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tampered2006-06-12 09:22 pm
electr0nic.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2006-06-12 09:22 pm
Log; Complete
When; Right after we got a Yoshitsune ♥
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Spitfire (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
at_titude) and Nue (electr0nic)
Summary; Clearing up some misunderstanding.
Log; { I don't care if you really care as long as you don't go }
A cacophonic whirlwind of troubles. Nue’s brow is scrunched up like a crumpled dishrag left out to harden and dry in the sun, except there is no sun and no familiar warmth. It’s just dreary day and the thunderstorms don’t help as the rain pours down and pelts his face and neck in the form of tears.
“C…can’t stand up,” he utters between low and raspy whines. His green shirt is damp with sweat and rain as his shaking bones shake his body like a wind-up skeleton, made to dance for a crowd that’s not really there. Don’t they know that he doesn’t like to dance without his skin?
He didn’t want to see the fire dancing with the tornado. Like the fiddler on the roof, how they danced and danced and it was like a cursed music box that wouldn’t stop.
He ran a little too fast down the hill and when his foot hitched against a piece of rubble, that dark surprise bit him from behind and sent him falling down. Oh, there goes his crown, the poor thunder king, heart broken, befuddled emotions and all.
Will he ever be king again?
Nue hasn’t been in for hours; it’s dark enough to break between the blinds and Spitfire’s inside where the light’s electric and fake enough to dull down the moment. His fingers lace themselves through a loop in his pants. He’s not nervous, or worried, but he looks at the clock, which isn’t as welcoming as it seems, and his lips frown. Turn down. There aren’t enough seconds to seep into his heart, burn away the lingering doubt that stretches across his mouth and makes it an expression that doesn’t belong to him.
It’s enough. Spitfire grabs an umbrella from the closet and heads out. The rain isn’t enough to wash away the friction of his troubled wheels and he scorches a path behind him; one that chars and cracks the ground till it opens wide, ready for its next meal. But kings aren’t what it wants and so he flies, higher, higher, and doesn’t notice the water evaporate around him.
It steams and sizzles till a fine mist of it surrounds him like a ghost. Which ghost, he doesn’t know.
But his fingers fail him and his heart becomes a fine threadwork of beaten down flames. If he stalls, if he finds that the electric city is gone and dead, then the world will know of Apollo, of gods that hold wrath in their hands like cups of water that turn to wine.
The umbrella is forgotten, tucked under his arm like a parcel that he’ll never open. He looks down and sees a damp patch of broken down limbs. When he falls, it’s to land beside it and turn the rain away. Melt it so that it doesn’t drip, but dries against skin.
“Nue,” his voice comes out serious; an instinct of petered down flames, “What-”
This time his throat fails him, and he watches Nue as the rain makes his flames die down and sputter out.
Nue’s lying down on the stone cold pavement when Spitfires gets to him. He’s turned over on his back when he sees that brilliant flame that scorches his vision like the sun, so he puts his hand to his eyes to try and block it out.
For a minute, it looks like sunny weather.
“...Leave me alone,” he manages to croak out between damp lips and watering eyes he’s trying to desperately to cover up. It’s raining sorrow in the electric city and there’s lightning and thunder that scream in jealousy for control over the sky. All the people are hiding in their houses, fireplaces lit and smoking burning from their chimneys. The smoke is drifting in the rainy sky like a ghost looking for it’s host.
“...Can’t fucking be…believe,” he breathes. Thoughts echo like rocks in a canyon and he swears he can see the sky shatter into a billion starry pieces.
“Sorry,” Spitfire kneels down, pressing his knees into the asphalt, his palm against the damp skin of Nue’s forehead, “I can’t do that.”
A plastic half smile graces his mouth like dusty shelf. His fingers are steady as they carve imprinted strands away from Nue’s eyes and lips. They’re wet and soft from the rain, slightly parted and sad like a black and white movie. It’s here that he realizes how far Nue can fall; as a king, as a boy, as someone who has the ability to run away with his heart and keep it locked in a chest that beats in time with his own.
“If you speak, I’ll listen,” he says, eyes clear and sharp with an edgy calm.
He moves Nue till he’s laying half on his lap and looks down with the rain dripping off the sarcastic flares of his hair. The rain slides down his back and soaks his arms till they gleam like fireworks, lip-gloss; the shade crystals are born with. They move in the dark, working with his hands as they check for injuries, for wounds on the outside, because even he can’t see the ones that lay underneath.
And when he speaks, it’s to listen and comprehend; it’s to call out the people and open the shutters enough for the words to come out, “Where were you going?”
As in, where is he now? What point in the galaxy has he fallen from, and which suicidal star is the one that took him for the ride.
Nue wants to get up and move away from Spitfire, but his body aches and his chest is crushed under the heavy weight of fear. A fear that perhaps one day when he wakes up the only light there will be will be the fluorescent light bulb in the kitchen. He's scared that there will only be only stars because the sun has run away to play with the other. He hates cloudy days, but not the night because he knows the sun speaks through the moon.
"You wouldn't under...under," his mouth can't form the words because he's broken down like porcelain dolls missing eyes and limbs, "...understand." He bites his lip and peaks at Spitfire through the slits of his eyes, but he can't look because his visions slides out of focus every time he looks at the sun; so bright and radiant.
He wants to say.
But he doesn't want to say it.
“Are you sure?” Spitfire opens the umbrella and holds it above them; his elbow is an angle of stability and it supports their support without a tremor. He can see it now, under the hesitating light of the moon; Nue’s bruised with temporary tattoos of color, of yellows and greens, with a mixture of blue that speaks for Nue more than his throat can. It’s like all the horror in all the movies pressed themselves against his skin like rose petals and fists, lips and teeth.
The lights are flickering, shutting down. Spitfire doesn’t know where the switch is, so he keeps talking, keeps throwing that wish in a well. And it’s quiet, his voice; it’s low and steady like a bass and sticky static sweet with smoke and flames, “What are you afraid of?”
There’s a chance Nue won’t tell him, he knows his own luck and it never really works on Nue like it works on everyone else. His fingers weave themselves through Nue’s, which are like limp caskets of bone and his grip tightens on the handle that keeps them dry, “Try me.”
Nue hates it when Spitfire takes his hand, because any human touch is his weak spot. Like the ignition of a candle to a flame, the cold, hard wax melts from the heat. His chest feels a little less tight as the knot loosens. His breathing slows down and he can see a bit more clearly now.
But all that stops when he starts speaking, "I saw...the other day y...y-y-you....andand...and........" His mouth purses together tightly and his cheeks flush an angry and confused red whilst tears roll like boulders down his face, "Y...Y..Yoshi...Yoshitsune and it...!!!" Nue covers his face with his hands and tries not to cry out, but he can't stop the soft whines and inconsistent noises that escape his lips.
It clicks, the trick that’s been played and the misunderstanding that comes with it. Spitfire peels Nue’s fingers away from his face and sees a scene of all the hearts he’s ever left behind. It’s there, sliding down like tracks of clear, heart broken scabs and salted open wounds. The human body is amazing, Spitfire knows, but it’s no longer amazing when he can place a name to the person, and a person to the name.
“We were only dancing.”
He lets the umbrella drop and picks Nue up; the rain comes down, hard, onto his shoulders and collects in his hair as drops, as beads that string themselves along single strands and solitary flames. And what he holds isn’t an electric, vibrant youth; Nue’s eyes are clouded and dark. Out.
“Nue,” he hefts Nue’s weight till his shoulders fit against the curve of his arm, “Nue!”
"Only dancing?!" Nue croaks aloud. His sobbing suddenly becomes very quiet because he realizes he's suddenly lashed out at Spitfire. The power's gone out and city's inhabitants are relying on flame-lit candles and battery-powered flash lights. Up above, dark clouds rumble and lightning strikes twice.
They boy's anger and frustration has been stuffed into a bottle and thrown into the sea, to be lost forever until it finds its way to a foreign land and some idiot is stupid enough to open the bottle. The pent up emotions ravage the land in waves of screaming sobs and cries. Everyone thinks the worlds coming to and end because they haven't had food or water for days and they can't remember how to laugh. Misery flows like a river in everyone's blood just like it does in Nue's.
His body's limp when Spitfire picks him up, and his mind is in such a distraught state that he doesn't think to resist. The normally bright and luminous skin has the dark blue blood vein and heart that pumps the drug heart-break into his system. His shirt's soaked and his white hair clings to his face through tears and water that glisten down his cheeks like pearls let loose from a necklace. Nue's shivering, his head is hanging like a dead man and his brow is knitted together to keep from completely breaking down.
There's no one else for the thunder king because his crown's been stolen and he's lost his scepter and his sphere.
Water is fluid; it moves like a slow motion dance under clouds and dim lit skies. Water is pure; it’s affected by outside properties and open to change. There’s nothing simple about it. And, for once, Spitfire thinks his road should’ve been different because fire destroys. It’s fickle; it leaves nothing behind and quenches no one’s thirst. The rain comes down harder, slashing against skin. He checks on Nue, who’s soaking into his skin, and speaks more to himself than anyone else, “We’ll talk about this later.”
But he uses it, takes what he has and allows the city to burn as he makes his way home.
In the air, Spitfire twists, once, and watches the road beneath him. It’s a watercolor inferno of red and orange; a white-hot mesh of flaming lines, lines- where’s the line? The rain can’t touch them anymore. There’s a balance to it all; a burning center of blue that doesn’t sing. The gears spin, whirr underneath his feet as he dots the sky with solar flares of fire, with love letters written across the stars in an elegant script work of destruction. He lands three feet away from their building and skids the rest of the way. The damp ground allows him to meet the door and the risky friction speaks to him as it raises, curls and dries the excess wet away from their clothes.
Nue’s quiet in his arms, maybe that’s better. When they reach the door of their apartment, he enters and locks it behind him. There’s no sound except for them, which means Kaito’s not in. So he sets Nue down on the couch and heads towards the kitchen.
“Get some rest.”
Nue's eyes are red from crying so much. When Spitfire sets him down, he sighs from the sudden lack of human warmth as his now dry body comes in contact with the cool fabric of the couch. The thunder king watches from behind Spitfire's back and sneezes from the change in temperature before lying down.
He sniffles a little bit, clutching the fabric of the couch and tries his hardest not to start crying again. He doesn't remember being so hurt in his entire life. It feels as though he’s rotting from the inside, every molecule of him screaming in pain that cough syrup and pills can't even cure.
"I'm not even...." he thinks to himself, "...not even..." But the tears and sobbing have worn him out enough to make him yawn, electric blue eyes watering just a little bit before shutting completely.
It takes a couple of minutes, but Spitfire returns with a mug filled with steaming hot tea and a blanket over his left arm. He sets the mug down on the coffee table and kneels so that he’s level with Nue, face-to-face and close enough to hear whispers, maybe even thoughts. The blanket goes over Nue, a breath of cotton and knitted in warmth.
“Tired?” his hands straighten out wrinkles and folds, smoothing them over so not a frown remains.
But the look on his face is a borderline symphony of calm and frayed nerves. This time he doesn’t know if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can put Nue back together again. They all have their crowns, their roads and their reasons. Once they’re taken away, it’s only a matter of time before break down sets in.
Because wings are a necessity in their line of work; wings and roads, roads and wings; they all create a path for them to follow. And Nue looks lost without them.
“Here,” he takes the mug and helps Nue raise his head enough to press the rim against his lips, “Drink some of this.”
"Mmnngh...?" Nue's yawn stretches the creases of his lips smooth and his mouth opened wide. He snaps it back shut like a fan and his brow is furrowed, a bit upset because the temptress of sleep was just about to take him away until Apollo angrily snatches him away from her grasp. The boy sits up a little bit and pulls the blanket up with him as well because the chill inside the apartment makes him feel more stripped of his regalia than he ever was.
Nue accepts the steaming hot mug of tea from the flame king. Before he takes a drink, he looks down at the clear, amber liquid and at the reflection that is him. Good god, has he really fallen so far? His halo is crooked and his wings have lost all their feathers and flesh. The only thing that's left is a skeleton. He pulls the single white strand that sticks up out of his hair down in remorse before taking a cautious sip.
He hisses when the lava-like liquid touches his tongue. "It's hot," Nue says to Spitfire, lips in an upset frown from the unexpected burn. He distances it from his mouth; afraid the serpent that lurks in the water will strike again.
Now isn’t the right time or place, but Spitfire’s never really been concerned about that. He sets the mug back onto the coffee table and turns, catching Nue’s chin with his fingertips. The lack of smile feels awkward and unsettling, almost drowned out. His thumb brushes over the frown, before he leans forward and kisses Nue. It isn’t like the other times, where sparks and cinders become firecrackers on the edges of their lips. It’s a foreign territory of mismatched hearts and heartbreak hotels that crack the rules he’s set like they’re porcelain plates or champagne glasses. And maybe it’s too fast, but that’s the speed he’s used too. Fast, sometimes furious, and hot enough to scorch the sky he sees in Nue’s eyes when he’s pretending to look at other girls.
“It’s supposed to be,” Spitfire retreats, his mouth a smooth line of failing calm. He flicks several careless strands of hair away from Nue’s eyes and continues, “You won’t be able to ride for awhile.”
For a moment, the room becomes so silent that Nue can hear the ringing in his ears. He can hear the soft beating of his heart and the strong beating of Spitfire's heart as he kisses him on the lips. The scarlet blush tints his cheeks like wildfire the moment their lips touch, and contrary to what Spitfire might believe, it's the still kisses that make him think that maybe it's not too bad to fly too close to the sun if the last thing you see when you're falling is the sun himself, the blissful blue sky scattered with clouds and feathers caked with melted wax.
He watches Spitfire brush away the messy strands of white while his mouth purses in thought. Now Nue's more confused than ever. His heart's beating against his ribcage and he isn't sure whether to hate Spitfire for having the guts to still kiss him, or to ask for a little bit more and forget Yoshitsune ever happened.
"But...what will I do if something like those butterflies happens again?" he asks, calloused fingers latching onto Spitfire's sleeve.
A hint of remorse touches the fire bright edge of Spitfire’s eyes, “If a similar event happens, I’ll be there.”
It’s a promise, if nothing else. A promise made in the morning, where the hours turn to fractions of light. Spitfire doesn’t know how much time has passed, how much time they’ve lost. But he takes Nue’s hand within the shelter of his own and holds it like it’ll break. Carefully.
“Trust me, Nue,” his fingers slowly trace the carved in roads of Nue’s palm as if trying to memorize them, “For now, just trust me.”
There isn't a single wrinkle on Nue's face when he looks at Spitfire, but his face wears an expression of worry. His brow is narrowed, but there are no more grey skies in his eyes when Spitfire takes his hand. Nue's mouth creases into a thin line and the corners twitch upwards in an awkward smile. It disappears and is replaced by the pursing of his lips. Nue's been doing a lot of thinking today.
"Okay," he says, squeezing Spitfire's hand tightly, afraid he'll lose him even for a minute. He's afraid that someone'll steal the sun away from him, the only thing that makes living here in this world even possible.
"Promise?" he asks, face pulling a look of concern once more and his eyes look a little more blue and less steely.
“I said so, didn’t I?” And it’s the only thing Spitfire can do now; to make promises, to keep them and make sure they stay unbroken and whole like their pieced together hearts. Because there’s a world out there, a round blue pill no one can swallow to make the shakes go away. There’s a city outside; a metronome of heels that tic-tac-toe all over the streets like harlots and princess prostitutes dressed in spills of lace.
But the inside’s what counts.
And inside there’s an electric city where the lights are solar powered and alive.
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Spitfire (
at_titude) and Nue (electr0nic)Summary; Clearing up some misunderstanding.
Log; { I don't care if you really care as long as you don't go }
A cacophonic whirlwind of troubles. Nue’s brow is scrunched up like a crumpled dishrag left out to harden and dry in the sun, except there is no sun and no familiar warmth. It’s just dreary day and the thunderstorms don’t help as the rain pours down and pelts his face and neck in the form of tears.
“C…can’t stand up,” he utters between low and raspy whines. His green shirt is damp with sweat and rain as his shaking bones shake his body like a wind-up skeleton, made to dance for a crowd that’s not really there. Don’t they know that he doesn’t like to dance without his skin?
He didn’t want to see the fire dancing with the tornado. Like the fiddler on the roof, how they danced and danced and it was like a cursed music box that wouldn’t stop.
He ran a little too fast down the hill and when his foot hitched against a piece of rubble, that dark surprise bit him from behind and sent him falling down. Oh, there goes his crown, the poor thunder king, heart broken, befuddled emotions and all.
Will he ever be king again?
Nue hasn’t been in for hours; it’s dark enough to break between the blinds and Spitfire’s inside where the light’s electric and fake enough to dull down the moment. His fingers lace themselves through a loop in his pants. He’s not nervous, or worried, but he looks at the clock, which isn’t as welcoming as it seems, and his lips frown. Turn down. There aren’t enough seconds to seep into his heart, burn away the lingering doubt that stretches across his mouth and makes it an expression that doesn’t belong to him.
It’s enough. Spitfire grabs an umbrella from the closet and heads out. The rain isn’t enough to wash away the friction of his troubled wheels and he scorches a path behind him; one that chars and cracks the ground till it opens wide, ready for its next meal. But kings aren’t what it wants and so he flies, higher, higher, and doesn’t notice the water evaporate around him.
It steams and sizzles till a fine mist of it surrounds him like a ghost. Which ghost, he doesn’t know.
But his fingers fail him and his heart becomes a fine threadwork of beaten down flames. If he stalls, if he finds that the electric city is gone and dead, then the world will know of Apollo, of gods that hold wrath in their hands like cups of water that turn to wine.
The umbrella is forgotten, tucked under his arm like a parcel that he’ll never open. He looks down and sees a damp patch of broken down limbs. When he falls, it’s to land beside it and turn the rain away. Melt it so that it doesn’t drip, but dries against skin.
“Nue,” his voice comes out serious; an instinct of petered down flames, “What-”
This time his throat fails him, and he watches Nue as the rain makes his flames die down and sputter out.
Nue’s lying down on the stone cold pavement when Spitfires gets to him. He’s turned over on his back when he sees that brilliant flame that scorches his vision like the sun, so he puts his hand to his eyes to try and block it out.
For a minute, it looks like sunny weather.
“...Leave me alone,” he manages to croak out between damp lips and watering eyes he’s trying to desperately to cover up. It’s raining sorrow in the electric city and there’s lightning and thunder that scream in jealousy for control over the sky. All the people are hiding in their houses, fireplaces lit and smoking burning from their chimneys. The smoke is drifting in the rainy sky like a ghost looking for it’s host.
“...Can’t fucking be…believe,” he breathes. Thoughts echo like rocks in a canyon and he swears he can see the sky shatter into a billion starry pieces.
“Sorry,” Spitfire kneels down, pressing his knees into the asphalt, his palm against the damp skin of Nue’s forehead, “I can’t do that.”
A plastic half smile graces his mouth like dusty shelf. His fingers are steady as they carve imprinted strands away from Nue’s eyes and lips. They’re wet and soft from the rain, slightly parted and sad like a black and white movie. It’s here that he realizes how far Nue can fall; as a king, as a boy, as someone who has the ability to run away with his heart and keep it locked in a chest that beats in time with his own.
“If you speak, I’ll listen,” he says, eyes clear and sharp with an edgy calm.
He moves Nue till he’s laying half on his lap and looks down with the rain dripping off the sarcastic flares of his hair. The rain slides down his back and soaks his arms till they gleam like fireworks, lip-gloss; the shade crystals are born with. They move in the dark, working with his hands as they check for injuries, for wounds on the outside, because even he can’t see the ones that lay underneath.
And when he speaks, it’s to listen and comprehend; it’s to call out the people and open the shutters enough for the words to come out, “Where were you going?”
As in, where is he now? What point in the galaxy has he fallen from, and which suicidal star is the one that took him for the ride.
Nue wants to get up and move away from Spitfire, but his body aches and his chest is crushed under the heavy weight of fear. A fear that perhaps one day when he wakes up the only light there will be will be the fluorescent light bulb in the kitchen. He's scared that there will only be only stars because the sun has run away to play with the other. He hates cloudy days, but not the night because he knows the sun speaks through the moon.
"You wouldn't under...under," his mouth can't form the words because he's broken down like porcelain dolls missing eyes and limbs, "...understand." He bites his lip and peaks at Spitfire through the slits of his eyes, but he can't look because his visions slides out of focus every time he looks at the sun; so bright and radiant.
He wants to say.
But he doesn't want to say it.
“Are you sure?” Spitfire opens the umbrella and holds it above them; his elbow is an angle of stability and it supports their support without a tremor. He can see it now, under the hesitating light of the moon; Nue’s bruised with temporary tattoos of color, of yellows and greens, with a mixture of blue that speaks for Nue more than his throat can. It’s like all the horror in all the movies pressed themselves against his skin like rose petals and fists, lips and teeth.
The lights are flickering, shutting down. Spitfire doesn’t know where the switch is, so he keeps talking, keeps throwing that wish in a well. And it’s quiet, his voice; it’s low and steady like a bass and sticky static sweet with smoke and flames, “What are you afraid of?”
There’s a chance Nue won’t tell him, he knows his own luck and it never really works on Nue like it works on everyone else. His fingers weave themselves through Nue’s, which are like limp caskets of bone and his grip tightens on the handle that keeps them dry, “Try me.”
Nue hates it when Spitfire takes his hand, because any human touch is his weak spot. Like the ignition of a candle to a flame, the cold, hard wax melts from the heat. His chest feels a little less tight as the knot loosens. His breathing slows down and he can see a bit more clearly now.
But all that stops when he starts speaking, "I saw...the other day y...y-y-you....andand...and........" His mouth purses together tightly and his cheeks flush an angry and confused red whilst tears roll like boulders down his face, "Y...Y..Yoshi...Yoshitsune and it...!!!" Nue covers his face with his hands and tries not to cry out, but he can't stop the soft whines and inconsistent noises that escape his lips.
It clicks, the trick that’s been played and the misunderstanding that comes with it. Spitfire peels Nue’s fingers away from his face and sees a scene of all the hearts he’s ever left behind. It’s there, sliding down like tracks of clear, heart broken scabs and salted open wounds. The human body is amazing, Spitfire knows, but it’s no longer amazing when he can place a name to the person, and a person to the name.
“We were only dancing.”
He lets the umbrella drop and picks Nue up; the rain comes down, hard, onto his shoulders and collects in his hair as drops, as beads that string themselves along single strands and solitary flames. And what he holds isn’t an electric, vibrant youth; Nue’s eyes are clouded and dark. Out.
“Nue,” he hefts Nue’s weight till his shoulders fit against the curve of his arm, “Nue!”
"Only dancing?!" Nue croaks aloud. His sobbing suddenly becomes very quiet because he realizes he's suddenly lashed out at Spitfire. The power's gone out and city's inhabitants are relying on flame-lit candles and battery-powered flash lights. Up above, dark clouds rumble and lightning strikes twice.
They boy's anger and frustration has been stuffed into a bottle and thrown into the sea, to be lost forever until it finds its way to a foreign land and some idiot is stupid enough to open the bottle. The pent up emotions ravage the land in waves of screaming sobs and cries. Everyone thinks the worlds coming to and end because they haven't had food or water for days and they can't remember how to laugh. Misery flows like a river in everyone's blood just like it does in Nue's.
His body's limp when Spitfire picks him up, and his mind is in such a distraught state that he doesn't think to resist. The normally bright and luminous skin has the dark blue blood vein and heart that pumps the drug heart-break into his system. His shirt's soaked and his white hair clings to his face through tears and water that glisten down his cheeks like pearls let loose from a necklace. Nue's shivering, his head is hanging like a dead man and his brow is knitted together to keep from completely breaking down.
There's no one else for the thunder king because his crown's been stolen and he's lost his scepter and his sphere.
Water is fluid; it moves like a slow motion dance under clouds and dim lit skies. Water is pure; it’s affected by outside properties and open to change. There’s nothing simple about it. And, for once, Spitfire thinks his road should’ve been different because fire destroys. It’s fickle; it leaves nothing behind and quenches no one’s thirst. The rain comes down harder, slashing against skin. He checks on Nue, who’s soaking into his skin, and speaks more to himself than anyone else, “We’ll talk about this later.”
But he uses it, takes what he has and allows the city to burn as he makes his way home.
In the air, Spitfire twists, once, and watches the road beneath him. It’s a watercolor inferno of red and orange; a white-hot mesh of flaming lines, lines- where’s the line? The rain can’t touch them anymore. There’s a balance to it all; a burning center of blue that doesn’t sing. The gears spin, whirr underneath his feet as he dots the sky with solar flares of fire, with love letters written across the stars in an elegant script work of destruction. He lands three feet away from their building and skids the rest of the way. The damp ground allows him to meet the door and the risky friction speaks to him as it raises, curls and dries the excess wet away from their clothes.
Nue’s quiet in his arms, maybe that’s better. When they reach the door of their apartment, he enters and locks it behind him. There’s no sound except for them, which means Kaito’s not in. So he sets Nue down on the couch and heads towards the kitchen.
“Get some rest.”
Nue's eyes are red from crying so much. When Spitfire sets him down, he sighs from the sudden lack of human warmth as his now dry body comes in contact with the cool fabric of the couch. The thunder king watches from behind Spitfire's back and sneezes from the change in temperature before lying down.
He sniffles a little bit, clutching the fabric of the couch and tries his hardest not to start crying again. He doesn't remember being so hurt in his entire life. It feels as though he’s rotting from the inside, every molecule of him screaming in pain that cough syrup and pills can't even cure.
"I'm not even...." he thinks to himself, "...not even..." But the tears and sobbing have worn him out enough to make him yawn, electric blue eyes watering just a little bit before shutting completely.
It takes a couple of minutes, but Spitfire returns with a mug filled with steaming hot tea and a blanket over his left arm. He sets the mug down on the coffee table and kneels so that he’s level with Nue, face-to-face and close enough to hear whispers, maybe even thoughts. The blanket goes over Nue, a breath of cotton and knitted in warmth.
“Tired?” his hands straighten out wrinkles and folds, smoothing them over so not a frown remains.
But the look on his face is a borderline symphony of calm and frayed nerves. This time he doesn’t know if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can put Nue back together again. They all have their crowns, their roads and their reasons. Once they’re taken away, it’s only a matter of time before break down sets in.
Because wings are a necessity in their line of work; wings and roads, roads and wings; they all create a path for them to follow. And Nue looks lost without them.
“Here,” he takes the mug and helps Nue raise his head enough to press the rim against his lips, “Drink some of this.”
"Mmnngh...?" Nue's yawn stretches the creases of his lips smooth and his mouth opened wide. He snaps it back shut like a fan and his brow is furrowed, a bit upset because the temptress of sleep was just about to take him away until Apollo angrily snatches him away from her grasp. The boy sits up a little bit and pulls the blanket up with him as well because the chill inside the apartment makes him feel more stripped of his regalia than he ever was.
Nue accepts the steaming hot mug of tea from the flame king. Before he takes a drink, he looks down at the clear, amber liquid and at the reflection that is him. Good god, has he really fallen so far? His halo is crooked and his wings have lost all their feathers and flesh. The only thing that's left is a skeleton. He pulls the single white strand that sticks up out of his hair down in remorse before taking a cautious sip.
He hisses when the lava-like liquid touches his tongue. "It's hot," Nue says to Spitfire, lips in an upset frown from the unexpected burn. He distances it from his mouth; afraid the serpent that lurks in the water will strike again.
Now isn’t the right time or place, but Spitfire’s never really been concerned about that. He sets the mug back onto the coffee table and turns, catching Nue’s chin with his fingertips. The lack of smile feels awkward and unsettling, almost drowned out. His thumb brushes over the frown, before he leans forward and kisses Nue. It isn’t like the other times, where sparks and cinders become firecrackers on the edges of their lips. It’s a foreign territory of mismatched hearts and heartbreak hotels that crack the rules he’s set like they’re porcelain plates or champagne glasses. And maybe it’s too fast, but that’s the speed he’s used too. Fast, sometimes furious, and hot enough to scorch the sky he sees in Nue’s eyes when he’s pretending to look at other girls.
“It’s supposed to be,” Spitfire retreats, his mouth a smooth line of failing calm. He flicks several careless strands of hair away from Nue’s eyes and continues, “You won’t be able to ride for awhile.”
For a moment, the room becomes so silent that Nue can hear the ringing in his ears. He can hear the soft beating of his heart and the strong beating of Spitfire's heart as he kisses him on the lips. The scarlet blush tints his cheeks like wildfire the moment their lips touch, and contrary to what Spitfire might believe, it's the still kisses that make him think that maybe it's not too bad to fly too close to the sun if the last thing you see when you're falling is the sun himself, the blissful blue sky scattered with clouds and feathers caked with melted wax.
He watches Spitfire brush away the messy strands of white while his mouth purses in thought. Now Nue's more confused than ever. His heart's beating against his ribcage and he isn't sure whether to hate Spitfire for having the guts to still kiss him, or to ask for a little bit more and forget Yoshitsune ever happened.
"But...what will I do if something like those butterflies happens again?" he asks, calloused fingers latching onto Spitfire's sleeve.
A hint of remorse touches the fire bright edge of Spitfire’s eyes, “If a similar event happens, I’ll be there.”
It’s a promise, if nothing else. A promise made in the morning, where the hours turn to fractions of light. Spitfire doesn’t know how much time has passed, how much time they’ve lost. But he takes Nue’s hand within the shelter of his own and holds it like it’ll break. Carefully.
“Trust me, Nue,” his fingers slowly trace the carved in roads of Nue’s palm as if trying to memorize them, “For now, just trust me.”
There isn't a single wrinkle on Nue's face when he looks at Spitfire, but his face wears an expression of worry. His brow is narrowed, but there are no more grey skies in his eyes when Spitfire takes his hand. Nue's mouth creases into a thin line and the corners twitch upwards in an awkward smile. It disappears and is replaced by the pursing of his lips. Nue's been doing a lot of thinking today.
"Okay," he says, squeezing Spitfire's hand tightly, afraid he'll lose him even for a minute. He's afraid that someone'll steal the sun away from him, the only thing that makes living here in this world even possible.
"Promise?" he asks, face pulling a look of concern once more and his eyes look a little more blue and less steely.
“I said so, didn’t I?” And it’s the only thing Spitfire can do now; to make promises, to keep them and make sure they stay unbroken and whole like their pieced together hearts. Because there’s a world out there, a round blue pill no one can swallow to make the shakes go away. There’s a city outside; a metronome of heels that tic-tac-toe all over the streets like harlots and princess prostitutes dressed in spills of lace.
But the inside’s what counts.
And inside there’s an electric city where the lights are solar powered and alive.