( Fire licks shadow over his cheek, blooms short spells of warmth, leaves empty promises: who was the beautiful lingerie-clad slip of pyromancy-prone nothing on the Seals' side? ...Kasumi. Kasumi Karen. What work she'd make of him. For a woman so fair, he might even deign to burn.
In the hands of an ancestral enemy, every threat is insincere. Deliver death or don't. There is no suspense, no crescendo. Near his face, Subaru's hand is complacent. Near his heart —
He nods his thanks, dips in, holds his cigarette stiffly in the line of fire with one hand, shields the nascent flame with his other palm from invisible gusts. Old habits of stalking and prowling in the great outdoors die hard. Then, he leans back and — breathes in, the staggered, muted squalor of stale tobbacco blossoming pleasure his lungs have gone so many weeks without, their lining is surely by now practically virginal. His eyelids sweep shut.
A second inhalation. Get the cigarette started, he said. He allows himself the indiscretion of a third with a knowing, ingratiating smile at the joke of his person, shared between them; there's hardly enough ash to shed, but he sanitizes the tip on the ashtray, only to prolong the familiar weight of the cigarette in his hand.
The fourth puff is for the road. Someone's road. The fifth, only because four is unlucky. And that's enough.
Cruel fate. Damned stubbornness and pride. He turns the stick so the flame faces him, trapped between his thumb and pointing finger, and offers it to Subaru. )
Fushiguro Megumi likes to walk around. ( But he's one morsel between many mouths, and Seishirou suspects, not so unique in retaining the auspices of Sumeragi Subaru's undivided attention. ) Who else?
no subject
In the hands of an ancestral enemy, every threat is insincere. Deliver death or don't. There is no suspense, no crescendo. Near his face, Subaru's hand is complacent. Near his heart —
He nods his thanks, dips in, holds his cigarette stiffly in the line of fire with one hand, shields the nascent flame with his other palm from invisible gusts. Old habits of stalking and prowling in the great outdoors die hard. Then, he leans back and — breathes in, the staggered, muted squalor of stale tobbacco blossoming pleasure his lungs have gone so many weeks without, their lining is surely by now practically virginal. His eyelids sweep shut.
A second inhalation. Get the cigarette started, he said. He allows himself the indiscretion of a third with a knowing, ingratiating smile at the joke of his person, shared between them; there's hardly enough ash to shed, but he sanitizes the tip on the ashtray, only to prolong the familiar weight of the cigarette in his hand.
The fourth puff is for the road. Someone's road. The fifth, only because four is unlucky. And that's enough.
Cruel fate. Damned stubbornness and pride. He turns the stick so the flame faces him, trapped between his thumb and pointing finger, and offers it to Subaru. )
Fushiguro Megumi likes to walk around. ( But he's one morsel between many mouths, and Seishirou suspects, not so unique in retaining the auspices of Sumeragi Subaru's undivided attention. ) Who else?