Purple Squall 3/?
By Nix Winter
Disclaimers: I don't own Gravitation, ff8, WK, or biblical characters. The story is mine
Eiri spilled coffee on the counter. Teeth clenched, he used both hands to put the caraf back in the coffee maker. He had half a cup of coffee in his cup. Hands shaking, he got the cup to the tray attached to the arm of his wheel chair. Leaning his head back against his headrest, he licked dry lips and adjusted the oxygen tubing under his nose. "Desk," he wheezed into the tiny microphone by his mouth.
The chair glided forward, not so much causing a ripple across his coffee. Shuichi should have been back, or he should have phoned. A music video of Shuichi at the most recent New Year's celebration concert played in their living room, in all of his solid looking holographic glory. "Interactive," Eiri whispered and the concert replay ended.
Shuichi-h spun around, impossibly pink hair fanning out, then smacking into his face. "Eiri! You're still supposed to be resting! Is that coffee?"
"Yes, not supposed to drink caffeine. Get black leather notebook, bottom drawer, my dresser. Brring me a blanket. Located Shuichi, locate Touma. Initiate."
Unlike the real Shuichi, Shuichi-h did exactly as he was told. Because he was programmed over the top of recorded algorithms from the real Shuichi, he tucked the fleece blanket in around Eiri's legs tenderly. "You did not take your scheduled dose of painkiller. I will get that for you now, confirm?"
"You are too much like my brat. His location?"
"Shuichi is in Tokyo airport. There is a one way flight scheduled to Democratic-Republic of Seattle."
"Health status?" Eiri asked as he struggled to open his notebook. Shuichi-h steadied the book so Eiri's too slender fingers could turn through the yellowing pages.
"Unable to confirm Shuichi's health status. Touma is enroute to this location. He has left you a voice message, play now, confirm?"
"Hold his message. Set the apartment entrance to 'away', high security. Dial this number." Eiri reached for his coffee with both hands. The number in question had been written years ago.
"Connecting." The very tips of Shuichi-h's hair sparkled. The change was subtle, as the connection established. Shuichi-h took the form of the person the call reached to. A tall man, slender and pale, green eyes, sunglasses lazing on his nose, a cigarette in one hand, Youji Kudou smirked. "I knew you'd call Uesugi. About time."
It had a decade, give or take. Youji had not aged one moment since they'd first met. Not for the first time, Eiri thought he could see the faint image of angel wings behind the blond's shoulders. It had been a message years before when Shuichi had returned to him safe, after the terrorist attacks on the subway. "I need him back safely again."
"You need more than that," Youji said, reverently. "Why did you wait so long?"
Eiri wanted a cigarette. He wanted it almost as much as he wished Youji couldn't see how weak and desperate he was. "I did not call to debate my choices. I called to finalize an arrangement."
"You had to cut it so close?"
Eiri's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"It's been so long since I was alive, I forgot the living don't know when they're going to die." Youji said, leaning forward, a look of compassion on his face. "Come on, Eiri, it's not so bad. You'll make one hell of an angel for the twilight."
"Isn't that a contradiction? Hell of an angel?" Eiri said, fighting off the shortness of breath that was shrinking his lungs. "I want new terms."
"Don't you think it's a little late for negotiations?" Youji leaned forward and being the magical creature that he was, stepped right through the data connection and into Eiri and Shuichi's living room. Shuichi-h flickered and fuzzed static, but Youji was really there, really kneeling in front of a gasping Uesugi Eiri. "I'll take you to him, Eiri. He'll listen. He'll give you what you want."
The writer nodded, eyes half closed, mouth open and gasping for air. His fingers held the oxygen tubing to his nose, other fingers trying to turn it up.
Youji reached up and stopped him, pulling the tube away. "It's too late for that. Don't worry."
Eiri's fingers dropped from his face, knocking over his last half cup of coffee. "Shuichi. Where is Shuichi?"
"You'll have to ask him that," Youji said, holding his cigarette between his lips, as he lifted Eiri's wasted body up in strong arms, arms and hands covered by thin twilight blue leather, blessed to hold back the wraith curse.
Eiri's head fell back against powerful feathered wing, his chest aching as he tried to draw breath in lungs ruined by disease and misuse. "Shuichi, I want to buy him safe."
"Yeah," Youji said, between lips holding his own cigarette. "Everyone's got their price, uh?"
The twilight angel carried Eiri away from the wheel chair and the shattered mug, out of the living room and into the world beyond. Shuichi-h dropped to his knees and wept. He was just a computer program, but he was built on the emotions and personality that was Shindou Shuichi.
There was no one to answer the phone when Shuichi called moments later, no one to let Touma in. Half way around the world, another blond man sat on a street corner, a sketch book on his lap, drawing images of angels from his mind, selling them for little more than the price of a coffee. He had a mirror image scar between his eyes, just like Squall's, but his eyes were kind, gentle.
His fingers flew over the paper, moving the little stub of woodless pencil here, there, slashing almost. This drawing wasn't for sale. It was just for himself. Only sometimes could he get the paper to give him this image. Emerging from the paper was a man with wild hair and pointy ears, a delicate face, and a scar that matched his own. The blond didn't know who he drew. Of course, he didn't know his own name either, so it was all nicely balanced.
By Nix Winter
Disclaimers: I don't own Gravitation, ff8, WK, or biblical characters. The story is mine
Eiri spilled coffee on the counter. Teeth clenched, he used both hands to put the caraf back in the coffee maker. He had half a cup of coffee in his cup. Hands shaking, he got the cup to the tray attached to the arm of his wheel chair. Leaning his head back against his headrest, he licked dry lips and adjusted the oxygen tubing under his nose. "Desk," he wheezed into the tiny microphone by his mouth.
The chair glided forward, not so much causing a ripple across his coffee. Shuichi should have been back, or he should have phoned. A music video of Shuichi at the most recent New Year's celebration concert played in their living room, in all of his solid looking holographic glory. "Interactive," Eiri whispered and the concert replay ended.
Shuichi-h spun around, impossibly pink hair fanning out, then smacking into his face. "Eiri! You're still supposed to be resting! Is that coffee?"
"Yes, not supposed to drink caffeine. Get black leather notebook, bottom drawer, my dresser. Brring me a blanket. Located Shuichi, locate Touma. Initiate."
Unlike the real Shuichi, Shuichi-h did exactly as he was told. Because he was programmed over the top of recorded algorithms from the real Shuichi, he tucked the fleece blanket in around Eiri's legs tenderly. "You did not take your scheduled dose of painkiller. I will get that for you now, confirm?"
"You are too much like my brat. His location?"
"Shuichi is in Tokyo airport. There is a one way flight scheduled to Democratic-Republic of Seattle."
"Health status?" Eiri asked as he struggled to open his notebook. Shuichi-h steadied the book so Eiri's too slender fingers could turn through the yellowing pages.
"Unable to confirm Shuichi's health status. Touma is enroute to this location. He has left you a voice message, play now, confirm?"
"Hold his message. Set the apartment entrance to 'away', high security. Dial this number." Eiri reached for his coffee with both hands. The number in question had been written years ago.
"Connecting." The very tips of Shuichi-h's hair sparkled. The change was subtle, as the connection established. Shuichi-h took the form of the person the call reached to. A tall man, slender and pale, green eyes, sunglasses lazing on his nose, a cigarette in one hand, Youji Kudou smirked. "I knew you'd call Uesugi. About time."
It had a decade, give or take. Youji had not aged one moment since they'd first met. Not for the first time, Eiri thought he could see the faint image of angel wings behind the blond's shoulders. It had been a message years before when Shuichi had returned to him safe, after the terrorist attacks on the subway. "I need him back safely again."
"You need more than that," Youji said, reverently. "Why did you wait so long?"
Eiri wanted a cigarette. He wanted it almost as much as he wished Youji couldn't see how weak and desperate he was. "I did not call to debate my choices. I called to finalize an arrangement."
"You had to cut it so close?"
Eiri's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"It's been so long since I was alive, I forgot the living don't know when they're going to die." Youji said, leaning forward, a look of compassion on his face. "Come on, Eiri, it's not so bad. You'll make one hell of an angel for the twilight."
"Isn't that a contradiction? Hell of an angel?" Eiri said, fighting off the shortness of breath that was shrinking his lungs. "I want new terms."
"Don't you think it's a little late for negotiations?" Youji leaned forward and being the magical creature that he was, stepped right through the data connection and into Eiri and Shuichi's living room. Shuichi-h flickered and fuzzed static, but Youji was really there, really kneeling in front of a gasping Uesugi Eiri. "I'll take you to him, Eiri. He'll listen. He'll give you what you want."
The writer nodded, eyes half closed, mouth open and gasping for air. His fingers held the oxygen tubing to his nose, other fingers trying to turn it up.
Youji reached up and stopped him, pulling the tube away. "It's too late for that. Don't worry."
Eiri's fingers dropped from his face, knocking over his last half cup of coffee. "Shuichi. Where is Shuichi?"
"You'll have to ask him that," Youji said, holding his cigarette between his lips, as he lifted Eiri's wasted body up in strong arms, arms and hands covered by thin twilight blue leather, blessed to hold back the wraith curse.
Eiri's head fell back against powerful feathered wing, his chest aching as he tried to draw breath in lungs ruined by disease and misuse. "Shuichi, I want to buy him safe."
"Yeah," Youji said, between lips holding his own cigarette. "Everyone's got their price, uh?"
The twilight angel carried Eiri away from the wheel chair and the shattered mug, out of the living room and into the world beyond. Shuichi-h dropped to his knees and wept. He was just a computer program, but he was built on the emotions and personality that was Shindou Shuichi.
There was no one to answer the phone when Shuichi called moments later, no one to let Touma in. Half way around the world, another blond man sat on a street corner, a sketch book on his lap, drawing images of angels from his mind, selling them for little more than the price of a coffee. He had a mirror image scar between his eyes, just like Squall's, but his eyes were kind, gentle.
His fingers flew over the paper, moving the little stub of woodless pencil here, there, slashing almost. This drawing wasn't for sale. It was just for himself. Only sometimes could he get the paper to give him this image. Emerging from the paper was a man with wild hair and pointy ears, a delicate face, and a scar that matched his own. The blond didn't know who he drew. Of course, he didn't know his own name either, so it was all nicely balanced.