[Fic] Knife is to Head as Syaoran is to Syaoran (Syaoran/Syaoran)
Title: Knife is to Head as Syaoran is to Syaoran
Pairing: C!Syaoran/R!Syaoran
Rating: PG
Words: 1,971
Warnings: Crackfic. Also contains spoilers - though really, this pairing is a spoiler anyway.
Summary: In which Syaoron is a corpse and Syaoran is a dorky spazz.
Contest: Contest #1: Halloween
When Syaoran feels a disturbance in the air he opens his eyes. It is a decidedly bad move to make and he feels as if his heart has leapt from his chest and up to his throat, effectively constricting his airways when he sees his reflection covered in blood with a glinting knife sticking out of his skull.
But he’s outside, sitting down against a tree where there couldn’t possibly be a mirror floating around. He’s sitting down, the reflection wasn’t.
Strange. Very strange. Then that would have to mean-
It takes him for than a few moments too long to figure out that it isn’t his reflection he’s looking at, rather his twin.
That still doesn’t erase the horror. In fact, it only makes his heart twist and turn and thump inside his chest and do cruel things to his rationality, and his ability to think.
“Syaoran!” A hand moves to try and grasp at the phantom pain inside his chest, while the other is frantically moving towards the ground for support so he can push himself off.
“It’s Syaoron,” the other corrects automatically, regarding him with a raised brow.
Syaoran though, is busy stumbling forward. He almost trips on the grass and only manages to keep his balance by grabbing onto his twin’s shoulders. He stains his hands red with the sickeningly sticky red substance in the process.
He only barely manages to quash the urge to apologize as Syaoron’s body gets jolted by his weight, but he forces himself to calm down, calm down enough to be able to inspect the damage. “You’re bleeding,” he says grimly, lips thinning not with displeasure but to ensure he wouldn’t break out into hopeless hysterical laughter.
His eyes dart frantically from the drops of blood clotting his hair to the strips of stained bandages to the shiny blade sticking out from the unruly chestnut strands. He has to resist the urge to just yank it out - to do so however, might prove more hazardous; if his double wasn’t dead yet, then there’ll be a very high chance that he’ll end up in a lovely puddle of blood at Syaoran’s feet if he so much as taps the blade.
He is rewarded with a familiar deadpan stare, one that makes him want to shake some sense into the other, back and forth and side to-
No. He couldn’t. That would probably kill his twin and-
“It’s Halloween,” Syaoron replies detachedly, as if he’s used to Syaoran’s erratic mood swings. (He isn’t really; he just doesn’t know how to react to it any other way.) “Fye-san thought it’d be fun.”
Syaoran’s eyes widen. Why. That vampire has more nerve than he believed possible.
“Fye-san? Halloween?” The word sounds foreign to his lips (not Fye’s name though, he depresses for a split second). It most likely is.
His answer is a hollow “October 31st”, to which Syaoran can only return with a befuddled expression. He’s all too aware of the thick blood running down his palm and how there’s a huge piece of metal embedded in his clone’s head because of Fye-san.
“All Hallows’ Eve.” The golden tinted eye distracts him from spiraling into murderous thoughts when Syaoron levels him with a deadpanned stare, as if this was something everyone is supposed to know and telling him he’s an idiot for not knowing. Damn it he’d been stuck in a bloody glass tube all he’s life!
“All Hallows’ Eve,” he echoes under his breath in a grumble, “All Hallows’-”
Oh. Oh!
Well. Syaoran unceremoniously slumps into his twin’s arms, heart dropping to a blessedly low beat as he allows himself a large exhalation of relief.
Really, no one can blame him for not making the connection sooner. All Saint’s Day is a far cry from Hallows and seeing the splitting image of himself (who at times, is known to fall into fits of psychotic rage) covered in blood and bandages and looking like a murder victim tends to hinder one’s thought processes and render them almost completely useless.
Syaoran curses Fei Wang for not having the decency to let him out of his prison to at least stretch his muscles from time to time. With the only recreational thing to do being observing his clone’s life through his eye, one would think he’d have a lot of time to remember and plan and scheme. Truthfully, such a way of living is an insufficient method of retaining information (whoever says otherwise is a liar) because he’s grown accustomed to tuning out unpleasant thoughts and moments of melodramatic angst - he wouldn’t dare tells his twin that though, because he doubts Syaoron has the capacity to care for such a petty thing like that at this moment in time.
“-you mind?”
Syaoran blinks, and looks up into Syaoron’s eyes. He furrows his brow in confusion, then glances down to see that he’s quite literally draped over him. Syaoran hastily leaps away, a sheepish expression washing over his face. It’s then he really looks, and sees that Syaoron’s attire (or lack thereof) couldn’t really be mistaken for anything else but a costume (distance, he blames lamely, and one badly damaged eye). There are loosely wrapped bandages looped around his head - probably to hide the bands of the fake weapon - ones which all too conveniently slip over his stolen eye.
Syaoran frowns, mood dampening. Before even his mind can register, his hand is brushing the stained cloth away from his eye and then he’s captivated by the vibrant blue hue glimmering around the dilated pupil. He can see if he stares hard enough (and he is) the amber specks glowing around the pigmented iris, creating with the blue an alluring mix of colors.
He mentally kicks himself, and tries to focus on the matter at hand.
“So, Halloween is it?”
Syaoron is still just looking at him. With the mismatched eyes it’s a little more disconcerting than with just the one amber eye, but it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling that curls around his heart either. Syaoron shrugs, blinking slowly, almost lazily.
Syaoran smiles, hand unconsciously moving to rub the back of his nape in a nervous reflex while he mentally berates himself again. Really, he could have guessed as much if the sight of Syaoron bleeding onto the grass hadn’t been too distracting. Dimly, he wonders who he’s trying to convince, since Syaoron himself hasn’t said anything about it at all.
And then, in a sudden movement, his twin has his wrist in a tight, but not painful, grip.
Syaoran blinks and Syaoron tugs his hand forward. He blinks again. There’s that strange red substance coating his hand, it’s coating his chest too, and it doesn’t feel like it’ll be drying anytime soon.
“What is this?” he asks incredulously with morbid fascination. It looks too much like real blood to be anything else. He inspects his hand closely and sniffs at it; it smells strangely sweet and not at all like blood (or so Syaoran hopes). He’s horrified with himself when he feels the urge to lick it.
Syaoron’s disinterested voice cuts through his musings. “Corn syrup,” he answers, “cocoa powder, condensed milk, food coloring.” A part of Syaoran feels like hitting him. Discussing the weather with Kurogane will most probably prove to be livelier than this.
Syaoron’s emotional unavailability irks Syaoran sometimes, but he’ll never, ever, ever tell his doppelganger that. It’ll only make him more infuriatingly unemotional (but at least, a small voice whispers into his mind, he isn’t as mindlessly sadistic as he used to be).
“And Fye put you up for this?” Syaoran eyes the whole ensemble, not quite sure how to feel about his gory appearance.
“He suggested it,” he confirms nonchalantly. “Daidouji-san says it’s customary.”
To look like he’s been murdered? Syaoran has his doubts, but doesn’t say anything. Syaoran knows of many tradition, even has, in spirit, participated in them. Halloween though, he’ll never understand. What is so enjoyable with trying to kill others with heart failure?
“And the rest are dressed up?”
A nod is answer enough, then, “Your costume is there too. They told me to look for you.”
Syaoran freezes, feeling his skin crawl as the short strands of hair at his nape prickle along his skin. His instincts are yelling at him to run far, far away in the opposite direction, but his stubborn pride keeps his feet firmly rooted to the ground.
“My costume…” he cautions, trailing off expectantly.
“Syaoron merely stares back, bored. “Yes.”
Syaoran huffs. “Which is?”
The same bored stare makes his brow twitch.
“I can’t quite tell.”
“You can’t quite tell?” Syaoran stares at his twin hard, brows narrowing together with displeasure. Now that sounds like a lie. He is convinced when he sees a small, almost unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his lips. It’s something he’d no doubt miss if he hadn’t been staring so intently at his double.
Syaoron doesn’t answer and spins around on his heal, heading back towards the mansion.
“Syaoran!” Syaoran runs to catch up to his long strides, waving away his correction of their name. “I don’t- What is-” He tries to keep up with the faster stride. “Just tell me what it is. Please?” His shoulders slump with defeat as he tails after the other brunet.
Syaoron merely slants him a sidewise glance as a ghost of a smirk drifts across h is lips.
“It can’t be any worse than mine I’m sure,” he murmurs, directing his eyes back into the distance. The bandages have fallen back over the right eye again, and Syaoran wants nothing more than to just brush it out of the way, or yank it off - he can’t though, because Syaoron doesn’t seem the least bit affected by it.
So Syaoran takes a moment to take a look at his mirror instead, if only to distract himself. Bandages are wound loosely down his bare torso, falling over the threadbare pants that serve no real purpose than to add to the costume’s homicidal theme. They’re tattered, the pieces of cotton held together by a frightening amount of pins, and Syaoran can tell it’s probably the only piece of clothing he’s wearing.
Syaoran quickly diverts his eyes but continues to follow his twin without another single question. Really, compared to Syaoron, how bad could it be?
(He refuses to acknowledge that the burning of his cheeks is due to anything else but the sun.)
How bad could it be? Syaoran scoffs, leveling Syaoron with a glare. Syaoron merely looks bored, not at all affected by the mental fires and knives and daggers shooting from the blazing amber irises.
Being his twin though, Syaoran can see the amusement dancing within mismatched eyes, dancing and twirling and spinning and if it doesn’t stop glinting like that in the next ten seconds he’ll get a real knife and shove it into his skull more than a few times.
Then the doppelganger has the gall to run his eyes down, slowly, appraisingly, drinking in the sight of his twin.
Syaoran, aghast and angry and suddenly irrationally self-conscious, turns around and folds his arms across his chest, turning his nose up into the air in indignation.
Or he tries to.
The hand cuffs and the chains only allow him to do so much.
As he falls onto his knees on the floor, right in front of Syaoron, it’s not the high-pitched, slightly crazed laughter that he’s concerned with (though who knew the calm princess from Kurogane’s world could be so scary in another universe), or the whir of the strange metallic device that won’t stop blinking, or even the way the steel-linked chains are digging into his stomach. No, it’s that Syaoron, Syaoran concludes, is a dirty, filthy LIAR.
Notes:
Pairing: C!Syaoran/R!Syaoran
Rating: PG
Words: 1,971
Warnings: Crackfic. Also contains spoilers - though really, this pairing is a spoiler anyway.
Summary: In which Syaoron is a corpse and Syaoran is a dorky spazz.
Contest: Contest #1: Halloween
When Syaoran feels a disturbance in the air he opens his eyes. It is a decidedly bad move to make and he feels as if his heart has leapt from his chest and up to his throat, effectively constricting his airways when he sees his reflection covered in blood with a glinting knife sticking out of his skull.
But he’s outside, sitting down against a tree where there couldn’t possibly be a mirror floating around. He’s sitting down, the reflection wasn’t.
Strange. Very strange. Then that would have to mean-
It takes him for than a few moments too long to figure out that it isn’t his reflection he’s looking at, rather his twin.
That still doesn’t erase the horror. In fact, it only makes his heart twist and turn and thump inside his chest and do cruel things to his rationality, and his ability to think.
“Syaoran!” A hand moves to try and grasp at the phantom pain inside his chest, while the other is frantically moving towards the ground for support so he can push himself off.
“It’s Syaoron,” the other corrects automatically, regarding him with a raised brow.
Syaoran though, is busy stumbling forward. He almost trips on the grass and only manages to keep his balance by grabbing onto his twin’s shoulders. He stains his hands red with the sickeningly sticky red substance in the process.
He only barely manages to quash the urge to apologize as Syaoron’s body gets jolted by his weight, but he forces himself to calm down, calm down enough to be able to inspect the damage. “You’re bleeding,” he says grimly, lips thinning not with displeasure but to ensure he wouldn’t break out into hopeless hysterical laughter.
His eyes dart frantically from the drops of blood clotting his hair to the strips of stained bandages to the shiny blade sticking out from the unruly chestnut strands. He has to resist the urge to just yank it out - to do so however, might prove more hazardous; if his double wasn’t dead yet, then there’ll be a very high chance that he’ll end up in a lovely puddle of blood at Syaoran’s feet if he so much as taps the blade.
He is rewarded with a familiar deadpan stare, one that makes him want to shake some sense into the other, back and forth and side to-
No. He couldn’t. That would probably kill his twin and-
“It’s Halloween,” Syaoron replies detachedly, as if he’s used to Syaoran’s erratic mood swings. (He isn’t really; he just doesn’t know how to react to it any other way.) “Fye-san thought it’d be fun.”
Syaoran’s eyes widen. Why. That vampire has more nerve than he believed possible.
“Fye-san? Halloween?” The word sounds foreign to his lips (not Fye’s name though, he depresses for a split second). It most likely is.
His answer is a hollow “October 31st”, to which Syaoran can only return with a befuddled expression. He’s all too aware of the thick blood running down his palm and how there’s a huge piece of metal embedded in his clone’s head because of Fye-san.
“All Hallows’ Eve.” The golden tinted eye distracts him from spiraling into murderous thoughts when Syaoron levels him with a deadpanned stare, as if this was something everyone is supposed to know and telling him he’s an idiot for not knowing. Damn it he’d been stuck in a bloody glass tube all he’s life!
“All Hallows’ Eve,” he echoes under his breath in a grumble, “All Hallows’-”
Oh. Oh!
Well. Syaoran unceremoniously slumps into his twin’s arms, heart dropping to a blessedly low beat as he allows himself a large exhalation of relief.
Really, no one can blame him for not making the connection sooner. All Saint’s Day is a far cry from Hallows and seeing the splitting image of himself (who at times, is known to fall into fits of psychotic rage) covered in blood and bandages and looking like a murder victim tends to hinder one’s thought processes and render them almost completely useless.
Syaoran curses Fei Wang for not having the decency to let him out of his prison to at least stretch his muscles from time to time. With the only recreational thing to do being observing his clone’s life through his eye, one would think he’d have a lot of time to remember and plan and scheme. Truthfully, such a way of living is an insufficient method of retaining information (whoever says otherwise is a liar) because he’s grown accustomed to tuning out unpleasant thoughts and moments of melodramatic angst - he wouldn’t dare tells his twin that though, because he doubts Syaoron has the capacity to care for such a petty thing like that at this moment in time.
“-you mind?”
Syaoran blinks, and looks up into Syaoron’s eyes. He furrows his brow in confusion, then glances down to see that he’s quite literally draped over him. Syaoran hastily leaps away, a sheepish expression washing over his face. It’s then he really looks, and sees that Syaoron’s attire (or lack thereof) couldn’t really be mistaken for anything else but a costume (distance, he blames lamely, and one badly damaged eye). There are loosely wrapped bandages looped around his head - probably to hide the bands of the fake weapon - ones which all too conveniently slip over his stolen eye.
Syaoran frowns, mood dampening. Before even his mind can register, his hand is brushing the stained cloth away from his eye and then he’s captivated by the vibrant blue hue glimmering around the dilated pupil. He can see if he stares hard enough (and he is) the amber specks glowing around the pigmented iris, creating with the blue an alluring mix of colors.
He mentally kicks himself, and tries to focus on the matter at hand.
“So, Halloween is it?”
Syaoron is still just looking at him. With the mismatched eyes it’s a little more disconcerting than with just the one amber eye, but it’s not an altogether unpleasant feeling that curls around his heart either. Syaoron shrugs, blinking slowly, almost lazily.
Syaoran smiles, hand unconsciously moving to rub the back of his nape in a nervous reflex while he mentally berates himself again. Really, he could have guessed as much if the sight of Syaoron bleeding onto the grass hadn’t been too distracting. Dimly, he wonders who he’s trying to convince, since Syaoron himself hasn’t said anything about it at all.
And then, in a sudden movement, his twin has his wrist in a tight, but not painful, grip.
Syaoran blinks and Syaoron tugs his hand forward. He blinks again. There’s that strange red substance coating his hand, it’s coating his chest too, and it doesn’t feel like it’ll be drying anytime soon.
“What is this?” he asks incredulously with morbid fascination. It looks too much like real blood to be anything else. He inspects his hand closely and sniffs at it; it smells strangely sweet and not at all like blood (or so Syaoran hopes). He’s horrified with himself when he feels the urge to lick it.
Syaoron’s disinterested voice cuts through his musings. “Corn syrup,” he answers, “cocoa powder, condensed milk, food coloring.” A part of Syaoran feels like hitting him. Discussing the weather with Kurogane will most probably prove to be livelier than this.
Syaoron’s emotional unavailability irks Syaoran sometimes, but he’ll never, ever, ever tell his doppelganger that. It’ll only make him more infuriatingly unemotional (but at least, a small voice whispers into his mind, he isn’t as mindlessly sadistic as he used to be).
“And Fye put you up for this?” Syaoran eyes the whole ensemble, not quite sure how to feel about his gory appearance.
“He suggested it,” he confirms nonchalantly. “Daidouji-san says it’s customary.”
To look like he’s been murdered? Syaoran has his doubts, but doesn’t say anything. Syaoran knows of many tradition, even has, in spirit, participated in them. Halloween though, he’ll never understand. What is so enjoyable with trying to kill others with heart failure?
“And the rest are dressed up?”
A nod is answer enough, then, “Your costume is there too. They told me to look for you.”
Syaoran freezes, feeling his skin crawl as the short strands of hair at his nape prickle along his skin. His instincts are yelling at him to run far, far away in the opposite direction, but his stubborn pride keeps his feet firmly rooted to the ground.
“My costume…” he cautions, trailing off expectantly.
“Syaoron merely stares back, bored. “Yes.”
Syaoran huffs. “Which is?”
The same bored stare makes his brow twitch.
“I can’t quite tell.”
“You can’t quite tell?” Syaoran stares at his twin hard, brows narrowing together with displeasure. Now that sounds like a lie. He is convinced when he sees a small, almost unnoticeable twitch at the corner of his lips. It’s something he’d no doubt miss if he hadn’t been staring so intently at his double.
Syaoron doesn’t answer and spins around on his heal, heading back towards the mansion.
“Syaoran!” Syaoran runs to catch up to his long strides, waving away his correction of their name. “I don’t- What is-” He tries to keep up with the faster stride. “Just tell me what it is. Please?” His shoulders slump with defeat as he tails after the other brunet.
Syaoron merely slants him a sidewise glance as a ghost of a smirk drifts across h is lips.
“It can’t be any worse than mine I’m sure,” he murmurs, directing his eyes back into the distance. The bandages have fallen back over the right eye again, and Syaoran wants nothing more than to just brush it out of the way, or yank it off - he can’t though, because Syaoron doesn’t seem the least bit affected by it.
So Syaoran takes a moment to take a look at his mirror instead, if only to distract himself. Bandages are wound loosely down his bare torso, falling over the threadbare pants that serve no real purpose than to add to the costume’s homicidal theme. They’re tattered, the pieces of cotton held together by a frightening amount of pins, and Syaoran can tell it’s probably the only piece of clothing he’s wearing.
Syaoran quickly diverts his eyes but continues to follow his twin without another single question. Really, compared to Syaoron, how bad could it be?
(He refuses to acknowledge that the burning of his cheeks is due to anything else but the sun.)
How bad could it be? Syaoran scoffs, leveling Syaoron with a glare. Syaoron merely looks bored, not at all affected by the mental fires and knives and daggers shooting from the blazing amber irises.
Being his twin though, Syaoran can see the amusement dancing within mismatched eyes, dancing and twirling and spinning and if it doesn’t stop glinting like that in the next ten seconds he’ll get a real knife and shove it into his skull more than a few times.
Then the doppelganger has the gall to run his eyes down, slowly, appraisingly, drinking in the sight of his twin.
Syaoran, aghast and angry and suddenly irrationally self-conscious, turns around and folds his arms across his chest, turning his nose up into the air in indignation.
Or he tries to.
The hand cuffs and the chains only allow him to do so much.
As he falls onto his knees on the floor, right in front of Syaoron, it’s not the high-pitched, slightly crazed laughter that he’s concerned with (though who knew the calm princess from Kurogane’s world could be so scary in another universe), or the whir of the strange metallic device that won’t stop blinking, or even the way the steel-linked chains are digging into his stomach. No, it’s that Syaoron, Syaoran concludes, is a dirty, filthy LIAR.
Notes:
- ▫ Honestly, this fic has received not even a cursory glance over because it makes me want to claw out my eyes when trying to proofread. Apologies to those who don’t like seeing grammatical errors and inconsistencies and homonym mix ups and canon inconsistencies and god knows what else when reading fic. :(
- ▫ Since Syaoran’s twin from Horitsuba is conveniently named Xiao Long, I’ve made everyone else address C!Syaoran as Syaoron to make my life easier because it acts as a wonderfully cute and angsty plot point.
- ▫ This is AU in the sense that it splits off from the actual timeline of the world in Chapitre 170, etc. It is based in CCSverse, incase you’ve missed the hints.
- ▫ There is an excessive amount of abuse concerning round brackets and italicized words and bad humor. I’m lame, I know.
- ▫ Regarding the spelling of Fye’s name (because someone never fails to bother me about it), this is they way it was originally when Tsubasa first came out (if my memory serves correct), and it is the way I’ll continue to spell it.
- ▫ If you read through this, well, you are pretty awesome for being able to read through all this crap. *hugs* <3!