Watercolor
By: Miroir du Symphonie
Fandom: Kingdom Hearts
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Warnings: Implied Murder
Pairings: Roxas x Sora, Xemnas x Saïx, Kadaj x Yazoo x Loz, Marluxia x Larxene, Leon x Riku
A/N: I don't know if any of you have noticed the date today.
A year ago, I curled up in bed with my laptop, frantically typing up the first chapter to a story that had no direction. And now here I am exactly a year later—26 chapters to my name, over a hundred and fifty reviews and over twenty thousand hits, with outlines and aching fingers. I honestly never thought that I would reach this point, but I have, and there are several people that I'd like to thank.
The first of those people is, of course, my wonderful beta Oblea. I could not have gotten this far without her putting up with my bitching and whining and nonsensical first drafts. Just wanted to say publicly that you're awesome and I love you and if you were a dude I would have jumped you by now.
-leer- I kid, I kid.
Seriously, though, thanks. –wave-
Secondly, I'd like to thank my reviewers, whose words have been a major encouragement. Special thanks to the ones that came back after I decided to end my hiatus. Your dedication was extremely appreciated.
Thirdly, I'd like to thank my silent readers – the ones who read but don't review. Just letting you know that I love you as well, though I'd love it if you spoke up every once in a while...
Anyway, let's all look forward to another year together, shall we?
Now, about this chapter. As you've probably guessed from the warning, someone dies. No one particularly important to this story, but someone who I liked in FF7 and who got very little attention. All throughout it, I was all NO -blank- but it had to be done for one of the plotlines to advance.
I'm just sorry that the anniversary chapter is so emo – so before the day is over (or on the 31st or 1st if I don't finish in time) I will be submitting a bonus fic, completely unrelated to Watercolor, but as a gift for you all. So watch out for it. I hope you will like it.
Enjoy.
XXIV: Time of Dying
Saturday—January 24th
His eyes were sharp and seemed greener in the dim light of the parlor—emerald chips of ice that surveyed his surroundings with a superior air. He was not a diminutive man by any standards, ranging from physical aptitude to beauty to prowess in the coital arena. He was a man of stature, a man who commanded immediate submission when he walked into a room. For once, however, the tangible aura of power that seemed to follow him like a faithful companion held less animosity and more satisfaction: akin to the proverbial cat and its foolish canary.
To his current objects of focus, one would assume that this would be a welcome sign. Said objects of focus begged pitifully to differ. They were mere footstools in the presence of this man—certainly not lacking in skill, but breakable—and this fact had been etched into every jagged facet of their not-so-long lives. But all tools will mold to their master's grip with time: these tools had been in use for long enough to read the signs. So indeed, they did not agree.
The man has said nothing about his plans, but piece by piece they had formed a vague picture—forgetting for precious moments that ignorance is bliss. And what they saw was something that zapped all warmth from their marrow and replaced it with a sickening dread.
A dread that was to be fulfilled.
Tonight was the night.
If it had been a dignified thing to jump upon the nearest platform and commence a freakishly wild happy dance, Sephiroth would have certainly done so. Unfortunately, it was not, and he had to settle for a noticeable spring in his step. Every step of his soon-to-unfold plan had been carefully mapped out with months of espionage and careful arranging, and all that was left to do was to actually commit the act.
His gaze roved over his tools.
They knelt quietly at his feet, hands clasped behind their backs and heads bowed in deferential reverence. Not a wrinkle was folded wrong or a hair out of place—their posture was flawless, their eyes were empty, their faces blank.
Perfection. Near perfection.
He didn't even need to speak. With a hand motion they had vanished as if on air—with the grace of a ballroom dancer, but in a waltz much less innocent. And much less smooth, for the reaper was reluctant to set aside his scythe before offering his hand for a whirl.
Three souls, drifting through an imagined afternoon, spun a spinning wheel before them. Scissors flashed in the sunlight as a thread was cut.
As they knelt in the hydrangeas surrounding their target's private residence, Loz took the opportunity to observe his siblings.
Kadaj had his too-familiar killing face on, one that spoke of imminent danger and forced blankness of mind. The teen had done some healing since December's incident, and was slowly moving forward in the area of closeness—but it would be a long while before anything remotely carnal would happen.
Loz found that the thought didn't bother him as much as it would countless others. He had survived without sex for years. A while more without the experience would indeed not prove fatal.
Turning his head, he took in the sight of his older brother—malachite locks blowing in the wind and mouth twisted into a calculating scowl. While Loz was certainly not the brains of their operation and could be admittedly dense, he was used to the way that Yazoo behaved. So much so that he could tell that something major was on his sibling's mind. It was obvious to him, however, that the man was not willing to share and so the middle child did not push the issue.
He knew in his heart that his brother-turned-lover would never do anything to would hurt them. And so the only worry he harbored was for Yazoo's safety. Right now, Kadaj needed him more.
Yazoo was not unaware of his brother's staring, but chose not to comment as he stared into the open kitchen window. Indeed, his mind was working overtime as he tried to determine the moment of striking. The man's assignment had been no accident: Sephiroth had known exactly what he was doing when he sent their target off. The grueling experience would have no doubt been hell on both the man's physical and mental psyche.
Tonight was indeed the night.
To some, the white shirt was a simple convenience. Impossible to clash with any other color, plain, easily blended, and passable for any occasion. For others, the white shirt was a symbol of conformity—of compliance to the masses, of a purity that begged to be stripped away.
For Tseng, however, the white shirt was the ultimate symbol of pride.
He looked after his precious collection like newborn babies, ever vigilant for tears or fraying. It was also of the utmost importance that the coloration stayed as snow-white as possible: the first hint of graying or yellowing and the garment was immediately discarded. He kept them pressed, a crisp ashen army hanging from wooden hangers that he ironed each week for good measure. Yes, Tseng was quite careful with his shirts.
The only disregard he showed them was when he was taking them off.
Crème material flumped to the floor as its owner stumbled about, all professional dignity gone in the face of sheer sleepiness. His latest mission had been a simple surveillance one, but had been taken in the deserts of fucking North Corel—and after just one day he'd had sand in very uncomfortable places. Sure, he'd been partnered with Cissnei who was agreeable and knew when to leave him alone, but it would take weeks for the grainy, gritty feeling to leave him even though he'd bathed thoroughly and sent his equipment to be cleaned.
Sighing, he glanced at the clock. It was after midnight, but the gnawing feeling in his stomach simply refused to be ignored. There was bound to be something simple to prepare in his cupboard, tucked away somewhere...
The stove made a clicking sound before the gas ignited, a ring of fire licking at the dull metal that was placed above its surface. Outside the brick walls, the trio exchanged glances: the boiling water fogged the glass and obscured the view of the happenings inside. Cursing internally, Yazoo turned to his companions, Kadaj's emerald eyes holding a hint of alarm.
"Can you work through that?"
"I'll be fine. Spread out. Execute step 2. And be quick about it."
Yazoo quivered in the chilly night air, the body heat he'd been enjoying from his companions disappearing in their absence. Internally, he was thanking Sephiroth's foresight, for once—they had broken in earlier that day on his orders and pushed all of the target's windows myopically open. Which would, of course, make stealth much easier.
On the other side of the house, a crowbar pushed up the living room window and poked its metal head through, applying just enough force to shatter a nearby vase. A silver head darted away, ashen rod in hand and heart racing.
A room away, Tseng's head snapped up.
The echo of shattered porcelain sliced through his hearing like a scalpel, and he winced as he raced to the source of the sound. There, to his annoyance, he found his birthday gift from Elena in shards upon the floor. Looking around cautiously, he could see no cause for it tipping over. Perhaps the vibrations of his footsteps had traveled up and overbalanced it?
Shrugging, he opened his coat closet to retrieve a broom and paddle, bending down to scoop up the mess.
The window was closed.
Though the medic was growing increasingly on edge, the warmth of their youngest was beside him once more and Tseng's pot bubbled merrily on the stove below the window. The water vapor's fogging had made visibility much harder, and so Kadaj was sent back to keep watch on the still-sweeping Turk. His brothers' breaths were held meanwhile, the smoky clouds that formed from their exhales absent in cautious suspense.
Once more, metal pushed on glass and the window lifted with ease, exposing the cooking noodles to the chilly nighttime air.
Loz's hand couldn't help but shake as he uncorked a bottle. A muscular arm extended over the windowsill and above the unfinished meal, quivering as the contents of the vial were poured without mercy.
A little ways away, wood creaked under the weight of its owner. Loz's cell phone buzzed. They were out of time.
Tseng reentered the kitchen, full paddle held steadily despite his fatigue. His foot pressed the button for the garbage lid to spring open, and the Wutaian couldn't suppress a sigh as he tipped the remains of the vase inside. I hope Elena doesn't notice this when she comes over tomorrow to get the report....
By now, the surface of the water was a frothy white, and he cut the stove with adept fingers and a growling stomach.
The window was closed.
The familiar scent of chicken broth filled his nostrils as he poured the pot's contents into a bowl, forsaking chopsticks for a simpler fork and sitting at the kitchen table. A tired smile curled on his lips as he raised the fork to his lips, steam caressing his face like a lover.
Three figures watched the fall of a leader, midnight hair spilling across a cherry surface like raven down. And the coroner recorded the cause of death as suicide.
Laughter rang through the house, loudly and coldly enough to chill despite the heavy blankets. He held Kadaj in the darkness, the boy's body shaking and his face buried in the nape of the medic's neck.
The spastic movement of the duvet on his other side alerted him to Loz's continued activity.
The middle child hadn't stopped fidgeting his hands since they'd gotten back—even in Sephiroth's presence. His method hadn't changed, either: left on top of right, fingers scratching at his knuckles before going down to rub at his wrist. They were lucky that their Nii-san was in too much of a good mood to care about a minor infraction, and they had been sent to their room without incident. Still, the habit was no less disturbing to Yazoo and he felt fear curling in the pit of his stomach.
They knew they wouldn't be discovered. But their method...
It would have been more honorable if they had let the man fight, allowing him a chance at defending himself before crimson ribbon wrapped around a blade's quivering tip. But instead, they had taken the simplest human activity and perverted it to something unnatural.
The powder had been orange. It blended almost perfectly with the color of the broth. Had Tseng been more alert, he certainly would have noticed.
Sephiroth had left no margin for error.
And to add insult to injury, the papers would claim that he had intended his midnight snack as a last meal. That a steady, desperate hand had poured arsenic sulfide over noodles like some kind of perverted confection. And that his friends and his job hadn't been worth a damn thing.
Kadaj let out a desperate sob. Loz kept right on rubbing. And Yazoo made plans to visit a blonde-haired boy.