(no subject)
Prompt: Hands
Author: medieval128
Words: 973
Rating: G
Summary: Oshitari finds palm reading deathly gripping.
Notes: Written for meganebucks. Prompt: hands.
Just as Atobe opened his mouth to conclude the student council meeting, his phone rang obnoxiously. A little like a hippopotamus trampling through the door, it did not go at all unnoticed. Eyes stared owlishly at him. Atobe was the one who laid down the law about cell phones being off during meetings.
Atobe’s eyebrow twitched. Irritated, he waved off the thirty pairs of bulged eyeballs with an impatient hand, reminded them of the date of the next meeting, and then dug the phone from his pant pocket.
“Hello?” His greeting was demand above salutation.
“Keigo, Keigo, you must come down here immediately. And bring your hand, too. This is absolutely - ”
“I thought you were working on your research paper,” Atobe interrupted crossly.
“I have done nothing but research all afternoon, and you will not believe what I found. Who even knew that the Hyoutei library dedicated an entire section to Middle Eastern prophets?”
Atobe decided against questioning this. It was more effective to survey the crime scene for himself. “Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”
When he arrived in the Asian Culture wing of the library, a deserted little corner where no one frequented except with the intent of finding privacy, he was quite frankly very impressed with the havoc Oshitari managed to wreak within ninety minutes.
“You realize that you are not yet writing your doctoral dissertation, yes?” Atobe asked, weaving around the pillars of books stacked knee-high. “We generally save that for graduate school.”
“If it were up to me, I would want to write my doctoral dissertation on this,” Oshitari said. He jabbed a finger at the book spread open in his hand and then tilted his head at the rest of the books he had pulled from the shelves.
Research on the influence of the Shinto religion on Japan had, by some luck and discrepancy in the Dewey decimal system, spawned into an idée fixe with palm reading. When Oshitari had found the first of many volumes describing this ancient art, he had been hooked. It was like joining the mafia: once you were in, death was the only way out.
Atobe frowned down at the dictionary-thick tome in Oshitari’s hand, and began to read aloud, “’In Eastern societies, hands are thought to be man’s spiritual guidebook as well as a means to look into the soul of man. Even today, palm reading is a deeply respected form of fortunetelling.’”
“It’s a wonder this isn’t terribly popular around here. Have I just been visiting the wrong temples, do you think?” He didn’t wait for Atobe’s response before drawing Atobe’s right hand from his side and gesturing for Atobe to take the seat on the opposite side of the table. “After reading my own hand, I think it made a lot of sense. I’m curious if it holds true for you, too.”
Atobe rolled his eyes, but did not protest. Despite that he regarded palm reading as an absurd superstition, it would not be the world’s cruellest torture to humour Oshitari.
He rested his chin on a fist and watched as Oshitari’s hand settled around his. Oshitari’s thumb stretched like a cat under the lazy sun of summer across Atobe’s wrist. Two pulses beat to the whirring silence of the library, and slowly bled into one, a keeper of time as Oshitari studied, with narrow-eyed concentration, the highway of intersecting and branching lines engraved deep into Atobe’s palm.
Oshitari pressed down on Atobe’s fingers, stretching his palm flat, and then let them curl again. Atobe had elegant pianist’s fingers, long digits that extended for heights forever beyond its reach. Atobe’s hands, with its calluses at the juncture where palm met finger and thick pads of skin at the fingertips, were characterized by an individualistic type of beauty.
Oshitari followed a blue-violet vein down Atobe’s pinkie and traced the chained line that ran across the width of his hand. He lifted his gaze and smiled broadly at Atobe. “Your hand claims proudly of a great, passionate love,” he prophesied in a voice in which he supposed hoary old men with long white beards spoke.
Atobe regarded Oshitari wearily, though a warm feeling melted a little in his chest. “Are you just flattering yourself?”
Oshitari considered this. “What I said, isn’t it what you want to believe, too?”
Slipping his hand from Oshitari’s grip, Atobe shrugged. “Not everyone is a sappy romantic like you, you know.”
“I suppose,” said Oshitari, chuckling good-naturedly.
Atobe stood from his seat, and tapped the back of the chair he had vacated. “I have things to attend to this afternoon. Gather your things quickly, or else I am leaving you to hitch a ride home with a stranger.”
“But I was counting on picking at your hand some more in the car.” Oshitari frowned and looked very disappointed. “You can’t deprive me of that.”
“I will deprive you of your livelihood if you don’t pack immediately.”
After casting a mock-contemptuous glare Atobe’s way, Oshitari began reshelving a good fraction of his stacks. When they left, however, Oshitari still blindly tripped past the threshold with an armload of books.
Halfway down the mulch-padded trail leading to the front entrance, Atobe took pity upon Oshitari and offered to share the weight of the load. Cheerfully, Oshitari shifted a third of the books into Atobe’s arms. Beneath the thousands of cardboard-bound pages, their hands brushed, sliding past each other.
Oshitari hadn’t quite told Atobe the truth about the thin, curved braid on his hand. A line that weaved in and out of itself foretold a lifetime of emotional loss and tragedy. Oshitari did not see the telling of his little white lie as much of a crime, however. Like the path underneath their feet, not every path in the world was set in stone.
Author: medieval128
Words: 973
Rating: G
Summary: Oshitari finds palm reading deathly gripping.
Notes: Written for meganebucks. Prompt: hands.
Just as Atobe opened his mouth to conclude the student council meeting, his phone rang obnoxiously. A little like a hippopotamus trampling through the door, it did not go at all unnoticed. Eyes stared owlishly at him. Atobe was the one who laid down the law about cell phones being off during meetings.
Atobe’s eyebrow twitched. Irritated, he waved off the thirty pairs of bulged eyeballs with an impatient hand, reminded them of the date of the next meeting, and then dug the phone from his pant pocket.
“Hello?” His greeting was demand above salutation.
“Keigo, Keigo, you must come down here immediately. And bring your hand, too. This is absolutely - ”
“I thought you were working on your research paper,” Atobe interrupted crossly.
“I have done nothing but research all afternoon, and you will not believe what I found. Who even knew that the Hyoutei library dedicated an entire section to Middle Eastern prophets?”
Atobe decided against questioning this. It was more effective to survey the crime scene for himself. “Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”
When he arrived in the Asian Culture wing of the library, a deserted little corner where no one frequented except with the intent of finding privacy, he was quite frankly very impressed with the havoc Oshitari managed to wreak within ninety minutes.
“You realize that you are not yet writing your doctoral dissertation, yes?” Atobe asked, weaving around the pillars of books stacked knee-high. “We generally save that for graduate school.”
“If it were up to me, I would want to write my doctoral dissertation on this,” Oshitari said. He jabbed a finger at the book spread open in his hand and then tilted his head at the rest of the books he had pulled from the shelves.
Research on the influence of the Shinto religion on Japan had, by some luck and discrepancy in the Dewey decimal system, spawned into an idée fixe with palm reading. When Oshitari had found the first of many volumes describing this ancient art, he had been hooked. It was like joining the mafia: once you were in, death was the only way out.
Atobe frowned down at the dictionary-thick tome in Oshitari’s hand, and began to read aloud, “’In Eastern societies, hands are thought to be man’s spiritual guidebook as well as a means to look into the soul of man. Even today, palm reading is a deeply respected form of fortunetelling.’”
“It’s a wonder this isn’t terribly popular around here. Have I just been visiting the wrong temples, do you think?” He didn’t wait for Atobe’s response before drawing Atobe’s right hand from his side and gesturing for Atobe to take the seat on the opposite side of the table. “After reading my own hand, I think it made a lot of sense. I’m curious if it holds true for you, too.”
Atobe rolled his eyes, but did not protest. Despite that he regarded palm reading as an absurd superstition, it would not be the world’s cruellest torture to humour Oshitari.
He rested his chin on a fist and watched as Oshitari’s hand settled around his. Oshitari’s thumb stretched like a cat under the lazy sun of summer across Atobe’s wrist. Two pulses beat to the whirring silence of the library, and slowly bled into one, a keeper of time as Oshitari studied, with narrow-eyed concentration, the highway of intersecting and branching lines engraved deep into Atobe’s palm.
Oshitari pressed down on Atobe’s fingers, stretching his palm flat, and then let them curl again. Atobe had elegant pianist’s fingers, long digits that extended for heights forever beyond its reach. Atobe’s hands, with its calluses at the juncture where palm met finger and thick pads of skin at the fingertips, were characterized by an individualistic type of beauty.
Oshitari followed a blue-violet vein down Atobe’s pinkie and traced the chained line that ran across the width of his hand. He lifted his gaze and smiled broadly at Atobe. “Your hand claims proudly of a great, passionate love,” he prophesied in a voice in which he supposed hoary old men with long white beards spoke.
Atobe regarded Oshitari wearily, though a warm feeling melted a little in his chest. “Are you just flattering yourself?”
Oshitari considered this. “What I said, isn’t it what you want to believe, too?”
Slipping his hand from Oshitari’s grip, Atobe shrugged. “Not everyone is a sappy romantic like you, you know.”
“I suppose,” said Oshitari, chuckling good-naturedly.
Atobe stood from his seat, and tapped the back of the chair he had vacated. “I have things to attend to this afternoon. Gather your things quickly, or else I am leaving you to hitch a ride home with a stranger.”
“But I was counting on picking at your hand some more in the car.” Oshitari frowned and looked very disappointed. “You can’t deprive me of that.”
“I will deprive you of your livelihood if you don’t pack immediately.”
After casting a mock-contemptuous glare Atobe’s way, Oshitari began reshelving a good fraction of his stacks. When they left, however, Oshitari still blindly tripped past the threshold with an armload of books.
Halfway down the mulch-padded trail leading to the front entrance, Atobe took pity upon Oshitari and offered to share the weight of the load. Cheerfully, Oshitari shifted a third of the books into Atobe’s arms. Beneath the thousands of cardboard-bound pages, their hands brushed, sliding past each other.
Oshitari hadn’t quite told Atobe the truth about the thin, curved braid on his hand. A line that weaved in and out of itself foretold a lifetime of emotional loss and tragedy. Oshitari did not see the telling of his little white lie as much of a crime, however. Like the path underneath their feet, not every path in the world was set in stone.