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[FIC] Dragon Age: "A Pack of Crumpled Sheets of Vellum" (Alistair) [for new_game_plus]

2010-03-30T22:25:45Z

Title: A Pack of Crumpled Sheets of Vellum
Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Alistair, implied Warden/Alistair
Dedication: kristalyn, for newgameplus Round 1
Prompt: The request was for anything involving Alistair.
Description: Alistair, in his own words.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,200
Status: Complete (It was finished in mid-March but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until March 29th)

You can read it and leave comments at the original post here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

Dear Goldanna:

Please forgive the possible impertinence of this letter, for I know that we have never met and I realise that it is not unlikely that you are not even aware of my existence. Should the latter not be the case, however, it is my sincere hope that you have longed for our meeting as much as I have. Ever since I discovered that I have a sibling, I have prayed to the Maker that my path will lead me to Denerim, that I may finally behold you in person.

It is not my intention for this letter to be our first communication; in fact, at this time I mean not to send it at all, though there is the possibility that it will make its way to you should the worst come to pass and I fall in our battle against the Blight. If such is the case, know that it was my every intent to keep you and your children and Ferelden safe from the oncoming darkness, and I apologise most sincerely for my failure. Please take the children and flee as soon as you can, for if we have failed, our capital will not be safe much longer. Should you need some coin or supplies for the journey, I urge you to contact Arl Eamon in Redcliffe. He will understand that it was my dying wish to ensure your safety.

For now, however, I shall continue under the assumption that this letter will never be sent, as it ought not to be. I suppose this is not so much a missive as it is a journal, a place to store my private thoughts. I have never been one to presume that my thoughts are worth recording; I am a warrior. I am no thinker. Such a task gets assigned to persons of a more philosophical nature than I. But after the events that transpired at Ostagar, I have found myself unable to stop the flow of my thoughts; they have been keeping me up at night until well past the campfire has been reduced to smouldering embers. I have found a measure of consolation in pretending I am relating them to you, so I wondered if it might help if I wrote them down, as our imagined conversations give me great comfort. Besides, we have developed a habit of picking up sheets of blank vellum on our travels, and my companion, our leader, is wont to discard them to make room in our packs for other items. I argued that we might find a use for them, and even if only for this, I am glad they will not go to waste.

I wonder if you have heard of the events at Ostagar. Is it as they say? Has the Teyrn convinced everyone of his lie that the Grey Wardens betrayed the King? I have no doubt that you have the wisdom to see past this obvious falsehood. I am a Grey Warden, you see, and what transpired at Ostagar was certainly a tragedy, but not the way Loghain tells it. He and his forces abandoned the King on the battlefield, and the Grey Wardens paid the price. Myself and one of my companions are the only Wardens left in Ferelden. The lives of many good men were lost, true leaders and fearless warriors whose skill and charisma I can only aspire to but shall never attain. First and foremost among them was Duncan, my mentor. Oh, how I wish he would have lived, so that you might one day meet him. He was like unto a father to me, and I am certain that he would have treated you with the same warmth and regard. I still mourn his loss.

The others do not understand the depth of my grief, though I do not blame them. They did not have the same bond with Duncan and the Wardens that I did. My companion, the other Warden, only joined our order on the eve before that fateful battle. I hold him in the highest esteem, for he has already achieved great prowess in combat and a more capable leader of our ragtag band of comrades-in-arms than I could ever hope to be. Yet I cannot help wishing he had known Duncan the way I knew him, so that he could be my brother in this grief as he is my brother on the battlefield.

The firelight is dying out, so I must end here for now. I suppose I ought to try to get some sleep. Tomorrow we depart Lothering at last, and though I do not know where our journey will take us next, I pray that it brings me one step closer to you.

With love,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

I write you tonight from the Village of Redcliffe. I had not expected to return home so soon, but I am glad that our leader elected to journey here first, as I am certain that Arl Eamon will give us the aid we seek. I am disheartened by the news that the arl has taken ill, both for the sake of our cause and for myself, as Eamon is one of the only family I have ever known. Even before I found out my true heritage and the fact that he is in fact my great-uncle, he was one of the few who showed me true kindness growing up. I am indebted to him, and I pray the Maker grants me a chance to repay that debt now.

Strange forces are at work here in Redcliffe. An undead army besieged the village at night, so we spent most of the afternoon shoring up the local militia to prepare for the fight. With our help, they pushed back against the hordes, and we managed to slip into the castle, the source of these monsters, unseen. It turns out that Connor, the arl and arlessa’s son, is behind it all; he has been taken over by an Abomination, and his antics were a fearful sight. I do not know Connor well – he was naught but a tot when I left home – but even knowing that he is my cousin, the fact that he willingly allowed a demon into his mind gives me little sympathy for his plight. However, I am aware that it would sadden Eamon to see his son in such a state, were the arl conscious; so, despite my templar training obligating me to slay the mage before he does any more harm, I am committed to finding a solution that, if at all possible, preserves the boy’s life. Although the arlessa was never affectionate in her demeanour toward me, I was touched when she offered to give her life for the boy’s, and I do pray that it shall not come to that. All hope rests now with the Circle of Magi.

I suppose I ought to take a moment to explain a little more about my travelling companions, before I get ahead of myself. I had already mentioned our leader, appointed such because although I am the senior member of the Grey Wardens, I would prefer not to take on that role. I was not born to be a leader of men. He, on the other hand, is a natural, much to my surprise, as he is an elf and a rogue at that, as skilled at stealing coinpurses as he is at felling Darkspawn and whatever other nasties come our way. But I am not one to judge someone by the height of their frame or the shape and size of their ears. He has felled many a Darkspawn in battle already, and that is more than good enough for me.

Along the way, we have gained allies to our cause who have elected to accompany us. While I realise that we do not have the fortune to turn down aid when it is offered, I have questioned our leader’s decision to accept them into our party so readily. I mean, there’s Morrigan, a veritable Witch of the Wilds whose pastime is shapeshifting into a spider and observing men and luring them into her web of deception. Charming. She’s the daughter of Flemeth – the Flemeth – and the fact that that infamous apostate encouraged Morrigan to join us leads me to believe no good can come of this. I smell trouble.

On the other hand, we have Leliana, an Orlesian bard turned Chantry sister who believe she had a vision from the Maker that compelled her to join us. While it is not my place to question her beliefs, after spending years in the Chantry myself, I can say that the likelihood of the Maker speaking directly to one of His disciples is about the same as the chance of an Alienage elf becoming King of Ferelden. She seems to mean well, and she’s friendly (albeit she bats her eyelashes a little too much at the Warden, if you ask me), but I’ve heard the rumours about Orlesian bards. I’d about as soon set up my tent next to hers at night as I’d challenge a dwarf to a drinking contest.

Then we have Sten, the Qunari. There isn’t much to say about him because he does not speak much. We have no idea why he came to Ferelden, only that he apparently murdered some townsfolk and was locked up in a cage for twenty days before the Warden invited him to join us. That’s right, we’re recruiting roadside murderers now. It can only get better from here. The mabari war hound in our entourage seems plain and ordinary by comparison.

Still, I won’t be one to question our leader’s decisions. Before we entered Redcliffe Village, I informed him of the circumstances of my heritage. I had been afraid to mention it before, for I valued the fact that he has not regarded me differently because of the royal blood that courses through my veins. He seemed taken aback by this revelation but acquiesced to my desire not to be seen or treated as anything other than a commoner. I wonder if this has something to do with the fact that he is not human and perhaps does not grasp the complexity of our politics, but I also believe that his compliance stems from the kindness in his heart, and all the same, I am grateful for it. He is a good man, and I hope to introduce him to you someday.

That prospect does not seem unlikely, as it appears all roads lead to Denerim in due time, Loghain having set up the base of his operations there and the strength of our cause diminished until his treachery is brought to light. Rest assured, dear sister, that we shall be united soon. I cannot wait to meet you and the children.

With love,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

It is strange to wander the halls of the Circle Tower and see the life I might have lived had happenstance not swept me away in the form of Duncan and the Grey Wardens’ Right of Conscription. I bear the templar order or the Chantry no ill will, but all the more do I realise that this life was never for me. It is a strange thing to consider – if there were no Darkspawn to fight, and no Blight to add urgency to the cause, would I be living that life? Should I be grateful, then, to the Darkspawn for steering my destiny in a different direction? Does that make me a bad person?

My mind has been thrown into turmoil many a time since we arrived at the Tower. Our leader stopped the templars from invoking the Right of Annulment, which is certainly not a decision to be taken lightly, but with Abominations running rampant, who would blame them for coming to the conclusion that this was their only recourse? Did I betray the order by not trying harder to stop the Warden? Yet I cannot help but cling onto his assurance that we can save everyone. I want to believe it, I really do.

We made our way to the top of the tower and vanquished the Abomination, Uldred, without using the Right of Annulment. I took pride in our victory until a young templar, Ser Cullen, accused me of siding with the demons. I know he spoke out of grief for the friends he lost, and I understand all too well the desire for revenge against those who wronged you, but his words stung all the same. It is becoming ever more difficult to determine whether we really do have justice on our side and our actions are guided by the right intentions. I’d like to think that any path that saves the most lives while bringing us one step closer to our goal of ending the Blight is the just and correct one, but that often comes at the cost of taking a moral stance on an issue. What does the Maker think of such actions?

I happened upon Duncan in a dream last night, and I asked him if we are doing the right thing. He looked as though he were speaking, but no sound came forth from his mouth. I called out to him, but he disappeared before I had the chance to ask him to repeat his answer.

Maker forgive me if our actions here have been deemed improper, but for now I must continue under the assumption that our cause is just, and that we have the wisdom to choose the right path when we arrive at a crossroads.

In confusion but with great love,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

Our travels have taken us west into the mountains, on a quest for the Urn of Sacred Ashes, in the hopes that its contents will cure Arl Eamon. It seemed a fool’s errand at first, but you might be surprised to know that there was truth to the myths. We journeyed through ruins and caverns, battled a mysterious cult and a High Dragon, and endured a test of riddles to arrive at the summit, where an Urn of the correct description awaited us. Only time will tell if the ashes indeed contain the healing powers spoken of in legend, though we will have to make the return trip quickly if we want to have any chance of saving my great-uncle’s life.

When we left the Circle of Magi not a week ago, another companion joined us: Wynne, a mage. Compared to our other less savoury allies, she’s not so bad. She has this grandmotherly air to her that I find appealing, and she seems like a trustworthy person, even though she has a habit of talking down to me. She is helping me by teaching me how to mend my shirts. While such things might seem trivial in light of our mission, I do wish to look presentable when we meet. I want you to have cause to be proud of your little brother.

When we arrived back at camp tonight, I spoke of you to our leader and asked him if he might accompany me to visit you when we go to Denerim. He agreed. I am glad I have his blessing and support, and I am sure you will approve of him. He is no longer just my leader but also a great friend who has my trust.

I am seated next to the fire, writing, while he slumbers. Always he insists on taking the first watch, but I cut him off, for I know how much he needs his rest. I can hear him cry out in his sleep sometimes, when the all-too-familiar nightmares haunt him with the grim promise of the confrontation with the Archdemon yet to come. I only wish I knew of a way to ease his suffering. I may have gone through it myself, but that does not mean I wish this fate upon anyone else.

Would that saving the world didn’t carry such a heavy price...

With love,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

Would you believe me if I told you I’ve met the Dalish? Truly! We came to the Brecilian Forest to seek their aid, and they are camped near the outskirts. I’d always been of half a mind that they existed only in legend, yet they are as real as you and I. They seem like formidable warriors, though mistrustful of strangers, humans especially. Whenever we walk through the camp, I’m constantly being watched through narrowed eyes. Creepy.

The Dalish elves were being afflicted by a terrible plague that was turning them into werewolves. No, I swear I’m not making this up. I met the werewolves in person. It turns out that they were mostly humans affected by an ancient curse, but we’ve lifted it, so everyone has turned back to normal, no harm done. In return, the Dalish pledged their support for our cause. I’d say it was a job well done, even if I have to wonder whether I’ll find fleas in my hair in the morning.

Still, the entire experience has taught me how little I know of and understand other cultures. I suppose it isn’t my fault, as growing up there was no reason to believe I would be spending my life surrounded by anything other than mages and other templars and the occasional noble, yet my recent encounters with nonhumans have caused me to feel ignorant and short-sighted. I do not blame them for not trusting me, for if it were me in their shoes, would I trust someone who has spent his entire life simply accepting the dogma that elves are lesser beings? I know better now, of course, thanks in no small part to our leader. But I understand their reluctance to believe that I am any different from the average human.

Well, that puts quite a damper on things, doesn’t it? Sorry, I did not mean to sound glum. I’ve just been wondering if I could ever live a ‘normal’ human life after this, after seeing what I’ve seen on my travels. Most likely not. I’ll probably go in search of the other Grey Wardens and continue to fight Darkspawn, though I do hope to someday settle somewhere close to you. I’d come visit you and the children every week, and I imagine you’d make shepherd’s pie and tell stories of our mother. You’ll do that, won’t you?

With love and longing,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

Great news: we head for Denerim next! We are camped but a day’s march away from the city now; I can even see the skyline in the distance. In my mind, I picture you preparing a bed for me, though that is impossible, of course, since you do not know I am coming. I do so hope it will be a pleasant surprise.

Nothing much to report, but we do have a new companion, Zevran. I’d relegate him to the shady types in our little band. He’s an elven assassin, and he was hired to kill our leader, but his attempt failed, and the Warden recruited him instead. I’m not convinced he won’t try to knife us in our sleep, which is why I volunteered to take the first watch. To make matters worse, however, the assassin has practically flung himself in our leader’s arms, making overtly sexual comments with absolutely no sense of propriety. I was surprised that he still had his pants on the last time I checked. I hope the Warden is not taken in by this sort of behaviour. I know men talk of having urges, but – surely there ought to be a better way to satisfy them than by allowing that snake into your tent.

The sexual tension in the camp certainly seems to be on the rise, and I have no idea why. Perhaps it is all that depraved witch’s doing. The other day, our leader asked me if I’ve had – those kinds of relations before. I was not ashamed to admit that has not been the case, as our Maker looks kindly upon chastity, but as he boasted of his own conquests, I became slightly embarrassed about my own relative inexperience. Then he gave me quite a jolt by remarking, “I’m sure it would not be difficult for a handsome man such as yourself to invite someone into your tent.” I do not know that to make of that, but it made me feel... not uncomfortable yet highly confused.

What do you think? As a woman, is experience ‘twixt the sheets something you value in a man? Do you have any sisterly advice? Well, I suppose I might ask you in person as early as tomorrow.

In eager anticipation,

Your brother Alistair.

Dear Goldanna:

You must think me a fool, I know, and only in hindsight do I begin to realize that I should not have made so many assumptions about your eagerness to meet me. Still, was I wrong for wanting to believe that you could make a place in your heart for your long-lost brother? Despite your callous words to me, I know you are a good woman at heart, though I was sincerely disappointed in your admission that your only interest in me is the coin it might bring you. Whatever happened to the meaning of ‘family’?

In closing, I would just like to remind you of part of one of the most important verses from the Chant:

“All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands,

From the lowest slaves

To the highest kings.”

- Transfigurations 1:3

I pray that you learn the meaning of these words and of Andraste’s teachings, that it matters not what meagre possessions we might hold in our earthly existence, for regardless of the color of the blood in our veins, we are all born of the Maker and judged the same in His eyes. He will reward those who have faith and treat their fellow man with love and kindness.

May you be well, and may your children be healthy and prosperous. I shall not bother you again.

With regret,

Alistair.

Dear Duncan:

Not a day has passed when I have not grieved your loss. The other Warden and I have done our best to carry on the task given to us, but at every turn I find myself yearning for your leadership and counsel. The horizon grows dark as the horde of Darkspawn continues its approach from the south, and all of our efforts thus far seem powerless to stop it. We have tried to unite Ferelden’s forces under a common banner using the treaties, but it is likely impossible while Loghain holds sway over the nobility from his seat as regent in Denerim.

Still, I must thank you for recruiting the other Warden. You showed great foresight in allying him to our cause, though I suspect you already knew that. With your passing, you left big shoes to fill, but he has proven himself a capable leader in your stead, and I thank the Maker every day that that task did not fall to me. For my part, I have and shall continue to defend him and our cause as best I am able.

It has not been an easy road, and I have learned much as we travel. I had never thought of myself as having had a particularly sheltered upbringing, as I was more aware of the workings of the world than the noblemen’s sons I grew up around, but now I realize just how wrong I was to assume I know anything at all. Our experiences among the Dalish and even my conversations with our elven leader shed light on my ignorance and short-sightedness.

Still, the Warden has been very gracious and kind in his demeanour toward me, and I bear him great love not only for his leadership and skill in battle, but as a friend and brother-in-arms. His presence serves as a reminder that I am not alone, and I have no qualms about trusting to his wisdom in difficult situations. At times his words are a stab in the chest, but that is not because their intention was harmful but moreso because they ring true. Just the other day, he made me aware of what a sodding fool I’ve been for thinking that my sister Goldanna would ever accept me into her life, though he was supportive nonetheless, despite his own misgivings. I am grateful. I need someone like him.

Tomorrow we depart for Orzammar, in the hopes that we may fulfil the last of the Warden treaties by gaining the dwarves’ support. If our previous experience are any indication, we will not have an easy time convincing them to aid us, but after what we have already been through, I am tempted to say that there is not much that could surprise me anymore. I probably ought not to say that out loud, however, lest I jinx us.

Please continue to watch over us and send us your blessings.

With sorrow,

Alistair.

Dear Duncan:

I’m not sure what I’m hoping to accomplish by writing to a dead man. If the others knew that this is how I pass the time when I’m on watch, they’d surely look at me as though I’d become a maleficar and sprouted a second head. Still, I cannot help but hope that you are looking out for us from the Maker’s side, guiding us, and hearing the thoughts and prayers I send your way.

I have never beheld anything so foreign yet magnificent as the dwarven city of Orzammar, with its great halls of stone deep beneath the surface of the earth. I did not expect that such a place would be habitable, but while I would never willingly reside there myself, I can see how others have become acclimatized to it. I would miss the open sky and the fields and the wind, but this city has its own appeals, and it is certainly holds more light and splendour than I could have ever imagined underground.

Much has changed since you were last here, I expect. King Endrin succumbed to illness (though poisoning is also a possible cause), and in his wake two candidates vied for the throne, his third son Prince Bhelen and the nobleman Lord Harrowmont. In order to secure a promise of allegiance in the coming war against the Blight, we involved ourselves in the election and threw our support behind Lord Harrowmont. I wonder what you would say of that. The dwarves did hold the Grey Wardens in high esteem, so it is not likely a coincidence that the candidate we favoured came out on top. If we wield such respect and influence, do we have a right to interfere in the elections and political affairs of other nations? I know that we had justice on our side as well as the urgency of our noble cause, but something still bothered me about the entire affair.

With the dwarves’ support, we can now return to Denerim. Arl Eamon has called for a Landsmeet to let the nobility determine the rightful heir to the throne and hopefully oust Teyrn Loghain from his seat of power. He keeps insisting on putting me forth as a candidate, but I still have no desire for the crown. If they chose me, I suppose I’d have to make the best of it, but it isn’t the life I want. My duty is to Ferelden, but to the Wardens first and foremost, and even if we manage to slay the Archdemon, our future lies in peril while there exists no established order in our country.

I think I have managed to convince our leader that I do not wish to be king. Unlike my uncle, he actually listens to my opinion, and I bear him all the more love for it. We seem to have grown closer over the past few days, and I think a few of our companions have been spreading rumours about it behind our backs, but I care not what they say. Just being near him is more comforting than I have ever felt in the presence of another being. Would that I had realized this sooner, for now it feels as though we have wasted so much valuable time...

Please watch over us. We will do our best to make you proud.

With sorrow,

Alistair.

Dear Warden:

I wonder if you have any idea how much confusion your actions over the past few days have caused me. Please don’t take that the wrong way; I am not angry with you, only flustered by your words and my own incessant thoughts, wondering if I am simply interpreting them the wrong way. But I think (hope?) I am not.

Where do we go from here? Do we have time for these diversions when there is a world to save? Is it permissible for two Grey Wardens to throw all caution to the wind for the sake of what might only be fleeting passion? What if they do insist on making me king? Would you still have me, knowing I can never be yours?

With heartfelt yet cautious affections,

Alistair.

Dear Maker:

I kissed a man, and I liked it.

If this is considered a trespass, please forgive me and know that I have only love and good intentions in my heart.

Humbly,

Alistair.

Dear Maker:

Never mind my last missive. I take it back. I have nothing to be sorry for.

Yours (but also his),

Alistair.

Dear Warden:

Congratulations on your (ours, too, but mostly yours) success at the Landsmeet, and my sincerest thanks for deferring to my wishes concerning the throne. Though I would have served Ferelden dutifully if chosen, the Grey Wardens need me more. In any event, I am glad Loghain is dead, and I am confident that Anora will rule us well now that she is freed of his influence.

As for Riordan’s news – shocking, wasn’t it? I assure you that I had no idea that that manner of sacrifice is required of the Wardens in order to end the Blight. I’ve been unable to think of little else for the past hour. I never expected that our journey might end here. But fret not, my love; I pledged to protect you, and I will continue to do so, even if it means that I must take that final blow against the Archdemon and pay the price. Despite our personal feelings, we must not fail in our task, and Ferelden needs you more than I. The choice seems clear to me.

After all, this is what it means to be family.

If it does fall to me to make the sacrifice, please send my remaining possessions to my sister Goldanna, or sell them and send her the proceeds. I realize that after what transpired, you must not have a very high opinion of her, but despite all that, I harbour her or the children no ill will and wish only for their continued health and wellbeing. Also, if you do rebuild the Grey Wardens or seek out the order at Weisshaupt, make sure that Duncan’s story is told. These two things are all I ask of you.

Maker watch over us both.

With great love,

Alistair.

[FIC] Persona 3: "when every single step ..." (Shinji/Aki) [for yuletide 2009]

2010-01-02T04:43:30Z

Title: when every single step is just another reason to forget
Fandom: Persona 3
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shinjiro/Akihiko
Dedication: panther3751, for yuletide 2009
Prompt: The request was for Shinjiro/Akihiko romance and sex.
Description: Shinji looks Death square in the face, but what he sees in Akihiko's eyes scares him more.
Rating: NC-17 for mutual jerking off and crude language
Word Count: 4,106
Status: Complete (It was finished in late December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until after Jan. 1st)
Other Notes: This was written as a last-minute pinch hit. I only picked this fandom up very recently, and given the fact that I only had about 24 hours to write this story, there was no time to review the canon or do extensive plotting, and since I aimed to please my recipient's request for sex, this is rather along the lines of PWP. All the same, it turned out rather dark; I am not very good at fluffy romantic happy-ever-after stories, so I tried a hurt/comfort approach.
Also: I usually f-lock my porn after a week, but since there is no intercourse and the characters aren't minors, I think I'll leave this one unlocked.

You can read it and leave comments at the Yuletide archive here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

He stares up at the ceiling of his dorm room, but really it's like staring down into an abyss.

He never questioned that today, like so many days before and so many days still to come, he didn't go to school. What's the fucking point? He gave up on learning a long time ago, and the lectures just put him to sleep. Sometimes, he does wonder how different his life would be if he, like Aki and Mitsuru and the others, threw his efforts into school in earnest, trying to attain the highest scores, participating in club activities, and then coming home to study for the entrance exams. But the suppressors have eaten away at his motivation as much as they're eating away at his life force. When every single step is just another reason to forget, there's just no fucking point.

In the beginning, he found some comfort in the rebellion, the act of skipping school giving him the feeling that he had power over his circumstances, that defying authority somehow brought him closer to transcending this Hell on Earth. But then the boredom had begun to stretch out before him, long and endless, and with the ennui came the constant nagging at that part of his brain that he'd been trying to ignore since childhood: the part that wonders what Death is like. Being constantly alone with your thoughts can be frustrating, especially when you find yourself spinning in circles going over things you'll never be able to change, but at the same time, regardless of how dark it is, you're never alone. You've always got you. And though he's grown sick of himself, there is some comfort in always being able to think. Being conscious. Being alive.

The abyss stares back at him, grinning, taunting. He knows Death will be his just punishment. It's what he deserves. It'll even the score, make up for what he did. Yet he can't stop himself from clinging onto life like a sick puppy. It sickens and frightens him.

Yet he hadn't really realized just how much he wants to live until he came to stay at the dorm. Until he started to observe Aki and the others, leading their lives, playing out their parts in this grand fucking tragedy they call Life, and yet each of them finding ways to be happy. He used to watch them with disgust, thinking, “How frivolous it all is, how foolish to go about your lives thinking there's any meaning,” but then he'd heard Aki burst into laughter after Junpei said something unintentionally funny, and he'd suddenly realized that maybe, just maybe, he's the foolish one.

Now he watches Aki out of the corners of his eyes: a short chat with Minato here, a longer talk with the Chairman there, taking the mutt for a walk, going up to Mitsuru's room to study and practice his English. He remembers the days at the orphanage, especially after his sister had died—how Aki had looked so frail, frightened and confused, yet determined not to show anyone his weakness. But it had always shown through in his expression—that fear, that desperation to find some meaning in the face of the overwhelming senselessness of the tragedies that had befallen them. He doesn't see that look anymore. Akihiko’s eyes are steely with confidence, yet soft around the edges, warm, pleasant. And yes, as much as Shinjiro hates to fucking admit it, he looks happy.

It feels wrong—unfair, almost—and that had led him to think. Is it possible to achieve happiness in life, after all? Is it worth sticking around for? And before he knew it, he'd decided that he wants to live. Fuck it, but he wants to live.

Looking at the ceiling, he thinks again of Aki’s smile. It used to be directed at him, and his sister, but mostly it was his own image he saw reflected in Aki’s eyes as he grinned. Now that smile is directed at so many others. It’s even directed at those monsters inside Tartarus; Akihiko smirks as one of his killer punches drives an enemy to its doom. The sense of betrayal almost makes him boil. Look at me, damnit! Smile only for me!

Tossing and turning, Shinjiro half-wishes Aki would send one of those killer punches straight to his mind, blocking out these damn thoughts. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stop thinking! Look what good it’s doing you!

Sitting up in bed, he throws a pillow at the wall, then jumps to his feet. All this thinking has him worked up, and it’s damn near making him nauseous. He stomps down the stairs, hoping that perhaps the TV will serve as a suitable distraction. But when he reaches the foot on the staircase, he sees the kid sitting at the dining room table, working on his homework. He tries to ignore it, tries to sit still on the couch, drowning out his thoughts with some dumb game show that’s on channel 3. It doesn’t work. The thoughts are always there, preying on him, waiting until his wind wanders so they can attack him with reminders of what he’s done and how he hasn’t yet paid the price for it. The debt collectors will be coming soon enough. Frustrated, he turns off the TV and hurries back to his room.

An hour later, he hears voices downstairs, then footsteps down the hall. In spite of himself, he opens his door and peeks out, only to see Minato heading back to the floor below. Shinji decides to follow him, telling himself that he just wants to know whether they’ll be going to Tartarus tonight, though deep inside he knows he’s just trying to satisfy his morbid curiosity to find out what’s going on downstairs. Morbid, because he knows it’ll just piss him off.

In the dining room, Yukari’s helping Ken with his math problems. Aigis is seated on the couch in the living room area, petting the mutt sitting on his haunches next to her wagging his tail. Mitsuru is lounging in a chair, reading, while Fuuka pounds away at the keys of her laptop, occasionally looking toward the bar. He follows her gaze and finally finds Aki, arm-wrestling Junpei and countering the brash second-year’s boasts with a confident “Heh”.

“I’m heading out,” Minato announces, and they all know what that means. They’re not heading to Tartarus tonight. But they all decide to stay downstairs anyway; they would rather enjoy each other’s company than head upstairs to their rooms to study in isolation.

Shinji scoffs and turns around on his heels. No way he’s going to stick around for that.

Before he can disappear upstairs, he feels Akihiko’s eyes on him, like a powerful beacon compelling him to turn back around. He tentatively turns his head and sees his friend donning a look of disappointment, perhaps even derision. So you’re not going to stay with us tonight, either? those eyes say. You’re just going to walk away?

But then the eyes grow cool and hard, unsympathetic, and they direct their gaze elsewhere. He hears Akihiko laugh again, an outburst of rapid chuckles, and he shakes his head. There’s no fucking point. He can’t be like them, pretending to enjoy life, pretending to be happy and content with this miserable existence. He runs back up the stairs and all but slams the door to his room behind him to block out the noise.

Falling on his bed, he realizes he’s panting, and his hands are shaking. Fear sneaks its way back in as the abyss prepares to engulf him again.

Maybe what he fears the most isn't Death. It's what he sees right now in Aki's eyes: that he's being left behind.

***

Having already sunk back into that darkness, he's surprised to hear a knock on his door not ten minutes later, a short, staccato rap-rap, pause, rap-rap-rap that can have only one source. Back at the orphanage, he and Aki had developed a system of knocks on the wall so that they could continue to communicate when one of them had been sent to sleep in the claustrophobic closet as punishment. This particular set of knocks indicates an urgent plea of, “Please talk to me.”

He considers leaving the door closed as punishment. Aki's probably only here out of a sense of obligation, and if he doesn't respond, his friend will just go back downstairs and continue socializing. But Shinji realizes that now he's just being petty and childish. His friend wants to talk to him; he shouldn't deny him that opportunity.

Lunging to his feet and seizing the doorknob in one fluid movement, he wrenches open the door. As he'd guessed, Akihiko is waiting on the other side, a pensive look on his face. Shinjiro doesn't greet him and doesn't step aside to let him in, determined that Aki won't come inside until he states his purpose.

“Everything okay?” his friend asks, and Aki's seeming obliviousness to his anger is all the more infuriating.

Shinji shrugs. “Would it matter if it's not?” He shakes his head and pauses. “You should go back downstairs.”

“Of course it matters.” There's a hint of understanding, now, in Aki's eyes. “You matter. I want to know why you're upset.”

Shinjiro just glares at him. Don't talk to me like you understand, damnit. You have no idea what's going on inside of me. And I have no idea how to explain it to you. But it's too convoluted of a message for just his eyes alone to transmit.

Then Aki startles him by pushing him aside and stepping into the room. He even places his hand on Shinji's, which is still clutching the doorknob, to pull the door shut. The minute the door closes and it's just the two of them, the world seems to shrink. All of a sudden, he feels self-conscious and awkward. He and Aki haven't stood this close to each other in a long time, not outside of battle anyway, and it's almost like he fears that his friend will be able to steal a look into a thoughts just by standing so close and breathing the same air.

“What do you want?” he asks, annoyed, letting his hand fall away and taking a step back to put some distance between them.

“Just talk to me,” Aki says, his voice gentle and soft. “Please.”

But Shinjiro can't shake the feeling that it's too late for words to save him. The physical proximity between them may have narrowed, but the gap in understanding is still so wide he could drown in it.

Aki looks him straight in the eyes and places a tentative hand on his upper arm. “Shinji—”

“NO!” he yells, and before he realizes what he's doing, he throws a punch that only narrowly misses Akihiko's face, the momentum carrying him forward, while Aki stumbles backward thanks to his quick reflexes and successful dodge. Both of them land up against the wall, Aki pinned down with his back to it, while Shinji's fist had only narrowly avoided becoming embedded in the thin plaster. He looks down at his friend, panting.

There's a moment of absolute stillness. Shinjiro stares at Aki, whose face has gone pale, yet there's no sign of fear in his expression. They're both breathing hard, and he wonders if this is what it's like to be a wolf who's meeting an alpha male of another pack for the first time, wondering if it's worth it to start a fight. It's like they're testing each other's resolve, prodding at the edges of each other's minds.

Without warning, Akihiko's closed fist hits him in the stomach, just below the ribs. Two things happen. One, the impact knocks all the air out of his lungs while it sends him off balance, and he comes crashing to his knees. Two, his head leans forward, and when he lands on his knees, his face gets shoved rather awkwardly into Akihiko's crotch. There's no mistake that that wasn't intentional, but they both freeze.

He's about to move back when his nose catches a whiff of a musky scent. At first he just feels disgust, but the scent awakens something feral in him, hungry and vicious. Akihiko has just given him an opening, and he intends to exploit that weakness.

His friend is still frozen in place, regarding Shinjiro with wary eyes. Rising back to standing, Shinji smirks briefly, then launches himself at Aki, sinking his teeth into the patch of skin where the neck meets his shoulders. He doesn't bite down hard, but he does break the skin, and the metallic flavor of blood is oh-so-satisfying.

Akihiko is trying to push him away, but he can't disengage Shinji without risking losing some flesh in the process. The struggle just excites him, and for the first time he realizes that he's hard. Fueled by the passionate rage and jealousy, the desperation, Akihiko's musk and the taste of blood, his firm erection strains against his pants. He presses his crotch against Aki's loins so the other can't feign ignorance about his reaction.

“You think you understand?” Shinji hisses when he finally lets go of Aki's neck. “You think you know me?”

His hands fumble with the buttons of Akihiko's sweater, but he doesn't have that kind of patience, not today. He jerks the vest’s two halves apart and laughs when a button pops off. The way the shirt underneath is tucked perfectly into his pants pisses him off, and he rips it out, exposing his friend’s stomach. Akihiko hasn't said anything, still, but his face looks flushed and the skin of his belly feels warm. He moves his hands lower, tugging at the belt, his anger rising when he can't figure out how to work the buckle open.

“Show me, damnit. Show me you know me. Show me you care.”

Akihiko’s next move surprises him. His friend just looks straight into his eyes, cool and confident, so Shinjiro braces himself for another punch, but then Aki relaxes and moves to help take off the belt. The moment suddenly goes from heated to terrifying, as Shinji acknowledges that he doesn't really know what he intended to do.

“C’mon. Don’t you want this?” Akihiko taunts as he lets his pants fall down in a pool around his ankles. He lifts them up with his foot and tosses them away, then kicks off his shoes and socks.

Is that what Shinji wants? He doesn’t really know, but whatever the fuck is going on here, he’d be lying if he said it doesn’t excite him. He sheds his jacket and his pants, and now they’re both down to their shirts and underwear. As he bends down to take off his socks, Akihiko takes advantage of his momentary distraction, and he knees him in the stomach. A flash of pain ignites his body, and even his honed reflexes can’t stop him from falling to the floor on his back.

His friend takes a step in his direction, and that’s his mistake. Shinjiro’s leg lunges out and back to trip him, and Akihiko comes crashing to the ground on his ass. While he recovers, Shinji sits on top of him, straddling his waist. His ribbon necktie serves as a convenient hand-hold to bring Akihiko’s torso up to the right angle to punch him in the face—not quite so vicious as to cause serious damage, but hard enough to bruise.

“You don’t know shit,” Shinji growls, “moron.”

Then he presses his lips to Aki’s, forceful, demanding, and Akihiko parts his without much resistance. He does make a startled, spluttering sound, but he can’t mouth off with Shinjiro’s tongue down his throat, and Shinji feels satisfied. He sucks in his friend’s essence, and for the first time in two years, he thinks he might know what it’s like to feel not just alive but living for more than the inevitable moment of retribution.

Their mouths release, a strand of saliva dangling in the air between them and breaking when Akihiko moves his head back just a little. “You’re an idiot.”

Shinji just grunts in response as he brings their lips together again for more.

Akihiko tries to grapple with him but finds himself effectively pinned down under the weight of Shinjiro’s muscled thighs. Shinji grins and lets go of the ribbon, untying it so he can remove Aki’s shirt. His nipples are hard and he looks unusually wanton, straddled by his friend and clad in nothing but his briefs, which are straining under the pressure of an impressive erection.

Of course, Akihiko’s swollen member has stiff competition from his own. Shinji suppresses a laugh; they haven’t compared penis sizes since they were boys.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Aki says, just a slight hint of discomfort in his voice.

“Like what?” Shinji asks as he takes off his shirt and tosses it in a corner.

His friend hesitates, then answers, “Like you’re about to eat me.”

“Does that scare you—” He bends down and licks Aki’s chest, starting at his bellybutton and moving slowly upwards toward his nipple, all the while watching his face. “—or does it excite you?”

The fact that Akihiko’s breath is coming out in short gasps and his eyes are unfocused is answer enough. Shinjiro slowly moves his lower body out of the way so his hands can have easier access to Aki’s briefs while he continues to lick and suck his nipples. Calloused fingers reach underneath the white cotton fabric and find the engorged member, wrapping themselves around the shaft.

Akihiko closes his eyes and lets out one long, slow breath until Shinji bits down on his nipple.

“Ow!” Akihiko sits up straight and almost knees him in the balls. “You bastard! What was that for?”

Shinjiro rises to his knees and steals another kiss. “Relax. I didn’t even draw blood.”

But his friend retaliates by biting his lip. This time, there is blood.

“Piss me off and I’ll squeeze too hard,” Shinji warns, but he’s grinning even while a tiny well of blood begins to trickle down his chin.

Akihiko licks up the blood, his tongue sliding into Shinji’s mouth for another passionate encounter. Two minutes later, he has to come up for air, but if he could’ve managed it, he’d have kept going.

The pressure down below is becoming unbearable. He's been trying to shove it to the back of his mind, ignore it, pretend it isn't there while he makes sure that this is really what they're doing. He knows that they started this dance a long time ago, and it was probably inevitable that they'd finish it at some point, but that doesn't make it any less intimidating.

He's been gently stroking the skin of Akihiko's cock, but now his motions become more insistent. He finally tugs the member free from its confines underneath Aki's briefs, while at the same time pulling out his own cock and stroking it. It's strange to do something that's simultaneously so similar yet so different; a familiar heat spreads through him, but that's nothing compared to the fire that ignites in his loins when he sees Aki's eyes roll back into his head and his breath come out in gasps.

Their positioning is awkward, though, and Akihiko puts his hand on Shinji's chest to push him back to sitting with his legs spread. To his surprise, Aki then moves to between his thighs and sits on his haunches, leaning forward and balancing himself with his hands on Shinjiro's shoulders. Slowly, he lowers himself until their cocks are almost at the same level, and he reaches out a hand to grasp them both, pushing their pulsating, hot flesh together.

Shinji's eyes widen, but he doesn't complain, forming a fist around Aki's member and pumping vigorously while his friend does the same for him. A dribble of pre-cum from Aki's cock drips down onto his own, and Akihiko uses it to lubricate his hand and make his jerking movements smoother, longer. Both of them are panting, faces flushed, eyes dazed and neither of them ever thinks to question that this might not be the right thing to do, because it feels so damn right.

Barely suppressing a roar, Shinji comes first, the hot, sticky liquid coating Aki's hand. He has to pause for just a moment to catch his breath and let the dizziness subside, but then he resumes pumping Akihiko's cock for the delicious fluids he knows are contained inside, anxious for the chance to release. His other hand moves up to grasp the back of his friend's head and pull him in for a rough kiss. His eyes never leave Aki's face, eager to see how the instant of orgasm will splay across his features.

Aki comes more quietly, scrunching his brow and pressing his eyes shut in deep concentration, his muscles tensing and then abruptly slackening as his loins spurt forth their seed, drops of it even making it onto Shinjiro's chest and thighs. Akihiko clings to his neck for support while he rides the wave, and Shinji lets him sink into his lap, gasping for air, when both of them are sated at last.

“Shit,” Akihiko mumbles, his voice breathy and hoarse. “Fuck.”

Shinjiro smirks. “Too much for you?”

Aki gently punches him in the ribs, but it's less angry and competitive of a gesture now, more friendly and playful. “As if. It's just, um. It's been a while. You know.”

Once they've relearned how to breathe, Akihiko relaxes, leaning sideways into Shinji's chest, their foreheads touching. It's an oddly tender pose, and it brings him some discomfort while he tries to determine how best to respond. He finally settles for wrapping one arm lightly around Aki's lower back and placing the other in his lap.

For a moment, they just sit there in silence. Then Aki turns to him and says, “I'm glad you're back,” his words brief yet chock full of earnestness and warmth.

Shinjiro doesn't say anything, just enjoys the moment, a mild tingling sensation still playing across various parts of his body and occasional sensual shivers running up his spine where Aki touches his bare skin. There's a wonderful simplicity to what he's experiencing, and he doesn't want to risk ruining it by saying something stupid.

Akihiko seems to understand, because he turns and wraps his arms around Shinji's neck, pressing their chests close together so they can feel each other's heartbeats’ gradual return to their normal rhythms. He closes his eyes and just breathes.

When every single step is just another reason to forget, in his best friend’s arms he finally finds relief.

Will you teach me how to live?

***

“Leaving?” Shinji asks, his voice thick with drowsiness.

They’d been lying on his bed for a while, just lying there, side-by-side, not talking. He’d caught himself staring at the ceiling again, but for the first time, it isn’t so damn scary; it doesn’t feel like Death is lurking, waiting for him just on the other side. Then he’d turned on his side and watched Aki drowse, suddenly no longer afraid to look him square in the eyes. Suddenly no longer so damn angry.

Akihiko had been the first to move, climbing out of the bed and quietly putting his clothes back on. Shinjiro, half-dozing, had just regarded him in silence, not knowing what to say.

“I’ve got to study,” Akihiko explains as he buttons his vest and straightens his ribbon tie. “You know what they say: sleep for four hours, pass. Sleep for five hours, fail.”

For the first time, Shinjiro notices how pale and haggard his friend’s face looks, swollen bags having formed under his eyes, probably from lack of sleep. His tousled hair and the beginnings of a purple bruise on his left cheek make him appear even more pathetic, although Shinji also finds it strangely endearing.

Aki opens the door halfway, then pauses. “See you tomorrow?”

Shinji rolls over and turns his back to him, scowling. Who’s the pathetic one, you or me?

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

[FIC] Mass Effect: "Lineaments" (Shepard, Wrex) (1/2) [for yuletide 2009]

2010-01-02T02:37:46Z

Title: Lineaments
Fandom: Mass Effect
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jane Shepard, Wrex, mentions of the entire Normandy crew, original characters
Dedication: wickedtrue, for yuletide 2009
Prompt: The request was for Shepard & Wrex banter and/or a side adventure.
Description: Commander Jane Shepard needs a break from dealing with the Council. After a training mission on an uncharted world takes an unexpected turn, she begins to learn more about the member of her crew whom she understands the least: Wrex. Takes place between Noveria and Feros, and between Feros and Virmire. Only vague spoilers.
Rating: T for violence and slightly crude language
Word Count: 9,490
Status: Complete (It was finished mid-December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until after Jan. 1st)
Other Notes: This story is proof that I am completely neurotic about explaining how characters get from point A to point B. The whole point of this was supposed to be the encounter between Wrex and Zaj. Why does it take 5,500 words to get there? Because I am neurotic. This is my second attempt at writing in this fandom, and it was a lot harder than the first. It was fun, but coming up with a solid concept was hard — it was a lot like trying to find the right outfit for a date and changing clothes at least 3 times.

You can read just the story at the Yuletide archive here, or you can read the meta version (story plus writer commentary) below. As far as where to leave feedback, I have no preference.

Welcome to the commentary version of the story. Comments will be formatted just as you see here: indented, in blue, and italicized. This is my first "DVD-style commentary" version of a fanfic, but given how much thought and detail went into this story, I figured it to be a worthwhile pursuit. If you're disinclined to read my ramblings, the non-meta version can be found here.

A few things I'd like to point out off the bat:
* I originally planned to write this fic from Wrex's perspective, but chickened out because I didn't have time to do an extensive canon review and fully immerse myself in the krogan culture.
* Although the story is written from Shepard's perspective, I tried to keep her voice fairly neutral throughout, so that she could fit in with however the reader chose to play her character. However, when in doubt, I did err a bit on the side of Paragon, because I figure everyone who played the game probably did at least one Paragon play-through.
* My assignee wrote in her request that Shepard and Wrex's relationship could be 'more than just platonic' if the writer felt so inclined, and I wasn't sure if that meant she really wanted a shippy!fic or just saying she was open to it. I thought about it for a while and decided to keep it gen, since this fandom needs more gen fic.
* I did start a new playthrough (although I didn't have time to get very far) to refresh myself on the canon. My inspiration for this came when I noticed that Wrex actually cares quite deeply about the krogan, he just tries to act stoic and blasé about it.
* As with my last fic, I named Shepard 'Jane' because it is the canon's suggested name for the female character. I know I could've just referred to her as Shepard throughout, to avoid picking a name, but I like calling her 'Jane' in the parts where it's dealing more with her emotions and her as a person rather than as a soldier/commander. Referring to her as 'Shepard' makes it feel stiff and military, so I tend to use that when describing her actions and thoughts as a soldier.

“Logged: The commanding officer is aboard. XO Pressly stands relieved,” the VI’s monotone voice echoes through the chamber.

The airlock hisses open to let the shore party aboard the SSV Normandy. Jane Shepard takes two steps inside, allowing her eyes to slowly adjust to the semi-darkness of the ship, a sharp contrast with the bright lights inside the Citadel’s docking bay. She can sense her two companions following closely behind. A few more steps and they’re all inside, the hatch immediately sliding shut behind them.

Navigator Pressly nods at her as she heads toward the rear of the ship. She sees him open his mouth as though to speak but pretends not to notice and keeps walking. She knows he deserves a brief update on her dealings with the Council and more details about their next mission, but what she wants most of all right now is to unload her cargo. She will fill him in later.

So on my first playthrough of the game, I always went back to the Citadel after any major mission world. I kind of used that idea here by saying Shepard goes back to the Citadel for a lengthier debriefing than those short vid conferences she does with the Council in the canon. It isn't actually possible, but I thought it was not an unreasonable idea to introduce.

Jane descends the stairs one level. Moving toward her locker to put a few things away, she notes Liara detaching herself from the party and heading in the direction of the medical bay with a muttered apology that she is tired and wishes to rest. Tali remains beside her, stoic and unreadable as always. Setting down her luggage in front of her locker, Jane can sense Kaidan coming toward them.

“What’s with Dr. T’Soni?” he asks as he moves in behind her, pressing his hands on her shoulders and massaging her stiff muscles with his fingertips to relieve the tension there.

No, this isn't hinting at a relationship between them, just supposed to be another example of her crew members vying for her affection.

Shepard shakes her head and shifts her body to get rid of his hands. She knows he means well, but she isn’t in the mood to deal with the various members of her crew vying for her affections. Not today. Meetings with the Council always tend to put her in a bad mood, and their treatment of Liara was heartless, especially when the girl had just lost her mother.

“You know how it is. They grilled her something fierce, and then Ambassador Udina gave her his own interrogation. He made it seem like she’s suspected of terrorist activities,” she explains as she bends down to pick up the large duffel bag.

Again, not something that actually happens in the canon for as far as I can recall, but a tidbit I added myself that I felt was not out of line.

Kaidan slams his fist into another locker. “That—!” He drops his head and sighs. “I’m sorry, Commander, but you know how I feel about the Ambassador.”

“I know.” Jane reassures him with a touch of her free hand to his forearm. “Let’s go.”

The trio takes the elevator down to the cargo bay. Ashley greets them and takes the bag out of Shepard’s hands before she has a chance to protest. She follows Ashley toward the locker area so they can distribute the new weapons and armor. Her crew’s careful attentions are not entirely altruistic; they are eager to see what new supplies their commander has brought back for them. Jane smiles. She’s not angry; they’ve earned it.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to bring back more,” she apologizes as she zips open the bag and rifles through its contents. “Delan, Morlan and the Expat did not have satisfactory selections. Only the rare stocks were worthwhile, and at the price those run for, I didn’t have the credits to get a full set of gear to outfit each of you.”

This was supposed to be a fun reference to something I figure a lot of players did in the game: go shopping on the Citadel and then come back and distribute the new weapons and armor among the crew.

As she hands Ashley a new shotgun, she looks up, scans the room, and frowns. “Where is Garrus? I got him a new assault rifle.”

Kaidan looks around, perplexed. “I don’t know. And it looks like Wrex is gone, too. But I don’t remember seeing them go out.”

Shepard is on her feet in seconds and heading back toward the elevator. She searches the crew deck, the veins in her neck pulsing in agitation, but neither the turian nor the krogan are anywhere to be found. Ordinarily, she probably wouldn’t care. The members of her crew are responsible beings who can be trusted to follow their own initiatives without jeopardizing the mission. But today is not the day. Today is so not the day.

“Pressly,” she calls out as she approaches the bridge. “I can’t find Garrus or Wrex aboard the ship.”

Pressly scratches his beard, nods, and punches a few keys on the panel. “Let me check the logs for you.”

Pressly is getting quite a lot of screen time in this fic, which wasn't really intentional, but it turns out he's just really useful for moving the story along.

As the log’s contents are output line by line on a small screen nearby, Pressly examines the information, with Jane looking over his shoulder. Her eyes come to rest on the next-to-last entry in the log: Wrex and Garrus had exited the ship roughly four hours after her shore party had departed to meet with the Council. Their objective had not been logged.

I wasn't really sure if they would access the logs on a screen or only via a VI. However, although we hear its voice, we never see a representation of the Normandy's VI, so I didn't want to make any assumptions, and erred on the side of having the logs displayed on a screen.

“We probably didn’t stop them because we assumed they were acting on your orders.” Pressly shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry, Commander.”

Jane squeezes her eyes shut, massaging her fingertips in circles over her temples. The successive series of annoyances over the past two days aboard the Citadel have begun to manifest themselves as a physical headache.

The headache thing was also inserted kind of as a joke, because if you've played as female Shepard, have you noticed how much she crinkles her brow, right above her nose?? I once joked to a friend that her scrunching up her face so much must give her a big headache.

“We can’t leave without them, so we have no choice but to wait for their return. However, do continue preparations for take-off. I will be in the command room. When Wrex and Garrus return, please send them to me. Until then, I would prefer not to be disturbed.”

As her crew nods in acquiescence, Jane turns and makes her way to the command room, grateful when the door whooshes closed behind her to save her crew the sight of her fighting through the waves of the oncoming migraine.

***

Reclining in one of the command room chairs, Jane has been drifting in and out of sleep. She had spent some time trying to catch up on her written mission reports but gave up when the throbbing in her head had become too distracting. She is startled to her senses when she hears a loud chortling on the bridge that’s growing louder as its source moves in her direction. She recognizes the rasping, screeching sound as being a turian’s laughter.

Do we ever hear any aliens laugh in the game? I don't know. But I do feel like Garrus is the kind of guy who could be moved to laughter, and I like the idea of a turian laughing.

When the command room door slides open, however, only Wrex enters.

“Shepard.” He announces his presence in his usual gruff voice.

“Wrex.” Jane sits up and notes the absence of a turian in the doorway. “Where’s Garrus?”

Wrex comes further into the room and she could almost interpret his expression as a smirk. “Getting patched up by Doctor Chakwas. Don’t worry, it’s just a few scratches.”

Shepard jumps to her feet. “What!? ‘A few scratches’? Where the hell have you been?!”

She doesn’t usually raise her voice with her crew—she has the highest respect for all of them—but her patience has already been worn thin, and Wrex’s attitude, which suggests that he isn’t the least bit concerned about his commander’s reaction to his behavior, only serves to piss her off more.

“Training,” is Wrex’s matter-of-fact, one-word response, as though that should explain everything.

“Training?” she frowns. “Where? Why? Are our regular missions and side assignments not enough practice for you?”

Wrex shrugs one of his broad, armored shoulders. “Me and Vakarian, we like a challenge every now and then. We can move faster with just two.” He pauses, then adds, “No offense to your combat abilities, Shepard.” The tone of his voice isn’t quite as harsh, then.

I had this written as "Me and Garrus" first, but luckily I did a little more canon review after I finished writing the fic, and thanks to one of their elevator conversations I realized Wrex only refers to Garrus as "Vakarian".

Two things about that confession surprise her. First of all, it’s the use of the phrase ‘me and Vakarian’. When they had first met, Wrex had been quite frank about his dislike of Garrus, even though he had never let his personal feelings get in the way of the functioning of the team. Although she had sensed that the two aliens had since agreed to set aside their differences, she had not been aware of a significant change in Wrex’s attitude toward Garrus, let alone a sense of camaraderie and friendship. But then, Wrex is the member of her crew whom she finds the most difficult to read.

This was based on two thoughts/ideas. One; while I was reading a Mass Effect forum months ago, I came across a thread where people were discussing ME fanfics they would like to see, and one poster said they would like to see Garrus and Wrex going on a side adventure together. Another poster had responded asking why, saying they never seemed to like each other all that much, but then the OP responded saying, "I picture them kind of like Legolas and Gimli." That idea not only made me laugh but gave me actual ideas to write Garrus+Wrex friendship fic someday, and that's the whole reason why I offered Garrus and Wrex (in addition to Shepard and Liara, my OTP) for this year's Yuletide. Since my recipient requested Shepard+Wrex and made no mentions of Garrus in her request, I decided not to pursue my original Garrus+Wrex idea in this fic, but I couldn't help but include a little hint of it here.

Two; I hope I'm not the only one who's wondered if the characters you don't take with you in your shore party really just continue to sit there and wait for you, especially when you're going to the Citadel to shop. For somebody like Wrex, especially, that seems a little unlikely. I could totally picture him going and finding some action on his own.

The most disturbing part, however, is Wrex’s admission that they had gone into battle with a team of just two. The standing rule aboard the Normandy is that no one leaves the ship to go into combat with a unit of less than three combatants.

Yes, this is a reference to the fact that the game never lets you leave the ship with anything but 3 characters, no more, no less.

“Wrex, you know the rule. Three soldiers to a unit, minimum. To maximize our safety as well as the compatibility of our skills and talents. So no one gets hurt unnecessarily.”

Wrex doesn’t look impressed. “We have it under control, Shepard. There aren’t many things out there that could take out a fully-armed krogan Battlemaster and a turian C-Sec officer.”

“What if you were ambushed? No one on the ship even knew where you were. How would we have known where to send a search party?!” Jane closes her eyes, breathes deeply, and counts to three before she continues, hoping to get through this without losing her temper. “Where the hell were you, anyway?”

“Quaji. Small uncharted world. A few reported geth sightings. We took out an outpost.” Stoic as always, Wrex sounds neither excited about their success nor remorseful about their insubordination.

“Styx Theta?” Shepard asks, incredulous. “You flew all the way out to Styx Theta without clearing it with me?”

I wasn't sure if Shepard would've necessarily memorized which planets are in which systems, but given how much time you spend on the Galaxy Map, I feel like it's not an unreasonable assumption that after completing two of the mission worlds, she knows her way around the galaxy.

Wrex growls, the tension in his stance evidence that he is beginning to lose his patience. “We had it under control! No one was seriously injured. The kid gained some more combat experience, and we even brought back a few weapons mods.”

Though their ages are never mentioned in the game, I get the impression that Garrus is a lot younger (comparatively) than Wrex, and in my head Wrex always calls Garrus "the kid".

Jane falls back into her seat, sensing that she is starting to lose this fight. She’d anticipated running into this problem with her non-human allies at one point or another: they had volunteered themselves to aid her in her mission to stop Saren, and she is thankful for their lending her their strength. She can certainly use it, and she has already been taking full advantage of it; Wrex himself has won them several fights almost single-handedly, proving himself to be an invaluable ally. She wants to keep it that way. But since he is a volunteer, how far can she restrict his freedom while respecting his sovereignty? The fact that he refuses to call her ‘Commander’ like the others is a constant reminder that he doesn’t really consider himself to be one of her subordinates. Despite being in someone else’s employ, bounty hunters consider themselves to be their own masters, and she ventures a guess that Wrex is no different. The fact that he accepts this arrangement with the Normandy crew is probably nothing short of a miracle, and she knows better than to risk appearing ungrateful for it.

I personally thought this was an important part of their relationship that the canon never fully explored. Wrex seems like the character with the fewest reasons for staying with the Normandy crew, which ought to make their relationship a little uneasy. Restrict his freedom too much and he'll likely say "Screw this" and go off on his own.

“I hope you’re not planning to make this a regular occurrence. I need you in one piece and ready to go for the mission.” She gives him a stern look, hoping he’ll realize he hasn’t completely won her over. The safety of her crew is one of her highest priorities, and she’s not above restricting their movements if they get themselves in trouble.

“Shepard.” Wrex nods once, then turns and lumbers toward the door.

“Hey!” Jane calls out when he’s almost to the exit. “Take me with you next time.”

He scoffs, but he does come to a halt and turns his head in her direction. “Why would you want to do that?”

“It’s a commanding officer’s prerogative to appraise her crew’s training regimen,” she answers, a teasing edge to her voice. “And I could use the extra practice.”

Wrex keeps moving, giving no indication that he heard or acknowledges her response.

“Only if you can keep up,” she hears him grumble before the door hisses shut behind him.

Dun dun dun. Foreshadowing. And yeah, this was an incredibly lengthy way to set up this plot device of explaining why Shepard and Wrex would go off on a side mission with just the two of them, but I wanted to make it realistic.

***

The minute Jane steps back on board the Normandy, she feels as though she can finally breathe again. She knows it’s just an illusion, but the air inside the Citadel feels stale and oppressive. She would probably see it in a more positive light, glorying in the splendor of the Presidium or energized by the liveliness of the Wards, but the fact that she’s generally there on Council business more than takes the edge off the glamour.

The mission on Feros had been a success, but the Council wouldn’t see it that way. Returning to the Citadel to give them a more detailed report and debriefing had been a waste of time that she should have just left Ambassador Udina and Captain Anderson to deal with. She doesn’t have the stomach for diplomacy, and she could have done without their criticism and derision. Bringing back the Thorian for further study had not been a part of her objective, and any attempts would have been unsuccessful at best or hazardous to the crew any ship used to try to transport the creature at worst. But the Council doesn’t share the military’s philosophy of not second-guessing decisions made in the heat of combat.

Again, I used this same plot device of Shepard returning to the Citadel to give the Council a lengthier debriefing than just the vid-conference, which wasn't actually in the canon. However, I assumed that such a conversation would've gone the same way, with them criticising her decision to kill the Thorian.

“Shepard?” Liara places a hand on her shoulder, concern evident in her voice.

Jane shakes away her thoughts; she hadn’t realized she’d stopped walking and caused her companions to worry. “I’m sorry. Please, continue on inside.”

She moves out of the way to allow Kaidan and Liara to enter the ship and return to the crew deck. She had chosen these two to accompany her to her meeting with the Council because they were among the most diplomatic members of her crew, but it hadn’t helped. She knows Kaidan probably feels guilty for failing to defend her actions better, and Liara is likely concerned about the mental strain the encounter caused her. Both will be eager to give her what comfort they can, but she isn’t in the mood to deal with that right now.

Making her way toward the bridge to check in with Pressly, she considers going for a walk in the Wards. Maybe some time away from her crew would help to clear her head and calm her temper. But that would be dangerous; she’s become too recognizable, and law enforcement in the Wards is too slack for her to safely move about on her own. Besides, she realizes that she just wants to get the hell away from the Citadel.

“Commander,” Pressly greets her as she approaches. “Shall we begin preparations for take-off?”

“No,” Shepard instructs him. “I gave the crew two days’ leave, and it’s only been half a day. Garrus and Williams are still on the Citadel. We won’t depart until they return.”

I'll talk a little later about the timing in this fic and in the ME 'verse in general...

“Understood. May I at least ask our next objective so I can enter it into the ship’s computer?”

“Virmire. We have a lead on Virmire,” she explains, a shiver of foreboding crawling up her spine.

I purposely situated this fic before Virmire because, again, I wanted to keep this fic as open to the way a player played the game as possible, including getting Wrex killed.

“Very well,” he responds as she turns and heads down the stairs.

She pauses when she reaches the crew deck, still undecided as to what she wants to do. At a loss for other ideas, she waves her hand in front of the lighted panel to summon the elevator so she can descend to the cargo bay. If all else fails, she can always do a brief inspection and examine the Mako for needed repairs.

It’s dark and quiet inside the cargo hold, and with Garrus and Ashley on shore leave and the requisitions officer gathering supplies in the Wards, she mistakes the chamber to be empty at first. It isn’t until, running her hands over the side of the Mako and saying a silent thank-you for the many times it’s saved their lives, that she hears a soft shuffling in the corner and realizes that Wrex is still in his usual spot.

“I gave all of the crew two days’ leave. That includes you,” she says as she walks in his direction. “You could go out into the Wards, buy some new gear.”

I mean, it seems unreasonable to expect Shepard to do the shopping for them all the time, and I imagine Wrex to have quite a few credits stashed away. But anyway, that isn't really relevant...

Wrex moves his head slowly to look at her and growls. “Not interested.”

Suddenly, Shepard remembers the incident and the conversation she’d had with Wrex right before their last mission. She supposes that he did not leave to go train because Garrus had elected to spend his shore leave catching up with Executor Pallin at the C-Sec headquarters, but she’s also grateful to him for deciding not to go into combat all on his own. However confident the krogan mercenary might be of his own durability, it would’ve been a suicide mission that she could not condone.

“Would you be interested in training?” she asks, her hand lingering on her pistol holster as the urge to enter battle and drive a few satisfying bullets into a geth trooper’s armored skull washes over her.

Basically, the idea is supposed to be: get off the Citadel, get away from the Council's watchful eyes, kill some geth, clear her head.

“Training?” Wrex smirks, like he can’t believe she’s actually serious. “You sure?”

She shrugs. “Why not? I have no desire to stay out on the Citadel for another day, and we can probably use a little practice before the next mission.”

Wrex is turning his head from side to side in slow, halting movements but otherwise showing no indication of either a positive or negative response to her request. At last, he scratches his head and lets out a low grunt.

“If that’s what you want. I don’t really care.” He turns around and grabs his gear off the rack behind him, then heads toward the elevator, Jane falling into step behind him.

:D I have to admit I love this bit. Wrex doesn't show any excitement but I bet he's secretly quite pleased.

She knows better than to pester him with questions, but she does begin to wonder where they’re going as they disembark the Normandy and move through the hangar. Wrex summons the elevator but makes no effort to explain his actions while they wait.

“Um, Wrex? Where are we going, and how are we getting there?”

“I have a ship,” is the krogan’s gruff reply as the two of them enter the elevator.

“You have a ship?” Jane repeats, startled. This was the first she’d heard of it.

But then, when she stops and thinks about it, it does make sense. In fact, it probably wouldn’t make much sense for a bounty hunter not to have his own ship; Wrex needs the freedom to come and go as he wills it. Passenger transport is too slow, not to mention having the added risks of detection or civilians being caught in the crossfire. It’s just surprising that Wrex had never mentioned his ship before, or offered it to the crew of the Normandy to make use of. An extra vessel is a valuable asset.

I mean, really. A bounty hunter needs his own ship. I was so glad when I realized this because it helped me flesh out the plot for this story.

Instead of descending all the way to the C-Sec headquarters, the elevator stops about halfway, on floor 278. The door slides open, and Jane follows Wrex into a hangar about the same size as the Normandy’s docking bay. However, this one isn’t dedicated to a single ship. At a glance, she counts about ten ships docked on this level, most of them small frigates.

This is based on Wrex's comment in the Normandy's hangar that it's obviously a special ship because it gets a hangar all to itself.

Wrex comes to a halt in front of the third ship from the right. It’s the smallest vehicle in the hangar, but Shepard finds it to be astoundingly well-maintained. The ship itself is of an older model, but it looks like it’s been recently retrofitted with a brand new mass drive and modern fusion torches. The ship’s body may not be as sleek as some of the newest vehicles being designed today, but the construction is sturdy and the hull shows no signs of damage. She whistles appreciatively.

One of the things I was most nervous about when I started writing this was having to describe Wrex's ship, since I know nothing at all about spaceships. I'm not sure if it's reasonable for a single person to own his own frigate, but it's the smallest class of ship described in the Codex, and I didn't trust myself to come up with a class of ship from scratch on my own.

“You have a ship.” All her misgivings momentarily fade away.

“Well,” Wrex scowls at her, already moving through the open airlock, “are you just going to stand out there and gawk all day?”

Jane grins and follows him inside. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You never struck me as much of a mechanic, but you must be, for your ship to be in this good of a condition.”

Wrex turns back to her and scoffs. “When you’ve got credits, you can afford a good mechanic.”

One of the things I love about this game and the interactions between the characters is that Shepard sometimes makes comments that are a little naïve, and the other characters aren't afraid to call her out on it. It's more... real, and makes Shepard seem more human.

“You’re right,” she mumbles, hurrying to catch up with him.

Wrex has moved into the cockpit and is programming the ship’s controls. He seems to know what he’s doing so she decides to leave him alone until he asks for her help. As she takes a look around, she notes that the ship is spacious enough to hold a crew of at least a dozen men. However, she decides to settle into the co-pilot’s seat, figuring that if she sticks close to Wrex, she might have the opportunity to get to know the enigmatic alien a little better. To test what kind of mood he’s in, she props her feet up on the dashboard in front of her, but the krogan doesn’t react.

“So where are we going?” she asks him the question he wasn’t willing to answer before.

Wrex doesn’t look up from the controls. “Almacrux. After we hit the relay network, it’ll be about two, three hours. Maybe you should try to sleep, Shepard.”

Okay, so first off: Almacrux isn't a visitable planet in the canon, but I purposely wanted to pick a planet that wasn't visitable, since I'm not writing this fic about a specific assignment in the game. I picked Almacrux because out of all the planets that you can't land on, it seemed like one of the most likely candidates for a world that could've been made visitable, due to atmospheric conditions etc.

Anyway, one of the things that worried me the most and still bothers me about this fic is the timing. In the canon, we are given absolutely no sense of how long it takes to travel between places; as far as we can tell it happens almost instantaneously. There isn't anything written anywhere that I could find that talks about how long FTL travel actually takes. I read Mass Effect: Ascension as part of my canon review but it wasn't much help. It suggested that it takes days to travel between systems, but the book mostly referred to passenger shuttles, and I'm not sure if those would be able to travel as fast as military class-vessels, which is what I assume Wrex would have.

For that reason, I ended up being about as vague about the timing as possible, but I still ended up worrying that the timeline is too short to be realistic.

Jane isn’t stupid; that last bit is Wrex’s way of warning her that he isn’t interested in making small talk. She could push him, but it’s more likely that she’ll piss him off than find out anything new and useful about her taciturn companion. As the ship’s engine hums to life, she sinks back into her chair and lets the ship’s gentle movements rock her into a light slumber.

***

Shepard is surprised to find the ship safely on the ground when she opens her eyes. She expected that their descent into Almacrux’s atmosphere would’ve woken her up. The fact that it didn’t attested to the fact that Wrex must be a trained and talented pilot. The krogan is just full of surprises today.

Okay, I know the whole "Shepard slept through the entire flight" thing probably seems like a really cheap way to move the story along, but the whole point of this story is supposed to be what happens to them on this planet, so I didn't want to delay any further. Also, not describing the voyage at all is kind of in keeping with the canon, where you never see anything of the voyage in between systems.

Wrex is fussing with the ship’s computer, so they must not have been on the ground long. Feeling refreshed and energetic, she hops to her feet and readies her gear to go outside.

“What are the surface conditions like?” she asks while strapping her weapons to her back.

“Low pressure. Mild temperatures. No known hazards. Just,” Wrex stands up and taps on the glass of the cockpit to direct her attention, “fog and rain.”

She hadn’t taken much notice of their surroundings yet so she had failed to see the thick mist that seems to be rolling in in waves. It looks mystical and mesmerizing, but her soldier’s instinct identifies it for the danger it truly poses. To go aimlessly wandering out into fog that dense would be suicide.

I kinda wish they'd have included a foggy world in the canon. It would've been quite exciting, and something different.

“Do you have a map? Or even a destination objective?”

Wrex takes a step toward her and smirks. “That would be too easy, Shepard.”

Squeezing around the armored lizard’s large body in the small confined space, she worms her way into the seat that Wrex has just vacated. Thankfully, the ship’s controls follow the galactic standard, and it doesn’t take her long to locate the functions she needs.

“I’m programming the ship to send an auto-distress call to the Normandy if we’re not back here in six hours,” she explains. “I’m not going to risk us wandering forever through the fog.”

She also programs the location of the vessel into the tracking device she wears on her wrist like a watch. Without a satellite to calculate its exact position, it’s not highly accurate, but under the circumstances it’s the best she can do.

Since Almacrux isn't inhabited, I assumed there would be no satellites orbiting the planet. No satellites, no GPS.

When she’s finished with her preparations and heads toward the rear of the ship, she finds that Wrex is already waiting for her by the outer door, his gear strapped on and the vizor of his helmet covering his face. “Let’s move out.”

Wrex opens the hatch when she’s put on her helmet and closed the visor, and not a minute sooner. Aside from the difference in atmospheric gases, you never know what kind of contaminants might be in the air on a foreign planet. The sensors on her suit aren’t picking up anything hazardous, but until she has a compelling reason to go in without a sealed helmet, it isn’t worth the risk.

It’s warm outside, and probably damp, although that’s just a guess since her body is completely covered. Shepard can’t see the sky through the cloud cover, although plenty of light filters down to the surface, and she calculates from what she knows to be the approximate angle of the sun that it won’t be night for a while. Wrex takes five long strides outside and the mist already rises up to engulf him.

“Visbility is about… twenty yards,” she estimates. “We’d better stick together or we’re going to separated.”

And Shepard gives the 'Rally!' command!

She can hear Wrex chuckle over the radio. “That’s sweet.”

He gives no indication of slowing his pace, and she has to quicken her own steps to catch up to him. The ground is rocky and firm, not giving under their feet at all. It’s easy enough to walk on, but it’ll be hard on the legs to sustain a rapid pace. Wrex’s strides are twice as long as hers, so if he insists on continuing at the current rate, it’ll wear her out.

She considers chiding him but knows it’s of no use. Instead, she tries to press for more information about their objective. “What are we looking for?”

“My intel informed me that a merchant vessel passing through the Caspian system reported the sight of geth ships. If they set up an outpost, this would be the most likely planet to do it,” Wrex replies. It’s probably the longest explanation he’s given her all afternoon.

To be a bounty hunter, Wrex definitely has to have his own information sources, and it's reasonable to expect him to still stay in touch with them even though he's with the Normandy now. In fact, I'm a little surprised that never gets used as a plot device in the canon.

“If they set up an outpost,” she repeats. “And even if they did, we don’t even know for sure in which direction to begin looking.”

Jane turns to look behind her as she continues to follow Wrex’s lead, noting that their ship has already been swallowed up by the dense fog. Forcing herself to concentrate on what lies ahead, she can only wonder how they’re supposed to find a geth outpost in this mess. She can only hope that the geth aren’t sending out a jamming signal to block their scanners, or else they’ll be sitting ducks.

I mean, imagine how much fun that would be! Fog AND jammed scanners! :D

“Exciting,” Wrex says, his lips splayed out to reveal a wide toothy grin that’s anything but endearing, “isn’t it, Shepard?”

She just shakes her head and continues to scan for energy readings in their surroundings.

***

“It’s been two hours and we haven’t found a single thing.”

Jane is starting to sweat underneath her uniform, the oppressive humidity of the environment weighing on her like a heavy blanket. The fog hasn’t lifted, although it’s gradually grown less dense as they’ve moved away from the ship. However, in exchange, the rain has changed from a light sprinkling into a more steady drizzle, so overall visibility has improved little, and they now have the added annoyance of periodically needing to wipe rain from their visors.

Wrex hasn’t said a single word and if it weren’t for his heavy breathing she might’ve forgotten he was with her. Well, maybe not. It’s a little hard to forget about a big armored lizard walking beside you.

“This is pointless, Wrex. We don’t even know for sure if there’s an outpost here. Maybe we should just head back,” she continues, her breathing ragged with exhaustion.

I know she never gets tired in the game, but damnit, I want to keep this kind of realistic. You spend two hours walking around on the surface of a humid planet you've never been before, you're going to get tired, okay?

Wrex grunts. “Are you giving up, Shepard?”

“It’s not a question of giving up or not. It’s a matter of having the prudence to realize when a course of action is futile.”

He doesn’t stop. She just assumes that he’s being stubborn, so she’s startled when he suddenly comes to a halt and calls out her name. “I think I see something up ahead.”

“What?” Jane fights the fatigue in her legs and quickens her gait until she’s level with him.

She peers into the mist ahead of them but at first she doesn’t notice anything unusual. She’s about to ask Wrex what he was talking about when she begins to make out forms in the distance. It takes her a minute to identify them, but they appear to be rock outcroppings, a sharp contrast with the rest of the landscape which up until now has been completely flat.

I kind of pictured this like that place on Therum where the path gets too narrow to keep driving in the Mako, and you have to walk, and there's a bunch of rock outcroppings and walls and such. I really suck at describing it; I feel like I use the word 'outcropping' like 20 billion times.

“The ground seems to be angling upward,” she mumbles, not sure what, if anything, that means but glad to break up the monotony of the fog.

In another ten minutes, they find themselves at the foot of a series of treacherous-looking crags and hills made of rock. The ones in front of them are relatively low and wide, but a little further down, steep outcroppings jut at least a hundred feet into the air. The area looks inhospitable, but Jane isn’t fooled: it would be the perfect place to hide a geth outpost.

Without saying a word, she takes the lead; she’s more limber and can wind her way around the rocks more smoothly. Aiming her pistol straight out in front of her in a strong two-handed grip while moving slowly but deliberately ahead, she checks her scanners every few seconds for any indication of life. Holding his shotgun in a tight grip, Wrex falls back to provide cover, less agile but also more able to blend into the environment.

Man, Wrex is such a badass with a shotgun. I mean, he's great with assault rifles too, but the shotgun? Badass.

About fifty yards further down, the outcroppings widen into a small clearing. On the far side, she can see two very large rocks wedged together at an angle. When the mist momentarily clears, she is surprised to find a familiar sight: a ramp with metal railings leading into passageway below. There must be a cave or an excavation site down there.

I mean, we've already seen a zillion of these, we know what they are by now, so I felt like it was not unreasonable to not describe it in more detail.

Motioning toward the passage with her pistol, Jane makes her way over to the entrance, followed closely by her krogan ally. Her sensors still aren’t picking up anything. She pauses for just a second to weigh her options, then stops hesitating and follows the ramp down into the cave. The rain has started to pick up so at least it’ll provide them with a little relief from the weather.

As her eyes fight to adjust to the darkness, she carefully places one foot ahead of the other, grateful that the ramp provides her with a steady base for her footing. When she begins to be able to make out what’s inside the cave, she sees that the ramp continues for only about five more yards. They’re not really below ground, and the cave is no larger than the Normandy’s hangar aboard the Citadel. Her radar is silent.

Yeah, we've also seen a billion of these caves already, and the layout is always about the same, so...

When they move off the ramp and into the cavernous chamber beyond, Shepard gestures for Wrex to take point, reversing their previous roles. While it seems unlikely that there’s an ambush awaiting them, an attack could come from all sides, and the krogan, with his large armored body and stronger kinetic shields, is simply better-equipped to handle it. One could accuse her of taking advantage of her alien ally, but she knows Wrex knows better than that and harbors her no ill will. They’ve performed this dance many times on previous missions.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who sent Wrex in ahead in most areas. I mean, he's just such a tank. He can take the hit.

“Clear,” Wrex announces when he reaches the center.

She relaxes her muscles just a little, although she continues to hold her pistol in a death grip. Something doesn’t feel right, but she’s not sure if her apprehension has grounds or if it’s just one of those bad feelings about everything that come with the territory. Then she realizes what’s bugging her. There are two lit lamps hanging at the back of the cave, which means it was, at one point, inhabited, most likely not too long ago.

That was an intentional reference to the "Bad feelings are an occupational hazard", but since that was Joker's saying, not Shepard's, I didn't want to quote it verbatim.

Wrex follows the direction of her gaze and moves toward the rear of the cave, with Jane covering him from behind. The chamber grows narrow as they go in deeper, then widens into an alcove at the very back. She takes note of two small passageways that had been hidden from view at the entrance, one at three o’clock and one at nine o’clock. She motions to the left with her pistol, and Wrex leads the way down the passage.

The corridor is just large enough to fit them both through single-file. It ends abruptly into a high-ceilinged chamber roughly the size of the Normandy’s cargo bay. If this cavern was indeed inhabited, she guesses that this room served as personnel quarters or a supply room. However, if it did at one point contain supplies or furniture, all its contents had since been cleared.

“All clear,” Wrex confirms.

Squeezing their way back through the passageway, Shepard ponders who could’ve been staying here. Resources on Almacrux are scarce enough that the planet hasn’t been considered for active colonization, and from her short time here she can gather that while conditions are within acceptable parameters, no one could seriously want to live here for long periods of time. She wonders if asari or salarian scientists have been conducting illegal research here. It seems the most logical explanation.

Probably the salarians, those sneaky bastards...

Wrex is already inside the second corridor and Jane is about to follow him when she hears the sound of a gun being cocked behind her and freezes.

“Don’t move!” the owner of the gun barks out.

While she doesn’t recognize the specific voice, she’s all too familiar with the tone and the accent. It’s krogan. Wheeling around on her heels, she hopes to get a glimpse of her attacker, but she’s too slow: the opponent’s pistol comes crashing down on her helmet as she turns, and she finds herself falling to the ground.

The idea is that Jane thinks she can at least turn around to face her opponent, but she moves too quickly and her attacker decides not to take the risk and knocks her out.

For a moment, everything goes black.

***

Continue to Part II.

[FIC] Mass Effect: "Reveille" (Jane Shepard/Liara) [for yuletide 2008]

2009-01-02T01:13:48Z

Title: Reveille
Fandom: Mass Effect
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Jane Shepard/Liara, mentions of Kaidan, original characters
Dedication: verstehen, as a last-minute pinch-hit for yuletide 2008
Prompt: The request was to pick any class and background for a female!Shepard and write a more in-depth backstory.
Description: During mating, an asari and her partner share memories, thoughts, and feelings. As they make love aboard the SSV Normandy, Liara T'Soni learns the truth about Jane Shepard's past. (Earthborn / Sole Survivor / Infiltrator)
Rating: R for graphic violence, drug use, dubcon, and girl-on-girl sensuality
Word Count: 6,510
Status: Complete (It was finished in late December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until after Jan. 1st)
Other Notes: This was my first-ever attempt to pinch-hit for yuletide, and as the official pinch-hitter assigned to verstehen at the last minute, I had half a day to brainstorm and two days to write. Many thanks to kangeiko for being such a thorough beta at the last-minute—I couldn't have done this without her, especially the military bits. *g* Also, all credit for the title goes to her. The epigram is composed of lyrics from the obscure screamo band Ampere. I also ought to give credit to Pandora's "New Age Instrumental" radio station, for providing the mood-appropriate background music and keeping me sane as I wrote this monster of a fic in less than two days.

You can read it and leave comments at the Yuletide archive here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

it blurs into nothing between night and day
into one moment where all is right and wrong
everything and nothing at all makes complete sense tonight
between the sheets or between the lines,
she smiled and said, "you're through..."

***

Wrapping a fresh towel around her head, Jane Shepard, Commander of the SSV Normandy, arrives in her quarters after taking a luxuriously long shower. She rarely allows herself to indulge in anything, but the rising stakes and heightened danger of the crew's assignments of late had led her to decide to make more of an effort to enjoy their rare respites—even if these moments of idleness and quietude are somewhat vexatious.

She never has been one to enjoy stagnation, because it encourages trains of thought she would prefer not to pursue. In these moments, when nothing can be heard save the quiet humming of the ship as it hurtles through space, thoughts creep into one's mind, calling up old memories and suggesting the strangest notions, until a quiet madness descends upon the brain. It is these instances, when obscurity and clarity collide, that she finds among the most terrifying things in the universe. And Jane Shepard deals with terrifying things on almost a daily basis.

Jane paces about her room, massaging her head under the towel until most of her hair has dried. Discarding the towel in a corner, she moves to stand by the window, gazing at the tiny points of light passing by at a snail's pace. Tomorrow, they'll begin their new assignment. They could have started today, but she begged the Council for a day's reprieve, citing the exhaustion of her crew and the dire need for some R&R to get them back up to optimal efficiency as reasons. It had been a good call, as everyone had taken a blow after the events on Virmire days ago. Even she herself was affected, though she tries not to show it in front of her crew.

Shaking her head to clear away the images she doesn't care to relive, she focuses instead on the guest she is expecting. The thought of her young asari lover brings a smile to her face, as she checks the time again and ponders why Liara has kept her waiting. Jane pictures her entering the room, her movements fluid and full of grace, then pauses to think about what she'll be wearing. Will she still be in uniform, or has she changed? She envisions her in one of the long gowns the asari she met at the Citadel seem to favor. She is certain the garments would become her very well, although her mind is dwelling more on the act of how pleasurable it would be to slowly strip Liara of the gown.

She is startled out of her reverie by a soft knock on the door of her quarters. "Who is it?"

"It is Liara, Commander Shepard." Liara's voice is muffled by the heavy door between them.

In three strides, Jane makes her way to the front of the room, pressing the keypad to allow the door to slide open. The young asari woman quickly moves into the room, and, turning to watch her as she enters, Jane is not at all ashamed when she spends quite some time checking out the view. Liara is no longer in military uniform, dressed instead in one of the high-collared vests and a pair of leggings. Though her garb isn't an asari gown, Jane isn't disappointed; the garments gently accentuate Liara's curves.

"I was just thinking about you," Jane whispers as she joins her partner, caressing a blue cheek with her right hand. "I was wondering what kept you. I've been waiting."

Liara nuzzles her face into the curve of Jane's hand, lightly kissing the palm. "I apologize. I was sitting with Kaidan. He needed someone to talk to."

Closing her eyes as she weaves her fingers through Liara's own, Jane fights to keep the memories of Virmire from surfacing. Most of the Normandy's crew has been on-edge since the incidents that took place there, but Kaidan has probably had the hardest time dealing with it.

Liara, however, seems to mistake Jane's silence for something else. "Are you... jealous?"

Shaking off her troubled thoughts, Jane coaxes her lips into a playful smile. "Should I be?"

"No," Liara answers, her face softening as the two draw close for a swift kiss.

"Come," Jane says when their faces part, motioning at the bed. She herself walks toward the side of the room that holds the chest where she keeps her sparse personal belongings. "Sit with me. I have a surprise. I picked up a few bottles of wine when we were last at the Citadel. Will you have some?"

"I will try some," the young asari replies as she gracefully seats herself on the low bed. "Thank you."

Jane deftly uncorks the bottle and pours its contents into two plastic goblets she has been saving for an occasion such as this. She hands one to Liara, setting the bottle on the table near them, and then takes a seat on the bed behind her, resting her back against the wall while wrapping her free arm around Liara's waist. Liara leans back into Jane's embrace and relaxes, lifting her feet up onto the bed and curling her legs in a vaguely childlike gesture. For some time, the two simply sit, enjoying their wine in silence.

"This beverage is delicious," Liara remarks when she has all but emptied her glass, "but is it legal for you to have such a thing on board, hidden away from everyone else?"

"Probably not. But then, I'm not exactly the model citizen everyone thinks I am," Jane says with a rueful smile.

Liara sits up, twisting her torso so that she can face Jane. "That is not true. You are a model for all of us on this vessel."

"Yet there are times I wish people would not think of me that way," Jane remarks bitterly, her body suddenly tense.

"You have all the qualities of a great citizen, soldier, and a leader," Liara tries to soothe her, "so it is no surprise that people want to emulate your good traits and model themselves after you."

"I'm tired of feeling like I'm misleading people," Jane explains. "I'm not nearly as good of a person as everyone thinks I am."

Liara studies Jane's face carefully. "I sense that you carry a heavy burden. What is it in your past that makes you unable to accept your own goodness, and why are you carrying it alone?"

"It isn't any one particular thing," Jane says, her expression clouded. "My entire past is shrouded in darkness. I suppose my military service might be an attempt at redemption for the life I used to lead. But I don't think the respect I've won during my assignments excuses what I did in the past. I shouldn't be anyone's role model."

"Why do you not talk about it with others—friends?" Liara suggests. "It could help ease your discomfort."

"I've never really tried... probably because I've never trusted anyone enough," Jane replies, frowning.

Liara tries not to sound disappointed, though some of her youth shines through when she asks, "Not even me?"

"I trust you." Jane grazes the skin of Liara's cheek with her lips. "You know I do."

"Then tell me," Liara says simply. "Please."

Sitting up to place their empty wine goblets on the table while carefully avoiding Liara's pleading eyes, Jane makes up her mind. "All right. Maybe you're right. I've swallowed down these words for too long."

Both her hands now free, she returns to her position on the bed, pulling Liara toward her and folding her lover's small, warm body into a tight embrace. Liara gently caresses Jane's skin while the latter tries to decide how best to start her story.

"As you know, I grew up on Earth," Jane begins. "More specifically, I grew up in an orphanage in the slums. I never knew either of my parents. I'm not even certain what happened to them. In those days, it was the same for many children. I was by no means an exceptional case."

"You see, the Earth was never meant to house 20 billion people. So when it became possible for humans to colonize other planets, a massive exodus took place. Entire families left their homes and friends behind and took to the skies. But there was a large disparity of wealth, and for those families for whom it was not financially possible for all of them to leave at once, the fathers left first, intending to bring over their loved ones as soon as they had gotten settled. But after they left for space, any number of things happened—they were killed, got caught up in bad business, found new wives, or sometimes simply decided not to send for their families, wanting to start anew. This created a massive crisis back on Earth, particularly among the women who had lost their husbands. Some took to the skies to search for them, while others migrated to the cities to look for new men, and still others withered away. This meant that many children simply got lost in the shuffle, finding themselves abandoned and usually ending up in the slums."

"Since it was the fate of so many of us, there was no use in being angry or bitter. Taking the time to try to track down our parents was a luxury we didn't have, since living conditions in the slums were awful and all our thoughts were bent on mere survival. We never had money. There was never enough food to go around, and we were always hungry. There were no standards of hygiene because most people couldn't afford running water, so disease was rampant."

"Technically, the slums are governed, but there's little or no law enforcement, so we never really noticed. Most of the enforcement was internal, with local gangs establishing territories of control. The orphanage functioned like a safe house, though, and I managed to avoid gang life because I stayed in school. There were public schools, though attendance wasn't enforced because there were simply too many kids in the slums and not enough resources. But I enjoyed learning, so I stayed in school, even when no one made me," explains Jane, the corner of her mouth turning up in a half-smile at a distant memory.

"What were you like as a child?" Liara asks, snuggling up to her lover.

"I suppose I was a bit of a – a geek," Jane replies, laughing. "I loved learning about the mechanics of things—how things work and how they were made. I used to go to the junkyard after school with a wrench and a screwdriver and take things apart, bringing home the parts I found interesting or intended to use to build something later. And I was always looking to the sky and reading stories about life on the colonies. I planned to go to university and study engineering. My dream was to build a spaceship that would take all the abandoned children from the slums into space, so that we could find better lives."

Liara playfully suckles on Jane's collarbone. "So did you go? To university?"

"No. I never made it that far." Jane's eyes are downcast, her expression unreadable. "In fact, I dropped out of high school. I didn't follow any of my dreams."

Startled, Liara asks, "Why? What happened?"

When there's no response, Liara looks up, but her partner's face is cast in shadow. Jane's lips are parted and moving, as if she's trying to say something but the words aren't coming out. There's something troubling her; she keeps blinking, her eye movements rapid, and, Liara notices with a start, her hand is shaking.

Wrapping Jane's fingers in her own, Liara whispers, "If you cannot tell me, it is okay. Please do not force yourself."

"I want to. I trust you," Jane murmurs, pulling in for another quick kiss, though her eyes are still dark. "And I haven't done that in a very long time."

Liara considers it for a second, then says, "Well, if it is too difficult to find the words, then there are other ways to show me."

Jane understands what Liara is suggesting. A sexual encounter with an asari is not so much a physical union as a melding of consciousnesses, and during their previous lovemaking sessions, they had each shared a few memories, though Jane had been careful to keep any memories of her past carefully guarded. Liara is suggesting that, this time, she let go of the careful control she keeps over her memories and allow herself to share everything. The prospect is inimitably frightening, but she also supposes it could be liberating to finally let go.

Sensing that she has been given permission, Liara turns around and moves closer to her lover, bringing their heads together with a gentle gesture of her right hand. Jane helps undo Liara's vest before taking off her own shirt and bra, reveling in the skin contact that follows. Their lips meet, giving into a darker, baser hunger that has been on both their minds since Liara entered the room. In the asari mating rite, it isn't really necessary to kiss, but they do it anyway, Jane having taught Liara the joy of experiencing the softness of someone else's lips, the warmth of their breath, and the sensual touches of tongue and teeth. Strengthened by her companion's affection, Jane finally closes her eyes and concentrates all her thoughts on Liara.

An image appears of a young woman—no, a girl, yet. Her thin frame and other youthful features betray her age, though she carries herself like a woman, her steps light yet deliberate. Light seems to radiate out from her figure, or perhaps it is her face that yields this conclusion: two bright blue eyes and a wide smile, surrounded by a halo of golden-blond curls. When Liara probes just a little deeper into Jane's mind, she discovers that these are uncommon traits among humans now; once, long ago, a third of the world was blond-haired and blue-eyed, but since the earthlings began to interbreed across cultures, their offspring's hair has grown darker each generation, and a true blonde has become a rare sight indeed.

"But it was her smile that was the most striking about her. She was always smiling," Jane adds, a wistful tone to her voice. "Almost."

Running her hands up and down Jane's arms, whose skin is dotted with goosebumps, Liara hesitates for a second before asking, "Who was she?"

"Her name was Evelyn," Jane replies, "but we all called her Eve, or Evie."

She closes her eyes again, and a flood of images comes up this time, beginning with Eve, considerably younger, but seen from afar. Jane must've been watching her from a distance. They're at an old-fashioned playground, though it's little more than a sandbox, a swing set, and a couple of slides. Children and toddlers are sitting in a semi-circle, rubbing snotty noses with dirt-covered hands while they listen to Eve, who is perched atop one of the swings, telling a story. Her voice is inaudible, but it is clear that her words hold the entire crowd entranced, Jane included. The memory fades into various other flashes of Eve from afar, at the orphanage, in the classroom, or just in the streets of the slum they both inhabit.

The vision changes. They're older now, eleven perhaps, and Eve is bothered by two older boys on her way back to the orphanage after school. At first they're just calling her names, but then one of them reaches out and smacks her bottom. Jane, who was following behind her, rushes up and without a second's hesitation punches the boy in the face, enough to topple his balance and give him a black eye. While he's scrambling to get back on his feet, she yells a threat at his partner, and without arguing or dawdling, the boys clear the scene. Without another word, Jane takes Eve's hand in her own, and the two walk back to the orphanage together.

After that, the memories are different—brighter. Jane and Eve walk to school together every day. They sit beside each other in class. In the afternoons when Jane searches for new parts and tinkers with tools in the junkyard, Eve sits atop a crate and spins romantic tales of life on faraway planets. At night, Jane helps Eve with her homework, eventually ensuring them both enrollment in one of the better public high schools.

But in the end, neither girl is able to escape the seduction of the underground cultures pervading the city. All the teenagers in the slums succumb to it. It begins with the parties, casual get-togethers on the surface, the new "friends" and the boys who like to stare from a distance. It doesn't take long until one of them is approached with the promise of cash if they just discreetly deliver a little paper bag to that guy over there, the one with the spiked hair and the nose ring—and since money is always short these days, they can't say no. The danger starts when they give into the temptation to try the stuff they help sell. Beer, liquor, pills, stuff you smoke, stuff you snort—eventually, they try it all. These days, however, the best stuff comes in a form you inject straight into your veins, and before long, they're hooked, and there's no stopping the music now, the flashing lights, the pulsating beat, the grinding bodies around them, on top of them. Some days, they don't make it to school at all—not that they ever have to face the consequences, given how badly-run the slum schools are. Boys dance in and out of the picture, their countenances vague and forgettable, and Liara realizes they are dealing with something much cruder than courtship.

Jane and Eve begin to grow apart when Eve becomes involved in a local gang but Jane resists her invitations to join them. Still, when Eve disappears for a few days and then returns, unable to stop crying, Jane doesn't hesitate to come to her aid. While Eve's lips form the words "I'm pregnant" in slow motion, her face panicked and her body shaking with her frantic sobs, an eerie ringing sound grows in Jane's head. The ringing continues throughout the next scene, where Jane accompanies her to the clinic where she gets an abortion, and crescendos throughout a reel of successive scenes, when for weeks Eve is disconsolate, unable to deal with the pain and loss.

A flash of white, and then the next image appears: Eve lying on the ground, badly beaten, blood pooling near her head, a victim of what was obviously murder.

Startled, Liara sits up and asks, "What happened? Who did it, and why?"

Jane sighs. "I don't know. I always assumed it was someone in her gang, though I wouldn't have the faintest idea why. I never did understand gang politics."

"I thought about trying to find her murderer, but I found I had no reason to do so," she continues as she reclines, pulling Liara with her. "I had no desire for revenge. I don't think I was even angry. The thing is—I always felt that, at the time she was murdered, Eve had already been dying. After the abortion, she began to wither away. She'd stopped glowing. In some sense, I felt her murder was a mercy. I think she'd have been dead within a month or two anyway, so it may have saved her some suffering."

"But she was your—" Liana reaches into Jane's mind for the right words "—your best friend, your sister, your only family. How did you cope?"

"In the beginning, I didn't need to," Jane explains, staring off into space. "Strangely enough, I accepted her death. I didn't find it too difficult to keep on going. But then I checked the local news channels and found no reporting at all about her murder. The media didn't care. Just another dead girl in the slums. Happens all the time. That's when I grew angry. I could accept her death, but not this—the utter insignificance of our lives."

The next vision shows a furious and unglued Jane drifting aimlessly through the streets and finally winding up in one of the entertainment districts in the outskirts of the city. She takes refuge in the corner of a game parlor, where an old arcade game allows you to take up a pair of hologram pistols and shoot at moving humanoid-shaped targets, with the most points being awarded for direct head shots. In the beginning, she can barely manage to successfully hit their upper bodies, but she uses up the last of her drug money and keeps on trying. When she's all out of coins, she goes back to the orphanage. She doesn't go back to school, but she also stops going to the parties and selling drugs. Instead, she earns her bread by doing simple errands around town, taking whatever extra cash she has at the end of the day and heading to the game parlor, aiming at the targets and pulling the triggers until her money's gone and her mind is blank. With time, repeated practice hones her skill to perfection, until she can hit the targets from any angle, with her eyes closed, or even with her back turned.

During these sessions, there isn't a thought in her mind. There is no past she is trying to get away from, no future she is trying to escape to, and no purpose. There is simply the comforting numbness as instinct takes over and her fingers react automatically to send out the little bullets of light. In those instincts, everything slows down, and she becomes completely absorbed into the game, unaware of anything else going on around her.

It is while thus entranced, a month or so after she began her pistol training, that she fails to notice that she has a spectator until the man clears his throat to make his presence known. Before she even has time to think about it, she whirls around and aims both pistols at his head—not that it would actually do her any good, because the holograms don't emit anything except when pointed at the shooting range.

"Whoa, there! I wouldn't like to be caught in your line of fire," he chuckles as he sizes her up before resting his eyes on the pair of hologram guns pointed at his face. "How would you like to point a real pair o' those at some real targets?"

Jane frowns, unimpressed despite his muscled arms and good physique. "And you are?"

"The name's Ray. Lieutenant Ray Durnam. Right now I'm here for pleasure rather than business," he answers, still chuckling, "but when I'm working, I happen to be a recruiting officer in the Alliance Navy."

And that's how it all begins. Jane doesn't dwell too long on any of the subsequent memories, but Liara doesn't need her to in order to get a clear picture of the story: her talk with Ray, signing the enlistment papers, and cadet training camp. The soldiers are pushed to the physical breaking point, rising before the sun, running miles in the rain, repeating the same obstacle courses over and over until they can do the steps in their sleep. Her endurance is heavily tested, but Shepard, hardened by life in the slums, knows nothing but survival. During combat training, she receives unprecedentedly high marks for her pistol skills, and when the time comes to specialize, they decide that her slim, lithe body makes her best suited for a sniper rifle. Meanwhile, Shepard impresses her peers and superiors with her mechanical skills, offering multiple ideas and improvements for vehicles, weapons, and armor.

A few weeks into her training, she runs into Ray near the barracks, and they have a friendly chat before she is called away for more rifle practice. About a month later, when she's on leave for three days and heads into the city to sightsee, she runs into him again in the streets. He invites her out for a drink, and one thing leads to another, and she doesn't say no even though she doesn't even find him attractive—but she's never not given in. Next thing she knows, he's fucking her against the wall in a shabby hotel room—yes, fucking, as his actions aren't at all affectionate nor show any sign of interest in her pleasure. She simply endures it because that's all she knows how to do.

She wakes up the next morning with a raging headache, her body aching and likely bruised. Ray is sitting propped up on a pillow next to her, smoking a cigarette and smiling smugly. He tells her he's been assigned to lead a new training program on Arcturus and that they're not likely to see each other again.

"I hope you're not upset, babe. That's just how these things go," is the closest thing she gets to any kind of apology. "You're a tough gal. You'll surely survive the rest o' your training."

She opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. She searches inside herself for some kind of emotion, but she finds herself completely hollow inside. All she finds are bitter thoughts: Of course. I'm a woman. He's a man. That's what happens. In the end, he was no different from the boys at the parties. Why would there be a difference?

But there is. The difference is that she's no longer powerless, and the next time she's propositioned, she does not hesitate to turn the man down. When a slew of new recruits start giving her trouble, sounding cat-calls behind her back and even slapping her ass on a couple of occasions, she turns in their names to her commanding officer, and a couple of the boys are abruptly dismissed. Having seen the number of women in their ranks rise and then experience a sharp downturn, the military has grown quite protective of them.

"I think that's when the biggest change in me occurred—when I realized I actually had the power to change things. I think it's the first time I truly began to live. I'm still not sure whether I felt that I had a purpose in life, but I did feel that life was worth living, now that I was no longer a mere leaf on the wind. I was no longer content to be just a spectator to the unfolding of my own life." When she is finished speaking, Jane closes her eyes again.

The memories that come after are more rapidly paced and vaguely blurry. Shepard approaches her training with a renewed vigor. After completing her cadet training with the highest marks in her troop, she gets recruited into a special side training program, where she learns valuable skills in hacking and decryption. The Alliance is piloting a new program where they try to develop a new kind of soldier, adept in two divergent skill sets. Codenamed an 'Infiltrator', she is trained in both combat and technical skills. Successful in all her field training assignments, she quickly gains seniority until her superiors summon her and announce that the time has come for her first official posting.

Akuze.

Jane sits bolt upright, shaking, breath erratic and eyes wide open, while Liara tries to calm her by making soothing, hushing sounds and smoothing her hair. Their minds are still connected enough that it feels as though the word floats in the air between them like a living, breathing entity. Akuze.

For a while, Jane refuses to close her eyes again. Liara's attempts at comforting her are futile, and the mental connection between them is briefly severed. Liara moves in closer in response, bringing her hands to Jane's temples and massaging them in slow circular motions. Gradually, she regains her composure, her breathing steadying and her eyes losing their panicked sheen. Liara's hands travel from Jane's temples to the top of her head, massaging her scalp for some time before moving lower, down her neck and upper back, forward to her breasts, and down to her belly. Jane shivers in response.

"Stay with me," Liara coaxes, suddenly sounding years older. "Let's see this through, together."

Jane has already closed her eyes.

The next memory captures Jane's wonderment as she boards a spaceship and travels by mass relay for the first time. The rest of the marine unit treats her with a grudging respect, her reputation having preceded her, though not all of them are equally polite. She's sharp-eared enough to overhear some of the remarks they make about her behind her back, some because this is her first posting, others because she's attained the rank of lieutenant at only 23, and a woman at that, suggesting that perhaps she'd slept her way up the ranks. But most of all, they make conjectures about her past, word having gotten out that she came from the slums. She feels alienated, keenly aware of how different she is from the others, but she reminds herself that this is not a pleasure cruise and her mission is not to make friends.

When they disembark at the colony on Akuze, it's everything she expected and still vastly different. For some reason, she'd always pictured the colonies as something akin to the tales of the Old West back on Earth, full of space cowboys and wooden homes and general lawlessness, so she's surprised at the generic military-style barracks and lack of personality of the settlement. On the other hand, the bare rock and dirt, the vast expanses of unexplored territory, and the unobstructed view of the sky are everything she could've wished for and more.

Of course, everything is bathed in an eerie atmosphere, since all of the inhabitants have vanished as though they were never there. In the area surrounding the town, the ground looks disturbed, but it is the only clue they can find regarding the colonists' disappearance.

Eager to call it a night, the marines set up their camp on a rock outcropping overlooking the town, sheltered by an overhang, their commander ignoring Shepard's suggestion that perhaps they should spread their tents out more. "If the colonists were attacked, and what attacked them comes for us, we'll want to be close together so no one gets left behind," they reason. Her gut instinct tells her it's a bad idea, but she doesn't argue. She simply sets up a tent a little farther from the rest, then volunteers for the first watch to ease her growing sense of unrest.

By the time the sounds of the first screams reach her, two soldiers have already died. She jumps to her feet and rushes back toward the camp, only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees worm-like creatures of gargantuan proportions rising up out of the ground, striking with swift movements and snapping entire bodies in half with their maws or killing the marines instantly with acid they project from their mouths. Only later, at the debriefing-turned-interrogation, when she is questioned about the events that transpired and asked to describe the creatures in detail, does she learn that they are called thresher maws. Until then, they are simply the nameless horrors that appeared to take out the entire unit in one night.

Realizing almost immediately that they are overpowered and unprepared, Shepard calls for a retreat, but the commander has disappeared and no one is listening to her. The nearby sound of roaring engines indicates that the ship has already been alerted and is ready to depart with the survivors. She manages to dodge the acidic spit of one of the creatures, scrambling out of sight until it moves on, distracted by a nearby soldier. She tries to come to his rescue, pulling out her pistols and unleashing a barrage of bullets on the alien until it collapses, immobile. She pulls her comrade to his feet, but just as they prepare to make a run for it, a second creature moves into sight. The private steps straight into the trajectory of another acid projectile and drops to the ground. Shepard turns over his body, but the man is already dead.

Panicked, she dashes back toward the encampment, making out the silhouette of another comrade up ahead. She calls out to him, telling him to rally the others and head back to the ship. He must've heard her because she can see him turn to move toward her, but halfway there, he stumbles and is immediately swallowed up by another of the gruesome maws. He doesn't even have time to scream.

When she reaches what is left of the encampment, her feet falter. The ground before her is littered with bodies, and she knows right then that if she wastes another second, she will end up just like them. There is no time to look for any more of her comrades. She spins around and sprints in the ship's direction.

Just as she's about to reach the hatch, the ground shakes violently as one of the giant worms emerges out of the dirt in front of her. Lurching to a halt, she reaches for her pistols, realizing that she is probably done for, when the creature just as suddenly disappears back into the ground. Instinct takes over and she resists the urge to question it, and she makes a mad dash for the open hatch. As she stumbles inside, the crew who had remained onboard anxiously question her, wanting to know what exactly's going on out there as well as the fate of the rest of the squad.

"It's no use. We have to take off!" Shepard has to yell to make herself heard over the rumbling of the engines. "Those things are still out there!"

"We can circle the area and look for survivors from up there," she continues, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath and not throw up from the horrors she's just experienced. "But we must take to the skies. Now!"

The crew doesn't need to be told twice. Activating the vertical thrusters, the ship gets airborne, out of reach of the creatures' elongated bodies. They circle the battle-site-turned-massacre for over an hour, using the ship's cannons to attack the aliens and aid any surviving soldiers, to give them a fighting chance. They wait until the last of the creatures disappears beneath the ground so they can scan the area for survivors, but none of the scanners pick up any signs of life or movement. Knowing that it would be suicide to go back down to the surface and look on foot, they are forced to give up, and the pilot sets course for Arcturus.

After spending some time in a state of utter shock, Shepard retreats to her quarters. She passes out almost as soon as her head hits the pillow, sleeping as though comatose until the ship sets down in the Alliance's capital.

"I couldn't forgive myself for what happened. For running," Jane explains to Liara, hugging her close. "I suppose military men still hold onto the ideal that an honorable death is sometimes better than a shameful retreat. But I wasn't ready to die, when I had just begun to live."

"Do not blame yourself. It was not your fault," Liara whispers, pulling in for another kiss.

"The worst was afterwards, after all the long interrogations, when I returned to my post and received a new assignment. It was already hard enough to gain everyone's acceptance before, but when word got out about Akuze..." Jane's voice trails off. "I could hear them whispering, speculating how a girl like me could've been the only survivor. How I must have run, and left the others to die. I felt so – alien. After a while, even I began to wonder what had set me apart from the rest, aside from the cowardice. The only thing I could come up with was that I'd grown up in the slums and had spent my teenage years shooting acid up my veins. I wondered if that had managed to strip all the humanity out of me."

Liara stares at her lover's face, her gaze so penetrating that Jane eventually turns her head to avoid looking her in the eyes. She's never been this open with someone before, and it's terrifying and yet strangely cathartic. The weight of her dark past is finally beginning to slide off her shoulders, its gradual dissolution eased on by the calm yet steady voice of the asari girl lying in her arms.

"Shepard. – Jane." It's the first time in a long time anyone's addressed her by her first name. "You are human—fully and completely. You are the most exemplary human I have ever encountered."

"We asari have a saying. 'To see the True Light, one must first see only darkness.' We take it to mean that you must overcome some bad experiences before you can truly be 'good'. Those who lead lives of privilege, sheltered from the evils of the world, cannot recognize nor appreciate the True Light of goodness for what it is. So, you see, the fact that you have seen darkness in your past means that you are the best choice for a leader we could possibly have. Because you will not go back there. You do not want anyone to have to face that darkness again—not you yourself or anyone else."

"You see it, don't you?" Liara pushes herself up on her arms, then lowers herself down on top of Jane's supine form. "The light."

Caressing the folds of blue skin adorning the top of Liara's head with one hand while using the other to pull the girl's body closer toward her, Jane smiles and whispers, "Yes, I do. I can see it right in front of me."

***

There's something comforting about watching someone else sleeping when you yourself can't manage to rest. Liara's quiet slumber gives Jane a sense of peace. Liara had nodded off almost as soon as they had finished their lovemaking. Jane, too, is exhausted, both physically and mentally, but for some odd reason, sleep refuses to take her.

But despite her sleeplessness, for the first time in years, Jane feels that the worst is behind her. She's made it through the darkness and into the light. And even if things don't make as much sense as they could—how, for example, she could've fallen so hard for an alien woman—she knows better than to question it now. Besides, in these all-or-nothing days, it is a privilege to enjoy being alive, one that she did not always have, and she is grateful to her asari lover for reminding her every day of the beauty that can be found in simply living.

"Thank you, Liara," she murmurs as she slips back into bed. "Thank you."

[FIC] Honey + Clover: "Imprint On Her Heart" (Nomiya/Yamada) [for yuletide 2008]

2009-01-02T00:58:03Z

Title: Imprint On Her Heart
Fandom: Honey + Clover
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Nomiya/Yamada, mentions of Mayama, Hagu, Takemoto, Morita
Dedication: poor_choices, for yuletide 2008
Prompt: The request was for a Nomiya/Yamada courtship story
Description: Nomiya and Yamada, stumbling towards a brighter future.
Rating: G
Word Count: 2,581
Status: Complete (It was finished in mid-December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until after Jan. 1st)
Other Notes: I didn't sign up to write this fandom but ended up doing this one over poor_choices's other request because I felt like I had more inspiration to work with, what with being in art school and having studied abroad in Tokyo. In the end, though, I couldn't come up with any kind of plot that would do the canon justice, and so this fic never really grew beyond a single scene. Post-series, mild spoilers for the ending.

You can read it and leave comments at the Yuletide archive here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

The monsoon season has just begun when Yamada finally has the courage to call up Nomiya and invite him out to lunch. The first month or two after Takemoto had left for Morioka and Morita for the movie business, the girl who had once been nicknamed the "Iron Lady" but was really made of porcelain on the inside had convinced herself that everything was fine—that it was inevitable that they would someday part, that she had enough commissions to keep herself occupied in their absence, and besides, she would surely see them all again soon. The fragrant aura of springtime had made it easy to forget that the changes weren't merely temporary, and only when the yearly rains return but her friends do not does the true weight of permanence begin to sink in. That's when she remembers the kind words a warm person had uttered to her two years ago, encouraging her to call whenever she feels disconsolate or fragile.

They meet at a Jonathan's near the train station. The bright lights inside the diner sharply contrast the gloomy gray skies outside, and Yamada is forced to squint as she pushes open the door and steps inside. Rain has been pouring down in buckets all day, and her pumps make soft squeaking sounds as she crosses over to the restaurant's seating area after leaving her wet umbrella in the designated stand near the entrance. Thankfully, she's saved the trouble of having to look for the person she's meeting—as soon as she approaches the first row of tables, she hears her name being called from a booth near the windows.

"Nomiya-san! My apologies for being late!" she hastily apologizes while bowing in a sincere if somewhat exaggerated motion.

"No need to apologize," Nomiya reassures her, having risen to his feet as she approached. "You're not late, I was early. Now please, sit."

She slides into the booth opposite him. He asks if she wants something to drink, but since he's already ordered a pot of coffee, she tells him coffee is fine. It's a bit too warm for the steaming hot beverage—the gray skies and raincoat-clad people outside are deceptive, as it's late June, and somewhere behind the layers of heavy clouds, the sun is beginning to send its rays of summer heat down to Tokyo. However, she doesn't want to trouble him by making him order something else because she's acutely aware of how he always goes out of his way for her and doesn't want to be a bother.

She isn't aware that she's been absentmindedly staring at her lunch partner's face until he gently asks, "Do you know what you would like to eat?"

She blushes, suddenly realizing that she hasn't even touched the menu yet. She leafs through the large pages quickly, too quickly, not even noting what most of the menu items say, but luckily Jonathan's is one of those timeless places where the menu doesn't change with any kind of frequency, and she's been here often enough in the past several years that she has a favorite dish or two. She signals Nomiya, and they buzz for a waitress. She orders beef curry over rice. He asks for a bacon cheeseburger.

Setting her menu aside, Yamada focuses once again on Nomiya, who is sitting across from her with his hands folded, smiling. No, smiling isn't the right word. He's practically glowing. She glances outside for an adequate comparison, but there's none. In the bleak and colorless outdoors, there is nothing resembling Nomiya's radiant face. It's like he reached into the sky and stole the only sunbeam and is now displaying it in his face.

"You seem very happy," she remarks out loud.

"I am," he replies, pausing long enough for her to wonder whether she is supposed to ask him why, but then he continues on his own. "I think this might be the first time you've ever invited me out on a date."

Blushing furiously, Yamada stammers, "D-date? T-this isn't a date! I j-just wanted to c-catch up with you, s-see how you're doing. Y-you know, as f-friends."

Nomiya breathes a sigh of relief, having briefly entertained the thought of bracing himself for one of Yamada's roundhouse kicks. He'd known it was a bold suggestion, and probably out of line, but he'd decided to give it a shot anyway. And the fact that she hadn't attacked him for suggesting it allowed him to feel a surge of hope.

"As you wish, then," he says, the smile never leaving his calm face. "Let's catch up. As friends."

She takes a sip of coffee, then asks, "How is work?"

Nomiya sighs. "Business is slow. It's all right, though. It always is, this time of year. It'll pick up again in July. How about you, Yamada-san?"

"Well, I'm still at the school, helping teach seminars in return for the use of the kiln," she reminds him, one finger absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I have a lot of commissions lately. But I'm beginning to have trouble to complete them all. I've been in a... a bit of a slump lately."

He would've asked her to go on, but her wistful smile says it all, anyway. There is a haunted shimmer in her eyes and loneliness probably has a lot to do with it. The two strong hands, which had drawn strength from the energy of her friends, waver and lack inspiration. It's been weeks since she's made anything she's proud of, but no one's been around to give her an honest assessment of her work. No one she trusts and respects enough to take their words to heart.

"Have you seen and heard from all of them yet?" Nomiya asks, because it's the obvious thing to do.

Yamada straightens up in her seat, her arms tense, which he knows he does when she's doing something that's difficult for her. "I got a postcard from Takemoto-kun last week. He's enjoying Morioka, and work is going well. Not a thing from Morita-sempai, but that's not unexpected. He never used to let us know how he was doing when he went off on his trips. I guess the difference this time is that we actually know where he is. I think."

She pauses to take another sip of coffee, but it's more a nervous gesture this time than an act of intention. "I still see Hagu-chan and Hanamoto-sensei fairly often. I bring them food and art supplies for Hagu. She's starting to make things with her hands again. It's difficult, but she's trying really hard."

Her expression changes, then; she's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She looks outside to avoid his gaze, which she knows is on her. The rain is still coming down heavily, and she finds some comfort in the dusky gloom. There are too many memories.

She is snapped out of her reverie when Nomiya asks her the painful three words, "What about Mayama-kun?"

"Ah." Her voice is shaky, and she looks down at the table as she speaks so he can't see her eyes, because she knows he sees right through her. "I haven't really seen him much, even though he's back from Spain. You know, I never really had to deal with figuring out what his absence meant because shortly after he left, Hagu-chan got injured, and I started being so busy all the time. And now he's back, and... Well, I wonder if that means we should be hanging out, like we used to. Before, there used to always be the others, kind of like a buffer, making everything easier. I don't really know how it would work with just the two of us; I mean, what would we do? What would we talk about? And yet, it doesn't feel right not doing anything, either. But I hear he's going back to Spain soon, briefly, to check on the project. I don't want to be in the way."

"You wouldn't be. You're his friend, one of the most important people to him," Nomiya reassures her gently, patting the back of her hand.

Sometimes he wonders why he tries so hard to console the girl by encouraging her to continue her relationship with his rival. Maybe he would've gotten further by now if he'd played the devil and told her to give up on him completely, to never see him again. But he knows that if he did that, even though she would be just as kind to him, a small part of her would never trust him. And he believes that that trust is worth waiting for.

Their thoughts are interrupted when the food is brought out. The waitress sets down the plates in a hurry, hands them a basket of silverware, and disappears again quickly. Nomiya and Yamada each murmur a quick 'itadakimasu', then attack their food, shoveling in their meals all the more quickly because the atmosphere was getting awkward and neither of them knows what to say.

He's been contemplating the shape of his coffee mug for a while, his stomach full and sated, when he speaks again. "I think the reason why you've had such a hard time getting over Mayama-kun is because you two were always creating memories together. The small adventures the five of you had left such strong imprints on your memory, and because Mayama-kun was usually there, of course you'd never be able to give up on him. He's been such a big part of your life for the past several years."

Yamada's body goes rigid as the shock of his words hits her system. They're all the more painful because they ring true—as she runs through a reel of memories of her time since she started at Hamabi, Mayama is here, there, everywhere, his voice, his smile, his laugh. His presence is deeply ingrained in the very experiences she's been using to define who she is today. No wonder.

"What do I do?" she lets out a sob, though her eyes are strangely dry. "Tell me, Nomiya-san, what do I do?"

"You two are so important to each other," Nomiya replies, his words slow, thoughtful, deliberate, "I don't think it would be right for either of you to give up on the other. But it would probably be wise to keep your distance. Maintain your friendship without making so many memories. You don't have your own computer yet, so you should get a cell phone with a plan that has e-mail. Lots of people are starting to use it. You can send mail both to other phones and to regular e-mail addresses. Use it to drop him a line every once in a while. Let him know how you've been doing. Tell him about the projects you've completed. Ask him how his work is going. Just short little messages. Kind of like a postcard, without the trouble of having to know where in the world the other person is located."

When she doesn't respond, he reaches for her hand, taking it in his own. "And in the meantime, make lots of new memories."

"H-how do I do that?" she's blushing softly, and her eyes are watery now.

"With me," he answers, trying to send across the sincerity of his words without being too smug about it.

Nomiya continues, "You see, from now on, we're going to go out to lunch at least once every week."

"We are?" she asks, momentarily oblivious to why he's coming up with such plans on the spot.

Ignoring her response, he adds, "We'll take turns picking the place, unless one of us doesn't have any good ideas."

He's interrupted when a waitress comes by and clears the dishes, but Yamada doesn't even notice. She's staring at him, her lips parted in an incredulous 'O', and it takes all his willpower not to kiss her when she's wearing such a cute, confused expression, but that wouldn't be right, not yet.

"When that new ride opens at Disneyland this summer, we're going to go check it out," he tells her, painting vivid pictures of all the places they'll go and the things they'll do. "Every month, we're going to try something new, something completely different, artistically. So hopefully you'll have a renewed source of inspiration. We'll also take a trip down to Kamakura to see the sea and visit the house that bought so many pieces of yours. I want to see them."

That's about as far as he gets when the waitress shows up with the ice cream coupe he'd ordered for Yamada, recalling how much the girl loves sweets. As she sinks her spoon into the cold treat, he could go on listing all the different things they'll do, but he decides to leave it at that. He knows he'd weird her out if he actually ran through all the plans he has in his head.

When she finishes her dessert, they walk up to the front, and Nomiya insists on paying. They retrieve their umbrellas from the stand by the door and walk outside, where the rain has lightened up, though the skies are just as gray. The humidity is even more oppressive than it was two hours ago, but somehow it feels easier to breathe.

As they are taking their leave of each other in front of the restaurant, she bows and says with sincerity, "Thank you for the meal. And for listening to my problems again."

"No problem. Feel free to call me anytime. And get that cell phone with e-mail," he says, inclining his head toward her, anxious for the day when they can be less formal with each other. "I enjoyed our date. I can't wait for the next one."

This time, she does roundhouse-kick him, then storms off toward the school with exaggerated huffs of frustration, but she missed all the places where it would've hurt the most, and he thinks it is no accident. Smiling smugly to himself, he picks himself up from the ground and heads toward the station. He'll have to change suits before he heads back to the office—his pants are muddy and his shirt is wet—but, he thinks, the fiery blush on her cheeks before she whipped her leg around was completely worth it. And just as she left the imprint of her foot on his shirt, he hopes his words left at least a tiny little imprint on her heart.

***

To: rika.suki.megane@mail.goo.ne.jp
From: tetsujin63@docomo.ne.jp
Time: July 3rd, 2005 20:57:14
Subject: Mayama-kun! Konbanwa!

Mayama-kun! ヾ(＾∇＾) It's me, Yamada. I haven't heard from you in a while so I thought I would just drop you a quick note. I hope you are doing well. (^^ゞ How is your project with Rika-san going? Are you going back to Spain soon?
I'm doing well. I finished two more commissions last week. I still visit Hagu-chan often. Her rehabilitation is going very well. ( ・ω・) Now that almost everyone's gone, I've been hanging out with Nomiya-san more often lately. He really is very kind. The other day, we went and took a calligraphy class together. I haven't done something like that in a very long time, but it was a lot of fun! Well, this is getting long, so I'll write again soon. I'm not sure how this works, but I think you can write me back here on my keitai if you send mail to this address. I'll be waiting. Ja! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

[FIC] Firefly: "Conversation Partners" (Mal/Inara) [for serenity_santa]

2008-01-26T19:07:45Z

Title: Conversation Partners
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mal/Inara, brief appearances by Kaylee, Zoe, Jayne
Dedication: willow_kat, for serenity_santa 2007 -- apologies for the delay!
Prompt: The request was for a fic using one of the 'canon'/'regular' pairings.
Description: Mal tries to woo Inara using the art of conversation.
Rating: PG-13 for references to prostitution, sexual tension, and swearing in Chinese
Word Count: 3,153
Status: Complete, with brief editing.
Other Notes: I've never been able to write in any 'real' people fandoms; that is, movies and TV shows with real (human) actors, and of course, no RPF. When I finally saw Firefly, I figured it might be the one exception, and I decided to participate in serenity_santa to find out. Since I managed to finish this fic, I guess you could say that I succeeded, but it wasn't easy. This fic was also way overdue because real life intervened. I got a good start, but as things surrounding my vacation got complicated and mildly stressful, I kept hitting roadblocks. I finally put the wraps on it today, because it's already a month since Christmas and I was determined to finish it. As far as the end result goes, I'm not too unhappy, although I realize that my basic plot premise is probably vastly unoriginal. (I don't really know because I've never read any Firefly fanfiction.) That said, hopefully my take on it is still somewhat unique.

A Companion, she had always been taught, should not indulge in her own fantasies.

Yet despite these mantras implanted firmly in her still-youthful mind, she cannot help picturing herself washing his feet, likely to be more rough with callouses and hairy than she is used to. She will bathe them in warm water to remove the dirt, then slowly roll up the legs of his corduroy pants. Precious oils and salves she will use to relax his sore muscles and heal his skin. She imagines finding a scar, and he will tell her the story of how it came to be, his voice a mixture of pride at his own vitality and resourcefulness as well as disappointment in himself for the failure he perceives in allowing himself—like anybody else he swore to protect—to get hurt. She will listen attentively, properly, like the trained Companion she is, smiling encouragingly (yet not condescendingly—never that with him) while she dries his feet with a soft cloth.

She will serve him more wine then, pay him a few compliments while she helps him take off his shirt. He will resist a little—because he is well aware that his naked chest will remind her that he is no longer quite so young, no longer the virile young man he desires himself to be in order to woo her in the manner he deems appropriate for such a passionate conquest. But it is not his chest she longs to see. Secretly, she has always coveted the sight of his back.

How she longs to run her hands over its firm expanse. The muscles, which are not those of a golden youth in his prime but have aged and hardened from maturity and experience, those muscles—she will massage them, relax them, revive them. The back that has carried the burdens of leading and protecting an entire ship, the back that on numerous occasions stooped to save her own life—it will be all she can do not to cover it in kisses. Warm oils and the sensuous touch of her fingertips will have to do. By stimulating the blood flow, she hopes she can make her admiration and passion clear.

And just when he is ready to melt in her hands, when the relaxing scent of the oils mixed with the burning of incense will have him lazily sinking into her touch, eyes closed, she will take those same hands and gently massage his temples, his forehead. The frown lines will dissipate, while the hint of a smile lingers. She will kiss him then, softly, tentatively, and he will act like he was expecting it all along, but it will be clear to her that it was her initiative, not his.

After that, it will be up to him. She will offer him nothing, yet he will take everything. She is his conquest, after all, and a hard-earned one at that. But she enjoys the struggle as much as the moments of tenderness, the possibilities of intimacy, and she will do everything to make him fight once more for what he should by now know is already rightfully his. A Companion’s heart is not hers to give, but he had stolen it nonetheless.

A thief, he is, and always will be—quite a change from the princes and senators and rich merchant sons who have made up her usual clientele over the years. But she has learned by now that nothing can persuade Mal Reynolds to settle down and live an honest life—and when it comes down to it, perhaps she doesn’t want him to. Perhaps it is his recklessness, as much as his resourcefulness, that attracts her to him. His temerity, his dominating will to live, and his boundless passion.

She smiles to herself knowingly as she finishes braiding her hair. Staring at her own reflection in the mirror, she wonders briefly if he would like it better if she had left it down, and can’t believe she never took the time to try to find out.

She will have to ask Kaylee later.

***

But things with Mal Reynolds never go exactly as planned.

For starters, he comes in wearing his normal clothes, including his old leather boots, which are caked with mud and probably dirtier things. When little bits of it land on her carpet, it takes every effort of her will not to snap at him to leave his boots at the door. After all, she reminds herself, he comes to her today not as her landlord. Still her captain. Ever her hero. But not her landlord, not today.

Today, he comes to her as her customer.

Yet Mal himself does not act any differently from his usual self. He still walks into the shuttle as though assessing what she has done to his vessel. He appraises the tapestries and the religious ornaments as though he had hired a new decorator without consulting her as to the changes she intended to make to his domain. The only thing he did not regard with an obvious air of ownership was she herself—when, in fact, ironically, she is currently the only thing he can rightfully consider his possession.

“So,” he finally asks as he seats himself on one of the low sofas, “how do we proceed?”

“Well,” she replies, slowly, measuring the meaning behind his words, “surely, when you initiated this transaction, you had some idea as to your own intentions with this encounter.”

Mal grins rather sarcastically. “You’re the one who most often accuses me of not thinkin’ through my actions.”

Inara deftly counters by saying, “When large sums of money are involved, particularly when you’re not on the receiving end, I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“You’re right,” he admits, too quickly, and the agreeableness of the statement makes her suspicious. “But surely, the sum I offered for your company is far less than that which you usually receive for your services.”

He is right, but she intends to ignore the implications. “A Companion chooses her own partners. This means that it is not always a matter of who is the highest bidder.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t choose me for my sparklin’ wit,” Mal responds with a jovial air that does not at all sound humble. “Still, I wouldn’t dare to give you any less than you deserve. The sum I'm payin’ you should be sufficient for no more ‘n no less than a good conversation.”

Inara breathes in, breathes out, and swallows once; it is not common for Mal to catch her completely off-guard like this. “Conversation?”

“Nothin’ wrong with that, is there? Ages ago, on Earth-That-Was, men wooed women usin’ nothin’ but the power of words,” Mal remarks, and it’s difficult to miss the faint air of condescension in his speech.

Inara is still trying to gauge whether the captain is jesting or serious. “But regardless of how much or how little you are paying, the fact of the matter is that you have me here. I chose you. You are therefore allowed to have anything you desire of me.”

“But like I just told you, I’d be ashamed to ask you for more than I reasonably deserve. I have an inklin’ how high the goin’ rate is for a Companion of your status, and it is far more than I offered to pay. That’s why I’m imposin’ a limit myself,” he explains in a more grave tone.

Inara doesn’t know how to respond. Her words are caught in her throat, as she tries to figure out whether he is toying with her or not. Since it’s Mal she’s dealing with, there’s still a chance that this is all a rather elaborate prank. But the serious set to his jaw and his unblinking eyes tell her that there’s a good chance that it’s not.

“So,” Mal continues, smiling again, “let’s talk.”

She can’t help but feel offended, then, like he is deliberately trying to stab at her pride by deviating from all her expectations. Irritation becomes anger, and anger manifests itself as the usual veil of arrogance she wears in her day-to-day interactions with him.

Rolling her eyes and making no effort to disguise the haughty tone that’s invaded her voice, she asks, “What do we have to talk about? You don’t honestly expect us to sit here sipping wine sharing war stories? Comparing battle scars?”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” When Inara shoots him a Look, he interjects, “It was a joke! In all seriousness, I think you’ll find that there’s more to me than just the war.”

Inara crosses her arms and shifts her weight back on her other foot. “So, what then? Politics? ‘Tell me, Mr. Renynolds, what’s your view of the most recent set of intergalactic trade laws passed by the Alliance?’”

“I ain’t got a goddamn clue,” Mal admits. “No, no politics. I spend enough time complainin’ about the Alliance already. It would be a waste of this occasion.”

“Well, then what?” Inara sounds nothing less than exasperated at this point.

She doesn’t understand what Mal could be thinking. Surely, he realizes that any attempts at intellectual conversation with her won’t match up to what her usual customers have to say on those topics? They regularly entertain her with the latest in scientific advancements, their own interpretations of philosophy, religion, politics, linguistics… What could Mal, who lacks their level of education and worldly lifestyles, have to say to keep her engaged?

“Well, you could start by tellin’ me some things about yourself,” Mal suggests.

Inara just stares at him. As usual, her first instinct says he’s joking, and warns her not to fall for it. But his expression is open and honest, as though he actually means it. Seriously? He actually wants to hear her talk about herself? She’s not even sure what to say to that. The men she usually entertains are always more than willing to spend hours talking about themselves, their jobs, their fortunes, and she humors them. Few waste any time asking her questions about herself.

“What do you want to know?” she asks softly.

“Anything,” he says. “Why did you choose your job? Did you always want to be a Companion? Tell me about Sihnon. Your life there. Your childhood.”

She can’t help bristling a little at his first two questions. “What do you want me to say, Mal? ‘Yes, I decided when I was a little girl that I wanted to become a whore’, as you so elegantly put it all the time?” As soon as the words leave her mouth, however, she realizes she’s being impossible, and sighs. “Sorry. I’m sure you didn’t mean in that way.”

Mal shrugs, smiles, and pours her some wine—which throws her off even more, because that ought to be her role. She’s the hostess. How does he always succeed in pushing her so far out of her comfort zone?

“I come from a good family. Not the highest class, but we never lacked anything.” She sips at her wine as she speaks. “My parents paid for me to attend school with other wealthy children. I enjoyed learning. I enjoyed academia very much. I could picture myself becoming a scholar. I wanted to go to university, study history and the arts.”

When she doesn’t continue, Mal asks, “Why didn’t you?”

She stares off into space, a wistful look pervading her features. “It seemed like it was all possible while my mother was still alive. But when she passed away, my father withdrew into himself. He lost interest in the family. All too soon, I caught wind of plans to marry me off as soon as I finished school, and thereby rid himself of his responsibility over me. There would be no university for me. So, I decided to enter Companion training myself. It seemed that was the only life I could choose in which I would retain my freedom.”

Mal nods, taking a draught from his own wine goblet as he takes a seat on the sofa. “Would you ever want to go back there? Sihnon, I mean.”

Following him to the sofa, Inara leaves some respectful distance between them as she slowly replies, “Well, if I were to die tomorrow, I would regret not having seen it one more time.”

“…But?” Mal inquires. “You wouldn’t go back there to live? If you were to settle down somewhere, where would you go?”

“I… don’t know.” She frowns as she mulls over the question. “Not Sihnon, no. Some quiet border planet, not too far from the Core.” She scowls when Mal gives her a half-curious, half-disbelieving look. “I know you think I couldn’t manage too long without civilization, but trust me, I could.”

Mal grins. “I ain’t doubtin’ you would.”

“What about you?” she asks as she refills their wine goblets. “Where would you settle down?”

“Don’t think I ever will,” Mal muses, “but if I were to… My grandfather used to live up in the mountains when he was still alive. On Shadow. I know people can’t live there now, and I reckon I probably wouldn’t go back even if I could. But I’d like to find a place like that, with mountains.”

“This is good wine,” he says as he takes another sip. “My grandfather used to have this old-fashioned hunting lodge up there. Built it himself with his father, back in the day, based off stories people told of Earth-That-Was. We used to go visit him, a few times a year. Those’re some of my best memories. One winter, when I was maybe seven, eight, there was three feet of snow outside. I’d play outside until it got too cold, and then I’d run inside and roll on this big fur rug in front of his huge fireplace, playin’ with the dogs, until I got warm again. I’d like to own a place just like that.”

Inara feels overwhelmed with tenderness at the vivid imagery of the memory Mal chose to impart. For a second, she’s at a loss for words.

“You should. I’d come visit.” She smiles, then adds in a more quiet tone, “It sounds wonderful.”

“I’ll be sure to stoke up the fire nice and big for you. Your boots will be wet and your feet cold after the long walk up, so you can sit on my rug and warm them while I get you a drink. I can’t promise I can get my hands on fancy wine as good as this, but I’ll get you the best thing available. Maybe I’ll start brewing my own ale. And don’t mind the dogs. They’ll jump at you ‘cause they’re curious, but they don’t bite,” Mal describes, a hint of playfulness in his words.

She laughs, a spontaneous sound bubbling up from deep in her belly that quickly stills when the images of she and Mal on a rug in front of a fireplace take hold. Despite years of training devoted entirely to learning how to control every aspect of her emotions, she can’t help blushing a little. It’s becoming harder and harder to look him in the eyes, and she catches herself staring at his lips instead.

Inara hadn’t even noticed how close their faces had gotten. Somehow, the distance she had kept between them when she had taken her seat on the sofa had all but disappeared. Which of them had closed the gap? She almost doubts it could be Mal. He seems so calm and composed. Is her presence affecting him at all?

Suddenly, she’s distracted from her thoughts by the lightest touch of his hands on her arms. Her skin tingles, sending a rush of adrenaline and other things coursing through her entire body.

And there it is: his lips on hers. Soft, chaste—more chaste than she desires, but it’s his job to set the pace. If he wants to take it slow, he can. She uses the opportunity to take the time to explore the texture of his lips. Eyes lidded, she revels in the sensation of his breath on her own. But it’s not enough. She needs to find a way to get closer. She would gladly throw her arms around his neck if he wasn’t holding her arms pinned.

Then, two things happen simultaneously: his mouth opens enough for her to attempt to push a little bit of tongue inside, and the pressure on her arms is gone. When she realizes his mouth is no longer covering hers, she opens her eyes and looks up in confusion to find Mal already standing up and moving away from her.

“I had better be goin’. I really enjoyed our conversation. Let’s do it again sometime,” he announces, and before she can stop him, he’s disappeared through the door.

On instinct, she rises to stop him, making a dash for the shuttle’s entryway, but in the end, she decides not to move through it. It would be humiliating both for him and for herself—and besides, he was her customer. It was his prerogative all along to leave and end the session whenever he wished.

Closing the door and then slumping against it, she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“该死!” she whispers as she bangs a fist against the metal door. “Damn him!”

THE END

***

OMAKE

“So, how’d it go, Cap’n?” Kaylee asks when Mal returns to the bridge, literally bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Well, I think,” Mal answers, turning his attention away from his expectant-looking crewmembers and focusing instead on some of the screens and dials in front of him.

Chewing on some jerky, Jayne saunters over and nudges Mal’s side with his elbow. “So, what all did ya’ two, you know…?”

“Nothing in particular,” Mal replies, aiming for shock value, since Jayne wasn’t there when Zoe and Kaylee decided to coach him on how to approach this particular situation and therefore hadn’t heard about the plan. He looks up at Jayne and smiles as he adds, “We just had a good conversation.”

Jayne gives him a dumbfounded look, a chunk of jerky escaping his teeth mid-chew and falling to the floor. Then the big man shrugs, mumbles something about “It’s your money”, and frowns as he ambles off, already losing interest in the situation.

“How did she react, sir?” Zoe asks. “Was she angry? Confused?”

“I reckon she was a bit confused. I shook her up a bit. She’ll be all right,” Mal explains, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Zoe smiles. “Understood. Keep up the good work, sir. It’s hard work to properly woo a woman, but this way you’ll win her over for sure.”

Remembering the heat coursing through his veins and the uncomfortable straining against the front of his pants when he finally got to touch her, Mal murmurs, “I really hope you two are right.”

[FIC] Antique Bakery: "Quest for Perfection" (gen) [for yuletide 2007]

2008-01-08T09:53:13Z

Title: Quest for Perfection
Fandom: Antique Bakery
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Tachibana, Ono, Chikage, and Eiji
Dedication: sexybee, for yuletide 2007
Prompt: The request was for a fic preferably involving all the men of AB.
Description: Tachibana decides to enter Antique Bakery in a dessert competition. Typical hijinks ensue.
Rating: PG-13 for a brief reference to jerking off
Word Count: 3,320
Status: Complete (It was finished in mid-December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until after Jan. 1st. Posted now because I haven't had Internet lately.)
Other Notes: Once again, I wound up winding my yuletide fic in a fandom I hadn't signed up to write. I'd always been familiar with Antique Bakery, but it wasn't something I'd ever thought I'd write for. I was matched with sexybee because I had signed up to write d.gray-man, but in the end I felt that this request was more up my alley than her request for Rabi-centric gen fic. This fic was supposed to be more serious, with a lot of Tachibana/Ono/Chikage UST, but while in progress, the fic kind of grew legs of its own and went in a totally different direction, for better or for worse (you decide). I don't normally write humor, ever. Un-betaed and proofread on the fly. After all, I finished and submitted this fic at the airport.

You can read it and leave comments at the Yuletide archive here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

It all begins with an innocent, concise newspaper article.

The employees of Antique Bakery never would’ve pegged Tachibana for the type to have a subscription to the Tokyo Shimbun—much less actually read it on a daily basis. Ono’s eyes almost fall out of their sockets at the sight of his employer with a newspaper tucked under his arm, and Eiji exclaims with an air of incredulousness, “He reads?!”—whereupon Tachibana quickly retaliates with an indignant snarl and a swift punch to the shoulder.

Ono reminds him that his apprentice needs both his arms to be fully functioning because today is Friday and it’s therefore sure to be a busy morning. Defeated, Tachibana proceeds to sulk in a corner for three whole minutes before Chikage comes and reminds him that they only have an hour left until it’s time to open the store.

As though instantly rejuvenated, Tachibana prances into the kitchen, sporting a wicked grin as he commands his employees to double-time it because he wants to hold a meeting fifteen minutes before the store is scheduled to open. Ono frowns but gets to work immediately, while Eiji complains in his usual manner before setting about to assist his sensei in preparing the chiboust and taking the freshly-baked cheesecakes out of the oven. Ironically, Chikage is the one who panics the most when he realizes he has only half the time he usually does to figure out how to tie his apron.

Forty-five minutes later, the three employees join Tachibana at one of the dine-in tables, a little flustered and none too happy-looking from having to spend the morning rushing. Their respective moods do not improve, and Eiji’s eye begins to twitch violently, when Tachibana just sits in silence, regarding his employees’ faces with an air of self-satisfaction.

Chikage is the one who finally breaks the silence by coughing and gently asking, “Waka?”

Tachibana’s smug expression doesn’t falter as he reproduces the newspaper. Flipping hastily to page 6, he folds back the other side before laying it flat on the table in front of the others. Antique’s employees lean forward to read the small headline their boss is pointing at:

LEADING FRENCH FOOD CRITIC RÉMY GIRARD COMING TO TOKYO, ANNOUNCES COMPETITION

“For those of you who doubt my reading ability,” Tachibana explains, though not without first sending a glare in Eiji’s direction, “let me paraphrase. Girard, one of the best-known food connoisseurs from Paris, is coming to Tokyo next month because he is working on a book about the best of the best in international cuisine. In each country he has visited so far, he has been holding competitions—one for the three main food categories: appetizers, entrees, and desserts. The winner of each will be featured on its very own 6-page spread in his book, which will include no less than an extensive description of the dish, a history of the restaurant, a brief background on its owner and chefs, and several full-color photographs.”

Tachibana leans back in his seat while he judges his audience’s expressions.

When he isn’t met with elated cries of joy and excitement, he continues, “Gentlemen, you don’t seem to grasp the situation. We are going to win Japan’s dessert competition. We will be featured in this book.”

Eiji and Ono regard him with blank stares. The only sound is that if Chikage scratching his head.

Exasperated, Tachibana throws up his arms. “Don’t you get it? We will be rich! We will be famous! Girls will be travelling from all over Japan—no, all over the world—just to get a chance to come and eat at our dessert shop!”

Ono cocks an eyebrow, clears his throat and asks, “Are we going to be paid overtime?”

***

Three weeks later, it’s Tachibana’s turn to panic.

Every day since he announced their partaking in Girard’s competition, Ono—who heartily threw himself into the spirit of the competition only after Tachibana promised him a bonus consisting of a monetary sum large enough to fund a Prada shopping spree—and Eiji have been instructed to each produce at least one new dessert that they feel best represents the flavor of Japan, the legacy of the French, and Antique’s own unique style. Every day, Tachibana has hand-selected one of their regular customers to try the new dessert. However, even though each and every single one received rave reviews, every day, Tachibana would in the end not be satisfied, and Ono and Eiji would be instructed to try again the next day.

Monday morning, one week before the start of the competition, however, Tachibana angrily stalks into the kitchen. Ono only needs to take one look at his employer’s unshaved, frown-lined face to know that it will probably be a painfully long day.

“Need I remind you all,” Tachibana hisses through gritted teeth, “that we must deliver our very best dessert to Mr. Girard for judging one week from today? How can we not have found a dish yet?! This is unacceptable!”

Eiji immediately comes to the staff’s defense with, “It’s not like sensei and I haven’t been trying! You’re the one who’s wouldn’t approve a single thing we’ve made.”

“Because it’s not good enough! Still not good enough!” Tachibana looks wild, like he’s about to tear his own hair out.

Eiji, undaunted by his boss’s tirade, yells, “Then maybe you should just do it yourself!”

Tachibana’s irate scream can be heard in the street outside the shop. An elderly lady walking to town to buy groceries looks up, frowns, and hurries over to the sidewalk on the other side.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Tachibana continues a little more calmly, after making some violent gestures in the empty air with his balled fists. “If we have not found a suitable dish to enter in the competition by the weekend, we will close the shop on Saturday and Sunday—to customers, that is. We will be here. All four of us—” Tachibana’s gaze shifts to include Chikage, who immediately has a meltdown “—will be baking until we have found it. No one will be leaving the shop until we do.”

Just in case Ono and Eiji think he’s bluffing, Tachibana doesn’t take long to prove them wrong. To emphasize his point, he immediately proceeds to put up signs outside informing all customers that the bakery will most likely be closed over the weekend—for “spring cleaning”. Sure enough, Ono shoots Eiji a look that indicates that he realizes that their employer means business.

“I hope that Prada coat is worth it,” Eiji sighs.

***

To Ono and Eiji’s dismay, Tachibana keeps his word. When the shop closes for the night on Friday, Tachibana has yet to approve any of the culinary creations presented to him by his chefs. The latter are cleaning up the kitchen when Tachibana walks in, grinning viciously as he wipes his hands on a towel.

“All right, men,” he announces. “Since we have yet to find a suitable dish for Mr.Girard, I expect to see you all here bright and early tomorrow morning at 10. Bring all your cookbooks, recipes, and anything else you think may be of use. Come well-rested and prepared. We will not leave, and no one will sleep, until we find the perfect dessert.”

Chikage looks frightened and confused. “Me too, Waka?”

“Yes,” Tachibana sighs, “even you.”

***

“We should begin by narrowing down the scope we want to consider,” Ono suggests the next morning, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while he absent-mindedly rearranges a few items in the kitchen.

His latest lover had kept him up all night. He had known at the time that it wasn’t a very responsible decision given Tachibana’s rigorous plan for the weekend, but Masuda-san was so good in bed… Ono’s knees go weak at the mere memory.

“After all, the field of desserts is very large,” he continues before turning to specifically address Tachibana. “You should tell us what types you would prefer, so we can spend our time and energy focusing on those. What is it that you have in mind? Cake? Tart? Pudding? Mousse?”

“Cake,” Tachibana responds without hesitation. “The French love cake. And in the end, I think it’s what we make best. Judging by our customers’ orders, at least.”

Ono perfunctorily puts away several of the cookbooks he brought in. “Looks like these won’t be necessary, then.”

Tachibana leafs through some of the remaining cookbooks. “Okay. Here’s the plan: Ono is in charge. He picks the recipes we try. If he wants to alter them or improvise, he will decide how. The rest of us will do exactly as Ono instructs. Eiji will be his right-hand man. Since Chikage and I have limited skills in this area, we will be assigned the simpler tasks.”

“However,” he emphasizes as he turns to Eiji, “this does not mean you get to boss us around, got it? In terms of actual authority and the power structure in here, you are still at the bottom. Got it?”

Eiji rolls his eyes. “Sure, old man. Whatever you say.”

“If there are no more questions,” his employer instructs, disregarding the fact that there were never any questions to begin with, “let’s get started.”

***

Six hours later, the men have made no progress. Ono started them on a modified peaches and cream cake recipe, which failed utterly when Chikage, who had been instructed to separate a dozen eggs, thought that separating eggs consisted only of shelling them, and unbeknownst to the others, who had assumed that he could handle such an easy task, poured both the yolks and egg whites into the cream mixture—a fatal mistake that led to thick cream that tasted far too strongly of egg.

Their second attempt was a failure on Ono’s own part. He took a traditional almond cake recipe, but when he discovered that they did not have enough armagnac, he suggested that they simply substitute it with regular cognac—which both Eiji and Tachibana agreed caused the cake to not taste right. Tachibana was relieved, however, because it provided him with the perfect excuse to make a quick run to the liquor store while the others kept on baking.

He came back not only with armagnac, but also with whiskey, rum, and several cases of beer.

Nobody asks. In fact, nobody is surprised.

While he was gone, the others had started on a raspberry angel cake recipe. With Tachibana back, they manage to complete the cake successfully. It looks attractive, but their boss is not satisfied.

“It reminds me too much of a kids’ birthday cake,” he decides. “Let’s keep trying.”

The others groan, roll their sleeves back up, and start washing the dishes.

***

At 10 o’clock that night, Chikage succeeds in messing up a cake for the fourth time that day.

This time, he could not tell the difference between cream cheese and sour cream for a white chocolate walnut truffle cheesecake recipe. In his frustration and desire to avoid having to admit his ignorance to Ono or Tachibana, he put both into the bowl. As a result, the cheesecake’s consistency is entirely wrong when it comes out of the oven. Even Ono can’t help but scowl, which is when Chikage admits his guilt.

“What am I supposed to do with you?!” Tachibana yells, his exasperation obvious.

“Sorry, Waka,” the taller man whispers.

It takes the others an hour to notice that Chikage has disappeared. They had already begun to count on his uselessness, so that when the clumsy man disappeared from the kitchen entirely, it took a while for anyone to note his absence. It is Ono who finally realizes that he hasn’t seen Chikage stumbling about the kitchen in a while and hands the metaphorical reins over to Eiji while he searches for Tachibana’s servant.

Not unexpectedly, he finds him in a closet, crying to himself.

“I’m so useless,” Chikage sobs. “I never help you or Waka. I just create more problems for you both.”

Ono wraps his arms around Chikage’s hunched figure and allows him to cry on his shoulder for a bit, gently stroking his hair. When Chikage’s sobs finally begin to subside, he kisses the taller man on the temple before helping him to his feet.

“You’re not useless,” he states. “In fact, I have an idea how you can make yourself very useful. Come with me.”

Twenty minutes later, Chikage is cheerfully humming to himself as he rinses bowls, dishes and utensils while the others continue their baking endeavors.

***

At 3 in the morning, the atmosphere has completely changed.

Eiji, who consistently gets the most sleep out of anyone in the group, passed out on one of the kitchen counters about an hour ago. Tachibana had opened a case of beer at 11, and is now working his way down the bottle of rum. He looks happier to be in the kitchen than he ever has before. Periodically, he and Chikage—stalwart as ever and still washing dishes at the same rate as he was four hours ago—burst into song, belting out both tunes from their childhood and popular songs Ono would’ve never expected Tachibana to know.

At one point, Ono disappears for a whole half hour. When Tachibana goes to look for him, he finds him in the bathroom with his underpants around his ankles and his hand around his dick. When Tachibana begins to ask why the Hell the head chef is jerking off when he should be leading their culinary endeavors, Ono counters that if Tachibana can drink on the job and Eiji is allowed to take a nap, he should also be allowed to relieve his stress however he pleases.

Tachibana can’t argue with that.

It’s when Ono shoots him a lustful look and asks Tachibana if he’d like to join him that Tachibana, after a few moments of alcohol-induced hesitation, turns white, yelps, and runs out of the bathroom.

“From now on, we sleep in shifts,” he announces when Ono rejoins them in the kitchen. “An hour and a half per person, one person at a time. Somebody wake up Eiji. I’m going to—“

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before he passes out on the kitchen floor.

***

“What is this?” Tachibana asks, staring condescendingly at the plate in front of him.

His eye has started to twitch involuntarily from lack of sleep and general frustration. It’s 9 PM, and none of the twelve cakes the trio produced in the past five hours pleased him.

Ono’s voice lacks expression, as he himself lacks hope that his latest creation will be sufficient to win his boss’s approval. “It’s a variation on a traditional cheesecake. Mixed in with the normal vanilla bean flavor is the essence of green tea and a few drops of midori. This contributes to the cake’s slightly green coloring. In addition, between the layers of cheesecake are layers of fluffy white chocolate mousse. The cake is garnished with a daub of white chocolate mousse, a thin slice of green melon, and white chocolate shavings.”

“Midori? An unusual choice,” Tachibana muses as he takes the first bite. “This is not bad. Not too sweet at all. Captures the flavor of Japan in the style of the French…”

He looks up at his three employees, waiting expectantly in front of him. “What do you all think?”

All three explain that they have tried it and enjoyed it very much.

“All right, then,” Tachibana says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I think we’ve found it. At long last, our perfect dessert.”

Ono is so elated that he faints on the spot.

***

In the morning, Ono and Eiji arrive at the bakery early to prepare another melon green tea cheesecake. Tachibana inspects every inch of it to ensure its perfection. Even Chikage is invited to give it one last look-over before they box it up.

At 11 AM, Tachibana brings the box to his Ferrari and prepares to deliver it to Girard’s hotel.

“I probably won’t be back in time to open the shop,” Tachibana instructs, “so, Chikage, you’ll have to handle it yourself for a little while.”

Tears form in the corners of Chikage’s eyes, but Ono good-naturedly wraps an arm around Chikage’s waist. “Don’t worry. We can handle it.”

If their employer notices the rather presumptuous gesture, he doesn’t say anything. Or perhaps, Ono hopes, perhaps the mutual all-nighter caused him to lighten up a bit with regard to his workers’ attitudes. Either way, Tachibana simply nods to his employees, gets in his car and drives off without saying goodbye.

***

A week later, a special courier visits the bakery to deliver a letter from Monsieur Rémy Girard.

The letter, which comes in a gilded envelope and had been typed on expensive paper, seems to affirm what Tachibana has always believed: that his victory is assured. His eyes eagerly run over the lines. The first three paragraphs are an impersonal account of how much Monsieur Girard enjoyed his time in Japan as well as all the dishes that were presented to him as part of the competition. He emphasizes his appreciation of the Japanese culture and especially its cuisine, and although he suggests that the Japanese could still learn much from the French, he expresses his strong desire to strengthen the culinary bonds between the two nations by incorporating elements of the Japanese flavor in French cooking.

This lengthy explanation is followed by a short paragraph thanking Antique Bakery for their participation in the dessert competition. “Although I enjoyed the unique fusion of styles and flavors incorporated in your dish,” Girard writes, “I decided to award 1st place to something slightly more traditional. After all, if I was looking for French cuisine, I would have stayed at home!”

The only other item included in the envelope is a certificate of honorable mention.

When Chikage, who has been trying to read the letter over Tachibana’s shoulder this whole time, sees the certificate, he exclaims, “Oh, that’s nice! Would you like me to frame it and hang it on the wall for you, Waka?”

Tachibana glares at him out of the corner of his eyes before angrily stalking out of the room with the excuse that it’s time to open the shop for the day.

***

It all ends with a short and to-the-point newspaper article.

Eiji is the one who brings the Tokyo Shimbun into the shop this time. When Tachibana walks into the shop, later than usual because his hangover this morning was a little more intense than it generally is on weekdays, he finds his three employees crowded around one of the tables, the paper spread open to page 8 before them.

The headline reads:

OWNERS OF LOCAL MOCHI SHOP WIN PRESTIGIOUS DESSERT COMPETITION

The article, which briefly describes how the 1st place award in Girard’s dessert competition was given to a mochi stand in Shinjuku, is accompanied by a small photograph of an elderly couple looking surprised but overjoyed as a tall European man presents them with a medal and a certificate for their “Tantalizing Taste of Tokyo red bean mochi” recipe.

Eiji snorts, then howls with laughter when he notices Tachibana’s irritated look. Ono can’t suppress a few hearty chuckles, and even Chikage finds that he has trouble keeping a straight face. It’s not until they have burst into fits of giggles for a good five minutes that Tachibana joins them in their laughter.

When they finally quiet down, Ono to wipe the tears from his eyes and Eiji because he can’t breathe, Chikage can’t help but ask, “Wait, Waka, why are we laughing?”

Tachibana lets out a few good-natured guffaws, pats Chikage on the back, picks up the newspaper, rips it to shreds, tosses the scraps in the trash, and commands, “All right, everyone. Back to work.”

After that, the men of Antique Bakery never bring up the competition again.

[UPDATE] A Year of Fic in Review & A Meme

2007-12-26T15:11:27Z

One of my resolutions for 2007 was to write more fics than I did in 2006.

Well, quite obviously, that didn't happen.

There are a number of reasons for this, including:
* Not having time to keep up with series I like, and not really getting into many/any new fandoms
* Ending up in my first real serious relationship (9 months and still going strong!)
* Staying in Pittsburgh over the summer, taking classes on top of working 40 hours a week
* In general, being busier than I expected to be

Hopefully, 2008 will be a better year of fic for me. I will say that I do have several in-progress fics that I hope to finish before the end of Christmas Break, including my contribution to this year's serenity_santa, which should be posted in the next day or so.

Also, I apologize for not responding to comments for the past year. It's not that I don't appreciate them, but sometimes they pile up so quickly that it becomes overwhelming. One of these days, I will go through the backlog and respond to all of them, I promise. ♥

For now, I leave you with a meme. I love yuletide, and with so many great fics posted this year, I would like to do anything I can to encourage people to read this wealth of new fanfiction. So, without further ado, here's the instructions (courtesy of dhaunea):

Go to the Yuletide Archive.
Read everything that appeals to you in various fandoms.
Guess the story (or stories) that I wrote, and I will write you a story to request.

Hints:
1. I wrote only one story this year.
2. My story was not in a book (novel) or movie fandom.
3. My fic's genre (romance, horror, drama, humor, mystery, etc.) is one I don't usually write.
4. My story was not written from a first person POV.
5. My fic could be considered slash/yaoi, but only if you squint.
6. I have not written in this fandom before.
7. Unlike last year, this year's fandom does have its own category on FFnet.
8. My story was considerably shorter than last year's (11K+ words), but not any less than my average fic length.

Go forth. Read. Feel free to list your guesses here. Winners (announced Jan 1) will get at least a short vignette of their choosing.

Also of note, lurkers are welcome to play. You do not need to be on my f-list.

With these hints, it should not be too difficult to figure out. I don't do request memes often, so take advantage of this opportunity if you like my writing!

[FIC] Air Gear: "Moment of Inertia" (Sano/Kazu)

2007-07-31T22:01:12Z

Title: Moment of Inertia
Fandom: Air Gear
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Suggested Sano/Kazu, mentions of Kogarasumaru and Gabishi
Dedication: peroxidepest17, since you were the one who got me into this pairing! And lain27, for prodding me to finally get caught up.
Prompt: Me thinking, “Sano! Go comfort your uke, you dumbass!” after the events of Ch. 117.
Description: A blow to one’s ego can often be more painful than any physical wound. Sano decides to pay Kazu a late-night visit, but not for the usual reasons.
Rating: PG-13 for very mild profanity, hinted shounen-ai and a bit of angst
Word Count: 2,046.
Status: Complete, minor edits while in progress.
Other Notes: This is my first fic in literally almost six months. I didn’t intend to go so long without writing—I really wanted to—but I really just absolutely have not had any inspiration. So the minute this plotbunny bit me, I rushed to write it down, without really thinking it out too much before I began. So this is a lot more impulsive than my usual writing is, and I apologize if it’s not quite up to my usual standards. I was just overjoyed that I finally managed to win my own battle against inertia. :P Anyhoo, this fic wasn’t really intended to be a true part of my “Fire-verse”, though it can fit into that head canon if you want it to. I purposely made all references to the state of Sano and Kazu’s relationship fairly ambiguous, to leave that part up to the reader to decide. Spoilers up to the end of Ch. 117, and very vague hints toward the events of Ch. 126. This fic was specifically intended to fit into the canon during/around Ch. 119.

Inertia is a powerful force for the status quo.

Inertia is the tendency of a body to oppose any attempt to put it in motion, the property of a thing to remain at rest until it meets with some force. In other words, inertia is an object’s tendency to resist change. Inertia is indisposition to motion or exertion.

Inertia is a bigger problem than extremism.

Inertia is at work.

Inertia is gravity.

***

He has to blink furiously to expel the thick raindrops coating his eyelids and lashes before he can identify the figure leaning against the wall beside his door, arms crossed, head angled slightly back. The polished black loafers, neatly-ironed pants and black coat should be a familiar sight to him by now, yet the reality of Sano’s presence still doesn’t register until his gaze meets the narrow eyes behind the thick-rimmed, angular spectacles.

His mind triggers an instant replay of the memories of the conditions under which they last met. Adachi’s angry cry, the cut on the side of Sano’s face, the immobilizing fear squeezing all the air out of his chest… His fingers tremble ever so slightly as one hand clutches the plastic bag of groceries, the other reaching to fish the house key out of his jacket pocket automatically.

“What are you doing here?” Kazu asks softly.

His voice doesn’t waver. He doesn’t sound like a girl. Bonus points for him.

“Waiting for you.” Like that wasn’t obvious. Bastard.

The boy shrugs as he moves to unlock the door. A month ago, he’d have thought twice about letting homo-bastards into his house, but now, resistance seems futile. Besides, he’s already soaking wet; he doesn’t care to carry out a conversation in the rain. And maybe he feels a little bad about Sano having to wait for him in such weather. —Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

The tall college student follows him inside wordlessly, neatly placing his shoes by the door and then moving about Kazu’s apartment like he owns the damn place. He finds the coat rack before needing to be shown where it is, shedding his wet outer garments in one fluid motion before heading off toward the kitchen area. In the time it takes Kazu to struggle out of his own soaked-through coat and hat, Sano’s filled a tea kettle with water, placed it on the stove, and seated himself on the small sofa. Kazu just follows it all with empty eyes, eventually pulling up a chair opposite the couch.

“So,” he mumbles, “who’s our next target?”

Sano shakes his head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh.” Kazu blinks, swallows. “Then…?”

Sano eyes him intently, making a careful study if his face as he explains, “I came to pick you up after school today, but Adachi told me you weren’t there. She said you hadn’t shown up at all yesterday, either.”

Kazu doesn’t flinch at the accusatory undertone in Sano’s voice. “She’s right. I didn’t come. I. I didn’t want to…”

“…face them after what happened?” Sano guesses, both smug satisfaction and a hint of anger evident in his expression. “For better or for worse, you’re their leader right now. You abandoned your team.”

Kazu lets out a bitter chuckle. “Leader? None of them will accept me as leader now. I couldn’t even… couldn’t…”

His voice trails off as he chokes on the words, as though he’s still partly in denial about his failure. In his mind, all he sees is himself, tiny, powerless in the face of the monstrous strength of Gabishi. Adachi’s screams—whether real or imagined, he can’t even remember now—still ring in his ears.

“Protect them?” Sano is leaning forward in his seat, and Kazu almost jumps when he snaps back to reality and sees the other’s face so close to his own.

“But that wasn’t your job,” the college student continues. “It wasn’t your battle to fight, not an enemy you were meant to face. Gabishi’s skills matched, perhaps surpassed, even my own. You saw it yourself.” Sano brushes the hair away from the side of his face to reveal a thin scar that was left from the time when Gabishi had tried to cut away his skin. “No one was expecting you to protect yourself and the entire team from a foe such as this one.”

Sano lightly rests the tips of his fingers on the back of Kazu’s hand, and Kazu lets him. “You’re still just a boy. Nobody’s asking you to risk your life for Air Treck.”

“B-but Ikki… Ikki would’ve…” Despite the sense of despair his words emit, Kazu’s eyes are still empty, his expression blank, something highly unusual for a boy on whose face the flames of anger or passion normally would so easily ignite.

“Ikki, Ikki, Ikki. Why is it always Ikki-kun with you?” Sano ruffles Kazu’s hair a bit as he rises and walks to the kitchen to get the tea ready.

When Sano returns, he not only brings two steaming mugs of hot green tea but also a towel draped over his arm. Kazu no longer bothers questioning how he knew where to find one, though he can’t help but wonder what exactly Sano intends to do with it.

“It’s still very hot. Don’t drink it yet, or you’ll burn your tongue,” Sano cautions as he presses one mug into Kazu’s hands.

He then sets his own down on the coffee table and stands back up again, now grasping the towel. Positioning himself behind Kazu, the boy can’t help but give a little gasp of surprise when, without warning, Sano begins to dry his hair.

“What are you doing?” Kazu yelps, even though the answer is fairly obvious by now.

Sano simply states, “You’ve been dripping all over your shirt.”

Kazu tentatively touches the area around his neck and shoulders with one hand, and sure enough, the fabric there is plastered to his skin. While in mid-motion, Sano’s hand accidentally brushes against his own, the older boy’s fingers warm and steady. Kazu gasps again and pulls his hand away, sitting very still while he endures the odd sensation of having someone else towel off his hair. It makes him feel even smaller, like a little kid whose mom is drying him off after a bath because he’s too young to do it properly himself.

“Did you mean it?” he asks quietly.

Sano looks up but doesn’t stop his motions. “Mean what?”

Kazu gulps and closes his eyes. “What you said to Gabishi. That I’m a weakling.”

This time, Sano does stop toweling, combing Kazu’s hair with his fingers as he speaks. “I could tell you that I said that mainly in the hope that Gabishi would consider you too inconsequential to be worth the effort, and that he’d leave you alone, which is the truth, but is that what you really want to hear? Would you rather that I lie and tell you that I believe you’re the rider with the most talent and promise I have ever met during all my years of A-T?”

Kazu frowns. He didn’t have to put it THAT way. But he shakes his head in the end because he knows that lies eventually hurt you worse than the truth. Anyway, he knows better than to delude himself with the thought that the Iron Clock would bother to pay him a late-night visit just for the purpose of inflating his wounded ego.

When he opens his eyes again, Sano is kneeling in front of him. “Here’s what I do believe. I don’t think you’re weak. I think you have great potential. I think what you’re suffering from is this belief that you always need to walk in Ikki’s shadow. Ikki’s Wing Road is not for you. What you don’t seem to realize is that you have the strength to ride your own road.”

Sano seems to be waiting for a response, but Kazu doesn’t know what to say. He takes a few tentative sips of his tea to buy himself time while he processes the other’s words in his mind. He’d like to believe them, but he’s not even sure what it all means. Having always been so busy just to try to keep up with the rest of the team, he’s never understood all this talk about “roads” and the ramifications of what it truly means to ride one. He just follows behind Ikki because, well, because it’s the easy thing to do.

When he looks back up, Sano is standing up, draping the wet towel over the back of a chair to let it dry as he sends a forceful gaze in Kazu’s direction. Kazu knows he must be trying to judge his reaction, but what is there for him to say? He takes another sip of tea.

Sano is the one to finally break the silence. “It’s easy to give in to inertia and to stop functioning when we meet with hardships we did not expect. I know. I think we’ve all been there at one time or another. But even I cannot truly stop time. In the end, my powers are all an illusion, a mind-trick. Time stops for no man. The only thing you can do is keep moving.”

“But why?” Kazu finally sighs, his eyes exuding hopelessness, an ironic half-smile on his lips. “What reason do I have to keep moving when I’m too weak and powerless to do anything for anybody else?”

“We all forget our reasons at times,” Sano explains as he walks over. “But you need to keep moving anyway, because the longer you wait, the harder it will be to start moving again.”

Taking the boy’s half-empty mug and setting it on the table, Sano places his hands on Kazu’s narrow shoulders. “Just keep moving, and then you will remember your reasons—your impetus.”

And then Sano’s lips are on his, and Kazu’s so surprised, he doesn’t even remember to close his eyes right away. His defensive instincts shut down long ago, his normal instinct to punch Sano in the gut if that bastard tries anything all but a memory. It’s just that Sano’s lips are warm, and he wants to say yes and no at the same time, but all his thoughts are garbled because nothing makes any sense right now. Warm lips. Hot breath. Stop. Don’t stop. Stop!

Surprisingly, it’s Sano who pulls away first. Kazu looks up at him, confused and vaguely disoriented. It isn’t like the homo-bastard to stop after just one kiss. Yet the other is already at the door, pulling on his coat and bending over to tie his shoes.

When Sano straightens himself and meets Kazu’s puzzled stare, he briefly flashes a sad half-smile, then reverts back to his usual smug and slightly mischievous expression. “It’s no fun if you don’t try to resist me even a little. I’ll return when you’ve got your fighting spirit back.”

He walks over to Kazu one more time to lightly stroke the boy’s blonde locks. “Go to school tomorrow.”

And then he’s walking through the door, and Kazu finds himself watching the tall college student leave, leaning against the open door long after the retreating figure has been swallowed up by the gray, gray world outside. There are no children at play today. Adults hurry toward their destinations, their faces hidden by their dark umbrellas, shrouding them in anonymity. The streets have transformed into shallow rivers. The air smells like approaching thunderstorms.

His attention is caught by an ant scurrying about in front of his feet, trying to struggle to safety by crawling up the small ledge of his doorstep. But before the tiny creature can manage to seek refuge where it’s dry, a thick raindrop descends from the sky, carrying the ant with it on its way toward the ground. Kazu can still see the ant’s legs flailing as the globule of water carries it to a small stream headed for the gutter.

Sickened at the sight, he goes back inside and shuts the door behind him, then collapses on the floor and stares off into space for what feels like hours. When he finally gets up again, he sighs one last time, shrugs, and starts to pack his bag for school.

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[FIC] Gensou Suikoden III: "Prelude to Separation" (Albert, Caesar)

2007-01-09T03:33:22Z

Title: Prelude to Separation

Fandom: Gensou Suikoden III, with references to characters/events of I&II

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Albert Silverberg, Caesar, Apple, George, Rose, Leon, mentions of Mathiu, Odessa, and Shu

Dedication: deux, for suikosantaredux 2006-07. Happy belated Chrismukkah, dear!

Prompt: Childhood

Description: The year is I.S. 463. An unexpected visitor interrupts a Silverberg holiday dinner, and Albert and Caesar bake cookies.

Rating: G

Word Count: 2,129

Status: Complete, with edits.

Other Notes: Last year it was ice cream, this year it’s cookies. (And no, this actually had nothing to do with mergle’s suggestion to karthur. I actually thought of this before then and freaked out when I read that and tried to find K to ask her not to do that one.) I tried my best to 1-up my previous suikosanta submission, but unfortunately this one just didn’t want to come out funny. Not that humor is my usual genre anyway, and strangely Suikosanta seems to be one of the only things that can inspire me to write gen fic. Anyway, you get Silverbergness, and I hope it is acceptable! I am no mithrigil, but this really was the only one of your requests that I could do. I apologize in advance for any deviations from the canon; I am no Suikoden history buff, and I haven’t even played Suikoden II. On that note, this has some spoilers for Suikoden I, and maybe very vague spoilers for II and III, so be warned! Lastly, I could not remember of Albert and Caesar's mom ever got named in the canon, so I just used you guys' from suiko_rpg (Rose).

“Caesar, don’t put that in your mouth.”

Albert looked up from his philosophy book to find his mother fussing over his younger brother, a look or irritation marring her otherwise graceful features. Caesar, seated in the center of the parlor, had been quietly playing with his toys while Albert read and the grown-ups prepared the house for the Feast of Shield and Sword. The elder brother couldn’t suppress a smile as he watched Rose Silverberg attempt to wrestle one of the wooden horses out of the four-year-old’s chubby fingers, which Albert knew from experience could exhibit an unusually strong grip. Caesar seemed determined to put the horse’s head into his mouth, but in the end, their mother did emerge the victor, and Caesar sat and pouted while she wiped some of the drool off his chin.

“Look how you’ve managed to make a mess of yourself again,” Rose complained as she stood back up from her crouch. “Albert, please take your brother to wash his hands and face. The guests will be arriving soon.”

Without another word, she left the room, her bountiful skirts rustling behind her. Albert sighed but did as she commanded. He slipped out of the chair and walked over to Caesar, holding one hand outstretched.

“Come,” he said gently, in a tone he reserved only for his brother, “let’s go wash our hands.”

Caesar blinked up at him with his furiously bright eyes as he grasped Albert’s hand and stood up, a little wobbly on his feet. It was not unusual for the toddler to exhibit more responsiveness to his brother than to his mother, a fact that Rose often took advantage of to rid herself of the task of actually having to take care of the child. She was not an unkind woman, but she was impatient, and displaying affection did not come easily to her. Albert had long ago ceased to care, but he often wondered what effect this might have on Caesar. He squeezed the little boy’s hand as they walked to the kitchen.

There, they found Apple bent over the table, absent-mindedly stirring the contents of a large bowl as she puzzled over a recipe in her hand. Caesar waddled over to her cheerfully, hugging her legs as the young woman squealed a bit, not having noticed their entrance.

“I’m helping your mother bake cookies,” she explained as she gazed down at the boy at her feet, “so come see me later, all right? I will hold a few back for you.”

“Cookies!” the toddler gurgled happily as Apple shooed him back in the direction of his waiting brother.

Albert led Caesar to the washbasin, lifting his brother up on a wooden stool so he could reach the water himself. Then the elder Silverberg lathered his own hands with soap and rinsed them. Caesar was old enough to know how to wash his hands, but he tended to be more obedient when Albert took the time to demonstrate what he should do. Sure enough, he happily took over the soap and ran it over his skin, giggling when the addition of water produced a few small bubbles. He popped one with his finger, and Albert used the opportunity to quickly run a wet cloth over his brother’s mouth and chin.

When Caesar was about as clean as a four-year-old can get, Albert lifted him off the stool and patted him on the head. At the same time, he could hear the front door opening and the sound of voices in the hallway. One of the servants rushed in to alert the others that the guests had arrived. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the hustle and bustle of the hired help running in and out. Apple and the boys escaped into the hallway to avoid the rush and to help greet the visitors.

George and Rose Silverberg were already standing by the door, ushering the guests toward the parlor after introducing them to their sons. Albert politely said hello, even though few of the faces were familiar. With both Mathiu and Odessa dead, they had, after all, few close relatives left; other than a few half-relations and distant cousins, they were the last of the bloodline. As a result, the Silverbergs used the occasion to invite other acquaintances. There were a handful of dignitaries and their envoys, as well as a couple of Mathiu’s former pupils. Apple seemed agitated that a certain Shu was not among them; Albert could not recall ever meeting anyone by that name, but from her mentions of him, he seemed like an interesting person. He absently wondered if they were related.

Caesar at first obediently stood by Albert’s side, holding onto his brother’s hand while the two were alternately shown off to and sized up by strangers. After a while, however, the boy grew bored and wandered off on his own. None of the adults particularly seemed to notice. Albert’s eyes strayed to the parlor, expecting the toddler to have returned to his toys, but when he finally discerned his brother’s presence, Caesar had climbed up onto the chair he had formerly occupied and picked up the book he had been reading.

A new arrival forced Albert to return his attention to the guests. Caesar reappeared a few minutes later, tugging on his sleeve while he clutched the heavy book in his arms.

“Not now,” Albert whispered, trying to ignore the disappointed look Caesar gave him in response.

The steady flow of guests gradually died down, until at last George closed the door, announcing that that was most likely the last of them.

Rose nodded and headed to the kitchen, saying, “I’ll go and tell the servants to prepare to serve tea in the parlor.”

Apple followed her, and Caesar tugged on Albert’s sleeve again, but before the boys could disappear upstairs to read, there was another knock on the door. George Silverberg frowned, not expecting anyone else, but nonetheless turned around to open it.

The figure on their doorstep elicited a gasp of surprise from every adult who was still in the hallway.

At the same time, Rose and Apple reappeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

Brow furrowed, Apple’s expression was dark as she muttered, “That man...”

“Whenever he appears, it means trouble,” Rose softly intoned, but then she donned her social mask and moved to join her husband in greeting the new guest.

Before the children could inquire as to his identity, George called them over and introduced them. “My sons, this is your grandfather, Leon.”

Albert stared up at the dark, bulky figure in surprise. Leon Silverberg was regularly mentioned during conversations around the house, but Albert had heard little news of him since the war in Dunan and had begun to presume him dead. He had gotten the impression that none of his relatives had heard from him in the years since. The man had certainly picked quite the occasion to reappear in their midst. It fit with the descriptions Albert had overheard others attribute to him; particularly that he seemed to stir up controversy wherever he appeared.

“This must be Albert,” Leon guessed as he moved to appraise his grandson. “I have not seen you since before the war.”

Albert blinked, unable to remember meeting the heavy-set, dark-browed figure. Though he would’ve been quite young at the time, his memory was usually flawless, so it bothered him that such a momentous occasion might have escaped his recollection.

Leon, for his part, seemed quite pleased by what he saw in the boy—something in the glint of his eyes, perhaps—and all the moreso when Rose proudly added, “He excels in his studies.”

“Indeed?” Leon’s eyes glittered beneath his bushy eyebrows. “That is wonderful news.”

He then turned to Caesar and chuckled at the sight of the small boy protectively embracing the large book. “And I presume you are Caesar. You seem quite attached to your book!”

Caesar did not respond. He quietly clutched Albert’s hand and even went so far as to frown slightly when the old man bent down to examine him more closely.

A tad disgruntled at her son’s lack of manners and apparently mistaking Caesar’s stance for a display of pretentiousness, Rose interrupted with, “He can’t even read yet.”

The adults exchanged meaningful glances while Caesar cowered behind Albert’s leg. Albert reached behind himself to stroke the boy’s red hair, watching in silence as the others moved their congregation from the hallway to the parlor. Apple followed them, apparently eager to hear Leon Silverberg’s story despite her equally apparent dislike for his character. George closed the doors behind them, and Albert felt a twinge of disappointment at not being invited to join their conversation.

Still, he could not forget about his brother. Caesar wore a melancholy expression, almost as though he could sense that something important and not necessarily propitious had just befallen the Silverberg household. Albert took the book in one hand but decided that he would rather not go upstairs now. He’d much prefer to remain within earshot of the parlor.

He therefore decided instead to take Caesar to the kitchen, whose open doorway was directly across the hall from one of the parlor’s entries. Some of the servants would occasionally open the doors as they served tea and hors d’oeuvres, and fragments of conversation would drift into the room. Caesar, however, quickly grew impatient, and started tugging on Albert’s sleeve again.

Albert looked around for something to keep his brother occupied, and his eye finally fell on the abandoned cookie dough on the kitchen table. He could not find the recipe anywhere—Apple had most likely tucked it into her blouse during the commotion—but from the looks of things, she had not gotten much further than folding eggs and butter into the flour. Having previously eschewed baking as a solely feminine undertaking, Albert felt a bit apprehensive about trying it without guidance or a recipe, but decided to attempt it anyway; if he was going to follow the family legacy and become a world-famous strategist someday, he would not allow himself to be daunted by the arduous task of making cookie dough.

He searched the cupboards for sugar and cinnamon and laid out all the ingredients on the stone floor. He moved the bowl of dough to the floor also, so that he and Caesar could both sit and knead it with their hands. Caesar eagerly stuck his fingers into the mixture, seemingly intuitively grasping the process. Albert sat behind him and covered his brother’s hands with his own, carefully guiding him through the motions.

Lost in thought, Albert was not aware of Leon’s presence until the old man cleared his throat. He had taken a few steps into the room and regarded them with an unreadable look on his face.

When he noticed he had gained his grandsons’ attention, he spoke. “What are you making?”

“Cookies!” Caesar exclaimed energetically, even though the question had clearly been directed at Albert.

Leon nodded absently and stared off into space awhile before regaining his focus and asking, “Won’t you come and join us in the parlor?”

Albert looked from his grandfather to his brother, who in the meantime had succeeded in covering half his face in cookie dough, and back again. It was evident that the invitation was addressed to only one of the two brothers, and despite his overwhelming curiosity and avid desire to take part in the conversation in the other room, he felt that he could not abandon Caesar. There was no one else to look after his brother except the servants, and to relinquish the boy to their care on the Feast of Shield and Sword—a holiday meant to be a time of love and celebration—seemed unfair. Albert shook his head.

“No, thank you, sir,” he answered, his throat a bit dry.

Leon gave him one last lingering glance, then simply nodded as he excused himself and backed out of the kitchen. Albert couldn’t resist the urge to stare at his grandfather’s retreating figure. A foreboding shiver ran down his spine, and he shifted his body to sit a little closer to his brother while they continued to knead the dough together. Caesar noticed it and looked up questioningly.

“Now pay attention while I teach you how to make excellent cookies,” Albert instructed, forcing a smile. Silently, he added, Because next time I probably won’t be here to help you.

Caesar did not detect the change in his brother’s mood.

“The best cookies in the whooooooole empire?” he asked, beaming.

“Yes,” Albert answered patiently, wiping some of the cookie dough off the boy’s chin with the back of his hand. “We’ll make the best cookies in the whole empire.”

</div>

[FIC] Yellow: "Taking Forever by the Hand" (Goh/Taki) (1/2) [for yuletide 2006]

2007-01-02T02:19:07Z

Title: Taking Forever by the Hand

Fandom: Yellow

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Goh/Taki, Hatozaki, Tsunuga, mentions of Kanji and Mimi

Dedication: shanola22, for yuletide 2006

Prompt: The request was for hot yaoi action!

Description: Three years after the Sandfish incident, a new mission leads to injury, trauma, anxiety, and doubt. Can Taki and Goh's relationship survive the pressure?

Rating: R for violence, sexual innuendos, and non-explicit yaoi content

Word Count: 11,553 (Posted in two installments because of LJ's character limit)

Status: Complete (It was finished in early December but authors weren’t allowed to reveal themselves until today)

Other Notes: Well, this fic was… quite a journey. First off, this wasn’t even a fandom I’d originally signed up to write. If you don’t know the process, in yuletide, you request at least 3 different fandoms and offer at least 4, and then a fancy script runs a complex algorithm to match every participant to an assignee who matches at least one fandom they offered. I was actually matched with shanola22 for Howl’s Moving Castle, but she requested Calcifer gen fic, so I decided to go with this request instead, because writing romance is my specialty. Of course, that alone didn’t solve the problem of coming up with a good plot for a worthy gift fic. After mulling it over in my head for a few days, I decided I wanted to write something post-series, dealing with how they put their lives back together after the Sandfish incident and after they returned from their honeymoon. Nearly all the Yellow fic I’ve ever seen seems to deal with that issue but apparently my interpretation varies a bit from the norm. Unlike most of the other authors, I didn’t think that Goh and Taki would go back to their original line of business, or at least not in the same way they’d done it before. I felt like things would be awkward between Taki and Tsunuga for a while, and that Tsunuga would probably give up the informant business to spend time with his daughter. Then I had a conversation with a friend, who had been dating her boyfriend for five years. She was telling me that she wants to get married, and when I expressed surprise, she said, “Yeah, I know it’s kind of weird. It was that way for us too. Even though we’ve been together for years, it took a really long time for us both to really start accepting the idea that this relationship might actually last. Accepting that was a big step, and I think it’s the last big step you have to cross as a couple before you decide to get married.” That really reminded me of Taki, and Goh’s hint at the end of Yellow that Taki still didn’t really trust and believe in him and their relationship. The idea for the rest of the story basically came from there.
It didn’t take me very long to realize that I was in way over my head. My first draft of the story consisted of a script-style version of all the major dialogue in the fic, and that alone was 4,000 words long. And that was pure dialogue—not even the “he said” bits. I then estimated that the final draft would be over 10,000 words long, and I was right.

If you can’t already tell after reading it, it was the first third or so of the fic that gave me trouble. I didn’t want to skip the part about the mission and go straight to the more angsty part of the story, but it’s true that the mystery/action/fighting bit is not my genre and therefore quite a stretch for me. white_aster helped me by betaing that part and I tried my best to incorporate her comments, but in the end, after a certain point, I did wind up just submitting it, even knowing that there are still some definite flaws and plotholes. If I could go back and redo anything, I definitely would’ve gone for something with a far less complex plot, because this was definitely way outside of my usual range, and while I’m all for challenging myself, I feel bad for writing a gift fic where I myself am not quite satisfied with the end result. Many apologies to shanola22, and thanks again to white_aster.

You can read it and leave comments at the Yuletide archive here, or you can do so below. I have no preference.

“Quit making me jealous of your damn cigarettes.”

Unperturbed, Taki continues taking periodic puffs while flipping through the numerology book in his lap for the fourth time this evening, pausing only occasionally to dump some of the ash in the little tray sitting conveniently in the center of the coffee table.

Goh does not react well to being ignored. Scowling, he finally rises from his seat on the arm of the lounge chair and walks over to his partner. In one fluid motion, he removes the cigarette from between Taki’s lips, holding it behind his back while he leans over and kisses that same mouth, which still tastes vaguely of tobacco.

Taki allows Goh to indulge in the kiss for just a moment, even responding with his own tongue, but when he feels Goh growing more insistent, he quickly pulls away. With the same level of ease, he retrieves his cigarette, his eyes unflinching and never taking their gaze off Goh’s face.

“Not fair,” Goh growls petulantly. “My mouth should be the only thing that’s allowed to touch those lips of yours.”

“Just your mouth?” Taki teases, then regrets it instantly as he watches the heat in Goh’s eyes rise another ten degrees. “Shit, forget I said anything.”

“Too late.” Goh lands on the couch next to Taki and wraps one arm around his boyfriend, nuzzling and caressing the side of the other’s face with his own nose and mouth.

“Stop it, Goh,” Taki whispers, turning his face the other way while he chews his cigarette even more intently, never taking his eyes off the book in his lap. “I’m trying to concentrate. We have work to do.”

“Come on, Taki. Please?” Goh is sucking softly on the edge of Taki’s ear, where he knows the other is sensitive. “You’ve been at it the whole night and we still haven’t gotten anywhere. Reading this book through once more isn’t going to help. There’s nothing more to be found, so let’s just call it a night.”

Goh’s tone is very insistent, but Taki isn’t about to be dissuaded. “I feel like I’m missing it—something very simple. I know it’s in here somewhere. I can find it. I just need to keep looking.”

“Then look again in the morning.” Goh is getting impatient. “Maybe all you need are fresh eyes. You know, give it a rest for a while and then start over.”

“But damn it, Goh, we don't know if we have 'til morning,” Taki says, then rolls his eyes. “And as if I’ll get any rest if it’s up to you.”

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” Goh smirks.

Taki doesn’t respond, still trying in vain to resume his perusal of the book. Goh being who he is, he takes the lack of an immediate rejection as an invitation, his mouth wandering down to Taki’s neck, finally coming to rest on his collarbone, where his lips suck a nice, big hickey into place.

From this point on, Taki knows that it’s no longer a question of whether or not it’s going to happen. Even after three years of dating, Goh’s desire is still insatiable, and once he has his mind set on quenching his thirst, there is very little—short of a swift kick to the stomach, and even Taki doesn’t have the mind to be that cruel anymore—that will stop him. The issue now is simply one of delaying the inevitable.

Then again, there really is no point in stalling when either way, he obviously isn’t going to get any work done.

They're halfway to the bedroom, Goh tugging at Taki’s pants while Taki, already shirtless himself, fumbles with the buttons on Goh’s collared dress shirt. The neighbor's antique clock is loudly tolling the hour—one, two... twelve. Midnight. Suddenly, the answer hits him like a bolt of thunder.

“Wait, Goh.” He presses a hand over Goh’s hungry lips. “Goh, stop. I think I know the answer.”

His boyfriend can’t help scowling. “Are you serious?”

“'The sign of the four'. That was what the cop wrote on his notepad before he died of blood loss from the gunshot wound—the message that they found with his dead body a couple of alleys behind the club this afternoon. He was trying to send us one last message tell us the location of the stash, since they took his cell phone and he knew he wouldn't live long enough to find another way to contact the station. But we've been thinking it all wrong. It didn't actually have anything to do with the meaning of the number 'four'. It was a riddle, to hide the intention of the message. The Sign of the Four. Sherlock Holmes.” Taki is already pulling away. “It really was so simple. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Goh mumbles, trying to catch his breath. “Shit, Taki, what does Sherlock Holmes have to do with anything?”

“Goh, remember the name of the jazz lounge next to the club the cop was investigating?” Taki explains a tad impatiently, trying to pull on his shirt. “'The Blue Carbuncle'. It's a Sherlock Holmes title. It makes perfect sense. The club owners knew that people might be snooping around at the club, so they made a deal with the establishment next door.”

It's not unusual for nightclubs to be a hotbed of drug activity. Large crowds of young adults are always the hardest to control, and dancing gives the freedom for individuals who otherwise would never have any reason to associate with one another to interact at will. However, an anonymous tip had suggested that at this particular club, the management itself was involved in the sale of the drugs—cocaine, marijuana, and large amounts of heroin. A brave cop had gone undercover to try to figure out the accuracy of the tip-off and the way the transactions were being handled. He had indeed obtained proof that the web of corruption extended all the way to the ownership level, and he also discovered the ways in which deals were made and money changed hands. Unfortunately, the night he finally discovered the location where the drugs were being kept, he turned up dead before he could report it—but not without leaving a couple of subtle clues.

Reflecting on his own oversight, Taki almost sounds vaguely amused. “We've been looking in the wrong place the whole time.”

Knowing the nature of his boyfriend’s resolve, Goh knows it’s useless to argue and allows Taki to slide out of their embrace. “Fine. You go get ready whatever you think we’ll need. I’m taking a shower.”

“I’m sorry,” Taki apologizes sincerely, pressing a chaste kiss to the other’s lips. “Meet me by the car when you’re done.”

“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Goh grunts while he turns around and heads for the bathroom. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, though. We’ll finish this when we get back.”

Taki can’t help smiling to himself. Idiot. Let’s just hope we come away unwounded, not to speak of having energy left for sex.

***

“So what’s our plan?”

Goh still sounds a little irritated. He’s gripping the steering wheel just a little too tightly, eyes fixed on the road ahead and refusing to look over. Taki supposes that he can’t fault his lover too much for minding the interruption in their lovemaking, even if they were supposed to be working.

“We go in through the back door. I trust that whatever lock they have, it won't keep you out. You make your way in. I'll bet they keep it somewhere upstairs. I’ll go first, taking care of any goons that might be on lookout, while you find the room and start on the lock. We’ll go inside, I’ll grab the stash, and you ready a grappling hook just in case any guards find us before we can make it out unnoticed. If that happens, we’ll use the grapple to escape through the nearest window. We should probably ditch the car on the way back. Maybe even spend the night at a hotel, in case they try to follow.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Goh sighs. “Although that’s too bad about the car.”

“We can come back for it later,” Taki, the pragmatist when it comes to their missions, responds. “We’ll get it checked out at a shop, give it a new paint job, and Hatozaki can probably supply us with some new plates.”

“Hatozaki…” Goh muses. “Hey Taki, do you really think he’s for real?”

“I'd like to think he's a good guy,” Taki murmurs and leaves it at that.

“Me, too.” Goh agrees. “He's done so much for us.”

They're both acutely aware of how much they owe to Hatozaki. The car is just one of the perks of secretly working for the police department. The detective's covered for them, aided them with men and supplies, and practically saved their lives on numerous occasions. He can even be credited to some degree with helping to keep them together, living the lifestyle they know best.

***

They had just returned from their honeymoon in Europe. It had taken about a day for them to get settled back into their apartment and get over the jet lag. Frankly, neither of them had given much thought to where they were going to go from here. Obviously, anything they did, they were going to do together, and they had both essentially taken for granted that their old life would still be there when they got back, just waiting for the threads to be picked up again.

Hatozaki had called on them personally the second day. After they had gotten over their initial surprise—their meetings with the detective were generally in secret—they had invited him in for coffee, and the man had courteously accepted.

“Tsunuga has expressed his desire to continue to stay away for a while and spend time with his daughter. In fact, he’s thinking of all but retiring. He’ll maintain ownership of the Roost, but all managerial functions will pass to Mimi. She’s worked for him for a while now and he thinks she’s ready,” he explained over tentative sips of coffee. “More importantly, where you two are concerned, this also means that he can no longer act as your employer and informant in the snatching business.”

“...Oh.” Goh swallowed.

Taki appeared to remain unfazed, but Goh knew his lover well enough to know that he was probably doing a double-take inside as well.

“However, I have a proposition for the both of you,” Hatozaki went on in a business-like manner. “I received a promotion while you two were away. While I'm certainly not part of the top tier, I feel that it is my responsibility to start doing something about the corruption within the police department. A lot of it is drug-related. I'd known for a while that something was up, but recently I discovered that it goes deeper than I thought it did. Often, when squads go in for drug busts, they misreport the amount that was discovered in the official documents. They usually leave enough for us to prosecute, but there's still a lot that goes missing. I do not know what they do with it—use it themselves or sell it—but it ought not be tolerated any longer.

“My idea is as follows: Basically, before a squad is sent out on a drug bust, I'll send you all the information I know about where the drugs are being hidden. You'll probably be notified as few as 12 but no more than 72 hours in advance. From there on out, it will be your job to retrieve the goods, leaving behind only enough for us to arrest and prosecute the offenders. The rest you will deliver to me, so that I may see to it that it is properly disposed of, as it should be. I will, of course, make it well worth your while.”

“So we're going to be cops?” Goh scoffed.

Hatozaki shook his head. “No. In fact, you won't even be on the police department's official payroll. There are... other ways in which I can make sure you're suitably compensated.” He paused and cast his eyes downward. “The police department's bookwork hasn't exactly been in order for the past several years. It won't be hard to sneak in your fee under 'consulting services' or a similar service. Failing that, if it becomes necessary, I'm willing to foot the bill myself if that's what it'll take to have your aid in eliminating the drug scandals.”

“If you're so passionate about this issue, why not go public?” Taki questioned.

“If I receive any more publicity, I won't be able to stave off the marriage arrangements any longer,” Hatozaki explained. “I do have Yukiya's interests at heart as well.”

“Of course.” The couple smiled meaningfully at each other.

Hatozaki cleared his throat before continuing. “Think of it as just like your old job, except that you're working within a slightly shorter time-frame, and you're ultimately, if not officially, employed by the police. In other words, you're doing this in the service of the city and its people, who deserve proper protection.”

“That is, if we can trust you,” Goh challenged. “After all, you could be taking the drugs and selling them yourself.”

“I could be, but I would hope that you can feel as though you can trust me by now,” Hatozaki replied stoically. “I truly do.”

***

“Should we review the plan?” Taki asks as Goh parks the car about half a block away from their destination.

“No, I've got it.” Goh declines. “And we've been over all the other stuff—”

“—No heroics, no sacrificing ourselves, and no one gets left behind,” Taki recalls the list from memory with a slightly sardonic roll of the eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He pauses, smiles. “I love you.”

“Don't say that unless you're ready to feel the full power of my love!” Goh smirks with his usual casual, playful attitude.

“Moron.” Taki grins back. “We have work to do.”

Goh pulls the key out of the ignition and opens the car door. “Then let's get to it!”

***

Even outside the club, the music is deafeningly loud. It takes them a few tries to get into the back alley unnoticed; a lot of couples are hanging around, making out or fighting or otherwise wrapped up in their own business, but Goh and Taki know not to take any chances.

Most nightclubs don't let out until at least 2 AM. As it's only a little after 1, it's a stroke of luck that there's no one guarding their back door. The jazz lounge next door, however, closed at midnight, and so long as the employees are finished closing up, they should be able to get inside fairly easily. That is, so long as the agreement between the club and the lounge doesn't include the stationing of goons inside to guard their stash.

Once they're within 50 meters of their destination, Taki and Goh can no longer speak out loud, only using signs and symbols to communicate. Goh swiftly moves toward the jazz lounge's back door, pulling out his tools to make easy work of the lock. Meanwhile, Taki takes a last surveying look at the area to ensure that they have not been seen. At the sharp click of the locking mechanism, Goh pulls open the door, and the two wordlessly slip inside.

The silence is even more overwhelming than the darkness. The building is well-insulated—as it should be, in order for its customers to be able to enjoy live jazz music rather than the loud blaring of hip-hop. Taki realizes that this also makes it the perfect setting for the shadiest transactions that the club is involved in. He wonders if the management of the Blue Carbuncle is aware of exactly what kind of business is going on in their back rooms. Either way, when Hatozaki's unit comes in for the bust, they will be held at the very least partially liable. It'll likely be the end of both establishments. A pity for the nightlife in this neighborhood, but it's not like the city won't easily recover.

The time it takes for their eyes to adjust feels excruciatingly slow. Goh suddenly reaches out, fumbling in the darkness for his flashlight. The movement startles Taki. He's a bit more antsy than usual. Perhaps it's because his nerve endings are still electrically charged from earlier that evening.

When the penlight flicks on, Goh has already found the stairs. The illumination isn't much, but it's enough for Taki to tell that the ground level consists of a typical bar’s back area: refrigerators, ice machines, employee restroom, some storage areas, the busboy's sink, and several large trash cans. A quick glance in each corner reveals that there are no thugs laying in ambush. Another survey and he spots the breaker-box. Ripping most of the cable connections, he shuts off the power, disabling any alarm systems.

Knowing there is no use in dawdling if the place is deserted, Taki ascends the stairs. Goh follows behind quickly.

The second story features a series of small rooms along a corridor—administrative offices, from the looks of it. Their gazes are immediately drawn to one door that stands out. Instead of having a regular key lock, it has a giant number dial.

Their eyes meet. Bingo.

Goh zones in on the door and begins to work on the lock without delay while Taki covers him from behind. He feels a little uneasy—the corridor appears to make a turn at the other end. Should he check to verify that no one is waiting around the corner? But he'd have to walk quite a ways, leaving Goh's back unprotected. The most vulnerable part of their routine is when Goh is working the lock, because as skilled as he might be, he usually has little time to focus his attention on anything else.

Before he has time to decide what to do, the lock clicks open and the light switches off. Taki shakes off his unease; the far end of the corridor isn't an effective place for a goon to be hiding, anyway. Goh silently transfers the penlight to his hand, and they switch places, Taki at the door with his partner at his back.

“Start readying the grappling hook the minute I go inside, and look around for the nearest window,” Taki whispers under his breath.

Goh responds with a simple grin and a thumbs-up.

Taki takes a breath, then eases open the door. It's lighter than he thought it would be. He tries to make out any figures in the darkness beyond, but there don't appear to be any. When he doesn't spot any signs of movement, he flicks on the penlight and scans the small room.

With standard furniture like a desk and chair and large wooden bookcases, it's disguised as an office, but it's clear that it isn't used as such. There's no computer, no obnoxiously large stacks of paper, and the bookcases contain library books rather than manuals and binders. The furnishings do serve as excellent camouflage for the black leather briefcase sitting against the wall on the other side of the desk. At first glimpse, you would completely miss it.

“Got it,” he breathes as he scurries inside, Goh following closely at his back.

“Shit. Taki, there's no window,” Goh observes from the center of the room as Taki moves around the desk in order to retrieve the briefcase.

“The nearest one is out in the hall, then.” Taki is shaking the briefcase to ensure that he isn't just falling for a decoy.

Upon hearing the rustling sound of plastic being moved around, he pries open the latches. He was right; the case is filled to the brim with drugs in little plastic bags. In addition to their standard loot of cocaine, marijuana and heroin, there's also LSD, XTC, and another powder that Taki guesses is probably some form of date rape drug. Not unusual in the club scene. He removes one small bag of cocaine, hides it in one of the desk drawers, and closes the briefcase.

Simultaneously, his ears pick up the barely perceptible sound of one of the office doors softly falling shut right outside. His thoughts are almost too slow for this kind of situation—There is somebody out there and they are trying to surprise us.

“Shit!” He looks up from where he's crouching on the floor to see that Goh is watching him, waiting for him to finish. “Goh, turn aro—”

Springing to his feet, he never has a chance to finish his sentence before the noise of a gun being fired permeates the air.

In the movies, they make it seem like scenes like this one happen in slow motion. It's far from true. While Taki can't seem to get past the thought, The offices—why didn't I check the offices?!, the bullet quickly outruns his eyes; he never sees the impact, only that suddenly, Goh is on the floor in the middle of the room, and there's a pool of blood behind where his head lies.

The entire time, Taki is flying through the air, leaping at their assailant in the doorway. His left hand makes contact with the gun at the instant that the side of his right hand comes down on the man's neck. He goes down instantly, leaving the gun in Taki's grasp.

The rest of the scene is a blur. With the gun in one hand, pointed at the doorway in case any other goons try to enter, and clutching the penlight like a lifeline in the other, Taki crawls back to check on Goh. There's too much blood, too much blood. Too much. His eyes are closed. Is he breathing? Taki tries to check for a pulse, but his hand is shaking too much; he can't tell if he feels anything. He doesn't realize he's been screaming the entire time until he feels his throat start to burn.

His body is still moving, but his mind is shutting down—began to shut down the minute that bullet made contact with the back of Goh's head. Everything seems to be frozen in that single instant: time, Goh's downward motion, Taki's blood, his heartbeat...

Bump bump. Ba-bump. Bump bump. Ba-bump. Bump. Ba Bump. Bump. Ba. Bump. Bump...

***

Beep. Beep beep. Beep. Beep beep. Beep. Beep beep. Beep. Beep beep.

At least three different machines are emitting constant high-pitched beeping sounds. The consistency should be comforting, but it isn't. It's almost like a scene out of a sci-fi movie; all the colors are too intense, the contrast is too high, and all the noises are sharp and shrill. It's like being shoved out into the sunlight when you have a severe migraine.

Taki thinks he's going to be sick, and he hasn't been in the room but ten minutes. After enduring three hours of gruelling interrogation by the police, they had refused to let him in until the patient was declared stable following his operation.

He's running his fingertips over Goh's sleeping face, feeling the signs of life, when he is interrupted by the entrance of a doctor and a nurse. The doctor examines the readings on the machines and compares them to a chart he is holding while the nurse takes down a few numbers and adjusts the morphine drip.

The doctor clears his throat as he consults his paperwork. “You are, umm, his partner? ...Taki-san?”

“I am.” Taki's voice sounds hoarse even to himself.

The man transfers his binder to one hand in order to pat Taki on the back with the other. “Let's go for a walk, shall we?”

The doctor guides him toward the door without waiting for a response. Taki doesn't argue. He's still so numb inside that having people making these kinds of decisions for him actually feels pretty good.

He's taken back out into the wide hallway. Nurses are scurrying about like ants. A surgeon sprints down the corridor toward the elevator, and Taki only narrowly avoids a collision. A few visitors are stumbling about, looking lost and about as dazed as he himself is feeling.

They reach a small waiting area. On the side, a narrow table is home to a coffee machine. The doctor makes a straight path toward it, pouring two cups and handing one to Taki without asking if he'd like any. Taki is grateful; he's not sure he could handle that kind of small talk.

He just wants answers.

However, the doctor sips at his coffee and makes no move to talk, though Taki looks at him expectantly. Taki doesn't know if it's because the doctor is trying to figure out what to say to him, or if he's waiting for the younger man to ask the question. After years of medical practice and dealing with patients, the surgeon appears to have developed an excellent poker face.

Taki decides he's too impatient for these kinds of mind games and skips straight to the point.

“Doctor?” His voice keeps choking up, and he keeps having to swallow multiple times before being able to form coherent words. “Did... Did everything go well?”

The doctor makes an attempt at a reassuring smile, then opts for a slight nod of the head. “Your partner is very lucky. The bullet was lodged where the skull meets the spine—barely missed his brain. Just half a centimeter closer and we don't know what kind of permanent damage he might have sustained.”

“So... so he'll be just fine?” Taki's eyes have gone wide, but he doesn't want to hope for the best quite yet; something about the doctor's attitude is disconcerting.

He's being too... too apologetic.

Taki's fears are confirmed when the man casts his eyes toward the ground. “Well...”

“Doctor?” The young snatcher can feel his heart freezing in his chest.

The doctor sighs, then looks Taki in the eyes again. “How familiar are you with the practice of medicine?”

Taki shakes his head. “Only from what I've read... I never really went to school for very long.”

The doctor is nodding; he appears unsurprised. “All right, then, I'll try to give this to you in the plainest language I can.” He pauses, then continues in a very business-like manner, “The path of the bullet caused what's called an aneurysm—a swollen blood vessel—that put immense pressure on a certain part of his spine. We found the aneurysm when we went in to remove the bullet. We had two choices; we could have waited to see if the swelling would go down naturally, or we could operate immediately. If the swelling did not go down or if it increased, it could potentially endanger his life. Since his condition was already critical, it was decided that operating immediately was the better option. However, there are possible... complications, as there with almost any surgery.”

“Complications?” Taki swallows, takes a breath, then tentatively asks, “He's not... going to be paralyzed, is he?”

“No, no, nothing quite that dramatic, you can rest assured.” The doctor waves his arms in a 'no' gesture to emphasize his words. “However, the part of the spine that was affected—the small area that withstood the most risk of damage in the surgery is an important part of the path that nerve signals take from the brain to the arms and hands. Although we had some of our most skilled neurosurgeons performing the operation and we all did the best we could, the chance is high that there may have been permanent damage.”

Taki has to take a moment to take it all in. “With his arms and hands?”

“Yes.” The business-like tone has again been replaced by the apologetic one.

When he doesn't say anything else, Taki asks, “How sure are you?”

“We can't be certain until he wakes up and the anesthesia and other painkillers fully wear off, but the chance of some form of damage being sustained is quite large.” There's a painful, almost guilty look in the doctor's eyes, and Taki would feel sorry for him if he wasn't in such distress himself. “I'm sorry. We really did the best we could.”

“I know you did. He's alive, right?” Taki knows his smile looks forced, even from the outside, but he tries anyway. “Thank you, doctor.”

The doctor does not respond to the thank-you; perhaps he feels that gratitude is not in order. “Now, the only remaining question is who should tell the patient. Since I know that we surgeons can be perceived as cold and impersonal, we always give the person closest to them the option of being the one to break the difficult news. However, if you feel that it would simply be easier for me to do so, I will gladly do the telling.”

Taki takes a breath—a moment to consider whether he's up to the task—but it soon occurs to him that this isn't about him or his own fears and insecurities; this is about Goh's needs. “I'll do it. I'll tell Goh.”

The man simply nods, pats him on the back again, and turns to walk away. “All right. Thank you. I'll be back to check on you both later. Get some rest.”

***

Beep. Beep beep. Beep. Beep beep.

Four hours of sitting and waiting at Goh's bedside and he can't believe he hasn't managed to tune out the noise yet. It just seems to be growing more obnoxious by the hour, every hour that Goh still hasn't woken up.

Finally, there's a stir on the hospital bed, but Taki is so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn't even realize it until Goh speaks up.

“I can't believe you haven't busted me out of here yet, Taki. Isn't it about time for a jailbreak?” His voice sounds light and strained, like he's fighting through a fog in order to be able to speak.

Sitting up and taking Goh's hand in his, Taki smiles in spite of himself. “Not this time, Goh.”

“What, don't you get sick of seeing the insides of hospitals all the time?” His tone is typical Goh, that easy-going, half-joking lilt of his, but the accompanying smile doesn't make it all the way.

“I get sick of you being reckless and making me worry,” Taki snaps suddenly, his voice and eyes betraying the pain he is feeling inside; then, realizing what he just said, he sighs, takes a breath, and start over. “Sorry. I didn't mean that. I'm really just glad you're okay.”

Goh manages about half a frown before giving up, but the serious look in his eyes says it all. “That sad expression you have is making me wonder whether I should be asking how much longer I have to live. You're scaring me, Taki.”

Taki tries for a comforting smile, knowing full well that he can't hide the sadness in his eyes. “Don't be scared. You'll live.”

“But.” Goh makes it a statement, not a question.

Taki closes his eyes and shakes his head, Goh's hand still clasped in his own.

“Damnit, Taki, you're not telling me something!” Goh is truly scowling now, and Taki can't imagine how much effort that must take him.

Taki pleads, “Not yet, Goh. Not yet.”

“Shit! I can't feel my body! Taki, I can't—” Goh's thin voice sounds panicked—frantic, almost.

Taki reassures him with a kiss on the forehead. “The anesthesia hasn't worn off yet, that's all. You'll be fine. Just go back to sleep.”

He continues to caress Goh's face, and gradually, the other begins to relax.

“When I wake up, will you tell me what's going on? And we'll talk?” Goh's voice almost sounds childlike, as though he's asking a parent to keep watch over him so the monsters won't get him while he's sleeping.

Nuzzling the side of Goh's face with his own, Taki forces another smile. “Yeah, we'll talk. When you wake up. Now sleep. I'll be right here beside you.”

As if to demonstrate, he rests his head on the mattress by Goh's shoulder, wrapping both of his arms around Goh's as a gesture of reassurance.

A soft whisper permeates the air: “I love you.”

There is no interruption in the steady rise and fall of Goh's chest.

Taki chuckles lightly. “You didn't hear that, did you?”

He smiles to himself. It's okay, he thinks. The most important thing is that I know it.

***

“The flowers are from Mimi. Kanji made the card. He said he doesn’t believe in store-bought gifts so he insisted on making something himself.”

Tsunuga is watching him carefully as Taki grins feebly in response. The latter tries his best to appear composed and grateful, but he is becoming increasingly aware of how thin his façade is as the older man continues to gaze at him with those searching eyes.

Tsunuga hasn’t let go of his shoulder since they left the room together. “I talked to the doctor.”

“And?” Taki pauses and sighs, no longer pretending that everything is fine. “He told you about the... 'complications'?”

Tsunuga’s grim expression alone is a sufficient reply, but the former café owner answers anyway. “Yeah, he did. Have you had any confirmation yet?”

“No. The anesthesia and the drugs haven't worn off. He woke up briefly, but he went back to sleep.” Taki finds himself spacing out a little as he speaks in an effort not to let his emotions take over.

The old man is still scrutinizing every nuance of his expression. “And you didn't tell him?”

Taki casts his eyes downward and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

There’s a brief pause in the conversation. Tsunuga blinks as he tries to discern what Taki is thinking; light confusion is written all over his face.

“Are you waiting for the doctor to tell him?” he asks tentatively. “Would you like me to tell him?”

“No, no, I think I should be the one to tell him.” Taki shakes his head again but seems to waver a little, then declares with more resolve, “I have to tell him.”

Tsunuga does not hesitate to point out, “But you're stalling.”

Taking a deep breath as he grabs his head, the younger man pleads, “I just need time. I need time, too. Time to find my strength. I want to be strong. For the both of us. Especially if the worst-case scenario does come to pass.”

Taki isn’t pleading with Tsunuga as much as with himself and with everyone in general. Despite being acutely aware of his own shortcomings and the limits to his own endurance, he feels an immense pressure to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders now that Goh is disabled, and Tsunuga, too, is probably aware that he still hasn’t changed all that much in the past three years.

“Well, all right, then. Take it easy, Taki. Don't push yourself too hard. Goh is strong too, you know.” Tsunuga pauses and smiles reassuringly, finally letting go of Taki’s shoulder as he turns to leave. “Come and see me when you need to talk.”

For the first time, a little bit of the smile reaches Taki’s eyes; a few well-placed and not sickeningly sympathetic words of kindness will do that. “I will. Thank you, Tsunuga.”

***

“I was looking at you, you know.”

Taki didn’t realize he was dozing until he discovers that Goh’s soft voice is not a part of the dream he was having. A quick glance reveals that it’s pitch-black outside and quiet in the halls. Last he remembered, it was just nearing the end of visiting hours. He must have finally managed to tune out the fucking beeps.

Sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he murmurs, “Mmm? What?”

“I was watching you. That's why I hesitated. I was remembering the way you smelled earlier that night, the way you tasted of tobacco, and I was just a second too slow.” Goh stares at the ceiling expressionlessly while he talks. “For a split second, I think I knew I'd been shot. And all I can remember thinking is that it wasn't the worst way to go, if you were the last thing I'd ever see.”

He’s never known how to react when Goh suddenly becomes serious, so he makes a half-hearted attempt to joke it off. “Are you saying it's my fault for distracting you?”

Goh shakes his head, then painfully slowly turns it in his direction. “No, I'm just trying to show you how much I love you.”

“Idiot.” Taki’s voice is caught in his throat as he walks over on shaky legs.

He doesn’t know what else to say. He was always the more sentimental one of the two of them, and this tone that Goh’s voice has right now is not one he’s used to dealing with. He guesses that Goh must be beginning to relive the incident at the Blue Carbuncle, and he realizes that he can’t possibly relate. Goh had thought he had died; what the Hell do you say to something like that?

“How did we get out of there?” Goh breaks the silence, and Taki’s guess is proven correct.

Taki turns away. His pacing finally brings him to the window. There are flowers and cards and baskets of fruit on the sill. He gazes outside because he can’t bear to look at Goh while he’s talking. It’s hard enough to find the words, and to keep going.

His voice is so distorted by choked-up emotion that he almost doesn’t recognize it himself. “I took down the thug with the gun. Kept the other pointed at the door to keep any others from entering. I thought about trying to escape with you but there was... there was too much blood coming out of your head. Shit, Goh, there was so much blood.” He has to pause, close his eyes to shut out the memory, and take a deep breath before he can continue. “I didn't have to wait long. Before I even had a chance to call Hatozaki, the cops busted the place. Turns out Hatozaki's attempt to delay the raid failed. Their own team was working hard on the clues, just as we were, and it didn't take much longer for one of them to figure out where the drugs might be. Then the alarm system at the lounge's back door alerted the station as soon as we broke in. I turned off the power source but it didn't matter—the distress signal had already been transmitted. Once the team heard that the location of the drugs had just been broken into, Hatozaki couldn't stop them; because they were dealing with a case of an undercover cop, one of their own, they came in for the bust immediately. They didn't even wait for the warrant. Thankfully, Hatozaki was worried that shit was going to go down, so he came on the bust himself and had the foresight to have an ambulance on standby.” His voice finally breaks. “…lucky. We got fucking lucky.”

Taki leans his forehead against the window, hoping that the cool glass will distract him—prevent him from reliving the entire scene in his mind.

“I'm sorry.” Goh’s voice sounds precariously hoarse, too. “For making you worry.”

Taki moves back to his bedside, clasping Goh’s left hand in his own. Their fingers quickly intertwine. A shock races up Taki's spine as he realizes the implications of that action. Maybe there is no cause for worry after all...? Maybe I don't have any bad news to break? Trying to hide a sigh of relief at the sensation of warmth and motion in Goh's fingers as they rub lovingly against his own, he feels the tension drain out of his body at last.

Taki leans in and smiles down at his lover, his face tender and his eyes still vaguely sleep-fogged. Goh, too, looks slumberous, as he begins for the first time to emerge fully from his drug-induced sleep.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly as he brushes a few loose strands of hair out of Goh’s face with his other hand.

Goh smiles lazily, his expression not so different from when they lie together, basking in the afterglow of great sex. “Pretty good, actually. Surprisingly good. I'm really not dying, am I?”

Taki smiles back, grasping Goh’s hand in both of his own and lifting it up to his cheek. “No, you're not.”

They share a look, a moment of quite love and understanding. Taki nuzzles Goh’s left hand. He smells a bit like hospital, like sterilized needles and morphine drips and starched white sheets, but underneath that, he’s still the same old Goh. The faint scent of cigarettes and beer and oil to grease locks with seems to have become ingrained in the very fibers of his skin.

Goh tries to reach up to caress Taki’s face with his right hand, and the tender look in his eyes is suddenly replaced by fear. “...Taki?”

It takes the other a second to notice the change. “Hmm? What's wrong?”

“Taki?” Goh’s voice sounds panicked, and he’s starting to breathe a little too fast. “Taki, I can't—”

“What?” Searching his boyfriend’s face, Taki still can’t place what suddenly has him so frazzled.

The normally-easygoing Goh is verging on hyperventilation; it takes him a second to form a coherent sentence.

Finally, he manages to choke out, “I can't move my right arm. I can’t even feel my fingers. Taki?!”

Shit.

When it finally dawns on Taki, his expression break, and he starts to sob. “Goh... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Goh.”

***

There are no polite greetings exchanged this time. They simply stare at Goh, sleeping in his hospital bed, through the large glass windowpanes separating the room from the hallway, until Taki chooses to break the silence.

“I take it you heard the news about his arm?” He’s becoming callous to sympathetic words, and it reflects in the slightly cold, detached tone of his voice.

Hatozaki nods briefly. “I did. I'm very sorry. My apologies to the both of you.” He pauses, then asks cautiously, “How did he take it?”

Taki sighs, shrugs. “After the initial shock... fairly well. But I don't think he's really given much thought to what this is really going to mean. For him. For us.”

“You mean...?” The detective’s demeanor is calm, but there is true puzzlement reflected in his eyes.

“Goh is right-handed. He's pretty agile with both arms, but his true deftness is still in the fingers of his right hand,” Taki explains, his eyes never leaving the patient on the other side of the glass. “To some extent, rehabilitation is possible, but it’ll take a while, and it’ll never be as good as it was before. He'll never pick locks again.”

“...Oh.” Hatozaki’s face is unreasonable, betraying nothing of what he is thinking.

Cops, doctors, even café owners—for a split second, Taki wonders if they all take the same crash course in blank expressions and poker faces. Would they teach him how they do it? These days, he can’t seem to keep his own façade from crumbling, but he wants to be strong for Goh.

Eyes downcast to hide the traces of lingering tears, he concludes, “Sorry, Hatozaki, but it looks like we're going to have to give up the snatching business.”

***

“The doctor says I'll probably be discharged on Tuesday.”

Goh is sitting up in bed. Although he’s only been allowed out in order to walk to the bathroom to relieve himself, he looks quite animated. When Kanji had visited earlier that day, he’d teased the boy in his usual manner. The playful, easygoing Goh is back—almost as if he’d never left. As if nothing had happened, nothing had changed.

Engrossed in the newspaper, Taki is working hard at pretending not to notice or be affected by the change in his partner. “Oh yeah?”

“About fucking time, I say.” Goh whacks the side of the plastic bowl of soup with his spoon for emphasis like a petulant child.

“Mmmm.” Taki still tries not to give in to his pseudo temper tantrum.

Goh just continues to babble like he’s making up for lost time. “You'll cook for me, won't you, Taki? A true 'welcome home' meal. I'm so sick of this hospital slop.”

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Taki gives in and plays along. “And I suppose you'd like meat.”

“Yup! You know me.” Goh is grinning from ear to ear.

You’d never know he’s partially disabled.

“So I'm supposed to cook you meat even though I hate it?” Taki rolls his eyes again, feigning indignation.

Goh takes offense at Taki’s supposed insouciance. “Hey, I'm the patient, you know? You're supposed to be nice to me, since I'm still pretty fragile and all.”

They’re spending their time arguing about the small things because sometimes, anything is better than having to discuss the Big Things, the ones that really matter, that change lives and relationships, for better or for worse. Their banter may be pointless, but it’s safe and comfortable.

Taki never lifts his eyes from the newspaper in his hands. “Fragile, huh? So I guess that means no cigarettes, no booze, no sex...”

“Hey! I'm not that fragile! I'm pretty tough, you know.” Goh scowls darkly, as though contorting his facial muscles to their limits is a legitimate display of physical prowess.

Taki is not impressed. “You're so full of it.”

Goh turns his back to his lover and pretends to pout.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, when Taki sighs, stands up, and tosses away the paper in frustration. “...You know, we can't avoid the topic forever, Goh.”

“What are you talking about?” Goh’s stopped pouting, although he still won’t meet Taki’s gaze directly.

Taki perches on the side of the bed, forcing Goh to meet his eyes. “About your arm.”

“What about my arm? It's fine. I'm being discharged on Tuesday, remember?” Goh always has been better at pretending everything’s okay when it’s not, but over the years, Taki has learned to see through the easy, casual smiles and cheerful attitude.

He shakes his head and frowns. “Goh, we need to be serious here.”

“I am being serious! I'm fine!” the other continues to argue.

Taki finally snaps, raising his voice more than he’d intended. “But you can't ever pick locks or be a snatcher again! You know that as well as I do.”

He’s certainly hit the nail on the head. Goh looks away, but the change in his expression is obvious. They’re no longer playing pretend. There’s real pain reflected in the set of his features.

Taki takes Goh’s hand in his and softly pleads, “Goh, we need to talk about it.”

“Fine, then talk!” Goh yells, exasperated.

“Fine!” Taki snaps back, then takes a breath and starts again, realizing that that’s not the tone he means to take. “Well. I just want you to know... we're partners, you know? So if you have to quit the business, then I quit too, all right? No going solo, no finding other partners, nothing. We're in this together, Goh.”

He leans in to kiss the other, but Goh still won’t look his way, so he settles for a kiss on the cheek. Goh takes a minute to respond.

“Thank you, Taki. That's good to know.” His voice sounds calm, but his expression is difficult to read.

Taki hopes that this is a sign that he can finally say what needs to be said. “But we have to find something else to do. That's the reality. We can't ignore it.”

Goh is shaking his head. “We'll find something when the time comes.”

Losing his patience, Taki is still determined that they’re not going to avoid the conversation this time. “Goh, no, we have to—”

“—No, Taki, we don't have to.” The force in his voice as he snaps his head back in the other’s direction takes Taki by surprise. “Or rather, I can't. Not yet. Don't you understand? When the time comes, we'll deal with it. But not right now.”

Goh no longer averts his eyes, and for the first time, Taki can see the raw pain he’s been hiding there. He’d simply thought that Goh is being immature, too wrapped up in the concerns of the present to give too much consideration to those of the future, but he now realizes that he’s been ripping at a wound that still hasn’t had a chance to heal. By forcing the issue, he’s only been causing his lover more pain.

He swallows once, twice, and looks away. “Fine then.”

They settle into a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Taki slides off the bed, picks the newspaper up off the floor, sits back down in the chair he’d occupied prior to their argument, and resumes reading. Goh is staring at the ceiling.

Goh is the one who finally breaks the silence. “...Did you really mean that? About being in this together and all.”

Taki is startled. He’d never expected Goh to bring up the topic again on his own.

“I did,” he answers carefully, trying to coax Goh to continue the conversation.

Goh only responds with, “Okay.”

“All right,” Taki says, wondering if Goh has anything else to add.

But Goh is silent and remains that way for most of the rest of the day.

***

They don’t bother with greetings when Tsunuga opens the door to his small townhouse. The older man simply nods and moves out of the way to let Taki inside.

“I’m glad you came,” Tsunuga remarks as Taki removes his shoes. “You look like you needed to get out of that hospital.”

Tsunuga disappears into the kitchen, leaving the younger man to make his way to the living room on his own. As he takes a seat on the sofa and settles into the cushions, the familiar aroma of home-brewed coffee and the clink of porcelain cups are as familiar to Taki as the back of his own hand.

***

It had taken a few months after Taki and Goh’s return from their honeymoon for both Taki and Tsunuga to agree to see each other. Neither of them knew exactly how to resume their relationship. Having had guns pointed at each other’s heads had put them in a fairly awkward position in regard to one another. Spending some time apart had helped, but starting again was never easy.

Tsunuga, arguably the more remorseful of the two, had finally been the one to take the initiative. Through Mimi, he’d sent Taki a message inviting him over for coffee. Just coffee.

The conversation had been strained at first, as was to be expected. But both of them did feel like it was necessary to make the attempt, and when Taki finished his second mug and apologized for having to leave, Tsunuga had promptly invited him to come visit again next weekend. Just for coffee. Taki had gratefully accepted.

Over time, conversation grew easier and more relaxed. Taki was finally able to relate to Tsunuga the entire tale of his childhood encounter with his daughter, and Tsunuga was finally able to learn some of the answers he’d been searching for for so long. When that tale was exhausted, Tsunuga began to speak of his daughter, about his brief time with her and his fears and apprehensions for her future. Taki, in turn, began to reveal some of his thoughts about his relationship with Goh.

In doing so, the old man found in Taki the son he’d never had, and Taki found in Tsunuga a true friend and confidante. Taki was probably the most changed by their weekly coffee dates. Having previously never been one to talk about his personal affairs and emotions, for the first time in his life, he was learning how to express his feelings, especially those for Goh.

***

“So, how is he?” Tsunuga asks when he returns, a tray of coffee and pastries in his hands. “And how are you?”

He sits down in the chair opposite Taki’s—his usual seat.

“I don't know. I really don't know.” Shaking his head, even Taki himself isn’t sure which question he is responding to. “I'm supposed to be the one who knows him best, but I can't tell what's going on in his mind right now—damn it.”

Tsunuga calmly tries to rationalize the situation as he doles out the cups of coffee and treats. “He's had a couple of major shocks. I think it's not too surprising. Anyone's going to have a hard time relating to exactly what he's going through.”

Taki takes a few sips but finds himself too agitated to distract himself with the drink. “But he won't really talk to me, damn it. And this is Goh we're talking about. He's never really been the one to keep things bottled up inside. If something's really bothering him, he'll come right out and say it. That's one of the things I admired in him. But it's like... he has this dark look in his eyes, and all his smiles seem strained, and he won't have a serious conversation with me. And I don't know what's going on inside his head.”

Continue to Part II.

[UPDATE] Quick Recap & What's Still to Come

2006-12-25T12:19:24Z

Here's a quick recap of my mini-flood of Christmas gift fics, for those of you too lazy to scroll down and read through all the descriptions:

"Part of His World", Viewfinder, Asami/Akihito, NC-17, for kuchren.
"Fire Point", Air Gear, Sano/Kazu, PG-13, for peroxidepest17.
"Three's Company", Kyou Kara Maou, Dan Hiri/Cheri & Conrad/Yuuri, PG, for timberrick.
"Living to Embrace the Sky", Gensou Suikoden I, Flik/Odessa, G, for karthur.
"Two Truths and a Lie", Gensou Suikoden IV, Millay & Hervey/Lazlo, PG-13, for kaluin.

And here's what's still to come:

Unfinished Bleach gift fic for susako, hopefully within the next day or so at most.
Potential other gift fics for people on my flist at pyrefly -- I felt bad about only writing for six people, and I had ideas for fics for quite a few others, but I ran out of time to write them. Also doesn't help that I'm kind of unhappy with my own writing at the moment. Maybe if I can be inspired, I'll write some of these in the next few days. But if they're not here within the next two weeks, I've probably given up.
Porn I owe peroxidepest17 for her finishing her gift fics before I finished mine. Yay porn!
My yuletide fic, which is up at the archive, but I can't reveal myself as the author until January 1st, at which time I'll post it here.
My as-yet-unstarted suikosantaredux fic, which will hopefully be posted within the next week as well.

That certainly ought to keep me busy for another while. *g*

[FIC] Gensou Suikoden IV: "Two Truths and a Lie" (Millay, Hervey/Lazlo)

2006-12-25T12:02:29Z

Title: Two Truths and a Lie

Fandom: Gensou Suikoden IV

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Millay, Ameria, Lo Fong, Pecola, Gretchen, Helga, Snowe, hinted at Hervey/Lazlo, mentions of Mitsuba, Basil, Gunter, Tov, Lino en Kuldes, Elenor Silverberg

Dedication: kaluin~ Christmas gift fic request! Thanks for being so patient with me when I never seem to have time for anything and am always freaking out.

Prompt: “Few would agree with that assessment.”

Description: Millay returns from a mission to find that the rumor mill aboard the Dauntless has picked up some interesting tidbits of news.

Rating: PG-13 for insinuations of m/m sex

Word Count: 1,716. I fail. Again.

Status: Complete. I don’t think I could stretch this out any further if my life depended on it.

Other Notes: LOL this is probably the most retarded fic I have ever written. I’m sorry Chou—I felt like going for the SeiSub request would be a cop-out, so I attempted to be brave by tackling this one, but I’ll admit I still don’t really get it. I have to credit shusu for the idea of using gossip to cheat my way out of actually having to write Hervey and Lazlo. 8D; I phail, as usual.

Millay had just started on her afternoon inspections when she suddenly got the unexplainable feeling that something was different. Something about the crew of the Dauntless had changed markedly in the week she had been away on a reconnaissance mission in Kooluk. Whereas normally, people went about their business quite independently, now, she found them huddled in little groups, whispering amongst themselves until she stared at them a little longer than was necessary, and they sent each other furtive glances and dispersed.

At first, she thought that they were talking about her. It didn’t bother her—people had always talked, and they always would. Her only real concern was that their gossip might harm those she held dearest, but she held the crew of the Dauntless in high esteem and therefore refused to attribute them such baseness.

Yet when she reached the third deck, she began to have her doubts. Women she had never spoken to except in passing seemed to be responsible for instigating some of the secretive discussions, and she found it hard to imagine that she could have somehow offended them enough to merit this manner of treatment. And so, curiosity having gotten the better of her, she approached a group of girls, among whom she recognized only Lo Fong and Ameria, and attempted to join in the conversation.

They fell silent the instant she stepped into their circle, but she simply smiled pleasantly and told them to keep talking. Millay had never been overly feminine, at least in terms of attitude, and she despised gossip, but she realized that, every now and then, it was the best way of finding out what was going on, even if the news was slightly embellished or misinterpreted. When she managed to put the women at ease by suggesting with her stance that she was there only as a girl and not one of the army commanders, they grew more comfortable in her presence and resumed their discussion.

They spoke first of more ordinary matters—how Basil had been caught trying to cheat at Gunter’s dice game, how Helga had incurred Tov’s wrath by accidentally smashing through another wall, and how King Lino had had a little too much of Lady Elenor’s wine and had been heard singing in his cabin all night long. However, Millay astutely noted that these could hardly have roused such an increase in gossip—certainly not enough to merit the mysterious conclaves in the long corridors of the ship.

Finally, one of the girls piped up, “You and Sir Lucas are fairly close, right, Miss Millay?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say—” Millay stammered, taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I mean, I have made it my duty to watch over him, but I doubt that he thinks of me as any more than a faithful follower.”

“You don’t know anything else about his recent activities, then?” Lo Fong asked cheekily.

Millay blinked. “Pardon?”

“You hadn’t heard?” Ameria asked. “People have been keeping an eye on Sir Lucas, as he’s been behaving a bit oddly lately. A few nights ago, Mitsuba was sparring on the main deck when she saw Sir Lucas sneaking out of his sleeping quarters and onto the pirate ship. Not that there is anything wrong with that persé, but the fact that he saw fit to sneak onto a ship that belongs to him was rather suspicious. Mitsuba was right to tell the rest of us immediately.”

Another woman chimed in, “Ever since then, people have noticed that they’ve been in each other’s company an awful lot lately, Sir Hervey and Sir Lucas.”

“So he’s become friends with that pirate.” Millay shrugged; she wasn’t fond of pirates herself, but she didn’t think she was in a position to judge Sir Lucas. “Why is this such a grave concern?”

But the women all shook their heads. Few would agree with that assessment.

“Well, Miss Millay, t-there’s reason to believe that they aren’t just friends. I don’t know the details, but Miss Pecola might be able to tell you,” one of the other girls stuttered shyly.

Concerned that gossip might be tarnishing Sir Lucas’ good name, Millay excused herself and strolled over to Pecola’s group. From their gestures and hand motions, it seemed obvious that their conversation had nothing to do with interior design. Sure enough, when she was but a few feet away, her ears caught the words “Hervey” and “Sir Lucas” being repeated frantically in hushed tones.

“Good day, ladies,” she greeted as she entered their circle. “Anything newsworthy?”

A few of the women looked her up and down a few times, but as she had probably been seen chatting with Lo Fong and Ameria, they were a lot less suspicious of her than the first group.

“Have you heard Miss Pecola’s story?” a girl whispered.

When Millay shook her head, Pecola gave a small, smug smile and spoke. “Well, it isn’t much of a story, but two days ago I took it upon myself to inspect the feng shui in Sir Lucas’ quarters. Mr. Tov let me in while Sir Lucas was doing his rounds, so I wasn’t trespassing or doing anything illegal. In any case, Sir Lucas is usually very neat and tidy, yes?”

She paused, and all of the girls, including Millay, nodded in agreement. Sir Lucas was one of the tidiest men any of them had encountered.

“Well, the room was a mess,” Pecola continued dramatically. “The bed wasn’t made, the sheets were tangled, and there were clothes all about the floor. And I think some of the garments looked an awful lot like pirate garb. Though, it was fairly dark and I can’t be positive.”

The women gasped and “ooohed” and “aaahed”, even though Millay guessed that this wasn’t the first time any of them had heard the story.

An older woman mumbled, “That Sir Lucas—always so tacit and stoic! I wouldn’t have thought him capable of such wild and unbridled passion.”

“It’s so regrettable that the most handsome and eligible bachelors always have other inclinations,” another added.

Millay sighed to herself and, after enduring a few more minutes of their idle banter, she wandered off by herself.

She wasn’t too concerned about their speculations. At any rate, she knew it wasn’t her place to interfere in Sir Lucas’ private matters, although if their insinuations proved to be correct, she wished that he had a little more discretion with regard to his personal affairs. Gossip, when widespread enough, did have the power to undermine authority, and she did not want to see Sir Lucas lose control of his following because he was a little too open in his frolicking with a certain pirate.

And thus, Millay patrolled the Dauntless with her ears perked, picking up what tidbits of gossip she could to try to form a clearer picture of the situation in her mind. She resolved to find the truth behind the rumors, and to take it upon herself to set the record straight, if necessary, in defense of her liege’s honor. She’d even try to confront Sir Lucas about it herself if that was what it would take.

When she finally made her way back to the first deck corridor, even Gretchen and Helga hesitated before meeting her eyes.

“Sir Lucas, right?” Millay sighed. “What did you two notice?”

“Not too much,” Gretchen answered. “More traffic at his doorway at night, but nothing too suspicious. He opens the door for them himself, so it isn’t our business to detain his visitors. But then, last night, we heard a lot of, well, unexplainable thuds and thumping noises. They continued almost all night long.”

Helga was blushing. “I’m telling you, Miss Millay, those thuds had nothing to do with me. I kept my fists to myself, I did, but some of the others won’t believe me.”

Millay smiled, thanked the ladies for their dedication to keeping the watch while she was absent, and told them that she would take over for them in a few minutes. She had only one stop left to make.

Hand poised in a fist just inches away from Lucas’ door, Millay hesitated before knocking. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was prying in the personal affairs of someone far superior to her, but it was also because she cared that she felt she had to do this.

However, before her hand had a chance to strike the door, it was wrenched backward, and a pale-faced Snowe only narrowly avoided a collision with her outstretched fist. Stepping back out into the hallway, she quickly muttered profuse apologies, while Snowe stumbled down the steps, visibly shaken up. Millay quickly guessed what had transpired.

“Well, that is what you get for entering a room without knocking first.” Millay shook her head and patted Snowe on the back as she pushed the white-faced boy in the direction of the bar.

“I think I want to go back to Razril,” she heard Snowe whine as he disappeared down the stairs.

Millay returned to join Gretchen and Helga at their post. She had changed her mind about intruding on the captain’s quarters and confronting Sir Lucas about his recent activities. Whether her suspicions were true or false, she realized that there were some things that she would just rather not confirm.

“In your return for your promise to keep what you told me earlier to yourselves, would you care to hear a secret, ladies?” She smiled slyly. “I do trust you two, after all.”

“Of course!” Gretchen and Helga intoned.

Millay winked. “I think I rather fancy Sir Lucas.”

The rumor mill did its job, and by the following day, the news had spread everywhere. This time, when Millay went about her inspections, she knew they were talking about her, but she considered it a worthy sacrifice. She knew that, all of a sudden, she was being criticized for how little she wore and how open she was with her emotions, but she could endure that kind of talk moreso than she could endure gossip about Sir Lucas. Her reputation was worth a lot less.

However, that did not stop her from making a mental note that when she did manage to get Hervey alone, she would give him an earful.

</div>

[FIC] Gensou Suikoden I: "Living to Embrace the Sky" (Flik/Odessa)

2006-12-25T11:46:32Z

Title: Living to Embrace the Sky

Fandom: Gensou Suikoden I

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Flik/Odessa, guest appearance by Viktor

Dedication: karthur~ Christmas gift fic request! And thanks again for organizing suikosantaredux!

Prompt: “Let’s get out of these sewers for a change.”

Description: Flik finds that it isn’t easy to court the leader of the Liberation Army.

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,960

Status: Complete, with quick edits.

Other Notes: This is really a fic about nothing and pretty bland, but at least it’s cute? I hope. Still, you deserve so much better, K! I was sick of writing descriptive/poetic prose and am trying to bring my fics to life with more actual action, but somehow I couldn’t get anything to come out sounding the way I want it to. I also never immersed myself quite as much in this canon as I should’ve, so I really just BSed my way through the army stuff. I hope you’ll forgive me!

“Please, Flik, not now,” Odessa groaned as Flik nuzzled her neck from behind. “I need to document our progress in my logbook and then we need to inspect the weapons and send a few runners out to gather provisions. I heard the storerooms are running on empty. Can’t you at least make yourself useful?”

Flik removed his hand from her shoulder and took a step back. Realizing what sort of tone she had just taken with him, Odessa blushed and turned around to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I did not mean to snap at you.”

Flik softly kissed the top of her head. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Odessa closed her eyes and smiled. “Come and find me tomorrow afternoon, after the council of the unit leaders. Then we can spend some time alone together. I promise.”

Flik nodded and left the chamber. The turnout was admittedly rather disappointing, especially since he’d had to wait five days just to be able to find Odessa alone. He knew he couldn’t blame her, however—everything she did, she did for the sake of others, with little regard for her own needs. He’d never asked her, and never would, which came first—him or the Liberation Army. He accepted without question that demanding that Odessa give up her cause would be like asking her to stop breathing. Yet even knowing that did not make it any easier to court the leader of the Liberation Army.

He returned to the troops’ main assembling area, where the perpetual hustle and bustle of army life served as at least a temporary distraction from his troubles. The day having given way to evening a couple of hours earlier, a few of the soldiers had nodded off—though none of them had a very accurate sense of time, given that it was always dark in the sewers. Most, however, were still up and about, sharpening their weapons or quietly discussing the day’s labor in a corner. He strolled around the room, making idle banter and exercising his duty as one of the commanding officers to keep the morale up.

Some of the men were antsy. They had had to suspend their activities for a few days while all of the unit leaders gathered in Lenankamp to discuss strategy for the coming months. Tomorrow, the grand council would take place—but Flik found himself thinking more of his promised rendezvous with Odessa afterwards. It had simply been too long since they had had any time alone together.

He found Viktor by the makeshift bar, which was really no more than a plank of wood resting on two large barrels, behind which designated soldiers took turns rationing out the evening’s allowance of drink; except when celebrating victories, Odessa had strict rules about the amount of alcohol that she allowed to be served. The ale was stale and rather tasteless, but most of the men agreed that anything was better than nothing.

“I thought you were going to meet your princess for a liaison,” Viktor remarked crudely as Flik took a seat on a barrel beside him.

Flik shrugged and sighed. “Not tonight.”

Viktor took one look at his friend’s face and knew better than to ask. He simply waved at the man behind the bar to supply Flik with a tankard of ale. The soldier complied, and soon, Flik, too, stared off into space as he sipped at his drink in silence.

A few times, Viktor started to say something, but in the end, he opted to keep his mouth shut. Though a few might perceive him as dim-witted, he had a pretty damn good idea what was troubling his best friend, and since there was nothing that he could say to make it better, he didn’t try. In this case, his reticence was his way of showing he cared, and he knew that Flik would understand that.

“Well, we’d better turn in early,” he said in his usual gruff manner. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Right.” Flik stood up, straightened, and gave Viktor a pat on the back before heading off. “Thanks for being a good friend.”

***

The council convened at dawn the next morning. Several of the men were still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes when they sat down on the floor of the large stone chamber. None of them were thrilled about the early hour, but some of the units had to return to their stations by nightfall, which meant they had to be done by the early afternoon.

There weren’t many of them. Many of the units numbered only a handful of men, although the Liberation Army did pride itself on having a unit stationed in almost every major town and city, even if they did not accomplish much. They mostly occupied their time gathering intelligence for when the main force had grown enough and gained enough momentum to initiate a cohesive movement.

Still, Odessa wasn’t willing to wait a lifetime for the right moment, and as the years of their labors dragged on, it began to seem as though that was what it might take—a lifetime. And so she had called upon the council to discuss a new strategy for the coming months. Among them, she planned to advance the idea to hold a few more skirmishes in the outlying areas to make it appear like the movement was larger and more widespread than it truly was. However, as a leader who favored democracy whenever it was plausible, she intended to open the issue to discussion and debate.

They talked for two hours, reviewing their progress since they had last convened and outlining their agenda for the rest of the conclave. They then broke for breakfast, reassembling afterward, everyone instinctively gravitating toward the same seats.

Flik sat to Odessa’s right, with Viktor on his other side. They both hated these functions, preferring the simple forwardness of battle to the endless bickering of politics and agendas. A sword could settle things so much faster than words could, even if it wasn’t always the most ethical solution. But Odessa believed in the most ethical solution, and Flik believed in Odessa, and so he found himself here, offering what support he could.

As the deliberations dragged on, he could tell that Odessa was growing weary. In theory, her role was only as mediator of the discussions, but in reality, she often found herself having to defend her proposals in a debate. She bore it all with a smile, of course, but no one’s strength was limitless, and Flik was the one who knew best just how little sleep she had been getting in the days leading up to the council.

Reaching over, he gently squeezed her hand. Furtively, of course—wouldn’t want to make a scene or suggest that the leader of the Liberation Army was feeling a little weak around the edges.

He simply casually leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Think of how blue the sky is outside right now.”

It didn’t mean anything in particular; it wasn’t a phrase of personal significance. It was simply a reminder that there was a world beyond these chambers, a bright and wonderful world. The image was plain yet dazzling in its lack of artificiality and constraints—the perfect diversion from the here-and-now, with the endless yapping of men whose voices seemed to be getting more monotone by the minute. Odessa smiled back at him gratefully, indicating that she understood his meaning.

When finally deliberations ended and the council adjourned, most of Odessa’s proposals having passed the approval of the assembled unit leaders, though with several modifications and additions, the participants literally stumbled out of the room. Sitting on the stone floor for hours had caused many feet to fall asleep and legs to go numb. Many hurried off to relieve themselves, others to prepare for departure.

Like a true soldier, Flik helped Odessa to her feet. Normally, she would have refused his help—being perceived as frail would be devastating for an army commander—but today she seemed eager to accept his aid. This, combined with the wilting smile, was cause for worry.

He followed behind her silently as she returned to her chamber, trying not to seem pushy but also unwilling to give up quite yet. When she became aware of his presence in the doorway, she turned briefly and nodded at him.

“Fret not, I didn’t forget my promise,” she explained as she turned back around to set some papers back on her desk. “Just give me half an hour to change and freshen up a bit, and I’ll meet you by the southwest exit.”

With that, she shooed him off, a bit of her youth showing through in her sudden desire for privacy. Flik shook his head, smiled to himself, and wandered off, passing the time by chatting with the troops until he headed off for the exit.

Odessa did not keep him waiting for long. Still visibly tired, she smelled faintly of soap and looked a bit more relaxed. There was an unmistakable, lively sparkle in her eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Let’s get out of these sewers for a change,” Odessa suggested, her voice a mixture of mischief and frustration.

Flik frowned and insisted, “But it’s broad daylight outside. What if we’re seen?”

“That is why we’re not going into the city.” Odessa beamed as she took control of the situation. “Let’s just start with the countryside, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

Flik nodded in compliance, and Odessa led the way. Wrapping their cloaks about them, they managed to slip out of the town undetected. Soon, they were out in the fields, the land stretching out around them, not a living soul in sight. With a sigh, Odessa collapsed on the ground, spreading out as she lay back in the grass. Flik waited a moment to see what she would do. When she made no other move, he joined her.

Odessa stayed quiet for long enough that he began to wonder if she had fallen asleep.

Then, finally, she whispered, “I’m so very, very tired.”

He looked at her, and from her expression, he could tell she was not lying. All of a sudden, she looked ten years older. There were premature lines in her skin, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed earlier how thin her face had grown. Her cheekbones were suddenly very visible. There were dark shadows under her eyes.

“I suppose this means no frolicking in the hay today?” Flik posed it as a question, but the tone was more jesting than disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice serious. “I know how much you wanted to—”

“—spend time with you, alone together,” he finished. “That was all I wanted, so this is fine. This is perfect.”

He looked up at the clear blue sky, impressed by the vastness of it, and reached out a hand to his beloved. Odessa took it as an invitation to cuddle up beside him, her eyes, too, cast upward toward the heavens. She held her other hand up in the same direction, stretching out her fingers as she seemed to prepare to grab the air itself.

“Don’t you wish you could touch it?” she mused, riding a sudden wave of excitement. “Grab it, hold it, and never let it go for as long as you live, and spend the rest of your days flying without wings?”

Flik watched her as she spoke—the way her face lit up and her lips curved as she spoke of the sky. He had eyes only for her.

“Yes, I do,” he murmured, more for his own benefit than for hers. “I do.”

</div>

[FIC] Kyou Kara Maou: "Three's Company" (Dan Hiri/Cheri, Conrad/Yuuri)

2006-12-25T11:34:03Z

Title: Three’s Company

Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Cheri, Conrad, hinted Dan Hiri/Cheri and Conrad/Yuuri

Dedication: timberrick~ Christmas gift fic request! Though this is by no means sufficient reciprocation of the gift you sent me, so I will attempt to write you something better later.

Prompt: “The scent of regret much like your perfume.”

Description: Conrad more closely resembles his mother than most people realize. Cheri POV.

Rating: PG for alcohol use and hinted shounen-ai

Word Count: 1,095. Which is really just a drabble by my standards, but I didn’t want to add a very elaborate plot, and I feared it’d just make it worse if I tried to drag it out.

Status: Complete

Other Notes: Yeah, so this lacks its usual spark, compared to my previous work in this fandom, but I didn’t feel brave enough to attempt characters or pairings other than ConYuu, so I chose this request. I like Dan Hiri/Cheri but found that I have very little to say about them, so this was kind of hard as it was. Still, you deserve better and I’ll try and write something more exciting later.

Counting out pieces of silverware and moving them to the table with the grace of an exotic dancer, the middle-aged Mazoku carefully goes about the task of setting the dinner table for three. The table already holds an expensive silk covering, upon which rest the finest porcelain plates. A servant knocks on the door and brings in the wine glasses. She inspects them personally, ascertaining that the crystal is of the highest quality and rings with a clean, crisp sound when tapped—music to her ears. As an afterthought, she spruces up the table with a few well-placed flowers, instantly adding life to the lavish display.

The former Maou rarely bothers with setting the table for dinner—they do, after all, employ maids for such purposes—but when she does, she takes care to make it count. The servants are certainly well-trained, but they lack the discerning eye of the nobles themselves when it comes to creating the specific ambience appropriate for the guest or guests in attendance.

Gazing upon her labors with a critical eye, Cheri finds that she cannot recall a time recently when she went to such efforts. Not, in fact, since the days when Dan Hiri Weller came to the court to woo her. The mere memory makes her knees weak.

Of course, before they were betrothed, it was not considered proper for an unwedded lady to be alone in her chambers with a bachelor, and so, even in those days, the table would be set for three, her brother taking it upon himself to act as her guardian while attending dinner with the couple. As the Maou, she could, of course, have prevented it, but occasionally, it was better to uphold social etiquette—because she was the Maou, and because she often had felt so inept at everything else.

A few times, she had taken Dan Hiri aside and asked him whether he minded the lack of privacy. He’d simply smile—his smiles are what she remembers best, broad and boyish and beaming with light—and say that any time in her company was time well-spent. She’d blushed, then, a foolish girl falling head over heels in love with the roguish human soldier, and she blushes, now, long after Dan Hiri left the Mazoku court, aware that those feelings have never truly died.

As prone as she is to falling in love, she’s never met anyone since then who could take her breath away quite as well as he could, and the scent of regret fills the room much like her perfume.

A knock on the door interrupts her reverie. A maid enters quietly and asks if she will be needing anything else. Taking one last look at the table, she finds nothing missing and dismisses the young woman. The servant slips back out of the room with a courteous nod.

Cheri is still fixing her hair when Conrad enters. She rises swiftly from her seat in front of the dressing table and glides to the door. He takes one of her hands in his and kisses it politely. Then, as he straightens, still clasping her hand, she brings up the other and presses it to the side of his face.

“My son,” she murmurs as she gazes upon Conrad’s chiseled features and noting unusually vivid sparkles in his eyes, “you grow more handsome every day, it seems. So much like your father.”

The soldier smiles warmly. “How are you, mother?”

As she leads him to his seat at the table, she tells him of her travels and experiences abroad—the new faces, the brief flings, and the other adventures of a woman who lost the prime of her life to court politics and has gone on a journey to relive the youth she never had. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and soon enough, Conrad is laughing quietly while she speaks.

“And you?” she asks when she is finished recounting her tales. “And how fare your brothers and the young Maou?”

At the mention of Yuuri, Conrad’s eyes light up, and he summarizes their latest enterprises in training the new Demon King to accept full authority over his kingdom. Soon, the conversation shifts to politics and matters of state—though not in great detail, as Cheri never has had the disposition for it—but the former Maou can’t help noticing the change in her son’s expression at any mention of the boy-king.

A servant enters with the food, and mother and son fall silent. They watch as a maid piles their plates full of roast meat, potatoes, and a healthy portion of vegetables. Conrad himself pours the wine, and once the maid leaves, the two toast to a prosperous future.

After consuming their meal in silence for a few minutes, he suddenly pauses and asks, “Mother, if I might ask, I’ve been wondering since I entered—why is the table set for three instead of two?”

Gently rotating her wineglass by the stem, Cheri turns her attention to the empty seat and is lost in memories for a few moments, imagining that the spirit of Dan Hiri is present at the dinner table with them. She can picture his expression as though it were yesterday, listening calmly as she related courtly happenings and personal revelations with bubbling vivacity, much the same way Conrad is now. He truly is the spitting image of his father.

“Old time’s sake, you might say,” she whispers softly.

Straightening, she continues with more assurance, “There will be an empty place at all of our dinners together until you bring along the one you love.”

Conrad’s eyes widen in surprise. Cheri simply smiles back knowingly.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she says. “I’m just trying to encourage you not to make the same mistake I did. If there is something you desire, then never let it go. I know you might think that your love is purer from a distance, but sometimes the best approach is the most forward one.”

She cocks an eyebrow to emphasize the implication of her statement.

Cheri quietly watches as Conrad takes a second to consider her advice, and she finds it ironic that, out of all of her sons, the most strong-willed in battle is also the least assertive in love. But then, she ponders, maybe he doesn’t resemble Dan Hiri as closely as everyone believes. After all, of all her sons, Conrad is the one who inherited her romantic soul.

“All in due time, mother.” Conrad beams back at his mother with twinkling eyes. “All in due time.”

</div>

[FIC] Air Gear: "Fire Point" (Sano/Kazu)

2006-12-25T11:20:08Z

Title: Fire Point

Fandom: Air Gear

Character(s)/Pairing(s): Sano/Kazu, hinted Ikki/Akito, mentions of Onigiri and the Noyamanos

Dedication: peroxidepest17~ Christmas gift fic request! Betcha didn’t expect me to go for this one.

Prompt: Hearts afire

Description: Kazu is playing with fire.

Rating: PG-13 for crude language and light shounen-ai

Word Count: 3,538

Status: Complete, minor edits along the way.

Other Notes: So to explain my madness, I knew right away that this was the request I was going to do, but that still didn’t help me come up with a plot. So, I turned to the two things AG reminds me of: electronica and physics. (The former didn’t wind up helping any.) I actually got the idea for the beginning from a girl’s presentation at a Scotch ‘n Soda meeting. *g* She was supposed to update the Board on the sound crew and just randomly started off with a bunch of physics facts about sound. So I wound up taking this prompt kind of literally. Credit to Googlism, Wikipedia, and the Red Cross site for helping provide the facts about fire. Apologies for OOC (I don’t think I really get these characters? maybe) and the rushed ending. When I started out, I planned on being serious, but wound up wanting to write fluffy holiday-themed fic instead.

Motion is the only constant.

Burning is all about constant motion.

Fire is uncontrolled burning.

All fires start with ignition, which occurs when sufficient levels of fuel, heat, and oxygen exist simultaneously. A chemical reaction takes place when this “fire triangle” is present.

Any combustible/flammable substance is considered to be a fuel. Fuels come in many forms.

The ignition temperature is when a fuel can ignite due to heat. For most solids, the ignition temperature is from five hundred degrees to nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The fire point of a fuel is the temperature at which it will continue to burn after ignition for at least 5 seconds.

When all the fuel is used up, a fire will go out.

Oxygen must be present for combustion to occur. Oxygen comprises nearly twenty-one percent of Earth’s atmosphere. The combustion of fuel and oxygen gives off heat. More available oxygen accelerates combustion.

If the oxygen is removed, the fire will go out.

Heat is essential to fire, and it must be high enough to spark ignition. Heat is a form of energy that is created by the motion of atoms or molecules in a substance. During a fire, heat moves away from the flame and into an adjacent area where there is fresh fuel.

Remove the heat and the fire will go out.

Smoldering occurs when burning is slow, without flames. When burning is extremely fast, an explosion can occur. Fire that is burning faster than smoldering, but slower than an explosion, is a flaming fire. A flame is the glowing particles of the substance being burned.

A continuous chemical reaction between particles of fuel and oxygen, fire spreads because of heat transfer. The chemical reaction will cease and the fire will go out if the fuel or heat or oxygen is removed. Fires can sustain themselves by the further release of heat energy in the process of combustion and may propagate, provided there is a continuous supply of oxygen and fuel.

Fires may become uncontrolled and cause great damage to and destruction of human life, animals, plants and property.

Fire is the fifth leading unintentional cause of injury and death.

Heat is more threatening than flames. A fire's heat alone can kill. Room temperatures in a fire can be one hundred degrees at floor level and rise to six hundred degrees at eye level.

Fire is dangerous because it is fast. In less than thirty seconds a small flame can get completely out of control and turn into a major fire. There is only time to escape.

***

Kazu is playing with fire, but he cannot bring himself to escape.

Ikki knows it. They all know it, but Ikki watches him more carefully than anyone else. Certainly, the crow isn't known for being very serious-minded most of the time, but every now and then he gets an especially somber gleam in his eyes, watching with chagrin as Kazu hang around the iron homo-bastard. Kazu at times feels vaguely offended, noting that Ikki is the one who lost his first kiss to a boy, and that Akito is the reason why he finds himself evermore resorting to Sano's company. But Ikki is his family, moreso even than his own blood relations, and so he tolerates it.

Rarely does Ikki ever voice his disapproval aloud, however. Only once, in the very beginning, when the wealthy, arrogant university student had just moved into the Noyamano household, he had come to Shinonome after school and offered Kazu a ride home. When Kazu immediately declined, Sano had parked his car at the school and walked Kazu home himself. Ikki had observed them as he, Onigiri, and Akito followed behind, and got a sick feeling in his stomach when he saw Kazu actually respond to the homo-bastard's inane babble and laugh at some of his jokes.

While walking to school together the next day, Ikki, looking pensive, hands deep in his pockets, had suddenly asked him, “Hey. Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

“I know.” Eyes cast down toward the ground, Kazu's face was unreadable. “I'm playing with fire.”

Ikki eyed his best friend with concern. It was one thing not knowing what you were getting yourself into, but if Kazu knew the dangers and tolerated the homo-bastard's company anyway, that was cause for worry. Then again, he'd known Kazu long enough that he felt that he should be able to trust him to watch out for himself.

And so, his only gruff reply had been, “Just be careful not to get burned.”

Kazu had simply nodded and sauntered on.

Then, watching while Akito ran up from behind yelling 'Wait for me, wait for me!' and latched himself onto Ikki's arm, Kazu had murmured to himself, “At least it warms me.”

***

Probably the most agitating thing about Akito is the fact that he's so difficult to say no to, especially when he pulls those girlish lips into a pout and somehow manages to force actual tears into his eyes.

Akito is pouting right now, and Kazu loathes it.

“Pretty please, Kazu-chan?” the boy pleads, making begging gestures with his hands. “I just want to give Ikki-kun a merry Christmas since Rika-chan, Mikan-chan, Ringo-chan, and Ume-chan are going on a trip over the holidays! Ikki-kun needs to take a break from AT and the team and relax and just enjoy himself!”

Kazu can't argue with that last statement, although he briefly wonders if he should ask what exactly Akito's idea of “giving Ikki a merry Christmas is”. But either way, if Akito is planning to spend all of Christmas being all lovey-dovey, he doesn't want to be around, and Akito's tear-filled eyes are just too damn hard to say no to.

“Fine,” he snarls. “But don't you dare do anything to make me regret agreeing to this.”

***

“What's the matter? You look down.”

Probably the most agitating thing about Sano is the fact that he's so damn good at reading people, and he knows it. Kazu had survived just fine without anyone ever really knowing how he truly felt unless he said it, until he met the homo-bastard and everything changed.

“Just because he's being a little neglectful right now doesn't mean he doesn't care. He just has so many things on his mind right now, and maybe he doesn't have his priorities completely straight,” he had remarked casually, adjusting his glasses with one finger while they walked, and although Kazu would never admit it to anyone, it had been exactly what he'd been needing to hear.

And so he'd begun to tolerate the homo-bastard's company: the AT practices, the walks home, the quiet conversations in the evening, and even the casual flirting and occasional innuendos. Because sometimes, even Kazu wanted to be told things that made him feel like he wasn't entirely unimportant.

“It doesn't matter,” Kazu mumbles, not wanting to seem the histrionic type.

Sano smiles, although there's something irritatingly smug about that grin of his. “It matters to me.”

Kazu shrugs dismissively, but when Sano continues to gaze at him with a questioning glance, he can't resist the temptation to articulate the things that have been bothering him.

“It's Christmas next week,” he finally says, as though that ought to explain everything.

“Ah, indeed it is!” Sano exclaims, and when Kazu doesn't say anything further, he asks, “Why is that a problem?”

“Akito talked me into promising to leave him and Ikki alone that day.” Kazu sighs and makes a couple of abstract gestures with his hands as he searches for the words to voice his distress. “But Ikki... Ikki is my family.”

Sano blinks, but otherwise, his expression remains unchanged. “Parents?”

“Overseas. They won't make it home until New Year's.” Kazu shakes his head.

Sano nods once as he begins to get a clearer picture of the situation. “Siblings?”

“Sister.” Kazu shrugs again. “We're not close.”

“Onigiri?”

“His family's poor. I can't impose on them,” Kazu explains.

“I see.” The university student readjusts his glasses with one hand.

They walk on in silence. Kazu almost gets the sense that Sano is waiting for him to add something himself—the homo-bastard doesn't seem to be thinking very hard at anything, though maybe Kazu should not have expected the other to automatically have a solution for his personal problems, painfully intelligent as he may be.

“You know,” Sano finally remarks, his face devoid of expression, “you don't have to spend Christmas all alone.”

Understanding the implication of Sano's statement, Kazu narrows his eyes and instinctively takes a defensive stance. “...What are you suggesting?”

Sano laughs out loud, his chuckles reverberating down Kazu's spine and tinging the boy's cheeks a faint red. “Relax. I'm not going to force you down on the floor and ravage you as soon as we're alone together. Unless you want me to.”

He glances at the other out of the corner of his eye. Kazu glares back, wishing fervently that he could suppress his blushing.

Letting out a few more chuckles, the college student continues, “I just figured you might like some company. That's all.”

Kazu swallows, once again ruing the fact that the homo-bastard can read him so well. But simple pride aside, the promise of companionship and attention truly is what Kazu has been hungering for, and why should he deny it?

Without looking up, he murmurs, “Company would be nice.”

***

Christmas morning brings freezing temperatures and icy gusts of wind that bring the perceived temperature down several more degrees but no snow. This isn't too surprising in the city, but that doesn't stop it from being a source of dismay, especially among the younger folk. At any rate, as he steps outside early in the morning and into Sano's sickeningly expensive car, Kazu is grateful that he had the foresight to wear gloves and a scarf.

They drive a few miles in silence before Kazu bothers to inquire as to where they're going.

“I thought we'd have breakfast at my place,” the university student answers without taking his eyes off the road.

His place. It occurs to Kazu then that it's true that Sano has only been living at the Noyamano house for a little while, and that it would make sense for him to still have a home somewhere else. Still, it strikes him as strange that he'd never thought about it. Then again, these days, he often finds himself not seeing past people very far outside of their involvement in Air Treck.

Sano's apartment is situated quite a ways away, out of the suburbs and much closer to the inner city. The fancy high-rise is home to even fancier suites. Kazu quickly estimates that Sano has access to nearly twice as much living space as he and his sister do, and Sano has already explained that he lives alone. The furnishings, decorations, and electronics are obviously expensive and well-designed but sparse. Overall, the apartment lacks useless decorative trinkets and other shiny merchandise that serve no function. Kazu finds this vaguely reassuring, almost as though he feared becoming just another object in Sano's collection of “cute” and “pretty” things.

Something about it all bugs Kazu, however.

“I don't get it. If you're a university student, aren't you supposed to be struggling to make ends meet?” he asks rather cheekily as he takes off his shoes and plods into the living room.

Following closely behind, Sano laughs at the boy's forwardness. “Rich parents. I've never really had to worry about anything.”

“Oh,” Kazu says, eyes downcast. “That must be nice.”

“Not always. It's a lot more exciting to have to fight for the things you want.” Sano winks at him before departing for the kitchen.

Kazu can't help blushing a little as he takes a seat on the sofa. His host does not keep him waiting for very long, emerging with a tray of pastries in one hand and a pot of hot tea in the other. It's a far more luxurious breakfast than he's used to, and in the back of his mind he recalls the common childhood warnings about strangers with candy, but Kazu is no longer a little kid, and those pastries look damn good.

Sano smiles smugly while he watches Kazu eat, and the latter decides to indulge him just this once because they're already in Sano's home anyway, and to do anything else would be awkward. Sano himself only eats a few bites. He shrugs it off, saying that his hunger can't possibly compare with an adolescent boy's, and that at any rate, he'd much rather save his appetite for later. Kazu can't help but feel that that was yet another one of the homo-bastard's innuendos, but he chooses not to bother with a response.

Once they're done with breakfast and Sano's cleared away the plates, they sit and stare at each other in awkward silence, the college student smirking while Kazu finds himself growing increasingly more uncomfortable under the other's gaze.

“So,” he states, no longer able to endure the silence. “What now?”

The smile never leaves Sano's face. “I got you something. Check under the tree there.”

Kazu looks in the direction that Sano gestures and notices for the first time the small Christmas tree standing there. He's only seen them in movies and stores, and in comparison, this one is fairly humble in size and decoration, but there's something elegant about its simplicity. Taking a closer look, Kazu finally notices the package wrapped in shiny red paper that's sitting behind the tree. It has his name on it.

He hesitantly picks up the box and returns to the sofa with it, but once there, he's not sure exactly how to proceed. He's not used to receiving gifts, especially from homo-bastards, and he's never really known what the etiquette is. Should he open it now? Should he save it for later? Should he politely decline, saying that he can't possibly accept it?

Sano continues to look at him expectantly, and flinching under his gaze, Kazu finally mutters, “But I didn't get you anything.”

“That's fine,” his host responds, still smirking. “I wasn't expecting you to.”

That remark somehow only contributes to the guilt and discomfort that Kazu feels right now, until he's practically squirming, but Sano's eyes are telling him to open the damn present already, and there's no way you can argue with such a look.

Once the wrapping paper and cardboard box are discarded, Kazu unveils a brand-new pair of ice skates.

It's definitely unexpected. If anything, Kazu would've expected something to do with AT, or else something appropriately dirty to go along with that homo-bastard's mind, like a sex toy or a gay porno mag. But a pair of ice skates...? The middle schooler looks up at his host questioningly.

Sano simply continues to grin. “You asked, 'What now?' Well, how about we go test these out?”

***

The temperature is at least five degrees lower on the ice rink. Even though he has a good enough sense of balance that he hasn’t fallen over, Kazu has trouble gaining the kind of acceleration he’s used to in AT, and the lack of speed makes the cold seem more intense.

Sano skates like a pro, but it’s obvious that he’s practiced. The overall mechanics are very similar to AT, of course, but they differ in a few ways. Ice is a more treacherous surface to move on, and the slightest misstep is more likely to throw you off-balance, unlike AT, where false movements are fairly easy to correct. Kazu finds himself expending quite a bit of energy just to hide his stumbles and wobbles from Sano’s eyes, because he’s not about to let the homo-bastard have the satisfaction.

By the time Kazu is comfortable with skating laps at high speed, weaving in and out of crowds, and doing basic turns, Sano is on fire. He’s doing elaborate spins and leaping around like a fucking ballerina ice princess.

Kazu’s about to yell a taunt when the college student sneaks up on him from behind and takes his hand. Sano pulls them into a quick clockwise spin, and Kazu would’ve been dizzied by the rotations if the sensation of balancing and turning on the tip of one foot didn’t feel so damn amazing. When their momentum gives out, Sano gently lets go of his hand and skates off on his own, leaving Kazu disoriented and breathless.

He only narrowly avoids being knocked over from behind.

He’s midway through his next lap when Sano reappears beside him.

“Your cheeks are flushed with the cold,” he remarks. “How about we stop and take a break? Give you a chance to warm up a little?”

Kazu dislikes being mothered, but it’s true that they have been skating for two hours without stopping. Nodding, he follows closely behind Sano as they skate toward the rink’s exit.

The rink had been erected in the center of a large public park and, as such, the area is not without its share of street vendors selling hot drinks and snacks. After undoing their skates and slinging them over their respective shoulders by the laces, Sano and Kazu check out the little stands until they find one they like. Sano orders them both large mugs of hot chocolate. Kazu offers to pay for his own, but Sano declines, saying it’s his treat.

He smiles down at the younger boy while they sip their cocoa, and though there is nothing particularly threatening about his glance, he feels like a mosquito watching an advancing spider after being caught in his web. The difference is that Kazu finds himself enjoying being caught in Sano’s web, even if he’d never admit it.

Sano catches Kazu staring at him over the rim of his mug. He smirks and, without warning, pulls the boy in for a kiss. The smaller boy is frozen at first, not knowing how to respond when his mind is still trying vainly to process the fact that this is actually happening. But when he concentrates enough, he finds the touch not unlikable, and gently kisses back.

Kazu is just getting into it when Sano suddenly pulls away. However, Kazu, dismayed at the sudden sensation of emptiness, takes the initiative to reunite their lips. The soft touch sends a tingling feeling all the way down to his toes that’s not altogether unpleasant. He and Sano even have the chance to brush tongues once or twice before Sano breaks the kiss a second time.

When Kazu regards him with searching and vaguely disappointed eyes, Sano explains, “Right now, it’s just your body that’s on fire. I don’t want to do this unless your heart’s on fire, too.”

He pats the middle schooler on his beanie and gestures back toward the rink. “Come. Ready to skate some more?”

Too bewildered to argue, Kazu once again finds himself following Sano’s lead without question, but his lips continue to tingle long after he’s put his skates back on.

***

They skate for two more hours before heading back to Sano’s apartment. These days, the sun sets early to give way to the long, dark nights of the winter solstice, and the temperature drops accordingly. Today the sky is overcast, so dusk seems to descend even more swiftly. The two boys bundle up in their overcoats and slip into Sano’s car. They take a shortcut and are home in fifteen minutes.

They’ve barely had time to remove their shoes when the storm hits the city. In seconds, the world outside is covered in a thick blanket of snow, and the electricity is flickering. Sano and Kazu watch from the window, caught in the wonder of the sudden transformation but also glad to be inside, safe and warm.

A half hour later, the light gives out, and Sano disappears into the kitchen to find some candles. He only finds tea-lights, but with the help of a box of matches, he and Kazu manage to have the room all lit up again in no time. The atmosphere in the room changes abruptly with the change in the lighting. All of a sudden, everything seems warmer. Kazu finds himself wondering if Sano didn’t strike a match and light him on fire when he wasn’t looking.

The storm rages on outside, and Sano offers to make an attempt to get Kazu home safely, but the boy declines. It isn’t worth freezing to death outside when there’s no one waiting for him at home, anyway. When Sano asks whether he’d rather stay here, then, Kazu simply nods yes. A few weeks ago, Kazu would never have accepted the invitation to spend the night at the home of a homo-bastard, but now, he finds he no longer minds.

When illumination from the tea-light begins to fade, Kazu finds himself sitting close to Sano on the floor of the living room. Sano’s face is unreadable in the flickering firelight, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off Kazu’s face. Blushing lightly, Kazu can’t resist the urge to kiss the college student lightly on his lips.

“It’s not just my body that’s on fire,” he whispers.

Sano presses their mouths together, and Kazu knows:

Fire is just the beginning.

</div>

[UPDATE] Yes, I am alive!

2006-11-05T01:07:29Z

Hey guys! Unusual non-fic/art post here. Don't get used to it, it probably won't happen again. ;)

Anyway, I've had a couple of people e-mail me and ask me why I'm not writing any more ConYuu. *hee* I know it might seem like I've gone on a writing hiatus, but this is actually not the case! Here's a list of things I am currently working on:

Seishirou/Subaru claim for 20_inkspots

Fuuma/Kamui claim for 100moods_nl

Christmas gift fic for yuletide

Gift fics for my own personal Christmas extravaganza at pyrefly

Possibly suikosanta gift fic if it's going to be held again this year

As for ConYuu, I have nothing in the works right now, but less than half of my friends over at pyrefly have actually given me their wishlists, so that doesn't mean I might not end up writing ConYuu by Christmas. ^_^

That said, even though I plan to have several of these finished before Christmas, I don't want to run the risk of anyone seeing their gift before The Big Day, which means that yes, if you've friended this journal, your friends page might possibly be spammed with my fic on Christmas Day. But, well, is that truly such a terrible thing? ^^;

The only way you'll get to see any of these (minus the X claims, but those are currently of secondary importance to finishing my gift fics on time) before Christmas is if you offer to be my beta. If you're interested, leave a comment below with your e-mail address and which fandom(s)/pairing(s) you'll beta for (take a look here for a listing of the fandoms I am most likely to be writing; the pairings I support are mostly all over both my userinfos). I need good, critical readers for something other than spelling and grammar editing -- I have spellcheck and can proofread for grammar just fine myself. My weak points are characterization and dialogue -- I always fear that I might be going OOC when I have my characters open their mouths and speak to each other, both in the words they say and the way they say the things they say. If you think you can offer constructive(!) criticism in that area, please, please let me know!

Anyway, that's about all I have to report. My usual babblings are over at pyrefly, as always, but I felt compelled to update and let people know I'm not dead, and yes, I'm still writing, since I actually have readers now. (This is a foreign concept to me. Most of the time, people don't want to read my crap. I'm still in awe at the 30~40 reviews I got for "A Dance in Slow Motion". *g* That's a BIG DEAL for me.)

Thanks to everyone who's supported my writing! I hope I won't disappoint you come Christmastime. ^^;

[FIC] X/1999: "Depth Perception" (Seishirou/Subaru) [for 20_inkspots]

2006-09-19T06:42:55Z

Title: Depth Perception (for 20_inkspots)
Fandom: X/1999 (& Tokyo Babylon by default)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Seishirou/Subaru, mentions of the Sumeragi clan.
Dedication: sui, because I know you've been a fan of X & TB and Subaru for close to forever.
Prompt: Dark Theme #4 - "my days are the highway kind"
Description: Time having come to a standstill, Subaru lives in the blurred space between waking and dreaming.
Rating: PG-13 for implied shounen-ai, angst, and alcohol usage.
Word Count: 3,904.
Status: Completed and with minor edits as of mid-December. Now with completed art by frostocelot!
Other Notes: Some spoilage for TB, which, if you're an X & SxS fan, you should've read by now anyway. There's no excuse. Umm, our goal with all 20 themes is to leave the context of the setting (timeline-wise) entirely up to the reader. Other than that, I took a lot of artistic liberties with this, as you may notice. I won't point them out here because I don't want to spoil the entire fic, but just be wary of it. I have roadtripped across the Southwest so I do vaguely know what I'm talking about. I haven't been to Tokyo, but most of my observations about life in the streets there are based upon what I observed on my visits to NYC, which I'm going to assume is decently similar. Lastly, I'm no alcoholic, really, I just felt that alcoholic drinks can be great metaphors for people's personalities.
Artist: All credit for the lovely art goes to the equally lovely frostocelot! *g*

( "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear." )

[FIC] Kyou Kara Maou: "A Brother's Love" (Conrad/Yuuri, Shouri)

2006-09-03T18:19:33Z

Title: A Brother's Love
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Conrad/Yuuri, Shouri. Maybe vaguely Conrad/Shouri if you choose to interpret it that way. Just don't choose to see this as Shibuyacest because it's not.
Dedication: peroxidepest17~ I'm sorry that you're sick, and that the Yuuram fans have been giving you a hard time. ;_; ♥ Also, I suppose kaluin because her request for Conrad/Shouri birthday fic really got the wheels turning. And Christine, because I am ecstatic that I know someone IRL who I can fangirl ConYuu with.
Prompt: Conrad/Shouri, believe it or not. Several people mentioned that they like the pairing and it was while I was in the process of trying to figure out what could make their relationship work that the idea for this fic occurred to me. So, yeah. I still haven't figured out what makes Conrad/Shouri work, so, umm, in the meantime, enjoy some ConYuu goodness instead.
Description: Conrad and Yuuri's developing romance through Shouri's eyes.
Rating: PG for light shounen-ai and one mild cuss word.
Word Count: 2,027.
Status: Complete. Not that I like it much.
Other Notes: Yeah, I really don't like it. Most of this was written in an extreme rush to satisfy the rabid plotbunnies so that I would be able to focus on other things. Like homework. Anyway, I've never had the patience for careful edits once I feel like I'm done with something, so you'll just have to endure. :x This fic features more exploration of present-tense writing -- basically, the same style as my other ConYuu fic. This one is slightly less canon-verse, however. Mainly, it assumes that Conrad and Yuuri are in the process of developing an actual romantic relationship (so, in other words, if you're not a ConYuu shipper, don't read?). The setting is pretty open and the context of it is left largely up to the reader. It is probably most logically placed after the 60s of the series, however. Only vague spoilers; basically, you just need to know about Shouri (late 50s/early 60s). And yes, Shouri is an aggravatingly difficult character to write, but. I suppose I'm babbling now.

It begins with an exchange of silent looks, of fleeting glances.

They most likely go undetected by the untrained eye. After all, the differences are very subtle, very easy to miss. It's a slight softening of the corners of the eyes, a sudden relaxing of tensed brows, a gentle tenderness that swiftly suffuses the irises for one ephemeral instant before disappearing again. It's a slight tug at the corners of the lips, the faintest hint of a smile that whispers of intimate secrets shared. It's the transmission of a Thought, of unspoken words that are nonetheless communicated perfectly clearly with a glimpse of the eyes. They say, “I trust you.” “I believe in you.” “I need you.” “I'm right beside you.” And, “Thank you for being here with me.”

But Shouri's been preparing his entire life to discern the slight changes in his little brother's face, and so the covert exchanges do not fail to garner his attention. Not that he does anything to reveal his suspicions, of course; it isn't his business to pry or get involved in, especially when doing so could affect Yuuri's happiness. At any rate, everything's still innocent at best.

The next stage consists of casual touches.

Nothing inappropriate, of course—and again, the motions are virtually inconspicuous. They aren't so much surprising or out-of-place gestures as they are hands that linger but a second longer than they should according to the laws of etiquette and propriety, feather-light impressions on skin accompanied by emotions that travel beyond the outer shell. They are pats on the back, fingers lightly brushing hair, accidental entanglement of feet underneath the dinner table, falling asleep on the other's shoulder on the bus home, and pausing to touch forehead to forehead before a baseball game. They are tender embraces between friends that nonetheless hold a deeper meaning.

Shouri can readily predict where this is going. Without a doubt, Conrad fits the profile of the platonic love interest to a 'T'. He represents the “pure” kind of love, which often has but a bittersweet ending.

Shouri would know. After all, he's played this BL game before.

When he observes Conrad mouthing words to Yuuri on the subway with a slightly mischievous smirk, he makes a mental note that the couple has apparently progressed to stage three. All of a sudden, there's actual concrete words in the air—mouthed or whispered, still veiled in layers of secrecy, but they're there.

Shouri's ears perk up instinctively. He quickly learns that nothing indecent is being said. They're the virtuous murmurs and sweet-nothings of a young couple that's still but wetting their feet in the rivulet of romance. They've barely even begun to explore the boundaries in favor of sticking with what's familiar, safe, and taking the new things one day at a time.

Still, one could say that he feels, well, threatened by Conrad's presence and his strong bond with the young Maou. He can't really explain it well; for all intents and purposes, it's an entirely irrational sentiment.

Shouri supposes that he's really just afraid that his younger brother doesn't really know what he's getting himself into. Yuuri is still a boy, after all, and one largely inexperienced in love. And Shouri, like any older brother, has a protective side that kicks in whenever he identifies a potential source of overwhelming pain for his younger sibling.

He can't help flinching, then, when, after offering to help his parents with the dishes—household chores take considerably longer now that there are often as many as eight mouths to feed and bodies to wash and clothe rather than the usual four, and everybody's had to increase their share of the workload in some fashion—he overhears Hamano Jennifer, in her usual perky and overly eager way, whispering to her husband that she had seen Conrad and Yuuri holding hands on their casual stroll through the park together earlier that afternoon. While Shouma reprimands her for not being more concerned about the ramifications with regards to their son's engagement, Shouri's only coherent thought is that stage five was breached without his being present to document it.

Of course, it's the things we don't see that haunt us the most, and that night, Shouri can't sleep for the mental image of Conrad and Yuuri holding hands like an ordinary high school couple. What bothers him the most is that the image actually works well, like two singular puzzle pieces harmoniously fitting together. The newfound physical connection is simply a symbol that mirrors the affinity that has already been under development.

It's obvious that the two draw strength from each other's presence—Yuuri to become the man and the Maou he wants to be, and Conrad to become—well, Shouri isn't exactly sure. To become, what—even more perfect, perhaps?

That's probably the most aggravating thing of all, Shouri is forced to admit to himself; in his head, it's so easy to pronounce Conrad a pervert, a lecherous old man, and to therefore condemn him for all sorts of crimes and sins, whether or not they have already actually been committed. But facing the reality is different. He's studied people long enough to know that it's nigh impossible to hide any ill intentions behind a smile as gentle as Conrad's.

It isn't fair, really. Not only is his face handsome enough to attract members of both sexes, but his body, lean and toned, makes all of Shouri's clothing look like it was tailor-made for him whenever Conrad wears it. His presence is intrepid, commanding, and fiercely charismatic. His physical prowess is unrivaled, his sword-arm steady and ever battle-ready, and even though the stalwart soldier cannot employ the powers of Maryoku, the half-human blood running through his veins does not prevent him from being considered one of the greatest Mazoku warriors of all time.

It's really no surprise, then, that Yuuri has become completely enamored with this man.

Yet as much time as he spends pondering the subtle changes in his brother's expression, Shouri still finds himself entirely unprepared for the implications when he accidentally witnesses Conrad and Yuuri stealing a late-night kiss.

The detection is entirely unintentional. Shouri's secluded himself in his room, minding his own business, as usual, when he gets up on impulse to get a drink of water. He's taken but a step out into the hallway when he sees Conrad emerge from the bathroom at the other end of the corridor. It's obvious that he's just taken a shower by the way his hair is still wet. Shouri's about to say something about the way the chocolate-brown strands are drip-drip-dripping onto his brand-new shirt, his left eye twitching compulsively at the sight, when he discerns Yuuri coming up the stairs. The latter is panting, having narrowly escaped an impending battle downstairs, where a querulous Wolfram is seeking to pick a fight with just about anyone who will spare him a moment's attention.

The two exchange a Look, and Shouri's about to turn around, knowing full well when he is witnessing something that is meant to be private. At the same time, however, he's too curious, too fascinated, and as much as he wills himself to, he cannot bear to close the door for fear of missing what might happen next.

Before he knows it, Yuuri's backed up against the wall, and he and Conrad are lip-locked, embracing so tightly that it seems as though they might melt into one another at any moment. Their eyes are lidded, Yuuri grasping Conrad's shirt while Conrad traces the contours of Yuuri's face with one hand. Conrad's wet locks are still drip-drip-dripping onto the collared shirt, the rippling of muscles visible where the wet fabric clings to the skin underneath, causing the scene to appear far more indecent than it truly is.

Shouri is too horrified to turn away, so he begs and pleads with his brain to reject the disturbing images of his younger brother quite possibly having his tongue inside another man's mouth, but that doesn't stop it from happening. The action is taking place several yards away, but despite the darkness in the hallway, his sharp eyes can make out every detail as though it were occurring right in front of him.

For the first time, Shouri realizes that perhaps he doesn't quite want to know everything, after all.

Yuuri clings to Conrad for a few seconds while the latter pulls away, and though his cheeks are tinged with a faint blush, he's smiling, so that Shouri can't even pretend like his brother was the unwilling victim of this encounter. Abruptly, the thought occurs to him that his little brother has grown up without him ever knowing it.

He takes care to shut the door quietly so that the couple remains unaware of the fact that they were seen. But shutting the door won't shut out the memories—stop the images from replaying over and over in his mind.

Now he knows what Pandora must have felt like after she opened the box and realized what effect doing so had had.

But as observant as Shouri might be, Conrad has always been the most perceptive of them all, and the latter doesn't fail to swiftly detect the change in Shouri's demeanor. Suddenly, the calm, aloof air is replaced by one of irritability; his stoic voice now has a caustic edge to it. Conrad's not the one to shy away from a confrontation, either, and he decides to take the first opportunity he finds to pay Shouri a visit when the elder Shibuya brother is alone in his room.

“I don't believe I gave you permission to enter,” Shouri grumbles, but he can no longer manage the half-arrogant, half-disinterested tone of voice that previously backed up his threats.

Conrad simply replies, “You didn't.”

He closes the door behind him with a soft click but remains standing in front of it, as though barring any attempt at escape.

“Something's bothering you, Shouri.” It's a statement, not a question.

Shouri turns back to his computer, directing his back to his visitor. “It's no concern of yours.”

“Really?” There's a smile playing across Conrad's lips, but thankfully Shouri cannot see it from his present position. “Look, I know what you suspect. I won't even try to deny it. I just wanted to make sure that you know that you are not being replaced.”

Silence envelopes the room for several minutes. Then, Conrad bows curtly—Yuuri's still been having great difficulty breaking him of this habit—and exits the room. Shouri's gritting his teeth and gripping the mouse with twice as much pressure as necessary. His other hand is clenched into a fist in his lap. Propriety dictates that he say something at the other's retreat, but he knows that it is of no use now.

He lost this battle before Conrad even opened his mouth.

Collapsing onto his bed, he nonetheless has trouble relaxing his limbs. His body is aching for a fight, tired of being powerless, desperate to have some control over the situation and assert his rights. He is Shibuya Shouri, damnit—future Maou of Earth and elder brother to the current Maou of Shin Makoku.

But is that really what it's all about? Is the right to protect Yuuri an exclusive one that must be earned?

As Shouri mulls the situation over in his mind again, he realizes that perhaps, just perhaps, Conrad is right. Maybe it isn't his place to feel threatened, and maybe he oughtn't attempt to turn it into a competition. After all, they both ultimately share the same goal, and love comes in many forms—some fleeting, others permanent. Romantic love is just one of them.

He isn't sure whether Conrad and Yuuri's relationship will endure. These days, it's proving difficult enough to sustain any meaningful connection with another being. Of course, that isn't to say that their love might not outlast every other. But there is only one love that is certain.

A brother's love is forever.

It cannot be replaced.

[FIC] Kyou Kara Maou: "At A Standstill" (Conrad/Yuuri)

2006-08-15T08:34:16Z

Title: At A Standstill
Fandom: Kyou Kara Maou
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Conrad/Yuuri, very brief references to Julia and the other BPC crew.
Dedication: peroxidepest17 BECAUSE WE ADORE THIS PAIRING DESPITE ALL THEIR ISSUES.
Prompt: Confessions + alcohol. Because they have ISSUES and I figured getting Conrad drunk might help them to sort these out.
Description: Though the Betrayal Arc is in the past, Conrad still has a lot of demons to fight, and it's beginning to affect Yuuri. ANGST ANGST ANGST, then fluff.
Rating: PG-13 for angst, shounen-ai, and alcohol abuse.
Word Count: 3,410. IT JUST KEPT GOING AND I COULDN'T MAKE IT STOP.
Status: Complete, minus maybe some minor edits.
Other Notes: Though I'm no novice to writing fanfiction, this is one of my first serious attempts at writing something canon-verse. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING, CAN YOU TELL. DX Umm, I originally intended this to be post-Episode 41 and pre-48/49, mainly because ConYuu is totally given the shaft between those episodes and so I figured that this fic fits in nicely. Feel free to place it wherever you like though. Umm, general spoiler warning. Nothing too too major I don't think, but it won't make sense if you haven't seen up to at least Ep. 41, so I don't suggest you read it until then. Other than that, rest assured that the use of present tense and general butchering of the English language was a stylistic device, because I was experimenting with a different approach to fic and trying to create this "suspended time" feeling. I don't know if I'm truly satisfied with the result, but... well, too late now. :<

Yuuri still stares up at the moon late, late at night, unable to slumber peacefully as his fiancé and daughter do. Fear and doubt still gnaw at the back of his mind, plaguing him with spells of insomnia.

It has taken him some time to discover the origins of his distress. After all, Conrad has returned to them, and initially everything did seem to have returned to normal. Wolfram is back to his usual egocentric and suspicious self, constantly reprimanding him if he gives more than a passing glance to any other Mazoku or human; Günther still fusses over him and chases him down every time he attempts to escape his studies; Greta laughs heartily at every opportunity, brightening life at Blood Pledge Castle like a miniature sun; and even Gwendal seems to have relaxed some of the creases in his forehead and allows himself the time now and then to knit Greta another stuffed animal.

Yet Yuuri still finds himself forcing smiles and feigning happiness so as not to worry the many subjects who depend on him for strength. He wears a mask to hide the truth: that not everything is all right.

After all, Conrad hasn't really returned to his side yet.

The silent soldier is physically present, of course, and technically one could not accuse him of failing in his duties; he still spends nearly every waking moment attending to the needs and protection of Shin Makoku and its young king. His hand upon his sword is steady, and his ferocity in battle is yet unmatched. The Rutenberg Patriot has not failed his luminous reputation and his long legacy of service to the kingdom.

But when Yuuri rises early for one of his morning runs, Conrad isn't there at his side, intermittently cheering him on and challenging him to meet his own capacity and break his previous record. When Yuuri finds himself stuck listening to Günther's history lessons yet another half day, Conrad does not come to relieve him with a baseball in one hand and glove in the other. And perhaps worst of all, when Gwendal forces Yuuri to endure hours upon hours of signing bills into law and listening to citizens' complaints, Conrad now forsakes his usual spot a few paces behind Yuuri's chair against the wall, instead offering to take up position at the door—“Because Heika is better served if assassins cannot gain entry to the room.”

Yuuri is exhausted, and not only because he lacks sleep. He has never been more fully aware of the strength he draws from the presence of the stalwart soldier—the one who was his first friend in Shin Makoku, the one who watched over his birth and named him, and the one who has protected him for more than one lifetime—than now, when that presence seems only to want to distance itself from him.

Yuuri wants to know why. Conrad's crimes were pardoned, his rank and honor restored. So why can't everything go back to the way it was before?

Caught up in his musings and his desire for a concrete answer, something more than just endless speculation, doubts, and worries, Yuuri doesn't notice that his feet have wandered as though of their own accord until he finds himself standing outside of the bedroom, one of the sentries nodding at him cordially while the other shuts the door behind him.

In earlier times, Conrad himself might have been guarding the door, or standing watch more than a few hallways away, awake and ready to accompany His Majesty if the latter can't sleep or feels restless and longs to walk or talk. But that was many weeks ago. Yuuri's instinct tells him that he won't find Conrad anywhere near his room tonight.

He declines the guards' offer to call a maid or accompany him if he wishes to go for a stroll, assuring them that he will be fine and that he will not hesitate to call for help if anything were to befall him on the short walk he plans to take. His feet are already carrying him off, and although he hasn't consciously decided on a plan of action, he knows that they can really only have one destination in mind.

The castle is veiled in silence, the echoes of Yuuri's footsteps on the stone floor and the inconstant shadows cast by the flickering of the torches upon the walls the only evidence of life. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, once, twice, but none answer its call. He hears resonating snores when he passes by some of the sentries' quarters; one guard is murmuring something incoherent in his sleep. There is no wind tonight to carry in sounds from the town; the air is still and quite cool, almost chilly, despite the day's sweltering heat. Yuuri has learned that castles tend to get cold rather swiftly as soon as the sun sets.

He's very conscious of his own breathing, as well as the way his feet steadily move him in the direction of Conrad's chamber. He's surprised by how easy it is to go forward, despite the fact that he really doesn't have a plan. He doesn't have any reason to expect that Conrad will even be awake when he gets there, especially when one considers the late hour, except that somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice whispers that the tall soldier hasn't been getting any more sleep than he has.

There's no time left for second-guessing. Yuuri's feet have paused inches away from the thick wooden door separating Conrad's quarters from the rest of the castle—and yes, that is candlelight coming through the cracks near the floor. There's no mistaking it.

He resists the urge to knock, instead taking a deep breath as he grabs ahold of the heavy iron ring that is Shin Makoku's equivalent of a doorknob. Though he is loathe to intrude on his bodyguard, he doesn't want to risk being turned away, not when he's already made it this far. Still, he finds it easy to open the door, too easy, as though he'd been hoping that it would be harder, difficult enough to justify turning around and trying again another night.

He's the Maou of Shin Makoku. Surely he can handle this, he tells himself over and over, but it doesn't help as much as it might, because he's never considered himself very brave.

When he finally finds the courage to step inside, the scene before him takes him by surprise. He's only been in here a few times before, but the memory is still etched clearly in his mind: clean and tidy, and rather spartan, as one might expect of a simple soldier. The few material possessions all had their place. It was so like Conrad.

Not now.

Now, there's books strewn about the room, on the floor, on the bed, in stacks against the wall. Clothes have been haphazardly slung onto chairs. The bed isn't made, the blankets rumpled and cast to the side, and one of the pillows lies at an odd angle. The candle on the nightstand has dripped a puddle of wax onto the floor below. It's like the demons in Conrad's head have materialized and wreaked havoc upon his peaceful, orderly existence, but Yuuri is only just now beginning to realize the extent of the pain the older man endures.

It takes effort for Yuuri to tear his eyes away from the surroundings and focus on Conrad—almost as if he knows instinctively that he will only find a bigger mess once he does. There's a heavy wooden armchair by the table to the right, and although it is angled away from the doorway, Yuuri can distinguish the figure seated in it. His first thought is that perhaps Conrad has fallen asleep, when he notices the man periodically reaching out to take a swig from a large stone mug before depositing it back on the table. Yuuri has a sneaking suspicion in regards to its contents: something a lot stronger than water, no doubt.

He hesitates then, because part of him doesn't want to see this side of Conrad. But there's no backing down now, not when he's already made it this far, and at any rate, it's about time that they were completely honest with one another.

There's a smaller chair on the other side of the table, opposite Conrad's, but that isn't where Yuuri's headed. He's not sure enough of himself to sit and face the problem so up close and personal—not yet. Instead, he makes his way to the window and perches himself on the small sill, where he has a good view of the seated figure without facing the other directly.

Conrad has yet to respond to Yuuri's presence, although the latter is aware that the soldier surely could not have failed to detect the intrusion—no matter how inebriated he might be. It's true; Conrad was alerted to his king's coming before he even opened the door; he recognized him by his footfall, like a learned musician can recognize the composer by the meter and key of a piece. Still, he can't bring himself to offer any form of greeting or welcome—torn in two, he cannot bear to turn the boy away, yet cannot bring himself to consider the ramifications of confronting him in his present condition.

And so the seconds tick away, and neither of them musters the courage to say even a single word.

The stalemate is finally broken when Conrad reaches out toward his drink again. He's intoxicated enough that while he's still quite aware of his surroundings, his movements are sluggish, because anything too swift will make his head spin out of control, so he has to take it slow. For once, Yuuri is faster, reaching the mug before he does, and before he realizes it, he's holding onto not cool stone but warm flesh.

Yuuri's hand in his.

His eyes widen on reflex, though he still can't bring himself to respond in any other manner. His gaze is transfixed upon the fingers that are now gripping his, and he knows he should look up, look his king in the eyes, but he can't do it. He's too afraid of what he might find there.

When Yuuri realizes that Conrad won't meet his gaze, he drops to his knees. He doesn't think about the act until it's done, and for a second, the irony of the role reversal strikes him. After all, how many times has Conrad knelt before his king to swear fealty and attest to his devotion? But now the king kneels before his subject. No, not the king...

“Heika.”

The word probably escaped Conrad's lips automatically, and Yuuri shakes his head as if on cue, though no longer merely because he doesn't like the title and Conrad is the one who named him. The person whose hand he's clasping ought to know that there's no rank tonight. No king and subject, no soldier and liege.

Only Conrad and Yuuri.

When he says Conrad's name aloud, his eyes are moist, his vision unsteady, but he's determined not to cry just yet, because he has things he wants to say and he doesn't want to screw it up.

“Why... why don't you want to be around me anymore?” Yuuri's voice is choked with emotion that he hadn't intended to reveal, and he has to swallow a few times before continuing, the words just finally tumbling out. “I mean, if you hate being around me that much, I wish you'd just say so. You know? Because you've always been sacrificing yourself for others, and. And I wish you'd start thinking of yourself. I realize I might've been quite selfish, insisting that you come back with us.” With me. “So if you really want to leave us...” Me. “Then. Please tell me. I won't selfishly keep you here against your will any longer...”

His voice trails off because he's out of breath, and he doesn't know he's crying until Conrad's free hand reaches out to wipe a tear off his cheek. This is the same visage that has been haunting Conrad in his nightmares for weeks, but he knows that there's no running now, no escaping reality. It's time that he accept the fact that instead of protecting Yuuri, he's only caused him immense pain.

“You? Selfish?” Conrad's voice is so soft that the tone of incredulity, though genuine, is lost. “Never...”

His fingers stray to Yuuri's hair and its softness is comforting somehow, but the boy's eyes are lacking their usual luster, and Conrad thinks he would gladly trade all four of his limbs for the two black orbs to regain their innocent, joyous sparkle. But only his words can make amends now.

“Yuuri, you're the last person in this world who has any right to call themselves 'selfish'. Don't you dare bear the blame for the pain my demons have caused you.” He pauses, wanting nothing more to say that he has no desire in life save to stay by Yuuri's side forever, but the best he can manage is, “Every living breath in my body has pledged to protect you. That never changed.”

“And I never once doubted you...” Even though everyone else told me to. You know that. “But then... why aren't you by my side?”

Conrad knows it's his turn to speak, but he still can't voice his manifold insecurities.

“I raised my sword against you...” he finally whispers, but he knows that Yuuri won't truly understand.

Indeed, he doesn't. “No one's holding that against you! The only reason I haven't forgiven you is because there is nothing to forgive. It was Shinou's will, and you were simply doing your duty. For the good of the kingdom.”

Yuuri's tone is fierce, bordering on indignant. Conrad fervently wishes he could explain the self-doubt that consumes him. But there's just no words to describe what it feels like to subsist with the knowledge that he had raised his sword against the one soul he's been living to love and dying to protect. He had thought that he could do it, that he could endure being hated for the sake of creating the world that Yuuri believed in. He had thought himself strong enough to enact Shinou's will. But he could not bear knowing that he had been the source of Yuuri's pain, and everything, his reason, his resolve, had faded in the face of Yuuri's tears.

Reason always fades in the face of Yuuri's tears.

Conrad's hesitated too long, and Yuuri's speaking again, the words flying out too fast for his mind to control them. “When... when you said that time can give you happiness and take it away. You said that... That the time you spent waiting for me to grow up was a time of happiness. I know that I may have disappointed you, but—”

Conrad presses a finger to Yuuri's lips to stop him, but Yuuri's found his resolve now and is not to be deterred, and the words aren't stopping, anyway.

“—No, wait, hear me out! Look, I've heard the others talk about Suzanna Julia-san and how noble she was, and. I know she was your special person, and if it really is true that my soul is hers, I know you're probably disappointed that I... I can't live up to her reputation, and to everyone's expectations. To your expectations. But I do try, and—”

Conrad presses his lips to Yuuri's, briefly, the touch warm but feather-light. It's enough to stop the torrent of words dead in their tracks. Yuuri's face is frozen in an expression of surprise. The kiss probably wasn't the best idea, but Conrad's drunk and it was all he could think of to get the boy to stop spouting such nonsense.

Shaking his head, he slides out of his seat to the floor and draws Yuuri into his arms. It's more affection than he's ever really allowed himself to indulge in, but he's drunk, and if Yuuri truly thinks that Conrad doesn't want to be around him because he thinks himself inferior to Julia's memory, then Conrad has a lot to make up for. Conrad can think of a few objections to being with Yuuri as he wishes—the enormous age difference, for one, not to mention the fact that Yuuri's engaged to his brother—but Julia was never one of them.

He only hopes that Yuuri can understand this through the silence, because he can't say the words out loud quite yet.

Yuuri does understand, in his own way, but he's set it aside for now, his attention caught by something else entirely. Wrapped in Conrad's strong embrace, his right ear level with his chest, he can hear the soldier's steady heartbeat, and he's smiling to himself now, because he heard the rumors that “the Rutenberg Patriot sacrificed his heart to get his arm back”, and he knows it isn't true. He can hear Conrad's pulse, strong and steadfast.

And maybe he's too young to really know what love is yet, but he can hear something echo inside his own chest, can feel his own heartbeat slow to match the pace of Conrad's, and he thinks that it's something important.

For the first time in days, he feels the desire for sleep return, and the edges of his consciousness are growing fuzzy, seeking to slip into the world of dreams just beyond. Yuuri doesn't know if anything's truly been resolved, but he knows they've taken an important step forward, and he's glad.

“Conrad...” Yuuri's voice is growing thick with sleep, and he stifles a yawn as he pulls on Conrad's hand that he's been gripping all this time. “Please promise me that you'll stay by my side.”

Conrad's growing weary too, fatigue of the sort that signals that it's time to quit fighting. “But I don't want to cause you pain again...”

“You won't.” Despite the onset of sleep, Yuuri's voice is strong, determined. “As long as you're with me, you won't cause me pain. Whatever comes to haunt us, we'll face it together.”

The room is growing darker now; everything is fading fast, and it has nothing to do with the lighting. Yuuri smiles up at Conrad through half-lidded eyes, but the tears are gone, and the irises shine with a faint glimmer. Conrad's eyes, though still edged with sadness, are gentle now, and he smiles back with that special smile that he's always reserved for Yuuri alone. Their smile.

“Together.”

***

When Yuuri awakens, to his surprise, he finds himself in Conrad's bed rather than on the floor. Someone even took the time to pull a blanket over him during the night. The other pillow and blanket sit on the heavy wooden armchair, and Yuuri can guess where Conrad had spent the night.

His bodyguard is not in the room.

Sitting up, Yuuri's even more surprised to find that the other side of the bed has been made, and all of the clothing has been picked up, now sitting in neatly folded stacks on Conrad's wardrobe. The puddle of candle wax has disappeared, and the windows are open, allowing the cool morning breeze to permeate the room. There's still some books scattered about the floor, and the first rays of sunlight reveal that everything could use a good dusting, but there is hope now instead of simply chaos.

Yuuri enjoys a healthy whiff of fresh air. “Together...”

The door swings open then, and the soldier who enters is already fully bathed and clad. Yuuri has an inkling of what Conrad's head must feel like on the inside, but one couldn't tell by looking at him; the good soldier appears refreshed and ready, as always. Yuuri's heart grows warm at the sight.

“Good morning, Heika.” Conrad bows courteously, then replaces the formality with a simple smile. “Care to go for a run before breakfast?”

Yuuri answers with a smile of his own as he heads for the door. He knows that he and Conrad still have a lot to talk about, but they're making progress. He does wonder, of course, about that night, and whether he hadn't just dreamed most of what had transpired, but he doesn't have to wonder long, because if nothing else, at least at long last both the king and his bodyguard's smiles are genuine again.

[DRABBLES] Bleach: Shuuhei/Yumichika x2, Byakuya/Ichigo; Suiko: Mathiu & Odessa, Albert/Jacques x2

2006-07-22T06:07:16Z

I still can't say I'm overly fond of writing drabbles, and I don't feel I'm very good at it, but I'll try anything for the sake of my friends. n_n;

Drabble No.: 04
Fandom: Bleach
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shuuhei/Yumichika, Ikkaku
Dedication: peroxidepest17
Prompt: Stress
Description: AUish setting. Shuuhei and Yumichika live together in an apartment in the normal (modern) world. Shuuhei is a college student and under high stress because it's exam time and he needs to study. Yumichika feels slightly neglected and decides it's time to do something to get his boyfriend to relax a little.
Rating: PG-13 for shounen-ai and mentions of alcohol abuse.
Word Count: 1,195. Which is like, almost half a fic. Oops.
Other Notes: I promised you this one over spring break when you were stressing about your exams but I never quite finished and then I forgot about it until I started working on your other drabble request and found that I already had a file called "ShuuYumi drabble.doc". o_o; Anyway, I kind of went on a tangent in this fic, sorry. >_> The whole concert scene was inspired by an actual concert I went to. The Despairs are (supposed to be) a fictional band, though.

Yumichika realized that it wasn't really fair of him to whine so much when Shuuhei was trying to work so hard to succeed in his university studies.

But Yumi also knew that Shuuhei had as much of a responsibility to his boyfriend as he did to his coursework. Especially when the boyfriend in question was as beautiful as he was.

So when, sprawled across the couch in their apartment in a rather suggestive pose, Yumichika begged for Shuuhei's attention once again, and Shuuhei snapped at him that he was studying for his midterms and that he couldn't afford to be distracted right now, Yumi let out a dramatic sigh, deciding that something must be done. Shuuhei was stressed out by his upcoming exams, and Yumichika was feeling neglected. Surely there ought to be something that could satisfy both of their needs.

He tried everything, from baking to shopping together to trying to get his boyfriend drunk. But Shuuhei didn't have much of a sweet tooth, he wasn't interested in any of the boutiques Yumichika dragged him into and only tried on outfits because the latter begged him to, and when Yumi finally got him to down enough alcohol, he simply passed out on the couch, mentally exhausted from his studying earlier that day.

And so the problem went unresolved, and both partners grew increasingly more grumpy, taking their stress and discontentment out on each other and threatening to destroy their still-young relationship.

At his wit's end, Yumichika finally went to see their mutual friend Ikkaku, who was a bartender at a local pool hall. Sipping at an apple martini, Yumi explained the entire dilemma, sometimes pausing dramatically to wipe away a tear.

“Way I see it, here's what ya' do, Yumi,” Ikkaku advised after giving the matter a few moments' thought. “Ya' need to take him out somewhere really fun. Something ta' make him forget his stress and appreciate you as a boyfriend.”

“But... but I've already tried everything I could think of,” Yumichika sniffed.

“Well, yer' forgettin' somethin' major,” Ikkaku explained. “Try an' think. What was it Shuuhei did 'fore he managed ta' make it inta' college?”

Yumi frowned, trying to remember. “...He was in a band?”

“Bingo,” Ikkaku grinned. When Yumi still looked confused, he went on, “Shuuhei loves music. So what'cha gotta' do is, take him to a concert!”

He beamed proudly, as if it were the smartest idea he'd ever come up with in his life. Yumichika initially felt tempted to shoot down the idea, arguing that there was no way Shuuhei was going to be willing to take the time out to go to a concert, but when he gave it some more thought, he realized that it might actually work. Grudgingly, he agreed that it might not be a bad idea. It was worth a shot, at any rate.

Ikkaku made all the arrangements.

A few nights later, Yumichika was again lounging on the couch, with Shuuhei sitting on the floor nearby with a heavy textbook in his lap. Yumichika whispered his boyfriend's voice in as sweet a voice as he could manage. It took him a few tries to even get the latter to respond.

“Are you busy on Saturday night?” Yumi questioned.

“I'll be cramming, as usual. My Calculus exam is Monday morning,” Shuuhei responded, not taking his eyes off the page he was reading.

Yumi smiled to himself as he attempted a casual tone. “Oh. Pity...”

Shuuhei finished reading the passage before he asked somewhat disinterestedly, “Why?”

Yumichika let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose these The Despairs concert tickets that I managed to come across will be going to waste, then.”

Shuuhei sat up with a jolt at the mention of The Despairs, his eyes wide as he stared at a smug-looking Yumichika. They were one of his favorite bands. How had Yumi known?!

After carefully weighing the pros and cons of the situation, Shuuhei gulped and stammered, “I... I suppose I could make time for something like that.”

Yumi grinned. Victory was within reach.

***

Yumichika didn't really know rock music. He'd never bothered to try to understand it. All those guys with their uncombed, greasy hair and garish make-up, screaming dissonantly into microphones... it was too “ugly” for Yumi to appreciate.

Still, he was willing to endure the concert for his boyfriend's sake. But he did feel slightly apprehensive, not knowing what would be in store for them.

Shuuhei, in full concert-wear, was watching the stage with quiet concentration.

When at last the band came out, it was amazing. The crowd went absolutely berserk, and Shuuhei and even Yumichika just went with it. Then the musicians started playing, and… it was indescribable. The voices and sounds all washed together into a raging storm that blew over and left everyone breathless. After a while, even Yumi was jumping, shouting, screaming, dancing—until he had lost all sense of his surroundings, save that he was moving, and that the music and he were one.

Sometime toward the end, he suddenly found himself with Shuuhei’s lips pressed to his. Yumichika realized he was standing with his body pressed very close to his boyfriend's, and he couldn’t remember how long they had been standing there like that, so close together. In fact, he couldn’t remember much other than the music. He realized his body was drenched with sweat; his shirt clinging to his chest. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten so wet. Shuuhei’s hand was at the small of his back, pressing them closer. Yumi was standing on tiptoe and knew Shuuhei must be bending slightly through his knees to be able to kiss him.

Vainly, Yumichika grasped for his sanity, for his rationality that would allow him to clear his thinking, but somehow he and that side of him couldn’t get in touch. There was a gaping ravine between them. He realized faintly that the music must’ve inspired an almost out-of-body experience, and that his mind was still dull from the aftershock, but those thoughts were just leaves in a torrent of rain. After a while, he quit thinking altogether and just gave himself over to Shuuhei’s kisses.

Was this why Shuuhei was so passionate about this music?

Yumi didn’t remember when the concert had ended, just that suddenly there was no music and they were all trying to head for the exit. His body still tried to cling to his boyfriend's as Shuuhei pulled him through the crowd trying to get ahead. Then suddenly there was night, fresh air, breathing, darkness, the parking garage, bright lights, the street. And they were walking away, finally free of the crowd.

About a block or so from their apartment complex, Shuuhei slipped an arm around Yumichika's waist. The gesture was slightly unorthodox, as Shuuhei never had been too fond of public displays of affection of any sort, but Yumi knew better than to comment.

After they had walked for a few more minutes, Shuuhei whispered softly, “Thank you.”

Yumichika simply beamed up at him, sparkling as he noted proudly that his boyfriend looked happy and relaxed for the first time in weeks.

---

Drabble No.: 05
Fandom: Bleach
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Shuuhei/Yumichika
Dedication: peroxidepest17
Prompt: Tag
Description: AUish setting; same one as #04. It's now summer and there's a heatwave. Shuuhei is still trying to study. Yumichika is annoyed with the heat and an attention whore. Silly games ensue.
Rating: PG for light but slightly suggestive shounen-ai.
Word Count: 455.
Other Notes: For this drabble request meme.

Yumichika could be vicious when he felt neglected.

He was already annoyed at the hot, muggy state of their apartment. The entire city was suffering from a heatwave, and nothing bothered Yumi more than humid air that made his hairdo sag and his skin sticky.

That, and Shuuhei insisted upon studying for final exams that were still several weeks away.

The pile of textbooks on the low table in the living room seemed to be a mile high. Every once in a while, Yumi would chuck a cashew at the open book in Shuuhei's lap from his seat on the couch. Shuuhei would simply flick it away and continue reading, unperturbed, with the patience and endurance of an exalted prophet.

Eventually, Yumichika got annoyed enough at the entire situation that he flicked the cashew at Shuuhei's temple instead of the textbook.

Shuuhei yelped and finally looked up, his face set with lines of rage. “What was that for!?”

Yumi huffed, crossed his arms like a petulant child, and looked away.

Shuuhei growled, not nearly as angry as he sounded but unwilling to give Yumi the benefit of admitting how the long periods of studying were beginning to bore him, too. Still, Yumichika had been acting like a baby all day, constantly nagging him for attention. It was payback time.

“You want attention? Fine.” Rising to his feet, he bent over and tapped Yumichika on the forearm. When his boyfriend finally turned to face him and he was met with a puzzled look, he explained, “Tag! You're it.”

Before Yumi could think to argue, he made off in a mad dash toward the kitchen.

***

When Yumi finally managed to catch Shuuhei, the latter tripped him with his outstretched leg, and the two hot, sweaty bodies collapsed on top of each other on the carpeted bedroom floor. This time, it was Yumichika's turn to growl, while Shuuhei could not help but laugh.

“You made me exert myself physically in this terrible heat!” Yumi was pouting. “Now I'm no longer beautiful.”

Shuuhei could not suppress a guffaw. “Of course you are.”

“Look at my hair!” Yumichika's hair was indeed even greasier than before, with loose strands plastered to his forehead in a rather unkempt manner. “You had better take responsibility.”

Using one finger to push to the side the locks that had gotten stuck there, Shuuhei pressed a light kiss on Yumi's brow. “Always.”

“These clothes are soaked through. I think we'd better take them off and get you into the shower.” With a smirk and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, Shuuhei pulled his boyfriend to his feet and began to move toward the bathroom.

Yumi complied, grinning, and with a click, the door locked behind them.

---

Drabble No.: 06
Fandom: Gensou Suikoden I
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Mathiu and Odessa Silverberg, brief mentions of Leon Silverberg
Dedication: karthur
Prompt: Childhood
Description: Odessa asks Mathiu about the nature of warfare.
Rating: PG for brief references to violence.
Word Count: 830. (It's kind of like a series of related drabbles?)
Other Notes: For this drabble request meme.

When his sister Odessa was born, Mathiu Silverberg initially did not take much notice of the child. He had already reached that age where baby-talk held little appeal, and even her bright eyes and warm smile could not induce him to give up more than a little of the time he spent learning and studying to spend with her. He simply did not know what to do with a child who was too young to have even a semblance of an intelligent conversation with.

This went on for about four years, until Odessa had reached that age where she became infatuated with the word “why”, as all young children at some point do. It started off simply, with questions like, “Why won't brother play with me?”, “Why do I have to eat carrots?”, and, “Why is the sky blue?”

Odessa was an unusually bright child, however, and her curiosity never ceased. Long after she had exhausted all of the obvious questions, she still found others to ask and would not relent unless she had received an acceptable explanation.

One day, she even managed to sneak into the study, where Mathiu had retreated to earlier that afternoon for some quiet reading time.

“What are you doing?” her soft voice broke the silence.

“I'm studying.”

“Why?”

“Because Uncle Leon wants me to learn a lot about military strategy.”

“Why?”

“Well, I'm not quite sure, but he says that it's our family's destiny to be involved in the conflicts that shape our world. Wars, especially.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is there war? Why do people fight each other?”

Mathiu looked up, surprised. He hadn't expected someone so young to be able to grasp the concept of 'war', but judging by the serious look on Odessa's face, she knew what she was talking about. Suddenly, she had become a lot more interesting in Mathiu's eyes.

He tried explaining to her what to him seemed like fairly obvious reasons: that some people wanted land, while others fought because they felt that there was something they must protect at all costs, and most of all, because people desired power.

Odessa did not look satisfied. “But why do they fight each other over that? I don't get it.”

Mathiu sighed and shooed her off, realizing that the concept of 'politics' was still beyond her. But her question remained with him long after Odessa had outgrown the "why" phase.

***

Shortly after the Succession War, Tinto had launched a surprise attack against newly-crowned Emperor Barbarossa's Scarlet Moon. Though the Six Great Generals and Leon Silverberg were already in pursuit with a counterattack, the Tinto Army had still managed to destroy several villages in the North. When Mathiu, already having his doubts, had refused Leon's invitation to ride out with them, the latter had sent his nephew to do a damage report of the affected area. Odessa, bored with city life, had elected to join her brother. Standing together on a nearby hilltop, the two surveyed the scene in front of them.

One village had been almost completely demolished. Smoke still hung in the air above where entire houses had been burned to the ground. Stooped figures moved silently through the rubble, searching for the missing, although by this time, there remained little hope that they were still alive.

Mathiu observed everything quietly. Though the scene was certainly horrific, it was not so different from what he had seen many times before. Odessa's face, however, was ashen gray and visibly stricken.

Her voice was thin and strained. “Why do people fight each other?”

He didn't—couldn't—answer.

***

Mathiu had almost given up on ever hearing from Odessa again after he had refused her request for aid concerning the newly-founded Liberation Army. At the time she had yelled and yelled, even angrily renouncing all ties between them.

So he was surprised when he received a letter from her several weeks later. Short and simple, it was nonetheless thought-provoking. She had written:

I once asked you why it is that people fight each other.

I have finally found my answer. I want to fight for a world where there is no more fighting, no more war. No more innocent people ruthlessly murdered. I believe that the Liberation Army can get us closer to this goal.

I know I probably cannot persuade you, but please give it some thought.

Mathiu frowned and shook his head. It was no use. He had already given it so much thought before, to no avail. Odessa was still young and naïve. He was old, now, and jaded. He no longer believed in the proverbial 'war to end all wars'.

His thoughts were interrupted when one of his students walked up and tapped him on the arm.

“Master Mathiu? I don't understand today's lesson.”

“What don't you understand?”

“Just, this whole thing about war... Why do people fight each other?”

Mathiu looked away, sighed, and shook his head again. “I'll tell you another time.”

---

Drabble No.: 07
Fandom: Bleach
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Byakuya/Ichigo
Dedication: ignipotent
Prompt: Silliness
Description: Ichigo is fascinated by Byakuya's hair. Because nothing is sillier than hair ~~yeah right~~.
Rating: T for non-explicit references to yaoi because I know my Audrey likes teh pr0nz.
Word Count: 455.
Other Notes: For this drabble request meme. I really did have a hard time with this one. >_> ~~Argh you and your difficult pairings... T____T~~

Byakuya preferred to go to sleep after sex, but Ichigo rarely let him. The state of euphoria produced the aftermath of orgasm was one of the only times when Byakuya was somewhat conversational and willing to answer Ichigo's questions, so the latter always tried to take this time to get to know his partner better.

On this particular occasion, Ichigo was feeling more playful than conversational. It made little difference to Byakuya, however, because in the end it meant the same thing: he would not be able to go to sleep for a while.

“Oi, Byakuya.” Fingering a strand of his lover's hair, Ichigo used his usual casual slang that Byakuya so despised. “What kinda' shampoo do you use? Your hair's soft and fine, like a girl's.”

Eyes closed, Byakuya frowned and tried to pull away as Ichigo's hands roamed further and further up toward his scalp. “I use the finest imported oils. Expensive. Stop touching it.”

Lying on his side facing the older man, Ichigo ignored his demand and brought a few locks up to his nose and sniffed. “Smells like sweat now though.” With his other hand, he traced figures at the roots of Byakuya's hair, close to his face. “I like it without the hair cu—“

“Kenseikan.” Byakuya didn't even let him finish. “You commoners have no appreciation for antique hair ornaments, especially ones closely linked to one's heritage.”

“Whatever.” Ichigo started braiding some of the locks of hair closest to him, something he'd been forced to learn how to do growing up with two younger sisters and no mother. “I just think you oughtta' do somethin' else with it every once in a while. Ya' know, play around with it. Try different things.”

When Byakuya realized what the other was trying to do with his hair, he smacked his hand away and glared at him, then closed his eyes again. “Stop. I am trying to sleep.”

“Oookayyyyy.” Ichigo grinned and shrugged, combing his fingers through the strands to remove the braid. “Or, ya' know, you can just wear it all loose like this. Let the wind run through it and play with it a little. It feels nice. You really oughtta' try it.”

Byakuya roughly grabbed Ichigo's hand at his wrist. However, the feel of his lover's hands combing through his hair had begun to arouse him.

“Stop. You have two choices at this point. Either you'll let me sleep, or we'll go again.” The mixture of heat and anger in his eyes showed that he meant it.

The look sent a shiver down the younger man's spine, elliciting heat in his own loins.

Obediently rolling onto his back and spreading his legs, Ichigo smirked smugly. “Ah, sleep is overrated anyway.”

---

Drabble No.: 08
Fandom: Gensou Suikoden III
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Albert/Jacques, brief mention of Nadir
Dedication: ~~Muffin-love~~ michrure
Prompt: Behind the scenes
Description: MSA-verse. Jacques is acting in one of Nadir's shows. Albert is... Albert? Haha, anything more will give it away.
Rating: PG for shounen-ai.
Word Count: 670.
Other Notes: For this drabble request meme. I wasn't sure what exactly you meant by "behind the scenes" but you know that Theater controls a good 40% of my mind, so... >_> And I'm sorry you lost your iPod! ;_;

Jacques found that he missed Albert.

The two lovers had not gotten to see much of each other the past several weeks, as Jacques had been having to stay out late every night for vigorous rehearsals for Nadir's latest production. Jacques would not return to their room until past midnight. Albert would usually still be up—reading, of course—and Jacques, exhausted, would crawl under the covers and snuggle up next to his boyfriend, only to fall asleep right away. Albert would be gone by the time Jacques woke up in the morning; it was, after all, Albert's habit to take a walk before sunrise and then spend the remaining hours before class started in the library.

Jacques would, however, always find a fresh and healthy breakfast waiting for him on the dining table.

But Jacques did not get to see Albert much during the month before the show, and he felt the absence like a security blanket that had been ruthlessly torn away from him.

Occasionally, they would pass each other in the hallways. Albert would smirk, that characteristic half-smile of his, and those who knew him best would discern a slight twinkle in his eyes, but he would show no other visible signs of affection. This was, after all, the aloof and stoic Albert Silverberg. All the same, Jacques would look down and blush. He couldn't seem to help doing that whenever he saw Albert lately.

The day of the opening of the show, there lay also a single red rose beside the fresh strawberry topping on the pancakes.

Jacques, blushing furiously, nonetheless gratefully accepted the small gift, only wishing that his boyfriend was actually present when he received it. He felt nervous, wondering if he could truly get up on the stage that night and perform his part. He wished Albert were there to comfort him. But Albert, as always, was nowhere to be found.

During every class that day, he fidgeted in his seat and kept his eye trained on the door, hoping against hope that Albert would enter his class under some pretense or other. At long last, however, the bell rang to dismiss the students for the day, and Jacques had not managed to catch a single glimpse of the tall redhead.

He quickly returned to the dorm, in the vain hope that he might see Albert while he got together all his things for the show that night. But the room was empty. Sighing, Jacques resigned himself to the fact that he probably would not get to see Albert until after the performance.

Trudging to the auxiliary building where the Theater was housed, eyes downcast, Jacques failed to detect the figure following behind him until he felt two strong arms around his waist.

Albert hugged him from behind for a few seconds, whispering words of encouragement in French into his ear. Then, just as quickly, he disappeared again.

Jacques was smiling broadly. It was enough.

That night, he performed his lines on stage with a renewed passion, and he only felt a slight twinge of stage fright. Overall, he found he wasn't nervous anymore; his brief moment with Albert had been enough to calm him down and induce him to focus on the task at hand without feeling too distracted.

Before he knew it, his part in the show was over. There were still several scenes left, but his character had been killed after a dramatic monologue that had earned loud applause from the crowd. Jacques removed his wig and moved into the wings to watch the rest of the performance. He stood there and gazed upon the other actors for a while, when all of a sudden a figure detached itself from the heavy shadows backstage and wrapped itself around him again.

“You were wonderful tonight,” Albert whispered into his ear after tenderly kissing his cheek from behind. “Trés magnifique.”

Turning around to embrace his boyfriend, Jacques smiled up at Albert lovingly, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. “......So were you...”

---

Drabble No.: 09
Fandom: Gensou Suikoden III
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Albert/Jacques, brief mention of Dr. Tuta
Dedication: HAPPY ~~BELATED~~ BIRTHDAY michrure~!! ♥
Prompt: Flu
Description: MSA-verse. Jacques is sick. Albert is worried and decides to actually try to be a good boyfriend for a change. SUPER CHEESY FLUFF.
Rating: PG for light shounen-ai.
Word Count: 435.
Other Notes: I tried writing Pie/Muffin but it didn't really work out. >_> Also, I started on this ages ago for your birthday but then never had the chance to finish because of all the shit that happened. >_< I'm sorryyyyyyy~! ;_______; I ♥ you and your Jacques-muse lots.

Even though he was Jacques' lover, Albert fully recognized that he was never a particularly romantic man, especially in public. Most assumed (correctly) that Albert generally preferred to keep it that way.

However, when the first of winter's cold spells hit and Jacques fell ill with the flu, Albert did walk two miles into town every morning just to buy fresh oranges, which, once back in the dorm, he would laboriously peel and squeeze to produce fresh juice.

He'd nod at Jacques while handing him the cup and say, “Vitamins,” and he would leave it at that.

When Jacques' symptoms did not let up and he began to develop a fever, rather than reading or studying, Albert would stand in the kitchen area of the dorms for hours baking fresh bread and cooking up tomato soup and beef-and-vegetable broth, which he wholeheartedly believed ought to cure the sickest person. He'd even stay by Jacques' side as the other ate. He claimed, of course, that it was not out of concern for the patient but to ensure that the meal was properly consumed and that his efforts in the kitchen did not go to waste (in which case it was rather curious that he would be smiling ever so slightly the entire time he watched his roommate eat).

When Jacques' fever peaked and even Dr. Tuta's medication seemed ineffective, Albert, top upperclassman and honor student though he was, skipped class for three whole days to stay in and watch over his roommate. Without a word, he simply slipped under the many blankets and lay beside the patient, subsequently spending the time tirelessly reading books to the other, ranging from Gulliver's Travels to Nietzsche and Kafka. His voice never faltered and his eyes never wearied, and he would stop only if his partner had fallen asleep, using that time as a brief respite for his voice, getting more cold-water compresses, and baking or cooking more food for when the patient awoke again.

When Jacques at long last began to recover, he was terribly conscious of the sacrifices his boyfriend had made for his sake. When Albert came to check his temperature by laying his hand across Jacques' forehead and thereby ascertaining that the fever had indeed gone down, he ruffled Jacques' golden locks as was his habit, and though it was not generally his style to be so assertive, Jacques, blushing, whispered, “...I love you...”

And Albert, pulling Jacques in for a tender kiss, flashed a slight smug smirk, realizing that, for an unromantic man, he was doing quite all right, quite all right.

Also for your birthday, I uploaded a manga for you that I think you'd enjoy. For some reason it really reminds me of Albie/Jacq. It's called Rin! and it's by Honami Yukine, my favorite yaoi mangaka. (I hope you haven't read it before!) You can download it here & here. Enjoy~! ♥