While You Were Sleeping
DISCLAIMER: Don't own anything, but if Hakkai lets me borrow his--Kanan's pocket watch, I'd find a way to polish it up REAL nice.
Quiet by day, and quiet by night. The sleeper is very methodical. He will close the door, undress, arrange everything in the order he will put them on tomorrow, perform his toilet and promptly go to sleep. And that is that.
Faded white pants lie across the chair beside the bed, well-washed with colour-preserving detergent. A trusted brand for him, and for her, at one time. The cuffs are slightly stiff, their hue dulled to a rustier shade thanks to all the blood he has waded through and all the dirt he has tracked through and all the dust of travel gathered upon the journey. Bleach is not on the budget here.
Atop the pants, a green shirt with white cord-buttons and red fasteners. Plastic, most likely, four benign hemispheres reflecting the light like drops of blood. The fabric is soft, thick, warm, worn, like a second skin. Silk? Cotton? Wool? Canvas? Who knows? Does it matter?
Below the chair, shoes, plain canvas affairs, scuffed not on the toes where feet grow, not on the heels where people drag against change, but on the soles, where accelerator pedals are pressed and kicks meet hollow skulls and ribs, and feet slide, trying to gain purchase against an enemies pressing attack. Soles, where feet touch ground, child of earth to earth, where shoes rise and fall to hit the earth, rise and fall to hit the earth; soles, where steps are plotted one by one, and a journey continues.
Upon the bedside table, a monocle and a bandanna. The monocle is thin glass, no use for visual correction, so heaven knows why he uses it. The bandanna is folded, but so crisply and neatly the more perverse wish suddenly to just touch it, put one wrinkle upon it and be satisfied. Nothing can be so perfect. No man can ever be so similarly immaculate.
The sleeper himself sleeps on his front--he ALWAYS sleeps on his front, hands crossed over his chest, upon his lap if he sleeps, enfolding the sake cup that reflects the moon--somewhere, always with fingers safely interlocked, a gesture like prayer. You wonder if it is meant as a guarded gesture, to make sure any blows will hit the sinner's hands before the heart, or if it is tender, as if he is clutching to his breast something (or someone) dear and important, a rare flower, a fragile jewel...
...or a pocket watch.
It usually stays in the pants pocket, the one with the softly fuzzy edges because of frequent use conjuring tissues, small change and rice crackers (the last one for the pet dragon who sleeps peacefully in his shadow) from its depths. The watch is not particularly ornate, nor is it particularly flashy, small, round and gold on its thin gold chain. The glass is cracked from side to side--or rather, it forms a two-pronged divider that bisects the face, separating the roman numerals 8 to 12 from their neighbours, and a tiny offshoot of the fissure sealing 12 in its own small triangle of broken glass. The cogs do not work--they are clogged with dust, age and blood. The watch is old, with Roman numerals, and divulges neither date nor exact time. It captures a brief moment of death and desolation--1.23, an odd little sequence in itself.
The metal is always warm--it is always close to his living skin. Its weight, close to him like a small lump of flesh, ties him down, reminds him he has sinned and must always pay for the sins of his passion. Its presence--something entirely different--reminds him why he has sinned and why he continues to sin as he pays his debts, keeping them in a motley balance. The metal that he holds close to his heart is warm like flesh, and is imbued with the scent of her skin, crushed roses, and her hair, apple blossom wind, and her sweat, faint and delicate sakura. Truly she existed as the whisper of the flowers. It is a scent like incense, of life and death.
The moonlight shines on his face, highlighting the contours of his features. He is not getting any younger, and the faintest outlines of scars criss-cross his cheeks and chin and near the right eye. Smile lines, too, smooth their way across his face, and as the breeze heaves a sigh he turns his head slightly, and you see the peace upon his features, peace sometimes even sleep cannot bestow.
Tonight, he is lucky. He is usually lucky if the heavens do not weep morosely over his form. He dreams not of the past, but the present, visions coloured in scarlets, golds, greens and violets. He sleeps well, and in his sleep, you see him smile, serene and truly happy to belong.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own anything, but if Hakkai lets me borrow his--Kanan's pocket watch, I'd find a way to polish it up REAL nice.
Quiet by day, and quiet by night. The sleeper is very methodical. He will close the door, undress, arrange everything in the order he will put them on tomorrow, perform his toilet and promptly go to sleep. And that is that.
Faded white pants lie across the chair beside the bed, well-washed with colour-preserving detergent. A trusted brand for him, and for her, at one time. The cuffs are slightly stiff, their hue dulled to a rustier shade thanks to all the blood he has waded through and all the dirt he has tracked through and all the dust of travel gathered upon the journey. Bleach is not on the budget here.
Atop the pants, a green shirt with white cord-buttons and red fasteners. Plastic, most likely, four benign hemispheres reflecting the light like drops of blood. The fabric is soft, thick, warm, worn, like a second skin. Silk? Cotton? Wool? Canvas? Who knows? Does it matter?
Below the chair, shoes, plain canvas affairs, scuffed not on the toes where feet grow, not on the heels where people drag against change, but on the soles, where accelerator pedals are pressed and kicks meet hollow skulls and ribs, and feet slide, trying to gain purchase against an enemies pressing attack. Soles, where feet touch ground, child of earth to earth, where shoes rise and fall to hit the earth, rise and fall to hit the earth; soles, where steps are plotted one by one, and a journey continues.
Upon the bedside table, a monocle and a bandanna. The monocle is thin glass, no use for visual correction, so heaven knows why he uses it. The bandanna is folded, but so crisply and neatly the more perverse wish suddenly to just touch it, put one wrinkle upon it and be satisfied. Nothing can be so perfect. No man can ever be so similarly immaculate.
The sleeper himself sleeps on his front--he ALWAYS sleeps on his front, hands crossed over his chest, upon his lap if he sleeps, enfolding the sake cup that reflects the moon--somewhere, always with fingers safely interlocked, a gesture like prayer. You wonder if it is meant as a guarded gesture, to make sure any blows will hit the sinner's hands before the heart, or if it is tender, as if he is clutching to his breast something (or someone) dear and important, a rare flower, a fragile jewel...
...or a pocket watch.
It usually stays in the pants pocket, the one with the softly fuzzy edges because of frequent use conjuring tissues, small change and rice crackers (the last one for the pet dragon who sleeps peacefully in his shadow) from its depths. The watch is not particularly ornate, nor is it particularly flashy, small, round and gold on its thin gold chain. The glass is cracked from side to side--or rather, it forms a two-pronged divider that bisects the face, separating the roman numerals 8 to 12 from their neighbours, and a tiny offshoot of the fissure sealing 12 in its own small triangle of broken glass. The cogs do not work--they are clogged with dust, age and blood. The watch is old, with Roman numerals, and divulges neither date nor exact time. It captures a brief moment of death and desolation--1.23, an odd little sequence in itself.
The metal is always warm--it is always close to his living skin. Its weight, close to him like a small lump of flesh, ties him down, reminds him he has sinned and must always pay for the sins of his passion. Its presence--something entirely different--reminds him why he has sinned and why he continues to sin as he pays his debts, keeping them in a motley balance. The metal that he holds close to his heart is warm like flesh, and is imbued with the scent of her skin, crushed roses, and her hair, apple blossom wind, and her sweat, faint and delicate sakura. Truly she existed as the whisper of the flowers. It is a scent like incense, of life and death.
The moonlight shines on his face, highlighting the contours of his features. He is not getting any younger, and the faintest outlines of scars criss-cross his cheeks and chin and near the right eye. Smile lines, too, smooth their way across his face, and as the breeze heaves a sigh he turns his head slightly, and you see the peace upon his features, peace sometimes even sleep cannot bestow.
Tonight, he is lucky. He is usually lucky if the heavens do not weep morosely over his form. He dreams not of the past, but the present, visions coloured in scarlets, golds, greens and violets. He sleeps well, and in his sleep, you see him smile, serene and truly happy to belong.