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lucetilogs2011-02-20 05:41 am
letsplaysurgeon.livejournal.com) wrote in lucetilogs2011-02-20 05:41 am
Wedding bells ain't going to chime, with both of us guilty of crime
Who:
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letsplaysurgeon and deathsdoctor What: Katas, cigarettes and copious amounts of banter.
When: The morning after this, so backdated to the fifteenth of February.
Where: On the roof of CH2.
Summary: A fortuitous meeting when Muraki has an early morning nic-fit and heads to the roof for some smoke and fresh air.
Rating: PG-13 for now, but it's looking like it'll progress into an R rating later.
[Light was creeping through his window as faint as a phantom, and it didn't break the shadows apart as opposed to washing them in a grainy blue tint. This wasn’t nighttime, but it didn’t really qualify as morning, either: it was the hour in between where daylight was slowly being dragged from the dead. And he was awake to experience it. As a matter of fact, he was far more conscious than nature was at this moment.
He watches the world develop contours, bringing his bedroom into sharper focus. He stares at the same corner of his ceiling for ten minutes before deciding he didn't like the clash between the catatonic morning and his buzzing brain. He could get up, shuffle around his apartment and wait on his hands, or he could venture out into the world and watch it sleep.
When was the last time he had a cigarette? He puts on his shoes and coat and then leaves the apartment.
The decision to go up to the roof occurs to him after he acknowledges the familiar way downstairs and decides it wasn't worth the effort. Instead he treks up five flights of stairs and pushes open an unfamiliar door, met with a cold burst of February air before he even walks outside.]
no subject
We come back to what was said in the woods. About how the most careful doctor can't escape death. And it resonates here. With doctors and innocence.
You haven't escaped death. You aren't innocent or as pure as the white you favor. His wonderings if you are a criminal are confirmed. It just fits. Along with the prickles still running up and down his spine. And all the little things noticed and learned in prior encounters.
You are a very dangerous man. You are likely a very deadly man.
And.
And he still loves you.]
Perhaps I do. But fair or not, I still want to hear it from your lips.
[And before you open your eyes, and before you take that next drag of that cigarette, the location of the voice shifts. He's not watching the sunrise anymore - like a fantasy, he seems to have evaporated from that spot in the moment between one blink and the next. All there is is air. Air and a sword.
The voice is now coming from behind. Close. Whispering into the shell of your ear lowly, warm breath caressing the skin. Like a lover. Touching, almost. But not.
But if you should whirl, you'll catch nothing but air.]
So... Mister Muraki. What do you fancy?
[You laid down a challenge earlier, a statement and suggestion all in one. Now Law's laying down his.
How do you rise to it?]
no subject
He’s lethal, but it’s clear that you’re not harmless, either. Or even one-hundred percent pure. This type of desire only ran thick for the pain and transgression in others: perhaps you weren't the same as him and Tsuzuki, but a kindred species. And of course this possibility, this potential darkness inside your heart, causes him to love you--need you--even more.]
From my lips? [He chuckles at the choice of words. He enjoys this chase, but he doesn’t feel cornered yet.] And what if--
[But his sentence stops there, because when he looks up, he finds that he’s addressing a sword and the empty space where your body used to be. And neither that nor your nodachi can appreciate his suggestive banter. His smile fades into a look of valid bewilderment, and he starts to turn.
That action misfires, resulting in an obvious jerk of his back muscles when he feels breath on his ear, a focused contrast to the chill surrounding him. His adrenaline rushes at the threat of having someone behind him, surprised and annoyed at the intrusion (his brain running a single obstinate thought, "How dare you?"). But he could chisel beneath that and find an unexpected subterranean layer of excitement: norepinephrine increased. He hates your boldness--and wants it at the same time.
He doesn’t intend to answer your question, but he pivots around--and nothing but the sound and feeling of his coat whipping around his ankles, and more empty space. As if he had imagined this entire encounter.
Disappointing to say the least. And almost disconcerting. But he knows he’s not psychotic--apart from that, your sword is still present.
It’s a sudden yet noticeable shift from interesting to bland in the atmosphere. He curls some hair behind his ear and glances at his cigarette one more time before he drops it and crushes it beneath his shoe, moving to exit the roof. By now he was accustomed to anticlimactic ends.
As he once said, it only prolonged his pleasure. He could wait.]
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