TAINTED PERIWINKLE
Or: Sight
The long lane they walk down is deserted, swept clean by the gusts of strong wind that roll through in waves, like the tide of the tempest. Large oaks and small poplars intermittently dot each side of the road. The large trees haughtily dip their heads in passing acknowledgement, while the smaller stems thrust out their branches in grand gestures, nearly bending double in the gale to bow and scrape as the two figures walk by.
The grey of the pavement is framed with orange, red and brown from the scattered leaves, whose curled bodies shine wetly.
Soubi walks two paces behind him. Hearing the footfalls when the wind momentarily calms, Seimei can imagine the swish of his plumb coloured coat, its fur trimmed edges twitching in the wind.
Seimei keeps his pace unhurried, but brisk, uncaring if Soubi has trouble keeping up with the two long gashes down his side that he sustained during the spell battle.
They round the last corner into another empty street. Seimei can already see Soubi's apartment building against the backdrop of a chaotically stormy sky, all shades of grey thrashed together like a spilt pallet of monochromatic paint.
It's barely warmer inside the apartment than outside in the chilled autumn wind.
Seimei surveys the bare room, though nothing ever changes. The television and dining table look barely used and even the white sheets pulled tightly around the double bed look impersonal, neutral.
The only part of the room that looks lived is Soubi's easel, by the window, turned to catch as much of the low light as the darker days would give.
Brushes lay sprawled around the legs of the easel, spindly bodies with heads of hair varying from wildly peeking in every direction to slicked into a precise point. There were several jars of water, all muddled with colour from a different part of the spectrum, as not to tarnish a fresh dollop of paint.
Soubi is still standing by the door, not moving further into his own residence while Seimei looks around.
'Soubi,' Seimei addresses his Fighter without turning to look at him, 'why didn't you defend against Soundless' last attack?'
The question sounds casual, amiable even, but the air between the two men tightens with tension.
'Their Fighter had powerful defensive spells,' Soubi's voice is clear and calm.
Something beckons Semei's wandering gaze and he focuses on two black dots of dried paint on the wooden floor as Soubi continues.
'I timed my attack to coincide with his own, to catch him off guard.'
A tendril of sickly anger, darker than the two small blots of saturated colour, uncoils somewhere within Seimei, swiping out and he snaps around to face Soubi, mouth already open for rebuke.
The sight that greets him makes all words die down before they start to come.
I didn't prepare myself, he manages to think before even all thought of words is driven from him.
Seimei's gaze meets Soubi's. The usually meek look – the times Soubi looks at him at all – is replaced by one that's brightly attentive, pale eyes still shining with power from their battle.
Something clenches in Seimei's chest before spreading lower and turning into a fluttering sensation as he stares at Soubi.
Those eyes. Blue and grey diluted until mixing into delicate periwinkle, stretching inward to such depths as to make Seimei want to dive into those dual pools to see how far down the colour reaches.
Seimei is suddenly struck by the thought of how perfect Soubi's eyes match with the dirty blonde of his long hair, still tousled from the blasts of wind outside.
Soubi is staring back at him, the ghost of a frown creasing the bridge of his nose. When he speaks, a part of Seimei – suddenly so distant and hard to reach – detects a tremor in that otherwise steady voice.
'Seimei?'
The soft tone, the small movements of pale lips somewhere below the blue, below those eyes, snaps reality back into place, reminding Seimei who – what – it is that looks back at him.
Soubi. Blank Soubi. Scarred Soubi. Stained, dirty, soiled Soubi.
The back of Seimei's hand connecting with the his right cheek snaps Soubi's head to the side, giving Seimei some much needed reprieve. This time he is ready for it when Soubi rights himself.
Soubi's eyes meet his briefly and Seimei steels himself against the familiarly unfamiliar sensation coursing through him before he decisively crushes it. Soubi lowers his gaze.
The mark blossoming on Soubi's cheekbone, initial red quickly swelling into purple, is almost as pleasing as the pale orbs of blue.
No, Seimei tells himself, more pleasing.
'Beloved's Fighter does not need to catch his opponent off guard,' Seimei explains coldly, face pulled into what he knew to be a subtly derisive sneer.
'Understood,' Soubi's voice is once again steady and demure as he lifts his eyes.
It's harder, this time, for Seimei to quash the feelings that race through him.
'Don't look at me.'
Seimei pretends his voice doesn't turn suddenly harsh, doesn't sound breathless. His heart settles as the delicate, tainted periwinkle is turned away again.
'Yes, Beloved.'
A/N: Next week: Taste. Ritsuka has yet to grasp his own appetites.
All comments welcome!
