[Stoptime]
X fic. Kamui p.o.v. ... ish
Warnings: story is pretentious, depressing, and it sucks. Read if you da~re...
Every evening at eleven o’clock, he sets the alarm.
Every morning, the bell rings at seven o’clock on the dot.
He spends the time in between watching the hands slowly cycle from one to the other. Once in a while, he rubs his eyes in the darkened room, to keep them from getting blurry and dry. The time doesn’t speed along, nor does it drag. It simply passes.
These are his nights. Quiet, sleepless nights where he stares at the clock for hours and tries not to let any thoughts creep into his mind. Though he is tired, sleep will not come. It has not come since the day when steel crashed against steel, and the sun set on one little dragon, all alone with his view of the City. He is beginning to lose track of how long it has been.
Sometimes he wonders if he would have nightmares if he did sleep, and if being awake was not somehow preferable anyway. He wonders if he will ever be able to find out. But these are the thoughts he does not want to dwell on long, for speculating on what might haunt him begets the resurgence of memories which are too painful, and are better left unremembered.
Instead, he focuses on the clock. He knows it well by now, as it is his only constant companion. Even if he were to close his eyes, he can still see the antiqued hands as they strain in their gears, waiting for the needle-thin second-marker to make its rounds before ticking forward, one step closer to their unattainable goal. He has memorized the face, the curling black numbers set upon on the plain white circle. When the light comes in from the crack in the curtains, the glass reflects the glare, obscuring his view. It wanes and grows with the rising and setting of the moon and stars.
This is what he thinks on, what he notices, while he sits awake in the dark.
It is simpler to numb his mind to shades of black, white and silvery light. He no longer wants to see red, and amber makes him cry.
Dawn brings his sedentary vigil to a close, birthing another phase, a new sunrise in a never-ending day.
Today, he goes to school, and watches the clock on the wall during class.
At eight o’clock in the morning, the starting bell rings.
At four o’ clock in the afternoon, they are dismissed.
The teacher has stopped calling on him; she doesn’t like him, but the Chairman refuses to allow her to force participation. She doesn’t know why, but she wants to keep her job and so doesn’t ask. His desk has been moved to the back of the room, though. Day after day, he watches the clock. Sometimes, he looks outside if it isn’t too bright out.
His classmates are afraid of him, this silent little ghost who haunts their days in his corner. They don’t know when it was they last heard him speak; they barely recognize him as someone they used to know. They remember startling violet eyes before they dulled to a dark, painful bruise in a pale, sallow face. He used to be pretty, girlish even, and envied for delicate features that have whittled away to a skin-covered skeleton. Even the smallest uniform hangs off him.
He comes to school because it is something to pass the time. The frightened whispers and dirty looks do not reach him, only the ticking of the clock is enough to grab and keep his attention. During lunch hour, the Chairman visits his corner, and makes him eat. It is all the older man can do for him. It is heartbreaking and depressing, coming here every day and trying to remain cheerful and talking at him about anything that has caught the man’s interest that day. He does it out of gratitude, but leaves after only half an hour.
It is still winter, and the days are shorter. The sun begins to sink below the horizon, turning the sky crimson and gold, and every shade of violet and blue. He never watches it.
Today, he will go home early. Normally, he walks the grounds, slipping through the shadows as if one of them. But today, he got a glimpse of the sunset, and he wants to be inside. His break in routine leaves him idle. There are no more boxes of belongings to pack, no more doors to close and lock, no more memories to be filed away. It is too early to set his alarm. He sits behind the window in his bedroom, and looks out at a dying tree.
At seven-thirty in the evening, he can no longer see the tree. The moon is dark tonight.
At eleven o’clock, he hears the creak of his door, and he turns to watch it open. Though he is the only person in the house, he is not scared. He has nothing of value left to be stolen.
From the dark of the hallway, he sees a figure emerge. Tall and broad-shouldered, with bare feet and a gentle smile. When he sees the color of the eyes that look down at him with so much love and sympathy, he starts to cry.
Arms encircle him, draw him in to bleed tears into soft cotton cloth. In a cracked and whispered voice, he begs to be forgiven, only to be shushed with a gentle admonition. Deep in his heart, he knows this is real. This is not a dream, for one must sleep to dream, and sleep has abandoned him for so long. It is this truth he clings to, so he can believe in his absolution.
The spirit wipes away his tears and kisses his forehead, speaking his name with no special emphasis, and with not malice but affection, the way he used to. The spirit tells him that he’s late, and that she will not stand to miss him for one more day. Neither of them will.
The spirit lays him back on the bed, still holding him tightly, and pulling the covers up over them both. Sleep, Kamui, the spirit says. The day is finally over.
Before drifting off, he forgets to set his alarm...
And time stops.
[edge snippet thing]
Snippet #1
He wavered on the support, buffeted by the wind that had begun to swirl in growing force around the top of the Tower, howling in his ears. It whistled between the bolted metal, carrying with it pleas which he could no longer igore. In a daze, he saw Fuuma's lips move along in the ritual that they made up as they went along, but on the same hand, felt as if they'd known it forever.
He knew all the words, could repeat them along with his Gemini in perfect tandem. However, all he could hear was the sound of a million... hundred million.... maybe a billion voices, all crying out to be spared.
But he had already promised.
There was nothing he could do.
The wind blew harder, more angry that its guardian, God's avatar, would ignore it while the ground began to rumble. The constant blowing cooled the blood that flowed from his hands, flinging it out into the open space. Maybe someone would feel it hit and think it was rain until they saw the color, or tasted the metal without thinking. The drop which had failed to hit the earth was only the beginning. Another would follow, and another, faster and faster until the ground was soaked. For once the lamb began to bleed, more would come forth, until a raging torrent coated all the world.
Snippet #2
The voices of the living and dead clamored around him, drowning out his staggered recitation. He pushed closer, closer to the edge, toward the breaking point that would seal his fate and that of humanity. They called out for him to stop, he could still stop... but he couldn't. The earth had him, had opened up and swallowed heaven, making escape impossible. All he could do was continue to give himself up to the other's overpowering desire to consume.
.... Kamui-san, please!! You can't do this!
He might have been hallucinating, but the world around him silenced, and he was able to make out a faint crowing.
... Don't give us up!! You don' know what you're doin'!
As his body began to lock up, he heard it again.
... Kamui, we trusted you.
The third was finally drowned out by his own shrill cry, that reverberated in the silence and shattered it.
[more bad poetry]
Fake
You look fake
Since when are rocks
Orange?
The mulch you were in
Was a nice, natural
Dark brown
You stood out
Like a sore thumb
Yelling to be noticed
Pick me!
Pick me.
Your color is artificial
Maybe taken by someone
And changed
So you could be part of the concrete
I think you were white
Before you turned orange
The desk you sit on
Is a light brown
It’s fake too
Pretending to look like real wood
You kind of blend in
With the desk
Same fakeness
Same orange hue
You used to be white
It used to be cork
[oh, poetry... yes, that's what i want, naughty words!]
What do you catch
In those tangled branches of yours?
Nothing you will eat
As a spider eats what it snares in its web
Maybe a bird, a leaf
Which aren't yours, but you'll take in
To keep safe, and shelter
Until they want to leave again
marvel at the level of suck...
[untitled x multi-part]
Kakyou's dreamscape appeared before him as it always had; a depthless, black void which, in its purest form, had no up or down, and the very act of movement proved to be enough to cause complete disorientation. Hence, the reason why Kakyou didn't like to move. If he expected visitors, as he did more and more frequently as the Promised Day approached, he would erect the pair of shoji doors to give his visitor an indication of up and down, left and right. When their primary purpose had been filled, Kakyou found them pleasant to lean against, since the effort of living and dreaming left him weary.
"It still hasn't changed."
Today, Kakyou's visitor seemed more restless than usual. Previous meetings showed the Dark Kamui to be a man of subtle and conflicting emotions, hidden behind a cruel smile or a blank gaze; the man once known as "Fuuma" and "Onii-chan" had always proved to be a man of impeccable self-control, yeilding only to his emotions when they became too great to hide, or when his twin star was present. And even then, the true emotions never showed. Kakyou allowed himself to be continually amazed at how easily the Dark Kamui substituted his masks, changing one persona for another so quickly and so smoothly that no one, not even his own dragons ever saw the same person. Kakyou doubted that he had ever seen the actual man more than once or twice, during their long months of acquaintence.
As he watched the contemplative, frustrated face peer into the dream image at his feet, Kakyou wondered if he wasn't seeing him for the third time. For days, the Dark Kamui had appeared in the dreamscape, asking to see the vision of the Final Battle. The younger man never demanded, not anymore, and Kakyou obliged every time. Day in and day out, they watched the same images. They watched the two forms, each armed with a great sword and shrouded in brown cloaks, as they stood across from each other. They watched the calculated first strike and the halfhearted defense, the advance and the retreat, and finally, they watched the smaller of the two fall. The battle was always short. Today's rendition proved no different than the others, and this seemed to be the cause of the disquiet in the Dark Kamui.
"It's still hasn't changed." The deep voice repeated, stepping back from the ripples which slowly turned dark. "He still doesn't realize."
Kakyou regarded him calmly. "He will not realize it," he intoned quietly, his words being swallowed by the blackness which surrounded them. "There is no time left."
For the briefest of moments, the Dark Kamui seemed to sag under an invisible burden, a trace of the not unfamiliar sadness fliting across his features before the customary blankness painted over the furrowed brow and downturned eyes. "There is nothing else to do, then." If doubt or pain or sorrow lay beneath the resolve, Kakyou could not detect it. He nodded once and the Dark Kamui vanished, winking out of the dream without a sound.
The dreamgazer's weight settled a little more heavily against the paper covered doors as he turned to look through them. Slowly, another familiar vision began to play itself out, set back beyond the doors where Kakyou could not reach. He would only be able to do as he had ever done: watch.
No, today was like any other day.
And tomorrow would be no different.
(TBC)
A/N: Writing Fuuma is HARD! ô_ô
[untitled fuuma p.o.v.]
Once upon a time, the Japanese language had no actual word for "love." Oh, there were words for things that people -associate- with love; there were words for "duty," "fidelity," "sex" and "affection." But there was no word that brought all those other words into one concrete idea. Well, if one can think of love as being concrete, that is.
I personally think it is anything but.
But, my opinions aside, some people choose to believe that love is not only concrete, but the only constant in life. She did, and to a certain extent, you still do. I see it every time we meet; no matter what happens to you, your Wish never changes. Now, I would have -thought- you of all people would realize how fickle love is, especially now, in light of his betrayal. You're twice cuckholded, little one, and you're not even out of high school. It sucks to be you on so many levels; I'm so glad I don't have to worry about it anymore.
You're going to die because your Wish, you know that, don't you? Don't get me wrong, I'll be sure to do my part; I'll shove that sword through your heart and watch the life fade from your eyes. I'll enjoy it too, just so we're clear. Killing you will let me be free too. Everyone's supposed to kick it after the Promised Day, and that includes me. But, where you see failure, I see release. It's not easy hearing the screaming in my head every moment of every day; She calls to me in a voice that could shatter the thickest glass, demanding that I clean Her wounds so She can stop hurting. I'm not doing this to save Her, oh no. I'm doing it to make Her shut the hell up.
If you think about it, I win either way. If by some miracle I manage to lose to you, I won't hear Her when I'm dead, will I? But truthfully, I think it will be better if I win.
A life of solitude after it's all over is hardly more favorable than spending the rest of eternity with all the people who have ever loved you.
Maybe I'll be able to find you in the afterlife, what do you think?
[new skin]
New layout.
Wild-sama.
*GUSHES*
*____________________*
[untitled kamui p.o.v.]
He shook his head, 'tsk'ing softly. "If you keep backing away like that, you're going to fall."
Kamui glared. "Don't tell me you're concerned for me all of a sudden, Fuuma." He let anger coarse over his words, trying to keep anyone from seeing the terror churning in his heart. He took another step back, skirting the edge of the roof, heel hanging over the gutter. "If I crack my head open, you've got no more problems."
"That's what you think." The amber in his twin star's eyes glowed in a way Kamui found eerily familiar, but couldn't place. There was more in his expression than the ever-present mocking and promise of agony beyond anything he'd known before. There was a thread of -something- that felt honest. Fuuma leered at him, and the thread snapped, disappearing without a trace. "You're so pretty, I'd much rather see you break your neck. That way everything important is still in one place."
Kamui felt the heat rise to his face, more because the sting of the insult than the innuendo that lay beneath it. His heart twisted as he yet again tried to reconcile the cruelty in such a familiar and pleasing shape. Suddenly, the leer switched to a sunny grin. and Kamui reflected that it was times like these that made him wonder if the Dark Kamui was only some kind of split personality. Maybe if he just waited long enough, his friend would return to him.
"What are you waiting for?" He snapped, pushing thoughts like that from his mind. It would do him no good to get his hopes up, no matter what he wanted. He risked a glance down and a little nagging voice told him that what he wanted was never going to happen, and that letting himself be backed up on the edge of a two-hundred meter drop was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing he'd ever done. Fuuma kept getting closer, and he was out of places to run to.
As if reading his thoughts -- and who knew? Maybe he was telepathic-- Fuuma took another step forward, hands deep in his pockets. "In such a hurry to get down to business, /Kamui/?" He drawled. "Don't get me wrong, I love to see you bleeding at my feet, but I could've sworn you didn't like it. Because if you did, I wouldn't be able to do it anymore..."
Kamui sputtered angrily, a twinge of phantom pain shooting from his scarred hands up through his arms, which had only recently healed from the last time he'd met up with his twin star.
In a heartbeat, Fuuma had closed the distance, his gaze locked on Kamui's. "Thanks for the reassurance."
Without thinking, as often happened in these cases, Kamui stepped backward to reclaim some of his personal space. Except, only air offered its support, and it proved to be worth nothing. With a strangled cry, Kamui began to fall. He flailed out, hand scrambling to reach the ledge, looking for anything to hold on to.
When he looked up again, Fuuma stood on the ledge, looking down at him with a blank expression. "I told you so."
[]
Series written here may include:
X, Kohri no Mamono no Monogatari, Weiß Kreuz, Yami no Matsuei, Harry Potter
and whatever else I'm into at the time.
Updated whenever the inspiration hits.