TB/X -- Seishirou/Subaru -- Waking Shadows
Title: Waking Shadows
Fandom: Tokyo Babylon, X
Pairing(s): SeiSub
Rating: PG-13ish not really garh, asdlfjk
Warnings: Spoilers for post X-16.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: I can't name things. ALSO, RUN-ON SENTENCES WILL DEVOUR MY SOUL. RUN-ONS/ME, Y/Y? Our love is untold, but tragic, and possibly epic as well.
Summary: Post-RB Subaru is batshit insane. Insert ghosts that aren't really ghosts, just add water!
Word Count: 362


There are times when he thinks about it. He imagines--a simple spell, he's done it a thousand times, could probably do it in his sleep, and then--he'd be there, staring, blankly-- And what would he bring himself to say? What could he possibly do? And it's like a vision, so vivid and overwhelming, and he surfaces from it gasping and trembling, breaking through the water and into the stark world of reality, hidden above the murky depths of dreams like memories.

But he doesn't want to see it--the blank, staring eye, the bleeding socket where the one used to be. Because he knows, even if it's nothing more than his own illusions--sees nothing but that ghastly imitation of a face once known.

It smiles at him.

It reaches out cold, lifeless fingers, dripping in cold, lifeless blood. The thought of it is revolting. He tries to pull away, or at least tries to tell himself that he tries to pull away, but regardless, he's caught. And his hands shake beneath the bloody grasp, but he allows himself to be pulled forward--allows it even when his own hand is moved by that cold, lifeless force, and placed delicately, intimately, even, through that familiar gash--that hole in the chest where the heart should be. And he shudders and convulses and cries out--a desperate, penetrating wail that rises up in the back of his throat and spills out past his control.

He doesn't want to see it, and so he never calls that particular spirit back from the world beyond, not that that's even his job, anymore. And even if it was--it doesn't matter.

He doesn't want to see it, but he does anyway. In his dreams, in the shadows and mirrors of this horrible house, in the camellia and sakura that fall around him like drops of blood.

And when he surfaces from these dreams and these waking shadows of things, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling for hours. His right eye burns and his left eye cries and the little pieces of himself that have forgotten how to bleed anymore shudder and break.