Fiction and Drabble Blog - Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist | Star Ocean | Nabari No Ou | Gundam 00 | Requiem of the Rose King | Empire of Corpses | Shadow of Memories
Title: The Language of the Soul
Fandom: Makai Ouji/Empire of Corpses
Rating: PG
Pair: William Twining & Friday
Characters: William Twining, Friday
Wordcount: 948
Summary: A conversation between two friends begins with the question of a name.
Dedicated to @soulsavaged. Feel better soon, my dear!
“Sometimes I wonder what your name was...” The young man’s quiet voice carried through the still air of the dimly lit room to fall on the living corpse’s ears. It took his attention with gentle demanding and Friday’s gaze shifted curiously from his work to the blonde wandering the opposite side of the lab. William idly explored the confines of the enclosed space unbothered by it’s clutter. A hand delicately traced over tabletops and trinkets which lay in it’s path, little tools and bottles of various liquids. Sharp grey-violet orbs observed it all and cool lips parted to express query towards this unique existential statement - how very like William those words were. The boy was ever asking, ever curious. It reminded Friday of someone.
“Does it matter?” Their eyes met, peridot somewhat wide with mild start. It was not the question which had caught the future Earl off guard, but rather the tone of voice; far harsher than Friday must have intended, but emotions did come into play when the mention of that which tied him to his past came into play. They were mixed, a shapeless mass of regret, satisfaction, melancholy and curiosity over what could have been and never would. It was something William understood only in part, for he knew death’s touch traveling towards one distinct, very natural path.
Rebirth was not unheard of, nor uncommon, one would discover if they searched hard enough. But for a soul to return to it’s former body risen by science, that was extraordinary. That was unnatural, against the laws of nature and the heavens. Friday had not been reborn, rather he had been revived. He belonged nowhere, drifting through unlife in a world that no longer accepted him as more than a decade had passed since the ban of the very technology which kept him alive. If others knew of his secrets, they would find him monstrous.
William stood silent a long moment as he simply looked at the living corpse in his midst. Friday reminded him of someone else - not merely another soul alike to himself, a kindred spirit. He was lost in this world, stubbornly carrying on as he battled an emptiness inside himself under a mask of arrogance and charm. William was reminded of Dantalion, of whom he used to be. Not the god he’d been known as, but the son and brother who had betrayed all he’d ever known for a chance at something else. A man consumed with anger directed only towards himself, even though he lashed out and acted like an animal. A man who lived a life lonely and regretful.
Friday was no wicked god. He was no bestial thing, but he was lonely. He was regretful, and William found no fault in it. That pain was something he wished to take away, soothe from him with compassion and affection. Friday did so deserve affection. Yet there was beauty in his sadness. It was what made him powerful, what kept him alive.
A faint smile graced the blonde’s lips, soft and sympathetic, yet humbled all at once. “No.” He pushed away from his spot beside the old chair and drifted closer. “It doesn’t matter.” Friday was still staring at him, unblinking as he often did, his youthful features set in a dainty frown. William expected as much. He came to stand at his side, offering a passing glance as he went. Friday did not want to be coddled. William could respect that. Instead he focused his attentions on one of the many books within the small room.
“I think Friday is a good name for you.” The boy took the leather-bound book up in hand, opened its dusty cover and idly flipped through it’s pages. He tried to ignore the stare of periwinkle at his side, though the gentle quirk of lips as his smile unwittingly grew just a touch larger gave him away. He would allow the corpse his victory in that, should he wish to take it. A momentary glance the other’s way revealed that his companion no longer held a frown, but instead a rather perplexed expression had been adopted in it’s stead. How, then, could he not smile at that? William wondered if his friend knew just how positively innocent he looked like that. Oh, how he would have hated it if he did!
“William--”
“Because you were once a creature without language.” Finally the boy allowed himself to look fully at Friday’s stunned face. Those eyes which never seemed entirely focused were set intently on his, an emotion within them rarely seen. It was asking, hopeful, yet anxious all at once. How rare a view to behold from one who so expertly wielded smug wit to mask his emotions. How very dear. William could not help but look upon him fondly. “Because the sacrifice of another gave your soul the words it needed to return.”
Those large eyes finally turned away, but for an instant the blonde swore he’d seen moisture there. Friday did not look at him after that, though in the long silence that followed a small, delicate hint of a smile did form. William said nothing more - there was nothing which needed be said. He returned to his explorations of the book, one which had been clearly handwritten by the corpse at his side. The soft, cool sensation of fingers against his hand came slow, yet unexpected. The difference in temperature of the digits did not cause him to shy away, nor did the suddenness startle. His hand remained still as the other’s took tentative hold of it, quietly demanding.
William laced their fingers together, and continued to read.
Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
(via wordsnquotes)
Title: Escape
Fandom: Gundam 00
Rating: PG13 (Language)
Pair: None mentioned
Characters: Neil Dylandy, Lyle Dylandy
Wordcount: 178
Summary: A silly little domestic drabble. Post-series. Canon-divergent.
He hurriedly escaped down the stairwell and out the back door into the alleyway, confident he'd dodged the wrath of two angry Innovades and a hot-headed Irishman, at least for now. His pace slowed as he made it out to the street and he strolled casually towards no destination in particular. Perhaps a pub or the local arms shop for a bit of browsing. Anything to occupy himself until things blew over. As the man continued on the very distinct sharp crack of a window being opened so fast it slammed into it's frame hit his ears and moments later a familiar voice split the relative ambiance of inner city din.
"Neil, you mother fucker!!" Neil heard the commotion of Lyle cursing him from the apartment window in the old Irish their mother had been so kind to teach them, and laughed. It sounded funny, having Lyle cuss him in the old language. It brought back memories of past times, not good times, but meaningful. Back when they were brothers and not practically strangers. Simpler times.
He kept walking.
This was just a simple little thing that came to me when I was doing some projects around the house. I may turn it into a ficlet. Maybe. We’ll see.
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