Note: request!fic, with the prompts "Seimei" and "rewind."
-
He is godly before waning, so small and devout, imperfectly styled and illegibly simple – and they tell him sweetly, but in cardinal sin, "You'll hold your brother tomorrow, watch with his head!" - so he nods but the once, and takes the tips of them, fingers, takes the early fall of grace of them, fingers, the pride of their battered broken black wings of them, fingers, the angels screaming of them, fingers, hell's gates scribbled naughtily in every bone of his hands. He takes them to cold water, wretchedly iced, runs them by the wind, where he thinks mum won't see, then keeps them tight to the little lit candle of good auspice, skin baptized in blisters, and tears, and bandages in a blink.
Accident, they reckon, just that age, they suppose, and he nods (rewind, pause, press delete), and he prays to the great gods of scarring every long hour, "Please, let them wound, please, oh please, don't want to touch'im with skin that's gone touched someone else, don't want to, please scar, please do, please."
And he practices a lullaby.
Oh, Ritsuka.
-