( Cat kissing the cream, beware of the lick, clumsy, clumsy. He's only so fastidious, so painstakingly prim and proper for his audience, must be. Even dearest Subaru-kun can't cast his spells with such innate, unsupervised, perfectly disciplined formality, as if a base divination pentagram can seed the next great thunderous boom of a nascent world.

Only, it's Sumeragi Subaru, superlative scion, blood of some or other emperor or Fujiwara, jade bead among his grandmother's tightly clutched pearls. Of course he's naturally flawless in execution, the invisible but prickling flow of his magic only drawn imperfectly taut when his gaze snags on Seishirou. Ah. He's flesh and bone, after all.

Seishirou's smile is a gift contingent on every next instance of human fallacy. Choose your miracles wisely. )

Are you surprised? They're saviours infatuated with a martyr. It's a love match for the ages. ( Has anyone ever seen finer? And isn't Seishirou grand, conversational, patient in the long wait for Subaru's decryption of whatever tacit code One's blood enshrined in parting generosity?

A forlorn pang, the tapestry of his — Subaru's cigarette woven a new slate line. He sighs, takes another puff. Then, he looks at the smoking stick with something like incredulous betrayal. Oh no. Now he's done it. )

I'm not giving this back to you, am I? Damn your eyes. ( Mmmm. The thoughtful, laissez-faire hum. ) Eye.