|ABSOLUTION +|

measuringtime @ 2007-05-15T21:06:00

2007-05-16T01:06:39Z

Yo.

Catch me here:
we_murmured

Ja.

measuringtime @ 2007-04-17T22:03:00

2007-04-18T02:05:11Z

Just to let you know, I decided to abandon this journal. I started a new one. I need change from this one, so there you go.

For right now, that journal is under construction (the new one), so I'll give it out whenever.

(:

measuringtime @ 2007-04-05T17:50:00

2007-04-05T21:56:17Z

Last of the good news, guys.
After this, you'll see what I mean.

The offer that was presented to me at Wheaton College is exceptionally rare. For some reason, I caught the eye of admissions staff, and they offered me an incredible sum of money to go to that college. So, when my parents went to the financial meeting this evening, the women told them not to even bother to have me fill out scholarships, because that money they gave me is all I will need.

No, seriously. I do not shit you when I say this.

Otherwise, guys, I am going on hiatus. I have no motivation to update this journal anymore. It was a nice part of my life for a long time, but I have grown up. I love you folks, but I honestly feel like I should leave.

Contact me any time at ersatz humanity on AIM, sans.reves@gmail.com, or hellaborous on AIM.

Peace.

measuringtime @ 2007-02-28T11:10:00

2007-02-28T16:22:24Z

Political talk. If you're offended by the criticism of our government/society and the suggestion of alternative governments, then take mind to direct your attentions elsewhere.

What of Communism and Socialism? Speaking about it with a freshly returned teacher and friends, we decided nigh simultaneously that while Communism looks nice on paper, it could only be used as a basis for a new government. And what then? Does this make me a threat to Corporate American and their fuzzy math? What if we just used it as a base, to close the gap between the rich and the poor, and then blend in Socialism? To take the pressure off the working class, as the rich are not getting fairly taxed? We retain our individuality, but our measure of self is no longer based on our seemingly inconsistent monetary values. State run and society driven? Yes, I find that working better. Everything is distributed. We have what we need.

However, to change the minds of greedy Americans bent on material gluttony? Harder to vanquish. I do not approve of a country that tells its citizens to buy cars after a terrorist bombing. I especially do not approve of those who followed it. I find it disturbing that people sell flags and bumper stickers and other such merchandise at Ground Zero when the anniversary comes. If anything, that disrespects the dead even more than the mere memory of who potentially committed the crime. How dare we?

Greed, that's why.

On such a day, I think America should hang its head out complete humility and declare that our government did not take necessary action prior to this attack and that we, as a people, exploited the emotions of others and thought ourselves invincible.

Selling trinkets there? We are completely shameless. I think other countries would be completely disgusted.

Also, what happened to the quality of our generation? I have talked to many who think like I do, and we have agreed that we do not necessarily believe that we were properly placed in society or time periods. I look at my peers and I cringe to think of what their children will be like. Already, marijuana is starting to seep down to the Elementary schools. Already, people are forgetting the importance of literature. Already, people have forgotten what it was like to be a good person and serve others in need.

Already, we have forgotten what life was like when we had higher rates of employment and the roaring twenties still had a grip on our idealistic thoughts.

Everything is commercial. To think, weed and prostitution would likely be legal if the government could regulate it. Personally, I find they have such distaste for it because they do not personally gain profit from it, unless, of course, they make an effort to.

Nowadays, everything is about spending cash. More people are racking up debts. More teenagers buy cars they cannot afford. More people spend money on electronics they do not need. More teenagers, my sister included, have become the backbone of Corporate America, spending cash on clothes they do not need and jewelry that is rarely worn.

I sit here and pay for what I really need. I pay a very low rate of car insurance - I don't need a fancy car -, I rarely treat myself to anything - I tell people not to get me gifts more often, now -, and it took me months to get clothes I desperately needed - and this was after the persistent prompting of my mother.

I don't need fancy coffee. I don't need fancy cars. I don't need a massive house that could easily shelter six people or more.

And to think we all generally started in Communist societies before we became "sophisticated."

Eh.

What I am curious about is: "What are your thoughts on this?"

----
Novel related:
----
I have begun to semi-officially write my sequel. It takes place a year after the ending, but this one is decidedly darker and deeper (if that's possible) than the last. It deals with a lot more, some of which may or may not particularly coincide with odd experiences I have come to encounter in recent years.

Mother happened to read it again, and this time she says she really wants to see it published. I am glad for this, especially since she reads like a fiend and is very selective.
She said she was glad that I dealt with the subject matter I did the first time around, and now she says she's picking up on things she never noticed before. This is a good thing. I did tell her that she would have to take reading it again into consideration. (It is not a one time read. I have read my own work three or four times and I have picked up on new things I did not even know existed in my writing until now.)

Unfortunately, however, the man that transfered my novel to the very nice professor at P.C. is very ill at the moment. He has cancer and he plans to go in for chemotherapy, but his health has declined as of late. It really is not a joke when people say:
"When one person you know dies, everyone else seems to die as well."

In this case, I hope I am wrong. He is a kindly man with good intentions and I have come to admire him greatly, along with his lovely wife. I feel terribly and my heart goes out to them.

I must retrieve my novel back from my neighbor tomorrow, as well.

And I am getting closer to the letter day for colleges. After March 15th, I will be confronting one of the English departments.

Wish me luck.

---
Did I die or something? Jesus Christ. Let me fill you in on why I have been so unreliable and distant: I have no fucking time at all to do anything, lately. Not even over vacation. I feel like an asshole, but look at this fucking line-up. I can't even review my own friend's work that was given to me ages ago. Why? I have no fucking time and I hate myself for it.
---

Ready for this crock of shit? Good.

March 1: Raps and continuation of theme presentations.
March 2: Theoretical due-date of Fever Charts for Hamlet. (65% done.)
March 8: Major essay comparing Irving and Shakespeare due.
March 9: Dialectical Journals on The Stranger due. I just got the damn book yesterday.
March 12: Siddhartha needs to be read.
March 19: A Day in the Life needs to be read.
March 26: Death of Ivan Ilych needs to be read.
April 2: Job (Doll's House if time permits)
April 9: The Color Purple.
April 23: Joys of Motherhood. (DUE AFTER FUCKING VACATION.)
After the AP Exam: Cat's Cradle, Goodbye Columbus, Importance of Being Earnest.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Do you see why I have been so dead to the world, lately? This is one fucking class. One.
I am not even making a mention of my AP European History class, which I have a student teacher assignment I have to do sometime next week.

Mind you, I am going to fucking New York City next week for a trip. MY TRIP IS GOING TO BE FUCKING AP ENGLISH.

I HATE YOU, CLASS. ]<

You should have seen the shit I had to do over the summer before I even took this course. I had to read four books, two of them exceeding six-hundred pages, and had to do an essay/project/journal for every last one of them. Sometimes two! We thought this fucking class was slowing down in the last semester, but it isn't. Don't you fucking understand we no longer have any motivation for your asshole-ish projects? I recently had to write a forty page magazine for AP Euro! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK FUCK. slahfkljla.

Seriously. I need to calm down, but I am so stressed out right now it is unbelievable. I have had more nervous breakdowns than I have had over the last three years. I have collapsed, gotten sick from tension, and generally had to deal with the biggest bombs my inner self has set on me this year, ever.

Can I just fucking sleep for more than five hours every night? Five is not even the exact time. More like four. I don't want to keep waking up in the middle of the night in a panic, only to remember my mind is just freaking out on me.

AT LEAST WE WILL BE PHENOMENAL IN OUR COLLEGES.
Apparently, a good peer of mine is taking a college course in Psychology right now and she says we put them to shame with our essays and overall workload.

measuringtime @ 2006-12-24T10:31:00

2006-12-24T16:59:54Z

They're all going to be late from me, this year. My life has been consumed by my classes, college, general stress, and shopping. L, your gift should arrive before/after New Years. I tried to get your shopping done first and foremost so I could send it out, but I like to think of late gifts as an extended Christmas. Or maybe I am on crack. (In other words, I am really, truly, sorry for being a complete moron.)

Otherwise, I plan on making something for you all. Even though I'll likely be presenting them late at night tonight when I can barely type, never mind do something you all might enjoy. Or, at least I hope you'll like it.

Also, please, I want to send someone my bakery goods. I make sugar cookies and chocolate-covered, peanut-butter truffles from scratch and my IRL friends are now constantly vying for them. I am more apt to send out sugar cookies as they will not potentially melt, but this means they'll be a little late, also. (I have good reviews, I swear! Everyone who ate one or the other loved them.)

I am certain I can make more bakery goods from scratch, but those would be even later. Eek.

So, if you're interested, leave me an e-mail at:

sans dot reves at gmail dot com.
(Adrian avoids bots, take one!)

Ben and his boyfriend, Josh, came over the other day.
(They seem to be doing a lot of that, lately. Haha. No, really, I spend at least one day a week with them over my house or over Ben's until about one in the morning. We pump ourselves up on caffeine and play SSBM until Josh or myself get sick of fighting each other, because Ben is not really all that stellar and anyone else who joins in our brawl gets their asses kicked.)

We hung around for a bit and Josh procured his PS2 and we played Katamari Damacy for an hour or so before we had to head out to Best Buy so my sister could do her last minute shopping. (Josh is insanely generous and insanely suicidal when it comes to Christmas shopping. He volunteered to drive my sister down there, so Ben and I tagged along.)

We found the most amazing chair ever while we were there. You could rock back until you were parallel with the ground and still flip back up. I accompanied my testing of this chair with appropriate Sheik noises. (Yes, this includes: Ka-chik, chik, chik, chik, brrthrrrd. This also includes: Tu! Whrtch!)

Needless to say, we all laughed when people kept staring. SSBM has permeated a good part of our life, because we run around (literally) like idiots making noises from it, as well as imitating some of the moves. We like to do the weird side-run that Sheik does. There's also a joke going around that if I turn counter-clockwise, I turn into Adrian with a good deal of purple wrist-sparks and dramatic piano music. (Because girly tinkling does not suit me, no suh.)

I also saw the Wii version of The Twilight Princess there, and Josh had to forcibly rip the beautiful piece of plastic from my hands and drag me off while I was whining:
"Zelda, Zeldaaaaa..."

Yes. I really want that game. Very much so.

I tried this weird guitar game while we were there, too. I failed miserably after I told Ben:
"Watch me die a dramatic and somewhat gruesome death!"

AND I DID AND IT WAS AMAZING.

The rocker in the video game's head lit on fire! :D

Josh, Ben, and myself then proceeded to Borders while my sister made a stop at the Dollar Store after that. I found The Guiness Book of World Records: 2007, while I was there and Ben and I had a good time looking at it. We liked the gory sections in particular, but, come'on, who can blame us? A girl got her entire face ripped off and then put back on. It was several levels of:
"HOLYGOODGOD."

Haha.

On the way back from all these areas, somehow my short novel came into conversation and Josh declared:
"You should make an audio-book, since you're going to read it to your sister...BECAUSE SHE HATES READING. -makes a face at her, despite driving-"

I then rattled off what all of them sound like. My sister, of course, bursts into my train of thought by going:
"Who can I be?!"

It was several levels of hilarious. I only fit two of them, because Josh has the semi-perfect voice for one of them and my sister...Well, she's a girl. I need a girl that sounds more feminine. Hahaha.

Unfortunately, Ben didn't get a part because he doesn't sound enough like the main boy. I suggested he could be the narrator because his voice is soothing according to Aaron Yu, a boy in our class. Hahaha.

After all this, we went back to my house and harassed Luke until he finally came over to my house. We proceeded to have an amazing time poking him into corners and attacking him and having him have his ass kicked in SSBM. He kept saying that everyone should attack me.

I CAN'T HELP IT IF I PWN WITH SHEIK.

Some conversations went as follows:

Josh: This whole left-sector is mine!
Me: HELL NO.
Josh: -proceeds to zap me with Pikachu-.
Me: -proceeds to eventually get to the underground part of Hyrule temple.- I OWN THE BRITISH UNDERGROUND. (Note: We declared random countries earlier in the game. I was Arabia, Ben was Japan, Josh was Spain, and Luke was Poland.)
Josh: YOU DO NOT OWN THE BRITISH UNDERGROUND. GET OFF MY LAND LINE.
Me: NEV --- -steps on a motion sensor bomb- GODDAMMIT!
Josh: I told you to get off my land.
Me: -skips over to the right sector-

Me: -in a high voice- DEATH ISLAND. DEEEEEAAAATH ISLAND. (Note: We were playing on the Great Bay stage, which has two platforms off the main one that sort of serves as an island.)
Josh: -goes down to attack-
Me: -kills him almost instantly- SEE? THIS IS WHY YOU DON'T MESS WITH DEATH ISLAND.
Ben: -jumps down- -goes to attack-
Me: -ducks-
Ben: -promptly kills himself-
Me: DEAAATTTHHH ISLAND!
Ben: -proceeds to do this same move three more times!-
Me: ...Good one, Ben. :D

Me: ARABIA IS DISPLEASED WITH THIS NONSENSE. -smashes someone off the cliff-
Josh: Since when does Arabia refer to itself in third person?
Me: SINCE NOW. OH.

Luke: VACHEL, FORM A TEMPORARY ALLIANCE WITH POLAND.

Luke: NO! I can't die before Ben!
-game goes on, proceeds to outlast Ben by fifty seconds-
Luke: YES!
Josh: You won the game of falling of the cliff, first!
Luke: Woo!
Josh: Wait, no, you lost - because Ben fell off first, then you.
Me: That's a good thing, though.
Josh: Indeed.

Josh: POLAND IS GOOD FOR NOTHING. -smashes Luke off cliff- LOOK AT ME, I'VE BEEN SPLIT INTO A BILLION DIFFERENT PIECES EIGHTEEN BILLION TIMES BECAUSE PEOPLE WANTED ME FOR MY NATURAL RESOURCES.
Luke: -pouts-

Me: -attacks Josh while on temporary alliance-
Josh: YOU DIRTY BITCH.
Me: :D

Me: -after dying- FUCK SPAIN!
Josh: -evil laugh-

Ben: -shoots repetitively with Fox-
Me: -smashes Ben around a few times, dodging his fire- JAPAN HAS A SUCKY ARMY! -smashes him off cliff- ALL YOU HAVE IS YOUR DEFECTIVE, GIANT FIGHTING ROBOTS.

♥

Outside this, we formed a human couch and Luke got molested on various different occasions. It was amazing. And Ben started reading pieces of my short novel out loud which resulted in me flicking his ear each time he got to a part I didn't want him to read. x3

All in all, it was several levels of tasty.
~~Goddamn Fergalicious song...~~

measuringtime @ 2006-09-11T06:12:00

2006-09-11T10:14:57Z

"What would you like for breakfast, Donny?"
"Muffins!"

Muffins, indeed.
I require that you all watch this immediately:
That's right! At Cunningham Muffins we believe muffins make the best breakfast!

Best one?
Israeli-Palestinian Conflict Muffins. ♥

measuringtime @ 2006-08-11T11:33:00

2006-08-11T15:38:21Z

The Office Saga returns.

Week II.
--------

Title: if life was as simple as baking a cake.
Time: Five minutes past the stroke of midnight.
Location: Wakaba's kitchen.
Character(s): Wakaba, primarily. Mentions of everyone else.

Every morning, Wakaba brings in sweets.

They are tokens of her affection, such tiny offerings of her comfort and assistance; she asks for nothing in return, except a smile of man, and the quiet eyes thanking her from a detached, but careful distance.

Sometimes, she will make them in excess, when her mind is busy and her hands are cold. At the peak of a slumbering nighttime hour, she will dust her fingertips with flour (reminding her of snow and childhood, from so far back she can just barely recall) and carefully shape dough.

She does not remember who taught her to cook, to make small and beautiful masterpieces, but she remembers the kind guidance and motivation. She remembers the secretive curve of her partner's lips, when he once and long ago, was presented with one of her homemade tarts, slightly bitter in it's evident sweetness. He had enjoyed it, and sometimes others will still whisper he loved her for it; her sugary charm, bright eyes, and laughter.

However, all has changed since then. Hajime looks at her as if porcelain behind precious glass. With eyes dimmer, there is the lack once stronger emotion, but Wakaba has always been perceptive. His weariness is in the manner in which he argues, with the dulling of passion and the faltering sentences.

However, it is not only him, but his sparing coworker. Quieter since the night he held burns on his fingers, his cheek, the ghastly incision that cut deeply into masculine curve of his neck. Quieter as they all fell into a pitiful slumber. (The explosions in the laboratory muted to a delicate whimper, there was no docking of pay, there was no chases through the neat row of desks with beautiful silks and ribbons.)

So, Wakaba bakes when the ministry falls into a stuttering silence. When even the youngest shinigami with the curious and unsmiling mouth, looked upon her with his startling green eyes and uttered,
"It doesn't seem correct without some riot."

So, Wakaba bakes to make the unfathomable injuries lighter. To soothe and to coax life from the deepest pockets of hibernation with warm features guiding, though she may not feel that the silence is also true of herself.

She resolves, the day energy sparks and eyes come alive, where warming hands will scrub away the lingering dust, she will make her last work of art.

But for now, Wakaba makes cake, concealing herself in orange light of her kitchen, blending in all of her sadness.

(She will try again.)

---
A/N: I love the ability to speculate on this character.

measuringtime @ 2006-07-12T21:35:00

2006-07-13T01:56:54Z

...
This is way too long.

Title: Pulse [Almost Enough]
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Characters: Hisoka, Tsuzuki.
Pairing: If you squint, it's Histsu or Tsusoka.
Type: Character exploration. Kyoto-whoring.
Summary: It's referencing Kyoto, via anniversary. It's implied, but it's not telling you anything. Seriously, you get little hints.
Notes: ~~So took advantage of Hisoka's light-weight status.~~

It doesn't hurt much, he lies, at least not really.

He finds it funny, almost. There is new tea in his cup, warm and cloudy. He can't maintain the thin curtain of gauze in front of his mind, at least not in this hour. Tsuzuki looks tired and humble. His wrists are warm and large in his palms. He feels like a d--no, he is just searching for a familiar pulse.

"S'not your fault." His words sound faintly slurred. Heavy. Tsuzuki's lips twitch up in a most ironic smile. 'You're on a buzz.' creeps through his fingertips and into his blood, curving up to the thin and fragile capillaries in the shell of his ear. His skin crawls at the feeling of his eyes just glancing to the left of his own, the sniffling almost disgustingly endearing. Hisoka is somehow besides inhuman patience, he finds himself losing the war. "'M not," is the protest that spills from his lips without thinking.

Tsuzuki exhales, his forehead coming to rest between the space of his arms; disregarding the spreading spill of beer on the table.
"If you say so."

He feels his discomfort. His guilt, fear, pain. He holds on tighter, regardless. Until he thinks his muscles might cramp up. The world tilts and he feels the axis sway, 'I'm a couple drinks short of believing that.' comes in under the static. Distinctively indistinctive. Disgustingly beautiful. Tsuzuki's breathing is difficult, and Hisoka hears it; the strange and sorrowful manner in which his frame shivers. 'You're too many past remembering.'

His voice is choked. He cannot differentiate his sadness, it feels as though it is his own,
"S'not your fault," The repetition is always silent. Tsuzuki neither hears nor feels his attempts in vain. "Really."

Tsuzuki almost trembles, Hisoka's fingers holding him in place.

---

There are vibrant mums in an amber vase; cut fresh and expertly. They are full and dying and heavy. Hisoka lifts his head, almost cautiously. It feels as though he's drowning, his fingers weightless and achingly empty.

'There should be something, here.' Is the first coherent thought.
'I stayed the night.' Is the second, as he glowers at the indention on his arm from the threading on the futon.
The third, is automatic. 'Tsuzuki.'

He remembers seeking a wiry pulse. The thud of his heart. The trembling nature of his form.
He rests his head back on the pillow. It's too soft. There is a crick in his neck and it bothers him. It's too cold, and the thought of lighting a fire makes him cringe.

He scans the room. There is the lingering odor of alcohol, and the presence of his partner is everywhere. It is in the way his bangs are swept back, the manner in which his fingers drew patterns in the dust. The way the curtains are drawn and fastened. The way the ghost of his warmth is tingling on cheek. The manner in which his coat is draped over his frame, smelling of leather, dried sugar, ashes, and a scent that is Tsuzuki.

He wants to rise, somewhat. His limbs are numb, so he obeys them. Waiting.

Tsuzuki's footsteps sound from just beyond the door, almost as if he'd called him. It almost takes him off guard, the shuffle on wood echoing despite the clutter of the place,
"Hisoka?"

A pause. Does he want to speak? The light hurts his eyes, and he closes them. He wants to turn off the sun, however silly a notion that is.

It's early. He can forgive himself.

"...'Soka?" A desperate edge coils. He is still silent. Still waiting. He can feel a wavering thread of anxiety, fraying like the copper wires of guitar strings. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He can hear him approaching, almost silently. He can feel his hand on his bared shoulder, shifting down to his arm. Concern, worry. Worry, a bit of self-resentment. Fear, concern, and a tremble of compassion (so pale and pastel he can barely feel it). Endearment.

Hisoka urges himself to pretend to stir, but he doesn't.

Tsuzuki's knuckles are grazing the line of his jaw, carefully and gingerly. He does not know whether to let the offending hand continue or shove it away. He does not know whether to tell him off or tell him to stay. It is a warm and calm and smooth sensation. It makes him dizzy and ill all at once. He thinks he might get used to it, either way.

'...Are you awake?' It comes after a moment, tentative and fuzzy. Almost clear enough to feel like his mouth was against his ear, or perhaps it was. His hand is gone. It is almost like it was never there, at all.

Hisoka opens his eyes blearily, Tsuzuki is blurry and unfocused; crouched before him, curious, but recoiling just slightly.
"Hm?" He pretends he's never heard it. He sees a guilty relief flicker across his face.

It is a long silence before Tsuzuki speaks. His skin appears smooth and pale against the filtered sunlight; slightly orange among the dust motes and the musty scent of age.
"I made breakfast. I think it's a bit cold, though." The offer is awkward. Hisoka thinks of burnt toast and syrup sweet tea and wrinkles his nose. Tsuzuki's sheepish, his smile is childish as he looks away, "Do you want aspirin?"

Hisoka stares. It's hard not to.
"You're not going to give me a hard time?"

There is a shrug of his shoulders, he looks distant enough to touch him. Hisoka notes that there is pollen on his hands for the first time. Yellow and bleeding.
"What do you mean?" The playfulness is slow in coming. It is bright and round, like a rubber ball. He grants him a half glance, a wink, "I think the knowledge of my carrying you across a threshold, placing you here, and tucking you in with my coat is enough."

His cheeks feel hot, and he can't remember why he asked for it.
"Shut up." It's a request, Tsuzuki doesn't appear to acknowledge it as he shifts closer, the odd temptation of 'I'm this close from pinching your nose.' trickles in, and Hisoka quickly takes precaution by shifting further back and away.

Feigning nonchalance, Tsuzuki reaches over and pinches his nose, anyway.
"Hey, you wanted me to give you a hard time." Hisoka bats his hand away, too tired and too groggy to get wound up this early. Tsuzuki pretends to look hurt, but the quick cover of something is enough to give it away.

Hisoka almost glares, but he instead opts to reach the small distance and take his wrist to hold in the palm of his hand. Tsuzuki tenses, freezing as if it stings.
"Idiot." He mumbles. Tsuzuki almost starts to pull away, but he holds him there with a demanding tug. His stomach flips. There is guilt, anxiety, intensity. He bites back an impulsive: 'It's not your fault.' and replaces it with, "Just stay."

His thumb is over his pulse and Tsuzuki's slide shut.

"Can I?"

Hisoka holds on tighter.
"Yes." 'Of course and always.'
A cold Autumn wind whistles softly outside and he can hear Tsuzuki breathing, slower and calmer this time, "Yes."

----
A/N: Bah.

measuringtime @ 2006-07-10T09:10:00

2006-07-10T14:36:21Z

Title; Stillness.
Prompt; None.
Series; YnM.
Type; Introspection, bordering on romance and bordering on simple comfort bordering on...etc.
Rating; PG-13ish. YAY. (Seriously, it's kind of sort of graphic.)
Summary; I always did wonder if Hisoka ever thought/dreamed about the what-ifs of the Kyoto incident.

---
Stillness

His speech is garbled, and somehow hollow as he lifts his arms for what feels to be the thousandth time, the thousandth repetition. He is tired. His lips sync words.
"I'm so tired, Hisoka." Such sad and broken and feeling eyes. Such an expression he had memorized.

In his dreams, his flesh melts away to porcelain bone. His fingers rattle, as though still having the sensation in the obstinate black and red darkness. He cannot move, here. He watches and urges his legs to jump, so he might hold on and not let go of that man. He is his understanding of home, of warmth, of love, of fear, of death. And death, and such death that there are the revealed ribs of Adam, pure and unstained as new fallen snow.

"I want you to live, even if it is just for me!" It is foreign, heavy, leaden. His throat seems to bleed, or perhaps tear. The smooth and underlying structure of his forearm, glistening, unfeeling as he holds out the delicate bones of his hand (with such shivering that he resembles a drowning butterfly, or a feverish child on his death bed - so long ago, he has never truly forgotten.) welcoming a slow and meticulous murder with the last blink of his eyes, the last cough as the ash fills his lungs.

Tsuzuki never does take it, he stares useless and doll-like with his bared cheekbones hidden in the molting spider webbing of his large hands; "So tired." and Hisoka feels the withering glance of his blind eyes.

He can do nothing.

He feels the shadows pulse, and himself screaming. All gibberish and begging and pleading. He holds no weight against it. Tatsumi's voice like a condemnation,
"It is his wish." and the hold of sudden and strong arms - the beautiful and ugly silk of stringed puppetry. Pale hands and pale hair and pale eyes. A mangled mess of a man. His shins clicking like china, the pinning of his arms and the swift stab of bitterness and loss and the deepest emptiness,
"A glorious failure." the night the sound the red moon and darkness. Tsuzuki's hands and arms and semblances. Running, the harsh crack of stone on stone on skin. Persecution. Mother's melding voice with faceless children, whispering like fire through the dry river grass: "Monster! Demon!"

His finger on the trigger, a shot through the heart and the bloom of red Camilla on a male's chest.
"I couldn't save you!"

And his mouth, oh, that mouth that smiled and told him:
"Murderer." Reaching out with the bared bones of his hands, pulling and digging for that heart that beat traitorously - the whimpering of:
"No, no, no." - and the smooth curve of Tsuzuki's white spine, tinted in King Rose red.

--Hands are firm on his wrist, and the burst into consciousness hurts and hurts and stings like a diver too late in surfacing for air. He cannot understand, comprehend, or justify the immobilization and he thrashes, almost hysterical. He can see bones and blood and gunfire. His name is loud and exhaled heavily into the shell of his ear, strained,
"Hisoka!"
His eyes focus, too suddenly and Tsuzuki's face is entirely too close to his own, his skin unbearably warm, and his thumbs too tight over his pulse. Hisoka stills, abrupt and breathing hard. He cannot pull in enough air.

It feels like eternity before Tsuzuki lets his wrists go, whispering fear, confusion, concern, compassion, tenderness. His fingers are warm and welcoming as they tremble briefly against his skin, brushing his damp hair back. They are wonderfully and elegantly covered with calloused flesh, embedded and intricate whorls. Hisoka feels as though he's dying.

Tsuzuki is motionless when Hisoka's hands feel their way along his ribs. They are covered. He can almost count them as he takes a shuddering breath. Tsuzuki moves his lips as though to speak, but no sound is present. The look in his eyes is soft and distant, their color lost to the smothering, curving inkiness.

Hisoka feels light-headed as the features of the hotel room slide back into perspective. The low rumble of cars, the murmur of a mourning wind. His hands are on his back, now. Tsuzuki almost sighs, almost. His skin is slowly becoming warmer beneath the fabric of his shirt. (White and plain and simple. Smelling of dried sugar and fatigue. Of inn soap and heat.)

Tsuzuki's voice is thick as he finally finds it,
"I'm not going anywhere." His weight is accommodated as he shifts, the tangle of sheets about Hisoka's ankles rustling much too loudly.

He finds he cannot say anything. His breathing calms with the sensation of Tsuzuki's cool cheek settling against the his burning one, the tip of his nose pleasantly cold against the small patch of skin just below the lobe of his ear.

Hisoka feels his eyes start burn, and his throat constrict. His fingers shake now against his lower back, Tsuzuki's tired voice humming softly against the stillness.

"I won't leave you alone."

-----
I never wrote a dream sequence before.
At least, not a whole one.
I'm pretty proud of myself. (=

And I think waterbottle!Ritsuka has become my offical writing icon.

measuringtime @ 2006-07-09T18:53:00

2006-07-09T23:46:11Z

Prompt; Anger, corkboards, lonliness.
Series; YnM.
Type; Exploratory. Echoing the anger Tsuzuki once displayed to Hisoka in the very beginning.
Rating; PGish.
Summary; IT'S TOO MUCH OF A MESS, DAMMIT. AND MY FANFICTION SENSE SHOULD HIDE IN A DARK CORNER. IT'S LIKE A ROTTING ART OR SOMETHING. I AM PAINTING THE SISTINE CHAPEL BLIND, BUT IT IS COMING OUT AS AN UGLY BLOB. xD

And it's weird, because I'm beginning to write in a more realistic fashion.
My novel > Me. Srsly.
---

Glass Pond

His hands were cold upon his own, trembling and clammy and entirely unlike Tsuzuki in any predictable sense or form. The confusion, the sick and nauseous feeling, the loud and unsettling beat of his heart interrupting and reorienting his own pulse. He had stilled, the nervous inhale and exhale ghosting across his cheek, chest rising and falling against him.
"Sorry." He breathed, the slim ring of his irises all that was left of the brilliant glare that had been in his eyes a moment before; a moment in which the anger, the curses, and the entrapping of his hands had occurred. Where Hisoka, now molded into the quiet with widened eyes, had felt the surprise and the sinking feeling of a stone in a glass pond; drowning by the fault of under currents, by rage's default.

Tsuzuki worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Neither of them had not known where it had come from. The sudden explosion of profanities, the sudden push of Tsuzuki's form against him, Hisoka's own back against the office wall; the corkboard's molding digging uncomfortably into his spine and his hiss of, "You know that! You knew that. You knew. You knew that you wanted---" Tsuzuki's eyes darker and wilder and narrowed. The sudden and dangerous closeness of Tsuzuki's face, the smell of dried sugar and sweat and soap upon his skin. The unpredictable strain for more height on Hisoka's behalf, the inevitable clash of his mouth against his, the shock and his own emotions and Tsuzuki's, a sharp shiver and the shaky manner of his limbs.

Hisoka wanted to hit him, hold him, and push away from him. He swallowed the apology with a gulping intake of air. He sighed, "No," His head felt heavy, the foreign taste of a bitter sweetness still lingering on his lips. Tsuzuki looked away. He felt the crackle of nervous energy, Tsuzuki's thumb unconsciously rubbing the smooth skin of his wrist. 'I'm sorry.' Hisoka's numb fingers curled tightly around the slackening fists Tsuzuki had caged them in, "Don't you dare." Tsuzuki made a choked sound as if to protest. Hisoka's fingers held on tighter, voice thick with Tsuzuki's anxiety, "Stop being sorry. I had...I had wanted-" He felt dizzy, unable to finish.

There were old reports and old receipts scattered about his feet as he lowered his eyes. The corkboard's molding still dug uncomfortably into his back. Tsuzuki's thumb had stilled and rested against his wrist, waiting. He said nothing as his fingers fell limp and Tsuzuki pulled away.

He was unable to say a thing as Tsuzuki looked upon him as if to beg him not to go. He was silent as he slipped out the door and quiet as he slid down, against their office wall.

He had paused, breathing hard and uneven before collecting each and every disturbed paper. He held them briefly and closely in his arms, (As if afraid to drop a single one in chance it would cause everything to melt around him) and pinned them back up upon the corkboard.

He settled back down to work in the stillness, amid the weight of foreign hands still closing upon his own.

---
Jesus Christ on a Freakin' Pogo-stick.
Anger? Me writing anger? What the hell?
Also, I will need serious bribery to make this have a "good ending". xD
And this is kind of how I saw him reacting to this situation. Strangely. Frankly, I find it creepy due only to the fact that I have one same, err, "problem" when it comes to arguments. Totally numbed out by it, afterward.

And why is this not as spaced out? AGHdfgkagfw.

measuringtime @ 2006-06-28T20:57:00

2006-06-29T01:35:28Z

Series: Yami no Matsuei
Type: A sort of introspective piece. Kyoto Arc.
Word Prompt: 27. Tremble

---

Underfoot, he sees the path he's made.
It is a graceless and staggering fall, a small rush of air issuing from his parted lips and lingering like the stench of blood and alcohol. (It is so cold and cold and quiet. Hisoka?)
There is snow clinging to his eyelashes like tears, there is the smooth trail of vivid pink painting the art of a mask, each eye not watching is inky and dilated. (I can't see you. Nor smell you. Nor touch you. I'll end up killing you in the end.)

And yet, he's taken to him; stubborn and emptying a firm mantra so strongly thought that the small gap between his body and him is no longer there or was to begin with:
I will follow you. I promise. I swear. I vow. A weakness makes you human. More human than I thought I ever was.

(Hisoka.)

The streets are dark. People pass and pause, continue slowly on.
"I'm not leaving." It is a voice softer than his memory, the words are skewed and jumbled, foreign on his tongue.

It is a moment much too long before Tsuzuki's fingers (Don't go.) are on his arm. On his cheek.
Praying, and he can feel it, mutely against his warmth. (Don't go.)

And slowly, Hisoka echoes, the sound of speaking lost in the tremble of his tone, the weight of his mind and his heart and his body and his own,
"I won't go."

For, if nothing else, I will be there for you to hold on.

"I promise."

measuringtime @ 2006-06-25T09:22:00

2006-06-25T14:05:55Z

Prompts used:
22. And if we did.
4. Shadow puppetry.

Title: Fade
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Characters: Take a guess.
Type: Introspective (kinda-sorta)
Notes: What this about Rachel being a complete and utter prude? D:
~~Even though it doesn't count because I don't actually call attention to the state.~~

---
Tsuzuki's fingers are nimble in the morning hours, forming shapes in the curious light of a falling moon. Hisoka watches, and though silently, inhaling the new scent of soap and sweat, of winter and sleeplessness. His feet are cold, and Tsuzuki nudges them with his own (with all the persistence and tenderness of a dog - one which he mimes on the far wall, much to Hisoka's less than dramatic dismay), speaking in tones held for darkness and only a sliver of the brilliant color of his irises shining in the gloom.

His hair is still damp, and he can feel the warmth of the shower hibernating deep in his skin; there is the lingering presence of moisture on the bathroom door and Hisoka tugs for more blanket and Tsuzuki submits to the want,
"You're going to have horrendous bedhead." And it is whisper on the pale skin of his neck, Hisoka, in all his remaining dignity, regards him wryly,
"Says the one with wet hair," He pulls for more, but the comforter is stubbornly looped around the arm of his partner, who grins slightly and murmurs the words akin to 'warmth stealer', smoothing the wild mess of Hisoka's hair with the run of his fingertips. Hisoka rolls his eyes.

"I'm cold." His fingers itch, wrapped tightly in a cocoon of material and soon the foreign heat of an intruding arm; it rests loosely over his shoulders, almost uncertain, the wrist he grabs is marred and electric - he feels it, a crackling shame and his stomach drops.

Tsuzuki has taken to forming shadow puppets again on the far wall, a little more graceless and stalled than before. And, though Hisoka knows now the extent of the story (it is loud and colorless in the rising light of the sun), he moves closer to the feel of his breathing - tasting the slick touch of sickness upon the sensitive flesh of his palm, his wrist, and the corner of his mouth.

And though Tsuzuki is not an empath, he feels and he aches; and though it is he who watches now, Hisoka's hand gently guiding the fading charade.

---
Yes. There is a continuation. Only if I don't suck for the next few days. D:

Also, I found my microphone.
I made a recording on the piece of junk.
Here it is:
I am sorry to hurt your ears. D:
Seriously, that is the result you get with three day's worth of rain, a nasally voice like mine, and a severe lack of caffeine.

measuringtime @ 2006-05-03T22:55:00

2006-05-04T03:00:21Z

Title: whimsy
Series: Gravitation
Characters: Yuki Eiri, Yuki Kitazawa
Day 3

His first story was a clumsy and precarious string of words in shaky type.
Sometimes, in states of particular masochism, he'll pull out that faithful little piece of paper from his secretive draw on the right (where Shuichi dare not look, 'lest the night be spent out on the porch) and wander back to that childish mind.

He remembers the sweet smell of summer's rising, the green of Central Park, the warmth of sensei's fingertips as he massaged his scalp with a sigh,
"Beautiful, it's it?" and he had stared at everything and nothing while he nodded in his own time, immersed in the comfort of a dream and the presence of an oncoming night; a knight to a wayward princess, smooth and swan-necked and scrawled into existence, dancing along the horizon of his imagination. Kitazawa had shifted closer then, rested his elbow on his youthful knee and read the progression of a whimsy with curious eyes.

He had later come to tell him that he should stick to his writing, a five slipped into his familiar hand, delicately shooing him forward with a calm smile and the same warm fingertips.

---
A/N: ...Where did this come from? *boggles*
Especially after a Pearl Harbor creative writing assignment. ._.

measuringtime @ 2006-05-02T15:16:00

2006-05-02T19:21:32Z

Title: of senseless poets
Series: Kino no Tabi
Character(s): Kino, Hermes
Theme: May 2, And it's one for the morning glory

of senseless poets

Her rucksack was near to empty when she fled.
Seventy-two hours in a kind land, with bronze faces and grubby paws, had left her with the scent of a strange and early flower.

All were poets in that town, calling out from ramshackle rooftops that they could see the sound of the wind; a hungry phantom color, indigo bridges of swirling thermals and the coarse texture of red. They touched her hair and tasted the onset of rain, their irises so large and round; pupils like pinpricks. They spoke and shouted of damnation and revelation, and a small child had taken her hand and led her to his garden fence. His mother was gorged and swollen with sensation on her clammy knees in the dirt and ash.

She, being tender and sweet, had carefully broken the pods of what she called "mysteries" of royal blue and white and held out to her a single seed.
"Take these with you traveler, the taste of these bring night."

The child who had guided her here, nodded his approval.
"You can view the noise. It's funny, down here."

Kino could only smile somberly and politely decline the small offering held in her fist,
"No thank you, I see the world as it is."

That evening, Hermes was silent as she discovered the earth in it's own brilliance.

---
A/N: Most people don't know this, but Morning Glory seeds, when ingested in large quantities, have similar effects to that of LSD. Thus, the land of "senseless" poets.

measuringtime @ 2006-05-01T17:42:00

2006-05-01T21:47:32Z

May 1st; It don't go nowhere but damnation
31_days
Series: Yami no Matsuei

Had it had been a much more subtle instance, he may not have noticed.

Throwing stones into open ditches, Asato Tsuzuki had raised his head. Off somewhere against dry-lipped hiss of meadow grass, it had been a parched summer and he imagined the violent expulsion of water instead of the towers of sand, the smooth hum of a low voice caught his ear.

"Such are dead things. Lingering. Waiting. Such stupidity. Rain, indeed."

He tilted toward the right, the ear presented much more susceptible to the vibration of human vocals. A woman spoke next.

"All the crops. So yellow. Dried out. Imagine such stubbornness of the weeds."

'I'm a weed.' For so he thought, turning back to the imaginary stream, each stone like a blemish in the dried, earthy bed.

There was a snort, or perhaps a laugh from the ashen faced and green-eyed boy beside him,
"If so, then you would not have been picked." He selected a rock, round and opalescent. His profile became blurry as he watched the arc of Hisoka's own throw, almost smiling when his own stone had landed in clean safety on the other side, "Idiot."

Tsuzuki's fingers felt cold as the night fell silent.

measuringtime @ 2006-03-01T18:38:00

2006-03-01T23:51:18Z

5sentence_fics

Tsuzuki looks upon him with a withdraw sense of care, bubbly manner masking truer intentions; he finds he enjoys the smell of his hair as he leans to peer over his shoulder, hand tentatively resting against the back of his neck. He finds he likes the feel of the knobs of his spine, through the soft material of a sweater much too large. It is times like these he remembers the days that Hisoka used to glare at him in irritation, how the feeling of that anger would pull along his features, like coarse fingers and twice as harsh.

However, now Hisoka only sighs; he looks only when he thinks Tsuzuki isn't watching for a while.

Hisoka knows, Tsuzuki knows there is faint light in his eyes now; and he knows he will take the chancing warmth as blooming smile.

measuringtime @ 2006-02-23T21:24:00

2006-02-24T03:24:36Z

Title: Nothing Poetic
Type: aki_omoi!challenge. (the life of an artist - or, in my case, a not-so-artist.)
Series: Only the Ring Finger Knows.
Notes: I did this no justice. I'm going to do this challenge over again, more than likely.

There is nothing too poetic about Yuichi Kazuki.
However, others say there is no justice they can pay with simple words or phrases; that was until he met him.

He knows no longer of the day, but Yuichi always had an eye for beauty. He recognized it. Perhaps even cherished it in a distanced, thoughtful, manner. So, it was to some surprise when he was walking home from school in a nameless Spring afternoon, he stopped upon a ring.

If dimming sunlight had not indicated its position in such a dramatic manner, half-buried in dirt and subtracting its glimmer, Yuichi would have missed it entirely. It was not pretty, nor was it particularly beautiful upon closer inspection.

It was startlingly average, slightly scratched. He almost sighed at the poor craftsmanship as he picked it up, rolled it in his hand hoping for an engraved name or something peculiar.

However, with nothing to give it an owner after a moment of searching, he pocketed it without obvious intention. It was just a ring, after all. He never gave it a second thought.

It was until a week later, seated during a downtime in the student councilor's chair, he remembered the ring again. In order to pass the time, he had pulled down the snapshots of the Spring Fair; he did not intend to see that silver ring, sported on the most curious hand.

He knew him, if inadvertently, and had never given him much of a thought. He was average. Nothing much to pull the eyes of admirers toward.

And he was a Freshman. A first year. Nothing to be of terrible concern of.

So, he decided on that afternoon to make it a game. He would place the ring upon the boy's desk and wait to see his reaction. If he displayed confusion, it wasn't his loss.

However, if secretly, the small curve of a smile was what he sought.

-

After short research, he had discovered his class.

Yuichi could vaguely remember the sensation of being there, he could remember feeling the grooves of the marred wood under his fingertips, rounded vulgarities and foreign text. He remembers the feeling of numbness in his fingertips as he laid it there on his desk.

Now, he can remember the sensation of anticipation as the class flooded in, watching from his spot around the blind-side of the doorway. He can remember the soft look of surprise flooding the boy's features. He can remember the careful manner of his fingers as he took up that small band.

If Yuichi Kazuki had been particularly poetic, he would have written his masterpiece then.

For on that day, he saw his smile.

And, until this day, he can recall nothing more beautiful than its existence.

---
Well, this might be a post!challenge fic. It is rather bad. I didn't do the beloved text any justice.

measuringtime @ 2006-02-04T08:20:00

2006-02-04T13:40:48Z

Title: Bare handed (alternatively known as: -the light left behind)
Type: aki_omoi!challenge number one. (The light left behind.)
Series: Yami no Matsuei Duh.
Characters: Hisoka, Tsuzuki. Weird hints of a pairing if you squint. ~~WTF, I am so predictable.~~
Summary: Hisoka contemplates a moment spent with Tsuzuki.
Notes: I am so obvious. Like, totally.

Bare Handed
- the light left behind.

The hollow thud of water against the chrome sink was enough to enhance the mutter of silence, the vague hum of the dryer and rehearsed voice of a woman on TV. He stood for a moment, let the soy sauce trickle from the plate down his fingers, down the curve of his arm; he paused as if he was acutely aware of another presence he couldn't place. He had forgotten what he wanted to do and the faint feeling niggled him as he placed the dish back under the previously wasted warm water.

He'd had supper with him an hour ago, maybe two. The sharp scent of salt and coarse touch of sesame still lingered in the boundaries of the kitchen, and he felt the urge to check his hands for the fourth time that minute, only to quickly stack another dish on growing pile.

The feeling poked at his ribs almost playfully, and he knew it was probably the edge of irritation, or perhaps the twangs of an old humiliation; often it stuck with him for years, multiplying in intensity until some pointless evening it came back fresh and renewed.

He also supposed, distantly, that he must be very tired. It was another long day at the office, and the unusual quiet would have been enough for even him to enjoy if the paperwork hadn't stacked up at an impossible rate. (Normally these instances caused screaming wars, fitful whines, and the eventual, crushing, headache.)

His partner, he knew, often felt trapped in routine. However, in days passing, there under the spark of false injury was a glowing amusement; an emotion he was not sure he should be expecting, tiptoeing around the carefully set barriers and opening unknown doors. It was today, that Hisoka did not glance up once from his own work, Tsuzuki's apparent discomfort coiling in the pit of his stomach until he had quietly asked him if he was okay.

Hisoka often didn't look up in these times, but he found his eyes raise on their own accord, startling Tsuzuki as he pinned him,
"Fine." His gaze didn't shift to the stacks of incomplete paperwork, the lack of progress, or the sugar icing that was lingering precariously on the curve of his lip. It bothered him, slightly, that faint sense of amusement he stumbled upon in previous days.

Tsuzuki didn't believe him, or either he was trying to make himself a nuisance, and he suddenly placed his palm against his forehead, leaving the skin to feel suddenly bare of the hair that usually covered it.

He let his hand rest there, for just a moment, watching his shoulders tense.
"I'm fine, you idiot." Hisoka murmured after a while, shooing his touch away, "However, you won't be if you don't hurry the hell up and finish some of your work."

There was the amusement, again. And Hisoka found he held his breath until the motion came to pass, as if to avoid capturing the feeling, inhaling it, and letting it move through his veins like the familiar beat in his chest.

It was a moment, before he felt Tsuzuki's eyes move from his face, to focus over his shoulder to the window behind him.

Hisoka felt himself exhale. With it, the room came flooding back in and the slow running water called to attention he'd left it going, again.

He glanced once at the remaining plates, glanced once at the ones he needed to dry, and carefully set the dish rag down for the night. (Unlike him, but he didn't argue the shift of his mood.)

He must have left an hour ago, maybe two. If he felt the desire to, he could have easily conjured the emotional residue he'd left with each smile, or flourish of hands, or each warming silence. However, he balanced the thought in one hand, discarding the notion before it began to bloom into a full-fledged idea.
(He needn't anymore complications this evening, the dinner he spent with him was enough.)

By now, he had forgotten what it was he was doing. Forgotten who it was who wanted the other to wander over in the stillness of midnight, completely unconcerned with the why or the when. Completely unconcerned for the wavering tension that had draped itself over them like a blanket. Hisoka had the urge to check his hands for the eighth time that hour, and found them strangely bare. The sensation was out of place. They felt much too empty of something.

He recalled the evening little by little. It was late. He was tired. However, the coffee brewer was going and inviting, and he sat down to a cup; he didn't quite stir anything in, but he didn't leave much of anything out, either. The taste was grainy and somewhat bland. (Bland was the preference, anyway.)

For a moment, he could feel the sensation of another's skin on the back of his neck. He could feel the ghost of a wavering touch down the knobs of his spine, a muttering of 'you're so thin,' and the faint suggestion to eat a bit more, he could feel his shoulders relax.

However, Hisoka knew the house was empty. It was too white. Too pristine. The element of living was what was missing, and he mulled over the concept briefly as the echo of Tsuzuki's presence was swallowed up like a flicker of candle light.

He touched the spot across the table, absently, almost expecting his hand to be there; but there was only the hum of the dryer and the rehearsed voice of a women on TV to tell him of cold air.

"No, he wouldn't be there."

---
Notes: Dude. .__.

I'm mean.

And really, I didn't even intend for half the elements there are to sneak in here. Please tell me you notice a repetition of words. Come'on! I was like: "What...?" And please tell me you know the amusement isn't so much amusement as it is something else.

Fic: I'd Guess

2006-01-27T20:20:57Z

Title: I'd Guess.
Type: 30_romances, 3. Anvil ; Banter
Series: Yami no Matsuei
Rating: PG, again.
Characters: TsuSoka, Watari, Tatsumi, various female co-workers.
Notes: I had a lot of fun writing this one. ~~And I hope you'll note it ties into my last challenge, also. D:~~

I'd Guess

Watari knows precise and complicated calculations, and formulas and theorems most would never guess nor say. He has studied elements, atoms, and all the supernatural. He knows the bouts of history that are most benefical. However, Watari knows it takes no genius to figure the factor of tension between opposing magnetic fields, clashing until negative grips negative, or better still, a positive - and they will not let go.

It was a morning over daily coffee, (another failure, but it was amusing to watch Tsuzuki's skin pick up coloration, similar to that of a chameleon) when Tatsumi caved into his guilty habit of bringing up his favorite topic,
"He seems a deal more relaxed, recently." He had said, his voice showing no signs of emotional leeway, but Watari could tell it was there. Such aspects in his personality proved an easy code to crack, and Watari had merely smiled in ways similar to the Cheshire cat and stirred in his sixth packet of sugar with a lazy curve of the wrist,
"Bon's considerably better tempered," And Tatsumi's eyes met his, "they've become quite the hot topic over the water cooler, I'm certain."

Tatsumi took a sharp swig of coffee, before taking a moment to straighten his glasses (it was a indicator of irritation, to him. Always useful to keep in mind, especially when testing his patience.) and sighed,
"They'll learn that such talk is dangerous to particular gossip gulping animals." There was the trademark glint in his eyes, and Watari had to feel pity for the poor souls, "At least it would be best advised."

----

On any given Monday morning, Hisoka shows up later than usual with Tsuzuki straggling behind, and the core of conversation over lunch break is speculation as to why.

"Maybe Tsuzuki-san took him out drinking?" Said one, red lips parting into a devious smile. Another one scoffed as she covered her grin,
"I hear Kurosaki-san is a light-weight. I highly doubt it."
"Then what is your theory?" Asked the first, her tone glancing a curious edge.
The other one giggled, until several elbows were lightly driven into her side,
"Maybe...he stayed for the night."

An eruption of cackles was enough to draw the office's attention, and Watari desperately signaled to keep it down, as Tatsumi passed by.

No one needed the product of combustion, on a day that was more than slightly a light.

----

Tsuzuki has a certain chemistry that can draw out a laugh from even the strictest of mouths, but Hisoka is one he hasn't won even a chuckle from, yet. Tsuzuki knows that no matter the mixture of light-hearted whimsy will cure mars that has taken even the hint of a smile, as Hisoka easily knows his empathy will not grant him all the information he desires.

They can only take it day by day, and Watari is almost certain that Hisoka's lips had twitched once behind the classic guise of a book, when Tsuzuki nearly slumped over after he was pushed to get his work done. It must have been a sixth sense, as Tsuzuki tapped his knee against his partner's, and muttered a phrase almost imperceptible, Hisoka's natural reflex to blush was obscured by the normal booking and followed by the daily whines.

Watari sees these reactions domino time after time, but such hilarity in the state of such obliviousness never dies.

---

It was one evening when they were closing down for the night, Tatsumi had ordered Watari to clean up the earlier mess of his lab (much to his dismay), he had paused in the doorway and glanced outside to see Tsuzuki waiting patiently on the stairway, half-asleep.

When he had quested to whom he was waiting for, the answer was as predictable as the element of oxygen in the presence of life,
"'Soka-chan, he's been working overtime." 'I'm worried about him, he doesn't take good care of himself.'. Tsuzuki had declined the offer that night for Watari to wait with him, but he understood.

Watari had merely granted him a warming smile.

---

When the next morning rolled around, Tsuzuki turned up into work early without Hisoka at his side, the scene had drawn more mystery to the ever "thickening" plot of staff-break weekly.

Watari had to admit, there was an unusual truth in cheerfulness on the curve of Tsuzuki's smile, but he could only take an educated speculation to what must have occurred the previous night.

It was only when Tatsumi told Watari over daily coffee, that Tsuzuki had ordered Hisoka on bed rest until he got proper sleep (whilst being fussed over considerably, he was certain), he had asked,
"How much more do you think it will take for the other shoe to drop?" The whole office knew. They knew. However, the reaction was missed every time by the persons in question.

Tatsumi added a sugar into his coffee, an action that Watari was confused to witness (the man usually drank his coffee pitch black, and he wasn't sure how he could stand it), and with a bemused curve to his lips off-handedly stated,
"Knowing these two, an anvil would be sufficient, I'd guess."

---
Notes: A two in one special! Woo-hoo!
(I got another challenge done, this is good.)

measuringtime @ 2006-01-27T09:24:00

2006-01-27T14:55:01Z

Title: A Peace of Mind
Type: Yami no Matsuei, Tsuzuki introspection. (Probable shield series continuation.)
Rating: PG. (Possibly "HUH?" inducing. You'll have to read this carefully.)
Notes: I like this one, too.

A Peace of Mind

Tsuzuki likes the little things.

He enjoys the darkness, and the way it slinks in like a cat at night; a haughty and graceless animal that taps on his door until he opens it wide. He is rewarded with a peace of mind in those times and he can almost swear when he settles down for the night, it lays like a familiar weight behind the curve of his spine.

It reminds him of easier times. Like evenings curled under the warmth of a blanket, talking about anything and nothing to a pale figure in the din, sipping tea and pretending indifference; like the moments reasoning and logic is bestowed upon him by eyes framed in elegant glasses, to hours the mystery of strange concoctions and jovial laughter rumbles, hidden smiles beneath hair the color of sunshine.

Sometimes he recalls the faint and fleeting summer, and the glance of sullen eyes. Occasionally, there is craving of the comforting taste of sugar and sweetness. Just little pieces of life, curled like the notion of sleep in the back of his mind. Silent and careful, like the curious fingertips that once traced his features, as if drinking in his wonderment and the pulse of his life.

However, what he likes most is the shy, awkward moments when his is knee tapped by another, and all he can see is the faint dusting of heat across memorized cheekbones and the glow of emerald eyes.

It is subtle and delicate answer, and he will always welcome his presence in the still of the night.

---
Hee. I hope this was read carefully.
(And I wanted to make a mention to the pale figure sipping tea, it reminded me strongly of that painting in which the female is hiding most of her features behind a teacup, which to me, signals obscurity. I'll give you all that much. However, there are two paintings that do this. I know one was done by a woman named Marie in Paris - she was an impressionist - and another Parisian artist, whom I cannot recall.)

And on a totally unrelated topic, this song, I swear to whatever is up there, is a mixture of Hisoka's and Tsuzuki's theme. It embodies that tension perfectly. Its very orange sounding, hence the icon is also that color. (Okay, I know I'm strange. However, I hear color.)

Ignore the last one. LJ is freaking out.

2006-01-24T23:57:04Z

Title: Fragmented
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei
Summary: Hisoka collects things, each step at a time.

Fragmented

Hisoka keeps each sentiment of daylight in the form of passing things; ones that will corrode or fade before the face of time, ones that he will out survive, 'lest the hour comes when he is guided further back. Back to places he does not wish to recall, and ones he does not wish to revive.

However, each instance he draws them out - each and every tiny fragment, no matter how absurd - he breathes into them a kind of life with each tentative pass of gentle fingers, with each flicker of recollection he's burned into his mind. (It is an ember in his peripheral vision, and he often takes warmth in their muted reprise.)

There are collections of paper: simple, scrapped feelings on the edges of stationary, on the rounded curve of misplaced book pages; pages so old, they weathered to yellow and their ink has faded in the exposure of light. There's underlined phrases on ancient leaflets, spelling messages out with each borrowed side - "Ah, from thee, I fear I..." - and trinkets of hours, carded and fumbled by his own hands; each surface touched, each crevice guarded.

He does not know when some have arrived, incorporated themselves into his collection of sorts; folded into old beakers, breathing in the scent of dried Camilla, dead prose. (Amid colorful labels, smoothed bottoms of broken wine glasses, frames that have cracked once and deemed unworthy to sit on the edge of an elegant nose.) However, he learns. However, he copes and takes in the pieces he's come to discover. That he's come to learn.

And little by little, he places them all together - the soft utterance of partner's encouragement leading him, each step of the way.

---
Notes: I'm very pleased with this piece.
I'm hoping my implications and hints haven't gone awry, so you weren't at all lost by the ending.
(And you best figure out why some of those items are in there, 'lest I'll cry. D:)

measuringtime @ 2006-01-22T09:23:00

2006-01-22T14:48:23Z

Because I suck lately, and Lily deserves stuff. D:
Sukisho. 'CUZ I'm trying it.

Title: Distorted Echo
Fandom: Sukisho.
Type: General. Really.
Rating: PG. For the obvious reasons.
Characters: Ran and Yoru. Vague Sunao and Sora.
Notes: I'm a loser?

He does not remember, this feeling of weightlessness; the sensationalism of stolen breath swimming through veins, lungs screaming and heart at a standstill. He does not remember, anything.

He knows he has been afraid of it. The soothing lull of water, the deafening silence and the caress of silken fingers on his naked skin, but he does not remember one bit of it. Limbs are useless, spotlights like a distant sun; he wants to close his eyes and sink like a stone, tile floor too far away to push up from. Defy gravity, from.

Then, he feels it. The exhalation of captured air against his chest. Arms, snaking. He can feel the pull, so vague and numb. He imagines his lifeless body in the arms of the reflection of Narcissus. Pulling him under, closer and closer to impending nothingness.

Then, he feels it. Oxygen. He wheezes and leaden fingers push away the offending mouth, granting him the beating pulse. Isis to Osiris. Breathe.

Yoru's fingers on his back, easing him up. Welcoming back.
"Ran?" Tinged with worried calm; he opens up his eyes, staring back against the mismatched gaze.

He feels tears. Sharp and acrid as chlorine, and he cannot smile at the man before him, but murmurs back - a distorted echo,
"Yoru."

'Sora.'

---
For Lily, because she asked for it.
AND I AM A LOSER FOR GREEK AND EGYPTIAN MYTHOLOGY. LEAVE ME ALONE. D:
AND ISIS IS COOL, SO SHE GETS A MENTION - DESPITE THE HETEROSEXUAL IMPLICATIONS.
(Yes. I was referring to the drowning scene, by the by. I ♥ Drowning Scene)

measuringtime @ 2006-01-16T15:25:00

2006-01-16T21:30:17Z

Title: The Kinder Slights of Honesty
Fandom: Yami no Matsuei
Type: Tsuzuki POV. General hinted feelings.
Rating: PG
Summary: Tsuzuki has his own desires, but desires often cloud the truth of certain aspects. ~~Okay. That makes no sense. Don't hit me! D:~~
Notes: I'm really fucking mean, today.

The Kinder Slights of Honesty

I.

Hisoka's fingers are bony and pale, and Tsuzuki tends to watch them when he's on the verge of another slump in the slow afternoon. There is the taste of sugar on the tip of his tongue and he savors the lingering taste like he will capture this moment, Hisoka's eyes finishing another page and turning the thin paper to start over, anew.

Tsuzuki has never seen the point in waking up in another dream world, but he knew it was his partner's ruse.

II.

It is rare occurrence - like a spring flower in winter, a feeble and beautiful thing - the day will bloom just so, that Hisoka's mood will soften and in the end, he'll let Tsuzuki walk him home.

In those times, they do not speak more than they have to; words are too light to be spoken of so dearly. Tsuzuki holds these lines in the curve of his smile. The air is too precious and the world is too quick, and he will not allow the net of his wishes or the ache of his touches to seize them.

III.

He knows Hisoka's quirks, perhaps better than he knows he's breathing.

He'll fold the page at the bottom, if he's pausing to look up at him. At the top, it means he's bored and he will pretend he will continue. Tsuzuki thinks it would be best just for him set the novel down, just tell him what to do, but obstinancy is elegance - and he will confirm, its true.

Hisoka hopes he does not know, but Tsuzuki feels his cautious glance. He only hopes he feels his, too.

IV.

Over meals at restaurants, Tsuzuki will compensate for silence by letting musings scatter, loose over silly things and silly cues he'll send Hisoka's way. The term he seeks is "Idiot", as Hisoka's eyes will turn and the tattered menu will hide his face from view.

Tsuzuki knows this as a his own cue, to keep the chatter on - that is until the meal gets there, and he best eat, 'lest Hisoka sets the mood by awkward forms of worrying, and he knows by his experience, those words are much too hard to chew.

V.

Sometimes, in the darkness, Tsuzuki asks to no one,
"Am I really human?" But, to surprise, it will sometimes answer:
"Yes. You have to be one."

VI.

His apartment is too large for a single man to stay in.

He often hopes for the sound of gentle breathing, the smell of coffee, and the scent of dust on volumes - twice the width of all of his fingers or perhaps his fist - but...

The only honesty is the lone coat in the hallway and the emptiness of footsteps.

---
A/N: OMG. TSUZUKI POV.
~~I suckkkkkkk.~~

measuringtime @ 2006-01-15T13:32:00

2006-01-15T18:44:35Z

Title: Some-days
Type: 30_romances; 24. The puppet master ; strings ; control freak
Genre: Introspection, observation, hints.
Characters/Pairings: Implied TsuSoka.
Rating: ...PG-ish?
Summary: Hisoka needs his control and his power. Without it, what else would he do?

Some-days

"I want power." He tells no one, but the sting of laughter in the shell of his ear.
So long ago, that sound had passed a man's lips. That man, he was strong and resilient, wore long hair and held a pipe balanced on the strange smirk he brought him, and he hasn't forgotten it since.

On some-days, he can move through his own training with a relative easiness; the floorboards are worn down and smoothed from thousands of feet, heavily trafficked. Hisoka often wonders the motivation, and sometimes he can see it - as bright and as vibrant as the blood that rivers from his hands. It heals soon enough.

Though, on some-days, he cannot move at all. His feet slide and legs shake as he tries to keep that balance; the more frustrated he is, the harder it becomes. He doesn't know what he lives for. He doesn't know why he lives.

In those times, he lays his body down against the floor and smells the dust of sweat and tears.

---

In the office, his nerves are heated and his words are cold. He often snags his partner's paperwork, when the recordings he makes are incorrect or copies it over if it is written in haste. Hisoka does not like the sign of hurry, as the assignment looks careless and the weight of that thought will rest souly on him. He needs to direct and he needs to correct, as he can do this better, alone.

At first, Tsuzuki did not protest, but now he sits across from him and he shrinks back as the hand he extended, to cease Hisoka's furious scrawl, was slapped roughly away. Tsuzuki wants to help, Hisoka looks tired and Tsuzuki is ascertained when he doesn't scream,
"Just get me a coffee, or two."

Tsuzuki always worries, but when he passes him, the slump of his shoulders and the deep shadows beneath his eyes, almost make him look back.

---

Tsuzuki always worries.

As he waits for Hisoka that evening, there is an unusual silence as he seats himself on the Ministry's stairs. Each creak of the door signals the leave of others who have lingered behind, Watari is one, and Tsuzuki questions him.

"Bon? No, I don't think he's done, yet."

Tsuzuki smiles and thanks him, Watari needn't a word to tell him he should be on his way.

---

Hisoka doesn't like when Tsuzuki waits for him. (At least, he'd like to believe, anyway.)
On some-days, he'll tell him it straight, his eyes narrowed and mouth twisted into what would have been a hideous scowl, but Tsuzuki thinks he can't make it that way. (He's told him that twice, but each time in turn, Hisoka makes sure he's gotten smacked for it. Flirt with him, will he?)

Though, on some-days, he is almost grateful to see him. He will never tell him, in fear he'll lose the control of what Tsuzuki does next, but he think he knows when he smiles at him, Hisoka's saving grace always the thoughtful,
"Idiot."

However, today is not one of these days.
And when Hisoka descends the steps, his footing uncertain and merciless sleep weighing down fast, Tsuzuki is on the verge of nodding off - and almost doesn't hear him.

"Hiso--" But, the utterance of his partner is silenced as he sends a glare his way,
"I don't like when you wait for me." And it was the most he could say, as the situation is changed when Tsuzuki pulls himself to his feet and stands beside him; there is no sign of the blue stroke of understanding when Tsuzuki glances down at him, disregarding the statement he's heard many times before the come of this day,
"I'm taking you home."

There is no room for argument, and Hisoka almost hasn't the energy or anger to protest as Tsuzuki lays a hand on his shoulder and does as he says.

---

Hisoka dreams of white sky and white bones; careful and calculated lips and a touch most bizarre.
On some nights, he can feel the tautness of his limbs, wooden joints and soundless breaths - and it is from that invisible echo, that the image comes back and settles down like his head on his pillow.

Yet, by then, the fatigue has left and he is left awake to stare at the skin on the palms of his hands; his eyes think skin and his heart just roars of laughter, beating under it.

---

It was until Tsuzuki came into his dream, one night. That control he experienced, or lack of thereof, melted away under a touch most relieving.

Until the next morning, he saw the man, sleeping against the edge of his bed, and the illusion of that control he has always dreamed of was almost too much to bear.

For 30_smiles: Nightingale, crow; omen.

2005-11-06T19:58:32Z

Title: Out of the Fog.
Series: Yami no Matsuei.
Pairing: Take a guess. (Its not that hard!)
Rating: PG. ~~I want to write R, damnit! R! ARE!~~
Type: Introspection; a (hopefully) very realistic form of fluff.
Summary: A run of recollection makes Hisoka consider his partnership, with Tsuzuki.

Out of the Fog

He still envisions the day when they stood near the harbor, their hands on the railing, knuckle to knuckle and his breath so close he could feel it ghost his skin. He had amused himself then, that their hands were like a puzzle; a planned fit as they rested on the railing - Tsuzuki's smile warm as drops of rain dripped down his skin, clung to his eyelashes and fell like tears. (It had been a contrast to his, but Hisoka didn't cry or at least he would have liked to think didn't. He knew his gaze got blurred from time to time, but just so, that people dared not question him.)

And he can still feel the delicate sensation of Tsuzuki's palm on the back of his head, ruffling his hair and swearing protection with a sinful easiness, and he thought to himself – "Why do you care, why do you care about a stranger?" but the words had tumbled past his lips, and his eyes were glued to his – features distorted by what he assumed to be irritation, teeth gritted and speaking hoarse past the lump that formed in his throat, and Tsuzuki only winked,
"Because you're my partner."

He still fails to understand the sentiment; at least he'd like to think he does, when he finds himself again glancing over those same bay-side lights through the blanketed fog, and he can hear the soft rush of the water coming up and back, taking this same rain with it and he breathes in as he hears the bellow of barge horns in the distance.

There is a residue of the day gone past; though everything is quiet and the blinds on old houses are drawn and closed fast. There is only the glimmer of orange behind sheer white curtains, and sometimes he wonders why they're still awake or catches the sight of blue light upon their far walls, sometimes he knows what they are watching – but more often than not, he hasn't a guess.

And he exhales and lets the stickiness of echoed emotion seep under his skin, with his hands on the railing, he can feel all who ever stood their on this day, and he thinks of it like candy floss; it leaves a sweet, brittle, and fleeting taste in the corner of his mouth, but it turns bitter soon enough.

There are enough wishes in the dark, and he doesn't need the dilution of them all.

Tsuzuki, he knows, must be sleeping still in their hotel room – he had crept out, and circled around familiar footsteps until he felt the pull, sudden and like gravity, it wound him back to this spot – his hair must still be damp on his pillows and the smell of cheap soap still like a welcomed fragrance on his skin, and when Hisoka tips back his head and peers against the fine lines the rain leaves in air around him, his fingers start to ache.

Hisoka has always walked at night, – most often when white things slip into his dreams and he awakes, heart pounding and sheets drenched with sweat – but it seems to be a habit now. (It has allowed him to think. Right now, Nagasaki is like a vision he can't rouse from, and it beats along his memories like a war drum, or maybe water in storm drains.) And he feels like he's been waiting forever for something to come, like a revelation - a spark.

For a moment, he doesn't hear the footsteps alongside of him, hurried and sloshed from wandering through puddles and miniature streams, and then he knows he's there, but doesn't turn around. He joins him.

And it repeats, like on that day – skipped like a record, except for sunlight pulling through clouds, and his partner's tan hands fit beside his on the railing, knuckle to knuckle and those dark amethyst eyes following his gaze; over the seashore and farther off, until it is nothingness.

Hisoka can feel his worry, and Tsuzuki's declaration is only showing a desire for something that's always been there,
"I'm relieved I found you...I thought you'd run off on me ~"

Hisoka pretends he doesn't hear him, he knows what comes next as Tsuzuki's fingers make a hesitant movement above his, he withdraws – and Hisoka looks away, he doesn't want to think about it, but he does: 'Does he think I'm that weak?'

And Tsuzuki leans slightly over the metal disconnecting land from the ocean, hair slicked to shine black in the dim lamplight, a gull cries against the wind somewhere, as if disrupted by the rainfall.

There's his grin, and his eyes flicker from his mouth, to his neck, to his eyes – back again, he hopes Tsuzuki knows its obvious, the touch on gaze is almost tangible as he speaks again, looking back then away,
"I remember this. It rained that day, too."

Hisoka wants to sigh, but he hold it back and nods instead; there is a thin piece of hair that makes a whorl on Tsuzuki's left cheek and he resists the urge to fix it, shivering despite himself. (Hisoka hates to shiver; it shows he can't handle the cold.)

Yet, then the rain stops and there is the warmth of his body so close to his, he wants to get nearer, but holds that in. He feels foolish, but under the tails of the excessive material of Tsuzuki's black trench coat – spread wide and curled like a crow's wing – he feels secure, amongst his own soaked appearance and the way his sweater clings close to neck like his hair and chill that still worms down his arms.

The concern is there, he can feel crawl along his spine, a heated form of orange and there is Tsuzuki's voice again, the droplets of rain that cling to his eyelashes falling as he inclines his head, "It was the first time I worked with you. I still remember her voice, it was kind of like a nightingale, hm?"

Hisoka can feel his breath, along the top of his ear and he feels his fingers move to cradle it, the sensation – too warm,
"Yeah." It was the most he could say as he shifted closer, forgetting his first instinct to just move away and he peers out again over the harbor, Tsuzuki's recollection running with his.

Tsuzuki's elbow taps against his left shoulder and his words are clear through his skin,
'I'm glad you decided to stay, back then.'

So, when they finally turn back - footsteps now rushed as they hurry along empty street corners, to the hotel – Hisoka's voice sharp as he tells him, naturally, he's an idiot and that he's going to catch cold without an umbrella -, Tsuzuki just laughs as he slips one arm from his sleeve and ducks down to join him.

And when they reach the stairway into the old hotel, upon the flat top before the doorway, Hisoka utters in Tsuzuki's ear, words stuttered and unsure,
"...I'm...glad I stayed, too."

Tsuzuki, to this day, still thinks the dusting of pink along Hisoka’s cheekbones that evening was one of the most honest and ensnaring things he had ever seen.

"...I want to protect you, like...you protect me."

They haven't since, returned to that harbor.

Yet, on some days, Hisoka still thinks he can taste the salt air on the curve of Tsuzuki's lips.

-----
Das Ende.
-----

A/N: ...Um. Maria Wong, was obviously mentioned as the nightingale. Tsuzuki is the crow. Hisoka, I think he's the song. (Or at least the beginning of a song, as all songs start out unsure of themselves, I'm certain.) The inevitable relationship that started? The omen, of course.

Yes, well - welcome to my brain. It makes no sense in there.
(Referencing heavily to the first episode in the beginning, yes I am.)