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midnightdiddleOnce upon a time (read: way back in 2006. omg, so long ago!), I swore I would never write Loveless fanfic.
I really meant to keep that promise. Alas. Damn. I am full of fail. That said-- Loveless fanfic. Uh. Spoilers up to volume 9, and totally speculative fiction from that point on. Complete lack of resolution at the end. Umm.
Um. Shameless-- everything? Seimei/Soubi. Ritsuka/Soubi. Kio/Soubi? Soubi's my fandom bike. Whoo. Sex without sex, and kitty ears are hot. Underaged. My God, what has this done to me?
Also. Seimei is the hardest name in all of existence to type. omg, why?
“I love you,” he says, and there’s power beneath the words, smooth as vanilla and coffee beans.
"Soubi," Seimei says, and there is power beneath his words. "You're my Fighter. You're Beloved now."
His words are smooth, vanilla and coffee beans in the morning, when he's lying across Soubi's bed, his tail curling slow across the sheets. He drinks Soubi's coffee, his eyes sleepy and quiet, and when Soubi takes the cup from Seimei's hands, turns to set it down on the floor, Seimei sets in his nails, digs into Soubi's skin with his nails and his teeth and his words.
"You're Beloved, so this is love," Seimei says. "But it's not that right kind of love. It's not Ritsuka's love."
And Ritsuka, like another name, but one Soubi will never have carved into his body. He's Beloved, but he's not Ritsuka, and Seimei says it like a joke, "Beloved and Loveless, Soubi, isn't it funny?" and Soubi has to smile, because somewhere, deep down, Seimei's jokes are always funny, where they crack and break Soubi's fingers, one by one.
x
"I think he's the only one who loves me," Seimei says at night, when he's leaning over the Playstation. His thumbs move slowly, languidly, but his character's quick on the screen, a sword flashing like some kind of hero. Soubi watches, more entranced than not, and makes a sound too late.
"Soubi?" Seimei asks, leaning back and looking up from beneath his hair, like a boy. "Do you think?"
"I love you," Soubi says, words tripping off his tongue like rehearsed. Seimei laughs, sounds truly delighted, and he drags his thumbnail down Soubi's wrist, wraps it around in warm red.
"I'm the only one who loves Ritsuka. Could you love him?"
"I only love Seimei," Soubi says, and there's power behind his words, always has been, but he's still blank inside, still a slate for Seimei to write upon. Seimei leans up, blocking out the pixels of the television, and his mouth is warm and soft against Soubi's face.
"And if I order you?"
x
Seimei straddles him in the mornings, pins his hips to the bed, and presses his hands to blankets.
"Don't move," Seimei says, his eyes clear and focused, and Soubi doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Seimei cuts away then, his little penknife flicking silver at the bottom of Soubi's sight, because Soubi can't blink.
"You're Beloved's Fighter. My Fighter," Seimei hums while he cuts, and his face is close enough that his breath burns across Soubi's throat. "Do you love me, Soubi?"
"I love you," Soubi says, and he can feel blood sliding wetly down his neck, and can feel Seimei palming his dick, grabbing and rubbing through Soubi's pants. Soubi breathes, feels his fingers move across the bed, and Seimei's hand stings when it slaps across Soubi's face.
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and his eyes are fever-bright and clear.
x
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and his voice is vanilla smooth, coffee beans in the morning. "You can't hold dirty things, not if you don't love them."
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and there's power in the words, down beneath where Soubi's breath catches and burns like fire. "I don't love dirty things."
"I love," Seimei says, and he burns like the sun, lighting up a classroom where the desks barely come to Soubi's knee, "my Ritsuka."
x
Ritsuka looks younger than his age, big eyes and a round face, with ears that prick and move with every sound, every motion. Ritsuka feels younger than his age, all love-starved and hungry, clinging to Soubi's hand when Soubi says, "his friend, I was his friend, didn't he tell you about me?" And he wonders, and wonders, because Seimei told him so much about Ritsuka, all about Ritsuka, and love, and the Loveless was always more than the Beloved.
"Seimei's friend?" Ritsuka asks, turning his face up, and he looks like he's talking about a god, and God is Dead, because Seimei is dead.
"Seimei's friend," Soubi says, and he kisses Ritsuka, catches his fingers in Ritsuka's hair. "I love you, Ritsuka."
x
Ritsuka’s hard to love, and hard to save. Soubi’s not sure he can save anyone, because he can’t even save himself, can’t have anyone save him, but he wants to try with Ritsuka. He wants Ritsuka to hold him, to wrap around him, cover him in Ritsuka and Loveless. He wants to be saved, and then save Ritsuka from everything the world has to offer.
“Hold me,” he begs, because Seimei’s voice hasn’t left his ears, never will, and he can’t hear Ritsuka’s cry when he holds Ritsuka too tight. “Hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me--”
“I am,” Ritsuka, but it sounds like I can’t, and “I will,” but it sounds like, I don’t know how.
“Order me,” Soubi begs, because he needs Ritsuka to say, Love me, save me, need me, serve me, because Seimei’s voice is still loud in Soubi’s ears. “Order me,” he begs, and Ritsuka kisses him, says, “I need you,” and Seimei’s voice says yes--
x
They go back in Kio's car, Ritsuka sitting in the passenger's seat. Soubi watches the road, his fingers curling around the steering wheel, and Ritsuka's fingers curling around the edge of the Soubi's coat.
"Soubi," Ritsuka says, when they're on the edge of Tokyo, smaller houses growing bigger.
"No," Soubi says, and Ritsuka says no more.
The next morning, a slip of paper is sticking out of Soubi's mailbox, wrapped around an earring, blood still sticky-wet. Seimei's handwriting, pretty as a picture, says, Did it hurt, Soubi?
Ritsuka notices by the end of the first week, the pile of earrings on Soubi's table. He touches them with one thin finger, then looks disgusted, frustrated. "Soubi," he says, and Soubi lights a cigarette, lets it burn to the filter.
Kio comes back after the last earring. He's leaning against Soubi's door, head ducked, blood dried in strings down his neck. He looks up when Soubi touches him, opens his mouth, says, "Sou-chan," like it's a prayer.
Soubi carries him in, washes him with a sliver of soap and his fingers, runs his fingers through Kio's red-stained hair. He washes him, and bandages him, and kisses his mouth, his ears, and his pretty, empty eyes.
"I love you," he says.
x
Ritsuka cuts Kio’s hair, fingers shaking as he separates the blood and skin, and cuts it out carefully. “I’m not good at this,” he complains, and, “we should go to the hospital.”
Soubi nods, then reaches out to touch another clump of hair, dried and twisted skin and blood. “This, too,” he says, and Ritsuka cuts it out with his shaking fingers, his hands slick with sweat and fear.
When Kio’s sleeping in Soubi’s bed, smelling like sugar and liquor, his hair damp on the pillow, Soubi wraps Ritsuka in his arms, pulls Ritsuka down to the floor, where featherings of Kio’s hair cling to their skin.
“I love you,” he says into Ritsuka’s hair, and Ritsuka shakes in his arms, his hands covering his face and eyes. “Don’t cry,” Soubi says, fitting his hands around Ritsuka’s wrists, pressing his mouth against Ritsuka’s ear.
“I’m not crying,” Ritsuka near-screams, tight and high, and Soubi presses him close, chest to chest, until he can only feel Ritsuka shake.
x
Kio paints in red, arches and flutterings of wings, following his brushes with his thumb. He paints in red, swoop of bird and flash of fish, and drags his thumb along the fins and feathers. Soubi lies behind him, hands curled over his stomach, and watches Kio's hands drip red paint.
"Too much," Soubi says when Kio is sitting back on his heels, hands hanging between his legs. "Too much red."
Kio looks at him, tilts his head to the side like a dog, and says, "Sou-chan?" Soubi closes his eyes, curling his hands tighter against his stomach, and listens to the door whisper closed.
Kio comes back hours later, hair dripping rainwater and a bucket in his hands. He crouches on the floor, shoving a palette knife beneath the lid of the paintbucket, and Soubi watches as the metal bends, then snaps, catching Kio's fingers. Kio digs in his nails, pulls, and the lid pops off with a sigh.
When Kio spins, bucket in hands, he looks like he's dying, falling and breaking and turning in a flash. The black paint splatters out, across the walls, the windows, across Kio's pictures of fish and birds and Soubi's butterflies, smearing them away. Soubi closes his eyes, feels the paint splash across his face, and when Kio touches him, it smells of paint and blood.
"Sou-chan," Kio says, and he cries when Soubi kisses him.
x
Kio sleeps in Soubi's bed, his arms and legs in awkward angles, and Soubi leaves him there, covers him with a thin sheet like a shroud. He kisses Kio's face when Kio hums, and when Kio fights back, hands balled into fists, Soubi runs to Ritsuka's window.
"Ritsuka," he calls, and Ritsuka opens the door to him every night, lets him come in with cold hands and warm mouth. Ritsuka tastes like toothpaste and regret, run over with pity, and Soubi lets him pity, lets Ritsuka pull Soubi in close, to lie on Ritsuka’s bed with their limbs entwined like lovers.
“I love you,” Ritsuka says, and it tastes like a lie, smells like fear. Soubi lets Ritsuka touch him, nervous fingers sliding over Soubi’s neck, and when Ritsuka says, “I hate him,” it tastes like a bigger lie, smells like a bigger fear.
“I love you,” Soubi says, and Ritsuka says, “I love him,” and the streetlights sneak in red on the carpet, and orange on the walls.
x
Seimei calls in the early morning, when it’s dark and Ritsuka’s still sleeping, his tail curling against Soubi’s hip. Soubi says, “Master,” and Seimei sighs like a song.
“He loved you,” Seimei says, and he sounds amused, like he’s just heard a joke he wants to repeat, but isn’t quite sure how. Soubi doesn’t laugh, doesn’t want to laugh, because Seimei’s jokes always hurt. “He loved you. Why?”
“Do you love Ritsuka, Soubi?” Seimei asks, and Soubi presses his face against Ritsuka’s chest, listens to the slow thumps of Ritsuka’s heart, and Seimei’s tired sighs. “I love him; only him. Soubi?”
“I love Ritsuka,” Seimei says, while Soubi is pressing his fingertips against Ritsuka’s waist, where Ritsuka’s all boyish hips and childish ticklings, where Ritsuka laughs and turns red when Soubi wraps him in his arms and kisses him. “I love you--”
“I love you,” Soubi says, to Ritsuka and Seimei and sleepy-boy sighs in the morning, while the phone blinks dead. “I love you,” he says, and there’s power beneath the words, smooth as vanilla and coffee beans.
I really meant to keep that promise. Alas. Damn. I am full of fail. That said-- Loveless fanfic. Uh. Spoilers up to volume 9, and totally speculative fiction from that point on. Complete lack of resolution at the end. Umm.
Um. Shameless-- everything? Seimei/Soubi. Ritsuka/Soubi. Kio/Soubi? Soubi's my fandom bike. Whoo. Sex without sex, and kitty ears are hot. Underaged. My God, what has this done to me?
Also. Seimei is the hardest name in all of existence to type. omg, why?
“I love you,” he says, and there’s power beneath the words, smooth as vanilla and coffee beans.
"Soubi," Seimei says, and there is power beneath his words. "You're my Fighter. You're Beloved now."
His words are smooth, vanilla and coffee beans in the morning, when he's lying across Soubi's bed, his tail curling slow across the sheets. He drinks Soubi's coffee, his eyes sleepy and quiet, and when Soubi takes the cup from Seimei's hands, turns to set it down on the floor, Seimei sets in his nails, digs into Soubi's skin with his nails and his teeth and his words.
"You're Beloved, so this is love," Seimei says. "But it's not that right kind of love. It's not Ritsuka's love."
And Ritsuka, like another name, but one Soubi will never have carved into his body. He's Beloved, but he's not Ritsuka, and Seimei says it like a joke, "Beloved and Loveless, Soubi, isn't it funny?" and Soubi has to smile, because somewhere, deep down, Seimei's jokes are always funny, where they crack and break Soubi's fingers, one by one.
x
"I think he's the only one who loves me," Seimei says at night, when he's leaning over the Playstation. His thumbs move slowly, languidly, but his character's quick on the screen, a sword flashing like some kind of hero. Soubi watches, more entranced than not, and makes a sound too late.
"Soubi?" Seimei asks, leaning back and looking up from beneath his hair, like a boy. "Do you think?"
"I love you," Soubi says, words tripping off his tongue like rehearsed. Seimei laughs, sounds truly delighted, and he drags his thumbnail down Soubi's wrist, wraps it around in warm red.
"I'm the only one who loves Ritsuka. Could you love him?"
"I only love Seimei," Soubi says, and there's power behind his words, always has been, but he's still blank inside, still a slate for Seimei to write upon. Seimei leans up, blocking out the pixels of the television, and his mouth is warm and soft against Soubi's face.
"And if I order you?"
x
Seimei straddles him in the mornings, pins his hips to the bed, and presses his hands to blankets.
"Don't move," Seimei says, his eyes clear and focused, and Soubi doesn't move, doesn't breathe. Seimei cuts away then, his little penknife flicking silver at the bottom of Soubi's sight, because Soubi can't blink.
"You're Beloved's Fighter. My Fighter," Seimei hums while he cuts, and his face is close enough that his breath burns across Soubi's throat. "Do you love me, Soubi?"
"I love you," Soubi says, and he can feel blood sliding wetly down his neck, and can feel Seimei palming his dick, grabbing and rubbing through Soubi's pants. Soubi breathes, feels his fingers move across the bed, and Seimei's hand stings when it slaps across Soubi's face.
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and his eyes are fever-bright and clear.
x
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and his voice is vanilla smooth, coffee beans in the morning. "You can't hold dirty things, not if you don't love them."
"You're dirty," Seimei says, and there's power in the words, down beneath where Soubi's breath catches and burns like fire. "I don't love dirty things."
"I love," Seimei says, and he burns like the sun, lighting up a classroom where the desks barely come to Soubi's knee, "my Ritsuka."
x
Ritsuka looks younger than his age, big eyes and a round face, with ears that prick and move with every sound, every motion. Ritsuka feels younger than his age, all love-starved and hungry, clinging to Soubi's hand when Soubi says, "his friend, I was his friend, didn't he tell you about me?" And he wonders, and wonders, because Seimei told him so much about Ritsuka, all about Ritsuka, and love, and the Loveless was always more than the Beloved.
"Seimei's friend?" Ritsuka asks, turning his face up, and he looks like he's talking about a god, and God is Dead, because Seimei is dead.
"Seimei's friend," Soubi says, and he kisses Ritsuka, catches his fingers in Ritsuka's hair. "I love you, Ritsuka."
x
Ritsuka’s hard to love, and hard to save. Soubi’s not sure he can save anyone, because he can’t even save himself, can’t have anyone save him, but he wants to try with Ritsuka. He wants Ritsuka to hold him, to wrap around him, cover him in Ritsuka and Loveless. He wants to be saved, and then save Ritsuka from everything the world has to offer.
“Hold me,” he begs, because Seimei’s voice hasn’t left his ears, never will, and he can’t hear Ritsuka’s cry when he holds Ritsuka too tight. “Hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me--”
“I am,” Ritsuka, but it sounds like I can’t, and “I will,” but it sounds like, I don’t know how.
“Order me,” Soubi begs, because he needs Ritsuka to say, Love me, save me, need me, serve me, because Seimei’s voice is still loud in Soubi’s ears. “Order me,” he begs, and Ritsuka kisses him, says, “I need you,” and Seimei’s voice says yes--
x
They go back in Kio's car, Ritsuka sitting in the passenger's seat. Soubi watches the road, his fingers curling around the steering wheel, and Ritsuka's fingers curling around the edge of the Soubi's coat.
"Soubi," Ritsuka says, when they're on the edge of Tokyo, smaller houses growing bigger.
"No," Soubi says, and Ritsuka says no more.
The next morning, a slip of paper is sticking out of Soubi's mailbox, wrapped around an earring, blood still sticky-wet. Seimei's handwriting, pretty as a picture, says, Did it hurt, Soubi?
Ritsuka notices by the end of the first week, the pile of earrings on Soubi's table. He touches them with one thin finger, then looks disgusted, frustrated. "Soubi," he says, and Soubi lights a cigarette, lets it burn to the filter.
Kio comes back after the last earring. He's leaning against Soubi's door, head ducked, blood dried in strings down his neck. He looks up when Soubi touches him, opens his mouth, says, "Sou-chan," like it's a prayer.
Soubi carries him in, washes him with a sliver of soap and his fingers, runs his fingers through Kio's red-stained hair. He washes him, and bandages him, and kisses his mouth, his ears, and his pretty, empty eyes.
"I love you," he says.
x
Ritsuka cuts Kio’s hair, fingers shaking as he separates the blood and skin, and cuts it out carefully. “I’m not good at this,” he complains, and, “we should go to the hospital.”
Soubi nods, then reaches out to touch another clump of hair, dried and twisted skin and blood. “This, too,” he says, and Ritsuka cuts it out with his shaking fingers, his hands slick with sweat and fear.
When Kio’s sleeping in Soubi’s bed, smelling like sugar and liquor, his hair damp on the pillow, Soubi wraps Ritsuka in his arms, pulls Ritsuka down to the floor, where featherings of Kio’s hair cling to their skin.
“I love you,” he says into Ritsuka’s hair, and Ritsuka shakes in his arms, his hands covering his face and eyes. “Don’t cry,” Soubi says, fitting his hands around Ritsuka’s wrists, pressing his mouth against Ritsuka’s ear.
“I’m not crying,” Ritsuka near-screams, tight and high, and Soubi presses him close, chest to chest, until he can only feel Ritsuka shake.
x
Kio paints in red, arches and flutterings of wings, following his brushes with his thumb. He paints in red, swoop of bird and flash of fish, and drags his thumb along the fins and feathers. Soubi lies behind him, hands curled over his stomach, and watches Kio's hands drip red paint.
"Too much," Soubi says when Kio is sitting back on his heels, hands hanging between his legs. "Too much red."
Kio looks at him, tilts his head to the side like a dog, and says, "Sou-chan?" Soubi closes his eyes, curling his hands tighter against his stomach, and listens to the door whisper closed.
Kio comes back hours later, hair dripping rainwater and a bucket in his hands. He crouches on the floor, shoving a palette knife beneath the lid of the paintbucket, and Soubi watches as the metal bends, then snaps, catching Kio's fingers. Kio digs in his nails, pulls, and the lid pops off with a sigh.
When Kio spins, bucket in hands, he looks like he's dying, falling and breaking and turning in a flash. The black paint splatters out, across the walls, the windows, across Kio's pictures of fish and birds and Soubi's butterflies, smearing them away. Soubi closes his eyes, feels the paint splash across his face, and when Kio touches him, it smells of paint and blood.
"Sou-chan," Kio says, and he cries when Soubi kisses him.
x
Kio sleeps in Soubi's bed, his arms and legs in awkward angles, and Soubi leaves him there, covers him with a thin sheet like a shroud. He kisses Kio's face when Kio hums, and when Kio fights back, hands balled into fists, Soubi runs to Ritsuka's window.
"Ritsuka," he calls, and Ritsuka opens the door to him every night, lets him come in with cold hands and warm mouth. Ritsuka tastes like toothpaste and regret, run over with pity, and Soubi lets him pity, lets Ritsuka pull Soubi in close, to lie on Ritsuka’s bed with their limbs entwined like lovers.
“I love you,” Ritsuka says, and it tastes like a lie, smells like fear. Soubi lets Ritsuka touch him, nervous fingers sliding over Soubi’s neck, and when Ritsuka says, “I hate him,” it tastes like a bigger lie, smells like a bigger fear.
“I love you,” Soubi says, and Ritsuka says, “I love him,” and the streetlights sneak in red on the carpet, and orange on the walls.
x
Seimei calls in the early morning, when it’s dark and Ritsuka’s still sleeping, his tail curling against Soubi’s hip. Soubi says, “Master,” and Seimei sighs like a song.
“He loved you,” Seimei says, and he sounds amused, like he’s just heard a joke he wants to repeat, but isn’t quite sure how. Soubi doesn’t laugh, doesn’t want to laugh, because Seimei’s jokes always hurt. “He loved you. Why?”
“Do you love Ritsuka, Soubi?” Seimei asks, and Soubi presses his face against Ritsuka’s chest, listens to the slow thumps of Ritsuka’s heart, and Seimei’s tired sighs. “I love him; only him. Soubi?”
“I love Ritsuka,” Seimei says, while Soubi is pressing his fingertips against Ritsuka’s waist, where Ritsuka’s all boyish hips and childish ticklings, where Ritsuka laughs and turns red when Soubi wraps him in his arms and kisses him. “I love you--”
“I love you,” Soubi says, to Ritsuka and Seimei and sleepy-boy sighs in the morning, while the phone blinks dead. “I love you,” he says, and there’s power beneath the words, smooth as vanilla and coffee beans.
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no subject
Date: 2008-02-17 03:50 am (UTC)What made you swear it off in the first place?
no subject
Date: 2008-02-17 04:12 am (UTC)Man, I can't even begin to say how much that makes me feel better. Loveless terrifies me. Like. It's so hard to explain, but you know how there are stories that are perfect? And the idea of even touching is like, "omg do not compute"? Loveless is (was?) like that for me. It's just so perfect, the story itself, and there's this wispy, wistful air to it that seems so impossible to recreate. And. Yeah.
So I dunno. I'm terrified, was terrified, of even trying to write something in a canon that is so-- perfect.
omg, thank you. *flails*
no subject
Date: 2008-02-17 04:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-17 05:05 am (UTC)You're going to kill me, I hope you know. Wow, thank you. That just-- makes me so happy. Thank you. I don't even know what to say.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-22 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-22 04:35 am (UTC)