Denoument

denalment @ 2007-12-10T05:52:00

2007-12-10T05:53:02Z

Below is a list of whosebrushes, textures etc I use in my icons.

fophead
inishmore
teh_indy
ilmare
pilot
ohpaintbrush
iconperfect
cyberelf
dragong
wherethewind__
miggy
sistasouljah99
meleada
dark_soul_lost
propoganda_live
absolutetrouble
drave
incarnatus
77words
fluffymonster
alidesigns
dearest
belladonna__
_iconographer
wonderland__
inxsomniax
lookslikerain
oxymedia
okayshia
_synergy
ianthinae
myrasis
haudvafra
tove91
athenstorm
graphic_sl
threeeyespei
[Bad username: sweartoshakeitup]
erniemay
xshoot2thrill
okashiya
ihearttoronto
colorfilter
keoni_chan
tainee
[Bad username: masquerademask_arts]
iconara

If you spot me using a brush, texture etc by you and you are not on this list, please leave a comment so I can add you to it.

If you see a texture, brush etc used and you want to know who it is by, leave me a comment either here with a link to the icon in question, or ask on the icon post. I have most of my resources labelled so hopefully I can at least direct you to the creator.

Maybe Not (short)

2007-03-22T03:12:53Z

A really random short/drabble. Part of a whole bunch that one day I will write. Or not. I tried a different style of writing for this, it's a lot more stream of conscious and impressions than structure, and I kinda hope it works. Forgive the weirdness of the crossover at hand; from some reason I think Watanuki and Namine meeting would be awesome.

He meets the blonde girl almost entirely by accident.

She’s sitting at the table in the kitchen when he comes in, but she’s quiet and concentrated so he doesn’t even notice her until his usual cooking fuss has died down to little more than a simmer of pots and he hears the soft scratching of wax against paper. She’s drawing, of course, because there is little else that keeps her occupied thus, and the black crayon is getting a hearty workout. She’s small and blonde and dressed in white and her focus is almost childlike and it’s crayons so he doesn’t bother being surprised by her as his warmest smile slips into place unknowingly. It’s not fake either, because she looks a bit like Kohane at first, all pale and big eyes and an odd sort of gravity, and he has a soft spot for people like that. So he smiles and she stares at him once he’s walked over with freshly brewed tea and some cakes he was going to give to his boss, her crayon on the table and the notepad closed. He’s not supposed to see it, he supposes. He sits down at the corner and offers an introduction, and offers the tea and the cakes because he thinks they’re better off in the hands of a girl he’s never met before than in those of his lush of an employer. He doesn’t even bother wondering why she’s here, so many people have traipsed through the shop lately that he can only guess that maybe she’s here with a customer, but it doesn’t matter because there’s a reason for everything as Yuuko says, and reason for every meeting. He sips his own cup and she watches him, all his moves and he asks who she is.

“I’m a witch,” she says, and her voice is quiet and light and puts him in mind of white white sheets and freshly-painted walls. She sounds so very young when she says it, the words carrying a ring of a fairytale where the witch is always wicked and that he should take note of that; but her eyes are blue blue blue and deep and she looks old with them, old and wise and seeing of many things. Understanding of few of them, maybe. He grins, maybe just a little, and says,

“So is Yuuko-san.”

Because that’s a defining thing for him; what the people he knows are and aren’t. Yuuko is a witch; she grants wishes but not in a pandering fashion or a horrid cheat, instead somewhere in between, making sure people get what they deserve and only that. For all that she is selfish and uncompromising and tedious and downright annoying when it comes to him, he knows she does right by her magic and so a witch is something good to him. And so, he hopes, that this little girl understands his meaning because he knows it’s not always clear and can get jumbled up in what he thinks people understand and what is going through his head. She’s watching his smile though, as though it’s wrong and will break with her words and maybe that’s what she wants because she says “I’m not supposed to exist” with a sort of confusion and force like she’s trying to catch him off for his sake or her own.

He’s not sure which.

But, it doesn’t matter; because “That makes two of us,” and the smiles aren’t going anywhere because they’re genuine and he wants to give her what she wants because he has a soft spot for girls who think they know their place in the world when really they just haven’t met the right people yet.

And maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part but he thinks she will. Maybe it’s just what he really wants tainting his instincts.

Or, maybe not.

PLZ TO BE INFORMING OF HOW CRAP.

A KH2/xxxHolic Crossover fic (in progress, need tips plz)

2007-02-27T15:29:42Z

Edits, please. This is maybe halfway through (or less) of what I intend on writing. I dunno about th first part (is it in character? Is it too rambly? It's it just plain stupid?) and I'm not sure about the very last part (geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh) and I'm not sure about the middle and I think maybe I need a bit of crit before I carry on. Might inspire me. I'm not entirely sure what topics of conversation Axel and Watanuki would have, beyond a bit of an insult-fest and Watapon noting there's something a bit wrong about Axel-swan (haha no heart), and I kinda have it in my head what he and Yuuko will talk about but NONETHELESS HELP PLZ.

Also please note that there's a bunch of italics and stresses in here that are missing because I'm lazy and it doesn't copy right from Word. -.-

AND I DON'T HAVE A TITLE YET.

(I do, however, like the line 'some time later' for some reason)

He thought he’d been prepared to die. After all, there was nothing left for him; he had no allegiance to the Organisation anymore, he knew he wasn’t ever going to be more than just a Nobody; ultimately he had no reason to be.

Well, he had, in a way, at some point. But that was past. And so he had felt ready to do something useful with his useless self.

When the moment actually came – when he had fully realised how much he had sacrificed – he was surprised at how much he suddenly wanted things to stay as they were. As much as he had no heart, he still had the memory of one. He was abruptly aware of how he might better have used himself; he was strong, he could have joined the Keybearer, helped him; and felt useless and selfish and guilty all at once. He could have laughed at just how ridiculous it all was, because there was only one thing that had ever been important to him.

You make me feel the same, he’d said. It had been true. In those seconds; minutes; hours; however long it had taken; he’d been reminded of the dredge of negatives related to feelings and failure. Of all the reasons not to have a heart. And yet, he was… satisfied. It was horrible and ridiculous and utterly pointless, this death thing, and yet none of that could take away that smug sense of satisfaction that he had tried so very hard to get what he wanted and he’d failed, and here he was at his end feeling regret and disappointment and other silly things; really feeling them. None of his ex-comrades would experience this in their last moments.

He was satisfied, then, when he closed his eyes and let himself be enveloped by nothingness. Satisfied with the ending he’d gotten. Everything would go well from this point, his foolish mistakes would be rectified, and all would go well for the little Keybearer and his pals. For all of the worlds.

And… for Roxas, too. In a way.

That was the one thing that had kept him going, and even now kept his mind babbling on and on; the want to see Roxas again. There were too many loose ends, too many things he wanted to clear up. It was like reading a book and getting to the end, only to find there was no conclusion, no denouement, no explanation. The plot had played out but the author had forgotten the most essential part. Fitting, then.

He wished for a falling star, so that he might tell it ‘I want to see him again’. It was his last though as all turned to black.

Some time later, Axel woke up.

Which seemed odd to him. He rather distinctly remembered some semblance of death having happened. Death isn’t a condition you tend to wake up from. He’d killed more then enough people to know that.

So. He wasn’t dead. Or he’d reached some kind of Nobody limbo that had comfy beds. He’d always presumed that had there been some kind of afterlife for him (immensely unlikely as it was) he’d just be aware of walking around or standing up or something. Not lying under a thick duvet feeling very much like he had indeed woken up.

Slowly – he wasn’t exactly a morning person – Axel let his surroundings, well, surround him as it were. It was a room; relatively large. Part of a much bigger house, the boundaries of which he couldn’t clearly sense. There was someone in the room with him whose presence was oddly obvious to him, but not in the least bit threatening. The bed was off the floor, and there were drapes or curtains around it, and the duvet was warm and squishy like a good duvet should be. The whole place seemed to give off something odd. Less thinking about where, Axel, more thinking about how, he chided himself. Slowly stretching as to not alarm whoever was in the room with him – he could feel the stiffness in his muscles and joints that spoke of a long rest – he found himself being peered at by an odd-looking kid.

Axel shifted about so he could sit up properly in the comfy bed, the peering kid apparently unable to take his eyes off him, and flashed his craftiest smile – the one that meant ‘mischief’ without a shadow of a doubt. Mischief, of course, tended to involve removing body parts from the opponent. Or flambéing them. He was tempted to see if he could summon his chakrams (since if it was some crazy post-death dream, he would most definitely think himself able to – dreams are things under your control, right?) but was somewhat worried the flames might burn the squishy duvet. He settled on just the grinning, and it seemed to do its job; weird-boy went skittering off out the room, leaving him on his own in this strange place.

“Wherever I am, it’s pretty damn weird,” he commented to himself. The walls had what looked like large faded butterfly prints dotted around them, and the butterfly motif was matched on the duvet cover and the drapes. The decorator clearly had a fixation. He saw his coat neatly hung over the back of a chair, his gloves occupying the seat. It all looked nice enough but it didn’t explain the whole how and why of anything.

When Axel had nearly bored himself with the minute details of the room, the bed, the walls – and when the idea of getting up and having a proper look around was starting to settle – the weird kid returned, laden with what looked suspiciously like tea and cakes. As he set them down, he didn’t look too pleased; taking a seat he simply gestured to the tray, unmistakeably meaning ‘help yourself’.

Figuring that the situation was all too weird anyway - and what could indulging in a little hospitality really do at this stage, he was dead anyway, right? – Axel indeed helped himself to one of the cups. Nobodies didn’t need food or drink for sustenance, but it didn’t change the fact that they could enjoy them, in their own way. The boy was still looking at him. Stuffing a teacake in his mouth – he remembered that feeling ravenous was a bit like this – he spoke, not bothering to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. “I thought I’d scared you off there.”

The kid jumped, like he hadn’t been expecting Axel to be able to speak or something, and looked at the crumbs he’d sprayed over the sheets with mild distaste. “No,” he finally said, diplomatically, “I went to tell Yuuko-san that you’d finally woken up. Then I figured maybe you’d appreciate something to eat. I’m nice like that,” he added snippily, attesting to have definitely not mistaken Axel’s comment for what it was. Axel grinned. He’d always had a bit of a soft spot for kids like that, if you could consider teasing them mercilessly to be a ‘soft spot’. Had they met under different circumstances, he was sure he would have treated Sora in much the same way.

“Yah,” he replied, scarfing down another cake, “Reeaal nice of ya. By the way, am I dead or what?” He was hoping the question might catch the boy out. Waiting for a reaction; an affirmative or total denial. Instead the boy shrugged noncommittally. Axel chocked down tea to get the cake out of his throat. “I’m sitting here talking to you and eating food and I feel pretty damn solid and all, so I’ve gotta be in the afterlife or alive and you’re shrugging?”

“If you don’t know, I definitely don’t,” the kid replied. He was looking at him very closely, now. “I’d love to say you’re alive but I’ve been wrong before.” There was another shrug with this, as though they weren’t talking about the issue of Axel’s mortality. Or as if this sort of conversation was totally normal. Axel wasn’t sure which he hoped it was.

YAH so that's where I've become stumped. I think the last paragraph is all wrong and I have no idea how to lead on from it. HELPPPPP.

Roommates chapter 1

2007-02-03T03:30:09Z

Hahaha. Mighty crackishness. That's somewhat plausable. Hopefully I did the chracters okay.

Name- Roommates [Or the poor, terrible university life of an unlucky man]
Pairings- Well, Wata's usual fangirling of Hima-chan still applies, but it's totally DouWata in denial. XD
Warnings- Uh, I don't really make sense. And it's pretty poor. And there's probably a lot of mistakes. And it's crackish. AN behind le cut.

[Yamada Takahiro is from Ishikawa :D Why do I know? Because Yamada is a perfectly boring common Ishikawa family name. XD As for his appearance, he wears emo glasses and they suit him okay. That’s about all. Megane-kyara are living together! And my spellchecker loves Wata so much. Satanic you say?? Also I love curlys~ because they emphasise the stress on the word right!

I’ve never quite figured out where Holic is set. Sometimes I think it’s somewhere in Kansai (aho?) but when they mention Ginza one time I wondered if it was in one of the Tokyo special wards. I guess we shall never know. T.T be cool if it was in Tomoeda XD FUJITAKA-SAMA, WHEREFORARTHOU?

And now onto the terrible tale of what it’s like to have hurricane Wata as a roommate. -.-]

Roommates

I - Introductions

Yamada Takahiro was a nice, easy-going young man. At his old school he’d had a tight-knit group of friends, all of whom had gone on to different universities, but swore to keep in touch. He’d been quite popular among his classmates, having been a smart and somewhat attractive boy who was friendlier and kinder than most others. He considered himself an open and inviting sort-of guy, always welcoming new experiences with flourish. He was looking forward to meeting all sorts of new people at university. But at the moment, he was most looking forward to meeting his new roommate. Somewhat apprehensively, of course. After all, they were going to be living with one another for the better part of a year. He thought he was ready for anyone. Thought being the objective term here.

He was not, of course, ready for what was to befall him.

Having moved in at the first possible opportunity, wanting to get a jump on his first time living away from home, and hoping to familiarise himself with the surroundings before term started, he had naturally expected his roommate to move in a few days later than himself. He’d liked the idea because it gave him a chance to settle down before meeting the rooms other occupant. Luck was not on his side.

A day later, he had gone out to look for a good café nearby. It was always nice to know where you could get nice tea and cakes. He’d discovered a charming tea shop that sold lovely cakes with ease, and was looking forward mentally to many an afternoon spent studying there. When he returned, the door to his room was left wide open and he could hear a woman remarking quite loudly, “It’s rather small, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, yes, it’s also rather cheap,” an irritated voice chimed in, “and that’s just fine by me. Now look, if you’re not going to be useful could you at least just sit out of the way?? You keep- arrg, you’re just as- NOW YOU’RE JUST DOING IT ON PURPOSE!”

Takahiro thought of the scolding he’d get from his parents if he ever tried addressing them like that, as the woman laughed. For some strange reason he got an odd feeling when he walked into the room. Shrugging it off, he adopted his customary smile. “Ah, you must be my roommate!” he beamed. “I’m Yamada Takahiro! It’s nice to meet you.” Even if it IS a very sudden surprise, he thought.

The woman turned her head to him with a small, knowing smirk, and the aggravated young man put the box he was holding down and held out his hand with a crooked, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you too,” he said as they shook hands, “and sorry about the mess.”

He glanced round to look for the alleged ‘mess’, and was pretty sure the room was tidier then when he’d left. Somehow. Even though he couldn’t see that anything of his had been moved.

The woman reached to shake hands with him too. “Ichihara Yuuko,” she intoned, languid smile still in place, and he felt colour rise in his cheeks when he realised he’d been staring somewhat.

“It’s a pleasure, Ichihara-san,” he replied, resisting the urge to nervously scratch at the back of his neck as she seemed to loom over him, as if measuring him up. The young man had gone back to removing from boxes what mostly looked like cooking equipment.

“Call me Yuuko,” she said simply, and went back to harass the young man more. “Make dinner soon,” she said, even as he tried to get past her, “and make sure there’s lots spare! I’ll see you tomorrow, Watanuki~” she called, as she dashed off. Watanuki had a dark look on his face. He seemed to be muttering something about dinner under his breath even as he neatly unpacked his few boxes of belongings.

“So,” Takahiro began, having shaken off the slight daze he’d fallen into, “Ichihara Watanuki, right? Where’d you come from?”

Watanuki gave him a very odd look. Takahiro found himself wondering if he was on an accelerated program or something. He looked awfully young for some reason… “Ah, this is my home town,” he said with a smile.

“I’m from Ishikawa! It’s great that you’re from around here, hopefully you can show me around, if it’s not too much trouble! But if you live round here, wouldn’t it have been cheaper to stay with your mother?”

“You think- ohnonono, Yuuko-san isn’t my mother. Not at all. Not related even slightly. For which I am constantly thankful. But you-” he broke off laughing. Takahiro didn’t understand what was so funny, and wondered if he’d said something wrong. He had wondered how old she was, but he understood that people were having children earlier all the time, and hadn’t wanted to assume the wrong thing. Watanuki grinned at him gleefully. “I never had a way to call her old without it being my fault before! Ah, this may be the best day ever~! Don’t be surprised if she’s rude to you in the future, I just can’t pass up on a rare opportunity like this!” His grin had turned into a somewhat malicious smirk and Takahiro was rather sure he had said the wrong thing. “Yamada-san, it really is very nice to meet you. And I’m called Watanuki Kimihiro. Definitely no relation of Yuuko-san’s.” He smiled genially, and proceeded to start moving most of his things into the dorm kitchen.

Takahiro happily left it that, feeling more than a little confused as to what exactly Yuuko was to Watanuki if she wasn’t a relative and if he wanted to insult her. Some sort of disparaged friend? A girlfriend? Ex? Being a somewhat curious – or, perhaps we could say, damn-right nosey – individual, he vowed to figure it out before the weeks end. As he sat wondering, and wondering if he should give any of his friends a call, and wondering what he should make for dinner, he heard the sounds of pots and pans and sizzling from the kitchen that made him think of home.

When he entered the kitchen later to brew some tea, he saw that Watanuki looked perfectly at home in an apron by the stove. “Ah, Yamada-san, would you like any?” he asked, making a vague gesture at the bubbling pots. “I think I’ve made far too much…” he added with a thoughtful look, as if he was wondering just where so much food had come from. Takahiro certainly didn’t want to slight his tentative new friend with a ‘no’, and his nose seemed to say the same thing.

“Thanks a lot! I’m not much of a cook myself, and it’d certainly be nice to try your cooking, since everything smells so good.”

Watanuki nodded absently in agreement, thoughtful look having become a thoughtful frown, but it was broken by the sudden ringing of a mobile phone. Takahiro tried to tune out the conversation as he put the kettle on and bustled about getting cups and a teapot. It would be rude to intentionally listen in on a conversation, after all.

“Hello, Himawari-chan! It’s so good to hear from you so soon! How are you, are you settling in alright? Mm, it’s a nice room. Yuuko-san thinks it’s small, but she… yeah, he seems really nice! You should definitely come and visit soon, Himawari-chan~! You’d be more than welcome! Huh? Oh, I think he’s staying at the temple still, so I shouldn’t see him until the start of term. Not that I’d want to. Isn’t he on holiday still, anyway? That’s what- …oh yes, you must be right! Make sure to let me know when you’re free so I can call you, okay? Bye~”

The timing couldn’t be better. Takahiro had finished making tea, and offered the second cup to Watanuki just as the sparkly smile had dissolved into a look of despair. He set the proffered cup down on the side as he removed pots from the heat and started dishing up food. Boy, did he seem to have immense mood swings! Watanuki’s slumped shoulders suddenly shot up, and he was smiling again. “He doesn’t know where I live yet!” he cheered. “And Yuuko-san has been hanging around all day so there’s no way she could have told him! Well, there is, she could easily find one, but… ah, I’m safe for a day~”

As infectious as Watanuki’s cheer was, Takahiro couldn’t help but notice one old anomaly in the whole plating-up situation.

There was a third plate.

“Watanuki-kun,” he began, not feeling the need to be overly polite, “is there a reason there’s a third-”

He was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen door opening quietly. As quietly as it was, it still appeared to stop the world short, making the equally quiet “Yo,” easily heard.

And then Watanuki started screaming.

[and so ends le first chapter. :D]

Comments and Crit are appreciated looooaaaads. And if I don't respond it's because I'm very shy, in a way. :D

xxxHolic super-drabble fest

2006-08-17T09:49:51Z

Since I now heart Watanuki like nout else, I've written a few crappy drabbles to share with the world. Blink, and you'll miss them. :D

Liar

He's starting to think he is the worlds worst liar.

He's been lying ever since his parents died; I'm alright; I don't need help; the biggest one, I'm better off alone.

There was a time he wished someone would see through him, but it had been so long that he'd almost completely forgotten the truth behind his own words.

So when an almost stranger has seen his walls as windows, he's so surprised he thinks some unwelcome change has taken place, and made him the worlds worst liar.

It will take him a long time to recognise just how good he is at lying to himself.

Glasses

Watanuki has always been glad that he needs glasses to see.

When he was younger, he would take them off as often as he could. Without them, the world became beautifully dull and confusing; the things that dogged his every footstep became far too blurry for him to see. It was his small way of escaping.

Now, he is older and a tiny bit wiser. He rarely takes his glasses off. Now, the unknown was a more frightening thought that what he could see, and though he still hated seeing them, he at least knew what they were.

Still, he holds onto the childish notion that he can take them off whever he likes.

Debt

Doumeki knows that the lunches are supposedly 'debt relief'. That when the debt is paid, there will be no more lunch and no more company.

He doesn't feel like he is owed anything for making his own choices; he wants to help. He knows how the other thinks, though, so he makes sure the debt will never be settled.

Because, he thinks, neither of them is ready to give up that pretense just yet.

Please let me know just how bad these are and how wrong I am about the characters. :D I'm being serious!

Some badly-written Tactics fluffer-ishy introspective. Gaaaah

2006-01-09T02:56:49Z

Acceptance

Mildly HaruKan, tteba. It's still a typical field of semicolons, but at least I think I only used the word somewhat once.

Acceptance is a funny thing.

His master constantly sought acceptance. He had his ways; after all, he was a tactician, as he himself had said. Despite his uncompromising attitude, he knew the best way to convince people of his acceptableness or some such nonsense. Looking as he did, he didn’t get it from first impressions; he was not a boy, nor was he a man; he had those unusual eyes. He was hard to categorise, and those who fit in nowhere are ignored by all. He imagined that this might be hard, deep down; shallow smiles covered less and less sadness as he observed more and more.

Haruka wondered, but would likely never ask; he preferred to draw his own conclusions, suspicious that outright asking would result in lies, or in silence. One of his friends had inferred that he’d has a less-than-easy childhood, because of his difference from other children. He had reached out to those who were shunned by all else, sought acceptance from creatures who weren’t like him, and yet understood him; he had acceptance from simple demons to gods, yet it seemed this would never be enough. Acceptance from his own kind seemed the only answer.

When they had first met, Youko had said he was glad that he at least, accepted her. At first, he thought that it wasn’t worth much at all. Kantarou was accepting of everyone and everything, never discriminating, never caring for how he might be taken advantage of, or what they thought of him. Time overtook, and so did his observation; he understood now what she might have meant. He accepted her help, her worry, her pity, all the things he would not take from any other. Despite his apparent dislike for fussing, he’d spotted the small smiles that graced his youngish face when she berated him for one thing or another. He wondered if spending time with the aggravating man would be made worthwhile by small gestures like that.

After some time, he’d decided to ask. He decided he might be skilled enough at observing to get an answer, even if the words were lies. He didn’t know he’d said anything until he heard himself from far away.

“Why does it matter so much?”

He’d looked up right away, as if suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone. “What’s that, Haruka?” he’d asked, in that calm voice, with that interested look. He always looked interested in what Haruka was saying.

It took a moment; he almost said a customary ‘nothing’; but he carried on. “Acceptance. Why is it so important?”

Kan had looked a little worried at that. “Haruka, is something wrong? You don’t tend to care about that sort of thing.”

Haruka wondered why Kantarou insisted on addressing him by name every time he spoke; was it to remind him of the bond hanging between them? Without thinking, he smiled a rare smile. “I don’t. You do, though. Why?”

His eyes were in motion. They moved around, as though looking inwards for something important. It was interesting. After some time, he shrugged. “Well… it’s nice, I guess. To have people accept you.” There was a longing, hidden in his eyes; I’d like for someone to accept me.

“Why worry about it?” He could hear the slight confusion in his own tone; he didn’t really understand. “Can’t you just command it?”

“Aa,” he had begun, a cryptic expression in place, “but then I’d never have it.”

He’d gone back to writing, as though the question had been firmly answered; instead, it had left more for there to be thought of. It seemed more in Kantarou’s nature to just demand what he wanted, especially if it was important to him. It was bizarre to think of how determined he was to get something, but so passive about actually getting it. “Humans refuse to accept strange things. It’s not worth the effort.”

“I’m a strange thing, Haruka?” There was laughing in his voice, but he hadn’t looked up. “It doesn’t matter much now, since I’ve found you, Haruka.” He gave Haruka a rare look; it was somewhat shy, so unlike the bold face he usually saw. “I’d much rather have you accept me, Haruka.”

He rose, suddenly; stretched his arms, his laughing face back in place once more. “That’s enough work for today! Say, how about some tea?” Without a second look, he was gone; the spell effectively broken. “Come on, Haruka~!”

He wondered; humans were too round-about in their ways. “Then why not just ask for it?”

He knew, though, that it wasn’t something that could be asked for, or something that could be commanded. It was something that would grow over time; his acceptance of his master. And he would let it; because something in him wanted to give this man at least a small measure of happiness. Acceptance was a baby-step.

At least he accepts me, wasn’t it?

And thus ends my first foray into non-totally-obscure fanfiction that doesn't involve Gundam Wing in any way. Haa.

A prologue

2005-12-26T03:51:34Z

This is MOSTLY copied word-for-word out of a diary-thing I've been writing in for the past week. The grammer is probably atrocious (there's a fantastic field of semicolons in there) and the spelling is probably just as weak due to my displeasure for proof-reading. And my writing is tiny. It is honest-to-god fanfiction, but CAN YOU TELL WHAT IT IS YET?

This Is The Night

It wasn’t the first - nor would it be the last, for that matter - time he had woken up in a hospital. The experience was dizzying as ever, and as such he had left - by means of stealth, or course - within seconds of remembering consciousness. This was how he came to be atop Victorian terraced roofs, slightly thankful for what must have been a densely populated area. The fact he remained in hospital-issue pyjamas, and that he had no idea where he was, was besides the point. He knew, at once, that he had been separated from the rest; they would not have let anyone take him in for what must surely have been only a concussion, considering how healthy (and of course, somewhat dizzy) he felt. He hadn’t had the time to evaluate things properly in his swift escape; setting the machines as he best knew to cause no undue alarm (a skill come about of too many foolish doctors asking patients to remain in ‘observation’ for the smallest things. Simple problems like concussions, minor wounds, fractures and the like could be dealt with at home) and now, having time to take stock of the situation, felt utterly confused. Terraced houses? He hadn’t seen terraced housing for quite some time; there definitely wasn’t any where he was previously. In fact, he was pretty sure there wasn’t any in the country he had just been in. He certainly felt a long way from home.

At his moment, a sudden chill struck him, accompanied by shapes, figures - people? - moving in the street below him. He noticed, for the first time, the mist that hung low in the streets; the figures below seemed to flit between existence and nothingness within it. At that moment he felt oddly attracted toward something else below; a house, he thought. It had an indistinct shape, but it glowed slightly; he was sure it was a result of his foggy mind combined with the creeping cold feeling he got from whatever lurked below.

Taking a small chance, he took a well-calculated leap from his roof, to ground level, landing with a silent ease aside from the stab of pain he felt shoot through his side. Ignoring it, as it had faded into obscurity as quickly as it had come. Still, once more on firm ground, within dark, dank streets, an objective up ahead, and figures to avoid - he felt so, anyway - at all cost, he felt at home. This was the sort of situation he was used to, the sort he could very easily calculate; investigation without detection. Hiding in plain sight was, naturally, his speciality.

The idea that what he was so keen to avoid wasn’t exactly human never entered his mind, despite the distinctly creepy feeling he got from them; of course it never occurred to him, for he had seen people perform great, and terrible, feats many wouldn’t class as human, knowing full well that the perpetrators were far more human than given credit for. He had learned very, very early on in his young life that the boundaries of human were not the same as normal. A such, he had always tailored his defences, movements, and strategies as though every opponent he was met with was as far at the limits as human could go; for the most it was a severe overestimation, but the feeling that he had taken every eventuality and scenario into consideration set his restless mind at slight ease. It was met, therefore, with extreme surprise and confusion that the flitting figures had noticed him despite his best efforts to remain indiscreet. Had they noticed him jump? Was his breathing too loud? Was the concussion enough to make him this inattentive? As they approached nearer, his initially cold logic was swept away by irrepressible panic; he couldn’t let them get near to him, whoever - no, whatever - they were. His instincts told him it would do him no good, and if all else were lost, he could trust his instincts to the end of the world. As such, he used his considerable speed to attempt to outrun them; at worst, they would most definitely have a hard time keeping up.

If they had feet to run with, of course.

Their creeping, drifting, non-existent presence was beyond an appearance or feeling, it was reality. He pushed himself further and further, hurtling blindly through winding, foggy alleys with no sign of an end; he was certain, at some point, that his pursuers had a better idea of his bearing then he did, and still utterly confounded as to the fear the gripped his heart - he had stared death in the face too many times to not welcome its intimidating glare, and nothing he had ever encountered before had scared him so terribly; but he was certain that whatever was after him could provide him a fate much, much worse than death. The closer the came, the more something long-buried lurked closer to the surface to the point where he wasn’t sure if he was running from the spectres or running from his own mind.

Inevitably, his sure-footing faltered, and with a sudden lurch he skidded across the rough, damp pavement. Pushing himself up on scuffed hands, he gave himself a moment to evaluate his condition. He was breathing heavily, too heavily considering how much energy he had exerted, and he disturbed at the lack of the dull ache that usually accompanied breathlessness. He couldn’t feel a thing, for that matter. The scrapes across his hands and wrists didn’t sting as they should, despite how he could see the scraped skin and ingrained grit; a sprain that surely should be the cause of the fall went unnoticed. On instinct, numbly feeling across his chest, there lay the telltale bumps and roughness of bandages. Multiple. Bandages that, he could tell right away, had been dislodged.

Shit.

With some difficulty - he was suddenly full of fever, drenched in cold sweat, his legs not cooperating in holding him up - he stood once more, surveying his surroundings to once again register utter incomprehension - he was right where he started. He had been running in the opposite direction. There, in front of him, was the shimmering, out of focus, non-existent house. His pursuers were nowhere to be seen. He wondered, abstractly, as to whether the chase had happened at all; in the amazing way the human mind could, he had remained utterly ignorant of all his ills until he had actually acknowledged them - at which point the floodgates had very nearly opened - and as such would probably not have realised a dream or hallucination at once. As it was, he wanted to scream at his utter stupidity - something that happened rather often, he noticed in bizarrely good humour - how could he not wait one minute to check what was actually wrong with him? He laughed, humourlessly. Utterly lost, running, and dead. Still, he had to do what he intended - investigate the strange house.

Ambling, swaying - the wooziness must’ve been caused by the heavy-dosage painkillers hospitals idiotically prescribed - he nonetheless made his way quickly to the fake-building, up the small steps to the door, and did the most ridiculously simple thing he could.

He rang the doorbell.

And bled on the doorstep.