FINALLY, IT IS UPDATED. NO, REALLY. I MEAN IT YOU GUYS. I'm actually sorry for the really obscene delay, because college ate my soul, and all I feel like doing nowadays is A) Sleeping B) Metaphorically dying C) Sleeping, because college is a killer and this winter business is really got me down.
Title: Meet Me at the End of the World
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Pairing: Eventual Kaworu/Shinji.
Rating: PG-13, this chapter.
Genre: AU. Ikari Shinji, the last angel, cannot find it within himself to kill the Third Child, Nagisa Kaworu.
Chapter: 3/?
Notes: I lied, Kaworu got a memory. I figured you needed a bit a background on the, uh, protagonist. Yes. Also, Ayanami is quite an enjoyable write. ♥
child 003, age IX, memory
[You're such a clever boy, Nagisa-kun.]
His hands laid flat upon the desk. Blue. His hair too wild and his skin too pale. Raw pink on his arms. Sleeves rolled up and past the elbows. His worn sneakers tapping against the legs of the desk.
He can smell a storm coming in. The windows of the class room are open. He can feel the air. The shift of pressure. Everything so dim. Washed-out. Almost stale.
[So you must understand, we can't have you going outside.]
Birds are roosting on telephone wires. Huddled together, and scarce. Sparrows. Their small bodies distorted in a mess of fluffed up feathers. Brown-gray-brown, again.
Silent. He does not think he has ever heard them sing, before. He does not think he's ever heard any more in this long hour than the high-pitched screams of his peers. Their faces flushed and arms caked with dust and dirt and the traveling fingers of the salt and the ocean. Caught on a high wind, and brought inland.
[The sun is too dangerous this time of year. Your aunt worries.]
He feels like one of them. The sparrows. Sitting tucked away from the world two stories up. By the window. Watching them watching him, when they will sometimes look his way. Go off to whisper behind cupped hands into the ear of another. And sometimes, Kaworu thinks he can almost hear them.
He's an albino, you know! Like those weird-looking rabbits. The ones with the red eyes and white fur.
He's heard it before. Seen those commonplace rabbits in dingy pet stores, their eyes glistening wetly when he pressed his fingers to the window. Like he does now. (Acts as though he can feel them. The warmth of contact. Fur to skin. Impending summer sun tinting their skin a timid brown-bronze. As if the season came to sleep within them. Quiet.)
Did you see how easily burned he is? He tried sneaking out last year---
He's always been sheltered like this. Stationed in the same spot, for years. Watching people shift their opinions of him. Some fascinated, some repulsed. Some possessing cruelty only a child knows. Some wiser. Some able to show kindness.
It was sort of hilarious. That poor sap.
He couldn't think to be miffed. Something in his chest had stung a bit at the remark, but offense wasn't it. (It had been his own fault. He knew the consequence. His skin had turned a vicious red. Peeled back for days on end. In the long run, not even common treatments had lulled it. But, beneath it all, when it had healed --- His skin was just like theirs, and it felt right to grin because of it.)
And he could feel his teacher's questioning stare, but Kaworu disregarded it. His fingers curling in just the slightest. The rumble of thunder starting up in the distance. In time to the soft lull of Beethoven. An old cassette player propped on top of stacks of paper, crowding his teacher's desk.
(Behavior reports. Kaworu had once read his.
Respectful, exceptionally intelligent, polite, but evasive. Does not obey instruction, if he can question it. Seems unacquainted with social norms. Talks to many, but has few friends. Does not keep his hands to himself, as if in constant need of contact. Painfully honest.
Does well in all subjects. Has a good ear for music. Smiles often, but lacks sincerity. Intimidates other children, seemingly by accident.)
His teacher makes a show of clearing his throat, but Kaworu denies him the expectation for him to glance over.
"Nagisa-kun," Pause. Kaworu affixes his eyes on the telephone wires, again. Beginning to sway. The sparrows press tighter and with their fragile feet, miraculously stay, "Please, this time, remain here while I get the class."
Kaworu doesn't shake or nod his head. But, his teacher takes it as affirmation. It is only when he leaves the room, that Kaworu tests his feet. Making sure they're not too numb before standing. Works his way through the maze of small desks. Brightly colored chairs. (Blues. Vivid.)
And stills just before the sliding door as he hears the rain start to fall. (Rare. He doesn't need to look back to know the dust and the dryness of earth is being brought down with it. That, when he goes, there will be pollen in puddles --- Stained yellow, orange. And a faint tint of red. And in it, his reflection will seem soft and natural. His silvery hair will lose its unusual edge. His eyes will look almost brown. And he'll feel like he's meant to work his way in.)
He smiles, thin.
---
Later on, no one asks where he is. (The cassette player is distorting "An die Freude," and if they strain to listen, it almost sounds like a sparrow is singing against the storm.)
But then, Kaworu's never been truly there to begin with.
---
[end sequence]
---
3.2
Misato needed a beer.
There was no way around it, and her feet were cold as she navigated the (admittedly chaotic) mess that was strewn about the kitchen floor.
(Cans, once stacked in pyramids, toppled. Trash bags. What looked to be one of her old bathrobes. A sock or two, which she debated putting on, but God knows how long they'd been there.)
This morning had found Misato very early. Four, to be precise. After a full (wonderful, blessed) hour of sleep, PenPen had begun to croon for company, and Nagisa (ugh, men) hadn't been obliged to attend to him.
For a long moment, under the warmth of her comforter, she had weighed her options.
She could try to get his attention (the nearest-object-meet-the-wall tactic usually worked, the boy was a fast learner) or, she could pull herself from bed.
Pulling myself from bed, she mused, is definitely not appealing. (The sun had not even begun to rise, yet. If it had, the wearing material of her blanket would usually indicate that. And gleefully. As if it enjoyed it. As in habit, she would take that same blanket every night and make a literal cocoon of it.)
She pulled the comforter tighter around her.
Option two sounded better.
After all, he comes home at three in the morning, reads the magazines that I hadn't even had a chance to look at, and disobeys simple rules. I'm very lenient, and yet he can't bother himself to at least pay attention to PenPen? Sometimes, Misato, you should listen to Ritsuko. She had the right idea about him. Beneath all the niceties he's still a teenager.
She frowned against the darkness. And, across the hall PenPen crooned pointedly. (At Nagisa's door, no less. The boy had to be deaf.)
Object-to-wall-tactic, it was.
However, as her good karma would have it, there was no such object in her range (no, spare bras wouldn't make nearly enough sound) and thus, with much reluctance, had to pull herself from the comfortable confines of her room (at least, she had to pride herself, with a minimum amount of feet dragging and sleepy protests).
Her limbs hadn't cooperated at first. (Her feet were asleep, and the prickling sensation actually hurt. And all she could think about, fuzzily, was a story she had read when she was young. Something about walking on shards of glass and the girl's voice in a seashell. The name was on her tongue, but her mouth wouldn't form the sounds. She forgot in a moment, regardless, when she stubbed her toe on a stack of very lightly used books. She swore, though the profanity came out to be a blend of two or three separate ones, and she wasn't even sure at this point if she was speaking Japanese.)
It took her five tries to open the sliding door as her fingers failed to grip it properly. It took her five tries to murmur PenPen's name, when she noted him still standing loyally at Nagisa's door. (Smart bird beside, she often wondered what he saw in him that he didn't in her.) And five more tries to get PenPen's attention, before he turned and waddled toward her, instead.
And this is where the morning found her. With PenPen appeased with her company, still wearing her pajamas in the middle of her messy kitchen (which she was positive was Nagisa's turn to clean), and searching for a beer.
This, she decided as she finally managed to wade through the small maze of beer cans and to her fridge, is not my morning.
And it wasn't surprising, as she pulled it open and squinted against the sudden brightness:
"You have got to be kidding me."
There was no beer.
And for a moment, she was glad that Nagisa didn't wake up after all, because he would be standing beside her in this dark, cramped kitchen with that same, pleasant look and utter:
"Sorry, I would have picked some up, but they wouldn't---"
Katsuragi tried her best not to show her alarm, because Nagisa was there and Nagisa was speaking to her, and he had to take two steps back to avoid her sharp movement as she turned (hoping he didn't notice that she had to catch herself on the door of the fridge) and half-snapped:
"Kaworu, what have I told you about---"
But, Nagisa's lips were quirked and even in the gloom, she could see the faint flicker of amusement that continuously defined him.
And for a moment, she was peeved that he hadn't woken up before (and even more so that if he just rolled out of bed, that he was immaculate already), but found her words trailed off as he pointedly held up bags of groceries in one, pale hand and a drink in other:
"Will a good breakfast and tea make it up to you?"
Katsuragi could only nod numbly as Nagisa coaxed the drink into her hands, before he smiled slowly, inquisitively, before he asked her politely to move so he could proceed to restock the fridge.
It was times like these, Katsuragi admitted (watching him for a moment, realizing he might have felt sorry about what he had done the night before, realizing that he must have walked all the to the twenty-four hour store, noticing, with great pleasure, that he had found that curry mix she liked so--) that Nagisa wasn't such a bad kid, after all.
Well, he does make a decent breakfast.
She hid her grin around the lip of her cup as she took a sip of her tea. Glanced at the clock on the far wall (6:30) and mumbled, more to herself,
"I suppose I'll have to forgive you, Kaworu."
The lingering silence was soft, and Nagisa stopped rummaging through the bags for a moment, before offering his muffled response (laced with relief, with the notes of his quiet laugh),
"Thank you, Misato."
And though her hair wasn't done, though she hadn't taken her shower, and though Nagisa could be an utter pain if wanted, Katsuragi felt warm.
(And besides, it wasn't every morning she could find humor in the way her old, green apron would clash with his pale skin.)
4.
Nine in the morning. One half-hour to go.
He had passed this hall three times. Read the signs. Retraced his foggy memory. And for the fourth time, he stood before the same, polished plaque. The same, polished sign. Cranial NERV.
Shinji sighed, and rested his forehead against the wall. Slumped his shoulders. And mumbled, uselessly:
"I'm so lost."
In the empty corridor, Shinji flattened his palms against cool, metal surface. An unnecessary comfort. He had found no one to guide him, despite his efforts, and at least the wall before him was a reassurance. A proof of some solid singularity. It gave him a moment to gather himself. To lull the nervous beat of his heart. (Testing is starting, soon.) Nagisa had been a poor tour guide, regardless of his intelligence. Too abstract. And Shinji had only realized after he had awoken this morning, that he had neglected to ask him where the room even was.
He sighed again, curled his fingers, and reluctantly lifted his head.
(Well, at least I have a pattern.) He turned, looked down the hall. Ahead, it branched off. Left, right, and forward. He had taken the left before, and right the first time around. (I always manage to mess things up.)
So, forward it was.
He unconsciously tried to dampen the sound of his footsteps as he (once again) motivated himself to find the testing room. His footfalls were remarkably loud this early in the morning, and it seemed strange that he hadn't noticed it the night before.
(Nagisa wasn't this careful.) He let his eyes wander. If he was wrong this time -- (At least, I don't think he was.)
No, last night, Nagisa moved easily. Unhindered. Shinji recalled that he had paid no mind where he placed his feet. Had pointed out rooms of interest, his lips curved and pale hands moving. Gesticulating absently. And Shinji had watched, quietly. Had lowered his eyes whenever he met his. Something about him had made him at once comfortable and uncomfortable. Made him feel...
And he had spoken to him lowly, softly:
"The locker rooms are down the hall," He had paused, here. His shoulder too close to his. His posture relaxed. And Shinji could almost feel his warmth, though he could not will himself to move. SEELE had warned him. SEELE had told him -- "I could show you, if you like." A slow smile, almost contemplative. And Shinji had glanced at him furtively. Had silently taken in his expression. Something else had rested along the shadows at the corner of his mouth, but he couldn't place it. Not --
"You are heading in the wrong direction."
Shinji, startled, whipped around. Nearly stumbled in his haste to find the source of the voice. His breath caught and his heart pounding. And to his mortification, discovered a girl a mere three feet to his right, down an adjoining hall.
The first thought that came to Shinji's mind was: The First, followed quickly by She's... And amended, embarrassingly, I thought she would be...Well, tougher-looking.
Shinji didn't speak. (He couldn't have, if he tried.) And the silence seemed oppressive. His words were lost along the still unsteady rhythm of his heart. Along with prior warnings.
[The First Child, should you meet her, is nothing more than the Commander's puppet. A doll, if you will. However, like the Third, she is exceptionally intelligent. She will suspect you, should you slip up.]
Under the fluorescent lights, her pale skin seemed to glow. And for moment, Shinji could barely discern her placid expression. For a moment, he could only read her eyes. Red, like blood. (Red, like Nagisa's. And it was a thought he hoped would never leave his head.) But, they bared nothing more than faint disapproval. Nothing more than empty calm.
"You are the Fifth. The commander sent me to look for you, knowing that the Third had failed to direct you." Even tone. No smile. And Shinji worked his mouth for words, but found them still missing.
(Nagisa had compared me to her--) Anxiety gripped him. But, her expression remained the same. As though she was waiting. As though--he tried to push down the feeling. (I have to-- He drew in an uneven breath. But, how are we---?) However, he couldn't maintain the thought. She was speaking again "Please follow me", and Shinji realized after a moment, that he was staring.
He quickly averted his eyes, but the First wasn't there to notice it. She had turned away from him, and was already leading him down the correct hall.
Shinji, for a long moment, listened -- Before hurrying after her.
And of all he met thus far, he found her by far the most unnerving.
(Her stiff posture. Short-hair. The unsettling way of her gaze as he caught up with her.
Blue-ish eyelashes, swept down. Veiled emotion.)
And despite his orders, he almost wished Nagisa had come to find him, instead.
[You are not here to make friends.]
And ruefully, he admitted: If only because he smiles, I guess.
-----
A/N: Ah, pets. ♥
And really, I can't be the only one who thinks Misato would act like this, should she be grumpy, in the morning.
vibe;: 
cheerful
cheerful24 caged | cage a butterfly
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