[& its all just a matter of time]

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 06:37:38 GMT

Nothing too interesting to note at the moment. I'm feeling very ... Eh, so I shall update in full later.

In the mean time? Have a meme:

THEANONYMOUSMEME

|One more (final) I need you.|

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 17:33:10 GMT

I am so fucked up.

I am a horrible, horrible writer to have composed this, but--It had to be done. I should edit it a bit more before going much of anywhere with it, but I was watching The End of Evangelion about a week ago, and at the very beginning, Shinji was trying to drown himself, as was implied by the wet clothes and the fact he was standing at the seashore. -- So, I had to write this. It was impossible for me to pass up.

Title: Breathe In(to Me)
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Characters: Shinji. Some mentions of Kaworu and Misato.
Genre: Almost gen. How startling.
Rating: R. Yes. Well, nearly.
Notes: Spoilers for EoE.

There is blood in his mouth.

(Six seconds, and an eye blink. Six seconds, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth. Clamping down. Hard.)

And it is not fear. (Iron, and the tang of copper.) And it is not loneliness. (He can almost see his breath. His breath. His--) It is not the way the fog curls off the water so early in the morning, like fingers. Like ghosts. Like the emptiness of air that fills the shells of freed cicadas. Like--(Like the soft, gray strands of hair. Wrapped around another's neck. And how he had wanted it. To press his nose against it. The soft shadows. The warm, boyish flesh. Something so base, and low, and quiet. And how it was not him, but he who mirrored it. That thought, that narrow reaction. As though--)

It makes sense. It makes no sense.

(--He had seen straight into him. Dissected him. Laid him out delicately. Fingers brushing each fragile inch. Each joint and bone. As warm and as naked as each stuttered reflex. Each flicker of heat and part of his lips. Each formless word, jammed fast between the gap of his ribs. So full and so heavy, he wanted to--)

His fingers are numb as he gingerly rolls up his slacks. Pale skin, bruised near the ankle. Accidents. Clumsiness. (Had he always been like this?) To the knee. To the knee and--

(He can hear the waves roll in, murmuring in a foreign tongue. Something so ancient. Something so instinctive. He knows the words. He knows the words. He knows--)

--His sleeves. Short enough. (Barefoot. Sand rubbing raw. between his toes. Angry. Irritated. And he can feel the shiver of blessed relief as his body shifts forward on its own accord. As the cool of the water brushes over and under the aching arch of his feet.)

And he wonders the density. The buoyancy of clothes. His body. What his fingers hold now. (Old surfaces. Old cities. Dead cities.) He wonders if Misato is awake, yet. (If there is movement in her bedroom. If she realizes he has disappeared, yet. If--)

And he can hear it. Like the dull rush of water greeting his chest. The under-side of his chin. His--

(And he takes a breath. Water stinging his eyes. Mouth filled with salt. The words. And the quiet hum of lies. Like the inactive telephone wires. Like Kaworu's fingers pressing against the back of his hand and--)

There is nothing more than emptiness.

(--Dulled motions. Dulled responses. His eyes shut tight. Water raging around his ears. Stirring his hair. Weighted, and weightless.)

There is nothing more than--

(There is no future. There are no motivations. There are no dreams.)

There is nothing more than--

(--"It is what you live for.")

--this.

--

It is only later that he finds himself at the shore, again. Body too weak to budge. To brush his bangs from his eyes. To pull in another sharp, hitched breath. To open his mouth, and murmur of failure. (His lungs burning and the morning light cutting in, bright--)

He feels nothing when he hears the sound of debris. The reminiscent splash.

(The faint hum of cicadas. The faint hum of laughter. The faint hum of lingering wires--)

Nothing at all.

| Mainly, it is how they cope with and handle that trait that allows for that distinction.|

Wed, 21 May 2008 02:58:36 GMT

I find that, honestly, RPing as Kaworu is completely and utterly boggling. I sit there sometimes and go: "Did I just type that, honestly?" because a lot of it seems to be subconscious, nowadays. I am not sure whether or not to be worried, seeing as that doesn't sound entirely. Well. Sane.

However, it seems to be a rather interesting experience all at once. I even got to type out a semi-massive philosophical web for an answer to a fairly simple question (see: "What do you like/dislike in/about people?"), so I am a happy mun.

Though, I seem to be having a problem keeping track of what journal I am logged in as, so I apologize for any responses made under any name, but ranfromrain. Aha.

So, with that said: I am about to indulge in a meme. Dealing with RPing. Because, well, my life is pretty boring at the moment--And I don't intend on posting the next chapter of MMatEotW until Pax is finished, given it is due on the 1st.

~~And the fact that chapter is a complete monster, let's not forget that.~~

So. Anyway:

Ask any question to ~~any of~~ my roleplaying characters, and I will proceed to answer that IC. If you want to throw me a curveball and ask me a question as someone I do not RP as, but have written avidly in the past, you are also free to do this, as well. At the moment, your choice is Kaworu (or eschato_logy). Unless you ask otherwise. Feel free to ask anything. However, it doesn't mean they'll answer honestly. Make them think, make them emo, make them believe you're mentally ill. Whatever. You can even ask as other characters, if you'd like.

Go?

|I have, I have you breathing down my neck.|

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 15:57:49 GMT

Opening sequence to AU2, get!

In other words, I've completed section one of...Several. The completed piece is due in by the 1st of June for springkink, so I figured I'd show what I have for progress, thus far. It will likely be completed far before then, but I figured I should post some form of writing, seeing that I have neglected to do so for...About a week or so.

Title: Pax: Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: AU; eighteen-year-old Ikari Shinji has never hefted a gun in his life, but with the world verging on WWIII precisely thirteen years after the first nuclear bomb was detonated during the Cold War, he is drafted. Fighting for allied countries under the direction of NERV, he is sent to Berlin for his first battle with the enemy, SEELE. It is either do, or die--And he fears it may be the latter.
Rating: R, for: Blood, general disturbing imagery, death, stream of consciousness, distorted thoughts, et cetera.
Notes: Say hello to a line pulled from Pink Floyd's "A Good Day for Freedom" (evidenced clearly enough), obscure references to things that will be outlined further in the future, obscure references to "Komm, Susser Tod" (irony is good), and a question posed in Esperanto (translation should be evident by the answer given). Oh, haha. R. does love that fact of the Cold War. ♥

Also, for some fun history: Esperanto was originally supposed to be the world-wide language, but ended up becoming rather stunted. Many individuals do use it, and it is something interesting to at least take a look into. Esperanto was actually very popular with countries behind the Iron Curtain, so it seems more than practical to continue the usage, here.

Interestingly, the creator of Esperanto and his family, as well as the fellow speakers, were also targeted during the Holocaust due to the believed threat that they held.

Also, to clear up the alliances for the mean time:

NERV = Japan, China, Russia.
SEELE = Germany, USA, and the UN.

(Hence, if you understand Esperanto? I'm going swing it that you're not part of SEELE. Or at least Germany.)

Russia and the USA are pretty much rubble in this. Germany's been subsequently weakened due to proximity. China, Japan, and the UN (some of it) managed to be rather lucky -- If you consider anything after a nuclear war lucky.

The twitch of fingers.

And all he can taste is the gray ash at the back of his throat. The ash of the skyline. Bleeding and bending upwards. Bleeding and bending inwards. Smothering. Smothering. And the cold, cold street under his back. Concrete kicked up. Rubble and the whisper of gray, gray moans. Dead now. They stopped an hour ago. Sucking wounds and burnt flesh. Skin peeled back. Layers. Like onions or--And nails and bones and jaws--cracked and split and--They stopped an hour ago. They stopped-- And it hurts to breathe. It hurts to turn his head. It hurts and it hurts and -- He doesn't want to see his shoulder. He doesn't want to know, yet.

The glimmer of bone beneath sinew and muscle and flesh and--Anatomy told him what little he knew. The trajectory. If he was right--And his lung--

His voice is trapped fast behind his teeth. Words clamped down upon. Mutilated. And all he had done was scream. Until, that too, seemed useless.

Everyone is dead. Everyone, everyone. There is nothing left. There's nothing. And he can feel their eyes, wide and glassy upon him. Accusing him. Run away, run away--Left us all to die, didn't you? Well, now-- Watching him. Disjointed thoughts. Distanced minds. And is that what the human brain looks like--? And he can distantly feel himself dry heave. And he can distantly taste the blood in his mouth. His spit stained pink and thick and -- With the ash and with the words, he mutely wonders if it is death he tastes between his teeth. He wonders. He wonders. He--And it is pain, hot and sharp and paralyzing. Curling head to toe. And he bites his tongue, and immediately--More blood. More blood. More-- And he doesn't know what blood is his and what blood isn't. He can feel it on his cheeks. Matted in his hair. A man stood in front of him. He was nice. Was nice. Told him to get down, but--God, blood on his chest and his neck and--

He wants to sob. He wants to do something. Anything.

"I (don't) want to die."

But no one is there to hear him. He is just like the others that plead for their skins. (Whichtheylostohgod,ohgod.)

He is just like the rest. He will--

Gun fire, everywhere. There was gun fire everywhere. There was the screaming of men and birds and machines. And they fell fast. Fell like the tin soldiers he had in his youth. Lined up on the table in the living room. And like his index finger pushing, then -- Tumbling down, all of them. All of them. Tumbling down, down, down.

He (doesn't) want(s) to die, but the streets of Berlin are empty. Empty. Empty. And he (doesn't) want(s) to die, but there is no one left to remember. No one left to live for. No one left to --

And it seems like seconds. Hours. Slipping in and out of consciousness. The ringing of gunshots still in his ears. And it seems like seconds. Hours--Before he hears the soft croon of morning doves and the crunch of gravel beside him.

Before he hears a human voice. A human voice. Humming out words. Sweet and low and slow.
"I woke to the sound of drums. The music played. The morning sun streamed in. I turned and I looked at you..."

And he feels his heart beating. Wild. Like the wings of those birds he can no longer see. Against his ribs. (Caged in there, with hope and hope and --) He feels his voice. Burbling up. Splintering. Crackling. And he can feel the pause. That eerie stillness. The leisurely approach. And the soft glow of orange--like sunlight--flickering close. Like warmth on his skin. Ghosting over him. Pulsing. Shivering and melting into him. His eyes focusing and unfocusing. And they're in his line of sight, but he feels cold. Cold and colder and --

The boy--is it? He doesn't know--parts his lips, speaks as though his words are water:
"Kiel vi nomigâs?"

Soft eyes. Soft smile. Soft voice. And he cannot distinguish more outside the pallor of his skin against the gray. Against the fuzziness of his mind. The ultimate strain for coherency. (And he can feel him crouching down beside him, now. Sharp jaw. Sharp angles and too much white, too much left untouched, too much purity, too much--)

And finally, there are words. Sputtering like embers. Tripping over his bitten tongue as what looks to be silvery hair catches his attention. For a moment. An instant. (And he wants to see his eyes. He wants--)

And finally:
"...I-Ikari Shinji."

Whimpered.

And he can no longer focus. No longer think. No longer speak. And his eyes are closing. Exhausted. Relieved. And--

And the last touch he feels is fingers near his wounded shoulder. Probing. Inspecting. The last sound he hears is his name. Tested. Repeated. Muted and--
"Stay with me," Paused. Blood seeping into their white pant leg. Gentle. And it is in his native tongue. "Ikari Shinji-kun."

--the world goes quiet.

(And all that he dreams of is the muting of orange and the softness of red.)

|Some of us will learn, what none of us should know.|

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 17:16:08 GMT

So, almost after a full month, R. drags her ass out of hibernation to present you the sixth chapter.

No, really!

It is shorter than the previous ~~thankfully~~, but I think it makes up for it with the pure factor of multiple mind-trips. ~~And God, did it ever take ages to get right.~~

Notably, I'm still stretching these characters in ways that were never touched in the series. Nagisa's getting to be much more complex (somehow), and I'm generally having fun with their messy sense of stability.

...

In other words, I'm still crazy.

OKAY. ENOUGH STALLING ~~AS I STALLED FOR NEARLY A MONTH~~:

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: 6/12, association.
Notes: The previous testings are taking their toll; there is research to be done, notes to be fixed, and beneath the seeming calm is a deep undercurrent. Hesitance and strain are becoming apparent, and avoidance is not at all helping this. If anything, everything has become much more confused since Shinji's initial appearance.

Previous parts / Side-pieces:

I. reality testing
II. uber-ich (super ego)
III. symptom
IV. counter-wish
V. counter-transference

Asuka: Pride is a Small, Red Bird

--
(data: child 005, aged XIV)
--

He trailed his fingers over the metal edging. Three minutes. The empty bass of the monoliths. Keel's voice, rumbling just beyond him. The hollow drumming of the Commander's words. Spot-lighted. The fear present in all before him, distilled. Suppressed. (And part of him, a very small part of him, was impressed by his ability to keep his voice so even. Almost bored, perhaps. Nonchalant.)

"--It was unavoidable." (Using the Lance. Something he had only heard of. Had only known it existed. And he knew that from the moment SEELE learned that the Commander had used it--)

He could not see him, from here. (And it was that compulsion to know his appearance that concerned him. It was unimportant -- In stead of the mission, it should have been regarded as superfluous. But, something like curiosity bit at the corners of his consciousness. Even with knowing that if he was to peer past his hiding spot, that he would be caught. Even with knowing that he'd be a small, sharp shadow in the Commander's peripheral vision if he were to sneak a look at him, now. That he would draw his attention. But--)

He barely registered the scraping of a chair. The blurry exchange of parting shots. The Commander's voice lost among the bellows. The accusatory statements. And Shinji leaned forward in his chair. Curled his fingers around the edge. Bare foot. Cold skin. His white, white heels pressed against the tile floor. (He knew what was coming. He had always known.)

And there was a pause. (Terribly empty.) And he felt it like the weight of palm on back of his neck. Clammy. And his ears strained for something beyond understanding. Beyond the waning echo of a slammed door. Waiting. Waiting--

[ “Tabris.”]

Silence.

He counted to five. Shut his eyes. Flexed his fingers. Pressed his nails against the metal welding. Tracing. (And he could hear his breath. Out and in. Out and--)

[ “Are you listening?”]

(He thought of his mother. The expectant air that pressed up against him, even then. He thought of his mother. The first time he had encountered them. How she hadn't been there, to tell him that they wouldn't harm him.)

Because it would have been more than lie. (And he knew that. He knew that. He knew--)

Empty room. Empty thought. Empty your thoughts. And Shinji lifted his heels, nervous. Lowered them, again. (Thought of the strings of violins. Calm voices. The weight of the mp3 player still in his pocket.)

Another moment.

[“Tabris.”]

And it was an edge. Never known for their patience. (Notwithme. Orwithmother. Or--)

He struggled to keep the nervousness out of his voice, then. Lowered his head. Breathed out, weakly. A simple:

"Yes." Yes, I heard you.

(And he knew what was coming, next. He had always known. And he waited for it. Bit the inside of his cheek. Kept silent. Silent. Silent--)

And the question was expected. And he could hear himself swallow. Roughly. He could feel his fingers tighten. (The gloom mercifully masking the extent of his reaction. The truth of his anxiety. His knuckles, white.)

[“Have you continued to deter the attention of the staff?”]

And he steeled himself. Just barely. (Marveled internally at his answer. At his toneless voice.)

"Yes."

A pause. Suspect. He could hear it like an undercurrent. The slow, languid ripple of voices. Murmurs. Like the tentative testing of keys. (And just as soft. Just as foreboding. Just as--)

[“And the Third?”]

Shinji had saw this coming. Had known it would be part of their questions. Standard interrogations. He had known it, but his stomach still lurched. And he could taste fear. Bitter and vicious. Unfurling in the pit of his stomach. (Restless and reaching. Pulling air from his lungs. Missing a heart beat.)

And he knew --

"...I--"

-- there was no way to cover it.

(And this time, he did not know what would come next.)

--
(end sequence)
--

9.

It was a miracle she could maneuver her coffee cup at all. Stacks of papers. Stained manila folders. Caramel rings. One, pale hand steadying the mug on its precarious perch. One hand typing in password after password. (Mother had been difficult, lately. Odd calculations. A number off. Data files rewritten, stubbed reports. Leftovers from previous tampering--Ritsuko sighed. Misato is still getting over that one, and the thought quickly fled her mind as she mistyped the first character. Backspaced. Started again. The successive depression of keys, the only sound left to challenge the silence. Unusual, nowadays.)

However, this evening? This evening was maintenance. (Blessed maintenance--Making sure new information had been added correctly. Double-checking firewalls. Reinforcing any significant weaknesses.) It was dull work, but it was essential. New developments had been a source of frustration. The sooner it can be treated, the better. (After all, the Commander's orders had always been clear. She knew the importance. No one could spare another--)

Her musings flickered over to Katsuragi. To her reaction to Nagisa’s test. The way her mouth had twisted. Disguising concern. (But, Ritsuko had seen it. Even in the garish light of the room, the emotion was stark against Katsuragi's normal façade.)

Her fingers stilled on the keys, then. Lifted to adjust her glasses. (Pressure was mounting between her eyes, once again. Signaling that she’d been behind the screen of the laptop far too long.)

And thinking of duration—Ritsuko uncrossed and re-crossed her legs:
I should schedule Kaworu another appointment, She lowered her fingers. Changed her mind. Brushed her hair back, instead. It's about time to see him, again. He's been--

"Sempai?"

And it was abrupt, but Ristuko managed to expertly stamp out the shock unraveled through her. Managed to glance toward the door.

(And almost breathed a sigh of relief when she was greeted with a timid wave. A timid smile. And from dull glow from the corridor, she recognized her immediately.)

"Maya? Is something the matter?" (She blindly powered down her laptop, mentally cursing her inattentiveness. She appeared casual, though her heart was thumping unevenly, still.)

The screen flared briefly before sputtering into darkness, and Maya showed no sign of suspicion at this.

And thankfully, Maya seemed to think of this as normal. Her brown eyes were cast down, trained obediently on the linoleum floor of her office. Ritsuko waiting for her to speak.

(Her initial start was soothed by amusement. And Maya's posture spoke volumes. She recalled Nagisa's commentary on her behavior, before. When she had appeared in the canteen during lunch hour. When she paused to speak to them both.

She's quite fond of you, had been his remark. And she had tactfully ignored him, though he granted a sly smile.

Too sharp for his own good, that one.)

Maya cleared her throat, shy:

"Uh, I was wondering--" (She faltered, of course.)

And Ritsuko, patient, checked her watch. Half-waiting for her response. 02:27h (And it was unusual for Maya to visit at all, especially at this time of night. She couldn’t remember the last time she had greeted her like this, her dark head inclined. Her fingers knotted in front of her. Never looking her way.) And subconsciously, Ritsuko reached for her coffee with her spare hand. The mug cool when she finally located it. (She swore it moved without notice.) Coffee even cooler when she took a sip.
(Nose wrinkling just a bit as she did.)

It tasted like sludge, and Maya must have observed this, because when she did manage to get past her stuttering, she blurted out: "If--Maybe you wanted to get coffee? I mean--If you want--"

And Ritsuko glanced up. (And she seemed so small in the doorway. Nervously playing with the cuff of her jacket. Tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear.) And Ritsuko took pity on her. (Her anxiety was almost palpable. And it etched--clear--in the line of her smile. In the timid way she shifted her weight to the opposite foot.) And despite the still piles of work, Ritsuko placed the mug down. The clink of porcelain on metal drawing Maya's attention in time to see her rise from her desk. Stretch just a bit. Before she offering her a false, gentle smile:

"Good timing." A pause. "Just when I needed one, soon."

(And when she saw the faint grin that spread across Maya's lips, she supposed it was the least she could do.)

10.

It was 02:28h when Katsuragi admitted temporary defeat.
After spilling her third beer of the evening on her duplicated data report, using her favorite red shirt as a towel (it was an accident!), and failing to dig up any sufficient information on the newest Child (another one with just his name--his first one, at that. Did the boy even have a last one?) -- she knew it hopeless.

She wasn't going to get anything done.

And somehow, it didn't surprise her; doing work when one was preoccupied was foolish. (But, it didn't stop her, did it? Burying herself in research to ignore the situation at hand seemed logical. Why not try for productivity? Success or no, she knew she it was better than letting silly difficulties throw her off her course.)

But here she was, contradicting herself. In her silent apartment, standing before Nagisa's door.

(Barely ajar. Waiting for her to muster up the nerve to slide it open. Just a little more. Waiting for her to curl her fingers around the edge. To --)

He probably doesn't want to speak to me, right now.

(She worried her lower lip. Her hair undried. Warm from the shower. Her skin still damp, and pajamas sticking slightly to the small of her back. To the curve of her shoulders.)

He's probably asleep. Besides, he-- She hesitated. Her fingers twitched. And in the dim of the hall, she could barely discern the sign she had long ago made for his door (much to Nagisa's perpetual amusement, as well as--). A distraction. She would have sought anything. She would have--Oh, get over it, Misato. He'll have to deal with it. This is your apartment. You can go in if you want to -- Besides, what would he say? 'Please get out, Misato? I'm trying to sleep?' He has no temper to speak of, and even if he did--Well, even if he did, he's still in my care.

And she stalled, a moment more, before hooking her fingers around the edge. Slowly sliding it open. Knowing the low whine that would accompany it. Knowing it was off its track since Asuka had first slammed it. (Ah, that was a fun night. I'm still surprised Kaworu isn't deaf because of it.)

However, the thought was redirected. She needed to focus. (At least, a little. Nagisa was often prone to waking up whenever she entered his room. Ever since Asuka--And it was another thought faded to silence.)
But, it was to her surprise that Nagisa didn't rouse. Didn't move at all as she cautiously slipped in. Squinted against the darkness. Noticed --

I've never seen him sleep like that, before. And it wasn't amusement. It wasn't simple observation. It was--And Katsuragi refused to name it. Reminding herself she was still aggravated by his behavior. (But, it didn't stop something from twisting in the pit of her stomach to see him like that. Curled in on himself. Blanket kicked off. His back toward the wall. Just like a little kid. It didn't stop her from padding over to him, avoiding his school books. Loose papers. The various knick-knacks and two violin cases—And she almost scowled at that. Didn't stop her from stilling before him. Waiting for something. Listening attentively to his slow, even breaths.)

He's usually on his back.

(And it was true. She knew it was. As much as Katsuragi was reluctant to admit it, she often checked in on him. To make sure he was asleep. To make sure--? She wasn't sure. But, she would often find herself doing it. Especially in the first few weeks of his stay--and recently.)

And though she couldn't truly gauge if he was sleeping, she crouched before him, then. Feeling almost intrusive. Feeling--He’s always too calm.
And realization sluggishly awakened in the back of her mind. (I'm not the only one--) Along with words. Soft and absent. Filling the quiet. (Her eyes finally adjusting. Lips quirking. Almost ironic.)

"Still stubborn."

(His features. Worked into frown. She could barely see it. But--)

She straightened. Cautious.

(And in the quiet of his room. In the lull of dark--)

She carefully reached over him--Pulled the blanket up over his shoulders (feeling vaguely ridiculous), removed the earbuds from his ears (Otherwise, he's going to choke himself with the wire--), and paused her hand just before she smoothed his bangs away from his forehead (What are you thinking, Misato?)--and submitted to let the matter rest between them.

If only for now.

("And that," she murmured, "is a promise.")

--

It was only later, long after Katsuragi had gone to bed, did Nagisa allow himself to open his eyes. Allow himself to shift onto his back.
(And even with Katsuragi's words, even with the stillness--Sleep would not come to him.)

It hardly ever did.

--

11.

The morning had found Nagisa, here. With his back pressed against the expansive windows in a main corridor. Eyes narrowed, unfocused, on the plaque across the hall. Long ago memorized.

(He had walked the still-empty streets two hours ago. Had left a note on the kitchen table, reporting of going in early. Something he hadn't done since he had first come to NERV. Since he had first set foot, here.
And the dawn had been coming in, then. Gray and soft. Quiet. And Nagisa had felt something he couldn't quite name. Couldn't quite place. And it had tightened behind his ribs. Had nested in there. Had provided words that didn't quite fit. That didn't belong.)

And for once, he did not understand it.

(And it had left him puzzled. And the more he thought of it, the more jumbled it had become. And no amount of frustration had loosened the knots that had formed under scrutiny. Moving from thought to thought--Katsuragi, Ayanami, Ritsuko-- A skipped beat. Two. A hold. Shinji-kun.)

Something was off.

(As if he had forgotten something important--A small detail, nonetheless essential. And that belief had stayed in the back of his mind. Along with the words from last night. Katsuragi's. Along with the trepidation he couldn't quite rid off, under the buzz of fluorescent lights. Amid the trill of cicadas. Unable to will himself to walk the remaining six feet--It's just across the hall-- for the second time. If only to linger in front of the door. If only to lay his hand on it. If only to prove that he could. If only to prove what he had spoken: I do not run away.)

He heard the approach before he saw it. (The light steps. Almost soundless. The gentle inhale. Exhale. The soft, inquiring pause.) Heard her speak before he really took notice. Before shifting his eyes away from his focus.

And he was greeted with Ayanami's pale features. Her blank expression. And the morning light (to his sight) forming a glow. Following the lines of her uniform. The tracing the lines of her skin.

(He knew she was here to visit. And in the still of the facility, each word that left her lips sounded unusually loud. Honest, though remarkably rounded. Her eyes, never straying from him.)

"Why stand here if you have no intention of going in?"
(She was closer than he had ever gotten. Three feet from the door. Her fingers curled loosely by her slim hips, shifting to smooth the pleats of her skirt.)

Nagisa avoided the question. His eyes meeting hers. (And her gaze was just as arresting as it was the first time. Just as direct. He remembered it. How he had felt, for an instant, exposed beneath it. As though they could dissect every lie. Peel away lines of emotion. Pry their way inside. As if they knew, intuitively, what every person hides. Needed to hide. Had to--But he had never flinched. And he didn't, this time. And for that, he saw something settle at the corner of her lips. Something like--)

His voice filled the silence on its own volition. Lost in the space left between them. And he knew it was Ayanami's choice to capture it. To pursue the trembling edge of his customary smile:

"Blunt as always."

(--sadness.)

And for an instant, Ayanami hesitated. Took a step closer. The change in proximity almost imperceptible. However, it was enough. It was just enough. (She wavered in his vision for the quickest of moments. The pallor of her skin, muted slightly by his own shadow.)

Her lips parted. Another observation. Made as easily as breathing. Simple.

"You have avoided seeing her," (And it became increasingly difficult to hold her eyes as she kept on. Increasingly difficult to smother the swell of irritation that unfurled along his spine. Skittered across his shoulders. And he tensed, without ever knowing it.) "Are you reluctant?"

And for a long moment, Nagisa was silent. And for a long moment, he did not realize that he had looked away, first.

But, when speech returned to him, he remarked on how tired his own words sounded. How heavy. And it was lead on his tongue. (His illusion of calm. Splintered. But he carefully gathered the pieces. Smoothed out what he could. Forced his mouth to mimic a grin. His eyes fixed on a point down the hall. Subconsciously following the sound of the first employees on patrol. The low laughter of nurses.)

"There is no reason to visit a person who cannot respond--"

And it was to his surprise that a small, cold hand firmly took his wrist. (And he abruptly turned to face Ayanami again. It was the first time he had ever seen a sliver of anger in her, before. Her mouth down-turned. Her eyebrows faintly knitted. And--)

Her hand was startling in it's strength. And Nagisa openly studied her. Tiredness ebbing into amusement. Into curiosity. Fascination. (And her palm was warming by way of his skin.)

She had never touched him on a whim, before. Had never been as forward as this.

However, it wasn’t the contact that would remain with him. It was the words. What she said next. The insistence behind the one question:

"May I accompany you, then?"

(And Nagisa knew, truly, there was no room for argument.)
His eyes flickered down to his wrist, for a moment. Flickered back up, again:

“If that is what you wish, Ayanami.”

And without pause, the answer (was predictably):

"Yes."

---
A/N: You've got your equivalent to Ayanami slapping Shinji, in here. Taking a leaf from the manga on this one, it was vaguely justified via her initial question about visiting Asuka to Shinji after the whole shower scene. Nagisa's on the other end of the extreme. Instead of visiting her everyday, he just--Doesn't. (And besides, it isn't as though Kaworu's--Oh, haha. I'm not going to say anything more.)

Also, Katsuragi's getting quite amusing for me to write. Bickering with herself constantly. I can see her doing as much. Ha.

Anyway, time for me to get back to what I should be doing: Working on projects!

Ick.

|Vincit Omina Amor: Love Conquers All|

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 04:42:48 GMT

FST IS FINISHED.

So, in other words: Whether or not you like the series/pairing, you still get free music.

Basically, I got bored over the last few days and decided to compile this mix of songs. They're really heavy on the piano in most cases, and filled with a lot of acoustic guitar.

In other words, you get to see more of my Indie-fag side. Which was always readily apparent, but here it is shoved in your face in tune to this FST.

|download?|

Track Listing:

i.) you are the moon | the hush sound
you don't see what you possess, a beauty calm and clear/it floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier/all the light that you possess is skewed by lakes and seas/
the shattered surface, so imperfect, is all that you believe/

ii.) it don't matter to the sun | rosie thomas
there will be tomorrow/even if you choose to leave/because it don't matter to the sun no, no/
it matters to me/

iii.) run [acoustic] | snow patrol
I'll sing it one last time for you/then we really have to go/you've been the only thing that's right/in all I've done/

iv.) three gymnopedies | satie
[instrumental]

v.) the scientist [acoustic] | coldplay
I had to find you/tell you I need you/tell you I set you apart/tell me your secrets/and ask me your questions/oh, let's go back to the start/

vi.) kaleidoscope | katie havnevik
you know me/how troubled I can be/but, through your kaleidoscope/I let go/because you show me/the world as it could be/through your kaleidoscope/it's beautiful/

vii.) hurricane | the hush sound
and since the roof fell in, I'll lean on what matters/caught in the slightest wind/everything else unravels/you're standing in my doorway seven cities ago/the days are racing, but you come back too slow./you're the finest thing that I've done/

viii.) rescued | jack's mannequin
and say you'll miss me (say you'll miss me)/one last time/I'll be strong, but whatever you do/please don't get me rescued/

ix.) become | the goo goo dolls
and I can't be the stranger/that's been sleeping in your bed/ just turn around and come to me/and I feel all the pain inside/and everything you've been denied you feel/it's all you feel/

x.) broken | lifehouse
the broken locks were a warning/you got inside my head/I tried my best to be guarded/I'm an open book instead/I still see your reflection inside of my eyes/That are looking for a purpose/ they're still looking for life/

xi.) the district sleeps alone tonight [cover] | joanna lee
you seem so so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex/a stranger with your door key/ explaining that I am just visiting/and I am finally seing/why I was the one worth leaving/

Go enjoy your free music. ♥

|Old teenage hopes, alive at your door.|

Fri, 28 Mar 2008 01:30:41 GMT

I did the music shuffle. I only chose to do four songs, because I kind of got bored of having to switch scenes half-way through, so -- Yeah.

Spoilers abound (sort of, some of this stuff doesn't happen) for MMatEotW. You have been warned?

Expect random sexual situations, boobs, doll parts, and otherwise some implied homo/bi/heterosexuality. Yes.

Yeah, and this is in the AU!fic-verse. Obviously.

All done on a time-limit. Some of them were exceptionally evil. My hands are like death, apparently, because I had to type incredibly fast on some of them.

| "Weeping Willow" | The Hush Sound | at your request |

And it isn't too difficult.
(Never has been. At least, he thinks.)

Two minutes of his time. It is all he requires. The lulled, slowed way of words.
"What do you want to hear, today?"

His eyes are cast downward. His hands are hesitating near his. Smoothing over sheets.
"Anything, really." (He's calm. He's quiet. And in his own apartment, Shinji looks just as awkward here as anywhere else. Just as self-conscious. But, Nagisa for a moment, doesn't mind. It is just a part of who he is.)

Nagisa raises the bow to the strings, and (hopes he) slides it just as soft and just as sweetly, as Shinji's contemplative sigh that drags across his skin.

--

| "Hear You Me" | Jimmy Eat World | doll parts |

He can't remember the last time she spoke to him.
(Furious, bright. Always callus. Something else, but he's forgotten, now.)

And he continues to forget, until he can no longer ignore it. Until this shell (cicadas, something that annoyed her, how ironic!) is staring him down. Has seized his attention. Blank eyes. Slate-blue. And Nagisa is uncertain as to whether or not it is her breath or his own that thins.

(And this Asuka. This is her. And he almost wants to see if he can wake her. Almost wants to act on urges, but instead -- He keeps it in. Crushes it until it is quiet. Until he is disquiet. And he is staring back. Red to blue and blue to red.)

And she is doll parts. And she is broken. (But, he keeps the image. Just like the tea cups he has failed to touch since the accident on his nightstand, and the fractured bow upon his bed.)

--

| "Push" | Matchbox 20 | third time's the charm (i realize this) |

When he first meets her, it is in the corridor. And she is ghostly and evanescent. And Nagisa's words are like fireflies in his head. Flickering on and off at the edge of his consciousness.
("You remind me of her.")

And she is beautiful. And she is quiet. And in the middle of the night, Shinji runs down a mental list of shared traits. Shared emotions (or lack thereof). And finds he cannot see himself in her.

The second time he meets her, it is before her final battle. They both knew it, but said nothing. It sat like another between them. Another wall. (And he spoke to her, quiet and shy and calm:
"You really don't like Nagisa much, do you?")

Her answer, largely like her, is unexpected.
("...No, Nagisa is...Tolerable.")

And the third -- the third -- it is in a dream.

And she is quiet, and she is still. And her fingers flex. Reach his wrist. And she utters, low:
"You must see it, am I correct?"

He does. (Though he will never admit it.)

Because, at the end of the world, she is just like him.

--

| "1234" | Feist | he's got his hands full |

Katsuragi has too much alcohol in her system the night she grabs Nagisa's wrists. Pulls him close enough to suit her purposes. (Marveling at the way his eyes are so wide and so red, even if for just an instant.)

And as she predicted, Nagisa's palms are warm. And he instinctively curls his fingers (like any good man), as she slurs:
"Well, whaddya think? Bigger then Asuka's, eh?"

And Nagisa only smiles. Just as calm and composed as he always is, and he tells her, frankly:
"Personally, I have not had the experience of feeling Sohryu's breasts, however I must admit," and he pauses then, arching his eyebrows playfully, "they are quite nice, Misato -- But, I really do wish you would stop squeezing my wrists."

|Take this sinking boat and point it home.|

Sun, 16 Mar 2008 21:14:15 GMT

... OK. I'm taking a lot of huge risks with this chapter. I'm pretty much scared of the length of it, the allusions. The development of the characters. Where this is pointing -- Hell, I got it all planned out in my head, but this is becoming a strange, strange limit. I am pushing characters in ways they've never been pushed in the series. Ever.

There's a lot of information in this chapter, whether you note it or not. This is where we're getting into the crazy, crazy stuff. This chapter was insane. It was not only hard to write, but pretty painful to write on top of it.

Pretty much everyone gets a mention here. Asuka, Misato, Toji, Shinji, Kaworu, Rei. The next chapter is going to be shorter, assuredly.

You get a lot of stuff you've never seen me write, before. So. Uh. Yes.

Whatever, now I'm stalling. STOP STALLING, R. STOP IT.

Title: Meet Me at the End of the World
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Pairing: Eventual Kaworu/Shinji.
Rating: R this chapter for disturbing imagery and general underlying details on a particular psychosis.
Genre: AU. Ikari Shinji, the last angel, cannot find it within himself to kill the Third Child, Nagisa Kaworu.
Chapter: 5/?, counter-transference
Notes: Katsuragi's had enough, and Nagisa's intentions only serve to boggle Ikari further as he desperately tries to reason with himself.
Previous parts / Side-pieces:

I. reality testing
II. uber-ich (super ego)
III. symptom
IV. counter-wish

Asuka: Pride is a Small, Red Bird

------------
xx (child 005, age VII, memory.)
------------

He never truly forgot what he was; at least, not really.
(The seconds and hours of treading through this house. Contemplating his mother's voice. The occasional wetness that would mar her face, and the wetness that marred it even now.)

It was different, this time, of course.
(She was quiet and unmoving. She'd wake up soon, he was certain. It was all just a matter of time, sitting next to her on the kitchen floor. Barefoot and clammy. His mother's old comforter slung around his shoulders like a mantle. Dwarfing him. He was still so small.)

And part of him thought, that perhaps that was why he was greeted the way that he was. With her limp fingers still clasped in his tiny hand. Under the buzz of the kitchen lights. The soft rush of rain beyond the windows.

(It always poured here, after all. But, he cannot remember a time where it had seemed this prominent. Not drowned out by his mother's soft humming. The lull of the radio. The static-song of televisions and electrical wires. No, he couldn't remember this at all -- And it was just his hair slicked to his forehead. The heat of the room coiling under his skin. And the whip-like voices of the men in the doorway. With steel-toed boots and standard-issue uniforms.)

"Are you sure he's the one?" "He matches the physical description." "He looks like my own son, for God's sake! Are you--?" "Why else would we be armed, you idiot? SEELE--"

And perhaps that was why when the first one approached him, he was wary. And perhaps that was why he nudged his temple with the muzzle of his gun. (And in the back of his mind, Shinji knew what he would want.)

And perhaps that was why, when the man commanded from somewhere above him, for him to stand up, Shinji could not will himself to budge. (Couldn't will himself to even look up. Couldn't--)

And it seemed like a dream, almost. The short, fleeting seconds before the order was barked, again. The short, fleeting seconds before the stranger tilted his head up, for him. His fingers rough against the soft skin under his chin. Shinji's eyes, blue and wide and unfocused. (Hand still in his mother's. She should be up--She should have been--)

And perhaps that was why, when Shinji murmured he didn't want to go -- It was silent. Paused for a half-beat.

And then--

It was hands. And it was arms. And it was his body going slack. (And it was one grabbing his legs. Another grabbing his shoulders. And it was his dead weight, attempting to be lifted.) And he could feel his grip on his mother slipping. And --

And it was voices. And it was slow motion. And it was the high-pitched whine of electricity weaving through telephone wires. And it was the lashing of rain on the rooftops. And it was words: "Let her go," that stirred something inside of him.

(Idon'twanttoletgo.)

And that was panic. And it was the sudden, sharp sting of anxiety. And was his body jolting back to life. And it was -- Animalistic. (The moment his fingers were wrenched from hers. The instant he was lifted completely from that floor--) It was his nails digging into the soft flesh of forearms. His body twisting and tensing and struggling -- And it was futile. And it was useless. And they were strong. And he was--

(And threats and curses and swears. The lock of death grips. The inevitable bruising. The shouts and commands and: "Hurry the fuck up and sedate him--!")

And it was the brightness of this room. The cacophony of his movement. Their movement. It was his mind -- fragmented and lost and (was that him screaming?) -- and it was -- (And suddenly, it was a quick knotting of something behind the cage of his ribs. A pressure. Air rushing in and out of his lungs without ever really breathing it. It was a fast, painful detachment. Kicking out with his legs, uselessly. It was terrorhurtconfusion -- The words: letgoletgoletgo, it was his mother's voice in his ear. Murmuringmurmuringmurmuring: we'reallstrungtogether,shinji-kun--)

And suddenly, everything unraveled. (Emotions threading out of him. Poison. Blank slate. Tensing for an instant before --) And it was quiet. And suddenly, abruptly -- The men let go. Released him so quickly that he didn't have time to shield himself before he found himself again on the kitchen floor. His head knocked back.

And from here, all he can recall is the spiking of pain. The blotting darkness of his vision. The shrieks of grown men. And the way the ones who had held him gripped their heads as he curled in on himself. Gasping. (Listening to the sound of their sobbing. The sudden, babbling incoherence. The ultimate confusion of muffled pleas to makeitstop makeitstop makeit--.)

And from here, all Shinji can recall is searching for his mother. A face he can no longer remember. The anonymity and the possibility that she had never been there --

But, as he turned his head -- His mother's dark eyes were staring back. (Past him. Through him. Her pupils blown wide.) And it was only before his consciousness fled, he felt his breath thin --

Heard the sentence:
"Get them out, get them out -- Get him --"

-- And beheld nothing more than the sound of war drums; and the whisper of:
Mother, instead.

---------
end sequence
------------

6.2

("Do you know where you're living, Shinji-kun?"
Easy question. Easy answer. Nagisa's smile, imploring and childish. Soft.

He hadn't known how long they had sat side-by-side in that hall. Hadn’t known when Beethoven blended into Pachelbel. When Nagisa had stopped humming along, and all that was left was the sound of the score. The hollow footfalls, corridors away – not surprised, considering the acoustics.

And it had been a long stretch of time before Shinji responded. Battling orders and common sense. Knowing that "no" would bring the same volunteerism, and at least this way – perhaps it would be more tolerable. It would be --

In a way, it had been too easy. Too freely answered. And Shinji bit the inside of his cheek. Rested his chin on his knees. And mumbled that his apartment was six blocks from here. Inhaled, slow. A good stroll.

So, when Nagisa relieved the ear bud from him (still warm) – He almost turned his eyes to openly regard him. Almost.
(Nagisa's eyelashes were lowered in thought. His fingers working fluidly to wrap the wires of the ear buds around the small, mp3 player he held in his hand. Blue, and Shinji recognized it as something fairly new. He had seen something like it once before, when he was young.)

Nagisa had pulled himself to his feet, then. Stretched languidly. The material of his over-shirt pulling taunt at his elbows. And through his messy bangs (drying hadn't helped it, after all) Shinji had absently watched him. (I can't get out of this, now.) Not truly aware that –

"Something wrong?"

And it was amusement tugging at the corners of Nagisa's mouth when Shinji realized he had been staring. And he had quickly averted his eyes. (Second time today. Ayanami, now--) Stuttering:
"N-no, I just—I had just kind of—"

But, Nagisa had kindly extended his hand. Politely declining to comment on his embarrassed expression. Seeming to understand, as Shinji hesitated – As Shinji tentatively accepted it. As he let go of it the moment he was on his feet. (Nagisa's eyes still on him. Questioning.) Curled his fingers awkwardly. (And his skin had been warm in comparison to his. And the heat still lingered in the palm of his hand, when Nagisa off-handedly mentioned:

"I know how to get there. I'm on the way," (And Shinji knew this was why he should have declined to listen with him, but -- But, Nagisa was gently persistent. And Shinji had nervously avoided his eyes when he offered him his company in the form of four words: "I'll walk you there." )

And it was through this, that Shinji found himself dripping wet in the middle of a foreign apartment. His hands on his knees -- a poor attempt to catch his breath. His SDAT player, likely waterlogged and ruined in his pocket. And Nagisa standing near to him, his red-undershirt bleeding through the white of his over-shirt. An apologetic frown pulling at his lips. His fingers, pushing back his hair. (Mumbling: "I knew I should have brought an umbrella.")

And Shinji's mind, reeling when he truly recognized, that of all places --
This was Nagisa's home. And if nowhere else in the world, this was the last place he was supposed to be in.

And since Shinji had never been one for eloquence, the only thought his mind could muster, then (through his mounting panic) was short, concise, and apt:
Dammit.

7.

The bathroom in Nagisa's home was small and cramped and dark.
(Shelves filled end to end with bizarre cosmetics. Half-damp shirts, wrinkled and far too feminine for Nagisa to wear, slung over the side of the bathtub. And for a moment, Shinji was struck by the oddity of Nagisa even possessing a roommate, to begin with.)

They didn't tell me that, He paused. Shifted his fingers to peel off his drenched over-shirt. Fingers trembling, from anxiety or the sudden cold, and amended, after a moment: well, of course they wouldn't. Why would they? I should have never spoken to him, to begin with.

But, here -- The tips of his own fingers were clammy as he pulled his undershirt over his head, struggling for a moment as it got caught on his elbows -- it had stopped making sense.

Since the beginning. Since he even arrived at NERV -- Nagisa had been a constant. For the last forty-eight hours, Nagisa had been with him. Asking questions. Answering questions. His words too simple. His sentences too honest. And --

He stilled. Shifted uncomfortably. And glanced at himself in the mirror. (Perpetually uninteresting. Nothing truly remarkable. Dark hair. Small stature -- and he pressed his fingers against his chest, for only a moment, felt his heart still beating quickly, -- wet eyelashes. Slicked skin. Nothing that would mark him as someone intriguing. Visually or no.)

-- And something had felt right about it. Beethoven. Pachelbel. The long minutes spent in silence, not awkward, but --

He tore his eyes away from his reflection. Grabbed whatever it was Nagisa had pushed into his hands ("My clothes would be a bit big on you." Odd smile. Nagisa's cold fingers brushing against his. Calloused. "But, I think you'll find this to be warmer.") -- and Shinji almost felt the need to be indignant when he discovered exactly it was.

But, he would rather be dry. (And admittedly, it was warm.) And he told himself that he would have to forgive it as he shucked off the rest of his damp clothes and pulled it on, because --

A voice, distinctly female, drifted through the closed door. And Shinji barely had a moment to make himself decent (over the sound of Nagisa's hurried interjection, falling short) -- When dim light from the living room came flooding in, and Shinji turned to find Major Katsuragi herself standing in the doorway. Hand still on the doorknob. Frozen seemingly in place. And expression utterly, utterly blank.

And it might not have been intelligent, but the first sound that rose to Shinji's lips was (a terribly articulate):
"Um--"

But, Katsuragi was already holding up her hand. Silencing him. And it wasn't long after she had wordlessly shut the door behind her as she left again, that he heard her voice:
"Care to tell me why he's here? And why he's in my bathrobe? And -- You know what? I don't even want to think about this right--"

And it was entirely unconscious that he moved to press his ear against the door. Listened harder. Mortified, that Katsuragi would even--

But, Nagisa's words were calm. Barely audible.
"That's a tad presumptuous," A pause. Something like an exasperated sigh. Nagisa's or hers, he wasn't -- "I've only known him for two days."

Quiet. For a moment. Shinji held his breath. Entirely embarrassed. (I'm right here! Who in the world discusses this sort of things so--")

Sharp sound. Palms slamming down on a surface. (He jumped.)
"Well, what was it supposed to --?!"

Cut-in. Even. Quick.

"I had offered to walk him home." (He curled his fingers against the door. Relieved.) "He's close by." (Katsuragi made a sound to interject, but Nagisa continued. Stifled it.) "It started to pour, so I urged him to come in." Softer. "It would be inconvenient if he got sick."

And then, it was the sound of footsteps. The opening and shutting of what sounded to be a refrigerator door. And a low sharp, command:

"I want him gone as soon as the rain lets up." Sharper, still. "Don't you dare think I'm happy with you."

And it seemed an hour before the footfalls finally fell away. And it seemed an hour before Nagisa's words pressed against the quiet. Clear, like the first chords of tentative song:
"You can come out, now."

And it seemed an hour before he even dared himself to leave the bathroom. Nagisa's expression as tranquil as it had always been as he glanced up from where he sat, quiet at the table. Switching almost effortlessly into amusement as he noted Shinji fiddling with the cuffs of the robe, feeling ridiculous.

His fingers barely peeked past the sleeves. And if anything, the robe itself was far too big. And he could only imagine how dwarfed he looked, as Nagisa granted him a lazy smile. Noting his posture. And inquired:
"Are your damp clothes still in the bathroom?"

Shinji nodded. Looking everywhere, but his eyes. Silent, before Nagisa's voice rose again. Over the sound of the rain. The faint whistle of wind: "I'll go put them in the dryer, shortly -- In the mean time, you can sit down, you know."

And it was mirth that colored his words. And it was reluctance that colored his own, when he soundlessly sat down across from him. When he opened his mouth, after a significant pause. His fingers twisting in his lap. Mumbled.

"I shouldn't be here."

But, Nagisa only hummed. Absently. Neither in agreement or disagreement. And it was only the sound of Nagsia rising to his feet that garnered his attention. It was only him settling beside him that urged him to finally, truly look at him. (His hair a wild mess about his face. And in this light, it looked almost white. Half-dried. Odd angles and his expression oddly rueful.)

And for the third time that day, Shinji found himself staring. (His eyes didn't match his expression. Distant, like before. And -- Nagisa was raising his eyebrows curiously. And Shinji quickly looked away.)

So much for not drawing attention to myself--

But, Nagisa seemed unoffended. And he made a soft, bemused sound before leaning forward. Reaching across the table, where Shinji had fixed his gaze.
(A violin. Newly polished. Dark wood. A German model. And Nagisa's voice was near to his ear, as he settled it delicately in front of him.)

"It isn't mine," He started. And Shinji didn't dare look to see his expression (there was something beneath his words, and flickered there for an instant, before it was gone). And Nagisa was shifting away from him. And in the comfortable warmth of the living room, he turned to face him. (And Shinji knew then --) When Nagisa cleared his throat. When Shinji allowed himself to look, the violin already tucked carefully under Nagisa's chin. His fingers drawing up the bow from where it rested. As he inquired: "But, would you like to hear something?"

Unspoken: ("It is the least I can do.")

And it was without thought, that Shinji murmured:
"Yes--I mean, if you wouldn't--"

And Nagisa shut his eyes. His fingers settling, blind. And Shinji's remaining words died on his lips when the bow was first dragged across the strings. A testing note, and then --

(It was long after the rain had ceased, that Shinji had found his way home.)

8.

He had always taken comfort in monotony.
(The smell of detergent. The mugginess of the laundry room. The simple motions. Folding the sleeves of shirts in. Tucking them beneath his chin. Folding them in half. Starting again. Careless and careful. Katsuragi had always disliked the chore, so it was a relief that he had opted to take it. And for it, it became a routine.)

And for it, he made breakfast in the mornings. And for it, he did the laundry in the evenings. And it was only something he was used to, when one night she had peered in. Had watched him.

("You fold clothes like my mother used to." And she had paused then, clinking her beer can against the doorframe. "You remind me a bit of her, you know. She was like you, in that she always seemed to know what to say and when to say it...A bit too honest for her own good."

And he had offered her a small smile. A murmur of thanks coupled with a dismissive wave of his free hand -- modest, and not. And he had turned to grant her a playful retort, but found himself lapsing into silence.

She was studying him, critically. And he might have felt nervous, but his expression had not betrayed it. And he could remember the detached look that had settled over her features, then. The faint knit of her brows. Unsure of how to work the words. And whether it was from her memories or the effects of the alcohol, he was never quite sure why she queried: "Why do you do it, Kaworu? Why don't you complain or rebel or say no?"

And suddenly, it wasn't about the chores anymore. Nagisa had known as much. However, he had ignored it. And part of him still didn't think she deserved it when he responded, off-hand:
"It is just a soothing activity, Misato," He turned away from her. Kept relaxed. "You learn to like it for what it is.")

So, when Katsuragi cleared her throat from the doorway this evening, Nagisa had pretended not to hear her. (It was different, this time. The authoritative air. The way she waited. No beer can. No doubt that she wasn't--)

"Why are you behaving like this?" No playful edge. Her words were clipped and Nagisa only placed another shirt on the washer. His own. Didn't answer. At least, not yet. Instead, he raised a shoulder. Picked another shirt from the dryer. Katsuragi's. Gently folded it.

And for a moment, there was silence. And he could hear her hesitate before stepping into the cramped room with him. Pausing just behind him. Her hand on his shoulder. (And he didn't resist frustrated movement as she jerked him around to face her.) And for the first time since he met her, he had no desire to meet her eyes. No desire to-- (Her expression was dark. Her mouth twisting. Reminiscent of--) "Kaworu."

She was close. Blocking the exit with her body. His lower back pressed against the edge of the dryer. And he knew that he would not leave without answering her question. He knew that-- (And he watched her warily, then. Gaze level.)
"I don't think I am the one who is acting abnormally--"

And he hadn't expected Katsuragi's hands to fist in his shirt. Hadn't expected her to shake him. Hadn't expected her to snarl, too close:
"Don't give me that!" (And it was all he could do to listen to her. Eyes widened. Calm, for a moment, displaced. She had never done something like this--) And he could feel her hands trembling with exertion. He could feel her hot breath. And he could only barely will himself not to protest when she continued:

"You've been testing poorly, you've been questioning me more than ever, you haven't even touched your own violin--" (And her voice had caught, here. But, it was too late to cover it. And Nagisa moved his hands to tentatively cover hers, but she had already let go of him. Had already stepped back. Had already realized--)

And he hadn't known what had happened in the span of those short, fleeting seconds. Hadn't known how he had wound up seated on the floor of the laundry room, hands splayed over unfolded clothes. Hadn't known when he was pulled into Katsuragi's hesitant embrace. Her long fingers threading through his hair. His cheek pressed against the curve of her small shoulder, and her voice so near to his ear:
"--You can't pretend it never happened, Kaworu." (He knew that. Of course he knew that. Heknewheknewhe--) "I just wish, for once, you would cry or get angry or be upset. You can't run away from what you feel. You can't replace Asuka or Toji." (And he could feel his chest tighten, then. But--Katsuragi stilled her hand. Leaned her head against his.) "You can be weak sometimes, you know."

Quiet.

And it was long, long moment before either moved. Before Nagisa lifted his head. Taking in the scent of her dark hair (soft, like the perfume she always wore). Listening to each other's breath. The white hum of the washer kicking in. The rustle of unfolded clothing when Nagisa gently pulled away. Went to stand. Not looking at her, his words low in his throat:
"It is nothing to be concerned over, Misato." His eyes on the far wall. His body numb. He blinked, hard. "I do not run away."

(And he didn't need to glance to her to know her expression was blank. That there was frustration gathering at the corners of her red, red mouth. That there was hurt in the way her hand lingered -- paused by his side. In the way she pulled it back. In the way she too, looked away.)

He didn't need to glance at her. He didn't need to glance at her at all, because she uttered nothing more when he stilled for only a moment, before heading out the door.

--

It was only later in the quiet of his room -- in the quiet of his bed, did Nagisa reach for the rain-ruined SDAT player on his nightstand. (Where he had placed it earlier. An exchange. "Take mine. At least until I can get you a new one.") Flipped it over in his pale hand. (Ran the pads of his fingers over it. The worn letters of play and rewind. Used so many times, the words were almost unrecognizable.)

And it was only then, that he unwound the ear buds. Placed them hesitantly in his ears, and depressed the play button.

(And there was no sound. And there was no music. But, regardless, he kept the ear buds in. Shut his eyes. And even with the unfamiliar weight of the player on his chest, slept as well as he ever did.)

--

A/N: Permission to die now, captain?

By-the-by, that room Shinji was in? Temporary. He needed to be assigned an apartment. It seemed to only make sense, since Rei and Misato both live outside of NERV.

Also, folks:

Do you think I should just give it up and archive this on FF.net for safe-keeping?

|And I am not the answer, so forget you ever thought it was me.|

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 21:50:48 GMT

My excuse for this?

I just needed to write something quiet. And sort of..."Just is." This week has been long, and I am frankly glad that it will all be over by tomorrow; I have a nice, action-packed weekend to look forward to.

Also, apparently, I'm the executive of my parents' will. Well, that's interesting. I got handed it today by my mother. She's like:
"You're in charge of this, because you're the most responsible."

So, yes. Now it sits on my desk. It isn't anything more than a manilla envelope. I hold it in my hands. Weigh it. (It isn't heavy. Maybe five papers. Tucked in there quietly.) I don't look at them, and I do not have a desire to look at them. It seems strange we're all reduced to paper.

...

Also, consider this the first alphabet prompt-drabble answer.
~~Courtesy of L, because she spoils me.~~

Title: Sabbath
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Pairing: Kaworu/Shinji, to some extent.
Rating: PG. (Unusual!)
Prompt: Absolution; Kaworu/Shinji
Notes: And to think, I'm an Atheist and I know this much about Christianity to make weird allusions. Frankly, I am amused.

VII.

At the end of the world, time becomes stagnant. Minutes and hours and seconds. They are tart on the tip of his tongue. (He's forgotten to wind his wrist watch. Not that it matters. It is just comfort in a world where he is one of two. One of one of one.)

So, the morning he wakes up in the sandy alcove, with blood under his nails and new air in his lungs -- He is afraid to sit up. To acknowledge where he must be, where he should be. (He's dreamed places, before. His old bedroom. Cranial NERV. He's dreamed the old school. All three Tokyos, side-by-side-by-side.)

But, nothing came to shift around him. Nothing came to answer his silence. (That odd, dark pull. Creation in seven days. Destruction in seven days. He has no indication of how many weeks have passed here, if it had even been a week at all -- All he can measure is red. Red sea. Red, foggy figures. Red eyes in dreams. Red hair and red lips and red clothes. The sound of Asuka's red, red breathing when she thinks he's asleep. Sharp and furious.)

And now, he is afraid to sit up. He is afraid to look. He is afraid to confirm the cold, cold wetness at his shoulder. The weight of a palm. The oppressive scent of LCL, the seashore, and masculinity.

And now, he is afraid to sit up. He is afraid to move. He is afraid to open his mouth -- To speak the words that have been caged behind teeth. To speak the words that might have always been there, if he had been brave enough, back then. (And perhaps this all wouldn't have happened. Perhaps this all wouldn't have--)

And he is so afraid to even breathe when clammy fingers sweep down his arm. Careful pressure. Gritty with sand. Sticky with sea salt. When fingers close over his own. When the ends of damp hair pull over the skin of his cheek. When this is replaced by deep, slow inhales. And the gentle lull of language, when lips barely brush the shell of his ear:

"On the seventh day?"

(He doesn't need to look to know, because while his lips don't quite form it, the name is still there:
Kaworu.)

VII b.

Shinji does not accept it.
(But, there is patience. And the soft words:
'why did you come back?' on Shinji's lips.)

And for a long, long time there is silence. And the steady weight of a hand remains on his side.

(He knows.)

VII c.

There is no need for words.

(Wind blows, but does not whistle. And Shinji can hear Kaworu humming. Can hear the pull of the ocean. Can hear the soft snare of emptiness in the green-blue dawn.)

There is no need for thanks when Shinji gingerly hands him his over shirt. When Kaworu calmly accepts it. (No need for anything when Kaworu's knuckles gently graze the skin of his cheek when he doesn't quite look at him. The same as ever. Pale skin, pale hair. Warm, lazy smiles.)

There is no need for apologies when Shinji absently surveys the flat land behind them. The dead sea beyond them. A hope for something more to be done. (A mirror image. He thinks if they could go back--Rebuild--)

Soon, there will be more individuals. Kaworu needn't explain it for him to know. They will come as he did. (From the ocean. Washed up like sea glass. Coughing and sputtering and shivering in need of warmth. Those with strong wills, shall stumble forth first. And those -- Those who don't--)

And Kaworu will remain here for as long as he can. (Like Shinji. Like Asuka.) And time will stand quiet. And Shinji almost thinks, the moment Kaworu (solid weight, tangible, warm) leaned against him -- Offered his voice and his promises (Who will be next?) -- Time had no longer ceased to start.

(...it began.)

And for a moment, Shinji wondered, if it would ever be this quiet, again.

|I wish that I could turn back time, 'cause now the guilt is all mine.|

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 14:35:06 GMT

I would very much like to inform you that I am done with fourth chapter of MMatEotW. (Took me long enough, I know.)

I'm pretty psyched up to get this sub-plot moving, as well. Things are only going to get more complicated from here. ~~No, really.~~

I also managed to somehow drag this monster into my real life. I'm not sure how it happened, but I started talking to Ben about it, and then Chris. It turns out they're actually pretty interested in the concept. Who would have guessed?

Oh, wait. No, they would be. They like the series. Chris mentioned his brain wanting to commit suicide, but I told him not to be such a pussy. :D

So, yes. Without further rambling:

Title: Meet Me at the End of the World
Series: Neon Genesis Evangelion
Pairing: Eventual Kaworu/Shinji.
Rating: PG-13ish this chapter.
Genre: AU. Ikari Shinji, the last angel, cannot find it within himself to kill the Third Child, Nagisa Kaworu.
Chapter: 4/?, counter-wish
Notes: Katsuragi has her work cut out for her, when the testing results turn out to be more worrisome than intially anticipated.
Previous parts / Side-pieces:

I. reality testing
II. uber-ich (super ego)
III. symptom

Asuka: Pride is a Small, Red Bird

---------------------------
child 003, age XIV (memory)
---------------------------

It had always been warm in his bed room.

(Dust on his fingertips. Scattered from between the slats of the Venetian blinds. Pulled down to see the porch light.)

He used to spend hours like this. In the heat of summer nights, when his clothes clung to his skin. Red on white on red, again. When his hands were too restless to play the violin. To flick through pages of his aunt's magazines, not truly interested. Pausing now and then upon an English word or sentence. Jumbling the formation. Anagrams. (What could I spell with this?)

When he was younger, he would take these moments to navigate his room. To arrange various oddities he had discovered.

(It was always imperfect, he remembered. It had always been small and cramped. Dark. Too much wooden furniture. Too white walls. And he would always fill in the corners, the left over spaces, regardless. Bleached bird bones he'd found in the school yard. Cicada shells, the color of amber sap they'd often pull off the bark with, and just as translucent. Buttons from anonymous uniforms. And his aunt used to affectionately refer to it as his "collection.")

However, now he is content to stand among the boxes that line his floor. Content to just watch the rare moths that flutter drunkenly against the side their home. (He is just a visitor. He has always known. Temporary.) For now, he is just content to know that his violin is on his bed (stripped down to the mattress). To know that, in the morning, it will be the same as always.

(He will walk into the kitchen. Take the same seat at the table, kneeling some ways to the left. His back will be to the door. His aunt will be making the common staple, rice, and something different. And his uncle will not say good morning to him, even though Kaworu will murmur it. And his uncle will not look at him, his dark hair barely visible over the newspaper-wall he holds up between them.

And his aunt will not comment on how the light from the window makes his pale skin almost glow. How it bleaches his silvery hair. An unearthly white.

And she will not look him in the eye, as she places a bowl in front of him. As he thanks her. As she silently takes a seat by him. For a moment, scanning for any new sun burns. He will usually have one. And she will give him the same lecture she always does --)

But, this routine will be different now. (It was something he had been waiting for, all along. A summons. It sits on his night stand. He has not looked at it since it had arrived. Had not looked at his identification. What he will want or need to know.)

And something that doesn't quite feel like regret smooths over his consciousness. Lets his fingers linger for just a moment longer, before pulling them back. Stepping away from the window. (And he wonders what his new room will be like. Will it be larger? Will he have a roommate? Will they let him take his violin?)

And he can hear his aunt and uncle, talking out in the hall. He can see the sliver of orange-yellow light from under his door as he turns. Sweeping across the floorboards. (Their voices are low. And for a moment, he tries to listen -- But, his name is mentioned and he quickly loses interest.)

He knows what this is about.

For a time, he stands motionless, before going back the window.

(The rest of the conversation goes unnoticed.)

---
---

The next morning, he peers into the kitchen to find it bare.
(Newspaper folded on the table. No notes. Just a plate of whatever his aunt had made for breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less.)

He stalls in the doorway for just a moment, before returning to his room, again.

(And in the silence, he repacks -- So only he alone, can carry what is left.)

---
---

They will find just four words. Scrawled in his neat print on the refrigerator's white board, to be erased as soon as they were certain he had gone.

I will protect you.

(It was not a promise.)

-----------------
(end sequence)
-----------------

5.

Amid the soft hum and whir of the machinery, Katsuragi monitored the entry plugs. Curved her knuckles beneath her chin.

(And all there was to break the tension was the clack of depressed keys. The click of mouses. The motion of fingers forming sequences. Calculations.)

She knew what would be the outcome, intuitively. Hearing Ritsuko's voice, wondering, a moment ago. ("Ikari is just above start-up.") The tap of nails on the screen. The worn, wary whispers. ("That's impossible--Without reconfiguring the core?") ("Magi confirms the data read-out is free of error." The scraping of a chair. "He's on the level--")

She knew no one would dare finish it. (She imagined the shame-faced look. The sudden realization. An unmentioned taboo. She imagined Maya biting her bottom lip. Ritsuko's placid expression, faltering for just an instant.

Asuka had barely been above start-up the last time she had piloted. And she could remember the transcripts that had come back. The conversation in the middle of their last testing session. Nagisa's synch-ratio just as erratic.

She remembers skimming it, during her night shift. She remembers Nagisa's advice. Asuka's scorn. A particularly sharp barb, that neither had escaped. That she knew Nagisa had not forgotten, since.

"If you don't open your heart to it, you cannot do better, Asuka."

He had mentioned it before. And only once before. The week after Toji's death. A slow, halted sentence. Half-asleep, one morning. As if dreaming-- As if he had been meant to speak it. Looking past the curve of Katsuragi's shoulder when she had awoken him, in Asuka's stead.

"And you're one to talk about incompetence? Look what you did to the fou--Scheiße!"

And it was an accident. Immediately regretted. Nagisa had timed it correctly. And Asuka was already set on edge. Katsuragi was certain she knew that if she did not redeem herself --

"No, you're right."

And for days after, Katsuragi had been particularly cautious around him. And for days after, Asuka had steadfastly avoided him. But, Nagisa had acted no differently. Had been as level-headed and calm as he had always been. Until--)

And after a long moment, Katsuragi pulled her eyes away. Focused them on the screens. (Despite the sudden air of awkwardness that had come to rest in between them all. Despite how it never completely cleared, again.) And confirmed it was true.

And instead of mulling like the rest, she lowered her hand. Folded her arms across her chest, and spoke, sharp and clear:
"For now, we will have to accept it." Suspicious as it may be. And it need not be said for them to know it, "Later, we will start an investigation as to why it is so."

She was greeted with no protests.

5.2

"I assume we'll be keeping this from them?"

Data feeds. Katsuragi wet her index finger. Flipped through the pages.

It was a silly question, and she knew it. However, in the emptying testing room, Ritsuko remained silent. Did not turn to look at her. Did nothing more than lift a shoulder. Cross her feet up on her desk. (High heels dangling. One hand adjusting her slim glasses. One hand reaching for her typical cup of coffee. The mug oddly comical in contrast to her position -- Cats.)

It was only after Katsuragi flipped to Nagisa's results, did Ritsuko interject. (She must have known, after all. She had been so easily able to read her movements, before. And she supposed she was just like the rest of research. Small details always did reveal larger flaws.)

"He had a substantial spike after five minutes," (Katsuragi noted it. The sharp incline on the graph. And she felt something in her twist as --) She could hear Ritsuko turning now. Placing the mug down with a soft click. She could hear her lean forward. Felt her eyes on her (for a moment), "Remained that way for thirty seconds -- In which time, Ikari's shifted."

For a long time, Katsuragi did not say a word. Focused only on the data. (Flipped back and forth -- Though she knew Ritsuko was not lying. It was evident. She too, had later caught it.) But when she did, her voice was unusually quiet:

"What do you propose to do?"

(It wasn't fear. It wasn't anything at all.)

Ritsuko's answer was not unexpected,

"I think you can gather our options."

6.

It was a luxury, almost.
(A long shower. The tips of his fingers still tinted pink as he pushed his bangs off of his forehead. Blindly reaching for the towel he had thrown over the dividing wall with his other hand.)

He'd forgotten how easy it was to relax. To think. (And it was a strange reflection, this time. On the First. Ayanami. The quiet of the entry plug. The sickeningly familiar taste of LCL. The unknown results.

The way Ayanami had turned to him in the hall. Just outside the testing room. Her lips parted. Her pale faced tipped up. The backs of her small, pink nails nearly brushing against the bare skin of his elbow. As if she had gone to pull him back. To pause him. Her words, low and soft like the final, wavering notes of flutes:
"You are similar to me."

And how those five words had made his breath seize. So simply. How, he was certain, if he had let her touch him then, their skin would have felt--)

The shower head was still dripping. The small puddles of water at his feet growing cold. He wiggled his toes, absently. Shut his eyes. Made a half-hearted effort of towel-drying his hair.

(It would do him no good to worry it over it. He neither denied it nor confirmed it. Just kept silent. Averted his eyes. SEELE had not told him to anticipate her outwardly suggesting that. From their observations, she had been quiet and timid -- Almost --) He lowered his hands. Waited for his eyes to adjust to the flickering lights of the locker room as he opened them. Wrapped the towel around his waist. And thought, perhaps --

"Maybe that's what Nagisa meant."
(Ayanami -- She was withdrawn, emotionally distant. And in himself, it was possible that Nagisa had seen her. It was feasible. True, even. And the thought calmed him. Lulled him.)

And for a moment, he felt fairly quieted.
(He opened the stall door. Cautiously picked his way across the wet floor. Gathered and pulled on his clothes. Just concerned enough with his hair to try to flatten it with the palm of his hand. Just enough to observe his pale shadow on the glossy, tile walls. To make sure he had at least slightly tamed it.)

And satisfied, he slipped on his shoes. Exited the locker room. (He would return back to his quarters. Hopefully avoid any more errors. Any more mistakes that he could not afford. Could not risk nor wager.)

But, as soon as he set foot out into the corridor, it was music that drew his eyes down. To the right of the door.

And it was Nagisa, seemingly waiting for him. Seated with his back to the wall. His hands dangling between his raised knees. Humming in time to --

(For a long moment, Shinji stalled -- knowing it was foolish, knowing he should go -- Kept quiet. His heart somehow loud in his ears as he picked up the soft whine of violins. The soothing bass of the cello. And it all seemed eerily familiar when Nagisa, without warning, gently took an earbud from the shell of his ear and extended it up invitingly to him.)

Nagisa didn't look at him, but Shinji could see the faint content. Shaking away some of the prior sleepiness. Untensing his shoulders. And he could see it even more as he briefly hesitated. Before he chose to sit down beside him. (Feeling intrusive, but -- Nagisa wouldn't have done so if he hadn't wanted him to keep him company. It was basic body language-- It was-- ) And gingerly accepted it. (Trying not to brush his fingertips against his own.)

And in the quiet, Shinji had only looked to him once. (Before placing it in the shell of his ear. Before hearing the first intonations of German song.) And saw Nagisa was smiling. (In the empty corridors of NERV, under the dimming lights at mid-afternoon.)

And Shinji knew, that just now, he had removed all plausibility of future excuses. Of avoiding him. Because now --

[You are not here to make friends.]

It was a long time before either spoke to break the companionable silence.

---
A/N:

As you might be able to note by this point, I'm starting to further weave in the sub-plot. You may be going:
"Sub-plot? Why is there a need for such a sub-plot?!"

Because. It is the only answer I can give you at the moment, because it would give away too much, otherwise. I'm a tricky sonnvabitch, so hopefully what I plan to do will be largely unexpected. Twists and turns are a favorite of mine, after all. ♥

Also, why would Shinji sit down next to Kaworu? Well, I figure if I'd fucked up that badly in avoiding someone, it would seem more suspicious to actually avoid them, after. He's clever, in a strange way.

He's so screwed. ♥

|Oh, NGE. What you do to my brain!|

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 20:46:20 GMT

In which R. is SRS BSNS ~~sort of, because I'm still using slang, words like "batshit" and acting like I'm making fun of myself, which I am to an extent~~:

Now, let me tell you how much I love you for this. I was hoping Shinji would show up eventually, so I would know I'm not completely alone in my seeming adoration for his character...

Fandom!secrets totally wins. Totally. I think I want to find the poster of secret 38 and kiss their feet or something for being awesome, because if it didn't show up soon, I was doin' it.

Is R. a bit crazy? Probably, but I like discussing characters with individuals. That's why I'm a goddamn English major, among other things.

I also really wanted to put it:
Either that, you came into this series expecting a stereotypical mecha anime and then got your panties all knotted up because you didn't get what you wanted.

Instead, you got the sexually/emotionally/socially awkward Shinji. You got the role-reversing Asuka. You got the cold, far-more-logical-than-the-lead-character Ayanami Rei. You got the sexually ambiguous Nagisa Kaworu.

You got edgy, twisted relationships. You got Shinji pretty much fucking your morals over in EoE. You got him boggling you when Misato notes he's gynophobic. You got him throwing you through a loop when he's so open (at least for him) toward Nagisa Kaworu. You got him crying, sobbing, and being inherently everything that society says males should not be doing, doing.

And now you're pretty much butthurt over it because he's not what you wanted. At all.

But, I really didn't want to start any more wank than I had to. Even though it is true.

However, to be really kosher about this all, I'll also throw out the possibility I might be fucking crazy, and totally incorrect.

|with my feet on the dash, the world doesn't matter|

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 17:28:21 GMT

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.