I can't believe I just sat here and completely banged this out. It felt awesome. Now, I'm going to go have my post-writing coffee, and finally celebrate my seeming break in "the block."
Anyway, side-piece first:
title: Meet Me at the End of the World: Pride is a Small, Red Bird
series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
chapter: Side-piece 1/?, takes place before the beginning of this AU.
characters: Kaworu, Misato, Asuka.
summary: The "domesticity" of the Katsuragi household. (Pre-coma, pre-arrival of Ikari).
soundtrack: Passenger Seat | Death Cab for Cutie
From the time he first met her, Sohryu had been a constant by his side.
In the mornings, pulling the sheets off of him. Squaring her palm against his shoulder. Shaking him. Where, in those moments, he could not see any more than the glow of her red hair in the white-wash light. The dim contours of her pale face. The pull of her mouth into a satisfactory smirk when he would grumble and swat and eventually, force himself up.
(She would tug his hair back into some semblance of order. Disorder. Intone in her languid way that he was just as lazy as all the other men. That he couldn't even bother to thank her for her exceptional kindness.
How, when Nagisa did feed into her self-importance, even the slightest lowering of his eyes -- The barest glance at the corner of her mouth, she would start the whole tangent over again:
"Don't look at me like that, you pervert!" And out in the hall, he would hear Katsuragi throw whatever was in reach at the wall, while Sohryu would grip his chin, direct his gaze upward. Her fingers were always much too warm. Always flushed a delicate pink. Deceptively gentle. He remembered he had once made the error of shutting his eyes.
"My eyes," She would continue, while Nagisa would struggle to keep awake, "are up here.")
And every morning was just like that. Sheets torn away from him. Hot palms and smooth fingertips. His hair pulled in whatever angle pleased her that day. And the first, concise thought being: Blue.
(When he would finally meet her sight. When his eyes would first focus. Where shapes and corners and colors would separate. Come together. Where, his ears would pick up the first trill of drowsy cicadas. And Sohryu's breath would always sound just as red as her hair was. As red as her lips and eyelashes were. And how, just for one instant, her arrogance would subside. Cool. With a faint lull of his words and a brief flare of irritation. Water to steam.)
"I'm sorry."
And every morning was just like that.
He would always shower last, he would always eat last, always dress last.
He would brush his teeth in the kitchen under Katsuragi's (almost) apologetic smile. Talk inbetween the running of water and the hiss of electric kettle about nonsensical matters. Katsuragi half-listening, half-answering. Sometimes at the kitchen table, sometimes beside him. Rarely, if ever, touching his shoulder. Combing his hair back into place with her fingers. Murmuring softly about little sleep and how all she really wanted in the mornings was enough time to relax.
And for whatever reason, he would never find himself minding it. (Sohryu would take her time. He had long ago given up on acquiring anything from the bathroom after seven in the morning.) And Katsuragi would sometimes touch him, sometimes not. And when she didn't -- She would always fix her eyes on the back of his neck, not really seeing him. Or seeing him.
(Teasing about haircuts. Never about the way his hair was almost white under the florescent lights. How the sun had burned his skin, again. Along the back of his forearm.)
And every morning was just like that.
Until, on one weekend, when Sohryu and himself were alone -- She had paused before the kitchen wearing one of many of Katsuragi's old (red) bathrobes. (Where he looked up after he finished brushing his teeth.) Her damp hair sticking to her cheeks, flushed with the heat of the shower. And Nagisa could remember how red the tips of her toes and fingers were before she truly looked at him. Before she placed her hands on her hips. (She seemed so small in the doorway -- and that thought would never leave him.) Before snapping:
"You could have asked to brush your teeth in the bathroom, you know."
And he remembered how her lips were pulled into a tight line. As if nervous. But, he only turned off the tap (blindly) and smiled, slow and honestly:
"I don't mind--"
And he could remember the way she strode over to him. The way her eyes had narrowed. (Cold. Like oceans. Murky. And he couldn't read her body language. Distorted. Like silt and tides. Her shoulders tense and her gaze demanding.) He could remember backing up, on instinct. Only wanting to pacify her. Not provoke her.
(He can remember thinking: What have I done wrong? Remember how his lower back had pressed uncomfortably against edge of the counter. How one hand had twisted back to steady himself. How his fingers had -- with some displeasure -- brushed up against the bristles of his old toothbrush, still wet.)
However, she had only paused mere inches before him. Her finger jabbing him in the chest. (And he could almost pick up the scent of her skin. Some fruit fragranced shampoo.) Before she bit out:
"You really piss me off. Stop being so goddamn agreeable! You could always ask!"
(And unspoken: I want a reaction.)
And he had looked past her, then. A point beyond the curve of her shoulder. And he had murmured, his pale fingers curling uncomfortably:
"I make you feel inadequate." He had paused. Almost reluctant to look back to her. To see her expression. To -- (She had kicked the side of his leg. Just hard enough to pull back his attention. Just enough to distract him before she roughly knotted her hands in his shirt. Shook him, once.)
"How dare you even say that to me!" Her voice had blended with the high-pitched hum of the lights. Had rung in his ears. Made him wince. "You think you can act all indifferent to everyone you meet, and then you can spout this crackpot analysis of other people and expect them to take you seriously?!"
She had shook him again, hard. So close her toes were on his toes. And he flinched as she let go. Flinched when she pushed him once more. (And watched her eyes when his expression did not betray what nervousness he had felt. Did not give away the sharpness of his emotions beneath his characteristic calm. Did not -- )
And for a moment, he could hear the clock ticking on the far wall. Could see how the light caught the drying ends of Sohryu's hair. Made them glow. Almost translucent. How he had hesitantly stepped away from the counter. How he had placed a hand on his lower back. Rubbed the sore muscles.
And he remembers words. There and not. Threading their way into the silence. Almost tangible. Heavy and weighted on the tip of his tongue.
"I do not try to be indifferent to you."
And for a long moment, Sohryu had said nothing. And he did not dare move. And for a long moment, Sohryu had debated. Had --
She had been close. Had been close enough to feel her warm breath. Enough to hear her inhale. Determined.
"Then," (Everything had been a competition. Everything had
been--) "you won't mind me testing you."
--
Nagisa had been wrong.
(He could remember standing in the kitchen. Suddenly alone. Drawing the back of his hand slowly over his lips. Silent as he listened to the run of water in the bathroom and the dramatic gags that followed. That tapered off. Muted in the end.)
And everything had changed, then.
--
A/N: I figured it appropriate to get their dynamic, here. That way, there would be no confusion as to Nagisa's relation to her, I suppose. ♥
It was an interesting switch, let me tell you what. Hahaa. I can't see him being as awkward as Shinji was, just impassive.
10 caged | cage a butterfly
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