#cordoliae

[sachingja]

carriage ( dojin and hogae )

carriage. hogae locks dojin in with him in their train compartment.

it must be morbid fascination. that is the only reason why dojin has not yet pulled open the window of the train car and tried to find his way out of this tin-can and into the safety of the fresh, cool night-air. or, it might be self perseverance. outside, thick, gray clouds have hung low in the sky for the entirety of the day, tinging their surroundings in as little light as possible, nothing but the cold clinging to the edges of their fingertips, stealing beneath the many layers of dojin's heavy, woolen travel-coat. it is hand-woven, a family hand-me-down his father owned before him and that has been passed down when he died so many years ago, dojin can hardly remember his face anymore. it doesn't sting — these things rarely do, at least where it concerns him with his disregard for close, familial ties and anything else of that sort ( unless, of course, one were to inquire about his dearest sister ) — but it sometimes leaves him somewhat on edge, a little too intertwined with the ghosts of his past. that same, eerie sensation comes to haunt him now, in the confines of this train compartment that is supposed to take them from the edges of the continent towards the borders of the west. it should be a journey of days and weeks, and dojin does not like the idea one bit, but there is company, at least. company that, currently, is standing with his back to dojin, peering out into the barely-lit hallway lying beyond the separative screen and the door.

this compartment is far nice than anything dojin could ever afford, apparently sponsored by hogae's father, a politician or a wealthy business man, or a man of law ; someone rich enough to afford moderate first class train cars for his son and his son's companion, nothing but a mere combat doctor with nothing much to his name. the fixtures are all beautiful, hand-made no doubts, just like his coat, but not for the sake of protecting anyone or anything, it is merely a display of wealth. and that is what has led them here, hasn't it? hogae has had a hunch, has heard whispers in the dining wagon when dojin had been too concerned with the quality of meat served, and now they are locked into the train compartment for however long this is gonna last.

" you have to be kidding me, inspector jin, " dojin says warily, falling back into his seat and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. hogae, who is nothing but long legs and long limbs, seems undeterred, and all dojin can do is watch him inspect every nook and cranny of the little space they have, check the hallway again, before he joins dojin, one of his knees knocking into dojin's thigh, he is that close. well, mostly due to the absurd length of all of him. " can we at least crack open a window? or i will die before we ever make it out of siberia. i will endure the frostbite, " he mutters, not amused by the detective's antics. hogae could have chosen literally any other time to follow one of those scraps he always seems to sink his teeth into. dojin met him like that, a gnarly, bleeding wound in his shoulder that he would sew up, a part of him forever stitched into hogae's skin. " this better be good. if this is one of your flukes again, and you are seeing things where there are none, i swear to god — "

[echospast]

@cordoliae as jeong jin-man : you’ve got a lot of explaining to do . [ feat. seneca kappel ]

JINMAN MUST HAVE KNOWN THE CHANCES OF THE PHOENIX TAKING SUCH A STATEMENT AT ALL SERIOUSLY WERE ASTRONOMICALLY LOW. as it is, he doesn't even turn when he hears the other man approach, nor when he speaks. they're far from dramatic men – their lifestyles leave little left to surprise at this point – but seneca easily detects the edge in his voice without the slightest effort. no doubt jinman wants him to. and no doubt the roll of his own eyes would come as no surprise if the dealer could see his face. it's been a long time since seneca kappel deigned to explain himself to anyone. he's hardly got any plans to start up again now, especially to somebody who thinks the occasional fuck entitles him to anything else.

not that the old killer really thinks that's what's going on here.

the butt of his cigarette glows orange as he inhales deeply, briefly illuminating the angles of his face in the night as he stares blankly into the pitch, leaning back into the uncomfortable patio chair as if it weren't digging unpleasantly into the aching line of his spine. work takes its toll, even if he never truly intends to stop completely. and while this particular safe house is one of their most effectively hidden, it's rather lacking in amenities. infuriatingly, he takes his sweet time, slowly turning over any possible explanation his companion could be looking for. any professional attachment between them, of course, is indirect and of little consequence. and even if their meetings involve a fair amount of shop talk, having to explain anything to each other is hardly what this liaison is about. besides, even if he can figure out exactly what's got him annoyed, it's not as though he's eager to show his hand by making guesses.

" and the queen of england's suddenly pissing earl grey tea. get fucked, jinman. " a thin line of smoke trails from his chapped lips as he speaks, as controlled and steady as any other part of him. there's nothing at all angry in his tone ; if anything, the assassin sounds amused. " I show up to these meetings for two reasons and you know explaining myself ain't one of 'em. " despite his dry entertainment, despite the georgian drawl that should make his words more inviting, his speech is hollow, as it so often is. no point putting on any sort of disguise in his current company. while he's capable of the charm required to get his way when necessary – a skill he'd never been able to effectively pass on to his ward, he muses with disappointed detachment – it seems pointless with jinman, when the terms of their understanding are so abundantly clear. all for the better ; he finds seduction irritatingly tiresome on both sides.

finally, he turns his head, arching a brow as he finally looks at the other man properly, cigarette hanging from his lips as he inspects him for a moment. " good thing I turned up. clearly you're stressed the fuck out about something. you could afford to relax. " finally, the phoenix waves a hand, half dismissively, lifting the other to readjust the cigarette. " if you really have the itch to bitch, at least let me finish my fuckin' smoke first. I'll meet you inside. "

the dusty toybox. accepting.

[daylighter-a]

everyone needs something to take care of. ( from satō! )

in a distance life, where a crown's weight made his chin tilt by the evenings, he would have agreed bluntly; a distant life where the only reason he had survived at all was because there was something to take care of, someone with hair a little like his own and eyes starkly different, but no less of the same making, and hands only a touch smaller than his, which he would grasp with care, and had made promises to : that her name wouldn't be forgotten, even if forgiveness was remiss. this world is different from then, and in this world those bygone memories are scratched up fractures at best. satō speaks evenly from where he sits, and the longer the prince stares into the firelight camp within the village, the longer he wonders if they meant what they said, exactly how they had said it.

         ❛❛ maybe some people. ❜❜  he thought of zelda of course, and sheik. satō hadn't fallen far from the tree though he knew him far less, still a stranger in his periphery, but as devoted as the others seemed to be. regardless, one thing was for sure: they were a different brand of strangeness from the sort he was getting use to around the palace. ❛❛ but i think others need something to destroy. like a cycle, giving one another a purpose. what would be there to take care of, if something hadn't destroyed our world? ❜❜

[svyatoiy-arch]

It's hell on earth to be heavenly. (from nik!)

❴  ❊ ˒  PROMPTS  ⊰   ACCEPTING!

the little saint had left dinner much like she had arrived: deflated and tense, quick to bite and slow to smiles, aching for solace yet yearning for company. upon her return to the darkling’s chambers, she’d collapsed in a chair by the hearth, where she remained in her own egotistical misery when the prince announced his presence. all the sun summoner could muster in response was a roll of her eyes, gaze returning to the smoldering fire.

❛❛ before the crossing, before all of this── I just wanted to be someone to anyone. to matter, in whatever capacity the saints deemed me worthy of. ❜❜ her voice tapered off in a disbelieving laugh, clearly self-deprecating despite its short-lived existence. how foolish she was to have prayed to the saints, when all it took to become one was a moment of fear. they were all human, just like her. and even as she spoke, she knew the words were lies; alina loved the light too much to ever willingly trade it away again. ❛❛ now I almost wouldn’t mind being no one. perhaps I’d even prefer it, to all this… hope, all these expectations placed upon me. ❜❜

when she opened her mouth next, a question whose answer she already knew rolled off her tongue. though declaring him a friend might be considered too large a declaration just yet, he was no longer a stranger ─ while uncharted territories remained, there were parts of him that were familiar to her now, and this she knew to be true: his moral compass pointed the same way hers did. their paths forward were intricately intertwined, and neither could nor would attempt to dislodge them. their shared purpose was to defend ravka & no personal sacrifice would be too large. still, in the late hours of the evening, when nighttime and its shadowed apparitions were mere moments away, perhaps there was some levity to be found in nikolai’s company.

one foot reached out to push at the chair opposite her, angling it towards the fireplace; it was an unspoken invitation to join her. ❛❛ what about you, mr. prince perfect? are you wishing you never scooped me up from the darkling and stayed far away from the palace, that you were still a mysterious privateer? ❜❜

[echospast]

@cordoliae as nikolai l.antsov : for the first time since i can remember, i don’t feel alone. because of you. [ feat. simeon sommerfeld ]

SIMEON’S SHARP TONGUE IS PERHAPS HIS DEFTEST FEATURE — CERTAINLY THE MOST SURPRISING TO THOSE WHO UNDERESTIMATE HIS INTELLECT. his bold wit can very rarely be silenced, a fact of which nikolai is certainly aware, for all the time they’ve spent together since sim found himself aboard the volkvolny. and yet he finds himself silenced now, momentarily upended by the other man’s words — or perhaps more accurately, by the sincerity behind them. sim’s mouth opens briefly as if to speak, before he closes it again quickly, turning his face toward the sitting room’s crackling hearth as if that might hide the warm flush he feels gathering in his cheeks. almost belatedly, he reminds himself to steady his breath in the wake of his momentary surprise, lest he run the risk of setting the entire room aflame. would the tutors at the little palace really be able to offer him better control? the only way to know for sure was to ride alongside the prince until they reached os alta and its little palace - as if that were his only motivation. and then what? a taunting little voice croons in the back of his wicked mind. silly boy, do you really think things can stay the same?

even after learning nikolai’s true identity, it had become easy on the sea for simeon to forget that he truly was a prince of ravka. as sturmhond, he'd earned sim’s trust, respect, and loyalty. yet that loyalty has never come blindly, a fact of which nikolai has been aware since he accepted the inferni upon his decks. simeon has never in his life hesitated to make his voice known, when he wills it. beside his effortless charm, which draws people like moths to flame, another fire burns within the kerch man, one of passionate rage that emerges far less frequently – yet when it does, it cannot hope to be controlled. miracle enough that he never managed to set the volkvolny properly aflame before the tidemakers could douse his inferni fire, but either way, nikolai was by now no stranger to sim's fury, which recognizes neither king nor captain.

the beginnings of it boil within him now, drowning the knife of premature grief he’d begun to feel slide into his lungs the moment nikolai entered the room. a low simmer of anger replaces it, a warning of sorts that does not always precede the explosion. despite his efforts, the uncertainty within him seems to stymie it, pressing it down beneath an undefined layer of embarrassment that dampens it like a sheet of ravkan topsoil that hasn't quite thawed for spring. he huffs, half a scoff that emerges sharp as a blade, which most would find out of place from the inferni. but nikolai knows better. he knows sim better, and the knowing is mutual enough to carve an ache into the singer's chest. he has always been a prince, but only now does it finally feel that way, a sensation which somehow, too, shares all the benchmarks with impending doom.

" you should know by now that your charm doesn't work on me. maybe I made you feel less alone, but we're both about to be again. I'm not obligated to be happy about it. " sim's attempt at a snarl falls flat from the first word, as unconvincing as a cheap komedie brute costume purchased from a stall in the staves and cut ever further for effectiveness by the way his kerch accent thickens in his frustration, unflatteringly twisting his otherwise impressive ravkan. his arms cross stubbornly over his chest, despite the fact he knows perfectly well that nikolai's profession is genuine. the shared understanding between them is the wound that cuts deepest, now that they both know it's all about to change.

but for all his stubbornness, sim has always known this was inevitable, and yet even in this moment, he refuses to examine why he reacts so strongly anyway.

no matter what face he wears – his own or sturmhond's – the weight of his gaze remains the same, recognizable even if they stood in the dark. it presses in upon sim now and he knows what it says as easily as if nikolai spoke in his mind. look at me. stubbornly, simeon refuses. every rational instinct knows it isn't the prince's fault that he is, after all, a prince, but in his anger, he must find somebody to blame for the irrevocable way in which things are about to change. the cruel hand of fate has decided that there will be no more nights of song and poetry aboard those familiar decks. no more laughing captain. no more quiet conversations in the early hours during precious first watches, when the inky black sea still reflects the patchwork of stars on its mirrored surface and truths seem to flow that much more easily from their lips. no more easy friendly affection, no more privately shared jests, no more witty fast-paced exchanges for the world to see. no more, no more, no more, no more.

reason tells him that he is foolish to think this friendship slips further through his fingers the closer they ride to the ravkan capitol, but he has never been a man ruled by reason anyway.

" besides, I'm already along, aren't I? no use continuing to try to convince me. " a bitterness twists the edges of his tone as the muscles in his shoulders visibly tighten beneath a new shirt, one far finer than what he'd worn aboard the ship. any other day, perhaps he'd feel grateful for the comfort, but in this moment, he resents it enough to twist the pit of his stomach. the sweet aroma of methane rises to meet him, and on instinct, he takes two steps back from the hearth as the flames leap harmlessly just once, a warning that seems to mock him. " anyway, your point is what, nikolai? that I should never fear because I'll always have a friend in os alta? that I will never be alone? think reasonably. even I am not so idealistic. "

it is then that he finally deigns to turn his head and regard the other man out of the corner of his eye, the bright blue of his gaze flashing in the firelight like a wild thing, something far less civilized and tame than the face simeon usually likes to show to the world. the soft flicker of flame against nikolai's princely jaw and impressive cheekbones makes him want to tear that finely pressed first army uniform right off the royal's shoulders and throw it into the crackling hearth. though he manages to restrain himself, the sarcasm in his voice when he speaks next is nonetheless nearly acidic enough to burn, despite his otherwise weak performance. " now, if there's nothing else, your esteemed highness, I must continue practicing my curtsy. can't afford to make a fool of myself in front of a prince, can I. "

[sachingja]

all will fall still, all lapse. ( brain + weasel )

" you know, " dongjae says, settling into the seat next to the other man, two long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. " it could be worse. we could be stuck in a hospital. you could be stuck in a hospital. " feigning ignorance considering he has seen the inside of those famous hallowed halls a little more often than simok in the past few years, he drops the clear plastic bag in the small space between them, like they have done a few times before, often enough to almost warrant a habit but scarce enough to be something of a special occasion. dongjae has not seen the sea in a while, this is the first time in what must have been ages ( and, boy, does he feel every single one of those years ) but simok has been relocated again, and dongjae does simply go where duty calls him these days. " instead, the dead are already dead and buried, and we get to watch the sea, " he sighs, smacks his lips. the air is clear here, fresh, cool. it is the kind of place his therapist told him to go to back when he was, well, still going to his mandatory sessions.

simok is quiet, for the most part anyway, silent and handsome and still as those statues in the museums, made of marble and granite and painted white. dongjae has never known him anyway else, those infamous outbursts a thing of his teenage years and, once, a singular occurrence while dongjae was dead to the world, and he only heard about it much later, while he was recovering and still demanding constant, around the clock medical attention and care.

the case that has brought them together is as clean and cut and dry as dongjae preferred while he was still part of the institution they both hail from, a dead fisherman and the sea as his grave, no foul play until simok turned up and found his way around the inconsistencies of the scene. woncheol had assured dongjae that it would be no big deal — just keep an eye on him, you know how little regard the higher ups have for him, despite the fact that his track record is near flawless. it used to make dongjae's teeth ache, how simok wandered through life with every road already paved, all the brick and mortar none of his concern, but now he watches him, those dark, unflinching eyes and his unsmiling mouth, and knows that simok would never be able to navigate a room like dongjae could, who would do everything to have anyone pay him any attention.

or did. whatever.

dongjae hums, and nudges the carton of banana milk in simok's direction, mindful not to touch him. a surprising sweet tooth, occasionally, that is. " do you think it really is that bad? " he asks, knowing better. simok and his premonitions. just as possessed as that police officer friend of his, the one who would never find anything remotely redeemable in dongjae. or, at least that is what it feels like. and who could blame her? whenever dongjae tries to redeem himself, life has other plans. bleaker than an offering of forgiveness. " no wonder they sent me here, " he muses, exhaling. " you seem to attract these freak cases like the plague. how is that working out for you, by the way, prosecutor hwang? "

⋆ . · * ·✵ · ✹ · ✹ *  and other stories / closed. @disvelocitys

[sommersong]

@cordoliae as august sirin : it's not as bad as you thought, is it?

SIMEON ALWAYS THINKS BETTER WITH THE SKY ABOVE HIM, WITH THE COOL OF THE GRASS BENEATH HIM. he wouldn't call himself an outside sort of guy, usually, not much a fan of hiking without purpose and certainly not of camping, if he can avoid it. but visiting august is different and he makes every excuse to do so, when he can justify making his way over to this corner of the world. especially in summer. amongst the flowers, listening to the hum of the world and the sound of her voice or even just her breathing, he feels a sense of calm he finds nowhere else. the clover-like scent of cornflowers and the spice and earth of poppies, overlayed with the mild familiarity of chamomile, fills his senses as entirely as the feeling of her hand in his. with his eyes closed and the sun on his face, he nearly misses her question, despite having been deep in conversation moments before.

" mh? " his fingers tighten around hers, almost in apology for losing his train of thought, for briefly sounding almost sleepy in his response. " oh. right. " he pulls her hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it, sighing against it before letting their entwined hands fall to the grass once more. admittedly, it's a subject he's avoided by performing no small amount of conversational gymnastics. it would be strange, he supposed, considering how much more he does share with her than most – except that it's to do with his sister and with her and with them in a way he's pathologically avoided for long enough to make it even odder.

but despite his penchant for avoidance, despite the fact that he might continue to deflect if she were anyone else, even simeon knows he cannot continue to put it off over and over and over again. he pulls in a breath, then lets it out again, and allows himself a bit of a shrug, which doesn't have much of an effect lying on the ground as they are. finally, he ventures, " it's not ... I didn't ever think it was bad. just ... " with his eyes still closed, he lifts his free hand to drag it slowly down his face. " it's stupid. it's stupid! my – what I was worried about, I mean. because I knew it wasn't true, but I still ... " how does he begin to explain that even in his safest place in the world, he cannot help but slip into the defensive the moment he believes it might be taken away? he groans quietly, rolling over to bury his face in her shoulder as if hiding, as if the only way he can gather the courage to continue is to make sure he can't be observed while he does. " I ... thought if you and shoshana started, you know, hanging out ... that you wouldn't – want to spend as much time with, uh ... " he feels his brow furrow and his nose wrinkle against the fabric of her clothing as his bottom lip unwittingly pouts where she can't see him. " ... me. like I said! stupid, you know? "

[gajigwa]

35 ( from jaehwan <3 )

35. a kiss against a wall

this is all new ground — and there is so much of it, unconquered land that yohan has dreamed of, to span the width of his palm over and see whatever he could cover — and it is addicting, intoxicating. endorphins straight to his head, making him feel drunk, the sort of adrenaline he has only grown to know on the piste, that high he has been chasing all his life long. no, this might be better: everything he has ever wanted beneath his fingers, twisting the fabric of jaehwan's fancy dress-shirt tightly in his grasp, undoubtedly leaving creases he would later be scolded for. but yohan does not care much about later, or the concept of time to begin with. all he cares about is here and now, this present moment at his fingertips, the seconds that seem to stretch like taffy, that make him feel like he could be endless and everlasting. it is so much more than he could have ever hoped for; the very scenario he would have stumbled into in one of his many daydreams, leaving him so aimless and bereft in the aftermath. a lot of this used to be wishful thinking, as if you could will the impossible into existence.

now, it is all his.

all sensations that he is categorizing, one after the other. the wall in his back, solid and grounding, the heat of another body along his front, one long line from their thighs to their chests — he is slightly taller than his coach, and it used to bother him, how he would tower over everyone around them, but now he likes it, how all that weight is keeping him pinned to the wall and, still, jaehwan has to lean into him — and the slight scratch of stubble against his skin. it is not too foreign ( he has made out with other guys before, fell into foreign beds, during international competitions, desperation bleeding into hasty fumbling, an overwhelming need eclipsing any decorum ) the kind of rough that sends a shiver down his spine. if he tilts his head just so, it's almost perfect, the taste of mint chasing coffee, chasing the cigarettes jaehwan smokes whenever he thinks yohan cannot see him or isn't paying attention.

despite himself, yohan smiles against jaehwan's mouth, into the kiss, with the eagerness of the mid-twenty-something he is. the youth and vigor he usually carries into competition slotting into space between them, his hands in jaehwan's short hair, nails against the back of his skull. " you have no idea, " he says, a murmur that is swallowed much like any other noise between them, jaehwan busy to shut him up. no wonder, it is usually so rare to get yohan's mouth to stop working, spilling a million syllables a minute it seems. " you have no idea how long i've wanted this, " he sighs, all lovelorn, all lovesick, all over himself, all over this man that he has chased like a mirage. a thing that would never come true, just a figment of his imagination. but here it is now, and yohan winds his arms around him to keep him right where he is, and sinks his teeth into jaehwan's bottom lip — a devotion that bleeds and stings and speaks of a desperation he should be ashamed of but could never quite be. he held out this long; he ought to celebrate this victory for a little longer, then.

⋆ . · * · ↳ kiss roulette / closed.