( 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.
[ Lightning quick, supple-spined instinct, unspecified between the cigarette's betrayal and the eye's betrayal. Against the sloped architecture of his palm delivering a potent dose of magic inquiry, the cloth hums in protest of his perusal. It quakes against the ward he's pinned it to, transmuting from polite butterfly-winged souvenir to a snapping animal, leg trapped in the jaws of a winter-hidden bear trap.
His fingers bleed first with the inky reservoirs of his new magic. Then they bleed in actuality, skin flaying in soft, papery cuts. He bears it because he knows the price. He's not tracing his runes in Japanese, in Chinese or Sanskrit. He's tracing in the broken, smeary glyphs he'd seen in the church, puzzling out the invocation One pledged to Sleep. ]
...It's not surprise, necessarily. [ Subaru returns to the notion even as the table shakes and his blood flutters, plastic and porcelain rattling. ] But there is a notion many are carrying about why he did this.
[ Bliss, fire, endurance, sacrifice. Harmony, suffering, strength, battle. Each line traces elegant, blunt, parsing. ]
Drawing her eye wasn't for any of our sakes. [ Divinity. Divine will — the blood glares back at him. ] She promised him something.
( Takes a steeled stomach, watching in wait while blood seeps out like an oil spill and it's fresh, breathe it, fresh and metallic and raw like a blunt butcher's cut, feel it, wet and corrosive and thickly coagulated, taste it, ghost of it hard and prickling on the tongue, when Seishirou swallows, dry.
Sumeragi Subaru's viscous signature hangs like a noble web of drippings, and the cloth hungers for me, like open maws. It's the trouble of things: grant an object sentience, it grows its own appetites, its own lures. Blood now tasted will forever be craved.
This time, Seishirou palms the handkerchief, first claim clean and fleeting, the second scrunching cotton, violating stuttered gasps of lace. And conversationally, as if a petty rite of spiritual dissection didn't accelerate between them: )
She's a child. All children know how to do is seed ruin or die. ( And she's ill tempered and impatient and strong, too strong by far, big of bones and small of virtues. She's a Sumeragi hurricane in fallen New York's tea cup, absent the discipline of restriction.
There's a wound weeping on this Sumeragi's hand, where the price was paid and truth born. He has no means to mitigate it past the banal. And so, he nods carefully: )
Thank you. ( A professional sacrifice still calls for some recognition. ) Now. Did you see god?
[ Over the quieted table, the downward drift of scrap — cloth and blood, condensation, magic, Subaru's fingers curl and recede. Blood scrying is ruinous work. It begets too many mouths, too many teeth. Unlike the elements, it pulses alive. Capillary to root nerve... should this child not forgive his curiosity, he suspects he'll bear witness to them in time. Even if only in the way a predator tests the landscape of its consciousness: by bite. ]
No. It has power, [ that word weighs on his tongue like it has a taste. ] but not divinity.
[ Because there is a difference between a god ordained by its heavenly birth and a god made so by another's will. One is knowable. One is — knowable. ]
He may be like a god from where we stand. But it also might be that his power was given to him.
( A god old, a god new, a god borrowed, a god too good to be true. Sleep's emissaries, her martyrs, her chosen. Something doesn't add up — likely because this is an operation of petty funerary subtractions.
There's more here than meets whichever eye. Between Sumeragi Subaru's distracting magical talent and enviable pulse and Seishirou's alert cunning and practical impulses, between the two serviceable pillars of their sight, they make, together, one wholly functional person. Twin star, or simply star-crossed?
The shadow of Seishirou's fingertips splinters in an ichor-refracted kaleidoscope, floating over Subaru's hand, wakey-waking the furnace of his marks. Deeper than new-found sakanagi, is that claim. Deeper than hurt. And it greets its master in tacit convulsions.
He finds himself sinking his palm down over Subaru's, shepherding both away from the handkerchief, flat out on the table. His cigarette sleeps the tremors of its last sleep in the ashtray. )
You can't keep it. ( For sake-keeping or further study or whatever linguistic perversion might excuse Sumeragi Subaru's misplaced enthusiasm for occult eeriness.
In a wasteland so far from home, sweet and forever home, his head droops onto his other hand, cushioned on Subaru's kitchen table — and he spies the pallid, hiccupped start of nascent constellations peering on the midday sky, ready for the night hour of winter drawing her skirts. He can't stay here in the evening hour. For now, his suitors have abandoned him, but appetites are fickle, and men strange.
Still, a moment. Feline, half-wakeful respite, drunkenly jittery. He is tired, feverishly tired, can't afford sleep. )
Tell me... tell me about your latest cases.
( Talk emptily, bonelessly, without meaning or purpose, just as Subaru might have when he was still a fresh-faced novelty morsel at the head of a shambles clan, and Seishirou infiltrated his sister's dinner table. Bad habit. Too nostalgic. He's never —
[ Possibility turns over in the spying glass of his mind. Not the kind that sows hope in the wound's edge of the apocalypse, unscarred by their arrival, but the kind that looms its precipice. And the human condition that begs him to look over it, to see what exists beneath. He doesn't have to say it; Sakurazuka Seishirou is always one step ahead of him. He'll know the concern dredged by the silver spoon of the Sumeragi's notice. They, all of them, were also given Sleep's magic. In the animal maw of her calling and the sacrifice made by One exists the possibility of a mirror image. To cultivate it past its infancy may lead to similar bonds, similar ends...
— his fingers twitch, the jewel-facet inlay of his marks sitting prettily in the gallery and bridge of Seishirou's hand. There is little resistance in his wrist when guided aside and away from the handkerchief. (Look, only look.) So little that he doesn't think to remove it even when the journey ends with both settled on the table.
There are still things he wants to ask. But the last tang of a dying cigarette's nostalgia bids higher.
Don't touch, or he ends up like this: half-asleep in the sworn enemy's unimpressive kitchen. ]
Alright. [ Subaru retrieves his blood-splattered teacup. Its tepid contents wet the height of his heartbeat; it'd escaped his attention, crawled secretively, destructively high in his throat. ] My last formalized contract was this...
[ And he goes on to recount the remaining days as the head of the Sumeragi, among the bellowing of dragons as they cracked Tokyo's ribs raw, teeth trailing the human belly of its innards over the land that would serve as their apocalypse. Beacons of humanity that would make anyone welcome the end, were they to look too long: a resurrected husband to be returned to ash at a desirous mother's behest; a week's worth of exorcisms at a demolished soapland condensed down into a single Sumeragi ceremony; a rash of murder at the hands of a woman believing herself to be the host of kitsune tsuki, an arbiter of slaughter for petty slights...
On and on, never as emptily as he might prefer. His schedule was as busy as a Dragon of Heaven as it was when he was clumsily thundering around his apartment trying to redress after two-hours worth of sleep. A bad habit, too nostalgic — You can, is what he thinks in the case of sleep and affordability. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
[ Lightning quick, supple-spined instinct, unspecified between the cigarette's betrayal and the eye's betrayal. Against the sloped architecture of his palm delivering a potent dose of magic inquiry, the cloth hums in protest of his perusal. It quakes against the ward he's pinned it to, transmuting from polite butterfly-winged souvenir to a snapping animal, leg trapped in the jaws of a winter-hidden bear trap.
His fingers bleed first with the inky reservoirs of his new magic. Then they bleed in actuality, skin flaying in soft, papery cuts. He bears it because he knows the price. He's not tracing his runes in Japanese, in Chinese or Sanskrit. He's tracing in the broken, smeary glyphs he'd seen in the church, puzzling out the invocation One pledged to Sleep. ]
...It's not surprise, necessarily. [ Subaru returns to the notion even as the table shakes and his blood flutters, plastic and porcelain rattling. ] But there is a notion many are carrying about why he did this.
[ Bliss, fire, endurance, sacrifice. Harmony, suffering, strength, battle. Each line traces elegant, blunt, parsing. ]
Drawing her eye wasn't for any of our sakes. [ Divinity. Divine will — the blood glares back at him. ] She promised him something.
no subject
Sumeragi Subaru's viscous signature hangs like a noble web of drippings, and the cloth hungers for me, like open maws. It's the trouble of things: grant an object sentience, it grows its own appetites, its own lures. Blood now tasted will forever be craved.
This time, Seishirou palms the handkerchief, first claim clean and fleeting, the second scrunching cotton, violating stuttered gasps of lace. And conversationally, as if a petty rite of spiritual dissection didn't accelerate between them: )
She's a child. All children know how to do is seed ruin or die. ( And she's ill tempered and impatient and strong, too strong by far, big of bones and small of virtues. She's a Sumeragi hurricane in fallen New York's tea cup, absent the discipline of restriction.
There's a wound weeping on this Sumeragi's hand, where the price was paid and truth born. He has no means to mitigate it past the banal. And so, he nods carefully: )
Thank you. ( A professional sacrifice still calls for some recognition. ) Now. Did you see god?
no subject
No. It has power, [ that word weighs on his tongue like it has a taste. ] but not divinity.
[ Because there is a difference between a god ordained by its heavenly birth and a god made so by another's will. One is knowable. One is — knowable. ]
He may be like a god from where we stand. But it also might be that his power was given to him.
no subject
( A god old, a god new, a god borrowed, a god too good to be true. Sleep's emissaries, her martyrs, her chosen. Something doesn't add up — likely because this is an operation of petty funerary subtractions.
There's more here than meets whichever eye. Between Sumeragi Subaru's distracting magical talent and enviable pulse and Seishirou's alert cunning and practical impulses, between the two serviceable pillars of their sight, they make, together, one wholly functional person. Twin star, or simply star-crossed?
The shadow of Seishirou's fingertips splinters in an ichor-refracted kaleidoscope, floating over Subaru's hand, wakey-waking the furnace of his marks. Deeper than new-found sakanagi, is that claim. Deeper than hurt. And it greets its master in tacit convulsions.
He finds himself sinking his palm down over Subaru's, shepherding both away from the handkerchief, flat out on the table. His cigarette sleeps the tremors of its last sleep in the ashtray. )
You can't keep it. ( For sake-keeping or further study or whatever linguistic perversion might excuse Sumeragi Subaru's misplaced enthusiasm for occult eeriness.
In a wasteland so far from home, sweet and forever home, his head droops onto his other hand, cushioned on Subaru's kitchen table — and he spies the pallid, hiccupped start of nascent constellations peering on the midday sky, ready for the night hour of winter drawing her skirts. He can't stay here in the evening hour. For now, his suitors have abandoned him, but appetites are fickle, and men strange.
Still, a moment. Feline, half-wakeful respite, drunkenly jittery. He is tired, feverishly tired, can't afford sleep. )
Tell me... tell me about your latest cases.
( Talk emptily, bonelessly, without meaning or purpose, just as Subaru might have when he was still a fresh-faced novelty morsel at the head of a shambles clan, and Seishirou infiltrated his sister's dinner table. Bad habit. Too nostalgic. He's never —
His eyelids tremble, so close to shut. )
no subject
— his fingers twitch, the jewel-facet inlay of his marks sitting prettily in the gallery and bridge of Seishirou's hand. There is little resistance in his wrist when guided aside and away from the handkerchief. (Look, only look.) So little that he doesn't think to remove it even when the journey ends with both settled on the table.
There are still things he wants to ask. But the last tang of a dying cigarette's nostalgia bids higher.
Don't touch, or he ends up like this: half-asleep in the sworn enemy's unimpressive kitchen. ]
Alright. [ Subaru retrieves his blood-splattered teacup. Its tepid contents wet the height of his heartbeat; it'd escaped his attention, crawled secretively, destructively high in his throat. ] My last formalized contract was this...
[ And he goes on to recount the remaining days as the head of the Sumeragi, among the bellowing of dragons as they cracked Tokyo's ribs raw, teeth trailing the human belly of its innards over the land that would serve as their apocalypse. Beacons of humanity that would make anyone welcome the end, were they to look too long: a resurrected husband to be returned to ash at a desirous mother's behest; a week's worth of exorcisms at a demolished soapland condensed down into a single Sumeragi ceremony; a rash of murder at the hands of a woman believing herself to be the host of kitsune tsuki, an arbiter of slaughter for petty slights...
On and on, never as emptily as he might prefer. His schedule was as busy as a Dragon of Heaven as it was when he was clumsily thundering around his apartment trying to redress after two-hours worth of sleep. A bad habit, too nostalgic — You can, is what he thinks in the case of sleep and affordability. ]