Insensibility

Any voracious reader, no matter how eclectic or literary their tastes, will eventually happen across descriptions of a kiss. How it can make the people kissing go weak at the knees, see stars, ache, gasp, moan, feel all kinds of things Kubota has never felt, not ever. People do not interest him, nothing about them interests him, and

(intimacies)

kisses do not interest him.

There are lips upon his. He supposes he could catalogue the sensations – he is a very observant man, nothing really escapes his notice – but he can't make himself want to – he can't make himself want so many things. There are lips, and there is lust – not his, but Sanada's. He can feel that, it is an intrusive enough sensation that it registers on his mind whether he

(wants)

requires it to or not.

And there is nothing.

Whenever he tries something new, there is always a delicious moment of uncertainty. All his life, he has wandered in search of……something. Something he cannot quite grasp, or understand, or acknowledge – and for one such as he, so skilled in analysis both of himself and of others, that is a strange thing indeed. Every time he feels that uncertainty, something wakes within him – calm and expectant, a dormant volcano waiting only for the correct trigger to unleash its full force. Every game, every gamble, every fight, he waits for that push, for that force to show itself, and every time he has been

(denied)

disappointed.

Now, there is disappointment again. Not a very strong emotion, though. Just a calm sort of acceptance and a subsiding into

(simplicity)

normalcy, grey and black and white. This is not it, that thing in him still lies leashed.

And so he sits there, passive, and now there is a tongue as well, he can feel it and it isn't quite pleasant, isn't quite unpleasant, isn't really anything memorable enough to think of or dream of or attach enough significance to that he would spend another moment contemplating it. It simply is, and it is as unremarkable as the colour of daylight or the wetness of water.

There is vanilla scent around him, as bland and predictable and

(mixed with tobacco)

ordinary as Sanada himself. It is nothing new; even that brief moment of uncertainty, that sweet

(hope?)

expectancy is not present because this is, for the lack of a better word, boring. Old. Faded as the colours of this city, and dying as slowly and inexorably.

A slightly different taste. Air on damp lips. The lack of pressure. Sanada's face focuses again, staring at him, looking at him and searching for some-

(reaction)

-thing that Kubota evidently doesn't have, because he withdraws.

There is a challenge in his eyes, some misreading of what he saw in Kubota's eyes, because his body language is that of a predator, I will make you want me it says and Kubota would tell him not to

(pursue)

bother, but the gambler in him prevents unnecessary revelations and he does not; he thanks him instead, lets Sanada make of the word what he will, and lets the memory of the last half-minute fall into nothingness.

He leans back against soft plush, and the gum is in his mouth now, payment for services rendered, he supposes, darkly amused by the whole thing.

What a pity vanilla is so uninspiring and overwhelming at the same time. He really would have liked to taste the gum better; after all, he has only three weeks before the next one comes out, and now he can't decide whether he likes it enough to go buy one or not.

A/N: well, I think I captured Kubota's voice decently, inasmuch as he can be captured. Did you know that, considering there are only 97 or so fics in the WA fandom, I now have over 2 of the contributions? Sigh. And I can't seem to write really good stuff for it, so.