall fences, each plank pressed together so that you couldn't see the house and yard beyond, without the swing of a gate to reveal anything at all and the sloping sway of a tree blanketing both house and yard, rising over and above garden walls and tin roofs. It was sticky, the air thick and damp with heat, moisture clinging to his body and making him uncomfortable, reminding him uncomfortably of where he'd been as if the strong scent of smoke and spice clinging to his hair and clothes weren't enough. There was no one out tonight, the flicker of street lanterns doing little more than throw more shadows at him, the only company he was fit for at the moment, dancing forever just out of his reach even as they dogged his steps, stretchy shapes writhing just in the corner of his eye. Cicadas were chirruping, buzzing loudly and that with the other insect song filled what should have been silence, a discordant harmony that rose and fell in lulls, oddly metallic as it fell upon the ears. There should have been rain, he thought again, almost absently, rain to give some sort of relief, to give silence, and respite.

There should have been but there was nothing of the kind, the heat continuing to press in, soupy and smothering.

'Is it a bargain?'

He shivered again, free arm moving to rub up and down his arm, wishing he had an answer to that. Any answer but the one he feared he would give.

***

"You're late."

Fai glanced up from the books he was juggling in his arms, gaze shifting towards the door Kurogane was leaning so easily across, beyond that to where Syaoran was coming up the steps, blinking as the ninja pushed out of his lean and came towards him, hands jammed in his pockets. Fai couldn't see Kurogane's expression but he could well guess from the way Syaoran's posture became suddenly defensive and the gruff tone of the older man's voice what it was and he eased the books down on the counter, keeping a wary eye on the pair.

"I was delayed," Syaoran shrugged, taking a step and then another until he was on the porch, not quite looking at Kurogane or Fai for that matter. A definite tip off that something was up, Fai nodded to himself. Syaoran was usually so forthright it hurt, always looking people in the eye as if he expected the same sort of honesty and him trying to be evasive was almost painful to behold.

Given how long they'd been together, Fai would have thought the boy more at ease with them than he had been in the beginning but of late, Syaoran's mind had been elsewhere, more and more distracted and definitely more moody even as Kurogane seemed to be losing some of his rougher edges (a feat Fai felt was due in no small amount to his constant prodding and poking -- with some help from Syaoran and Sakura, of course).

Syaoran made as if to go past where Kurogane was looming and for a moment, Fai was certain that would be all there was to it but -- Ah, he should have known Kurogane wouldn't be able to let that go, suppressing a smile as a hand landed on Syaoran's shoulder, staying the boy, brown eyes widening in startlement before narrowing.

"Did you find him?" Kurogane demanded, as if he hadn't seen that, as if he wasn't aware of how tightly strung the younger man was and Fai ran an absent finger over the counter as if checking for dust, strolling around the front of it, and hopping up into a sitting position. Just in case, he told himself. "Your Seishirou-san?"

That earned him more of a reaction than perhaps even Kurogane intended, Syaoran's jaw tightening, near glaring as he drew himself up, the words almost hissed, "He's not my Seishirou-san."

Kurogane raised his eyebrow then bristled and Fai coughed delicately, drawing both their attention to him before the big lug could say something that worsened the situation. Honestly, for someone who meant well, Kurogane could make such an absolute mess of things without even trying. "This would be one of those miscommunication moments we have, wouldn't it? Allow me to translate for Kuro-chan, Syaoran. What he really meant to say was, 'Welcome home. We were worried and are relieved you managed to find your way back in one piece."

Syaoran glanced at Fai then at Kurogane who rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, muttering, "I'm pretty sure I said what I meant but since when does anyone around here give a damn?"

"Now, now, Kuro-chan, is that any way to act?" Fai chided him, pushing at his hair, winking at Syaoran, "He's been grumpy since you left earlier, and don't let him fool you. He's not what you call subtle. I think he wore a hole in Satsuki-san's floor earlier."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Did not," The ninja growled, glowering at Fai now who gave him a winsome smile in return.

"Yes, you did," Fai replied pleasantly then turned his attention back to Syaoran, eyes sharpening just a bit, "Still, you have been gone a while. Sakura was worried."

What Kurogane had yet to learn, mostly because he was too busy stomping around or perhaps to noble to take advantage of, was that the best way to bring Syaoran up short and stop him from behaving stupidly was to mention the Princess. The change never failed to be immediate, some of the tension sliding out and the younger man's expression almost apologetic now, certainly guilty. If only Kurogane had just as handy a leash.

"Is she all right?" Syaoran didn't quite move Kurogane's hand on his shoulder but he did look at it long enough that the larger man made a 'tching' sound in the back of his throat and let go.

"She's asleep," Fai assured him, crossing his legs and kicking them against the wooden counter beneath him thoughtfully. "It took some doing but between Yuuto-san and myself we managed to convince her it would only upset you more when you came back if she had made herself ill by not getting the proper rest."

"Yuuto-san," Syaoran echoed hesitantly, looking past and into the house, "And Satsuki-san … they've --"

"Gone to bed for the night. Although Satsuki-san left you a plate warming in the kitchen should you want it."

"I thought the oven wasn't working?"

"It wasn't but that woman just has this way with machines," Fai rubbed the back of his neck. "Damnedest thing I've ever seen but she had it working within about five minutes. And a good thing too, considering we're nearly out of funds."

"We won't need them after tonight," Syaoran shrugged, the light glinting off his sandy hair, leeching some of the color away and replacing it with red and gold hues, almost fiery at the tips.

"So we're leaving tomorrow then?" Kurogane asked, not looking entirely unhappy about that.

"We got what we came for. There's no reason to stay."

"That's what I thought yesterday and the day before," Kurogane shifted, giving Syaoran a closer examination, "But someone kept over-ruling me."

"Then you should be happy that we're leaving then," Syaoran pushed into the common room, not quite meeting Fai's gaze either as he looked around, as if searching for something, almost fidgeting and Fai blinked at that, then at Kurogane who had come in behind the boy.

"You shouldn't drag your scabbard in the dirt. You'll ruin the casing," Kurogane observed, neutrally -- or at least as neutrally as someone like Kurogane could ever get. "I thought I taught you to respect your blade better than that."

Syaoran looked every bit of his years at that, almost -- almost flinching, shoulders stooped as if he'd taken one beating too many this evening and he was trying to hold onto his feet. Not looking at either of them, he hefted his sword up to rest against his shoulder, "I'm going to bed. I'll see you both in the morning."

He was out the door and up the stairs leading into the back before either of them could say anything, deliberately quiet as Syaoran made his way upstairs, both of them listening as a door opened and then closed, faintly squeaking despite obvious efforts to the contrary, the silence between the two building until Kurogane finally moved, turning away from Fai.

"Something happened," Kurogane leaned against one of the walls, fist extended as if to punch through it.

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you?"

The look he got was dark, reproving and had he been anyone else, it might have been intimidating but Fai knew Kurogane better than that and knew better than to assume that the anger flickering in those black eyes was directed at him. Something that was only confirmed by what the man said next, "I don't like it. The way that man keeps crossing our path. The way Syaoran hesitates and doubts himself when he's around. I should have killed him."

"And thereby diminished yourself and where would we be? Syaoran would be sick with guilt and you'd upset Sakura too, and not even you're that heartless."

"Then what would you suggest?" the other man turned, crossing his arms and looking almost ridiculous thanks to the ink-stained apron and oversized sweater he was wearing, the only thing Yuuto-san owned that was even close to his size, a cast off from some former apprentice and looking as if it were something Kusanagi would have worn. Kusanagi… Fai wondered how he and the others were doing, if everything had worked out for them and they had gotten home. He hoped so. "You know as well as I do that he didn't kill the man tonight, if he found him at all. You can see it in his face. And that damned priest will keep popping up until something is done about him."

"Maybe," Fai said thoughtfully, hopping off the counter. "No one ever said our quest was going to be easy --"

Kurogane rubbed his eyes, holding up a hand, looking faintly disgusted, "Could you not? For just one night, could you not try and look on the sunny side?"

"You'd rather I mope?"

"I'd rather you took something seriously for once."

"You think I don't take things seriously?" Fai asked mildly.

"I think --" Kurogane trailed off, looking uncomfortable, his bluster dying away for once as he looked at the stairwell again. "That I'm worried and I don't know what I'm saying right now. I think that I don't want to have a fight with you."

Fai raised an eyebrow, "Maybe there's hope for you yet, Kuro-chan."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" The ninja's voice went up and Fai put a finger to smiling lips trying to shush him.

Some things never changed at least.

***

Syaoran paused at the top of the stairs, keeping one ear on the pair below him, a little too conscious of the silence, rife with so many things unsaid, to be completely comfortable. He shouldn't have done that, he knew that. But Kurogane for all he meant well, had hit too close to home tonight -- in a number of areas and the last thing he wanted was to lose his temper and say something he couldn't take back. His companion wasn't the most forgiving of men on the best days and were he to let his anger and desolation get the better of him, there was no telling what Li would say. Better to hold his peace and try to sleep, if that was going to be possible. They had a full day ahead of them tomorrow and the jaunt between worlds was never easy on any of them. There was no sense in aggravating things now.

Even if there was still something he had to do tonight before he could rest. He took a few steps, resting his hand against Sakura's door, half-raising his knuckles to knock before stopping himself. Sakura was asleep and there was no sense in waking her at this hour, not when all he wanted was to make sure that she was safe for the night. Gritting his teeth, he turned the knob, silently willing it not to squeak and letting go of a shaky breath when it didn’t, the door swinging inward just a hair as he edged past it, poking his head in.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the near total darkness, only the half-pull of a curtain providing some light but he almost smiled at the sight that greeted him, resting his head against the frame. Sakura was curled around Mokona who opened one eye and peered at him, opening its mouth then closing it as Syaoran made a shushing signal, the jewel in the middle of its forehead glinting blackly. Like this, Sakura made him think of days long past, when he and his father stayed at the palace, sneaking out of his room in the middle of the night into hers, the two of them playing games until they were either discovered or passed out next to each other in their coverlet cave -- which was as good as being discovered given how Touya liked to check on his sister early in the morning. Had the King not been so fond of his father, Syaoran might have gotten off a lot harder than he did. As it was, Touya could barely stand him on the best of days and having Syaoran so close to his baby sister had done little to help those matters. Given the way things had turned out, he wasn't sure he could altogether blame the other man.

Even if he hadn't meant for things to turn out this way, they had and the only recompense he could come up with was to return Sakura with her memories, safely back to her home. As for himself -- well, he'd figure that out later. He was pretty sure Touya's kindness would extend about as far as it took for him to find the borders of the kingdom and no further.

Hesitating, he glanced behind him then stepped inside, careful to keep his tread light, cradling one arm with his hand as he drew a little closer to the bed. Sakura was laying on her side, her cheek resting against one of her hands, Mokona drawn tightly to her chest with the other, lashes dark against her skin and just a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It both heartened and saddened him to see it. Syaoran was glad that she could keep her spirits up, that her sleep at least was more restful than her waking world but -- there was something bittersweet in that smile, having more than seen it before -- having had it directed at him. Just for being there and for being who he was. For being her friend. For a long time, Sakura had been the only friend he'd ever had and if nothing else, he couldn't help but love her a little for that.

'If you really care about her, then how far are you willing to go?'

The thought chased itself around his brain, causing him to draw back, turning instead to the half-veiled window, resting his face against the cool pane before looking at his reflection in it. He could remember a time when his face hadn't seemed so set, so darkened and lined, as if being worn away at, the happiness of better times eaten away, something lean and hungry staring out of tawny eyes, something he tried to hide and keep hidden from the others, from Sakura. Part of him wanted what Seishirou had to offer, if for no other reason than to have that weight lifted off his shoulders, to have a chance, more of a chance than they had now, stumbling blindly from world to world, always a hair breadth from their own destruction. If nothing else, Seishirou offered some security, aid at least.

If he could trust the man meant what he said.

If he could give up enough of himself, of the Syaoran Sakura thought so highly of, to take the man up on his offer.

Glancing back at Sakura sleeping so peacefully, he squeezed his eyes shut and banged his fist against the glass, feeling the faint tremor singing through his muscles and he wondered if it had come from the glass or if it was something from within him, unnoticed until now.

***

"So are we ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Kurogane rolled his eyes at the blond beside him. "Popsicle stand? Where did you get that … chestnut?"

"From Kusanagi and Yuzuriha," Fai responded without missing a beat, tugging at his collar and smiling down at Sakura who was giggling quietly at the two of them. "Some of us are actually learning things on our travels instead of perfecting out sulking techniques, Kuropi."

"I do not sulk!"

"Of course you don't," Fai patted his arm and turned his head, smile not fading but looking a touch more concerned. "Syaoran?"

Li dragged his gaze back to where they were all standing, obviously waiting for him, having found a secluded bit of street for them to make the jump, Mokona flitting about in Sakura's arms, obviously ready to be gone. He couldn't help but flush under that collective stare, one last glance at the print shop and the street beyond it.

"Syaoran?" Sakura took a step towards him, worry staining fresh features, her green eyes darkening. "Are you-- Are you okay?"

He tried to smile at her, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking his head. "I'm just daydreaming. It's nothing," he assured her, falling into step beside her. "We should go."

"Without me, my darling Syaoran-kun? I'm crushed."

He didn't have to turn around, Sakura's whitening features and the sudden clenching of Kurogane's jaw told him more than enough, eyes drifting to the slow tightening of Fai's posture. The potential for violence was rife here. He didn't even have to do anything.

He didn't but he did, turning around and breathing in deeply, "I thought you weren't going to make it, Seishirou-san."

The older boy shrugged, movements careless as he narrowed the intervening space between them, smiling genially at everyone one, the sunlight glinting off his glasses. "Now, now, Syaoran-kun. I had a few things to finish up here first and you made me wait so long for my invitation.

Seishirou smiled at Sakura, his grin widening as he looped an arm around Syaoran's shoulders, studying him intently, "Shall we go?"

Syaoran let the slight pressure on his shoulders and back propel him forward towards Fai and Kurogane, keeping his eyes ahead with only the faintest glimpse of green eyes wide and almost horrified, the half lift of a slender white hand wavering, then falling away. It hurt, more than he thought it would, more than anything had in a while and since starting on this trip, he'd come to know new levels of hell, of pain and torment, things that had nothing to do with implements and everything to do with feeling, with love and hope and just how crushing those emotions could be.

It was better this way. Better to cling only to the hope that he'd find her feathers and get her home safely. Everything else, all that was and could have been, nothing more than a childish dream, the fall from that grace not so gentle. They'd already said their good-byes that day in Clow, Sakura's hand in his just before she slipped from his door, before that fateful day at the dig. She had forgotten that and maybe it was time he did, too.

For both their sakes.

***End

FIC: A Wing and A Prayer (1/1), Sequel to Whispers in the Dark

2004-09-11T23:33:12Z

Title: A Wing and a Prayer (1/1)
Author: Sephy
Series: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Archive: http://www.fallenicons.net
Genre: Drama
Rating: R-ish
Pairings: None
Warning: Angst, violence, some surrealism, spoilers for Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle chapter 52.
Status: Complete.

Disclaimer: I don't own Tsubasa: Reservior Chronicle. It's the property of CLAMP and it's respective copyright holders. No infringement is intended. I'm just playing around here, folks.

Thanks: To amet for beta-ing this.

Author's Notes: And the Tsubasa: RC love continues on. This fever-inspired ficlet wrote itself this morning and is the sequel to what I started in Whispers in the Dark. Or rather I should say it's the other thread in the same universe. Where Whispers shows us what Syaoran and Seishirou are doing, this story looks at what's happening to another familiar face(s) in the CLAMP-verse (or whatever the heck we're calling what Syaoran and Sakura are wandering through). And seeing as it looks as this will be a series of some sorts (and now I have to find a name for said series), I should probably say that it will run along two threads -- what's happening with the characters in this story and then what's happening with the main Tsubasa gang (and Seishirou, of course). The threads will meander along separate pathways and then meet up eventually.

Two words for you though with this story: Vampire. Twins.

Enjoy!

A Wing and a Prayer
A Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle vignette
Sephy

Some other world, at around the same time…

Kotori was dead.

Even as he flew onward, the knowledge was still seeking to hammer its way home, Kamui choking down a sob, still seeing in his mind the slow spraying arch of blood as the blade bit through her neck -- No, he shook his head, wild and aching, better not to think of her that way. Better to think of Kotori as he'd last seen her, alive, the sunshine threading through her hair, soft waves of gold lifting as she flew through the air on pearlescent wings, white and pure where his own were dark and almost leathery in comparison. Better to think of the music of her laughter, warm and rich as she flew above him, their fingers barely grazing, always that hint of something, a potential that was now dead forever, stillborn and cut down with the clean blow of a sword wielded by the one she had loved best in this world.

Her brother.

Kamui scrubbed at his eyes, angling lower as a shadow passed over him, moving just out of the way of an arrow, silent and spiraling towards where his back had been just seconds earlier. He arched past the rising rock faces, trying to keep his attention both on where he was going (so as not to smash face first into the side of a mountain) and on his pursuer -- hawk-like wings predatory and efficient where Kotori's had seemed harmless, too ethereal to be real. He knew about Fuuma, even though they were of rival clans. Everyone knew of him. Fuuma had killed more than his fair share of Dark Wings, his people setting a price on the Angel's head, offering more than Kamui would ever see in his life to the one who could bring him down. A king's ransom and no one would touch it, knowing they were signing their death warrant in the attempt. Those in the past who had attempted to bring the Angel down had fallen, what was left of them not worth salvaging.

He had always imagined that were he to face Fuuma, what he would find would be more monster than man, laughing cruelly and perhaps licking a knife or something but the man following him was somber, almost morose as if he took no enjoyment in this chase at all but did it because he knew he must. Because Kamui had been stupid enough to be spotted, crying out in that instant this man's sword chopped through Kotori's slender white throat, revealing himself and forfeiting the life Kotori had tried to save for him.

He knew the rules, laws that had existed for thousands of years between their clans and he'd broken them, broken them without thought or care. There was no one who could save him from that, no one who would help him. When, if his clan found out, they would turn their backs on him completely, not that they hadn't already been looking for the chance, to be rid of the poor orphan bastard left to depend on the charity of the community. How he hated them and their patronizing words, the pats on the head that should have been comforting but came off as empty. In the whole of his life only his mother and then Kotori had treated him with anything approaching real kindness. And if nothing else, in meeting Kotori, at least he had made his own decision, taking his life in his hands and giving it to her.

It wasn't something he regretted. He only wished he could have done more for her, wished that he had saved her, the memory of bright cerulean eyes awash with tears, standing tall and proud as she tried not to cry out, understanding as everyone in that courtyard had that this was the Law. She had broken it, she had dragged a Dark Wing into a haven of Angels, had spoken with him and played with him, had kissed him just that morning --

And now everything was undone. Not even Fuuma, for all Kotori's assurances to Kamui that her brother loved her and would somehow understand, had been able to do anything more than obey what was written, pain bright in the dark of the other man's eyes as he turned, splattered with Kotori's life blood and spotting Kamui as his scream echoed through the valley.

Kamui shoved himself forward, arching through a rend in one of the stone walls, biting his lip hard as it scratched his wings but somehow making it through. Fuuma was too large to pass through something like that and if nothing else, he hoped he could buy more time. More time for what he had no idea. He was only delaying the inevitable. He was going to die, that's what all of this meant. He was going to die just as Kotori had died and no one in his clan would be the wiser. No one in his clan would care that he had disappeared, probably thinking themselves well rid of a long-standing burden.

Keeping low, he rode the thermals, the air steadily growing cooler the further out he pushed himself. He'd never been this far from home before, not without someone else and he had only the vaguest of ideas where he was. None of the rock formations looked terribly familiar and the land was starting to recede, grass dying into tufts and bent trees, the air more stale here, brisk against his tongue. He followed the thinning ravine for some time, wings starting to ache from the strain. Without much warning, the walls expanded outward again into a world of fog and mist, the sound of rushing water thundering in his ears. This was unfamiliar, unknown and he hesitated, threading the air and hovering out in the open, trying to decide which way to turn.

That was a fatal mistake.

There was no warning, no rush of air or sound to herald Fuuma's arrival, just hands grabbing his wings, one trying to grab his throat and Kamui panicked, wings fluttering backward, slapping his assailant. Fuuma grunted, trying to keep a hold on his chin and turn, his other hand pulling hard at the branching tissue of where his wing joined his back, wringing a pained scream out of Kamui. He lashed out again, face turning downward to bite into fingers and enough force from his uninjured wing that he managed to break free --

Only to drop straight down into the mists like a stone, Fuuma hovering above like some sort of dark cloud, obviously trying to decide if it was worth it to follow him.

Rolling onto his belly, Kamui tried to straighten his wings, to catch another draft but his left wing refused to respond, fluttering at a bad angle. He did find a way to slow his descent, straining his other wing to near breaking. It wasn't enough to halt but it did give him several more awful seconds to contemplate the large splattering he was about to make against the rocks below.

And then he spotted something, water and -- something else, ruins from the looks of things, a network of fallen marble columns and broken icons, statues that must have once looked noble and majestic as they towered over their makers lying in so many pieces. The place was swathed with the same fog he was falling through, thick and almost blue in the darkness, just a few glints of light aiding his sight, water rippling and he rolled towards it, fingers already scrabbling, looking for something to cling to, to break his fall, or at least keep him from smashing full force into the water which would hurt just as much as solid rock.

He knew this place. It was sacred or cursed depending on who you asked, a place where ancient gods had once lived. The ancestors of his people and the Angels had come from here, moving outward until the way had been lost, lost in all but tales of old glory and fearful wanderings. Kamui knew this place but he had never thought to see it.

Granted, he was seeing it in the five seconds it took for him to catch the branch of a dying beech-tree, the momentum of his fall numbing his arm as he was yanked to a halt, bouncing up and gritting his teeth, tears pouring from his eyes as he held on for dear life. The tree shivered, branch cracking threateningly but mercifully, miraculously held, his toes skimming the water below him.

After a moment, one that seemed to stretch and reflect in on itself forever, he let go, falling face forward into the muddy waters, muscles frozen and anguished, refusing to respond, to even allow him to lift his head as water filled his nostrils and mouth, sucking inwards until he felt as if he were swallowing the river whole, the only thing keeping his body partially out of the water a broken column he found himself somehow attached to. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He wasn't supposed to die like this, not in this stinking sinkhole, surrounded by putrid and decaying matter, swamp water filling his lungs until his vision burned and began to darken around the edges. There had to be something else, something more to his life than just dying uselessly like this.

Just before he passed out, Kamui felt hands sliding underneath his arms, strong and cold, as cold as the broken marble he was clinging to and just as hard. There was something unearthly about this, about being lifted so easily out of the muck when he couldn't even get up himself, his left wing hanging uselessly. He coughed, the nasty water filling his nose and mouth suddenly replaced by air, choking and spitting it out, face low to the ground even as his arms were held aloft. It hurt, coughing like this, ribs feeling bruised from the fall but nothing in comparison to the throb of that damaged wing, wondering if it was broken and how bad the break was. He knew well enough that sometimes a bad enough break meant only one thing -- amputation and he'd be damned if he let that happen, if he let himself be crippled and unable to fly for the rest of his life. Providing he survived long enough to enjoy it, he thought, wincing as he felt blood trickle down his back, oddly numb -- the only wound that was.

Kamui raised his head, trying to blink away hazing vision, the roar in his ears when he'd fallen only getting worse with each passing moment, bringing with it a dark cloud, rolling in like the fog of this swamp, covering the wreck of his body and mind but before it did so, his eyes fluttered, his good wing rearing wildly, pushed by some low level panic, more survival instinct than anything else. Green, that was the first color that registered. Vibrant green eyes, the color of sea kelp and grass and the deeper still of ancient pines, green that seemed to twinkle and at the same time look concerned, almost worried. Four green eyes -- Eyes, he realized and pulled himself up just enough to realize he was looking at someone, two someones, completely identical with soft curving features, androgynous enough to be either sex and soft black hair against skin too pale to be real. There were teeth too, teeth that seemed too pointed and glinting to be real, resting against the bottom lip of one and Kamui shuddered. He opened his mouth and tried to say something, instead spitting out more water and feeling that darkness treading ever closer, sagging forward in spite of himself but hearing just before he passed out --

"Let's keep him!"

"Hokuto, no--"

"Aww, come on, Subaru. Geez, you're just no fun at all sometimes. Look, he'll die if we don't help him."

"But I don't think --"

"Subaru, why not? We can take him with us and I know you've always wanted a pet."

"Well, yes but --"

"Then I say we keep him!" There was a pause. "Um…What do you think of the name 'Fluffy'?"

"For what?"

"For him."

"Hokuto, you can't name him Fluffy!"

"Cuddles?"

"Hokuto!"

***End