Submission #29 -- Tucanae, "Granted"
Title: Granted.
User ID: Tucanae
Rating: R.
Characters/Pairing: Seishirou/Subaru. Hokuto mentioned but not present.
Warnings: Implicit sex scene, suggested violence and murder.
Summary: Oblivion is kind to him, for he not a dreamseer.
Six years of life with six coinciding springs have shown it to him; the most beautiful flower to land on the skin of earth.
Now, as always, he is small; delicate and beautiful. Pale, with tiny hands, wide eyes and a timid smile brought out by soft lips.
And six springs have taught him how to catch what he desires.
He waits patiently with bare hands left open-for the falling sakura petals. They pools in his palms, and he curls his fingers in, clutches around them. Like this he gathers them together on the ground,. and then he buries himself in the small mountain he created, breathes in the endlessly sweet scent.
Oblivion is kind to him, for he not a dreamseer.
-----
Raindrops tickle his fingertips during a heavy downpour in early spring, 1983. The sakura will blossom soon, but for now there is only a faint fog across the land, in place of the pale pink-white. He stands there, reaching out into the storm, cheeks rosy and soft, eyes wide open and green. The wind picks up, pulling and swaying him side to side as blinding, sharp light flashes across the sky.
His shikifuku clings to him, white on white against his pale body, and the beads of his necklace are smooth and chilled against his pulse point. The cold stream of rainwater slipping down his wrist has him feeling warmer than he should be-makes his blood boil through his veins and his heart twinge in his tiny, fragile chest. A storm is like nothing else in this world, he says, or thinks.
The rain won't last long.
He closes his eyes, and listens.
-----
Halfway through his fifteenth summer he dreams of lips kissing his gloveless hands.
He stares awestruck by the sight, his own fingers pale and foreign to him. Those lips press down against the back of his right hand, and he can feel fire burning in his blood, slipping through his veins and heating him entirely. He feels hands sliding across his belly, first reaching down just below his naval-almost touching his-then coming back up, ghosting long fingers over his ribs. These hands are large and strong, and Subaru is sure he's never met anyone with such hands-yet they feel painfully familiar.
The mouth of this-person, you could call it that but all he can see is dark wavy hair and parting lips-kisses his left hand, like it did his right. Only this time one of the hands holds his own in place, grip tight and almost bruising to his hypersensitive skin. Subaru sucks in a breath, choking and panting. He feels something wet and hot come from between this person's lips, grazing over his skin, tracing some strange symbol and-oh-all he can do is shiver.
A hand lays flat on his chest, slowly creeping up to his-heart, that's what it's looking for, his heart-and when it finds it, the hand pushes down on that spot, hard and painful and Subaru's pulse beats desperately into it. He feels a mouth at his cheek, moving and kissing and-and smiling-against his skin. He feels that hand on his heart clench, close up and squeeze and he-can't breathe, but those lips open and whisper something before Subaru can feel his blood rushing out and down and everywhere.
When he jerks awake the backs of his hands are aching and hot under the smooth fabric of his gloves.
-----
He's-so deep inside now. The window glass is frigid to Subaru's overheated skin-his hands, his chest. Seishirou's nails drag across his thighs, up to his hips and then he takes them, holds onto them to pull out and thrust back in. Subaru's body stretches for him accordingly, like it always does, goes by his rules and his pace. Subaru's throat constricts, and he stares out the window through the cloud of white he brought from his lips.
It's hard to hear the rain through his own gasps, through the overwhelming sound of a beating pulse.
Seishirou kisses his neck, carefully breathes out and in.
The two windows on either side of them are open, letting in the angry storm. The strong gusts of wind rustle his hair, pass over the goosebumps that were raised long before the chill came in. The lightning is distant; the thunder only a slow, soft rumble in between Subaru's desperate, shameful wailing. And Subaru leans back for heat-trembling-but Seishirou, hands wide and fingers long and strong, crushes his body back against the glass, and everything-everything is hot, contrasted sharply by the cold, one or the other-and Seishirou's fingers are like that, cold, but his palm is warm, and his chest is comforting-somehow, with how it presses to Subaru's back, heart beating, warm and alive, like it should be.
Subaru's ribcage expands-mouth open and choking on speech-and crashes back down beneath its own weight
He might be begging for something. For-this, whatever it is, or maybe for-for what he really wants, for the warmth to leave his body and encompass Seishirou, leaving him cold and empty and gone and maybe if he-but-Seishirou's teeth bear down on the junction between neck and shoulder, the nails of one hand scraping down Subaru again, and the-other hand wraps around him, between his legs, closes in and moves, like Seishirou moves within him.
Subaru's body aches everywhere, pulled tight like a string by this sharp-pleasure, or pain, the nouns have the same meaning now-and he-asks, one more time-glass cold and skin scorching and the storm is pushing and pulling, calling out to him like death-for something, anything.
Please.
-----
The brick wall is cold and wet against his back, and the ground beneath him is painfully similar. The puddle of filth and rainwater soaks into his jeans, dirties his hands and numbs them. Everything is colder without his gloves. He'd forgotten that.
Subaru watches now, eyes glazed over with a quiet kind of desperation.
Seishirou's cigarette glows in the darkness of the alleyway, lights up his-sunglasses. Never eyes. Maybe now you could just use the singular form for them. But Subaru doesn't, and probably never will. That seeing eye is what that doesn't see him, doesn't acknowledge his existance. And that-the other one, the blind one, that one is what he caused. He should have been the one bleeding, he should have been hurt.
That eye should have been in his socket.
But for now he can see with both-for now, only for now-and he sees the young man's head twist around in Seishirou's hands, hears him struggle to scream. Subaru's skin has already lost the heat that man brought only minutes ago. And that's-do be expected, isn't it? Nothing replaces Seishirou's warmth. No one else keeps him burning-keeps him alive-like Seishirou does. Burning...like his cigarette. Burning. And maybe one day he can burn out, too.
Subaru waits for it-the horrid wet snap that always comes. And when it does this time, Seishirou turns to face him, smiles.
Subaru thumbs the marks on his hands as everything goes quiet, making the sounds of Seishirou's shoes hitting the pavement deafening. The sounds grow distant, soft. Subaru's eyes catch on the corpse; he lets out a little of the breath he'd been holding in. And all he can think is:
Why can't it ever be me?
-----
Conscious is not exactly what he is here, now, but he is not sleeping. The precipice of dreams-or death-hangs over him, closer and closer it comes but then stills, leaving him in a limbo of half-life. He cannot move, but his eyes are open, and so he lies staring out into the haze of the darkness surrounding him-them. His lips are parted, air coming in between them, yet his chest barely rises before it falls. His breathing is shallow and weak, giving him perhaps slightly less than what he needs. He feels no urge to try to breathe deeper.
The sense of knowing where his limbs lay is missing, or lacking to the point of uselessness. His world is made up of what he can see, hear, and feel, with the few parts of his body he can manage it with.
But that's not exactly true, he notes, swallowing his spit before he chokes on it: the taste of Seishirou-smoke, copper, dark chocolate; bitter and rich-lingers on his tongue. It is a familiar taste.
Seishirou-san. He is still here.
Subaru feels boneless-and bloodless; an overpowering coldness drifts over his body, in his body. From what little he feels almost every part of him is lacking heat-save his face, where Seishirou's breath touches his cheeks and his lips. The air is chilled in particular on what must be his stomach, the breeze from the-window?-coming in and reminding him of the filth across his skin, on his abdomen and at his-his-thighs, the backs of them. At the edge of his vision he sees his own hips, his legs sprawled out and spread. There is an ache in those legs-in his hips-dull and dying but present.
He knows why.
In the morning-if this is indeed night-the bruises will colour, printing the shape of Seishirou's hands, broad, callused and beautiful, onto him. Just another mark of ownership, he thinks. There is no uncertainty in this; where there was lightning, thunder will come. Everything comes to light in the morning-the bruises, the blood, the shame, and Seishirou's absence. It is nothing surprising, nothing new.
He waits for Seishirou's return anyway.
Now, though, now, as he grows colder, feels the haziness seep in-he hears the bedsprings creak, sees the form of shadows closing in on him. He anticipates the-kiss, with the taste of smoke again in his mouth. Seishirou is warm against him, hands cradling his face-and his breath slips into Subaru's mouth, own chest sinking as the one beneath it rises.
And the world is lost as he fades into the fog of slumber.
-----
The blood is searing to his skin, dripping down his limp body and pooling prettily on the floor. He can't breathe, and that's understandable-that's good. Everything constricts a little, around Seishirou's hand, tightening for that one moment before he empties out and finally dies.
Subaru has never been so absurdly happy in his life.
There's some strange sound, slippery and wet, and he-he's, oh-Seishirou's hand pulls out, and he pours his blood all over the two of them. Warm, warm, so warm. Not Subaru, Subaru is going cold, wonderfully, blessedly cold. But Seishirou-Seishirou and all that blood are comforting like a mother's embrace, rocking him to his death.
Everything loses shape, colour, but Seishirou. Always Seishirou. Subaru's hands twist in the lapels of Seishirou's coat, eyes closing. He's not strong enough to whisper. He's not sure Seishirou would believe what he would say if he could. But it doesn't matter now, doesn't matter because now Subaru matters. At least...like this, right? But Seishirou's lips are moving, not smiling, not cruel. Wh-what is he-Subaru can't hear him anymore, but his fingers stroke Subaru's cheek, softly-gentle.
But sleep wears away slowly, letting in the morning light. And Subaru chokes on life though he'd never been dead, sobbing.
-----
Early morning shows itself in the sky outside the window; pale blue and white filling the corners of this part of the world-their world. It shows itself in the way the cold raises bumps across his skin, chills his cheeks and reddens them. Subaru knows it is morning by the dull ache in his body. He concentrates on the heavy dip of the bed beside him-that soothing warmth radiating off the still, sleeping form he knows with every part of him.
He is within the bounds of safety here. When his dreamless slumber ends and he awakens, hazy and complete, he can stay in this moment for awhile. Here-in the sweet, airy sound of Seishirou breathing, in the expansion and contraction of his ribcage, in the silent, overpowering essence of Seishirou all around him, in this he can just exist. This time is before the shame sets in, before Seishirou can open his eyes and learn a new way to be cruel, before his guilt and hate and anger can come and take away everything he wants to cling to.
In this timeless twilight, he can only love.
-----
Sweet sixteen, the old card tells him, dusty and thin in a box that is full of colourful declarations of love, glitter, nail polish and all the other things his sister indulged in. It almost smells of her.
Sweet, it says-she wrote-and sweet, he thinks, like the scent of the cherry trees that will bloom in the months to come. But those cherry trees stopped smelling sweet to him years ago. Or does it mean sweet? Like the warmth that radiates off-him, that person, but he-sometimes he also smells like something bitter, something metallic, so it couldn't mean that. Because when that person smiled like that, back then-too sweet-maybe it was something like a hint, a little of the cold truth in the polite fallacy and-
Sweet, like peaches and powdered sugar and-sweet, like when that man told Subaru he wants to keep him safe.
But. But sweet things can only last so long, he knows this; found out forever ago. Sweet is like cute, and cute-is like pathetic, so, sweet-sweet is like a lie. So perhaps, Subaru doesn't realize completely, this-the way that man is now-is the only way he can truly be kind. There are other ways to lie, he knows, but at least this one, this new façade, is more honest, because-sweet is what hides the lie.
-----
I am yours.
The declaration rings true, now as always. The blood around-on Subaru has ceased to be warm. His heart closes in on itself-none of the blood is his, why isn't it his, God, why couldn't it be his?
Wholly and eternally, but now-
He squeezes his hands into fists, staring at the veins in his wrist and holding his breath for when he turns his palms over. And-he-the marks are fading. The shadows of the room are eating them up, closing in on them. All-all he ever truly had of Seishirou-san and now-now they are disappearing too. The marks are fading, the marks are fading, no, no no no please no-maybe, maybe if he-could not be himself? Not be this, be-someone else, just until he dies, live for them. Erase himself. Maybe-
I must become you.
-----
The heterochromia draws attention when he takes off his sunglasses. The people who look at him now see a stranger, a freak. It doesn't matter. The truth isn't theirs to know.
So he closes his eyes, without a sound, and feels the throbbing deep inside. Seishirou's eye aches in Subaru's socket, reminding him-calling to him like the marks had, years ago.
-----
In 1990, the world crushed Subaru with its weight, breaking his heart and his mind.
Ten years later, the world-his world-crashed completely down around him, but his body didn't die.
It was no longer his body to die in.
-----
---
-----
Addendum
-----
It is not so much that Seishirou wants to die.
He sits at the edge of the bed, bare feet against the carpet, The moonlight is dim tonight, scarcely reaching through his closed curtains. But it is directed at what it always should be: Subaru. His body is paler when he sleeps like this, in the delicate illumination Seishirou's bedroom windows provide. His arsenal of expressions is assorted and impressive; many nights his eyebrows twist towards each other, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled into a tight line. His hands curl in the sheets, body trembling. Yet occasionally he is like this-at peace.
He looks younger on those nights.
However, younger or older, he is always beautiful.
Seishirou had been less rough this time, not-gentle, exactly, but not outright violent. Sometimes he wonders if Subaru notices when he is like this; does he count his bruises as Seishirou does? Does he memorize their pattern, their shape, their colour?
Rather, it is the feelings his death will invoke in another that pleases him.
Subaru will only have two bruises at best-ah, correction, Seishirou thinks, sliding his hand up across Subaru's collarbone to his neck; three. His hand closes around Subaru's throat, pressing his fingers against the carotid artery, and in turn, a slow, easy pulse beats beneath his touch.
And why shouldn't he have been kind to this body? This will be their last time together before the end of their game. Sad that it has to end, truly, but-this is the only way it can. And-
Subaru's warmth is infectious, Seishirou realizes, feeling strangely feverish.
After all, if that person were to wish for anything-
Seishirou's eyes sink shut, lips stretching out to smile.
-should it not be Seishirou who grants him it?
User ID: Tucanae
Rating: R.
Characters/Pairing: Seishirou/Subaru. Hokuto mentioned but not present.
Warnings: Implicit sex scene, suggested violence and murder.
Summary: Oblivion is kind to him, for he not a dreamseer.
Six years of life with six coinciding springs have shown it to him; the most beautiful flower to land on the skin of earth.
Now, as always, he is small; delicate and beautiful. Pale, with tiny hands, wide eyes and a timid smile brought out by soft lips.
And six springs have taught him how to catch what he desires.
He waits patiently with bare hands left open-for the falling sakura petals. They pools in his palms, and he curls his fingers in, clutches around them. Like this he gathers them together on the ground,. and then he buries himself in the small mountain he created, breathes in the endlessly sweet scent.
Oblivion is kind to him, for he not a dreamseer.
-----
Raindrops tickle his fingertips during a heavy downpour in early spring, 1983. The sakura will blossom soon, but for now there is only a faint fog across the land, in place of the pale pink-white. He stands there, reaching out into the storm, cheeks rosy and soft, eyes wide open and green. The wind picks up, pulling and swaying him side to side as blinding, sharp light flashes across the sky.
His shikifuku clings to him, white on white against his pale body, and the beads of his necklace are smooth and chilled against his pulse point. The cold stream of rainwater slipping down his wrist has him feeling warmer than he should be-makes his blood boil through his veins and his heart twinge in his tiny, fragile chest. A storm is like nothing else in this world, he says, or thinks.
The rain won't last long.
He closes his eyes, and listens.
-----
Halfway through his fifteenth summer he dreams of lips kissing his gloveless hands.
He stares awestruck by the sight, his own fingers pale and foreign to him. Those lips press down against the back of his right hand, and he can feel fire burning in his blood, slipping through his veins and heating him entirely. He feels hands sliding across his belly, first reaching down just below his naval-almost touching his-then coming back up, ghosting long fingers over his ribs. These hands are large and strong, and Subaru is sure he's never met anyone with such hands-yet they feel painfully familiar.
The mouth of this-person, you could call it that but all he can see is dark wavy hair and parting lips-kisses his left hand, like it did his right. Only this time one of the hands holds his own in place, grip tight and almost bruising to his hypersensitive skin. Subaru sucks in a breath, choking and panting. He feels something wet and hot come from between this person's lips, grazing over his skin, tracing some strange symbol and-oh-all he can do is shiver.
A hand lays flat on his chest, slowly creeping up to his-heart, that's what it's looking for, his heart-and when it finds it, the hand pushes down on that spot, hard and painful and Subaru's pulse beats desperately into it. He feels a mouth at his cheek, moving and kissing and-and smiling-against his skin. He feels that hand on his heart clench, close up and squeeze and he-can't breathe, but those lips open and whisper something before Subaru can feel his blood rushing out and down and everywhere.
When he jerks awake the backs of his hands are aching and hot under the smooth fabric of his gloves.
-----
He's-so deep inside now. The window glass is frigid to Subaru's overheated skin-his hands, his chest. Seishirou's nails drag across his thighs, up to his hips and then he takes them, holds onto them to pull out and thrust back in. Subaru's body stretches for him accordingly, like it always does, goes by his rules and his pace. Subaru's throat constricts, and he stares out the window through the cloud of white he brought from his lips.
It's hard to hear the rain through his own gasps, through the overwhelming sound of a beating pulse.
Seishirou kisses his neck, carefully breathes out and in.
The two windows on either side of them are open, letting in the angry storm. The strong gusts of wind rustle his hair, pass over the goosebumps that were raised long before the chill came in. The lightning is distant; the thunder only a slow, soft rumble in between Subaru's desperate, shameful wailing. And Subaru leans back for heat-trembling-but Seishirou, hands wide and fingers long and strong, crushes his body back against the glass, and everything-everything is hot, contrasted sharply by the cold, one or the other-and Seishirou's fingers are like that, cold, but his palm is warm, and his chest is comforting-somehow, with how it presses to Subaru's back, heart beating, warm and alive, like it should be.
Subaru's ribcage expands-mouth open and choking on speech-and crashes back down beneath its own weight
He might be begging for something. For-this, whatever it is, or maybe for-for what he really wants, for the warmth to leave his body and encompass Seishirou, leaving him cold and empty and gone and maybe if he-but-Seishirou's teeth bear down on the junction between neck and shoulder, the nails of one hand scraping down Subaru again, and the-other hand wraps around him, between his legs, closes in and moves, like Seishirou moves within him.
Subaru's body aches everywhere, pulled tight like a string by this sharp-pleasure, or pain, the nouns have the same meaning now-and he-asks, one more time-glass cold and skin scorching and the storm is pushing and pulling, calling out to him like death-for something, anything.
Please.
-----
The brick wall is cold and wet against his back, and the ground beneath him is painfully similar. The puddle of filth and rainwater soaks into his jeans, dirties his hands and numbs them. Everything is colder without his gloves. He'd forgotten that.
Subaru watches now, eyes glazed over with a quiet kind of desperation.
Seishirou's cigarette glows in the darkness of the alleyway, lights up his-sunglasses. Never eyes. Maybe now you could just use the singular form for them. But Subaru doesn't, and probably never will. That seeing eye is what that doesn't see him, doesn't acknowledge his existance. And that-the other one, the blind one, that one is what he caused. He should have been the one bleeding, he should have been hurt.
That eye should have been in his socket.
But for now he can see with both-for now, only for now-and he sees the young man's head twist around in Seishirou's hands, hears him struggle to scream. Subaru's skin has already lost the heat that man brought only minutes ago. And that's-do be expected, isn't it? Nothing replaces Seishirou's warmth. No one else keeps him burning-keeps him alive-like Seishirou does. Burning...like his cigarette. Burning. And maybe one day he can burn out, too.
Subaru waits for it-the horrid wet snap that always comes. And when it does this time, Seishirou turns to face him, smiles.
Subaru thumbs the marks on his hands as everything goes quiet, making the sounds of Seishirou's shoes hitting the pavement deafening. The sounds grow distant, soft. Subaru's eyes catch on the corpse; he lets out a little of the breath he'd been holding in. And all he can think is:
Why can't it ever be me?
-----
Conscious is not exactly what he is here, now, but he is not sleeping. The precipice of dreams-or death-hangs over him, closer and closer it comes but then stills, leaving him in a limbo of half-life. He cannot move, but his eyes are open, and so he lies staring out into the haze of the darkness surrounding him-them. His lips are parted, air coming in between them, yet his chest barely rises before it falls. His breathing is shallow and weak, giving him perhaps slightly less than what he needs. He feels no urge to try to breathe deeper.
The sense of knowing where his limbs lay is missing, or lacking to the point of uselessness. His world is made up of what he can see, hear, and feel, with the few parts of his body he can manage it with.
But that's not exactly true, he notes, swallowing his spit before he chokes on it: the taste of Seishirou-smoke, copper, dark chocolate; bitter and rich-lingers on his tongue. It is a familiar taste.
Seishirou-san. He is still here.
Subaru feels boneless-and bloodless; an overpowering coldness drifts over his body, in his body. From what little he feels almost every part of him is lacking heat-save his face, where Seishirou's breath touches his cheeks and his lips. The air is chilled in particular on what must be his stomach, the breeze from the-window?-coming in and reminding him of the filth across his skin, on his abdomen and at his-his-thighs, the backs of them. At the edge of his vision he sees his own hips, his legs sprawled out and spread. There is an ache in those legs-in his hips-dull and dying but present.
He knows why.
In the morning-if this is indeed night-the bruises will colour, printing the shape of Seishirou's hands, broad, callused and beautiful, onto him. Just another mark of ownership, he thinks. There is no uncertainty in this; where there was lightning, thunder will come. Everything comes to light in the morning-the bruises, the blood, the shame, and Seishirou's absence. It is nothing surprising, nothing new.
He waits for Seishirou's return anyway.
Now, though, now, as he grows colder, feels the haziness seep in-he hears the bedsprings creak, sees the form of shadows closing in on him. He anticipates the-kiss, with the taste of smoke again in his mouth. Seishirou is warm against him, hands cradling his face-and his breath slips into Subaru's mouth, own chest sinking as the one beneath it rises.
And the world is lost as he fades into the fog of slumber.
-----
The blood is searing to his skin, dripping down his limp body and pooling prettily on the floor. He can't breathe, and that's understandable-that's good. Everything constricts a little, around Seishirou's hand, tightening for that one moment before he empties out and finally dies.
Subaru has never been so absurdly happy in his life.
There's some strange sound, slippery and wet, and he-he's, oh-Seishirou's hand pulls out, and he pours his blood all over the two of them. Warm, warm, so warm. Not Subaru, Subaru is going cold, wonderfully, blessedly cold. But Seishirou-Seishirou and all that blood are comforting like a mother's embrace, rocking him to his death.
Everything loses shape, colour, but Seishirou. Always Seishirou. Subaru's hands twist in the lapels of Seishirou's coat, eyes closing. He's not strong enough to whisper. He's not sure Seishirou would believe what he would say if he could. But it doesn't matter now, doesn't matter because now Subaru matters. At least...like this, right? But Seishirou's lips are moving, not smiling, not cruel. Wh-what is he-Subaru can't hear him anymore, but his fingers stroke Subaru's cheek, softly-gentle.
But sleep wears away slowly, letting in the morning light. And Subaru chokes on life though he'd never been dead, sobbing.
-----
Early morning shows itself in the sky outside the window; pale blue and white filling the corners of this part of the world-their world. It shows itself in the way the cold raises bumps across his skin, chills his cheeks and reddens them. Subaru knows it is morning by the dull ache in his body. He concentrates on the heavy dip of the bed beside him-that soothing warmth radiating off the still, sleeping form he knows with every part of him.
He is within the bounds of safety here. When his dreamless slumber ends and he awakens, hazy and complete, he can stay in this moment for awhile. Here-in the sweet, airy sound of Seishirou breathing, in the expansion and contraction of his ribcage, in the silent, overpowering essence of Seishirou all around him, in this he can just exist. This time is before the shame sets in, before Seishirou can open his eyes and learn a new way to be cruel, before his guilt and hate and anger can come and take away everything he wants to cling to.
In this timeless twilight, he can only love.
-----
Sweet sixteen, the old card tells him, dusty and thin in a box that is full of colourful declarations of love, glitter, nail polish and all the other things his sister indulged in. It almost smells of her.
Sweet, it says-she wrote-and sweet, he thinks, like the scent of the cherry trees that will bloom in the months to come. But those cherry trees stopped smelling sweet to him years ago. Or does it mean sweet? Like the warmth that radiates off-him, that person, but he-sometimes he also smells like something bitter, something metallic, so it couldn't mean that. Because when that person smiled like that, back then-too sweet-maybe it was something like a hint, a little of the cold truth in the polite fallacy and-
Sweet, like peaches and powdered sugar and-sweet, like when that man told Subaru he wants to keep him safe.
But. But sweet things can only last so long, he knows this; found out forever ago. Sweet is like cute, and cute-is like pathetic, so, sweet-sweet is like a lie. So perhaps, Subaru doesn't realize completely, this-the way that man is now-is the only way he can truly be kind. There are other ways to lie, he knows, but at least this one, this new façade, is more honest, because-sweet is what hides the lie.
-----
I am yours.
The declaration rings true, now as always. The blood around-on Subaru has ceased to be warm. His heart closes in on itself-none of the blood is his, why isn't it his, God, why couldn't it be his?
Wholly and eternally, but now-
He squeezes his hands into fists, staring at the veins in his wrist and holding his breath for when he turns his palms over. And-he-the marks are fading. The shadows of the room are eating them up, closing in on them. All-all he ever truly had of Seishirou-san and now-now they are disappearing too. The marks are fading, the marks are fading, no, no no no please no-maybe, maybe if he-could not be himself? Not be this, be-someone else, just until he dies, live for them. Erase himself. Maybe-
I must become you.
-----
The heterochromia draws attention when he takes off his sunglasses. The people who look at him now see a stranger, a freak. It doesn't matter. The truth isn't theirs to know.
So he closes his eyes, without a sound, and feels the throbbing deep inside. Seishirou's eye aches in Subaru's socket, reminding him-calling to him like the marks had, years ago.
-----
In 1990, the world crushed Subaru with its weight, breaking his heart and his mind.
Ten years later, the world-his world-crashed completely down around him, but his body didn't die.
It was no longer his body to die in.
-----
---
-----
Addendum
-----
It is not so much that Seishirou wants to die.
He sits at the edge of the bed, bare feet against the carpet, The moonlight is dim tonight, scarcely reaching through his closed curtains. But it is directed at what it always should be: Subaru. His body is paler when he sleeps like this, in the delicate illumination Seishirou's bedroom windows provide. His arsenal of expressions is assorted and impressive; many nights his eyebrows twist towards each other, eyes squeezed shut and lips pulled into a tight line. His hands curl in the sheets, body trembling. Yet occasionally he is like this-at peace.
He looks younger on those nights.
However, younger or older, he is always beautiful.
Seishirou had been less rough this time, not-gentle, exactly, but not outright violent. Sometimes he wonders if Subaru notices when he is like this; does he count his bruises as Seishirou does? Does he memorize their pattern, their shape, their colour?
Rather, it is the feelings his death will invoke in another that pleases him.
Subaru will only have two bruises at best-ah, correction, Seishirou thinks, sliding his hand up across Subaru's collarbone to his neck; three. His hand closes around Subaru's throat, pressing his fingers against the carotid artery, and in turn, a slow, easy pulse beats beneath his touch.
And why shouldn't he have been kind to this body? This will be their last time together before the end of their game. Sad that it has to end, truly, but-this is the only way it can. And-
Subaru's warmth is infectious, Seishirou realizes, feeling strangely feverish.
After all, if that person were to wish for anything-
Seishirou's eyes sink shut, lips stretching out to smile.
-should it not be Seishirou who grants him it?