("If only, if only," the woodpecker sighs,
"The bark on the tree was as soft as the skies."
While the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely,
Crying to the moo-oo-oon,
If only, If only.")
--
it's his hands, his hands are what really catch Ritsuka's attention. at first, the boy's eyes are drawn to the slender fingers, pale wrists that are perhaps a little too thin. thumbs that bend and gesture with a casual elegance. the motions are fluid and speak of hours of practice, dancing maybe, or drawing. and later, when Ritsuka knows better, he sees that they are trained for fighting.
then, when Soubi fights, his voice singing through the air like a blade, his hands articulate in motion. Ritsuka realizes that they are conductors of a song which Soubi weaves from some magical core which Ritsuka cannot see. the air, the elements, leap up in flurries of starlight and dust to fulfill the man's every intention.
the battle is over, and they crest a hilltop of grassy meadow and flowers, some scorched from their opponents words. shards of glass and abandoned soda cans wink up at him as the sun crests the skyline, descending into the earth. the ground is soft and thorned weeds catch at his pant legs, grasping at him like living things. one of Soubi's hands, the one with the round scar through the palm, clasps at his, engulfing it and warming it.
Soubi's hands are much larger than Ritsuka's. and although the skin is pale, and the nails are neat and gleam with a natural cleanness that Ritsuka knows his female classmates would sob at, the pads of his fingers are rough. Ritsuka stares down in fascination—Soubi's one hand easily encapsulates his own, swallowing and shielding it completely. his fingers are curled into a fist, but loose, resting against the calloused flesh of the older man.
and it is wrong, Ritsuka thinks, that their hands are shaped so. as Soubi leads them back towards Ritsuka's home, the boy thinks that it should be he who holds the other's hand in his own. Ritsuka is slightly ahead, walking just barely faster, leading them in where they go. and had not Soubi himself said, that Ritsuka is the master? at times the boy must sigh in exasperation. the wise, awkward, beautiful man has so many gaps in his education, does not seem to know, often, what is the socially appropriate reaction. and it is the boy who must scold, and teach, and know which way is home.
Ritsuka himself doesn't hold all the answers. when Soubi presses him to a wall, face buried in his neck, breathes a ragged rhythm like song, it's all the boy can do to keep from crying what do you want from me?
he is used to it though. he's been taking care of his mother for years, and his teachers, who are like children that need to know that everything is alright—the way it should be—the way they were always told things should be.
Ritsuka gets the feeling, sometimes, that no one ever told Soubi how things should be.
--