[ Subete might feel the curl of a satisfied smile at the huff even if it can't be seen, but it's not like Hikage has been attempting to hide his smiles lately. Between them he can let his colors flow more freely, though some pop to the forefront more than others, while a select few remain elusive and blended into the bold ones. And right now—it's funny because in a normal position he might have gotten away with it by drawing attention to something else, but here tucked together there's no masking the fluttering of eyelashes against skin.
He's not really sure why the simple request makes him feel this way (besides the fact that his offer had mostly been a joke), it's not like this was the first time someone had asked this of him. But it's different when he's not performing for an audience, or a sense of misguided obligation. His mouth keeps getting the best of him, but carpe diem. ]
...it's been a while since I've told anyone a story, but—alright.
A long time ago, there was a boy. His life wasn't an easy one, but it was his life. He didn't so much have shelter at night and the only company he had was his mother who stole from him as much as he stole from those with open purses, but that's just how he understood people to be.
The boy never once imagined that he was destined for more, because hope was something you only found in fairy tales, not in the grime and dirt of the streets. But when a man approached his mother one day and claimed to be his father and offered to take him in, the boy thought that maybe there was a sliver of truth to fairy tales after all.
The mansion, the glamour, the servants, the food was unlike anything the boy had ever seen before. And it was all to be his one day, his father said, as long as he grew up to be a proper gentleman. Saying what people wanted to hear, for a lie never hurt anyone if you were good enough at them. The boy did his best, even in face of his stepmother who hated his very existence. A gentleman would accept her tirades, the adulterants she put in his food, and the tantrums she threw along with the chinaware.
[ He pauses here and shifts, curls a little closer and then relaxes a bit with a breath. ]
And so he did, because that's just how people were: there was only one exception. The boy learned that he had a younger sister by way of his father, though she was frail and sickly. That's why the boy was taken in to begin with, for his father needed a suitable heir. His father may have considered her weak, but she wasn't like everyone else: she was kind, caring and loving, not as a means to impress others but just because she was. The boy resolved to protect her no matter what it took.
For a while, the boy lived in this faux fairy tale. He lied and lied, day in and day out, told others what they wanted to hear without a second thought and a reassuring smile. Lies made others happier, and that's what everyone wanted, that's just how people were. He even lied to his sister, though he never meant to. He told her it would all be okay when she started to grow weaker and weaker and couldn't even rise from her bed.
It wasn't, though the boy did all he could. Their father had wasted their savings at that point, and the only effective medicine was expensive. The boy worked and begged, and eventually he was able to save up enough to buy the medicine through their uncle. If only their uncle wasn't a liar too. But that's just how people are, the boy should have known that by now after all. His sister died, of course.
The boy painted the mansion and their family in a whole array of colors after that, red soon grew to be his favorite. But he couldn't stop there because he had told his sister it would be okay, and that was one lie he wouldn't let stand. He would make it the truth. No matter what it cost.
...that's the end of the first half but that's enough for now, I think. It's not like the story has a happy ending, either.
The tickle somewhere in the vicinity of his chest gets a little stronger with the feel of that smile blending together with the literal tickle of lashes and all the little sounds and movements of having someone else close enough to every part of him to create all kinds of sensations and echoes. It grows and spreads roots under his ribs and deeper still as he listens, tugs on sore parts of him he's been quietly forgetting to take account of in the noise and technicolor chaos of everything else.
But maybe it's just that those parts of him have been dyed in, too, from proximity and from the not-so-patient passage of time, to the point where he might have forgotten where one hue ended and the other began, especially here. If nothing else, those colored-in pebble memories click ever louder together, filling in the picture where the words don't.
Ah, perhaps it's a good thing that he's getting this story now, when moving is an afterthought and even impulse itself becomes afterthought to the afterthought in the slow watercolor wash of the not-quite-morning. It means that the words build up before anything else: sympathy or temper or even his own. So instead of saying anything in the heat (the cool) of the moment one of his hands has drifted upwards in the middle of everything and slid into dark hair -- and just stayed there, a warm weight as he lets everything settle once it's quiet again.]
... So that's what the boy's family wanted from him, and what the boy wanted for himself? [soft, barely more than breath and if you blinked here you could possibly mistake them for just thoughts floating between them] You know, I'm not sure how good I am at waiting for stories to end. Or even endings themselves.
[Slightly more solid, giving the words shape and letting them serve as a bookmark, for now. A reminder, in more than one way. A brief yawn, though he is most of the way awake now, just definitely not moving.]
[ ...oh. There are many sensations Hikage knows even if he hasn't indulged in them so much as sampled, but this one is new. He's always demanded control and never let anyone this close so for him to be comforted like this is...well he likes it, actually. There's too many other thoughts in competition, so he leans into the touch and accepts it. ]
I don't think he ever really knew. [ He considers the pause, the comfort of their surroundings, and the not yet entirely intrusive rays of morning. ]
You might know some chapters of the second half. But if you're still interested, I don't have anywhere else to be. Nowhere else I want to be, at least.
It really wouldn't do for those still in the story to learn all its shapes, after all.
[A touch lighter, but there's a wry weight to it that flashes in and out, slowed a little by closeness -- it could be a joke or a real thought or both the way he lets it sit for a moment with the both of them, blinking his eyes open to peek at the not-quite-roomlike contours of the room and the way neither of them can properly see any of the clocks from here still. He isn't trying very hard.
A breath and he dives back into the stories of their own making, even as far as they are from any of what's been written; here the past is both close and very far away, and when he closes his eyes again and curls his fingers against Hikage's hair in response to that leaning in everything goes blurrier still. It's still a good place to drift, together.
A hum, mock-thoughtful this time before he answers.]
It was a bedtime story, wasn't it? It's not morning yet.
[A pause; he lets himself absorb all the words in their entirety and the sing-song in his voice softens a little. All things aside, there's really only one reason he's in this city in the first place.]
Ahaha, that's one way to look at it. [ Not quite proper laughter, but with how close they are Subete can feel it nonetheless and hear the dark streaks that run through. He shifts after, just enough so he can bury himself in their shadows instead.
The end result is Hikage being more nestled than he's ever been, all on top of being the most awake he's ever been in the past day. Between the ridiculous robe, sheets, and Subete himself he's properly cocooned in the darkness; but he doesn't need to see to plant a kiss in reply to the fingers in his hair. It lingers just a little, but that may be the novelty of a kiss against collarbone. ]
I can't see the sun, so I'll just have to trust you. So then—
The boy had to bring his sister back to life: money was no object for he was able to take what his father had squandered and grow it anew, and neither was his own body or his soul. It took him a few years and book upon book upon book, but he was making progress—he may not have been properly human at that point, having traded away what little bits and pieces of himself he had in return for what was taboo. Some people called him a witch because of the bright red eye he had, but it's not like he cared. Reading people's memories was more efficient than talking to them, and it led him to come across a traveling merchant one day, aboard a trade ship.
The merchant had in his wares something that seemed too good to be true: a magical kaleidoscope that connected the world of the living and the dead. The boy purchased it of course, and followed the instructions the merchant had given him to set up the kaleidoscope on the surface of water, a lake, on the next full moon. It had been a few years, but he would finally be able to see his sister again. Except when he saw his reflection in the water, the boy realized that he had changed. He was no longer the older brother his sister had loved and cherished. The boy was a coward, for as far as he had come and everything he had given up in pursuit of his sister, he couldn't handle the fear of her rejecting him.
The boy panicked and shot himself.
That might have been the end of the story, if the kaleidoscope hadn't already activated. And so the boy's soul was drawn into Psychedelica, the in between world between the living and the dead. Every soul who enters loses their memories, and the boy was no exception.
And so the boy became the master. The master had no idea why he was here, but he knew he was trapped and couldn't move on like the other souls who found their way to this strange space. The master grew resentful for it wasn't fair, why was he different? Why did he have to suffer and no one else did? And that's when the master decided: he would inflict despair on everyone, break them until they were in more pieces than he was. Time passed and something new fell into Psychedelica, a single glimmering shard. The master knew it was important and was the key to his freedom if only he could collect them all.
More time passed. The master forgot why he was searching, but that wasn't important: he needed to complete the kaleidoscope and obtain his wish. Whatever that was. Freedom? Destruction? Or maybe there was something else...
Eventually the master encountered a strange little girl in Psychedelica, one who claimed she wanted to help him even as he threatened to destroy her soul. Consistent company wouldn't be the worst, and she could help him search. He called her Usagi, for the rabbit mask she always wore. He never came to understand why she helped him no matter what he asked, almost as if they were family.
And time continued onward. The master gained more powers, the ability to shapeshift, and more company. A young boy who had perished in a childhood accident who wanted to return to life to be with childhood crush. The master told him that if he helped complete the kaleidoscope, he would send him back. There was no difference between the truth and lie at that point, so the boy believed him. The master called him Kagiha.
Many souls passed through Psychedelica, but the last few shards remained elusive. Until a new group of souls fell into the world: three boys and one girl, each carrying a shard. The master called them Monshiro, Yamato, Karasuba and Beniyuri. The end was finally within his grasp, so the master decided to disguise himself among them, along with Kagiha. It would be more fun, that way.
They were a reckless group, Beniyuri the most among them. Her end was as predictable as it was vapid but it tore the group apart. And then—
...another writer decided to intrude on the story. [ He closes his eyes now finally, welcoming the complete darkness. ]
[There's another hum from him, easy and smooth in response to the familiar strains of that darkness like the music they sometimes share -- the quality is completely different but so are all the different shades of darkness they've shared and continue to share: there's a quick intake of breath underneath the kiss, the stuttering movement of his chest and heart easy to discern like this, but nevertheless Subete curls himself a little closer and more completely around their tangle. He's never been one to step back easily, especially where the people he's linked his fate and his voice to are concerned. Whatever else they are, they've arrived at that much.
And down they go.
Down, down, even though they're together and this abyss is contained between them it's perhaps fathomless at this point -- he recognizes some of the way down, and others he's heard the echoes of or even has left bookmarks upon. Of course they're both several types of ghost by now; of course Hikage is a ghost twice over or more; of course Usagi, perhaps the rarest of those names, is also the center of the web in its own way; he lets all of that pass quietly though not passively, running his fingers through each strand of the story the way physically they've continued their curling movement through hair. Not quite a caress, the slightest of shifts, but a focus.
And in darkness like this -- despite its familiarity, because of its familiarity -- he does need to anchor himself in order to make his way through. Especially this early. There's a double-edged sword in gazing into the vestiges of night here, he has to open his eyes again, but he keeps them on the ridiculous lines of their bed and within the circle of his arms. There's a fine tension that's settled in his limbs and the core of him together with each chapter of this tale; it's indistinct, lost somewhere in the middle of memory and the endless muddling of colors.
But it begins to leach out the moment he speaks -- and in fact he is speaking before he's aware of it this time, words low and blurring into each other at first. It's more noise than dialogue until he realizes what he's doing, but it's needed for the moment.]
... The writers of that story... could perhaps not be called writers at all, they might have just been a gang of monkeys who had gotten ahold of a keyboard or pen and paper -- that's what the intrusion felt like, the clashing of different stories that were never meant to fit together.
But there are ways to tell even ridiculous stories like that. [the chaotic handful of words he's thrown out slow, and dip down to almost nothing as he takes a breath; in fact he almost doesn't keep talking but he glances downward at black and purple and red and whispers the rest] The boy was, I suppose, plucked away again and in all of this he met another boy: who came from nothing, and was meant to acquire everything. But the sum total of everything changes, you know, and there's no one in the world who can do those calculations.
I guess in the end, they both knew the price of breaking the boundary between life and death.
[...]
Maybe I'll tell you that story sometime. A story for a story. [a sigh, carefully tucking everything away for the moment even as he ducks down slightly and presses his lips to the crown of Hikage's head again, a more deliberate kiss than the one he'd administered before they both succumbed to jetlag the night before] So the master of the mansion did remember everything, hmm?
[ It takes him a moment or two to stir, that one specific word earning a breathy exhale. He knows better than most how dangerous a darkness like this is, but of all the things he's learned lately, true self preservation isn't one of them. ]
...that particular species isn't even suited for an onsen. [ Somehow they're back here again, but this brand of nostalgia is warm (perhaps fuzzy) unlike the persistent cold rapping of rain. ]
I guess they did, though. Maybe that's why they kept chasing each other too, company wasn't something either of them expected. [ He opens one eye, his right, as if to confirm that he's really here. It slides closed again momentarily with a soft sigh. ]
I can be the pillow first, that time then. Arrangement is important, now that I'm participating properly, but the boy and the story deserve that much. [ A hum, both a response to the kiss and the question. ]
He did. It was accidental, but the master was greedy and never kept his eyes or hands to himself when he saw something he wanted, and he was particularly bad when it came to artifacts. Among other things. [ He's moving then, tilting his head upward to steal a kiss. ]
[It takes him a moment or two to surface enough from their mutual tangle (though only metaphorically, because physically he still isn't moving for all the wild horses or simians in the world) to logically(??) connect the long-ago notions of monkeys and onsen; a beat, two and then there's a small laugh from Subete that sounds like it tripped out, just as fuzzy and inexplicable as the memory itself.
He's still catching his breath and himself in the wake of everything -- though he still isn't trying all that hard, because it's okay if everything falls away and bleeds into each other the way the undawn is still sweeping colors away and into heaps. So there's a bit of quiet and a matching sigh before he rests his cheek against the tufts of hair he just kissed, perhaps claiming his new pillow in advance.]
There really wasn't any other company fitting of the name, at least. That's what I think. [maybe Hikage feels differently, given where they are now -- Minneapolis and the scant two souls they've crossed an ocean and half a continent to deal with, for better or for worse; but that's not the most important thing right now] But it's still a tempting enough offer... I'll take it.
There are still things I want to say together. And if that's also greedy, then--
[It might be a little incoherent, the way he's reaching out and catching both of their words at the same time; the way he's still taking his time making Hikage's story a part of himself and reflecting it back in the ways that he can, when he can. But it's early yet. They have time.
And he gives up easily when the kiss swallows all his words again, something that's becoming perhaps too commonplace but that especially now he has no real objections to. Where words fail to tread he slowly lets emotion trickle into the kiss itself, soft and seeking and insatiable, reaching for more pieces of the puzzle even with all that he's holding already. One kiss, two, three. He has a lot to say.
[ There was a smile at the acceptance, because even though this isn't the first one they're still a rare and sought after prize. His mouth is busy not too long after, but he can make his feelings known through their kisses, at least once he catches up. He had started this again but it's still a surprise when he's matched and then some.
(If Hikage had mind to speak on the subject he would agree: no other company was really fitting of the name, for Marona wasn't simply company and the other...well he's not sure of that right now and he has better things to think about.)
It's a little while before he tries to use his tongue in more typical fashion, but in the brief moments of breath he manages. ]
There's enough for both of us- [ One kiss, no two. ] to be greedy about.
[ They'll be time later to hear those things, to say those things. But for now all he wants to do is to stay here, tucked away from the light of the morning, entwined so tightly that he can barely breathe. It's fine, he's used to suffocating in the darkness and this is the better kind. ]
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no subject
He's not really sure why the simple request makes him feel this way (besides the fact that his offer had mostly been a joke), it's not like this was the first time someone had asked this of him. But it's different when he's not performing for an audience, or a sense of misguided obligation. His mouth keeps getting the best of him, but carpe diem. ]
...it's been a while since I've told anyone a story, but—alright.
A long time ago, there was a boy. His life wasn't an easy one, but it was his life. He didn't so much have shelter at night and the only company he had was his mother who stole from him as much as he stole from those with open purses, but that's just how he understood people to be.
The boy never once imagined that he was destined for more, because hope was something you only found in fairy tales, not in the grime and dirt of the streets. But when a man approached his mother one day and claimed to be his father and offered to take him in, the boy thought that maybe there was a sliver of truth to fairy tales after all.
The mansion, the glamour, the servants, the food was unlike anything the boy had ever seen before. And it was all to be his one day, his father said, as long as he grew up to be a proper gentleman. Saying what people wanted to hear, for a lie never hurt anyone if you were good enough at them. The boy did his best, even in face of his stepmother who hated his very existence. A gentleman would accept her tirades, the adulterants she put in his food, and the tantrums she threw along with the chinaware.
[ He pauses here and shifts, curls a little closer and then relaxes a bit with a breath. ]
And so he did, because that's just how people were: there was only one exception. The boy learned that he had a younger sister by way of his father, though she was frail and sickly. That's why the boy was taken in to begin with, for his father needed a suitable heir. His father may have considered her weak, but she wasn't like everyone else: she was kind, caring and loving, not as a means to impress others but just because she was. The boy resolved to protect her no matter what it took.
For a while, the boy lived in this faux fairy tale. He lied and lied, day in and day out, told others what they wanted to hear without a second thought and a reassuring smile. Lies made others happier, and that's what everyone wanted, that's just how people were. He even lied to his sister, though he never meant to. He told her it would all be okay when she started to grow weaker and weaker and couldn't even rise from her bed.
It wasn't, though the boy did all he could. Their father had wasted their savings at that point, and the only effective medicine was expensive. The boy worked and begged, and eventually he was able to save up enough to buy the medicine through their uncle. If only their uncle wasn't a liar too. But that's just how people are, the boy should have known that by now after all. His sister died, of course.
The boy painted the mansion and their family in a whole array of colors after that, red soon grew to be his favorite. But he couldn't stop there because he had told his sister it would be okay, and that was one lie he wouldn't let stand. He would make it the truth. No matter what it cost.
...that's the end of the first half but that's enough for now, I think. It's not like the story has a happy ending, either.
no subject
The tickle somewhere in the vicinity of his chest gets a little stronger with the feel of that smile blending together with the literal tickle of lashes and all the little sounds and movements of having someone else close enough to every part of him to create all kinds of sensations and echoes. It grows and spreads roots under his ribs and deeper still as he listens, tugs on sore parts of him he's been quietly forgetting to take account of in the noise and technicolor chaos of everything else.
But maybe it's just that those parts of him have been dyed in, too, from proximity and from the not-so-patient passage of time, to the point where he might have forgotten where one hue ended and the other began, especially here. If nothing else, those colored-in pebble memories click ever louder together, filling in the picture where the words don't.
Ah, perhaps it's a good thing that he's getting this story now, when moving is an afterthought and even impulse itself becomes afterthought to the afterthought in the slow watercolor wash of the not-quite-morning. It means that the words build up before anything else: sympathy or temper or even his own. So instead of saying anything in the heat (the cool) of the moment one of his hands has drifted upwards in the middle of everything and slid into dark hair -- and just stayed there, a warm weight as he lets everything settle once it's quiet again.]
... So that's what the boy's family wanted from him, and what the boy wanted for himself? [soft, barely more than breath and if you blinked here you could possibly mistake them for just thoughts floating between them] You know, I'm not sure how good I am at waiting for stories to end. Or even endings themselves.
[Slightly more solid, giving the words shape and letting them serve as a bookmark, for now. A reminder, in more than one way. A brief yawn, though he is most of the way awake now, just definitely not moving.]
But, mmm, storyteller calls the shots.
no subject
I don't think he ever really knew. [ He considers the pause, the comfort of their surroundings, and the not yet entirely intrusive rays of morning. ]
You might know some chapters of the second half. But if you're still interested, I don't have anywhere else to be. Nowhere else I want to be, at least.
no subject
[A touch lighter, but there's a wry weight to it that flashes in and out, slowed a little by closeness -- it could be a joke or a real thought or both the way he lets it sit for a moment with the both of them, blinking his eyes open to peek at the not-quite-roomlike contours of the room and the way neither of them can properly see any of the clocks from here still. He isn't trying very hard.
A breath and he dives back into the stories of their own making, even as far as they are from any of what's been written; here the past is both close and very far away, and when he closes his eyes again and curls his fingers against Hikage's hair in response to that leaning in everything goes blurrier still. It's still a good place to drift, together.
A hum, mock-thoughtful this time before he answers.]
It was a bedtime story, wasn't it? It's not morning yet.
[A pause; he lets himself absorb all the words in their entirety and the sing-song in his voice softens a little. All things aside, there's really only one reason he's in this city in the first place.]
And I don't have any other plans. Tell me?
cw; suicide
The end result is Hikage being more nestled than he's ever been, all on top of being the most awake he's ever been in the past day. Between the ridiculous robe, sheets, and Subete himself he's properly cocooned in the darkness; but he doesn't need to see to plant a kiss in reply to the fingers in his hair. It lingers just a little, but that may be the novelty of a kiss against collarbone. ]
I can't see the sun, so I'll just have to trust you. So then—
The boy had to bring his sister back to life: money was no object for he was able to take what his father had squandered and grow it anew, and neither was his own body or his soul. It took him a few years and book upon book upon book, but he was making progress—he may not have been properly human at that point, having traded away what little bits and pieces of himself he had in return for what was taboo. Some people called him a witch because of the bright red eye he had, but it's not like he cared. Reading people's memories was more efficient than talking to them, and it led him to come across a traveling merchant one day, aboard a trade ship.
The merchant had in his wares something that seemed too good to be true: a magical kaleidoscope that connected the world of the living and the dead. The boy purchased it of course, and followed the instructions the merchant had given him to set up the kaleidoscope on the surface of water, a lake, on the next full moon. It had been a few years, but he would finally be able to see his sister again. Except when he saw his reflection in the water, the boy realized that he had changed. He was no longer the older brother his sister had loved and cherished. The boy was a coward, for as far as he had come and everything he had given up in pursuit of his sister, he couldn't handle the fear of her rejecting him.
The boy panicked and shot himself.
That might have been the end of the story, if the kaleidoscope hadn't already activated. And so the boy's soul was drawn into Psychedelica, the in between world between the living and the dead. Every soul who enters loses their memories, and the boy was no exception.
And so the boy became the master. The master had no idea why he was here, but he knew he was trapped and couldn't move on like the other souls who found their way to this strange space. The master grew resentful for it wasn't fair, why was he different? Why did he have to suffer and no one else did? And that's when the master decided: he would inflict despair on everyone, break them until they were in more pieces than he was. Time passed and something new fell into Psychedelica, a single glimmering shard. The master knew it was important and was the key to his freedom if only he could collect them all.
More time passed. The master forgot why he was searching, but that wasn't important: he needed to complete the kaleidoscope and obtain his wish. Whatever that was. Freedom? Destruction? Or maybe there was something else...
Eventually the master encountered a strange little girl in Psychedelica, one who claimed she wanted to help him even as he threatened to destroy her soul. Consistent company wouldn't be the worst, and she could help him search. He called her Usagi, for the rabbit mask she always wore. He never came to understand why she helped him no matter what he asked, almost as if they were family.
And time continued onward. The master gained more powers, the ability to shapeshift, and more company. A young boy who had perished in a childhood accident who wanted to return to life to be with childhood crush. The master told him that if he helped complete the kaleidoscope, he would send him back. There was no difference between the truth and lie at that point, so the boy believed him. The master called him Kagiha.
Many souls passed through Psychedelica, but the last few shards remained elusive. Until a new group of souls fell into the world: three boys and one girl, each carrying a shard. The master called them Monshiro, Yamato, Karasuba and Beniyuri. The end was finally within his grasp, so the master decided to disguise himself among them, along with Kagiha. It would be more fun, that way.
They were a reckless group, Beniyuri the most among them. Her end was as predictable as it was vapid but it tore the group apart. And then—
...another writer decided to intrude on the story. [ He closes his eyes now finally, welcoming the complete darkness. ]
no subject
And down they go.
Down, down, even though they're together and this abyss is contained between them it's perhaps fathomless at this point -- he recognizes some of the way down, and others he's heard the echoes of or even has left bookmarks upon. Of course they're both several types of ghost by now; of course Hikage is a ghost twice over or more; of course Usagi, perhaps the rarest of those names, is also the center of the web in its own way; he lets all of that pass quietly though not passively, running his fingers through each strand of the story the way physically they've continued their curling movement through hair. Not quite a caress, the slightest of shifts, but a focus.
And in darkness like this -- despite its familiarity, because of its familiarity -- he does need to anchor himself in order to make his way through. Especially this early. There's a double-edged sword in gazing into the vestiges of night here, he has to open his eyes again, but he keeps them on the ridiculous lines of their bed and within the circle of his arms. There's a fine tension that's settled in his limbs and the core of him together with each chapter of this tale; it's indistinct, lost somewhere in the middle of memory and the endless muddling of colors.
But it begins to leach out the moment he speaks -- and in fact he is speaking before he's aware of it this time, words low and blurring into each other at first. It's more noise than dialogue until he realizes what he's doing, but it's needed for the moment.]
... The writers of that story... could perhaps not be called writers at all, they might have just been a gang of monkeys who had gotten ahold of a keyboard or pen and paper -- that's what the intrusion felt like, the clashing of different stories that were never meant to fit together.
But there are ways to tell even ridiculous stories like that. [the chaotic handful of words he's thrown out slow, and dip down to almost nothing as he takes a breath; in fact he almost doesn't keep talking but he glances downward at black and purple and red and whispers the rest] The boy was, I suppose, plucked away again and in all of this he met another boy: who came from nothing, and was meant to acquire everything. But the sum total of everything changes, you know, and there's no one in the world who can do those calculations.
I guess in the end, they both knew the price of breaking the boundary between life and death.
[...]
Maybe I'll tell you that story sometime. A story for a story. [a sigh, carefully tucking everything away for the moment even as he ducks down slightly and presses his lips to the crown of Hikage's head again, a more deliberate kiss than the one he'd administered before they both succumbed to jetlag the night before] So the master of the mansion did remember everything, hmm?
no subject
...that particular species isn't even suited for an onsen. [ Somehow they're back here again, but this brand of nostalgia is warm (perhaps fuzzy) unlike the persistent cold rapping of rain. ]
I guess they did, though. Maybe that's why they kept chasing each other too, company wasn't something either of them expected. [ He opens one eye, his right, as if to confirm that he's really here. It slides closed again momentarily with a soft sigh. ]
I can be the pillow first, that time then. Arrangement is important, now that I'm participating properly, but the boy and the story deserve that much. [ A hum, both a response to the kiss and the question. ]
He did. It was accidental, but the master was greedy and never kept his eyes or hands to himself when he saw something he wanted, and he was particularly bad when it came to artifacts. Among other things. [ He's moving then, tilting his head upward to steal a kiss. ]
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He's still catching his breath and himself in the wake of everything -- though he still isn't trying all that hard, because it's okay if everything falls away and bleeds into each other the way the undawn is still sweeping colors away and into heaps. So there's a bit of quiet and a matching sigh before he rests his cheek against the tufts of hair he just kissed, perhaps claiming his new pillow in advance.]
There really wasn't any other company fitting of the name, at least. That's what I think. [maybe Hikage feels differently, given where they are now -- Minneapolis and the scant two souls they've crossed an ocean and half a continent to deal with, for better or for worse; but that's not the most important thing right now] But it's still a tempting enough offer... I'll take it.
There are still things I want to say together. And if that's also greedy, then--
[It might be a little incoherent, the way he's reaching out and catching both of their words at the same time; the way he's still taking his time making Hikage's story a part of himself and reflecting it back in the ways that he can, when he can. But it's early yet. They have time.
And he gives up easily when the kiss swallows all his words again, something that's becoming perhaps too commonplace but that especially now he has no real objections to. Where words fail to tread he slowly lets emotion trickle into the kiss itself, soft and seeking and insatiable, reaching for more pieces of the puzzle even with all that he's holding already. One kiss, two, three. He has a lot to say.
Greed, indeed.]
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(If Hikage had mind to speak on the subject he would agree: no other company was really fitting of the name, for Marona wasn't simply company and the other...well he's not sure of that right now and he has better things to think about.)
It's a little while before he tries to use his tongue in more typical fashion, but in the brief moments of breath he manages. ]
There's enough for both of us- [ One kiss, no two. ] to be greedy about.
[ They'll be time later to hear those things, to say those things. But for now all he wants to do is to stay here, tucked away from the light of the morning, entwined so tightly that he can barely breathe. It's fine, he's used to suffocating in the darkness and this is the better kind. ]